A/N:
Warning: This chapter contains further violence and emotional manipulation in the vein of chapter 6
It also contains an minimal amount non-consensual sexual behavior.
As you, dear reader, have made it this far already, and the content this time is (in my opinion) milder than last, I will not be going to the length of labeling and providing synopsis. HOWEVER, if you would like such, please feel free to message me and/or comment, and I will be happy to amend and add such.
Thanks for reading, and sorry I missed a day! I'm back on track now. :)
"Mrs. Winchester, you are a vision in purple," Mr. Novak said graciously as he stepped in to the entrance foyer at 13 - Place. He cut a dashing figure in a gray-green jacket of impeccable cut, a black vest, and perfectly white cravat and breeks. Even cleanly shaven, there was a shadow over his upper lip, and his hair was elegantly combed back from his face to curl about the base of his neck. To combat the winter chill he wore a coat and a hat, and he bore a walking cane that appeared, inconceivably, to be pure silver. "May I introduce you to my sister and brother-in-law?"
"Of course," Charlie was glowing with excitement and anticipation for the evening. Dean wished he felt similarly. Anxiety ate at his stomach, twisting it until he felt ill. The evening would be spent in company with strangers, friends of Mr. Adam Milligan who surely shared his views on the distinctions of rank and the differences between the eleganza of the city and the gauche hicks of the countryside. Most would believe the worst of Dean's family, and any man's smiling face could be a mask shielding the identity of Michael. Further, there was the official announcement of the engagement between James Novak and Anna Milligan to anticipate, in light of which Dean's hope of speaking with James privately seemed particularly ill-founded. The letter of apology he'd composed rested in his pocket, and he had no clue how he was going to bridge the gap between carrying it on his person and presenting it to the object of his affection.
"Mr. and Mrs. Freeley, Mr. and Mrs. Winchester – Ms. Harvelle," Novak hastily gestured around the circle, putting name to face. Ms. Harvelle was dressed as for battle, her dress a steel armor gray that shimmered with strands in silver, pink rosettes gathered at the sleeves and waist, nestled in her curled blonde hair amidst a chain-thick length of dull metal, and along the bottom hem and upon her shoes. Her arms were clad in mauve gloves, and her face was set in a smile backed by a hard challenge in her eyes. If an Amazon could step from the Greek Isles of old, Dean beheld one in Johanna Harvelle that evening.
"A pleasure, Mrs. Winchester," Mr. Freeley's peculiar, perfect accent tripped from his tongue lightly. In their time together at the meetings forming the Intercontinental Club, Dean had learned that his unique, distinguished lilt was the combination of time spent in Scotland, France and the Americas, as Lafitte's drawl was owed to New Orleans and Dean's own sometimes rough accent could be traced to years among the lower decks. In the dim light of their entryway, Dean was struck powerfully by a memory of misty eyes peering at him from beneath the mask of comedy, a lyrical voice saying, you should go home.
Mr. Freeley was Balthazar. Mr. Gabriel Novak's lover at Ms. Naomi's soirees was his brother-in-law.
As Mr. Freeley leaned forward to place a dainty kiss upon the pale purple gloves that sheathed Charlie's arms, Dean glanced at Mr. Novak. His brows were lowered, eyes drooped, lips showing the barest hint of a pained frown. Dean felt a wash of sympathy for the two men, brought together by marriage to be relations, nursing attraction and – judging by Mr. Novak's expression – affection that must be kept secret from all, wives and family especially.
"Thank you for help to form the Intercontinental League," said Charlie. "Mr. Winchester has been able to speak of little else, he is so enthused to be involved." She truly was stunning, dress in dark purple scattered with cream insets, cream ribbon ruched at the neckline and hem, strings of pearls strung about her neck to crest her bosom and dangle down, swaying and faintly clattering at the slightest movement. Her hair was bound ornately with cream cloth, pearls and feathers.
"Nonsense. It is I who am in the debt of Mr. Winchester, Mr. Lafitte and Mr. Henriksen for proposing the idea," Mr. Freeley said with a faint shake of his head. "The Travellers Club had grown interminably dull. Any jackdaw with money enough to tour the Continent could gain admittance and speak of Rome and Madrid and Paris as if they'd seen all there was of the world, and scoff at those who dared claim that there were wonders in the Americas or Asia or Africa to rival those of our familiar European shores. Tiresome, spoiled coxcombs, every one."
"Dear Mr. Freeley, your language," admonished Mrs. Freeley, quiet and spiritless. As a couple, their dress that was all that was proper and rich, but all the ostentation was on his part, rich satins and silk brocades made jacket and vest. Mrs. Freeley's purpose in dressing appeared to be camouflage, clothing selected to enable her to fade into the background of a sitting room as much as possible. With her shy affect and downcast eyes, Dean thought her a painful glimpse of the future that awaited Ms. Milligan, though he had trouble imagining Mr. James Novak allowing her to grow so withdrawn and lonely. James had none of Mr. Freeley's selfishness, the narcissistic indifference of the man who had surely suspected what Michael might do while secluded with Dean yet done nothing to help Dean.
