Chapter Text
Castiel considers giving Dean another five minutes, then decides against it. “Dean.” He carefully reaches over and touches his shoulder. “Dean?”
Dean snorts and jolts awake, blinking dazedly until he regains his bearings and remembers that they’re in their private bus, making their merry way to the location of their obligatory honeymoon. The novelty of the custom bus with its bolted-down furniture and mini-bar had lasted for only so long, and Castiel had thought it best to let Dean make full use of the leather seats he’d earlier been petting in intense appreciation.
There’s a faint squeaking sound when Dean unpeels his face from the seat and squints at Castiel. “What?”
“We’re almost there.” Castiel points out the tinted windows, to where the arch leading into the estate is drawing closer. “I thought you might want to see.”
“We passed the town already? Dammit.”
“Oh, I thought—”
“S’okay, it’s just been a while since I’ve been here is all.” Dean scrubs his eyes and sits up, humming a thank you when Castiel passes him a bottle of water. “So where’s this fancy Joshua House of yours?”
“Shouldn’t you be telling me that?” Castiel shakes his head when Dean snorts at him. “You’ve actually been in this county before.”
“Not up the hill. That was off-limits, even for us.” Dean cranes his neck, whistling softly when he sees the view. Castiel agrees with the sentiment and draws up to Dean’s side, both of them watching the arch move over their heads, and then drink in the rolling grounds of Ilchester Hill, with its beautiful slopes and greenery all the way down to the thicket that mark the borders of the estate. Beyond that is the blue of the ocean all the way to the horizon; Castiel’s heard that on a clear day, one can see the southern-most islands of the kingdom.
“Was this county named after your ancestors?” Castiel asks.
“Is it? Oh, I don’t know, never heard anything like that.” Dean sounds distant, understandably distracted by the picturesque view. “The whole area’s changed hands so many times it’s hard to know for sure anyway. Oh geez, is that the house?”
“Does it look daunting?” Castiel can see the main house now, with its dark walls and dramatic mansard roof. Three floors makes it positively cozy by Michael’s standards. “Too old-fashioned?”
“No, it’s uh... it’s very Psycho.” Dean laughs when he catches Castiel’s blank expression. “Big, quiet house on top of a hill? Could give someone the heebie-jeebies.”
“In the old days the royal married couples would spend their honeymoon on a ship,” Castiel tells him. “They would stay within rowing distance of shore, but the intention was that they would be literally disconnected from land so to not be distracted from... each other.”
Dean snorts. “And you wonder why your people are famous for being anti-social.”
“I do not wonder. Regardless, I would say a heebie-jeebie house is an improvement.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Rachel would probably know the full history of Joshua House – when it was made, its various refurbishments, how the Crown managed to keep control of it even when Michael lost the whole coast to the Republic years ago. Ilchester is one of those strategic locations that keeps changing hands through the tides of war, and Castiel figures that this is the reason Michael picked Joshua House as the location for their honeymoon. It’s one of the last royal properties left on Republic land – even Dean had laughed when he learned about that.
“I guess the Council figured they’d save money this way,” Dean had chortled. “No point spending it on little old me.”
Up close, the house’s age is obvious. Some effort was made to clean it up and make it presentable, but there’s no painting over an old-fashioned relic. Dean mutters something about sleeping in a museum, and Castiel doesn’t disagree.
Rachel and Virgil are waiting for them when they step down from the bus, both of them still in their smart suits and making Castiel feel more disheveled than usual.
“Welcome to Joshua House,” Rachel says. “Would you like a tour, or do you wish to freshen up?”
Castiel turns to Dean. “Freshen up?” Dean doesn’t answer, too busy gawping at the windows or not awake enough to muster a reply, so Castiel says to Rachel, “I think we’ll take it easy for the rest of the day. Dean and I will look around the house ourselves. Are our things unloaded?”
“Yes, they’re in your rooms,” Rachel says. “Still in their cases, as requested.”
“Good, thank you, you’re dismissed.” Castiel nods when Rachel and Virgil bow and step back. “Dean?”
Dean starts. “What? Oh. Um.” He laughs a little, conscious of Rachel and Virgil’s watching them, and then offers Castiel his hand. “Hey.”
“Hello.” Castiel slips his hand into Dean’s. They only have an audience of two but it's symbolic to enter their first home this way, no matter that it’s only a temporary one. They step forward together, Dean opening the door latch and pushing to let them in.
The door’s hinges have been oiled so there’s no ominous creaking, but they’re greeted by the stale, unlived-in air of a house long left empty. A winding double-staircase looms over the foyer, Michael’s coat of arms in full color set into the wall.
“That’s Michael’s herald,” Castiel tells Dean as they start walking. He might as well start now, after all. “The tree on the top left is the badge of his mother, who’s my third cousin twice removed, so I have that symbol in my badge as well. Joshua House, by the way, should be named after one of the Kings Joshua, though I’m not sure which one. This should be the receiving room, and that’s a sitting room… Come, let’s see.”
