A/N: I'm so sorry this has come along so late! Hopefully the content for the chapter will make up for it!

This is the chapter where Dean and Cas *finally* become officially betrothed. Next chapter will be more celebrations in Hera etc., and after that... Well. Spoilers. **But** I can promise lots of drama and plot twists, and the pace of the story is hopefully gonna speed up a tonne. Anyway. I hope you enjoy!

weedom - Well, here's a little piece of Dean being more honest with Cas about how he feels! I hope you enjoy :)

Kassie - Thank you lovely! Here it is :)

mems1223 - Thank you! Here's the next chapter!

Chapter 12—Promises Made

"I look at him and wonder what my

hands are for.

I look at him and want to touch him everywhere."

Caitlyn Siehl, excerpt from The Talisman

Castiel loses track of how much time he spends in Hera. Michael is forced to leave after a short while, Castiel assumes by his duties, although the High King returns to the Human Kingdom on several occasions, visiting and leaving in a sporadic manner that seems to reflect his state of mind quite perfectly.

Gabriel and Anna also come to visit the Kingdom inbetween Michael's stays to ensure that both Dean and Castiel are in as good spirits and health as is possible considering their respective situations, which, it seems, they are.

John is not himself. The sadness that Castiel recognised in his eyes when he first saw the Human King of Hera has only increased during Castiel's stay. Dean's father seems constantly tired and anxious, and the young Prince tells Castiel that his father blames himself for all that happened when Dean went to war. It would seem that self-deprecation is a quality Dean inherited from his father's line.

And the Angel spends each night coiled up beside Dean, now. Dean cannot really move during the night in view of his injuries, but Castiel rests his arms over Dean's body so that their frames lie, nearly knotted together, and rise and fall in matching rhythm.

Neither of them mention it; but they like the nights best when they are both touching—even if it's only slightly. Castiel's heart feels as though it's tumbling down the ladder of his ribcage whenever he is with Dean; his breathing stops almost completely, almost so that time stands still—and he has never felt so raw, so vulnerable before now.

There's a purity in this vulnerability, he thinks, and he thinks Dean feels it too; like the cleansing, burning magic of salt rubbed into broken flesh or of alcohols poured onto wounds.

When Castiel leaves the castle after moons and moons of staying in Hera with the Human Prince, Dean is walking again—although only for short distances. He has a crutch decorated as a sceptre to assist him in this, and though this is only for short bursts of time before he proceeds to rest for a long while, it is reassuring for Castiel to see this change in health.

Castiel says his goodbyes in the large, ten sided courtyard at the front of the castle, recalling how this was the first place he stepped out onto Heran territory. He glances up at Dean and sees the Human looking like he's broken at the thought of Castiel having to go once more, and it rips something raw inside of the Angel to see.

He promises Dean that he will return—very soon, in fact, he swears that he will make sure of it—and that he will pray that Dean gets better, which seems to be a moderate reassurance to the Human. His eyes still dart worriedly about his surroundings the way a deer would at the approaching clamour of men on horses.

The oldest Winchester boy tugs at Castiel's hand just before the Angel gets ready to leave with Michael, and Castiel stops, looking back at the young prince. Dean's eyes are soft on Castiel's. He tugs on Castiel's hand again, and Castiel leans toward to Dean, where Dean grazes the backs of his fingers against Castiel's cheek, before pulling Castiel closer still, intimately close, for a soft, sweet kiss. Their lips linger on each other for a moment, before Castiel pulls back, smiling, and presses another kiss onto Dean's forehead. Dean presses his face into Castiel's neck as though he is hiding from the sunlight.

"I'll miss you," Dean says, looking up at the Angel with sad eyes that swirl constantly into themselves in the way storms do on particularly moody days.

"And I'll miss you." Castiel squeezes Dean's hand and says his words as though they are a promise.

He has to turn away to stop his heart from caving in.

Michael travels with Castiel. The younger Angel spends most of the journey back to his home staring out of his window, yet again—although this time it is not because of some dispute between him and his older brother, but rather because of longing that empties his chest.

"King John does not seem to be himself," Michael muses quietly, still looking out his own window, at the surrounding cities and towns of Hera, which roll quietly by in flittering, fleeting images of gray stone and emerald greenery and golden thatch.

"No, he doesn't," Castiel agrees. Tempted to stop the conversation there, he instead decides to share more with his brother than a few mere words. "Dean says he blames the incident on himself. He worries for Dean's health, now—when before he had considered Dean as almost invulnerable. Maybe like a sacrifice, even. I think the thought of losing his son had never even occurred to him; or rather, the pain he might feel at Dean's loss had never occurred to him. And suddenly it became more than he could bear."

"You phrase it a little unflatteringly," Michael muses, "Though I know for certain that worry is one of the many prices of being a parent," He continues thoughtfully. "Or, indeed, an older brother." His lips twitch upwards and he glances at Castiel with amusement etched across his worry-lined, though certainly still handsome features. Castiel returns the smile.

"And what's the price of being a younger brother, do you think?" He asks, tone playful as he humours his oldest sibling a moment.

"I've only ever been an older brother, Castiel," Michael laughs. "You tell me."

Michael's laughter is rare in how guileless and genuine Castiel's ears can discern it to be. The younger Angel gazes pensively at the High King a moment, resisting the urge to squint and tilt his head in his attempts to gauge Michael's thoughts.

"Having to do what your older siblings tell you to do. No matter how stupid or pigheaded it may seem," Castiel decides, and Michael chuckles in response, the sound warm and rich, lovely and powerful as molten gold.

"I see," He nods. "And do you ever consider they give you instruction for your own protection?"

"Sometimes, I suppose," Castiel admits with a grimace.

"What else is the price of being a younger sibling?"

"Being teased," Castiel chooses this response from an endless list of the many pitfalls of being younger than his brothers and sister, though he's certain many of his qualms with his position in his family are hardly applicable to other groups of siblings. "Constantly."

"I think that's the price of having Gabriel as an older brother," Michael corrects, his voice still rumbling with bright, soft laughter, like the sun peeping out from behind thick clouds. He shakes his head and smiles affectionately at Castiel.

"I suppose, yes," Castiel acknowledges. "Although you and Anna certainly have your moments."

Michael chuckles and rolls his eyes.

"You always seem to be much happier, after your interactions with Prince Dean," He teases gently.

"And here's the proof that you, too, have your moments of goading," Castiel tries just as much not to smile as he does not to blush.

