A/N: As promised, if you decided to skip Chapter 6, here is a synopsis of the events of that chapter. I strived to make this accurate while leaving it vague enough to not be upsetting. If it's still too much...I'm sorry, I tried, but I wanted to be sure there was enough detail that subsequent events would make sense. :(
Synopsis of Chapter 6:
Dean makes the journey to London by carriage, finding it extremely fatiguing since he is not completely recovered from his illness. Along the way he writes Castiel a smutty letter. Upon arrival in London, he rests, tries to recover, and conducts a little business. Impatient, he goes to the May Soiree early.
The evening passes very slowly, as Castiel is not there. Dean searches the house for him, without luck, and encounters Balthazar, who tells him that Loki is not in attendance for the evening, but Castiel should be. Alarmed, worried that Michael and Zachariah have snared his beloved angel, Dean looks through the house again, but finds no sign that Castiel has been there.
Retreating to the parlor where Dean has spent much of his time in the house (the one with orange walls, not the blue bedroom!), Dean waits for Castiel. The room empties of other people.
Michael surprises him, and someone outside the room locks them both in.
Dean demands that Michael tell him where Castiel is. Unswayed by Dean's theatrics, Michael remains calm, Zeus face unreadable, the only visible feature of his body his black eyes, with which he stares at Dean. As Dean grows more intimidated, Michael physically assaults him, chokes him, forces Dean to maintain eye contact with him and obey his orders. He reveals that he knows Dean's true identity, and uses emotional manipulation to ensure that Dean is never sure how Michael will react to his behavior. Frightened, Dean hyperventilates. Michael asks Dean to trust him, and Dean defies him. The defiance excites Michael, and he ruts his clothed body against Dean's clothed body, while trying to force Dean to concede to allow him more.
Dean refuses him.
Michael tries again, informing Dean that "I have no need to harm a hair on Castiel's head to get exactly what I need from him." Dean is horrified by this information, feeling betrayed and lost, but he continues to say no to Michael. The continued defiance excites Michael further.
When he's done, Michael informs Dean that "he always gets what he wants in the end," and tells Dean that he expects that the next time they meet, Dean will consent. He scoffs at Dean's attempts to argue back, and warns Dean that Michael will expose him and make his life complicated until Dean gives in. On this note, Michael leaves.
Dean tries to recover, but he's extremely upset and clearly in shock. He reflects on the fact that the only one who knew enough about his identity to figure out who he was is Castiel. It breaks his heart, because he loves Castiel still, can't stop loving him just because Castiel apparently betrayed him. Dean tries to convince himself that he shouldn't trust Michael, and is very conflicted about the whole thing.
Finally, Dean musters the strength to leave the soiree. When he steps out onto the street, Castiel is there. Furious and upset and unsure what to believe, Dean loses his temper at Castiel, who is confused and very hurt. Dean ends the conversation by informing Castiel that he never wants to see him again. As little as he wants to believe Michael, believe that Castiel would betray him, he can think of no other way that Michael would know who he is.
He returns to the Toreador Inn and gets hopelessly drunk, destroying the last batch of letters he wrote to Castiel even as he despairs that he loves Castiel and doesn't understand why the other man would do this to him.
With a gasp, Dean awoke from the most horrible nightmare, heart racing as he jerked upright in bed. Groaning, he collapsed back onto the soft mattress. God, it had been unspeakable! Michael had attacked him and tried to kill him, had spoken his name and threatened him with exposure. Castiel had betrayed him, and Dean had been forced to accept that he would never see his angel again, that his angel had never existed at all. His heart pulsed with agony. It was the worst series of events he could imagine. Too many late nights, too much time in horribly uncomfortable carriages, too much exertion after his illness, too much stress leading up to the trip to London, too much anticipation, and – judging by the way his head hurt – too much to drink, all combining to plague him at night.
A hand went to his throat and felt the unmistakable bruises imprinted upon his flesh. His tongue tasted the tang of blood on his lips from where rent his skin.
It hadn't been a dream.
"Oh, God," he moaned in despair to the uncaring room.
It was Friday morning.
The shadow of Dean Winchester arose from bed. He stripped off his clothes from the night before, wrinkled and stretched from being slept in. He washed the blood from his chin and shaved his stubble slowly with a quaking hand. The dull reflecting glass showed him dark purple and black contusions around his neck and throat. He sifted listlessly through the clothing he had brought, wondering how he could tie a cravat to hide all. His usual style would never do, but he didn't dare let anyone see, and dared hope that Singer wouldn't take the least note of how Dean styled his neckerchief. He wet a cloth and scrubbed his body, noticing additional bruises on his arms, his chest, his leg. He couldn't remember how he'd come by all of them, and that scared him as much as the memory of what had occurred.
Michael's hand around his neck, Michael's thumb pressing into his windpipe, Michael's eyes stabbing through his skull.
Moving like he was yet in a dream, Dean got dressed. Home. He had to get home. Images of a ship flittered through his mind, a tiny cabin crowded with men and boys, some younger than he and Sam, some old enough to have despaired of earning their epaulette. A wild desire seized him – board a ship, take to sea, escape, flee, never look back – but he thought of the gorgeous azure ocean reminded him agonizingly of Castiel's beautiful eyes, and Dean realized he could never go to sea again. Being enveloped in that much blue would be torture.
Lawrence Hall loomed large in Dean's mind: the old, rectangular brick mansion, enormous paned windows fronting the park, tile roof black, the west tower topped by a white dome. He'd been born there and lived there with Mary and his infant younger brother for the first five years of his life, lost among the cozy rooms and draughty hallways. When he'd returned in '93, it had been as a young hellion, nine years old, raised by the rough men of the Audacious and he'd be damned if he'd let any number of cultured, respectable land lubbers tell him what to do. He was going to a midshipman, and by the time he was done he'd be a hero like his father, and he'd win all of the prize money, every groat of it, and the whole country would know his name.
The events of his formative years changed him, and by the time he returned to Lawrence Hall in '03, he was reconciled to the idea of life on land. He missed the sea dreadfully, but he also missed land, missed the rise and fall of horseflesh beneath him, missed the smell of the forest after a rainstorm and the feel of firm ground beneath his feet. Lawrence was home. The idea of returning now was no less horrifying than the idea of returning to sea, though. The prospect of being immersed in love and affection into which was incapable of entering was a sickening prospect. While he'd nursed his love for Castiel and bemoaned their limited time together, he had felt parted from his family. How much worse, would he feel now, betrayed, heartbroken, blackmailed, and…his mind struggled to assign name to what Michael had done to him, but none seemed adequate, none seemed right. Michael had wronged him, violated him, assaulted him, but none captured the full magnitude. And not a word could he breathe to his family. Feeling trapped in his own body, a prisoner able to see the world at large but incapable of interacting with it, Dean moved mechanically through his toilette.
There was a knock on the door.
"Yeah?" he said, voice almost unrecognizably rough.
"We hittin' the road, idjit?" Singer's scruffy growl was easily audible through the wood.
"Yeah, sure, Bobby," he called back, rubbing his temples.
There was a long pause.
"You alright, boy?" asked Singer at length.
"I'm fine," he snapped. "Why?"
"You ain't called me Bobby since your pop came for you in '98."
Dean's stomach sank. "I'll be out in a few minutes," said Dean gruffly. "Go order the carriage, I'll meet you downstairs."