Dean follows Castiel from room to room, nodding or murmuring an acknowledgement while Castiel keeps up his commentary. It’s easy enough to identify the later additions to the ancient house – grand dining room and sitting rooms are of a vastly different feel from the private, modern kitchen that connects to a cozy little television room.
“We have a cook, but they won’t be using this kitchen, which is for our personal use,” Castiel says. The various cabinets and drawers in their private kitchen are stocked, and the fridge door has a notepad for requests. “I haven’t met our cook but Rachel told me it’s a local person, so you should be able to request meals to your liking. Rachel will handle the stocking up and shopping, just leave a note for her if you would like her to get something for you. I’ll have to check the times, but I think the cleaners will make their rounds twice a day unless we request otherwise.”
“And they’re all staying in the, uh…”
“In the adjoining building, yes. We should be able to use the intercom from anywhere in the house if we need anything.”
Castiel may not have been here before but these kinds of houses tend to be predictable in their design. After they’ve canvassed the ground floor they move up to the first floor, where they find a study, a small sitting room, a bedroom that hasn’t been done up, and at the far end of a hallway, a grand bedroom that’s been set up for a guest of honor.
“Here we go,” Castiel says, pushing the door wide open for Dean. “This is your room.”
“Cool.” Dean moves past Castiel into the room, making a sound of relief when he sees his bags at the foot of the bed – familiar things in an unfamiliar place, et cetera. “How ‘bout you?”
“My room should be directly above yours.” Castiel points at a small, slightly hidden door at the far corner. “That should be the private staircase linking our rooms. Don’t worry, Dean, this is your space, I won’t encroach it.”
“Ah,” Dean says.
“You can lock both doors, if you wish.” Everything here appears to be in order, from the comfortable-looking bed to the fat wardrobe, to the reading corner near the windows with an excellent view of the gardens. There’s no television, though, which means that Dean will have to use the TV room downstairs. “What would you like for dinner?”
Dean weaves over to the bed. His back is to Castiel so his expression is hidden, though Castiel thinks there’s something to be read in the curve of his shoulders and the way he plucks the edge of the bedsheet.
“Dean,” Castiel says carefully. “Dinner?”
“I, uh…” Dean rubs his temples. “I can’t really think right now.”
“All right, I’ll arrange dinner. Shall I make the plans for our lessons as well?”
“Lessons?”
“For your visit to court. I can cover the basics on the culture, protocols, history of my family. I won’t make it strenuous, of course, and we’ll move at your own pace.” Dean’s still just standing there, though, unmoving and staring at the wall. “This month is our time, Dean, before we will be called on to perform. I’m sure there are some petty distractions to be had around here.”
“Don’t suppose you have cable?” Dean hedges.
“I can find out,” Castiel says. “Would you like to unpack and have a shower?”
“Okay.”
“Do you know how to find me if you need anything?”
“Intercom, right, yeah.”
Castiel hovers there for a moment, unsure if Dean’s lack of movement is an invitation to distract him, or a hint for him to leave. Dean should be exhausted – Castiel certainly feels exhausted, and would very much enjoy a soak for an hour or so. It feels like they’re still on, that the energetic public dance that was their wedding and reception and photograph sessions hasn’t really stopped. Thank goodness for this month of a breather, at least.
“I’m going to my rooms now,” Castiel says. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
Dean nods. “Okay.”
Castiel knew that things were going to be different once they got out of the city, away from the noise and the hectic schedule and Naomi scrutinizing every move they made. The schedule is theirs now, even if only for a little while, and they should take advantage of it while they can. Castiel also knows that his priorities are not Dean’s priorities, so if Dean is a little quiet during dinner and non-committal when Castiel suggests an agenda for the week, it’s not like Castiel’s going to mind.
In fact Castiel fully expects Dean to sleep in the next morning. Castiel gets up around dawn, for there are some habits that refuse to go away, and is thus surprised when, just as he’s digging in to his second helping of pancakes, Dean ambles into the kitchen. He’s wearing his robe, bare calves visible beneath the hem, but his hair is combed down, denying Castiel the pleasure of Dean’s bedhead.
Last night they’d decided that there’s no point in using the dining room – it’s too formal, the long table too ridiculous. Their private kitchen has a perfectly serviceable island, which had done them well at dinner and would probably do well for the rest of their stay here.
“That is a long fucking walk from bedroom to breakfast.” Dean drops into the chair opposite Castiel. “I’m just sayin’.”
“In traditional houses the royal bedroom is connected directly to a small chamber for personal meals,” Castiel says, “Though I suppose that made it a challenge for the servants to deliver all the food up so many flights of stairs. Did you sleep well? Is the room acceptable?”
“Yeah.” Dean peers at Castiel’s plate. “Michael pulled out all the stops.”
“Did I wake you up? It’s a large house, I didn’t think sound traveled.”
“Nah, it was just... You know what it’s like, sleeping in a strange bed.”
