horsegirl2430 - thank you! Glad you liked it :) Hopefully this chapter'll make you happy, it's pretty exclusively Dean just following his heart/gut/both, which is gonna be good for him, I reckon

QueenWoofy - Yeah I know :( Poor Dean. Things pick up for him this chapter though, I promise! Thanks for reviewing!

Chapter 7—Dean Yields

"Books break the shackles of time."

Carl Sagan, Cosmos

Castiel looks above him to the great domed roof of the library, taking in his refreshingly peaceful surroundings. The roof of this room is made of glass—a glass so clear it appears to be almost composed of cut crystal, with the metal joining each panel together melded in such a way that it appears that iron plants and ivies are winding their ways across the surface of the clear ceiling. The sunlight pouring through it seems to set the glass on fire with a white, pure kind of light that shimmers down in fractured lines onto the hundreds of shelves and thousands of books below it. Nothing else from the outside world enters this room, only the light, and there is an eerie, pure kind of stillness here. Not even the wind or the birdsong outside can be heard.

The shape of the enormous room reminds him largely of the library in his own home; which also has a domed roof and circular walls. He glances to his left, to where a thin, spiral staircase made of a wiry, black metal leads up to another floor of books. He smiles. There is so much knowledge in this room. There are rows and rows of shelves, all a dark brown, ruddy kind of wood he doesn't recognise; the air in here is different to the air in the rest of Hera, which is heavy and warm and unpleasant. This place smells of parchment and woodsmoke, all with an overture of the tang of iron and the smell of wax and hide rising up from beneath these.

Castiel thinks that of all the rooms in the castle of Hera, this is the most beautiful.

It's hardly saying much, considering how ugly much of the architecture of the castle appears, at least in comparison with the ineffable beauty of Castiel's own home; but this room seems to be something of an honest exception to the rule of hard, unforgiving lines and grey stone and easily defendable parapets that the rest of Castle Hera seems to follow.

Above him, on the second floor, which only stretches around the edges of the room and has the bookcases built into its walls, lie the far older and more valuable books—at least, according to a passing servant.

Castiel doesn't know how long he has been sat here reading; although he guesses a few hours. The sun, which upon his entry had been situated roughly directly above the glass dome, has now slipped out of view, if Castiel looks up.

Castiel knows he should be going to see Dean soon, if not immediately; but he is so comfortable where he sits—and he has never had so many books, written on topics he actually finds appealing, at his disposal.

He wishes that Dean were here, too—the thought of having Dean sat next to him as the two of them read in silence is of infinite appeal to Castiel, it sets something warm and glowing and contented into his heart; and he isn't quite sure why that is. He likes the thought of him and Dean sat shoulder to shoulder, close enough that they are actually touching, reading and occasionally talking in the quiet, comfortable room. He likes the thought of reading more poetry to Dean, watching the distant look that this action fixes in Dean's eye, telling the Human about all his favourite authors.

Or maybe Dean could read to Castiel.

Castiel doesn't know how much Dean would actually like it; but he is sure that if he suggested the right book to Dean, the Human would greatly enjoy himself while reading. And Castiel likes the sound of Dean's voice… He is certain he'd like it even more if Dean were reading as pretty words as the ones written by all these Humans, with nobody but Castiel as his audience in the perfect stillness of the library.

Very few people have passed through here as far as Castiel can see, and the only regular attendee to the room seems to be a rather wizened, elderly man; who orders the books and scrolls appropriately, and otherwise remains in his seat at the corner of the room, poring over a story of his own. His expression seems to be drawn towards the centre of his face, features receding toward his nose in a constantly perplexed, engrossed expression, a pair of eyeglasses balanced precariously on his nose, silver hair tumbling in front of his eyes.

Occasionally a woman around his age will enter too, and the pair will nod to each other and exchange a few short, hushed words. The man will smile at the lady's back when she turns around and he knows she can't see. Castiel's lips are twitched upwards, his heart warmed by the sight. He pities Angels for believing love is a trait which should be stifled and stamped down upon as much as possible. How much his own people are missing out on, he muses.

Eventually drawn by the pang of desire to be with Dean again, Castiel makes his way to leave. He smiles at the old librarian—Castiel assumes that this is his profession—who returns the look and bows his head back.

Asking for instruction to Dean's training grounds from a servant wearing slightly scuffed boots and a crumpled shirt, Castiel is shown down several corridors, and then out into a courtyard, where he frowns at the clouded sky over his head—it seems far too overcast for what is so nearly summertime. In the distraction of taking in his surroundings, the servant has left Castiel; who vaguely remembers the skinny, scruffy looking man pointing him somewhere, saying something in the way of instruction, before disappearing. As it is, the Angel now finds himself utterly lost.

An archway lies ahead of him, the sun winking gold out from behind it, and beyond that, emerald gardens and lawns. Castiel decides to follow his instincts and go through here. Out ahead of him, he sees something a little like an arena, with seats rising up on five of its six sides. Castiel can just make out the entrance, as the remaining side is fenced off, for whatever reason. He assumes that this is where Dean trains, anyway, and makes his way inside through the rather bombastic arched entrance.

"Hello, Cas," Dean grins as soon as he spots the Angel approaching. It warms something inside of Castiel to know that his presence has provoked such an unabashed, happy expression on the Human's face. "Thank you for today, you can leave us, now." Dean smiles and nods to the battle-scarred man Castiel assumes to be his instructor, who bows to Dean and sheaths his sword, nodding politely at Castiel before placing his weapons back on the rack.

"My Lord," The trainer leaves the arena, Dean tips a smile to him as he exits.

The jade-eyed Human wears minimal amour; Castiel assumes it is because he has only been training and not is in any actual combat—Dean is not wearing a helmet, nor is he wearing a breastplate, although he does don a boiled leather shirt, along with a gardbrace and pauldron on one arm, while the other is left free, probably for ease of mobility.

"You still want to test your skills out on me?" Dean winks, and Castiel thinks he feels his face flush. "It's okay if you've chickened out—I won't judge you."

"In which form of combat?" Castiel asks, ignoring Dean's mockery of him.

"Hand," Dean grins. "Or sword. You decide."

"Aren't there any other options?"

"Why, Cas, are you scared?" Dean asks, and there is another wink directed at Castiel as Dean speaks. Castiel observes quietly that Dean is far more confident when on the battlefield.

"There's more to combat than fighting with swords." Castiel states, attempting to keep his tone as flat as possible—which is difficult considering the rising temperature of his blood. He toes the gritty, sandy ground of the arena beneath his feet, very conscious of the fact that Dean is attempting to goad him, but also of the fact that the leer the Human wears, scrawled across his face, makes something in Castiel's gut tie itself into tight, unforgiving knots.

"Which is why I offered hand combat, too." Dean grins. Castiel presses his lips together, face hot in spite of the cool breeze that swirls down through the arena, tongues of wind ruffling at his hair. "We can fight with no weapons at all, if you want."

"What about archery?"

"That stuff's for kids."

"It wins a lot of battles, you know."

Dean rolls his eyes. Castiel licks his lips and ignores the way that Dean's skin, glittering with a light sweat, is also flushed in an almost picturesque manner from his day's no doubt taxing day of training.

"Then what about jousting?" Castiel asks.

"Cas, you can barely ride, yet, so I'm pretty sure that jousting is out of the question for the time being," Dean barely conceales his snort as he speaks, mirth dancing in the ever-present fire behind his pure, jade eyes.

"So those two forms of fighting are the only that you're offering?"

"I've said you can back out, if you're too scared." Dean smirks, and Castiel scowls at him, which only makes Dean leer more.

"Arrogance doesn't look good on you, Dean." He quips, certain his nostrils are flaring.

"Bullshit," Dean snorts, "everything looks good on me."

Castiel's face heats, but he manages not to rise. Dean is right, of course—he's unusually fascinating in his appearance, even sweat slick and dust-covered, as he is now.

"You know what they say about pride coming before—"

"I think you're trying to change the subject." Dean sneers, and with that, Castiel has had enough. He doesn't respond well to mockery.

Instead of lashing out with a sharp tongue in response to Dean's goading, Castiel paces over to the stands of weapons on the edge of the dusty stone arena, eyeing each of them up. He finds a sword he considers an appropriate size for him, remembering what Michael has told him about what he should look for when considering his weapons, and feels the weight of it in the palm of his hand.

It rests, both heavy and light at his fingers, a simple blade with a gold plated hilt and leather-bound grip—Castiel decides that he likes it well enough. He spins it from its handle, considering the way its body pulls at his hand, the momentum which it builds up; the speed at which it slices through the air.

"This will do me well enough." He smiles, his smugness barely noticeable, though he knows almost for certain that Dean will pick up on it.

"You aren't going to want any kind of armour?" Dean frowns slightly.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me, Dean;" Castiel's lips twitch upwards. "I said: this will do me well enough."

Dean bites his bottom lip, and, for the first time in their conversation, looks a little uneasy, which only makes Castiel feel all the more smug. He's going to enjoy this.

Dean's frown is still twisting at his face when he pulls his sword up to stand on guard, but Castiel smirks and swings his weapon loosely at his feet, only pulling it up as Dean lunges forward, deflecting the Human's blow; which seems to take Dean by surprise. Castiel tries not to smile too much as the Human scowls again, and ducks out of the way when Dean attempts to overcut him.

