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: Castiel finally takes his first steps as a free man while Sam and Dean start the interviewing process to find the ideal Prince James.

AN: And here's the second chapter, my lovelies! I honestly can't apologise enough for how long it's taken me to get this meagre chapter out, but exams are kicking my arse at the minute. I apologise in advance for the amount of time the next chapter is probably going to take, so I won't blame you at all if you decide you don't want to stick around. However, if you do, I would be eternally grateful. Stay tuned for the meeting of the main characters (next chapter, guys!) and I would love you forever if you could drop me a quick review. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter, I appreciate every single one! Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy.
Thanks again to SameDestination for beta'ing this chapter! Any mistakes that you find are purely my own.

Chapter Two – Journey to the Past.

"People always say, 'life is full of choices,'
No one ever mentions 'fear'."

Castiel remained stood outside of the locked gate for longer than he cared to admit, trench coat blowing in the bitter breeze. He and Miss Masters had never really seen eye to eye and this wasn't the first time she had said these things to him, but – for some reason – this time the words had left him feeling empty and drained.

What if she was right? What if his family were dead? What if he was actually alone? And worse, what if they were alive and just didn't want him? What if they purposefully left him on the train station platform that night ten years ago?

Deep down, he had always wondered these things; they were always there, scratching at the back of his mind. But before that point (before he was stood outside of the orphanage with the snow falling around him and his toes slowly becoming numb from the cold), it had never really been real. The answers were never something he had to take into consideration because they wouldn't affect him – he would still have the orphanage and the other children if, when it came down to it, his family didn't want him after all.

But now it was different. Now he was alone and now the answers to the ever present questions could change everything.

After shaking his head, as if to physically remove the thoughts from swirling around inside his brain, he turned his back on the orphanage and started the long walk towards the fork in the road.

The further away from the orphanage he walked, the more annoyance and anger replaced the emptiness he was feeling.

"'Be grateful, Castiel'," he mocked, kicking snow along the path. "'Be grateful'. Oh, I am grateful. Grateful to get away from you and your extreme body odour."

The orphanage itself was found on the outskirts of a small village located just outside of St. Petersburg and the walk towards the fork in the road – the turning point that would direct him to the centre of the village – would take him at least thirty minutes (or longer, depending on how many distracting things he found on the way). But he had made the journey many times before; being one of the oldest children at the orphanage, the carers had often sent him to the village to buy groceries and to visit the seamstress to mend the grubby clothes that had been donated to them.

Granted, he enjoyed the walk a lot more when the sun was beating down on him in the middle of summer, but there was something about the snow that he found quite refreshing. So when the signpost at the end of the long path finally came into view (after almost an hour of walking, thanks to the snow angels he made on the way and that one snowman that was, quite frankly, a masterpiece), he found himself almost disappointed that his journey was coming to an end.

The rotting pole was stationed in the middle of the path with two wooden arrows protruding from either side. The one pointing right was labelled 'St. Petersburg', with the left reading 'Village'. It seemed the closer Castiel walked towards the post, the slower and smaller his steps seemed to become. The mere sight of the sign was enough to awaken the anger that Miss Masters' words had caused inside of him and at once his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

"'Go left,' she told me." He scoffed, his breath forming a cloud of white in the harsh winter air. He stood in front of the left-pointing arrow and glared up at it, as if it was the cause of all of his problems. "Well, I know what will await me if I go left. I'll be 'Castiel the orphan' forever, working for less than minimal pay and gutting fish for a living." His nose wrinkled at the mere thought. And then his eyes glanced over to the arrow pointing to the right.

The arrow was hanging precariously from the pole, swinging slightly from side to side in the breeze. The weatherworn wood had caused the sign to read 'St. Petrbug' rather than Petersburg, but to Castiel it had never seemed more appealing. It was a beacon of hope, a way out of this mess. He couldn't help the smile that crept onto his lips.

"But if I go right...?"

He shuffled cautiously in the opposite direction to the village but after only a few steps, he slowed before finally stopping with a troubled look settling on his face. The reality of the situation had hit him head on – what was he thinking? Was he thinking?