“Yes.” Castiel watches Dean get up and poke around the kitchen, discovering the bacon and sausages in the oven, the eggs lined up near the stove, the bread next to the toaster. Dean nods solemnly to himself as he fills his plate, apparently content to judge if the food meets his standards.
Perhaps they should just not do anything for the first week or so. Dean can relax and enjoy the Crown’s complimentary luxuries, and Castiel can explore the grounds. Castiel can almost think of this as a holiday long deserved. Not that he’d ever needed a holiday back at the University.
“I have a thought,” Castiel says. “Maybe we can relax for the first few days. There’s no rush.”
“Nah, let’s just get down to it.” Dean makes an appreciative sound when he bites into his sandwich. “I get antsy when I got nothing to do.”
“Oh,” Castiel says, surprised. “If you’re sure?”
“Yeah, better to focus on the job, right? Do I need to dress up? I wasn’t sure if I had to, um…” Dean’s smile is a little sheepish, and Castiel suddenly understands why his hair is so neat.
“Oh.” Castiel fails to suppress his huff of laughter, and Dean eyeballs him warily. “Well, there’s only you and me here. And I doubt that the staff cares how you dress.” He gestures at his own choice of clothing, the sweater and slacks that still smell of his apartment. “This is my casualwear.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You dress like that for fun?”
“It’s comfortable,” Castiel says defensively. “And if I don’t dress for my own comfort when I am able to, then what’s the point?”
“Fair enough.”
“Not all of us are as effortlessly handsome as you.” Castiel shakes his head behind his coffee cup, sipping the warm liquid while Dean blinks rapidly at his breakfast plate. “Oh, you didn’t get a chance to see – there’s a gym on the second floor, if that’s of interest to you. I didn’t try any of the equipment myself, but it appears to be in order.”
Dean nods distractedly at his sandwich. He’s not frowning, not in the way that has set Castiel on edge in the past, but Castiel still has the feeling that he’s missed something. Castiel needs to pay better attention.
“So,” Dean says. “What’re we gonna do today?”
Over the day, Castiel discovers that Dean is an apt student. Castiel doesn’t know why this is a surprise, only that it is, and there’s none of the whining and grumbling that Castiel had witnessed of him before the wedding. The change between now and then, Castiel supposes, is that the deed is done and Dean’s making the most of his new role. It also helps that their prep teams are no longer around to boss them mercilessly, and Dean knows there’s no point taking out his frustration on the only other person who understands his situation first-hand.
They take it easy, though. After Dean changes into his casualwear they start another sweep of the house, this time with Castiel settling into the rhythms of a lecture, albeit it one where he’s married to his only student.
Every corner and every room of the house has something for their use in learning. They study the maps in the receiving room, Castiel showing him the various power bases across the kingdom, the county of Hortus that Michael gave Castiel as his dowry, the route that Castiel traveled with Anna when they left Michael’s court in pursuit of young adventure.
They explore the small library, Castiel pointing out a few classics by their more famous writers. Dean shows off his rudimentary Latin and Enochian, and shares his strong opinions on the few books of fiction that Rachel (or someone else) decided to stock the shelves with.
They have lunch in the garden’s gazebo, making small talk with their cook, Elizabeth, who comes out to personally serve them and enjoy Dean’s praise for her culinary skills.
They walk in the long gallery, studying the few portraits hung there for their benefit. Michael’s portrait is the largest, of course, and features the King standing in the center, framed by imagery of Acreage Castle, the Wall and a thunderstorm over a raging sea. Dean and Castiel share a moment of silence as they gaze up at the painting, because it is indeed a lot to take in at once.
“Good chin,” Dean says at last.
“Does that matter?” Castiel asks.
“Not really, but it makes your money interesting to look at.”
“Your face would be more pleasing on currency,” Castiel says.
“What—don’t—no.” There are no windows in the long gallery, but even in the dull light of the old bulbs Castiel’s able to make out the flush moving up Dean’s neck. “Didn’t you say your family tree’s in here somewhere?”
“Ah, yes.” There’s a small table underneath the painting, with a slightly-hidden drawer set into the design. Castiel opens it, revealing a fresh set of tapers inside. “This may be a cliché, but it’s one Michael is fond of.”
“Figures.” Dean watches Castiel set the taper in a holder. “That a unicorn candle?”
“Yes.” Castiel flicks his thumb across the wick, a flame bursting to life at his touch. Soft blue light fills the gallery, lighting up the dark red wallpaper of the long walls. All the portraits are hung on only one side of the gallery, and for good reason.
On the other wall, the bare wall, the paper shimmers and slowly erupts with silver lines and letters.
“Dude.” Dean takes a slow step forward. “What in the fucking Greek pantheon.”
“Dean,” Castiel chides.
It’s not that his family tree has a huge number of members; it’s that the networks between its members are complicated. Practically everyone is related to everyone else, sometimes by two or three paths, and a visual representation of that has been woven into the walls of the long gallery. Castiel passes the candle to Dean, who turns it slowly to watch the branches twist to reveal new angles and linkages.