The sound of ever-quieter grumbling accompanied Singer's departure. Dean turned back to the mirror and attempted to tie his cravat in a fashion that hid the marks that Michael had left on him without looking ridiculous. Neither goal was accomplished. The neckerchief was an absurd concoction of folds and flounces, and even the overcast skies wouldn't be adequate to hide the stains along his chin and neck. There was no help for it. He had to leave the room eventually, had to face Singer, had to see his family. Pushing the chest of drawers away from the door, he left to face the rest of his life.
Early June
"Dean, what the hell happened in London?" There were people who thought Charlotte Winchester didn't have a temper. "Don't you dare tell me it was nothing. You're no Beau Brummel to deck yourself in this absurd frippery," she emphasized the point by swatting her hand at the neckerchief that covered Dean from chest to chin, "and it hasn't worked anyway. Your neck is brown and yellow from sternum to stubble, and your lip is infected and swollen."
"I fell," he said, same as he said when Singer asked, same as when Sam asked, same as when Ms. Mosely asked.
"Dean Winchester, you are the worst liar I have ever met," she snarled. There were people who swore that Charlotte Winchester had the sweetest disposition in the world, though some of those people changed their tune when they met Jessica.
Dean did his level best to maintain his calm. Her shouting at him was more intimidating than he would credit. It was an effort to not cower, made worse by the way she was staring him down. No matter how he shifted to avoid the eye contact, she kept at it.
"That…that…that angel of yours did something to hurt you, didn't he!" Fury painted her normally cheerful features, and it would have been comical in any other circumstances. "Didn't he?" Those people who thought her serene had never seen Charlotte Winchester when someone hurt those she cared about.
Her eyes drove through him and he grimaced and dropped his to the floor. "Leave be, Charlie," he muttered.
"Don't try to deny it," she snapped back. "Tell me, and let me deal with him! When I'm done…" Charlie stalked the floor before Dean's desk like moving was all that kept her from wringing her hands in her skirts as if she was wringing a neck. The thought made Dean shudder, and he was grateful that she'd grown so angry that she didn't notice his reaction.
"I'd rather you didn't," God, Dean sounded plaintive. He should be angry, he should argue and yell, have some spirit and some fight. All the fight was gone from him, though. The mess of letters on his table was a reminder of how exposed he was. If she looked through his papers, if she noticed one in particular…there was no way should could know what it meant, yet all he could think was that she would see all and she would judge him coward, judge him weak. With difficulty, he mustered the appearance of energy. "Don't! Stop trying to find him. It's over. I won't be going to London in June. It was an absurd indulgence, and a waste of time. I'm finished with it, and you should be too."
Furious, she wheeled on him and screeched, "Oh, I'll find him. I will find him! And when I do I'm going to rip his wings out feather by feather, don't think that I won't..."
"Please," his brief flare of temper withered before her onslaught, and he sank back in his chair, exhausted. He couldn't keep the catch out of his voice. Oh, Castiel… "Just stop. It's alright." All he wanted was a drink, all he wanted was to forget that any of this had happened to him – was still happening to him.
Her steps halted immediately and she closed the space between them. Dropping to her knees, she reached out to set a hand on his cheek, her eyes widening in shocked amazement when he flinched away. She paused, a hairsbreadth from touching him, and he steeled himself to keep still, to accept her. With an effort of supreme will power, he met her eyes. They were beautiful, bright green, and worried. At least they weren't black. The effort of equaling that gaze was too much, and he blinked repeatedly before finally surrendering and looking away, staring at nothing in the space between them. "You haven't met my eyes in a week, Dean," she whispered. Hesitantly, she cupped his face, and Dean cringed but didn't break the contact. "Even with everything between us, you've never avoided my touch before. You've been ill from drink every morning. I'm not trying to pry, but please I'm worried about you."
Tears swam in Dean's eyes, obscuring his sight of her supportive gaze. "I don't want to…I can't talk about this, Charlie. I'm sorry. I can't. Please, stop asking, and please, please stop looking for Castiel."
A single tear overflowed, and Charlie tenderly wiped it away from his eye. Drawing his head forward, she kissed him gently on the forehead. "As you wish," she said sadly. "I'll try to keep Sam from coming in here in a week and having the exact same conversation with you. But Dean, my love, whatever this is, you have people that want to help. You're not alone."
The words yes, I am, were on the verge of bursting from his lips when she finally broke contact and left his room in a swirl of long skirts and tassels. With a defeated sigh, Dean went to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of port. He took a sip and returned to his desk, collapsing limply into his chair. The liquid sloshed, precious drops splashing on to his hand. His eyes fell on the letters on his desk.
The first, on formally embossed and water marked letter head, written in a fine, loopy hand, read:
To the honorable Mr. Dean Winchester,
I regret to inform you that your membership at the Travellers Club has been terminated, pursuant to Subsection 4.6a of the Club's Requirements for Membership, to which you pledged your agreement on 6th September of 1813.. To whit:
"If any member of this Club shall conduct themselves at any time in a manner unbecoming a gentleman, his membership will be forfeit forthwith upon receipt of proof of such."
Yours in friendship,
G. Fitzgerald III
The letter was a mystery to him. The only requirement to be in the Club was to have travelled more than 500 miles away from London, a measure Dean easily passed. He'd met most his closest friends amongst their membership. Yet, without even an inquiry, he'd been dismissed. Though he had no proof that his second letter was related, he couldn't convince himself that it wasn't.
Dear Mr. Winchester,
I wished to send you a brief note to let you know that I am thinking of you. Be good, Dean.
M.
The only mystery was, what had Michael told the Club about Dean, and how far would word spread? Shuddering, he balled the paper up and threw it into his unlit fireplace.
Late June
Dean had thought the phantom of Castiel gone, left dead in the parlor of Ms. Naomi's home. He was wrong. The ghost following him everywhere he went in Lawrence Hall. When Dean woke up in the morning, the sad-eyed man stood by the nightstand, trailing diaphanous fingers through the water basin without stirring the least ripple. When Dean dressed, blue eyes gazed upon him hungrily, the only stare he encountered now that did make him uncomfortable, arousing Dean even as misery threatened to overwhelm him. When Dean rode, imagined faint pressure around his waist spoke to the mirage mounted behind him, draped body pressed against him, mask pressed against Dean's shoulder and cheek, laughing as leapt over a stile.
At every meal, Castiel watched him from the empty seat at the table, never wavering, never fading, never forgiving.
What if he'd been wrong about his precious angel? What if he'd hurt him, spurned and rebuked him, for nothing? He'd not even given Castiel the chance to defend himself. What an ass he'd been! All of it was Dean's fault. If he'd been stronger, he could have resisted Michael. If he'd been braver, he would not have been cowed by a pair of impassive eyes and a face hidden behind a mask. If he'd been a gentleman, he would have stood before the man he adored and demanded an explanation. Instead, he'd been a coward. At every moment that had required courage, Dean had balked. It shamed him and filled him with self-disgust to think of it.
I want you, I need you, forever, I love you! Angel of Thursday, why did this happen?
The evidence against Castiel remained, though. When he felt less forlorn, Dean's thoughts scanned through his reasoning and could find no flaws. Though the apparition that haunted him might shake his dark head and sigh, Dean knew in his head, and feared in his heart, that a conversation with Castiel would have done nothing but exposed Dean further to Michael's machinations.
Regardless, Dean's adoration lingered, a shadow over every day, a presence in his fondest nightmares and worst dreams, and a memory of love and arousal that he chased without ever approaching.