"That was hardly fair, Dean," Castiel squints slightly at his opponent, who shrugs and attempts the move again, which Castiel manages to dodge once more without any trouble. "I'm not wearing any kind of armour."

Dean lunges again, throwing a cut toward Castiel's chest, though he easily counters it, pushing Dean's blade upwards and away.

"Yes, and that was by your choice, not mine." Dean reminds as he fights. "You've made your bed, now you've got to lie in it."

"Shouldn't we be trying to avoid injuries?"

"Take it as a compliment, Cas," Dean pants, attempting to smirk playfully at Castiel as he aims another blow in Castiel's direction; but the Angel parries his move, pushing Dean's sword back, causing the Human to nearly lose his balance. "—That I think you so capable."

"I'll try to." Castiel dodges Dean's sword as it slices through the air, the blade whistling past his ear: this seems to frustrate Dean further—which makes Castiel think that the King's son is not used to any kind of defeat.

Dean is skilled, granted, but he's too obvious in his moves; his intentions are made too clear by his body language and expressions, there's no nuance to his movements, no graceful edge, only brute force and speed, and Castiel is beginning to think that maybe emotions are a hindrance in matters such as this, when—

The hilt of Dean's sword is blown into Castiel's stomach; winding him, the pommel of the blade knocking the air clean out of Castiel, and he is taken aback for a few moments, his mind drawing an utter blank—he should have known better than to get distracted; Michael has always reprimanded him for this when in training—and although Dean's move was hardly fair play, it wasn't exactly out of the rulebook, either.

And now Castiel is gasping for air as Dean swings his sword up again, ready to point it at Castiel's neck and force him to surrender Dean into victory; and Castiel can see the triumph in Dean's eyes, which is infuriating enough to summon him back into action.

He slams the fold of his right wing into Dean's body, hitting him with the blunt of his joints and slamming Dean's frame onto the floor, where the boy lands in a flurry of dust and grit, clouding upwards. Castiel holds the point of his sword to Dean's neck, just enough so that it is pressing lightly at his skin, holding him down, but still soft enough so as not to risk drawing any blood. Dean scowls up at Castiel, whose heart begins basking in smug warmth of his own victory.

"That wasn't fair." Dean glares. Castiel finds the look oddly endearing.

"It was," Castiel contends, frowning.

"You used your wings, and I don't have any, so it wasn't fair."

"You had armour, I didn't. It was fair enough." Castiel disagrees. His head inclines to the side as he regards Dean, red-faced, skin prickled with beads of sweat that glitter in the setting sun, brow furrowed in indignant aversion. Castiel takes this moment to catch his breath from the duel, using his free arm to mop up his own sweat, stinging at his forehead, with the sleeve of his tunic.

"No," Dean glowers from where he is still trapped on the floor—Castiel doesn't think it wise to lower his weapon, just yet, "it wasn't. You chose to go without armour; I never chose not to have wings. You cheated."

"You winded me. That was hardly knightly of you, Dean."

"It wasn't the embodiment of chivalry, sure," Dean admits, "But it wasn't cheating, either."

"I'd beg to differ."

"Sure you would." Dean snarls. "You won."

"So I did." Castiel smirks, taking on the innocent tone he has noted Gabriel to use so often when teasing others. He isn't sure if it suits him, but it certainly seems to drive Dean even further up the wall. "I suppose you were wrong, after all. I wasn't afraid that I would lose, earlier."

"You have your brother to train you—" Dean tries to say, but Castiel laughs and shakes his head, cutting the Human off before he can continue any further.

"And you have a trainer of your own, Dean. Don't try to make excuses, it's not attractive. Accept defeat."

"No, I won't."

"You've fought in an actual war, too." Castiel reminds. "There's another advantage in your favour."

"Yeah," Dean glares, hard and unforgiving at his opponent, "they don't fight fair in war, either."

Castiel notes the muscle fluttering at the junction of Dean's neck and jaw, and remarks internally that the boy prince must really hate losing.

"I'm sure."

"The soldiers from Dione don't fight fair," Dean states, and where is he going with this?

"Neither will Demon soldiers, if you ever face them," Castiel points out, returning the hardness of the look Dean gives him, only lacing his own gaze with far more mirth and amusement than Dean seems able to cope with.

"And neither do Angels, apparently."

The words are spat out, Dean's expression seems to retreat towards his nose, which wrinkles in distaste.

"You see, Dean?" Castiel leers down at the other boy, "We're all cheats and we're all liars in the grand scheme of things."

"Angels, especially, it seems" Dean glowers.

"Admit that you lost," Is all Castiel replies with, voice mocking the Human with condescension.

"No," Dean refuses, still glaring up at Castiel. "You cheated." He clenches his teeth.

"We could always have a rematch." Castiel suggests.

"We won't need one," Dean mumbles, finally looking away, and Castiel feels himself frown slightly, a questioning pulse of confusion flashing through his mind and distracting him from the honeyed pleasure of victory—but then Dean's sword is swung up and slammed against his own, knocking it out of the way, and Dean tackles Castiel to the ground, laughing in conceited triumph.

"Get off—" Castiel tries to squirm free, but Dean doesn't budge, and his laughter only continues.

"Never," Dean shakes his head, grinning, his legs on either side of Castiel, pinning him to the sand and dirt-covered ground. "Yield?" He asks, giggling like a child. "Do you yield?"

Castiel scowls before lunging forward again, flipping Dean onto his back—Dean resists, and the two continue grappling in this way; one flipping the other to the ground only to find themselves being pushed over and hitting the floor a moment later, sand and dust and grit caught up in hair and eyes and skin, whirling up into the air and into a cloudy furor; but Castiel eventually manages to pin Dean to the ground and keep him there.

Him being an Angel—even if he is not a fully matured one—gives him a significant physical advantage; and though he is sure that this is something Dean will complain about, it can hardly be conceived as being unfair.

"Do you yield, Dean?" He pants, on top of the Human, his legs on either side of Dean's body; trapping him—but the grin is still fixed upon Dean's features, which Castiel finds almost maddening with the amount of frustration it sends coursing through his system. "Stop smirking," Castiel glares. Dean attempts to rise, to sit up slightly, but Castiel slams the Human's shoulders back against the ground, dust billowing out from beneath him yet again. "You've lost, twice now, so stop it. Stop moving—stop trying to squirm free, you've really lost, now. Why are you laughing?" He feels his lip curl in annoyance, but Dean's body racks with laughter from underneath him. "Stop it!" He snaps, confusion rising with the bubbling anger inside his chest as Dean's giggles only continue. "Yield, Dean!" He nearly barks down.

"Make me." Dean grins up at him; eyes half closed with a sly kind of smugness as he gazes up at the Angel through thick brown eyelashes.

"Stop it—!" Castiel shouts, and squints at Dean, frowning, leaning down towards the Human in frustration to shout into his face, but then Dean surges forwards again, and Castiel is expecting another form of attack, and is ready to counter it—but it doesn't come.

Or, not in any form he was expecting.

Because Dean's lips have met his own, they have crashed against Castiel's.

And Castiel makes a startled sort of noise against Dean's mouth, and his mind is storming inside his skull and yet it is like still waters; it is swirling messily and it is drawing a blank, and Dean rolls on top of Castiel again, and Castiel thinks he can feel Dean smiling against his mouth, and then Castiel rolls Dean back onto his back; and they are both laughing into the kiss, tongues probing into each other's mouths, noses meeting awkwardly, foreheads bumping, and Castiel's eyes are crinkling at their corners and something is swelling inside of his heart, ready to burst, and all the poets in all the world couldn't describe how the Angel is feeling right now.

He doesn't know what to think when they break apart. They just pant and stare at each other, entranced, for what could quite honestly be a lifetime—and then Castiel finds himself saying;

"You just kissed me."

His eyes are wide.

"I did," Dean's lips play upward into an expression somehow both amused and nonplussed. "And you kissed me back."

"I did—" Castiel admits, looking away for a moment from where he lies, on top of Dean. "—I—"

"You liked it?" Dean asks from underneath him, something infantile and unabashed in his expression. Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat and turns his head to look back down at the Human.

"I mean," He feels far too short of breath as he speaks. "You—I—"

"You liked it?" Dean repeats, hands grazing up Castiel's thighs. The Angel's breath catches in his throat.

"Obviously I—" He flushes. Dean smirks. Castiel scowls at the expression. "But you liked it more," He accuses.

Dean giggles from beneath him.

"You're kinda immature. You know that, right?"

Castiel chooses to glare down at Dean rather than let his expression turn as soft and tender as his heart feels in this moment.

"Admit you lost."

His words are bitten out, but somehow come across more indignant and childish than anything else.

But Dean only laughs and lifts his head to press his lips against Castiel's again, and Castiel doesn't think that he's ever found a moment as perfect as this one.

When Dean pulls back, he looks up at Castiel through thick eyelashes almost obediently, and bows his head slightly, still staring into Castiel's eyes as he confesses;

"You won, Castiel." His voice is like sleep and tenderness and crackling fires and Castiel can see the dawn in the Human's eyes. "I yield."

And Castiel thinks Dean means in something other than just their duel.

They eat in the dining hall instead of the main hall for supper. Castiel ponders how much it is that prefers this room—it is only himself, Dean, and Sam dining together, with a few servants standing round the edges of the room ready to refill their goblets or bring in the next course.