Black eyes staring at him from amidst a crowd; a room full of the finest of society ignoring him save for one, following him everywhere he went; tension between his shoulder blades knowing that gaze was always on him, always gone as soon as he sought them.
"Well, shall we to the ball?" said Gabriel brightly, taking Mrs. Winchester's hand in his own and leaving Dean to escort Ms. Harvelle to the street. "You must await the delight of meeting my wife until we arrive, for she is already there entertaining."
It was going to long night.
A barouche awaited them on the street, driver perched atop negligently holding the reins of horses as impassive and bored as himself, black lacquer gleaming in the gas lights running the length of the street. To seat six within the box was impossible, but after several moments of polite deferrals and "no it should be I because...," Dean was installed beside the driver, the three ladies snugged in a line in one seat facing the two gentleman in the other. With a cluck and the flap and smack of leather on horseflesh, the carriage made the journey to 3 North - Street.
The night was misty and chill, ominous, and did nothing to improve Dean's spirits. Damp tangled in his hair and crept through every layer of his clothing, leaving his skin clammy and his throat raw. It was a feeling disturbingly reminiscent of the sensations that washed over him when he was made prisoner by his fearful memories of Michael's assault, and he wished he were in the box with his friends and family, instead of seated on the roof with a stranger. The warmth of conversation reached his ears over the metallic ring of hoof on cobblestone and the creaking rattle of wood, and he clung to it and focused on steadily breathing the air tinged with the aroma of horse manure and human waste, the fragrant perfume of the city.
Before the Milligan home all was chaos. Numerous carriages were stopped, men hopping out to hand the ladies down to the street, servants dashing to and fro to gather their master's belongings, drivers clucking to calm horses overwhelmed by the activity and noise. Murmured complaints at the cold and the harshness of the ride were interrupted by the raptures of the younger generation, delighted at the prospect of an evening of frivolity and dancing, conversation and games, and if they were very lucky, a flirtation with a new beau or an established favorite. It was all foreign to Dean; even in his youth he'd had little interest in such forms of spending a night. His own pursuit of a spouse had been done at smaller, more intimate gatherings in his own neighborhood, and he'd met Charlotte while she'd been visiting relations. This was her scene, the world she had 'come out' into and had spent several years dwelling in, unable to find a husband, before she retreated to the quieter fringes of Society in pursuit of someone more suited to her needs. As Dean helped first Mrs. Freeley and then Charlie from the carriage, he was struck by the contrast between the two. How lucky he had been, how blessed beyond his merit, to have a wife such as she.
Taking up Charlotte's arm as they navigated the maze of arrivals, horses, and boxes, he met her startled eyes and said warmly, "I do not say often enough how much I love you, my darling." A jubilant smile won over her entire face, and he returned it feeling oddly shy. Thus warmed by affection, flanked by Ms. Harvelle, the three went in to face the lion's den.
Stepping into the large entry foyer of Mr. Adam Milligan's home was like transitioning into another world. Gone were the gray, dimming streets of London. Within all was aglow with tawny candlelight, lustrous gilding, rich fabrics, polished wood, the finest furnishings that money could buy. The people were no less embellished. Men in perfectly fit bespoke garments and stiff-starched cravats gathered in small groups or strode through the rooms in boots polished to a high sheen, staring through monocles or rapping on the floor with the points of their canes. Women in the latest Paris fashions showed expanses of fair skin barely shy of immodest thanks to carefully placed lace. Gowns in every color of the rainbow, gathered at the waist and intricately accented with lace, beads, braiding, fringe, or embroidery, made them appear as so many fancy birds in an aviary. Fair necks wore chains of gold and silver, bracelets clad wrists, earrings dangled from ears, and piled ringlets of hair were painstakingly arranged with silk flowers, pearls, chains, feathers, and wraps. Creamy arms were kept warm with shawls, and slippered feet moved daintily across the carpeted floors.
Friends met and spoke, acquaintances were made, partners were chosen for dances, and couples sought dark corners in which to indulge in forbidden intimacies. Groups of young, unattached men snuck covert glances at similar groups of young women, some shy, some coy, some brazen, some seductive, some disinterested, some desperate. Men of means secluded themselves in rooms where the youths and women were unwelcome to discuss politics and management, travel and the sort of intelligence that scorned its rightful name - gossip. Dowagers and chaperones took up positions on the couches and chairs, holding loud conversations with their fellows about the latest fashions, the latest addition to their families, the latest assembly at Almack's, and the latest scandals.