Sunset on the night of the June Soiree found Dean sitting in his study and wondering questions he'd never know the answers to. A bouquet of roses on the mantle, placed there by a sad Claire who continually glanced at him with a melancholy face and thought he didn't notice, leaked their soft scent through the air, an oppressively romantic counterpoint to his wistful thoughts. Did Castiel think of him still? Did Castiel hate him? Was Castiel in London in the arms of another man? The thought made Dean sick to his stomach, bile stinging his throat.
Had Michael expected Dean to come?
Black filled Dean's vision and he gasped. A hand flew to his throat, each breath desperate and strained. Unable to fill his lungs, he took increasingly quick, increasingly shallow puffs of air. His heart jumped and skipped and raced. He couldn't breathe, monstrous fingers like talons dug in to his throat, choking him, his lungs burned with agony, his thoughts raced in panicked helplessness, and he couldn't stop it, nothing could stop it, he wasn't strong enough. His hand seized against the table, a white knuckled grip that hurt his flesh, arm so tense his muscles knotted. It wasn't real, it couldn't be real, just another hallucination, like so many that had plagued him since his fever, since the month before. Thinking it brought no sense, no reason. If it wasn't real, then why couldn't he breathe? He needed air, he needed the hand on his throat to go away, he needed...
A glimpse of blue tore through the all-encompassing abyss into which Dean had tumbled. Focusing on it, Dean's study resolved gradually from the darkness. The phantom of Castiel leaned across the desk, gently cupped Dean's fist, ran fingers up his arm, leaving behind nothing but a trail of goose pimples. Though he knew it to be no more real than his fears, no more real than the black of Michael's eyes striving to absorb him, Dean found comfort in the mirage. The feeling of something gripping the flesh beneath his jaw faded, the terror urging his lungs and heart to frantic action calmed, and Dean felt self-control returning. Weak and exhausted, he crumpled against the deck, massaging one hand with the other to ease the cramps he'd caused as he'd convulsively tensed. The specter drew back and watched him, leaning against the desk, arms folded to support his quirked head, held at a slight angle as if studying Dean.
Reaching into his pocket with a shaking hand, Dean withdrew the locket. He'd carried it with him always, as he'd vowed to do. Though he'd taken it out often and ran his fingers over the bronze until all the gilding had worn off, he'd been unable to bring himself to open it and gaze upon the likeness of the angel – not his angel any longer – in a month. His finger touched the clasp and the locket sprang open. Bright blue eyes met Dean, and his eyes swam with tears as he gazed upon the perfection whose sight he had denied himself for a month. How do you always save me, most beloved Castiel?
There was a knock on his door.
"Yes?" Dean snapped gruffly, snatching the locket shut and pocketing it.
The door opened, and Ms. Harvelle stepped in. "Mr. Winchester, there's a lady...a woman...to see you." She veered between a scowl, a sneer, and confusion, all writ large on her expressive features.
Puzzled, Dean frowned. It was late for visitors, and he certainly entertained no women at such an hour – as Ms. Harvelle well knew. "Did she give her name, Ms. Harvelle?"
"No, Mr. Winchester," Ms. Harvelle finally settled on bewilderment, giving him a moue of uncertainty, a helpless gesture and a shrug. "Nor am I familiar with her. She claimed, crassly, that you would know her, and that her business was with you alone."
Sifting through thoughts still sluggish after his attack of fear, Dean tried to think of anyone among his acquaintance who might behave in such a fashion. "Bring her here, I suppose," he decided at length.
His desk was a mess, he realized in embarrassment. His abstraction over the preceding weeks had caused his work habits to grow slothful. Hastily, he sorted through the papers before a stranger could see the disorder, making a pile of letters he'd answered, a second that still required his attention, a third of notes and figures, a place at the fore for the alert his banker had sent that one of his investments had met with an untimely, and costly, reversal. That one would require he refigure his budget for the entire year, for he'd been depending on the return revenue to fund his projections. For a moment, anxiety about want of funds spun out of control.
"Mr. Winchester, may I present a miss of little repute?" Ms. Harvelle interrupted Dean's thoughts with a sardonic smile.
An unfeminine snort from behind her heralded the arrival of a woman Dean had hoped never to see again. In all her dark-haired glory, Ms. Ruby Cassidy brushed by Ms. Harvelle, giving her a negligent wave of her hand as if she were dismissing a servant, or perhaps discarding a piece of refuse. She wore the same arrogant sneer as always, though now it brought out the beginnings of lines around her eyes and cheeks. Her dress was floor length and deep blue, elegant finery that bore all the subtle signs of hard times. Missing beads, torn lace, a slight rent that revealed the pale muslin beneath: Ms. Cassidy had attempted to dress up for the night, but it was no wonder that Ms. Harvelle had named her woman instead of lady.
Dean rose and adjusted his jacket. Ms. Cassidy stared at him defiantly and Ms. Harvelle eyed them both curiously. "You, then, are my caller who feels such need for secrecy?" Temper flared in Dean's breast. "If I recall correctly, the last time I saw you, I swore you would never set foot in this house again. So, to what do I owe this honor, Ms. Cassidy?" Ms. Harvelle started, eyes wide, to hear the stranger named. Their time had not overlapped, Ms. Cassidy had been several years removed, blissfully, delightfully removed, from Lawrence Hall before Ms. Harvelle had taken up residence.
"Mr. Winchester," Ms. Cassidy's rich, seductive voice hid the same laughter it always had, as if the woman knew a joke that, if you were very lucky, she might someday share. The voice had always grated on Dean's nerves, but it had captivated Sam. His brother had gone to obscene lengths to learn the promised joke, to no avail, for as Dean had seen from the first but been unable to convince his brother, the joke was always on whomever Ms. Cassidy was speaking to. Ms. Harvelle was staring daggers at Ms. Cassidy's back, but the fallen belle merely glanced over her shoulder and said, "you may leave."
"Unlike you, Ms. Harvelle is welcome anywhere she wishes in my home, and may order those here as she wishes," Dean said tightly, closing the space between them so that he could loom in her personal space, arms crossed over his chest. Laying hand to her would be ungentlemanly – though he'd been tempted many, many times, she'd egged him on deliberately, he thought – but crowding her and intimidating her was fair game. "Get out of my home, Ms. Cassidy."
"My, my," her brown eyes sparkled with contempt and delight. With a deft flick of her wrist, Ms. Cassidy lifted a folded fan and gave Dean a disgusting, coy swat on the arm. "Aren't we confident? No curiosity why I'm here?"
"I've always known exactly why you were here," growled Dean. "And once, despite all I could do, you nearly succeeded. However, I'd say your chances now are roughly equal to someone taking 14 tricks at Whist. Samuel recognizes you for what you are now. Leave us in peace." Over Ms. Cassidy's shoulder, Dean could see Ms. Harvelle trying to get his eye as she mouthed what he thought was the word "Charlotte." Dean gave a slight shake of his head.
"There is a rumor about the Ton," said Ms. Cassidy. Ms. Harvelle pantomimed grabbing Ms. Cassidy's arm and dragging her from the room. Dean shook her off again.
"Yes, Samuel is married – delightedly so – elated so," Dean rolled his eyes.
"Not about your brother, Mr. Winchester – about you," Ms. Cassidy's lips curled into a smile, callous, her expression inexplicably victorious. A chill went down Dean's spine. Ms. Harvelle pretended to sneak up behind Ms. Cassidy and choke her, and the world lurched nauseatingly around Dean.