"I'm glad you're happy, brother," Michael's tone has quietened, softened, and somehow still cut through the teasing, jesting tone of their conversation up to this point. His eyes no longer dance, but rather spark, with Michael's undoubtedly vast knowledge of the contents of Castiel's head and heart.

"More relieved, than anything else."

This admittance comes coupled with a spasm of hurt up Castiel's left side at the thought of how possible it was that he could have lost Dean.

"Yes," Michael nods. "That's very understandable. He's recovering well, though, Little Sarim—find rest in that knowledge, I ask you."

"I know he is—and I will."

"The understanding that someone you love is safe—it's very reassuring."

"It is," Castiel agrees.

"He promised to write?"

"He did," Castiel nods. "And I promised to reply."

"Good." A pause, and then Michael begins to speak again, with a quiet smirk curling at his features. "You know, brother, I think you're better at speaking the Human's languages than I am, now." He chuckles wistfully a moment. "All your practice in the High Tongue of Edian. It's paid off."

This isn't surprising, when Castiel thinks about it. He spends most of his time reading in Human languages, and still more of it writing to Dean in Edian, the language of the Northern Kingdoms—and his visits to Hera are spent speaking almost exclusively in this tongue, in particular.

On top of all of this, Castiel is given lessons on it by his Tutor, who has been fluent in the language since he was a young boy—and the Angel who teaches Castiel language and histories is now well over eight centuries old. Really, it should come as absolutely no shock at all that Castiel is so confident in it. Castiel says as much to his brother, who chuckles and agrees.

"Yes, that's fair enough," He nods.

"You seem in very good spirits, too, you know," Castiel squints involuntarily.

"Yes, I'll admit it's quite reasonable to say that I am."

"Why is that?" Castiel asks.

"Seeing you happy—or indeed, relieved—makes me happy," Michael shrugs simply, lips turning up at their edges, probably against his better judgement, Castiel speculates. This smile is far too sentimental for Michael's usual character. "And I've been given a chance to forget about many of my responsibilities—and worries—for a brief while… which; although a poor plan for the long run, is relieving to do for short bursts of time."

"What are you troubled by?" Castiel frowns, slightly.

"You needn't worry over it, too, brother," Michael's tone and expression are both thoroughly reasonable, though Castiel still finds himself resenting them.

"When I'm twenty…" He reminds with a sigh.

"Yes," Michael laughs. "When you turn twenty, there will be no more secrets. I promise you. None."

Castiel tries to be comforted by this. He turns and stares out of his window again.

"Don't think I didn't notice the kiss you and Dean shared before you left," Michael smirks over to Castiel after a stretch of neither comfortable, though certainly not uncomfortable, silence between the pair. Castiel's face heats instantly.

"—I—"

"You needn't be embarrassed, brother." Michael tips his head back as he laughs. "Honestly, it is rather superb that the two of you get along so well. And you are getting along very well, by the looks of it." Michael nearly leers as he speaks, and despite Gabriel and Michael's vast number of physical differences, Castiel can see a remarkable resemblance between them, now.

"—Brother—" Castiel groans, and Michael chuckles again and brushes the back of his hand against Castiel's wing.

"I'm sorry, Castiel, I'll stop teasing you," Michael grins—it is such a rare occasion that Castiel will see such a happy expression on his brother's face that the younger Angel almost forgets to feel frustrated and embarrassed by the High King. "If you don't mind me asking, however—was it the first time the two of you…" He trails off awkwardly, and gestures even more uncomfortably, despite the smile still engraved across his features.

"…Kissed?" Castiel asks, finishing his brother's sentence for him.

"That's the word I was looking for," The Angel chuckles a moment. "Was it?"

"No," Castiel shakes his head, looking away awkwardly. "It wasn't."

"So you kissed before on this visit?"

"Yes…" Castiel confirms.

"Had you kissed the Human before this visit?—"

"Michael!" Castiel groans, thumping his head against the wall of their carriage.

"I am truly sorry brother," Michael's smile has turned affectionate again. "I didn't mean to pry too far. I'm glad that you are happy with Dean. He seems very happy with you."

Castiel blushes, yet a ghost of a smile, extraordinarily shy, still manages to creep across his features.

"I think he is, yes."

"And the two of you will write, until your next visit to his Kingdom."

"Yes," Castiel confirms, lips twitching upwards still more at the thought. He gazes out the window and thinks of how the sun streaming through the layers of forest leaves looks almost exactly the same as Dean's shimmering, warm eyes. He thinks of summer and lying in long grass with Dean resting his head against Castiel's stomach; of the pair swimming together in forest streams and sitting under a great chestnut tree together as they dry off in the leaf-dappled sunlight; as Castiel quotes lines of his favourite poems to Dean, and Dean listens with rapt attention.

Castiel thinks of how likely it is that the pair's betrothal will actually—finally—take place, now. The thought sends his head reeling up into the white clouds above their carriage while butterflies as trembling and gentle as the Human's kisses flutter through his system.

Dean writes and tells Castiel of how John is growing more and more distant. Dean doesn't know why; thinks he has done something terribly wrong, is wracked with guilt.

He says that he is having to pick up more and more duties around the castle; he says that Bobby seems more worried for the King's condition every day—he says his father drinks more nights than not, that Dean found him sobbing in the main hall on his throne, and that when Dean tried to remove him, John lashed out, hitting Dean, before breaking down again and apologising profusely at Dean's feet.

Dean explains that he felt nothing more than absolute pity for his father in that moment, and that it was disgusting to experience such an emotion toward the man Dean had once believed to hold the sun and stars themselves. Castiel swallows when he reads of how the moment had made Dean want to vomit and convulse as his father did exactly the same.

Dean also tells Castiel of how his responsibilities continue to grow. He is filling in for his father in court, he knows all of the advisers by name now—and not just the chief advisers—each and every one of them.

These interactions continue, for several months, uninterrupted—but one cold, bright morning, where the sky is white and the sun seems to blend into the clouds themselves, Michael enters Castiel's quarters with a sombre expression.

"Castiel," He says, face cloudy like sorrow. Worry twists sharply and without question at Castiel's gut.

"Is Dean okay?" He asks immediately—and then swallows hard, taken aback that this was his immediate reaction—he feels unsure what to think of it; of what to think of himself—but Michael's smile is sad, and he shakes his head.

"No, brother, this is not about Dean. Your Prince is fine."

Castiel momentarily feels the urge to correct his brother—Dean is not his, the two of them are simply—but he pauses. For the millionth time in the past two years, he asks himself—what are he and Dean? They are more than friends, certainly—or are they? Is he only that? A friend of Dean's? Dean has stated that he is a good friend, granted, even his best friend, but what else is he to the Prince—and why does he so desperately want Dean to think of him as something more?