Whispers of that last followed Dean, Charlie and Ms. Harvelle through every room they entered. As anticipated, they found few acquaintances among the attendees. Those in attendance were titled, fashionable, well able to spend the entire Season in the Ton, and had no hobbies beyond those that drew the interests of their fellows. They existed solely to be merry and popular. The disappointment was not a surprise; inquiries among their friends had established that none of their intimates save the Milligans and Novaks would be present. Nonetheless, Dean felt like he had a target painted on his back. A nervous tickle up his spine told him people were watching him, and every glimpse of eyes on him caused Dean to jerk his head around, fearing to look upon a black gaze. In his heart, he knew Michael haunted the premises, preying on the weak. Charlie and Ms. Harvelle sensed the tension as well. As loud talk dropped to murmurs in their presence, as fans were covertly pointed at them and then the motion was hidden in the flick and swish of a woman cooling herself, as dandies paused to look down their noses before moving on with dainty sniffs at jeweled snuff boxes, it was impossible for the Winchesters not to be aware of how much they stood out.
Nevertheless, the afternoon faded into evening. The rooms grew progressively more crowded, the people became more rambunctious and uninhibited, the temperature increased, and the light dimmed. Mr. Novak and Mr. Freeley made a conscientious effort to introduce the Winchester party around, and there were many conversations that began with, "and do not worry what I may suspect of you for I have been much about town and I know how infrequently those sorts of rumors or true, I never put any stock in such!" Indeed, by the time the dancing had begun, Dean had the sense it was coming to be a badge of honor and distinction to have met the Winchesters, the 'best of the country squires,' so honored as to have been invited into the elegant Milligan household. As the Ton had it, the Winchester's manners were as good as could be expected, scarce distinguishable from that of high society; their dress was extremely fine if perhaps a little dated; their taste impeccable considering that which they had been exposed to. In short, they bore all the usual slights, and Dean was disgusted to find he was grateful for Novak and Freeley for surely shielding them from worse.
A servant bearing a fine brass bell made circuit of the rooms, informing all that at precisely half-past nine, the presence of the guests was requested in the grand ballroom. Dean had thus far avoided the main hall, but there was no choice but to repair there, though there was not the least doubt what was to be shared. Creepers encircled Dean's heart and compressed it, the wine he'd imbibed soured within him, and his smile became painfully fixed, muscles tense, as he anticipated the public announcement of that which put to rest once and for all the wishes he'd once harbored of finding a younger son capable of reciprocating Dean's love and prepared to be satisfied with a small establishment in the country. Though younger sons abounded, and some might even share Dean's inclinations, none would own his heart save Castiel, azure-eyed angel of Thursday.
The chamber orchestra played a light air to accompany all into the room, rapidly crowding and growing close. Breathless couples bemoaned the loss of the dance floor and retreated to the sides of the room. Mr. Milligan, done up to the nines, took the stage. It was moments before the curious chatter subsided, and Dean took in the man's youthful features growing lined and tired, the hard set of his tight-lipped mouth, the neutrality of his green gaze as he scanned the crowd. The dais was raised, and Milligan surveyed the room as a king on a balcony looked down upon his subjects. Under that commanding presence, no shouts or bells were needed to bring silence, and soon all peered avidly, expectantly, at their host.
"It has been a year since I had the pleasure of introducing you to my daughter Anna," Mr. Milligan said softly in a carrying voice. He made a gesture, and Anna emerged on the stage. Eyes downcast and faint blush made ruddy by the dim light, she was nonetheless radiant. Her garb was the finest of the house, delicate peach tulle layered over maroon, threaded and accented and punched with gathered green ribbon. Her dark red hair was woven with gold and emeralds and peacock feathers, and her eyes seemed to gather the light, glowing viridian as she dared to glance upwards and take in the audience who focused upon her. The star sapphire had been mounted on a length of black velvet and clasped her throat closely, glittering in the hollow at the base of her neck. Cowed, she looked down, eyes flicking left, where Ms. Masters stood in a suitable fashionably dress, lovely in deep blue while not fine enough to upstage her more prominent friend.
"You will wish her joy as I announce that the ties between the Novak family and Milligan family have grown stronger – Anna is engaged to wed Mr. James Novak." There was a smattering of polite applause, and an equally overwhelmed James took the stage, blue coat and paisley red vest perfectly fit to his fine body, black hair tamed into a semblance of order, blue eyes captivating. Biting his lip, he looked up and gave the audience a shy smile, then stalked to stand behind his bride-to-be, taking her hand with a gesture that was practically defiantly. With a shared laugh, they exchanged a look that clearly relaxed both of them, tension leaving shoulders, faces calming. They turned together back to the crowd, smiling awkwardly at the increase in volume in the face of their obvious affection.
Charlie seized Dean's hand and gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze before wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
"Couples, assemble, for my daughter and son-in-law-to-be will be leading the next dance, and then shall receive visitors in the Louis XVI room," Milligan announced. All exited the stage, the floor began to clear, and dancers took the floor. To honor their host and his daughter, even those not participating arrayed at the fringes of the ballroom to observe. The chamber orchestra teased the first few bars of a waltz, and couples of all ages, young and old, assumed the proper stance.