He grasped at the jewellery hanging around his neck as he always did when he was anxious. It was beautiful and, if the amount of times people had tried to steal it was any indication, it was made from real silver. If had a circular pendant consisting of two angel wings hanging from the delicate chain. Each feather was carefully etched and at the centre was the inscribed message that Castiel had read more times than he could ever remember. "Together in Paris". He couldn't help but gaze at it fondly.

"Whoever gave me this must have loved me..." he quietly convinced himself. There was no way he could have just picked it up somewhere, not if it was made out of real silver. He ran a thumb over the words in the middle. "If I go to Paris, then maybe...?"

He stopped suddenly, releasing the necklace. It fell, abandoned, against his trench coat and glistened in the sunlight. "This is idiotic," he said, his words becoming louder and more forceful as his mind ran in circles. "Me? Go to Paris, of all places? I've never been further than the village my entire life, and now I plan on travelling across countries by myself?"

He looked towards the sky, eyes blinking rapidly against the falling snow, and threw his arms wide in surrender.

"Send me a sign!" he called desperately. "A hint!"

After several seconds of silence, Castiel fell to a small snow mound at the base of the sign in defeat. "Anything?" he questioned, almost involuntarily, before resting his head against the post and closing his eyes. He was so tired all of a sudden. Maybe if he just waited here for a while, maybe the answer would just come to him...

With his eyes closed, Castiel was none the wiser to what happened immediately after his outburst.

Behind him, buried beneath the snow for warmth and awoken from his slumber because of Castiel's shouts, a dog poked his nose out into the open air and gave an inquisitive sniff. Finding no immediate sign of danger, he slowly began to work his way into the open (head first, then greying body and finally his gently swaying tail). He wasn't a puppy, hadn't been for a long time, though his actions were lively and agile. A smattering of speckled fur around his mouth made him appear to have a permanent five o' clock shadow and furrowed brows made him appear constantly irritated.

The dog's eyesight wasn't what it used to be, but the slumped figure in the funny coat seemed... alright. Strange looking, maybe, and definitely smelt a little peculiar, but he prided himself on being an excellent judge of character.

The dog gave a huff, his warm breath casting a cloud of white into the air. But the man, absorbed in his own world, didn't even move. The dog rolled his eyes beneath the furrowed brows, becoming impatient rather quickly. A quick, gruff bark was enough to rouse the man from his apparent musings and the dog was quickly enamoured with the strange coat covering his shoulders. It was a funny, beige colour and was just long enough for him to reach up and latch his teeth onto...

Castiel was pulled from his thoughts rather quickly when a small animal (greying and quite vicious, if its attack on his coat was anything to go by). The animal – a dog, Castiel realised as he was pulled to his feet – began to tug and snarl his way, coat still grasped firmly in his teeth, down the path that branched to the right.

"Excuse me," Castiel began, as polite as he could be whilst trying to tug his coat from the dog's clutches. "May I have my coat back please?" If Castiel wasn't mistaken, he could have sworn he heard the dog chuckle. "I have no time to humour you with silly games," he continued, starting to become quite annoyed with the troublesome mutt. "I am waiting for a sign."

The dog began to pull on the coat with a renewed vigour, tugging Castiel in circles before pulling him further down the path.

"Would you please leave me alone?"

A particularly brutal tug forced Castiel to trip over his own feet and he landed (quite harshly) onto the cold, wet ground. The dog stopped tugging on the coat when Castiel fell, though the material was still clenched in its jaws. His tail starting to wag, almost as if he was enjoying the torture he was putting the man through.

It was only at this moment (when he was laying in the melting snow and glaring at the dog with malicious contempt) that Castiel realised where he was.

"How wonderful," he said dryly. "A dog wants me to go to St. Petersburg."

As the words left his mouth (and the dog began to stare back at him in apparent disbelief) he felt his eyes widen.

"Okay..." he mumbled to himself as he began to stumble to his feet, pulling his coat from the dog's clutches as he did so. "I suppose that is as big of a hint as I'm going to get."