"Get out," he said quietly.
"Is it true?" she broke in to a delighted grin.
"Get out!" With a ragged breath, Dean stopped himself short of laying a hand on her. At the edge of Castiel shook his head sadly, and even without seeing the ghostly face, Dean knew his mind, for it was the shadow of his own conscience. His temper caused him nothing but trouble, his anger the first time he spoke with Michael had spurred the man on, his fury with Castiel had burnt bridges. He had to learn how to restrain himself, or he would continue to ruin all in moments of passion that, when burnt out, left him hollow and alone
"Because everyone knows that I was in the house a great deal around that time, and thus was uniquely placed to observe all," she pressed on, voice growing higher pitched in haste. "A word from me could confirm, or deny, and who to doubt?"
Around the house? That time? The confusion that crashed about his ears proved an excellent emollient to his temper. His mind quickly scanned through the year and a half during which this harridan had plagued Sam, drawing him into a web of dangerous behavior, debts and obligations, late night rendezvous, compromising situations. Meanwhile, Dean had courted Charlie and they'd been engaged and wed. Only with Charlie's help had Sam been saved and rehabilitated, and only her impressive skill at gathering and subverting information had repaired Sam's tarnished reputation. He stared at Ms. Cassidy blankly. Ms. Harvelle lifted her arms like a boxer, circling her fists as if on the verge of striking.
"Yes – now I have your attention," cooed former vixen.
"I have no idea what you are talking about," Dean managed, at a loss for how to engage when they were clearly speaking different languages.
"Don't lie, Mr. Winchester, you're no good at it," Ms. Cassidy sniffed, clearly believing she'd gained a point on him. "Let's talk business." Ms. Harvelle's eyes narrowed, she mouthed a string of what were unmistakably swear words, and ducked out of the doorway, out of sight, disappearing with a faint rustle of skirts. "It is within my power to either confirm this rumor, and allow the Ton to think you a cad, or deny it, and protect your precious reputation."
"And what would you want in exchange for this help?" Dean had no intention of helping her at all, but he could think of no explanation for her strange innuendos and hoped to draw her into revealing enough details for him to piece it together.
"A thousand pound, a reintroduction to polite society as your trusted friend..." she trailed off and flashed Dean that victorious smile. "...and a chance to speak with Samuel."
"Right," Dean said slowly. "And if I don't do as you've asked?"
Ms. Cassidy assumed the innocent air that had once her specialty. As a youth it had become her, but on a woman in her 30s it merely looked a parody. " 'Oh, Mr. Smith,' " she batted her eyelashes. " 'Tis only too true, for I was an intimate of the Winchesters, and the elder brother was no less wild than the younger, only better at hiding his profligate behavior. To bring a young person of such potential to such ruin – to compound the crime by years of neglect – to cap it now with his present behavior? A scandal, a true scandal, and I can speak to its absolute veracity. My soul weeps for those poor children!' " Her eyes swam with manufactured tears, her expression was a diabolical combination of shock, distress, and just a glimmer of satisfied humor, and she dabbed overdramatically at her eyes as if with a kerchief.
"Here's the problem with that," Charlie's no-nonsense voice interrupted before Ms. Cassidy could continue, the red head stepping into the room, hands on her hips, a furious glint in her green eyes. "You're a painted trollop and no one will believe a word you say."
"Excuse me, I..."
"Excellent point, Mrs. Winchester," snapped Ms. Harvelle, stepping in to flank Charlotte. Dean gave them both a grateful look.
"Mr. Winchester, I will not be insulted in this..."
"Ms. Cassidy," Charlie cut her off. "Allow me to be perfectly clear. First, we will give you nothing. Second, you will leave this house and you will never return. Third, you will speak to no one about your suppositions. Somehow, you have continued to worm your way into the homes of those who should know better, but as a whole society recognizes you for precisely the fraud that you are. There is no threat you can make that is credible, because there is no one of the least credit who will take you seriously. You pose no danger, Ms. Cassidy. Whatever power you might once have possessed, over the Ton, over the Winchesters, I think we both know that now you are no one. Be grateful for what little you retain, and know this: if you come after my family I will end you. There will not be a pig sty in London that will welcome you by the time I am done. Do I make myself clear?"
"Rather overstating your clout, aren't you, Mrs. Winchester?" Ms. Cassidy's voice was arrogant, but her eyes had the haunted look Dean had only seen the few times he'd actually managed to get her on the ropes. She'd always been depressingly good at twisting his attempts to oust her to her own advantage; that Sam had believed her over Dean for so long had been particularly painful.
Stepped up until the two women were standing virtually nose to nose, Charlie repeated, "Do I make myself clear?" They stared each other down, Charlie's sweet face an unreadable mask, Ms. Cassidy's locked in a scowl. Using the slight difference in their height to every advantage, Charlie shifted and loomed menacingly.
The dark-haired beauty's mouth twisted into a petulant frown and her eyes dropped, and Charlie pressed her advantage, maneuvering around Ms. Cassidy to force the woman towards the doorway. Closing in, Ms. Harvelle helped, and as Dean watched in bemusement, the two women herded the third from the house.
"You'll regret this!" Ms. Cassidy said with one final burst of rebellion as Charlie slammed the door in her face.
Brushing her hands together as if knocking flour free, Charlie shook her head. "Good riddance!" All the hardness gone from her eyes, Charlie turned to Dean. "What was that about?"
"I have no idea," confessed Dean, and explained Ms. Cassidy's suggestions and threats. By the time he was done, there was a considering, pensive look on Charlie's face. "Do you think she'll make trouble?" She met his eyes, and he was proud of himself for holding her steady gaze. He'd been working on that, really trying, and he'd gotten much better over the past few weeks, though if the room was dark and shadowed, or if the eyes were dark brown or black, he could still feel fear claw at his throat when he met them.
With a dazzling smile, Charlie reached out and patted his cheek, expression growing even more pleased when he didn't react poorly to the gesture. "I'll never let her, dear," she said. There wasn't the least shadow of doubt in his mind, in that instant, that Charlie was up to something. Watching from the doorway to his study, the phantom of Castiel nodded his enthusiastic agreement, though Dean had no idea which of them Castiel was concurring with.
August
Dear Mr. Winchester,
The Season has come to an end. I hope you have found your summer an edifying one. There will be further lessons in the fall – it is the time for hunting, after all. Flee as you will, I've no need to give chase. You know where to find me when you are ready.
M.
Though the letter was already burnt, the words were seared into Dean's mind. He scrubbed sweat and the traces of tears from his eyes, extremely glad for the former to hide the latter from his guests. August was proving unusually, abominably,hot, and Dean was miserable. The arrival of company had done little to assuage his unhappiness. Ms. Milligan, Ms. Masters and Mr. Milligan were as always of great cheer, not a care in the world: young, carefree, unattached, and naive. It was a vision of youth that Dean had not experienced. Even at sea he had always had responsibilities, and from the moment of his inheritance, he had become a man by necessity. With the blight upon his heart, mind, and soul, Dean found them even more removed from himself than usual, and it was impossible for him to mind their conversation.
The bruises may have faded from his face, but the nightmares and panics remained. He'd learned some strategies for dealing with the anxiety that ate his mind, that snuck up on him and could turn the most innocuous interaction into a life or death struggle to keep from losing his mind, keep from betraying the invisible terrors stalking him. This was normal, now. This was life, now. There were mornings when he could scarce make himself rise from bed. There were times he would meet someone's eyes and all he could see was the mask of Zeus and all he could hear was an arrogant chuckle that took his pitiful attempts at self-defense and ripped them to shreds. However, he thought generally he was doing better.