It is much more intimate here—Castiel doesn't have to worry about any of his siblings smirking at him from the corner of his eye, or Dean acting less like himself whilst in his father's presence.

The dining hall is smaller and has a far friendlier feel than that of the main hall—and although it is, admittedly, still very large, Castiel feels far more at ease here. A huge fireplace sits at the one side of the room, though the fire lit inside it is comparatively small for the fireplace's size—but then, Castiel supposes, it's a fairly warm summer's night, so there's hardly any need for it, anyway.

"How was the rest of your ride?" Sam asks as Dean and Castiel both pull out chairs at the table where Sam is already seated.

"It was good." Dean shrugs, although he avoids eye contact with his brother while he says this, and Castiel is slightly puzzled as to why.

"And you went to the library?" Sam asks, turning to Castiel. The Angel nods in response.

"Yes, I did." He confirms.

"How did you find it?"

"I liked it very much." Castiel's lips twitch upwards as the servants set the meal on the table. "Your library is quite possibly the most beautiful room in this castle, I think."

"Oh, it definitely is." Sam nods. "The rest of the rooms are kind of ugly."

"That's not true." Dean frowns. "The halls are nice."

"Yeah, but I bet they're not as nice as in Cas's home."

Dean turns to Castiel expectantly.

"Would you say that's true?" He asks. Castiel ducks his head.

"I don't wish to appear rude…"

"You wouldn't be being rude—I asked you, Cas. Anyway, I bet your castles are nicer—the library is definitely the nicest room we've got here, but apart from that, there aren't many others."

"Your room is nice." Castiel frowns. Dean stiffens as Sam straightens up, a grin spreading across his face.

"When have you been to Dean's room?" He asks, laughter bubbling around his words, and Castiel's face heats—he hadn't been thinking, and now he's clearly said too much.

"Um—" He bites his lip, looking down and then back up at Samuel, certain his face is turning a violent shade of red. "…I—"

"He and his brother came round to my room, yesterday, so Cas could get a guided tour, you ass." Dean rolls his eyes, and Castiel relaxes somewhat.

"Right," Sam nods, although he looks slightly unconvinced. "Anyway, Cas, what's the library like in your home?"

Castiel's lips twitch into a small smile.

"It's probably my favourite room there, too. It has a slightly domed roof, not unlike your library, although ours isn't made of glass, as yours is."

Sam nods.

"So, is it lit up by natural light, too?"

"Yes," Castiel confirms. "It has a great deal of windows, and it is mostly painted white, and made with alabaster, so the whole room is very light."

"It sounds beautiful." Dean states, gazing intently at Castiel. "I'd love to see it."

"I hope you will, one day." Castiel returns. He doesn't miss the pink that creeps across Dean's face at this. "The ceiling is painted differently from the rest of the room, though."

"How so?" Dean asks, frowning inquisitively.

"It's very ornate," Castiel explains. "And features portraits and images and narratives painted directly onto the ceiling itself, which is very beautiful, too."

"It sounds it." Dean replies, still staring fixedly at Castiel. The Angel quickly decides that he very much enjoys the fact that he has Dean's undivided, unquestioning attention.

"Has it got multiple floors?" Sam asks.

"Like yours, it has layers of bookcases lining the walls, and you reach them with staircases—there are also several corridors made of bookcases, leading off of the library—which is, itself, quite large—and these of course contain more books."

"And you say you're afraid you're gonna run out of stuff to read." Dean snorts.

"Not all of the things there interest me, Dean." Castiel reminds. "Most of it is simply religious, philosophical, political or historical works—which, while they may be apparently captivating for my brother, are less so for me."

"You like books written by Humans." Dean smiles, although the emotion he is regarding Castiel with is difficult to pinpoint. Sunlight from the stained-glass windows at the head of the hall splash his face with colour and turn his jade eyes into a glittering amber.

"Yes," Castiel confirms. "I do."

"You don't read any books written by Angels?" Sam asks. Castiel turns back to Dean's younger brother.

"No, I read some. But I find them to be nowhere near as gripping, nor as appealing as your novels are. Your fiction stories, I feel I should mention."

"If I had books about Angel history at my disposal, I think I'd read them all the time." Dean says. Castiel smiles.

"I don't doubt that you would—but they're far less interesting for me—it feels more like one of my lessons, reading those books, than anything else."

"Yes, but your people are Angels." Dean says, and Castiel lets out a breath of amusement at Dean's words. "You're all so interesting."

"Probably a lot less interesting when you are an Angel, Dean."

"What kind of fiction do you read, Cas?" Sam asks. He picks at his food, apparently far more absorbed by Castiel than he is by his meal.

"Cas reads all sorts." Dean grins on behalf of the Angel, straightening up to look over to Samuel as he speaks. "He likes poetry and stories and plays for the theatre."

"Yes," Castiel nods, something warm blanketing his insides at Dean's words. "I do."

"Do you have a favourite genre?"

"I'm not sure," Castiel frowns, slightly. "I like your literature written about love."

"Romance?" Sam asks. Castiel shrugs and nods in response.

"You're such a sap, Cas." Dean laughs.

"You weren't complaining when I was quoting poetry to you, earlier." Castiel counters, and Dean blushes a deep, bright red.

"Dean puts on a façade of not caring about romance and all that stuff, but we know he's lying." Sam grins. "He loves it."

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean scowls, and Castiel's lips are quirked upwards.

"What makes you think that it's a bad thing?" He asks, and Dean turns to face him a little more, his face still very red.

"I don't—I just—"

"Dean acts like he doesn't believe in love, only attraction. Ellen says he's a flirt." Sam states, looking even more entertained at the new expression that slides across Dean's features. Castiel thinks he recognises it as a combination of deep embarrassment mixed with a sharp frustration. "He sometimes even flirts with servants."

"Sam, shut up—"

Castiel isn't sure what to say.

"I think a lot of them are a little in love with him," Sam snorts. "And I think Dean knows it, too. Sometimes he gets a crowd of them watching him fight in the arena, and he likes to show off and impress them whenever they're around."

"They wouldn't have been impressed with Dean's display, today," Castiel finds himself smiling—and it feels an odd combination of triumphant and vindictive. "He lost."

"What?" Sam grins.

"When I was duelling him, I beat him. Twice. Had there been a crowd intent on watching Dean, I'm sure they would've been far less impressed than usual."

"Yeah, for a couple of reasons." Dean mumbles, his face still scorched with colour.

"You beat Dean?" Sam asks, raising his eyebrows at Castiel, something like vastly impressed disbelief ghosting across his features.

"I did." Castiel confirms, his lips twitching upwards.

"I bet he didn't react well to that." Sam chuckles, and Castiel does, too.

"I don't know," He shrugs, glancing back at Dean, who is now staring at the floor. "I think I quite enjoyed his response."

Dean's face only goes redder at this, but his eyes flicker back up to Castiel's face, and a shy, reluctant smile grazes his lips.

"I might flirt with a bunch of people, but you should know that I don't have that response to just anyone who bests me in combat."

Sam frowns, confused.

"And anyway," Dean shrugs, "if that's going to be the usual outcome of us sparring, I think I'll be more than okay with losing."

This time, Castiel's face is the one to heat.

After the meal, Dean grabs Castiel softly by the wrist as Sam exits the Dining Hall.

"Cas—I—I wanted to say—about what Sam said at dinner—"

"What did Sam say?" Castiel asks, cocking his head to the side and frowning slightly.

"About me—about me flirting with a bunch of people—" Dean looks down, his face returning to the heated, red colour it was during the meal. "—I just—I know it sounds bad—"

"It doesn't sound bad, Dean." Castiel frowns. "Honestly, I had already heard that you were considered something of a charmer—"

"But I'm not going to be like that, now that—now that you're in the equation." Dean phrases the sentence awkwardly, and the words come slowly out of his mouth. Castiel watches as the Human winces at his own discomfort. "—I mean—I'm not gonna flirt with people, now that you and I are—" He pauses, and Castiel knows that both himself and Dean are asking themselves the same question. What are the two of them? "You know?" Dean finishes, looking up at Castiel. Castiel smiles and nods.

"I understand." He confirms. "Is there a reason you aren't… flirty, with me?" He asks, knowing how much of an awkward question this is.

Dean blushes again.

"I guess—I'm just way more nervous around you…" He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Is there a reason for that?" Castiel frowns.

"Um—" Dean's face is still blistering red, and Castiel thinks he can see heat creeping down the Human's neck. "I'm less confident with you—'cause—I don't know… It feels like you matter more, you know? Like, I could fuck it up, and I don't want to fuck it up, but I'm scared I will… And so I get nervous, and then I just start talking shit—like I am now—" He cuts himself off and looks down, a small, anxious laugh tumbling out from his lips. Castiel's hand brushes underneath Dean's chin almost without the Angel realising it.

Dean looks up nervously, and then Castiel is kissing him again in the now empty dining hall, their lips pressing soft and sweet against each other. Dean looks a different kind of embarrassed when Castiel pulls away.

Neither of them can seem to stop smiling.

Dean and Castiel meet again in the courtyard that evening, under a heavy, glittering sky. They sit in silence for a while, only looking up at the inky night above their heads, their fingers splayed together, their palms barely touching, before Dean speaks. His voice is soft and warm and Castiel wants to close his eyes at the sound and curl up, deep inside Dean's voice.