And as the greying canine continued to stare, Castiel had the sudden feeling that the dog thought he was an idiot. He gave a shy smile. "A little slow on the uptake, aren't I?" he asked the dog, but ignored him when he was rewarded with an affirmative bark.

Brushing off the wet snow from his coat (and making sure it was fastened securely around him this time), he gave one last glance to the neglected sign before walking determinedly along the path.

But not without turning back to gesture to the dog with a nod of his head and hiding a secret smile when the animal gave a joyous bark and ran to follow.

A few short miles away in the middle of a run-down theatre at the centre of St. Petersburg, two young men were sat behind a rickety desk, staring at the stage with identical looks of horror on their faces.

On the stage, apparently unaware of his affect on the brothers, an elderly man continued to rant in stunted Russian.

"-and I look like royalty. One look and Dowager Emperor will be sure I am lost Prince..."

Sam snorted, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands in exasperation – he had finally lost it, he thought, as a hysterical giggle built in his throat. The man on the stage, Vladimir something-or-other, continued on oblivious.

"Isn't he the same age as the Dowager Emperor, give or take?"

Dean didn't reply, simply grasped the pencil in his hand with more force than was absolutely necessary and attacked the wrinkled paper in front of him.

The paper held a list of names, all of them claiming to be able to act the part of the long lost Prince James and all of them big fat duds, as was being proven by the infinite amount of auditions they had gone through that evening.

There were many names on the list (too many, a small voice at the back of Dean's mind whispered. They were bound to attract unwanted attention but they needed this, damnit, they needed this break). So many names, in fact, that the top of the parchment was trailing over the end of the desk and only one name, one lone name, was left at the bottom.

"...and I dance like feather..." the elderly man on the stage continued, before launching into a simple waltz that left him hunched forward in pain and cursing his bad back.

Dean cleared his throat before pasting on a strained smile.

"Thanks. Thank you. Uhm, next please?"

The elderly man, still clutching at his back, sent the brothers an affronted glare before turning his nose up the best he could and walking off stage. Dean gave himself a virtual pat on the back for keeping his temper. He didn't like to talk down to his elders (even if they were annoying and wasted his time and, seriously, when was the last time they had a bath?) but he was reaching the end of his tether.

"This is our last chance, Dean," Sam whispered frantically as the next volunteer walked on stage. When Dean looked over at his brother he found him glancing at the long list of crossed out names with a prominent frown between his eyebrows.

Dean understood the feeling – he was feeling pretty worried himself, but would rather die than let Sam know that (let him know that his plan, his brilliant plan, was going up in smoke in front of their eyes).

"C'mon, Sammy, lighten up. This guy's gonna be the real deal, just you wait."

His voice must have held more reassurance than he was feeling because when Sam looked up from the list and met his eyes, there was a small spark of hope there.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really."

He waited a second, searching for something in Dean's face. What he found there, whatever it was, must have been convincing. He gave a nod with a firm and secure smile before turning to the stage.

"Yes, sir, whenever you're ready."

The man on the stage cleared his throat dramatically.

And then he dropped the large fur coat that was hanging over his shoulders to reveal a particularly revealing outfit and a lit cigarette clutched between two yellowing fingers. When he spoke ("Grandpa, it's me, Prince James!") it was barely more than a rasp and a hacking cough interrupted him before he could continue.

Sam slumped forward and let his head fall to the desk in defeat.

Almost an hour later (after kicking out the last guy before he coughed a lung up on the stage, cleaning up the messes left behind by the disgruntled performers and making the last payment to Ellen and Jo) the two men stepped out into the bitter cold of the evening.

"I mean it, Dean," Sam stated firmly as his brother locked the door securely behind them. "That's it. Game over. I'm done."

Sam, for his part, felt completely and utterly devastated – he was sure that this scheme would be their big break. Sure, he'd always gone along with Dean's plans in the past and they never really amounted to much (but what choice did he have? He'd follow his brother to the ends of the earth if he had to). He had never really had faith in the conspiracies, knew they wouldn't work. Until now. For some reason he had a feeling that with this plan, this particular scheme, there was something to it.