“Hey, there you are.” Dean has a good eye, spotting Castiel’s name on an eastern branch. He follows the lineage with a finger, double-taking when he traces a loop. “Wait, you’re related to Michael through both your parents’ sides?”
“Yes.”
“What, are there like not enough normal people in your kingdom that you keep intermarrying?”
“Don’t think of it as intermarrying,” Castiel says. “Think of it as keeping your enemies close.”
“Oh.” Dean’s mouth fall open a little, and he stares up at the grand family tree with new appreciation. “Damn, son.”
“This is the Crown’s way of making sure that those in power are vested in making sure the kingdom keeps running the way it always has. Every time someone close to throne married an outsider there’s been… Well, there are very good reasons we’re known for being xenophobic.”
“Yet here you are.” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You got married off to a schlub like me.”
“I’m married to a member of a noble House,” Castiel says firmly. “As part of an arrangement that has opened up new trade routes and agreements between our countries because – following the same principle as the intermarrying – we are now family. We are now invested in each other’s well-being.”
“I can tell you that we don’t look it that way.” Dean draws in close to the wallpaper, tracing the lines with his fingers. “It’s about trading routes and getting help pushing the raiders back along the border. It's just business.”
“Is there that much difference between the two?”
Dean turns, giving Castiel a look that’s not quite identifiable in the flickering blue light. “There should be.” He starts, suddenly pulling his hand back in horror. “Cas, Cas, I think I did something.”
“What?” Castiel peers at the place Dean had just been touching. “I doubt you could’ve ruined the tapestry with a fingernail.”
“Just make sure, will ya?”
Castiel strokes the paper but everything seems to be in order, Uriel’s name in its perfect calligraphy woven above the branch that leads across to Castiel and Anna. Still Dean fidgets, watching Castiel with the nervous expectation of a young boy caught in front of a broken window. It’s such a strange thing to see, especially when Dean pokes at him quickly, “Dude, talk to me” with such anxiousness.
“Dean, it’s fine,” Castiel says. “Even if you did tear it, it’s easily fixable.”
Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, still unhappy despite Castiel’s assurance. “This whole damn house, man, I tell you.”
“Are you self-conscious? About the house? Dean, I can promise you that Michael considers the whole place a write-off, he won’t care what we choose to or accidentally do to the place. In fact, I’d say that he’s prepared for the worse.”
Dean snorts. “Must be nice, being loaded like that.”
“Look.” Castiel takes Dean’s forearm, squeezing gently to make him stop bouncing his heels. He gestures up at the family tree. “This is Michael’s family. In-fighting is as ingrained to our history as the intermarrying. It’s nothing for castles, manors, estates to change hands once, twice, three times a generation when the power shifts. It’s very nice of you to try and respect this property, but it’s respect that Michael doesn’t deserve.”
“I’m not thinking about Michael,” Dean says. “I’m a guest here, Cas. Maybe you’re used to fancy digs, but I’m not. I don’t care who the owner is. It’s a nice place, and the history here is… I just don’t want to break anything, okay?”
Castiel finds himself smiling. “That’s considerate of you.”
“Shut up,” Dean mutters.
“Do you know, you looked so smart in your dress uniform that I’d almost forgotten that’s not who you are?” Castiel shakes his head, amused at himself. “Of course, whenever you open your mouth I remember again.”
“That I’m a nobody?”
“That you’re a wild card Michael probably doesn’t know how to deal with and I am grateful for.”
Dean falls silent at that, turning away to study the family tree again. He peers at Castiel’s name, the ‘C’ looped dramatically as a guardian over the rest of the letters. Right next to it there’s an empty space hovering in readiness, not yet filled with Dean’s name.
“What about you, Dean?” Castiel says. “What about your family?”
Dean shrugs. “You know ‘bout my family. We definitely don’t have all – all this.” He waves at the tree, this time careful not to touch the paper. “I mean, the Campbells are pretty epic but we’re not tight with them. Same goes with the other Winchesters, I don’t think I’ve met the others more than a handful of times.”
“So your immediate family unit is… an island?” Castiel ventures.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?” Dean slants a look at him, smirking. “You know what hunters are like. All the stories are true, I’m afraid.”
“I see…” Castiel trails off, but Dean’s already gone back to studying the tree, although now he has his hands firmly behind his back. He nods when he finds names that he knows, and going ack when he finds some of the more circular intermarrying between close cousins.
Once again Castiel is struck by how hard Dean is trying. He doesn’t have to, and goodness knows Castiel knows plenty of people who wouldn’t bother if they were in his place. But Dean is focused and intelligent and sorely misused, and if Castiel knew some way to make him, at very least, feel better and at ease in this place, then Castiel would turn to it immediately.
Actually, there is something. “Let’s go out,” Castiel says.
Dean scowls. “What?”
“Let’s go into town. I’ve never been, but you have. You can show it to me.”
“Into town?” Dean echoes. “Is that… are we allowed to do that?”
“Yes.”
The corners of Dean’s mouth quirk. “Did you just make that up, Cas?”