And then he'd receive another letter, and his fear would surge and cascade, and paranoia would possess him. He'd reflect on what Michael said to him, and on the events of the past months, and know that he had every reason to be frightened.
It was little things: Ms. Cassidy showing up at his home, a letter from a friend declining an invitation, a sly look from an unknown gentleman visiting -shire. Taken alone, none were of any import. Taken as a whole, they formed an unmistakable pattern. Every reversal that the household suffered, every friend grown cold, every financial setback was a painful reminder that in the shadows, out of sight, a monster – a connoisseur, Dean thought with a shudder, throat constricting uncomfortably – lurked and moved against him. When a curt letter came from one of Charlotte's old school friends cancelling an invitation to visit, when Samuel's offer to purchase a nearby home was summarily turned down despite it being quite generous, when Ms. Harvelle returned from town furious that a group of men had made lewd suggestions to her about her relationship with the Winchester men, Dean knew it was not a coincidence. Each was part of a greater whole, with Michael perched in the background, a Machiavellian puppeteer making his family dance on his strings, maneuvering Dean until he'd have no choice but to speak that single, terrible word: yes. It terrified Dean, woke him in the middle of the night choking and gasping for air that would have come freely had he only been capable of relaxing his body, but he could not. Even as his ability to cope day to day improved, a dread foreboding built in his mind that the worst was yet to come. Tomorrow, or next week, or next month – it would arrive.
Yet the days passed, and the weeks passed, and the months passed, and the other shoe did not drop, and Dean watched every event pass by him and he wondered what it all meant.
A shriek pierced through Dean's reverie. "Oh, Mr. Winchester! Good heavens, Samuel! Is it not the most – oh, I am shocked and thrilled and – but it is the most wonderful thing!" Ms. Harvelle laughed breathlessly and fanned herself with a hand, Ms. Milligan and Ms. Masters exchanged smiles and beamed, and Charlie grabbed Jessica's hands and led her in an impromptu dance. Sam, for his part, had a dazed, dumb look on his face, a smile like his was simultaneously excited and completely petrified. Mr. Milligan merely looked confused.
Dean shared the sentiment.
"Congratulations, Mr. Winchester, Mrs. Winchester," Ms. Milligan said politely, her cheeks pinking modestly for some reason.
"Someone fetch Ellen, we must tell her," Charlie said, grabbing Jessica into a fierce hug. "And Ms. Moseley, she'll wish to know as well."
"No, please—" Jessica looked chagrined.
"None of that now," said Charlie firmly. "I've borne two under their every minute attention, and if I cannot pass that torture on to another it will all have been for naught."
Pregnant. Jessica must be with child. In an instant, Dean's face went from bemused to what he suspected was a very good mirror of Sam's. He shook off both in a heartbeat and leapt to his feet. "Sam!" he cried, catching his brother in a huge hug and dragging him from his seat. "My Sammy, going to be a father."
"Yeah," said Sam as if he'd just learned the news himself. "Get off me, Dean." Ignoring him, Dean patted him hard on the back, pushed his brother away to take in his scowl, and hugged him again. "I said, get off!"
"Come on, you know you love it," said Dean with unrestrained delight. Good news, he thought, finally some good news. Damn, they had earned it. The dazed expression on Sam's face finally broke into an enormous grin that made him look a decade younger, and he returned Dean's embrace enthusiastically.
When the hubbub and joy and congratulations finally died down, Charlie turned to Ms. Milligan with an avid expression. "Ms. Milligan, how goes it with your angel?"
The sense of family, of unity, died in an instant as if a door had been slammed in Dean's face. Thoughts of Castiel flooded his mind, all the most innocent, most endearing - the smile shining his eyes, the feel of his hands when they danced together, the glee in every word of banter he spoke. Dean's hand went unthinkingly to the pocket that contained his watch and the attached, cherished locket. Charlie's eyes caught his, widening slightly, narrowing, and Dean colored and pretending he was merely checking the time.
"Oh, Mrs. Winchester, pray do not tease me when I tell you I think myself well on the way towards being in love," Ms. Milligan said with more warmth and passion than Dean had ever heard in her voice. Her cheeks had a delicate pink glow, and her eyes scanned the room and met each observer in turn, a defiant, brilliant green.
A sad gaze caught Dean's own for a moment, dark and, he noticed for the first time, rimmed faintly in red. Ms. Masters, of all people, offered him the silent commiseration of unknown shared pain before she broke in to a wide, mocking grin and declared, "No, no, do not believe a word she says. She is completely infatuated! Allow me to tell you about Mr. James Novak..."
September
Basic woodworking was never a skill that Dean had expected to learn, but then, he'd never expected he'd ever need to make anything with his own hand. Surely, anything he required could be commissioned from a skilled craftsmen. Dean's time was better spent managing his estate, entertaining, seeing to his affairs, and the slowly easing struggle to maintain his sanity. With the advent of fall had come more set downs, more friends distancing themselves, and Dean still hadn't the least clue why. However, pleasures were also mounting. Jessica was with child and aglow with it. The weather was mild enough for outdoor activities and a large party of Dean's friends were coming in October. He'd received no new letters from Michael since the end of the Season.
Dean no longer dreaded how he might react if a member of his family met his eyes, no longer feared that he would cringe from their touch. His dreams were less plagued by specters, his time alone less tormented by anxiety. At times he still felt like he was divided from those he loved, a sad spirit on the outside gazing in on the warmth of their pleasures, but then, he'd always felt like that some of the time.
The lingering vision of Castiel was ever in the corner of his eyes. For better or for worse, the attachment that Dean had once feared transitory had only grown. He was more certain that he loved Castiel now than he had been at any time before, now that all hope of remedy was past. The months had done nothing to quench his ardor, and he still sought blue eyes everywhere he went.
The dreams that had once come nightly, that had departed with the coming of Michael and nightmares, returned as the evenings grew longer and colder. Dean awoke with to the sensation of strong arms wrapped around him, of firm muscles pressed against his back, of hardness wedged between his cheeks. Half-remembered dreams of never to be repeated passion hardened him. The desires that faded while his spirits were oppressed returned, bittersweet and much regretted.
Looking back, Dean could see how foolish his behavior had been. He'd risked his entire family safety and security - for what? Love making. Of all the childish, selfish things to do! He'd decried the virtue of others for doing similarly yet somehow led himself to think it entirely different when it was his needs that were being unfulfilled. He had brought all of this on himself, Castiel's betrayal, Michaels blackmail and torment. He was to blame for the cloud of misfortune hanging over the Winchester family. Never again. He would be a monk - live a celibate life - as he should have from the first.
Hence why Dean had learned woodworking. His efforts were juvenile at best, but they'd produced what he'd required, a simple cylinder, sanded and polished perfectly smooth so that there was not the least snag. A tool for pleasuring himself was not the sort of thing he could walk into a woodshop and commission. No one could ever know that he possessed such a thing, and before he'd ever begun creating it, he'd devised the means by which he would hide its existence, a locked box tucked behind a loose stone in his fireplace.