"Do you think I'll ever be able to go and see the mountains, with you?" He asks. "Will I ever get to see your home?"

"I hope so," Castiel replies honestly. He continues to stare at the space of heaven above their heads; the stars glimmer in warm yellows and reds and pale blues and silvers; the blackened silhouettes of bats and night-birds flit across the velvet surface of the sky and starlight. The moon above them paints the stone walls of the castle in a pure, cold light. The air smells sweetened, like the first blossoms of springtime, and Castiel considers absently that it's most likely because of the dew. The grass beneath them is gloriously soft and damp, and looks a rich, dark enough green to be black in the dimming light. "I'd like for you to see where I live."

"I hope so, too." Dean nods distractedly, and Castiel turns to see that Dean's eyes have flicked down to Castiel's lips, again. The Angel's face heats, although something happy and smug pulses brightly through him at the expression painted across Dean's features, at the honey and spices that seep into his voice. "I've always wanted to."

"You've said." Castiel's lips twitch upwards, and Dean's gaze flicks back up to meet Castiel's again. Castiel watches as a smile tugs at Dean's features.

"Yeah, well now, more than ever."

"Why is that?" Castiel frowns, slightly.

Dean laughs as though Castiel is missing something totally obvious.

"Because the mountains have you." Dean grins, and Castiel flushes, looking down; which makes Dean laugh again and tangle his fingers with Castiel's properly, now. Their palms slot together and Dean leans forward to bump his forehead gently against Castiel's. "What would you show me first, if you were to give me a guided tour?"

"I don't know." Castiel shrugs. "Well, hopefully it would end slightly better than my tour of Hera," He jokes, but looks up to see Dean blushing, seemingly mortified.

"Cas—"

"I'd probably show you the view from my window." Castiel smiles. "Every morning I wake up and see the sun rising upon the face of the earth."

"That must be beautiful." Dean states, distantly. His lips are parted, his eyes seem as deep and wondrous as the forests outside Castle Hera's walls.

"Very," Castiel nods. "I always look out, to where your Human Kingdoms lie, imagining your lives, here."

"I always look out of my window at the mountains, imagining Angels' lives." Dean laughs earnestly. His smile is loose at his lips, the corners of his eyes crease, his nose crinkles warmly. Castiel feels as though he is sinking into warm, velvet waters at the look on the Human's face.

"Really?" His lips are tugged upwards into a weak smile. Whatever he feels in this moment, it doesn't quite want to smile, only bury itself in Dean and his voice and his features, bury itself and live there forever.

"Yes," Dean confirms. "Every morning and every night."

"You think of the Angels, each time?"

"I do." Dean nods. His eyes are soft and warm, something flickers and dances behind them with unprecedented delicacy. "But now, after you leave, I think I'll look out and think of you."

"I'll think of you, also." Castiel beams. He feels lightheaded with the look Dean is giving him. He swallows hard, an attempt to steady himself, yet it's futile, because the giddy feeling seeping through his bones isn't going to leave no matter how many times he wishes it away.

"You promise?" Dean asks, raising his eyebrows slightly at Castiel.

"I promise." Castiel replies sincerely.

"What does it look like—the sunrise—up in the mountains?" Dean asks softly, and he leans back into the grass again, and tugs at Castiel's hand to indicate that he wants the Angel to join him there. Castiel offers a small smile and lies back, too. His shoulder is pressed snugly against Dean's, he shifts his wings so that they lie up, rising above their heads, and Dean moves down to make space for them. "I've always thought it must be beautiful."

"It is." Castiel smiles gently at Dean. "The sun dances off the rocks; the peaks of the mountains catch its rays and I watch as it stretches shadows next to brilliant glimmers of light along the rising surface of my home. It makes the snow glitter white and orange like precious stones and sets warm, spiralling colours into the clouds."

"That's beautiful."

Dean's face is inches from Castiel's. His eyes are distant, like the stars above their heads.

"Yes," Castiel agrees. "It is." His eyes flicker down to Dean's lips.

"I wonder what it's like, living with so much beauty in your world…" Dean mumbles, and he sounds even more distant than before. "Seeing it every day? I'd feel so lucky." He huffs a timid laugh out of his nose. "I suppose I ought to say that I will feel so lucky, when I do."

"I have to remind myself how lucky I am to live there."

"I wasn't talking about the mountains." Dean shakes his head.

"Then what were you—"

Dean's nose grazes Castiel's.

"—Oh." The Angel finishes.

"Oh," Dean repeats, his lips being tugged upwards. "Yeah."

"I don't think I want to go back." Castiel confesses; and he knows that this is an absurd thing to say, but he has said it anyway, and he knows that he has only known Dean for two days, but this feels right, and Dean feels right—and Castiel likes Dean's eyes and his smile and the way that he talks and all the things that he says, and the way that Castiel feels understood, as though he isn't so alone, when he is with the Human—and he really doesn't want to have to lose that.

"That's ridiculous, Cas." Dean laughs, but his eyes are soft and understanding and his smile is anything but unkind. "It's your home."

"But things feel right with you—"

"And I won't be going anywhere, Castiel." Dean reminds. "I'll be right here waiting for you. And if you'll recall, it's not exactly the first and last time we're going to see each other."

"Of course." Castiel nods. He is being foolish, he should know better than throwing his feelings out into the open air, he—

"But for the record, Cas, I wish you could stay, too. Or, I wish I could go with you." Dean's eyes crinkle at their corners.

"And what would become of your brother?"

"If I were going, he'd be coming, too." Dean chuckles. A smile sets at Castiel's lips.

"How much longer do you think the stay will be?" Castiel asks.

"I don't know." Dean replies, shrugging and shaking his head. "But a while, I hope." He laughs. "I don't want you to go, just yet."

"Do you know how the negotiations have been progressing?" Castiel enquires. The thick grass beneath his head tickles at his ears as he regards Dean. The Human shakes his head again.

"Nope," He replies, "I just know that my father is still in a pissy mood with Angels in general."

"What makes you say that?"

"He came up to me today, out of the blue—this was just after I'd left you in the library—and started ranting to me about how he didn't like how well the two of us were getting along and that I should remind myself who I ought to be 'loyal' to. But you were right about him indoctrinating all his beliefs onto me; and I told him as much, and he got pretty angry."

"You angered your father, because of me?" Castiel asks, and he feels an ugly combination of guilt and worry worm up inside of his heart.

"He was in a shitty mood anyway, Cas." Dean shrugs like it's not anything to be concerned by; but Castiel's nerves are not so easily extinguished. "And he made it out like me getting along with you meant me abandoning my family, too. Like I was betraying him, or something."

"I don't want you to—"

"He's doing this 'cause he feels threatened, Cas." Dean turns onto his side so that he is facing Castiel completely, now. "Either that, or it's just because he still dislikes Angels that much. And both are shitty excuses. He's one of the people who helped arrange all this, after all."

"I still—"

"Don't feel bad." Dean shakes his head. "I had a lot of time to think it over during training, and do you know what I realised?"

Castiel shakes his head.

"It's his problem." Dean smiles. "And he's going to have to be the one to deal with it. Not me."

Castiel's lips are twitched upwards, and he turns on his side to face Dean properly.

"How was your time in the library?" Dean asks, pressing the flat of his palm against Castiel's again.

"It was nice." Castiel answers thoughtfully. "It was very nice." He corrects.

"I'm glad." Dean beams. "What did you read?"

"A lot of things." Castiel laughs. "I didn't get to finish everything." He confesses.

"That's okay." Dean shrugs, and he squeezes Castiel's hand. "You can go again tomorrow."

"I could." Castiel agrees. "Would you like to come with me?"

"I thought you could already tell, Cas, I'm not much of a bookish type." Dean grins.

"I don't think that's true." Castiel shakes his head.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, today, you liked listening to me recite poetry well enough. More than well enough."

"True," Dean admits, "But that was mainly 'cause it was being said by you."

Castiel blushes.

"And maybe you just haven't found the right book, yet."

"You could show me one."

"I could." Castiel nods. "So—is that a yes?"

"Okay," Dean laughs. The moonlight splashes half of his face in silver light, the other half is concealed by shadows cast by the grass. "It's an okay. I'll go with you. But we're still teaching you to ride, remember?"

"We can do that beforehand, just as we did today." Castiel shrugs. "And then I can thrash you in training, all over again." He teases.

"Oh, that sounds like a challenge." Dean laughs, winking at Castiel. "But I think I've figured out the perfect distraction for you, in combat, now."

"And what's that?" Castiel frowns.

"Me." Dean replies simply, grinning, and Castiel is about to ask him what he means, but Dean leans forward and brushes his lips delicately against Castiel's; only the softest touch imaginable, and oh, that's what Dean meant.

Castiel can see stars dancing on the back of his eyelids. When he pulls back from Dean's lips, he sees them dancing in the Human's eyes, also.

Each day is spent in a similar fashion after this. Dean wakes Castiel up early so that they may go on long rides together in the cool mist of morning through the depths of the forest—they either spend these rides talking, words flowing as freely as running water, or in comfortable silence together—and Castiel, who has spent his whole life feeling awkward and out of place, has never felt so at ease as when he is with Dean.