“No,” Castiel says. “Yes.”
Rachel isn’t happy, but it’s her job to be unhappy whenever either one of them gets a non-Crown-sanctioned idea in their heads. Castiel and Dean find her over at the staff house and relay their request, to which she sighs, checks her organizer, and then says reluctantly, “You can go, but Virgil and I must go with you.”
“Why would—” Dean starts, but he snaps his mouth shut when Castiel lays a hand on his arm.
“You may observe,” Castiel tells Rachel, “but that is all.”
“We got a chaperone?” Dean says. “Really?”
Virgil, who’s been listening in to the conversation from a polite distance, chimes up with, “Bodyguard, sir.”
Dean grumbles, but said grumbling only lasts until he discovers that the Crown has furnished them with private transportation, sitting ready and waiting for their use in the garage. When Dean sees the vehicle he makes a sound not unlike an asthmatic on the verge of drowning, though to Castiel’s uneducated eyes it’s merely a car.
“What do you mean, ‘it’s just a car’,” Dean says incredulously. “This is a ’54 Fallon, they only made something like a dozen of these and why does Michael even have one? I thought you guys didn’t like our stuff.”
“Oh, no,” Castiel says, while over Dean’s shoulder he sees Virgil frown a little at Dean’s comment on his king, “I think you’ll find that Michael has tremendous appreciation for Republic ingenuity and engineering.” He can’t help adding, “It is just a car, Dean.”
“Yeah, and I’m just a good-looking son-of-a-bitch. Get in, Cas. I’m driving.”
“No, sir, I must drive you,” Virgil says. “It would be inappropriate otherwise.”
“Dean will drive,” Castiel says firmly. “Virgil, you will sit in the back with Rachel.”
“What?” Virgil glances at Rachel for support, but she just shrugs neutrally.
“Please give the keys to Dean.” Castiel nods when Virgil reluctantly hands the keys over, and Dean whoops in jubilation. “Good.”
Dean moves past Castiel towards the driver’s door, along the way shoving Castiel’s shoulder and whispering, “You’re such an asshole, Cas.”
He may be correct, but Dean’s asshole of a husband has successfully brokered a trip for them into the town of Ilchester. They would have had to go down there sooner or later to make a public appearance, and it might as well be sooner. It’s a beautiful day for it, too, the sky clear and blue when they exit the garage and leave the house behind.
Dean has terrible driving posture, hands asymmetrical on the wheel and his shoulder almost pressing against the door in some kind of pin-up pose that is apparently natural to his person. With the windows down the wind is pleasing and fills the car with the scent of pine and leaves of the hill’s forest. Dean’s grin is wide, so he must approve. “Do you drive, Cas?” he asks.
“I have a license.” Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can almost imagine he’s back in the kingdom, though the trees here are thicker and damper. “It’s been a while, though. I don’t have my own vehicle.”
“I have a…” Dean shakes his head briefly as though distracted, but that can’t be right because the road is clear and the gates wide open to let them out and down the hill. “I have a ’67 Impala, back in St. Lebanon. Smaller than the Fallon but sweeter engine, purrs like an animal.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Hell yeah,” Dean laughs. There’s no obvious joke here but Castiel finds himself smiling as well, Dean’s excitement contagious. “Jesus, this is a sweet car, you shouldn’t be locking her up like that.”
“You may take her around as you wish.” Castiel glances over his shoulder to the back seat, where Virgil is tight-lipped and trying not to look disapproving, but Rachel nods in assent. “I’m sure you’ll be doing her a favor.”
Dean doesn’t hesitate when they reach the first junction, apparently familiar enough with the area that he knows the turns to take to lead them down into civilization. Soon enough the trees give way to open fields dotted with the occasional house and barn, and a handful of minutes later the town itself.
“Heyyy,” Dean says excitedly, “it’s still here!” It doesn’t take much urging for Dean to explain that he’d been posted here a handful of years ago, on one his many assignments from the Council in maintaining the peace. Dean’s commentary is less a natural flow of explanation and more a distracted bounce from topic to topic of interest to him – a funny sign-post here, an alley of a memorable bar fight he’d gotten into once there – that he’s just lucky that Castiel can keep up.
“You can see the fortress from here.” Dean jerks his head eastwards, where the tips of the old defensive structure are visible over the rooftops of the foreground buildings. “Perfect view for monitoring the sea line during kraken migration season.”
“That must’ve been exciting,” Castiel says.
“Not really. Prefer solid ground beneath my feet.”
Castiel starts in surprise. “You had to sail out to manage to kraken? Personally?”
“I’m a hands-on kind of guy, what can I say.” This appears to be a matter of pride to Dean, who slants a self-assured smirk at Castiel. “Beats hanging around a library all day.”
“I wouldn’t know, I’m too busy blowing things up.”
Dean double-takes. “Wait, what?”
“I’m a professional alchemist, Dean.” Castiel rolls his eyes at Dean’s expression. “Who do you think creates the spells and potions you use in your work?”
“The Men of Letters.”