Holding his handiwork now, he ran a finger along the smooth length and felt an answering twinge and tingle of anticipation in his member. His breath quickened instantly, his body squirmed against his mattress at the dim memory of long-unfelt pleasure. He'd meant to take this slowly, but it had been months since he'd been filled, not since...pain blanked his vision, sadness gripped his heart, weeping blue eyes met his, and Dean pushed all the thoughts away. Such bliss was never to be achieved again. He would pleasure himself. He set the wooden length aside and dipped three of his fingers into a jar of cooking oil he had set beside the bed. Turning on to his side, he gently felt about his entrance. Hot longing filled him, each slight brush of calloused skin on sensitive flesh forced his gasps to mewls of need. Over and over again he graze over the outside, coating it with oil, letting the slick moisture seep inside, until he rutted against the bed in impatience.
The first finger pressing into himself did not match the bliss that he remembered, did not even come close to past pleasures. It slid in easily, nearly to the knuckle, and it felt good, but his mind did not reel, his hard cock did not throb in response, that desperate core of want that nestled in his belly was completely unaffected. Immediately, he added a second finger and began to push in and pull out, and as before it felt pleasant and was entirely dissatisfying, inadequate, wrong. It was not enough, it was clearly far from being enough. Fear began to whisper in his mind, that yet another thing had been stolen from him that night in May, and he forced the thoughts away, forbade them from giving full voice, fearing the whisper of panic that struggled to win purchase against the warm glow of pleasure in his body.
A third finger joined the others, and his body began to loosen and suffuse with ebullient warmth. With a faint groan of relief, he pressed into himself, filling himself with the fingers, smearing his insides with the lubricating liquid. Pleasure mounted, his cock ached for his hand to close around it, and all thoughts but continuing faded to the background. Coating his free hand in oil, he prepared his creation, coating it thoroughly. The slick hardness of it was enticing beneath his fingers, and in his mind he heard the whispered memory of a moan in a low, rough voice.
Asmodeus.
Dean moaned hugely. God, Castiel's voice drove him crazy. He pushed it away. That was gone forever, and dwelling on it would only make the pain in his heart worse. Nonetheless, need flogged him as it hadn't before. He had to feel that length inside himself, had to feel it move. Withdrawing his hand, he took hold of the cylinder, lined it up against his hole and pressed it in. The initial contact was difficult, painfully so, but as soon as Dean was breached the rest slid in smoothly. Filled deeply, Dean groaned in profound satisfaction, his body reacting automatically to urge his rear harder against that glorious intrusion.
So good, so good, how I've missed you, my angel.
Despite the urgent voice pleading in Dean's mind for him to pump into himself, he forced patience and waited as his muscles eased and tension faded. He wasn't able to wait long. Taking a hold of his member with one hand and the end of the cylinder with the other, he began a slow rhythm, pumping his cock and thrusting deep within himself. Friction heated him from within, each movement driving him higher, satisfying the need that had eaten him from his earliest arousals as a youth, before he'd understood what it was that he craved. He smeared his early release over his hand and stroked harder, pushed in harder, adjusting the angle as he sought that perfect place. No matter how he tried, though, that eruption of bliss escaped him.
Frustrated, Dean rolled onto his stomach, got his knees under himself and hitched his rear into the air. One hand reached around and behind him to continue the punishing, wonderful pulse inside him, the other continued to pull and tease at his cock. His hips bucked into each plunge of the length. Needy moans leaked from his lips, punctuated by mumbled, semi-formed imprecations that after all the work he'd done, after how long he'd been without, he still couldn't find what he needed.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he sought his own hand working, thinking perhaps he'd see some clue of how he should adjust his actions.
A vision struck him powerfully, Castiel naked and gorgeous and glorious on his knees behind Dean, his fingers buried within Dean, stroking his own cock as he prepared to penetrate Dean, to take him and complete him and pleasure him as no one else ever would. What are you doing? mouthed Dean. Blue eyes flashed open and met his, black rimmed in luminescent blue and liquid with desire.
Saving you.
Pleasure coursed through Dean's body, unspeakable, unbelievable, undeniable bliss.
"Castiel," he cried in pleasure. "Good God, my angel, thank you!"
Again and again the length found him and hit him and again and again he cried out, body quaking with how good it felt, hand stuttering to maintain his oil-slickened grip, strokes faltering as the thrill of it left him weak.
"Castiel," the name was ripped from him once more. Dean's mind filled with his angel, the joy of his laughter, the smoothness of his skin, the sound of his voice when he'd told Dean that he loved him. One more strike into his most sensitive place and he was done, release splattering to the bed beneath him, wooden length forced from his body by muscles contracting uncontrollably. Breathing hard, he collapsed to his bed in a mess of oil and spunk. Even the touch of the cloth brushing his skin was erotic and an echoing burst of pleasure drew further spent moans from him.
I am yours!
He'd never say yes to Michael. He was Castiel's, heart and soul, forever, no matter how the other man had hurt him. Though they never meet again, Dean accepted that he would love the angel for the rest of his life. The thought was simultaneously agony and ecstasy, and the combined pain and pleasure of it lingered in his chest long after he'd cleaned up and gone to sleep, curling up and finding a home in dreams of happiness in simply being together.
October
"Mr. Winchester," said Mr. Lafitte, very seriously, the drawl he had acquired during his time in the United States blurring out the harder syllables.
"Mr. Lafitte," Dean took a proffered hand and nodded with a look of intense scrutiny bordering into suspicious.
Light glinted off icy blue eyes, crinkled lids beginning to twitch, and Mr. Lafitte could not hold his grimace. He broke into a wide grin, and Dean laughed, truly laughed, a feeling he'd missed for so long he'd forgotten how good it felt. The two men caught in a rough embrace. "It has been too long, my friend! I'm glad you could come."
"I'd not miss fall at Lawrence for all the tea in China," drawled Lafitte. The open smile was tempered by a hardness, and in that look Dean read much: that Lafitte had heard the rumors, whatever they were, that he believed not a word of them, that he was there to show support for his friend as much as for plaguing the fowl of the park.
"Mr. Henriksen," Dean greeted the next of the party. The dark skinned man smiled, showing perfect teeth and faint warmth in his usual restrained way. "Mr. Ashley!" The tall, lean man caught Dean in a hug without the least pause to consider the more restrained possibility of a handshake. "Has Mr. Fitzgerald decided not to attend?"
"In light of all…" Mr. Henriksen grimaced and tried again. "Winchester, we know you. We were your friends when the rumored events took place. We know the impossibility of their truth, that no such woman was in your social circle, that no man such as yourself would dream of the improprieties being bruited about as your crimes." Dean hated, loathed, despised the chill that came over him, like being caught in a gale that in an instant divided him miles from the pleasant, close comraderie he had enjoyed moments before. A man such as himself – what did that mean? What did his friends think of him, what did they suspect? He knew his face must have fallen, because Lafitte put a supportive hand on his shoulder.
"You know how much it means to him to have charge of the Travellers Club," Lafitte explained.
"He'd not allow a whiff of scandal to touch him, and he convinced himself that to come to your home would not be merely to sniff the scandal, but to dowse himself in the cologne of it, to return to society reeking of it and thus by implication condone it. It was quite an extended metaphor, actually. You'd have laughed to hear him struggling to complete it." Lafitte chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound, and Dean sighed. "Few are foolish enough to bring the matter up to us, but when they do, we give them what for. But you know society, they must have something to speak of, and if there are no truths to be had, a lie will do just as well."
