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Chapter Text

“Have they arrived?” Castiel asks as he pushes through his office door, turning his head left and right for that blessed stack of manila envelopes. 

“Just now,” Russell tells him, nodding to the stack on his desk as he takes his place by the door. “I have yet to inform your father, of course.”

Anticipation bubbles up inside Castiel, turning his stomach in knots as he crosses the room and settles in his chair. His hands shake when he reaches for the top of the pile, because this is it. This is the last chance he will have at finding that name in a stack. This is the last batch of applications, and after weeks of waiting, hoping, frantically searching through piles of identical manila envelopes, only to be left disappointed, Castiel can hardly stand to hope.

His father already has his list of ten and has convinced himself that Castiel will just go along with it. He doesn’t care what Chuck thinks—if the name Castiel is looking for is in this pile, there will be eleven suitors.

“How long until he realizes we have them?” Castiel asks, not bothering to slow his pace as he rips into the first envelope. He doesn’t even glance Russell’s way.

“An hour at best,” Russell tells him, glancing at his watch. “Thirty minutes if he grows impatient.”

“Let us hope today is a busy day for His Majesty,” Castiel mumbles under his breath, slipping the contents of the first envelope out and promptly pushing it aside when the name Bela Talbot jumps up at him, along with a picture of a pretty blond. 

“I can help, Your Highness,” Russell says, but he doesn’t move. This isn’t the first time he’s offered to help Castiel get through his stack, but every time, something stops Castiel from accepting. Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t want to tell Russell who they’re looking for until he finds him, or maybe he just wants to be the one to find him. Either way, he will be doing it alone.

“While I appreciate the offer—”

“—you don’t need my help, I know.” Russell sighs, but takes a step to his left and flips the lock on the door. When Castiel glances his way, Russell shoots him a wink and a lopsided smile. “It might slow him down for a few minutes.”

Castiel flashes a quick, not-quite smile as he sets another envelope aside—not him—but excitement still flutters in his chest. It’s a strange feeling; one he hasn’t felt before. Not for a very long time, at least. He soaks it in, lets it fill him with hope. It must be here. Somewhere.

It has to be.

The unchecked pile shrinks steadily over the next hour, and with it, Castiel’s hope. 

The faces of pretty people with prestigious titles fly by in a blur, unimportant, easily forgettable, because the one he is looking for has no titles. No money to his name, or land to make him a lord.

There will be only a name, written in bold at the top of the page, and a picture of a face that’s been haunting Castiel’s dreams since he was six years old. Of course, the face of the boy he remembers will look vastly different now, but Castiel is sure he will recognize him the moment he sees him.

He slides his stiff fingers under the flap of the next envelope. The seal rips with a sharp sound, and Castiel wastes no time digging out the thick stack of information. Daphne Allen. Castiel sighs and slides the package back into the envelope before dropping it on top of the second stack.

He looks at the dwindling pile. Just six left. What are the odds of him being in one of those? What are the odds of him remembering Castiel at all? Sure, he’s the Crown Prince, but that does not render him unforgettable, and even if he does remember, that does not mean he feels the same way as Castiel.

As the seconds tick by on the grandfather clock across the room, the sun sliding across the floor through his open curtains, Castiel can’t help but feel a little foolish about his hope. How could he be so sure the boy, now a man, would want him in any kind of way? He has spent the last fifteen years of his life pining after someone who probably has not a care in the world for him.

A lump rises in Castiel’s throat, hot and heavy. This is ridiculous—he doesn’t know why he even bothered to organize a glorified competition in the first place. 

“Why did you allow me to do this?” Castiel asks the room at large, but Russell is still here, and he knows his guard will answer. Castiel picks up another envelope, ripping the seal with a little more force than is strictly necessary. 

“If you recall,” Russell says, shifting his feet as he folds his hands in front of him. “I tried tirelessly to talk you out of it.”

“Yes, yes,” Castiel says, barely glancing at the long, red hair in the photo before flinging the envelope away. “Would an arranged marriage have been better?” He knows it wouldn’t have been. Not that this isn’t exactly that. His father chose the ten suitors they are currently calling on, each one for their ability to legitimize his position as the future king. He’s sure his parents will throw a royal fit when they discover he is adding an eleventh suitor.

If he’s adding an eleventh suitor.

“We both know this is exactly that; you simply have your pick of his choices.” Russell raises an eyebrow in a we both know I’m right look. Yes, of course he is right, but that doesn’t mean Castiel wants to admit it.

“There are three left,” Castiel says, not quite as matter-of-fact as he’d hoped. He stares at them, sitting on the polished wood of his desk, and can’t help but feel like he is about to have his heart broken again.

“Three chances for you to find the one you’re looking for.”

“He has to be here,” Castiel says to himself this time. His hands are shaking as he reaches for the next envelope, taking it from the middle. He holds his breath, closes his eyes as he breaks the seal. The thick, creamy paper slides into his hands.

Castiel opens his eyes and all the breath rushes from his lungs.

“Is it him?” Russell asks, still standing by the door, but so keenly interested, he might as well be leaning over Castiel’s shoulder.

“It’s not.”

“Two more, Your Highness.”

“Right.” Castiel takes the one from the bottom this time, and he’s not sure why, but he almost doesn’t want to open it. Whether he likes the answer or not, opening these last two envelopes will give it to him. He will know for sure and he’s not entirely certain he’s ready for that.

“You open that one,” Russell is saying, standing in front of his desk now, the last envelope in his hand, “and I will open this one.”

Castiel opens his mouth to refuse, but something stops him. Instead, he nods, and it’s a little jerky, but he doesn’t care. He can’t bring himself to care about anything but what is in these two envelopes.

“Okay,” he breathes, and rips into the orange paper at the same time as Russell, his heart thundering in his chest. 

Where is the name, where is the—

The breath in Castiel’s lungs whooshes out of him as he stares at the bolded print. Not him.

“Russell?” Castiel looks up at his guard, at the package in his hands, turned to so he can read the name.

“Not him.” His heart sinks. That is it, then. He has his answer.

Dean Winchester doesn’t want him.

“Your Highness!” 

Castiel’s steps slow as Russell closes his office door behind him. He turns to see Benjamin hurrying down the hall toward them.

“What is it, Benjamin?” he asks. He’s not in the mood for problems right now—all he wants is to curl up in his rainbow room and forget the rest of the world exists for a few hours. 

“There was one held up at the post office—improper postage.” He’s smiling, but it’s nervous, like Castiel might be angry, but he can’t be. He can’t be, because his eyes latch onto the manila envelope with its bare postage corner and its hasty seal.

“One more?” he murmurs, his heart kicking in his chest, because this feels like something. He’s not sure what, exactly, but it feels like something.

“Yes, Your Highness.” He holds out the envelope.

“Your Highness,” Russell says, his hand already on the doorknob of his office. “Would you prefer to step inside—”

But Castiel is already tearing through the seal. His heart sits somewhere in his throat, his hands are shaking. Missing postage often means one cannot afford the cost of a stamp, so the mail is sent with the hopes that it might slip through.

His fingers close around the package, and he takes a deep, steadying breath. Here goes… everything.

Castiel slides the envelope off and lets it float to the marble floor. There’s a buzzing in his ears—a quiet ringing that can’t be from anywhere but inside his head—and everything starts to feel a little fuzzy.

He can hear his heart beating. Can feel it thundering in his chest.

“Is it him?” Russel asks, stepping closer. “Castiel, is it—”

“It is,” Castiel whispers, eyes locked on the photo of a man with green eyes and light brown hair. With a beautiful face and too many freckles to count. “It’s him.”

Lightness floods him, knocks back the sick feeling that had been churning in his stomach up until now. A real, genuine smile breaks across his face as he clutches the papers to his chest. Dean Winchester wants him.

Now all he has to do is figure out how not to mess this up.

Chapter Text

Castiel adjusts his gloves, doing everything he can to keep his fidgeting hands busy as they wait for their cue. This is it, the moment he has been preparing for, for weeks. The roar of the crowd seeps through the windows, the shouting and cheering sneak around the doorframe.

The crown sits heavy on his head, pure gold and riddled with sapphires, and his mantel weighs him down, dragging behind him in a thick train of fabric. Castiel glances at his father, standing tall in his own royal regalia, and imagines how heavy his crown is.

One day, it will be his.

Castiel twists to look out the double doors leading to the balcony as his stomach flips. It is still a long way away, and he lets that thought soothe him. He will be king, but not yet.

“Hold your head up, Castiel,” his mother says, lifting her hand, palm up, as if she is going to raise it for him. He knows she won’t—she hasn’t so much as grazed his arm in fifteen years.

“Of course,” he breathes, then nearly jumps out of his skin when tiny fingers wrap around his gloved hand. He looks down to find Hael, the youngest of his five siblings, clinging to him.

“Are you getting married today?” She asks, her big blue eyes, much the same as his, staring up at him like he has all the answers in the world. He has yet to discover a way to tell her he doesn’t—not even close.

“Not today—”

“Hael,” Mother snaps, rushing over and grabbing Hael by her tiny shoulders. She hauls her back, away from Castiel, her fingers slipping from his. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

Castiel sighs, but doesn’t argue. He can still feel the shaky awareness in his fingertips, like a phantom touch that prickles under his skin. It’s been years since he has felt any kind of physical affection. He has been touched, of course; Susie dresses him every morning, and Hael holds his hand whenever she gets the chance, but beyond that…

“It is time, Your Majesty,” Duma says, speaking to Chuck with a clipboard in her hand. Castiel can’t recall a time where he has seen her without it, and he doesn’t think he ever will.

“She pinched me!”

“He pulled my hair!”

“I don’t care who did what,” Castiel’s mother snaps, glaring at the twins, Anna and Gabriel, as they scowl at each other. “When we step through that door, I don’t want to hear a peep from either of you.”

“Mom—” Inias starts, his hands folded in front of him as he waits to be acknowledged. Somehow, his tie has come undone, hanging loose around his neck.

“Not now, Inias.” She turns away, and Inias’s shoulders fall.

Castiel steps forward to fix it, familiar anger prickling inside him because of all his siblings, Inias is the most ignored by their parents. “Come,” he says, urging Inias forward.

“Castiel, you need to be ready.” 

Mother stands beside the door, her pinched face staring into the September day as she waits for him to do as he’s bid. 

Castiel sighs, but finds Samandriel’s gaze. “Would you help him?”

“Of course,” Samandriel says, stepping forward to help Inias. Castiel turns away, frustration bubbling up inside him. Helplessness, too. He feels trapped—penned in like a wild animal. He doesn’t want this, any of this. A life partner? Yes. One arranged by his parents? Not in the slightest.

“Are we ready?” Duma asks, looking between them before giving a crisp nod and turning on her heel. “Castiel, you will exit last.”

Castiel’s eyes fall to the floor, his mind whirling, stomach flip-flopping as the magnitude of this day settles in his chest. His twenty-first birthday and he is to meet his suitors. He is only barely old enough to drink and he is already being married off.

Before he registers his family moving, it’s his turn to step out onto the balcony, and with one last, steadying breath, he does.

The crowd falls silent. 

Castiel scans the people, searching for someone he’s not sure he will find. He must be here, he thinks, but who knows? Not every citizen is able to attend such events—not everyone wants to.

Castiel takes his place beside his parents, and like a swelling wave, cheers wash over the people, climbing higher and higher until there’s a ringing in his ears.

Heat climbs up his chest and into his cheeks, and no matter how many years he has done this, he doesn’t think he will ever get used to the attention. 

“Prince Castiel Charles James Novak, son of King Charles Peter Francis Novak the third, and Queen Naomi Jane Florence Novak, Rulers of the great nation of Amarellino. Today, on the eighteenth of September, His Royal Highness will declare his future companion and, upon the unfortunate death of his father, will ascend the throne to rule. Do you accept this honor, Your Highness?” Aaron dips his head and takes a step back, clearing the space for Castiel to step forward. 

“I do,” he says, his voice washing over the people through the speaker system. 

“From this crowd of suitors, ten have been chosen to meet the prince and have a chance at his hand. He has carefully sifted through the applications, so trust that this is not something that has been taken lightly.” He nods, though the irony of it all is not lost on him. He had his pick of one suitor; it was the others who were sifted through and carefully considered. “Prince Castiel will now read out the names of his potential companions.”

Castiel nods again, murmuring a quick thank you as he steps forward, his shaking hands pulling the list of names from his inside pocket. He clears his throat to speak. “It is an honor to speak before you today, on the day of my twenty-first birthday.” He tries to smile, his cheeks ache, and it doesn’t feel quite right. “Today, I will meet my future companion, which is enough of a gift in itself. Now, I will read the names.”

He takes a moment to settle his racing heart. He tries to, anyway, but the traitorous organ continues to beat a thundering rhythm against his chest wall. He sucks in a deep breath and decides to start with the most familiar name on the list and go from there.

“Hannah Becket, Sarah Blake, and Charlie Bradbury,” he says, his words ringing through the courtyard and sending up a flurry of giggles. “Balthazar Salazar, Joanna Harvelle and Lily Sunder.” Another cheer echoes through the crowd and his anxiety ratchets higher. Five more. “April Kelly.” 

The scream that lets loose makes him jump, and he searches the crowd for a moment before refocusing on his list. The paper crinkles beneath his fingers as he reads on. 

“Meg Masters, Michael Haven and Kelly Kline.” The names tumble off his tongue, no more extraordinary than the ones before. He knows their faces, of course, and perhaps they will mean something to him after a while, but for now, they are scattered features and scant details.

For the half a second he gets before reading the last name, Castiel scans the crowd. One final chance to find him, but the faces all blend together—a mix of dark suits and colorful dresses—and he gives up, looking back at his paper. At the final name.

“The final suitor is…” he starts, then pauses, because he can’t stop the half smile that breaks across his face. He must be here, he thinks. Why else would he submit an application? “Dean Winchester.”

The crowd erupts.

The silence of his bedroom is a stark contrast to the roaring crowd, and Castiel soaks in the quiet. There’s a growing pressure behind his eyelids, a mounting ache at his temples, and nothing short of a nap will cure it.

Unfortunately for him, his suit is freshly pressed and he’s still wearing his crown. That, and he has dinner in a few hours, then post-dinner tea. There isn’t time for anything more than some paperwork before he heads to the dining hall.

Still, Castiel takes a moment to step up to his window, the urge to peel back the curtain and peek through the pristine glass tugging at him with an insistent hand. 

Castiel slides two fingers between the thick curtains, pulling them back to let in the soft gray light. It cuts through half his body, the other half still cast in shadow as he takes in the grounds beyond. This land… all this space to move and use and have—all of it will be his one day—and still, still, he feels trapped. Suffocated by the absolute certainty of how his life will turn out.

His father will die and he will become king. Somewhere along the way, he will marry and produce an heir. Apparently, according to his mother, without ever touching another human being in all his life.

Alright, so that is a slight over-exaggeration, but he’s sure if she had her way, it wouldn’t be.

Castiel lets out a soft sigh, his breath clouding the window for half a second before it fades into a hazy film of moisture.

That’s when he sees him.

The breath catches in his lungs, sticking, clinging to his insides, because he’s right there, so close, Castiel can see the tear at the shoulder seam of his suit. Dean stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the wall of windows, and he hasn’t seen Castiel yet, he doesn’t think. 

His eyes are drifting, though. Moving closer, closer. Three windows away, then two, then one, then—

Castiel can tell the exact moment Dean spots him. His shoulders tense, and he freezes, head craned up to the sky. Castiel’s fingers slip, almost drop the curtain, and he scrambles to hold on, lest Dean move away when he thinks Castiel does. 

Suddenly, Dean looks away, and all the air whooshes out of his lungs. Castiel drops the curtain, backing away as his heart races. His hands shake—a violent tremor he can’t explain—and he curls them into fists.

A new fear unfurls inside him, freezing his heart. What if he can’t bring himself to speak to Dean? What if, simply by his own nerves, he ruins any chance he might have with the boy who shook his hand, because he can’t bring himself to string a sentence together?

This is going to be a disaster.

By the time Castiel makes it down to dinner, he’s thirty minutes late, sick to his stomach, and sweating through his suit. He’s sure they can all tell, what with the way they stare at him when he steps through the door, Russell at his side.

He keeps his head up, eyes straight ahead as he takes his seat, but inside, he’s vibrating out of his skin. They are all here, looking at me, expecting something from me. 

Deep breath. He knows how to deal with this—he has been trained in such situations for years, and he knows how to act around his inferiors. 

Castiel lowers himself into his designated chair at the head of the table. He will have to request a change, he thinks. Being at the head of the table feels too formal for such things.

“Your Highness,” Meg says, her smile creeping in when he glances her way. She’s not exactly his usual choice, though he did select her himself. He has his own reasons for that. “Tell me, do you like my dress?”

Castiel swallows hard, but remains outwardly calm. He knows how to do this, and even if his insides are squirming, he can feel instinct and training taking over.

“You look lovely, of course,” he says, soft enough to keep their conversation between the two of them, but not so much as to encourage a private conversation. Right now, all he wants to do is eat his dinner and find some way to speak with the man that is currently sitting near the other end of the table, chatting amiably with Hannah.

Perhaps he can have her introduce them…

No, he can introduce himself. This is for him, after all, and if he can’t manage to speak to Dean, how on Earth does he expect to get to know the man?

Now if he could just stop his heart from beating out of his chest, he might just be able to stumble through a conversation without embarrassing himself too much.

Meg continues talking in his ear, not seeming to care all too much that he hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes. He focuses on his meal, keeping his eyes down and negotiating with his stomach to keep his food down. He’s not really even sure what he’s eating, honestly, though he’s sure it is delicious.

The sound of Dean’s laughter is like a shock to the system, dousing him in warmth as he looks up to find the source of the sound.

Dean sits next to Hannah, his cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink, and his smile the brightest thing in the room. Castiel can’t hear what is being said, but he’s entirely taken by the beautiful man, even if Dean doesn’t spare him a glance, so tied up in his conversation.

Castiel turns back to his food, a lump pushing into his throat—something close to fear swelling inside him. What if Dean doesn’t remember him? What if he is here only for the extra funds offered by the production company? What if—

Castiel shakes his head. He has never backed down from a challenge before, and if getting to know Dean as well as he can in the next ten weeks is what his challenge is to be, then so be it.

The moment his plate is clear, Castiel sets his cutlery on his plate, wipes his mouth, and stands. Conversation dies on the lips of his suitors as all eyes turn to him. He meets each set in turn, never lingering too long, no matter how much he wishes he could.

“Thank you all for accepting my invitation to dinner. I am aware that this is quite a bit to take in, and that being away from your family for any amount of time can be difficult.” He looks at Hannah again, his best friend since childhood; he knows it has been some time since she has seen her family. “But I am grateful and humbled at the thought that you should want to get to know me enough to do so.” Castiel can’t help himself and glances back at Dean, letting his gaze rest on those beautiful green eyes perhaps a little longer than he should.

“It’s a pleasure to meet such a dashing fellow,” Balthazar says, the slur in his words turning Castiel's stomach and forcing him to lock his features into careful calm. He just about breaks, though, when the man tips back in his chair and spills his wine on the carpet “Am I right?” Balthazar continues, turning his bloodshot stare onto the other suitors.

“Oh, yes!” Meg’s voice jumps in, shrill and more than a little tipsy. “Very handsome,” she says, her hand reaching out to touch his sleeve. He almost lets her.

A gasp reaches his ears, and that, more than anything, makes him flinch. He steps away as Russell moves in, standing between him and the touchy woman. 

“Might I remind you all that, though you are here to court His Royal Highness, he is still the Crown Prince and you are, under no circumstances, allowed to lay a hand on him.”

Castiel almost rolls his eyes, because really, Russell is going a tad overboard, but he reigns himself in. Cameras are watching him—the world is watching him. 

When Russell steps away, he retakes his place behind his chair, taking a moment to sort out his jacket and clear his throat before stumbling through the rest of what he has to say. “We will be moving to the sitting room across the hall for coffee and dessert, please join me in there in a few minutes. Now, if you will excuse me…” Castiel turns, marching out of the room. His hands are shaking, heart beating out of his chest, because the magnitude of what he’s doing, once blessedly absent, has smacked him square in the chest. 

He is going to marry someone in this room whether he likes them or not.

“Is this not incredibly creepy?” Castiel asks, whispering so as not to be heard. Russell sits beside him, peering through the grate high up on the wall, watching the suitors mingle and eat dessert as they wait for him.

“It is, yes,” he says, not bothering to look at Castiel as he leans closer to the grate. “Ah, the pie makes more sense.”

A flush rises in his cheeks, heating him from the inside out. Of course he put it together. “There are a variety of preferences in the crowd; I wanted to ensure we met them all.”

Russell looks his way, and out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can see the smirk. “I seem to recall a certain Special Interests section very explicitly stating PIE—all capitals.”

“A coincidence at best.”

“You read it to me. Out loud.”

“I did no such thing,” Castiel says, and if it were light enough to see anything, he’s sure his face is as red as a beet. Perhaps he had had a little too much wine, and maybe he had taken it upon himself to convince Russell of how incredible Dean sounds, and is it really his fault if—

“He does look happy, though.”

Castiel sighs, the tension bleeding out of him as he finds Dean across the room, sitting beside Hannah and sharing one of his slices. There’s a pleased grin on his face, delight in his eyes, and Castiel can’t help but smile. “He does.”

They watch for a while longer, sitting in the walls, pretending it’s normal. 

“Are you ready?” Russell says when Dean is halfway through his third slice of pie and waving his arms around as he speaks to Hannah. His heart aches a little at the sight; he wants to be the one Dean speaks to with so much passion.

“Yes,” he says, the word falling out of him as he stands. Even with his heart racing and his hands sweating inside his gloves, he doesn’t want to be watching from the sidelines anymore.

“I’m ready for this,” Castiel murmurs under his breath as Russell leads the way out of the abandoned passages and to the sitting room where the suitors are gathered. “I am prepared. I am in control. I am—”

Russell thrusts the doors open, and Castiel’s mouth snaps shut. He has to… he has to go in.

A ringing starts up inside his head, a constant, high-pitched whine that sounds a little too much like alarm bells. The room blurs at the edges, shifting and spinning as panic climbs up his windpipe.

They’re looking. They are all looking.

Castiel stumbles into the room, and in his panic, he doesn’t think to keep his gaze averted. His eyes drop right on Dean. Without looking, without thought, because he knows where he is.

And when he finds Dean looking back, something inside him calms.

It’s the strangest thing.

Chapter Text

Castiel’s feet slap the dirt, his thighs aching with every stride. Every heaving breath burns his lungs and sweat drips from his hairline, rolling into his eyes. 

The sun lifts itself over the horizon, blazing hot and orange over the rolling hills. It has been some time since he’s been able to escape for his morning run, and his body is letting him know it.

Still, it feels good, and he relishes the ache he’s sure to feel tomorrow. It reminds him of his days in basic training, when he would work himself to the bone, mind off, pushing his body to the limits. He never thought he would miss that, though here he is.

The chill clinging to the air burns away with the sun, and by the time Castiel crests the last hill and slows his pace, his shirt is soaked through.

“Susanna is waiting,” Russell says as Castiel slows to a stop, sucking in deep lungfuls of air as he takes the towel Russell hands to him. “She is in quite the huff.”

Castiel arches an eyebrow, taking the offered water as he swipes at his forehead, wiping away the stinging sweat. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Is that all you plan to say on the matter?”

“It is.” Russell holds the door for him, a barely visible smile on his face as Castiel shakes his head. 

“Alright—”

“Castiel.”

Internally, Castiel groans as the sound of his mother’s voice carries down the hall, accompanied by the click-click over her heels. “Mother,” he says, scrubbing at his hair with the towel as Russell bows at his side. 

“You know I hate when you walk through my palace looking like that,” she says, her face pinching up as she gestures at his running shorts. “It’s unsightly.”

“How else am I supposed to get to my rooms, if not through the palace?” He is beyond tired of this conversation, having partaken in it every time he is so unlucky as to run into her after his run. He gives her a look that will probably get him in all kinds of trouble before walking past; he doesn’t have time for her whims.

“You… just—not through my palace!”

Castiel pivots on his heel, walking backwards as he speaks. “It’s not your palace, mother.” He spins back around, his fake smile falling from his lips as he turns for the front steps instead of the back way he had planned on taking.

“You are pushing your luck, Your Highness,” Russell says, but even Castiel can hear the humor in his voice. The man loves to watch him stir up trouble so long as he doesn’t have to deal with the fallout.

“What will she do, really?” Castiel shoots him a look from the corner of his eye as they walk right up the center of the grand staircase. When their eyes meet, they grin.

“Infuriating, disrespectful little…”

Castiel shares a look with Russell when they step into his room to the sound of Susie muttering under her breath as she digs through her kit.

“I will take my leave now,” Russell says, bowing his head as he backs toward the door. “Benjamin will be up shortly.”

“Russell, wait—” But the man is already through the door, leaving Castiel alone with his stylist. He sighs, turning toward the muttering woman as she flings something across the room. “Susannah,” he says, stripping out of his drenched shirt on his way into the bathroom. “Good morning.”

“The hell it is,” she snaps, cutting a look at him as a scowl contorts her features. “That boy is the most insufferable, chattering, insecure thing I have ever had the displeasure of working with.”

“Surely he can’t be that bad,” he says, dropping his shorts and underwear to the floor before turning the shower up hot—he likes the way it burns his skin, sinking into his muscles and making him feel something.

“He took one look at his suit and insisted he looks like a leprechaun!”

“I’m sure he did,” Castiel mutters under his breath, too quiet for her to hear. He can only imagine the shade of green she has him in, and just how well it will make his eyes stand out.

“He is like a blushing bride, so fidgety that it took three times as long to get him ready than it should have. And the bags under his eyes—he looks like he doesn’t sleep! Except he does, because it took fifteen minutes to drag him out of bed.” She huffs, throwing her hands up at her sides. “Lazy, lazy boy—and too skinny! Your measurements are all wrong.”

Castiel watches her closely, studies the way worry sinks into her eyes. “You’re taken with him,” he says, realization softening his words. A smile tugs at his lips when she grumbles under her breath, shaking her head. “No, not just taken with him; you like him.” 

“I do not!” 

But Castiel’s not listening, too busy laughing, and he’s not quite sure why. Susannah Sampson is one of the hardest people to get to know, and she is not easy to grow on, but somehow in the span of twenty-four hours and two meetings, Dean Winchester has managed it.

“I’m a little jealous, if I’m being honest,” he says, stepping into the shower and closing the glass door behind him. “You didn’t fret over me so much for years.”

“He’s too skinny!” she says, apparently finished with her ridiculous charade. “The boy needs to eat, and he needs some proper clothes, and—”

“And I’m certain you can sort him out.” Castiel pushes the hair back from his face, letting water sluice over his chest as he tips his head back. “For now, please wait in the dressing room.”

He can tell she wants to argue, but she doesn’t. She snaps her mouth shut, spins on her heel, and leaves the room, closing the door behind her without complaint.

Not that he expects anything less; he is the Crown Prince, after all.

Castiel smooths his gloved hands down his front as they approach the double doors he came through not two hours ago after his run. His mother is nowhere to be seen now, thankfully, but out in the grounds sits a round table, the white tablecloth glowing under the morning sun. It makes his eyes ache to look at.

Benjamin follows close behind, not speaking, and for some reason, Castiel wishes he would. He needs something to distract him from the gnawing panic climbing up his throat.

It’s just breakfast, he tells himself. Just breakfast. On international television. With ten strangers.

Before Castiel can register what’s happening, the doors swing wide and trumpets—actual trumpets—sound. A nervous smile jumps onto his lips before he can stop it, but he smothers it quickly and straightens his shoulders as he crosses the grounds toward the table.

“Good morning,” he says, and he has to give himself credit for how steady it sounds. He takes a moment to look at everyone and, yes, there is the leprechaun suit. He snuffs out another smile and settles in his chair opposite that suit. “I trust you all slept well?”

A swell of answers reach his ears, Dean’s not among them, and he tries not to think too much into that. Once again, Meg is at his side, April on the other with her pretty red hair. If he’s being honest, he isn’t all too upset about her presence. For years, her family has attended events held by the palace, and though they have only spoken a handful of times in the past, they were always nice conversations.

A soft breeze swirls through the garden, tossing up pollen and dead leaves, and cooling Castiel’s heated skin as he cuts his sausage with delicate precision, all while trying to be discreet as he watches Dean eat—like he’s starving and can’t quite contain himself.

His heart clenches, and he looks to the servers, signaling for them to bring the trays around again.

“The room is stunning,” April is saying, leaning in with a smile that flashes all her teeth. On her other side, Kelly has her chin in her hand, looking at him like he has all the answers in the world.

He looks down at his plate as that familiar weight starts to build on his chest, pressing down, down, down as they look and look and look. 

“I’m glad you approve,” he says, the words barely squeezing out past his tight throat. He needs to get out of here, go somewhere they can’t see him; where no one wants anything from him.

“Yeah, no, okay,” Dean says from the other side of the table, the excitement bubbling in his words catching Castiel’s attention and drawing his eyes to the man across from him. He’s speaking with Charlie Bradbury, fully entrenched with their private chat. “Okay, so when I was, I don’t know…five? Six, maybe? Anyway, doesn’t matter.” Dean lifts his freshly replenished glass of orange juice to his lips and takes a sip. “When I was five or six I was really into the whole acting thing, okay? I made up this one-man play with costumes and dialogue—the whole shebang—and performed for my parents every night.”

“Only the one show?” Charlie asks, and Castiel looks between the two of them in turn. They speak like they know each other better than the last twenty-four hours would allow.

“Only the one show, and, believe me, it was just as tedious and annoying as you’re imagining it.” Dean smiles, and it’s so bright, so cheerful, it hits Castiel square in the chest. The weight eases. “So, somewhere around this time my dad lost his job, and we were really struggling to keep food on the table, you know?”

“No idea.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, fine.” Dean waves her off with a flip of his hand, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he pauses for a moment. “So, we’re struggling. Like, my mom is cutting us back a meal a day, kind of struggling. And, mind you, Sammy isn’t even thought of at this point, so he’s not there, inhaling all our food, which, if you knew Sam, would make sense…” Dean pauses again, looking like he’s thinking about something, and Castiel wishes more than anything that he could see what is inside his head. “But, whatever.”

“Whatever,” Charlie parrots, looking at Dean like everything he’s saying is so fascinating, but… it is. Is he not looking at Dean in exactly the same way? His breakfast lays forgotten on his plate, eggs growing cold in the late-summer breeze as he watches, transfixed by Dean’s every word.

“So, little Dean, being the same resourceful, clever little shit he is today, decides to take his one-man show on the road.” Dean pauses, and Castiel finds himself leaning forward in his seat as Charlie gasps, holding her hand to her heart.. “Sir Randal B. Fransisco and General Fiddleworth made quite the killing down in the market.”

“No way.” Charlie throws her head back and laughs. “Seriously?”

“Perhaps you could take me for a walk around the grounds after breakfast?” April says, her full attention on him, but Castiel hardly registers her words as Dean takes a bite off the end of his sausage and nods.

“Kept us fed until Dad got a new job. I was convinced I’d be a famous actor one day, but now I think they all just saw how skinny I was under my ratty clothes and took pity on me.” He shrugs, but Castiel can see the sadness in the way he looks down at his plate, and it echoes inside him, too. “Either way, it kept us fed, so I guess it doesn’t really matter why the money was given.”

It’s then that Dean seems to notice all eyes are on him, and a deep blush rises in his cheeks when his eyes lift before dropping right back down to his plate.

“Wow, that’s quite the story,” Meg says at his side, her voice this with sarcasm, and Dean’s head snaps up, a fire in his eyes Castiel doesn’t expect. “Anyone else? No one wants to top that tall tale?”

“You think I’m lying.” Meg scoffs, her lip curling. God, what a vile woman; if he could send her home now, he would. “Well, I can assure you there are plenty of locals selling in the market, even today, that can attest to my fabulous acting skills.” Dean leans back in his chair, that same charming smile he flashed for his application on his face.

“I think that’s something to be proud of.” The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them, but he means every one.

Dean’s eyes snap in his direction, locking on him, and Castiel forces himself not to look away. Another blush rises in Dean’s cheeks.

“Being able to take care of your family in times of need, even at such a young age, is incredibly honorable. You should be proud of your strength.” The longer he looks, the easier it is to keep looking, and when Dean smiles…

“Any-who…” Balthazar says, suddenly at his side smelling like mimosas and last night’s red. “Castiel, would you care to show me around the garden?” He gives the man a tight-lipped smile, wanting nothing more than to refuse and look at Dean for a while longer, but the cameras are watching. The other suitors are watching. The world is watching.

He stands, taking his time until there is no more time to take.

With his hands folded in front of him, Castiel walks away from the table with Balthazar at his side, a safe distance between them on the winding cobblestone pathway. He takes in the endless blue sky, the leaves rustling in the trees, and the robin that perches on the bird feeder Anna made last June, with its red roof and deep brown walls.

“You don’t speak much, do you?” Balthazar says, his lilting accent slurred with too many mimosas. Unfortunately, Castiel thinks he will have to be the first to leave—the priceless artifacts decorating his home will be better off for it.

“I speak when I have something to say.” Which is true. He has never been one for small talk, despite his role suggesting as much. 

“And you don’t have anything to say to me?”

Castiel flushes, because really? He’s being rude, and the hurt in Balthazar’s voice confirms it. “I apologize,” he says, ducking his chin before looking back at the man beside him. He really is handsome in a roguish sort of way, but he’s Castiel’s father’s choice—the son of a friend from his military days—and he’s just not interested. “I am not accustomed to having strangers in my home, vying for my attention. All of this is rather strange to me.”

“Sure,” Balthazar says, nodding along as they round the bend and make their back toward the rest of his suitors. “But how do you expect to get to know us if you can’t speak with us?”

“I don’t know.” That’s the crux of his issues, isn’t it? These people, though lovely and unique in their own ways, are so, so different from him. Is it even possible to connect with them in any sort of real way? 

Or is any and every relationship doomed from the start?

Castiel closes his balcony door behind him with a soft click, his mind spinning with the events of the day. All things considered, it was pretty ordinary—breakfast on the lawn, a few short conversations with his suitors, a seemingly endless pile of paperwork—but with an underlying current of tension flowing through everything.

The stars shine down on him in tiny pinpricks of light, dotting the blackness in a mosaic. It’s beautiful and cold. He shivers under the chill, but doesn’t think to go back inside as he leans against the railing and looks out over the grounds.

Every muscle in his body locks up when movement catches his eyes. A dark figure wanders out from the palace, face tipped to the sky, staring and staring and staring at the stars until they plunk down on the stone bench far below.

Castiel holds his breath and waits for them to speak, but after a while of the still air remaining entirely silent, he starts to think perhaps they haven’t noticed him here.

The tension eases from his muscles and he sags deeper into the railing, relaxing under the cover of night. From here, Castiel can’t tell who it is exactly, but he would hazard a guess at one of his suitors.

Wide shoulders and short hair—one of the men, though which?—are the only defining features so far away. Not that it matters; his suitors are not permitted to wander the palace or the grounds of their own accord, and yet, Castiel can’t bring himself to call the man on it. 

Perhaps Castiel is imagining it, but there is something about him that is comforting. His presence settles the riot inside him, easing the panic that has been swelling like the tides over the last few days.

For now, they can be unknowing companions, just here to admire the stars.

Then, the man’s chin falls as Castiel watches him, wandering down, down, down, crossing the outside of the building, from the top floor, all the way to him.

Castiel feels the moment the man notices him, and he has to bite his lip to keep in the sound that tries to escape, because he’s there. Right there. 

Dean sits still as stone, but Castiel knows he’s calculating his next move. There’s just something about the way he locks up that says he’s about to run. Castiel waits, curious to see what he decides.

After a while, he gets his answer. 

Dean’s shoulders relax as he sinks into the bench, and he must be freezing, but he doesn’t move. Does he know who he’s looking at? Does Dean care that it’s him?

A twinge of insecurity wiggles its way into his heart, because what if he doesn’t? What if Castiel’s presence is nothing more than a nuisance? What if he has just ruined Dean’s quiet, private moment?

Best to leave before I make it worse, he thinks, and spins on his heel before he can talk himself out of it. He needs to rest anyway; he has an early start tomorrow if he wishes to get a run in before Mother wakes and ruins his plans.

The gauzy curtains flutter as he pulls open the door, a rush of heat smacking him in the face and making him a little dizzy. He drops onto his bed and looks at his hands, his mind whirling with doubts.

The longer he thinks, the more he doubts, because really? What are the odds of Dean sitting under his window in the cold, looking up at the stars? None, that’s what.

Castiel huffs, dropping his hands to his sides as he looks across the room as the closed curtains. It wasn’t Dean, he decides. 

He is foolish for thinking it could be.

Chapter Text

If he has to listen to one more minute of Dick Roman’s whining about the homeless in the park, he’s going to confiscate the man’s home and open it up to the people.

“It’s just unsightly,” he says, that smarmy smile Castiel is sure he thinks is charming on his face. “Tourism is failing as a result, and the economy is—”

“That’s enough,” Castiel says, holding up a hand for the man to stop. How stupid of him to think his father was giving him this meeting because he trusts him. He should know better by now. “If you would like to have the homeless out of the park, fund their healthcare, give them jobs, and build them homes. Until that point in time, resign yourself to the fact that they are also citizens of this kingdom.”

“Your Highness, I don’t think that is fair—”

“No, Mr. Roman,” Castiel says, pushing away from the table and rising to his feet. The rest of the room stands with him as he levels Dick with a flat look. “It is not fair to be displaced and hungry when there are so many others with the means to do something about it, but no desire.”

“I don’t—”

“Good day, Mr. Roman. Joshua will escort you to your car.” With that, Castiel heads for the door, his bladder screaming at him to find the nearest bathroom before he ruins his suit.

The hallway is empty when he steps into it, not a servant in sight, and for that, he is grateful. Not that he doesn’t like to see them, he’s just… in a hurry.

Castiel zeros in on the bathroom door when it comes into view, shuffling his way across the marble floor and slamming his shoulder into the door at the same time he turns the knob.

He just about wets himself when someone jumps on the other side, heart skipping and tripping as his bladder spasms dangerously.

“Oh, my apologies,” he says, stepping back as the person—Dean, he realizes—stares at him with wide, panicked eyes. He stops, looking a little closer when the panic doesn’t ebb. “Is everything alright?”

Dean throws his hands up in the air, a flush rising in his cheeks. “I, uh…my face—the makeup,” he stops, sucking in a deep breath as his eyes close. “I accidentally washed off the makeup they put on me and now I have to go back in there looking even more like a fumbling idiot than I already do.”

Castiel does his best to hide it, but shock still ripples through him as Dean rambles on. A… fumbling idiot? He’s not—

Not the point, and not the issue at hand.

With his mind made up, he steps around the door and closes it behind him, making certain to flip the lock as well. “This is easily remedied; no need to worry. Please, take a seat,” he says, and gives Dean a moment to collect himself by focussing on removing his gloves one finger at a time.

He sets them aside, draped over the edge of the sink, before bending down to search the cupboard below for the little makeup bag he keeps down here for exactly this purpose.

When he straightens up and turns, only to find Dean still standing where he left him with a bewildered look on his face, he arches an eyebrow. “Are you disobeying me?” he asks, hoping Dean might laugh, or roll his eyes, or something to ease the strain written all over his face, but he doesn’t. Instead, it only worsens, tightening with fear as he drops onto the bench and folds his hands in his lap.

Castiel forces a tiny smirk just to let Dean know he was joking—he’s not that bad—and watches as a flush colors his cheeks. “Good,” he whispers, running the cloth he grabbed from the cabinet under warm water.

The sound of running water reminds him of why he rushed in here in the first place and he has to focus all of his will power on containing his bladder—he would never be able to look Dean in the eye again. 

“I just need to get the old makeup off,” he says, and before he can stop himself—before he can so much as think to do anything else—he clutches Dean’s chin in his bare hand and brings his other up to wipe away the old, smeared makeup.

It’s like an electric current running up his arm. Hot, blushing skin against his palm, radiating through him in waves of buzzing awareness. His heart skips a beat, then two, and he’s not sure if he wants to pull away or move closer. Whether it feels like pain or pleasure.

He has to force himself to think, to breathe, to focus on the task at hand, because all this overwhelming feeling is washing over him. The room goes a little cloudy, his pulse thunders in his ears—oh God, is this another one of those…

No.

No, he won’t do this now. He won’t. He can’t, because Dean is too important, too special to mess up, and he doesn’t want to lose him before he even has the chance to—

“There,” Castiel whispers, jerking his hand away before he can stop himself. It doesn’t make him feel better, and instead, phantom sensations jitter up his arm, making him miss the way Dean’s smooth, warm skin felt under his fingers. He sucks in a shaky breath and busies himself with digging through the makeup bag. “All clean. Don’t move, please.”

The color-matching foundation is right at the top of his bag, easy to grab if his hands weren’t shaking. God, he hopes Dean isn’t watching as he fumbles with the bottle and a brush, doing his best to calm his racing heart as he squirts the foundation onto the bristles in a little white pearl.

“Why is it white?” Dean asks, the words jumping off his tongue so fast, Castiel just knows he hadn’t meant to speak, and his suspicions are only confirmed when Dean’s cheeks flush a lovely shade of red.

The tiniest of smiles twitches at the corners of his mouth before he can stifle it. “It's a color-matching foundation,” he says, something like humor trying to bubble up inside him as he looks from Dean’s cheeks to his eyes. “I’m going to need you to stop blushing so it doesn’t come out red.”

A strange gasping, stuttering sound comes out of Dean’s mouth as he opens and closes it, the shade of red darkening all the more.

Castiel loses the battle against his smile. “I’m kidding.”

“Oh,” he breathes. “Okay, good because we’d never get out of here, otherwise.”

Castiel’s stomach flip-flops as something melts in his chest, because he is doomed. Absolutely doomed if this is the real Dean Winchester—awkward and adorable, fumbling and honest. He needs to distract himself before he says something idiotic like marry me.

Without a second thought, Castiel grips Dean by the chin and swipes the brush across his face, ignoring the way Dean swallows against his palm.

“Prone to blushing, are you?” Castiel asks, because he can’t help himself, and he still needs to pee so bad, his bladder aches, and perhaps talking with Dean will distract him long enough so as not to embarrass himself entirely.

“Uh-huh. Mom thought she was feeding me too much beet soup, but it turns out I blush like a virgin on her wedding night.” A groan slips from between Dean’s lips as he closes his eyes, and… and shit, what were they talking about? “Sorry—not much of a filter.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says, forcing all his focus into spreading an even layer of foundation across Dean’s skin. He’s not thinking about needing to pee anymore, or Dean’s blushing face, or even the way his knees ache from pressing into the cold tile. No, the only thing on his mind is what a shame it is to cover all those lovely freckles. “I rather like that about you, if I’m being honest.”

He doesn’t give Dean a chance to respond, though, tilting his face back down with gentle pressure as he shifts closer, situating himself right between Dean’s knees. God, what his mother would say if she could see him now.

He shoves all thoughts of his mother from his mind, focusing on Dean’s perfect mouth. The soft angle sloping into the corner, the way his cupid’s bow cuts a perfect arch, how smooth his skin is under Castiel’s hand, still vibrating with electric awareness, down into his chest now, thrumming like a plucked guitar string in an endless loop.

He thanks his lucky stars for the years of training his hands into perfect steadiness that prepared him for this moment. His breaths calm, easing him into a statuesque stillness, and beneath his hands, he feels Dean do the same.

It is the strangest sensation; as if their breathing matches, their heartbeats sync, and he knows it’s foolish to hope, but it feels like it means something. How could it not mean something?

But that’s silly, and childish, and so, so naive. He cannot afford to be any of those things. Not now. Not in this.

He leans away, taking a deep breath and instantly regretting it. Sandalwood and cherry fill his nose, mixing with the soft scent of something he can’t name; something entirely Dean. He nods, satisfied with Dean’s face, and has every intention of repacking the little bag before taking his leave.

Except, he doesn’t repack the bag. Instead, he pulls something out—a compact and a brush, and he spies the blush in there, too, tucked up against the shimmering highlighter. 

“How do you know about all this stuff, anyway?” Dean asks, his eyes falling shut as he speaks, and Castiel is just so pleased to hear his voice again that he doesn’t even think to tell a lie. Not that he needs to; it is not exactly secret information, but somehow, it feels almost… intimate.

“I’ve been on numerous newscasts throughout my life. I’ve picked up a few things along the way,” he says as he glides the brush over Dean’s forehead, taking extra care not to leave too much product on his skin. 

“As one would.”

“Hmm,” he hums, soaking in his voice—who knew the sound of someone speaking could be so addictive? “My youngest sister, Hael, also prefers that I do her makeup for events, so my knowledge extends beyond foundation and powder.” He can’t help but smile, and it occurs to him, in that moment, that he has smiled more in the last few minutes than he has in, perhaps, his whole life.

Dean’s eyes open, flashing green under the fluorescent lights. “Good to know.”

“Yes, for example,” Castiel continues, twisting around to reach for the bag and the treasures within. His fingers close around what he’s looking for, the blunt edges pressing grooves into his palm as he holds them up for Dean to see. “Highlight and blush,” he says, his grin widening until his cheeks ache with it.

“Do I really need that?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t allow Dean to argue any further, taking his chin between his hands and turning his face to the side, effectively putting an end to the discussion. He likes the blush on Dean’s cheeks, and if he can put it there a touch more permanently, well… 

He swipes the blush over the apple of Dean’s cheek, watching the shimmery pink paint his skin a lovely color. Dean’s skin is smooth under his fingers, distractingly so, but he still manages to switch sides without so much as a hiccup, forcing himself calm as he does the same with the highlight.

With one final swipe, Castiel sets the brush down and leans back to admire his work. It is astonishing, really, just how far from reality Dean’s photos are. They don’t even begin to do his beauty justice, and despite the sharper-than-normal lines of his face, brought on by not enough to eat for far too long, the man is gorgeous.

Castiel lets his fingers glide over those edges, telling himself he is blending lines, but the truth—the honest, real truth—is that he cannot help himself.

 “That should do it,” he says, letting a smile drift across his face as he meets Dean’s eyes. “You look lovely.” He pushes up from the floor, gathering his things as his stomach twists. Why did I say that? Yes, Dean does look lovely, but that doesn’t mean he must tell him. God, he is such an embarrassment.

Castiel hides his face by washing the makeup off his hands and slipping his gloves back on, letting the warm water soothe him until the blush fades from his cheeks. 

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Dean says, and it’s the worst possible thing.

“Please,” he blurts, meeting Dean’s eyes when they snap to his. “Just Castiel. Call me Castiel.” He forces a smile so as not to appear as desperate as he feels.

“Thank you, Castiel.”

“We had better get going,” Castiel says, because the sound of his name on Dean’s lips does something to his insides. Knots them up and constricts. He reaches for the door. “I’m sure there are people looking for us both by now.” With a tiny wave, he holds the door open for Dean. “After you.”

“Why, thank you,” Dean grins, tugging at his suit-jacket before stepping out. “We should do this again sometime,” he says, and normally the joke would slide right over Castiel’s head, missing him by a long shot, but he gets it, and he is just about to respond, a smile already creeping up his lips, but—

“Dean! There you are; you need to finish your interview—”

“Your Highness, we require your presence in the hall—”

“Where have you been, Mr. Winchester—”

“There is a matter I need to discuss with you, Prince Castiel—”

Russell, Joshua, and Benjamin appear at the end of the hall, all speaking at once. There hadn’t really been time for a break between meetings, especially not one of this length, and Castiel deflates. It is over. His moment with Dean—gone.

Dean is being led away, camera crew on either side, hands all over him, touching with an ease Castiel is beyond jealous of. His guards, of course, do not touch him, hands hovering over his arms like their presence alone can move him.

They can, and they do, no matter how much he wishes to stay.

Before they round the corner, Castiel looks back; he can’t help himself. He doesn’t think he will ever be able to help himself when it comes to Dean. It’s worth it, though, when he finds those beautiful eyes looking back just before he rounds the corner.

“Mr. Adler is waiting in your office,” Russell is saying, but Castiel is not listening. How can he when he’s flying high? So intoxicated by the memory of his skin on Dean’s, sharing space and breath and lines of sight, that he can’t think straight.

He is so wrapped up in the last twenty minutes that it’s not until he steps into his office that he remembers he never got the chance to pee.

Castiel taps the corner of the envelope on his desk, staring into the empty space on the far wall. He knows he must do it, if only to say he tried, but…

But he doesn’t want to.

Going on a date with Balthazar sounds like a fresh layer of hell, all wrapped up in nice clothes and polite conversation. The man is spoiled rotten, entitled to the nth degree, and so, so insufferable…

A sigh falls from his lips as he looks down at the envelope and the scrawling letters written in dark ink on the front. 

“I’m not sure why you have yourself convinced that you must take him,” Russell says, sitting on the sofa across from his desk, one ankle resting on his knee, a magazine open in front of him. “There are nine others to choose from, and all will be thrilled to go with you.”

“Because,” Castiel huffs, dropping the envelope onto the polished wood as he leans back in his chair. “I can’t very well send him home without so much as a conversation with him.”

“Of course, you can,” Russell mutters, his eyes flicking across the pages. “There is no connection—end of.”

“Not end of.” They both know he won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t give everyone a fair chance, and this… well, this is Balthazar’s fair chance. No matter how much he already knows it won’t make a difference.

“Very well, then.” Russell drops his foot from his knee, letting it slap the floor as he tosses his magazine aside and pushes to his feet. “Shall I deliver the letter?”

If only it were that easy. “No, I should be the one to do it.”

“Alright then, Your Highness,” Russell says, making his way to the door. “Let us get this over with.”

“Don’t make it sound so daunting,” Castiel grumbles, rising from his chair like it’s the hardest thing he’s done all day.

“Only matching your tone, Sir.”

“Oh, hush,” Castiel murmurs as he passes his guard, but he’s smiling. Just a little, but it’s there.

Russell knocks on the door before taking a step back. They wait, listening for the tell-tale signs of footsteps crossing the room, or something being set down, but there’s nothing. Not a peep from the room beyond.

Castiel knocks this time, louder. The sound of his fist banging against the wood reverberates down the hall, echoing off the marble floors.

Thump.

Castiel looks at Russell with a scowl, his heart skipping a beat as Russell steps between him and the door without a word.

Something crashes, shattering on the floor just before there’s a bang that rattles the door on its hinges.

“What the fuck do you want?” Bloodshot eyes, glazed over and unfocussed, stare at Russell for far longer than they should, not quite registering who exactly Russell is. “Well?”

“His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Castiel, requests an audience,” Russell says, and even Castiel can hear the sarcasm dripping from every word as he steps back once more.

The change is instantaneous. Balthazar snaps straight, his shoulders pulling back as he adjusts his tie and plasters on a smile. “Your Highness,” he says, an unmistakable slur in his voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

God, all he wants to do is send the man on his way without so much as a word of explanation. More than that, though, he wants to go back to his room, crawl into bed, and not come out until he absolutely must. He can’t do that if he causes a scene.

“It would be my great honor if you would accompany me on a date tomorrow morning,” he says, holding out the envelope with more than a little hesitation. “The details are enclosed in the letter. Please be sure to read them and be prepared for the stated time.”

“A date?” Balthazar says, taking the card with shaking fingers. He stares at his own name, written in Castiel’s hand, looping across the stark white paper. “Why?”

Castiel tries not to scowl—truly, he does. “That is your purpose here,” Castiel reminds him. “To attempt to garner my affections.”

“Oh,” Balthazar says, still staring at the card like it might attack him. “Right. Yes, of course, Your Highness. I accept.”

“Very well,” Castiel says, beyond ready to escape to his room. Or anywhere, really. How is he supposed to spend the duration of a date with this man? “Good night.”

With that, he spins on his heel and marches away, lengthening his strides until he hears the door close and Russell sighs.

“What a pleasant man,” his guard says, beside him now as they take the long way back to his room. “How your father found him, I will never know.”

“His father is a wealthy landowner to whom my father owed a favor.” It is as simple and as complicated as that, and Castiel doesn’t care to entertain the deal much longer.

“I see.”

Castiel opens his mouth to say something more, but at that moment, a particular door catches his eyes. There’s nothing more or less special about this door. Except, of course, that behind the door is Dean.

Castiel’s gaze clings to the door as they pass, his head turning to keep it in his sights. What is Dean doing in there? Sleeping? Reading? He doesn’t know, and from here, there is no way to tell. He gets this inexplicable urge to knock. To speak with the beautiful man on the other side. To get to know him, just the two of them, without the cameras and the peeping eyes. Without Russell. Without anyone else.

“You will have your chance.”

“Pardon?” Castiel asks, turning forward once more when they round the corner.

“With Mr. Winchester,” Russell says, the tiniest smile on his face. “You will have your chance.”

Castiel opens his mouth to say something stupid like, I have no idea what you’re talking about, but snaps it shut just as quickly. Russell has known him since he was a boy; he doubts there is anyone who knows him better.

“And if you don’t get your chance,” Russell adds, a knowing smile on his lips. “I am sure you will make one.”

Chapter Text

“It is only breakfast,” Castiel murmurs to himself, sitting in the backseat of his town car as the world whizzes past beyond the tinted windows. “One hour, two at the most.”

“How you torture yourself,” Russell says, looking at him through the rearview mirror. “If you do not wish to eat with him, don’t eat with him.”

Castiel sighs, shaking his head as he looks out the window. They have been arguing about this all last night and this morning, going back and forth, and the more Castiel listens to him, the more he thinks perhaps Russell is right. 

But still.

Castiel slides his hands down his thighs, wicking the moisture from his palms in the soft fabric of his heather gray trousers. Now that he is thinking of it, there truly is no explanation for why Balthazar had to be the first date. He could have taken anyone, really, and relegated the impending disaster to his date on Friday.

Oh, what does it matter? This way, he gets it over with all the quicker.

“Did you call ahead to ensure they took mimosas off the menu?” Castiel asks, his gaze flicking to the rearview mirror.

“I did.”

“And?”

“They are willing to claim they have run out of champagne.”

“Alternatives to champagne?”

“None.”

Castiel sighs, relief melting through him as he leans back in his seat. “Very well. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Russell says, and Castiel can’t see his smile in the slit of the rearview mirror, but he knows it is there. 

“No champagne?” Balthazar scoffs, rolling his eyes as he shoves the menu at the waitress without bothering to look at her. “Can’t you go out for some?”

The waitress looks at Castiel, her face creasing with worry. Poor dear, she can’t be more than sixteen, and the panic in her eyes tells him she hasn’t been here long enough to know what to do.

“Orange juice will do just fine,” Castiel tells her, forcing a reassuring smile he hopes comes across the way it is meant to. “Thank you.”

The waitress—Jenny, Castiel reads on the name tag pinned to her crisp, white button-up—takes their menus and scurries out of their private dining room, leaving Castiel to regret every decision that led them here.

Castiel tries to look interested in his date, like he wants to be here, listening to the alcoholic son of one of his father’s friends, but the longer he looks at the untrimmed scruff, over-gelled blond hair, and blood-shot eyes, the more he finds his tolerance waning.

“A champagne shortage is unheard of, really,” Balthazar is saying, tipping clear liquid out of a flask he produced from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Running out, especially in a supposed high society eatery such as this, is a grand taboo.”

Castiel fights the urge to roll his eyes. God, this man is absolutely insufferable. Not that he hasn’t had sufficient experience dealing with insufferable people, but that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant.

“This orange juice is quite refreshing,” Castiel says, cutting Balthazar off mid-sentence. Honestly, he’s not sure what the man is talking about, but he’s positive he doesn’t want to hear it. “I quite enjoy it without the champagne.”

“Well,” Balthazar says, a thoughtful look on his face that doesn’t fool Castiel for one second. He sips his vodka-ruined orange juice before speaking. “It is quite good, I suppose; freshly squeezed, as all juice should be.”

Castiel doesn’t bother responding, sipping his own juice as he stares out the picture windows that look into the vegetable garden beyond. There are no honeybees at this time of year, but the fall harvest is just around the corner, so the plants are bursting with produce. Castiel’s mouth waters at the thought of fresh, fried green tomatoes and bumble berry jam.

Would Dean like it here? He pictures the man with freckles like stars sitting across from him, green eyes lit up with excitement at the fresh orange juice and antique decor. The wicker chairs and ornate, white tables with their soft cream tablecloths and polished silverware. Would he like it here? With the natural lighting and the vaulted ceilings?

“You have a lovely smile, Your Highness,” Balthazar says, and the smile drops from Castiel’s face. He hadn’t realized he’d been doing it, and the thought of Balthazar thinking it was for him…

“Thank you,” Castiel says, folding his hands in his lap. The linen napkin wrinkled under his fingers, tangling between them as he peers past his date toward the dual swinging doors.

“A penny for your thoughts?” One of Balthazar’s eyebrows arches in a way Castiel is sure he thinks is coy, but doesn’t quite make it too charming.

“Nothing pressing,” Castiel tells him, settling his features into impassivity. “I am simply having a nice time.”

“I, myself, am starving,” Balthazar says, leaning back in his chair and looking over his shoulder. “How long does Eggs Benedict take?”

“Quite long, in fact,” Castiel says, mostly under his breath and to himself, but Balthazar still hears it.

“I don’t see how.”

Castiel levels him with a look. “This establishment prepares the hollandaise sauce from scratch for every plate. They must poach the eggs, which is a longer process than most other types of cooking, and since you have ordered the smoked salmon instead of the back bacon, and we are eating at eight-thirty, the salmon will not finish smoking for another fifteen minutes. Hence, the longer wait.”

Balthazar blinks. “I see.”

“My meal, however, is more than likely finished, but will not be brought out until yours is ready as well.” Yes, he is mildly bitter about that fact, but the eatery, Alouette, is nothing if not proper, and to serve one guest before another of the same party is unheard of.

Balthazar swallows back the rest of his orange juice, hissing as it slides down his throat. He doesn’t seem to register the annoyance building inside Castiel, or the bite in his tone. Probably for the best, really. “I need another one of these.” Balthazar looks over his shoulder, holding up his glass as he cranes his neck. “Waiter!” he shouts, and Castiel could absolutely die from humiliation. What is wrong with this man?

His gaze slides to his right, past the potted plants and the baby blue trim running along the hardwood floors, up to Russell, who watches with barely suppressed annoyance. They share a look, one that says cut this short. Oh, how Castiel wishes he could.

“I do not care how the next date goes,” Castiel is saying, his face frozen in a tight smile as he watches Balthazar stumble down the hallway. “That man is not staying beyond Friday.”

“There are others I could recommend sending home first,” Russell says, and though Castiel knows he has a point, he chooses to ignore him and turns for the stairs. “He is rather benign in comparison to some of the others, you must admit.”

He has a point, yes, but the others have their purpose, and keeping them in the running for as long as possible—or tolerable—is of the utmost importance. Not that Russell knows any of this, but still.

“I would not refer to endangering the safety of the staff, the other suitors, or the priceless artifacts with drunken stumbling at all benign.” He gives Russell a look, because really? Miss Blake is benign, with her sweet smile and flirty finger waves. She is someone he doesn’t think he will mind having around for a while. “Do you know where they are at the moment?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“Do you know where—”

“Dean is out in the grounds with Miss Bradbury and Her Royal Highness.”

“I was not going to ask about Dean,” he mutters, but heat rises in his cheeks as his heart does a little flip-flop. The lie comes easily, but there is no way his guard believes it. 

It comes easily, not well.

“What, then?” He can almost feel the challenge in Russell’s voice; how it cuts through the air, following him down the hallway to his office.

“I—oh, hush,” Castiel huffs, and he does not pout. The Crown Prince does no such thing under any circumstance. 

“Shall I find out what he is wearing? What he ate for breakfast?” Russell arches an eyebrow as he holds Castiel’s office door open for him. “Perhaps Miss Bradbury could tell me if he likes you too?”

“I know what he’s wearing and what he had for breakfast—” Castiel stops, shooting a dark look at his smirking guard. “You are mocking me.”

“I would do no such thing.”

Castiel scoffs, turning his back on his guard in favor of sitting behind his desk, and doesn’t respond. 

He has work to do.

“It is so apparent that he wrote this himself,” Castiel muses, leaning back in his chair with his chin resting on one hand, the other holding a thick application package in front of his face, flipped open to the fourth page.

“Who would that be, Your Highness?”

Castiel glances up, startled to find that it is not Russell by the door, but Benjamin. He glances at the clock, and sure enough, it is well past the hour of his guard change. How long has he been pouring over this file?

“One of my suitors,” Castiel says, not sure he wants all of his guards privy to his preferences. “I have been going through them to uncover some more details about each one, however so few are written by their own hand.” He shrugs, an unconscious, uncomfortable gesture his mother hates. “This one is.”

“I see.”

Castiel turns back to the minute details of Dean Winchester’s file, scanning the page for where he left off.

With Dean’s photo tucked under his index finger, held against the package, but free to be moved with every page flip, Castiel scans his likes and dislikes.

Likes: pie, burgers. I like beer. Do movies count as a like? That’s stupid, why wouldn’t they?

Alright, so perhaps he didn’t write the whole thing, but they are definitely Dean’s words.

Castiel looks up when someone knocks on the door. He isn’t expecting any visitors, but that isn’t unusual. Benjamin’s murmured conversation with whoever is on the other side of the door is too quiet to hear, so he gives his guard an expectant look when he steps back inside.

“Tabloids, Your Highness.” Benjamin sets a stack of tabloids, magazines, newspaper articles, and pictures on his desk. At some point, someone attempted to organize them, but looking at the stack now, Castiel’s not sure where to start.

He sets aside Dean’s file, but keeps the picture, tucking it in his breast pocket, just behind his handkerchief.

The first magazine has his face splashed across the front cover in startling detail. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but every time, it catches him off guard. He’s not entirely sure when it was taken, but he is in full royal regalia, crown and all, looking into the distance with an impassive expression. His birthday, he would assume, but there is no way to know for certain.

His Royal Highness, The Crown Prince, has taken suitors! Meet the lucky 10 on page 3, the first headline reads, tucked into the bottom right corner of the cover. 

He slides that magazine aside and reaches for another. 

The Modern Royale. Ugh.

If there is one tabloid Castiel can’t stand, it is this one. They make their money by twisting the words and lives of himself and his family without remorse. He has spent hundreds of hours unwinding falsehoods made by Rowena McLeod; he can only imagine what she has for him inside these pages. 

He throws that one right in the trash.

The next one, though… It catches his attention. Has him sitting up in his seat.

Deep green eyes stare back at him, framed by thick lashes and freckles. Castiel brings the glossy cover closer to his face, and as he reads the headings, bolded and in stark white contrast to all that color, he starts to smile.

Dean Winchester: Hometown Sweetheart and Amarellino’s Favorite For Our Beloved Prince.

Castiel looks up to the ceiling and thanks whoever is looking out for him when he steps into the dining hall to find Dean sitting in the chair next to his.

He hasn’t seen the man all day, despite looking at hundreds of images of his smiling face, and despite only having officially met him a few days ago, Castiel had missed his calming presence.

“Good evening,” he murmurs, lowering himself into his seat as the chatter quiets to nothing. They are all looking at him again, expecting more than he has to offer. His stomach knots, and he can’t look at them. He doesn’t have anything to give them. “I hope the day treated you all well.”

He is met with murmurs and shouts in equal measure, and he ignores them all in favor of looking at Dean.

But Dean is speaking with Charlie.

The picture in his pocket burns a whole through his chest, a mix of warmth and pain, because how is it that the one person he wants attention from is the only one not willing to give it? 

You are being stupid, he tells himself. Just because you have been pining after him for fifteen years, does not mean he has done the same.

It is time he remembers that.

“There’s no way! No way in hell—” Dean is saying, but cuts himself off to look at Castiel, a blush rising in his cheeks. “Sorry,” he says, like Castiel cares at all about profanity. Where that idea came from, he does not think he will ever know. “That you could eat more mashed potatoes than me.”

“You wanna bet?” Charlie says, one hand braced on the table as the other grips the back of her chair. She pushes herself up, right in Dean’s face, and Castiel can’t look at anything else.