"Dance with me, Dean," Charlie leaned up and whispered in his ear. "Let us give them that much evidence of our joy for them, at least." With a swallow that felt entirely inhibited by the lump in his throat, Dean nodded, and he and Charlotte took up a place near the fringes of the crowd.
With the start of the music, a stately piece that Dean was unfamiliar with, the couples all placed hands to waists and shoulders and began to twirl in three-time about the floor. Struggling to remove himself from the moment and pretend this was like any other dance he had shared with his wife over the years, Dean stared into Charlie's eyes. She met his gaze firmly, and though he had the lead, it was her hand on his shoulder that steered them through the steps and around the floor, her slightly shifting gaze that told him where to step.
James' clear gaze caught Dean's eye for just a moment, Ms. Milligan and James sweeping by at a stately pace. This restrained, public waltz was a far cry from the jubilant, carefree movements of the country dance that Dean and James had shared a year before. Couples circled the floor in intricate, random patterns to the accompaniment of skilled musicians, the rustle of fabric, the scuff and tap of shoes upon the polished tile floor, the hush of conversation. James and Ms. Milligan passed by once more, and Dean noted wistfully that the expression on James' face, the glitter in his eye, was just the same as Dean had observed when James had danced with a partner he had found only somewhat satisfactory. His eyes gleamed, his lips smiled, but there was no exuberance, no jollity. The glitter of eyes in the mask of a doll came back to Dean powerfully, and he missed a step and trod on Charlie's foot, drawing a hiss from her.
"Sorry," murmured Dean.
"My love," she replied, "all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well. Take heart."
Around they swirled, the pace picking up, some couples dropping out and giving room to those who remained to engage in wider steps, covering more of the floor, those most skilled doing dips or spins.
Delighted grin brilliant on Ms. Milligan's face, she met Dean's eyes, then Charlie's, and laughed with joy. Smiling more sedately, James' gaze swept over their faces as well.
Blue eyes met green.
James' face went white, his mouth fell open, his feet missed a step and he tumbled down and out of sight amidst the dancing couples. Charlie laughed, of all things, and mortification and horror swept over Dean. Heart pounding, he dragged his wife to the edge of the room and put a hand to his chest, struggling to catch his breath.
"Well, that part's done," said Charlie with satisfaction.
"And you accused Mr. Novak of cruelty?" managed Dean.
"You refused to look at him," Charlie shrugged. "I thought if we encountered them enough times on the floor, surely you'd have to see each other."
"Excuse me," Dean broke from her, feeling a surge of anger. "I need a few moments alone. Ms. Harvelle has been standing some time, surely assaulted by the biddies and the shrews, I'm sure she'd appreciate a rescue." Without awaiting her reply, he stalked away, passing through the parlors and sitting rooms rapidly refilling with guests.
Seething, Dean's eyes scanned each space before moving on to another. He wasn't sure what he sought, only that he would know it when he found it. Rooms of indolent widows and pompous Lords held no interest, bored chaperones faded into the background like so much furniture, whispering couples hid in many a corner and stole covert touches and whispered lies of love eternal. Charlie knew how much Dean was struggling with regret and melancholy, how dare she expose him like that? And to do that to James! If he had recognized Dean this time – surely he must have, to react so! – what must he be feeling, what efforts he must be forced to in order to shield himself from Ms. Milligan's well-meant concern.
Every room was too crowded, too noisy, too hot, too filled with people who stared at Dean as if he was an obscene objet d'art. Too many black, veiled eyes could hide the puppeteer attempting to maneuver him from amidst the anonymity of the crowd. His steps led him towards the back of the house. A manor such as this, even in the city, must have some sort of gardens. If there were any place he could find solitude, to bring his anger at Charlie under control, to escape observation, it would be amidst the green on a cold, wet night. It was wrong to lose his temper with her, he trusted implicitly that she was working in his best interest as she saw it. If her actions had not produced awkwardness and embarrassment for James, Dean didn't think he'd have minded at all. Dark windows draped in stunning damask beckoned him on.
"Mr. Winchester," Mr. Milligan's voice arrested Dean mid-step. Stopping, he forced the hint of a polite smile onto his lips and straightened his dark jacket. Dean turned and met his host among a small group of men whom Dean recognized from the dinner party – Mr. Alder, Lord Walker, and Mr. Kubrick. There was also a woman with whom Dean was unfamiliar, though he saw in her features a resemblance to Mr. Milligan. Though her eyes were blue where his were green, her hair blonde where his was sandy streaked with gray, her face unusually round where his was long and thing, the similarities rested in an arrogant turn of thin lips, an upturn to the chin as if everyone were beneath them, a cold aloofness to the eyes.
