She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.
Mr. Darcy – Pride and Prejudice
When Castiel's phone chirped at precisely 7:45pm the very same evening, he was slowly chewing on a cube of carrot and fantasizing about Richard Gere in spandex.
Pretty Woman had been broadcasting on the small twenty-four inches television next to the hearth for the past hour and Castiel was abundantly distracted by yet another soppy romance movie.
Ruby's vanilla and leather scent still lingered in the apartment, and his appetite had been dulled to a garden salad. Collecting the mobile, a certainty settled in his mind on the actuality of her continuous laments on the flower. She kept pestering him to identify the importance of the gesture and Castiel stubbornly declined looking up the meaning of the flower.
But he wasn't prepared for a new message from the Prince himself.
Sliding his thumb across the screen, heart racing and frowning deeply, Castiel braced himself for the inevitable.
Hi, Ocean Eyes. Hope your cheeks aren't still crimson. Did you look up the meaning of the flower I gave you?
Of course, he had.
Obsessively.
From the moment Castiel flung himself warily into the confinements of the apartment that afternoon, he tossed his trench coat onto a chair. Then retrieving his laptop, spent half of an hour immersed in the significance of a lily. And when he finally poked his head above water to enter reality several minutes afterwards, he was still drowning in the meaning.
"I dare you to love me," Castiel played the words over and over in his mind whilst he ordered the salad. Whilst he waited and sipped some more merlot. Why on earth would anyone in their right mind dare an enigma like him to love them?
Ultimately it was decided that only a pompous ass would make such a direct gesture. Of shoving his obviously overrated affections into the eyes of the public, without perhaps meaning anything by it all.
Weightless, Dean's act of 'admiration' had come across as, an hour after the bold gesture occurred in the eyes of the public. And too fairytale like to be anything but premeditated and unworthy. Most definitely a rouse to settle a score with his overly protective father.
But how could he even explain the fluttering of his heart?
Castiel was an emotional mess.
He had shaky hands, a weakened disposition and had practically flung Ruby out the door in the process of unbecoming himself. After she had boldly announced that he was slowly falling into a web of desire that she would not rescue him from. And if he did beg for her assistance, there would be at least two casualties.
Now though, after staring at the text, he sighed, locked his phone and tossed it away into the depths of the chair. Hoping that at some point, his brain could pick sense from nonsense. Because there was no way in the entire universe that he was suddenly developing a sexual attraction towards another man.
Especially since that man had the entirety of a boastful character and acting on whims.
A few hours later, whilst he was swimming around in a field of lilies and surrounded by fluffy kittens of all shades, his mobile started to chirp.
Castiel vaguely remembered the exclusion of any birds in his beautiful dream and fought to wake up to silence the damn thing.
"Hello?" he hoarsely answered without checking the screen. Blame it on his fuzzy mind and the absence of flowers. And kittens.
"Cas?" came a soft male voice that wasn't familiar.
No one had called him that in years. "Who is this?" it couldn't be Edith from college. Their sordid affair was something he never wanted to remember. Ever.
"It's me."
"Me, who?" Castiel demanded rather gruffly in his gravelly tone. "You have five seconds to provide a valid reason for waking me up before I block your goddamn number."
"It's Dean!" came the enlightened reply, this time though, the familiarity of that voice caused ripples between them. "Duke of York? Prince? I hate those titles, by the way."
Castiel was struggling to breathe, finding suddenly that he was choking in a stuffy bedroom. "It's 2am," he crept through the darkened apartment, flipped on a light and sought out the small patio.
"I know, I'm sorry," Dean sounded genuinely apologetic as the other man stumbled out into the night and sucked in air through his lips. "I texted you earlier and when you didn't reply, I thought that hey, the dude must have given me a bogus number." The sound of his laughter was music to Castiel's ears.
He didn't want this.
It was unfair to be woken up so early, by the one person who was slowly beginning to blur his standards around the edges, whose actions had forced him to question a few things about his beliefs.
Like why the hell had he forgotten to switch his ringtone to silent? And why on earth was he standing outside whilst the streets of London were as silent as a grave, wearing a pair of pale blue boxers and not another stitch of clothing on?
"I kind of still have insomnia," Dean continued afterwards as if they had been acquainted for many years. "Anyway, did you find out what the lily means?"
"I did," Castiel sunk into the softness of the chair, feet tucked under. And he savored the kiss of the cool wind on his face. Trying to think of anything else but the actuality of who he was talking to.
"And?"
"And…what?" he asked softly, listening intently to the background noise on the other end of the line. He could hear soft music playing that sounded very instrumental and soothing, possibly Pachelbel or Mozart.
"I guess the first thing you thought about me was that I'm putting on a good show for the public," Dean attempted to explain.
"It's more your forte than mine," Castiel remarked stiffly. He held out his fingers and splayed them.
"Well, I can promise you that was never my intention. Hey, you work for a newspaper that's been covering me and my family's scandals for years now," Dean sounded humored, "have you ever seen me do something like that in front of the camera?"
In fact, he hadn't. Castiel sighed. "Why are you calling me so late…Dean?" using the other man's name, tasting it on his tongue was something so electric, he hated himself for feeling that way. "What do you want?"