 “Sure, I’d love some easy money.” Dean’s fork thunks down on the table before his hand goes up, and Castiel sets his own cutlery aside.  “For one,” Dean starts, ticking off one finger. “I’m like, three times your size, so if that doesn’t mean an easy win, I don’t know what does.” A second finger goes up. “For two, I have more practice in stuffing my face as full as I can get in the quickest amount of time, so there’s that—”

“Oh come on! You’re not allowed to use the hungry child excuse! It just makes me feel back.” Charlie sticks her bottom lip out in a pout, and Castiel has to cover his smile with his hand.

“Fact, baby. It’s just fact.” Dean turns back around like the argument is over and picks up his fork. He takes another helping bite of potatoes. “And three,” he says, sticking up one last finger with an adorable smirk that Castiel definitely should not be noticing. “I’m just better.”

The snarl on Charlie’s face is laughable paired with her tiny frame—so fierce for someone so small. She swats Dean’s hand away. “Fuck off, asshole!” Her gaze flicks to him. “Sorry, your highness,” she says, before resuming her death glare on Dean, who throws his head back and laughs.

The rumbling, happy sound is like a shot of sunshine right through him. It hits him square in the chest, spreading out in waves of warmth, and the words tumble out before he can think better of them. “I think I would definitely place my bets on Dean.” The laughter dies and both sets of eyes fall on him, and perhaps he might be a little embarrassed if it were anyone else, but Dean is finally looking at him. He tips his head to the side, ignoring the heat in his face, and fights back a grin.

“See?” Dean says, smugness taking over his tone. “Even the Crown Prince has more faith in me than he does in you.”

“I don’t know about that.” Castiel muses, his heart skipping a beat when Dean’s eyes float across his face. ”I’ve just seen how you both eat. I’ve never witnessed anyone put food away like you, Dean” He shrugs, then hates himself for it. God, he is so awkward—why would this man ever find him attractive?

Charlie’s barking laughter cuts through his self-hating spiral, and he glances past Dean to find the redhead slapping the table as she giggles.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to pout and failing miserably as a smile fights its way onto his lips. It’s a nice smile; it would be nice to have directed at him more often.

Charlie turns back to her meal after that, as does Dean, and Castiel is left grasping for anything to say that might keep Dean looking at him.

Perhaps he should have waited until Dean finished chewing to speak, but he can’t risk not getting the chance.

“How was your day?” He blurts, the words popping out and startling Dean into silence, apparently. He just stares at Castiel for a moment, chewing his food, not answering.

Castiel tries to smile, but it is awkward again, and now he is wishing he had just stayed quiet. 

Dean takes a sip of water, and Castiel can’t help but think he is stalling. “It was fine,” he says, and waves in the direction of his chatting friends. “We went for a walk. Found the barracks.”

Did they, now? He can only imagine how that went. “Why do I feel like there’s a story there?”

“Oh, because there is,” Dean says, his smile so infectious, Castiel can’t help but share it. “Your soldiers aren’t exactly the most welcoming bunch. I swear, I almost pissed myself.”

It’s funny, how he thinks of Dean being fearless—a ridiculous notion, really, but he’s surprised all the same. “Is that so? The armies are trained to be teddy bears, you know—soft and cuddly—so this is shocking news.” He runs his fingers over his jawline, playing at thoughtful, but he can feel the smile breaking over his face. “I’ll have to have a word with them.”

“Smart ass,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, but slaps a hand over his mouth when his words register. Castiel blinks, shock rippling through him, because no one has ever called him that before. Not to his face, at least, and not in a way that makes him feel warm inside. “I’m sorry,” Dean whispers.

And Castiel laughs. For the first time in what feels like forever, the warmth inside him bubbles into joy, into laughter, and he can’t contain it. He doesn’t want to. “Truly, it’s fine,” he says, and despite the insult it was, all he wants is to hear the words again and again from Dean’s lips. 

Dean stabs his green beans. “So, how was your day?” he asks, not looking at him now. Castiel can see the color rising in his cheeks and decides not to mention it.

“It was fine,” he tells him. “The first of the dates was this morning.” Dean straightens, his gaze swinging around.

“Oh yeah? How was that?”

He looks down at his plate. Why did he bring it up? There is nothing he wants to talk about less than his date with Balthazar. Especially with Dean.

“The date went well. I look forward to the next one.”

“What’d you do?” Dean asks, and Castiel decides right then and there that there is no way he is relaying a second of that date to Dean.

Instead, he arches an eyebrow. “I can’t give away all my secrets, now can I?”

Something shifts in Dean’s gaze, growing dark and hot as he bites his lower lip. Castiel’s stomach flips, his heart kicking against his ribcage when Dean raises an eyebrow and tilts his head to one side. “Such a tease, Your Highness.”

Castiel leans in, drawn closer by the magnetism of this man. He’s helpless to resist. “I don’t tease, Mr. Winchester,” he says, more than a little shocked by his own flirting, but he doesn’t dare look away. His heart thunders, blood pounding in his ears, but Dean’s looking at him. Staring and staring and staring—

A crash rips his attention away, making him jump in his seat. Across the room, Balthazar lies on the floor, sprawled out, shouting and slurring, entirely incoherent as he rolls in the mess of red wine and a shattered bottle.

Castiel sighs, his heart sinking as he pushes out of his chair. One moment with Dean is just too much to ask for, he supposes, and now it is gone.

As he steps around the table, leaving Dean behind, a thought solidifies in his mind. Come Friday, he knows who is going home.

He can’t get rid of Balthazar fast enough.

Chapter Text

“I hate these events,” Castiel murmurs, taking the weight of his mantle on his shoulders when Susie drapes it over him. It is hot and heavy, and coupled with the brand new suit and his crown, he’s not sure he will make it through the night without losing his mind.

“And yet, you requested this one,” she says, arching an eyebrow and giving him a you should’ve thought this through look. 

“I am aware of that, thank you.”

“Don’t sass me, boy.”

“What else am I to do?” he asks, looking himself over in the mirror one last time. His suitors should be attending their briefing at the moment, and his dinner is about ready, so this is the last of his free moments. The last of his available complaint time.

“Hush up?” she offers, coming around to stand in front of him, her tiny frame only reaching the height of his chest. “Thank me for my genius, perhaps?”

“You need to check on Dean,” he tells her, because he looks fine, and anything else that needs to be done, can be done by his hands. Dean, however, is rather clueless in this aspect of the show.

Susie huffs, her hands falling to her hips. “That boy,” she snaps, her voice full of annoyance, but her eyes clouded with affection. “Talk, talk, talk. All he does is question me. Why are you doing that? Do you have to do that? Constant chatter.” She shakes her head, packing up her things for a quick escape. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he undressed himself in my absence and is hiding in a broom closet.”

Castiel laughs, the sound bursting out of him before he can contain it. Oh, how he would love to witness that. 

“Do you see me laughing?”

“No, however you do see me laughing,” Castiel counters, because yes, she is his stylist, and yes, she means more to him than he could ever say, and yes, he has the utmost respect for her, but he is still the Crown Prince, and he can still laugh when he wants to.

“You are as insufferable as he is,” she says, and marches out of the room as Castiel laughs and laughs. So hard, his stomach hurts.

His dinner is waiting in the sitting room just down the hall from where he knows the suitors are being briefed. How can he not sneak a peek?

The walk is short and uninterrupted, and Castiel sneaks in the back door, peering through the archway at the ten of them standing there, their backs to him, on pedestals as Mick talks and their stylists make their final adjustments.

His eyes slide over Kelly and Jo, past Meg, April, and Lily, and all but skip right over Michael and Balthazar. He pauses for a moment on Hannah and Charlie, the two of them looking lovely, before his gaze drops right on the most handsome man in the room.

Dean stands with his hands folded in front of him, a maroon suit hugging his broad shoulders and perfect backside. Susie is standing in front of him, mostly shielded by his size, and Castiel thinks nothing of it until she catches him standing there.

Oh, no, he thinks, because she is coming toward him, determination on her face, mouth pursed, a fire in her eyes, and nothing good comes from a look like that. He wants to back away, to escape back to his dinner, but she is still coming closer, and he is frozen to the spot, and—

“I am calling in a favor, Castiel Novak,” Susie says, glancing over her shoulder before looking back at him with wide eyes. It catches him so off-guard that he can’t do anything but stare at her for a moment. “And you owe me a lifetime of them, so I will not be taking no for an answer.”

“Alright,” Castiel says, looking at her like she might jump out and bite him. Susie doesn’t ask for favors, not in all the years he has known her.

She takes a deep breath. Then, in a murmured rush, she speaks. “My boy hasn’t eaten in hours, and he is starving and miserable, so if there is any way you could—”

“Yes,” Castiel blurts, not bothering to think of all the reasons he shouldn’t. He will feed Dean, and he will spend time with Dean alone, and none of the other considerations matter at all in the face of that. “Not to worry, he will be fed.” 

Castiel doesn’t wait for further instructions, taking it upon himself to ask Dean now. He crosses the room, rounding Dean’s pedestal to stand in front of him. Dean’s eyes are closed, his face pinched and upset, and he can actually hear his stomach rumbling. 

“Dean,” he says, and Dean’s eyes snap open, his head tilting up to look him right in the eye. As the surprise fades, however, Dean’s back straightens, his chin ticks up, and his eyes fall to the floor. God, he hates that.

“Please, follow me,” he says, before turning on his heel. He wants to get them both out of here as fast as possible. To be alone with Dean, comfortable in only his presence, for as long as he is able.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t question that Dean will follow, but the reassuring sound of steps behind him does something to his insides. Has butterflies fluttering like crazy, his heart trip[ping over itself to do… what?

He pushes through the doorway of the sitting room where his meal is waiting—far more than he will ever eat. Plenty for two.

“What…?” Dean says from behind him, and as he stands by the side of the table, looking up to meet Dean’s gaze, the wide-eyed look he is giving him nearly breaks his heart. He pushes down the emotions swelling up inside him before they can bubble out, and waves at the empty chair across from his seat. 

“I was told you’re hungry and there’s too much food for me alone.” Instead of standing there like a fool, he pulls out Dean’s chair and waits. Like a fool.

“Who…told you?” Dean asks, and this is not how Castiel expected his offer to go, so instead of just… standing there while Dean gathers himself, he lowers himself into his own chair and smiles.

“Well, your scowl, for one,” he says, raising an eyebrow, and Dean’s cheeks go a brilliant shade of red. Oh, how he missed that. “But it was Susie who informed me of your sour mood. She asked me if there was any possible way to get you something to eat before you snap the heads off my guests.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, the words seeming to fall from him without his consent, and that… that is what breaks Castiel’s heart. 

“Nothing to apologize for,” he says, shaking his head before smiling up at Clark, who picks up a serving spoon and scoops his plate full of food. He doesn’t watch as Dean lowers into his chair, but he sees it from the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry you weren’t taken care of to the level that I expect. I’ll have to have a talk with the people who organized this.”

“What about the others?” Dean asks, his concern for their wellbeing hitting Castiel square in the chest, and he has to remind himself that Dean is not, in fact, a God, but a person with flaws and quirks and tiny, little annoyances that he has yet to find. It’s difficult, though, sitting with him now.

“Their stylists started after lunch, whereas Susie worked right through, am I correct?” Castiel eyes Dean as he cuts his food, careful not to get sauce on his gloves. Dean nods and Castiel continues. “That’s what I thought. They were given the opportunity to eat earlier, which is also why they aren’t finished yet.” 

Dean doesn’t speak much after that, focussing on his food as Castiel studies him. He hardly tastes the chicken potatoes, though he’s sure they are delicious. Would Dean consider it rude if he asks questions while he is eating? It is, of course, but does Dean know that? Would he condemn him for it?

Does Castiel care?

He has been desperate to speak with Dean all day, attempting to search him out in every free moment, few and far between as they were. Of course, he had been entirely unsuccessful, and if he is being honest, it is probably for the best. This obsession with Dean Winchester is dangerously close to out of control, and Castiel can not be out of control.

“Who am I to meet of your family tonight?” Castiel asks when the servants take away his empty plate. By all etiquette standards, Dean should finish then and there as well, but Castiel wouldn’t dream of making him, so instead, he watches with quiet fascination and waits for Dean to finish chewing so he can answer.

“Um, my mom and dad, I think. Probably Sammy, too. Sammy’s my little brother.” A grin stretches across his face—one Castiel hasn’t seen on him before now. “Well, I say little but he’s definitely catching up,” he adds, holding a hand up by his ear, which Castiel assumes is to indicate how tall Dean’s brother is.

Castiel smiles a little wider as he tilts his head to one side. His mother hates that he does it, but right now, he couldn’t care less. “How old is your brother?”

“He’s fourteen.” The delicate way Dean wipes his mouth with the corner of his napkin is more adorable than it should be, and Castiel watches like a lovesick puppy, soaking up every word Dean is willing to offer him. God, I am so pathetic, he thinks, but he can’t stop. Doesn’t want to. “I was the accident, actually. My parents planned on Sam. Ten years is a big gap, though.”

Castiel chuckles, nodding along with him, because in this, they are the same. “Yes, I understand. The gap between myself and my youngest sibling is fourteen years.”

“Hael, right?” Dean says, and of course he remembers Hael’s name. Because this man is perfect. So, so perfect, and he is finding it more and more difficult to not be in awe of him.

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “She’s a feisty one, but I love her dearly.”

Around them, the servants clear their table and refresh their water, but Castiel pays them no mind. He watches the smile bleed across Dean’s face, and the way he just can’t seem to look away.

“How do you feel about dessert?” Castiel asks after their plates are cleared. Clark waits by the door for his signal, because he already knows what Dean’s answer will be.

Dean perks up a little, his face brightening as a close-lipped smile curves his lips. He straightens up in his chair, fingers pressing into the tablecloth. “What do you have?”

Castiel grins, raising a hand and crooking a finger at Clark, who spins on his heel and disappears around the service door. The sound of wheels on marble draws closer moments later, but Castiel can’t bring himself to look away from Dean long enough to see. He knows what’s on the cart, after all, but Dean doesn’t, and the way his face lights up at the sight of a freshly baked, still steaming apple pie with a lattice crust has a shiver of delight sliding down his spine.

“Marry me,” Dean says, his eyes locked on the pie, and Castiel’s not sure who he’s talking to in that moment—him, or the pie. Either way, Dean doesn’t seem to register his own words as he watches Clark cut two slices with rapt attention.

“Ice cream, sir?” Clark asks, and for a moment, Dean doesn’t answer. It occurs to Castiel quite quickly that Dean is very much not used to anyone calling him sir. 

“Dean?” Castiel murmurs, and Dean tears his eyes away from the pie to look at him. “Would you like ice cream?”

“What? Oh, yeah, sure.” He smiles at Clark, who sets the place in front of him, a hefty scoop of vanilla bean ice cream melting into the flaky crust. “Thanks.”

Dean digs in, any manners he might have, failing him, but for once, Castiel can’t bring himself to care. Sure, Dean has syrup coating his lips, but he looks so happy about it, and yes, he’s hunched over his plate, chewing with stuffed cheeks, but it’s adorable.

Castiel’s scoop of vanilla bean melts into his pie, untouched as he looks at Dean, and he can’t help but think that this whole competition is pointless now that he’s watched Dean eat a slice of apple pie.

Castiel stands outside the ballroom doors, waiting for his cue with his head bowed and his eyes closed, his gloved fingers tangling together. His heart thumps a steady beat against the inside of his chest, pounding in his ears to ensure he knows just how raised his blood pressure is.

His guards stand around him, silent and stoic, dressed in their best for the evening’s proceedings.  They look nice, though he knows Russell is less than comfortable in the stiff suit. Sure, he wears one regularly, but this one is new, and according to him, tighter.

“Your speech is memorized, Your Highness?” Duma asks from his side, prompting Castiel to lift his head and open his eyes.

“It is,” he tells her. He has been rehearsing it from the moment she placed the cards in his hands. His mother will have his head if he stutters, and there is nothing he wants less than to give his father any more reasons not to trust him.

“Very well.” She gives him a curt nod, before slipping back through the door. The swell of chatter reaches him, rising and falling as the door opens and closes, and his heart gives another kick. 

No one bothered to share the guest list with him before the party, but he is sure every high-ranking official is in there, along with their spouses. Why this could not simply be a meet-and-greet with his suitors’ families, he does not know, but he will be eternally bitter about it.

Beyond the doors, the tune of several trumpets blare out—his cue.

“Try to enjoy yourself,” Russell says, meeting Castiel’s eyes as he steps up beside him. Castiel doesn’t get the chance to respond before the doors swing in and he’s exposed to a ballroom of people. All looking, watching, waiting for him.

Castiel takes a deep, steadying breath, and steps through the door.

He keeps his chin up and his shoulders back, eyes straight ahead. Walking like this is easy after so many years of it, but Castiel still holds his breath as he walks down the aisle, his suitors standing on either side.

He doesn’t look at any of them. Or, he tries not to, but by the time he reaches the end of the aisle, he can feel a very specific set of eyes on him. They burn into the side of his head, begging him to look, and at the last second—the very last instant—Castiel glances to his left.

There, with a grin on his lovely face, stands Dean, pride shining in his eyes, and Castiel can’t help the hint of a smile that flashes across his features.

At the end of the aisle, just in front of the chairs where his parents are already seated, he turns to face the crowd. Here goes…

“Welcome,” he starts, forcing a tight smile as he forces his speech to the forefront of his mind. There is no room for error. “I thank you all for making it here tonight, and I hope you enjoy your time in the palace.” With great concentration, he looks into the eyes of every one of his suitors, speaking only to them. Somehow, it is easier this way. He will take what he can get. “My gratitude is immense. Having all of you here, away from your families, and willing to get to know me is the greatest compliment, and I hope I can do justice to your expectations.” 

No, Castiel decides. It is not easier speaking to his suitors, but to one in particular. So, he recites the next part of his speech only to Dean, who watches with the utmost attention, and soaks up the calming effect the man has on him, before letting his gaze drift away.

“Though, tonight we celebrate, we must remember what the cost of entry affords the kingdom. The price of admission will go to feeding the hungry and housing the homeless. This is what we come here to do.” Applause swells in the room, cascading over him in waves. His heart swoops when he finds Dean among them, a grin on his lips, his eyes shining with what Castiel can only describe as pride.

Castiel lowers himself into his seat, right in the center of his parents' thrones, and a little in front. It is not like them to give him this much prominence in the family, and he would be surprised—thrilled, even—if he didn’t know they are doing it to keep an eye on him.

Almost immediately, a swell of people surge to the front of his throne, all speaking at once, and he can already feel the energy being sapped from him.

It doesn’t take long for the guards to shuffle everyone into a line that winds through the room. Castiel hates the thought of having to answer for his parents' decisions, but he has long ago come to terms with the fact that that will be his life.

“Your Highness,” the man before him says, his suit tailored a little too tight around his thick torso, what hair he has, slicked back in deep ridges, put there with a wide-toothed comb. “I have come to you with several concerns about the current construction underway on Main, namely…”

Castiel listens, taking in the information with idle attention before offering a comment that means absolutely nothing to anybody. It’s all he can give the man, unfortunately, since he has no real power over anything until he is named king.

The line moves forward without an end; one person leaves the line, and another enters it. At this point, Castiel doesn’t think he will ever get off of this throne.

“We are looking into solutions, Mr Branson, unfortunately, the process is simply a long one, but I can assure you we have not forgotten,” Castiel says, hoping he’s telling the truth, despite knowing nothing of what his father is doing about the fisheries, if anything, but Mr. Branson moves on, looking appeased for the time being.

Castiel’s gaze flicks to the next person in line, and his whole body sighs.

He can’t help the smile that touches his face, softening the bitter knot of annoyance that has been building since he sat down. “What can I do for you, Dean?” he says, watching Dean cup the back of his neck as a blush creeps into his cheeks. 

“I, uh—I know you’re busy, but…” His adam’s apple bobs as he tilts his head to one side. The squeak of a shoe on the polished marble floors nearly grabs his attention, but he ignores it and waits for Dean to finish what he has to say. “I was wondering if you’d meet my family?”

Castiel’s heart sinks and soars all at once, because he shouldn’t… he really shouldn’t. The line curves around the room, but there is nothing he wants more than to meet Dean’s family, and what is the harm in greeting a few extra people?

“Of course,” he says, leaning left, then right, looking to either side of Dean. “I’d love to meet your family.”

“Oh, I’ll go get them,” Dean says, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

“Nonsense,” Castiel says, jumping at the chance to leave the bubble of hell he’s been in for several hours. “Bring me to them.” 

Dean stands there for a moment, his mouth ajar, before he gives a shaky nod and turns away. Castiel stays close so as not to lose Dean in the crowd. Not that he needs to, as it turns out; the people part for them, heads turning to watch him move through the room. He has always hated that, how they track his every move, and perhaps one day he will be used to it, but today is not that day.

So, he watches Dean, letting his gaze travel over the back of his head—the light brown hair trimmed short by Susie’s expert hands. He takes in the way Dean’s shoulders stretch the material of his jacket, shifting with every step, and the way the jacket tapers at his waist, cutting close. Dean looks magnificent in deep maroon; he will have to mention as much to Susie the next time he sees her.

“Mom? Dad?” Dean says, stopping in front of a couple dressed in what Castiel can only describe as third-hand finery. They stick out like a sore thumb amongst the nobility, and a whole new fear shoots through him. All at once, he is very glad he decided to make the walk over here.

Dean’s Mother turns first, her soft blue eyes touching on her son before shifting to meet his. They widen a little. Castiel tries to smile, but his mouth feels frozen. He is stiff like a board, stuck in this awkward space between authority and nervous suitor meeting the mother of his longtime crush.

 “This is Castiel,” Dean says, and suddenly he’s looking at him, a silly, beautiful grin on his face. “Cas, this is my mom and dad, Mary and John Winchester.”

Mary curtseys, a little shaky and out of practice, but the sentiment is there, and Castiel appreciates that. He nods, accepting the gesture and returning one of his own as Dean looks between the three of them.

“Pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” Mary says once she rights herself, smoothing down her soft blond hair. Behind her, John looks like he’s trying not to scowl, and Castiel’s heart sinks at the sight—he is already making a poor first impression and he hasn’t said a single word.

“Pleasure is all mine,” he says, because perhaps that is the problem? “Dean has told me so much about you, especially…” He looks around them, searching for a younger version of Dean, but there isn’t one. Did they not bring Sam? 

“Dean! Dean, guess what! The guards told me they can sneak us some pie!” A boy, only a head shorter than Dean, with dark, floppy brown hair and hazel eyes bounces up on them, grinning from ear to ear as he looks up at his brother—not a mini-Dean, then. “They tell me they sneak you some at night, but they could do it now—”

“Sam, this is Castiel,” Dean blurts, a shrill note of panic in his tone as he turns, and Castiel can’t hold back a grin at the embarrassment written all over Dean’s face. He quirks an eyebrow—he hadn’t known about the pie.

“Uh, uh…uh—um,” Sam starts, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide and wandering, before he sticks out his hand to shake.

Castiel’s heart seizes, and suddenly it’s not Sam standing there, but Dean. Taller than him, still, but much, much younger.

Mary gasps as John throws his hands in the air. Dean slaps his brother’s hand down, giving him a look that could make the toughest person weep.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam,” Castiel says after a moment. “Dean has told me a lot about you.” He looks at Dean, who appears on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and winks.

“Is that right?” John says, taking half a step closer while tucking his hands in his pockets. “Like what?”

Castiel swallows hard, looking John dead in the eye as he starts to sweat. “Well,” he says, and looks at Dean, only to find him smiling back at him. “He tells me you are a wonderful cook, Mary.”

Mary snorts, drawing Castiel’s eyes back to her as surprise ripples through him. Dean had said that, right? “Sorry,” he says, covering her smile with the palm of one hand. “It’s just hard to believe he’d say that after eating here.”

“Ah,” Castiel says, smiling softly as Dean shifts beside him so that their shoulders brush. Castiel doesn’t bother moving away as the heat of Dean’s body soaks into him. “There is nothing quite like a mother’s cooking.” Not that he would know; his mother hasn’t fed him since the moment he stopped breast feeding, and even that, from what he’s heard, she cut short.

He looks that way now, to where his mother and father sit, and finds her looking at him like she can make him hear her thoughts through sheer force of will. Castiel sighs, because he supposes she can.

Get back here this instant, that look says, and he doesn’t dare ignore it.

“I must leave you, I fear,” he says, glancing between all four Winchesters before finally settling on Dean, who is staring into nothing, his eyes glazed over like he is bored out of his mind. “Dean? Dean.” Dean jumps, blinking a few times before looking at him. “I’m afraid I need to go back.” He offers Dean a small smile that he doesn’t feel. “It was lovely meeting you all, and I hope we get another opportunity to speak.” He hopes for that more than anything, actually. With one last nod to each of them, he looks at Dean one more time. “Dean.”

“Castiel,” Dean says, dipping his chin in a tiny nod as a soft smile lights up his face. Under the golden light of the ballroom’s chandelier, Castiel could count the freckles on Dean’s cheeks, not quite so hidden after hours of fading makeup.

Maybe one day, he will have the opportunity to do just that.

Castiel didn’t think his parents leaving could be worse than having them here.

It is.

The crowds of people are still present, but the line has dissolved as alcohol flows and the music swells, rising up the walls to fill the room with a lively tune. He watches the people dance and drink, laugh and talk, all from the outside. He is not permitted to dance at this event, and never to drink, so sit here, he must, until the night winds down and he is allowed to go to bed.

“You should wear the crown more often,” Meg says, leaning in closer from her perch on the arm of his throne. She reaches up to poke the edge of his crown with a finger and he jerks away.

“Do not touch it,” he says, trying not to grate the words through his teeth, but it’s becoming more and more difficult to bear her wandering hands as the night goes on.

“Ooh,” she taunts, pulling her hands back against her chest. “Or what?”

“Or I will have you removed,” Castiel sighs, looking at Russell where he stands at the edge of the steps, watching them with his jaw set. “This is non-negotiable.”

Meg sticks her bottom lip out in a pout that he is certain she thinks is cute. 

He ignores her, turning back to look into the crowd, and spots Sarah twirling around the dance floor with her father, both of them flushed and smiling. Joanna is speaking with her mother near the door, a glass of champagne threatening to spill over as she waves her arms around. He cannot see Michael, and Kelly stepped out of the ballroom moments ago, but it’s Dean he looks for, his eyes skipping over faces—

Warm breath brushes against his ear. “Would you like to dance?” April asks, not for the first time. She has been hovering close for the last twenty minutes, asking and asking and asking, and he is getting tired of it.

Still, he looks at her with a soft smile and shakes his head.

“Guards!”

Castiel’s head snaps up, every muscle in his body locking up as he sits higher in his seat. From the corner of his eye, he sees Russell shift, too, stepping closer as the shouts continue.

Castiel rises from his seat, holding up a hand for Russell to stay where he is. The crowd shifts, moving away from the space where the shouting originates, so that is where Castiel goes, his heart pounding in his chest with every step.

At the center of the open space, he finds Dean, his shoulders bunched with tension, staring down Mr. Gendenco as the man puffs out his chest.

Castiel’s hackles rise. “Is there a problem here?” He asks, stepping beside Dean before he has a chance to get out whatever he opened his mouth to say. Their eyes meet, and Castiel waits, taking in the anger, the frustration and embarrassment, written all over Dean’s face.

“Well, yes, Your Highness,” Gerald says, his tone falling to something more innocent. “This family shouldn’t be here, and—”

“I’m speaking with Dean,” Castiel’s snaps, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Dean?”

Dean licks his lips, drawing Castiel’s attention there, before he jerks his head in Mr. Gendenco’s direction. “He’s insulting my family and trying to have them removed.” 

“Is that so?” His eyebrows shoot up, the audacity of this man catching him off guard, and anger swells in his chest right alongside it. He steps closer to Mr. Gendenco, not bothering to smother his emotions as his teeth grind. “These are my guests, Mr. Gendenco. What makes you think you have any say in how long they stay?”

“I-I-I didn’t—” Mr. Gendenco says, stumbling back as he raises both hands, panic clear on his face.

“Are you suggesting my guards don’t have a good handle on security? Or that my taste in companions is subpar?” Anger ripples through him, burning deep in his bones until his hands shake with it. His voice is steady, though, when he speaks. Sharp and cold, just like his mother’s. “Perhaps I don’t.” Castiel looks over the man’s shoulder at Benjamin, giving him a short nod. “Have Mr. Gendenco escorted from the palace, please, and remove him from the guest list.” Then, because he’s so angry he could burst, he leans closer, right in Mr. Gendenco’s face. “You don’t get to insult my guests in my house, understood?”

“Y-yes, Your Highness. So s-sorry, Y-your Highness,” he says, the words stuttering out of him as panic takes over his whole body, but Castiel doesn’t care. He turns back to Dean and his family as his guards lead Mr. Gendenco out of the ballroom. 

“My apologies; that was incredibly unacceptable,” Castiel says, dipping his chin as embarrassment takes over his anger. Mr. Gendenco is on his father’s guest list as a high ranking member of society and an influential CEO, but the responsibility for the actions of everyone in attendance lies with him, nevertheless.

“Excuse me,” Dean says, under his breath, and before Castiel can ask him what for, he is pushing through the crowd, the back of his head weaving through dancing couples on his way to the door.

Castiel doesn’t think, he just follows. His heart thunders, lodged somewhere in his windpipe as he hurries through the packed ballroom. For once, he is grateful that the people move for him, clearing a path for him to chase after Dean. He needs to make this right, to apologize again and again until he is forgiven.

The doors swing out ahead of him, and Castiel picks up the pace, keeping his gaze locked on the space between the two doors. If he can just…

Castiel pushes through the doors, leaving the raucous noise of the ballroom behind him for the silence of the hallway, filled with nothing but the sounds of his footsteps and Dean’s harsh breaths.

Castiel slows to a stop, a mixture of fear and relief melting through him. Dean has his face turned to the ceiling, tension evident in every inch of him, locked tight like he’s ready for a fight. His chest heaves with every breath, and Castiel’s heart breaks for him.

“Dean,” he says, as softly as he can manage with panic underlying every word. 

“Not in the mood, Cas,” Dean whispers, before he starts moving, walking away without so much as a glance at him.

Castiel panics. He doesn’t think, just shoots forward, his fingers wrapping around the bare skin of Dean’s palm. It’s not skin on skin, but the heat that bleeds through his glove feels close enough to it to send shivers up Castiel’s spine. He pulls Dean around, tugging on his hand until Dean’s eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, and it doesn’t feel like enough. It’s all he has, and he hates that there’s nothing more; that he doesn’t have the power to give Dean anything more. “Dean,” he says again, and pulls him closer. What else can he give but his closeness? What else does he have, but himself? “I’m sorry. I knew this could happen, but I didn’t think they would be so open about it. I thought I could keep it from touching you, but—”

“It’s fine, really—”

“It’s not.” God, how can Dean say that? It’s not fine, and it never will be. Castiel pulls him closer and tucks a finger under Dean’s chin, making him listen. “Nothing about anyone disrespecting you or your family is fine.” They’re so close—close enough that he can see the flecks of gold mingled with the green in his eyes. Every breath whispers across his lips, Dean’s scent wraps itself around him, pulling him deeper. He can’t look away if he wanted to, especially with Dean staring right back as if he can see down to his soul. “I want you to tell me when it happens, okay? You’re my guest, and no one is to disrespect you.”

Dean nods, a little shaky, like he’s not convinced he can make himself do it. Castiel’s heart sinks a little at the thought; he wants Dean to trust him, but wanting that trust and earning it are two entirely separate things. Patience, he reminds himself. 

“Let’s get back inside, yeah?” With more effort than should be necessary, he lets go of Dean’s hand. His fingers flex of their own volition, chasing the feeling of Dean’s warmth. Echoes of it ripple through him, up his arm and into his chest.

He forces a smile as he steps away, and looking at Dean, he might even call it genuine.

Chapter Text

Castiel tips from his cup of tea, wincing when the hot liquid burns his tongue, and sets it aside. He has chosen to take breakfast in his room this morning, too tired to do much more socializing after last night. Besides, he has another date today, and he needs to get ready.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, clad in his sleep clothes, his hair a mess and pillow lines wrinkling his cheeks. He is sure Susie will huff her way through their session until his hair is tamed and his eyes look a little less lifeless.

His date today is with Hannah, and he must say, the thought of spending several hours with her, conversing as they used to, catching up, is so unbelievably comforting, especially in comparison to his first date this week.

Duma suggested a more refined choice for a date to distract from the first disaster date he went on. Castiel has no objections.

He plucks a plump purple grape off the bunch and pops it between his lips, piercing the skin and closing his eyes as the tart flavor explodes on his taste buds. He savors the moment, sinks into the peace of being alone. It isn’t often that no one is expecting anything of him, but right now, he is entirely free to do as he wishes.

So, he eats his breakfast one grape at a time, nibbles on the best edges of his bagel, letting the warm butter melt in his mouth. He blows the stream off his tea and takes another sip. It doesn’t burn this time, so he takes another, letting the flavor fill his senses.

Oh, how he would love more mornings like this, perhaps with someone to share the early light of day as the sun crests the horizon. They could eat breakfast together, tangled in the bedsheets, sharing purple grapes and fluffy croissants as the time gets away from them.

Castiel closes his eyes, letting himself sink into the longing that feels him up, swelling in his chest like a balloon. He wants it so badly, and no matter how much he tells his father he is fine alone, the loneliness that sneaks up on him in moments like this is almost debilitating. 

His eyes snap open as he tears his thoughts back to the present moment. That is what this whole thing is for, isn’t it? For him to find the person he will eat grapes in bed with.

Castiel curls his toes against the cold floor, his mind drifting to his future. Who will be by his side in ten short weeks? Will it be someone of his father’s choosing, or his own? He can’t help but imagine it to be Dean, but even that doesn’t bring him any peace. He cannot allow himself to hope that Dean feels the same—not yet, at least.

Instead of dwelling on it, Castiel takes his tea and a small handful of grapes and wanders to the balcony doors. The air is crisp and cool when he steps outside, his bare feet burning against the icy stone. A cold breeze rustles his hair and cuts through his shirt, but it’s refreshing, so he closes the doors behind him and makes his way to the railing.

The sun is bright and warm, easing the chill in his bones as he leans over the railing and looks into the garden below.

Dean’s garden.

Castiel’s heart skips a beat when he sees the figure lying in the grass, sprawled out, soaking up the sun. Dean’s still in his sleep clothes, though Susie should have woken him over an hour ago. He has a sneaking suspicion that perhaps Dean had a little more to drink last night than he should have.

He can imagine the pounding headache Dean must have now, or the nausea turning in his gut, and he aches to make it better. To see him up and about. Alright, so his motivations are more selfish than anything, but he ignores that as he steps back inside and picks up his phone.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” the servant on the other end of the line says, her voice bright and cheerful. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning,” he says, setting aside his tea as he turns to look out the window. “Would you bring Mr. Winchester some herbal tea for his hangover, please?”

“Of course, sir,” she says, and he rattles off a few more instructions before hanging up the phone, a warm ball of happiness growing in his chest at the thought of Dean receiving the tea and knowing it is from him. It’s thrilling to think of Dean knowing he was thinking about him, because he is always thinking about Dean. It is more than a little terrifying, but he can’t ignore the parts of him that want Dean to know how high his regard for him is.

Castiel waits but five minutes before sneaking back out to the balcony. He peeks over the railing, down into the garden to where Dean is sipping his tea and popping a slice of cheese and a ripe purple grape into his mouth. Warmth melts through Castiel, his heart thumping a few extra beats just watching Dean accept his gift. Not that Dean knows it is from him. The servants didn’t tell him, of course.

After a few minutes, Castiel wanders back inside, deciding perhaps it is time for him to make an appearance for the day. He does have a date, after all, and he needs to prepare.

The trill ringing of the phone catches Castiel’s attention the moment he steps into the room, and he all but dives across his bed to answer it.

“Hello?” He says, a little breathless as he bounces on the thick mattress. 

“Your Highness, I am calling to inform you that Mr. Winchester has accepted your offer of food and drink and would like to thank you for your generosity.”

“Uh, yes,” Castiel says, his face flaming. Why did she tell him who it was from? “Thank you.” God, that is so embarrassing—like finding out someone has informed your crush that you have a crush on them before being able to hint at it yourself. 

He hangs up and buries his face in his arms, too humiliated to move. Dean is going to think he is an obsessed freak. 

God, what a disaster.

Castiel can’t help but smile as Miss Hannah steps out of the town car in a beautiful bronze gown. It highlights her eyes and the radiant smile on her face. Truth be told, he has always assumed she would be who he’d marry.

“Hello,” he says, still smiling as she walks up the path of their favorite diner—a family owned sandwich shop that Russell and Hannah’s chaperone would take them to on their lunch break as children. “You look lovely.”

“Why, thank you,” she says, and does a halfhearted curtsey. “I am sure my mother would hate such a flashy piece of fabric, but it looks fantastic on, if I do say so myself.”

A soft chuckle slips from Castiel’s lips as they fall back into the easy friendship they have always had. It would not be a hardship to marry her, he decides. Even if, in the back of his mind, a tiny voice whispers that she is still not his first choice.

“Shall we?” he asks, shoving that voice away as he waves up the walkway to the red front door with the peeling paint and the open sign telling them to Come in, we’re open!

It is much like taking a walk down their childhood memories as Russell holds open the door for them both. By custom, Castiel should enter first, but he is nothing if not a gentleman, and waves Hannah forward, letting her enter the bright, cheery interior with its glass displays and handwritten chalk signs. 

Russell chooses their table for them, which just so happens to be the one they always sat in. It is all for safety considerations of course, and so they are in the back corner, near the rear door, and away from the window. As nice as it would be to watch the people walk by, and the birds flying in the clear blue sky, tradition will have to do.

Castiel sits with his back to the wall, as is customary, and Hannah takes the seat opposite, her eyes roaming the exposed rafters of the ceiling and the wall-hangings still dotting every open space.

“Not a thing has changed,” she says, her gaze falling back to him. “I’m glad.” 

Castiel takes a moment to look at her face; at her big blue eyes and high cheekbones. She came into her beauty over their years of separation. Womanhood looks good on her; Mother would be pleased should he marry her. “I don’t suppose you wish to share your dessert any more than you used to?” He arches an eyebrow, but she doesn’t laugh the way she used to, looking down instead with a soft blush.

“No, I won’t be…” she sighs, something sad flickering in her eyes before it’s gone. “I am not so hungry that I will be eating dessert.”

Though he can be oblivious at times, Castiel isn’t stupid, and he has known Hannah all their lives. Long enough to know that she wouldn’t turn dessert down for the whole world unless she is commanded to do so.

“Perhaps to go, then?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “That won’t be necessary.” She swallows hard and looks away, and Castiel takes the hint.

He leaves it alone, opening his menu, and he hates the way she looks relieved when he does it. Hates that she is no longer comfortable, just him and her. So much has changed in so little time, and he’s starting to think perhaps he doesn’t know her at all anymore.

“I had a lovely time, Castiel,” Hannah says as they walk through the front doors of the palace, the sun shining on their backs right up until they walk out of the light of the stained-glass window. “Truly. It was wonderful catching up.”

“Yes,” he says, but when he smiles at her, he doesn’t feel anything new. He had hoped he would; that perhaps with age and maturity, he would feel something more than friendship, but all he feels is a familiar, surface level love for her, nothing more. “I have much to attend to, but I do hope to speak more at another time.”

Hannah’s smile wilts for a moment before she brightens again, and the look in her eyes makes Castiel’s heart sink. He has seen this look before, in this palace, in fact, and he hates it. The look of a person who adores him for what he is, for what he can do for them, not for who he is—never for who he is as a person.

Castiel leaves her there, leading Russell up the steps to his office. He can feel her eyes on him as he goes, and the pit in his stomach grows.

“That is not the girl I remember,” Russell says the moment the office door closes behind them.

Castiel sighs, dropping into his office chair and resting his forehead in one hand. He rubs at his brows and closes his eyes. “Much has changed, it would appear.”

“She is…” Russell shakes his head, running a hand over his scalp as he takes his post by the door. “She’s like the others.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t need to. There isn’t much else to say other than that. “Yes,” Castiel murmurs, opening his eyes to look at the wall in front of him. His mind wanders, searching for… before settling on something warm, something bright. It settles on Dean, and he wonders…

Is Dean like them, too?

Castiel has never known the true name of the garden room, only that it has always been one of his favorites. With its ornate marble columns, soft, golden lighting, ivy growing from every spare wall, and doors that open up into the true garden it is peaceful, holy, almost. Roses bloom in the summer, and the bees are plentiful.

This ceremony is sure to ruin it for him.

Castiel stands outside the closed double-doors, eyes closed, wishing more than anything that he didn’t have to go in there. As much as he knows this is how it works, the thought of hurting someone, of rejecting someone…

It breaks his heart to think about.

“Ready, Your Highness?” Benjamin asks, leaning in so as not to be overheard.

Castiel sucks in a deep breath and pulls back his shoulders. He is as ready as he will ever be. “Yes,” he says, and Benjamin moves away to let the rest of the camera crew know. “Benjamin?” he calls, just before his guard can disappear through the doors. 

He turns back to look at Castiel, eyes wide and waiting. 

“Does my tie look alright?” He smooths a hand over the sapphire tie—one of his favorites, though Susie does not allow him to wear it nearly as often as he would like. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” Benjamin says with a stiff nod. “The cameras are rolling.”

“Very well,” Castiel says, ducking his chin before straightening back up again. He is the Crown Prince, and he needs to start acting like it if he wants to get through these ceremonies in one piece. “Go on.”

The doors swing in, and he’s not ready. He’s not ready .

Too late.

Castiel steps inside, hands folded in front of him as he moves to take his place by the podium filled with long-stemmed sapphire roses. He doesn’t look at his suitors, but at the walls around them. The vines are still alive and well, but it is only a matter of time before they turn brown and wither. They will have to keep the doors closed eventually, but right now, the sweet, early fall air fills the room with a soft kind of warmth that has Castiel dripping with a nervous sweat.

“Tonight is the first of our selection ceremonies, where each suitor will receive a rose if they are being asked to stay, and one will not,” Duma is saying, to the suitors, but into the camera. “The sapphire rose represents both the color and flower of Amarellino, and the prince’s dedication to getting to know you better. At the end of tonight, one of you will be going home, and on behalf of the royal family, we would like to thank you for being here.”

She turns to him, and his heart clenches in his chest, beating so hard, he’s sure it will crack a rib. Still, he reaches for a rose, not bothering to worry about thorns as he lifts his gaze to meet his suitors. He takes them all in, from April, right in the front, smiling like she is certain he will choose her. He will, of course, but he might not always. Every set of eyes is locked on him, all the way to the back corner, tucked behind the column, to Dean.

Dean, who looks like he can’t imagine a world where he wakes up in this palace tomorrow. Castiel is choosing him, too. Last. Always last.

“It has been wonderful, getting to know all of you so far, and I am looking forward to the weeks to come. The person I have chosen to go home tonight is one that I do not believe is well suited for the kind of life that must be led as a member of the royal family. Though, this person has a wonderful spirit, and is kind hearted, I must make difficult decisions for my kingdom, and this is one of them.”

He takes a deep breath and pulls a name from his brain. “Hannah,” he says, feeling a smile whisper across his lips, because even though she is not the girl he once knew, she is still lovely and sweet, and she is kind to Dean. 

She stops in front of him, a light in her eyes like she has won a prize. Castiel swallows back the sadness he feels when he sees it before he can make his mouth say the words he needs them too. “Hannah, will you accept this rose?” 

“I will,” she whispers, and takes the rose from his hands. She doesn’t bother looking at him again. She just stares at the rose as she retakes her place.

Castiel reaches for the next one, and before he knows it, another name spills from his lips. A suitor moves forward, then another, and another, another, another. They keep coming, he keeps saying their names, and Dean still isn’t looking at him.

There is one rose left on the podium, and Castiel picks it up. He twirls it between his fingers as a horrible, horrible thought crosses his mind. 

What if Dean doesn’t accept?

“… final rose,” he hears Duma say, catching the last part of her sentence before she steps back and it’s all him. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for rejection. There’s only one way to know for sure, after all.

“Dean,” he says, the name rolling off his tongue like it is meant to do that. Easy, sweet and simple. Dean, Dean, Dean.

Dean steps off his platform, looking unruffled and totally in control as he fixes his suit and weaves through the other suitors. God, he’s beautiful, and Castiel has a feeling he would think the same if Dean were covered in mud and dressed in a trash bag. 

He can’t help watching Dean’s every move as he walks across the space between them, and maybe it hurts to breathe a little, like all the air has been sucked from his lungs. Are his hands shaking? He can no longer feel his fingers, and there is something strange about the way his heart is beating; too fast and not fast enough. Too hard, but not enough .

Dean is in front of him, and he’s waiting. Waiting with a look in his eyes that is nothing like the one in Hannah’s or Meg’s, Michael’s or Balthazar’s.

This look is entirely new.

A slow, easy smile moves across his face as warmth floods him, and Dean… he’s smiling too, and Castiel can’t take it anymore.

“Dean,” he blurts like a breathless fool, still smiling, still aching right down to his bones. “Will you accept this rose?”

Dean nods, and his smile only grows until he’s cocking his head to one side and biting his bottom lip, and Castiel might die from that look alone. “Yes,” Dean murmurs, his fingers closing over Castiel’s as he takes the rose. He lingers, and Castiel soaks up every second of the vibrant, burning touch before Dean pulls away and heads back to his place.

Castiel lets the air out of his lungs in a slow, silent stream. Now, the part he hates.

He watches two of his guards step in, a hand on Dean’s shoulder as they murmur, “Mr. Winchester? Please step to the side.” Dean does, nearly jumping out of the way as the guards take hold of Balthazar, who blinks and sways in confusion. 

“What…?” Balthazar says, his glassy eyes searching the room. He tugs at his restricted arms, and a knot forms in Castiel’s stomach. God, he hates this. “What about me? Where’s my rose?” Their eyes meet, and Castiel has to force himself to look at him. “Where’s mine?” 

Then, he’s gone, his shouts carrying down the hallway. Castiel sighs. It’s done.

“A toast!” Duma shouts, startling him out of his thoughts as the lights brighten and the suitors crowd closer. Champagne makes its way around, and at some point, Castiel must grab one, because it’s in his hands, and he’s holding it close like it will shield him from this horrible, terrible feeling.

He forces a smile, moving on autopilot as he lifts his glass.  “To you,” he says, the only words that he can squeeze past the lump in his throat, but the suitors hold their glasses up and repeat the words.

Except for Dean, who is looking at him. Their eyes meet, holding each other through the gap of smiling suitors. 

To you , he mouths, because he just can’t help himself.

Chapter Text

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

“Uhhh,” Castiel groans, his eyes closed, cheek pressed into his wrinkled pillow. “What’s so good about it?”

The servant laughs—Christian, he thinks—and the clatter of a tray against the coffee table reaches his ears. “The sun is up, it is the weekend, and you are one week closer to this being over.”

Castiel buries his face deeper into his pillow, pulling his covers higher as Christian flings open the curtains, letting the golden light of morning pour in.

Castiel pulls his duvet over his head.

“Your tea is steeping, and I left you a handful of grapes, should you wish to eat them before breakfast,” Christian says, his words carrying from the other side of the room. “Mrs. Sampson will be in shortly.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, the words muffled in his down feather pillow. 

“You are quite welcome, Your Highness,” Christian says, and a moment later, the door clicks shut and Castiel is alone again.

He lies there for a while, thinking about how much he doesn’t want to get up. It is Saturday, and he has much to do, but the thought of facing anyone this morning is leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He misses his solitude, his freedom to do as he pleases, when he pleases. It has not even been a week, and yet…

With a heavy sigh, Castiel flops onto his back, letting his hands wander under the sheets. He needs to feel something besides the dread sneaking up inside him, so he lets his fingers travel over his bare stomach, down, down, down to the waistband of his sleep pants.

He shouldn’t… really, he doesn’t have the time, but his fingers slip beneath the elastic band before he can stop himself, wrapping around his morning erection with a loose grip. A soft breath escapes him as he closes his eyes, letting the sensation of skin on hot skin sink into his bones.

For a moment, he just feels it; his hand around himself, fingers flexing, punching soft puffs of air from his lungs. He’s so hard, he’s aching, and he wishes for nothing more than to move his hand, to thrust into the tight clench of his fist and feel the pleasure of a quick orgasm ripping through him. 

But he won’t. He waits, rubbing his thumb over the slick tip of his cock, smearing the drop of pre-come beading there. His heart beats in his ears, loud enough to drown out the sound of his own stuttering breaths. 

With slow, controlled practice, Castiel tightens his fingers and pulls on his cock, letting it glide through his grip. He twists his wrist, tearing a stuttering gasp from his lungs as pleasure melts in his chest. It’s been so long since he has allowed himself this—too long, and now he’s desperate for it.

Castiel’s back arches as he digs his heels into the mattress, tightening his hold and quickening his pace. His muscles lock and strain as his orgasm builds inside him, tightening in his stomach and spreading out in threads of heady pleasure.

Somehow, somewhere between his hand wandering into his pants, and here, his mind settles on an image of green eyes, a constellation of freckles on blushing cheeks. It lands on a shy smile turned little smirk. The most beautiful man he has ever known.

Castiel comes, a muted gasp bursting from his chest as every part of him locks tight, pleasure ripping through him. He closes his eyes, his back arching as he shakes with the force of it until it almost hurts. 

He sinks into the mattress, his ragged breaths filling the otherwise silent room. Slowly, so slowly it could take hours or minutes or days, Castiel comes back to himself. To the sticky mess in his pants, and the cooling sweat on his skin.

To the knocking on his door.

“Castiel!”

Castiel’s eyes snap open, the last of his zen fleeing at the sound of that voice.

“I’m coming in!”

Castiel springs up, his heart sprinting in his chest as he dashes across the bedroom, feet slapping the floor, his skin crawling as the doorknob turns just as he slams the bathroom door behind him. There is much Susie has seen, including the entirety of his naked body, and though he has long grown used to the staff being aware of his… habits, he does not need Susie seeing his damp, sticky sleep pants and his messy hands.

“Castiel!” she calls, only one door between them as he flips on the shower and flings his sleep pants at the hamper. 

“In here!” he shouts, hating the way his voice shakes as he steps into the shower and rinses away any evidence of his morning activities. Warming water pelts his tingling skin, and he takes a deep breath as his heart starts to slow.

Then, the guilt hits. Sharp and sickening, it sinks into his stomach. How could he think of Dean while doing that? That must cross all sorts of boundaries, and despite knowing that when—if—Dean chooses to marry him, they will certainly be intimate, they are not there yet, and—

“Don’t be too long,” Susie says, not bothering to enter. “Breakfast is in thirty minutes.”

Castiel sighs, letting the water sluice over his chest and down his bare legs as a deep feeling of loneliness tries to carve out a space in his chest. He closes his eyes, swallowing back the feeling—he doesn’t have time for it now.

Castiel can barely look up when Dean walks in and drops into his chair. As it is, he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He is certain they are bright red, giving away every sordid thought he had this morning.

Not that it matters; the moment Dean sits down, he and Charlie are off, laughing about one thing or another, as Dean fills his plate with french toast and sausage—

Castiel drops his eyes back to his own plate, hating that he can’t help but look. He spears a piece of cantaloupe and slides it between his lips, chewing slowly as he breathes in through his nose. He needs to get a handle on himself now.

 “What are these?” Hannah asks, snagging Castiel’s devout attention away from his food to where she is looking at Dean’s leg. 

“My jeans?” Dean says, wide green eyes flicking from his lap to Hannah, and now Castiel is looking, and he can’t stop looking, because Dean is wearing jeans. 

“No shit, dumbass,” Charlie says, snagging a sausage on Dean’s plate while he’s not paying attention. “She knows what jeans are, but why are you wearing them?”

Castiel looks away, back at his plate and the sad assortment of fruit sitting in little piles in each corner, then decides perhaps some orange juice will do him some good. He sips the sweet liquid, doing his best to block out Dean’s deep, silky-smooth voice.

“Fuck if I know,” Dean says, and despite not listening, Castiel hears every word. He is sitting just across the table, after all. “I thought they’d be comfy but they’re itchy as hell, and too damn tight in the ass.” There’s a clatter of cutlery before Dean shifts, and Castiel swallows hard. “Do royals wear jeans?” No, Castiel thinks, before Dean snags his heart right out of his chest. “Hey Cas! Quick question—d’you wear jeans?”

Castiel jumps, his eyes snapping to Dean’s, and for a moment, everything inside him stops. The air in his lungs, the words on his tongue—all of it stops when he looks at Dean. This is why I got out of bed, he thinks, then shoves the thought away.

He clears his throat. “No, I can’t say I do.”

Dean nods, slow and deliberating as he purses his lips. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” He stands, turning around to show Castiel his backside—and what a nice backside it is. “‘Cause these are terrible jeans.”

Castiel’s gaze snaps from Dean’s ass, up to his eyes. Is Dean… teasing him? And does he like it? Castiel thinks he might, if the warm, jittery feeling in his chest is any indication. He raises an eyebrow, one side of his mouth lifting in a smirk as he lets his eyes travel back down the lines of Dean’s body, over his white button down, all the way to his perfect, denim-clad ass. “Your… jeans are uncomfortable?” 

“That’s what I said, yeah,” Dean says, his smile widening into a playful grin, eye crinkles and all.

Castiel swallows back his own grin and tries his best to ignore his pounding heart as he gives Dean a quick nod. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, trying, and failing, to hide the bits of his smile that won’t be smothered. “I’ll make sure to have that sorted right away.” He spears a cube of watermelon and forces himself not to look at Dean as he slides it between his lips.

It is difficult to eat after that, what with a smile that won’t quite fade.

“He is wearing jeans, Castiel! Jeans!” 

“I am going for a walk,” Castiel tells Russell as he slips out of Susie’s workshop, closing the door behind him before her ranting carries into the hall.

Apparently, giving Dean jeans was not, in fact, an invitation for him to put them on. 

“Not a drink?” Russell mutters as they head for the grounds.

Castiel shakes his head with a soft smile. “Too early for that, I’m afraid.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Russell nod his agreement.

“How I would love to be a fly on the wall for her conversation with him,” Russell says, flicking his chin toward the barn when they step out into the grounds.

Castiel’s head snaps around, and just across the grass, there is Dean, making his way to the barn with Charlie and Hannah. Still wearing those damned jeans.

“I am certain he will handle her better than you or I could.” Castiel watches as Dean rips his tucked shirt out of his pants before turning his back on Hannah, and he is sure that he is doing it to spite her. He does not know how, but he is sure, and it brings him more joy than he is willing to think about right now.

“He is unexpected,” Russell says as they turn for the hills, taking long, slow strides into the still-green grass. It is growing a little long, but he suspects the grounds-keeper will only cut it once more before winter hits, if that. “I can’t say what I was expecting from him, but it is not what he is.”

Castiel couldn’t agree more. The idea of Dean in his head is a sweet, quiet man that knows how to conduct himself in higher society. It is a silly expectation, of course. Dean did not grow up with the nobility; he grew up in the lower classes, he went hungry, he had to fight for everything he has ever had.

That is who Dean is, and Castiel is so, so pleased to meet him.

“What are your thoughts on Miss Blake?” Russell asks, watching the heiress speak with the interviewers by the wilting roses, her dark hair pinned out of her face as her knee-length, deep purple dress blows in the soft breeze.

“I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with her for long,” Castiel says, letting his gaze fall back to their path. “All accounts of her are that she is a lovely, personable woman.” Honestly, she is one that has drawn his curiosity. One of his father’s choices, but so unusually delightful that he might actually like to get to know her.

“And the Harvelle girl? You are fond of her mother, yes?” Russell arches an eyebrow, his bald forehead wrinkling.

Castiel snorts. “Fond? No.” Ellen Harvelle is a fair woman who sticks by her decisions, but she is also crass, incredibly stubborn, and often speaks out of turn. He can respect that about her, but that does not make him fond. “It would appear that Jo is much the same as her mother, though I have yet to speak with her in depth.”

“Her mother reminds me of Susannah,” Russell says, a wistful tone to his voice, and something about it makes Castiel frown. Is that something he wants? Someone like Susie? 

Castiel knows the head of his royal guard has been unmarried for the entirety of his life, and as far as he knows, the man has not bothered to date. He claims that his loyalties lie with the crown, and that he will date when he’s dead.

But… is that what he wants?

Castiel doesn’t comment, and Russell doesn’t bother saying anything more. They are quite a ways from the palace now, lost in the rolling hills, the sounds of the camera crew fading away. Eventually, Russell falls behind, letting him walk alone.

It has been days since Castiel last took his morning run, and he forgot how much he loves the open air out here—the silence that only comes from wandering through the grounds. He should make a point of getting back to it, especially as the weeks go by and the stress of having suitors grows.

The silence is broken by the sound of thundering hooves, and Castiel turns to find his black and white appaloosa barrelling toward him, Dean clinging to her neck. His heart leaps, skipping a beat as he hurries to step in front of her.

 “Whoa! Whoa, Cookie!” he calls, holding up his hands as delight flares up inside him. So, Dean can’t ride horses, then. He’s not sure why he loves that so much, but he does, and as Cookie slows to a trot, allowing him to take the reins, he thinks perhaps he could teach Dean to ride.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, breathing hard as he shoves himself gracelessly from Cookie’s back. He hits the dirt hard, but lifts his head to give Cookie a dirty look. “What the hell, Cookie? I thought we were friends?” Cookie buries her nose in Castiel’s neck as Dean picks himself up and dusts off his pants, muttering under his breath about this is why cars were invented. After a moment, though, Dean runs a gentle hand along Cookie’s side, his wary eyes flicking to Castiel’s.

“I’m surprised she let you on her at all,” he muses, stroking Cookie’s nose. Not a soul has been able to ride her but him. Not in all the years he’s had her.

“That why the stable hand laughed?” Dean asks, bending double with his hands on his knees to try and catch his breath. 

The back of his neck glistens with a fine sheen of sweat, soaking into the collar of his button down, and Castiel’s eyes lock there as he laughs, imagining Aiden’s smirk when Dean chose Cookie. The kid is great with horses, but not so much with people. “Almost definitely. Cookie hasn’t let anyone but me ride her since the day she was gifted to me for my twelfth birthday. I raised her from a foal, you know?”

“Really?” he says, straightening up and resting a hand on her side as the look on his face softens a little, as if her being his horse makes Dean like her more. “So you’re the one who named her Cookie?”

Oh, here we go. Castiel raises an eyebrow, a spark of a challenge flaring in his chest. “Do you have a problem with it?”

Dean laughs, like it is somehow funny, and shakes his head. “No, but I know a couple of people who do,” he says, and nods over his shoulder to where Castiel can now see Charlie and Hannah trotting over on Pip and Remmie.

“Cookie’s not so great now, huh—Oh, Your Highness,” Charlie says, her tone changing when she catches sight of him, and his mood dampens just a little. He likes being alone with Dean; there is no pretense with him. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Yes, though I must disagree with your assessment—Cookie is the best horse in the stables.” He turns his face into her neck, letting her nibble at his hair as he strokes her soft coat. Perhaps he is biased, but so what? She is the best in his eyes. “You’re the best horse, darling.”

“Cookie’s his horse,” he hears Dean say, but doesn’t bother looking up to see what they think of that. He doesn’t much care, really. 

“I didn’t know you had a horse?” Hannah says, sounding almost betrayed, as if she is privy to every aspect of his life simply by virtue of being his oldest friend. It leaves him with a sour taste in his mouth. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he tells her, because he can’t help but point out that there have been many years between then and now. She doesn’t know him, and apparently he doesn’t know her as well as he once did, either.

Then, he turns to Dean and smiles. “Dean, they’re waiting for you to complete your interview inside.”

“Oh, fu—” Dean says, his eyes going wide as he looks back toward the pinprick of a palace. Both hands push into his hair as he takes in the distance they must travel back. “They’re going to be so mad.”

Castiel can’t help the soft laugh that escapes him as he leads Cookie over, stopping beside Dean. “Come on. Get back up there and I’ll take you back.” 

Dean looks over his shoulder, uncertainty shining in his eyes as he bats his lashes at him. Castiel would bet everything he owns that Dean doesn’t know he’s doing it—and then half again that he doesn’t know the effect it’s having on him. “But you said—”

“She let you on once, I’m sure she’ll let you on again.” He tips his chin at Cookie’s saddled back, not entirely sure what he is saying is true, but not willing to let Dean know that. 

Still, Dean hesitates, eyeing the saddle. “How do I…?” He waves his hands around like he’s not sure what to grab onto.

“You don’t know how?” Castiel cocks his head to one side before striding closer. “How did you get up the first time?” 

“I, uh… I had help,” Dean murmurs, scratching the back of his head as he kicks at the ground, and Castiel just barely catches the soft blush rising in his cheeks.

“Well, alright,” he says, huffing a soft laugh as his heart skips a few beats. Something about helping Dean onto a horse feels… he doesn’t know, but it feels good. “I suppose I can show you how.” Before he can stop himself, or think better of it, he’s stepping close to Dean’s side, barely a breath apart, and points to the saddle. “You need to grab on here, put your foot in the stirrup, and pull yourself up. Like this.” He does just as he explained, feeling his suit strain as he stretches high and pulls himself into the saddle. Cookie doesn’t so much as shift under him, standing proud as he dismounts. “Now, you try.”

“Okay,” Dean murmurs, taking a deep breath to psych himself up before placing his hands on the saddle. Castiel steps back to watch, and it is a little uncoordinated, what with Dean not quite sure how to swing his body, and Cookie shifts around a bit, but he gets there. The beaming smile on his freckled face makes Castiel’s heart race. “There!”

Castiel jumps when Charlie and Hannah clap. He’d forgotten about them entirely. “Good,” he says, turning back to Dean. He shields his eyes from the sun to look up at him. “Now you won’t need help getting on a horse ever again.”

“Wait. There’s going to be a next time?” Dean’s face falls, like that is the last thing on earth he had considered. Does he not like horses? That would be a shame considering the time Castiel spends with them when he can.

He doesn’t respond to Dean’s question, taking up the reins instead and clicking his tongue to get Cookie moving.

She jolts forward, and Castiel tugs on her reins, slowing her to a stop as he chuckles. Oh, Dean has much to learn, it would seem. “Try not to squeeze your legs so tight; she thinks you’re telling her to go.” He grins up at Dean—he just can’t help it. “Just sit tight. Focus on your balance and hold onto the saddle right there. Maybe I can teach you properly sometime.” If Dean wants to at all, that is.

Dean doesn’t answer, so Castiel takes that as a no. He refuses to dwell on it, though, and allows Dean the time to relax by turning to Hannah, who walks at his side with Remmie’s reins in hand.

“How is your family?”

“They are well,” she says, smiling at him. It’s warm, familiar in a way that no one else is, but his heart doesn’t skip a beat in the way it should. “Rebecca is expecting her first child in a few months, and Isaac has met a man my mother expects he will marry.”

Castiel nods, not sure what to say to that. Though he and Hannah grew up together, he knows very little about her elder brothers and sisters. Other than Adina, to whom Castiel was supposed to marry before Hannah’s family went bankrupt, he has met none of them. They don’t talk about that short-lived engagement, though, especially considering he had only spoken to her once when it was decided, and losing that had been no great loss for him—no loss at all, in fact.

“I don’t suppose you have been home recently?” he asks, steering away from family and back to country, as they always do.

“No, not in some time.” She shrugs, playing it off as no big deal, but he can see the sadness in her eyes as she looks to her feet. “My father is determined to see all his children marry by the spring. He wishes to host a ball to celebrate—any reason to party, really.” She grins at him, and Castiel tries to smile back, but it’s hard. 

She’s not his first choice, but she might be his second. If things don’t work out with Dean, he decides. She will be the one I choose. Then, the thought of things not working out with Dean grabs him by the throat. He can’t imagine it, can’t fathom not having him here.

“Do you know how thrilled my parents will be if you marry me instead of Adina?” she says, leaning close with a wicked grin. “Two queens in the family; they won’t be able to contain themselves.”