"So what is it about, then?" Castiel asks, frowning.

"You," Michael replies simply, and he cannot even bring himself to look at Castiel, which only makes the anxiety gnawing at Castiel's insides grow all the more.

"What do you mean?" He asks.

"Raphael believes that it's time you fought in our wars."

Castiel's heart sinks.

"He brought it up at the council meeting this morning, and the rest of the council agreed—you're nineteen, now; and they said that you are more than ready to become a warrior—I tried to disagree, but there was only so much that I could say—they pointed out that the age for battle is eighteen, and you are—and I am—" Michael breaks off. He looks down. His voice trembles.

"Michael—" Castiel bites his lip. "I'm ready—it's fine—they were right. And if I am to be an Archangel, at some point—"

"But you're too young—"

"You've essentially already stated that I'm not, brother."

"But I don't want to lose you—"

"You won't." Castiel reassures.

"But, Little Prince, this is war—"

"I know," Castiel nods. "And I've had you to train me. The finest warrior I know." He smiles in an attempt to be comforting, but he balls his fists from the effort of keeping his hands from shaking.

Michael looks up and Castiel is shocked to see tears in his eyes. The High King, with his towering golden wings and sharp blue eyes and unquestioning, severe brow, pulls Castiel towards him; hugging his body so tightly that Castiel is certain he is going to break—and the younger Angel thinks he can feel Michael's body shaking with sobs.

Perhaps this is the price of being an older sibling, Castiel thinks.

Castiel understands why Dean felt so damaged after he went to war for the first time. Dean had seen it when he was sixteen, Castiel when he is nineteen; and Castiel doesn't know if he is being weak by being so torn apart by it.

Angel warriors call themselves brothers and sisters in arms. Suddenly, Castiel's family is bigger than it ever has been.

They claim—or reclaim—or simply steal back an island from the Demons in the north-eastern stretch of the Cerydien sea, houses ransacked by the Human troops Castiel fights with, Demon families displaced or slaughtered—Dean never mentioned the massacre of innocents in war. Does Dean care? Does he see Demons as no more sentient and feeling than animals?

And since when did a war over a king's dead wife permit the death and displacement of villages?

The Humans Castiel fights with tell him that the Demons stole this island from the Herans and slaughtered its inhabitants—but the island is closer to Dione than it is to Hera or any Demon kingdom, anyway—and what would the Demons who once lived here say of the Humans who stole their home?

Even when he returns home Castiel feels guilty and wracked with confusion—Michael throwing his arms around his younger brother as soon as Castiel has stepped foot in Evadne, home and safe. Castiel holds onto Michael tighter than he had previously thought physically possible. He hears Michael's muffled, sobbed apologies come in out as a litany of raw emotion in his ear. It's alien and uncomfortable for Castiel to see his brother so overcome by feelings, and for a nauseating moment, he wants to step back from the High King and push his brother away.

Anna and Gabriel are waiting for him, too, quickly pulling him into their arms in immediate succession. Castiel doesn't admit aloud that he finds the touch comforting, but truth be told, he thinks it's the warmest thing he's ever known.

He writes to Dean again when he gets back. Dean is relieved to know that Castiel is alright; but his letters seem more formal than Castiel remembers them to be before his travels.

The Human doesn't make as many jokes in his writing, now—if any at all—and Castiel misses Dean's wit and absurdity. He only states current events, hardly how he feels about them; and Castiel can hear the ring of Dean's responsibilities even through his writing.

One evening over dinner, Michael tells Castiel that it has been decided that it is time that the betrothal went underway.

"And Dean knows?" Castiel asks, frowning—he hates the thought that once again Dean will be left uninformed of these events.

"Yes," Michael nods. "Sir Robert informed me in his letter that Dean agreed to it, too."

"Agreed?" Castiel repeats—his heart pangs with how impersonal the word sounds.

"I only can't remember his phrasing exactly, Castiel—you needn't worry."

Castiel nods.

"I'm sure Dean will be very pleased," Michael reassures, smiling gently.

Castiel certainly hopes so.

"What makes you say that?" He asks nervously, his tone far more desperate than he likes.

"I've seen the way he looks at you," Michael laughs. "And you're happy, too?" He asks, raising his eyebrows, concerned. "You still want to go through with this?" He inquires.

"Yes." Castiel nods. "I do."

Something bright and happy coils deep inside his chest; and although Castiel is not sure what exactly the emotion is, he drinks up the feeling.

"We will be leaving for Hera in a few days—where, upon our arrival, your betrothal will be announced. I expect there will be a great deal of celebrations as a result of this, so I would suggest bringing your most formal robes."

Castiel nods.

"I understand, brother."

There is a pause.

"You're sure he'll be happy, Michael?" The younger Angel asks, concerned. Michael looks up from his plate and smiles.

"I'm certain, little Sarim."

Castiel looks down as his smile spreads to the very corners of his eyes.

A nervous energy thrums through Castiel with every breath he takes—Anna has chided him for the way he bounces his knee up and down constantly, anxiously, for the entirety of their journey; but it's to no avail. By the time the castle gates are being opened, Castiel is trembling with anticipation.

He notices from the corner of his eye that his siblings are exchanging knowing glances to each other at his excitement, but he outright ignores them.

He feels Anna's hand rest on his shoulder at some point as they draw up into the courtyard in front of the castle, but Castiel cannot pay attention. Because he can see Dean, standing on the steps leading up to the huge main doors of the castle, and the Angel has forgotten how to breathe.

They exit their chariot—Michael getting out first—and Castiel can't even bring himself to listen to the opening speeches from both his older brother and King John, greeting each other and speaking streams needless words about their great Kingdom's alliance. All their sentences garble and turn to liquid in Castiel's ears anyway; utterly indecipherable next to the tumult turning islands over in Castiel's chest.

The large square is crowded with more Humans than Castiel thinks he has ever seen, and they are led through the crowd, which parts dutifully, and up the steps, to stand the other side of the Winchester family.

John looks tired—Dean was right—Castiel doesn't think he's ever seen the man looking so downtrodden. Bobby stands beside him. His hand rests reassuringly on John's shoulder. Sam has grown considerably—Castiel thinks he would now stand at least at the Angel's height, if not even taller; where he once could barely measure up—but he has yet to bulk out, as Dean has.

—And Dean.

