Disclaimer: Unfortunately, my little fangirl heart does not own Supernatural, Anastasia, or its respective characters. I am making absolutely no money out of this and, if I were, I can guarantee you I would feel a lot less guilty about posting this and ignoring my exam revision.

Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester take the first step in their plan to finding Prince James and finally putting their names in the history books. Meanwhile, Castiel says goodbye to the orphanage for the last time.

AN: Well, here's the first chapter. It's not particularly long because not much happens in the first few scenes of Anastasia, but once things start picking up the length should increase. So, stay tuned! I don't pretend to know anything about Russia after the Revolution, so if I take some liberties then please be kind. And no, our main characters haven't met just yet. That should be about... chapter three, maybe? So (again), stay tuned! Drop me a review if you can, I'd be very grateful. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter, I really appreciate it! This one's for you! I hope to get the next chapter out by the end of the week, so wish me luck. I hope you enjoy, and without further ado, here's chapter one. Thanks again to the wonderful SameDestination who beta'd this chapter!

Chapter One – There's a Rumour in St. Petersburg.

"Have you heard there's a rumour in St. Petersburg?
Have you heard what they're saying on the street?"

"Thank you, Miss Jo, Miss Ellen. It's been a pleasure doing business."

Ellen Harvelle, a short and stocky woman with a thick accent and a warm disposition, raised an eyebrow at the tall, young man crowding her stage. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. You owe me, boy."

With a firm handshake and a cheerful grin, Sam Winchester left the theatre in high spirits. He had had to call in a favour or two, but renting out a theatre for the night was crucial to their plans.

Thankfully, Ellen was an old friend and it hadn't taken much persuasion for them to reach a deal on the matter. Ellen and her daughter, Joanna Beth, had inherited the theatre after Ellen's husband passed away almost ten years ago. She made a living out of renting the stage to whoever required it, whether it be musical productions or (in Sam's case) illegal auditions.

Of course, Sam's pocket was a lot lighter leaving the theatre than it was when he woke that morning, but that was to be expected and he didn't blame Ellen for getting every kopek she could out of him. Thanks to the Revolution everything had a price, even between friends.

Naturally, the only thing that was free was gossip - and how plentiful that gossip seemed to be.

The whispers and mutterings hit Sam as soon as he closed the theatre door behind him, the people on the streets swarming around in small groups with their heads bent close together.

A larger group was forming across the street from where Sam was stood and the young man felt a smile tug at his lips as he saw Ash Lindberg at the centre, newspaper in hand. Ash was a spirited young man in his mid twenties, known throughout the town for his strange hairstyles and extensive knowledge on anything and everything. He managed to scrape by through the selling of a daily newspaper, but was more often than not found sleeping at the back of the Harvelles' theatre.

Sam stepped forward towards the growing crowd, swiping an apple from a nearby vendor who was too immersed in the gossip to pay attention to his stall.

"That's right, folks," Ash announced, making sure to keep his voice at a reasonable level. "On the fateful night, ten years ago, the Tsar, Balthazar Novak, and his family did not survive the vicious murders bestowed upon them. But it has come to my attention that his son, the one Prince James, may still be alive and wandering the streets among you fine people.

"But don't take my word for it, ladies and gentlemen!" He brandished the newspaper in his hand, holding it forward for the crowd to see the image of Prince James on the cover. "Just five kopeks and you can find out for yourself just how far the Dowager Emperor is willing to go to see his grandson again. Five kopeks, my friends, just five..."

Ash trailed off as a guard astride his horse wandered close to the growing group, eyeing him carefully. He swallowed visibly before smiling brightly once more. "On second thought..."

The crowd dispersed quickly after that and, smiling slyly, Sam followed their example.

He strolled down the cobbled street with a spring in his step, coming to a stop outside of a chipped wooden door. He knocked three times in quick succession and the door was opened immediately.

"Hi, Chuck."

"Hiya, Sam."

The man who owned the store, Chuck Shurley, was a short and nervous looking man with an alcohol problem but Sam had a grudging respect for him. His business had been in trouble ever since the start of the revolution but he had held on tight for the sake of his wife, Becky. He sold books (however far and few between these sales were) and was even in the middle of writing his own set of novels in hopes of gaining a few more roubles. Sam made sure to buy a book or two from him whenever he had the spare cash.

"How's business?" Sam asked, pretending to admire books while walking quickly to the back of the shop. Another reason he liked the store so much (not that he'd ever tell Chuck this) was because it opened up onto the street behind, knocking twenty minutes or so off of his journey.