But if the last three hours of auditions were anything to go by, apparently Sam had missed the memo on this one.

"Sammy..." Dean started, turning around to face him. Sam shook his head and interrupted him before he could start.

"No, Dean. That's our last kopeck gone, wasted on this flea-infested theatre, and we're still no closer to finding a guy to pretend to be Prince James. We should just give up now while we still have somewhere to sleep and clothes on our back."

"Don't let Ellen hear you say that about her theatre," Dean said with a smirk.

Sam scowled.

"That wasn't my point and you know it."

"I know, Sammy, I know. But we'll find him, I know we will. He's probably here right under our noses, just waiting for us to come along and sweep him off of his feet." At Sam's raised eyebrow, Dean coughed slightly. "Metaphorically speaking, of course. Oh, excuse me."

Stumbling slightly from bumping into a passerby, he hurried back to Sam who was eagerly walking ahead to find shelter from the biting cold.

"Of course, Dean, metaphorically speaking. But what makes you so sure? I mean, you were there with me in that theatre for the last three hours, right? And you saw the people that turned up to audition? Like that one guy with puppets. And the British guy who we couldn't understand. And the woman."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Mr Positive, I was there. Look, I know it's not the best start. But we'll get there, okay?"

He shoved his hand into his pocket and clutched at the silver ornament that lay there. He had always kept it with him pretty much wherever he went. It was important to him, a symbol of everything, and for some reason it had always made him feel safe.

He rubbed a thumb over the etchings and instantly felt calmer.

It would be their ticket, the one thing that made them different to every other con artist in the world who had jumped at the opportunity to make a fortune. One look at the trinket box and the Emperor would think that the guy they had chosen to play the part was the real deal. And before he caught on, before he realised that the random stranger wasn't, in fact, his long lost grandson, Sam and Dean would be halfway across the country with ten million roubles.

It was a win-win situation. Nothing could go wrong. All they needed was the guy.

Still.

He wasn't going to lie (to himself anyway, he had no problem telling Sam a bluff or two) – he was slightly disappointed at the way the auditions had gone. He had expected there to be potential, someone with acting experience or at least someone who looked remotely like the Prince. Matching hair colour would be great, eye colour amazing. But no – instead they were left with a never-ending line of aging men who were each as convinced as the next that they were the perfect choice for the role.

And it was up to Dean (and Sam, though he would never, the pansy) to knock it into the performer's heads that they were wasting valuable time and kidding themselves if they ever thought in a million years that they would be able to be a part of the (amazingly fool-proof) scheme.

The walk to their new location was quite far, considering, but it was unbelievably worth it. They had found the place quite a while ago (a few years after the revolution when they literally had nowhere else to go) but they didn't have the balls or the cunning to pull it off. Now, though... Now they could.

They couldn't go back to their old place, the one hidden behind the curtain at the centre of town, not now they had packed their things and left. It was an unspoken rule between the two brothers that, after they had collected their belongings and moved on, they never went back to the same place twice.

So, they needed a new place. And considering what they were doing, what with the con and all, their new abode seemed... fitting, to say the least.

They reached the Novak Palace in around twenty minutes (the walk should have taken at least half an hour, but Sam was practically sprinting to get out of the cold) and slipped in through a small niche they had found all those years ago. It was a tight squeeze – they were older now, bigger than when they had first discovered the place – but they somehow managed it. And, with a relieved sigh as the bitter wind died away and the strong smell of dust and memories hit them, they settled down for the night.

They couldn't deny that it was one of the fancier places they had crashed in their lifetime and it was reassuring to pretend, at least to themselves, that for at least one night they could live like royalty.

AN: Well, there we are. Hope to hear from you in a review (hint hint nudge nudge) whether you liked the chapter or not – constructive criticism is always welcome! (I also apologise for the chapter length; hopefully my muse will return sometime soon and will let me splurge a few thousand words out for you lovelies).