He looks more of a man than Castiel thinks he has ever seen the Prince. He has grown, still more, although not in the proportions of his younger brother—and Castiel is almost certain that Dean is far taller than him now. He fills out his robes more—his jaw is more defined, his brow heavier, and Castiel thinks he can see the ghost of stubble lining Dean's chin and jawline.

His neck is thicker, his hands more calloused; and there is a mature distance in Dean's eyes, too. He looks older than Castiel remembers. Years older; and aged in the way that Michael seems aged: as though he has seen and felt too much in this weary life. The weight of his ever increasing responsibilities—and of his father's condition—hang heavy on his face.

He looks tired, not like a child after a long day, nor a blacksmith or a carpenter after hours of labour, but a long, bottomless, sleepless tired that knows no forgiveness or relief.

The smiling, joking boy Castiel once knew has all but completely disappeared from behind the now thick, defensive veil of Dean's eyes. Castiel swallows and bites his lip. Dean only looks out ahead of him. He doesn't glance back at the Angel.

The speeches end to rapturous applause. It turns to dust in Castiel's ears.

They are invited inside of the castle, and Bobby—rather pointedly, on Dean's refusal to so much as acknowledge Castiel—asks Dean to show Castiel to his quarters.

Castiel doesn't know why, but he trembles on his way up there. Dean walks ahead of him by a few steps, not even looking back at the Angel.

"You're staying in a different wing of the castle than the one you've slept in on your past visits," Dean states, and Castiel thinks of how his voice sounds deeper, and of how it grazes against the Human's throat as he speaks. He sounds impersonal, blunt and forward, and Castiel looks down, his heart aching at something—although he isn't sure what.

"Right," He nods.

There is a silence. Castiel thinks that he can feel it crushing his lungs. Whether it lasts for minutes, or hours, the Angel cannot tell, but he is relieved when finally Dean stops outside a door.

"This is where you'll be staying," He states, turning to look at Castiel for what feels like the first time since Castiel arrived. "Your brothers and sister will be just down the corridor if you need them. Father has elected our finest knights and guards to patrol this corridor to ensure your safety."

And this information answers Castiel's question about visiting Dean in the evenings.

"Thank you," Castiel nods, bowing his head. Dean nods back, and looks as though he is about to leave, yet something makes the now young man hold back, and he turns round to Castiel again, hesitant.

"Um—So you fought in the Demon war?" He asks.

"Yes…" Castiel confirms.

"And—and you're okay?" Dean asks.

"I am," Castiel answers without too much trouble in making his tone sincere. "—I understand why you hate war so much, now, though."

Dean nods.

"—And how are your nightmares?" Castiel asks cautiously.

Dean presses his lips into a thin line.

"They're worse than ever," He admits. He looks guilty at this, as though it is his own fault, though Castiel cannot understand why.

"Oh," Castiel frowns. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Dean shrugs, and looks like he's ready to leave again, when Castiel speaks up.

"—I've missed you," He states, before he has time to think this through. Dean's expression changes.

"And I've missed you," He replies earnestly. "Every day I've wished you were here."

Oh.

Castiel's heart crumples. And it hurts, but this is a good pain; a pain that he drinks up because he knows that Dean, his Dean, is the cause of it.

Dean waves shortly and leaves. The Human's head is held up high as he walks, nearly marches, back down the corridor they came down—but it is not held up by arrogance. And in any case, the boy's shoulders slump down with whatever it is that burdens them.

What has happened since Castiel was last in Hera?

He doubts he'll ever know. Dean is refusing to talk to him. He sighs and enters his room. His chest aches.

At the banquet that evening, Castiel sits next to the Human Prince, but Dean remains silent for its entirety—he spends most of his time glancing apprehensively over to his father as though he is afraid the man is going to collapse where he sits.

There is music and lyres and dancing and laughter all around them, but somehow it cannot seem to seep closer than a few metres around the pair, as though they sit in an impermeable fortress where all the joy in the world has been drawn out like water from a drying well.

The Main Hall is decorated in whites and golds—the wedding colours of Hera and Eofor, Dean's Mother and Fatherlands, flowers and vines wreathed up the pillars and woven under the windows which shed dappled light onto white roses and pale green leaves. It's beautiful; Castiel says so; Dean says nothing. Only hangs his head and pokes at his food and refuses to look up.

His right hand is still scarred from where a Demon blade ripped through it. Castiel watches as it plays inattentively with Dean's fork, which plays just as inattentively with Dean's food.

And Castiel trudges back up to his room with the grey sky darkening outside of the castle windows.

That night he lies awake, staring up at the ceiling above him. It is decorated with hundreds of Angels, quite fittingly, all with light pouring out of them: their eyes, their mouths, their hands. He doesn't know what it means, or what it's meant to represent. Only that it reflects Humanity's continued deification of Angelkind, and it makes Castiel feel a little ill.

This room is filled with none of the warmth or familiarity that the other quarters came to hold for him.

He thinks it is around midnight when he gets up out of his bed and opens the door to his quarters.

"Your Highness?" A voice outside calls cautiously out of the penetrating darkness.

"Yes?" Castiel nods.

"You shouldn't really leave your quarters—"

"I cannot sleep." Castiel explains. "And when I cannot sleep, I go on walks to calm my nerves."

"Of course," The guard nods. "However, for your own safety—"

"I've visited this castle before, I know it well enough."

"I'm sure you do, my Lord—may I walk with you, in any case?"

"I won't need that, thank you," Castiel bows his head, but then considers that in the darkness, it is very unlikely the guard was able to see him do this.

"In the interest of safety, Sire—"

"I will be fine, thank you," Castiel says again, attempting to balance himself between sounding firm and polite. "I am able to defend myself, if needs be, and I very much doubt that Hera will come under invasion tonight, or any night soon."

"At least let me give you a torch."

"Thank you; that would be very useful."

Castiel takes the object carefully when it is handed to him, thinking of how it seems almost crude compared to the oil lanterns he uses in his own home.

"Should I wait for you to come back?" He asks.

"I'm not sure," Castiel admits. Perhaps he would sleep better down in the courtyard where he and Dean used to meet—in which case, he won't be back until the early hours of morning. "Don't trouble yourself with it," He decides. And then: "And please don't share that I've gone wandering the castle with anyone. My brother wouldn't approve, I'm sure."

The guard nods. Castiel fears that this Human thinks the Angel petulant and stubborn, but he doesn't reconsider his answers. He holds his torch out ahead of him, the flame curling and dancing unpredictably, making shadows grow out from where none should form, let alone twist and play with each other in the changing light.