" 'Sides," said Ashley, running a hand negligently through the absurdly long hair that curled limply around his shoulders, "anyone has met Charlotte knows she'd disembowel you if you even dreamed such a thing. And she'd know, somehow she'd know. Never met the secret that woman couldn't learn."
"Is she truly so perspicacious as that?" a new voice intruded into the conversation. They were a large party arrived at Lawrence Hall, his friends and their wives and a few of their eldest children, servants and a handful of other acquaintances. The women were sharing raptures at their reunion within the house, while Dean stood on the lawn with his friends, as delighted in seeing them, if perhaps not so shrill. However, Dean had not previously noticed that Mr. Gabriel Novak was one of the crowd who had come to call on him. There were nearly a dozen gentlemen in total, some better known to him than others. If a hunt was in order, Dean was always pleased to have his circled enlarged by his friends bringing friends, and he firmly believed the more the merrier. The group gathered now were especially appreciated, a tangible demonstration that even among those who didn't know him, not all believed whatever scandal Dean stood accused of with some mysterious woman in his past.
"Cleverest thing I ever saw," drawled Lafitte. "For a woman, that is."
"Don't let your wife here you say that," Henriksen said.
"She thinks Mrs. Winchester clever too," said Lafitte, confused.
"I meant the other part," Henriksen rolled his eyes.
"Mr. Novak, it's a pleasure to see you again," said Dean. The man scowled at him, and Dean drew back, surprised, and tempered his enthusiasm. "I know that we are only minimally acquainted, but I have long regretted that I did not have the opportunity to thank you for your timely rescue the last time we met."
"Rescue?" asked Ashley, looking curiously at both men.
"Yes," Mr. Novak said, displaying none of the open, guileless behavior that Dean had seen in him before. "Mr. Milligan and Lord Walker had him in a prison of words, and happily pressed their every advantage. It offended me to see their poor manners, so I intervened."
"It was truly appreciated," Dean said with all the sincerity he could muster. "I'd have you know, we don't stand on ceremony at Lawrence Hall – though you are just appeared on our doorstep unexpected, you are in the company of friends, and we are not unacquainted. The weather has been exceptionally fine, and the fertile summer has my woods flush with birds. I can promise you excellent hunts, if you can be prevailed on to join our party for a few days?"
"I do not wish to intrude," said Mr. Novak coldly.
"Anyone who can stand up to the intimidating Mr. Milligan is welcome in our home" Charlie came up behind Dean with an opening, welcoming smile.
"May I introduce you to my wife, Mr. Novak?" Mr. Novak inclined his head. "Mrs. Charlotte Winchester, Mr. Gabriel Novak."
"This is a delight I had not expected," gushed Charlie. "I have heard so very much about you, and about a certain relation of yours, that I have longed to make your acquaintance."
"Indeed?" Mr. Novak's head quirked slightly, an eyebrow shot up in surprise. "From whom could you have heard so very much?"
"Perhaps you did not know that my wife is intimate friends with Ms. Anna Milligan, and my brother with Mr. Inias Milligan?" said Dean.
"Ah," a wry smile overtook the man's expressive face. "That does explain much. If Ms. Milligan is as full of my nephew as he is of her, I can only guess what paroxysms of nonsense you have endured."
"Do stay with us, if only for the first week," importuned Charlie. "It would be cruel not to satisfy my curiosity."
There was a long pause, a considering look on Mr. Novak's face. He met Dean's eyes, gaze so dark and harsh that Dean flinched away as he had not done for weeks. With pursed lips, Mr. Novak turned his attention to Charlie, and the open, ingenuous hope of her expression melted the sternness from Mr. Novak's face.
"Come, Novak, how can you refuse such polite insistence?" interjected Mr. Henriksen. "I told him he should stay with us, you know, make a grand party of it, but he pled that he had no invitation and would never presume. So you see, I'd the right of it – Mr. and Mrs. Winchester are my friends this decade and always the souls of hospitality - and you must remain."
The faintest of decisive nods marked Mr. Novak's concession, and he pinioned Dean with one last fierce look before giving Charlie the warm, mischievous smile that Dean remembered from the party at Mr. Milligan's. For a heart wrenching moment, Dean felt his throat constrict as it crossed his mind that Mr. Novak might be Michael, but he was able to shake the thought away before anxiety stole his reason. Despite the harshness of his gazes the two men bore little resemblance. Michael had been of Dean's height, able to look him in the eye, his body lean and sinewy, whereas Mr. Novak was well short of Dean and broad. "It would be my pleasure," Mr. Novak said. "I particularly look forward to speaking with you, Mrs. Winchester. James speaks of Ms. Milligan as of an angel—" Dean flinched at the word "—and I long to know more from one who knows her better."
Charlie laughed. "She speaks of him just the same, and I long to know just the same. However, lovers' assessments must always be taken with a pinch of salt. Having listened to all she's said most assiduously, I find I have questions, many questions, that I long to have satisfied."
"Once again, we are in agreement, Mrs. Winchester," said Mr. Novak. "I hope that in the days to follow, we'll be able to satisfy each other's inquiries."
The words passed around Dean, and though he heard them, he could assign little meaning to them. He thought of his own angel, the shadow of whom stood down the road by the stables, importuning Dean with blue eyes to bring Impala forth and start the long awaited sport. It was more proof that the shade Dean's imagination conjured bore little resemblance to the man who had once told Dean in all seriousness that the indoor pursuits Castiel preferred were the opposite of Dean's preferences for an active life, as if the two could not coexist. Using the excuse of opening the front door to admit his friends, Dean turned away. With one hand, Dean gestured invitation into the house, and with the other, he rubbed a finger over the closed locket of his lost love, lost because Dean had driven him away, lost because Castiel had forsaken him. As Mr. Novak walked by, still speaking animatedly with Charlotte, he gave Dean a surveying look, pausing to obviously take in Dean's thumb rubbing the smooth, circular locket, long since worn to dark bronze, and he ended by meeting Dean's eyes and scowling. There was one amongst the company in his home, Dean thought, who believed all the worst rumors about him.
In the depths of his oppression, Dean would never have imagined what a pleasure it would be to have his friends with him. Even a month before, he'd longed for yet dreaded this time of companionship, looking forward to the sport and the noise, but fearing that he'd continue to feel distant gloom even in the company of many. Those fears proved unfounded. There was some awkwardness at first, but as all members of the company grew to know each other better, the tension faded away, and Dean felt happy for some days as he'd not felt in a long time. It was a time of pleasures prolonged, of friendships iterated and reiterated as they had been repeatedly over the years, and of new friendships formed. None were more changed than Mr. Novak, who extended his stay to near-on three weeks before he finally departed with Henriksen to visit a mutual acquaintance who lived a little ways southeast. His words as he left were particularly heartening.
"Winchester, I fear I have misjudged you badly, and done you wrong in the process," Mr. Novak said with perturbed sincerity. "I allowed my opinion of you to be swayed by others. Though my own limited impressions of your worth had been extremely positive, others whom hold my absolute trust abused you in such terms as I could not but assume that I'd misunderstood the type of man you were. Having spent these days in your company, in the company of your most remarkable wife, the charming Ms. Harvelle, and the frankly nauseating Mr. Winchester and Mrs. Winchester, I have come to see that I had the right of it, and to believe that those who spoke to me have been grossly misinformed – deceived – deliberately misled – in short that some massive misunderstanding stands at the core of all. When I return to Ton for the Season, I will seek to remedy it, and I hope that you will be pleased to be welcome in my home as an equal and a good man, to be seen by all to be above my suspicion no matter what lies society yet spreads. My family could use an expanded circle, and I think my nephew James would particular benefit from being exposed to your example, and that of your unusual family. Until January, fare you well!"