"Mr. Milligan," Dean replied, nodding. "Lord Walker. Mr. Kubrick." Only Kubrick did Dean the dubious honor of acknowledgement. The others stared at him, and Dean felt the all too familiar clutching at his throat.
"My sister, Mrs. Lilith Novak," Mr. Milligan introduced the blonde woman. A quirked eyebrow and a slight shift of expression was all she gave by way of recognition, and Dean gritted his teeth and bowed politely.
"Thank you for the condescension of your invitation," the words came out clipped, a result of the effort it took Dean not to sound impolite. "Your home is—"
"What were you saying, Mr. Milligan?" Lord Walker interrupted.
"Yes, yes," echoed Kubrick sycophantically. "I was finding your conversation most edifying."
Lips curling into the semblance of a smile – not a smile in truth, though, for that would have required pleasure or warmth or humanity, Milligan pinned Dean with the stare that seemed reserved just for him and said, "The place of woman is, of course, at her husbands' side." The others nodded. "She is an extension of his will, subject to obey, and not to act beyond his control. The same can be said for other female members of the family – sisters," Mr. Milligan directed a hint of wryness towards his sister, who returned and identical cold smile. Definitely of the same mold, Dean thought with a repressed shudder. "Daughters, cousins, nieces, you understand. It is the essence of impropriety and wrongness when women step outside of the spheres that were intended for them."
"Absolutely true," Lord Walker gave a decisive nod. "I often tell my own wife so, do I not, Kubrick?" Kubrick mirrored Lord Walker's nod.
"As you say, dear brother," Mrs. Novak smiled. "Though I would add that the distinctions of rank and privilege must needs still be respected. If a woman marries a gentleman who is far below herself, she does not shed the rights to which she was born."
"It depends on the lady," said Mr. Milligan, giving her a look of respect that suggested much and explained nothing about their relationship, and Mrs. Novak's relationship with Mr. Novak. "Take one such as Mrs. Winchester – she was a Bradbury, you know."
"In truth?" said Lord Walker. The look he gave Dean matched disgust to the hint of incredulity in his voice.
"Yes," Mr. Milligan nodded, eyes locked on Dean's. "And see how she has maintained the dignity of her birth, despite the compromises that she has been forced by necessity to make."
"I had not thought of it in that light," conceded Lord Walker. "But I see now how very correct you are."
"Is his conversation not edifying?" Dean wondered if Kubrick had any other words in his vocabulary.
"Most definitely so," Walker's showed teeth as his lips spread. "I must say, Mr. Milligan, you are a connoisseur of the finer things." The world exploded in noise and darkness, obliterating what further words might have passed through Lord Walker's mouth, and a voice whispered from the past, clear as the tolling of a bell—
Only babes in arms believe in monsters, Mr. Winchester. I am a connoisseur.
Horrified, Dean met the level gaze that Mr. Milligan had locked on him, and in that instant, he knew. Michael. Adam Milligan was Michael. The build was right, the arrogance was evident in every movement, in every sound, and the way he stared entrapped Dean just the same, possessive and domineering.
"Well, Mr. Winchester?" Mrs. Novak easily towered over him for all that he was much taller than she. Under Mr. Milligan's gaze – under Michael's piercing eyes – Dean felt inches high and scoured bare, exposed, raked over a bed of coals.
"Yes," he said abruptly, aware that he had to force some sort of word from his lips. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Mr. Novak. "Excuse me, I see an acquaintance I must speak with." Crossing well past the bounds of good manners, Dean pushed past Lord Walker, flinched from contact with Mr. Milligan, and strode away. He could feel eyes boring into his back, tearing him apart, ripping at his heart, nipping at his heels, spurring him on. Mr. Novak met Dean's eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Dean continued past him without a moment's pause, not caring if the group of damned monsters saw the lie his actions gave to his words. He had to get away before he shamed himself completely. The hand was locked around his throat, his breathing was coming in increasingly urgent gasps, and all that he could think of was escape.
Doors fronted in glass, giving a view of dark oblivion outside as contrasted with the rich, dim light within, drew Dean, and unthinkingly he laid hand to the knob. He jerked the door open and stepped out onto a stone patio and was engulfed in the dankness of a London night. The air was so thick it was like having a damp cloth pressed to his face, and droplets coalesced to coated his skin. Even so, it was easier to breath than it had been in the suffocating atmosphere within. With a clatter, the door shut behind him and Dean jumped, turned and saw faces glancing at him with curiosity, disdain, aloof smugness. Shuddering, he stepped out of the light that fell in diffuse squares from within the house and retreated into the deeper darkness of a small, walled garden. Occasional sprays of rain beaded in his hair or pattered on evergreen leaves.