The first time Castiel falls off his horse, Dean laughs, but is by the Angel's side before Castiel can even register any pain, asking him what hurts, and how badly. Castiel waits a moment before answering because he likes the feeling of Dean's hands on his shoulders.

And he tries to bite down on his smile when Dean applauds him for getting back on his horse after the fall; but what Castiel doesn't say is that he'd fall a hundred times for Dean, if only to have Dean's hands on his body when his frame hits the ground.

Castiel likes to steal small glances in Dean's direction, on these rides. He likes how close Dean seems to be with his horse; and Dean is beginning to say that Castiel and his horse seem to be growing closer, too.

The air smells sharp when it is this early. It reminds Castiel of home; which he likes, because it feels like he is getting both home and Dean, which he knows ought to be impossible. The mist that settles on the ground of the fields and of the forest is cool and damp on Castiel's skin, and he decides that he enjoys the feeling of it against him, particularly when Dean is riding next to him, complaining about how this is hardly the weather of summer.

On these rides they talk of many things. They talk of Dean's mother and how much he misses her, of what Castiel has heard his own mother was like—Castiel confesses his feelings guilt, that his mother's death was his fault—and Dean's reassurance actually comforts Castiel where countless others' attempts have failed before.

Sometimes they stop on their rides to allow their horses a break and to graze quietly at the surrounding plants—while Dean and Castiel lie on the dew-covered ground, their bodies pressed together; their lips meeting to kiss slowly for what feels like a glorious infinity. The sun pours down upon them like honey through the dappled leaves of the forests in these hours, Dean's otherwise light brown hair seeming to be threaded with gold in the sunlight.

After riding, at around midday, they return the horses to their paddocks and sit in the library together for what is apparently hours; but what doesn't feel nearly as long to Castiel.

Castiel likes this time, too. He likes that their shoulders are close enough so that they are touching, brushing each other softly; that Dean asks Castiel to read his favourite passages to him, the look that will glass over Dean's eyes as Castiel reads; that sometimes Dean's hand will stray into Castiel's hair and their lips will meet again for soft, sweet, lingering kisses.

They don't kiss too often in the castle. And never when anyone else is looking. Castiel thinks that he likes it more, this way. It keeps these moments special. It's like he and Dean are both in on some wonderful, precious secret that the rest of the world couldn't possibly understand. He doesn't know what he and Dean are. They haven't said. It's better this way. Saying it aloud would mean acknowledging just what they feel for each other, and Castiel doesn't think he can do that. He suspects Dean feels the same.

Sometimes, during those quiet hours together, he will catch Dean staring at him—Castiel doesn't usually point this out, or ask why—he likes the feeling of Dean's gaze upon his skin, particularly when he thinks of how much wonder he is being regarded with. He doesn't know why Dean would look at him with anything like wonder. Castiel is awkward and quiet and doesn't understand any social cues—it is Castiel's fault his mother is dead, it is his fault Michael had to take responsibility so early—Castiel is nervous and his head is a messy and even more nervous place, but Dean seems to think that he's beautiful in every way conceivable.

After sitting together in the library, reading, listening to the other read aloud, they go out to train again. Dean takes up Castiel's challenge of archery around a week into Castiel's visit, on the condition that Castiel takes up his challenge of fighting without weapons.

Castiel states how uneasy he feels about this; how concerned he is that one of them will get hurt, but Dean reassures him that neither of them will be allowed to throw any punches—the person who manages to floor the other, and pin them to the ground first, wins.

Castiel finds out why Dean was so keen on this idea shortly after Dean catches him out by surprise; his body slamming Castiel's to the floor—and before Castiel is given a moment to gasp the air back into his lungs, Dean is grinning and pressing his lips so hard against Castiel's that the Angel forgets how to think.

The two of them will sit together at each meal. Castiel sometimes catches on of his siblings glancing in his direction, and smiling somewhat condescendingly, but he ignores every one of these expressions. Michael is always deep in conversation with Dean's father at these meals and so it is difficult for Castiel to be able to speak to him; but at least tensions with the Human King seem to be dying down somewhat.

Although Castiel wonders if this is really a good thing or not—the fact that an agreement looks as though it is on the way also means that the Angels' visit will be ending soon, and Castiel will have to return home; will have to leave Dean.

Dean tells Castiel, when evening has fallen and the two of them are sat outside in their usual spot in the courtyard, of how he sleeps better after sitting here with the Angel. Castiel smiles and tells Dean how glad he is.

Dean's eyes often trace the outlines of Castiel's wings—he still stares at them, Castiel has noted, as though he can't quite believe that they're there—but on one occasion Dean actually says something of them instead of merely looking.

"Can I touch them?" He asks quietly, as if this could possibly be offensive, as though he might accidentally scare Castiel away. Castiel peers at Dean, frowning.

Angels don't usually touch each other's wings, not unless they are very close. And Castiel is very close with Dean, but letting him touch his wings would be acknowledging that, and even if Dean doesn't know what it means, Castiel does; and he feels guilty at the thought that this would mean something to Castiel and potentially nothing to Dean.

"Sorry—" Dean says quickly, when Castiel doesn't respond, "I wasn't thinking." He ducks his head, blushing, and Castiel wants to graze his fingers under Dean's chin and pull those pretty green eyes back up to meet with his own.

"It's just—" Castiel bites his lip. "—It's seen as a kind of intimacy in Angel culture—it's supposed to mean a lot if someone touches your wings—they're supposed to mean a lot to you."

"I get it." Dean looks both downcast and mortified. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't say I didn't want you to…" Castiel looks at Dean, whose eyes flicker back up to Castiel's face. "…I just—I thought you should know, before you did. If you still wanted to, that is."

"Wait—so you—" Dean stammers over his words, and Castiel would find it adorable if he wasn't so nervous. "—You're saying I can? And you're saying that I'm—"

"Yes," Castiel nods, and this time, he is the one who is unable to make eye contact.

"Thank you." Dean's voice cracks, the sound barely noticeable. "Wow—thank you."

Castiel still doesn't look up, not until he feels Dean's fingers brush softly against his cheeks.

"I mean a lot to you?" Dean asks, a distant, lost look settling deep within his eyes.

"You do," Castiel nods.

"You mean a lot to me, too," Dean beams. Castiel mirrors the expression without realising it.

And then, Dean lifts his hand, slowly, and holds it inches away from Castiel's feathers, and Castiel thinks he has forgotten how to breathe—either that, or all the air in all the world has suddenly run out; but whichever it is, he definitely thinks his lungs have collapsed. Dean's face is inches from his own when he speaks once more.

"Can I touch them?" He asks again, and all Castiel can do is nod weakly. Dean lets out a shaky breath that reminds Castiel to breathe, himself, but the air is knocked clean out of his lungs all over again when Dean's fingers dance softly, timidly over Castiel's feathers.

Dean's eyes stay trained on his hand for a while, on the place where his fingers make contact with Castiel's wing, before they flutter back up to Castiel's face, Dean letting out another huff of air, soft against Castiel's lips, and he smiles softly as his eyes lock with Castiel's.

And then his hand trails down, his fingers grazing over each feather, and Dean is still smiling, and his eyes flick back to Castiel's wing before meeting again with Castiel's gaze.

"It's so soft," He almost laughs, and Castiel's breath is shallow when he replies.

"Thank you?" He feels his forehead twist into a slightly confused frown, but it doesn't last long, because Dean actually does laugh, this time, and his thumb skims under the feathers, and Castiel has to gasp and press his forehead against Dean's, because it feels good, and he thinks Dean realises it, because he repeats the action.

"You like that?" Dean asks, his voice thick and quiet. Castiel nods. Dean's nose bumps with Castiel's. "I like doing it." He says softly, and Castiel doesn't think before he spreads his wing out further, a silent request that Dean touches more.

Dean laughs again, the sound quiet, gentle, and his other hand meets with Castiel's other wing, and Castiel closes his eyes and doesn't realise when he lets the moan escape his lips.

Something burning is set coursing under his skin, and it prickles at Castiel's flesh, painful and addictive, and Castiel feels Dean's lips brush against his, delicate and barely there at all.

"Lie back." Dean instructs softly, and Castiel does, and Dean's legs are on either side of Castiel's body, and his hands are still tracing over every stretch of wing that they can reach, and Castiel closes his eyes as Dean bends down to place another gentle, barely-there kiss at the Angel's lips.

Castiel likes how gentle Dean's hands are with him; he likes the reverence they seem to be touching him with. He sears this memory into his soul, burns the image of him and Dean in the starlight lying with one-another, engraves it onto his heart.

Dean settles on top of Castiel, his hands still tracing Castiel's wings delicately, his head on Castiel's chest, and Castiel doesn't think he's ever felt so content. Dean's breathing matches his own. His fingers move up to card gently through Dean's hair. Castiel doesn't even realise when he falls asleep.

"Cas?" Comes a soft, sleepy voice that rouses Castiel as well as relaxing him still more; and Castiel stirs, his eyes sliding open slowly. He realises suddenly that he is outside, and that the night sky is almost pitch black, save for the stars flickering dimly overhead—and that Dean's body is resting on his own. "We fell asleep," Dean states dumbly. Castiel thinks that this is a rather obvious conclusion to come to; but knows better than to say as much.