"Oh, you know. It's been better. Everyone's too obsessed with this Novak thing to be interested in buying books." He stopped and turned towards Sam with a twinkle in his eye that had been present in every gossiping person in town. "Have you heard about that, by the way? Apparently Prince James, Tsar Balthazar's son, might still be alive."

Sam felt the smile tug at his lips despite his best efforts to quench it.

"Really? You don't say?"

He quickly said his goodbyes before running up the steps towards the market place, promising to come back soon to have a look at the draft of the new thriller novel that Chuck had been working on ("...about two brothers who fight evil things and Sam you'll just love it, I promise, you'll absolutely love it!").

He had almost reached the top when,

"Sammy!"

"Dean! Where've you been?"

"Y'know..." his brother gave a flirtatious wink at a passing woman (who was dressed far too skimpily to say it was mid-winter and snowing). "...Around."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Come on, let's go. I'm freezing my ass off."

The quickest way back to their place of residence (not to be confused with their 'home', mind) was through the marketplace. This would have been fine if Dean, the oldest of the Winchester brothers by just over four years, didn't have a habit of buying everything he could get his hands on.

Walking into the market was like walking into a wall of noise, yelling and shouting hitting them from all directions.

"How about this painting, folks? Straight from the palace! Only a rouble, one rouble, come on folks!"

"Count Raphael's pyjamas, ladies and gentlemen, two for one guaranteed!"

The bright red onesie attracted Dean's attention immediately and Sam sighed in defeat before pulling on his brother's arm.

"C'mon, Dean, Prince James won't want pyjamas."

"Yeah, but..."

"No buts. Come on."

They dodged their way through the marketplace and (though Sam had to sidestep a call of, "Mr. Winchester! This jacket, sir, lined with real fur it is!") made it to the tattered curtain that covered the entrance to their hovel in record time.

Although the curtain itself was moth-eaten and frayed around the edges, it did the job of blocking the cluttered room beyond it from public view. Though, protection from the bitter cold was not one of its strong points.

Stepping into the room, Sam and Dean wasted no time in dodging through the junk scattered across the floor (worthless things that were already there when they had found the place) and making their way to the set of stairs that led to the single room on the top floor.

"C'mon, Sammy, give me some good news," Dean panted as they shook the melting snow from their jackets.

"Well..." Sam paused dramatically and gave a smirk when Dean looked back at him, eyebrow raised. "I got us the theatre."

"Yes!" Dean exclaimed as they reached the top of the stairs. The top floor was just as cluttered as the bottom, but they had found that this acted as a great hiding spot for their personal things. They placed their belongings (clothes, spare cash, pictures of their parents and the like) amidst the junk, hiding them in plain sight and protecting them from being found from random travellers who stumbled upon the room.

"Everything's going according to plan," Dean continued. "All we need is the guy. Just think, Sam. No more fake papers, no more stolen goods. We'll have three tickets on a one way trip to Paris; one for you, one for me and one for Prince James."

Sam leant against the wall, arms folded with a small smile on his face. There was no point in interrupting Dean when he was on a roll like this. His brother at that point was leaning out of the window, staring down at the streets of St. Petersburg below. The snow had tapered off and a soft blanket had been left in its wake. Not that he'd ever admit it, but Dean might miss St. Petersburg just a little bit (but only because of the view, mind, only ever because of the view).

"Y'know, Sammy, we're gonna go down in history; you and me." He was staring wistfully out to the horizon, not sure if Sam was listening and not really caring in the same second. "All we have to do is find the guy and teach him what to say. We'll find him a nice suit or two because God forbid the grandson of the Dowager Emperor should be dressed like a pauper. And then we'll take him to Paris and his Grandpa will be so thankful to see him that he'll just have to give us a huge reward for our hard work and selflessness."

"Yeah, selflessness, that's what it is," Sam snorted. "Have you arranged time for us to pack at all during this plan of yours?"

Dean retreated from the window and turned to his little brother, grabbing an empty bag and throwing it at him in the process. "Fine, we'll pack, bitch."

Sam caught the bag without a blink. "Jerk."

Silence settled on them while they grabbed everything they could comfortably carry and shoved them unceremoniously into their luggage.

But Dean couldn't handle the silence for long, brain running wild at the prospects of their whole lives finally changing for the better.

"We'll be rich, Sammy," he said, stopping short as he attempted to shove a spare shirt into the bag in his hand.

Sam stopped too, standing up straight from where he had been trying to reach a shoe that had fallen behind a particularly large pile of junk. His eyes widened and Dean could almost see him thinking of the number of books he could buy. "We'll be rich," Sam echoed. "And we'll be out of this hell hole." He gestured vaguely to the room and the numerous piles of objects that didn't belong to them.