Safely out of sight, Dean paced along a dense hedge and sought to grab a hold of his scattered thought. Mr. Milligan was Michael. Adam Milligan with his talk of propriety and rank had cornered Dean and threatened him with assault – with rape! It was simultaneously inconceivable and so obvious that Dean couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. He should have guessed, he should have known, he should have understood all and prevented all. A more sensible part of him tried to argue that self-recrimination was a meaningless distraction at a time when concentration was essential, but he could not stop the cascade of doubts any more than he could stop the racing of his heart or control the way that the rain and panic blurred his vision.
James is going to becoming Mr. Milligan's son-in-law. James is going to be Michael's son in low. The most precious man imaginable, with the soul and looks of an angel, was going to be under the sway of a monster.
"Hello, Dean," the voice fit in so perfectly with the wash of horror that Dean's thoughts brought that for a hysterical moment he thought he'd imagined it. He wheeled around and saw Milligan, eyes black in the night, and Dean froze. "I told you we'd see each other when we were in town."
"Leave me alone," mumbled Dean. Anger was essential, to fight, to rage, to protect himself, to protect James. He sought protection in any emotion other than remembered fear and panic, but every other thought skittered away. Black night, black gaze, the shadow invaded his thoughts and subsumed them.
A hand locked around his throat, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't get any air at all, he was going to die, he was going to…
"Shh," said Milligan gently. Dean was on his knees, wetness soaking through and staining his breeks. Milligan stood over him, far too close. A hand reached down to cup Dean's chin, raise his face until their gazes met. Determinedly, Dean tried to avoid being captured in those dark depths. If he could only not look, he wouldn't be trapped. Squatting, Milligan placed his face within inches of Dean's, and there was no escape. Their eyes locked together.
"I hope you have studied well the strain that even the hint of scandal can put on a respectable family," continued Milligan implacably. "You have been a fortunate man thus far. Many have stood by your side. Think how much more they will resent the discovery of the truth, that you are a hardened libertine, incapable of feeling, willing to reduce yourself to the level of a beast in pursuit of pleasure. Abandoned by friends, family, wife and children, society – neither man nor woman will feel safe in your presence, when they knew what I can tell of you."
"I will never say yes," though the words were defiant, Dean's voice was pleading. He wasn't even able to convince himself, and Milligan's lips curled into the precise cruel smile that Dean had imagined so vividly when Michael had trapped him at Ms. Naomi's.
Fingers dug in to Dean's cheeks, Milligan's other hand latched on to his throat and compressed his windpipe. I'm not recovering from illness and injury this time. I am healthy and hale and whole. I can fight him. I must fight him. His lungs screamed for air though the need was not truly dire yet, fear and the memory of fear spurred Dean's body to react prematurely. He grabbed at the hands crushing his neck, straining at the fingers. Milligan's grip left Dean's face, reached to intercept Dean, but Dean knocked it aside. Grappling, they struggled against each other, and Dean could feel himself losing, feel those eyes dominating him, feel the world growing black.
An uppercut fist struck Dean in the stomach and he gagged, and Milligan threw him aside. Falling heavily, Dean retched on the ground, choking on bile, sight of the dark grass streaking as his body shook from reaction and cold and damp and fear. A second kick struck him in the chest, and Dean rolled over onto his back. All he saw was the black of a night sky, rain forcing him to blink constantly, so quickly that his couldn't get his bearings. His heart pounded frantically, and his hands trembled.
Dean had to act. He had to rise. He got his hands under him, looked up, and his eyes met Milligan's and his heart quailed. Don't let him choke me again, can't let him choke me again, please, anything but that. In that moment's hesitation, Milligan was atop him, straddling him. Knees intercepted Dean's hands and pressed them into the ground before he push away. The hand was back at Dean's throat, pinning him. With his free hand, Michael began to casually feel along Dean's body, kneading his flesh, breath heavy with desire, pants bulging. Metal scraped against metal as the locket and watch in Dean's pocket were ground together, and as Michael's hand passed over Dean's other pocket, there was the distinctive crinkle of paper, the letter that Dean had brought to place in James' hands, if only he could contrive to speak with the angel one on one. The image of James shattered as the grip around Dean's neck bore down, Milligan straining so that the tendons on his hand and wrist bulged
Can't breath – he's going to kill me – black eyes – somebody help me – have to get him off me – can't say yes, mustn't say yes – Charlotte! Sam! Castiel!
"What…is this?" the voice of an angel answered Dean's prayers. The hand constricting his throat released as if Dean's flesh had become painful to touch. "Mr. Milligan? …Mr. Winchester?"
"Novak," Milligan's voice was slightly breathless, and his gaze turned from Dean, freeing him. "This is a private meeting."
"My uncle told me that Mr. Winchester sought audience with me in the garden…?" James looked uncertainly at each man, flushing at their compromising position. "I didn't mean to intrude. I'm sorry, I should…that is to say…please excuse me, and rely on my discretion." Anxious puffs of breath from James' lips made misty trails through the cold night air, his expression growing increasingly panicked as his eyes shimmered, ever a mirror to his thoughts. After an instant's hesitation, James shifted on a heel, about to turn and return to the house.