"Oh," He says instead, and he feels Dean's right hand slide off from where it had been resting on Castiel's wing, in-between his feathers, and only has time to think about how horribly bare and naked that space feels now, and how much he dislikes the absence of Dean's touch, when Dean's left hand does the same.

"We should head back up." Dean states, and Castiel's heart sinks a little. He can only bring himself to nod in response, but he wonders if Dean is even able to see this in the darkness. "C'mon," Dean says, and he stands up and holds out his hand for Castiel to take, which the Angel does. Dean tugs him to his feet.

Castiel is thankful when Dean's hand doesn't leave his own. He holds onto it tightly, and Dean walks close enough to Castiel that their shoulders brush.

They walk in silence together to Castiel's room and neither of them mention the burning presence that sits between them; the fact that they have both acknowledged that they definitely mean something to each other, the fact that Dean's head was rested on Castiel's chest only moments beforehand as both of them rested in the dim starlight.

Dean stops outside Castiel's door.

"Thank you," He mumbles, gently, and Castiel doesn't need to ask what for. Dean's palm is still pressed flat against Castiel's. "I'm so glad it was you." He smiles, voice the sincerest sound of happiness that Castiel thinks he has ever heard; the Angel's lips can only twitch upwards before Dean's meet his again—this kiss is soft and slow and sweet and Castiel thinks he can feel one of Dean's fingertips trace one of his feathers, before Dean pulls back and slides his hand onto Castiel's shoulder, giving it a gentle, warm squeeze.

"I'll see you tomorrow." He says simply. There is one last squeeze before Dean is gone, and Castiel swallows hard, his head feeling dizzy, and pushes the door of his room open as quietly as possible so as not to draw the attention of any guards. He collapses on his bed; thinking about how much warmer it would feel if Dean were in it, too.

The next morning, Dean wakes Castiel up a little later than usual. His knocks are quiet and timid, and Castiel thinks that Dean regrets the turn things took the night previously.

"Sorry I'm late," Dean says, quietly. "It turns out Sammy saw me coming back late last night, and he wanted an explanation."

"Oh," Castiel says, his voice almost a whisper, although he isn't quite sure why. "And what did you say?"

"I told him the truth." Dean shrugs. "Well," He amends, a smile flickering across his features, "half the truth. But he doesn't need to know the rest." And he winks at Castiel, at that, who feels his face flush; but before he can duck his head, Dean is tugging him by the hand out his room, and down the corridor.

"I thought we could try and go a bit faster, today." Dean explains as they walk, and Castiel frowns. "You know, a little faster than cantering, maybe even galloping."

"Are you sure I'd be ready for that?" Castiel asks, timid. Dean grins and shrugs.

"I wouldn't be suggesting it if you weren't, would I? And we're over two weeks into your stay, and it looks like negotiations are drawing to a close—I'd like you to be able to go fast on a horse, before you leave."

Oh. Castiel had almost forgotten. He'll be leaving eventually.

"I don't want you to go, either," Dean says gently, as if reading Castiel's mind. "But we'll still write to each other, won't we? And we'll see each other again."

"Yes," Castiel agrees, but his eyes are still trained on the cold stone floor.

"And these past two weeks have been the best of my life," Dean states. His words are somehow of incredible reassurance. "And I wasn't expecting that at all. I wasn't expecting any of this."

"Me neither," Castiel replies earnestly.

On their ride, Castiel falls only twice. Dean is by his side every time.

Dean applauds loudly when Castiel manages to break into a gallop and not fall off, and grins and pats the Angel's shoulder, praising him; which makes Castiel's face heat and sets a warm, fluttering feeling deep inside his chest.

Castiel finds Dean a book he thinks Dean will like when they visit the library.

"What's this?"

"The first one of your books I ever read." Castiel smiles. "Out of Human books, that is."

"What's it about?" Dean asks.

"Read it, and find out." Castiel replies, his lips twitching up in amusement; but really, he isn't saying because he can't, because the book is a book about love, and if Castiel says this his face will almost certainly heat and Dean will notice, and Castiel doesn't know how he feels about Dean, yet he knows that his affections for the Human are growing steadily out of his own control.

Dean laughs and bumps his shoulder against Castiel's.

"Fine," He concedes. "You like it, then?"

"Yes." Castiel nods. "I wouldn't be recommending it to you if I didn't."

"Then I'm sure I'll like it, too." Dean's lips curl into a warm smile.

At dinner, Dean's foot is touching Castiel's under the table. Neither of them mention it. Neither of them move.

Castiel notices Dean sit up militantly when his father stands.

"The King, Michael, and myself, have reached a conclusion upon our agreements;" He announces to the hall. Castiel's heart drops suddenly.

He grows certain that the hall around them is collapsing.

"Which brings an end to their first visit—to be the first of many—in several centuries. Tonight is the last great feast we will hold with the Angels in our company, as they will be leaving the morn of tomorrow. As always, they will be welcome guests to our kingdom and we are both honoured to have hosted them these past weeks, and deeply grateful to them for aiding us in our conflict against the Demons."

Michael stands and says a few words—he thanks the company for being so hospitable, and repeats much of what Dean's father has already mentioned. Castiel is looking down at the table; his eyes glassing over, burning with tears. He doesn't even realise when his brother sits down and all the assembly begins to speak again.

"Did you know about any of that?" Dean asks quietly, fingers resting cautiously on the inside of Castiel's elbow. He looks up to see the Human frowning, and his eyes contain the same sadness that Castiel feels coil up in his gut.

"No." Castiel replies honestly, shaking his head. "I had no idea."

Dean nods, and there is a pause.

"What about you?" Castiel asks.

"I didn't have a clue." Dean's voice cracks. "—I'm sorry—"

Dean's hand is resting on the table. Castiel slips his own into it.

"Tonight—" Dean starts, looking up at Castiel. "—Meet me at the usual spot. Please?"

"Okay." Castiel nods, and the two of them sit quietly like this for the rest of the meal. Castiel thinks his heart has slid down into his stomach.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" Castiel scowls at his brother, storming into Michael's room and slamming the door behind him when they have left the feast. Michael raises his eyebrows coolly from where he sits, and Castiel snarls at the look. "Why didn't you tell me that we were leaving tomorrow?!"

"You hardly gave me the chance, Castiel." Michael replies dispassionately, picking up a book that sits beside his chair and flipping through it idly. "What with you being so busy with your little Human prince, and all."

"You told me to get to know him better!" Castiel glowers, and he hates how unconcerned Michael looks. "And You were the one who organised me marrying him, remember?!"

"I can recall, surprisingly enough." Michael responds, not bothering to look up from his book. "And I'm afraid I'm going to have to remind you to watch your tone with me, Castiel."

"What's all this noise?" Anna frowns, entering the room, and for the first time, a flicker of annoyance crosses Michael's features.

"Our little prince is having a tantrum because I didn't tell him of the conclusion of our meetings." He replies icily. Castiel's jaw clenches at the dispassion in his brother's voice.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Anna asks, crossing her arms after closing the door behind her.

"Because, sister, it was none of his business." Michael is still acting calmly, but Castiel sees his grip tighten on the book he is holding, and a muscle twitches in his jaw when he speaks.

"You know that's not true!" Castiel shouts, voice raking against his throat like gravel. Anna glances at him fiercely in an attempt to force him into regaining his temper, but it is to no avail.

"It's not my fault you spent all of your time following your Human around like a love-sick child." Michael's eyes flick over to Castiel, who flinches back at the coldness of the action.

"Michael, he's betrothed to the boy—" Anna attempts to reason, before Castiel can shout at his brother for the insult aimed in Castiel's direction.

"And what I say in my negotiations with the Human King is none of his concern!" Michael shouts now; or rather, he yells. Castiel recoils, yet again. The room around them trembles, the wiry, thin glass of the windows shaking in their panes. Castiel glances at Anna for support, and feels terrified when he sees her, almost trembling herself, quite shocked into speechlessness by Michael's outburst.

There is a horrible silence. Michael has stood up; the book is discarded beside the chair he was sitting on moments before. He stretched his wings out fiercely behind him when he began to shout, and Castiel is shaking; shaking uncontrollably, because his brother has never shouted at him like that before, has never made him feel so afraid. As Michael steps threateningly towards his youngest brother, fire and ice dancing in his eyes, Castiel thinks worriedly that maybe this time he has pushed too far.

"Michael, enough! You're starting to sound like Lu—" Anna tries to snarl, but Michael takes a vicious step forward, fury and hatred scrawled across his face.

"No!" He bellows. "How dare you say that, Anael, when you know what I have just had to do—don't you ever think to say that to me, again—not when you know all that you do know—not now, not ever!" His voice thunders and the room shakes again and Castiel takes another step back, his wings flattening back against the wall, his hands trembling. His heart has risen up to the back of his throat; he can no longer see his beloved older brother where Michael stands, anymore, and it terrifies him.

"Castiel, leave." Michael spits, and Castiel glances up at Anna, who looks terrified, silently pleading for her to exit too, but she shakes her head softly, not looking at him; and Castiel knows it is because Michael has not permitted her leave, also.

"Anna—" He tries, terrified of what it is Michael will do to her when Castiel exits, yet Anna shakes her head again. She is trembling too, terrified, and Castiel is nearly crying. He tries tugging at her hand, but she pulls it out of his grip with far more force than necessary.