Castiel walks down the corridor that he knows holds Dean's quarters, out of an aching sense of longing that turns his heart the colour of ice. More guards ask him questions on the way, but his answers are always similar to those he gave to the first.

And then he stops just outside of Dean's room, and sighs. He misses Dean—he misses his Dean, Dean before all the responsibilities turned him into something flat and hard; Dean who would grin and infuriate Castiel and understand all that the Angel had to say and kiss him out of nowhere, crumbling away any and all other of Castiel's thoughts.

Not this Dean.

A cry snaps Castiel out of his daze.

It's Dean. Just like the first night of Castiel's first stay. He's having nightmares again.

There is another, and another, and Castiel hears one of the guards muttering to another that there's nothing to be done; that these occur every night, that Dean is always angry with whoever dares to wake him.

But Castiel doesn't care about Dean's anger. Anger is better than indifference. And emotions—whatever they may be—are better than none.

In any case, Dean's nightmare sounds far more terrible than the one Castiel remembers overhearing on his first night in the Great Castle of Hera.

A sob sounds from inside the room, muffled, as if Dean has bit it into his pillow, and at last, Castiel cautiously pushes the door open.

"Dean?" He asks, but Dean continues to sob, his body shuddering from where he lies. "Dean?" He asks again, a little louder, this time.

Dean cries, his body trembling, and before Castiel can think, he is beside Dean's bed, his hand is on Dean's shoulder, and he is calling Dean's name again, far louder than he had before.

Dean jolts awake, sitting up with another cry—it makes Castiel flinch back. He winces and braces himself for the stampede of anger, but Dean only looks confused.

"Cas?" He asks, voice ringing and shaking with desperation. Castiel makes some kind of noise of confirmation, still terrified—but Dean lets out a shuddering sigh and gets up, trembling, pulling Castiel into his arms. "Cas—you're here—" He sobs, again, pressing his face into the Angels shoulder, and Castiel doesn't know what to do, so he winds his arms around Dean's body and pulls him close.

"Yes. I'm here," He confirms softly. "I'm right here, Dean."

When Dean's crying has subsided somewhat, he tells Castiel of all his nightmares. His nightmares of losing Sammy in war—of John dying and Dean having to take his place on the throne, of his own experiences in battle; replaying constantly in his mind. Of how these nightmares came back after Castiel last left Hera and nothing he does, no sleeping draught he takes, can stop them.

Healers have crushed valerian and lavender and steeped them in hot water for Dean to drink as a peace draught; they have placed the pale flowers around his room in white-and-lilac sprigs to guard his sleep, yet none of it works.

Dean sits on his bed and Castiel joins him—something which the Human looks relieved at, pulling Castiel tightly around him again, the Angel still feeling more than slightly taken aback.

But he has Dean again. If not in the way he had him before, then in a different way. Dean is broken and damaged and terrified; but Castiel would be damned if he ever chose to leave the Human's side.

Words spill from Dean's lips—they don't stop—more than making up for the conversation lost over Castiel's stay so far; Dean is alone because nobody understands him, nobody wants him, he is afraid of his own father and he is afraid of losing him, he's afraid of himself and of the things he's done—everyone thinks that he's doing fine, but he's not; he's really not—and he's missed Castiel. He's really missed Castiel.

And the Angel doesn't think before he pulls Dean back into his arms, lying back on the bed and entwining his body around Dean's. But the Human doesn't seem happy with just this.

He groans, like he needs something desperately, like it hurts how badly he needs it, like a man starving in the desert, and moves up to Castiel's lips; kissing them softly in the darkness. The touch is gentle and barely there, it's like the falling of snowflakes on Castiel's lips, sweet and soft—but it's filled with a burning need, desperate, and then Dean pulls Castiel on top of him, soft tears still leaking onto his face, his kisses becoming more frantic and demanding; and Castiel only now begins to think.

"Dean—" He tries, but Dean groans beneath him at his name on Castiel's lips. "Dean—" He attempts again, but Dean pulls him down for another claiming kiss.

"Cas, please," Dean is almost sobbing, now. "Kiss me—please, kiss me."

"I am, but—"

"Don't stop—"

"Dean—"

"Touch me," Dean moans, lifting his hips up from the bed, grinding them up against Castiel, who gasps at the touch, because it feels good—really good, and the Angel loses himself to the touch and motion for a moment, letting Dean lift his hips and rut them against Castiel's over and over again. "Fuck me." The Human mouths against Castiel's ear, and Castiel groans and closes his eyes, something burning wrapping itself tightly at the base of his torso and around the width of his chest.

But he can't do this—he can't, because this isn't Dean—he's not himself, he's not thinking, and when Dean moves his hips to roll them up against Castiel's again, the Angel pulls back, a frown twisting at his face.

"Cas—" Dean almost cries, but Castiel presses both his hands against Dean's shoulders, pushing him back, grounding him, just as Michael sometimes does to Castiel in attempts to calm the younger Angel.

"Dean," He swallows hard, panting the cool air of Dean's room. "You're not thinking—"

"I am," Dean growls, pushing his knee in between Castiel's legs and pressing them open, but Castiel pushes the Human back again.

"No, you're not, Dean—look at you. You're in tears—you've been in that state for at least the past hour or so; you—"

"I want you."

Dean's words are filled with a burning need, rasped out through a tight throat, rough and heavy with desire and restlessness, but Castiel can't allow them. He shakes his head.

"Dean, I can't let you do this…"

Even in the darkness, Castiel doesn't miss the way Dean's lip curls.

"Cas—" He frowns, but Castiel only repeats his answer.

"You're not in you're right state of mind, Dean," He reminds, as gently as possible, but Dean's jaw clenches bitterly and his face sets with something harsh and hard and angry.

"I'm not a child, Cas—" Dean can't know how ironic this statement is, considering the petulance of both his expression and tone, as he speaks.

"But you're acting like one," Castiel replies, firmly and very unamused, now.

"You know what? Forget it." Dean's face sets, rigid and hostile. "You wouldn't know what fucking someone is, anyway," He sneers. "I bet sex is just another thing added to the long-list-of-shit-Castiel's-siblings-never-fucking-tell-him-of. You'll find out when you're twenty, I guess? Along with everything else? You don't even know what I'm talking about," He spits. "You're too fucking innocent—ignorant, even—you're too immature, you're like a fucking child. I don't know why I assumed you'd get it, I don't know why I'd want someone like you to fuck me—"

Castiel's jaw clenches.