"Wow. A man of few words and a short temper. Look," Dean sighed, "I'm really sorry I called you at this hour. I'm just down in the pits right now and you're the first person I thought of to talk to. Good night—"
"Wait," Castiel's tone was softer now. He sighed again and rested his head against the wall, blue eyes distant and unaware of the twinkling stars above. "Wait, I didn't mean to sound so bitter. Given the circumstances. You did manage to yank me out of sleep. I'm slightly irritated."
"Only slightly?" Dean's tone remained soft. He sounded though, as if he was smiling.
"Why are you down in the pits?" Intrigued, Castiel decided that he was sinking in quick sand and really didn't want to pull himself out of the situation.
"Well," Dean sighed, a sound that was rather much reflective of his burdens. "Cas, my life sucks because it's a perfect representation of how more than enough money can't buy happiness."
"You seem rather happy when you're putting on a show for the BBC," Castiel noted, hoping that a helicopter wouldn't fly by just that minute and capture him curled up in his boxers in the soft glow of the moon.
"That's just it. It's a show, really. I keep thinking about my life and what I want. I'm twenty-nine years old. And I have no idea what I want."
"To be fair," Castiel understood how bothered the other man was, "you're still young. At your age, I was…trying to stand on my own two feet. Now eleven years later, I'm still uncertain of what my purpose is. I think it has something to do with discovering the truth about aliens. But I am still a work in progress."
When he heard Dean's soft laughter, Castiel's toes curled from the satisfaction of dulling the other man's woes. He smiled. He…actually smiled and wondered why someone's laughter never sounded so beautiful.
"Aliens, huh."
"There is far more evidence for than against."
"I can't believe you're forty, or almost. You look like you're in your twenties," Dean said with good humor registering in his tone. "Maybe it's because of your rather expressive attire. Not forgetting to mention the wild hair and black frame glasses."
"Perhaps you need a pair yourself," Castiel frowned. "Crow's feet, a few grays and short temper are all afterglows from being middle age."
"I'm sorry, but regardless of those, you're the most handsome man I have ever cast my eyes on."
Try not to say something that would give away the soft blush on your damn face. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut and took steady, slow breath because Dean had just remarked on his looks; labelling him as quite attractive and he couldn't remember any other man apart from his brothers dishing out compliments in that nature.
"I'm afraid you do need to take up a visit to your optician soonest," when he heard Dean's laughter again, his smile stretched from ear to ear. "I refuse to believe that I am such a fierce creature to behold."
"You are though."
When the amusement did die down though, a quietness settled between them.
It wasn't truthfully nerve-wrecking. But it was too pregnant of a pause for Castiel to feel comfortable about it. Until he began to fear that he said something wrong, questioning their conversation and what he unconsciously implied that had stolen Dean's willingness to fuel it.
"Did I lose you?" he asked after a while, feeling his heart sink lower like the sun on a gloomy day.
"No, you didn't," Dean sounded hoarser and down-spirited. "I was just thinking about how unfair life can be. You'll hear by tomorrow that my wedding is being brought forward a week earlier. And if I don't get married this time, my father has threatened me. Yet again."
"Christ," Castiel was stunned. "The wrath of King John."
"Being the middle child may be a curse. Both my brothers are married, and well off. Whilst I seem to be stuck with a life that pretty much resembles a bad joke." Dean's discouragement was reflected in his tone that sank lower as he grew sadder.
Castiel could recall, Dean was never his father's favorite, stemming from an incident when the Prince was younger. An incident that caused a rift in the family and an uncertainty on the future. Even the King and Queen were not on talking terms for over a month because of it. And even when the storm had died down, John still treated his son as if he was broken.
Castiel remembered the details clearly but he didn't want to voice them in fear of dragging out a demon from the Prince's closet that he had probably fought to bury.
When Dean was four, he was described as a quiet child who loved to laugh and chase butterflies in the palace grounds. Until one day, his father walked in on him dusting his eyelids with Mary's gold eyeshadow, a string of her finest pearls around his neck.
The Prince, as an insider had revealed, was dragged out of the room by the back of his shirt. He was tossed into the King's private chambers and flogged, called all kinds of names suggestive of being gay. And when the Queen returned from her trip to Scotland, she was greeted by a child who was so frightened and disturbed, that he had to be home schooled for a very long time.
Dean couldn't go outside to chase butterflies anymore. And he was scarred way into his teen years, choosing to never accompany his father on any trips or events with the two of them in each other's company alone.
He was constantly ridiculed in school, until he made a decision to work tirelessly on physically sculpting himself into a young man that didn't resemble that thin, weak model of his former years. And since then, he had been overcompensating with his testosterone amplified interests in obsessively chasing cars, and wild nights.
What Dean never seemed to make convincing though was his inability to appear remotely interested in another woman. But there had been one. In his teen years. Lisa. Then after she suddenly returned to Ireland without an explanation for the two of them splitting up, Dean resorted to a life in the spotlight.
"Your life isn't a joke," Castiel said reassuringly, feeling the injustice in the Prince's simple statement. "It's rather much important and you're worth, Dean."
"Thanks, Cas. I just want a normal life, without the title and expectations and the weight of a damn crown on my head," Dean said sadly. "I want to go out and have a good time and not have a thousand cameras chasing me. Or blogs posting up what I had for breakfast or which gym I'm attending. What the hell I'm wearing…I don't want my life to be publicized every bloody day."