"We'll be out of this hell hole," Dean repeated. "And you know what they say about Paris." He raised his eyebrows suggestively. "The city of love."

Sam rolled his eyes before turning back to the loose shoe. Not ten minutes later, he was zipping up his bag and turning towards his brother. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah, just a second."

Dean's bag was full to the brim, but he had one more thing to grab before they could start their journey. It was vital to their plans. He reached into a rickety cupboard on the far wall and moved a strategically placed broken cup and saucer to one side. Behind it stood a silver ornament.

It was small and slightly scratched from being carted around from place to place for near on ten years, but it still shone in the midday sun and Dean's breath still caught in his throat every time he saw it. He assumed it was a trinket box, though he had never been able to open it. All he knew, was that it belonged to Prince James and one look at it would mean that he and Sammy could have the life they deserved.

But as well as being their ticket to a better life, it was still a constant reminder. It reminded him of where he and Sam had come from, reminded him of what he had lost, of the dull throbbing in his head that he couldn't help but feel even now though he knew that the injury that he had been given that night had faded after just a week.

He held the silver ornament tight in his hand for a second, eyes clenched shut as his thumb rubbed over the smooth surface. And then he shoved it into his pocket and turned towards his brother, a tight smile on his face. "Yeah, Sam. We're ready."

A few miles outside of the outskirts of St. Petersburg sat an orphanage. It was small, especially considering the number of children living there, but the orphans were happy (well, as happy as they could be considering the circumstances).

At the same time as Sam and Dean Winchester were boarding a tram to take them to their hired theatre, a middle-aged (and slightly obese) woman was herding a young man towards the gates of the orphanage.

The woman, Meg Masters, had the appearance of someone who had been beautiful in youth though the years had obviously not been good to her. Her blonde hair was lank, her skin covered in liver spots and she was talking animatedly, voice screeching, at the trench coat clad boy in front of her. Though this didn't do much good as he was too busy waving joyously at the multiple children leaning out of the top floor windows.

"I've found your rotten arse a job at the fish factory in town. Follow the path until you get to the fork in the road. Go left-"

"Goodbye! Goodbye, everyone!"

"Are you even listening, boy?"

He stopped, turning his gaze to her sheepishly.

"I apologise, Miss Masters."

She scowled at him, overgrown eyebrows furrowed, before grabbing a hold of his trench coat sleeve and dragging him towards the locked gate.

"You've been nothing but a thorn in my side since the day you were brought here. Always acting like an angel to the other carers when I knew the truth. 'Castiel', they called you. 'After the angel of Thursday because we were blessed to find you on a Thursday'. But I saw right through you and your little act. For the last ten years, I've fed you and I've clothed you and –"

"You've kept a roof over my head?" Castiel asked sharply.

Meg stopped, turning towards him again with an evil glint in her eye.

"How is it that you can remember all of that but you don't have a single clue to who you were before the guards dragged you here, kicking and screaming?"

"But I do have a clue..." He trailed off, grasping almost involuntarily at the chain around his neck.

Before he could get a firm hold of it, however, Meg snatched it from his grasp. "Oh, yes. Your precious necklace. 'Together in Paris'. How sweet. So you want to go to France to find your little family, right?" She smiled sweetly before throwing her head back in a harsh laugh. "You've got to be kidding me. No wonder they named you after an angel – you've always got your head in the clouds."

As they reached the end of the garden, she quickly unlocked the gate before pushing him forcefully to the other side. "You do know that they're all probably dead, right?" she asked rhetorically. "And if they're not, they wouldn't want you anyway. Why else would they leave you stranded on a train station platform? It's time to take your place in life, Castiel. In life and in line behind everyone else where you belong – and you should be grateful too."

She took her time in relocking the gate, still staring at him with a false smile on her lips. Castiel could only listen, couldn't seem to move – it was as if he was entranced, as if he was watching a particularly gruesome accident but couldn't seem to look away.

"You should be grateful that we gave you a room in the first place. You should be grateful that I went out of my way to find you a stupid little job. You should be grateful that we kept you for ten years rather than throwing you out the night you came." She trailed off as the lock slid into place before turning with a spring in her step and walking back towards the orphanage. She waved a hand vaguely behind her before calling in a mocking voice, "'Together in Paris'!"

Her cynical laugh echoed long after the orphanage door had shut behind her.

AN: Well, there it is. I hope you enjoyed and drop me a review (even if you didn't!). Constructive criticism is always welcome. Thanks again! See you at the end of the week.