"Anael," Michael has deflated, his wings are lowering, he looks suddenly ashamed, "You may leave, also."

Castiel's sister breathes suddenly outwards. Castiel pulls her out of the room, the tears finally leaking onto his face. Anna makes sure that she closes the door behind her, sighing in relief when it is shut.

"Castiel," She shakes, pressing her back against it, and Castiel doesn't think before pressing himself into her arms, trying to hold back his own tears. "It's okay," She hushes, stroking his hair. "It's okay."

"Why—" Castiel starts, his breath shaking as he attempts to stop crying. Anna hushes him again, squeezing his body to hers.

"It doesn't matter." She shakes her head.

"What did he mean—"

"It doesn't matter." Anna repeats, but it does matter, it does, clearly, and Anna is not telling him. "You'll find out in time, Castiel, I promise."

Castiel is tired of that promise. He hates it. He hates that he is being made to leave at such short notice, that he is going to spend another year—possibly more than that—trapped in his own home with only his brother for company—a brother who Castiel now finds terrifying.

He doesn't want to have to be without Dean, who is the only person in all the world Castiel has met who actually understands Castiel, and who Castiel, in turn, understands too.

He realises that he is still shaking.

"Go to sleep, little one." Anna hushes. "Go to sleep and everything will be alright, come morning."

It's a pathetic promise, one for a child a fraction of Castiel's age, who's been awoken by a horrible nightmare, but the younger Angel nods weakly.

He trudges into his room, Anna wishing him a good night at the door, and slides into his bed. He finally stops shaking, and remembers that he is meant to meet Dean, and, drawing a shuddering breath, he sits up on his bed and places his feet on the floor.

When he reaches the open doorway to the courtyard, Dean is already there waiting for him.

"Are you okay?" Dean asks, pressing the palm of his hand onto Castiel's cheek. Castiel closes his eyes at the touch, and doesn't realise when he presses his body flush against Dean's; when Dean's arms curl around his frame, when he presses his face into Dean's neck, and when Dean, in turn, presses his face into Castiel's shoulder.

"What happened?" Dean asks, when the two finally pull apart, after Castiel-doesn't-quite-know-how-long.

"Michael… he…" The Angel bites his lip, "it doesn't matter." Castiel sighs. "I barely know what happened myself," He admits.

"Okay," Dean nods softly. "Well, going outside isn't exactly an option, tonight."

"What makes you say that?" Castiel asks, finally glancing out the open door, but his question is answered for him; and he wonders just how terrible one would have to be feeling to fail to notice the rain thundering down quite so violently outside.

"That." Dean states, laughing. Massive drops plash into the water in the fountain, hammer against the grass, turning the ground murky, and smack at the leaves of the peach tree until it is trembling by the force of the gale.

"What should we do instead?" Castiel asks, looking back at Dean, because he doesn't want to have to go with being without Dean tonight, when it is very possibly the last time he will be able to do so in what could be months or even years.

"I don't know." Dean shrugs. "We could sit in my room for a bit? Just talk?"

"Okay." Castiel nods, swallowing. Dean squeezes Castiel's arm softly.

"It's going to be alright." He reassures, but Castiel doesn't know how.

They sit on Dean's bed cross legged, opposite each other, for hours. Dean suggests that they play cards, and when Castiel confesses that he doesn't know how, Dean is so shocked that he teaches the Angel several different games, of which they play several times, before the two of them decide to stop and simply talk instead.

And neither of them think twice about it when Castiel wraps his arms around Dean's body and presses his face into the base of Dean's neck; when they lie down like this, when Castiel's wings move to cover them both, when the two of them fall asleep, tangled together on Dean's bed.

Castiel wakes up and is scared something will have changed between them; but really, what could have? They've fallen asleep like this before: the night Dean first asked to touch Castiel's wings—except Castiel thinks that it means even more this time; but maybe it doesn't mean that much to Dean and maybe Castiel is growing too attached to the boy, maybe he should have listened to what all the Angels had told him when he was younger, and stamped down on his feelings; stifling them, drowning them—because really, all that would hurt less than he does, right now.

Dean stirs next to him—his body is caught up in Castiel's arms; his legs tangled with Castiel's legs—and Castiel wishes for a moment that the two of them were not wearing clothes; that he could feel Dean's bare back against his own bare chest—but Dean stirs again, and Castiel is torn from this wish, or rather dream, and back into reality.

Dean sighs and turns in Castiel's arms, so that his face is pressed against Castiel's skin.

It's funny—it's the most innocent of touches, and yet it sets a blazing heat deep in Castiel's flesh, scorching his blood and burning into his soul.

"We're gonna have to return you to your room, soon, aren't we?" Dean asks sleepily. Castiel feels his heart sink again.

"I don't want to go." He replies honestly, and his voice is small and it cracks as he speaks, and Dean lifts his head up to look at Castiel and pulls the Angel's body tight against his own.

"I know." He says simply, and Castiel is scared he's going to start crying, although he isn't sure why. "I don't want you to go, either."

Castiel closes his eyes.

"I'll wait." Dean says, softly. "I'll wait for you, if that's what you want. I'd wait a thousand years if I had to. I'll wait for you, while you're gone."

"I want that." Castiel nods. Dean's thumb grazes his cheek. "I—I'll count the days until I see you again. And wait for you, too. Of course. of course I'll wait."

"And I'll write to you every chance I get."

"And I'll reply to every letter you send."

"I'm glad." Dean laughs. He sits up, and Castiel feels bare, and the air around them is altogether too cold without Dean tangling his body with Castiel's. "Come on," He says, fingers squeezing Castiel's shoulder. "Before anyone wakes up and realises you're gone."

Castiel nods and sits up, too, and Dean takes the Angel's hand in his own and places a soft kiss onto Castiel's palm. Castiel lets himself wonder what it is the touch means.

"I don't think I've ever slept that well, Cas." Dean admits, and he's smiling, which makes Castiel smile too, despite himself. "Not since my mother died. Not since fighting in war."

Castiel nods and manages to maintain eye contact with Dean.

"I'm glad." He says softly, and he means it.

Dean's lips twitch into some expression that makes Castiel feel warm inside again, and the Human tugs him up, off the bed, and leads him back into Castiel's own quarters. He squeezes Castiel's hand at the door.

"I'll wait." He promises again, and they kiss, slower and sweeter than any of the kisses they've shared before; because both of them know it may be their last chance to do so for an unspeakably long time. Castiel's hands wander over Dean's back, to the fascinating absence of wings there, and into his hair, carding through it slowly as Dean's fingers cautiously trace Castiel's feathers.

"I'll wait." Dean says once more when they pull apart, and he squeezes Castiel's hand one more time before leaving Castiel.

And the Angel can only bring himself to walk into his room and close the door behind him before he collapses on the floor, sliding down against the wooden frame, his hands palming the grey floor of the castle, cold and cruel and staggeringly real under his fingers.

He wishes he were able to say more to Dean than he finds himself able to.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when he hears a knock at his door. It isn't Anna, or Michael, or even Gabriel. It's a servant, a Malakim. Castiel's family can't even bring themselves to speak to him right now.

They gather in the main courtyard after this; Dean and his father and brother stand by the main doors of the castle, the doors Castiel first walked through a little over two weeks ago; having no idea what it was he was in for, what it was he would feel by the end of the visit. The Angels are gathered on the steps below the King and his sons; nobles look out at the event from the balconies of the yard.

There are speeches, which Castiel finds himself unable to listen to, King John being the last person to make his. Castiel forces himself to look at Dean for the first time at this, and is surprised to see Dean already staring at him. His expression in unreadable, for a moment, before the Angel thinks he sees Dean's gaze soften, both sad and happy, as he stares at Castiel. Castiel returns the look with something bittersweet coiling in his heart.

The last time he looks at Dean is just before the Angels enter their carriages. Castiel has been moved into Anna's carriage, and he's glad. He doesn't think he'll be able to speak to Michael after what happened last night.

Dean waves properly just before Castiel gets inside. It's only small; short so others won't notice—but of course Castiel does, and that's all that matters. He bows his head to the future King of Hera before Anna tells him to hurry up and he enters the carriage.

He doesn't talk for the entirety of the journey back. Anna doesn't push him to. Instead he simply stares out the window, watching as the castle of Hera disappears completely into the distance, waning into a grey speck on the horizon and then slipping out of view entirely; as they pass villages and towns and finally leave the Kingdom, as they roll past trees and fields and forests and turn up into the hills.

Castiel thinks of the time he and Dean spent together, riding in places so similar to the stretching fields and calm woods he can see now. He misses it already, he misses it and he misses Dean.

It's well after midnight of the next day when they get back to the foot of the hills of northern Hera, not even at the low mountains yet. Castiel has had to part ways with Anna and now he is sharing a chariot with Michael again. He shrinks into the corner as soon as he gets inside and tries to stop himself from trembling as much as possible, but it's difficult to control himself in any kind of way.

"Castiel," Michael says suddenly; the younger Angel flinches back, his eyes wide and afraid, which makes his older brother's expression turn guilty and riddled with regret. Castiel looks down. "—I'm… I'm sorry for everything." Michael sighs. "I wasn't in a good way; and I know an apology is not nearly enough, but I'm sorry for the way I acted towards you. I never meant to scare you, nor have I ever wanted to upset you, and that I did is…" He trails off, apparently uncertain of how to continue.