"Don't talk to me like that, Dean," He growls. "This is for your own good."

"You're telling me what's good for me, now?!"

"Yes," Castiel nods shortly, nostrils flaring. "You're not yourself. And I don't know what that entails, but I know that to carry on—it would be wrong. Of me. I'd be taking advantage of you."

"How so?" Dean scowls.

"You're emotionally compromised, Dean—look at you."

"I've always been emotionally compromised when I'm around you!"

"What does that mean?" Castiel frowns.

"What do you think it means?" Dean bites.

Castiel sighs and gets up, off the bed.

"Enough. I'm going back to my room," He shakes his head. "I've had enough of this," He glares at Dean, flares out his wings, letting the mess of passion and dispassion that storms within him gush through him, straight at Dean. "This is our first real conversation of my stay, and already I've had enough of you."

"Cas—"

Castiel ignores the plea, rolling his eyes and snarling.

"Fuck off, Dean."

"Cas, please—" Dean tries, but it is to no avail.

"Fuck off, Dean." Castiel growls again. He doesn't normally curse, if at all, but a bubbling rage is simmering tight and loudly in his gut. "And get the fuck over yourself."

Dean looks down for the first time in their argument. He nods. His hands tremble, as he stands up, then sits down, defeated, again.

"Sorry." His voice has gone small once more. "Sorry," He repeats.

Castiel sighs, stopping at the door.

"Just stop it, Dean."

"I have—" Dean frowns in confusion, more lost tears leaking onto his face.

"No, I meant stop apologising."

"But I fucked up—"

Castiel sighs again. He's tired, but… Not of Dean. Never of Dean.

"Look," He softens. "It's fine. I'm tired. It's not your fault—"

"No, it is—everything is—and I'm sorry, Cas—I just missed you—I've missed you, and then you were in my room again; and you were there for me, and I got—I don't know, it all felt too much, and I needed you, and I fucked up, and I'm so sorry."

"It's okay—"

"No it's not," Dean spits, more at himself than anything else. His tears are silent, this time. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"

Castiel feels a frown twitch at his forehead again, but he's not sure what this one is for. He bites his lip and steps back towards the Human, again, brushing his hand against Dean's shoulder, squeezing it as reassuringly as he can.

Dean trembles and closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.

"I'm sorry," He mumbles, hoarsely, again. Castiel leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of Dean's head, without thinking. Dean's short hair brushes against Castiel's nose, prickling it softly. He doesn't stop to think about how much he wants to stop and inhale it slowly.

Dean shivers. Castiel presses the Human's head against his chest and wraps his arms around the young man's body once more.

"I'm sorry," Dean croaks, again. He presses his face so firmly against Castiel that the Angel thinks Dean is trying to bury himself alive in Castiel's flesh. "I missed you—I missed kissing you and then you were here—"

"I missed you, too," Castiel reminds, stroking Dean's hair softly.

"I know I'm a mess—I'm trying to be strong—" Dean's voice rakes against his throat.

"You're not a mess. And I know you're trying to be strong," Castiel says gently. Dean presses his face harder against Castiel's body. The Angel swallows, with some difficulty. "I won't leave, if you don't want me to." He says, after a quiet marked only by Dean's sobs.

"You'd stay?" Dean asks, looking up at Castiel. Castiel nods quietly, his fingers still carding through Dean's hair with as much tenderness as he thinks he is capable of. "Stay," Dean pleads, twisting his hands into knots in Castiel's nightshirt. "Please stay."

Castiel nods again and slides Dean back into his bed, before crawling in beside him. Dean breathes in shallow, fast breaths; but Castiel lets his hand stray into Dean's hair again, effectively calming him—albeit a little slowly. And then Dean edges closer to Castiel, pressing his face into the Angel's chest again. Castiel sighs gently.

"I'm sorry for not talking, earlier today, Cas," Dean mumbles against Castiel's body. Castiel hardly needs an apology, the sound of the name Cas on Dean's lips flowers enough affection in the Angel's hear to forgive Dean for any amount of foolish stubbornness. "—I… I was scared."

"Of what?" Castiel frowns.

There is a small silence before Dean answers.

"Being weak," He sighs.

The Angel squints in the darkness.

"What do you mean?" He asks.

"I already feel too much," Dean mumbles. "And it makes me weak."

"Feelings are not weaknesses, Dean," Castiel frowns. "I would know, more than anyone."

Dean nods against Castiel's chest.

"Thank you for staying, Cas."

"I'll never leave you."

Dean's body trembles.

"Promise?"

He lifts his head in the darkness to peer up into Castiel's eyes. In the stripes of moonlight that eek in through the shutters of Dean's windows, Castiel can make out the fresh, bright green of Dean's eyes, and how these are filled with so much perfect, innocent hope.

"I promise," Castiel confirms.

It's an impossible commitment; one that Castiel should know better than to make, but right now, he doesn't care. Dean's fingers wander tentatively at first, into his feathers, and Castiel sighs at the touch. He's always loved Dean's hands against his wings.

He squeezes Dean's body tight against his own, because he doesn't know what else to say. His wing slides over Dean's body, blanketing it, and he thinks he hears Dean hum happily against the Angel's chest when the Human lays his head back down.

He's missed Dean. He's missed this.

He says as much. Dean agrees.

In the next moment, they are both asleep.

When they wake up, Dean is much more himself. The same sadness and weight of responsibility still hang heavy in his eyes, but at least he smiles at Castiel—although somewhat unconvincingly—and presses a kiss onto the Angel's neck whilst muttering another apology for the night before.

Castiel tells him that it's all alright. Dean looks up at him with soft eyes.

Castiel wanders if Dean is used to being forgiven; or if he even considers himself worthy of it.

Bobby informs Dean that he can spend the day with Castiel—he promises to take care of all of Dean's duties of the day—and although Dean seems a little anxious about this, he thanks Sir Robert and accepts the offer.

"What do you want to do, Cas?" Dean asks when they are out of earshot of Bobby and Dean's father, in the Entrance Hall of the castle.

"I don't mind," Castiel replies, shrugging. "We didn't get to go riding together, the last time I was here. I think I'd like to do that again."

"Okay," Dean nods. Something happy twinges behind the Human's eyes. "We can do that."

Castiel manages to get Dean to speak more on the ride. The boy tells Castiel of John's drinking, of how he thinks Sam is growing scared of their father—he says that he's scared they're going to lose the Demon war—that he thinks it was a mistake starting the war in the first place; that he's scared that if they do lose, the Kingdom will be conquered, and he doesn't like to think about what will happen after that. Castiel bites his lip, troubled.