Castiel was silent for a moment, really becoming worked up from the conversation they were having. The depth. The emotions rippling through the phone.
"Dean, why are you telling me these things?" he asked boldly, wondering why his chest felt like many live wires were writhing around inside.
"Isn't it obvious?" the Prince said softly as the instrumental music in the background continued. "I like you. Maybe too much."
"We are from two different worlds," Castiel said, hating that he was experiencing some regret and refused to understand why. "We have nothing in common."
"I think we do, Cas. Aren't we both outcasts in our family?" Dean suddenly said.
The air itself, as cold as was be, suddenly took on a sharper chill. And Castiel felt his fingertips turn into icicles and he was so stunned. He shouldn't have been though.
After all, it was only expected that Dean would conduct research on his life. The magnitude of that research though was what irked him. He had a few skeletons in his closet that a command from the royal family would dig up easily. And when he thought of Dean actually initiating a background search on him, Castiel felt violated.
He never liked to be on the receiving end of prodding eyes. It's why he had taken up the role of a reporter. To tell a story rather than having the camera turned on him.
"You had no right," Castiel finally managed to say, coldness seeping into his tone. "No right to dig into my personal life to find whatever the hell you wanted to. It is disrespectful to say the least."
Dean actually laughed in all good humor. "Come on, stop being so uptight about it."
"Uptight?" Castiel seethed. "Whilst you place yourself on a pedestal to be sketched by the entire world because of your actions, I don't live like that. There is a reason why I am secluded and introverted. It is because I do not like when I'm investigated."
"Okay, so you feel that it's fair for reporters to do what they do to me?" Dean sounded as worked up on the moment too.
"Forgive me for being blunt, but it comes with being who you are. And reporters have nothing but good things to say about you. You're the one who fuels those stories with your actions."
"So, you think that it's fair."
"What's fair, is you trying to get to know me without investigating me," Castiel was angry but tried to simmer his feelings. "Here is the opportunity for you to make an effort lawfully instead of violating my privacy."
"What is it with you reporters?" Dean clearly was upset too. "You're always easy once you can get the contents of the story you're chasing. Isn't that what this is? Don't you want my story? I'm willing to give it to you."
He couldn't believe the magnitude of the injustice delivered in their conversation all of a sudden. What Dean was obviously implying was far too hurtful than anything else.
Castiel was too stunned to even reply, and he felt so cold, so dead inside. Sitting there, riding on glorious sunshine because he thought that Dean's interest in him was genuine and authentic. But to listen to a young man he had begun to become interested in, even if it was beside the point of admitting any attraction, label him as easy.
Was it so convincing to suggest that he would do anything like Ruby to get the facts for a juicy story?
Then it struck him that maybe Dean had made the association with his female feisty friend who had a reputation of sleeping around and openly flirting to suck information out of people in high ranking positions. No pun intended.
"You know what," Castiel hated that his voice was wavering from being deeply affected by undeserving emotions. "You couldn't be more wrong about me being the easy kind. But I'm not going to waste my time proving anything to you."
"Cas—" Dean sounded so softer now, almost apologetic. "That's not what I meant."
"What the hell did you mean then?"
"I meant that I trust you and it's easy for me to tell you things!"
"You don't even know me!" Castiel's raised voice startled him. "How dare you even try to judge my character?"
Dean's long sigh suggested a frustration that resulted from the turn of their conversation. "You could never be more wrong about me, Cas. If you only knew the real me, then you'd realize that I'm not the person you think I am."
"You're toying with me. I get it now. How could I be so stupid?" Castiel laughed bitterly and felt his heart crack in many places. "You're only doing this, trying to wind me up, to help you fuel your hatred towards your family. Your father."
"No," Dean said quickly as his voice cracked, "Cas, I swear, I'm not. I'd never do that to someone like you."
"Maybe you're just as bad as they say you are."
"Maybe it's so stupid because," Dean said softly, his voice wavering now, "I have these feelings for you and it's making me say all the wrong things because I've never felt like this about anyone before and I—"
Castiel ended the call, and stared at his phone.
His hands were shaking so badly, that the phone slipped from his grasp and fell onto the tiled floor but it didn't shatter.
Castiel had no idea he was fighting to keep the tears at bay, until his view of London's skyline was blurred. Tears fueled by anger. By being misunderstood and walked all over by a young man who had been brought up as a spoiled brat. A man who was still a child in every sense of the word and who had no other excuse for his actions apart from being immature.
Why would Dean purposely try to pursue him without any kind of justifiable bond between them? Could it really and truly be that he was the punching bag and a source of mockery? Their differences in upbringing was identified as inexcusable.
But there was something else underlying Castiel's emotions. When he did figure it out, it was when his hand was desperately reaching for the bottle of merlot at 4 in the morning. And he barely registered his actions mirroring the woes of a heartbreak when Hanna had left him years ago.
When he was cornered by some kind of tsunami of feelings, Castiel tried to dull his pain with alcohol. So naturally, as he sunk onto the soft chair and held the fluke of wine between his fingers, he thought about what he was passing through. What the hell he was making himself suffer from.