Castiel doesn't reply. The silence is splintering.

"You could write to your Dean?" Michael suggests cautiously. "And remain talking to him by those means?"

"We already agreed to do that." Castiel says flatly, and he's biting down on his anger, pressing his head against the side of the carriage so hard that he's afraid he's going to crack his own skull.

"Of course." Michael nods. Another silence. "I'm sorry."

"You've said."

"For losing my temper so badly," Michael continues, ignoring Castiel's rudeness, "and scaring you, which I should never have done. And along with all this, for separating you from your friend."

Friend.

"You didn't scare me." Castiel says, and he doesn't realise that he's slipped out of speaking in Enochian and into Dean's mother tongue. Michael does.

"You grew very attached to him, I know."

Castiel rolls his eyes.

"Remember that everything I do, Castiel, I do with your best interests at heart."

Castiel wants to doubt this simply to spite Michael.

His brother sighs.

"And I understand if you would rather we spent the rest of this journey in silence…"

Castiel only glares at his brother, which Michael takes as a confirmation that silence is what Castiel desires right now. The rest of the journey back to Evadne seems to take years.

The morning after their return is supposed to be one of the days that Castiel trains with his brother, but Michael doesn't visit him for the entirety of the day. Castiel takes no issue with this.

When evening falls and Castiel is summoned to dinner by a servant, he states that he isn't hungry. He does the same the next night. When he falls asleep, his stomach is growling loudly.

It's worth it to avoid speaking to Michael.

After about a week, Michael comes knocking at his door.

"Castiel, you cannot keep this up—"

"Then tell me why."

"Why what?" Michael frowns.

"Why you didn't tell me about us leaving so soon. Why you exploded so suddenly, why you were 'in a bad way'; why you became so furious with Anna for what she said. Why you choose now to join the Demon war, what benefit there could possibly be for the Angels, why the Demons have lasted on a defensive front for so many years when none can seem to fathom why—"

"I can't tell you, Castiel—"

Castiel gets up and closes the door in his brother's face.

Another few days pass, and Michael doesn't attempt to speak to Castiel again. He has a new trainer now; he eats his meals alone, he avoids passing Michael's room or any of the halls and chambers where he knows Michael will be holding court or discussing matters with his advisors.

And then, weeks later, Castiel gets another knock at his door, and his brother cautiously opens it.

"You have a letter." He smiles, and it's a combination of affectionate and apologetic, and already Castiel is feeling tired of being angry at his oldest brother.

"Who from?" Castiel asks.

"Who do you think?" His brother's lips twitch upwards a little more, and Castiel practically leaps off his bed to take it from him. Michael watches as Castiel reads it, scanning it over and over again, drinking in the words, the handwriting, everything about it.

Dear Cas,

I hope you're doing alright. Things are really boring here without you. I miss you an awful lot. I miss teaching you to ride and talking to you for hours and hours and I miss sitting and reading with you—I even miss losing to duels with you. Although to be honest, even that always had its benefits. I miss being able to spend evenings with you outside, now the courtyard that we spent all those nights in always reminds me of you—I find it sad and lonely to visit it now, because you're not there and I can't have the conversations that I was able to have with you there, with anyone else. It reminds me of you and my mother, sometimes it seems too beautiful for me to even enter. Imagine thinking that about a courtyard? I've been going mad with missing you.

I finished that book you recommended to me. I liked it a lot. It reminds me of you, now, as most things seem to. I've started reading more, too—you were right, I just hadn't found the right story and I just hadn't got into it. I have now, obviously. In my studies I'll spend the whole time thinking about how much I'd rather be reading one of the books that you would like, instead of the stupid shit I look at instead. The history of our kingdom doesn't seem to hold anything to the adventures and transformations and love stories of the heroes in your tales. I miss you. Yesterday when I went riding, Shadow started whinnying from his paddock and I think he was expecting you to come along, too. I guess I'm not the only one missing your company.

I'm not quite sure when you'll get this letter—it's far harder for Humans to travel around than it is for Angels, apparently; so it might take a long while. I know this'll be super late, but I hope you had a good journey back.

Father doesn't seem to hate Angels as much anymore, which is obviously good. I mean, I think he still kind of dislikes your kind, but it's definitely not as bad as it was before—and you've got to count your victories, Cas, however small they might be. I was thinking about the time you suggested jousting when I asked if you wanted to duel, last supper, and I started laughing about it all over again. I got some really funny looks from Bobby and my father. Bobby is Sir Robert, by the way—I don't know if I told you that. Did you get to speak to him at all during your stay down here? He's really great, sometimes he's all that keeps me sane. Well, him and Sammy. And Jo. And Ellen, but she's still patronising as hell.

Other recent events: Sammy has started training with me and I don't think I like it. I feel like this over-sentimental parent saying that I don't want him to start growing up; but damn it, I don't want him to start growing up. Fuck. I sound a lot like Ellen. And him training means him being more likely to fight in war, and… I really don't want that. Trying to talk to people in this place is hard. I think you're the only one who's ever actually understood me properly. I miss you. I've already said that, but it's really true. I hope you get the idea, anyway.

How are you? What have you been up to? Are things still kind of dull for you, up there?

You know what I forgot to ask while you were staying? I forgot to ask if you ever swam in the mountain lakes. Do you? Can you swim? I bet it'd be beautiful. Sammy and I sometimes go swimming in the rivers in the forest, but we haven't done that for a while. Maybe we should do it again. Maybe the next time you come to visit, you and I should do it. I think I'd like that. Well—I know I'd like it, but I think I'd like just about anything as long as it's with you.

I'm sorry about this letter; it's just me ranting and rambling about I-don't-even-know-what. I just wanted to speak to you again. I really hope you write back. I miss you.

Dean.

Castiel holds onto the parchment so tightly he's a little scared it might tear. He sighs at Dean's handwriting, at how much it seems to match Dean's train of thought. He's able to read it in Dean's voice, even. It's strange. It feels like a lifetime since he last saw the Human, since he was last able to speak his mind and true feelings.

"Is that what you were hoping for?" Michael asks, and Castiel looks up.

He can only nod in response.

"He sent a gift, too." Michael says, holding out a package for Castiel, which the younger Angel takes and unwraps carefully. His lips twitch upwards when he sees what it is.

"A book." Michael observes—and is that a smile in his voice?

"Yes." Castiel nods.

"He knows you well."

"He does." The younger Angel agrees. He smiles down at the cover, and opens to the first page. A small note is placed on the inside.

'Just as I promised.

This was my mother's favourite book. I hope you like it, too.'

Castiel picks up the note and holds it tightly, before folding it and placing it neatly back inside the cover. Something inside of him is starting to ache.

"Would you like to reply?" Michael asks.

"Of course." Castiel frowns at his older brother.

Michael nods and sighs.

"I truly am sorry, Castiel…" He tries again, but Castiel looks down at the ground, and Michael sighs again, defeated, and begins to leave the room.

"You said that you've ridden, in the past, Michael?" Castiel asks, and his brother turns back to him, looking relieved.

"Yes," The High King nods. "I have."

"And that was down in a Human Kingdom?"

"That's where I first learnt, yes."

"Do you miss it?"

"I do," Michael nods again. "Dean taught you to ride during our stay, I heard?"

"Yes..." Castiel confirms. "I miss it, too."

"And you miss him?" Michael asks, and Castiel looks away. His brother sighs again. "I only say because—" Michael breaks off. Castiel watches as his older brother self-consciously rubs his neck. "—I had Human friends, too. Or, a Human friend. A close one. A long time ago. But—they're—they're gone now. Of course. All I mean is, I understand."

"You didn't tell me that."

"Some things are better left unsaid, Castiel."

"What happened?"

Michael only repeats what he just said.

"Will you ever tell me?" Castiel asks, hopeless.

Michael sighs.

"One day, Castiel, I promise, I will tell you everything."

"Why not now?"

There is a pause before Michael answers.

"Because I'm scared, little brother."

And with that, Michael leaves.

"Michael?" Castiel stumbles over to his door.

"Yes, little Sarim?" Michael replies.

"Do you want to train with me, tomorrow?" Castiel asks. He watches a glimmer hope flit into his brother's eyes. "My new trainer—he's nowhere near as good as you. And I've missed you."

Michael smiles, and Castiel thinks he sees his brother's eyes glass over.

"I'd love to, Castiel."

Castiel smiles, too.

"Thank you. I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too." Michael replies; and Castiel is sure he can see tears in his brother's eyes, although he has no idea why. "Will you want to join me for dinner, tonight?"

"I'd like that." Castiel smiles. Michael pulls the younger Angel towards him, squeezing his body against Castiel's in a warm embrace, and then leaves for real, this time. Castiel goes back into his quarters. He pulls out some parchment and his quill. He spends the hour thinking of what to say in reply to Dean. Words said to Dean should be as perfect and pure as the Human is; words written to him should be just the same.

...

A/N: Thanks to all those who have been commenting so far, you guys are the best, and are totally what motivates me to keep writing.

If any of you have any kind of thoughts on the story, please share them by reviewing! I love it when you do, and I'm a sucker for any kind of feedback.

Thanks for reading, next update should (hopefully) be up around the 10th/11th.