Castiel tries to laugh. Truly, he tries, but there’s a knot forming in his stomach that has little to do with her words and everything to do with the fact that Dean is here to hear them. “Why don’t you ride ahead to let Mick know Dean will be having his interview later today,” he tells her, and it’s not quite an order, but close enough that she doesn’t protest. 

She nods, her smile falling as she remounts her horse and rides off over the hills.

“Where’s she going so fast?” Dean asks, the first words he’s said in half an hour. Castiel looks up at him, mildly startled to find himself so close. His shoulder nearly brushes Dean’s thigh, but he doesn’t move away as the magnetic heat of another body so close to his draws him in.

“I asked her to ride ahead to let the camera crew know to start the next interview. We won’t be back in time so you will need to do it later tonight.” A gentle breeze blows through Dean’s hair and the soft, sun-bleached strands reflect the golden light of mid-afternoon, glinting like a halo. It sucks the breath from Castiel’s lungs; takes it right out of him. He’s not even sure Dean knows how beautiful he is.

“Will I still have time to phone home?” Dean asks, snapping Castiel out of his thoughts. 

“Of course,” he says, and even if it isn’t true, Castiel will make sure there is time. Dean grins, wide and happy, and Castiel scrambles for something else to talk about before he does something stupid like tell Dean he’d do anything to see that smile. “Other than the episode with Mr. Gendenco, did your family enjoy the ball?”

Castiel looks out across the hills as he waits for Dean’s answer. Russell is a good fifty yards away, keeping an eye on them, but giving them privacy. In the distance, the camera crew is sure to be packing up and moving inside, though they are still too far away to see.

He looks up at Dean when he doesn’t answer and catches the look on his face. “I think they had fun. Haven’t really gotten the chance to ask, but Sam definitely enjoyed himself.” Dean shakes his head, a soft laugh filling the air around them as he leans forward and rubs the side of Cookie’s neck. The tension has eased from Dean’s shoulders, and it’s nice to see that perhaps he won’t always be fearful of horses. It gives Castiel some hope. “I don’t think he’s ever had so much pie in his life.”

Castiel laughs as he pulls back on Cookie’s reins, slowing them down as they walk up the side of a hill. Dean leans forward in his saddle to offset the incline, and as silly as it may be, pride swells in Castiel’s chest—he’s a quick learner, it would seem. “Speaking of pie,” he says when the thought pops into his mind. He glances at Dean from the corner of his eye, feeling the ache of a smile on his lips. “I’m told my staff makes special deliveries to one Dean Winchester.”

Dean scoffs. “I don’t ask them to! They just do it.” A pout pushes out his bottom lip as he looks out across the fields—at the top of Cookie’s head, at his own hands—anywhere but at Castiel.

“I have no doubt.” He lets his hand drift over Cookie’s side, feeling her soft coat beneath his fingers as he slows their pace even further. He doesn’t want to get back to the barn just yet; he likes speaking with Dean more than he thought he would. “My staff is rather fond of you.”

“Aw, really?” Dean asks, the most adorable look on his face as he tilts his head to one side.

Castiel nods, a soft laugh bubbling out of him. He’s not surprised, really. He was taken with Dean from the moment they met, despite not knowing anything about him. There is just something so warm about the way he speaks, or how he smiles. He is comforting in a way Castiel hadn’t expected, and he wants more of it, so it isn’t surprising that his staff feels the same.

“What about your parents?” Castiel asks after a few minutes of watching Dean tilt his face to the sun with his eyes closed. “Did they enjoy themselves?” God, he hopes so. There are few things he wants more than Dean’s parents’ approval.

“I think my mom had a good time. She likes getting the opportunity to dress up and drink fancy champagne. My dad, though…” Dean sighs, sadness bleeding into his features as he slumps in the saddle. “He’s not really the kind of person that likes those kinds of things. He came for me, but I’m sure he would’ve much rather stayed at home with a beer than dress up for a ball.” He pauses, glancing at Castiel for a moment, as if he is deciding if he should say what is on his mind, before he continues. “He’s not really a fan of being treated like a lower class citizen, either, even if that’s what we are.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but there is something sad about the way he says it that makes Castiel want to fix everything in the whole world for him.

“Dean, I—” He stops, swallows hard, and looks away. There are so many things he wants to tell Dean, but they all seem so small and insignificant compared to the hardships he has been through. He opens his mouth to say something, anything at all, but the words won’t come.

“S’okay, Cas. It’s fine.” But he can see that it’s not. He knows that it’s not. Castiel steps close enough for his shoulder to brush Dean’s leg, letting the heat radiating from him sink into his bones. Castiel shivers from the electric feeling coursing through him; he wants more of it. He wants all of it.

“Sometimes—” he starts, then stops, because there is no way he can say this to a man he has only just met. He has only just met Dean, after all, and it is silly to think that just because he is nice, just because he is funny and his smile lights up a room, that he can be trusted with Castiel’s secrets. He looks away quickly, heat rising in his cheeks. “I shouldn’t… I really shouldn’t say this.” 

“What? What is it, Cas?” Dean asks, curiosity filling every word, but Castiel shakes his head, shoving back his secrets. Now is not the time.

He looks up at Dean as sunlight cuts across his face, highlighting the smattering of freckles on his cheeks. It is the first day Dean isn’t wearing camera makeup, and as nice as he looks with it, the sight of him without is breathtaking in a way Castiel hadn’t been expecting. There is still so much for them to learn about each other, and Castiel isn’t ready for one of those things to be a life-altering secret he’s been holding onto all his life. No, he decides. Dean doesn’t need to know.

Because Castiel doesn’t want to be a king. 

That is the long and short of it, really. He wants to be normal, to love someone without it having to be a production. He wants to be touched without worry, to hold someone without thinking about it. The whole world wants something from him, and he is so, so tired of it. He’s just tired, and he’s lonely, and he wants to be loved.

“It’s nothing,” he says instead, and forces a smile that doesn’t quite do what it’s supposed to. Dean doesn’t push it as they approach the barn, and for that, Castiel is grateful. 

The barn is dark and empty when they step inside, and the cool, damp air makes him shiver. It isn’t exactly a warm day, but the walk back had Castiel sweating enough to be comfortable until now.

He pulls Cookie to a stop in the middle of the aisle and steps back to allow Dean to dismount, taking a moment to fix Cookie’s mane. 

Dean doesn’t move, though, his hands clinging to the reins as he looks at the ground on both sides of the horse. “Cas, how do I…” he starts, shifting around on the saddle, sliding one way, then the other before losing his confidence and sitting square in the middle. 

His eyes meet Dean’s, and he can’t help the tiny smile that curves his lips as he shakes his head and steps closer. Dean doesn’t know how to dismount, which means Castiel will have to help him.

“Alright—hold onto the saddle there.” He points to the pommel, and Dean does as he’s told, gripping with both hands until his knuckles go white. “Then slide your right leg over.” Dean shifts, his right leg sliding slowly over Cookie’s back until he’s clinging to the pommel with his left foot still in the stirrup. “You need to make sure your foot isn’t going to get caught—no, Dean!” 

Dean lets go of the pommel too soon, his arms flailing as he falls with his foot caught in the stirrup. Castiel jumps in to catch him, wrapping both arms around his chest before he can hurt himself.

He should have let Dean fall.

Now that he has him so close, Dean’s back to his chest, his body heat is radiating through both of them alongside the electric energy that always comes when their hands brush, or when Castiel touches Dean’s face. He sucks in a sharp breath, his heart pounding a drumbeat as he clings to Dean for far longer than necessary, feeling the muscles of his chest under his arms, or the way he shivers against him in the cold. 

Castiel can smell his shampoo, and Dean’s hair tickles his nose, so soft and smooth. He’s enveloped in all things Dean Winchester, and he doesn’t know how he’ll ever tear himself away now.

So, again, he should have let Dean fall.

Castiel forces out a laugh, doing his level best to seem unfazed, and certain he is failing miserably. “I suppose the first thing you learn next time is how to mount and dis mount a horse.” 

Dean laughs, but it’s strained, and now that he’s paying attention, Castiel can feel the way Dean’s chest heaves against his hold. Is he squeezing him too tight? Castiel tries to shift so as not to strangle him, but it’s awkward, and he ends up pressing them together from thigh to shoulders, and… yes, his morning activities are coming back to haunt him in the very worst way.

Dean is just so warm and solid, and Castiel has never in his life felt so much of another person against him. It is exhilarating—terrifying and exciting all at once. He can’t stand it and he never, ever wants it to end.

“Jump—move forward,” Castiel pants in his ear, not quite able to reach Dean’s foot from this angle.

Dean does, shifting against him as he shuffles closer, and Castiel has to close his eyes for a moment and breathe.

It is difficult, and more than a little awkward, but Castiel manages to maneuver Dean’s foot out of the stirrup without breaking his ankle or dropping him on the packed dirt floor. 

Then, when there is no reason to hold on anymore, Castiel steps away. The cold rushes in faster than it should, and every exposed part of him aches to reach out again to feel the warmth of another human body against his. He’s like an addict—he’s had a taste, and now he wants more. Craves more, and he can’t have it.

Instead, Castiel turns away, taking up Cookie’s reins and leading her into her stall. 

“Thank you,” Dean says. “And, sorry.” 

Castiel looks back at him, confusion mingling with the ache in his chest. 

Dean shrugs. “The whole,” he starts, waving his hands around as a blush colors his cheeks, “touching thing. I know it’s a rule and, even though it was an accident, I just…” he shrugs again, trailing off like he’s now sure where to go with that.

Castiel’s mind jumps to that morning, apparently knowing exactly where Dean should go with that, and how he had no problem touching himself to the thought of Dean. Embarrassment flares hot in his chest, rising up his neck and into his cheeks. He ducks his head, hoping the shadows of Cookie’s stall is enough to hide the thoughts that are surely written all over his face.

He turns away, unbuckling and pulling off Cookie’s saddle before hanging it up on the hook. He knows Aiden will be back to do it for him eventually, but he needs something to do with his hands until his blush fades and he can look Dean in the eye again.

The brush hanging on the wall catches his eye and he scoops it up as Dean wanders over. He runs the bristles through Cookie’s coat, knocking off stray dirt and grass as Dean rubs her neck with a flat hand, moving over all her markings one by one. 

Castiel takes deep, soothing breaths, willing his body to calm, but it’s difficult with Dean so close, and the lingering burn in his chest from their bodies being pressed together only minutes before.

“Nine horses?” Dean asks, having wandered away at some point while Castiel was absorbed in his thoughts and the task at hand. He glances up, finding Dean looking back at him, and smiles. 

“And one on the way,” he says, nodding at Brigit’s stall at the end of the aisle. Dean doesn’t hesitate before making his way there. He stretches his neck one way, then the other, checking her out from a few feet away before stepping close enough to touch her straining neck. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean says, his voice carrying through the echoing barn. Castiel keeps his attention on Cookie, but listens closely to the murmuring from the end of the aisle. “Brigit. Whose is she?”

A smile tugs at his lips, and his heart does this odd little flip. He garners the strangest delight from Dean speaking to him, acknowledging him in any way. “Also mine. Both the appaloosas are.” He gives Cookie one last pat before rehanging the brush and stepping out of her stall. “I got Brigit last year.” He looks at Dean from the corner of his eye, not sure if he should tell him why he got her, but he figures Dean already knows of his wealth, and transparency is probably the best way to go. “Another birthday present. Don’t tell Hael, but I’m gifting her Brigit’s foal as her first horse. She should be here by Hael’s eighth birthday in the spring.”

“That’s really sweet of you,” Dean says, and the smile on his lips, the compliment in his words does something strange to Castiel’s insides. Heat surges into his face and through his whole body as embarrassment steals all rational thought from his head. What is he supposed to do with that? “Is one of these horses the dad?”

He grabs hold of the lifeline and runs with it. “This is Remmie,” he says, taking a few steps to the next stall where his father’s thoroughbred is kept. “He belongs to my father.”  

 “You’ll make beautiful babies, Remmie,” Dean says, leaning close enough to speak near Remmie’s ear, and it catches Castiel so off guard that a laugh bursts out of him. He throws his head back and scrunches up his nose, letting delight fill him at Dean’s oddness.

He drops his head back down, his heart doing a funny little dance at the sight of Dean’s confused little smirk. “You’re quite strange, you know?”

Dean chuckles, scuffing his feet on the dirt-packed, hay-covered floor. “Good strange, right?”

The best, he thinks as his heart melts in his chest. “Of course.” They stand like that for a minute, not speaking, just looking at each other. Castiel wishes, more than anything, that he could say what he’s thinking without scaring Dean off. 

Instead, he takes a deep, calming breath, and steps back from Remmie’s stall. “You should get back to the palace and make your phone call.” Dean nods, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity like Castiel expects. He just stands there, staring at him without a word, and Castiel can’t quite figure out why. “I’ll walk with you.” 

He doesn’t think before he presses a hand to Dean’s arm, nudging him toward the doors. Shockwaves of awareness run up his arms, vibrating into his chest where his fingers curl around Dean’s bicep. He tells himself to pull away, that he shouldn’t be touching Dean, but he can’t.

This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?

“Do you think, maybe, that it isn’t him you crave, but touch, itself?” Pamela asks, leaning back in her chair, her dark hair hanging in loose curls, as she looks at him with a keen look in her eyes. “You’ve been deprived of physical contact for most of your life, and that can have some serious psychological effects.”

Yes, Castiel knows this. He is aware of what touch-starvation can do to a person, but he is also aware of just how much more he feels when it is Dean touching him. “It is different,” he says, because he wants his feelings for Dean to be real. More than anything, he wants it to be real.

“How so?”

“I—” Castiel starts, but cuts himself off. How is it different? It is, he knows that much, but how? 

The air in his lungs feels too hot, too sticky. He closes his eyes to the sitting room and lets his head fall back on the chair. There’s an ache in his chest, pulsing like something is trying to break free. He rubs a fist over his sternum and tries to breathe.

“I’m not saying what you feel isn’t real, Castiel,” she says, setting her notebook aside for the moment. “I just think you need to consider how strong your perceived feelings are, especially so early in the relationship.”

“You believe I’m in love with the idea of him,” Castiel says, and it’s not a question, but Pamela still considers it as if it is.

“I think you’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself to make your relationship into what you’ve always imagined it to be.” She tilts her head to one side, regarding him with an intense look. He is used to it from her by now; it doesn’t scare him anymore. “He’s the one from your childhood, right?”

Castiel nods.

“The boy who shook your hand.” She considers this, looking around the room for a moment before her gaze settles back on him. “Is it possible that you associate him with physical touch? That it’s so much more intense because of how you first met?”

It’s possible, yes, and Castiel hates that. He wants things with Dean to be different—special, even—and the insinuation that it might not be is a bitter pill to swallow. “I do like him, though,” Castiel says, because she has to know that there’s more to his feelings than what she’s making them out to be. “He is funny, and he loves pie, and he doesn’t look at me like he’s trying to get something from me.”

“Why don’t you try to focus on those things,” Pamela suggests as the hour comes to a close. “Think of five real things you know about Dean, and try to learn more everyday. Focus on them instead of how he makes you feel; it might clarify some feelings for you.”

Castiel nods, staring off into the middle ground as he turns the idea over in his head a few times. He thinks it through and decides that, yes, the best thing to do is get to know Dean better.

He won’t argue with that logic.

Chapter Text

Castiel can’t help the wisp of a smile that curls at the corners of his lips when he hears the shouting. Bare feet slap the marble floors, drawing closer, growing louder, until there’s a thump against the doorframe.

Dean must be here.

A thrill shoots through him, curling low in his stomach before he twists in his seat, looking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Dean. He’s doubled over in the doorway, his hands on his knees, chest heaving under sweat-slicked skin as he sucks in deep breaths.

Castiel’s breath catches at the sight, stuttering out of him when his eyes lock on Dean’s bare chest when he straightens up. His muscles shift, and yes, he’s a little bony, but… God, Castiel can’t look away. 

It is, by far, the most dressed-down Castiel has ever seen him, in nothing but a pair of sleep pants and a shower cap covering his wet hair. That’s it. By all accounts, it is highly inappropriate, and yet, Castiel might exile anyone who tries to make him dress. 

He swallows around the lump caught in his throat, dragging his gaze over Dean’s bow legs, over the tight vee of his hips, right back up to those broad shoulders.

Pulse thundering in his ears, Castiel knows he should look away–it is inappropriate to stare so long–but God help him, he can’t.

Dean’s head snaps around as Susie’s shouting voice carries into the room, and Castiel must say, being the Crown Prince has its perks when it comes to dealing with Susannah Sampson. Dean jerks forward, lunging deeper into the room before tucking himself behind Benny in the corner.

"Mr. Winchester! I'm not finished with you!" Susie shouts as she appears in the doorway, a shadowed figure standing at little more than five feet tall. 

With Dean hiding, out of Castiel’s line of sight, he takes his chance to turn away, shaking his head as he looks back at the screen. 

Still he can hear Dean mutter something to Benny, who answers back with a quick refusal. “No way, man. Susie’s terrifying.”

“Yeah, no shit!” Castiel hears, and something about the panic in his voice is interesting. Yes, Susannah is intimidating, but he would think that Dean is used to pushy people like her. He would assume one would have to be to survive in the lower classes. “C’mon, Suse! I just wanna see the show!”

“I’m not finished with you yet,” she snaps, and all Castiel can think is that she is going to drag Dean away, and he will go. No, that won’t do.

“Leave him be,” Castiel says, the words slipping out smooth and unruffled as he twists around, only to see Susie’s tight grip on Dean’s wrist. He bristles a little, because there is no good reason for her to put her hands on him like that. With his jaw clenched, he shifts his gaze to hers. “You can finish here, just like everyone else.”

“But, Your Highness—”

“You can finish here, just like everyone else.” There’s an order in his tone that she will not deny. They both know it, and no matter how much she likes to think she is in charge—that she is the most intimidating person in any room—she isn’t, simply by virtue of him being the Crown Prince. If he must enforce that on occasion for Dean’s sake, then so be it.

She drops Dean’s wrist, her face pinched and forehead wrinkling in a deep crease as Dean hurries to get away, stepping over wires and cushions laid out around the room. Castiel would be lying if he said it doesn’t please him to win these little battles, so he doesn’t say anything, just watches Dean make his way closer.

It occurs to Castiel, as Dean picks his way toward him, that the only open spot on the floor is right next to him. All the other suitors are nearly crammed against the far wall. Castiel can be oblivious at times, sure–this, he has had pointed out to him on numerous occasions over the years–but he knows when the vanity of others is at the forefront of their minds. They don’t want him to see them like this; it is disheartening, in a way, and all he can picture is a future with separate bedrooms and locked doors.

Castiel tries to ignore them as Susie frets, buzzing around without a hope of finishing before the screening begins, but it’s hard, especially when she starts digging through her things, muttering under her breath about nonoptimal work environments and bratty prince s. He knows she has been having a hard time lately; her husband isn’t doing well, and no matter how often or fervently Castiel offers his help, the man is as stubborn as they come—somehow, even more so than Susie—so he lets it slide.

The man has been dying for years, and Castiel would never say as much to Susie, but he suspects her husband is ready to go.

“I’m sure we all remember that wonderful day twenty-one years ago when Prince Castiel James Charles Novak was born, the heir to the Amarellinian throne,” Duma’s voice says, booming over the speakers as her smiling face pops onto the screen, signaling the beginning of the screening. “The parties—the celebration and excitement—rivaled nothing else, except this!”

Castiel sinks deeper into his chair, feeling the burn of embarrassment in his face. He should be used to the attention by now; every year since the day he was born, his birthday has been a national, televised event. He’s not, though, and he hates the way he can feel every set of eyes in the room on him as the screen cuts to him on the balcony, standing at the podium in all of his regalia. His voice doesn’t shake like he remembers, and he looks solid as he had hoped he would, but he was quivering on the inside.

Still, watching it back is intriguing in a masochistic sort of way. To see what was said on camera while he wasn’t around is something he wasn’t sure he would enjoy, but he finds that he is just curious enough to like it, especially when it comes to some of the suitors he hasn’t had a chance to speak with in depth yet.

“Oh, wow,” Sarah says on-screen, her dark hair shining under the light in her bedroom. It’s the second bedroom in the hall, corresponding with the order he called her name, and it is nice enough, but rather small in comparison to some of the others. “This is so beautiful,” she says, turning a small circle as she takes in the king-sized bed and floor to ceiling windows. “It reminds me of home but, you know, more.”

The screen switches to Michael, who stands at the side of his bed, feeling the linens between his fingers. “The thread count isn’t quite what I expected it to be, but it will do.” He drops the sheet and turns to run a finger over the dust-free side table. “Hm.”

It takes everything Castiel possesses not to roll his eyes. 

“Fuck!”

Castiel jumps, his head snapping around to look at Dean, who clutches his foot close to his chest and glares at Susie.

“Mr. Winchester,” Joshua says, but Castiel waves him off before he can get anywhere with his admonishment. They are all adults here, what is a little cursing in the grand scheme of things?

“It’s fine, Joshua.” He doesn’t bother looking at his guard, but feels it when he steps away.

“Give it back, boy.” There’s an edge to Susie’s voice that Castiel doesn’t expect, and he watches her closely as she waves an impatient hand at Dean. He huffs, but gives her his foot without much more complaint.

“Warn a guy before ripping out his toe hairs, would you?” Dean snaps, more aggravated than Castiel has ever seen him–well, more aggravated at Susie than he’s ever seen him. Susie presses another wax strip onto his toe and, looking Dean directly in the eye, she rips it off. Castiwl winces, and Dean’s groan of pain leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Why do you hate me?”

Castiel turns back to the screen, trying to push down the sick feeling in his stomach when Dean sucks in another sharp breath. Instead, he focuses on Dean’s on-screen rambling, forcing himself to look at the way he stutters and stumbles over his words, or the way he can’t help but grin when he’s embarrassed, and his cheeks are just so pink…

It’s the most adorable thing Castiel has ever seen, and from a grown man, nonetheless.

 “Aw, look at you! You were so cute!” Charlie says from Dean’s other side, leaning into his side. Though Castiel would never say so out loud, he definitely agrees. Dean Winchester is adorable.

“Oh, the leprechaun suit. Remember that one, Suse? Ow.” 

“I’m Dean Winchester, from… down the road?” Castiel’s heart melts when Dean cringes both beside him and on the screen, before whispering to who he would assume is Duma behind the camera. “I don’t know what else to say. Oh, what I do? Okay.” On-screen Dean pauses and straightens up with an obvious blush. “I usually work with my dad in the mechanics shop, but I do a little bit of everything.” His shoulders jerk in a shrug, and he leans forward to answer. “I’m twenty-four. Oh, crap. How old am I? I’m twenty-four.” 

Beside him, Dean covers his face with both hands and groans as the guards laugh at their backs, and Castiel can almost feel the heat radiating off of Dean.

“I’ve changed my mind, Suse. Take me back.” Castiel shifts in his chair, trying to ignore the way he feels at the thought of Dean leaving. He knows he should be here for all of them, but if he’s honest with himself, which isn’t often, he will admit that the only reason he dragged himself out of bed this morning is because he knew Dean would be here.

The interviews play on, as polished as ever. Jo is sharp-witted and funny, Sarah is sweet and innocent, and Michael is the height of decorum. As much as Castiel loves to watch Dean fumble and blush, he must admit, it is nice to see a well-executed interview from the rest of his suitors.

“What the hell, man? I look like a bumbling idiot compared to everyone else,” Dean says, twisting around to throw up his arms and glare at Mick when two-thirds of the interviews come to a close. It is unfair to Dean, really—they have all been subjected to media training, after all, and Dean has had nothing more than the thirty second briefing Duma gave them before the camera started rolling.

“Nothing new,” Meg says from across the room, and Castiel shoots her a look. She is getting incredibly bold for a woman who is here for one reason, and one alone. Sure, at the moment, she is useful, but the moment she becomes more work than help, he will have her gone. She needs to be reminded of that.

“The viewers will love it. Don’t worry so much.” Mick shrugs, his eyes fixed on the screen as he scrutinizes every frame. Castiel will admit, though the man is annoying, he is incredibly good at his job.

“I thought you were adorable,” Charlie says, and Castiel has to swallow his laughter with a soft hiccup so Dean won’t notice.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he says, slinging an arm around her shoulder. They settle in like that, and Castiel tries not to wish it were him in Charlie’s place. Charlie is Dean’s companion; a good friend to help him through this, and nothing more—Castiel wants to be more. 

“It’s disrespectful to have him here,” Lily says, and Castiel stiffens, his whole body locking up as his attention snaps back to the screen. The interviews have been fairly civil so far, especially considering who is on screen, but he has a feeling that’s all about to change. “Like, a commoner is as good as the rest of us, who know basic manners, at least. The prince might as well have a dog sitting at the table with the rest of us for the way Dean eats his food.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean doesn’t even flinch, staring at the screen like he’s the only one in the room, but Castiel can see how his jaw ticks and color rises up his neck. 

Castiel refocuses on the screen, taking a deep, calming breath, when Susie has Dean pull up his pant leg. It is more than a little difficult to focus, however, with so much of Dean on display. His legs are strong and tanned from the summer months, and all Castiel wants to do is stare as his heart does a little flip-flop in his chest. 

He’s focusing so hard on not looking at Dean, watching his disastrous meeting with Michael’s flirty sister, that he jumps when Dean sucks in a long, pained gasp.

“Why the hell do you need to wax my legs?” Dean snaps, his voice rising over the screening and drawing the attention of the other suitors. 

“To moisturize, Mr. Winchester! It’s easier.” Susie tears off another strip, the ripping sound filling the small room, and Dean bites his bottom lip, his fingers digging into the cushion beneath him.

Don’t look at him, do not look at him.

A shockwave runs up Castiel’s arm when warm fingers grip his, twining around them as Dean rests his forehead against his arm. Castiel doesn’t think he knows he’s doing it, but he doesn’t care one bit. He soaks in the feeling of another person touching him for as long as he can. It makes him itch beneath the skin, the buzzing only growing stronger the longer Dean touches him, and he both loves it and can’t stand it. He clings to Dean harder the tighter Dean clings to him.

“Mr. Winchester, you can’t—” 

Castiel holds up his hand, waving Joshua away before he can scare Dean off, but Dean looks up like he’s not sure why Joshua is talking to him, then notices his own hand. He jerks away, and Castiel’s heart sinks as the buzzing in his fingers fades to a dull ache. 

Dean looks up with wide eyes. “Sorry,” he whispers, but Castiel just shakes his head and forces a smile. He can feel the disappointment contorting his features, and he looks back at the screen so Dean doesn’t catch it.

Susie rips off another strip of hair from Dean’s leg, and Castiel plants his hand on the armrest just in case, but Dean doesn’t reach for him this time.

He waits, keeping one eye on the screen, and the other on the armrest. His heart races every time Susie rips a wax-strip off of Dean’s leg, thudding like a drumbeat, and he almost doesn’t want it to end. It’s stupid, and selfish, and just thinking it makes him feel guilty, but Castiel has never claimed to be smart or selfless—not in all his life. 

Dean grabs his hand, and Castiel just about vibrates out of his skin. He swallows hard, forcing himself to take a deep breath to calm down. Closing his eyes against the bright glare of the screen for a few moments before opening them again, he squeezes Dean’s fingers and forces himself to speak. “She did it to me once, and I refuse to allow her to do it a second time.”

“Can I do that, too?” Dean asks, desperation pouring off of him as Susie carries on without a thought to their conversation.

Castiel lifts one shoulder in an awkward half shrug, careful not to dislodge Dean’s hand from his. “It’s your body—if you don’t like something, tell her no.”

“I can do that?”

“Of course you can,” he says, leaning closer to whisper in his ear, low enough that Susie can’t hear. “I know how insistant she can be, but you are under no obligation to do anything that crosses a line.” He jerks his chin at Susie. “If this is a line, tell her so, but be gentle; this is her job, and she’s been doing it for a very long time.”

Castiel pulls away, inhaling Dean’s fresh, just-showered scent as he goes. It’s almost overwhelming this close, but in the very best way. 

Dean nods, swallowing hard as if bracing himself, before turning his attention to Susie. "Suse," he says, drawing her attention away from her wax strips. "We're not doing this again. No more leg waxing." 

"Mr. Winchester—" she starts, her face pinching into an annoyed glare. Castiel’s heart flips, because of course she won’t do as he asks willingly, but he doesn’t step in—Dean is perfectly capable of standing up for himself, even if he doesn’t like to.

"Susie, it's a line. Please, respect it." His tone remains calm and smooth, making sure she understands, and pride swells in Castiel’s chest.

When she glances up at him, her mouth hanging open like perhaps he will make Dean do what she wants, he only nods, reinforcing Dean’s desires.

Susie sighs, looking back at Dean with a curt, professional nod. "Very well, boy."

Dean smiles, his face lighting up, and Castiel gets the distinct sense that he doesn’t get his way very often. So, when Dean looks at him with a thankful smile, he nods, and then suddenly he’s winking at Dean, like winking is something he does on a regular basis.

Dean rests his head against the side of his chair, the shower cap crinkling, drawing Castiel’s attention to him. It doesn’t take much, he muses to himself with a half smile as his eyes stray to Dean’s bare shoulders and the freckles scattered over his sun-kissed skin. He gets the urge to reach out and trace those dots, to feel the heat of Dean’s smooth skin under his fingers. 

Instead, he turns back to the screen.

Castiel watches himself enter the ceremony room, his shoulders straight and pulled back, confident and sure of his choices, which is nowhere near how he felt in the moment. He remembers the way he felt about each suitor as he watches himself offer them a rose, taking stock of how that has changed since yesterday, if at all.

He’s not as outwardly nervous on screen as he was inside his own head, conducting himself with the proper decorum, as usual. For once, though, he’s not sure if that’s such a good thing. He has never been good with his words, so how are any of them supposed to know how he feels about them without him expressing himself with words?

How is Dean supposed to know?

The thought flies from his mind the moment he sees but one rose left. Dean’s rose—always Dean’s rose. He watches as his smile turns soft, no longer holding the rigidity it has had for the others, but turning into something sweet and smitten. Maybe he is not so good at hiding how he feels. Not with Dean, anyway.

He glances at Dean now, looking out of the corner of his eye, but when he catches Dean already watching him, he looks away. Something warm bubbles up inside him, the kind of giddiness he has only felt once before.

Many years ago when a boy, not much older than him at the time, reached out and shook his hand.

“Castiel,” Anna murmurs, sitting at his desk as he lounges on the sofa, paperwork resting on his bent knees. “Could you help me?”

Castiel pulls his glasses off and rubs at the bridge of his nose. He is so tired of paperwork, he could use the break. “What do you need?” he asks, setting the land taxation addendum on the coffee table before pushing himself to his feet. He stretches his arms over his head, feeling his back crack and his knees wobble before he makes his way around his deck to where Anna’s tiny frame is swallowed up by his desk chair.

“I’m supposed to write a page about military service someone in my family has done, but I don’t know what you did.” She looks up at him with dark blue eyes, so much like their mothers it is a little unnerving.

“Well,” Castiel says, crouching down beside her to see her blank computer screen, the cursor blinking with anticipation on an empty word document. “I am an army medic,” he tells her, giving her a small, closed-lipped smile. “I was in charge of triaging…” he pauses while she types, her little hands clumsy on the keys. “Triaging injured soldiers and treating their wounds.”

“Did you do that a lot?” she asks, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear as she sticks her tongue between her teeth, concentrating on the screen.

“Do you remember when I didn’t come home last year?” he says, trying to be as gentle as possible. “When my letters went unanswered and Mother and Father were quite worried?”

“When they yelled at us a lot,” she says with a nod. “I remember.”

Castiel sucks in a deep, slow breath as those few months come back to him. The constant clash of swords, the ground trembling under his feet from artillery, and the smoky haze that filled the battle fields. He remembers it all deep down in his bones.

“I was on the front lines in Galo,” he says, the war-torn country off to the West where their armies have been fighting for years in an effort to liberate the Galian people. “Do you wish to hear a secret?” he asks, lowering his voice to a mere whisper before looking over his shoulder to where Russell stands by the door.

“What?” She leans in, her eyes wide with curiosity and a childlike wonder he hopes she never loses.

“I wasn’t supposed to be there,” he tells her, because he wasn’t. When the ships set sail, he was supposed to come home, but somehow he was shuffled onto the wrong ship, sent away to war until his father could locate him and send the first ship out to bring him back. “Got on the wrong ship,” he tells Anna, shrugging like he’s the fool who got it wrong.

She giggles, her face scrunching up as she shakes her head. “That wasn’t very bright of you,” she says, before turning back to her computer to tap-tap-tap away at her keyboard. “I am glad you are back, though.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, straightening up and stretching out his aching legs. “As am I.”

He settles back on the couch, a heavy sigh on his lips as he picks up the addendum and gets back to work. For a few more hours, at least, then it is to bed with him, and Miss Anna, too.

“Castiel,” she says, drawing his attention back to her one more time. “I love you.”

Castiel’s heart twists, emotion flooding in, because as much as he knows his siblings love him, and he, them, they are not that family, no matter how much he wishes they were.

“I love you, too,” he says, because in order to get there, someone needs to pave the way, right? 

Why not him?

Chapter Text

Castiel steps into the dining room on Monday morning and his gaze instantly falls on Dean. On his back, more accurately, hunched over with his head ducked as he pushes his plate away.

He frowns, concern mingling with confusion, because Dean is not one to deny himself when it comes to food, so why…?

A soft, muffled snicker catches his attention as his steps slow—Meg, April, Michael and Lily sit across from Dean, watching, laughing as he eats—and his stomach clenches with anger, a nasty, burning protectiveness he has no right to clawing its way up his throat. How dare they treat him with so much disrespect?

“Why aren’t you eating?” he asks, stepping up behind Dean, more fired up than he has been in a while, because how dare they?

Dean startles, his shoulders stiffening, drawing up to his ears before he glances over his shoulder, wide green eyes catching Castiel’s, and his concern doubles when Dean stutters. His eyes flick toward the other side of the table, then back just as fast, like he hadn’t meant to look their way. He forces a smile that fools no one before his shoulders jerk in a tiny shrug.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You are always hungry. What is it?” He’s not sure why he needs to hear the words from Dean’s mouth so badly; perhaps he just wants to know that he can stand up for himself beyond Susie, but he stares him down, waiting with his jaw set and his anger mounting.

“I—”

“Your Highness! You won’t believe what—” Castiel jerks his hand up, cutting her off mid-sentence. Oh yes, he will definitely be having a conversation with her regarding her place. He keeps his eyes on Dean, holding his gaze, begging him with nothing more than a stare to trust him.

Dean clears his throat, and under the table, Castiel catches him wiping his hands on his trousers, as if this whole exchange is making him uncomfortable. His heart clenches at the thought, and he almost backs away, continues to his seat, but Dean takes a breath and says, “I—I don’t feel well.” It’s not true; Castiel can tell by the way he won’t quite meet his eyes, but he doesn’t push the matter.

“Oh,” he says instead, his forehead creasing with a deep frown that he knows Susie will cuss him out for later. “Would you like some tea instead? The same as before?” He leans in closer, taking up Dean’s space, drawn into the heat of him, the scent of his skin, and the way Dean’s lashes flutter with the proximity.

“Y-yes, please.” 

The way he says it, so quiet, so relieved, brings a smile to Castiel’s face. You are safe with me, he thinks, wishing he could say it out loud as Dean offers a wobbly smile in return.

He waves for Marie, signaling for her to come close. When she’s at his side, he murmurs his instructions before sending her on her way.

He doesn’t think Dean expects it when he bends to whisper in his ear, but he doesn’t shy away, either. “Just tell them where to shove it and they will leave you alone; the rich and powerful don’t tend to know what to do when they are told off.”

Dean’s neck actually cracks with how fast he turns his head, his eyes going wide as shock contorts his features. This close, Castiel could count the freckles on his cheeks, one by one, all the way across the bridge of his nose. Perhaps one day he will get the chance. 

For now, Castiel doesn’t smile, because he needs Dean to know how serious he is. He doesn’t say as much, but he tilts his head toward the other side of the table, letting Dean know that he knows.

With that, he turns away, feeling the eyes of the other suitors on him, and the attention of the guards in the room as he takes his seat.

It is moments like this that he wishes Russell could be with him all the time, but as it so happens today, none of his usual guards are here, and won’t be until Friday. He has had to make do with his mother’s guards, who he is not particularly fond of.

The three of them—Isham, Zachariah, and Urial—are rigid, unfriendly, and entitled, and he will be glad to be rid of them when his guards arrive back at the palace.

For now, though, Castiel smiles at the staff as they serve his breakfast, and does his best to ignore Meg’s probing stare. 

Not that it matters, he will speak with her eventually.

“Did I tell you about the hunt my father took me on before he died?” Jo asks, and Castiel tries to look interested, and not at all like he’s watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. It’s hard, though, considering he is essentially a beacon in his white suit, standing in the middle of a field.

“I don’t believe you have,” Castiel murmurs, offering her a smile as he turns his back on Dean, Charlie, and Hannah. “Do share. I can’t say I am familiar with the sport.” Not exactly true; his father is an avid hunter, though Castiel has never appreciated it the way Chuck does.

At his side, April sniffs. “Hunting is rather cruel, in my opinion.” She doesn’t bother to look at Jo when she says it, keeping her eyes straight ahead as they walk around the grounds. “Why kill something when you can simply send a servant to the market?”

Jo scoffs, an unladylike sound that doesn’t bother Castiel nearly as much as it would his mother. “Do you think that meat grows on a tree somewhere?” Jo says, and her tone of voice sends a touch of panic skittering through Castiel. This is getting out of hand, and he’s not sure how to ease the tensions without everything blowing up. 

He looks between the two women, scrambling for something to say, but April speaks first.

“No, but it is harvested in a humane way,” she says, and even Castiel knows that is a ridiculous claim. 

Jo, apparently, agrees. “Honey, don’t talk about things you know nothing about—it’s not a good look.”

That’s enough—Castiel needs to get a handle on this before it dissolves and he spirals into a panic. “Tell me about the trip with your father,” he blurts, giving Jo all his attention before April can cut in with something nasty. “Where did you go?”

Jo brightens, a smile lighting up her face as April floats back to converse with Meg, or Lily, or someone else. He doesn’t know, but seconds later, Kelly takes her place.

“We went deep into the mountains to the house my parents have there. It’s well past Caro,” she says, hands waving as she describes the drive through the mountain village, all the way back to a glacial lake that Castiel has visited only once before on a trip to his father’s birthplace. “My father loved the mountain goat hunts, and he would go every year. The year he died was the first time he took me.”

“That must have been so special,” he says, then adds, “I’m sorry for your loss,” letting every bit of his empathy sink into his voice, because he is sorry. As much as he hates his father at times, and how he wishes he were a different man at others, he can’t say part of him doesn’t love him as well. He will be devastated when the king passes. “That must be very difficult for you.”

Jo shrugs, but her gaze remains somewhere in front of them, and her smile has dulled a considerable degree. “It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t change how you miss him.”

Jo looks at him then, soft brown eyes meeting his, and she’s smiling again. It warms something inside Castiel he doesn’t expect. He feels closer to her in this moment, less like a stranger, more like a friend.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding her agreement. “God, you’re so…” The appreciation in her features shifts to something more like awe, and with it, the illusion dies. 

Castiel’s stomach sinks, and he swallows back the disappointment, because he has just become something less—and more—than human to her again.

“Your Highness,” Kelly says, pulling his attention from Jo to where she is pointing at the flowerbeds. “Which is this?” She glides a delicate finger over the purple petal of Hesperis Matrionalis before looking over her shoulder at him with a playful grin. 

“Sweet Rocket,” he tells her, going for the more common name as he comes to stand at her side. “It grows wild in the forests, but my sister, Anna, loves it, so I had the gardener bring some in for the flowerbeds.”

“What about this one?” She moves on to another, her bouncing, chirping voice like pop-rocks in her mouth, glides her fingertips over a honey yellow bloom that is one of Gabriel’s favorites, though he would never admit it to anyone but Castiel.

“Calendula, or marigolds,” he says, touching the center before brushing the pollen off his gloves. He can only imagine the fit Susie will throw if he gets them dirty. “A favorite of a few of my siblings,” he says, which isn’t exactly true, though they all appreciate the nature around them.

Kelly spins around to look at him, too close, too in his face, and Castiel takes a step back. She doesn’t seem to notice, though, as she sways the long, red velvet of her skirt around her legs. “If you were to pick me a flower, which would you choose?”

None of them, Castiel thinks, because he much prefers his flowers in the ground, thriving in their environment, but he cannot say that. He swallows hard, painfully aware of the camera pointed at them, and suddenly he knows he has to pick one for her. Any one, it doesn’t matter, but he must pick one.

Castiel forces a smile, sidestepping her as he takes in the thousands of beautiful flowers in the round flower bed, taking his time as they all watch.

Not the lavender, or even the Camellia. He cannot pick the roses, or risk Hael’s anger, and to pick the sunflowers would be to break his own heart.

Finally, and with only a little uncertainty, Castiel plucks a daisy from the edge of the flowerbed and hands it to Kelly.

She hardly gives it a glance, her smile only for him.

The crease between his brows deepens as he looks around the grounds—what is that? It’s a steady, rhythmic thump, the whoosh of air around… something, but Castiel can’t quite determine what.

He wanders away from the ceremony room, leaving the other suitors behind as he makes his way around the palace. The sound gets louder, coupled with heavy breathing and the occasional grunt.

“Damn, Charlie, didn’t you say you’d go easy on me?” Dean’s voice, he is certain of it, and when Castiel peeks his head around the corner of the palace, he sees why. 

Dean tosses a bright green tennis ball back over the net to Charlie, sweat dripping from his forehead as he peels his jacket off and unbuttons his waistcoat.

Castiel swallows hard, heat curling in his stomach at the sight of Dean undressing, and he nearly has a heart attack when Dean unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up past his elbows. 

Castiel doesn’t cuss often, not even in his head, but holy fuck. 

“I don’t remember ever saying that,” Charlie is saying, glee suffusing her voice as Castiel draws closer, listening in to both of them, but with his eyes locked on Dean. 

“Really?” Dean says, the edge of his racket clipping the ball, sending it whizzing into the fence. Oh, he is terrible, but God, does he look good doing it.  

“Nice try, Dean! You hit it this time,” Hannah cheers, on the other side of the court, locked outside the fence so as not to get in the way. Smart, he would say, judging by the few moments of this match he has observed. Perhaps Dean would allow Castiel to give him some lessons. He can only hope.

“You’re so good to me.” He places a hand over his heart, missing Charlie’s next serve entirely as he looks at Hannah with the kind of fondness in his eyes that Castiel wishes were directed at him. “Hey,” Dean snaps, whipping around to look at Charlie, and Castiel is close enough to see the crease between his brows, and the way he huffs out an annoyed breath. 

“I’ll give you a slow one, alright?”

The way Dean pushes his hair back from his forehead should be a crime. Except, of course, Castiel loves it, so that’s just stupid. He shakes his head, pushing the thought out of his mind as Charlie throws the ball up, winding back not quite so far as he knows she can, before hitting the ball to Dean’s side of the court just as Castiel stops in front of the fence.

Dean’s bare feet slap the ground as he runs, swinging wildly, like a flailing pigeon, and somehow, miracle of miracles, he hits the ball. It flies in the opposite direction, and Dean falls in his, catching himself on the green, plastic-coated chain link right in front of Castiel’s face.

The smile tugging at Castiel’s lips is undeniable, so he lets it go, grinning at Dean with the kind of affection that shouldn’t be felt only a week after meeting someone, and yet, here he is.

Dean’s smile stretches across his lips, filled with giddy happiness, laugh lines popping up at the corner of each eye, and Castiel can think of nothing else but what it must feel like to trace them with his fingertips.

“Well, I don’t think I’d make it to any sort of championships, but I’m not too bad, huh?” Dean says, pushing away from the fence as Castiel arches an eyebrow, his chest squeezing around his heart when Dean turns back to the game.

This time, when Charlie knocks the ball his way, Dean swings like he’s swatting a fly, or fanning a fire, but he manages to hit the ball with the fill force of the racket, right in the middle of the webbing. 

“Woo!” he shouts, jumping up and down like he has just won the world championships, not hit a single ball over the net. He raises his arms high in the air, his joy palpable under the midday sun, and my, Castiel is so taken with him. 

Around him, his other suitors clap, but the smile that graces Castiel’s face is only for Dean. 

“Dean, watch—”

Castiel jerks, his smile falling as Dean crumples to the court. He doesn’t think, flinging the gate open and rushing to Dean’s side before Zachariah can stand in his way. 

Panic floods him, entirely unreasonable, but there nonetheless, and he kneels at Dean’s side, reaching to push his hand away so he can see his eye, before thinking better of it when Dean looks up at him.

“Did it hit your eye, or just your cheekbone?” he asks, quieter than he needs to, but he’s trying to hold back the panic swelling in his chest, and for whatever reason, speaking only to Dean helps. He examines the space around Dean’s eyes; there is a split in his cheekbone, but his eye looks fine—thank goodness.

“Cheekbone,” Dean says, confirming what Castiel has already surmised. “I’ll have a hell of a black eye, though.” He pushes himself up, looking somewhere around Castiel’s nose as Castiel leans away just enough for him to sit. “I’m fine, though. Really.”

He nods, though he’s not convinced, not even a little bit, and tangles of panic still wrap around his lungs. “I’d still like for you to see the nurse. She can give you some ice and clean up the cut.”

“I’m fine—”

“Please,” he breathes, the word puffing out of him with more desperation than he means to. “Please, just do it.” Dean hesitates, but he’s looking at him, his mouth open a crack like he still wants to refuse, so Castiel adds, “For me?”

Dean closes his mouth, looking at Castiel like he is not quite sure what to make of him, but he nods, and that’s enough. Castiel lets out the breath he’d been holding, and the last of his panic melts away. 

He picks himself off the court and, not quite ready to let Dean go, accompanies him to the infirmary. At some point along the way, as they walk through the winding hallways and twisting stairs, Castiel might step a little closer. He might let his arm brush against Dean’s, just to feel the reassuring heat of him. 

He might do all of that, or none of it, but who is to say for certain?

“I promise you, Your Highness,” Alex says, thinly veiled exasperation sneaking into her tone. “His eye looks fine. He’s lucky, but the ball did just hit his cheekbone.” She shrugs, Dean’s chart in her hand.

“And you are certain that he doesn’t need stitches?” He knows he’s being overbearing, and probably a little insulting, but his anxiety hasn’t ebbed since they arrived and Castiel was able to a better look at the gash on Dean’s cheek. All that blood, even with his medical training, is scary when it is coming from someone he cares about.

“There won’t even be a scar,” she says, edging toward the office door, and Castiel doesn’t follow her this time. “He should be able to take the bandage off in a few days, and the painkillers will ease any discomfort he might feel. Otherwise, he’s fine.”

“Okay,” Castiel murmurs, letting himself deflate as he looks over his shoulder at Dean, who sits on the edge of the bed, ice pack floating near his collarbone as Charlie and Hannah fuss over him. Castiel wishes he could fuss like they do—wishes he had that privilege—but he has fussed all he is allowed, especially with his mother’s guards watching by the door. 

“I have already informed you,” Castiel says, speaking through his teeth to Urial, who does not seem capable of following orders, “I will be moving about the room as I please.”

“Your Highness, it’s just not safe—”

Castiel walks away, leaving the prickly guard behind. Yes, it is rude, but he doesn’t care. For some reason, the three of them think being his mother’s personal guard puts them above him, and he has had about enough of that.

“Your Highness—”

“Castiel,” Hannah says, catching his attention before he can make it across the room. She smiles his way, soft and inviting, and Castiel takes the opportunity for what it is. “I feel like we haven’t spoken in a while.”

“It certainly has been a whirlwind, hasn’t it?” he says, standing with his back to his guards with his full attention on her. She doesn’t seem to mind one bit, and Castiel takes advantage of that to send a clear message to all three of the nuisances watching him like a hawk. “The days of our childhood feel entirely gone now.”

“Do you ever wish for them back?” she asks, fluttering her lashes up at him as she brushes her hair back from her face.

Castiel thinks about that time in his life. The hours of tutoring were long, and the lessons in etiquette were longer, but there was more freedom, too. Less responsibility thrust upon him, and though he didn’t see it then, he had more people to love him before his nanny passed.

“There are some parts I wish carried into adulthood,” he says, choosing his words carefully, abundantly aware that the cameras will catch every one. “However there is much about my station to which I have grown accustomed.”

“I would go back,” she says, because she can say things like that as the fifth child of a neighboring monarchy. “We had such fun, you and I.”

Castiel hums, neither in agreement or otherwise, as something across the room catches his eye. Sarah stands next to Dean, so close, their sides brush as they sway together. She looks beautiful in a red dress and high heels, but it’s Dean that captivates him.

Why Susie decided to put him in a white suit, Castiel will never know, but he will say it highlights his tanned skin, bringing out his freckles in a way that is entirely too distracting. He watches as he chatters on with Sarah, his smile flashing quick and happy.

Castiel turns away as warmth blossoms in his stomach. He will find his way to Dean’s side at some point before the night ends, but for now, he needs to make his rounds.

“If you will excuse me,” he says to Hannah, ducking his head before stepping away. He turns his sights on Michael, deciding to get the unpleasant portion of the evening over with as soon as possible.

“I will go to my room when I’m ready,” Castiel says, covering his mic as he looks over his shoulder with a sharp glare. “I do not wish to hear anymore of it—”

There is a blur of white, then Castiel is falling, thrown to the floor with a weight on top of him. A whoosh of air is knocked from his lungs, pain radiating up from his tailbone to his shoulder blades.

He lets out a soft groan and opens his eyes.

Green eyes look back at him, a little glassy, a bit bloodshot, and a lot surprised. Dean doesn’t move, just lies there, a little stunned, Castiel would imagine. They are only a breath apart, pressed together from thigh to chest, and it would be lovely, but—

“Dean,” he whispers, panic rising inside him. “Dean, get up.”

Dean lets out a shout as he’s hauled away, his arms pulled back at an awkward angle, and there is nothing Castiel can do as he watches the sick satisfaction on Zachariah’s face when he shoves Dean in front of him.

“Wait,” Dean says, his feet tripping under him, fear in every inch of his beautiful face, but Castiel is helpless, stuck where he is on the floor, his heart in his throat as they take him. “Wait, what—what did I do?”

The doors swing shut behind them, and Castiel is stuck, panic rising up his throat alongside the dread. What just happened?

But he knows. Of course, he knows.

Perhaps his mother’s guards have more power than Castiel is willing to admit, and no matter how much he hates to say it, he knows Dean is in deep trouble.

Castiel lets out a deep, shuddering breath as he bows his head and fights off the impending attack. He can feel it crawling up the back of his throat, sinking into his bones and shaking him to the core. He leans against the vanity in his dressing room, too shaken to do anything but stand in his pie-smeared suit and think about everything he knows is about to happen.

There will be an investigation—his mother will insist upon it—and Castiel knows exactly what they will find. Camera angles that incriminate Dean, alcohol in his system, eye-witnesses with contradicting information. This was not an accident, he knows that much, but what he also knows is Dean did not attack him. He can feel it in his bones, knows it right down to his core.

But his mother wants Dean gone, and he fears she will have a hand in how this plays out. 

Behind him, the door to his dressing room opens, and without looking up, he knows who it is. “I want to see him.”

“No.”

Castiel lets out a heavy sigh as he straightens up and turns to face his mother. “I will see him,” he rephrases, because she doesn’t have the power to stop him.

She stands in the doorway, entirely unruffled despite the news of the heir having just been ‘attacked,’ not a hair out of place, or a skirt ruffled on her business-wear outfit. “The man tackled you in front of your guards,” she says, like he is still a little boy who doesn’t understand what just happened. “Who knows what he will do if you two are in the same room again.”

“They are your guards,” he says, because that is a very important distinction here. Had it been Russell, Benjamin, or Joshua, none of this would be happening right now. Russell would have helped Dean up, had a conversation with him about minding his footing, and they would have gotten cleaned up before going on with the night.

Because Dean is not a threat.

“Perhaps they should be yours.” She arches a brow, a smile that holds nothing but condescension on her face as she looks around the spacious room filled with suits he wears in a strict rotation. “Mr. Wellington seems to be lacking these days.”

“Get out,” Castiel snaps, because not even she can speak of Russell that way and get away with it. The man raised him more than she did, and Castiel will not be forgetting that anytime soon.

“I was going anyway,” she says, boredom suffusing her tone as she wanders out of the dressing room. “Remember what I’ve said, my dear.”

Anger rises inside him faster than he knows what to do with, his body flushing as starts to shake. God, he could punch the wall, or scream, or… or something.

Instead of doing any of that, Castiel strips out of his pie-sodden suit and steps into the shower to wash himself clean of the day.

Steam rises around him, clouding the glass walls, closing him into his own little tomb. He lets the scalding water stream over his face, soaking his hair as he closes his eyes and vows to himself that he will get Dean out of this.

Whatever it takes.

Chapter Text

The sun has yet to rise when Castiel wakes. The curtains are drawn, and the pitter-patter of rain taps against his windows.

Castiel slides out of bed, not an ounce of sleep left in him—nothing but calculated determination. He will start now, and he will do so with a list.

First things first, he must see the videos for himself to gauge what he is working with. It will not be an easy feat, going against his mother, but Dean had friends in that room, and one of them is bound to have seen what happened.

The next thing, of course, is to speak with the other suitors—all of the other suitors, Meg included. He suspects she has something to do with this, but he also knows that she is terrified of what will happen if she lies to him. He is not above using that against her, especially if she helped set Dean up.

All of this must be done without his mother knowing, or she will bar him from Dean, from the investigation, and send Dean away to prison without so much as a mock trial. Yes, theoretically, he has more sway over the kingdom than his mother, but she is still a powerful woman, a ruthless, cunning queen, and Castiel would be stupid to forget that.

So, business as usual.

With that in mind, Castiel throws on a pair of jogging pants and a t-shirt and heads to the grounds. It can’t be more than five-thirty, and there is already a guard at his back as he slides into his runners before heading into the soggy grounds.

Castiel takes a decent amount of satisfaction in knowing the guard is Isham, and that he will be soaked to the bone and miserable by the time Castiel decides to return to the palace. Isham has always taken great joy in belittling him whenever the chance presented itself, so where Castiel would forgo an outdoor run for Russell, he feels no such compulsion from Isham.

That is another thing to add to his list; he needs to make a point of getting ahold of Russell to let him know what he will be returning to, come Friday morning.

Castiel takes off without a warm-up this morning, breaking out across the field at a sprint as the rain pelt his face in icy drops. Wind rushes in his ears as his feet slap the mud, the spray coating his calves as they itch and burn, but he doesn’t stop or slow, letting the pain clear his mind for the time being. If he is going to do this, he can not panic. He can not let fear, or anger, or resentment get in the way.

Dean is way too important for that.

As the sun rises, it burns away the rain clouds, turning the grassy field into a glittering expanse of gold. It is beautiful, Castiel will admit, but he doesn’t take the time to fully appreciate it before heading back to the palace, a soggy, pissed off Isham in tow.

The sun doesn’t bring the heat today, like it has for the past few weeks, hinting at the beginnings of fall. Castiel can’t say either way that he prefers the cold or the warmth, though he will have to relegate his runs to the gym when the snow starts to fall. He will just have to take advantage while he can.

Susie is waiting for him when he gets back, standing in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out into the grounds with her hands folded behind her back.

“How is he?” Castiel blurts the moment he shuts the door in Isham’s face. Susie doesn’t look at him as he peels off his sweat and rain soaked t-shirt and stares holes through her back. He knows she’s seen Dean, and judging by the rigid set to her shoulders, it isn’t good.

“As you would expect,” she says, her tone clipped and annoyed, and Castiel deflates. His heart aches for Dean, and he can only imagine the confusion, the fear he must be feeling. Susie turns away from the window, and sure enough, the angles of her face are set in harsh lines, her anger radiating through her like a beacon of do not approach! “He was still in the suit I dressed him in yesterday.”

“Fuck,” Castiel breathes, pushing a hand through his hair. What is he supposed to do now? He can’t just leave Dean in his room like a prisoner, but how—

“You can’t honestly think he attacked you.”

“What?” It’s Castiel’s turn to scowl, and he does so with a ferocity that rivals his mother’s. “What are you on about?”

“The guards,” she says, her frown deepening with confusion as she steps closer, the light at her back putting her face in shadow. “They are saying you have not come to see him even once, and they are taking that as an admission of his guilt.”

“You cannot be serious,” he says, anger climbing higher the longer that settles in. “I haven’t visited,” he grates out between clenched teeth, “because my mother wishes for me to, because she wants a reason to send him away.” Of course they are twisting his actions to fit her agenda, what else was he expecting, really?

“What are you doing, then?”

Castiel pauses, his mouth open on an aborted sentence, the beginning of which he doesn’t remember. He blinks, then says, “I made a list.”

“There is no denying how it looks!”

“How it looks is not necessarily the whole story,” Castiel says, on the verge of losing his mind as Zachariah’s face goes red and he throws his arms in the air. The videos are damning, we will admit, but also incredibly inconclusive, which Castiel can use in his favor.

“You cannot pardon him,” he snaps, and out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Urial nod his agreement. “It will undermine the entire system, no one will trust the judgment of the guards again, especially after seeing what happened!”

“Check your tone,” Castiel tells him, doing his best to keep his own voice calm as he leans forward over the table in the conference room. “You forget who you are speaking to.”

It must take everything inside Zachariah not to sneer, but somehow, he manages. His face does turn two shades of red darker, but that is neither here nor there. “The best course of action, if we don’t come to a conclusive agreement, is to send him to trial and let the courts decide.”

Castiel takes in the recommendation, and he can just about hear those exact words coming from his mother’s mouth as Zachariah says them. He doesn’t respond, careful not to let anything show on his face as he stares the three guards down.

It is up to him, then, to prove what he already knows.

Castiel settles into his chair, his stomach twisting in knots when he glimpses Dean’s still-empty seat. There’s an ache in his chest that hasn’t eased at all overnight, and it only grows as the rest of the suitors filter in, filling the remaining chairs with chatter and laughs as if one very important chair isn’t still empty. 

“Soup, Your Highness?” Marie asks, bringing him a bowl, as professional as she always is—as perfect at her job as he pays her to be—but it irks him, still, and he has to make a conscious choice not to snap at her.

“Yes, thank you,” he says instead, feeling the wick’s end of his temper fraying, burning short and ready to blow.

“Perhaps a cabbage roll?” She adds, standing too close, her perfume too strong, and Castiel has to take a moment to breathe through his mouth before answering.

“Later,” he says, and he can’t help but think about Dean—about how much he would love this meal if he were here.

He all but blocks out the conversations of the other suitors, spooning small bites of soup into his mouth, paying exceedingly close attention to his manners as the cameras close in on every minute expression he makes.

Half an hour passes like that, and then—

“Bitch!”

Castiel startles, looking up just in time to see Charlie hurl her bowl of soup across the table. Shock ripples through him, coursing hot, then cold, through his veins as tomato soup soaks into Meg’s white dress, specking Lily and Michael, too.

He doesn’t move, frozen in his seat as the scene unfolds—as Meg’s face contorts with rage, and she curls her fingers around a cabbage roll, something wild in her eyes as Charlie laughs.

The cabbage roll flies across the dining room, missing Charlie when she ducks out of the way before splattering on the marble floors.

Another cabbage roll flies from Meg’s hand, and Castiel is powerless to do anything about it, struck silent, absolutely appalled by the scene in front of him as red sauce splatters on Charlie’s face and clothes.

On Dean’s empty chair.

Castiel’s patience snaps. ”Stop!" He slams his hands on the table, rattling the dishes and making everyone jump as the emotions he’s been holding in all day crash over him, dig into him, raking him over the coals.

He can feel the misery in his bones, seeping out from his carefully constructed calm as he fights to catch his breath.

I can’t do this, he thinks when his hands start shaking, a meltdown moving in at full force. He needs to get out of here.

Without another word, Castiel leaves, pushing away from the table as the room holds its silence. He doesn’t care—he can’t do this now. Not here.

Fuck, he just needs to get away.

“Please bring him something nice,” Castiel asks, hours after he has calmed down and scraped himself back together, standing in the kitchen as he watches the cooks putter around, preparing dinner.

He loves coming down here, rolling up his sleeves, and getting elbow deep in pie pastry, but right now, he’d rather be anywhere else.

Frank Sampson, the head chef and Susie’s brother-in-law, stands in the back of the kitchen, steam wafting in his face as he takes the internal temperature of tonight’s meat selection. He has his back to Castiel, quite obviously ignoring him, and Castiel knows he’s being a bother, but he can’t help himself.

“He will be fed,” Frank says, not bothering to look at him as he slides the roasting pan back in the oven. “And it will be good. Don’t you worry.”

Castiel lets out a heavy sigh, something not sitting right inside him at the thought of Dean eating alone. He wants to be there, knows Dean must be confused and scared, and he hates that he is powerless to see him without ruining everything.

Castiel leaves the kitchen, taking the back stairway as a hopeless, dejected feeling settles in his chest. He needs to find Lily and offer her her date, though perhaps he will wait until just after dinner so as not to require more time with her than necessary.

With that decided, Castiel makes his way back to his room where he can hide out for the next hour or so.

Castiel is late for dinner.

He has been late for each meal today, but he simply cannot bring himself to go any earlier than absolutely necessary. Right now, of course, he is finding it much more necessary to try to ignore how absolutely insane he feels standing on his balcony, heart racing, hoping beyond hope to catch a glimpse of Dean in the garden.

So far, nothing moves but the swaying dahlias and the ruffling branches of the willow tree. The icy bite of the first fall breeze sinks into his bones as he leans over the railing, lost in thought as he keeps his gaze trained on the bench sitting in the corner by the burbling fountain.

He had hoped Dean would like the garden when he chose that room for him, and he is pleased to learn that he does. Now, though, Dean is horribly absent, and Castiel aches to catch but a glimpse of him at least once today.

“Dinner has begun, Your Highness,” Grayson says, poking his head through the glass doors as the wind whips past. Castiel looks over his shoulder at the man, only a few years older than him, though he looks much younger with his round cheeks and big brown eyes. 

“Of course,” Castiel says, offering him a smile when he catches sight of the cleaning supplies Grayson has at his hip. He had obviously been expecting an empty room, and it is no one’s but Castiel’s fault that it is not so. “I will get out of your hair,” he says, and before Grayson can let out whatever flustered words are bubbling on his lips, Castiel hurries out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

“Miss Sunder,” Castiel says, coming to Lily’s side as she makes her way into the room. He wishes to get this out of the way as soon as possible, so he digs a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out the thick envelope, embossed with the palace seal. “It would be my pleasure if you would accompany me on a date tomorrow.”

Lily turns with a slow smile, trying to hide her delight, but getting nowhere as she looks up at Castiel. “It would be an honor, Your Highness,” she says, taking the envelope with a delicate hand as Castiel’s stomach turns. “What can you tell me of our evening?”

Castiel’s mind goes blank. He hadn’t been expecting the conversation to continue, but rather, that she would disappear to gossip with the others. He recovers quickly, however, as all good royals do, and plasters on a smile. “Ah, but what kind of surprise would it be if I told you?” He raises an eyebrow and uses the stunned look on her face to get out of there as fast as possible.

After a single turn of the room and a painfully long conversation with Michael about the importance of high interest rates, Castiel finds himself in a corner with Charlie, watching her eat a sugar cookie with green sprinkles.

“Tell me what happened on Monday night,” he says, turning off his mic before covering hers with his hand. “Everything you remember.”

Charlie looks up at him, her green eyes flashing with interest as she wipes the crumbs from her lips and reaches around to turn off the battery pack on her mic. 

“Dean was a little off—”

“Off how?” This is the first he is hearing of this, and since he did not have much of a chance to speak with Dean yesterday night, he doesn’t remember him being off.

Charlie shoots him a look that says stop talking and I will tell you. Castiel seals his lips and nods for her to continue.

“I think it was the pain meds,” she says, dropping the remains of her cookie on the table as she looks around the room. “He’d been drinking, and mixed with the medication, he was pretty fucked—messed up.”