It wasn't just fascination from coming into contact with someone as dashing as Dean, a Prince from the Royal family.
No. It was so much more than a reporter who had written about the same man from the other side of the world. Someone who had perhaps always been intrigued by his scandals and antics in public.
This time, he had come too close to the flame. Drawing near like a moth and becoming so starstruck like a fangirl.
He had fallen into the trap way before that night.
Maybe when they first encountered each other in the washroom and exchanged words. And because he had been captured by the web and pulled into it, Castiel hadn't realized the magnitude of how fucked he was until Dean's last words kept replaying over and over in his mind. Until every sip of wine he took was punctuated by the presence of his aching heart.
Of knowing maybe, that after all these years, someone collided with him and suddenly favored him. Whether honestly, he still questioned that. But Dean's tone from his last words uttered sounded so genuinely revealing and deeply affected.
Castiel couldn't sleep that night and when he did doze off at 6am, he resorted to a blackness that was occasionally streaked with Dean's voice calling out to him in the inky pit of nothing.
xoxo
"Just like that?"
Meg smirked at Castiel over her cup of cappuccino and purposely ignored Ruby's blatant glare. "Just like that. Two invitations."
"However did you manage?" Castiel was intrigued by her catlike eyes. The way she lived on being coy. "I can only assume that it wasn't easy."
"Of course, it isn't easy. Duh," Ruby rolled her eyes and felt pure sassiness building up. "This is like the most popular Ball of the ages. And you just managed to get passes. Two."
"Well, let's just say, I don't need to sleep my way into the palace," Meg winked at the other woman. "I can use my words. Like weapons. To get what I want. How are things with you and Sam?"
"Bitch," Ruby muttered under her breath, "I'll end you."
Smiling into his cup of coffee, Castiel usually detested adversarial encounters. But the two women in his desired company were always at each other's throats. And it was rather amusing to witness Meg's composure and her ability to smile withstanding Ruby's potent glares and words.
The weather, on a Friday, was rather rainy. The streets of London were so wet, and slicked from morning of showers, that pedestrians were wearing all colors of Wellington boots. Their umbrellas swirled outside of the window on Ruby's left like rainbows. And every so often, a clap of thunder punctuated their conversation.
"Anyway, Clarence," Meg kept on smiling. "Be ready at six. I'll swing by to get you."
"Do you drive?" he was fascinated by her dominance.
"A pink Miata. It's small and cozy. Just in case you start feeling sentimental," after Meg winked at him, Ruby rose up, phone pressed to her right ear and announced that she had to make a dash.
Without his sidekick, he felt exposed in Meg's scrutiny.
She never seemed to find his face less interesting as the minutes went by. And as he wrapped up the light midday meal and dabbed at his chin with a square of tissue, his newfound friend sighed.
"What?"
Meg shrugged. "The Prince and the Reporter. It's quite a name."
"Shut up," he scowled at the street outside and the buses passing by. "You know, I think he's an assbutt. That's what he is. A high-grade scoundrel. Are you going to stare at your cappuccino all day? Or will you at some point drink it?"
Meg considered her cup and laughed. "My mind is elsewhere. I'm trying to figure out how you do it."
"Do what exactly?"
"Women have tried. So hard to get into Dean's pants. But all it took is one look from you. And he's smitten. Do you know what's the talk of the town?"
"Enlighten me," Castiel stirred his coffee. He couldn't forget their conversation over the phone. No matter what he had done to override the feelings that had overwhelmed him two nights ago. He still kept going back to reaching for the wine and deliberately trying to drown his raw, unnerving attraction.
"They say that it's love at first sight."
"I don't believe in that kind of thing." He was furious. Angry that he could have built so many walls up and survived in that sturdy mind palace until a stupid pair of green eyes cracked the foundation. "I don't believe in whimsical things like that."
"Why?"
"It's nonsense," Castiel seemed passionate all of a sudden. "It is…a ridiculous notion of having two people meet and fall in love. And isn't love at first sight supposed to be a two-way thing?"
"You tell me," she kept staring at him, trying to pry the truth out of his mind. "Do you feel anything like dizziness? Little butterflies inside your chest. Your heart sinking low like the sun and then your feelings rising like the moon. High and radiant."
"Bullshit," Castiel shook his head diverted his eyes, knowing truthfully that her words had substance.
"You know what I think?"
"Utter nonsense."
"I think you're in denial," Meg said barely smiling. "I can see it all over your face. Do you know how long it took me before I realized I'd rather romance a woman? Thirty-five years."
Castiel was staring at her. "Are you telling me that you're…"
"Oh, go on," she laughed softly, leaning back. "Say it. But I don't like labels. I met her five years ago. On a train. We were both running away from our own kind of hell. From the moment our eyes met, I fell in love with her. And ever since, she's been my definition of a place between heaven and hell."
He was sympathetic, learning from a survivor of the tragedy entailing love at first sight. "Still am unclear of the point you're trying to make."
"Maybe Dean is your eyeopener, you dimwit. Don't sit there looking cute and deny it. You have those butterflies. They're multiplying. It might not make sense. But it happens. And just like that. You're falling in love with someone you never thought you would."