“A mere Continental off-shoot of our Alchemist’s Guild. It’s practically the same thing.”
“Well,” Dean sputters, “we have the cooler name.”
“No you do not, that name is pretentious and gender specific for no reason whatsoever.”
“Oh my god you sound like Sam.”
“That should concern you, as you’ve ended up marrying me.”
Dean glances over at him, eyes wide and startled, and then he bursts out laughing. Castiel resists for all of two seconds, and then he’s laughing as well, albeit not as loud and heartily as the guffaws that fill their car.
Sometimes Castiel’s ideas are good ideas.
“Hey,” Dean says, once his laughter his died away. “That place makes awesome cheeseburgers. Maybe not the top 5, but pretty damn close.”
Castiel follows the direction that Dean points, to the line of shops that apparently mark the town center. Even so, this is the quiet part of Ilchester, for the busier ports and fisheries are further eastward, and it reminds Castiel of his own quiet university town. No skyscrapers and busy streets, and if things were different Castiel might even have chosen to come here for his own leisure.
“You can stop and get some,” Castiel says. “I would like to try.”
“Really?” Dean says in surprise, as though Castiel’s going to deny him something that has his whole face lighting up. “Okay, just let me find parking.”
“You can park on the curb.” Castiel glances round back. “Rachel?”
“Yes, you may park illegally,” Rachel says dryly. “I will manage it. Go get your… whatever it is.”
There are not many people here this time of day, so their luxury car doesn’t draw any immediate attention. It makes for an interesting pilot test, anyway, and Rachel volunteers to stay with the car while Virgil shadows them from a polite distance as they walk to the burger stall.
There is a young woman behind the counter, plus a young man handling an order from a patron on the other side. The young woman draws up when they approach, and Castiel has the pleasure of watching Dean turn on the charm as he introduces himself and asks what’s the day’s special.
This is Dean’s element. This may not be his literal hometown but it’s close enough – Ilchester has been in Republic hands long enough that the touches of the kingdom that once owned it have been buried down or painted over. Castiel knows burgers but the options and styles listed on the board behind their server are practically a foreign language – and why are there so many different kinds of ketchup?
“I’ll have the special, everything on it, extra mustard,” Dean says. “He’ll have the Smokey the Bear, hold the pickles. Wait, do you like pickles, Cas?”
“They’re all right.”
“Okay scratch that, pickles on his.”
“Get something for Virgil and Rachel,” Castiel says.
“Alrighty.”
Once their orders are made their server gets to work, and Dean bounces a little on the balls of his feet in anticipation. Castiel’s reasonably certain that Elizabeth could prepare a decent burger for him if he asked. It’s possible that he’s too self-conscious to actually ask, though, so Castiel makes a mental note to see to that when they get back to the house.
Just behind their server, the other vendor is looking at them. He has, in fact, the very distinct face of controlled panic. Castiel smiles politely and inclines his head.
“There used to be a newsstand around here,” Dean says distractedly. “Hey, a payphone.”
“Yes, I’m aware of what payphones are,” Castiel says.
“I mean, uh…” Dean coughs guiltily, and whispers, “How bad an idea would it be if I went to use one right now? You know I couldn’t find a single phone in the house?”
“Oh,” Castiel says in surprise. “I think that’s part of our traditional honeymoon isolation. We are, in theory, supposed to use this time to get to know each other without distraction. Would you like me to ask Rachel? There should be a phone somewhere.”
“No, I don’t wanna ‘cause trouble—”
“Don’t be silly,” Castiel insists. “You shouldn’t be limited by our traditions. I will check with Rachel.”
“Oh. Thanks, Cas.” Dean loops his thumbs in his belt and makes a slow turn checking out the street. It’s easy enough to tell the exact moment Dean notices the handful of people on the opposite side of the road who trying to make like they’re just ambling around in no specific direction. “Uh.”
Castiel leans against Dean’s shoulder, close enough to whisper, “You did just participate in a celebrity wedding.”
“Sure,” Dean replies, “but these are my day clothes. Yours, too. How can they tell?”
“You do not have a face one easily forgets.”
“What.” Dean grapples for a suitable retort, mouth opening and closing, until something catches his eye and turns away, relieved for the distraction. There’s a child – a young girl, it appears to be – partially peering around the corner of the stall and staring up at them. Castiel’s choice of response would’ve been to smile and move on, but Dean’s not Castiel, for he says, “I’ll be done in a sec, ma’am, you’ll get your turn.”
The child says something, too faint for Castiel to hear. Dean lowers himself down a little and says, “Sorry, didn’t catch that.” She repeats it and Dean jolts, and then chuckles.
“What did she say?” Castiel asks.
Dean says something to the child, waiting until she nods before he turns to Castiel and says, “She said she wants to find her own prince someday.”
The child cannot possibly be older than six. “Princes are overrated,” Castiel says.
Dean tsks at Castiel and smacks his arm. “What Cas here means to say is that princes come in all kinds of packaging, and sometimes it won’t be the kind you’d think. You gotta look closely. That make sense, kid?”