"And you are this anxious all the time?" Castiel asks, looking over to Dean, concerned.

"Today is a pretty good day, actually," Dean laughs bitterly.

"So you think about these things often?"

"Constantly," Dean confirms. "I can't get out of my own mind." He pauses. "I wish I had you here in the castle, always. You're the only one I can talk to—you're the only one who understands me. You're my—my best friend. I don't feel so alone when I'm with you."

"You're never alone, Dean," Castiel says softly. "And you'll always have me."

Dean looks back at Castiel with his jade eyes glazed over. Castiel doesn't know what the smile that Dean is wearing means. It makes his insides turn to dust, in any case.

"I promise," He adds, because he doesn't know what else to say, and knows that Dean certainly doesn't, either.

They stop under a tree with great hanging branches and brilliant light green leaves that tumble down like vines. Dean reveals that he has brought a small lunch for the two of them—and so, while their horses graze quietly at the ground around the trees where they are tied, Dean and the Angel sit and talk still more together, whilst eating the bread and apples, berries and meats that Dean has brought.

Castiel tells Dean more of his experience at war; says how terrified Michael was to see him go and mentions how confused he was by his brother's anxiety—Dean states that Castiel's brother seems to care for him as a parent would care for a child; so perhaps he was simply terrified Castiel would get injured, or indeed worse. Castiel did get injured, but not too severely. And he supposes he should count his blessings that what happened to Dean when he fought in the Demon war, did not happen to him.

Castiel asks how Dean's wounds are and Dean explains that he is still given the oil from Ellen to help with his scars, which does a good enough job. His bones have healed sufficiently well now, and really, all that is left are his nightmares. Mental scars are a little more unknowable than the physical, he supposes.

"When did this happen?" Dean asks, laughing bitterly at Castiel-doesn't-quite-know-what, his tone unimpressed and disillusioned.

"When did what happen?" Castiel asks, tilting his head to the side and squinting at Dean, perplexed.

"Us. All this shit. Me getting so fucked up."

Castiel frowns, still not understanding.

"When did we stop being those two kids who met when they were seventeen? Who shared secret kisses and thought that everything, in the end, would be alright?" Dean laughs.

"Things still can be alright, Dean," Castiel reminds. "And anyway, it's been over two years since then," He continues. "A lot can change in that time."

"Yeah, well, I wish it hadn't."

"What makes you say that?" Castiel frowns, still puzzled by everything Dean is saying.

"Things were simpler back then. I didn't overthink shit as much."

"And what do you overthink, now?"

"Everything."

"Could you be a little more specific?"

"Alright, like, us. I never used to overthink the two of us," Dean explains.

"And you overthink us now?" Castiel asks, tilting his head in mild confusion, squinting at the Human.

"A little, yes," Dean admits.

"How so?"

"I don't know," Dean sighs. "—So, for example, how are the two of us—how are we going to fit together? How will it all work out? And what happens if—or, when—it doesn't?"

"I don't follow…" Castiel frowns, squinting slightly at Dean.

"Cas, you're gonna live for hundreds of years longer than me—way longer than that, actually—and I'm gonna grow old and my body's gonna age and I'm gonna die, just like a normal Human would—because I am a normal Human—while you'll not even be a tenth of the way into your life."

"Oh," Castiel says, dumbly. He hadn't even considered this possibility before. But Dean is right—and it is only now starting to dawn on Castiel; he feels as though he is being dragged underwater and waves are folding over him, because how could he and Dean work—and why has Michael not even thought about this?

"And what about our homes?" Dean continues, shaking his head as though he has thought about this on countless occasions and yet has been unable to answer the question himself. "Where will you live? Where will I live? 'Cause all of this is really happening now, apparently—and you love the mountains, 'cause they're your home, and I don't blame you for that. But then, I love my home—and more specifically, I love Sammy, and I'm not about to leave him any time soon."

Castiel nods, but Dean has riled himself up now, and he continues.

"And am I still gonna be King of this place? Because on the one hand, being let off the hook would be something of a blessing, like, seriously—but on the other, what am I meant to do, if I don't become King? My whole life—that's what I've been told I'll become. What do I do if I don't? Will Sammy take my place? If we move to an Angel Kingdom, will I just be the husband of an Archangel, nothing more? And if you come down here, what will your position be? Will you still be an Archangel? Will you rule over Angels as well as Humans?"

Castiel is about to say that he doesn't know, and apologise that he holds none of the answers to any of Dean's questions, but the Human Prince continues speaking; and Castiel wishes that he wouldn't, because there was a time when Dean had told the Angel that he was glad Castiel was the one Dean was to marry; and now Dean seems all too happy in pointing out each flaw in their guardians' plan of the two of them being wed.

It's deflating all the things that had previously been swelling happily inside of Castiel's chest; and it's like Dean doesn't care that he's pointing out all the ways in which Dean and Castiel's relationship will inevitably fall apart.

And now that the Angel thinks about it, the relationship will inevitably fall apart.

"On top of all that, if I leave Hera—what then? Do I go up, into the mountains, with you? But what of Sammy? I'll barely ever be able to see him—I'll only see him as often as I see you, now, if not less than that—and I don't think I'll be able to deal with that. He's my brother—he's been the best thing; the only thing, in my whole life—the only thing that's kept me waking up in the mornings—and I know I have you too, Cas; and you have me as well, now—but before I'd even met you, I had Sammy, and he was the only thing that mattered. Keeping him safe, being with him, he was all that I cared about."

Dean sighs resignedly, looking down.

"He's one of the only good things in my life," He repeats, "and I can't just leave him. I can't abandon him."

Castiel presses his lips together and nods.

"That is a lot to worry about." He admits.

"I told you, I overthink shit too much." Dean sighs, running his hands over his face wearily.

"Or, perhaps, our guardians have simply not thought through all this, enough," Castiel points out. "Everything you're saying is true, after all, and they're all valid concerns."

"Yes, but how do we fix them?"

Castiel bites his lip.

His gut twists sharply before he answers—because he knows what it is he is about to commit to—and in a way, it scares him how unperturbed he is by the idea; and in another way, something strong and steady and accepting burns in the depths of his heart, knowing that this is the wisest decision of his life… And this same part of him knows that Dean is worth it. That he's more than worth it.

Castiel is giving up everything for Dean, because Dean is everything.

"Angels don't have to live for centuries," He reminds. Dean looks up from where he sits, frowning. And suddenly his eyes widen with shock; some kind of realisation breaches his beautiful, soft features and he shakes his head quickly.