"I am not falling in love with…the Duke of York," Castiel made an attempt to punctuate his statement with a nervous laugh. Reaching for the cup of juice; a mixture of cherry and pine, he felt constipated.
"Your shifty eyes and blushing cheeks say otherwise," Meg touched his curled fingers on the table. "Tonight, your butterflies will turn into Monarchs."
"Oh shut up, will you?" he scowled at her grin.
xoxoxo
For half an hour, Castiel pawed through his luggage, trying to find something close enough to a formal attire.
He had brought along a black pinstripe suit to London. But the problem was what color shirt to wear inside.
White possibly. Although he looked more like an FBI agent rather than a dashing reporter. Royal blue on the other hand did the trick, bringing out the beauty in his eyes and the pun attached to the event. And he was a man who savored puns.
"I've never seen you in a suit," Ruby waltzed in at half past five, laptop tucked under her right arm. She eyed her friend from the disheveled hair all the way down to the evident bulge in his black tailored pants. "You've got to be at least seven inches tops."
Castiel collected his small black bowtie and fastened it. "My anatomy is not up for discussion."
"Yeah, but I'm a good judge of a man's cock even without seeing it out of his pants. And you my friend," she plopped onto the couch smiling, "you're packing. Then again, it's the nerdy ones that always have something yummy to hide. A wild rodeo side, a Christian Grey. Are you a Christian Grey?"
"I'm more of a…Mister Darcy." He checked himself in the oval shaped mirror and was thoroughly satisfied.
"I've never seen the movie but I remember someone saying that he's dark and mysterious," she recalled vaguely. "Yet pompous and conceited. It's all about the eyes."
"What about the eyes?" he turned to find her sprawled out on the chair, balancing the pink laptop on a toned and exposed midsection. She was fit as a fiddle and she contained the kind of fire he found interesting but not too tempting.
"I've come across many people with blue eyes. But yours are just so electric. It's like pools of blue water with lightening inside them. Like you have goddamn eels swimming around in there."
"Never pegged you as a poet," he smiled. "Good try."
"You forgot I actually am a reporter, just like you? By the way, how is your piece coming so far? Or are you too preoccupied by the subject to separate yourself?"
"You know what," Castiel collected his phone and keys from the mantle polished to a shine. "I'm just about done with everyone believing that I'm head over heels in love with someone I hardly even know."
"Oh, come on," she sat up and stared, "don't give me that bull. You've been writing about him and his family for years now. You know things about him that I bet I don't even know."
In fact, he did. Like the scars from Dean's childhood. But he wasn't prepared to admit defeat in Ruby's presence. She never should be allowed to have the upper hand. It was what fueled her to lunge at her prey and devour it. And so Castiel left her in the confinements of the very Austen themed apartment, comfortably editing photos and chewing on a burger she had dragged in.
By the time he and Meg pulled up, the front of Westfordshire Palace was busy from a variety of guests and sparkling spotlights. The stony khaki walls rose up to eight stories containing large glass windows with lights glowering behind red curtains.
"You've never been in, have you?" Meg asked after she comfortably parked the Miata and they were on their way to the front door crowded with guests.
Castiel was at a loss for words from the beauty, the splendor of finally entering a historical gem. "Only in my dreams and perhaps videos. 600 rooms as I can recall."
"I can't even live in a place this big. It's crazy," Meg took his arm and they joined the line of people all dressed in their best formal wear.
His companion for the evening had chosen a lilac gown with full long sleeves. Her dark hair was swept up into a messy bun and she had actually dabbed a bit of pink lipstick on for the occasion.
As they handed over their invitations and climbed the red carpeted grand staircase edged in white, an overwhelming feeling captivated Castiel from the grandeur.
Not a thing was out of place; every ornament and picture frame was polished to a shine and fixed in the most precise spot. And what a fleeting moment it was to witness so much history in a gallery that many guests had stopped to study.
The entire royal line dating back to over 500 years was all captured in photos. Ranging from the Winchesters to Queen Mary's family. But the one photo that pulled Castiel like a moth to a flame was of the three brothers: Adam, Dean and Sam.
Apparently, it was the only photo that captured the likeness of how amusing the subjects were as compared to their ancestors. Because all three of them were laughing whilst Sam reached over to tickle Adam's left ear.
Dean though, took Castiel's breath away with those remarkable sparkling green eyes and the entirety of how handsome he was.
It was like coming face to face with the likeness of a young man who could only be dreamed of from the many novels he read about Jane Austen's dashing male characters. And so far, Dean was proving to be as rebellious, lively and playful in his disposition just like Elizabeth Bennet.
Sam was more of a Mister Bingley, rather soft and comforting and loyal to his brother as Bingley was loyal to Darcy. And Adam was more out of sorts than anything else. Perhaps he was a lot like Captain Wentworth; gallant, independence and bravery from his time spent in the military. He seldom smiled though and when he did, it was a forced, comical expression.
"Like what you see?" Meg teased with a soft, playful nudge on his shoulder. "I have to admit. I was always a Sam girl. I hate Adam," she whispered the last bit into his right ear. "He's so sour."
Leading from the gallery into the ballroom were smartly dressed waiters offering up bubbly champagne. Castiel took a fluke, although he preferred wine. And Meg helped herself to two glasses, downing them in quick succession.
The ballroom was undoubtedly promising of everything he had ever imagined it to be.