December
Dear Mr. W.,
It is my pleasure once again to invite you to a gathering of the finest minds of the Ton, to be held at my home on Thursday, January XX. The usual rules apply. As this is the first soiree of the Season, please considering joining us for a fete to be hosted at our new accommodations at 7 - Place. Your friend in fraternity and discretion,
Ms. Naomi
Dear Ms. Naomi,
I regret to inform you that I will not be attending any further events of this nature. You have been a superb host, but I have not found the discourse to be to my liking. I am forever in your debt for your kind attentions, and remain your servant,
D. W.
Dear Mr. Winchester,
It is with interest that I learn you have no intention of attending further soirees. I was right about you. This is proving a most entertaining hunt. I eagerly anticipate seeing you in the Ton in January.
M.
Dean stared at the letter he'd received from Michael, arrived mere days after his own was posted to Naomi. His heart raced as thoughts cascaded one atop the next.
Ms. Naomi was the person who selected the men to attend, the person who created the guest list, who sent the invitations. Ms. Naomi was the only person in the entire process who knew Dean's real name, who must know it in order to send the letters. Only Ms. Naomi could have known of the reply Dean had sent. The inescapable implication was that Michael was privy to information that Ms. Naomi possessed. The bottom plunged from Dean's stomach as he stared at the letter that Michael had sent him, horror destroying everything.
Michael might have learned his name from Ms. Naomi. Castiel might have had no hand in it. Dean might have walked out of Ms. Naomi's house that night into the arms of one who loved him and received strength and healing and understanding. Castiel might not have wronged him. Dean's heart had been right all along, his head deceived. Vertigo rocked the world and Dean clutched his head and collapsed, retching on the carpet before the blazing fireplace in his study.
No, no, this can't be real, this can't be happening, I can't have ruined all for naught, I can't have rent, annihilated, demolished, my dearest love.
Two pinpricks of black in a sea of purest white obliterated every sight, every thought. A scream ripped from his throat, or so he thought, he couldn't tell. What was real, what wasn't, had he even received a letter at all? No air, no breathe, I can't...I'm going to die, he's going to kill me.
It's no more than I deserve. I tore the wings from my angel, for nothing, for a suspicion, for a lie. I trusted a monster over the most beautiful creation of divinity. I killed Castiel.
Blue eyes stared at him accusingly. The world spun to nothing, and Dean was aware of no more.
The distinct sounds Dean heard when he awoke set the scene for him as well as if he'd opened his eyes. The distinct hiss and whistle of wind hitting crackling flames named his bedroom. The soft chiming of a distant clock indicated midday. The punch and puncture of a thread-bearing needle piercing cloth told him he was not alone, the susurration of swallowed imprecations told him his companion was his wife. There was a faint clatter of wood as the embroidery was set aside, a rustle of fabric as Charlie made some adjustment to her position.
"Dean, I shared your bed for four years. I know how it sounds when you are awake." Coloring, Dean opened his eyes to have all suppositions confirmed. His wife wore a sad smile, a cap on her head against the growing fall chill. Dean's jaw ached, and he set a hand to it with confusion and no small amount of alarm. "We were drawn to the study by obvious sounds of distress and found you lying on the floor, choking and crying out, impervious to all attempts at communication. Samuel had to punch you to prevent you lashing out, and we brought you up to bed." Profoundly embarrassed, Dean licked his lips and looked everywhere but at her. Nothing was said, and he found himself coloring under her continued, unswerving attention. Finally, nervously, he met her gaze, flinched away, met it again and held on, allowing the green eyes to offer him unquestioning support.
"Here is what I know," she said quietly. "That something dreadful happened when last you visited London. That you have not been the same man since. That you are doing better than you were. I know that we as a family have suffered a series of reverses that appear unrelated, but that taken as a whole suggest a systematic effort by some person or persons to bring grief to this family. I know that rumor has been deliberately and maliciously spread that you are responsible for the ruin of Ms. Amelia Richardson and that you are the father of Ms. Claire Richardson, that you are reputed to have furthered that sin and my shame by bringing the child into the house. I am keenly aware of the impact that this rumor has had on your respectability and honor, and on my own place in the perception of society. It has rebounded on to Sam, reminding people of his buried past, and stirred whispers that sin is bred in the bone. It has practically ruined Jo in the eyes of the world, for she has no one to face slander on her behalf but us, and all look at her living with us and wonder. There is more, financial setbacks, slights, whispers, but that is the core of it, and I have done all in my power to mitigate, to quiet, to prevent, and to remedy. However, every whisper is a spore that can grow into a new rot of fungus, and each I root out, it seems two more take root. Without knowing the initial source of blight, there is only so many letters I can write, so many favors I can call in, so many avenues I can explore, before I am thwarted.
"I have honored your wishes and not spoken of this for half a year, though all who love you have watched you struggle alone, have watched and wondered. I've prevented all, even Samuel, from demanding you share whatever burden you are carrying. If you rebuke me now, I shall not ask again, and I will not hold it against you, for your behavior shows all the signs of coercion and forced secrecy, and I could never blame you for succumbing to such. However, I will take the matter from your hands, as you well know me able, and handle it as best I see fit. While we are in London, my options will multiply, and I will use every tool in my power to protect this family. So, dear husband, kind and caring Dean, I ask you one more, one last time: Who has hurt you so? Who is the author of our misfortunes?"
Dean's brow lowered in troubled thought, he snagged his lip with his teeth, and his mind cried out that this was his burden to bear, that they must never know. And he recognized it as nonsense. They already knew so much, supposed more. They would learn all, and if they must he'd rather they learn from him. With a rough sigh, he said, "Are Sam, Jessica and Ms. Harvelle waiting in the hall?"
"Damnation, Dean Winchester," snapped the muffled but distinct voice of Ms. Harvelle, "what must I do to compel you to call me Johanna?"
"It'll never happen, Harvelle," Dean called back gruffly, smiling despite himself. "Get in here, all of you."
With guilty looks all around, his family clambered into his room with a shuffling of feet, a brushing of cloth, and mumbled concern for his health. "Listen well, because I'm only going to say this once," Dean said. He gazed into each face and looked at them, truly looked at them, for the first time since May. "You're my family, and you've gone behind my back." Sam started guiltily. His eyes mirrored concern, his brow was furrowed so deeply in tension, his mouth drooped so, that his expression would have been comical had Dean not recognized it as his most sincere expression of worry. "I'm disappointed." Jessica gave a squeak, a hand going to her swelling belly as she colored bright red, but defiantly refused to avert her dark eyes. "I'm disappointed in myself." Ms. Harvelle's scowl broke into a smile brightened with surprise and wonder, like the sun emerging after a storm. "I would do anything for you, except, apparently, trust you. I've already lost one person I loved because I could not bring myself to trust them, to trust my heart. I'll not lose any others." Sadness painted Charlie's features at his words as she guessed what they meant. Dean's heart quavered. A moment lengthened, silent, as all looked at him and he looked upon each in turn.
"Michael. His told me to call him Michael. And in March, he…" And Dean told them all that had passed between himself and the black-eyed man who embodied his nightmares. As he spoke, he realized, with agonized despair, that no blue-eyed angel haunted his room. Castiel was truly gone.