The child nods and then slips away, running up the road towards a slightly horrified-looking adult. Dean waves at them, and Castiel musters up a smile of his own – it wouldn’t do to make people nervous with their presence.
“Quit making that face, Cas,” Dean admonishes. “Kid just wanted to say hi.”
“I’m not comfortable with children.”
“Kids are just small people.”
“You’re assuming I’m comfortable with people.”
Dean snorts. “You got me there.” He perks up when their server approaches with their readied order, packed into a hefty paper bag. Said server has also apparently been apprised of the situation, if one is to judge from the stiff smile that has taken over her features.
“Your change,” she says. Then she stares at them for a moment and bobs a curtsy. “Sire.”
“Whoa, none of that,” Dean says.
“Thank you for your prompt service,” Castiel says gently, handing over their payment. “Please keep the change.”
Dean takes their bags, waiting until they’re a polite distance away from the stall before saying quietly to Cas, “Is this what it’s gonna be like from now on? How am I supposed to get anything done when I go back to work?”
“It’s a novelty,” Castiel says. “Novelties wear off. Besides, I think it’s me that they're more nervous about. You’re one of them, after all.”
“More reason for you to have a big bite of your burger where everyone can see.” Dean dips his hand into the bag, pulling out one of the huge wrapped pieces to put into Castiel’s hands. “There. Enjoy. You’re one of us now, congrats.”
“Eating a burger makes me one of you?”
“Don’t question our ways,” Dean says. “Eat.”
Castiel sighs dramatically, but he opens the wrapping and starts on early dinner.
The burgers were a terrible idea. Even worse were the fries Dean had ordered as a side – you gotta have fries to wash ‘em down, Cas – because by the time they finish their drive and get back to the house Castiel is on the verge of what Dean gleefully tells him is a food coma.
“This is what happens when you don’t vary your diet,” Dean says, steering Castiel into the house and waving off Virgil and Rachel who are heading back to their own lodgings. Virgil didn’t even touch his burger, but Rachel gamely finished hers off and admitted that it wasn’t bad. “You crash hard.”
“That makes no sense,” Castiel protests, peeling off his jacket and passing it to Dean to hang up. “It wasn’t even that big a portion.”
“Not that big a…” Dean whistles. “Mom would love to have you over for Thanksgiving. You demolished that thing like a champ.”
That sounds like praise, so Castiel responds with a polite, “Thank you.”
Somehow they end up in the television room, where Castiel is deposited on the couch and falls into a hazy state of detachment, noticing but not really noticing how Dean putters around the room opening cabinets and talking to himself until he barks a loud, “Aha!” and the TV screen bursts into life.
“Cas, look.” Dean’s waving something in Castiel’s face. “Found this on the shelf. Someone here must have a sense of humor.”
They’re video tapes of what appear to be movies, some of which even seem familiar to Castiel. Dean’s laid out a handful of them on the table and Castiel eventually recognizes their commonality: they’re historical films, many of which are flashy, over-dramatic productions and at least one of which Castiel knows is banned back in the kingdom.
“This feels ominous,” Castiel says.
Dean puts one of the cassettes into the player and then practically leaps onto the couch, making Castiel bounce when the cushions shift. “We should pace ourselves, yeah? A movie a day, how about that? I’ll learn plenty in no time.”
“I doubt these things are accurate.”
“But that’s what you’re here for. You tell me when they get shit wrong. I’m going with this Raphael film first. Hey, remind me to ask Rachel to buy us some popcorn, ‘kay?”
“Which Raphael is that?” Castiel asks. “First, second or third?”
“I don’t know, man, I just work the remote.”
There are less productive ways to wrap up a day, that’s for sure. Castiel does like the couch, the food he’d had, the heat he can feel radiating from Dean’s side of the couch. It seems apropos to wind things up with a movie relevant to their interests, even if Castiel can barely keep his eyes open.
“This must be so weird for you,” Dean says. “Your family history put up like this?”
“You do realize they're probably making a movie about us right now.”
Dean chokes. “No.”
As the film plays Castiel drifts in and out of consciousness, eventually registering that it is tale about King Raphael II, whose era was about two hundred odd years ago during the second expansion of the kingdom. Dean doesn’t strike Castiel as the sort of person who cares for these types of films but he seems genuinely into it, occasionally laughing or groaning or commenting on the stupidity of whatever even that’s playing on out the screen. Sometimes Castiel is even able to pay attention to what’s happening, pointing out annoying inaccuracies and surprising accuracies in how the story plays out.
“So you’re not descended from her, right?” Dean says.
“Mm, no,” Castiel says, stifling a yawn. “Neither me nor Michael are of her line. We descend from her younger brother.”
“The Duke? The creepy moustache guy?”
Castiel clutches a cushion against his chest, eyelids getting heavier. “Yes.”
“Tough beans,” Dean says.