The dull peach tones of the room along with the soft tunes of the live band contributed to the ambience. And what a grand ballroom it was with large concrete columns on the northern side, golden sculptures of vines racing up the walls. And a white marble floor without a scratch but polished to a shine.
Castiel was speechless. Then immediately he spotted Queen Mary amongst the guests, dressed in a very beautiful gown the color of blood with the prettiest green eyes and a golden crown resting on top of her shoulder length blonde hair.
"I like her because she prefers hugs over handshakes," Meg told Castiel, the pair of them sticking to each other's side comfortably. "Usually it's a curtsey or a handshake. But Mary is more affectionate that way. Adam takes after his father. They look down their noses at anyone."
"Is that the King in the corner over there?" Castiel jerked his chin and his companion followed his eyes. "Good God, he does seem like a rather uptight asshole in person."
"He never wanted to be King. His older brother chose to marry a commoner—"
"Jack. I can recall," Castiel interrupted with a nod. "I think I know their history like the back of my hand. Jack was forced to move to France, giving up the throne."
"And John was terribly upset that he had to pull his wife into this kind of life. This champagne tastes like bubblegum. Don't you think?" She smiled at him.
Very soon, the band struck up and a few giddy young women twirled around the large columns with wide eyed men in tow.
It seemed as if there were close to 5000 guests traversing the room and many others coming in. And he wondered how long the tradition to upkeep the hosting of balls would survive as the world changed. Because the fashions were different. But everything else remained the same.
"Dean has eyes on you," Meg suddenly whispered into Castiel's right ear. "And he is staring. Can he be more obvious?"
"Where?" his voice came out rather soft as his heartrate quickened.
"Over there. By the band. On the right with his chums. Oh look," Meg sighed. "He's wearing a black tux with royal blue just like you. How sweet. It's like fate."
"Can you stop it?" Castiel hissed, standing up as stiff as a poker and refusing to cast his eyes in the direction of the Prince.
"Can you just admit that he turns your knees jelly? I'm clinging to your arm. I can feel how tense you've become. He is doing something to you."
"He's doing nothing to me."
Meg sighed. "Alright, Clarence. Be like that."
After the ball was officially opened by a short speech from her Majesty, the Queen, what followed was a dance by the brothers and their significant others.
Sam led a glowing Eileen, Adam and Carlie followed; a ravenous redhead from Scotland. And then Dean stiffly joined his brothers with Annalise in tow.
After the applause died down, the three of them circled around the floor to the soft, beautiful tunes of Pachelbel - Canon In D Major.
It was the kind of moment that awakened something in Castiel he never was privy to in his forty years on earth.
To listen to the live rendition of Pachelbel by a band that was so skilled, and to witness the perfection of the Princes' dancing. Hands down though, Sam was by far the best of the three, leading Eileen who was light on her feet and in tune with her husband. And Dean…
He danced so beautifully, Castiel's heart sighed inside his chest from the music and how the violins seemed to make him drown. The likes of a young man, someone was so glorious and captured his attention through every second. Through every breath he took. By the next minute, Castiel was thoroughly jealous of Annalise because she was evidently skilled herself.
She kept laughing at Dean sweeping her across the floor and for a moment, just for a moment, Castiel felt like his heart was about to explode. Whether from the pangs of love, or from the couple's happy countenance; he was certain of one thing. He wanted to know what an intense love felt like, that could make someone's eyes sparkle and create an undeniable feeling of electric passion.
It was frightening to admit that no matter how hard he tried to swallow down his growing interest. And perhaps the depth of his attraction towards Dean, every single opportunity that they met or talked to each other, he was falling ridiculously in love with him. A feeling that was so new to Castiel, that he wasn't sure what all of it meant because he had never felt this way about his ex-wife.
Hanna never weakened his disposition like the way Dean succeeded in doing when he sought out Castiel in the crowd and held their gaze.
Around every turn of the room, Dean never looked away. Not once. Although Annalise was in his arms and the two of them appeared like the perfect fairytale couple, the Prince glued his attention to the one man who was standing there in awe and so much passed between them.
A bit of anger. A flash of disappointment in their last conversation. A sense of being rather saddened by their circumstances. Coming from two different worlds. And then…Meg caught on and she was stunned to witness the magnitude of love. The depth of their gaze and the way Castiel melted beside her.
The way he softened and his blue eyes blinked slowly, because he was mesmerized. Hooked on the moment like a desirous dream.
Meg was certain, as she had always been, of her suspicions that her new friend, her fascinating American friend who was obsessed with Jane Austen, had finally found his soul mate. And he was so arrogant and stubborn, he wouldn't admit that he was falling in love with another man.
A man who was ultimately the world's favorite Prince, was looking at her Clarence like he was the only person in the room that mattered. And not only did Meg notice, but Queen Mary did, and she couldn't believe what she was witnessing.
Her son, her favorite, was delivering all his attention not to his future wife, but to someone else. Someone he seemed so captivated by, she craned her neck only to discover that it was the reporter from America. The one her son had publicly complimented on his 'Ocean Eyes'.
"Well, enough of us dancing," Sam addressed the crowd after the piece came to an end. He clapped his hands along with the others. "Why don't you all have a go at the dance floor. Have as much champagne as you want. There's plenty of food. Here's to the Summer of 2020!" Loud applause followed.