"Wait," gasped Dean. Milligan's head whipped around, gaze pinning Dean to the ground.
Words died in Dean's throat, his mind overwhelmed by the thought of a hand strangling the life from him. What if Milligan tried to do that to James?
"Well, Mr. Winchester, do you have anything to say to Mr. Novak?" cold words set Dean's chilled, soaked body to shivering, teeth chattering.
Help me, dear God please, angel, help me! "Castiel," Dean croaked, voice wrecked by Milligan's powerful hands and his own frenzied efforts to draw air.
Milligan bent down and kissed Dean, dry skin passing over Dean's mouth like the touch of a viper's skin. Disgust twisted Dean's stomach, imagined fingers squeezed and tore at him. The contact broke in an instant, but the damage was done.
With a horrified gasp, James' eyes went wide, and his head shaking frantically in denial. "I should not be here, I…I have to go. I should not have come. Forgive me, Mr. Milligan…Mr…I'm sorry!" And with that, James fled. He started at a walk that rapidly quickened until he was sprinting. James' boots clattered on the stone patio, hands scrambling at the door knob as he threw the door open.
Dean watched him go like watching the sight of salvation fading as the gates of Heaven closed before him.
The sounds of laughter leaked from the house, shadow and light playing against the glass as people engaged in the dance of social interaction. With a click, the door shut again, and quiet filled the garden save for the faint rustling brush of raindrops on leaves.
Frantic, Dean twisted and tried to throw Milligan off, but a casual backhand struck Dean's cheek, setting his ears to ringing, and then the hand was back at his throat and all Dean's resistance died. With the back of his free hand, Milligan stroked Dean's cheek soothingly. Rich, callous laughter bubbled from boyish lips. "You…and James Novak? Not merely a dalliance for the halls of Ms. Naomi's, but actually sharing affection?" He laughed harder, body shaking, thighs clenching around Dean's hips painfully. "You truly thought he would help you, even after what I told you last time? That boy is a worm, desperate for the hook to save him from the fish! He knows nothing of the world. Not like you and I."
The hand on Dean's neck squeezed to emphasize the point, and then relaxed. With what defiance he could muster, Dean closed his eyes and tuned out the sound of Milligan's voice. He had to concentrate, he had to think clearly long enough to figure out a plan of attack. Instantly, he was choking again. "Open your eyes, Dean," hissed Milligan, and there was no choice at all. Dean responded to the command, and the pressure eased. Weakly, he kicked at Milligan, thrashing, trying to free his arms, and immediately the pressure returned. Pain and a single frantic word repeated endlessly, air, air, air, swept all in its wake. Blackness like the embrace of a lover, comforting and freeing, stole over Dean, and he lost seconds, or minutes, or hours.
When he opened his eyes again, Milligan was still atop him, and as fear crashed in on Dean's mind, he quickly catalogued – they were both still clothed, Dean was still alive, Milligan still looked smugly superior, whatever may have happened, he hadn't violated Dean further. The hand was gone from Dean's throat, but every breath hurt.
"How do you feel?" False sympathy made Milligan's voice cloying, and his hand brushed through Dean's sweat and tears and rain stained face, mussed his dripping, dirty hair. "I thought our time apart would have taught you respect and obedience. I'm disappointed that I was wrong." Dean's heart raced frightfully as Milligan's inflection, the sound of the word disappointed emerging those thin lips in that rasping boyish tenor. "And piqued. I must return to my guests, but later, we will continue your lessons."
"No." There was a swish of leaves and a spattering of water falling in the shrubbery behind Milligan. For the first time, Dean willingly locked his eyes on Milligan's, trying to keep the other man's attention focused on him.
You're insane. What could possibly have happened in the past day – the past year – to make you think anyone would help you?
"I see I must clarify the current stakes," Milligan said with a sigh. "I still have everything I need to ruin you, but you seem to have overlooked that I also have James Novak. Every time you say no, I will take a pound of that boy's flesh. He'll be my son in law. He'll be in my time I want him, I can reach out my hand and take what is mine. And have no doubt: I will take until I am sated. I will take his innocence, his beauty, his love, until he's a husk just like the rest of us," Milligan vowed. "When I'm done, I'll tell him why it all happened to him, and send him back to you, so he can see how little he was worth to you all along."
Red fury washed away fear, washed away pain, washed away everything. "I won't let you hurt him," snarled Dean, struggling mightily against Michael's hold on him. "You don't want him. You want me."