“It’s just a movie. Look, they didn’t even get the Tollbooth right. It was never a fortress, it’s a township. They don’t even have the tower I was born in, and that was erected at the first.” Maybe Castiel should call it a night. He’s going to fall asleep any moment now and his back will hate him for it, no matter how comfortable the couch is.
“Cas,” Dean says quietly. “You were born in prison?”
“Mmm, no, it’s not as simple as that. My birth mother was under house arrest when I was born. As the King’s cousin she was accorded the comforts and trappings as befitting her rank, so she stayed in the royal apartments.”
“Yeah, the royal apartments in a prison.”
Castiel lolls his head on the back of the couch, turning aside to blink sleepily at Dean. There’s not that much space between them, and even in the dim light Castiel can tell that Dean is once again appalled that Castiel cannot understand why Dean’s reacting this way. It’s as though Dean keeps forgetting how different they are, how they’ve lived through different circumstances and been allowed to take different things for granted.
Not that Castiel knows much about what Dean’s lived through. Castiel doesn’t want to be bitter so he’s been shoving that feeling down all day, but right now, in the casual intimacy of the television room, he marvels in how little he knows about Dean, in how sparse Dean has been about sharing information of his own life. It’s not like Castiel has any right to demand Dean tell him even half of what Castiel’s freely shared, but he wants it – he craves it – and has no idea how to voice that craving without making Dean shut down or flee.
“So your mom was, what, executed after you were born?”
Castiel nods. “And my father was killed at the Battle of Bridgeman, some months before that.”
“So you never knew your parents?”
“It’s all right, Dean. I don’t miss what I don’t know.” Castiel yawns. “My sister may have memories of them, but she didn’t talk of them much, I think that period was too painful for her. I am lucky to have had her in my life.”
“Your sister, Anna?” Dean asks. “Where’s she now?”
“Somewhere here, I imagine. She left Michael’s realm a few years ago, we still write to each other on occasion.”
“Jesus.”
“Good writer, Jesus. I enjoy his work.”
“This isn’t funny, Cas.”
If Castiel were more awake he could, perhaps, decipher the dark way with which Dean is looking at him. Once again there’s another conversation happening on top of the one they’re actually having, and Castiel feels warmed in a way that has nothing to do with Ilchester’s frankly insidious local brand of mustard.
This couch is nice, this moment is nice, the fact that Dean is looking at Castiel as though he’s a person who matters is nice. Sense memory decides to rear its head, reminding Castiel that Dean also smells very nice up close, and it would be nice if Castiel could add that to the many other nice things that this evening has brought them.
“You feel very strongly,” Castiel observes.
“Hey, don’t change the subject.”
“I like that about you.” Castiel leans over, letting gravity do most of the work in bringing their shoulders close enough to touch. Dean is frowning, and although Castiel doesn’t always like it when he frowns, Dean’s face moves in such interesting ways that it’s only more interesting up close.
Is it possible to feel pins-and-needles from being in someone’s presence? It must be possible, because Castiel is feeling it now as he moves in, studious in his observation of the way Dean’s brow moves and the way his mouth reforms, and that mouth is so interesting that Castiel must move in to kiss it.
Dean jerks back, eyes wide. “Uh.”
Castiel freezes, suddenly wide awake. Heat floods his face as it dawns on him what he’d done, what he’d assumed, what he’d forgotten.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel blurts out, sitting up sharply. “I wasn’t—I’d never take advantage of you, Dean.”
“Yeah, man, it’s cool.” The night is ruined, Dean is coughing awkwardly and subtle shuffling away from him, Castiel is a fool. “You’re tired, I get it.”
“I’d never take liberties with you,” Castiel insists. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Sure, yeah, hey this looks like an interesting part.” Dean’s not looking at him anymore, too busy fumbling with the remote and squinting at the TV.
It had been such a good day. Castiel hadn’t realized how contented he’d been until he’d gone and messed it up, and now he’s not even tired anymore, hands too cold and stomach twisting unpleasantly. What had he been thinking?
“Cas, it’s okay,” Dean says, gentler this time. “How about we forget that ever happened, huh?”
“That’s a good idea,” Castiel says. “I accept, thank you.”
“Great.”
Except it’s only easy in theory to forget something that happened within five minutes of it happening, unless there’s some way delete pockets of time – a skill of which is beyond even Castiel’s learning. The noise of the TV helps but only so much, and as the seconds and minutes tick on Castiel can almost literally see his chance to salvage the situation crawl farther and farther from view.
“I’m tired,” Castiel announces. “I think I’ll go to sleep.”
“You sure?” Dean asks. “I think someone’s gonna open a can of whoop-ass soon.”
“I’m pretty sure I know how it ends.” Castiel stands up slowly. “Can you manage yourself?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Goodnight, Dean.”
“’Night, Cas.”
Castiel tries to at least be grateful that he doesn’t trip on his way out of the room. It’s not that bad, he tells himself. This is still salvageable, Dean seems to be blessedly mature enough to be able to forgive trespasses and move on.
Even so, Castiel waits until he’s in the privacy of his chambers before he collapses face-first on the bed and groans his mortification.