"I couldn't ask you to do that—" He fumbles over his words, sitting up clumsily and staring earnestly into Castiel's eyes.

"You're not asking," The Angel shakes his head. "I'm stating a fact—it's a fact, Dean—and if anything, I'm offering."

"You'd do that?" Dean's expression falls somewhere between worry and something else entirely, and Castiel finds it difficult to pinpoint. "Really?"

"Yes," The Angel nods. All sincerity and earnestness. He feels open, raw, now—as though saying this has revealed something intimate and private in his soul which had previously rested deep inside of him—something naked and vulnerable that states honestly just what Dean means to him.

For a horrible draining moment Castiel feels unsure of whether or not he should have offered this solution to Dean; whether Dean understands its weight and severity truly; or even returns this deep and most private affections—or, indeed, if Dean would do the same for him.

But then again, in another way, it hardly even matters to Castiel. Because he knows what the Human means to him. Which is probably a little too close to everything.

"Cas, you realise what you're saying, right? I mean—"

"Curiously enough, Dean, yes, I do," Castiel frowns, a twinge of frustration lacing his tone. "And I wouldn't have offered it if I didn't know for certain—I'm no fool, Winchester."

"I'm not saying you are… But Cas—"

"Perhaps you should take it as a compliment, Dean," Castiel finds himself biting rather harshly in Dean's direction, frustrated with how slow the Human is being to understand; "that I consider you important enough to me to offer such a thing."

And more realisation dawns on Dean's face.

This is one of the few admittances the two of them have had out loud of how much one of them means to the other—perhaps the biggest of them all; and Castiel cannot tell for the life of him if Dean is about to return the sentiment.

Dean opens and closes his mouth several times—Castiel thinks rather distractedly that the look is something similar to the expressions of the fish he has seen lazing in the shallows of the mountain lakes on summer days—before the Human speaks again.

"I mean that much to you?" He asks, his voice surprisingly quiet it is so saturated with wonder and disbelief. Castiel has to look down.

"You do," He nods. He hears Dean huff out a sigh next to him; though what it is aimed at, he cannot tell.

But then Dean's hand is resting—so light that it almost isn't there—on Castiel's; and he brushes his other hand up the Angel's neck before smoothing his fingers underneath Castiel's jaw, pulling the Angel's gaze back up to his face, which is wearing an expression that makes Castiel desperately, frantically, want to look down again—but at the same time, his mind has become as a body of still, quiet water, and his breath catches in his throat. Castiel cannot tell if it is due to him overthinking, or not thinking at all.

Human eyes are softer than Angels'. Dean's eyes in particular. Dean's eyes are like the soft grasses in the valleys inbetween the mountains, the ones Castiel tumbled and rolled down as a child; like the leaves of the trees surrounding their lakes, the colour of spring and forests and young plants with sunlight dappling through them. They are gentle and warm on Castiel's face now, and they make something difficult to pinpoint flutter happily in the Angel's chest.

Dean is leaning forward again, Castiel is beginning to think that he isn't going to reply—perhaps because he can't—when the Human's lips graze against Castiel's—and this touch means more—it means more than any of the other touches the two of them have shared before. Which, Castiel realises, is really saying something.

Dean's hand comes to stroke up Castiel's neck, before resting at the back of the Angel's hair; his fingers smoothing dreamily at the dark tufts—his other hand rests at Castiel's side, a gentle pressure there that makes Castiel's skin prickle. They continue kissing, continue kissing and Castiel doesn't ever want to stop: this is heaven, this is paradise, this is what God planned as perfect bliss for all her children.

His mind is almost completely clear—its surfaces are calm like smooth waters of deep running streams—only in its very centre is a storm of Dean-Dean-Dean, swirling and attacking itself over and over—it churns into nothing less than a tempest inside Castiel's skull, and Castiel doesn't know what he feels when he pulls apart from Dean, gasping for air; only that Dean is looking at him like Castiel's eyes are made from shards of diamond.

"I have nothing that precious to give in return, Cas," Dean says, his voice cracked and raw. "I can't make that up to you."

"I don't give it with the intention of receiving something in return," Castiel states—and it's almost true; except he will be getting something in return. He'll be getting Dean. And Dean is worth more than a million years on any Earth to Castiel.

"You'll get me," Dean says, quietly, as though he is reading Castiel's thoughts—and he looks up at the Angel, nervously, as if he has made as big a statement as the one Castiel has made, as though he is being bold and presumptuous, which is ridiculous. Castiel almost laughs at it; as if near-immortality could ever be as valuable as a few decades in this world with Castiel's beloved.

"I will," He agrees. His lips curve into a smile, bright as the dawn. "I will get you," He repeats. "And that means more to me than any number of years of life."

Dean's face reddens, while something hazy and overjoyed glasses over his eyes, and he kisses Castiel again—hard this time, as Castiel loses himself in Dean's touch.

The furore in Castiel's mind doesn't leave for the entirety of the celebrations.

The two of them spend another few hours in the forest together; talking, touching, before deciding to make their way back up to the castle, where Dean shows Castiel a book he thinks the Angel might like, reading a passage of it to him. Castiel is barely able to control his joy and Dean's eyes crinkle at their corners when he looks up from the text and back at Castiel.

That evening music is playing at the feast and there is a great deal of dancing. Sam grins and suggests that Dean offer Castiel a dance, but Dean scowls at his brother and curses him away.

"He was only teasing, you know, Dean," Castiel reminds gently. Dean sighs.

"Yeah, but I'm really not in the mood for it, to be honest," He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. "It's like, it's fine when it's just you, you know? When me and you are alone together, I'm fine. But all of this—" Dean gestures to the great hall in front of them. "—It's too much. It's bullshit."

"I don't follow," Castiel frowns, and Dean turns back to him, despondently, eyebrows sloping upwards with innocent hopelessness.

"I just—I wanted it to be real, you know?"

"Real?" Castiel repeats.

"Yeah—and when I'm alone with you, it feels real," He confesses. "But here, in this hall, in front of everyone—it feels like everything has been planned out for us. Like we haven't had any choice in any of it. And then I'm reminded that we haven't really, and that it isn't real—and I hate it."

Castiel is silent for a moment. Dean has looked away, again.

"We can make it real, Dean," He says softly after a pause between the two of them. Dean looks back up at the Angel and Castiel sees something he was starting to believe had gone for good from behind the veil of Dean's shimmering eyes.

Hope.

...

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please comment with any feedback!