"That's right," Milligan said, voice like a caress, undeterred by Dean's attempts to win his freedom. "I want you, Dean, and I'll be thinking of you every time I touch him. You alone can prevent all. All you have to do is say 'yes.' "
"Never," Dean growled, and he twisted as hard as he could. Milligan's smug countenance slipped as his balance was finally over thrown, and he fell sideways into the shrubbery to the accompaniment of snapping twigs. Dean rolled away and turned back to see Milligan righting himself, rising, expression contorted into a rictus of fury, eyes glittering maliciously.
"As usual, you over estimate your clout, country boy," jeered Milligan, advancing on him slowly. Dean scrambled to get control of his body as trembling threatened to incapacitate him. "This is not a negotiation, Dean. You will say…" A shovel took Milligan in the side of the head with a dull echoing thud of reverberating metal, and he tumbled sideways and slumped to the ground.
"You okay there, boy?"
"Bobby?" exclaimed Dean. He managed a deep breath and nearly choked on it, gasping it out in stuttering, uneven releases. The groundskeeper knelt beside Dean and wrapped a powerful arm around Dean's shoulders, pulling him upright. "Damn if you're not the finest sight I've ever seen."
"He didn't do anything perverted to you, did he?" snapped Singer, hauling Dean to his feet.
"No," Dean tottered and tried to stand under his own power. Each time he blinked, it seemed the world had to reform itself from nothing. His lungs seemed to creak with each breath. Gripping Singer tight, he shifted his balance and gave Milligan a kick just as the other man began to stir. Relief surged through his mind. Milligan wasn't a monster, he was just a man, a ruthless, callous, heartless man. Dean pulled back and kicked him again. "If you hurt James I will kill you, understand?" The anger that had been repressed by that the bastard's gaze melted the fear left in the wake of that ruthless grip to Dean's throat, and Dean growled in fury. There was no specter here, there was no phantom of black eyes, only a man lying on the ground, grunting in pain as Dean prepared for another strike.
"What are you doing?" Ms. Harvelle's voice cut shrilly through Dean's rage and he spun to see her tripping lightly over the wet grass, hem of her skirts rapidly darkening with absorbed dew. "I don't care what he did to you, Winchester, you can't beat our host!"
"Yes, I can," retorted Dean with a scowl. His voice was practically unrecognizable from the abuse to his throat, dry and crude and rendered stony and emotionless by reaction to the attack and his finally finding the spirit to fight back. "Seems to be exactly what I'm doing."
"She's right," Singer interrupted. "Boy, believe me, I want to kill him, but this is his home, and if we do there'll be consequences, sure as rain is wet. Let's get you home, and leave him to deal with how he'll explain what's happened to him out here."
"Probably blame me," grunted Dean. "Say he came out to check on me – I attacked him – ruin my reputation a bit more – son of a bitch." He managed another glancing kick, smearing mud over the cream of Milligan's pants. The effort spun him around and nearly planted him on his face. Ms. Harvelle swooped and caught his other side to keep him falling. Her face locked in anger, brow taut, eyes lowered, she looked even more like a warrioress than earlier.
"Don't worry," she vowed. "We'll get him. Charlotte will crucify him. But you must stop."
"I've got the carriage out front, and that Novak is gathering up Mrs. Winchester," Singer and Ms. Harvelle determinedly hauled Dean across the lawn, away from his fallen attacked. "There'll be hell to pay for this in the morning."
"There always is, Bobby," Dean shook his head, trembling from the rush of different emotions. "There always is."
Dean allowed himself one glance back, and saw exactly what he'd known he would – eyes dark in the night, staring after him, narrowed murderously. He shuddered and got his feet under him, and as a trio they hurried across the lawn.
They burst through the doors into the house to amid a burst of shocked gasps from the assembled gentlefolk. Dean could only begin to guess his appearance, soaking wet, muddied, bruised, eyes unfocused with alarm and anger and consternation, unable to walk without the assistance of a brusque servant and a lady. People scattered in all direction. They crested the room in a wave of silence as people saw them, quieted aghast, and flowed aside, only to close in behind them and burst into a shocked hubbub. Once again, Dean earned the dubious honor of being the talk of the Ton. At least this time, he knew exactly what people would suppose. Milligan would spur them on to the belief that the country booby squire had assaulted him in the garden for who-knew-what reason, "why do men such as that do anything? Surely drunk on spirits and indifferent to propriety!" Dean and Charlie would find themselves summarily disinvited from every reputable house in the city, friends would confront him wondering what on earth he was thinking and he'd be unable to answer them honestly, and everyone they encountered on the street would stare and shy away. At least in the aftermath, they'd be spared being forced to pretend polite company with Milligan for the foreseeable future.
It wasn't until Dean was slumped into the back of Mr. Novak's barouche, heart beat echoing dully in his head, the sounds of Charlie's confusion and concern washing over him, that he thought to check his pockets, and realized the magnitude of the disaster that had befallen him that night.
The letter to James, the letter that named Castiel and Asmodeus and James and was signed D. Winchester, was gone.