“How so?” A sick knot forms in Castiel’s stomach, twisting tighter with every word out of her mouth.

She shakes her head, shrugging like she can’t quite figure it out herself. Castiel leans closer, near enough to smell her floral shampoo. “He had had a few drinks, not nearly enough to get him drunk, but he was…” She shrugs again, twisting into him as she lowers her voice, and Castiel thinks he knows where this is going. “Off. Stumbling and slurring, his eyes were bloodshot, I just—”

“He should not have been drinking while taking pain medication,” Castiel says, more to himself than her, but he feels so stupid. How had he not thought of that before? The pain medication, coupled with alcohol, would increase his inebriation. Dean turned into a stumbling drunk after two drinks! “Thank you, Charlie. Truly.”

He goes to turn, but she grabs his arm, pulling him back around as a jolt runs through him. “Hey,” she says, and lets her hand fall away, but the look in her eyes holds him captive, so vulnerably earnest he can hardly stand it. “I didn’t see what happened,” she says, holding his gaze with so much sincerity it steals the breath from his lungs. “But he didn’t do it.”

Castiel lips his lips, his mouth suddenly as dry as a desert, and closes his eyes. An ache works its way into his heart, worming deeper as Dean’s face from last night pops into his mind, terrified and confused as they pulled him away. “I know,” he says, opening his eyes to look at Charlie.

“Good.” She gives him a curt nod and turns away.

Castiel takes his leave after that, ignoring the satisfied look in Isham’s eyes when he suggests going back and Castiel doesn’t argue. 

He accomplished what he had set out to do, and with that done, he has no more reason to be here.

The hallways are quiet as Castiel makes his way back to his rooms, the staff having mostly turned in for the night. Castiel actually quite likes the emptiness, though he wishes he could be entirely alone for a moment.

More than once in the span of the last day, Castiel has thought of calling Russell and informing him of the events that transpired since yesterday, but he has always stopped himself. Russell, he is certain, would have cut his trip short and hurried back, but that is unfair to ask of him, and would do little more than anger his mother. 

No, Castiel must figure this out for himself, not only for his guards’ sake, but the simple fact that he is to be king. If he wishes to be great, as he always has, he needs to learn how to fight his own battles.

And this battle, he intends to win.

Chapter Text

“Our formal recommendation is that Dean Winchester be charged with assault and tried in a royal court,” Urial says, his hands folded behind his back as he stands at the foot of the table, Zachariah and Isham at his side.

He isn’t surprised. He saw it coming, of course, no matter that there is no evidence other than the skewed testimonies and the inconclusive video. Castiel isn’t convinced they took statements from all the suitors, either, but only those Naomi considers important enough to hear.

“Show me the witness statements,” he says, folding his hands on the table in front of him as he looks between the three of them and the investigator his mother hired for the job—a slippery man called Nick something.

“We don’t have them readily available—”

“Why not?” Castiel snaps, his patience wearing thin as he looks between the four shifting men, looking for all the world like they’re hiding something. “This is a debriefing, why on earth would you not have all the information?”

“Your Highness—”

“Why are you still standing here?” Castiel snaps, leaning forward as he glares. “Go get the statements.”

Zachariah lets out a heavy sigh before motioning for Isham to go get them. Castiel leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the polished wood of the table as his annoyance grows. It irks him to no end that these men don’t take his authority seriously. Yes, he has been exceedingly lenient so far, but that is only for the purpose of keeping his mother out of his hair. He could fire her guards without blinking an eye, but sometimes it is simply easier to turn the other cheek.

Isham steps back into the room, a file folder in hand, and sets it down in front of Castiel without a word.

Castiel flips open the folder, focussing on the first statement, this one from Michael.

Mr. Winchester came into the room already drunk. He was acting erratically…

The next is from April. 

I would describe him as aggressive and unpredictable upon entering the dining room, and even more so after. 

Lily’s is worse.

  Mr. Winchester saw the prince enter the room and something came over him. He just leapt at His Royal Highness without hesitation and smeared pie all over him. Perhaps it was an act of defiance against the royal family, or a product of years of living amongst the insanity of the lower classes, but the look in his eyes was terrifying. It was unhinged.

Castiel flips to the next, disgust rippling through him as he grits his teeth, but when he turns the page over, he finds that there are no more witness testimonies.

“Where are the rest?” Castiel says, flipping through the pages like perhaps he has missed something, but there is nothing more. He looks up at the guards, at the end of his patience, and finds them glancing at each other.

“That is all there is,” Isham says, swallowing hard as the first hints of uncertainty bleed through the usual superiority. 

“If these are the only testimonies you took,” Castiel says through clenched teeth as his jaw begins to ache. “Then the three of you had better pack your things and get out of the palace, because you are all fired.”

So much for not angering his mother.

“Your Highness—”

“If I do not have the rest of the testimonies on my desk by the end of tomorrow, you are all fired,” he says, reeling back a little because now is not the time to be making rash decisions, though there is a limit to all things, and apparently, in his anger, he has decided tomorrow night is it. “Leave me.”

The four of them stand motionless for a moment, too stunned to move. Castiel imagines they are weighing the gravity of his threats, and whether or not he holds the power to actually carry through.

He does, in fact, have the authority, and he is just angry enough at his mother to follow through.

After a moment, the four of them turn toward the door, silent for the first time in hours as they file out.

Just before the door closes behind them, Castiel shouts, “Make sure to get Dean’s testimony as well.”

The door closes, and Castiel stands. There is a phone in the corner of the room, and he dials Benny’s extension.

“Benny,” he says when the guard picks up. “Record Dean’s statement and have it sent to my office.”

“Who is this—”

“You have until tomorrow night.”

Castiel’s reflection stares back at him, an impassive figure in a fine tuxedo. He is an hour out from his date with Lily, and he is entirely unprepared. Mentally, that is. He is dressed to the nines, there is a pair of cars ready and waiting, and their tickets are on the table beside his bed. The dinner reservation is set and the protection detail has been briefed. Logistically, everything is in order, but Castiel is not ready.

For years, he has heard of Lily Sunder. She is wicked, trading everything and her soul for what she wants, willing to step over anyone in her way. Castiel knows that, his father knows that, and yet, she is here, because her family is very wealthy and very influential. That is all there is to it.

He wants her gone.

“I must say,” Susie says, combing more gel through his hair to catch the loose ends. “You look spectacular in a tuxedo.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, but says nothing more as the clock ticks away the minutes between now and when he steps into that car.

“Though, I don’t understand why you chose the opera; terrible place to get to know a person.” That’s the point, Castiel thinks as he steps off the platform and tugs at his lapels. His signet ring flashes in the overhead lights, catching his eye for a moment before he focuses on adjusting his cufflinks.

“That is what dinner is for,” Castiel says, then mentally tacks on an unfortunately at the end, because he has no desire to get to know the woman, only to speak with her about what happened Monday night and her part in it.

“Right.” Susie looks at him out of the corner of her eye, brows raised with a skeptical look on her face. She knows him too well to believe a word out of his mouth, of course. “You have to look like you care, my boy,” she says, readjusting his tie after he has finished fidgeting with it.

He knows that, alright? He knows the stakes, how much this whole production means to the palace, and by extension, to him. He knows all of this, and yet, he’s been sulking his way through the last few days, talking as little as he can, and hiding away in his bedroom when he is able.

“I am having Benny take his statement tomorrow,” Castiel says, because he’s been aching to talk about Dean to someone who knows him since he woke up this morning. “I cannot speak about what is happening with the investigation beyond that.” He slides his gloves on, setting his rings aside for the night as the leather fits snug around his fingers. He doesn’t look at Susie when he speaks, but he can feel her eyes on the side of his face.

“Will this be over soon?” she asks, a touch of concern in her tone as she packs up her things, and it snags Castiel’s heart, tugs on the emotion that has been sitting so close to the surface since Monday.

“I hope so,” he says, and it is all he is able to squeeze out before he has to turn away.

 Castiel steps out of the car, unfolding from the dark interior with a heavy sigh as his mother’s guards step in around him. He cannot wait to be rid of them, but until Russell, Joshua, and Benjamin return, he is stuck with them.

“Your Highness,” Lily says, stepping to his side from the car that rolls up to the curb behind his. “The opera?” 

Castiel stares at the opera hall, lit up against the dark skyline as the swell of spectators filter through the front doors.

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, but says nothing more as he leads the way up the long, shrub-lined pathway to the marble steps. The concert hall is an impressive feat, built at the turn of the last century using a rich vein of onyx and a substance that hardens the gemstone to something impenetrable. Castiel isn’t entirely certain how it works, but it is fascinating.

“I have been to this show many times,” Lily says, her red hair twisted in a knot at the back of her head, held there by a pretty gem. She looks beautiful, he will admit, but there is a coldness to her that makes her entirely unappealing. She has nothing on Dean.

“I have not,” Castiel says, and it is true. He chose an opera that he is not familiar with so that he is able to focus on it, rather than think about who is at his side and the person he would rather have there.

Though, he can’t imagine Dean would enjoy an opera. It just doesn’t seem to be his thing.

They walk through the hall, the domed ceiling high above their heads as the other spectators turn to stare. Here, Castiel looks no different from anyone else, but he has always found that no matter what he has on, no matter where he goes, or what he does, he stands out, visible to the whole world.

 He walks, almost in a daze, to their seats in a private box with enough room for his guards and the camera crew. He’s not sure if they plan on recording for the entire hour and a half that the opera will last, but he can also say he doesn’t really care. He lowers himself into his seat, staring out toward the well-lit stage and the rest of the spectators filing into their own seats.

“I’m not a fan of the singer they have tonight,” Lily says, pinching up her nose with a little scowl. “She is boisterous, but untrained for such a performance.”

Castiel has to physically stop himself from rolling his eyes. The woman performing tonight is a new graduate of the school of arts and one of the most amazing women Castiel has ever met. Missouri Moseley is not a young woman, in her mid-sixties with a granddaughter she hopes to see more of, and a son doing everything he can to keep her away. 

Castiel met her on a visit to the school, to which he holds a seat on the board. She had no reservations about introducing herself, and Castiel was taken with her immediately. Yes, she is under-practiced, and perhaps not the perfect choice for this particular opera, but it has always been her dream, and Castiel was bound and determined to make it happen.

“I quite like her,” Castiel says, watching the stage as the lights dim and the curtains pull back. He leans forward, hands cupped between his knees, as Missouri steps onto the stage.

Castiel closes his lips around his fork, eyes closing as the flavor explodes on his tongue. Dean would love this, he thinks, and he might enjoy it all the more if Dean were here with him. 

Unfortunately for him, it is Lily sitting on the opposite side of the table stirring her soup as if it has personally offended her. 

“My mother is not fond of this place,” she says, pushing her bowl aside with a sigh. “She says it is below our standing.”

Does she realize she is insulting him? And not only him, but the restaurant? Not that it matters, or does anything more than reassert his decision to send her home with or without a confession of her part in Dean’s confinement. 

“Oh, no,” Castiel says instead, because his patience is wearing thinner with every word out of her mouth. “I would say it is far above your standing,” he muses, another forkful of pear, bison, and goat cheese tart floating near his lips. “In fact, I have been frequenting this place since my childhood.” He levels her with a look, but it doesn’t faze her, and for the thousandth time tonight, Castiel has to refrain from rolling his eyes.

No, it is not the fanciest place in the kingdom, but what makes her think he would take her to the best of the best?

“Tell me,” he says, because he is tired of skirting the issue. “What did you see on Monday night?”

Castiel lets out a heavy sigh as he takes the stairs to the second floor. That was an entire waste of time. She gave him nothing; not so much as a hint of her involvement in the scheme against Dean. Which means, of course, that he must now take advantage of the mole amongst the suitors.

The thought alone is exhausting.

It’s late enough that the suitors should be back in their rooms by now, so Castiel doesn’t bother making an appearance for tea. He disappears inside his room, peeling out of his tuxedo now that he has no plans for the rest of the night, and slips into his sleep clothes. He should shower, but he can’t find the energy for anything more than a quick pee and a warm cloth to wipe away the camera makeup. Susie would butcher him for not using proper make up remover, Crown Prince or not, but he just can’t bring himself to care.

It is not late, barely nine o’clock, but he slips into bed, his eyes heavy and his body weak. The three-quarter moon shines through the curtains he forgot to close, but he doesn’t bother with them now, shutting his eyes to the room as he sinks into the mattress.

He dreams of Dean.

Chapter Text

“Hael, my sweet,” Castiel says when he steps into his office at eight o’clock in the morning and finds her asleep on his couch. He kneels down beside her, brushing her dark hair out of her face as she blinks her eyes open. “You are a long way from your bed.”

“Uh-huh,” she says around a yawn, pulling Castiel’s spare blanket up to her chin as she stares at him with big blue eyes. “Monsters in my room.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, a gentle smile touching his lips as adoration fills him with the kind of warmth he only ever feels for his siblings. “Not possible,” he tells her, wrapping her up in the blanket before shifting to sit on the couch with her cradled in his lap. She curls into his chest, resting her head right over his heart. “I banished the monsters last year, remember?”

“One snuck in.”

“I see.” Castiel nods, rocking her back and forth as the morning sun peeks through his office windows. “Do they not enter my office?”

“No,” she says, her words smushed against his button-down as she closes her eyes. “No one does; they don’t dare.”

A pang of something he can’t quite name hits him square in the chest, and he holds her closer, honored that she feels safe here, but why not her own rooms? She is only seven, just a girl who has had to live most of her life alone. Is that it? Does she not feel safe in her solitude?

“You are welcome in my rooms at any time,” he tells her, bending to kiss the top of her head as she curls a fist around his tie.

“Okay.”

Then, she is out, drifting back to sleep in the warmth of his arms. Castiel wishes he could stay like this all day, offering her the comfort they have both missed out on for so many years, but he has responsibilities to attend to, and she has school.

So, he stands, cradling Hael in his arms, still wrapped in the blanket, and carries her back to her rooms where one of Susie’s girls is waiting to bathe and dress her for the day ahead.

Castiel, on the other hand, has been awake since before the sun, and has much to do before it sets tonight.

The statements are to be on his desk by the end of the day, and he has been working himself into a fuss about what he will do if they do not show up. Of course, he will have to fire the men in charge of the testimonies, which will anger his mother to no end, and that is what has him in such a sour mood as he makes his way to the dining hall for his breakfast.

The thought of spending any more time with the likes of Lily, Meg, and Michael leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and he lets out a heavy sigh when he finds the table filled with all but one of his remaining suitors. No reprieve for Dean, but he knew that already, and it reminds him that he needs to keep working to get Dean out of trouble. 

Castiel takes his seat between Charlie and April, counting his blessings that it is those two at his sides for the hour he is obligated to remain in his chair. 

“Good morning, Your Highness,” April says, all glossy-lipped smiles and straight, white teeth that must have cost her father upwards of twenty-thousand dollars. “How are you this morning?”

“Fine,” Castiel answers, but it feels a little clipped when it slips off his tongue. He tries again. “And you?” He smiles this time, twisting toward her as his breakfast is served for him. 

“I found this wonderful book,” she says, divine right into its details. Castiel has read it before, of course, and he was not as riveted as she seems to be, but still, he enjoys listening to the enthusiasm in her tone as she goes over the little details of the plot he remembers in hindsight.

For the first time in days, he goes thirty minutes without thinking about Dean.

Not once.

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath, his heart lodging itself in his throat when he looks over the edge of his balcony and finds the top of Dean’s ruffled hair sitting in the garden far below. 

It’s the first time Castiel has caught a glimpse of him in days, and it burns deep in his chest, a fire that lights him up, tears him apart. God, he hadn’t realized how much he misses him.

Dean sits there, dressed only in his sleep pants, with a tray of untouched food on the bench at his side. It is well after lunch and a nagging feeling claws at his chest; has Dean eaten today? Anything at all?

Castiel can see the other suitors milling about in the grounds, the cameras following them as they walk and chat, looking for all the world like they belong there. Castiel can’t bring himself to see it, and more than anything, it feels to him like there are nothing but intruders in his once quiet home.

He watches as Sarah and Kelly wander close to Dean’s garden fence, unaware that Dean is on the other side, he’s sure. He can’t hear what they are saying from up here, but he can imagine by the way Dean’s shoulders lock up before shifting closer to the fence to hear better.

Castiel watches, his fingers curling around the railing as concern sinks into his bones, as Dean pulls away and the two women move on. He holds his breath and prays that Dean will eat.

He doesn’t, though. 

Dean pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them before laying his head down.

Castiel’s heart is breaking.

It is nine o’clock and Castiel is sitting at his desk pretending to do some work. He’s waiting for the testimonies, sitting here, essentially twiddling his thumbs, waiting to see if his mother’s guards wish to keep their jobs for another day.

The paperwork staring back at him is all he has to entertain himself, and he hates that it is that way. It is his father’s work, of course. Well, the work his father does not want. It is his way of letting Castiel into his future role without giving up the control he loves so much.

Castiel lets out a heavy sigh as he leans back in his chair and looks over at the grandfather clock in the corner. Five minutes after nine.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Enter.”

Castiel looks down at the paperwork in front of him, pretending to work on the tax allocation for some sort of new building one of his father’s friends wants for whatever reason.

The door opens and seconds later, a thick file folder lands on his desk, inches from his fingers. Castiel turns a slow glare to the man standing over his desk, and Isham wilts under the look as if he is only now realizing who is sitting behind the desk.

“I will not ask if they are all here,” Castiel says, his tone of voice calm, though it ripples with an undercurrent of threat. He knows what will happen if the file is incomplete. “You may go.”

 Isham doesn’t waste any time stepping out of the office and closing the door behind him, and neither does Castiel. 

He flips open the folder to the first testimony and reads.

It is nearing midnight when Castiel finally crawls into bed, his eyes aching, his back stiff, but a satisfied feeling in his chest. 

Dean is innocent, and now he has the means to prove it.

Chapter Text

“You should have called me,” Russell says, bursting through Castiel’s bedroom door before he has done more than open his eyes to the early morning sun. 

“You were on leave,” Castiel says, his response coming to him immediately; he knows why Russell is here, after all.

“I am never on leave—not for things such as this.” He crosses his arms in front of him, back in his all-black suit, pressed and smooth, clinging to him as if he had never changed out of it. “You should have called.”

Castiel rubs at his eyes with the heels of both hands, an ache already forming in his temples. He had it handled, he didn’t need to call, and he is perhaps a little hurt by the assumption that he can’t fix his own problems.

“Russell,” Castiel sighs, flopping back onto the pile of pillows as his guard marches over to the windows, throwing open the blinds with a flourish. Sunlight cuts across his bedroom floor, heating the room until Castiel has to whip off his duvet and roll out of bed. “I took care of it.”

Russel turns around, dropping the last of the curtains as Castiel makes his way to the bathroom. “The guards have unlocked Mr. Winchester’s door and allowed him to leave his room?”

“Not yet,” Castiel murmurs. He hasn’t gotten that far, but he will. He only needs to inform his mother of his decision, make a statement concerning the incident, and remove the guards from his door. 

“I will handle the rest,” Russell tells him, making for the door before Castiel can protest. He thinks about it for half a second before Russell leaves before snapping his mouth shut. Part of him wants to see it through, but another part of him—the part that was practically raised by the man—knows that Russell needs to feel like he is doing something other than watching from the sidelines, so he lets him go without protest.

His bedroom door clicks shut and Castiel turns for his closet.

“What is the matter with you?” Susie snaps, putting the finishing touches on his hair as the clock ticks away that last few minutes before he has to leave for his date with Meg. He doesn’t want to—would much rather take Sarah, or April, or Jo—but he needs to get the truth out of her before Russell can put into motion Dean’s pardon.

“Not a thing,” he says, knowing she doesn’t believe him, and not caring in the slightest. He doesn’t have the energy to argue about whether he is or isn’t excited for his second date this week.

“Boy, you need to at least try to control your face.” She pats his cheek, her tiny hand putting some force behind it to get his attention, though not enough to actually hurt. “Pull yourself together.”

“I am fine.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t bother arguing as the time wears away.

“Enough,” Castiel says, sitting by Neptune Lake with Meg at his side, chatting his ear off in an obvious attempt to avoid what is coming. He covers his mic as he speaks, looking her directly in the eyes as a breeze blows through their little picnic. “Turn your mic off.”

“C’mon, Clarence,” she says, flashing him a smile that will get her nowhere. “Do we have to do this now? I thought we were having a nice time.”

He makes himself busy turning off his mic before reaching for hers, pulling it free of her dress so as not to be tricked into revealing their arrangement. “Tell me what happened on Monday.”

Meg lets out a sigh, her usual smirk falling as she stares at the blanket laid out beneath them. “It was Lily’s idea,” she starts, scratching at a loose thread, keeping in her lounged position as Castiel wraps an arm around his bent knees. “I don’t think she expected it to go this far, what with all the coincidences that had to line up to bring us here, but she is more than happy to take the credit.”

“I see,” Castiel says, his annoyance turning to something harsher. She will go home tonight, he decides. There is no other option for what she has done. “Who tripped Dean?”

“Michael, I think.” She shrugs, and there is no mistaking the pout that forms on her glossy lips. “It all happened so fast, but I’m pretty sure it was him.”

Castiel thinks on that for a moment, looking up at the birds flying overhead. “Anything else?” He asks, not bothering to look at her as the gears start turning in his mind. He wants to know of his mother’s involvement and whether or not she had her nose in it from the start.

“No, that’s all,” she says, popping a grape into her mouth before meeting his gaze for the first time. “It was pretty much just the perfect storm.”

Castiel takes a grape of his own, but he doesn’t eat it just yet. His insides vibrate, tingling with the new information as the cogs turn in his mind. This information is new, it is good, and he knows exactly what he needs to do with it.

“We have a problem,” Russell says, half a second before his mother bursts through his office door on his heels, followed by her guards. 

Castiel lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back in his office chair as exhaustion weighs on his bones. 

“You cannot pardon him,” Naomi says, stopping in front of his desk, calm as anything. 

“I think you will find,” Castiel says, meeting her gaze dead-on, “that I can.” He waits for her to get angry, for her face to twist up in that way it does when she loses her temper.

But all she does is sigh, like it actually hurts her to say the words. “Castiel, my son,” she says, shaking her head with a sigh. “This isn’t just about your future spouse.”

“Whatever do you mean?” How could this be about anything else? 

Naomi sits in one of the chairs across from him, lowering herself down like it is entirely her prerogative. “This matter will not be kept quiet,” she says, her tone shifting to one of explanation, and somehow, she manages to keep the condescension out of it—for now. “The kingdom will hear of the investigation, they will know what he did, and should you choose to keep him as your suitor, the people will lose faith in you.”

Castiel balks at her words, rejecting the notion that his people won’t accept Dean because of a misunderstanding. His stomach twists, sinking to his shoes, because there is something… else. Some part of him that knows she is right.

Allowing anyone to attack him publicly, even as a misunderstanding, is a show of weakness the people will not allow. Dean must go, and he knows it as much as his mother does.

“Tonight,” she says, and she looks almost sad to say it. 

His throat burns hot and thick, acid churning in his stomach, more painful than he expects. Dean must go home, he thinks, and he could cry. God, he wants to, but he needs them out of his office before he can let the emotion building inside him spill out.

“You understand, then, Castiel?”

“Yes,” he croaks, and it hurts. Russell shifts in his peripheral vision, but he ignores him, eyes locked on his mother as she stands. He understands that his duty comes before all else, and it has always been that way for as long as he’s lived. He is the Crown Prince before he is his own man.

Naomi gives him a curt nod before she stands. She doesn’t speak as she gives him one last, long look. 

Then, she’s leaving, walking out of the room with her head held high, assurance in her every movement.

As soon as the door closes, Castiel collapses, his head falling into his hands. The ache in his chest turns into a burn, to a raging fire that threatens to consume him.

A hiccuping breath bursts out of him. Then another, and another—another, another—until he’s sobbing into his hands.

Why can he not have just this one thing? Just this one, good thing?

“Camera’s, rolling, and… Duma.” 

Castiel sucks in a deep breath, listening from just outside the ceremony room for his cue. He focuses on his breathing, closing his eyes as he struggles to keep another meltdown at bay. He has had three so far since his mother left his office, and he doesn’t think he can handle another before stepping into the room where he will have to say goodbye to Dean for the final time.

“After an eventful week, here we are once again. His Royal Highness will be sending another unfit suitor on their way. Tonight, you may have to say goodbye to a favorite, or cheer the departure of one to whom you have no attachment. Whichever the case, it’s only moments away.” The words echo through the seams of the doors, sending Castiel’s heart skipping a few beats as he wrings his hands. Beside him, Russell lets out a deep breath, undoubtedly aware of Castiel’s every thought.

“Without further ado, his royal highness, Crown Prince Castiel Novak.”

Castiel sucks in a deep, burning breath, feeling it sink into his bones as the door swings open and he steps inside.

His eyes fall on Dean. His stomach gives a violent lurch.

Dean stands at the back of the group of suitors, tucked away beside the column, his head bowed and shoulders slumped. 

Fuck.

Castiel has to look away. He can’t stand the way his heart twists and breaks, knowing what he has to do tonight for the sake of his kingdom. There’s a lump lodging itself in his throat as he keeps his eyes locked on the pedestal full of sapphire roses, taking slow, steady steps until he reaches the center of the room.

There’s no time, not with the cameras pointed at him, all the suitors—but one—looking at him. He doesn’t have time to breathe, or think, or feel, not really. 

He takes it anyway, sucking in a deep breath, then another. He closes his eyes to the golden light of the room, inhaling the scent of dying flowers and rich dirt coming in from the grounds outside the open doors. 

“Good evening,” he says, opening his eyes and plunging forward. Let’s get this over with. “And welcome to the second selection ceremony.” The suitors listen with rapt attention, something Castiel is accustomed to, of course, and he sinks into the familiarity of the feeling. “After tonight, eight of you will remain, and I will be sorry to see one of you go, but it is a sacrifice that must be made.”

Because it is a sacrifice. Dean is being sent home for the sake of the people’s faith in the kingdom—a sacrifice if there ever was one—and Castiel can’t help the bitterness that wells inside him at the reminder.  

“It’s been wonderful getting to know each and every one of you over the last week, and can only hope you feel the same. Now, without further ado.”

He pinches the first of the roses off the pedestal and holds it between his gloved fingers. The thorns have been shorn off for the sake of the ceremony, but Castiel knows their bite. He has spent many hours trimming his roses, plucking and pruning, and walked away with bloody fingers as a result.

Now, though, his military medals clink against each other as he shifts, and he hates the sound. It is a reminder of his country, one his mother thought he might need tonight, but it only serves to amplify his bitterness now.

“Hannah,” he says to start the night off, needing a familiar face to get through this, and she steps off her pedestal with all the grace that has been instilled in her since their childhood. Her flowing, deep gray gown shifts around her shins, loose at the sleeves but tight around her chest. She looks beautiful, he will admit, with her hair done up and her blue eyes glowing under the light.

She is not what he wants.

The names come quickly and at random as he plucks up each rose—Michael, April, Charlie, Kelly, Meg, Sarah, Kelly… The names go on, and Castiel goes numb.

“The final rose,” Duma says, and Castiel startles. How can he already be at the end? His heart lurches, a fist squeezing the organ in a painful grip. It’s time, the moment has come for him to make his sacrifice, and he just… he doesn’t know if he can do it.

“This week has been an enlightening one. I have been able to get to know you all in a deeper, more intimate way, but it makes this decision no easier,” he says, contemplating just how much faith he could lose from a kingdom that is not yet his to rule. There is so much time to win that faith back, but he knows one thing for certain, and that is that he will never win the love of his people by bending to the will of others.

The bitterness burns into resentment, and he grinds his molars as he twirls the last rose between his fingers. He will not sacrifice himself, because to do so would be to sacrifice the entire kingdom before it belongs to him.

“The one who will leave us tonight has shown they are not meant to rule beside me, despite their desire to do so anyway.” With his resolve hardening, the fist around his heart loosening, Castiel lifts his chin a little higher. “It takes courage to lead. One must be honest, not only to their people, but to themselves. They must look into the face of adversity and understand that it takes honor and perseverance to make a leader.” 

Across the room, Castiel meets Dean’s gaze, bright and burning, defiant in the face of whatever Dean believes is happening. He can feel his stare like a physical thing, and something about it makes his heart beat a little faster.

“This final rose,” he whispers, breaking their eye contact as he looks down at the soft, glossy petals. The name slips from his lips like air, as easy and as natural as breathing.

“Dean.”

It feels right to say his name. Always the final rose.

At first, Dean doesn’t move. He stands there, and Castiel can almost feel the confusion radiating from him. Still, he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and steps off his platform.

He doesn’t look at Castiel.

Dean’s eyes float somewhere near Castiel’s neck, refusing to lift as seconds stretch between them. Nothing but the push and pull of their soft breaths, the shifts of expensive clothing, and the sweet, subtle scent of Dean’s shampoo filling the air around them. It turns something in Castiel’s stomach, twists him up in knots and makes him speak first.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, but Dean doesn’t even flinch. It is as if he cannot hear him, like he has turned himself deaf to Castiel’s words. “Dean,” he tries again, desperate now—what if Dean does not accept this rose? What will he do then?

Then, like the sun rising in the morning after the coldest night in a century, Dean lifts his eyes to his. A breath shakes from Castiel’s lungs, silent and fragile, as he stares into green eyes that have always reminded him of summer.

“Will you accept this rose?” He says at last, forcing the words out past the ache in his throat. What will he do if Dean doesn’t accept? He waits with bated breath as Dean sucks in a gasp, biting hard enough on his bottom lip to turn the delicate skin white.

“Yes.”

The breath Castiel had been holding whispers out of him, slow and controlled, as relief floods in. His head spins with it, and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears as his blood pressure drops. For a moment, he thinks he might pass out, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing?

Dean snatches the rose out of his fingers and turns on his heel without another word. Castiel watches him go, something inside him not sitting quite right, but he doesn’t have time to ponder it as Lily steps off her platform, her eyes blazing and her face red with rage.

Russell and Benjamin step forward to block her, but Castiel holds up a hand. This is a consequence he was expecting, and he is ready for whatever she has to throw at him.

“Why?” she snaps, searching his gaze, and for half a second, he almost feels bad for her. She is not used to getting what she wants, and that is not her fault, but her father’s. Still, it is not his fault either, and not all spoiled people make the choices she made.

“You tried to force my hand,” he tells her, low enough that the others cannot hear. “As the Crown Prince, my hand will not be forced.”

Lily scoffs, her head shooting back in disbelief as she glares, before storming out of the room without another word. A pair of guards by the door follow her out.

  “If you would all join the prince for the toast,” Duma says, forever the organizing force, and Castiel breathes a word of thanks in her direction. She simply nods as she signals for the champagne to be rolled out.

The suitors swell in, roses in one hand, champagne in the other, and Castiel can’t help but look for Dean in the crowd. He catches sight of the top of his head, a slice of the green in his eyes, before Dean shifts to the back of the crown.

“To faith,” Castiel says, as simple as that, and holds up his glass. He forces a smile that he doesn’t really feel, and drinks.

With a bubbly gasp, he passes his glass to a waiting servant and searches the crowd of suitors one more time.

Castiel catches sight of the man only moments before he slips out the door without a backward glance.

Chapter Text

The morning sun is nowhere near rising, but Castiel is restless. There’s something churning in his stomach that refuses to settle no matter how many antacids he takes. He feels uneasy, like something is about to happen, but he can’t pinpoint what.

Castiel blows out a heavy sigh and rolls out of bed, hating the way his eyes feel heavy even as his mind refuses to rest. God, what a peculiar hell, and what a terrible way to spend a morning, so he throws on a pair of jogging pants and a sweat-wicking t-shirt before heading out the door.

It can’t be more than three o’clock, but Russell waits in the hall for him, his shift only three hours from the start. 

“A run, Your Highness?” He asks, and if he is surprised to see Castiel up so early, he hides it remarkably well.

“Sleep eludes me,” he says by way of an explanation as he slips his feet into his running shoes and laces them up.

The walk to the gym is a winding one, taking him down to the lower levels, away from the stately rooms that occupy the first, second, and third floors. It is buried in the basement, deep enough that perhaps no guests will ever find it, not that Castiel much cares. It is his mother’s worry, and one that is entirely unfounded in his opinion. 

After all, how often do they find themselves with wandering guests?

The lights are bright and glaring when Castiel steps into the gym, and he squints through the glare as Russell takes up his post by the door.

After a few quick stretches, Castiel hops on the treadmill, wasting no time as he starts off at a nice jog.

After a few minutes, he cranks it up to an all out sprint.

“Castiel,” Naomi hisses, coming down the hall toward him as he tries to sneak back to his room. He is dripping sweat, his shirt clinging to his chest and his soaked hair falling into his eyes, but he slows his step and lets out a heavy sigh. He was hoping to avoid this for a while.

“Mother,” he says, waiting for her to reach him as her face contorts with disgust to go along with her anger. She hates that he runs; that he sweats and bleeds and hurts like a living, breathing person.

“Inside,” she snaps, pushing a door open at random before waving him through. The small sitting room is rarely used, though impeccably maintained, with its meticulously dusted tables and dirt free flooring. “You did not send him home,” she says, and even without saying a name, Castiel knows she is speaking of Dean.

“I did not,” he confirms, hands at his sides and his chin held high. He will not be apologizing for it, either, no matter how much she expects him too.

"Why would you think that was a good idea?" Her hissing voice grates on his nerves, though he supposes she could be yelling, so he counts it as a small blessing.

"That's none of your concern,” he says, because he has a contract detailing the limits of his parents’ involvement in the proceedings of this courtship, and a very specific subsection stating that they shall have no say in who is sent home at any point, or for any reason. "My choices are mine, alone."

"You know that's not true," she spits, the muscle beside her eye twitching as she drops her hands to her hips and sneers in his direction. Oh, she is really mad, he realizes—this is beyond what he has seen in quite some time, and a small part of him feels a sliver of pride in himself. It has been too long since he has been able to outwit her. "We will all suffer because of your selfishness."

Selfishness? Is that what she is calling it? His selfishness? He shakes his head, feeling a bitter laugh try to fight its way free as he shakes his head. ”Then so be it," he says, and turns for the door. He will not be spoken to like an errant child; he is the Crown Prince—

"Dean," Castiel says, his annoyance falling away as delight lights him up from the inside, out. "Good morning."

"Morning, Your Highness,” Dean says, his eyes floating somewhere near Castiel’s chest as he forces a shaky smile. Castiel’s heart drops, because this is not the Dean he remembers; this is not the man he saw last Monday. 

“Please, just Castiel. Or Cas, if you will,” he says, his smile faltering when Dean does nothing more than nod. It is like he’s not really here, as if someone has come to replace him in the last week. He looks the same, sounds the same, but the light behind his eyes is gone, the smile Castiel remembers—and can so clearly picture in his mind—is gone. “What are you doing up? It's barely five o'clock?" He asks, desperate to hear Dean speak, to keep the conversation going, to keep him here. He looks at the grandfather clock leaning against the opposite wall, rewound every morning to maintain its precise time. Five o’clock—will breakfast be set yet?

"Uh..." Dean says as he starts walking again, his eyes shifting around the brightening halls like he doesn’t really want to speak with him. "Getting breakfast,” he says at last, looking at Castiel rather expectantly, like he is waiting to be dismissed. Castiel doesn’t speak as something swells in his throat, blocking out the words—the apology—he knows should be gushing from his lips right about now.

"Would you mind if I joined you?" he says at last, blurting the words like a desperate fool, and the incredulous look that contorts Dean’s features makes him feel like one. God, he is an idiot, of course Dean is angry, he has every right to be angry, and Castiel has done nothing to make it better. 

Dean shakes his head, his brows creasing, anger clear in the fine lines of his face. “I—“

"Excuse me, Your Highness?"

Castiel snaps his head around at the sound of Russell’s voice, finding the head of his personal guard with a grave look on his face. He glances back at Dean, torn between ignoring whatever look Russell is giving him, and risking letting Dean get away. But Russell does not interrupt without cause, and the look he is giving him…

"Just a moment, Dean. If you’ll wait here…” He says, trailing off and hoping against all odds that Russell makes it quick. He hurries to the end of the hall, away from Dean and the tired sigh that slips out of him.

“What is it?” Castiel asks, giving Russell as much of his attention as he can even as Dean’s footsteps echo down the hallway, moving in the opposite direction.

“Hael,” he says, as simple as that, and Castiel’s heart lurches, all other thoughts slipping away.

“Take me to her.”

“No! Cassie!”

Castiel skips a step, almost tripping over himself as his littlest sister’s cries reach him down the hallway. Russell had no more information other than she is in distress, but it doesn’t matter what it is. Nightmare or otherwise, Castiel needs to be here. Someone needs to be here for her.

“Hael, my sweet,” he says, through her door and by her side before anyone can stop him. He crawls into bed beside his inconsolable little sister, not caring that he’s sweaty, that she’s thrashing in her sleep, taken over by night terrors. He pulls her close, holds her tight as she is wracked with bone-shaking sobs.

Her night terrors started sometime around the beginning of his tour overseas, and only escalating upon his return. He has no idea what their cause is, but he pins her arms and holds her close, soothing her with soft whispers and his presence.

“C-Cassie,” she whispers, her voice jerking with hiccuping sobs as he runs a soothing hand over her back and through her long, tangled hair. “Cassie, don’t g-go.”

“I am right here,” he says, the dark room closing in around them, Russell standing watch as Hael’s nanny steps out of the room to calm herself. “Nothing to fear, my sweet. I am here.”

“You were gone,” she sobs, burying her face in his chest as her tiny fists grip his shirt. “You were gone.” 

Emotion swells inside him, clogging his throat and burning in his eyes as she cries, her shoulders shaking as she curls her legs up and clings to him like he’ll disappear at any moment. “Shh,” he says, but he knows she doesn’t hear him. “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

But she cries. For over an hour, she cries.

For the rest of the day, there’s a burning in Castiel’s throat, like constant heartburn bubbling up from his stomach. He rubs his sternum with his fist, trying to soothe the pain in his chest as he makes his way down the grand staircase to the front door.

He has much to do today, including several consecutive meetings with the diplomat from Trent about the on-going unrest on their southern border, and his interview for the show. At some point, he needs to make an appearance with his suitors and try to converse with each of them for a minimum of five minutes. On top of it all, he is scheduled to meet with Pamela today.

The prospect alone sounds exhausting, and Castiel is beginning to think perhaps he has taken on too much. There is so much to do and so little time, but there is nothing to do about it now, he supposes.

There is a little over an hour until his meetings are scheduled to begin, so he heads for his interview, figuring he should get it out of the way early on.

“Have you spoken to him?” Russell asks, half a step behind, and a little to the left of him, speaking in low tones as they head for the interview studio set up in a long-forgotten sitting room.

Castiel does not need to ask who he is. “For a few moments this morning,” he says, the burn flaring back up in his chest at the thought of Dean. “Before you came to fetch me for Hael.”

“And?”

“He is angry,” Castiel says with a sigh, the weight of the world settling on his shoulders. “Rightfully so, of course, but if he would just let me explain…”

“Give him time,” Russell murmurs as they reach the interview room and he raps his knuckles on the solid wood door. “He will come around.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Castiel asks, because it has been his greatest fear since last night, since he saw the look in Dean’s eyes this morning. He is more than aware of the pleading tone in his voice, of how desperate he sounds even to his own ears, but still he asks.

Russell smiles, softs and slow and reassuring. He doesn’t pat Castiel’s shoulder, but Castiel can tell he wants to. “Have faith, my boy.”

Then the door opens, and Castiel is ushered inside.

“Mr. Winchester has received a full pardon,” Castiel tells the camera, putting as much emphasis into the words as he can. “I would like to make it abundantly clear that I do not fault Dean, and the entire ordeal was a misunderstanding.”

Behind the camera, Duma nods, jotting down a note before moving to the next question. “Could you speak a little more on your date with Lily, and the relationship you had with her prior to the date?”

Castiel just barely keeps his face in check, refraining from scrunching his nose in distaste at the thought of talking about Lily now that she’s gone. He will, of course, because there are certain things that are required of him for the show, but that does not mean he has to like it.

“Lily Sunder is a name known to many,” he starts, choosing his words carefully. “From what I have witnessed in the last two weeks, she is just as shallow as she seems. There is no depth to her, nothing under the surface to uncover.” Castiel takes a breath, and thinks perhaps he is not being so careful with his words. Not that it matters; he has final say about what is included from his interview. “Her upbringing was one of excess, of never wanting, or working, or anything, and that, I fear, has made her selfish and entitled. We did not get on well, and so I will not miss her presence in the palace.”

Duma waves her hand for more, and Castiel lets out a silent sigh as he wracks his brain for more. He supposes he has yet to mention their date beyond the recap she had him do at the beginning of the hour.

So, Castiel talks about the date. How she insulted him without seeming to realize, how she watched every minute of the opera with disdain in her eyes, and picked at her dinner with a contemptuous curl to her upper lip. 

God, even now, it makes him angry, and he is so beyond relieved that she is gone.

With his full day, Castiel doesn’t have time to think about Dean, and yet, he does. He wonders where he is, how he is doing, and if he is thinking about him, too. The whole thing is more than a little exhausting, and by the time Castiel is sitting on a chair opposite Dr. Barnes, all he wants to do is fall into bed and sleep.

“Tell me about your week,” she says, hands folded in her lap as she looks at him with keen eyes. Castiel has yet to figure out if she can read him, or if she is just really good at guessing. “You mentioned Dean Winchester last Saturday; tell me about him.”

Castiel’s heart clenches, sadness and uncertainty pouring in in equal measure. Dr. Barnes, as a member of the public, does not know about what happened with Dean this week. “There was an incident,” he says, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he folds his hands in his lap. “Circumstances piled up to make a whole, unnecessary mess, and now I am uncertain if Dean will stay long enough for me to get to know him at all.”

The thought breaks his heart, and he has to look away from Pamela to gather himself. The silence stretches on between them, something that Castiel has grown used to since he started seeing her, which was around the time he arrived home from war.

“If he were to choose to leave, do you think you would continue?” It is a question he hasn’t considered until right now, and one he doesn’t think matters. He must continue, there is no other option where his future is concerned, even if he must break his own heart to do it.

“Yes,” he says with a sharp nod. “I must marry.”

“Sure,” Pamela says, shrugging off the words as if it is not Castiel’s entire life. “But why now? Why at twenty-one, and to one of these people?”

“I—” Because my father declared it so. That is all he has for an answer, but somehow, it doesn’t sound good enough, and he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. 

So, he says nothing.

Pamela waits.

Castiel caves first.

“I don’t have a choice,” he says at last, expecting her to scoff at him, or call him ridiculous, but she doesn’t. She only stares, her notebook remaining untouched at her side. “My father wishes for me to be married before the year ends; he is the king, his wish is as good as law.” The words fall out of him like a pre-written script, something he has said so many times, it is practically ingrained in his bones.

“If you had a choice, then.” 

Castiel blows out a breath, his first instinct telling him not to think about it, because it is not a possibility, but he knows by now that Pamela won’t accept anything less than an honest answer.

“I don’t think I would continue.” The words are slow and measured, hesitant in the quiet room, but the truest thing he has said all day.

“Interesting,” Pamela muses, watching him, a look in her eyes he can’t hope to understand. “You have an unmatched ability to forgo what makes you happy, Castiel. I think it’s time you change that.”

When Castiel crawls into bed, the lights off and curtains drawn, he finds that it is not empty. A tiny, Hael-shaped lump squirms under his duvet, squeaking as she wakes with a slow blink.

“This is not your bed,” he says, but doesn’t care to kick her out. She has had a rough week, and he can’t stand the thought of making it harder on her now, especially when he, too, can use the comfort of someone who loves him.

“Don’t make me go,” she whispers, curling into his side as he pulls the blankets close around them. 

So, he doesn’t, soaking in her warmth, her love, with his arms wrapped around her, as he drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

A knot twists in Castiel’s stomach as he descends the steps to the grand entrance hall, nerves taking over no matter how silly he tells himself they are. 

Dean will be there.

What if he’s not?

Both thoughts have been moving on a loop through his mind since he woke up this morning. Realistically, the suitors do not have to attend the screening if they wish not to, even if the expectation is there. Dean could very well stay in his room until he decides to forfeit and go home, and with a palace as large as this one, there is no guarantee that Castiel will ever see him again if he does.

“Are you ill, Your Highness?” Russell asks, knowing very well that he is not. Castiel shoots him a look before attempting to sort out the sour look he’s sure is on his face.

“Hush,” Castiel grumbles, pulling on the cuffs of his suit jacket as they make their way to the screening room. The floor is filled with cushions for the suitors to sit, and almost all of them are taken. Castiel’s gaze flicks around in a frantic search, and his heart flips when he finds Dean there, in the furthest corner from him, ignoring his very existence as Susie sits behind him in a chair, massaging his temples.

He came.

In light gray sleep pants and a zip-up hoodie, Dean’s skin looks almost sickly, and Castiel’s stomach lurches. He should leave him alone, let him rest his eyes, but his feet are moving before he can think better of it.

"Is he alright?" he asks, leaning close to Susie so as not to disturb Dean, who has his eyes closed and his head leaned back against her knees.

Dean lets out a soft moan, shifting in discomfort, and Castiel’s stomach twists tighter. He aches, knowing there is nothing he can do for Dean, and he hates it.

"What do you think?" Susie snaps, turning a nasty glare on him, and it hits Castiel square in the chest. She has never spoken to him like that before, and the venom in her tone has him shrinking away.

"I—I'm sorry," Castiel stutters, shame colouring his words as he looks down at Dean, then back up at Susie before stepping away. A lump forms in his throat, pressing against his vocal chords. He doesn’t say anything more, can’t if he wanted to, before turning away.

"Alright," Mick says as Castiel lowers into his chair. He can feel eyes on him from all around the room, but he ignores them, too busy trying to fight back the sick feeling swelling up in his gut.xJust about ready. If everyone could get settled, that'd be great."

From the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Dean move, shifting to sit beside Charlie, who murmurs something close to his ear, before getting a whispered reply that Castiel doesn’t have a hope of hearing from so far away.

Then the countdown starts to roll. Three... two... one...

"Welcome back to the palace for our second week of the courting process," Duma's voice says, filling the room with her confident, booming tone. “Over the last seven days, much has happened inside the palace walls. From questionable actions leading to investigation of one of the suitors, to a romantic date, and even a food fight amongst the suitors. Catch it all here and now, on The Royal Host.”

Castiel cringes at her summary of the week, gritting his teeth against the urge to scowl.

Then, Monday starts, beginning with Dean’s smiling face. He laughs, the sound ringing through the room as Charlie whacks the ball across the tennis court, and Dean lunges for it. Sweat glistens on his tanned cheeks, his freckles standing out against the sunshine, and he just looks so happy.

Castiel’s heart aches as he watches, enraptured, caught frozen to the spot by the pure joy shining through Dean like the sun lives inside him.

The turning in his stomach intensifies the closer they get to Monday night after dinner. Watching the tapes back is not new for him; he has watched the events of that night upwards of a hundred times since it happened, but this time, with everyone else here, he can feel the burning in the back of his throat. 

It’s a strange kind of embarrassment, one that arises from watching himself do something wrong, even if it was not his fault. He watches as his face contorts, his eyes going wide as Dean slams into him, and can almost feel the phantom sensation of hitting the ground. 

The sick feeling grows, amplified by the eyes he can feel setting on him.

Castiel takes a few deep, soothing breaths and closes his eyes, forcing down the churning in his gut as the screening plays a soundtrack to his thoughts. 

 "Stop!" He hears himself shout, fragile and shaking through the speakers as the room both on and off screen falls silent. The feelings flood back in, not so different to those he is feeling now, and he opens his eyes to see his own face.

The screen cuts to Dean, and Castiel’s heart drops at the harsh angles created by studio light and misery.

Dean glances down at his lap, then up at the camera and says, "Don't know. I wasn't there."

It cuts to commercial.

The ceremony creeps up on them the same way it did in real life. Slowly crawling closer as the days, minutes, hours pass, before it is upon them, and even now, Castiel is not ready.

He enters the ceremony room in the same way as the week before, dressed in his royal regalia, military medals and all. To all outside eyes, he appears entirely composed, but he remembers the way he felt when he caught sight of Dean staring at his shoes. 

With a quick glance to his right, Castiel catches sight of Dean, sitting on a cushion next to Charlie, his eyes locked on the screen. They seem bigger than normal, wider, more green. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed before, or maybe it is a new thing, but it worries Castiel, and he hates that there is nothing he can do to fix it.

The ceremony runs on, one name after another, the roses disappearing from the podium until there is one left.

Castiel swallows past the lump in his throat, unable to look away as he calls Dean’s name.

On screen, the defiance in Dean’s eyes is clearer. The way he clenches his jaw, fists his hands at his sides, and steps off the platform with so much gut-wrenching confusion in his eyes. God, how had Castiel not noticed that before? The way Dean looks on the edge of breaking down, like he wants to run out of the room without looking back as he steps in front of Castiel, eyes not meeting his. 

Castiel can see himself urging Dean to look at him, see the desperation in his eyes when he asks if Dean will accept him, and the relief when he does. But now, watching it back, he can see just how much there still is to be worried about.

To his right, Dean stands, ignoring the murmurs of his friends as he heads for the door. Castiel’s heart clenches, the burning feeling in his stomach making him desperate because, somehow, he knows this is it. If he doesn’t go after Dean now and try to explain himself, then he is going to lose him forever.

He cannot lose him.

Castiel is on his feet before he can think twice, his heart thundering in his chest as he marches from the room. He can feel the eyes of every person in the room following him out, but he doesn’t care. This is important, so important, and he can not mess it up.

Castiel doesn’t bother knocking as Dean’s door closes in his face. He pushes through, following Dean inside without hesitation. 

"I really don't want to do this right now, Suse," Dean says, and Castiel isn’t sure why he thought Dean would know it is him, but he doesn’t leave, determined to say what is on his mind. He closes the door behind him for some privacy since he is certain Russell is not far behind. 

"Please," he says, lifting a hand to ward off Dean’s protests. "Please, let me explain myself to you." He chances a step closer as tears well in Dean’s eyes before spilling onto his cheeks, tracking down his freckled face and breaking Castiel’s heart. "Let me help you understand."

A humorless laugh spills out of Dean, his head rolling back before dropping forward again, and the ache in Castiel’s chest intensifies. He can see now, the damage done, and it is more than he thought. Dean didn’t trust him to begin with, and now… now he might never. "I'm so tired, Cas," he whispers, his voice shaking as he wipes at his cheeks with both palms. "I'm just so tired."

"Please," he breathes, reaching out to touch Dean, to connect with him, before remembering himself and dropping it again. Oh, how he wishes to touch him, to feel the heat of Dean’s skin against his own, but he can’t, so he settles for looking at him with all the desperate longing he feels inside. "I know I did wrong by you, and I'm not making excuses, but maybe it will bring you peace to understand why certain choices were made."

For a moment, Dean doesn’t speak, his eyes sliding over Castiel like he is trying to decide what to do with him. Castiel just waits, hoping and praying that Dean will let him explain.

Then, he nods, sniffling softly as he turns away, and Castiel’s shoulders slump with the weight of his relief, and he closes his eyes as he takes a soft breath.

Dean sits on one end of the couch and Castiel takes the other end, giving him some space as he gathers the words he needs to say.

After a moment, Castiel takes a deep, calming breath, pulling himself together piece by piece just as he was taught. "I want to start by saying I never doubted you—not for a second." 

Dean nods, wiping away the last of his tears as he sniffs softly and runs his sleeve under his nose. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look Castiel’s way, so Castiel continues.

"There are rules, though—protocols that must be followed. Once my guard thought you guilty, it was out of my control until they finished their investigation."

"They weren't going to let me give a statement," Dean blurts, anger rising in his voice in a way Castiel doesn’t expect, but he can’t say he blames him for it.

“I know,” Castiel says, a heavy sigh weighing him down until he sinks back into the cushions. God, he is just so tired, the events of the last week coming down on him like a ton of bricks. “Don't worry, I was as upset as you were, which is why I had Benny come to you. I know you two get along."

"He said it wouldn't matter what I said—that they wouldn't look at it anyway." Dean raises an eyebrow as he waits for an explanation, and Castiel huffs out a tiny laugh, the first in a while, and it feels like a sliver of sunshine coming through after a year of rain.

"Well, he's not wrong. It didn't matter, but only because I had already pardoned you. Of course, Benny didn't know that at the time." Castiel studies Dean’s face as he speaks, catching sight of the shine in his eyes, the tears still wetting his cheeks. He pulls out his handkerchief and holds it out to Dean. It is a risk, an offering Dean may refuse, but he makes it anyway, and Dean takes it without hesitation.

"Thank you," Dean whispers, taking the handkerchief as if it will disintegrate between his fingers if he is not careful.

"They wanted me to send you home,” Castiel says at last while Dean is distracted. It is something he must say, though he does not wish to, and he looks down at his fingers as the words fall into the space between them. 

"Yeah, I kind of got that." A soft, awkward chuckle punches out of Dean, and even forced, it is a nice sound.

"It was decided, right up until I had that rose in my hands..." Somehow, his voice only gets quieter, softening the deeper into the explanation he gets. It is incorrect, he knows that, but his training betrays him in this moment. It flees with all his confidence as he speaks to his hands. "They didn't really give me a choice—said it would shake the people's faith in me—but I just..." The shrug comes out of nowhere, yet another mannerism that was forced out of him as a child, and not for the first time, he is grateful that Russell is not in the room. "I couldn't do it—I could send you home."

"Cas," Dean whispers, speaking his name for the first time since last week, and something about the way it falls out of him makes Castiel’s heart clench.

It gives him the strength to pull himself back together. He sucks in a deep breath and straightens his spine. "Of all the people in the land, you would think I am the most free,” he says, needing Dean to understand this one thing. “But the life of a monarch is one bound by invisible chains, Dean. In every direction, there are people telling me what I should do. I should send you to prison, I should send you home, I should pardon you—"

He stops to catch his breath, shaking his head as it all comes back to him. Everything is so confusing, and he is lost for a moment of where to go from here. He is so used to having the answers. Or, if he does not have them, being the one to create them, and yet, here he is without the power to influence this one thing.

"All I wanted to do was keep you here." He swallows hard, squeezing his eyes shut as he forces himself to say the words. "But if you want—" His voice cracks as fear and loss swell up in equal measure, a preemptive flood of emotion, and has to clear his throat, has to blink back tears, before he can continue. "If you want to go home, I won't stop you."

"Cas—"

"I want you to be happy, Dean, and you're very clearly unhappy here." It is the truest thing he has said out loud in a long time, and it breaks his heart. This place, his home, is not for Dean, and he can see that in every hollow space on Dean’s face.

Dean blows out a breath and closes his eyes, and Castiel can’t decide if it is with relief, or in thought. He begs for the ladder like his life depends on it, sitting on the edge of his seat as the seconds tick past on the clock in the corner of Dean’s borrowed room.

"I..." Dean starts before the sound fades out, and Castiel holds his breath. "I just..."

"What is it?” He asks, unable to keep the pleading tone out of his words. “Anything you want, and it's yours.” He leans forward, hands clasped, ready to get on his knees for Dean to forgive him, and God, if Dr. Barnes could hear that thought, he would be in so much trouble. “Do you want me to beg? To get down on my knees and beg for your forgiveness? I will do it, Dean. I will."

To his absolute shock, Dean nods, fighting back the smile as he curls the handkerchief around one finger. Fuck, this man will be the death of me, he thinks, before giving him a curt nod.

"Alright," Castiel says, sliding onto the floor before he can talk himself out of it, because the Crown Prince kneels for no one, and this… this is something entirely new. ”This must stay between us, though." He pauses, glancing up at Dean from his place on the floor, before adding, "Please."

"Go on, then." Dean nods for him to continue, his eyes glowing in the mid-afternoon sun shining through the open windows. "Give it your best go, Your Highness."

Castiel clears his throat, not quite sure where to start, before deciding he should look at Dean. He meets his steady gaze, eyes so green, they are almost unnatural, and takes a breath before opening his mouth to speak.

"Dean," he says, his voice shaking a touch as he scrambles for the right words. He takes a deep, rattling breath, before deciding he should just begin. "I am so, so sorry for my part in your suffering. I never wanted you to get wrapped in any of the..." He pauses, searching for the word, before just spitting it out in a fervent whisper. "The bullshit... of the upper classes. I never wanted—"

Emotion wells inside him, sneaking up on him in a way he doesn’t expect, and tears burn the back of his eyes until they’re clouding his vision. He blinks them away as fast as they come, and pushes on before he loses his nerve.

“Dean, I never wanted anyone to get hurt, but I can't—" He stops, shakes his head, and before he can stop himself, he slides a hand over Dean’s where they are folded in his lap. His fingers are soft and warm, strong and capable, and the feeling of skin on skin sends an electric shiver up his spine. "I can't stop it, and I'm so sorry that I can't do better, but I'll try—by God, I swear I'll try. So, please... please, would you stay? Please stay?"

Slowly, as if Castiel might pull away, Dean flips his hand over, sliding his palm against Castiel’s. He watches with rapt attention as Dean twines their fingers together, so strong and warm, so comforting. Castiel could spend the rest of his life holding Dean’s hand.

"Okay," Dean whispers, looking at Castiel as he nods. "Okay, Cas, I'll stay."

Relief, so profound it leaves him breathless, almost knocks him off his feet and he has to close his eyes for a moment to take it all in. He is staying, he thinks, and it is the only thing going through his mind as he swallows back the lump in his throat. Dean is staying. "Thank you," he whispers, squeezing Dean's hands before forcing himself to let go. "I promise you, Dean.  I promise, I'll do all that's in my power to keep you from harm."

With an ache in his knees, Castiel pushes himself off the floor, dusting off his trousers simply for something to do with his hands as he wills the tingling to subside in his spine.

"Will I see you at breakfast tomorrow?" Castiel asks, hoping beyond hope that he will. He has missed Dean’s presence at mealtimes, his laughter and smiles always lightening Castiel’s mood. Even now, as they stand close enough for Castiel to smell the cherrywood scent of Dean’s shampoo, he can feel the knot loosening in his chest. 

"You might,” Dean says, a smile curling at the corners of his lips as he gives Castiel a quick once over. It sends a shiver of delight through him, and he has to get out of here before he does something stupid like kiss him.

"I hope so." Castiel moves for the door, perhaps a little slower than he needs to.  "Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," Dean whispers, standing in the doorway as he steps into the hallway. Russell waits for him beside the door, eyebrow raised, a small smile on his face that Castiel chooses to ignore.

Warmth builds in his chest, fluttering with a feeling he hasn’t felt since the day he and Dean first met. As he walks down the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the vaulted ceilings, he can feel a smile bubbling up inside him.

It bursts across his face, wide and bright, until he’s grinning like a little kid.

Chapter Text

The cool morning air of early fall feels good in Castiel’s burning lungs as he sprints across the grounds for the final yards of his morning run. His legs scream at him to stop, muscles pulling and stretching in the best way, until he reaches the cobblestone path and slows right down.

God, it feels good to run. It is the one thing that has been constant since his teenage years; all through basic training, medical training, and his deployment overseas, he has been able to run, whether for exercise, or for his life.

Now, he uses it as a form of meditation. A way to clear his mind of all his worries and sink into the moment.

“Faster today,” Russell pants, coming up behind him a few seconds later than normal. “You must be feeling better.”

“Yes,” Castiel breathes, stretching out his quads before bending over to touch his toes. After his conversation with Dean yesterday, he has slept better, and the burning in his stomach has subsided to nothing. Aside from Hael still occupying the other side of his bed, everything feels almost as it did last Monday morning.

“I can’t imagine your mother is pleased,” Russell adds as they push through the double doors. The palace is still mostly asleep, except for the staff preparing breakfast, and perhaps Susie, who does not seem to ever sleep. 

“No, she is not,” Castiel says, hardly giving it a second thought. It does not matter what his mother thinks, and he has the paperwork—and the royal title—to prove it. “I hardly think that is her concern, however.” He leaves it at that.

“Mrs. Sampson is waiting for you.” Russell walks half a step behind him, keeping his voice low as they make their way up the steps and through the winding halls to his rooms. “She is in a particularly sour mood.”

“Why would that be?” Castiel asks, one eyebrow raised as his door comes into view.

“Apparently Mr. Winchester called his burnt orange—her words—suit, dirty pumpkin, and she was none too pleased.” Russell’s fond smile feels almost too private for Castiel’s eyes, so he looks away, wondering at who it could be for—Dean? Or Susie?

“Of course he did,” Castiel says, a huffing laugh bubbling out of him, because that is just so Dean, and it brings him immeasurable joy to hear that he has regained his snark. “He is probably right, too.”

Russell doesn’t have the chance to respond before Castiel pushes through his bedroom door and is immediately assaulted with Susie’s indistinguishable muttering from his hamper.

Castiel decides to ignore it, peeling off his shirt and heading for the shower before Susie can start shouting about an orange suit. 

On his way by, he throws the shirt at the hamper, missing Susie by a hair. 

She shoots him a look that could kill, but if it turns her annoyance on him and away from Dean, then so be it.

"Dean,” Castiel says, unable to stop himself as he steps into the dining room and catches sight of that God-awful suit. Dean was correct, it is, in fact, dirty pumpkin.

Still, delight floods him when he sees it, and a skip in his step takes him to his seat on Dean’s left.

"Morning, Cas," Dean drawls, looking at him with that sweet smile Castiel has missed so much, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. God, it feels good to have him here, like something that had been missing is now finally in its place.

"I'm glad you decided to join me." The words are out before he can think to hold them back. It is only breakfast, and Dean very well could have just been hungry. In fact, that is the most likely case, and that Dean had not been meaning to join him at all.

Still, Castiel smiles, because he is too pleased to see Dean here to care what the reason for his presence may be. 

Dean arches an eyebrow, a smirk lifting the corners of his lips as Castiel’s breakfast is set down in front of him. "Is that why you're here so early?"

Castiel’s heart flip-flops in his chest, and he can feel heat rising into his cheeks at being caught. He didn’t think anyone would notice that he is here half an hour earlier than normal, but of course, Dean has.

Still, Castiel forces himself to maintain steady eye-contact, looking into the shining green eyes he hasn’t seen nearly enough of in the last week. "It might be," he whispers, feeling his cheeks grow hotter as the suggestive tone reaches his heart. God, he is such an embarrassment. Here he is, only two weeks after officially meeting the man, flirting like they have been dating for months.

"Are you, Crown Prince Castiel James Novak, flirting with me?" Dean leans in, eyebrow raised, and Castiel simply cannot find it in himself to care that Dean forgot his second middle name.

"I might be,” he says, feeling the fluttering intensify as delight shivers up his spine. How had he gone without this for an entire week? Almost seven days without the dazzling presence that is Dean Winchester; no wonder he lost his temper during lunch. Looking at Dean now, he cannot imagine ever doing that again. 

Like the flip of a switch, Dean’s face closes off. He blinks, a scowl replacing his smile as he turns his gaze back to his plate, leaving Castiel bereft and more than a little confused.

He looks at his eggs benedict. Did he do something wrong? Say too much? Does Dean not want him to flirt?

Castiel picks up his fork, feeling the beginnings of an anxious knot forming in his stomach, and a lump building in his throat. He clears it, but the lump is lodged firmly in place, so he picks at his breakfast as his mind spins around all the things he could have possibly missed.

"How was your night, Castiel?" Castiel jumps at the sound of April’s voice, popping his head up to look across the table at the pretty redhead as she flips her hair over one shoulder and twirls her fork between her fingers.

"Pardon?” he says, not certain he heard her right, before his brain catches up. “Oh, it was fine." He leaves it at that and picks up his knife, determined to get something down before his anxiety turns into hunger-fuelled annoyance.

Still, the annoyance settles in any way after a few bites. He wants to speak with Dean, dammit. So, he clears his throat and wipes the corners of his mouth with the napkin in his lap.

"How is the food?" he asks, leaning in so that Dean knows he is speaking to him, and a shiver of delight moves through him when Dean smiles.