And then Vivaldi's Allegro brought out many couples with smiles on their faces.
Just as Meg was tugging Castiel towards the table covered in tasty treats, Queen Mary was trying to trail after her son through the crowd.
He had easily released Annalise into the arms of her friends and was somehow on the search for someone, whom she could have only ascertained was the very same person he had been in drawn to.
"Just a minute, you," she took his arm, a wide smile on her face. "Come with me."
When they were away from the crowd and just near a window with heavy red curtains, she stopped. Then coming face to face with her son who was obviously flustered and worried, she took his shoulders into her grasp.
"Dean, is there something you want to tell me?" Mary resorted to fixing her son's black jacket with a smile.
Studying her face, he pretended to be clueless. "Oh, I've just remembered. Did you hear that uncle Neil is now dating a woman half his age? It's marvelous how he seems to keep going although –"
"The reporter," Mary said softly, searching his eyes. "The one you made comments about in front of the camera. The one you were just gazing at throughout your dance with Annalise."
"It's nothing," Dean's entire disposition changed and he shook his head then looked away. "At least nothing for you to worry about. Not really."
"Don't be coy with me."
"I'm not," Dean sighed.
"Sweetheart, did something happen between you two?" She captured his face between her hands and forced their eyes to meet. Trying to search for those answers inside a mind that was always in turmoil from many years of battling against itself.
"Mom, it's nothing."
"You two were just looking at each other the same way your father and I looked at each other at our first Ball. And you're telling me that it's nothing? Dean," she took his hands into her gloved ones, "there's nothing wrong with you being different. I've made it my mission to teach you that since you were a toddler."
"I know that," he squeezed her hands and smiled, "and I cannot thank you enough. But nothing can happen to me that would come from my happiness. Not with a father like mine."
"Do you…want something to happen?" Mary's heart was being weighed down by her husband's disapproval of their son.
"Even if I did," Dean admitted softly whilst the cool breeze came in through the window, "because of who I am, I don't think that it will."
"What do you mean because of who you are? Who you are as a Prince does not define you, Dean. You have proven that to the world. You're loved because of that."
"Mom, it's not going to happen because he doesn't want it to happen."
"Your father or the reporter?"
"Well, both…" Dean inclined his head and agreed rather much with a disappointed frown.
"You forget that I am also Queen and I hold an equal amount of power as your father," Mary reminded him in a certain tone. "If there is anything that you want, and your heart desires it, I will always keep fighting for you. I've always told you, Dean, that your beliefs are justified by how pure your heart is. There is no shame in wanting to fall in love with someone before you marry them."
"Then why are you in agreement with dad about forcing me to marry Annalise?" Dean asked in a hushed tone, a question that was burning inside his head for weeks.
"Because up to this point, we thought you would never find someone special enough to marry out of love. So, we kept trying to match you. It's what Monarchs do. Although I was always against the idea, you're already aware of how terrible a job your brother is doing with this whole nasty business about sleeping with a Duke's wife. And we are trying to prep you because there are discussions that you will most likely be the next King of England."
When she said it, and he finally heard it, the entirety of the truth stunned Dean because he hadn't given it much thought up to that point.
Several times over the course of the year, Sam had mentioned to him what Parliament was discussing about the future. Sam had even encouraged Dean to pay a little more attention to most things he took for granted growing up but he had lapsed.
Until now, listening to his mother literally tell him that he needed to get his life together, to make the right decisions, to focus on prepping himself to be King. It was too much to process.
"Adam will pull up his socks," he laughed, lacking honest humor in the matter.
"That is a discussion I will need to have with you sooner than later," Mary smiled afterwards. "Now this man. Are you in love with him?"
Dean's heart ached from the question because it was unfair to even think about the hurtful truth. "It doesn't matter, does it?"
"Sweetheart," she squeezed his hands between her soft ones, imploring the depth of her words to come, "it matters when your eyes sparkle when you look at him. I want that sparkle to always be there."
Dean hesitated. He glanced down at their entwined fingers. "It's completely crazy. But I've never felt this way about anyone. I'm falling in love with someone I met less than a week ago."
"It happens. I fell in love with your father from the first moment we met. I think I've tried to tell you the story a thousand times but you've always turned me down because you never liked chick flick moments." Both of them laughed. "But when I first met him, he came here with many other top-ranking men from the military. And I think it was at the punch bowl where we first fell in love. He complimented my eyes and I told him that I hated the stuffy uniforms they wore. And afterwards, I chased him whilst parliament forced him to stay away from me. Along with his pride and him denying his feelings…" Mary savored the memories. "I get the feeling that you and I are more alike than you think we are."
Dean's downcast eyes was a sufficient answer because she wasn't doing him any favors.
"Listen to me," Mary said softly, lifting his chin. "I'm not going to ask you if he loves you again because I think to more than fifty people in the room and a large amount of England, by now we're all convinced that there's something happening between the two of you. But Dean, if he doesn't want to entertain your feelings, and he shuns you, then you need to step back. I don't want you chasing after a man, risking everything you have already, to have your heart broken. You've always deserved to live the best fairytale when it comes to love." She patted his face and smiled.
"God, you're going to make me cry," Dean sniffed, chuckled a bit and dabbed at his eyes.
"I'm always going to tell you the truth as it is," she hugged him, "because I'm your mother. Now go and have fun, you handsome devil."
For a long time though, the excitement of the ball and dancing and mingling separated the two men.
A Prince who kept hoping that he would brush shoulders with a reporter who was obviously going out of his way to avoid that kind of encounter. Or maybe, it wasn't fate.
Maybe whilst Castiel was introduced to Meg's friends and familiarized himself with the likes of members of high society, he was trying as hard as he could to swallow his feelings, to shake hands and talk about politics.
How his impression of England was as a tourist.
Would he like to have dinner with the Countess of Port Mount in December?
Would he like to tour a castle in Scotland soon?
Meg was a wonderful conversationalist. Everyone seemed to like her. And then when people started to acquaint him with the likes of the man in the newspaper, Castiel didn't flinch. He had long now gotten past that bit of publicity that was uncalled for. And it wasn't going to force him to live out his days in London as a figure behind a pair of awfully large sunglasses.
Instead, he tackled the occasion with as much vigor, considering how introverted he was. And by the time an hour had gone by, Castiel wished that he was back in his apartment, ready to recharge through reading and wine.
Meg was taking a turn around the room with him by her side after voicing his frustrations on meeting anyone else. The two of them stood by a column whilst she devoured her fifth éclair and he, a truffle.
"Give it two weeks. Tops," she said gleefully. "My girlfriend will be bringing in a new couch. Aquamarine this time. She knows that I love her. I'm willing to do anything. Except aquamarine."
"Cheers to that," Castiel touched their glasses together with a nod. "By the way, where will you be publishing your article?"
"On him?" Meg jerked her chin at the oldest Winchester standing by his father and sharing a laugh. "Hopefully TMZ. I'm going to send it to People. I think they might bite. Everyone knows, Clarence. No one is bold enough to write about it."
"But you are. I like that about you," he admitted with a wink.
"Oh, stop flirting. You're not my type. And I'm not yours. We both know that."
It was enough to shut him up because he didn't want to argue with her about a topic that would lead to a discussion he didn't want to entertain. Not when it would more than likely trail towards someone he was trying hard to forget.
Spectacular wasn't a word sufficient enough to describe the Ball though. With the finest pieces of cutlery and wares. The beauty in the intricate artwork on the walls and columns. The expertise of the band and the many elegant fashions of attires that graced the space. All of it was indeed plucked out of a book.
He had words to describe it all. But what Castiel didn't have was the composure to hang onto the setting he was captured in, enough to distract him from what had happened earlier. And no matter how hard he tried to smile and appear certain of his intentions to enjoy the evening, he kept searching the crowd for that one person.
But after their gazing match an hour ago, he had set eyes on Dean once afterwards. He was in the good company of his brother Sam. The two of them were laughing and entertaining two of their cousins who wore the funniest designs of hats at every occasion. Then afterwards as he was led around the room by Meg, Castiel had lost the likes of the Prince.
"Well, I think that he is handsome," Sam's voice suddenly drifted to them in close proximity. His loud laughter followed.
Searching for the Prince, Castiel couldn't locate him until Meg pinpointed the group of royals just a few feet away.
The King looked unfazed by the whole conversation, standing next to his wife who was always smiling like her two youngest sons.
"Can we not do this?" Dean tried to whisper to his brother, taking his arm for emphasis. "You're obviously drunk already."
"You've got to admit that this is the perfect setting for anyone to fall in love," Sam kept going gaily, sipping more champagne. "Look at them, finding each other. Dancing with someone who will most likely be in their beds tonight."
"In the wise words of Elizabeth Bennet," Dean held onto his glass of whiskey and shook his head, "humorless poppycocks. The lot of them."
"Ah, but that's what you think because there's only one person who's got you in his grasp with his Ocean Eyes." Sam danced his head closer to his brother mockingly.
"Who is this person?" King John suddenly entered the conversation frowning. "I keep hearing that phrase in the same sentence as you," his eyes rested on Dean.
"The American reporter who Dean thinks is very handsome," Sam wouldn't stop as his tongue got looser.
By then, Meg and Castiel were leaning into every word. Both of them were holding their breaths.
"Isn't he?" Sam nudged his brother. "You've got to admit it. He's the most handsome man in the room apart from you and me. And that says a lot."
With the watchful eyes of his father on him though, Dean stiffened. Because if was one thing King John could communicate effortlessly through his eyes was displeasure in a topic. Distaste too. Disagreement. And disappointment.
"He's handsome, I'll admit," Dean said without smiling. "But not handsome enough to tempt me." His brother's smile faded suddenly. "I've just been joking around. None of it means anything. Nothing important anyway. He's just an egotistical American. You should go over by Eileen's side. I think she wants you to get her something to drink."
But when he caught Sam staring at something just over his right shoulder, Dean followed his brother's line of sight, only to discover the glaring pair of blue eyes that belonged to the man he absolutely loved more than anything in the world. And in the moment, he hated that he had to say all those awful things to sway his father's mind away from the truth.
From the actuality of his least favorite son, falling in love with a man whilst he was betrothed to a Princess to be married.