"Fantastic as ever. Did you make it yourself?" The flush that moves through Dean’s cheeks is perhaps more beautiful than his smile, and Castiel gives himself a round of applause for being able to elicit such a reaction. Dean is certainly a blusher under the most ordinary of situations, but this just seems special.

"You would be surprised by the array of skill I possess in the kitchen, Mr. Winchester." He takes a sip of water to clear his throat, smiling around the edge of the glass as his eyes linger on Dean’s. 

"Perhaps you could show me sometime?" Dean says, and the thrill that shoots through Castiel makes his hands shake. He has to set his cutlery aside before he drops it onto the burgundy suit Susie so carefully chose for him this morning.

"Perhaps," he says, wishing he could lead Dean down to the kitchens right now, but he has a meeting with Hael’s private tutor to discuss her lack of focus, and Inias returns from his schooling overseas, and there is a board meeting later to discuss one of his charities, and a discussion about a photoshoot for the suitors, that he really can’t spare the time. "But not today,” he adds, then wishes he hadn’t when Dean's shoulders sag, his disappointment shining through his forced smile. "What are your plans for the rest of the day?" Castiel blurts, desperate to keep the conversation going.

"Hmm," Dean hums, on finger at his lips, drawing Castiel’s attention to the plush pink curve for a whole three seconds longer than is appropriate, before he manages to look Dean in the eye one more. "I think I might be in the mood for a little mischief, what do you say?"

Laughter punches out of him before he can stop himself, loud and obnoxious enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room, but he doesn’t care. He has all of Dean’s attention, and that is what matters. So, he shakes his head, letting himself feel the delight sinking into his chest with the mischief lighting up Dean’s face.

"And you?" Dean asks him, for whatever reason putting on a faux-formal accent before dropping it entirely with a shake of his head. "What do you have on that to-do list of yours?"

"A to-do list? Is that what you think I have?" Dean is not wrong, of course, but the idea of a to-do list feels almost trivial in comparison to the very real job he has of learning how to run a kingdom. He takes a moment to thank the server who takes his plate, before turning back to Dean.

"Don't you? Meetings and talks and all the photoshoots you could dream of?" The playful teasing in Dean’s tone cranks up a notch as he steals Charlie’s drink and takes a sip.

"Dick," she says.

"Love you, too." Dean shoots her a grin.

"Something like that," Castiel says, wanting Dean’s attention again, and perhaps it’s selfish and childish, but it feels like a win when Dean turns his eyes back on him. "I do have a board meeting, and even a few discussions about photoshoots, if you must know. There might also be a surprise in the works."

"Ooh, really? Immortalizing your charming scowl? Or maybe—"

"My charming scowl?" Castiel most certainly does not have a scowl. What on earth is he talking about? He smiles often enough, when the moment is warranted, and certainly when Dean is around, so what could he possibly mean? "Do I... do I really scowl that much?" He whispers, leaning in as insecurity weasels under his skin.

"Cas, I didn't mean—" Dean starts, looking as if he is about to call back his words, but Joshua steps between them before Dean can finish whatever it is he was about to say.

"It's time to go, your highness. The governor is here." 

"Thank you, I'll be just a moment." Joshua says, stepping away to inform Benjamin that he will be coming through. Castiel looks back at Dean, wishing for more time, but knowing there is none to be had. "Try not to get into too much mischief and I will try not to scowl so much." He pushes to his feet, the rest of the table doing the same, but he only has eyes for Dean. "Even if it is what we both do best."

With that, Castiel puts on his most dazzling smile, and doesn’t miss the way Dean’s eyes go a little wide, the way his cheeks flush, before he heads for the door.

Castiel rubs at his eyes with a finger and thumb as he turns the corner, stepping into the sunlight let in by the wall of windows. The governor had little to say, as per usual, and more to complain about than normal. The hour and a half dragged on more than Castiel had expected, and now he has the daunting task of deciding his siblings future education. Something his parents should be doing, and yet, here he is, shouldering all of it.

With a heavy sigh and Benjamin’s footsteps following a few steps behind, Castiel straightens his spine, lifting his gaze to the end of the hallway, and—

Laughter bubbles up inside him and bursts free before he can fully comprehend what he is seeing. Orange and white, dust and fluffy brown hair. Castiel throws his head back and laughs harder, because of course it is Dean.  

Dean grins, a little sheepish as he wipes at his flour-covered face.

“You weren’t kidding about the mischief, I see?” Castiel says, the exhaustion from his morning meeting gone with the sight of Dean. He lifts a hand, not thinking, and swipes his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, collecting a smear of flour, but mostly just making it worse.

“Not my fault,” Dean murmurs, his eyes floating around like he is not sure where to look. “Jo tripped and tossed it on me.” 

Castiel lets his hand move into Dean’s hair, ruffling the soft strands until Dean’s breath hitches his whole body going rigid, but he doesn’t move away, so neither does Castiel. He takes in the white powder over the bridge of Dean’s nose, smeared on both cheeks, and dusting his perfect pout. Even like this, he is beautiful, and Castiel wants to kiss him so badly, he aches with it.

Alfie’s radio beeps, startling Castiel out of his thoughts, and he jerks away. What is he doing? He should not be touching the suitors, no matter how much he wants to. It’s not proper, especially on camera.

He looks at Alfie, his mouth contorting into a frown. “The sound should be turned off on that, Alfie.”

“Y-yes, Your Highness. My apologies,” Alfie says, scrambling to do just that, and for a moment, Castiel feels a little bad for taking his frustration out on the cameraman, but the fact remains; the sound needs to be off. 

So, he nods before turning back to Dean with what he hopes is a teasing smile. “Maybe I should tell Susie, hm?” He smiles wider at the thought, though he would never, watches as Dean’s face twists into something like horror. “Let her know you will need another suit?”

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but they’re interrupted by the sound of a very familiar muttering voice rounding the corner at Castiel’s back.

“That damn boy, I swear—Dean!”

Castiel steps to the side, laughter just behind his smile as he watches Dean cringe. Susie, of course, looks about ready to blow up, and perhaps Castiel should ease the tension, but he also knows how fond Susie is of Dean. How she is hard on him because he is her very favorite, and seeing that makes Castiel happy.

“Why is it always you, huh? Why? You cause me more damn stress than his prissy highness ever did, you know?” Castiel scowls, huffing and puffing as he tries to find the words to tell her off, but decides against it pretty quickly when Susie swats the back of Dean’s head.

“Hey! It’s not even my fault!” Dean says, scowling as fiercely as Castiel’s has ever seen, before looking to him for help, but Susie already has him by the arm and is steering him back toward his room. 

“I will see you for lunch, Dean,” he calls, feeling as light as air as he watches Alfie trail behind Dean, along with the pair of guards that were sent to escort him to his room.

When Dean and Susie turn the corner, Castiel carries on, heading for the sitting room where he is to meet with Hael’s tutor.

“That man is something else,” Benjamin says, laughter in his voice that he would never let Dean hear.

“Yes,” Castiel murmurs, smiling, smiling, smiling. “That, he is.”

“Perhaps it is time to consider other options,” Ms. Boudreaux, Hael’s tutor, says, sipping a cup of tea with one leg crossed over the other. She says it as if they are speaking of the weather, as if it is not his sister’s future on the line. “She lacks friends, Your Highness.”

“She has—” Castiel starts, but bites his tongue when she gives him a look. Though relatively young, the woman has a fierce scowl that has kept many royal children in line, including Gabriel, who fears the tutor’s disappointment perhaps more than Castiel’s.

“Her isolation has taken her love of education away, she doesn’t enjoy learning when there is no one to explore it with.”

“What is your recommendation?” Castiel asks, leaning back in his chair and looking at her with a watchful eye. He has his suspicions about what she is going to say, of course, but he lets her speak regardless.

“A private school,” she says, and Castiel lets out a sigh. “A day school for now, but perhaps a boarding school in a few years.”

Some part of Castiel knows it is what he would have wanted, what would have been best for him in his younger years. But another part of him wishes more than anything to keep her close, safe in the confines of the palace walls forever. He knows that is not an option, but even so.

“I have compiled a list I believe will suit her well,” Ms. Boudreaux says, sliding a file folder onto the coffee table between them. “Miss Anna could also benefit, as could Gabriel, though I am less concerned with the twins than I am with Hael.” She sets her teacup aside, folding her hands over her tweed skirt as she waits for Castiel’s response.

The recommendation is not a surprise. Hael has been spending too much time alone and it is beginning to show in the way she sneaks into his office in the middle of the day, or how she spends more time than she should with the soldiers. It is what is best for her, he knows, but…

“She needs to have a guard with her at all times,” he says, shooting her a look, but she only nods. “And if she has any issues with the other children, I want to hear about it immediately.”

“This does not need to be rushed, Your Highness,” she says, glancing at the folder before returning to him. Castiel’s stomach twists with anxiety, but nods anyway. “Take a look through the options and let me know when you have decided on one you are comfortable with.”

“I want to see it before she starts,” Castiel blurts when the last minute thought pops into his mind.

“I will set it up when you decide.”

Castiel hesitates one last time, a knot twisting in his stomach, but he pushes it down and forces himself to nod. “Alright.”

“Will that be all, Your Highness?”

“Yes, thank you.” He waves her off, and she stands, leaving the sitting room without another word. 

Castiel lets out a breath before leaning forward to slide the folder in front of him. As much as he wishes to keep Hael here, he knows it would be best for her to get out of the palace, to make her own friends. He had better get started on finding a good school now.

“How are the apples?” Castiel asks, leaning over Russell’s shoulder where he sits at his desk, tucked away in the forgotten hallways of the palace, flipping through logistics reports for the sole purpose of keeping Castiel safe. 

“The apples are fine,” he says, the kind of answer that tells Castiel he’s not really listening. Russell scratches an entire section off the map of some kind of floor pan, indicating whatever the place is, is a no-go.

“Yes, but are they ripe?”

“What?” Russell finally looks up, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “What are you on about?” He snaps, adding a quick “Your Highness,” before turning back to his paperwork.

“The orchards,” Castiel huffs, because he had requested a full walk-through of the property before Thursday to ensure the outing he is planning goes smoothly. “Are they usable?”

“Castiel,” Russell says, so deadpan Castiel can’t help but feel as if he is being mocked. “The orchards will be suitably guarded for the outing. The apples, however, are not under my purview.” With that, he picks up his pen and makes another large, red X over a garden patio that looks lovely apart from the apartment buildings looking over it.

“Fine,” Castiel huffs, turning on his heel. Joshua waits just outside the door to the small office, looking bored out of his mind as he leans against the wall. He doesn’t imagine guarding him is an overly exciting job, but it pays well, and he is eternally grateful for them.

Still, it would be nice if Russell did as he asked every once in a while.

“Joshua,” he says as they make their way down the hall, away from Russell’s office and back into the upper levels of the palace. “I need you to visit the royal orchard. Find out if the apples are ripe, and whether or not we will be able to visit this Thursday.”

“I—” Joshua shakes his head as if to clear it before giving Castiel a small nod. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Nothing more is said as they hurry up the stairs to get to Castiel’s next meeting. It is his last for the day, and arguably his most important. Inias has returned, and he has missed his brother more than either of them thought he would, he is certain.

“Inias,” Castiel says, a smile lifting the corners up his lips until he can feel the joy springing up in his chest. 

Inias’s bright eyes flick to his, wide and confused, before a shy smile curves his mouth. He is by far the most docile of Castiel’s siblings, preferring his books and his solitude to the extravagances of royal life, but under the right circumstances, and with the right people, the boy could talk for hours with so much as a breath to break up the stream of words.

Even now, without the watchful eye of their parents, Inias wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist, holding tighter than normal with his face pressed against Castiel’s shirt buttons. “Don’t make me go again,” he murmurs, and the desperation in his voice knocks the wind from Castiel’s lungs. He tries to pull away, to look at Inias, but his brother holds tight.

“What happened?” Castiel asks instead, wrapping both arms around Inias’s thin frame. Joshua waits a few steps back, turned to face the wall to give them privacy. 

“They’re all so mean,” he says, sniffling softly as his fingers tangle in Castiel’s suit jacket. “They made fun of my hair, and my books, and my clothes. They said I’m not a real prince, that I’m a spare to the spare—” His voice cuts out with a soft hiccup.

Anger rises hot and fast in Castiel’s throat. How dare they? Inias is third in line to the throne, how dare they treat him with such disrespect. Castiel wants to tear them all apart, ruin their lives for daring to hurt his little brother, but he can’t. 

There is no law against bullying. Nothing that prohibits the name calling and the nasty comments, but still, the urge is there. The terrible, horrible desire to burn them to the ground.

“You will not be returning,” Castiel says, his voice deathly calm despite the storm raging inside him. “We will find a new school.”

Inias doesn’t say anything, but the slump of his shoulders, the relief sinking into his tiny bones, feels like an accomplishment.

“What do you have planned for the rest of the afternoon?” Castiel asks, hoping to spend some time with him before he must go to dinner with his suitors.

“Nothing. Mother wishes to speak to me about my experience at the boarding school after dinner, and father hasn’t contacted me.” Inias shrugs as he pulls away, wiping his eyes with his face tipped to the floor. “Why?”

“I thought we could spend some time together,” Castiel says, smiling his best smile for his brother’s sake. 

Inias’s eyes light up, and the sight alone has Castiel soaring. “Really?”

“Yes,” he breathes, as Inias starts to shuffle on the spot, his excitement getting the better of him. “Perhaps a movie? Or we could go out for lunch?”

“Both?”

“Or both,” he says, willing to take advantage of all this time with his brother while he still wants to spend it with him. “I will choose the restaurant, you can select the movie.”

“Deal,” Inias nearly shouts, and Castiel has to wrap him in another tight, soothing hug before he starts hyperventilating. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Castiel murmurs, noting how he can rest his chin on Inias’s head now, where he had to bend his knees to accomplish it before. Sadness tries to sneak in at the thought, but he shoves it away.

There is no room for sadness today.

The click-click of a camera shutter capturing Castiel and Inias as they sit down to lunch has long ago faded into the background of their conversation, like a buzzing fly, easily swatted away.

“There was an entire class dedicated to ancient Cain literature, Cas,” Inias says, all hands and wide eyes and so much excitement, he might burst. “And not just the known stuff; there were unpublished works!”

Castiel takes a small bite of his salad as he ponders this. He is certain he could have the professor come to the palace, if not to teach Inias the whole course, then at the very least, to show Inias the unpublished texts up close.

 “Is that an upper year’s course?” Castiel asks, already knowing it is. He never went to a boarding school, of course, but he studied the curriculum of Inias’s long enough to know it is not offered to the first year students.

“Yes,” he says, his voice tinged with sadness as he looks down at his plate and pushes his salad around with his fork. “I won’t be able to take it, now.”

That decides it, then. Castiel will call the school and ask for the name of the professor. He will pay whatever it takes, do whatever it takes, to get them to the palace.

If only just to see his brother smile again.

“You are certain that is what he said?” Castiel asks, peering at Joshua from the corner of his eye, hovering outside of the sitting room to confirm the information. 

“The apples have never been better,” Joshua says with a decisive nod. “His words. We are scheduled for Thursday evening after dinner.”

“Excellent,” Castiel says, excitement pinging inside him, and he doesn’t waste a moment before pushing through the doors and stepping into the sitting room where his suitors mill about.

“May I have your attention, please?” He says, not bothering to raise his voice in the decently quiet room. He folds his hands in front of him to camouflage his nervous fidgeting, and waits for all eyes to turn to him. “Excellent.” A smile flickers across his eyes as he slides his gaze over Meg and April, Sarah and Kelly, before sticking on Dean, who watches with suspicious curiosity, straightening up in his chair and setting his pie plate aside as if he knows something is coming, but not what.

“Come Thursday,” Castiel starts, excitement bubbling up in his veins, and he has to stop to take a shaky breath. “We will be embarking on our first group date.” As expected, chatter rises around the room, suitors turning to each other to discuss what that means, what they will be doing, and other such things he doesn’t pay much attention to. All questions will be answered in due time. When the room quiets, he continues. “The orchards are in prime condition for harvest, so we will be going apple picking before returning to the palace kitchens to make ourselves dessert.”

Dean’s face lights up, and it feels a little bit like Castiel’s heart explodes in his chest. The excitement in Dean’s eyes is worth all of the grumbling he can hear from different corners of the room. After all, when it comes right down to it, this is for Dean. 

Wholly and entirely for Dean.

Chapter Text

“Dean,” Castiel says, all high-pitched and delighted, and God, when did he become such a twittering romantic? He only met the man two weeks ago; he should not be this smitten.

But Dean’s eyes light up when he looks his way, and perhaps Castiel is not alone in his fascination. Perhaps Dean is right there with him. The thought sends a shiver up his spine and gives him the courage to smile wider as he approaches the beautiful man.

“Cas,” Dean says, his own smile growing to match Castiel’s. “Where’re you headed?” Dean stops alongside him, looking for all the world like he has nowhere to be, and Castiel can’t say he remembers where he was going, either.

“Nowhere important,” he says, folding his hands behind his back so that Dean can’t see how they shake. As it is, he trembles with nervous excitement. It has become a regular occurrence when he is around Dean, one look at those blushing, freckled cheeks and Castiel is a jittery mess. “Yourself?”

“Charlie mentioned something about riding horses before lunch, but I think I’ll pass on that,” Dean says, his nose scrunching as he leans against the wall beside Castiel as if he plans to stay there for a while. “Not a lot to do ‘round here.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, not entirely agreeing with that assessment, though from Dean’s point of view, he can see how it would seem that way. There are more restricted sections of the palace than not for the suitors, but perhaps some exceptions can be made for Dean. “Have you found the gym?”

Dean snorts, startling Castiel with the sound, and he turns wide eyes on Dean’s face. His sharp cheekbones stand out in the soft light floating down from the overhead windows, and the green of his eyes is almost jewel-like. “You want Susie to kill me?” He shakes his head on a chuckle. “She’d tear me a new one if I decided to go for a jog mid-day.”

Ah yes, this is true. Castiel forgets, at times, that the rules are different for others than they are for him. He has the option to do his own camera make-up, to dress himself if he so chooses; Dean does not have that luxury.

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” Castiel says, swaying closer without really intending to. He can just feel the conversation coming to a natural end and he doesn’t want Dean to go just yet. “Would you like to—”

“Your Highness,” Russell says, once again interrupting Castiel’s moment. He lets out a sigh, long and slow, before turning to face the head of his guard. “Your eleven o’clock is here.”

“Of course it is,” Castiel sighs, his heart dropping knowing his moment with Dean is over. So, he turns back to him for the final few words he has left to speak before Dean disappears into the palace. “I will see you at lunch.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, head ducking, smiling soft and shy as he takes a step back. “Yeah, I’ll—I’ll see you around.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

But Dean is gone, around the corner and out of Castiel’s sight.

Castiel is in hell.

That’s the only explanation he has for why there are so many people crowding around him, pretending he is funny without ever telling a joke. He doesn’t get it, really, but here they are—April, Meg, Michael, Jo, and Sarah, tittering like children, agreeing with every word out of his mouth.

Perhaps it would not be so bad if there were one or two, but five of them? It is a little excessive, and trying to keep up with five separate conversations is exhausting.

“I would love to visit the Bala Sea,” Sarah says, twirling a piece of hair around her finger as she leans a little closer. “Have you been there, Your Highness?”

“The Bala is nothing special,” Michael cuts in, and Castiel watches them like a tennis match. “It is the Mulgrave Sea that you should see. Some say it is a bit expensive, though I don’t pay to stay there—not as a relative of the governing family.” Castiel doesn’t miss the look he gets from the comment, though he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be impressed by that, so he does nothing.

The five of them carry on, but Castiel’s mind wanders, finding its way to his siblings’ schooling predicament. He will have to arrange something for Inias at once; he cannot go without schooling, but the boarding school he was attending is hard to beat. Perhaps he would benefit from a private tutor?

A sharp laugh makes him jump, and Castiel refocuses on the group around him. April’s mouth stretches wide around a laugh, her eyes lighting up alongside the sound, and for the first time, Castiel notices how beautiful she is when she smiles.

Too bad she doesn’t do so more often.

When the heat of the afternoon becomes too much, Castiel sneaks inside, leaving Benjamin behind in favor of sweet solitude. 

The palace is fairly empty at the moment, with most of the staff taking a break after the rush of lunch service, so Castiel takes the opportunity to make his way straight through to the front hall. He intends to head for his office, to get some paperwork done and perhaps look into a tutor for Inias, but he stops short when he rounds the corner and steps into the entrance way.

Dean sits about halfway up the grand staircase, sun filtering through the stained-glass windows in a rainbow of color that dances over the marble floors and Dean’s face. For a moment, Castiel can’t bring himself to move, struck with breathless awe by the beautiful man in front of him.

Then, when he can’t stand the silence any longer, he speaks. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t look up, but Castiel knows he heard him by the way his eyes close and a closed-lipped smile curves his mouth. Castiel takes slow, measured steps up the stairs, watching Dean the whole way before he lowers himself down beside him. 

“Is there any reason you’re sitting on my steps instead of out in the grounds?” He folds his hands in his lap, intent of keeping them from reaching out to touch the man at his side, though he is acutely aware of their shoulders brushing with every breath—their knees bumping together with the slightest movement.

“Got tired of all the noise.” Dean shrugs, his eyes opening to watch the marble floors below. Castiel watches him, marveling at the golden glow of the sun through his eyelashes, or the way the light smoothes out his harsh lines and sharp edges. “I never really noticed how quiet it is at home until I came here.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, pondering that for a moment. To him, the noise is normal, and so he mostly doesn’t notice it. He hadn’t thought about what it might be like to come here for someone like Dean. “I always thought of this place as the loneliest in the world. Filled with people, but so lonely.”

“You’ll be happy to be married after this, then?” Dean says, and something in Castiel’s chest twists. I will be happy if it’s you, he thinks before he can help himself, but it’s the truth, and Castiel is doing this thing where he is trying to be honest with himself about his truths.

“With the right person, yes, I think so,” he says, not daring to look Dean’s way lest his face give away his thoughts—as long as that person is you.  

“I used to dance in the rainbow lights, you know?” Dean says, the words coming out of nowhere. Castiel frowns, taken aback by the panic in Dean’s tone, and for a moment, he wonders if perhaps he accidentally shared his thoughts out loud. 

But that is silly—he hasn’t spoken a word—so he raises a questioning brow in Dean’s direction and waits him out. 

“In the church when I was a kid,” Dean offers, his face lighting up with the kind of nostalgic smile that only comes with fond memories of a childhood well-remembered. “Once a month, Mom would take me to the church on Sunday, and if it was sunny, the stained-glass would project light in the pulpit and I would dance. Wasn’t very good—‘m still not, to be honest—but…” He shrugs, letting his words trail off as he looks into the rainbow of lights dancing across the marble floors. 

“Sounds wonderful,” Castiel whispers, longing for the kinds of memories Dean describes. Castiel had a childhood that most would die for—that most think they would die for—and he is grateful beyond compare, abundantly aware of his privilege, but there is much about his childhood that he wishes were different. There is a certain level of constraint placed upon him that others didn’t have, and he envies their freedom. “I was never allowed to dance. Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true; I had lessons up until I turned eighteen, but it was anything but enjoyable.”

Dean doesn’t comment, and they lull into silence for a few moments before Dean’s fingers move to his cuff. It catches Castiel’s attention, and for a few seconds, he’s not sure why.

Then something silver catches the light, and he speaks before he can stop himself.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, this?” Dean slides the metal off his cuff, holding it up to the light for Castiel to see. “It’s a paperclip.” 

He can feel the corners of his mouth pulling down as he stares at it, confusion seeping in as he wracks his brain for why Dean could possibly need a paperclip.

“You know, in case I ever need to pick a lock—get into a room, or out of handcuffs, or—” Dean stops himself, a flush rising into his cheeks as something sharp and hot hits Castiel in the chest. The palace was informed of all the suitors' criminal histories, and though Dean has, in fact, been in cuffs a few times, none of which resulted in charges, and he definitely didn’t attempt to escape his bounds.

Which means…

“Out of handcuffs, huh?” He murmurs, something playful rising inside him alongside the burn of arousal. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever needed to test that theory?” He laughs at the thought, shaking his head, and he watches the tension ease from Dean’s shoulders out of the corner of his eye. “You might just have to show me sometime.”

“Why, Your Highness, are you planning on putting me in handcuffs?” Dean’s suggestive drawl settles into Castiel’s bones, sinking under his skin and sending a delighted shiver up his spine.

Laughter bursts out of him before he can think to hold it in, tipping his face to the vaulted ceiling. “You’re terrible,” he says, feeling the ache of a grin in his cheeks like never before.

“I think I’m adorable.” Dean makes a whole show of just how adorable he is, pursing his lips and propping his chin on his fist as he tilts his head to one side. A strand of Dean’s perfectly styled hair comes loose, falling into his eyes and giving him a boyish charm that catches Castiel, hook, line, and sinker. 

He watches Dean for a while, soaking him in, and he doesn’t even notice how he moves closer, twisting into him like a moth to the proverbial flame. He doesn’t think Dean will burn him, though—he hopes not, anyway. 

“What do you think of Thursday’s surprise?” He whispers at last, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat. 

He doesn’t think he could speak louder if he wanted to, so he doesn’t try, letting the intimacy of the moment flow through them as Dean’s lips stretch into a radiant grin. “It’s the best surprise I’ve ever had, honestly. I’ve never been apple picking before, and then we actually get to bake? Yeah, the best surprise.”

“You’re so easy to please,” Castiel says, feeling it in his bones. He has spent his entire life trying to please those who do not wish to be so, and knowing that he can make Dean happy, even just for a moment, with something as simple as apple pie, feels like a much needed win.

He wants to see that smile again every day of his life. Every minute of his life.

He wants to see it again right now.

Castiel jumps to his feet, excitement brimming inside him as he stares down at Dean. “Would you mind it too much if I showed you something?”

“Uh, sure,” Dean says, a little wary, a little confused, but Castiel ignores it as Dean pushes himself to his feet. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a bit of a walk,” Castiel says, ignoring Dean’s question as he starts up the stairs. “But I promise it’s worth it. Come on.” Without thinking, he holds his hand back to Dean, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they do this all the time: walk through the palace holding hands, laughing and joking with each other.

But Dean doesn’t take his hand. He stares at it, then at Castiel, like he’s not sure what to do, and Castiel’s smile falls away.

“Cas, am I—” Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs as his eyes slowly come back to Castiel’s. “Even if you offer, am I allowed to… to touch you?”

Oh. Oh. He is worried about that.

Castiel clears his throat, feeling the weight of two thousand years of tradition resting on his shoulders. He wants to let it all go; let it crash to the marble floors with everything else, and why not? He will be king; who is to say he must follow all of his ancestors' traditions? 

“If you want,” he whispers, feeling every word on his tongue. “When I offer my hand, you can take it if you want to. But only if you want to.”

It takes everything in him to reach out his hand again, the fear of rejection telling him no. Telling him to protect his heart, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to risk it all for Dean. So he extends his hand, his fingers stretching, begging Dean to take them.

Then he does, and Dean’s hand is warm and strong, his fingers are calloused, but not rough, and the feel of him is so overwhelming that Castiel shivers. His whole body lights up from the touch, like an electrical current is working its way through him.

Dean takes the last few steps to reach his side, and sweet relief melts through him as a breath puffs out of his lungs. His shoulders sag with it, and a smile warms him from the inside out. He squeezes Dean’s fingers. “Come,” he whispers, before leading him up the stairs.

“Can I have a hint?” Dean asks, and Castiel thinks about that as he leads him through some of the simpler sitting rooms, cutting their walk in half. He tugs Dean along behind when Dean tries to stop and look around, too impatient to see that smile again to let Dean appreciate the beauty of his home. 

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, wracking his brain for something that won’t give away the surprise. “Somewhere quiet,” he says as the windows grow at his side, showcasing the grounds and the suitors beyond. Castiel should be out there, as should Dean, but there is not a thing in the world that could get him to be anywhere but here.

“Where’s the staff?” Dean asks after a while, leaning forward to peer down hallways and into sitting rooms that no one uses anymore.

“They won’t be here,” Castiel tells him. It is one of the reasons he is taking Dean this way; he would rather they weren’t disturbed. “The staff tends to steer clear of the residential quarters set aside for my family.” He glances Dean’s way with a tiny smile, figuring Dean must have a reaction to that sort of revelation, but all he does is raise an eyebrow.

“Royal quarters, huh?” Dean says, swinging their hands back and forth as if they are small children. He has witnessed his sisters doing the same in the garden as they plucked daisies and periwinkle. “Where’re you taking me, Your Highness?”

“Secret,” Castiel whispers as joy ripples through him. He scrunches his nose with a playful smile, and before he can stop himself, he tugs Dean closer, squeezing his hand bumping their hips together. He watches as a beautiful blush rises in Dean’s cheeks along with the sweetest smile, and it does something to Castiel’s insides that he doesn’t expect.

“What was it like?” Dean asks, his voice a little hoarse, and Castiel takes a small amount of pride in knowing he did that to him. “Growing up in the palace, I mean.”

He looks at the floor, thinking about what it was like. He doesn’t think about his childhood often; it wasn’t exactly an enjoyable one, privileged as it was. “It was… fine, I suppose.” He looks at Dean, unsure of what to say. He doesn’t wish to sound ungrateful considering Dean’s upbringing, but there is a lot that Dean had that Castiel didn’t—loving parents, for example. “There was a lot of diplomacy training, and I was in the military from the age of sixteen until last year, but other than that, it was rather lonely.”

“What about your siblings?” 

Castiel melts a little on the inside as he always does with the mention of his siblings. “They have some of the same lessons, but the eldest is fifteen. Samandriel.” Something occurs to him then, and he laughs, ready to grasp at any little thing that connects him to Dean. “I suppose we both have a little brother named Sam.”

“I guess so.”

“Anna is working on a project for school,” Castiel says, jumping into the subject of his siblings before Dean can change the subject. “She has to research someone she admires, and she chose me.” Just the thought fills him with pride, and he smiles at the floor as they make their way through the sitting room where Castiel’s nanny used to host movie nights when his parents weren’t home. “She used to follow me around with a notebook.”

“Really?” Dean glances his way, his bright smile warming Castiel’s insides. “Not gonna lie, that’s a damn good idea.”

Castiel nudges him, shooting him a look, but honestly? He loves the idea of Dean watching his every move, following him around and giving him all his attention. “I don’t know what she did with the notebook, or even what she wrote, but every now and then Russell will inform me that she has been peeking around corners and into my office.”

“She sounds so sweet,” Dean says, smiling like he really means it, and Castiel is so ready to marry this man.

“They’re good kids, and they’ll do great things, I’m sure.” Castiel leads him up the steps to his private apartments, the doors at the top closed as always. “They need some guidance, though, and I worry not all of them have it.”

“What’re their names?” Dean asks, then immediately says, “am I allowed up here?”

Castiel looks at him, choosing to ignore the first in favor of teasing him with the second. “Who’s going to tell you no when you’re with me?” 

“I don’t know, your parents?” Dean laughs.

“My parents aren’t even here, Mr. Winchester.” He raises an eyebrow, a tiny smirk pulling at the corners of his lips as excitement bubbles in his chest. “I’m home alone.”

Castiel forces himself to let go of Dean’s hand to open the door, hating the feeling as soon as his fingers slip away. As they step through the door to Castiel’s apartment, some of the tension that has been sitting between his shoulders since he left his room this morning.

“Home alone, huh? What do you normally do when you’re home alone?” Castiel keeps walking, leaving Dean behind to look around at the ceilings and the windows and the decorations. 

“I run the kingdom, of course.” He flashes Dean a grin over his shoulder, feeling giddy as he turns the corner, leaving Dean behind to scurry after him.

“That’s all? No parties, or friends, or…” Dean trails off, their elbows brushing as Dean catches up. He can feel Dean’s eyes on the side of his head.

“Or…” Castiel says, a teasing lilt to his voice as he waits for Dean to finish. He knows what Dean was about to say, and when he doesn’t fill in the blanks, Castiel does it for him. “Or someone special? Is that what you want to know?”

“It’s stupid to ask,” Dean whispers, shaking his head like he wishes he could take it back, but Castiel really doesn’t mind.

“No.” It’s easy to admit to, not something he has even thought much of, because he has always known who he wants to be his first. His last. “Fun wasn’t something I was allowed very much of in my childhood. Which,” Castiel says, slowing to a stop outside their destination, “brings us to my surprise.”

Castiel stares at the plain wooden door in front of them, feeling at home in this place, with this man at his side. “Come,” he says, looking at Dean with the kind of ease that has never felt natural before now. He opens the door to the tiny, winding staircase, letting Dean inside before closing the door behind them.

Light streams in through the tiny windows that speckle the stone walls, following the winding stairs all the way up. Castiel watches Dean look outside, soaking in the wonder in his eyes, the awe in the way his mouth falls open.

“Where are we going?” Dean asks, so quiet Castiel isn’t sure it was meant for him, but the words echo up the stairs, around the dust and the pools of golden sunlight on drought stone.

“Just keep going. All the way up to the top.”

Dean goes, taking the steps without question or complaint, and the trust he is offering to Castiel feels like something entirely undeserved. Castiel feels honored, like he has earned something precious, and he clings to it as they come to the top of the winding stairs.

Dean stops in front of a second door, his hand hovering halfway between the handle and his hip. The sound of his panting breaths fills the space, and Castiel gives him a moment to gather himself. “Do I…?”

“Go ahead,” he whispers, giving Dean all his attention as he closes his fingers around the handle. He holds his breath, waiting for Dean’s reaction, ready for it as Dean pushes the door open, letting it swing freely on its hinges.

Dean’s breath hitches, a barely-there sound, and Castiel looks past him at the bookshelves beyond. He has seen the inside of this room a million times since it was built, but the bookshelves have never looked so good bathed in the rainbow light of the stained glass as they do when Dean is looking at them with wonder in his eyes.

Dean steps inside almost without realizing, his fingers trailing over the side table and the little figurines his sisters give him for his birthday every year. They tap their way over the spines of his first editions, sliding over some of his favorite titles with a reverent touch.

Castiel watches every move Dean makes, waiting for him to speak.

“Have you read all of these?” Dean asks at last, his eyes locked on the books as red, green, yellow, purple dance over his back.

He answers without really having to think about the words; they just slip from his tongue, and it has never felt so easy to just speak. “I have. These are my favorites; the ones I keep for myself.” Castiel is beside him before he knows it, sliding a book from the shelf—Emma. “My father had it built for me when I was very young. It’s all I wanted for my sixth birthday, when Samandriel was born.”

“It’s lovely,” Dean whispers, so much sincerity in his voice that it chokes Castiel up a little. Not a person in this palace has seen the inside of this room other than him, and for the longest time, he liked it that way. This place is a reminder of the only time in his life that his father showed him true affection. One of the only times in his memory where his father gave him something without bargaining something else in return. 

“It’s my favorite place in the palace,” Castiel says, sliding the book back into place before turning away from the shelf. Dean turns with him, and Castiel can feel his eyes on him as he moves around the room. He adjusts his precious astrolabe, turning it over in his hands before setting it back on the stand. Russell had purchased it for him for his fifteenth birthday, back when Castiel had had a fascination with the stars that had bordered on obsession.

Then he turns, and Dean is looking at him. He’s looking at the astrolabe, at the figurines and the books and his perfect, cushioned sitting area; all the things Castiel holds dear.

“I’ve never brought anyone here before,” he breathes, letting the words melt out of him. He needs to say them, to admit it to Dean, to himself, to the books and the gifts. Something bubbles up inside him, a tingling feeling he's never felt before, but if he had to guess, he would say it feels a little bit like freedom. A little bit like standing on the edge of a cliff without anything holding him back from the edge.

“I’m your first, then?” Dean says, his grin a little teasing, a little playful, like he doesn’t understand what this means.

“You are, and I would appreciate it if you would be the last.” A flush rises in Dean’s cheeks, a sweet pink tinge, but Castiel ignores it this time as he presses on. “Please don’t bring anyone here. Use it to your heart’s desire, but please, Dean, don’t bring anyone here?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, shaking his head as if to clear it before nodding. His eyes meet Castiel’s, sharp and green in the sunlight. “Of course, Cas—it’s our secret.”

Castiel doesn’t expect the relief that floods him, but it melts into his bones. All the air in his lungs floods out, and his shoulders sag as he smiles at Dean, soft and thankful. “Thank you.” Now that he has Dean’s word not to share this room with others, he actually quite likes the idea of Dean coming here on his own.“Oh!” If Dean is to come here, he will need a pass. Castiel crosses the room, plucking up the music box his nanny gave him when he was four to pull out the silver tag. The lullaby tinkles, filling the air with its tinny music before Castiel snaps the lid shut again and turns to Dean.

“You will need this,” he says, holding the pass out for Dean to take. 

“A hall-pass?” A smirk pulls at the corners of Dean’s lips as he takes the pass, tapping it against his palm as he settles his gaze on Castiel, one eyebrow raised. “This feels like high school.”

“Very funny,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes with a huff. It might seem over the top now, but Dean will be beyond grateful for it the next time he is caught wandering. “Make sure to keep it on you if you ever want to come here.” Castiel turns for the door, certain that it is time for them to head back, even if he doesn’t wish to. He would stay up here forever if he could, hidden away with his books and his things and Dean.

“Thank you.” Castiel watches as Dean tucks the pass into the breast pocket of his jacket, just behind the familiar curve of a C. His stomach flip-flops, butterflies fluttering at the thought of Dean wearing his handkerchief. It makes him feel all warm inside. “You know, for trusting me with all this.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, catching glimpses of Dean on their way around the winding staircase. Sunlight catches in his hair, dust moats like stardust floating around him. He looks a little bit angelic like this. “My pleasure. All of this can be overwhelming even for me, so I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”

“Right.” 

Castiel carries on, Dean’s feet thumping on the steps, loud and clanging, but even that doesn’t bother him today. He doesn’t think there is anything in the world that could faze him right now. “I’m surprised no one’s come to find you,” Dean says as they step through the doorway at the bottom of the stairs.

“I told them not to,” Castiel says, slowing so that Dean is beside him as they make their way through the halls. “Actually, I’m supposed to be spending time with all of you, but—” Castiel snaps his mouth shut, embarrassment seeping into his cheeks in a hot rush as he realizes what he was about to say. It’s too early for that—Dean can not yet know how gone he is on him.

“But, you had to make sure I wasn’t getting into any more mischief by myself?” Dean raises an eyebrow, genuine curiosity behind the accusation in his eyes, and Castiel decides right then that he actually does not care if Dean knows how he feels about him.

“No,” he says, shortening his stride as they approach the corner at the end of the hall. “No, I just wanted to spend time with you.”

With his heart in his throat, breath caught in his lungs, Castiel reaches out a hand. His fingers tremble as they touch Dean’s palm, and he shivers as their hands slot together. The touch is almost painful in its intensity, tingles running up and down Castiel’s spine, but he doesn’t dare pull away. Doesn’t think he could if he wanted to.

Dean smiles at him then. Just a quick flash of his eyes, a curve to his lips. It’s not much, barely anything, but it lights Castiel up inside like nothing else ever has.

He wants more of it. All of it.

Forever.

Chapter Text

Castiel steps out of the car with Jo at his back, the afternoon sun beating down on him. Sweat beads on his forehead, but they are not on the sidewalk long before Russell ushers them through the front doors of the royal theater.

“A movie?” Jo asks, her perky voice dipping a little with something Castiel would only call disappointment.

“Yes,” Castiel says, looking around the mostly empty lobby as he adjusts his tie and waits for Benjamin to secure their tickets. Though his family owns this establishment, he doesn’t come here often. With a theater in the palace, he has little reason to, but he must admit, the vintage charm of the place is appealing, with its thick carpeting and low lights, the antique popcorn machine and paneled walls. “A first-screening.”

“Ooh,” Jo says, strutting along beside him in her heels and tight black dress. She looks lovely, he must admit, with her hair done up and her makeup softening her sharp features. “Which movie?”

Castiel smiles, a barely-there curl to his lips that he doesn’t feel anywhere but the ache in his cheeks. “Little Women,” he says, knowing that she wishes to see it. He had overheard her talking about it with Sarah, and since he has the luxury of making requests, he made this one.

Jo grins from ear to ear, looking up at him like he just gave her the world, and something about it doesn’t feel right. Not like it does with Dean.

Stop.

He pushes Dean out of his mind and locks the door behind him. Jo is the only suitor that should be on his mind right now, no matter how much he hates the worship in her eyes when she looks his way.

“Popcorn, Your Highness?” Joshua asks, hovering off to one side since Castiel is already flanked by Russell and Benjamin. 

His stomach is already in knots just thinking about this date, and he doesn’t wish to spoil his lunch, so he shakes his head with a polite smile. “No, thank you.”

“I’ll take some,” Jo says, sauntering past Castiel to the concession with a grin on her lips. “One of those slushies too—red and blue mixed, thanks.”

The kid behind the counter, no more than sixteen years old, looks at him with wide eyes, and Castiel feels a little sorry for him. He nods, giving him the permission he is obviously looking for, before stepping back to wait for Jo to collect her snacks. 

Russell leans in to speak in his ear, just loud enough for him to hear. “An interesting one,” he says, before straightening up. “She reminds me of someone in particular.”

Castiel shoots him a sharp look, but doesn’t comment. She is not like Dean, not in the slightest, and Castiel hates that Russell could ever even think that.

But as he watches Jo with that thought in his head, he starts to see the similarities. Jo stuffs her face full of popcorn the moment it is in her hands, she slurps her pop and comments during the movie and gets excited about little things just like Dean.

She jokes and smirks and throws her head back laughing just like Dean. It leaves a knot in Castiel’s stomach, an unsettled feeling he can’t quite shake, and though he doesn’t hate that she is so similar to Dean, he doesn’t like it, either.

Even if he likes her.

“This is delicious,” Jo says, leaning over her plate with a forkful of salmon and rice pilaf. “It must be difficult to get in; I’ve never been here before.”

Castiel hums, pushing his salad around his plate, his stomach still turning with every hint of Dean he sees in her. She talks about her family like Dean does, with the utmost love and devotion. She speaks of her childhood in terms of a loving mother, of hunting trips with her father and dinners at grandparents’ summer home. 

She is not the same as Dean; their upbringings were different in many ways, but the love was the same, and now, so is the personality. 

Jo is Dean. Dean is Jo.

Castiel hates it.

The moment Castiel steps through the front door of the palace, he is off. He shoots Jo a smile, forced as it is, and a quick, “I had a lovely time,” before he hurries up the steps to the second floor. All he wants is to be alone right now, to sink into his solitude and forget his realization for a while.

“Where to?” Russell asks, one step behind him as Benjamin rushes forward to hold the door open for him. Castiel passes through, lost in thought, the tension behind his eyes giving him a headache.

“My office,” he says, heading straight for it, thinking of everything he has to get done despite his desire to curl up in his bed and hide from the world. He needs to call Samandriel and prepare for his visit to Hael’s new school.

Russell doesn’t comment, following him up the stairs and down the hall to the double doors of his office. The moment he steps through the doors, held open on either side by Russell and Benjamin, he lets out a heavy sigh.

Paperwork takes up most of the surface of his desk, all land distribution forms and tax allocation. He hates all of it, and has been putting it off for longer than he should, but now might be the perfect time to sink into the mind numbing work.

He drops into his chair, letting his head fall back against the headrest for a moment as the heat of the early afternoon sun hits the back of his neck.

There is a nagging, prickling feeling in the back of his mind, like sandpaper rubbing away his thoughts, at the sensitive parts of his brain that don’t know how to push it off.

The feeling lingers long into his paperwork, a sliver of anxiety that digs its claws in. He reads and signs and stamps and shreds, file after file until his eyes burn and his head aches. Until he can’t do any more.

“Russell,” he says, rubbing his forehead with the palm of one hand. “Can you call Samandriel for me, please?”

Russell doesn’t answer, but Castiel can see him dialing out of the corner of his eye. Moments later, he hands Castiel the phone, and Castiel takes it with a smile of thanks.

“Sam,” Castiel says, smiling when he hears his little brother on the other end. It has only been a couple of weeks since Samandriel left for boarding school, but Castiel misses him just as he always does when one of them isn’t home. “How are you?”

“Cas!” Samandriel shouts, sounding for all the world like he’s ten years old again and Castiel hasn’t yet left for basic training. “I’m great. Settling in has been rough, but things are smoothing out.”

“How are your classes?” Castiel leans back in his chair, sinking into their conversation as Samandriel rattles off his list of classes, explaining the ins and outs of each in great detail. It is impossible to tell now that his younger brother didn’t speak for the first five years of his life; that he hid under tables and in closets, too afraid to show himself to strangers. Samandriel has grown into a fine young man, full of passion and confidence, and Castiel could not be more proud of him.

Castiel listens to him talk, watching the minutes pass on the grandfather clock across the room. He has all but forgotten about Jo, about his unease, as pride settles inside him.

With all his worries about his younger siblings, at least he can say that one of them is thriving.

Hael’s tiny fingers cling to one of his as they step out of the town car, the day school looming over them in dark brick and thick ivy. Windows line the outside walls, and the steps beyond the gate that lead up to the front door seem insurmountable for such a young girl.

Hael isn’t ready for this, Castiel’s mind tells him, just a whisper in the back of his head. She is too young.

He shoves the thought away, looking up at the headmistress where she waits by the front door, her hands folded in front of her perfectly pressed pencil skirt and navy blue blazer.

“Come,” Castiel murmurs, leading Hael forward with a gentle tug. “Chin up, my sweet.” Hael does as she’s told, holding her head high even as her fingers constrict around his.

“Your Highness,” the headmistress, Lady Corvin, says, grinning from ear to ear, her dark hair remaining in perfect place as she dips low in a curtsey. “What a pleasure to have you here.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, already ready to go home. But this is for Hael, and he really cannot imagine sending her to a school, even one such as this, without first checking the place out.

“We have a tour planned, and we can look through the catalog of courses and extracurricular—I think you will quite like what we have to offer.” Lady Corvin smiles, bright with excitement, before looking at Hael. “You will do quite well here, Your Highness.”

Castiel glances at his sister, noting the shy blush and the tiny smile. Hael likes her, and that is enough for him. They climb the steps hand in hand, following Lady Corvin through the double doors to an entrance hall that is second only to the one in the palace in terms of its luxury and splendor. 

High ceilings climb up three stories, a wide staircase leading to the first floor before branching off again. Everything is polished cherry wood and hardwood floors, gilded chandeliers and old—if not ancient—paintings. It is an expensive school by most standards, and it shows.

Young girls ranging in age from four to eighteen stride through the hall in their school uniforms, holding books and carrying on whispered conversations. It all stops, though, when they catch sight of Castiel. 

He is used to it, of course, and pleased to see that they refrain from looking back over their shoulders at him or, God forbid, stopping to speak with him. Castiel doesn’t mind speaking to his people, of course, but he is here for Hael, and he would prefer if this meeting did not get sidetracked.

It also speaks to the manners instilled in the students, something his mother has been quite adamant about since the moment Hael began to speak.

“I apologize,” Lady Corvin says, shooting him a meek look as she leads them to the left and into a long hallway with high windows on one side that look out into the gardens, and classrooms on the other. “Our meeting falls during class changeover, so there might be a little more movement and noise than normal.”

“I don’t like the quiet,” Hael says, speaking for the first time since they arrived. “It’s always quiet at home.” She squeezes Castiel’s hand, her tiny finger tugging at two of his. She looks up at him with big blue eyes, so much like his it is like looking in a mirror.

Castiel opens his mouth to answer her unspoken question, but Lady Corvin beats him to it. 

She bends down, her pencil skirt curving around her knees as she smiles at Hael. “There is a lot of discussion in your classes, and every day we schedule time for our students to mingle. You will learn that though we hold ourselves to a higher standard here at Lillibriar Academy, that does not mean we are silent, that we do not speak our minds.”

Castiel watches Hael closely, waiting with bated breath as the words sink in. She lifts her thumb to her mouth, checks herself, and lets it fall back to her side. “Alright,” he says, barely a whisper, but there is strength inside it, determination.

Lady Corvin stands again, turning a smile on Castiel. “Thank you, lady Corvin,” Castiel murmurs, meaning every word of it. Every syllable.”

“Call me Madison, Your Highness, please.” She smiles, and Castiel tips his chin in quiet acknowledgment. She is not much older than he, her face unlined, her hair a rich, dark brown that surely smells lovely. She is beautiful, poised and elegant, and Castiel wonders if perhaps she entered an application to be his suitor.

Not that it matters, because yes, she is beautiful, but she is not Dean. No one is Dean but Dean himself.

And that is half the problem with the rest of his suitors, isn’t it?

Without being Dean, they do not stand a chance.

“I would ask that you send over her schooling records forthwith, should you decide that Lillibriar Academy is the right fit,” Madison says, watching with keen eyes, hands folded behind her back, as Hael interacts with some of the other students her age.

Castiel had worried she would choose solitude over interaction, and thought she is incredibly awkward, much like him, she is trying, and just the sight of it has hope springing up in his chest.

“Of course,” Castiel says, never taking his eyes off his sister as she twirls on the spot, her dress fanning out for the other girls to see. She will not enjoy the mandatory uniform, that much Castiel knows for sure, but it is unavoidable. He is not about to ask for an exception such as that; it could only serve to make her more of an outcast, and he will not do that to her. Not in the way it was done to him.

She is already different enough.

“I do not wish for her to be treated any differently than the others,” Castiel says, still watching his sister. They are out in the back grounds, standing under the shade of the doorway as Hael makes friends in the courtyard. “She is very bright, but I fear that my mother has kept her secluded too long.”

“There is no need to worry,” Madison says, a reassuring smile on her lips as she points to a light-haired girl reading by the fountain. “She is the heir to the Maravian throne,” she says, before turning to find another, pointing at a tall, dark-haired girl laughing in a group of four. “She is second in line to the Hayshen throne.” Another pause as she peeks around the doorway. She smiles when she finds a little girl, no more than five, peeking back. “This,” she says, raising her eyebrows as the little girl in pigtails runs off with a squeak, “is the next queen of Bovrisha.”

“I see,” Castiel says, a little taken aback by just how many heirs there are here, though it does soothe his worries. Hael will just be one of many, despite this being the kingdom she is an heir to. “That is reassuring.”

“We are a prestigious academy, Your Highness,” she says, as if this is new information to him. As if he hasn’t spent hours researching the best of the best. “We are no stranger to the royalty of the world and their children.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, locking eyes with Hael for half a second before she runs off with the next queen of Bovrisha. “But you have yet to teach an heir of this kingdom.” Castiel looks at her for the first time since their conversation began, a warning seeping into his tone as he straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin. “It will do you well to remember that.”

The moment he and Hael are through the palace doors, she is running off down the hallway, the picture of unrestrained, and Castiel doesn’t have it in him to care. She is only a child; he will let her be one today.

As it is, he has much to do before dinner. He will need to compile Hael’s school records, have Susannah contact the school for her uniform, make a list of supplies she will need and send them with Asa to pick up. At some point, he will need to inform their mother of what he is doing; as little as she is involved with the raising of his siblings, she still likes to know what they are up to. It is another way to keep them under her thumb, Castiel is sure, but the point is not worth arguing when he knows he will ultimately get his way.

Castiel makes his way up the stairs, leaving Benjamin to follow Hael through the palace as Russell follows him. He still needs to get ready for dinner, but there is so much else to do first, that he doesn’t quite know where to start. He can feel the panic creeping up on him, the overwhelming need to have everything done right now, threatening to swallow him up, and he has to force deep, calming breaths into his lungs before he loses it right here and now.

“Your Highness!”

Castiel blinks, standing at the top of the stairs, one foot poised to start climbing the next flight. He looks back to the entrance hall, a crease between his brows, and finds Sarah there. She makes quick work of the steps, her heels clicking on the marble and echoing through the entrance hall as she comes to stand at his side.

“I had hoped to see you today,” she says, her smile bright and beautiful, eyes shining, and Castiel must admit, she looks the part of queen. “We haven’t gotten much of a chance to speak yet.”

Guilt smacks Castiel in the face, sinking into his bones, because she’s right. He hasn’t talked to her at all; not nearly as much as he has spoken to Dean or April.

“My apologies,” he says, giving her his full attention now. He doesn’t have much time, but is it not his duty to make the most of the time he does have with each suitor? “How have you been enjoying your stay in the palace?” That’s a good thing to ask, isn’t it? He isn’t certain; conversation just doesn’t seem to flow with anyone else like it does with Dean.

“It’s lovely,” she says, all breathy and excited, like he is the perfect man and she just has to have him, and it is at this point that Castiel’s starting to see the flaw in this whole ordeal.

He is not a perfect man, not even close, and the assumption from his suitors that he is, is bound to end only in disappointment for all parties involved.

“I was walking in the gardens this morning, awake much too early for breakfast,” she is saying, and Castiel tries desperately not to be horribly bored. “Did you know there is a family of squirrels living in the apple tree by the barn?”

“Pardon?” That catches his attention, because really, why would he know that.

“Yes, about my reaction when the mother squirrel thought it appropriate to dive-bomb me for getting too close,” she says, laughter bubbles out of her as she shakes his head, and it’s so sudden, so out-of-nowhere, that Castiel can’t help laughing, too.

“You were attacked by squirrels?” It is ridiculous, and really not that funny, but it also is so far away from the type of thing he usually talks about with his suitors that, somehow, it is the best conversation he’s had all day. 

“One, specifically, and I hadn’t managed to brush my hair yet, so she kind of…” Sarah waves her hands around her perfectly styled hair. “Got stuck.”

“Oh, no,” Castiel gasps, picturing the incident and the shouting that must have gone on.

“It was a lovely walk, otherwise,” Sarah says, shooting him a grin that can only be described as flirty. “Perhaps you could join me next time.”

“To dissuade the squirrels?” Castiel arches an eyebrow, something fluttering in his chest as Sarah’s dark lashes flutter.

“They wouldn’t dare attack the Crown Prince.” She shoots him a wink and a grin before dipping in a low curtsy. Then she is gone, back down the stairs and down the hallway.

Castiel watches after her, his heart beating just a little too fast, but he doesn’t hate it. Not even a little bit.

 Castiel sits in his seat at the dinner table for far too long before Dean walks through the door. He hasn’t seen Dean all day, and his mood sours with every person that sits in a chair close enough to hold a conversation with him.

By the time Dean does arrive, the only remaining seat is the one directly across from him, and Castiel is sulking something huge as he pretends to listen to Mick, who has been talking in his ear for the last five minutes about the ratings.

“Very well,” Castiel says, perhaps a little harsher than he should, but whatever. He turns to his suitors, and now that they are all seated, greets them in turn. April, Michael, Jo, Charlie, Dean, Hannah, Sarah, Kelly, Meg, all in order, one side to the other, and he doesn’t linger on anyone in particular, though he wants to.

Around him, his suitors turn back to their own conversations, chatting about the ratings, and the screenings, and the phone calls home. Castiel absorbs it all, numb to the buzzing energy of the news. He’s not just tired, but drained, like the whole world is sucking the life out of him bit by bit and he doesn’t know how to make it stop, or how to refill before he’s sucked dry.

 “Congratulations, everyone! Top ratings again,” Mick says, possibly the most excited about that news, considering the substantial bonus he will get from it. Castiel can’t fault the man—he does work incredibly hard to make his show a success. “Same as last week, Fan-Favorites will be announced after dinner.”

Around him, his suitors clap, grinning wide, all with the hopes of making their way closer to the top of the list. It is all a tactic to increase viewership, of course, and perhaps stir up some more competition between the suitors. Castiel wasn’t too sure about the idea at first, but when Duma informed him that they would be decided by the people rather than investors or those with a stake in the competition, he was a little more willing to see it through.

Castiel is suddenly inundated with voices, words thrown in his direction without sense or meaning, and he has to take a few slow breaths to keep himself from snapping at every to just shut up. He can see Dean talking, his lips moving and the frown between his brows as he speaks with Charlie, but he can’t hear him through Meg’s boring rendition of the day’s events, or April’s apparently riveting story about a lost eyelash curler.

Honestly, he’s not sure any of them are actually looking for a response, because they are all talking at once, throwing comments and questions his way, flipping their hair, sipping their wine, giggling, giggling, giggling.

The only one that doesn’t try to talk to him is Dean.

Well, and Charlie, but he is far less concerned by that.

Dean is sulking, and it is perhaps the best thing Castiel has seen all day.

He sits in the corner of the sofa, Charlie squished against his side, with his arms crossed and a pout Castiel could trip over it he is not careful. Castiel knows why, of course; there is a noticeable lack of pie in the room, which can only lead to exactly this.

“So they took out the pie for a screen? This is bullshit,” Dean mumbles, and Castiel has to wipe a hand over his mouth so no one can see the smile fighting its way onto his lips.

“Aw, don’t whine—it’s unflattering.” Charlie leans in, pinching Dean’s cheek like he is a child, and a laugh gets caught in Castiel’s throat. He just loves watching the two of them together. “You can do without pie for a day.”

“Let’s just get this thing over with.”

Castiel settles into his chair, trying his best to ignore Russell, who is watching him with a keen eye. They both know he can’t resist eavesdropping on Dean’s conversations, and frankly, Russell is no better than he is, so he never bothers to mention it.

“Did you not eat enough?” Hannah asks, floating into the conversation like a concerned mother hen. It is one of the things Castiel loves most about her; she is so incredibly caring. Castiel spares a glance in their direction, just a quick look, and sees Dean waving her off.

“Of course he ate enough,” Charlie says, answering for Dean. “He always eats enough... for an entire village.”

“Hey!” Dean snaps, “No need to be mean.”

Something deep in Castiel’s chest aches to insert himself into their little group. He has never had many friends, and those he does have are from his time in the military. They don’t keep in contact, so Castiel has never had this. It is one of the pitfalls of private tutoring, one he never thought much of until now.

Around him, the other suitors speak with each other, discussing politics and vacation plans, birthday trips and Christmas holidays. It all seems rather inconsequential in comparison to Dean’s pie dilemma.

The lights dim, turning soft and golden, and Castiel settles into the darkness, loving how it wraps around him like a second skin, hiding every little imperfect thing about him. The screen lights up with the familiar opening, and then Duma appears in the palace square. Castiel had been hesitant about the public gathering, what with so many people so near to his home, but his worries ease when he sees just how many soldiers are amongst the crowd to keep the peace.

“Is this live?” Dean asks, tipping his head back, twisting around as he looks for someone. His eyes lock on Castiel’s, but he gets the feeling he’s not who Dean was looking for.

He nods anyway, his heart tripping anytime those green eyes are on him, before turning back to face the screen. Calm down, Castiel thinks to himself, forcing one breath after another into his lungs and back out again. Dean is just Dean, he is just Castiel, they are both just here for the show.

“Good evening, Amarellino!” Duma grins, and around her, the crowd swells with energy, the noise almost deafening as lights flash, illuminating the joyful, ecstatic faces on all sides. “After two weeks of getting to know the suitors, the first of the Fan-Favorites will be calculated. As you should all know, the favorites of the next few weeks will appear on a talk show with none other than the Crown Prince, himself.”

A touch of embarrassment burns in Castiel’s stomach at the mention of his title coupled with the crowd's reaction. The cheers rise and swell, so adoring that it makes him want to hide his face in his hands.

If he were anyone else, perhaps he would, but he is not just anyone. So, he sits tall, keeps his expression impassive, and tries not to look Dean’s way as Duma continues to speak.

“The votes have been cast and counted, and in just a few minutes, we will be counting down the suitors to the Fan-Favorite and the first to be chosen to attend the interview.” A pause, a well-timed smile, and a subtle tilt of her head before she continues. Castiel makes a mental note to offer her a raise when this is all said and done. “Now, I know what you’re thinking—what if a favorite gets sent home?—and I’m here to tell you that they will still participate, so fret not.”

That is certainly something Castiel is not looking forward to. There is not a universe in existence where sitting on a couch with someone he has sent home would be anything but awkward and uncomfortable for everyone involved.

“Without further ado, let’s see those picks!” The white envelope that slips into Duma’s hand might be the most frivolous thing Castiel has ever spent any significant amount of time on. He did so in the last few days before the application deadline, in a near panic about Dean not applying. He must admit, despite the tailspin, the envelopes look lovely in Duma’s hand as she pulls out the card stock inside.

“Number eleven, and one most probably won’t remember—Balthazar Salazar!” Ah, yes, Castiel thinks, having half-forgotten about the man. “Balthazar was the first to leave the palace, though none are certain he remembers his time there at all. The son of a landowner on the coast, Mr. Salazar was a shoe in, but his dirty little habits and lack of effort didn’t get him very far with the prince, or the viewers.”

A quick look around the room reveals the rapt attention of Castiel’s suitors, all focussed on the screen as Duma takes the next envelope from a guard just off screen.

“The tenth spot on our list of eleven goes to someone none most of us look back on with ill feelings—Lily Sunder!” The crowd boos, the deep, rumbling sound seeping through the thick panes of glass. Only a few feet away, Dean boos as well, and Castiel has to choke back a snort—what a dork. “Lily was sent home last week after the shocking revelation during a different suitors date, that the incident with one, Dean Winchester, was a setup to have him removed from the running.”

Castiel, of course, knew all of this, but by the look on Dean’s face, he hadn’t. Castiel watches as a scowl mars Dean’s beautiful face before turning to Charlie. “What was revealed? What happened?”

Charlie speaks too quietly for Castiel to hear, but he doesn’t really need to. Instead, he watches Dean’s face; his eyes flicking back and forth as he focuses on Charlie; the deep crease between his brows as she explains; the way shape of his mouth when he says no, like he didn’t hear, like he wasn’t paying attention.

“Number nine goes to, and I quote, ‘The one with the pickle up his ass.’” 

Castiel’s attention snaps back to the TV, and he cringes alongside Duma as a laugh bursts out of Dean. Michael shifts in his seat, and Castiel steadfastly keeps his focus on the TV. “Michael Haven!”

He can’t even pretend to not be delighted by the laughter that rumbles out of Dean, watching as he throws his head back, nose crinkling, eyes squeezed shut. Charlie giggles along with him, and perhaps he should be concerned with the open dislike they have for Michael, but after Michael’s role in the attempt to have Dean removed, he just can’t bring himself to care.

“Michael Haven comes from a long line of nobility, educated in the most prestigious academies Amarellino has to offer. Some might find this charming or attractive, but the voters here tonight find him to be, and again, I’m quoting.” Castiel clenches his jaw, wishing he had taken her up on her offer to let him proofread the notes. “‘A pretentious kiss-ass.’” Duma’s eyebrows raise as she continues. “For these reasons, and others, I’m sure, Michael Haven is number nine on the Fan-Favourites list.”

She takes a sip of water before pinching the next envelope between her fingers, the sapphire 8 catching the light as she clears her throat and opens the flap. “Number eight goes to an heiress from the hills, Sarah Blake, daughter of a founder and CEO of Blake’s Construction. Besides being a little ditzy, she seems sweet, though the viewers haven’t seen enough of her to form any sort of opinion, and for this, she is voted number eight.”

Castiel isn’t surprised, really. Considering today’s brief conversation is the longest he’s had with her, he can’t expect the people to know her any better.

“Number seven…” He watches Dean reach for Charlie’s hand out of the corner of his eye, and something curdles in his stomach. They are only friends, he reminds himself. Nothing more. Castiel turns his attention back to the TV. “Is Meg Masters! The foreign mistress with devilish good looks and a wicked attitude just doesn’t cut it for the people of Amarellino, and they call her ‘too mean for our good-hearted prince.’”

“They’re not wrong,” Dean mutters, and Castiel can’t help the chuckle that rumbles out of him. She is a bit of a demon, but she’s serving her purpose well enough.

“Almost halfway there, folks,” Duma says, taking the envelope that’s handed to her. The crowd around her seems to swell, the people at her back pressing closer, and though Castiel knows there are fences and guards between them, he still worries for the safety of his staff. He has witnessed what a crowd can do when anger or excitement take over, and the memories sit in his stomach like a rock. 

“Number six goes to Joanna Harvelle. The pretty blonde comes from a line of wealthy restaurant chain owners, most popular of which is The Roadhouse. She’s a little rough around the edges, but bubbly and enthusiastic about the prince, so she could very well shoot up the list in the coming weeks, say the viewers.” 

Duma doesn’t waste time now, flipping through the middle selections like they don’t truly matter.

“Top five! Here we go!” Castiel lets out a sigh of relief when the crowd quiets, their shifting stilling, as they wait for Duma to read the name. “Charlie Bradbury!” Not Dean. “Of Bradbury Farm’s, is a fiery, spirited redhead with a flair for the dramatics that draws the attention of almost everyone. Everyone but the prince, that is.”

Charlie laughs as if it doesn’t faze her one bit, and Castiel’s not sure he should be worried about that or now. For now, he chooses to ignore it, unlike most things that worry him.

“The conversations between Miss Bradbury and the prince have been few and far between, and often lack substance, but the young Bradbury can often be found hanging out with the soldiers.” Duma makes a suggestive face, and Castiel swallows back his huff. “Very interesting, if I do say so myself.”

“Very Interesting, she says,” Dean whispers, but he’s loud, and the nudge he gives Charlie is not nearly as inconspicuous as he probably believes. Castiel watches the two of them for half a moment longer, before choosing to ignore them once more.

“Shut up.”

“Number four goes to Kelly Kline—a secretary for the governor of a foreign state. ‘Cute as a button,’ the fans say, ‘if a little too forward.’ Sounds like she’s a bit of a flirt to the fans.” From the couch on his other side, Kelly scoffs, all lady-like offended, her hand on her chest, nails painted a bright, cherry red.

“All that girl wants is the prince’s—”

“Meg!” April snaps from the other side of the room, cutting Meg’s words off before she can finish her sentence, and Castiel feels himself blush right down to his toes as he keeps his eyes locked on the screen.

“Down to the top three!” The cheers of the crowd bleeds through walls, a muffled cacophony of what it truly is. “The number three spot for the Fan-Favourites list in week three goes to…” She pulls the card from the envelope. “April Kelly!”

April doesn’t react, though Castiel gets the feeling she is not pleased. There’s a sharp edge to her smile, a tightness to the way she holds her hands, folded in her lap.

“An heiress with a heart of gold, the young philanthropist is committed to feeding the homeless and helping them find refuge from the horrors of their lives. The fan’s think this darling could go all the way, though she’s a bit enthusiastic for some of their tastes, which puts her in spot number three for this week.”

Dean and Hannah, then. His two favorite, the two people his choice really comes down to. Will this give him some clarity? Will the peoples’ choice be his as well?

“Final two,” Duma says before turning to a woman in the crowd—Dean’s mother, if he remembers correctly. Castiel’s heart flutters, the familiar, smiling face, so much like Dean’s, almost a comfort. 

“That’s my mom!” Dean shouts, pointing at the screen, and God, Castiel wants nothing more than to go outside right now, to bring her in and let her hug her son, if only to see that smile… that smile like everything is perfect. If only to have that smile directed at him.

“Shh!” Everyone in the room hisses, glaring at Dean before refocusing on the screen, and Castiel wants to tell them all to shut up—to leave him alone. The protective urge dies as fast as it surges in, though, as he listens to Mary Winchester speak.

Duma holds the mic up to Mary’s lips. “Who do you think the Fan-Favorite will be?”

“Oh, well, I’m a little biased, I must say. Dean’s my little boy so, as his mom, how could I think it’ll be anyone but him?” She smiles, her cheeks pink with a subtle blush, then rushes to continue. “Not that Miss Hannah isn’t lovely, but my Dean will always be my favorite.”

Dean buries his face in his hands, a soft groan slipping out of him as a flush creeps up the back of his neck. Castiel wonders what it must be like to be embarrassed by a mother who loves her son so dearly. 

“It’s time to release the top picks of the week!” Duma says, rushing on as she opens the envelope and pulls out the slip.  “The second place spot goes to… Hannah Becket!” 

Castiel’s heart climbs into his throat, beats like a hummingbirds. Hell, it might just stop altogether. There’s a ringing in his ears, a hope in his heart like he’s never felt before. 

They love him, too.

“A Princess of the neighboring kingdom, Hannah is an obvious choice, with her debonair manners and charming good looks. She would make the perfect partner for our dear prince.” Duma pauses, her smile never losing its professional edge. “But your first choice—your Fan-Favorite—is the poor village boy from ‘down the road’ as he put it, Dean Winchester!”

  The room fills with cheers, the crew shouting the loudest, but Castiel only has eyes for Dean. He watches the blank expression, the disbelief, then the happiness as they melt across his face in turn.

“The adorable local stole the hearts of millions with his sweet charm and kind heart. In the words of a voter, ‘if the prince doesn’t marry him, I’m next in line.’ Aren’t we all,” Duma says. “Let’s have a look in on them, shall we?”

Then Dean’s flushed and smiling face pops up on the screen, and Castiel has never seen anyone so perfect in all his life. His heart feels like it’s going to explode—just going to punch right through his chest. He can’t tell if he’s smiling, or if everything just aches, but none of that matters because they love him, too. 

“Told you, boy!” Mick shouts, slapping Dean’s shoulder as the TV program comes to an end. “Told you they’d love you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean says, ever the self-depreciating fool. “Make me look like an idiot.” Castiel pushes himself out of his chair, the sudden need to do something for Dean overwhelming him. There must be something he can do, some gesture he can make, to let Dean know that he is not only the people’s favorite, but Castiel’s as well.

Pie.

Castiel scrambles to catch Russell’s attention, then in a whispered rush, instructs him to run—not walk, run—to the kitchen for some pie.

Russell gives him a look that says far more than it needs to, but he doesn’t argue, taking off at a run, just as instructed.

He stands by the door, feeling awkward and out of place even in his own home, shifting from foot to foot. He watches Dean, studies his overwhelmed face, urges Russell to hurry up—

“Your Highness,” Russell pants, bursting through the doors, face red, sweat dripping from his forehead, but he has the pie. 

“I owe you one,” Castiel says, taking the plate from his hand as his heart skips a few fluttering beats. 

“You owe me about a million ones,” he says, but he’s smiling, and Castiel is moving away, and then he’s in front of Dean, who sits with his head in his hands, and he sucks in the deepest breath he can before speaking.

“Dean,” he says, and waits with his heart in his throat for Dean to peel his hands away from his eyes. This, he thinks. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

Dean eyes him, unfocussed, before sitting up straight when he spots the pie. “Hey, Cas,” he says, distracted, practically drooling. 

“For you,” he says, lowering himself back into his chair without bothering to ask Dean to join him. He figures the offer of pie gains him the privilege. “I suppose this is what all the pouting was about?”

“You know me so well,” Dean sighs, his fingers curling around the edge of the delicate china as he takes the plate. Castiel watches as he takes a bite, his plush, pink lips wrapping around the tines of the fork, his eyelids fluttering, tongue poking out to lick his bottom lip… fuck. “Best pie I’ve ever had.”

A laugh bubbles out of him, and he pulls his chair closer, the arm brushing the couch as Dean takes another bite. “What did you think of the show?”

“Embarrassing—so embarrassing.” Dean shakes his head, but he’s leaning closer, the cherry-leather scent of him wafting over Castiel, so intoxicating he could live in it forever. “I still don’t get it, though—why I’m their favorite.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.” Castiel says, sure that it is true. Dean might not be able to see why the people love him, but he is, and Castiel gets it. “ I can see why you are their favorite; isn’t that enough?” 

Dean raises an eyebrow, looking him over like he’s not sure it is. “Sure, Your Highness, it can be enough.”

“Your Highness,” he says, chuckling under his breath as he shakes his head, but he can feel the way his stomach turns at the sound of his title, rather than the name he has grown used to Dean calling him—Cas. “I won’t lie, though. It was rather embarrassing, wasn’t it?”

“They love you, though,” Dean whispers, and the softness of his voice draws Castiel in closer, oblivious to how inappropriate it must look—he just can’t bring himself to care.

Dean’s words, though, send embarrassment rushing through him. He sighs, feeling the familiar self consciousness taking over. He loves that they love him, loves that they love Dean, but he can’t help the happiness that melts in his veins at hearing the words from someone else’s lips. 

“How was your day?” Castiel asks, changing the subject before he bursts into flames. “I heard you were in the barracks, training with my soldiers.”

“I was, yes.” Dean nods, smiling as if the memory is a good one. As if he wasn’t wishing to be with Castiel, as Castiel was wishing to be with him. “It was fun.”

He leans back in his chair, suddenly aware of everyone else in the room, before looking at Dean with a raised eyebrow and a smile. “Were you any good?”

“What?” Dean’s head pops up, and God, he’s blushing again, as if no, he did not do well, and the thought of that alone is amusing.

“Were you any good?” He repeats, letting playfulness melt into his tone as he bites his lower lip as he watches Dean’s face for every minute reaction. “Were you, say… Better than me?”

“A military man like yourself?” Dean whispers, the blush receding as he leans closer, and Castiel finds himself doing the same. “Of course not—I barely made it out of there with my life, you know? What with those dangerous wooden swords, and all.”

“Ah, good answer.” He laughs, tugging at his jacket in a self conscious move that his mother hates. “I’m glad you have friends here. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Excuse me, your highness?” Benjamin says, and Castiel’s heart sinks. He doesn’t want to end this… this thing with Dean. He doesn’t want to be Your Highness, or Crown Prince—he just wants to be Cas for a little while longer. “Mr. Davies would like a word, and Duma has come to discuss some logistics as well.”

“They will wait,” he says, waving Benjamin off, but he can feel the end of their moment coming. He can feel it bleeding away as the noise and lights and conversations from the rest of the room creep in. “Tell them I will find them later.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” 

Castiel is about to acknowledge his guard, to say thank you, but something catches his eye, and he latches onto it with a grin. 

“Mr. Winchester,” he says, lifting a hand to not-quite-brush the monogrammed C of his handkerchief in Dean’s pocket. It is not the first time he has noticed Dean wearing it, but something about seeing it twice sets his heart alight with unreasonable happiness. “Is that mine?”

“Is what—” Dean blushes right to his toes, a nice cherry red that Castiel was hoping for. He delights in it now, his heart skipping a few beats as Dean stutters his way through an explanation. “I—uh, yeah, uh, yes, it is, I—” Dean reaches for the handkerchief, obviously about to pull it out and hand it back, and before Castiel can think to stop himself, he snatches up Dean’s hand, holding it tight as the now-familiar shiver runs through him. God, he loves that.

“Keep it,” he says, a little breathless and doing his best not to let it show. “As a gift. Please, keep it.” The sight of Dean in his clothes, even just this little piece, does something to his insides. Twists them up in knots, makes his head spin and his heart to stupid, crazy things. It makes him feel like Dean can be his if he is just patient enough, just careful enough, and he wants that more than anything in the world.

“Thank you,” Dean whispers, their eyes locked, hands still clasped together, and for a moment, the whole world disappears and it is just the two of them. 

Maybe I can have this, Castiel thinks, as if it is not all he has ever wanted. As if losing it won’t tear him apart. Maybe we can have this together.

Chapter Text

Today is the day.

Castiel stands in front of his mirror, his wool suit jacket already making him sweat, but he pulls on his overcoat anyway. It is cold outside, something he discovered this morning during his run, and despite the walking he will do today, he does not wish to be cold for even a moment.

“Breathe in,” he tells his reflection, watching his chest expand, his shoulders lift, his nostrils flare. “Out.” He exhales, letting the warm stream of air out. He deflates, chest and shoulders, sagging into himself as an anxious thrum moves through him. It’s just a date, he thinks. Never mind that it is a date with all nine of his suitors; that is of no consequence, and perhaps even better than one on one. At least, if he tires of one person, he can find another to converse with.

“You love apples,” he tells himself, “and you love the orchards.” He tries not to think about who else loves apples—and apple pie in particular—because this is not just for Dean. It is for all of them. It is for himself.

“Your Highness,” Benjamin says through the door, waiting with the utmost patience, and Castiel knows he can’t keep him waiting for much longer. His car is waiting, and so are his suitors. “It is time.”

With one last, deep breath, Castiel glances in the mirror, does his best to smooth down the wild mess of his hair, before giving up and grabbing a hat before heading for the door. 

Benjamin is waiting on the other side, hands folded behind his back, a blank look on his face, and Castiel takes that to mean they are very late. He doesn’t waste time with chit-chat, closing his door behind him before passing Benjamin on his way down the hall.

With this being the first group date, Castiel’s nerves are going haywire. He has been on the edge of a meltdown all morning, worrying about how he will possibly speak with everyone, or what he will do if he can’t. How will he handle all the people, and the meticulous planning if it all goes awry? 

What if no one has a good time? What if it is too cold? Starts to rain? The apples are rotten, or they have all fallen from the branches and—

Castiel steps through the front doors, sucking in a sharp breath as a cold wind smacks him in the face. 

“Bloody fuck, it’s cold,” Charlie shouts from across the cobblestone driveway, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet as Dean pulls a hat low over his ears.

Castiel slows, his panic ebbing, sliding away, forgotten now, as he watches Charlie snatch the hat off of Dean’s head.

“Hey!” Dean yells, lunging after her, tripping and stumbling as she dips in and out of the others, too fast for him to catch. A tiny smile twitches at the corners of Castiel’s mouth, warmth blossoming inside him. “Get your own! My ears are cold,” Dean whines, giving up with a sigh, his shoulders slumping, and Castiel just can’t help himself as he wanders over, pulling his own hat off as he stops behind Dean.

“Will this do, Winchester?” He holds the hat out to him, watching closely as Dean looks his way, nose pink from the cold, freckles disappearing with the rosy chill, and his hair, over-long, ruffling in the wind.

“Th-thank you,” Dean says, taking the hat from his hand and pulling it low over his ears. With warmth bubbling inside him, he moves to stand in front of Dean, appraising his outerwear for a moment before he meets Dean’s eyes. 

“Are you warm?” he whispers, his earlier concerns rushing back in when Dean shivers and shakes. Then, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Dean says, grinning like the sun lives inside him, and it almost hurts to look at him like this. Like if he stares right at him for too long, it will blind him. “Yes, both. Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Good.” With his heart in his throat and a twinge of unease at the use of his title, Castiel lets his gloved fingers graze the back of Dean’s hands, just a brush of leather on skin, before he steps away. Every part of him is vibrating, lit up from the inside out, and he is beyond grateful that his car pulls up to the curb before he can do something stupid.

He takes a moment to breathe as the rest of his suitors climb in behind him, doing their best to look graceful and failing miserably. Not that it matters; Castiel can’t think of anything but the feel of Dean’s fingers against his, even without the skin on skin contact.

As soon as the door closes and they are all locked inside, Castiel’s chest constricts. He is normally mostly by himself in the car, with no one to entertain, no one to look at, or that is looking at him. He needs a distraction, so without thinking too hard about the repercussions, he reaches into the compartment at his feet and pulls out a bottle of champagne.

With a quick, practiced flick of his wrist, he pops the cork, managing not to spill a drop as glasses are passed around the back of the car. Russell raises the divider, closing them in and giving himself some peace, Castiel is sure.

With all the conversations in the car mixing together, rising and falling over each other, it is impossible to make out a single one, so Castiel doesn’t bother trying. April is talking about one of her charitable organizations, which Castiel would be interested in if it weren’t for the way Dean, Charlie, and Hannah lean close together, speaking with small smiles and quiet words. They are on the other side of the car, and it has Castiel wishing he had stuck close to Dean’s side instead of getting into the car first.

Outside the windows, the streets of Amerillino turn into stretches of harvest-ripe farm fields, before eventually thickening with the apple-ripe trees of the royal orchards. 

 “Oh, look!” Charlie cries from the opposite end of the car, jamming a finger against the window as the car rolls down the now-dirt path. He doesn’t hear the rest of what she says, too caught up in the way the corners of Dean’s mouth turn up as he watches the trees pass. Dear God, he is so beautiful.

They roll into the parking lot, pulling to a stop outside the cider cabin, smoke already blooming from the chimney, carrying the scent of fresh cider through the orchard. Castiel has always loved this smell; it reminds him of cozy fall evenings with his nanny, sitting in front of the fire with fresh apple pie and a hot cup of cider.

A brisk wind whips at Castiel’s cheeks when he slides out of the car, ruffling his hair as he walks across the parking lot. He’d been hoping for some warmer weather, but it isn’t so bad all bundled up  like this.

He stops at April’s side, offering her a smile when she looks up at him. She smiles back, clearing her throat before leaning in and saying, “It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

“A little cold, but lovely, yes,” Castiel agrees, something inside him craving the conversation. It is a funny thing, growing up revered. One would think conversation is plentiful, but the truth of it is that most are too intimidated to start any. Castiel would spend days without uttering a word and no one was the wiser. He used to challenge himself to see how far it could go.

Three weeks and four days was his record.

“I must say,” April says, looking out at the orchards in the distance, “Apple picking is not something I have done since my childhood.” Her auburn hair blowing in the wind, and once again, he can’t deny her beauty. Refined and elegant, she is by far his mother’s doing, and her very top choice for his spouse. Castiel must say, in this, he might stipulate that his mother has some taste. “My nanny used to take me out to the orchards to pick a basket. She would prop me on a stool in the kitchen afterward, telling me stories as she baked me a pie.”

“My nanny would do the same,” Castiel says, thinking of those days with the kind of nostalgia that makes his heart ache. “I miss her baking.” Really, he just misses her, but he keeps that to himself as he leads April through the doors and into the cramped, steamy interior of the cider cabin.

They weave around the tables dotting the space, the floorboards creaking under their feet as they step up to the long, solid oak countertop that separates them from the row of ovens, lit with a glowing fire, and the cooling rack filled with pastries and pies.

And Reginald, the old grounds keeper, is there too, an apron around his waist, glasses sliding down his long nose, and his teacup clutched between both gnarled hands.

“Reginald, I trust you’re well?” Castiel says, smiling at the elder man as he slips off his gloves and tucked them away in his pocket. He can already feel his hands starting to sweat, and there is little he hates more than wet gloves.

“I am, your highness,” Reginald croaks, so stuck in his traditions that he bows his head, despite the many protests Castiel has made over the years, worrying that the man will simply keel over if he leans too far. “What brings you here with so many… guests?”

Warmth blossoms in his chest as a laugh escapes him, and he turns to glance at his suitors. “You haven’t been following the news, I see? These are my suitors, dear Reggie; they’re courting me.”

“Oh, they are, are they?” A single finger nudges his glasses up his nose, his eyes magnified as he’s backlit by the glow of the ovens. He takes Castiel’s suitors in for a moment before pointing at Hannah. “You,” he says. “I remember you. The Becket princess, is that right?”

Hannah smiles, stepping forward with all the grace Castiel expects of her. “Yes, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Reginald smiles at her with a little nod before looking past her again, eyes locking right not Dean and Charlie. Castiel’s stomach drops, and he’s not sure why. “And that one? Those two look cozy, don’t they?” Dean jumps, and Castiel’s stomach sinks further, right into his shoes.

“What? Us? No, no; we’re just friends—” Dean pulls away from Charlie, and she does the same, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Castiel knows, on some level, that they are just friends, but sometimes he wonders. Sometimes he’s not certain…

“I’d watch out for that one,” Reginald tells him, one eyebrow rising as Castiel struggles to keep his face impassive. “Cuddling up with others while courting you. Ha!”

They’re friends, he tells himself. Just friends, just friends, just friends. His stomach turns and he clenches his jaw to keep himself together. To keep himself from turning to Dean and begging him to swear nothing is going on with Charlie.

“I love this kind,” Kelly says, holding a honey crisp in front of her face and studying the different shades of red and yellow. She places it in her basket alongside the rest of the honey crisps, not a single variant to her apples, and it makes Castiel a little sad for all the rest that she will never try.

“It is a particularly delicious kind,” Castiel says, turning to stare into the high branches of the more mature apple trees. This year’s harvest will be plentiful, the markets will overflow with Novak Orchards apples, and the palace will smell of nothing but apples and cinnamon for weeks. 

Castiel can’t wait. 

He folds his gloved hands in front of him, feeling a shiver work its way up his spine as a cold wind whips through the trees. It is nearly time to go back to the palace, the sun starting to dip near the treetops. Kelly appears to be finished with her picking, and he can hear some of the others making their way back toward the cabin. 

“Should we head back, Miss Kline?” Castiel says, keeping his voice low as he plucks a Braeburn from a branch as they pass. He shines it on his jacket before tucking it in his pocket for later.

Kelly smiles up at him, her soft blue eyes lingering on him before she hands her basket off to Russell and presses a little closer to his side, though not quite near enough to touch. “I want to try the cider,” she says, flashing him a smile that is a little disarming. So very few people smile at Castiel like that; at least, so few that he wishes to have smile at him.

Back at the cabin, the conversation and laughter permeates the small space, sinking into the walls as Reginald serves cider in ceramic cups and pastries on little plates. Castiel stares longingly at the tarts, but doesn’t dare take one. He knows better than to risk pastry flakes on his wool jacket; Susie will absolutely crucify him for it.

“Your Highness,” Russell says, handing him a cup of cider as he sits near the window and the waning light. “The truck is loaded; eight baskets fit well in the back.”

Castiel scowls, knowing quite well that that isn’t right. “Nine baskets,” he corrects, then looks around the steamy cabin. He counts the suitors, and sure enough, there are only eight. Hannah, Kelly, April, Meg, Sarah… “Where is Dean?”

Panic shoots him through the heart when Russell’s eyes widen. The cider cup clatters against the wooden tabletop as Castiel shoots up from his seat. A thousand possibilities, a hundred fears, flash through his mind in a moment, sending him hurrying through the back door and back into the orchard.

Russell is right on his heels, followed by Benjamin and a few of the other guards present to protect his suitors. They surge into the trees, Castiel’s panic getting the better of him, climbing up his throat until he can’t breathe. Until his head swims and his knees shake. God, he’s going to pass out.

He makes sure to get out of sight of the cabin before doubling over, fighting to suck in a breath that won’t come. He knows, deep down, that something happening is not likely, and that Dean just lost track of time, but the ever-present threat lingers, punching him in the gut every time something like this happens.

“Your Highness,” Russell says, coming up behind him, his voice muffled by the whooshing in his ears. “Castiel.”

A hand touches his back, warm through his thick wool coat. Castiel’s first instinct is to shy away from it, but he forces himself to stay still. To soak up the comfort Russell offers. It calms him enough that he can straighten up and suck in a rattling breath. He tips his head back to the sky, blinking back the tears in his eyes as his heart rate slows a fraction.

He hates this. Hates it, hates it, hates it.

“He is not helpless,” Russell tells him, standing too close, but Castiel doesn’t dare step back or ask him to move. “The likelihood of something happening to him here is almost none—we will find him.”

“Okay.” Castiel nods, a quick, jerking movement as he looks through the trees. “Okay. Yes, we’ll…”

“I will check to the North,” he says, before turning to Benjamin. “Take His Highness to the East. The rest of you, head South.” He turns to Castiel and squeezes his shoulder. “We will find him.”

Castiel nods again, surging into the trees with Benjamin hurrying to keep up. He doesn’t run—he will not run—no matter how much he wants to. He is the future king; he must hold himself together.

“D-Dean,” he calls, but his voice is hoarse and scratchy. He clears his throat and tries again. “Dean!”

“Dean!” Benjamin joins in, calling louder, wandering from side to side, though never going so far that he cannot see Castiel.

They walk and search, going deeper and deeper into the trees. About ten minutes of walking go by, fifteen minutes, twenty. Castiel can feel the panic crawling up his throat again, cutting off his calls.

“Dean!”  

“Here!” The shout carries through the trees, and then Castiel is running, and he doesn’t care what he told himself, because future king or not, he would do anything for Dean. 

Then Castiel sees him through the trees, entirely unharmed, an apple in his hand. Castiel slows to a stop, struggling for breath and sweating profusely. But Dean is here, looking at him like he can’t imagine what all the fuss is about. “You had us worried,” Castiel huffs, relief sinking into his bones like a cool balm. He steps closer, eating up the space between them as he takes in Dean’s long lashes and the pink tip of his nose, the green and gold of his eyes and the freckles on his cheeks. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

“Is it… is it time to go back?” Dean glances down at his basket, disappointment clear on his face, and Castiel blurts out the first answer that comes to mind.

“No,” he says as Benjamin says yes behind him. Castiel shoots a look over his shoulder that has his guard pressing his lips together. “No, we can finish filling your basket; the others are warm and happy for now.” His hand lifts, dark glove rising to touch Dean’s pale cheek. He catches himself before he makes contact and drops his hand to his side with a sigh. God, how he wishes to be someone else at times like this. Anyone else. “I hope you don’t mind if I help? I didn’t really get the chance to fill my own, and Braeburns are my favorite of the fall harvest.”

“Please,” Dean says, waving to the basket like it will save them from the awkwardness of Castiel’s slip. “You know more about them than me, so yeah, go ahead.” It works, though, the awkwardness that Castiel would have felt with anyone else just isn’t there. He smiles, feeling warmth bubble up inside him as the golden light of the evening touches Dean’s golden-green eyes. “What’s a Braeburn?” Dean asks, looking up at the treetops.

“This,” Castiel says, reaching above his head to grasp hold of a perfectly ripe Braeburn, the one he tucked in his pocket earlier already in his stomach. Its light red skin glints in the golden sunset as Castiel looks to Dean for his reaction. “They’re excellent for applesauce, and I make fantastic applesauce.”

“Is that right?” Dean says, and Castiel grins when Dean lifts an eyebrow. There are few things Castiel does exceptionally well, but he is a fantastic baker. “And the other apples? What’re they good for?”

Castiel sets the apple on top of the rest in Dean’s basket and shrugs. There are so many different varieties of apples, it is hard to name all their merits. “Some are the same. Rome apples are too mild for sauce, but they are good for eating and baking. You have some—they’re the deep red one near the bottom.”

“Huh.” Dean looks into his basket, nudging the weaving with the toe of his boot. “What about this one?” Dean pulls a pink lady from his basket, clearly ignoring Benjamin when he sighs. Castiel does as well, choosing to indulge Dean’s curiosity while he has his full attention.

“That,” Castiel says, picking another Braeburn from the tree above their heads and placing it in the basket. “Is called a pink lady.” He wiggles his eyebrows, feeling playful, but he is certain he looks nothing but awkward. Still, Dean throws his head back on a laugh, and it warms Castiel to his core. He knows he is not a funny man, but Dean makes him feel like an award-winning comedian when he laughs like that. 

They wander deeper into the trees as the sun starts to sink lower in the sky, setting the basket down at intervals to pick different apples, all the while chatting about everything and nothing. Castiel learns that Dean has never been apple picking, and he tells Dean that he used to go every year. It is perfect; exactly what he imagined while planning this group date.

“So, what’re you going to bake?” Dean asks, ignoring the pink lady comment with a kind of grace Castiel doesn’t expect from him.

“Hm,” Castiel hums, stopping to inspect the dash of yellow over the otherwise red apple in his palm. He has to think about that for a moment; there are simply too many options. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had an apple turnover. Perhaps I’ll make some of those, or maybe danishes…” God, he really should have thought of this earlier. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, biting at the tender flesh as he thinks it over. Danishes, turnovers, strudels, or pie—

He grins, wide and delighted, because he knows what Dean will make. “You will make pie, I’m sure.”

Dean scoffs, but Castiel can see the smile tugging at his lips clear as anything. “You think you know me that well, Novak?”

“Am I wrong?” Castiel advances on him, letting his feet carry him across the dewing grass until he is standing toe-to-to with Dean. Dean stumbles, but Castiel doesn’t stop moving until he has him backed against a tree, the basket of apples forgotten at their feet.

He doesn’t know what has gotten into him, but his heart is thundering in his chest, his pulse racing in his ears. Dean’s breath catches in his throat, eyes wide and staring into his, but there’s no unease there, no fear. A little confusion, yes, but mostly, Castiel can see the unfiltered want in his gaze.

He braces one hand against the tree trunk, leaning close as Benjamin comes into his peripheral vision. Castiel lifts a hand to wave him off, but doesn’t dare take his eyes off Dean’s. They’re nearly nose to nose, Dean’s cherrywood scent engulfing his senses, sending his head spinning as he inhales. He almost forgets himself, his lips parting, eyelashes fluttering. He has never wanted to kiss someone so badly in all his life. 

“Am I wrong, Winchester?” He murmurs, lifting a hand to graze a finger over the day’s stubble on Dean’s cheek. The rough grit catches on his leather gloves, and Castiel wants nothing more than to pull them off and touch Dean for real. All the air in Dean’s lungs leaves him at the contact, and there is no denying that Dean wants this as much as he does. “I do know you,” Castiel says, leaning ever closer, dangerously near to pressing their whole bodies together. A shiver runs through him, want mixing with exhilarating excitement when Dean closes his eyes, practically shaking against him. 

He decides to push a little further, testing both of their limits as he leans in and whispers in Dean’s ear. “Perhaps not as well as I’d like to, but I know who you are.” He says the words, knowing down to his core that they are true, and suddenly his earlier worries feel foolish. Of all the possible culprits of infidelity in this competition, Dean doesn’t even make the list. 

The realization hits Castiel square in the chest, punching the breath from his lungs. After only three weeks of knowing this man, Castiel trusts him. Right down to his bones, he trusts him. With his closeness, with his secrets, with his heart.

Castiel forces himself to step away, but leaves his fingers against Dean’s cheek for a moment longer. There is relief in Dean’s eyes, something like happiness, and though Castiel doesn’t understand the reason for it exactly, he loves that it is there. Finally, he drops his hand with a sigh, still staring at Dean. “We should finish up.”

“We should,” Dean says, his voice wavering and his hands noticeably shaking when he picks up the basket. Castiel doesn’t mention it, but something inside him loves that he can do that too Dean.

Feeling a little brave, Castiel reaches out for Dean’s hand, twining their fingers together as his heart skips a beat in his chest at the feeling of him. 

Castiel drops his hand immediately, though, when Dean jumps, his eyebrows furrowing with concern as his heart sinks. Dean won’t look at him, and he rubs a hand over his face like something is wrong. “Is that not okay?” Castiel whispers, dreading having done something wrong. He thought they were on the same page, in the same place, but if Dean isn’t ready for that, then—

“What? No, Cas, it’s okay, you just…” Dean trails off, sucking in a deep, stuttering breath. “You startled me, that’s all.” 

“Oh,” Castiel says, nodding, because that makes sense, he supposes. He looks down at Dean’s hand and tries again, holding out his own for Dean to take if he so chooses.

There’s a hitch in Dean’s breathing, barely audible, but there, before he wraps his fingers around Castiel’s. 

Castiel’s heart feels like it might explode. Might punch right through his ribcage to land in the grass, a bloody, still-beating mess.

“My nanny used to bake with me all the time, you know?” Castiel says after a few moments have passed, forcing himself to think of something other than the way his whole body is vibrating from the contact. “She passed away last year, but every time I bake anything now, I think of her.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean looks his way, but Castiel keeps his eyes on the tops of the trees as a breeze blows through and sends them fluttering. It’s a strange kind of music, almost calming as he reminisces.

“She made the best apple fritters I’ve ever tasted, and for my birthday, we would sneak down to the kitchens late at night and make honey-nut cookies.” Sadness sinks into his heart, because if there is anyone that he misses more than Miss Louise, he hasn’t lost them yet. Still, he smiles, because the memories of her are always healing. Dean squeezes his hand, and it’s more reassuring than he could ever know. “What about you?”He turns to look at Dean, taking in the deepening shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. “How did you get into baking?”

Dean pauses, taking his time as he stretches up to reach some higher branches with his free hand. Delight dances in Castiel's stomach when Dean refuses to let go of his hand to pick the apples, and he doesn’t dare offer to let go to make it easier on him either.

“Back before my grandparents died, and we still had some support from them, my grandma Deanna would come over on holidays—she’d bring all the ingredients, and I’d pull out every cake pan, muffin tin, and pie dish we owned.” Dean laughs, just a small chuckle, but his eyes light up with the memory and Castiel does his best to soak it all in. “She’d make me pick one, and it was always pie, but never the same kind twice. She died when I was six, and my parents couldn’t afford much after that—I haven’t baked a proper pie in years.”

Castiel stops, picking an apple from the tree above his head. He stares at it a moment, taking his time to notice all the colors—anything to delay going back to the cabin. He bites into the ripe fruit, tasting the sweet juices on his tongue as he looks up at the deepening blue of the sky.

“Are you allowed to do that?” Dean asks, shock ringing in his voice, like he forgets who Castiel is sometimes. Castiel can’t say he’s offended; he prefers it that way.

“It’s my orchard,” he says, knowing one apple won’t be missed, “so I suppose I am.” He grins as he turns to Dean and holds out the apple, some small, strange part of him hoping, more than anything, that Dean takes it. “Would you like some?”

Dean hesitates for half a second before he swallows hard and lifts a hand to take the apple. Castiel watches with rapt attention as Dean lifts the unbitten side of the apple to his lips. His plush red mouth opening, his teeth flashing as he sinks them into the crisp flesh of the apple. All of it, as mundane and simple as it is, lights Castiel up from the inside out. 

And when Dean meets his gaze, he just about implodes.

“It’s good,” Dean whispers as he hands the apple back, his mittened fingers grazing Castiel’s.

He opens his mouth to speak, words on the top of his tongue, but he’s interrupted.

“Your Highness,” Benjamin says, stepping forward from between the dark trees, an anxious lilt to his tone. “It is getting late, perhaps we should start making our way back.”

Dean looks at Benjamin like he had forgotten he was there, and Castiel can’t say he is any different. It is so easy to get lost in Dean, to forget about everyone and everything around them, but he can’t say he wants that to end, either, no matter how dangerous that could be.

“We haven’t finished filling the basket yet,” Castiel says, not willing to give up this precious time alone with Dean just yet. “We will go back when—” Dean cuts him off.

“We can fill it on the way,” Dean says, his fingers tightening on Castiel’s before he pulls him along through the trees. “What’s your name?” Dean asks, looking at Benjamin, who answers with a bow of his head.

“Benjamin, sir.”

“Benjamin, would you mind helping us fill the basket?” Dean smiles, and the sight stuns Castiel to the core. He couldn’t argue if he wanted to, not that he wants to. 

“Mr. Winchester, I—” Still, Benjamin hesitates, looking between him and Dean like it might be a problem. If it weren’t getting so late, Castiel might protest, but there is the very real concern about their safety out here in the dark. “I don’t—I don’t know if… if it’s acceptable for me—”

“Of course, it is,” he cuts in, smiling at Benjamin in a way he hopes is reassuring. “Thank you, Ben.”

Benjamin smiles, tight-lipped and uncomfortable, but does as he’s bid. In fact, he gives so much attention to finding the very best apples, that he and Dean don’t have to do much at all. Perhaps it’s better that Dean asked him, then, because now Castiel can do what he really wants, which is focus all of his attention on Dean.

With the basket help between the two of them, they slowly make their way through the trees. “Tell me about your day,” Castiel says, eager to hear everything.

“Not much to tell,” Dean says, a sigh filtering out of him in a puff of steam. “Turns out the palace is actually pretty boring.”

Castiel snorts out the most undignified laugh, but he can’t help himself. Dean is correct, of course. There is much to look at, but very little to do for entertainment if you don’t know where to look. “The tagline of my childhood.”

Dean laughs at that, and the sound is so warm, so genuine, that Castiel feels it in his chest. The thought hits him almost out of nowhere; he wants this feeling. The warmth to thaw his Novak heart. The happiness to ease his stale and affectionless childhood.

“A boring childhood might’ve done me some good,” Dean says, the basket jostling between them when he shrugs. Castiel stares at the side of Dean’s face, but he doesn’t seem bothered in the least. He wonders what it must be like to be Dean. “One time—I think I was fifteen—my dad wound up in the hospital for whatever reason and my mom had to go back to work to pay the bill, so it was just me and Sam.” He smiles at the memory, and Castiel takes that as his queue to relax. “Sammy wanted Winchester surprise, which was basically whatever mom could find in the fridge all tossed into a pan. Just so happened that what we had in the fridge was a single slice of cheese, some sauerkraut, half a rotten tomato, and a bottle of bourbon.”

“Oh no,” Castiel murmurs, catching on before Dean gets there, and Dean nods at his assumption, all but confirming it.

“Dad never told me what it was until after,” he says, stopping to pick a Granny Smith from one of the lower branches of the nearest tree. “I never threw up that hard in my life as I did the next day, but that night was pretty damn good.”

“That must have been quite the experience,” Castiel says, not sure what else he should say. There are a million concerning things about that story, from the lack of parenting, to the lack of food—he won’t even think about the alcohol—but he doesn’t say any of it.

Instead, he thinks about his first drink.

Twelve years old. His parents were also away, though on a world tour to the allied nations. Not that it mattered; they weren’t much for supervising him anyway. That is what Russel and his nanny were for. 

Either way, he was left to his own devices, and so he found his way to the wine cellar, angry at the world for some reason or another, plucked up a couple of bottles, and carted them off to his rainbow room. He missed three days of lessons and Russell was so angry when he finally reemerged, but what could he do to the Crown Prince but offer a stern lecture?

If he thinks about it, he and Dean are not so different in this respect.

He pulls back on his internal judgment as shame trickles in. Who is he to question the suitability of someone else’s parents when his own were so terrible at playing the part?

The soft glow of the cabin windows break through the trees, and Castiel is his with a wave of disappointment. Castiel turns to Ben. “If you could take this to the car, that would be wonderful. We’ll be fine here, thank you.”

Then they’re alone, standing mere inches apart, Castiel’s now-free hands itching to reach for Dean’s. Something else tickles his memory, however, and the words come out before he can stop them.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Castiel stares into the trees, but he can feel Dean’s eyes on him, drilling into the side of his skull.

“Officially at dinner on the first night? Or in the bathroom when you fixed my camera makeup?” An icy wind cuts through the trees, and Dean wraps his arms around himself to keep warm. 

Castiel can’t move. He doesn’t remember, he thinks, sadness filtering in as he shakes his head and forces a smile. “That’s a no, then.”

“What?” Confusion filters into Dean’s expression, but something tells Castiel that he won’t remember, no matter how hard he tries.

“Never mind,” he whispers, meeting Dean’s eyes as he resigns himself to the fact that, despite being the Crown Prince, he is just not as memorable to Dean as Dean is to him. “We should go.”

Then, with a courage he wasn’t sure he possessed, Castiel reaches out and takes Dean’s hand. And, suddenly, it doesn’t matter that Dean doesn’t remember him. All that matters is this and how suspiciously close it feels to home.

“Aprons are on the hooks. Make sure to wash your hands and tie back your hair—watch out for each other and don’t make a mess.”

Castiel walks in front of the group, leading his suitors into the kitchen as Frank gives instructions. He already has his hairnet in place, and he grabs his apron off its hook on his way past. The kitchens are one of his favorite places in the palace. It’s where he spent a lot of his early years, cooking and baking with his nanny, making pastries and pies. As such, he grew up on Frank’s heels, and the man is good to him to this day.

“Hey! Look who it is!”

“Mr. Dusty is back! Watch your flour!” 

Castiel looks up from his task of tying his apron to find Dean blushing a lovely shade of crimson. He is pulled into the kitchen by a few of the cooks, who lead him through the work stations.

“Should we call you Mr. Snowman, or will Dusty do?” Frank asks, seeming to notice Dean for the first time as he clasps Dean’s hand.

“Dean, will be fine,” he says, a small laugh tumbling out of him. “Don’t forget those two.” Dean points to Jo and Kelly, who stand a little too close to Castiel for his comfort. “That one tossed it on me.”

“Now don’t be blaming the pretty ladies,” Melanie, Frank’s sous chef, says, her flushed cheeks pushed up in a pretty smile that lets her get away with most things. “You clumsy boy.”

“Yeah, well, one of you told Susie and got me in shit,” Dean laughs, tying his apron around his back. “That woman is mean. I love her to death, but she’s mean.”

Castiel watches as Frank slaps him on the shoulder, ignoring the others as they move closer to listen to the conversation. Castiel does the same, intrigued by the interaction and curious to hear how Frank will react to the mention of Susannah. “That is my sister-in-law, you know?”

A new flush rises in Dean’s cheeks, uncertainty filtering in, but Frank doesn’t stop smiling. Castiel would know even without that smile that the man doesn’t take offense on his sister-in-law’s behalf. Not after The Great Debate when he was ten years old. That was something to behold. “Yeah, well, then you must know,” Dean says, not backing down.

“That I do, boy—that I do. Right here is your place, and your apples are in the sink behind you.” He points to the stainless steel basin against the wall and Dean’s basket of apples. Castiel leans against his own station, watching it all unfold as the rest of his suitors are situated. “Recipes are in the book, and all the tools you’ll need are in the drawers or under the worktop.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

Anytime, boy.” Frank leaves him, and it is only then that Dean looks his way, his bright eyes so startlingly green under the kitchen lights. 

Castiel can’t bring himself to care that he has been caught starting. Caught smiling like a fool. It’s Dean, after all. He just can’t help himself when it comes to Dean.

Castiel takes extra care while peeling his fritters away from the parchment paper. They smell divine, the perfect mix of buttery pastry and sticky-sweet apple filling. He is certain Gabriel will devour them in minutes when he finds them, but it will make his brother so happy to do so. 

He’s so engrossed in his task, with mixing the dough and stirring the filling, that he forgets his suitors are there. Baking is a therapeutic act, sending him into a deep calm as he pokes at the soft outside of the nearest fritter. Just the glaze left, and then they will be perfect.

He finished off his fritters, glazing them to perfection before setting them aside and washing his hands. He needs to check in with his suitors before they begin to notice that he’s ignoring them.

“Miss Harvelle,” Castiel says, drying his hands on his apron as he steps in front of her station. She’s hard at work on her apple bread, barely taking a moment to look at him before continuing with her dough.

“Your Highness,” she says, kneading hard, the muscles in her arms flexing as her brows furrow with effort. It almost makes Castiel laugh; he is aware of her competitive streak, however this appears to be a challenge involving only her. 

“Did you enjoy the evening?” he asks, looking around the room at the others as they laugh and chat. He will need to speak with everyone before the end of the evening, making sure not to spend too much time with a single person. It all sounds a bit exhausting and he’s already wishing it were over.

“I did,” she says, nodding through the words as she digs through the shelf under the work surface for a loaf pan. “It was nice to get out of the palace for a while—could you pass me the flour?”

Castiel hands her the bowl of flour from the counter in front of him, feeling entirely awkward as she focuses on her bread. “Well, I suppose I will leave you to your baking.” He’s already moving as he speaks, but he doesn’t miss the distracted thank you, Your Highness, as he turns his back.

Michael is just as dull, preaching about how he knows which apples are the best, which are subpar, and that the other suitors picked most of the latter. Michael has, Castiel has come to find, a very peculiar way of insulting him with every word that comes out of his mouth while still managing to pride himself on the impeccable manners he believes himself to have. 

Again, it’s exhausting.

Charlie is too busy scarfing down her baking to talk, which he supposes suits them both, and Kelly manages to slice off the tip of her finger while distracted, which saves him from conversing with her for any longer than it takes for the medics to arrive.

Meg is insufferable.

April is pleasant enough.

Hannah is fixated on the same apple swan figures she has made every year since she began visiting at harvest season.

“Your Highness,” Sarah says, catching his attention as he debates whether he should make the full rounds or just go directly for Dean, who decided five minutes ago that he is better off in his t-shirt than his sweater, and looks more delicious than the apple pie he’s baking. 

“Miss Blake,” Castiel says, heading her way with a smile. She is probably the most tolerable of his father’s choices, as easy to speak to as Hannah used to be. “Your pie looks lovely.” It’s a little full, and the top definitely won’t fit, but the apples are cut into a nice size. 

“The top doesn’t go on,” she says, a sigh leaving her lips as she stares at it before her dark eyes shift to his. “Any ideas?”

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, heading to the sink to wash his hands. “Stretching it out should not be too difficult. Would you grab the rolling pin?”

She does, handing it over, and they work at the dough to stretch it out. “What did you make?” She asks as he presses the pin into the dough, feeling it in his shoulders as he rolls it away from himself. “You were pretty engrossed for a while.”

Castiel smiles, a little sheepish. “Apple fritters. They are my brother’s favorite.” He’ll have to try one before Gabriel gets his hands on them, though, and he’ll save one for each of his sisters as well. 

“They sound delicious,” she says, and he can feel her eyes on him, traveling over his shoulders, but the side of his face, and back down again. It makes him squirm a little, and he sets the rolling pin aside before turning to face her.

“You will need to roll it onto the pin,” he says, stepping out of her way. She nods, doing as she’s told with more skill than he originally thought. It leaves him with the sneaking suspicion that she asked for help with the pie top sampling so he would come see her.

“How long have you been baking?” she asks, pinching the edges like a professional, and Castiel decides to stick around a little longer, if only to watch her technique.

“Since childhood,” he says, thinking about his nanny and the birthday cakes she would make him. “Some of my fondest memories are of this kitchen.” Some of his happiest moments were between these walls. He meets her eyes, holding them a little longer than is proper, but she is such a lovely woman, with charm and humor, and she knows the rules of the court. 

She would make a wonderful wife, he knows she would.

Before Castiel can think about what he’s doing, he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out the blue-edged, pristine white envelope from the inside pocket.

He hadn’t been certain who he wanted to give it to before tonight, but it should be her. “Miss Blake,” he says, ignoring the tiny squeak that sneaks past her lips. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a date tomorrow?”

Sarah says yes before he finishes getting the words out, taking the note card from his hand. He ignores the lack of formal ceremony; it doesn’t matter, really. Not here. Not when he is certain she should be the one on the date.

Castiel doesn’t look around the kitchen. He doesn’t let his thoughts wander to the only person he hasn’t spoken to yet. This isn’t about him and Dean, it is about him and Sarah, and it shouldn’t matter that he hasn’t made the trip to Dean’s station to speak with him. They spoke in the orchard for longer than Castiel could ever manage to speak with all the others.

Besides, Dean made no effort to speak to him, either.

He should not feel guilty. He shouldn’t. There is nothing to feel guilty about.

Why, then, does his heart hurt like he has just made a terrible mistake?

Chapter Text

“I have a few things planned,” Castiel says, sitting on the bench seat at the back of the town car with Sarah at his side. “I hope you enjoy arts and crafts.” He smiles, enjoying the grin she offers him in return.

“I’m not going to lie,” she says, tilting her head to one side before brushing back the strand of hair that falls into her eyes with the move. “I’m more than a little interested by the idea of watching the Crown Prince do arts and crafts.”

Castiel laughs, just a tiny sound that’s barely more than a huff, but he feels it in his chest. The shiver of happiness that comes with gentle flirting. “I have been known to get my hands glittered on occasion.”

“Does this particular craft involve glitter?” She arches one brow, half a smile turning up her full lips as the car pulls into the high end jewellery shop that is their destination.

“Not exactly,” he says as Russell comes around to open the door. “But I do not expect that you will be disappointed.” Women love jewellery. Rich women love it even more, and Castiel suspects that Sarah is just laid back enough to find this activity fun and interesting, rather than the peasant’s work someone like April would believe it to be.

Russell helps Sarah out of the car before stepping back to let him slide out. They are parked at the back of the shop, hidden away from the eyes of the rest of Amarellino. Still, Castiel can hear the sounds of shoppers on the streets just beyond the walls of the surrounding stores. They have the jewellery shop closed down for the morning, so there shouldn’t be any trouble, but being this close to so many people still have him on edge.

They hurry in through the back door, Russell taking the lead with Benjamin taking up the rear. Mr. Hypolyes meets them just inside the door, his black suit glittering under the golden lights with its infused gilded thread.

He dips his chin in a vague semblance of a bow when Castiel steps inside. “Welcome,” he says, in slithering snake voice still sending a shiver up Castiel’s spine. He is a dragon of a man, but he knows his jewels, so Castiel puts up with him. “If you could follow me.”

The hallway is dark and cramped, and Castiel is forced to brush against the wall so a not to bump shoulders with Sarah. He almost forgot how uncomfortable this place is, with the low lighting and the narrow passages. It reminds him of the concealed servant passages in the palace.

The room they step into is barely larger than his bathroom, but that could be attributed to the sheer amount of things that fill the walls. There is a large work table in the middle and counters ringing the room. Every kind of clamp, torch, and metal he can think of sit in sorted holders along the walls, and several workers fiddle with their creations on the far side of the central table, magnifying spectacles low on their noses.

“This is so interesting,” Sarah muses, catching Castiel’s attention for the first time since they stepped through the door. He looks at her, finding her grinning, her eyes lit up with excitement. Good, he thinks. He chose the right date; someone who will appreciate the process as much as the end result.

Before he can shut the thought down, it filters in, and he can’t help but think that Dean would also enjoy the process.

“Of course, we have the finest sapphires available for your use,” Hypolyes says, gesturing to the gemstones ordered by size and shape in the holder in the middle of the worktop. “There is a selection of gold, platinum, and silver bands, chains, and clasps. Should you require help, please ask one of the professionals.” He nods at the workers, who have since risen to their feet to greet them. Hypolyes turns to his employees. “Should his Royal Highness need anything, he will have it. Understood?”

He doesn’t wait for them to answer before giving Castiel one last bow and exiting the room.

Russell situates himself by the door inside the room, Benjamin mirroring his position in the hall, while Castiel leads Sarah to the twin stools.

“Do you know what you’re going to make?” Sarah asks, looking up at him with pretty dark eyes and a smile that makes him think about the future.

“I have been toying with the idea of a bracelet for my sister, Anna.” It will be her third piece, but she has been staring at his mother’s collection far more frequently lately, so he thinks it is time for her to have another.

“It must be nice having siblings,” she says, perusing the sapphires. “My parents thought it best to stop at one.”

A smile tugs at Castiel’s lips, because he most definitely cannot relate. Six children is a lot by any measure, but certainly more so in an arranged marriage. His parents may have their faults, but it is clear that there is love between them.

“Tell me about your family,” he says, pinching a length of gold chain between a pair of tweezers. He sets the length on the silk sheet in front of him, the gold contrasting the white material in a way that highlights each individual length, making the whole thing more visible. It’s brilliant, really, and he’s sure it lends to the craftsmanship of Hypolyes’s jewelry.

“My mother owns a string of high end hotels,” she says, using her fingers to pick out a silver band for a ring. “My father runs an art museum.”

“Which?” Castiel asks, the tiny factoid catching his attention. He loves art museums.

“Musée Frantesso,” she says, and he can almost feel the excitement bubbling up in his chest. It is one of his favourites, despite the pointless French name—Frantesso is an Amarellinian artist with no connection to the French Isles.

“That one is lovely,” he says, seeing her in a new light. He had assumed her parents were politicians, or arms dealers, or the like. But museum owners? Art lovers? That is something else entirely. “You must take me some time.”

He can feel her eyes on the side of his face, studying him once again. It doesn’t make him uncomfortable now, though. Not like before.

“Alright,” she says after a moment, flashing white, straight teeth when she smiles. “I could give you a tour of the vaults, too.” She raises an eyebrow, catching his attention when the grin turns to a mischievous smirk. “Those aren’t open to the public.”

Lunch passes in the same way, with easy conversation and light laughs. She is a sweet woman, down to earth, with enough stories to entertain anyone for hours.

But there’s nothing deeper. No feeling, no spark. She is little more than good company, perhaps a future friend, and by the time they arrive at the palace, he knows that he will not marry her for love, though perhaps for her friendship. For her pedigree, if nothing else.

“We received this last night, Your Highness,” Joshua says, standing to his left with a stack of papers in his hand. The safety briefing is Castiel’s least favourite of the day, but it is by far one of the most important.

Castiel takes the papers as Joshua retakes his seat. Every chair is filled with his security team, political advisors, and a couple of the most trustworthy soldiers in the ranks. He scans the image printed onto the screen. It’s a letter, typed out in large font in all capitals and addressed to him.

CASTIEL,

SEND HIM HOME BEFORE WE SEND HIM FOR YOU.

Castiel doesn’t have to ask who they’re referring to. There is only one person it could be, and the thought of anyone threatening Dean sends a cold shiver down his spine. He knew there would be pushback, having Dean as one of his suitors, but he never suspected this.

“Dean needs to be accounted for at all times,” Castiel says, still starting at the first page. There are four more, but he can’t bring himself to look at them just yet. “Starting now. I need to know where he is.”

“On it, sir,” Joshua says, stepping out of the conference room without another word. Castiel sits, frozen, for a few more seconds, staring at the L in his own name. Who wrote it? Someone with the power to get mail into the palace. Someone with the arrogance to think they have a say, or the ability to get to Dean.

And perhaps they do.

That is the most terrifying part of it. Perhaps they do.

When Castiel finally finds it in him to flip to the next page, he’s not prepared for what he sees. It’s a photo from the orchard. Dean between the trees, standing under the branches in black and white, completely oblivious.

Castiel’s heart nearly jumps up his throat, panic settling in as he stares at the photo. Dean’s hat is pulled low over his ears, his hand just barely curling around the apple he has his eyes on. Lips parted, his long lashes visible even in the grainy image.

They were so close. Too close.

The other two pages are more photos of Dean, taken in the same instant. He sets them aside, fighting to control his breathing as panic threatens to take over. He hasn’t seen Dean all day, having taken breakfast in his room before his date with Sarah.

“Find him now,” Castiel says, no louder than normal as he stands, the chair scraping against the marble floor. “All of you.” With that, Castiel turns, leaving the room through the double doors with his guards, the soldiers, and even the advisors on his heels.

It only takes ten minutes of searching before Castiel’s fears are confirmed. Dean is gone, nowhere to be found, and no one has seen him for hours.

“You have searched every room, every passage?” Castiel asks, pacing back and forth in his office as Russell stands in front of him, stoic and reserved.

“Every washroom and corridor, Your Highness,” he says, reverting back to strict formality, and honestly, Castiel is grateful for it. The tiny semblance of control it offers him is just about the only thing keeping him from dissolving into an absolute mess. “Miss Bradbury saw him last. He was heading into the forest for a walk.”

Castiel stops, panic taking over so fast and sharp, it almost takes him to his knees. The forests surrounding the palace are hundreds of thousands of acres deep, expanding into the mountains and down to the ocean. Dean could be anywhere; he could be lost. He could be taken. He could be dead at the bottom of the lake Castiel likes to swim in on particularly hot days.

“The national guard is waiting for the word.” So that’s where they are, then. They have arrived at Dean is no longer in the palace, and that scares him so much he can’t breathe through the panic.

Before he can slip into a full-on meltdown, the door bursts open and Hannah steps into his office, her dress billowing around her legs as concern mars her pretty face.

“Castiel, what is happening?” She asks, stepping a little too close, but he’s so worked up, he can’t bring himself to step away. She takes the crumpled pages from his hands, scanning their contents before slowly lifting her eyes to his. “You don’t think…”

“No one knows where he is.” He almost doesn’t want to say the words, but they slip out, low and filled with dread.

She shifts as if she is about to wrap her arms around them, hands hovering near his hips, before she thinks better of it and drops them back to her sides. “What can I do?”

Castiel’s mind spins with unorganized chaos. What can she do? He has no idea. He doesn’t know what he can do, but they have to do something. He needs to find Dean. “I don’t—” he starts, before his breath squeezes out of him. “I-I…”

“Do you need me to help you look?” She searches his eyes, standing too close. “Do you want me to call my parents? Friends? Do you want me to call in our army?”

What he wants is for her to stop asking questions and take and step back.

“Go,” he says, turning away from her. “Get to safety. Stay in your room until I find him.” He steps in front of the window, forcing his shoulders straight and a deep breath into his lungs. He cannot fall apart in front of Hannah.

With his eyes closed, he clings to every scrap of self control he has until he hears her feet cross the floor and the door close behind her.

When the latch snaps into place, Castiel lets out the breath he’d been holding. He deflates, the weight on his chest nearly crushing him as he opens his eyes and looks out the window.

It’s a cloudy day, the sky darkening by the minute, turning the tops of the trees an inky shade of black. In the upper most corner of the window, the turret rises dark and imposing in the sky.

Castiel’s heart clenches. Hope springs in. Would Dean…

He gave him permission. Offered him a pass, though he did not expect Dean to use it without telling his guard where he was headed.

“Hold the army,” Castiel says, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he heads for the door. “Do not do a thing until you hear from me.” Then he’s running. From his office, through the halls, up the stairs.

His heart hammers against his rib cage, fear and hope rising and falling in equal measure as he reaches the wooden door and the winding staircase that leads to the lonely library at the top. Every footfall echoes in the tower, but Castiel cannot hear a thing over the thundering beat of his pulse in his ears.

His fingers shake as he reaches for the doorknob, everything inside him screaming that Dean must be here. That there is no other place he can be.

He flings the door in, feeling every bit of his hope and panic swelling inside him as he scans the small room and—

“Oh, thank God.” He nearly passes out from the relief. Dean lies in the pile of cushions, his shoes off and jacket peeled away. He crosses the short distance between them, bending close to Dean and pushing his fingers through his hair before he can stop himself. “Dean?” He whispers, still out of breath, and he can’t decide if he’s upset with Dean or not. Logically, he knows Dean is not at fault here. He cannot know the things Castiel does, of course. But as he stares at Dean’s beautiful, sleeping profile, ne cannot say he is thinking logically in this moment. “Dean, wake up.”

Dean groans as Castiel flexes his fingers in his hair, shifting into the pillows with an adorable scowl.

“Come on, wake up.” His fingers shake as he lets them skim over Dean’s cheekbone, down to his stubbled jaw, before sliding around to the back of his head and resting there. The feeling of him, solid and real, sends shivers down Castiel’s spine and grounds him in a way that nothing else can. Pinpricks dance in his fingertips at every point of contact, almost painful in its intensity.

One eye cracks open, then the other, and Dean scowls like the whole world is conspiring against him as he looks up at Castiel.

Castiel could not stop the smile that speaks across his face if he wanted to. Despite the illogical anger, relief pours in, because Dean is here, and he is unharmed, and probably entirely unaware of the grief he has caused.

“What time is it?” Dean croaks, sitting up with bleary eyes and looking around. Castiel sits back on his heals as Dean throws off his blanket and rubs his sleep-filled eyes.

“Why is it always you?” Castiel says, half laughing, feeling the tiniest bit unhinged as he drops into the cushions at Dean’s side, his hand still in Dean’s hair, unwilling to release him just yet. “Getting yourself misplaced, or disappearing without a trace—the whole palace has been searching for you for hours.”

“Hours?” Dean’s head jerks up and he meets Castiel’s eyes, alarm clear in his face. “Cas, what time is it?”

“Past seven. Benny told me you had been seen entering the woods, but after that…” He shrugs, feeling the dread try to sneak back in as a shiver runs through him. “Nothing. You were gone, just like that.”

There are lines on Dean’s face where the cushion’s creases dug in, dented all his glorious freckles. The lashes on his right eye are curled over from sleep, and he’s still a little out of it. Castiel takes it all in as Dean’s mouth pops open.

“I’m right here,” he whispers, fingertips brushing Castiel’s fingers where they cling to his hair, perhaps a little too tightly. “I’ve been right here all this time, and I’m fine, Cas.”

He’s fine.

He’s fine, fine, fine.

Is this what it will be like? If Castiel is to marry Dean, is this what he has to look forward to? The disappearing, the worry, the threats? He searches Dean’s face for the answers, but there are none. He had several meltdowns in the hours Dean was gone; can he do that for the rest of his life?

Instead of saying the words that need to be said, Castiel clears his throat and tears his gaze away from Dean’s startlingly green eyes.

"We should go before the soldiers start their march. No need to scare the villagers now that you have been found." He gets to his feet, mentally pulling himself together, rebuilding the wall around himself that keeps everything in. He is the Crown Prince, and no one, not even Dean Winchester, should get to see him as anything else. “Get dressed, and if you wouldn't mind, could you re-shelf the book? It's a first edition."

He does as Castiel asks, confusion flickering in his eyes, and for a moment, guilt filters into Castiel’s chest. He brushes it off, letting his anger sink back in.

"I'm sorry," Dean says, clambering to his feet and scanning the floor for his jacket and shoes.

"Here," Castiel says, holding out Dean's jacket, but when he reaches out to take it, Castiel pulls it away. Dean frowns, but Castiel cannot think about his feelings right now. He needs Dean to understand. "I know I asked you not to mention this place to anyone, but Dean..." He trails off as he shakes his head, the memories of that afternoon, of realizing Dean was missing, coming back to him with all the dread he felt at the time. "You can't just disappear. They told me you were missing and I just—"

Dean drops his hand back to his side and takes a step forward. He glances at his jacket, still clutched in Castiel’s fist, before meeting his eyes once more. "Cas, I'm fine. See?" Dean holds his hands out to both sides as if to show him he is unscathed. "I'm not in trouble. I'm not hurt—Cas, I'm okay."

"This time," Castiel says through gritted teeth, the force of his fear coming out before he can stop it, and Dean flinches away from him. "You're okay this time. We overreacted this time." Dean scowls, but Castiel is beyond holding himself back. He steps forward, poking a finger into Dean's chest as all logic disintegrates. He can feel himself unravelling. "I care  for you, as I do for all my suitors, but Dean, if something were to happen... What then?" Dean does not try to speak. He stares and stares and stares, mouth open just a crack, but no words come forth. “But what about next time? What about next time when I get—" Emotion swells in his throat, cutting him off, and tears start to well in his eyes. "What about when it's not an overreaction, Dean? What do I do when you're gone? What then?"

The guilt and shame that flood into Dean’s features almost makes him take the words back and apologize, but he still has the warning letter burned into his memory. He can still feel the lingering sense of dread deep in his chest.

"What is it?" Dean asks, tilting his head and dropping his hands back to his sides. A tear slips free, wetting his cheek, but he doesn’t brush it away.

For a moment, he almost tells him everything. I would be so easy to let the words fall out and carry his fears away. But when he looks at Dean with all his oblivious confusion, his easy trust, he simply cannot do that to him.

“What's happened that's got you so afraid?" Dean asks, and Castiel’s response is instant. Automatic.

"I'm not afraid.” It is a lie and they both know it. Castiel is always afraid.

"Don't lie to me, prince; I know you better than that." Dean takes another step forward until they are inches apart. Dean takes the jacket from his clenched fist, his eyes never straying as he slips it on.

Then, slowly, so slowly, he lifts a hands to Castiel's cheeks, taking them in both palms. Castiel could not pull back if he wanted to. As it is, the electric current flowing from Dean’s hands, into his face, is enough to stop him in his tracks. It’s almost painful, and every muscle in his body locks tight as more tears spill free.

He can feel the shift between them as his composure begins to crumble. Heat rises in his cheeks and all pretences fall away for just a moment. Dean holds him together with his touch, his thumbs brushing away his tears as he takes all the pain and fear and helplessness inside him. Dean doesn’t fix any of it, but as he stares into his eyes, he makes it all a little less scary. He makes Castiel feel a little less alone.

"My prince,” Dean says, a smile wrapping around the words. “I’m okay, and I'm here, and nothing bad has happened to me or the others. We're okay."

The last of Castiel’s tears fall, collecting in the spaces between Dean's fingers where he wipes them away, and a shuddering breath whooshes out of him, shaking his chest and easing the pressure on his heart.. He lifts his hands up to rest over Dean’s, feeling the chill seep from his bones against Dean’s warm fingers.

"You deserve the very this best life has to offer," he whispers, feeling every word and knowing, without a doubt, that they are true.

"You are the very best this life has to offer."

Castiel smiles, small and sad. He knows that is not true, and as he takes Dean’s hands from his cheeks, he can’t help but think that he is simply a man playing at something better. His title is nothing more than a disguise for the broken, cowardly mess that he knows to be at the heart of him.

When Dean’s hands slip out of his, he straightens up, squaring his shoulders once more as he wipes any evidence of his weakness from his face. He may not be the man Dean deserves, but he does know how to act the part of perfect prince. He has been doing it all his life, after all.

"We should inform the others that you've been found. Come." Castiel turns, heading for the door without looking back. He needs to get out of this room, back to his duties and the ordinariness of his life. He needs to forget that Dean was ever missing and just hope that it never happens again.

When he doesn’t hear Dean following, he stops, not daring to step back through the door, but listening as Dean puts his shoes back on. He is almost grateful for the moment to himself, and he soaks it in, closing his eyes as he takes a couple deep, soothing breaths.

Then, when he realizes what he just did, embarrassment sinks in. Heat rises in his cheeks when Dean eventually joins him at the top of the stairs. "I'm sorry," he whispers, ducking his head further as shame rises in his throat. "That was rude of me; I should have waited for you."

"Don't worry about it," Dean says, smiling like it really doesn’t matter to him. Dean looks him over, for once, everything he is thinking is clear on his face. "Sometimes, I think you're too selfless for your own good. Here," he says, taking a step down to meet him before reaching out to run gentle fingers through his wild hair. Castiel has been running his fingers through it all day as an outlet for his stress, and he can only imagine how it looks now.

He sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes falling shut as Dean smoothes his fingers through his hair, pulling at the snags.

God, Dean will be the death of him.

Castiel's eyelids flutter , then open, and his lips part on a sigh as he resigns himself to what he is about to ask. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself when it comes to Dean. "Dean, can I..." He looks around the stairwell, nervousness settling in as he holds out his hand, though he doesn’t know why. "Can I hold your hand?"

Dean looks at him. He just looks at him, and Castiel can feel the rejection come. He shouldn’t have asked. It was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He drops his hand and turns, deciding to pretend it never happened, but before he can get more than a step away, Dean’s fingers are wrapping around his, sending a blazing fire up his arm.

"Of course, Cas,” Dean says as Castiel’s gaze snaps to his. “Of course, I'll hold your hand. For as long as you'll let me."

"Oh my God, Dean!" Hannah shouts as they reach the main floor. Castiel holds back, folding his hands in front of him as she flings her arms around Dean’s neck. "We were so worried! Where were you?"

When Dean looks back at him, Castiel simply stares back, keeping his features impassive. He does not worry about Dean keeping his secret, but still, he watches closely.

"Around,” Dean answers as he turns back to look at Hannah. “I wasn't hiding, you know?" Hannah fiddles with Dean’s suit, running her hands over the wrinkles where his grip had creased it before moving on to his hair. It is a little much, if Castiel says so himself, but he doesn’t intervene. “I took a nap."

A soft, huffing laugh escapes him as he crosses the entrance hall, spotting Benny on the other side. “Call off the search,” he murmurs, not bothering to say anything more. Benny jerks his chin in a quick not before spinning on his heal to go in search of Russell.

"You took a nap?" Hannah snaps. Oh, she is angry. Castiel has been on the receiving end of that anger a few times, and it is in no way enjoyable.

"Yeah, I fell asleep; I was tired." Dean shrugs, and Hannah scowls, growing more and more agitated by the second, and Castiel can’t say he doesn’t understand.

"If you will excuse us, Hannah," Castiel says, interrupting her anger befoer she explodes. "I will take Dean back to his room; he needs to eat dinner and get ready for tonight, as do you."

Castiel leads Dean away with a hand hovering at his back, not bothering to look at Hannah as he race darkens to a deep shade of red. He appreciates how protective she is of him, but it is not needed. Not when his own simmering anger with Dean will do.

"What's her problem?" Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder when they are about halfway to his room. Castiel doesn't look at him because he knows what her problem is, and he can’t say he blames her for being angry. He is angry. He’s just trying not to take it out on Dean. "And you—what's your problem?"

"Nothing that concerns you,” he says, voice trembling more than he wants to admit.

"If you're pissed at me, I think it fucking does concern me." Dean stops, clearly want to have this argument where everyone can hear. Fine. So be it.

Anger burns hot in his stomach as he spins around, Dean’s audacity only fanning the flames. Who does he think he is? "You will be consulted about issues concerning the safety of the suitors when it is prudent and not a moment sooner." He keeps a tight rein on his anger, his voice steady as he advances on Dean. Anger colours Dean’s cheeks, rising fast, but Castiel doesn’t care. He is the Crown Prince. “Until then, be sure to let my guards know of your whereabouts, no matter what—"

"No," Dean says, cutting him off, and it stops Castiel in his tracks. Who the fuck does he think he is?

"Excuse me?"

"No," Dean repeats, gritting his teeth, and they are practically nose to nose when Dean takes another step in his direction. Tension crackles between them, thick in the air, and Castiel can feel every bit of it on his skin. “If you're going to get all pissy with me, and Hannah is allowed to know to be pissy with me, then I better well fucking know why, too!" Castiel’s jaw drops, his eyebrows rising as shock ripples through him. ”I don't care if you're the Crown Prince, Cas—you don't get to treat me like I'm too stupid to understand whatever it is you're not telling me."

With that, Dean leaves, brushing past him on his way down the hall. Castiel turns, watching his back retreat, but doesn’t follow, because Dean is right, of course.

And Castiel owes him an explanation; an apology he doesn’t know how to give.

“Anna,” Castiel says, knocking on her door before opening it a crack. He peeks inside, finding her at her desk with her computer in front of her. She has always been the most studious of his siblings, so absorbed in her studies that she hardly has time for anything else.

Except for him. She always makes time for him.

She turns, a sheet of red hair following as blue eyes meet his. “Castiel,” she says, a bright smile lighting up her features as she turns more fully in her chair. “I thought you would be busy all day.”

Yes, he supposes he should be, but seeing her always makes him feel better, and right now he needs that. Besides, he made her a bracelet today, and he has yet to give it to her.

“I found myself with a little bit of spare time,” he says, stepping into her room and closing the half of the double doors he opened. Her room is decorated in subtle shades of purple and sun bleached wooden furniture that lines the almost circular space. The desk she sits at faces the window that looks out on the far-off mountain range, and he knows the view is one of her favourite things about this room. “What are you working on?”

“Uh,” she starts, glancing back at her screen in that twitchy way most ten-year-olds have. “A paper about the rise and fall of the Durian Empire.”

Castiel nods, taking up the armchair near the desk that has been designated his for as long as Anna has allowed visitors. “I’m afraid I cannot help you with that one,” he says, pulling the jewellery pouch out of an inner pocket of his jacket. Her eyes flick to it immediately as he begins to play with it between his hands. “Dura’s history is not one I paid much attention to in school.”

“Is that for me?” She asks, staring hard at the small sapphire bag. The tips of her stalking-ed toes brush the carpet when she scoots forward in her seat, and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Perhaps,” he says, raising an eyebrow as she stands, lowering herself onto the floor in front of him like the youngest students in a public school do during a lesson, legs crossed and all. “I made it,” he adds, more than a little proud of himself for how it turned out. Ten three-carat sapphires alternating with a two carat diamond, each with a vivid shine. He had spent much of his time comparing the sizes of each gem, looking for the closest size matches, and he thinks he did quite well.

Anna’s face scrunches up. “You made it?”

“I did.”

She doesn’t respond, looking at him like he’s not serious. He raises his brows. “Do you not want it?” He loosens the drawstring and slips two fingers inside the bag to pull out the bracelet. The gems glitter under the lights, and an audible gasp slips from her lips. “Perhaps Hael would appreciate a homemade gift—”

“No!” She scoots up on her knees, then stands. “No, it’s beautiful.”

She holds out her wrist, and a sigh slips out of him as he fastens it. He barely gets it on before she has her arms wrapped around his neck, flinging herself into his lap in an uncharacteristic show of affection. Castiel sits there, stunned in immobility for a moment as his body revolts against the contact. It takes a few breaths to push back the feeling, and then he wraps her up in a tight hug. He lets his eyes fall shut as he soaks in the love.

"Hannah," Castiel says, his heart pounding in his chest, a steady thump, thump, thump that will surely drive him insane by the end of the rose ceremony. He can feel the smile on his face as she steps toward him, as beautiful as she has always been, and by all accounts, the perfect choice for his partner.

Castiel doesn’t let himself look at who he really wants, though. He knows exactly where Dean is, standing in the back corner where his father is determined to keep him, wringing his hands like he doesn’t know that it will give away all his secrets if anyone bothers to look at him.

By all accounts, Dean crossed a line in speaking to him in the manner he did, and he could be punished for it, but there is not a chance that Castiel will be doing so. Dean, for whatever reason, is the only person he knows that is willing to tell him off, and despite only just having met the man, Castiel respects that.

He wants more of it. He wants all of it.

He doesn’t glance at the two remaining roses as he reaches for the one nearest to him, pinching the thin stem between his gloved fingers. He scans the crowd, looking at every rose, as every face, but Dean’s.

Kelly, Joanna, and Dean stand empty handed.

Dean… well, Dean will be receiving the rose not in his hands, so really, the decision is between Kelly and Joanna.

Kelly is of a high pedigree with plenty of political connections. She is perhaps a bit shallow, and more than a little brash, but she would make a good queen with some refining.

Joanna is…

Well, she is Dean, but not. His mannerisms, his humour, his habits; she is Dean, but slightly to the left. It is unsettling, and it has nothing to do with her, and everything to do with his own messed up head.

That decides it, then.

"Kelly,” he says, watching her smile widen as she steps down from the platform with a skip in her step until she is standing in front of him. He doesn’t dare shift away, though he wants to when she steps a little too close. Instead, he forces a smile, makes a mental not to make this correction in her, and says, "Kelly, will you accept this rose?"

She plucks the rose from his hands with a laugh, barely managing to squeak out a yes before she is gliding back to her space among the suitors.

Castiel takes one breath, then two, before Duma speaks.

"The final rose," she says, and that is his indicator. He picks up the rose, twirling it between his fingers as his heart flips. Acid burns in his stomach; he hates this part. Upsetting others is an essential part of running a kingdom, and he should be used to it by now, but as Pamela so often lets on: there are parts of him that are still five years old and wanting nothing more than for his mother to tell him he’s good.

"This week..." He starts, but trails off, thinking about Dean. Thinking about the fiery, hard headed side of him he’s only just realized is there. He can feel the smile that twitches at the corners of his lips as he stares at the rose. “There is much I've learned about all of you. Three weeks isn't much time to get to know any of you, but I only pray it's enough to know I'm making the right decision."

Castiel takes a breath, letting the oxygen fill his lungs as he thinks about the next seven weeks. These ceremonies will only get more difficult as he falls for the others. He knows he will, of course; the lover of humanity that he is, but what he does know, what he has always known, is that Dean will be the last one to stand across from him and, hopefully, if he happens to be the luckiest man alive, tell him yes.

"Dean," Castiel whispers, feeling every bit of the breath that rushes from Dean’s lungs. He looks at the soft petals of the genetically altered rose, at the shorn thorns, unable to look at him yet. Not until he’s here and all that he will see.

Dean stops in front of him, their eyes meeting in the same moment, and he knows there is conversation in their future, but as he looks at Dean, the anger that was there before, sitting right up close to the panic, is gone.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown, but looks into Dean’s eyes for an answer he knows he won’t find. Then, he puts every ounce of apology he can into his voice and hopes it’s enough.

"Will you accept this rose?" He asks, because there is nothing more to say than that. Not when Dean is looking at him like he has all the answers to a test Castiel didn’t study for, and he’s not about to share his cheat sheet.

Then—

"Yeah, Cas." He nods, taking the rose from his fingers, and the pressure in his chest finally deflates. Seven more weeks, he thinks. Seven more weeks for Dean to fall.

Dean steps out of his field of vision and the spell falls away. There is Joanna, tears shining in her eyes, and his heart drops to his shoes. Their date went well, they had an excellent time, so why did he not see this coming? He has blindsided her.

She does not wait to be called forward, stepping off her platform and in front of him with an angry click of her high-heeled shoes.

"Can you tell me what I did wrong?" she asks, her voice trembling with every quiet word, and Castiel can actually feel the cameras on them. Panic trembles in his bones, claustrophobia clenching tight around his heart, but needs to answer. He needs to answers now.

"You did nothing wrong," he says, needing her to know that, if nothing else. "Joanna, please don't think you did anything wrong, or that you could have done anything to change this outcome."

Joanna nods, jerky and a little erratic, as her tears fall. She swipes them away just as fast as they come. "Okay,” she says, sucking in another sharp breath as her eyes flick from the floor to his face, then back again. “Thank you, Your Highness. Thanks for the opportunity."

She leaves.

Benjamin follows her, and Castiel tries not to think about the fact that he has to do this seven more times.

His suitors move, taking not even a moment to acknowledge Joanna’s pain, her sadness, before they celebrate that they are still here.

Champagne is brought out, handed to him, Hannah is at his side. The cameras are there, and he is so close to a panic attack he can almost taste it. Like metal on his tongue, acid in his throat. There’s a smile frozen on his face, locked there like if he just keeps smiling, just keeps pretending, and does not, under any circumstance, look at Dean, he can make it through this night without making a fool of himself.

"Here is to another week of getting to know each other,” he says, the words falling, rehearsed, from his lips. They raise their glasses high, and the cameras are there, and his heart feels like it’s going to explode.

He can feel Dean looking at him as he takes a sip of his drink, but his hands are shaking. His whole body is shaking.

He can’t stop shaking.

Chapter Text

Pamela sits across from him, feet tucked together in sensible shoes, and that’s where Castiel looks. The shiny black leather is the one plain thing about her, everything else is beads and tassels, brights yellows and deep browns. There is a hint of red in her headband, a flash of turquoise in her earrings.

She asked him a question, but he cannot seem to recall it. He should mention the letter he received, the threats to Dean, but the words refuse to form on his tongue, trapped behind the lump in his throat.

“Do you need me to rephrase?” Pamela asks in the calm, even tone of a woman who has been doing this longer than he has drawn breath.

“Please,” he says, clearing his throat as he shifts in his seat, straightening his spine and giving her his full attention.

“Do you feel that this competition will result in a fulfilling partnership?” She asks, and then he is thinking about Dean again. About the spark in his chest when Dean smiles, even when it is not at him. He thinks about April and her sophisticated presence; how she commands a room. He thinks about Sarah and her quick wit, and Michael, with his easy superiority. They are all good choices.

“I like to believe that fulfilment can be cultivated, rather than found,” he says, but he’s not sure he truly believes that either. Michael is abrasive, and Meg is brash enough to turn away any man, and Kelly looks at him as if he were a piece of meat.

Could he love them, with time? Could he find fulfilment with them?

“Ah, there he is,” Pamela says, a sarcastic grin on her lips as she leans forward and wiggles her fingers in a tiny wave. “Hello, Chuck.”

Castiel rolls his eyes hard enough to pull something, but he can’t deny that his father would say much the same thing, with almost exactly the same words, if not a slight but more condescension.

“Honestly, Castiel,” she says, tapping her pen against her jaw as she stares him down. “Tell me what you really think. Ignore your father’s voice for a minute, ignore what you should say, and tell me what you think.”

“I think,” he starts, but the words are still stuck. He swallows once, then again, trying to work up the courage to spit it out. He can’t. He can’t. “That fulfillment can be cultivated, rather than found.”

He is a coward, he knows, but he is a coward with a kingdom to run. He is a prince with millions counting on him. He is not afforded the privilege of fulfillment.

Castiel taps his fingers against the polished wood of the meeting table where he sits at the head, not quite listening as one of his father’s advisors discusses the merits of shipping more soldiers off to war. There is something wriggling in his chest, jittery and uncomfortable, and he is not quite sure what to make of it.

The word fulfillment has been turning over in his mind for the better part of the last three hours. What would that even look like? He lets himself think about it for just a second, to peek past the curtain for only a moment, before pushing the thought from his mind.

But still, he cannot focus, and his nerves will not settle as the droning buzz of the advisor goes on and on. He is still at odds with Dean, and that alone makes the idea of fulfillment seem as far away as freewill. As happiness.

There is little more that Castiel wants than a moment of peace in his own palace. As it stands, however, he will not be granted such a moment any time soon.

The halls are empty and echoing as he moves as fast and as far from the council chambers as he can. Three hours of tedium and he is ready to disappear into the forest, back to the lake without so much as a guard at his side.

He is not far from the safety of his apartments when another set of footsteps joins his in the echoing halls. His heart skips a beat, anxiety mounting, and he does a quick survey of the walls to see if there might be a passage to slip into, but there is nothing, and the footsteps are upon him.

“Your Highness,” Michael’s voice says, and dread trickles into Castiel’s veins. There would be no fulfillment with him, Castiel thinks, the thought filtering through his panic as a hint of a smile forms on Michael’s lips.

It might be handsome if it weren’t so cold.

“Mr. Haven,” he says, forcing calm into his voice as he slows to a halt by the arching window that looks out onto the dreary grey of the grounds. Rain has not yet begun to fall, but it is not far off, and it has him rethinking his desire to run off to the lake. “How are you?”

“Very well,” he says, waving a hand as if the question is no more than a nuisance, before his mouth reopens and Castiel’s worst nightmare comes into being.

The man starts to talk.

“I have been meaning to ask about the towels in my room. They are rather course and it would be nice to have a set that is not quite so much like sandpaper,” he says, looking past Castiel, rather than at him. “I have a set back at home—in Parin, you see, up in the hills—that are perhaps the best towels I have ever had the privilege of wrapping myself in—”

“Let me stop you,” Castiel says, holding up a hand, and Michael actually has the nerve to look put off. “I am not a servant, nor am I your personal sounding board,” he says, feeling the prickle of anger grow to a spark, then a flame. “I do not have the time, nor the inclination, to worry about the thread count of the towels in your bathroom. I do have a kingdom to run, you see.” He tries to smile to soften the sting of his words, but still, Michael’s face pinches up into something entirely unpleasant.

“I only thought that the comfort of your suitors would be of your concern—”

“You Highness!”

Castiel jumps, startled, but relief floods him when he finds April striding toward them, her red hair loose about her shoulders, an almost-smile on her lips. He takes the escape from Michael while it is within reach, only turning to Michael to offer a quick if you will excuse me, before meeting April halfway.

“Miss Kelly,” he says, never more grateful for her timing. “Perhaps a walk in the grounds?” She smiles, gives him a polite nod, and lets him lead her further away from where Michael still stands with what he is sure is a displeased look on his, admittedly, handsome face.

Benjamin holds the door for him, then April, as they pass into the dreary grounds. It is not quite raining, but the air is thick with humidity, mist clinging to his skin as they head off on the path toward the edge of the trees.

“Tell me about yourself,” Castiel says as he takes in the subtle shift of the leaves, their colour dipping out of rich green into a softer, more muted yellow. Autumn is closing in faster than he expects, and he is not certain he is ready for the change. The summertime is easier, less challenging for the people, and therefore, less worrying for him.

“What do you want to know?” April asks, forever the respectful, informed lady, and Castiel is grateful for it. It is one thing to speak with someone that is aware of the rules, but it is something else entirely for the person to live with the rules so entirely. It is freeing, in a way, and something Castiel feels his kingdom desperately needs.

For a moment, his thoughts flash to Dean in all his oblivion. The fumbling, the blushing and shy smiles and disappearing into the palace at any given moment. Dean not only does not know the rules, he disregards them entirely.

And yet…

Castiel pushes the thought away, turning his gaze to April as they swoop around the grounds to walk along the tree line. “Tell me of your childhood.”

“Well,” she starts, sucking in a deep breath as a soft breeze ruffles her hair. She smooths it back into place where it sticks, as if afraid to defy her. “I have no siblings,” she says, hands folded behind her back, one over the other, as leaves fall over their heads. “My tutors were thorough in educating me, and my father thought it best to teach me the ways of his business.”

Castiel nods. Her sharp senses and calm head would indicate as much even without hearing her say it. But that is not what he wishes to hear. “And your life outside of duty?”

She looks at him, perhaps too quickly, and so cannot hide her surprise. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth, but only barely. “Tell me about your first date,” he says, and it takes him only half a second to think that perhaps he should not have asked. He is the future king and such questions are personal. They are frowned upon and uncomfortable and he doesn’t know how to do this—

"Oh, my first date? I was sixteen, and he took me to a school dance." April grins just thinking about it, and Castiel relaxes. Really, there is no rule stating that he cannot ask personal questions of his suitors. That would be ridiculous, actually, and April doesn’t seem to notice his unease in the slightest.

"I would assume it didn't go well?" he asks, staring at the side of her face as amusement filters into his voice and his smile grows.

"Oh, no." April shakes her head, leaning closer, thought not close enough to touch. Strangely, he doesn’t feel uncomfortable with her nearness, and he takes that as a good sign for her future here. "I was his second choice, and as soon as his first choice's first choice dumped her, he forgot I exist." She shrugs, and Castiel’s stomach twists in an uncomfortable knot. He shoves it down and desperately fights not to think of Dean.

"Ignored you? Just like that?" They are coming up to the barracks now, the soldiers nowhere in sight, and Castiel lets himself relax a bit more. "I can't imagine anyone ignoring a lovely lady such as yourself."

April's laugh rings out in the damp air, soft and high and feminine. "You flatter me,” she says, a blush in her cheeks that makes him smile a little wider, a little more free.

"I'm serious," he insists, feeling a crisp breeze cut through his jacket as the sky darkens overhead. “You are one of a kind, and anyone who doesn't see that, is a fool." They are words, and they have meaning, but he is not sure that any of it is true for him. Sure, she is a good choice, but he wants to be a fool, because he wants to be with Dean.

Despite his anger and his fear.

They pass the barracks, mud squelching under his shoes, before he decides they have walked far enough and turns on his heel.

He looks up and his heart clenches.

Inhales, and his breath catches.

There’s Dean, right there, with his shoes hanging by the laces from one hand, bare toes sinking in the dirt, with his head tucked low as he hurries for the palace.

Castiel is ready to simply watch him walk away. They have not spoken since the day before and this uncomfortable sinking feeling settles in his stomach whenever he thinks about the fight they had. Letting him go is easier for both of them.

But then April speaks, and Castiel’s heart leaps into his throat.

"Dean, what're you doing out here?" Dean cringes visibly, his shoulders tucking up around his ears as he freezes where he stands. Castiel watches, transfixed, as Dean pulls himself together inch by inch, before turning to face them.

Oh God.

Castiel is not prepared for the way looking at Dean feels like a punch in the gut. It knocks the wind out of him, snatches the breath right from his lungs, and now he’s not quite certain he remembers what Dean has ever done wrong.

The tan has been zapped from his face in the dreary grey of the morning, and his lashes are long and wet and beautiful over green eyes that could send him to his knees. They just watch him, never flickering to April even once, and something about that has Castiel feeling so self conscious he could sink into the mud and never resurface, just to escape that stare.

Then, he looks away, clearing his throat as he says, "I, uh... I'm going for a walk." Dean shrugs, holding up his shoes as the pallor of his face shifts to a deep red flush.

"Without shoes?" April asks, startling Castiel into remembering her presence. He glances her way for just a moment as the undercurrent of judgment reaches his ears, but he doesn’t speak to correct her. He doesn’t know if it would be welcome.

Instead of answering, Dean just shrugs, and there’s something about the set of his jaw, the look in his eyes, that has Castiel opening his mouth before he can think better of it.

"I used to do the same as a boy,” he says, smiling wistfully at the thought of simpler times when he nanny was still alive and no one wanted him dead. “The grass feels nice between your toes."

As soon as he says is, he knows it was the wrong thing to say. Dean’s steely anger turns on him, and in an instant, he is reminded that, though he has lost his anger toward Dean, that does not mean Dean feels the same. Castiel swallows hard, feeling awkwardness settle between them. "We... we should be going," he says, softer this time, not wanting to draw any more anger from Dean, before leading April away.

Before they can step away, however, Dean gives them a curt nod and spins on his heel. Castiel doesn’t look after him. He wants to, that much he will admit, but he doesn’t. He needs to think of the future and who will fit into his pre-determined life, even if that is not what he wants.

So, with his head bent close to April’s as the rain slashes at their cheeks, he leaves Dean behind and heads for the palace.

And it hurts. God, does it hurt. But he is used to the heartbreak that comes with being the most powerful man in the world.

He leaves April in the entrance hall, preferring his own company at the moment, and heads to his quarters. Pamela gave his some sage advice today, which he had, at first, thought ridiculous. Find something that you can do alone. It should be soothing, something new. Try it.

“Benjamin,” Castiel says as he makes his way up the wide staircase. “Find me some paints and a canvas, please.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Benjamin says before peeling off in the direction of his sister’s rooms. Castiel doesn’t wait. He heads for the sitting room just off his bedroom, leaving the door ajar so Benjamin can find him.

The room is small and relatively empty but for a deep blue armchair facing the floor to ceiling windows that take up the entire western wall, looking over the grounds in all its dreary splendour. There is a bookshelf against the side wall, stuffed with volumes he hasn’t touched since childhood. They mean little to him now; all the books he truly cares about having been relocated to his tower.

Castiel lowers himself into the chair, staring out the window at the slate grey sky beyond. No birds fly today as the driving rain beats the earth. There is nothing to paint, really, but he has to do something to ease the jittery feeling in his bones.

Benjamin arrives with his paints, bushes, and easel shortly thereafter, setting him up before standing just outside the doorway as instructed. Castiel doesn’t need anyone looking over his shoulder when he does this. The painting is sure to be awful, but as he dips a fresh brush into the coin-sized dob of green paints, he reminds himself that it doesn’t matter. In this, perfection is not the goal.

With one broad stroke across the centre of the canvas from left to right, he starts to feel the calm he’s been searching for. It does not come all at once, but peeks in, hesitant, as if his body is not quite certain if it is allowed to feel this foreign emotion.

As time passes, however, and the canvas fills with blues and reds and greens and golds, the calm settles in more fully, sinking into his bones until he can’t remember why he was tense in the first place. The canvas is completely covered, with no identifiable image, but Castiel doesn’t care.

For the first time since before his fight with Dean, Castiel feels at peace.

The dining hall swells with the sounds of conversation as Castiel approaches the open double doors. He had debated taking dinner in his room this evening, but after his afternoon of painting, he is almost jovial enough to spark conversation, and so, here he is.

All chatter stops as he steps through the doors, Russell and Joshua on either side of him, but not even that bothers him tonight. He is feeling good, and that is no small victory these days.

“Good evening,” he murmurs, rounding the table to sit in the empty seat saved for him with Meg on one side and April on the other. Dean is not quite directly across from him, and does not acknowledge his presence with anything more than a brief glance. Castiel brushes it off and lowers himself into his chair.

There is a chorus of good evenings that follow, and with it, an awkward silence. Castiel has always hated this part. Whenever he enters a room, backs straighten, conversation screeches to a halt, and the lighthearted atmosphere shifts to something far more restrained.

He wastes some time settling his napkin in his lap and shifting his cutlery at the side of his plate, hoping the conversation will pick back up while he’s fiddling.

It doesn’t.

He swallows hard, glancing around, before taking a sip of water. What is he supposed to do? There are eight sets of eyes on him right now, all expecting something from him, and he’s beginning to wish he had dined with his siblings.

“How was your day, Your Highness?” Sarah asks, smiling at him with the kindness he has come to know her for.

“Well, thank you,” he says, feeling his shoulders settle as the tension slowly eases from him. “Yours?”

“Great,” she says, sipping her wine before continuing. “My father is having a party next month for his retirement; he told me about it on our call today.”

She carries on, telling him about the venue and catering they are planning, and he listens to every word as his dinner is served and the others fill their plates.

His tension eases and after a while, he settles into the conversation. Not exactly contributing, but listening, and he starts to think that he could get used to this. That perhaps it’s not so bad after all.

The night is cool and crisp when Castiel steps out onto his balcony. The stars shine bright and white in the sky against the black backdrop of the cosmos.

With both hands resting on the railing, he looks out over the grounds, trying to block out the noise of the kingdom at his back, but there’s no escaping it.

Still, it’s peaceful after the whirlwind of the day he had, and he soaks in the solitude for a few moments before Susannah arrives to get him ready for bed.

Castiel is startled out of his thoughts by the sound of someone far below. It’s dark, but when Castiel looks down, he can make out the shape of Dean in his enclosed garden, the side of his face lit up by the golden lamplight in his room.

He’s sitting on the bench, looking up at the stars, and for a moment, Castiel forgets all about his anger and fear, letting himself feel the affection for Dean that has been there for years. He watches as Dean tosses something into the air and catches in his mouth and imagines he’s down there with him, talking and laughing, falling in love.

For the first time in what feels like years, Castiel smiles for no reason at all.

Well, perhaps there is one reason.

Chapter Text

Castiel steps out of the double doors to the grounds early Sunday morning, letting the sun shine on his face as he breathes in the cool morning air.

It is excellent weather for a run, the just cool enough to keep him from overheating, and the sun is shining, but as Castiel steps into the grass, the ground squelches beneath his feet.

Normally, he would run anyway. He has yet to muddy something that the cleaners cannot un-soil, but as he looks across the grounds, he thinks of something better.

It has been so long since he has ridden Cookie, what with the new duties thrust upon him in the wake of his father’s illness and the arrival of the suitors. She is exercised daily, of course, but it is high time he got back to it.

With Russell at his back, Castiel crosses to the barn, his long strides carrying him quickly, before he can change his mind.

Cookie is waiting for him, standing at the front of her stall bobbing her head as he flips on the lights. “Good morning, beautiful,” he says in a soft whisper, crossing the clean dirt-packed floor, pausing only briefly to grab an apple on his way to her. “Fancy a run this morning?” He smooths a hand down her neck, feeding her the apple as he scratches behind her ear.

She whinnies, bobbing her head some more as Castiel turns for the tack room. He saddles her, taking his time to make sure the buckles are fastened properly and her bit sits nicely between her teeth.

“Come,” he says, leading her from the stall by the reins before sliding on his riding boots and swinging up into the saddle.

He rocks back and forth atop Cookie as they exit the barn, stepping into the sunlight. Russell stands by the barn doors, a resigned look on his face, and Castiel knows he doesn’t like it when he rides by himself, but he is also a trained solider, and he will ride by himself, dammit.

“I will be back in…” Castiel checks his watch. “An hour,” he says, because he knows how Susie hates to wait for him, but he also knows he needs some time to himself to think. To feel like a man and not the Crown Prince.

“Of course, sir,” Russell says, ever the professional, and Castiel gives him a curt nod before he clicks his tongue and tugs on the reins.

Cookie trots up the rolling hills toward the expanse of the grounds and the tree line in the distance. The grass is wet with dew and shiny, sparkling under the early morning sunlight, and Castiel takes it all in, sucking in a deep breath as a soft breeze ruffles his bedhead.

It is so simple out here. There are no suitors, no cameras, and no responsibilities. Just him and his horse and the open air.

So, with a nudge of his heel, he lets Cookie loose.

And she runs, unrestrained and free. Castiel holds on as tight as he can, tucking down behind Cookie’s head as she runs up one hill and down the next, kicking up dirt as her chest heaves between his calves.

He should have put on a helmet. He should have more protection. He should—

Castiel shoves the thought down, away, and rides on. The sun rises over the treetops to his right, and he ignores the sting of the early morning chill on his fingers as he grips the reins and pushes Cookie harder, faster. His thighs burn, chest heaving, but his mind is clear for the first time in weeks.

When a half hour has passed, Castiel slows Cookie to a stop. For a moment, he just sits there, patting Cookie’s neck as she catches her breath. Castiel tips his face toward the sun, tucking his hands in his armpits to warm them as he closes his eyes and breathes.

There are few moments in his life where he is able to slow down like this. Where he can think about his days from a distance, somewhat objectively, and try to come up with some semblance of meaning in all of it.

“What am I doing?” he whispers to no one in particular, suddenly overtaken by panic. He slides off Cookie’s back, falling into the wet grass with his arms over his head and his face to the sun. His heart is beating too fast, and he can’t breathe, and he thinks… he thinks he is having an episode.

Castiel closes his eyes, the sun shining red through his eyelids as he breathes in the earthy smell of decaying grass. He focusses on that, ignoring the beating of Dean Winchester in his heart. He focusses on the grass tickling his ears, the dew soaking through his t-shirt, instead of the roaring panic that’s been burning a hole in his chest since he received that letter.

He should send Dean home, get him out of danger. That would be the smart thing to do, the responsible thing, but he doesn’t know if he can.

Dean is… God, he’s infuriating. He’s reckless, and a little wild, and not nearly as civilized as he ought to be, but—

“Fuck,” Castiel whispers, shaking his head as all things Dean sink into his bones. Because he is all those things, but he is also brilliant, and funny, and the kind of adorable that feels once in a lifetime. And perhaps Castiel is just selfish enough, arrogant enough, to think he can keep Dean safe.

Castiel lets out a breath the moment his apartment door closes behind him. The sun shines through each of the full-length windows lining the outside wall, and Castiel lets the warmth touch his skin as he peels out of his clothes on his way to the bathroom.

He steps into the dressing room, doing a double take when he finds a malevolent set of eyes on him from the corner. Castiel sucks in a deep breath before letting it out in a slow, silent sigh. He doesn’t acknowledge her beyond the look, carrying through to the washroom for a shower.

“Thirty minutes!” Susie squawks, following behind him as he turns the shower on and waits for it to heat up. “That is how late you are.”

“Good morning, Susannah,” he says, stepping into the shower and closing the door behind him with a quick look back at her. He is aware of his lateness, but there is little he can do about that now. Or even as the time was running away, in fact, because that is what happens when he is having an episode.

So, here he is, late and not in the mood for a lecture.

“Don’t you good morning me,” she snaps, gathering her supplies on the other side of the glass door. Castiel turns into the stream, letting it slick his hair back and sluice down his face and neck, washing away the sweat and the dirt. “Winchester is sleeping in, and we all know that if he sleeps in once, he will want to sleep in a thousand times, and—”

Castiel blocks her out, closing his eyes to block out the harsh lighting. He shampoos, and soaps up, and rinses off, and Susie lectures the entire time.

It is seven o’clock in the morning and Castiel is already exhausted.

Castiel watches himself through the mirror as Susie knots his tie. He does not remember the last time he did it for himself. Surely, he knows how, right? He must, but for the life of him, he cannot remember the last time he did it.

“There,” Susie says, rushing through the finishing touches with a harried look in her eyes. “This will have to do; my other boy needs new suites.”

My other boy.

God, Castiel will never tire of hearing her say that. Dean is her other boy, the other one she loves. The other one she cares for. He is special to her, and she will take care of him. There are times, of course, when Castiel questions his own judgement in asking Susie to be Dean’s stylist, but this is not one of those times. Not when they are not on speaking terms.

Castiel blinks at himself in the mirror, bolstering himself up for the day. He takes stock, cataloguing his needs.

What does he need?

Breakfast, he thinks. He needs to eat, and he needs to find some coffee, and he needs—

No. He does not need to speak with Dean. He does not need to see Dean. He needs to see his family, perhaps his brother, Gabriel, and he needs to ground himself in reality.

He stares at the sharp lines of his cheekbones under the bright, overhead light. His father’s features, father’s eyes. His father’s hair before it went grey with age and stress. His mother’s height, her mouth, her scowl.

He is a perfect mix of the two of them, and yet, so different it is as if he is not theirs at all. His father is all bravado and quick, correct decisions. He is a king, through and through.

His mother is cunning and brilliant and sure of every choice. Despite her early years, she is meant to be queen.

And Castiel…

He fumbles through every decision, second and third guessing everything he does, and says, and is. He is not made to be king.

He is not made for this; he’s not strong enough.

Panic rises in his chest, clawing up his throat and cutting off his air. Both fists clenched at his sides, he squeezes his eyes shut and forces deep breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. He is almost certain that he is shaking, from his knees, right up his spine, into his fingers.

The future king does not have episodes. The future king is not someone like him.

Castiel swallows down the panic, forcing his mask of indifference into place. He does not have a choice in this. He will be king, for better or worse, and there is nothing else to it.

Susie is too busy packing her things to notice, and for that, Castiel is grateful. He hates when others see him break down, so he pull himself back together piece by piece.

“Do not mess up your hair,” Susie says, turning to shoot him one last glare, pointed finger and all, before she hurries from the room, her bag rolling along behind her.

“Alright,” Castiel whispers once she’s gone, staring himself dead in the eye as his voice shakes. He clears his throat and tries again, louder this time. “Alright.” With a quick jerking nod, Castiel steps off his pedestal and slips on his gloves.

Whether he is ready or not, he is the Crown Prince, and nothing is going to change that.

“Tell me about your studies,” Castiel says, sitting at the small tables in a sitting room off the corridor that leads to the screening room, Gabriel across from him filled with the kind of giddy excitement that Castiel only sees when they do this.

“Well,” Gabriel says, trying his hardest to use a knife and fork the way they are meant to be used as the waiter sets a tray of fruit and pancakes between them. He watches Castiel with a keen eye, making small adjustments as Castiel cuts his own pancakes. “I didn’t do so well on my science test,” he says, before his light brown eyes flash up to Castiel’s. “But my maths test went very well. My teacher says I am the best in the class.”

“That is wonderful, Gabriel,” Castiel murmurs, making sure to smile at his brother. To meet his eyes and listen the way he was never listened to. “Are you enjoying your new classes?”

Gabriel shrugs, then seems to catch himself. He straightens up, checks his posture, before nodding. “Most of them, yeah. And I do like science, I just suck at it.”

“I will speak with your tutor,” Castiel says, already mentally slotting a meeting into his busy schedule. “Another hour for sciences, and perhaps a we can discuss a trip or two.”

Gabriel gasps, excitement bursting from him as he all but forgets his table manners. “You and me?”

It breaks Castiel’s heart to hear it. “No,” he says, and hates the way Gabriel deflates with the single word. “Not with me. I’m sorry.”

Gabriel shrugs again, a single shoulder this time, and he doesn’t look at Castiel as he stabs at his pancakes. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

What is he supposed to say to that? Gabriel is correct; he should not have assumed that Castiel would have the time to take him around the world to learn about art and science and culture, but why not? Why not?

Gabriel is his brother, and he is only the Crown Prince. He should be able to go and do and see what he pleases, but he can’t. He can’t, because he is the Crown Prince with the duties of a king. He is not a free man, and he never has been.

Still, he cannot stand the sadness in Gabriel’s eyes. “For your birthday,” he says, grasping at straws; making promises he is unlikely to keep. “We will go somewhere special.”

“Just you and me?” he asks, perking up now as he spins the fork between his fingers. “No one else?”

Castiel swallows hard. He thinks of Anna. “Yes,” he says, hoping to all that there is that he can keep this promise without causing any more hurt. “Just you and I.”

“Tell me, then, what the plan is for keeping the suitors out of sight next Saturday?” Castiel says, annoyance trickling in as Mick speaks of events and parties instead of logistics and safety. What Mick thinks is that the suitors should be there, at the trial, and Duma, rightfully, thinks it is an absurd idea. “If you plan to cancel the outing, then how on earth do you plan to keep them away?”

Mick stares at him, dead-eyed and oblivious, his mouth hanging open as if he cannot possibly comprehend why having the suitors near the trial could be a bad idea. “It’s publicity,” he says, as if that mitigates the risk. “And it’s part of the life of a royal!” He continues, trying to sell the idea as if Castiel is not intimately aware of what is and is not part of the life of a royal.

“It’s reckless,” Duma says, snapping in Mick’s face to get his attention. “Making them witnesses puts them in danger of being on trial, themselves, especially those that don’t know what it means to attend a royal trial.” Her gaze shoots to Castiel’s, and he knows what she is not saying.

It would put Dean in danger.

“They’ll be fine—”

“No,” Castiel snaps, because if there is one thing he won’t do, it is put Dean in any more danger than he is already in. “Under no circumstance will the suitors attend the trial.”

“Oh, come on!”

Castiel does nothing more than look at him, steely-eyes and silent. He is aware of the effect he has on his subjects, and that effect can be seen now in the way Mick shrinks under his gaze.

“Another matter,” Duma says, her gaze moving from Mick to Castiel. “The favourite.”

“Who is it?” Castiel asks, his heart already skipping a beat before she even opens her mouth. He holds his breath, not daring to look away.

“It’s Dean,” she says, so neutral that Castiel has no way of parsing whether or not she is disappointed by the results. Perhaps she has no opinion at all. Perhaps it is only him that is bursting at the seams with happiness that the people love him.

No, he and Dean are not on good terms, but that does not change the fact that he wants the world to know and love Dean Winchester as much as he does.

Despite his earliness, the screening room is already filled with his suitors, and Castiel catches himself scanning the room for one in particular. Dean is not here, though. Not yet, and Castiel can’t quite brush off the disappointment that snuffs out his anticipation.

He nods to those who meet his eyes on his way to the chair set aside just for him. He could, of course, watch in his rooms or with his siblings, but he likes seeing his suitors when they are undone. They are more real like this, more human, and yes, they avoid him far more, but those who don’t are quickly winning favour in his heart.

“Your Highness!”

Castiel looks up and around, craning his neck to see who it is that called for him. Hannah, April, and Meg round the side of his chair, careful not to touch, but close enough that he can feel their body heat emanating off of them.

“I met your sister today,” Meg says, sitting on the arm of his chair only long enough for Russell to step forward, before she is standing again with both hands raised. “The redhead with the fancy dresses.”

“Anna,” Castiel says, fondness for the older of his two sisters filling him. “She is quite the pretty dress enthusiast, yes.”

“Tell me, Castiel,” Anna says, placing her hand on Meg’s arm as she leans in with a smile. “Who is her seamstress?”

“Well,” Castiel starts, but the words lodge in his throat when he catches sight of movement in the far corner of the room.

Susie hangs garment bag after garment bag on a rolling hanger, fiddling with her tools before glancing at Dean, who stands beside a waiting platform in nothing but a thin robe. Castiel watches the fabric shift around Dean’s bare knees, and heat sparks low in his stomach as his imagination gets the better of him.

He is almost certain that Dean is nearly naked under that robe, and it is a very real possibility that Susie will have him de-robe at some point during the screening.

A quick glance around the room reveals several others with their eyes on Dean, including Kelly, who has more interest in the appearances of the men around her than their personalities. Charlie is look at Dean, as well, a smirk on her lips that would make Castiel jealous if he thought there was anything at all between them.

Dean steps onto the platform at Susie’s prompting, and Castiel can’t look away. He knows it is coming, can feel the anticipation in his bones, but nothing prepares him for the moment Dean takes a deep breath and unknots the front of his dark blue robe.

It falls away, fluttering to the floor, and Castiel nearly chokes on his own tongue as the heat in his belly fans into a roaring fire. He snaps his head back around, staring at the screen as if it is the most fascinating thing in the room, but the image of Dean’s broad shoulders and narrow waist, his bow-legs and freckle-dusted chest, are burned into his memory.

God, he is beautiful, and Castiel doesn’t know how he will possibly get through the entire screening knowing Dean is no more than ten paces away, almost completely naked, looking like that.

Castiel forgets all about his conversation with the ladies, his focus solely on the screen as heat rises in his cheeks. He takes deep, calming breaths, forcing himself to think of something else, anything else.

But he’s so tuned into Dean that he would be hard pressed not to hear the sharp snap of Dean’s tone across the room. He jolts, ready to jump in when Susie snaps back, but knowing he cannot. Dean would not want him to, anyway, what with their unresolved issues and his tendency toward independence. He closes his eyes, sucking in breath after breath as Dean tells Susie to get out, something close to hurt underlying the rage in his tone.

He doesn’t know what the argument is about, but it is clear that they are no longer on good terms as Dean’s sandals slap against the bottoms of his feet on his way across the room. Castiel sneaks a glance to his right, peering around Hannah, who hovers at his side, and finds that Dean is beside Charlie now, his face pinched, nose turning up with distain.

Then, Dean’s eyes shift, they move, and Castiel looks away a fraction of a second before their eyes meet. His heart pounds, hands sweaty inside his gloves. God, he hates this. Being on poor terms with Dean has put a damper on the whole week, turning him into a bitter, panicky mess. It needs to end; he misses Dean.

Seconds pass, then minutes, until the suitors start to settle and the camera crew gives each other the go-ahead. They’re ready.

The swirl of sapphire and gold, the shows opening picture, fills the screen, the soft, classical music playing them in as the screen fades in from black, showing the vast expanse of the front of the palace. Flashes of mostly unused sitting rooms with ancient artifacts fill the screen before it switches to Duma, who smiles at the camera and clasps her hands in front of her chest.

“The Crown Prince embarks on week three of his quest to find love. This week His Royal Highness had quite the trials to contend with. Suitors going rogue, tempers flaring, and even harsh accusations against his own actions.”

Castiel frowns. He wasn’t aware of any complaints.

But Monday begins, and he is slapped in the face with the sight of he and Dean sitting together, heads bent together, on the far side of the dining room table. He’s smiling, all teeth, and it catches him so off guard that he sucks in a sharp breath.

Is that what he looks like when he smiles?

Something akin to longing settles in his bones, sadness swelling up alongside it. There’s an ache in his chest that he can’t shake, and he glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye, catching sight of his hunched form, curled in on himself across the room, the blue light of the screen highlighting his wide, glassy eyes.

God, Castiel misses him.

Then, because apparently the universe is punishing him, the first thing on screen after the commercial break is Dean’s perfect behind. His broad shoulders tapering down to his narrow waist, then into his round, perfect butt.

God, Castiel is a wreck.

This must be when Dean was wandering the palace. He is in the horrible orange suit Susie put him in on Monday, moving through hallways and rooms, craning his neck to take it all in. The camera follows Dean’s gaze, looking up at the ceiling, and it is a wonder the Dean made it back from that far into the palace. He must have been wandering for a while, exploring every corridor he came across, and part of Castiel loves the curiosity in him. Another part is terrified that it is going to get him into trouble sooner rather than later.

A twinge of jealousy flashes in Castiel’s chest when Kelly and Jo show up and a murmur goes through the room. It catches him off guard, twisting in his stomach as he scowls at Kelly on the screen when she places a hand on Dean’s arm. Jealousy isn’t something he expected to ever have to feel in this situation. He is the one they are here for, not each other, and the suggestion of anything to the contrary has his breakfast souring in his stomach.

Not that he questions Dean’s fidelity; it is the others he does not trust.

As the screening goes on, Castiel stews, not really watching, but never taking his eyes off the screen. Dean gets flour dusted, and for a moment, Castiel can’t hold in his smile. He remembers running into Dean that day, covered from head to toe in flour and smiling like nothing was wrong in the whole world.

Castiel’s heart aches, and he chances a glance in Dean’s direction, only to find him lost in thought, his eyes distant and unfocused as he hugs his knees to his chest, his robe falling open around him.

Castiel takes a slow, meandering look down Dean’s almost naked body before tearing his eyes away. Guilt settles sin, because even if Dean is sitting there without much on, that doesn’t give Castiel the right to look at him like he’s a piece of meat.

He shakes his head, a jerking motion that catches Hannah’s attention. From the corner of his eye, he can see her frown, but he ignores her, eyes locked on the screen as every bad thing he’s ever done enters his mind.

When Wednesday comes around, Castiel watches himself smile at Jo from across the table they share. He scans his own features as she speaks, searching for the moment when it occurred to him that she is nearly Dean in every way, but not quite.

But he’s smiling, and his eyes are soft and open. He sits with his back straight and his shoulders square, just as he had drilled into him from an early age, but there is nothing to give away his inner thoughts.

Did she really not know?

Castiel swallows, feeling guilt trickle back in as he ponders the implications of that. He has always assumed that his intentions are clear, but the further into this thing they get, the more he is realizing that he knows nothing of his own appearance to others.

He watches as she smiles, as she laughs, and then later, as she gushes over the date to Dean, so happy she is practically bursting. All Castiel can think about is how they are so much the same, and yet, so, so different, sitting beside each other on the screen in front of him. The passion is there, the rough edges and the bright smile, but they are not the same.

Dean does not see him as anything but a man. Sure, he is wearing a crown, but to Dean, that does not seem to matter. He is a person to Dean, not a stepping stone to a better life, or fame and fortune.

To Jo, he is someone to marry.

To Dean, he is someone to love.

He is reminded of this all over again as Wednesday is winding to a close. The Fan-Favourites are something he was not sure of, but with Dean continuing to win it, he must say it is doing wonders for his faith in his own choice to bring him here.

He is almost embarrassed to see his own beaming smile behind Dean, his face flushed with happiness that Dean’s name is, once again, called out as the favourite of the people.

He scratches at the seam of his pants where it runs up the inside of his thigh, a fidgeting movement that he hasn’t been able to shake in all his years of etiquette classes. He flexes his fingers, squeezing his hand in a tight fist before deliberately placing it on the arm rest. A soft breath filters through his teeth as he watches himself bring Dean a slice of pie.

"It's strange," April’s voice says, cutting over Dean’s laugh. "How much attention the prince gives Dean. He's alright, I guess, but it just makes you think, you know?" Castiel freezes, his whole being locking up as sickness burns low in his stomach. Is he truly that obvious? "What's so special about Dean Winchester?"

Everything, Castiel thinks, the word coming to mind before he can give it any thought. Everything.

The commercial break fades out, revealing Reginald’s narrow face and large, cloudy eyes. He does not smile, but there is a proud tilt to his chin as he says, "This orchard has been in the Novak family for nearly two hundred years, and my family has maintained them for longer." Over his shoulder, the suitors stroll between the trees, blurry shapes amongst blurry trees. "We grow all kinds of apples in every season there is and, make no mistake, the best apples in the world come from the Novak's, right here in Amarellino."

The footage shifts to the lot of them as they are released into the orchard, and Castiel catches just a glimpse of Dean’s back as he disappears into the trees with a basket clutched in his hand.

Castiel loves watching it again, knowing that Dean is at his happiest within the trees. It is a reminder of the happiness they may accomplish in the future, if they can get through the next seven weeks intact.

Castiel cannot help himself. He looks at Dean, finding him looking at the screen, but lost in thought, his eyes glazed over, still hugging his knees to his chest like he is protecting himself from something.

For a moment, Castiel watches him. He studies the dark smudges beneath his eyes, and the pallor of his skin. He looks tired, as if he has not slept properly in the three weeks since he arrived in the palace. Castiel would not doubt that that is true, what with everything that has been happening since then.

He looks back at the screen, tearing his eyes off of Dean before he can get caught, and refocusses on what is being said.

"It's been lovely so far, and the apple picking was neat. I have been here so many times, it's hard to count, but it's breathtaking every time." Hannah smiles, at ease in front of a camera; something Castiel has always envied. She speaks so easily, so freely, and he has always wished that he could accomplish that level of confidence.

"It's so good to see Castiel again, as well—"

Castiel blinks as the focus shifts off of Hannah, her smile falling, before the blur of the background shifts. The camera operator moves, the image bouncing around as they run, before it stops on Castiel.

"What do you mean, he's not back?" He says, and even he can see the panic in his eyes. It surges up again now, a phantom fear that something has happened to Dean, just as the letter threatened. "We're supposed to leave. Everyone should be done by now."

A streak of embarrassment rushes through him as he watches himself struggle to find a solution. He has never been good at task management, becoming overwhelmed by the options until he shuts down. Now, he looks at Dean again, but still, Dean stares straight  ahead.

"What would you like us to do, your highness?"

"He needs to be found," Castiel says, the slightest wavering in his voice, and he hates it. He hates it. "I'm going to find him."

"Your highness, I wouldn't recommend—"

The panic has taken over. That much, Castiel can see plainly, as can everyone else. He grips the armrests and tries not to let it take over now. You are weak, the voice in his head snaps, all teeth and claws and venom. He tries to block it out, but it is so, so loud as he watches himself spin on a heel and stride into the trees.

The cameras do not follow, but Benjamin does, and for that, Castiel is grateful. It is much easier to hold himself together with an audience, though the cameras make it infinitely worse.

The dissent shocks him.

He cannot expect the rest of his suitors to be thrilled about his leaving, but the sheer amount of complaining catches him off guard. In fact, it is so intense that anger boils in Castiel’s stomach even now.

Dean was missing and all they have to worry about is not getting a moment to speak with him? Have they no hearts?

"I'm sure he's fine. Dean is a grown man, and he can take care of himself. I'm not sure why Castiel thinks he needs to go after Dean himself, anyway; that's what guards are for." This coming from Hannah, who is well aware of the situation at hand with the threats, and Castiel feels a stab of betrayal at her words.

She is his oldest friend; he thought he knew her well, but it is clear, upon seeing her now, that he does not know her at all.

Castiel spends so much time deliberating over this new revelation that he misses most of the events of Friday, only refocusing on the screen when he catches sight of Benny as he and Sarah cross the entrance hall on their way back from their date.

A lump forms in his throat and he swallows back the bile that tries to rise, knowing what is coming as he watches Benny stop in front of him.

"Your Highness," Benny says, concern in his eyes, though he hides it from his features. "Winchester is missing again." He watches his own shoulders tense, remember the feeling that washed over him, the panic, as Benny looks from him to Sarah and back again. He remembers the thoughts that were running through his head, imagining Dean kidnapped or dead, lying in a ditch somewhere, or at the bottom of the sea.

Echos of panic come back to him now, choking him up, tightening in his chest until he has to close his eyes and breathe through it.

"Missing? You've looked everywhere?" On screen, he pushes a hand through his hair and scans the entrance hall for answers. He remembers telling himself that it was too early to panic. He remembers that it didn’t seem to matter how early it was; he was going to panic anyway.

"Yes, sir. Been missing since dinner—hasn't been seen since just after lunch. Miss Bradbury informed me he was taking a private walk in the forest when she last saw him."

"And you've searched the woods?" Castiel asks, because it would not be unlike Dean to wander off into the trees and get himself lost. Now, Castiel clenches his fists, fighting back the phantom panic like his life depends on it. It is like he’s right back there, Dean is still missing, and he doesn’t have an answer in the whole world.

"Of course, sir." Benny shifts, looking nervous, and Castiel watches as he looks from him to Sarah. Castiel should have excused her, he can see that now, but at the time, all he could think was this cannot be happening. "Your Highness, could this mean—"

"No, no." He is shaking his head on screen, and in real time, Castiel can feel his head twitching, trying to mimic the motion, but forces himself into stillness, a practice he has been exercising since he was quite young. "No, I—" God, it’s embarrassing how little he can keep it together. He is pathetic.

Then, he watches himself realize. Like a switch flipping, he knows where Dean is. "Take Miss Blake back to her room, then come back here."

He walks off, full of purpose, and Castiel cringes, knowing what comes next.

"I don't care if you're the Crown Prince, Cas—you don't get to treat me like I'm too stupid to understand whatever it is you're not telling me."

And Dean is right. God, is he right, and Castiel has been going about his days, forgiving him without realizing that it is not he who should be forgiving, it is Dean. He needs to apologize, and he needs to do it today.

He isn’t paying attention as the rose ceremony plays through, the same as normal, but he is snapped back into the here and now when Dean’s voice fills the room.

"It was hard seeing her get sent home, especially after how excited she was about her date on Wednesday. She didn't expect it at all, and I'm sure I won't either, when it happens, but..."

The footage cuts from her walking down the hall, to them hugging in the garden, smiles on their faces. Castiel doesn’t remember that; he doesn’t know what they are saying, but he can see that Jo is overjoyed. After their date, he would presume, but he cannot know for certain.

The video shifts from that image to the toast at the end of the ceremony, then to black, all with Dean's voice over-scoring it all.

"I don't blame Cas, obviously—I can't even begin to understand how hard this is for him—but she was blindsided, you know?"

Castiel cannot help it. He looks at him, pulled in by some sort of gravitational for far greater than himself.

But, when he finds Dean among the suitors, he’s standing. He leaving, his robe slung over his arm as he heads for the door. Castiel is on his feet before he can think to move, panic driving him, and he just manages to grab hold of Dean’s arm before he steps out of the room.

"Dean,” he whispers, his voice nearly breaking, but Dean jerks his arm free, shooting him a withering glare that breaks his heart, before he hurries out of the room.

Castiel doesn’t know what to do. What is he supposed to do? This cannot go on any longer; he needs to make this right.

Castiel follows him.

“Dean!” He shouts, desperate now, but Dean ignores him and, fuck, Susie is already there. Castiel is going to lose his chance, and he is not sure when there will be another.

"Dean," Susie says, but Dean is ignoring her too as he opens the door to his room, clearly distraught, but Castiel needs to speak to him first.

"Dean, can I just—" he tries, his voice shaking, and he hates that he is so weak. He should be better at holding himself together. At saying the right thing at the right time to make things better.

"Me first," Susie says, holding a hand up to his chest, but Castiel isn’t looking at her. He stops, he doesn’t let her touch him, but he is only looking at Dean, who faces him with tear-stained cheeks and puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

This is not the time, he thinks. Not when he does not have the words right. Not when it looks like he is the last person Dean wants to see.

He steps back and Susie shuts the door between them. He will let them fight it out, and soon, perhaps tomorrow, Castiel will make things right.

For now, thought, he lets his forehead rest on the wall beside Dean’s door and closes his eyes.

He is just so, so tired.

Chapter Text

It has been three hours now, wide awake, and yet, he is exhausted. There is not an inch of his ceiling he is not familiar with, and Castiel is tired of staring at the tiny flakes of paint that run along the seam where the vaulted ceiling meets the wall.

With a soft sigh, he rolls out of bed, too restless to sleep. If he must be awake, then he is going to make the most of the time.

Castiel shrugs into his robe, the soft cashmere warm against his skin and he slides into a pair of slippers before stepping into the dark, empty hallways of the sleeping palace.

Russell stands outside his door, hands folded in front of him, his eyes glazed over, unfocused, before he comes to attention the moment Castiel pushes open the door. “Your Highness,” he says, shock flashing in his eyes before he suppresses it. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Castiel says, pulling his robe closed and tying it in the front as he looks one way down the corridor, then the other. “I cannot sleep.”

“Do you have anywhere in mind?” Russell asks, following at his back as Castiel makes his way out of the residential portion of the palace.

“I do not,” Castiel murmurs, tucking his hands in his pockets as he takes the walk at a leisurely pace. Then, he pauses, standing at the top of the stairs that lead to the entrance hall. He turns to the wall at his left, staring at the seamless door he knows to be there.

There is no reason for him to walk the secret passageways; he is the prince, allowed to walk the palace any time he wants, but there is something about passing by unknown that appeals to him now.

“Actually,” he says, and heads for the door. The wallpaper blends seamlessly over the crease, but Castiel knows the door from the painting of the golden vase hanging on the wall. He used to stare at the empty, gilded vase for hours, something about it unsettling his young mind.

After years, though, it just reminds him of himself. All decoration, no substance.

Shaking the thought away, Castiel slides his palm along the seam, searching for the divot where he will release the latch and allow himself entry into the abandoned servant passage. It should be right around the edge of the frame…

There.

The door shifts inward, allowing Castiel to push it the rest of the way open, and he steps inside, allowing Russell to follow before they shut themselves behind the wall. It is dark in these hallways, the lamps that once illuminated the narrow passageways having long since burned out, but Russell, the professional that he is, comes prepared.

He clicks the end of a flashlight, lighting up the lane for a good ten feet in front of Castiel, the warm glow almost fire-like as it fills the space. Castiel takes the flashlight with a nod of thanks, before his wondering begins.

He has no destination, only a desire to walk with his thoughts, moving in silence as he contemplates what to do next. He has messed up beyond comprehension with Dean, and though he is certain he can make amends, what he is not certain of, is that Dean will ever trust him in the same way as he once did.

Either way, Castiel needs to apologize. Dean deserves that at the very least.

“I don’t suppose you would want to tell me where we are going?” Russell asks, forever the planner, and Castiel supposes that is what he pays the man for, but right now, it is the last thing he wants.

“No,” he says, and leaves it at that, because he does not know, and something about the not knowing, about the not planning, is more soothing than any strict schedule and ironclad routine ever could be.

I needed this, he decides. Needed to wander in his home just as he did as a boy. To take up the space, to have no aim, no end goal. Just to wander where no one can see him; where no one can question him.

Russell sighs, the sound nearly swallowed by the darkness, but it is silent except for the their footsteps, and so he hears it as a whisper of air. Neither of them says another word, though, and for that, Castiel is grateful.

He lets his mind shut down and just exists for the time being, walking through his palace, a ghost to the living.

The wait for Susie is a long one, but Castiel spends the time with a cup of Dosta coffee, strong and steaming hot to keep him awake for the day to come. He sits on his balcony in one of the wrought iron garden chairs, facing the western forest as the sun sends its feeble morning rays over the palace. Dew coats the balcony floor, chilling his bare toes as he wraps his robe tighter around his shoulders and sips his coffee.

Rain is forecasted for later in the morning, but for now, the clouds roll in slowly, peeking over the treetops to the west, a looming threat to his perfect morning.

Still, Castiel takes what he can get.

It is these small moments, tucked between the chaos of his life, that settle him. He takes them where he can, closing his eyes to soak in the world around him, the quiet of the morning, until Susie comes along to shatter it.

“Up, up, Your Highness!” Susie shouts, the sound of his door swinging open sending his mood plummeting off the balcony. He scowls, but doesn’t open his eyes just yet, clinging to the peace of the morning for as long as he can. Her stomping footsteps move through his room from one side to the other, over to the bathroom, then back to the bed, before the footsteps stop.

“Castiel,” she snaps, and he can just picture her, hands on her hips, feet spread wide as she stares through the glass of the door at him. “We don’t have time for you to sip tea in the sunshine.”

“It is coffee,” he murmurs, ignoring her for thirty seconds more as he sips it to the dregs. Then, with a heavy sigh, he forces himself to stand.

“Come, come,” Susie says, waving him forward with a harried look about her. “We don’t have all day.”

“I could take all day,” he says, passing her on his way to his dressing room, setting his mug on a small table by the window and leaving her behind. “If I please.”

“You are insufferable,” Susie says, muttering the words under her breath as she follows him to the dressing room. Castiel strips out of his robe, hanging it on the back of the door as he steps up on the platform, facing the mirror as Susie bustles around, huffing and puffing as she disappears into his closet.

Castiel, for his part, strips down to nothing and waits. He stares at his naked body. At the scar that runs from his hipbone, around to the bottom of his left buttock where a sword sliced him open in battle. For a moment, he thinks about tracing the raised skin with his fingertips, of following the path it leads, but there’s an ache in his flesh. A tenderness still that prickles with even the threat of contact, and he lets his hands fall to his sides.

“Which will it be today?” Susie says, holding up two suits. One in a charcoal grey, and the other, a soft, robin’s egg blue. Castiel doesn’t much care which she chooses, so long as she does it soon.

He is tired of looking at himself. At all that he is, and all that he is not.

Around the table, seven of his suitors sit, all glancing his way, looking for conversation where he does not have it to give. He watches the doors instead, waiting, waiting, for Dean to arrive.

He does not. Not for a long, long time.

When he does enter, it is late, and Castiel is nearly finished his breakfast. Dean sits between Sarah and Kelly, not speaking. He puts a meagre amount of food on his plate, never looking up as he forces himself to eat.

Castiel watches him, pretending to listen to April, who is discussing the success of her charities. He is closed off, hunched in on himself as he chews slowly, a blank look in his eyes.

"I'm supposed to meet with my stylists to get fitted for some new dresses, would you want to join me? It could be fun to get your opinion,” Kelly asks him, and Castiel cannot think of something he would like to do less. Still, politeness is a necessity, and he offers her an apologetic smile.

“I have much to do today,” Castiel tells her, despite the considerably short list he has one his desk and his plans to find Dean and apologize later. “Though I am certain you will look wonderful in anything your stylist chooses.”

He turns away, cutting off anymore opportunities for her to argue, and looks back to where Dean sits, eating what little he has put on his plate.

Castiel opens his mouth to call out to him—he does not know what he plans to say, but he wants to speak to him all the same—but he is interrupted before he can get any words out.

“Your Highness,” April says, her hand hovering near enough to his so that the can feel the heat radiating from her palm, but she doesn’t close the distance, and Castiel slips his hand beneath the table. “Would you be willing to discuss your charities with me at some point? I have been trying to find some new ideas…”

Castiel’s attention wanes as he glances back in Dean’s direction, only to find him pushing back from the table, wiping his mouth with a napkin and shooting April a smile before he turns to leave. He ignores the look April is giving Dean.

Castiel’s heart constricts, an ache building behind his rib cage as Dean walks out of the dining hall without so much as a backward glance in his direction.

This is your chance, he thinks to himself, his whole body tensing as if preparing to stand, but he cannot just leave. Not yet; that would be beyond rude, and besides, he can find Dean later today.

For now, he turns back to April and tries to focus on what she is saying.

“Russell,” Castiel says, walking away from the dining hall with an itchiness beneath his skin that needs to be taken care of now.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he says, keeping pace as Castiel moves, not entirely certain where he is going, but knowing he must go somewhere.

“Where is he?” He doesn’t have to clarify; they both know who he is referring to.

“On the grounds,” Russell says, and Castiel turns in the direction of the exterior doors. “Taking a walk with Benny, I hear.”

“I would imagine Benny is none too pleased about that,” Castiel says, letting himself smile at the thought of the guard out in the pouring rain, walking slowly behind Dean, who loves to wonder more than anything in the world.

“Do you imagine I will be pleased about going out in the rain?” Russell says, and Castiel rolls his eyes despite Russell being behind him and unable to see.

“Stand by the door.”

With that, Castiel pushes through the glass double doors and steps out into the rain. It comes down in icy slashes, soaking through his suit in seconds as he blinks the droplets out of his lashes.

A smudge of bright yellow stands out against the grey of the afternoon, Dean’s umbrella, bobbing as he walks along the paths, followed by Benny.

Castiel’s heart skips a beat as butterflies turn to bees in his stomach. Dean is angry with him, and despite how much Castiel loves to see him, Dean surely will not feel the same. Before he can talk himself back inside, he crosses the grounds, marching onward despite Russell’s post at the door and the downpour currently turning the ground to slippery mud.

“Dean!” Castiel calls, but his voice is carried away on the wind, judging by the way he does not react. Castiel lengthens his stride, hurrying to catch up. “Dean!”

Dean stops, but does not turn around. His shoulders tense, his hand tightening on the umbrella, but otherwise he gives no indication of having heard him.

"Dean," Castiel pants, slipping in the mud and most certainly ruining his shoes as he reaches Dean, who turns to look at him, lips parted and eyebrows raised in surprise. "Just... one second, please,” he says, bending double to catch his breath, hands on his sodden knees as water drips from his lashes, off his nose, and between his parted lips.

When he catches his breath, he straightens up, looking at Dean for the first time since calling out to him. Their eyes meet and something flutters in his chest, sending his heart thudding out of control. Lord, he is doomed. Just a glimpse of those stunning green eyes has him in shambles.

His stomach clenches as he watches the shock on Dean’s face shift, part by part, into something harder. Something colder. The surprise morphs into anger, with furrowed brows and a hard set to his jaw.

Still, Castiel reaches for him. He grabs his arm, because they cannot do this in the rain. He looks over his shoulder, back to where Russell is waiting for them, and says, "We need to go back. I need to speak with you."

"No!" Dean snaps, pulling away from him like his touch burns, and Castiel nearly gasps at the hurt it causes. Deep down in his chest like a scab being ripped from a wound, and he doesn’t know what to do. He has never had someone so vehemently angry with him before. He takes a few steps back, regarding Dean with no small amount of confusion. Does he not understand that Castiel is here to apologize? Does he not know that they will both catch a cold in this weather?

"No, I'm staying here,” Dean continues, looking Castiel up and down like he cannot believe he would suggest otherwise. “I like it outside, and I'm not going back."

"Dean—" Castiel tries, but Dean cuts him off, his cheeks flushing, even in the cold of the day.

"No, Cas. I'm tired of whatever bullshit you've got going; I told you that, and it hasn't changed, so, no. Tell me what's going on, and why everyone's treating me like a fucking flight risk, or I'm done."

Shock ripples through Castiel, filling him with a cold flood of adrenaline, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at Dean as panic surges in with icy fingers, wrapping around his throat. Dean cannot leave. No, he mustn’t.

"I-I..." Castiel shakes his head, blinking the water from his eyes as searches blindly for the answer to all his problems. "Dean, I—" He shakes his head again, desperate to clear his thoughts, but Dean is turning away again. Castiel is losing him and he doesn’t know what to do.

Dean shoulders past him, bumping right into him, and heads for the palace as if he means to leave now. Right now, and the panic burns hotter, blazing up inside him and cutting his breathing short.

"Dean—wait!" He shouts, desperate and panicked and so damn pathetic, it is a wonder anyone would think he could one day be king. His hand is on Dean’s arm, pulling him to a stop, and he doesn’t remember putting it there, but there it is. Here they are, on the edge of something, and the words are on the tip of Castiel’s tongue, ready to spill out into the space between them.

And Dean will not look at him.

“There have been threats," he whispers, his fingers flexing on Dean’s arm, tightening at his elbow, because he should not be saying this, and yet, there is nothing else he can say. Nothing else that will get Dean to stay. Dean’s eyes snap up from his shirt, catching on his. Holding. "A letter,” he continues, and real fear filters into Dean’s eyes. This is why he kept it to himself. “It came in Wednesday, just after the fan-favourites were announced."

Dean’s breath hitches, eyes going wide, but he doesn’t speak, so Castiel continues.

“Threats against you and the others. There are people who think their opinions mean more than my own, and there's the potential that the group of you could be targeted."

Something stricken moves into Dean’s feature, and Castiel can nearly read his thoughts right off his face. He answers the unasked question in his eyes. "At this time, there is no indication that anyone's families are in danger. At this time, we're not even convinced anyone is in danger, but we're not taking any risks."

Dean shifts, moving from foot to foot as he considers this. "So, why...? Why were you pissed? And Hannah? Why is she—"

Guilt swoops in hard and fast, and Castiel sags under the weight of it. Another thing he has done wrong in a list of about a million. All the air leaves him in a shuddering exhale, all his fight gone, and he is just so, so tired.

"I forget, sometimes, that you come from a different place,” he says, speaking only the truth now, because it is what Dean deserves. “You haven't had to deal with threats to your life because of politics and business deals, and it's so easy to think of you as... as an equal. You're different than us—you're..." He shakes his head, cutting himself off as sadness fills him, but he forces a smile nonetheless.  You’re special. You are light and goodness. You are everything.

He doesn’t say the words. Somehow, he is certain they will not help his case.

"Hannah forgets it, too, and it's not fair to you,” he says instead. “You did nothing wrong, and I blamed you anyway; I'm sorry for that, Dean. I can't apologize for Hannah, but from the deepest part of my heart, I'm sorry."

Dean’s breath catches, and Castiel’s heart trips as the anger melts out of Dean’s features and his shoulders relax. He stands there, though, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as he stares into Castiel’s eyes.

But he’s not saying anything, and his silence slices into Castiel like a hot knife. Has he already made his decision, then?

His composure cracks, splinters, and falls away, leaving him with nothing but panic. Nothing but hurt and insecurity and deep, aching sadness. Somehow, he musters up the courage to whisper “Will you stay?" His voice cracks, though, shaking out of him.

Dean doesn’t answer with words, but his eyes meet Castiel’s, holding him in place as a resolve settles over him. He steps closer, and Castiel’s breath hitches, the rain cutting off as Dean tucks him under the edge of his umbrella.

A smile edges its way onto his lips as Dean’s message becomes clear. Relief washes over him, and he moves closer still, soaking in the heat that radiates off of Dean’s body.

Their breaths mingle in the cool afternoon, noses nearly brushing, and Castiel almost forgets himself. Almost kisses him then and there, with his hand still clutching Dean’s arm and Dean’s lips parting as he enters his space.

Lord, he is beautiful. A heartbreaker, one might say; so handsome he is almost painful to look at.

Still, Castiel cannot bring himself to look away.

The smile clings to his face as he leaves Dean at his room and heads for his own. He is soaked through to the bone, shivering and nearly blue from the cold. Still, he is giddy with happiness, the warmth of Dean’s presence clinging to him as he ascends the grand staircase with Russell at his back.

“Could you call Susannah?” Castiel asks, glancing over his shoulder as water drips off his chin.

“Already have, Your Highness,” Russell says, a quiet little smile on his lips as he shakes his head, lost in thought. “She was none too pleased.”

“I can’t imagine she was,” he says, letting Russell open the door that leads into the residential portion of the palace, before passing through into the quiet hallway. He is less than concerned though. Dean is staying. He apologized and Dean is staying. Nothing else matters at this moment in time.

Castiel closes his bedroom door behind him, leaving Russell in the hallway. He toes out of his soggy oxfords at the door, peeling his socks off his wrinkled feet before crossing the room. He drips like a wet rag, all over the floor on his way to the bathroom. He will have to call for someone to clean up the water, but for now, he pushes the thought aside.

Dean forgives me, he thinks, those three words playing on a loop in his mind as he tosses his socks in the hamper, his jacket, waistcoat, and button-down following.

Dean forgives me.

He slips the leather strap of his belt through the belt loops of his trousers, pulling it free as he ponders the future.

He needs to figure out a system for communicating with Dean. They cannot continue down this path of miscommunication and anger. They won’t survive it, and in fact, Castiel won’t survive it. He does not know what he would have done had Dean actually left the palace today.

Across the room, he watches himself in the floor to ceiling mirror, his muscles shifting under pale skin as he unbuttons his trousers and pulls them down, the thick material sticking to his clammy skin.

It shocks him, sometimes, that he is human; that he feels cold and gets ill and injured. He is the future king, after all, and the prevailing opinion is that he is more than human. That he is a pseudo-god, and when one hears the words repeated enough, it is hard to believe anything else.

But he is cold.

Freezing, in fact; his lips are blue, his skin pale as his teeth chatter out of control. He should shower before Susie arrives. He should at least dry off…

A sigh whooshes out of him, his chest deflating as he looks at his naked body in the mirror. His scar stands out against the blue tinge of his skin.

He brushes his fingertips against the scar, a shudder rolling through him when he does.

Shower, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut as he clenches his hands into fists. He needs a shower.

Tearing himself from in front of the mirror, Castiel steps through the door into the bathroom, ignoring the mirrors there as he cranks on the water and lets the steam fill the large room.

Dean forgives me, he reminds himself as he stands just outside the walk-in shower. Dean forgives me. It is something to cling to as he struggles against the self-loathing that tries to consume him every time he looks at his scars.

Dean forgives me.

Castiel steps into the shower, letting the stream wash away his pain.

“What is wrong with your face?” Susie asks as she knots Castiel’s new tie, glancing back and forth from his face to her hands.

Castiel scowls, confused, and it is only then that he realizes he had been smiling. Thoughts of Dean drift in and out. His closeness in the grounds. The heat of him, the comfort he felt at Dean’s nearness. All of it coalesces into a wave of happiness that just keeps crashing over him. The giddiness from earlier is back, and Castiel basks in it.

“Nothing is wrong with my face,” he says, careful to keep his scowl firmly in place as he breaks eye contact.

“You are lying to me,” she says, giving him a suspicious look that he chooses to ignore. He is the Crown Prince; he does not need to explain himself to her.

“If I am, that is none of your concern.”

Susie sighs, shaking her head as she smooths out his lapels, but does not push the issue. Vaguely, he wonders if he were Dean, if she would push it. Would she give him that look and force the information from him with cutting words and unrivalled persistence? Would she dig and poke and prod until he gave in?

He will never know, because he is not Dean. He is the Crown Prince and his secrets are entirely his own.

“Where is Dean?” Castiel asks, both Joshua and Benjamin at his back as they leave the residential hallways and enter the more public areas of the palace. He has been itching to spend more time with Dean, and there are still a few hours left before dinner, which allows him plenty of time to both spend time with Dean and a few of the other suitors.

Behind him, Joshua speaks quickly and quietly into his radio. “He is in the theatre watching a movie with Miss Bradbury.”

Perfect, Castiel thinks. He can spend time with both of them while appearing to be interested in the film. Perhaps he can even sit beside Dean. He could bring snacks and drinks. Dean will smile up at him, like he used to before their fight, and it will have Castiel’s heart skipping in his chest like it always has. They can get back to normal and—

“Your Highness.”

Castiel’s heart sinks at the sound of Russell’s voice. He is not on shift right now. The man should be in his own quarters, getting some rest. The fact that he is here can mean only one thing, and Castiel snaps his head around to look at his head of security.

“What is it?” he asks, changing course to meet Russell halfway down the long hallway. “What has happened.”

“You are needed in the conference room at once.” Russell doesn’t show even a twitch of emotion, his features steady, impassive, and Castiel tries not to panic.

“Of course,” he says, and lets Russell lead the way. His stomach twists with nerves the whole way, every possible thing that could go wrong flashing in his mind as Russell holds the door to the conference room open.

Around the conference table, the king’s advisors sit, speaking all at once to everyone at once. Castiel stands at the head of the table, watching them speak over one another. He picks up on conversations bit by bit, and what he comes up with is that Dura is doing what Dura does, but to an alarming degree.

“Someone get me a phone,” Castiel snaps, dropping into his seat as all twenty of the men and women scramble to do as he asks.

“Who are you calling?” Gibson asks, the first to get him a phone, and Castiel doesn’t bother looking at her as he dials a number he has never had to call before.

“The king of Dura,” Castiel says, bringing the receiver to his ear as he stares across the table into the middle ground. “My grandfather.”

“Chuck,” his grandfather, King Harrison James the fourth of Dura, answers, his voice cracked and aging, but smug as anything. There has been no reason for them to have any contact until now, considering his mother’s bastard status and her father’s anger over her stealing her legitimate sister’s title. “To what do I owe this intrusion?”

“We have never met,” Castiel begins, leaning back in his chair to look at the ceiling as he speaks. “My official title is His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Castiel James Charles Novak, Duke of Anderass and heir apparent to the Amarellinian throne, but you may call me Castiel. Or grandson, if you so choose.” Castiel smiles at the last bit. He has never had a grandparent before.

“I see,” the king says, and Castiel is not imagining the shock in his voice. There is a long pause, and around the table, the advisors sit on the edge of their seats, all eyes on him to see if they will be going to war with Dura or not. “Well, Castiel—grandson—I see you have inherited something of me. Your father is much too cowardly to call.”

To that, Castiel says nothing. He would love to deal with this in a cordially manner, without threats of war, but they both know the Amarellinian army is vastly superior to Dura’s, and any attempt on their borders will be met with a swift counter attack. These threats are purely for attention.

The king, Castiel realizes, as something he wishes to say.

“What is it you desire from the royal family?” Castiel asks, motioning to Russell for a piece of paper and a pen.

“What makes you think I want anything from you?” he says, his tone turning mocking, and he can hear his mother in it, no matter how little time she spent in his presence in her childhood. “You are the one who called, after all.”

“Threats of war are not taken lightly,” Castiel says, keeping his tone as even as possible, but he has been to Dura. He has fought on the front lines of their war, seen blood and death and pain as the world around them burned. Does he truly wish to disrupt the tentative peace they have established?

“I want your soldiers pulled out of my kingdom,” the king says, cutting right to the chase now, the humour dropping from his tone. It goes cold, calculating, and a lesser man might be intimidated, but Castiel was birthed by a Milton. He knows how they operate.

“Of course,” he says, scratching down a note on the pad of paper Russell provided. “Just as soon as you turn over your weaponry and sign a nonaggression treaty with us, we will be glad to do so.” Honestly, Castiel would love to pull their troops back, but they cannot risk Duran civilians raiding the border towns just because their king won’t provide for them.

There is a pause, then— “Tell me about yourself, Castiel,” the king says, and it occurs to Castiel that he doesn’t even know the man’s first name. How has he missed it all these years? Sure, his mother does not speak of her father, but he is certain he must have heard it in a briefing here or there. “Your quest for a partner is all anyone talks about over here.”

“I would rather we keep this professional,” Castiel murmurs as his heart skips a beat. Of course, he is aware of the fact that the show is being streamed worldwide, but somehow, it never occurred to him that their enemies would watch it as well. It opens up an entirely new box of issues.

“You have some lookers, I must say,” he adds, smacking his lips, and Castiel cringes at the implications. “You do not appear overly fond of them, however. I wonder if you take after me in more ways than one.”

Castiel shivers at the thought, disgust rolling through him. He is the monogamous sort, that much, he is certain of, but it is clear that his grandfather is not, and Castiel would not doubt that his mother is not the only bastard child to the king of Dura. One thing he can say for sure, however, is that in this way, he is not the same of his grandfather. Not ever close.

“I take it you are unwilling to sign the nonaggression treaty?” Castiel asks, trying desperately to get the conversation back on track, because Dean is still in the theatre on the other side of the palace, and there is now—he looks at his watch—an hour and a half until dinner.

“There is one, though,” the king is saying, and something about his tone has Castiel’s heart seizing behind his rib cage, “that you appear more fond of than the rest. What was his name?”

Dean.

“Doesn’t matter,” he continues as a lump lodges itself in Castiel’s throat. “No one is unreachable.”

The blood in Castiel’s veins turns to ice, panic surging in close behind as his fingers go numb around the receiver. No. He can’t get to them. He can’t get to Dean.

The palace is a safe place, he reminds himself, closing his eyes as he forces himself to breathe. This is not the time to freak out. Not while he is on the phone with this man, who will hear his weakness and do everything in his power to exploit it.

“I have given you my terms,” Castiel says, perhaps not as unfeeling as he’d hoped for, but definitely better than the shout he’d prefer. “Unless you are willing to acquiesce to them, my army will remain in Dura for the foreseeable future.”

“So much like me,” the king muses, and Castiel can almost picture the keen stare on the other end of the line. So much like his mother. “It is really too bad your father could not have married my legitimate daughter; I could have done so much with you and your future kingdom.”

“Call me when you arrive at a decision. Goodbye,” Castiel says, and hangs up before the king can say anything more.

Outwardly, he is calm, keeping his features impassive, but inside, his heart is racing; pounding so hard, his vision swims and the room tilts on its axis. Castiel hadn’t realized how like his mother his grandfather would be, but with substantial difference in power.

Castiel breathes evenly through his nose and reminds himself that there is only one person on Earth more powerful than him. Only his father. And this kingdom is unmatched in its reach, in its resources.

No one can touch them.

“Move another battalion to the Duran border,” Castiel says, the only calm in a flurry of moving bodies, swarming around the table. “Have two more on reserve.”

For another hour and a half, Castiel gives orders, writes memos, and waits for his grandfather to call him back with his concession.

All the while, he aches to be elsewhere. He hadn’t thought, at the beginning of all of this, that he would feel the need to shirk his duties to be with one of his suitors, but here he is. Missing Dean with everything he has.

Castiel steps out of the conference room, exhaling a long, drawn out sigh. He is exhausted and hungry, but more than that, he is angry. So angry he does not know how to contain it.

There is no reason for Dura’s threats of war. His grandfather essentially admitted as much in their second call. He wishes to let his anger be known, even still, twenty-one years later, about the theft of the Amarellinian throne.

As if it would have ever been his.

Castiel shakes off the thoughts as he descends the grand staircase to the entrance hall and veers right. Dinner is underway, he is certain and, despite his lingering exhaustion from a severe lack of sleep over the past few days, Castiel is buzzing as he makes his way to the dining hall for dinner.

He pauses for half a second as his guards each grab a door handle, and he takes that half of a second to catch his breath and settle his features. He closes his eyes, standing in the darkness for no longer than a blink, before he reopens them and steps through the doors.

Somehow, the Gods have chosen to be kind to him tonight, as he looks at the dining room table to find Dean sitting next to his empty seat. He sighs his relief, taking long strides across the room as his heart pounds in his chest.

Perhaps he will get to speak to Dean after all.

Russell pulls out his chair, and Castiel settles into it without ever taking his eyes off Dean. “Good evening,” he says, and thanks all that is out there that his voice is steady when he speaks.

Dean looks over at his as if startled by his presence, his eyes wide and green and brighter than Castiel has seen them in days. “Hi,” Dean says, looking him over for a moment before he takes another bite of his steak.

“How was the rest of your day?” Castiel tries not to flinch at the confusion on Dean’s eyes, as if he does not understand why Castiel is speaking to him right now.

“Uh, it was fine. Boring.” He swallows whatever is in his mouth, then turns to face him more fully. “Charlie and I watched a movie. Wasn’t great, but the popcorn we snagged was.” He grins, wiggling his eyebrows at Castiel.

A plate is set down in front of Castiel, but he ignores it in favour of speaking to Dean. “Far more entertaining than my day,” Castiel says, not sure why he feels so comfortable speaking about his day with Dean. He is not one to speak about the goings on in his life outside of the show, but he wants to share his life with Dean.

“You’re telling me that the glamorous life of the Crown Prince is a sham?” Dean faux-gasps, hand on his chest, and Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Not in so many words, but yes. Glamorous is not how I would describe my day.” His conversation with the king of Dura comes back to him in flashes of snide remarks and thinly-veiled threats. His heart skips a beat just thinking about it, and he swallows back the feeling as Dean purses his lips and cocks his head to one side.

“How would you describe your day?” Dean asks, and for a moment, it reminds him so much of Pamela that Castiel can’t answer. He huffs a private little laugh and shakes his head, fondness flooding him for no reason at all.

“Well…” he says, looking up at the vaulted ceiling as he ponders how he would describe the events of his day. “Tedious, I suppose.” He meets Dean’s gaze. “Conversations with foreign powers tend to have that effect.”

“Not glamorous, my ass,” Dean says, sarcasm dripping from every word, and for the first time, Castiel realizes how he must sound to Dean. “Foreign powers, huh?”

“The king of Dura,” Castiel confirms with a nod, and at some point in this conversation he turned to face Dean a little more. “It was a less than productive conversation.”

“Can’t imagine anyone saying no to you,” Dean says, seeming to remember his dinner as he jabs a piece of steak and takes a bite.

Castiel snorts at that, the sound bursting out of him before he can stop it, and he covers his mouth with his hand. “I do believe you have done exactly that on multiple occasions.”

Dean shoots him a look, then refocusses on his plate. “Wouldn’t be me.”

“Of course not,” Castiel sighs, but the fondness is still there, settling deep in his bones as Dean grins at him around the tines of his fork. “You are the picture of obedience.”

“Don’t you forget it.”

The wink Dean tacks onto the end of his words nearly has Castiel melting out of his chair.

The world disappears with Dean around.

Castiel sits in his chair at Dean’s side, a slice of pie on each of their hands as they lean close to one another and just talk.

For once, Castiel does not worry about the others. He wants, just this once, to do something for him. He wants to speak with Dean for as long as he can without interruption, and without guilt.

“It’s not all that much of a shock,” Dean is saying, waving his fork around like it is neither here nor there. “I only went a few times a week, if that. The fact that I graduated high school at all is still one of the great modern mysteries.”

“But you are so bright,” Castiel says, unable to understand how Dean passed with only Ds.

“Yeah, well, grades don’t matter all that much when you’re starving.”

Dean says the words as if they are commonplace. Just a fact of his life that he has long ago accepted. But it hits Castiel in the stomach like a blow. It reminds him, once again, that they have lead very different lives; that Dean has felt pain unlike anything Castiel can imagine, and he is still here.

He still jokes. He still smiles. He still loves with all his heart and soul.

And Castiel?

Castiel loves him.

He loves him.

Chapter Text

I cannot tell him.

Castiel comes to the conclusion while staring up at his ceiling in the darkness of his bedroom. He woke only moments ago, in a cold sweat after a nightmare he only remembers in the barest hints and flashes of memory.

But he knows one thing. He cannot, under any circumstances, let Dean know he is in love with him. Not yet, anyway. It would scare him off, or put him in more danger than he is already in, and Castiel is not willing to do that. Not until the threat is neutralized and Dean is finally his for good.

The thought only solidifies as the sun rises, slowly lighting his room as is climbs the East wall of the palace and peeks over the top.

The truth of it settles in his bones, right along the side the idea that he loves Dean.

Has loved him for years, really.

For the seventy-eighth time since he sat down, Castiel signs his own name. The looping scrawl just looks messy to him now, as his wrist cramps and his fingers ache.

He still has several more hours of paper work before he can take the rest of the afternoon off. Castiel drops his pen, flexing his fingers before running them through his hair with a world-weary sigh. At this rate, he will be bald by his mid-thirties.

He closes his eyes, his focus gone. He needs to stand up and walk. To find something else to do for a few minutes before he gets back to the tedium of his work.

His eyes snap open when there is a crackle from the radio in the corner of his desk. “The idiot went running,” Benny’s voice says, breaking through the static, and Castiel dives for the radio. “And fell down a hill.”

“Copy that,” Russell says, and Castiel knows he is just outside his office doors, standing sentry in the hallway. “I will have one of the nurses sent his way.”

Castiel is out of his seat and across the room before Russell finishes his sentence. He has medical training, and he is confident that Dean is not overly injured, considering the lack of concern in Benny’s tone, but he wants to see for himself. He will tend to Dean’s wounds. It is decided.

“Can I get a nurse to Dean Winchester’s—”

Castiel opens the door and snatches the radio from Russell’s hand in one clumsy motion, nearly cuffing his head of security in his haste. “Ignore that last directive,” Castiel says into the radio, before handing it back. He ignore Russell’s pinched look and walks with long strides toward his suitors’ quarters.

“What, exactly, do you have planned?” Russell asks, following along behind him, half a step to his right.

“I have medical training,” Castiel says, and he leaves it at that as he reaches the grand staircase, taking the stairs as quickly as he dares.

“I am aware,” Russell says, but it is more to himself, than Castiel. Just a resigned sigh under his breath as Dean’s door comes into view. His heart starts to race the closer he gets. Should he be doing this? Dean is expecting a nurse; will he find it weird when Castiel shows up instead? God, he should just go back to his office; call for a real nurse and leave Dean be.

But he is in front of the door, and he is knocking before he can stop himself. It is too late now, even with his heart racing and every breath panting out of him as if he has just run here.

“Give me a sec!” he hears from far off in the room, as if Dean is in the washroom. Castiel hesitates for a moment, but decides he can enter. He will just wait for Dean by the fireplace. He will seat him on the sofa, and he will tend to his wounds, and then he will leave. That is it.

“I’m in the bathroom. The door’s open; just come in!” Dean calls, and Castiel supposes he could meet him in there. If he is calling, he must be decent, and perhaps Dean has some medical supplies in there. Not that Dean would know where it is, but perhaps Susie has supplies in there.

Russell doesn’t follow, closing the door so that it is just Castiel and Dean, alone, but separated by the bathroom door. Castiel swallows hard and, as he reaches for the knob, he sees that he is shaking. His hands tremble. Castiel sucks in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he flexes his fingers to get rid of the nervous buzz running through his veins.

Pull yourself together! He tells himself, and before he can talk himself out of it, he opens the door and steps inside.

“I just need some pain meds, and Benny says I should wear a sling,” Dean is saying, but Castiel isn’t listening as all thoughts flee his mind. He chokes on a breath as Dean turns around. “But whatever you say’s good—”

The words catch in Dean’s throat, and they are just staring at each other. Castiel, shocked into silence, into stillness, and Dean, stark naked and dripping wet. He is unfathomably gorgeous, all strong, lean muscle and tanned skin. Castiel’s eyes travel down, down, down, his heart pounding when they reach the softening stomach where it used to cave in. Blood rushes into his groin when he gets to Dean’s bowed legs, skirting the length of his cock, because…

Well, just because.

“Jesus fucking fuck,” Dean mutters, dropping his towel-filled hand in front of his manhood as a deep red flush climbs up his chest and into his neck, spreading across his cheeks and into his ears.

“I—” Castiel tries, but his voice cracks, and he does not know how to get out of this without anymore humiliation. Then, when his gaze finally re-settles on Dean’s, he lets out a whispered, “Fuck.”

He blinks his lust away and shakes off his stupor. He needs to leave. He needs to leave now.

With that thought, Castiel steps backward, the doorknob still clutched in his hand, and pulls it shut behind him.

Castiel walks back down the hallway with his head buried in his hands. His cheeks are hot against his palms, and a soft groan escapes his lips at the sound of Dean’s nervous laughter from behind the bathroom door.

Now Castiel is stuck with the image of Dean’s naked, dripping body and the hard-on to match. How is he supposed to tend to Dean’s wounds when all he can think about is miles of naked skin? The sopping hair plastered to his forehead and the droplets of water running in rivulets over his stomach and down to his—

Stop.

Dean will reemerge any moment, and Castiel needs to have himself under control before he does so. He closes his eyes, taking deep, soothing breathes, one hand on the mantel, and the other stuffed in his pocket in a feeble attempt to rearrange his semi-hard penis into a less noticeable position.

Then, the bathroom door opens again, and he pulls himself up straight and opens his eyes. Castiel turns just as Dean steps out of the hallway, dressed in nothing but a fluffy white robe, his hair still dripping and his eyelashes clumping in tiny triangles.

“Dean, I—” Castiel starts, before cutting himself off when he doesn’t know what to say. He studies Dean’s face, from his cheeks, smattered with freckles under the cut, so his sharp jawline, to his furrowed brows, and even so, he is so, so beautiful. His eyes catch on the cut once more. “You’re hurt,” he says, stating the obvious, because he is an idiot without an ounce of charm in his entire body.

“Why—” Dean’s voice cracks and he clears his throat, blinking a few times as if he needs to clear his mind. “Why’re you here, Cas?”

“I heard you were hurt,” he says with a shrug, not certain how else to put it. As it is, he feels ridiculous when he shrugs, the motion too casual for all the training he has gone through; all the etiquette lessons he has endured in his twenty-one years.

“Did you, now?” Dean smiles that crooked smile that eases something in Castiel every time. He pushes his free hand through his dripping hair, and the strands stand on end. “Is there anything you don’t hear about?”

“I suppose there is, yes, but Benny made sure to find me straight away.” It is a lie, but Castiel doesn’t know how to say he nearly dove over his desk and snatches the radio out of Russell’s hands to be the one to tend to Dean in a way that doesn’t sound incredibly desperate. Instead, he flips to the next embarrassing thing, and he cannot seem to stand still as a flush seeps into his cheeks. His shoes are scuffed; he will need to have them polished before wearing them again. “I’m sorry for…” He waves toward the bathroom, unsure how to finish that sentence.

Dean shrugs, then hisses as his face contorts in pain, and Castiel is around the sofa before he consciously decides to move. “Dean—” He lifts a hand. “Here, let me…” He stops just before he cups Dean’s cheek, the heat of him soaking into Castiel’s palm and sending shivers through him. “Let me clean this for you. Let me—” Castiel cuts himself off, the words he wants to say on the tip of his tongue, but they fall to close to the ones he shall not say. Let me care for you.

Castiel stares him down, determined to do this. To not allow Dean to push him away out of some sense of politeness. He is offering, and if Dean is genuinely willing to have him help, then Castiel wants to help.

In lieu of a verbal answer, Dean settles onto the edge of the bed, letting his robe slide off his shoulders and down around his waist to expose all his wounds.

And Castiel?

Fuck. He is doomed. He is screwed, because even like this, Dean is gorgeous. Even bloody and bruised, Castiel would love nothing more than to get down on his knees and worship him. Castiel swallows back the indecent sound that tries to force its way out of his throat, before pulling himself together long enough to take in the damage.

“They’re not that bad,” Dean starts, staring at his bare toes where they curl into the carpet. “It’s my shoulder that hurts the worst, but even then, some pain-killers will do.” Dean shrugs, then sucks in a sharp gasps, and Castiel very nearly rolls his eyes.

“Right,” Castiel says, rare sarcasm settling into his tone, but he cannot help it. Dean is lovely and kind and sweet, but he is also infuriating, and downplaying his injuries so as not to be a burden is currently at the top of the list of what makes him so. Still, Castiel heads back into the bathroom to gather the first aid kit and supplies he knows is there.

“What happened?” he asks, looking to Dean, who has a steady flush rising up his naked chest and into his freckled cheeks.

Castiel arches an eyebrow, his interest piqued as his lips twitch with a smirk. He settles on the bed at Dean’s side, something bubbly and light fizzing in his chest as he opens the kit.

“I, uh… I fell,” Dean says, and Castiel waits for more. For an actual explanation, but Dean doesn’t elaborate.

“You… fell?” He looks up at Dean through his lashes. Oh, lord, this must be good. What on earth was he doing?

Dean huffs. “Yes, okay? I fell.” He rubs his hand over his forehead, embarrassment clinging to his every pore as he refuses to meet Castiel’s eyes. “I went for a run, and I wasn’t paying attention, and I tripped. Rolled down a hill and dislocated my shoulder on a boulder.”

He knows he shouldn’t laugh, but Dean’s tone is so sulky, that he cannot help the chuckled that rumbles out of him. The clumsiness that seems to cling to Dean like a second skin will get him in trouble one day—already has, in fact—but it is also kind of adorable, if Castiel is honest.

“Your shoulder should be in a sling, but that seems to be the most severe injury you sustained. Hold still.” He reaches for Dean’s wrist without hesitation to stop his fidgeting, telling himself Dean is just another patient. That he is a nameless, faceless soldier on the battlefield that Castiel needs to patch up so that he can move onto the next.

But Dean is not just another soldier, he is Dean, and so the touch lights him up from the inside out, burning through him like a live wire; like an electrical storm.

“Sorry,” Dean murmurs, but Castiel already has the alcohol-soaked cotton pad in on hand, and he swipes it over the gash on Dean’s forearm with quick, efficiency.

Dean hisses out a breath through his teeth, but to his credit, holds perfectly still. “Sorry,” Castiel whispers, letting himself smile as the grumpy look Dean shoots him, but doesn’t comment, so Castiel carries on in silence.

It is a soothing practice, to clean Dean’s wounds, spread antibacterial cream over them, and bandage the ones that need it, while leaving others open to the air to breathe. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him the entire time, tracking his movements, his breaths puffing out into the space between them.

Castiel tries not to think about how close they are right now. Only inches apart, Dean’s warmth bleeding into him as he works, and he could sink into it so easily. The smell of him, fresh from the shower, his skin still dewy and warm, is intoxicating. Subtle sandalwood and something faintly sweet fills Castiel’s senses, making his heart pound just a little bit harder.

“There,” Castiel whispers, finished with his work, but not yet able to move away. They are nearly nose to nose, Dean’s breath on his lips, and Castiel watches him. He tries to gauge his feelings, if he should do this… if kissing Dean right here, right now, while he is half-clothed and in pain, would be at all appropriate.

No. No, it would not be appropriate.

“Why’re you here, Cas?” Dean asks, leaning away before Castiel can force himself to do the same. He frowns, not understanding, because Dean knows why he is here. To bandage his wounds. “I told you—” he starts, but Dean cuts him off with a raised eyebrow, and Castiel knows he is caught.

“No, why are you here? Benny said he’d send a nurse, so…” Castiel swallows, choosing to sort Dean’s arm into a sling instead of looking him in the eye.

“I’m trained in first-aid,” he says, shrugging as if that will have him looking any less awkward than he typically is. He can nearly hear Dean’s thoughts, cataloguing his every move, thinking, too, that it is not a move that suits him. “My military service was primarily spent as a medic, rather than a soldier, though I’m trained in combat as well.”

He has spoken some variation of the words many times, including just after his training, during his tour of duty, and the inquisition that followed his accident rerouting.

“You prefer healing rather than hurting,” Dean whispers, and Castiel hates the awe he hears in Dean’s voice. Hates it because he loves it. He is admired at every move, for everything, and it doesn’t touch him, doesn’t faze him for the most part. But Dean’s admiration is different. Dean’s admiration makes him want to do better. To be better.

“I suppose that’s true,” he says, ducking his head as embarrassment takes over. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “I don’t like causing pain, though it’s more unavoidable than I’d like.” Then, he flicks his gaze up to Dean’s, their eyes locking, and Castiel couldn’t look away if he wanted to. Those fathomless green eyes stare right back, wide and watching. They study Castiel, searching his face for some sort of answer that he cannot even begin to give him. So, he changes the subject. “Maybe avoid running in the rain from now on.”

“Is that an order?” Dean whispers, his voice low and gravelly, and Castiel’s whole body twitches, his nerve-endings coming alive with the closeness, with the heat in Dean’s words, the look in his eyes as they go teasing and playful. They are so close, and Castiel’s heart pounds against his rib cage, so loud, he would be shocked if Dean cannot hear it.

“Hmm…” Castiel hums, letting himself lean into the feeling as he smiles, soft and closed-lipped. He moves closer, warmth fluttering in his chest, and says, “Will you listen if I say it is?”

For a moment, Dean appears to consider it, looking up at the ceiling as he purses his lips and tilts his head from side to side. Then, he drops his eyes back down to Castiel’s and says, “Probably not.”

His stomach swoops and he shifts closer, not really meaning to, but doing it anyway as love blooms in his chest. “I didn’t think so,” he murmurs, for the first time in days, feeling as if they are finally on equal ground.

There is something between them, in this moment; something charged, electric, and Castiel is not quite certain what he means to do with it. He knows what he wants to do with it, and if he is reading Dean correctly, Dean wants it too.

Castiel can feel himself swaying closer, lips parting, his hands shaking where they rest in his lap. Dean’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Castiel’s gaze snaps down to his mouth. He is a breath away, so close he can taste Dean’s exhales on tongue. If he just—

Castiel nearly jumps out of his skin when Russell knocks on the door, his timing impeccable as always. Heat rises in his cheeks as he stands, trying to put as much distance between he and Dean as possible. What is he doing? He cannot just kiss Dean! He digs through his pockets for the bottle of pain medication Russell handed him before they got here.

“Your highness? Lunch is being served,” Russell says, no doubt listening through the door like the terrible cock-block he is turning out to be. On the other hand, Castiel supposes that is what makes him such an excellent guard.

“Here,” Castiel says, handing over the medication without looking Dean in the eye, and he snatches his hand away when their fingers brush, the residual want burning through him with just that simple touch. He needs to get out of here, and he needs to go now.Dean a bottle without meeting his eyes.

Castiel turns for the door. “Take the pills with food; no more than two at a time, and no less than six hours apart,” he says, rattling off the instructions by memory alone as his mind spins with all the things he wants to do instead of leaving. “Your arm should remain in the sling for a few days.”

With a hand on the door knob, he stops, looking over his shoulder one more time before he can stop himself. Dean is staring at the floor, his free hand twisting in his half-fallen robe, and Castiel needs to leave.

“I will have a nurse come to check on you before bed.” Then, he opens the door and steps through, burning from his head, right down to his toes.

This is not something he had expected to feel. Having not been touched for so long has made him averse, in a way, to physical contact, but now, with Dean here, so close and so beautiful and so willing, Castiel is finding more and more that he wants.

He wants Dean in that deep, carnal way he has never been allowed to want anyone, and he needs to make it stop before it tears him apart.

Dean, of course, is late to lunch.

Castiel keeps an eye on him from the other side of the table, only half listening to April as she discusses her newest charitable organization; something to do with rehoming untrainable animals into something, something, something.

He’s not truly listening.

Guilt tries to weasel its way in past his concern for Dean. He should be paying attention to all his suitors equally, and it knots his stomach a bit to think about how they don’t deserve this lack of attention, but Dean is…

Well, he is struggling.

Apparently, eating soup one-handed is not as easy as one would assume, because he has it down his chin and dripping onto the napkin he has, thankfully, laid in his lap. It is almost cute, the way he huffs and puffs about his soup, grunting in frustration as he attempts to lean over the bowl, only for his plans to be foiled by his sling-trapped arm where it rests between him and the table. He winces, spilling the spoonful down the side of the table cloth.

Castiel chews on his lower lip, watching as the whole ordeal transpires. To Dean’s right, Charlie reaches over with her own napkin and wipes his chin, to which Dean swats her away, muttering about not being ninety-four and geriatric.

A laugh catches in Castiel’s throat, and he attempts to cough through it, lest April think he is laughter at her.

He bodily turns back to their conversation, because even if he hasn’t been listening up to this point, he really should be making an effort to at least look like he cares.

Perhaps he should give her tomorrow’s date. That way, it will appear as if he cares for other suitors, and who knows? Maybe she is not as insufferable as the rest, despite her deep hatred of Dean. She would make a good ruler, that is for certain, with her deep knowledge of the court and politics. She would make an excellent queen, even if she is not the one he wants.

He doesn’t look at Dean, though he wants to. He would love to offer him the date as well, but so close to their reconciliation is probably not the best idea. Besides, he has something else planned for his date with Dean. Something much, much better.

“April,” he says, holding her back as the dining hall empties, a few suitors hovering near the door, or helping clean the tables. Dean amongst them. Perfect.

She turns back to him with a wide-eyed stare and a soft smile. “Your Highness?” she says, folding her hands in front of her as Castiel approaches.

“I have this for you,” he says, plucking the date card out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “If you will accompany me, I would love to take you out for tomorrow’s date.” He holds out the card, awkwardness settling deep in his bones as Dean ducks his head in his periphery and hurries out of the room. He knew this would happen, and still, he had to do it in front of him. God, Castiel is an idiot sometimes.

April smiles a little wider, flashing her teeth, and Castiel can’t help but feel like a small prey animal under her hungry gaze. “I accept,” she says, taking the envelope from his hands, and Castiel has to force himself from snatching it back as she turns away from him.

Dean is gone before Castiel gets a glimpse of him, and his heart aches as he watches the doors, knowing Dean has already left. Wishing he would come back for just one more moment.

He doesn’t, though, and Castiel takes his leave before the staff can question his sanity.

Castiel steps off his private flight onto the tarmac where a town car is idling nearby, waiting to take him to one of the most important meetings he will have in the near future.

War, it seems, is imminent, and so, Castiel is on his way to fid allies. The Brits border them and Dura, but with far less military might, so if they were to band together, they should be able to suppress Dura enough to reduce casualties and minimize the damage to all economies.

He slides into the backseat of the car, his heart thumping hard as he nods his thanks to Russell. He has yet to have a conversation with the king of the neighbouring nation without his father present, but as it stands, his father has fallen quite ill. It is among the many excuses he has used in recent days to pawn his duties off on Castiel, though if Castiel is being honest, he has been assuming for far longer than he’d like to admit that his father has grown lazy in his duties.

“How are you feeling?” Russell asks, finally in the privacy of the back seat with the partition up between them and the driver.

Castiel lets out a long, draining sigh as he drops his head back against the seat. “Like it’s not going to work,” he says, letting his dread seep out between them. It has to go somewhere, because the alternative is that it lives inside him, poisoning his thoughts, his words, until he has no hope left. “Like he’s going to see me as a child trying to fill shoes that are much too big for my feet.”

Russell doesn’t respond, but Castiel catches his nod from the corner of his eye. There is nothing to be said, really, and they both know it.

“You have prepared the offer?” Russell asks after a few moments of silence as the town car rolls through the wheat fields.

“The offer, the counter, and the consequences of no deal at all,” he confirms with a nod, staring out the window to his right. This far north, the sun sets earlier than at home, and with late fall creeping closer, the sun is already starting to set even now, at just after six o’clock. At home, there is still hours of light, the warmth of summer only just breaking away, to be replaced with the gentle bite of fall air.

Castiel will say, he does love his home. He loves the climate, and the weather, and all the sunlight in the spring. He longs for it now, an ache blossoming behind his rib cage as everything he has left behind him comes to mind.

“How long is the drive?”

“About an hour,” Russell answers, and Castiel can hear the tap-tap-tap of his thumbs on his phone screen.

“Wake me when we get there,” he says, then closes his eyes, head resting against the cool glass of the window. It has been a long time since he has slept well, and it is beginning to weigh on him. The hours and hours of missed sleep will not be ignored much longer, but for now, perhaps Castiel can get at least one of them back.

He drifts off, asleep before Russell can finish his text message.

“Your Highness,” Russell says, a hand on Castiel’s shoulder as he jostles him from sleep.

Castiel blinks, confused for a moment as to why he is being awoken, before he remembers where they are.

He sits up straight, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as panic drums in his chest. He should not have slept; he should have been preparing his pitch for the king, and now he’s not ready—

“There’s no time for that,” Russell says, giving him a look like he knows exactly what is happening in Castiel’s head, before he opens his own door and steps out.

Castiel smacks his own cheek, trying to snap himself out of the panic, before taking a few deep, calming breaths. He tries to tell him this is not that serious; that it doesn’t matter if he fails to convince the king to ally with them, but it’s not true. This is life and death for thousands, if not tens of thousands of people. This is important.

And he cannot go screwing it up because of his episodes.

Castiel clears his throat, forcing his head back where it needs to be. It doesn’t quite fit, bits and pieces spilling over the edge, but it will get him out of this car and up the steps of the meagre palace.

Russell opens his door, and Castiel tries not to look at the procession of guards that will escort him in. The importance of this meeting is not lost on the King of Brit, either, it seems, nor Castiel’s importance to the world at large.

Soldiers and citizens alike line the streets awaiting his arrival.

Castiel takes one last breath, filling his lungs with the cold northern air, before he slides out of the town car.

Beyond the gates where the citizen crowd in, there is a roar of applause and cheers so loud, Castiel actually startles. At home, it is normal, but why here? He is just the Crown Prince, not even a King, and yet… Why are they cheering?

Castiel shoves his confusion aside and nods at the gathering crowd, before turning his back to make his way up the palace steps, a legion of guards on either side of him.

The Brits, while not a poor nation, are of considerably less wealth than Castiel’s homeland. The palace is rich in design, and appears rather large due to the sprawling grounds, but is about the size of the residential quarters in Castiel’s own home. Still, it is beautiful in a refined, tasteful way.

The double doors open from within, allowing them entrance in a sweep of dark suits and quiet, marching feet. Their mission is singular; to dine with the king in the hopes of forming an alliance. Castiel pays little attention to the gasps and whispers of the staff as they pass, ignoring the hurried bows and curtsies that are turned his way. He doesn’t much care for the formality, and he is far too busy worrying about the meeting to think of much else.

Moonlight bleeds through the windows that line the domed hallways, glowing milky white along the corridors, coupled with small, white torchlight that illuminate the wood floors in four foot intervals they approach the dining room.

Outside of the large, cherry wood doors, they stop, and from the other side of the doors, Castiel can hear the muffled introduction, followed by trumpet song.

He takes one last, deep breath before the doors swing out, and he steps through the doors with all the purpose and gravitas afforded to him by his position.

Around the table, all rise, and despite not being the king, nor a king, the seventeen occupants of the table bow to him, Arthur Ketch included.

“Castiel,” Ketch says, his smile tight as he straightens up, his dark suit pressed and creased in all the right places. The look of a king, for sure, without any of the opulence he has come to expect from lesser nations.

It is refreshing, and makes him feel appropriately dressed in his charcoal grey wool suit and black tie. He must, once again, give Susie credit; she sure knows how to do her job well.

“Arthur,” Castiel says, taking his seat at the foot of the table, across from Ketch with eight others on either side of him. He has no idea who most of them are, though he would venture to guess that there are at least two council members present, along with the queen, who Castiel has no hope of pinpointing amongst the five or so beautiful women at his end of the table. “Thank you for having me on such short notice.”

“Of course,” Arthur says, taking his seat along with the others now that Castiel is seated. “I hope you like lamb,” the king says, his accent thick and posh; not one Castiel is used to hearing much anymore.

“I do,” Castiel says, accepting the glass of poured bottled water from Russell, who stands at his right shoulder, waiting and ready for whatever comes their way. “I apologize for the short notice,” he adds, staring straight across the table at Ketch as two servers set their meals in front of them, before moving away to serve the rest of the table. “The situation in Dura is far more elevated than it was last week.”

Ketch watches him with dark eyes, staring hard, not a flash of emotion one way or another. Castiel’s heart thuds hard, unease settling in his chest, but he doesn’t dare look away.

Eventually, Ketch blinks, and looks down at his plate. “A conversation for after dinner,” he says, and Castiel nods. He does not like it; he wants this discussion over with so that he can enjoy his meal, but he can make this concession.

“Of course,” Castiel agrees, as the last plate is served.

With that, they eat.

“A drink, Castiel?” Ketch says, one leg crossed at the knee over the other as he waves to the server who is uncapping a sealed bottle of an amber liquid Castiel assumes is scotch.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, supposing one drink might lighten the spirits in the room. He takes the glass from Russell, who peers into the glass, gives it a sniff and a sip, before passing it over. “Now,” he says, after taking his own sip of the smooth alcohol, “the matter of Dura.” He meets Ketch’s steady gaze across the small table between them, silence echoing in the small office space. Castiel can see how Arthur Ketch might be an intimidating figure, with his impassive stare and blank expression, but it is one that Castiel holds better. The Novak Stare, his mother calls it.

“Carry on,” Ketch says, waving a hand as if to say the floor is yours.

“As you know,” he begins, setting the scotch aside in favour of steeping his fingers in front of his chin. “The Duran king has made it his mission to interfere in our affairs. There have been attacks at the border of Amarellino; kidnappings and raids. All of which have been dealt with swiftly and brutally, of course.”

“Of course,” Ketch says with a nod, but he gives no indication about whether or not he will side with Castiel or not.

“The problem,” Castiel continues, running his finger over his lower lip in a feeble bid to keep himself from biting it. “Is that they will not sign the non-aggression treaties we have proposed, which would offer prosperity for both nations, leading me to the conclusion that—”

“Dura wants to go to war,” Ketch finishes, and Castiel can practically hear the following but what for? He is thinking it himself. Has been for a long time now, considering the consequences for Dura would be catastrophic. It has unease twisting in Castiel’s stomach; what does he not know that the Duran king does?

“Indeed,” Castiel confirms, taking a sip of his scotch now that the stakes have been laid. “As a bordering nation, you can see how the fighting could spill over into Brit.” At Ketch’s nod, Castiel continues. “I am proposing a military alliance between our two nations in an attempt to reduce the damage down, and dissuade Dura from war, if it does, in fact, come to that.”

For a moment, Ketch considers him, running the rim of his glass over his bottom lip. Castiel waits, his heart hammering in his chest, but he holds it together for now. “Your military alliance,” he says, setting his glass aside. “What would it entail.”

Castiel forces himself not to shrug. “Intel, weaponry, aide in battle. The usual.”

Ketch nods, not in agreement, but in understanding. “Pardon me for asking,” he says after a moment’s consideration, “but it is widely known that the might of the Amarellinian army out weighs all others, mine included, so it leads me to question why you are really here? You don’t need my help, unless,” he says, seeming to have come to some kind of conclusion on his own. “Your army has somehow been overestimated?”

Castiel nearly snorts out a laugh, but snatches it back at the last second. “I can assure you, we are not being overestimated.” But he has a point. Castiel’s army could easily wipe Dura off the face of the earth, but…

Well, Dean was right when he said Castiel would rather help than hurt.

“I am simply hoping to avoid war altogether; the less my people suffer, the better my kingdom thrives.” Which is most of the truth. The rest of it he is not ready to admit just yet, if ever. “Your allegiance could be the show of force we need to stop a war altogether.”

Ketch downs his drink, holding up his glass for a refill, all while never taking his eyes off Castiel. “And if it doesn’t work?”

Castiel sucks in a deep breath. “Then we go to war.”

“I see,” Ketch says, still nodding. Always nodding. He accepts his refilled glass and takes a drink. “Let me tell you what I know, Castiel,” he says, sucking on his teeth as he breaks eye contact for the first time to set his glass on the table in front of him. He doesn’t straighten back up, remaining hunched with his elbows on his knees. “I have been on the Brit throne for nearly twenty years,” he says, of which Castiel is well aware. “I have dealt with the Duran king for longer than you have been alive, and what I know,” he says, voice rising now, eyes boring into Castiel’s, “is that when he has made up his mind to do something, that mind cannot be changed.”

“Yes, however—” Castiel starts, but Ketch speaks over him, and what he says has Castiel’s stomach sinking to the floor.

“So, if the Duran king wishes to go to war, you will go to war.”

Castiel stares out of the window, watching the darkness slide beneath them as the plane carries them back home. There is nothing but mountains below them, sharp-peaked and snow-capped, for hundreds of miles. It is these mountains that have kept Amarellino safe from siege for thousands of years, and now Dura wishes to change that.

He has been wracking his brain for hours, trying to figure out what leverage they might have that could bring Amarellino to its knees, but so far, he has come up with nothing.

Situated between the Crestian Mountain range, the Blarden Ocean, Amarellino is a fortress. Accompanied by the world’s strongest army, and they are untouchable. Or, they should be, but Castiel has this growing suspicion that perhaps there is something they have all been missing.

He will need to look at plans for the kingdom; reassess every possible weak point and prepare the armies for battle.

If war is imminent, then they need to be ready for anything.

It is well on its way to midnight by the time Castiel steps through the front doors of the palace, his footsteps, along with those of his guards, echoing off the empty walls and sky-high ceilings as they cross the entrance hall.

There is something jittery inside him, ping-ponging off his chest cavity, desperately fighting to get out. Castiel stops in the middle of the opens space, staring at the empty space between his feet and the first step of the grand staircase, not sure what to do.

He wants to talk to someone. To tell them everything that he must decide; everything that has already been decided for him.

But there is no one for him to share with, so he carries on. Back to his lonely room, with his guards at his sides.

The shower runs hot and steaming in the next room as Castiel makes slow work of undressing himself. Each article of clothing feels like stripping off pieces of his outer shell. As if he is transforming from His Royal Highness, Crown Prince, into just Castiel.

His jacket, his waistcoat, his button-down, his pants. Everything comes off until there is nothing left but him and the mirror. He stands in front of it, his naked body on display, but there is nothing special about it. Nothing special about him but his birth in this nation. He is just a man. Just one man, born into a family with no rhyme or reason.

How is he supposed to change the fates of the world all on his own?

Chapter Text

“Your Highness, wake up.”

Castiel groans, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. He just fell asleep, his eyes having barely shut. It cannot be morning yet. There is no way.

“Leave me,” he murmurs, tucking his hands under his cheek, but Russell just shakes him harder.

“Castiel, you are needed in the command centre.”

That has Castiel shooting up in bed, going from mostly asleep to wide awake in half a second as his heart thuds in his chest. “What has happened?” he asks, swinging his legs out of bed and snatching his robe off the back of his door before Russell has a chance to answer.

He slides on his robe and strides, barefooted with a single-minded purpose, toward what he refers to as the war room, but is referred to more widely as the command centre. “Duran troops have attacked the border town of Conaran,” Russell says, keeping pace just behind and to his right. “They have lit fires in some of the homes closest to the border, and managed to get into the market before our soldiers suppressed them.”

“What are the casualties?” Castiel asks, dread settling in his heart as they reach the war room. Russell opens the door for him, and as Castiel enters, a swell of sound washes over him. All the advisors are present, in a similar state of dress as him, all panicked and forceful.

“Four dead, twelve injured,” Russell tells him, but Castiel doesn’t have time to do anything more than nod before he steps behind his chair at the head of the table and the talking screeches to a halt.

“What is the current status?” Castiel asks, taking his seat and the reports handed to him.

“Ongoing fighting along the western peninsula,” Carlton says as Castiel reads through the reports. “No word from the Brits, or if they have had any contact.”

Castiel suspects that they have, and that at some point tonight, he will be hearing from Arthur Ketch, himself. “Someone get the ambassador on the line,” he says, pulling up the map of their borders as all his advisors rush to do as he asks. He settles in, ready for a long, sleepless night.

The sun has risen by the time Castiel is confident enough that the tensions at the border have eased to leave the war room. He has been on the phone for hours, discussing trades, treaties, and all but threatening war on any nation that aids the Durans. He is exhausted to say the least, his head aching and his limbs heavy as he heads for his room, barefoot, dragging his heels.

Susie is waiting for him when he gets back to his room. Wisely, she says nothing about his absence, only waves him toward the bathroom with a raised eyebrow and a tired sigh. Castiel doesn’t comment, too tired for any of this, as he drops his robe to the floor and heads for the shower.

“What do you think, Castiel?”

If he moves more troops to the Eastern peninsula, perhaps that will hinder the Duran army’s attacks.

“Castiel?”

But that would leave the south-east border weakened, and far more cities would be at risk. There is always the option of the national guard, but Castiel would prefer to hold off on that if possible.

“Your Highness, did you hear me?”

At what point does he go out there to see the destruction for himself? Will Russell even allow it? Of course, Castiel can do as he pleases; he is the head of the Amarellinian military, but there will be a fight.

“Do you think he’s alright? ”

He will hold off on the national guard, then. Right now, the peninsula is secured and there is little chance of resurgence after their swift retaliation.

Still, he will need to get the soldiers ready for battle sooner rather than later.

“Miss Kelly,” Castiel says, letting himself smile as April approaches in a beautiful floral, collared dress and bright red heels to match her curled hair and lipstick. The other suitors are surely in the dinging room now, eating breakfast, and while Castiel drank his coffee with the few that had arrived before breakfast, he is rather hungry.

“Your Highness,” April says, reaching for him for half a second before pulling back. She folds her hands in front of herself, shooting Russell a quick glance when he shifts at Castiel’s side.

“Our car is waiting,” he says, before waving her forward. Russell opens the door for them, and they pass through into the warm sunshine. It is a beautiful day, the sky a clear, cloudless blue that has him longing for early summer and slow, task-less mornings.

They slide into the back seat of the car, Castiel’s mind still occupied with the security of his kingdom as April talks.

All the way to the coast.

“Is everything alright?” April ask, outside of the car now as they head into the museum that sits on the shores of the ocean, waves rolling in on the rocks. There is a lovely restaurant on the top of the museum where he plans to take her for brunch. It looks over the ocean where the sun sparkles on the water and the birds caw from the ground.

“Fine,” he says, smiling softly as Russell opens the door for them to enter. “Simply tired,” he adds, because he will admit, he has been distracted by the events of the last few days all morning. It is not fair to her, but he doesn’t yet know how to separate his royal duties from his personal ones. Perhaps there isn’t a solution.

But he has to try.

“Let us eat,” he says, turning to her with a warm smile as the museum opens up for them with high ceilings and a completely open back wall, windows stretching high for a panoramic view of the coast. “There is a little restaurant on the roof that has the best croissants.”

“Sounds lovely,” April says, beaming wide as they make their way to the spiral staircase off to one side of the open entrance. “I do love art; who commissioned these pieces?” She asks, glancing around at the few pieces of Gamvienne artwork that can be see from where they are.

“The palace,” he says, waving off the question. He doesn’t remember who, exactly; someone his father hired to find what he considers the best of the best, but it is just art to him. If he could, he would avoid museums altogether.

He much prefers the carnival to this.

“How delightful!” April says, bubbling up with excitement. “The highest quality of art, then.” She continues on, talking about some museum or other that she went to in Brit on some vacation with her father five years ago.

Castiel stops listening when the cool morning air hits his cheeks, and he breathes in the salty taste as they take their seats.

He does his best to pull his attention back to April, to keep it there, but his mind keeps wondering back to Dura.

Back to all the work that is left to be done.

The whole ride home, guilt eats at him. Usually, he is much better at setting aside his own thoughts and worries to focus on those around him, but today is not one of those days. Which is not fair to April.

She sits beside him, staring out the window at the passing homes and stores as they make their way up the long street to the palace. She must be so upset, having sat through brunch, holding up the conversation the entire time. He made attempts, of course, but he is regretfully preoccupied, and for that, he needs to apologize.

Just as he opens his mouth to do so, however, April turns to him.

“Castiel, I must say,” she starts, her hand moving to touch his, before she stops herself and pulls back. “I had the best time. This was such a lovely morning, truly. I could not have asked for a better date with you.”

And it is then that Castiel realizes she wasn’t paying attention to him at all.

He could have been wearing a clown wig and big red nose and she would not have noticed. Something about that breaks his heart a little, though he is not exactly surprised. He is the grand prize at the end of all this. Well, his station is, not actually him.

To them, he is not a person. He is the Crown Prince.

Still, he smiles at April and tries not to let his disappointment show. He had forgotten, for a while, who he is to them, but he cannot do that anymore. He must remember why they are here. He must remember not to get too close, lest he get hurt for real next time.

“Castiel!”

Castiel jerks awake, sitting up with a start as he blinks in the warm light of the setting sun through his office windows. He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, letting out a soft groan as his head pounds out an angry beat.

He hadn’t realized he was falling asleep, and yet, here he is, a small puddle of drool on his desk and battle reports strewn about.

“Please explain to me why you think it is appropriate to sleep at your desk?” His mother snaps, her long-sleeved sheath dress a dark blue colour that she prefers.

“Why are you here, mother?” he asks, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. He ignores her question, because honestly? What he does is none of her business, the queen or not.

“You personal issues should not be interfering with your duties,” she says, and this really is not the moment for her to be lecturing him on doing his duty.

“Perhaps if father was doing his duties, I would not have to do them for him, and then perhaps I could get some sleep!” He doesn’t mean to shout, but that is how the words come out as anger floods him. If everyone could simply do their jobs, he would not have to be this tired, and then he could focus on his suitors, which is what he should be doing right now.

“Don’t act like a child, Castiel,” she snaps, tossing whatever files she came to give him onto his desk. “You are the Crown Prince; it is time to start taking some responsibility.” She turns her back on him, making her way out of his office before he can throw the little angel paperweight that sits in the corner of his desk at the back of her head.

He spins it between his fingers, staring at the seam of the oak double doors across the room. It would shatter nicely against the heavy wood, if he just lets himself lose it for a moment. If he lets his emotions spill free into his empty office. It would feel good for a moment. Just to shout, to scream, let himself feel it all for a moment and break something.

He could do it.

He spins the paperweight.

He lets it go.

It will live one more day, and Castiel will hold it all in.

For one more day, at least.

Castiel shifts in his chair, slow and controlled so as not to draw attention to himself. His back is aching, his ass numb, but he cannot get up yet. The Fan Favourites is about to begin, and it would be beyond reprehensible if he were to leave before the main event.

Dean sits in front of him, just to his right, with a plate of untouched pie brought to him by Benny about thirty minutes ago. Castiel stares at that plate, concern settling deep in his stomach, because Dean loves pie. Loves it more than most things, and so, the fact that he has not so much as lifted his fork leaves Castiel with more than a little trepidation.

“Let’s take a moment to count down our list before we get into the final three,” Duma says on the screen, and it just barely catches Castiel’s attention. He doesn’t look away from Dean, though, watching the way his fingers tap against the armrest. Castiel can just barely hear the crowds outside the gates, cheering behind the wall of guards keeping them back as Duma carries on.

“Number eleven went to Lily Sunder, who won the lowest spot through her vile attitude towards last week’s favourite, Dean Winchester.” The cheering rises, and there is a misplaced spark of pride in Castiel’s chest, because Dean was his choice, and he loves that they love him.

“Number ten is Balthazar Salazar, who most don’t remember beyond his less than graceful exit.” Castiel does his best to keep his expression blank, but Balthazar was a blunder of his father’s doing. It angers him all over again, to think of how royally his father has messed things up for him in the last few months.

He brushes off the thought, though, and refocusses on the television. “Number nine is Michael Haven. Nothing to be said on him.” Castiel presses his lips together, trying not to smile as Michael grumbles across the room. In front of him, Dean snorts and Charlie snickers.

Duma glances at the next card, before smiling at the camera and ignoring the shouts of fans around her. “Kelly Kline gets number eight this week for being, and I’m quoting, ‘Too damn aggressive.’ Don’t ask me what that means.” The last part is murmured under her breath, as if she does not mean for the camera to hear. It is calculated, though, Castiel knows. Duma is always four moves ahead of the rest of the world.

“Number seven—Meg Masters, for being mean to Dean Winchester, uh…” Alright, so perhaps it is not calculated. Castiel lets his mask slip for a moment, confusion creasing his brow. Has she not prepared for this? Not written and read the cards over and over?

“Number six! Charlie Bradbury. The fiery red-head gets next to no screen-time  beyond her friendship with Winchester, so she isn’t all that well-known.” Duma raises one eyebrow, looking straight into the camera as if she is staring right into his mind. Castiel does shift in his seat this time, uncomfortable with how much attention they are giving to Dean, and only due to how uncomfortable Dean looks with all of the attention. “Dean seems to be a popular man!”

Castiel stares at the back of Dean’s flushed neck, watching the way his fingers clench around the dessert plate in his hands.

“Do you suppose I might have a shot at the favourite?” April asks him, leaning in, and Castiel offers her a small smile, but doesn’t answer. No, he thinks, because Dean exists in this space, and as long as he does, he will be the favourite. Of course, Castiel does not know for sure, but he knows. He knows.

“Five is Sarah Blake. Number Four was Joanna Harvelle, who was sent him last week—how sad was that?” Duma says, rushing through them now, lest there be something untoward written on those cards, Castiel assumes.

“Who’s ready for the final three?” Duma continues, turning her back on the camera to face the crowd. “Okay! Okay, number three goes to someone near and dear to this kingdom’s heart—some very special to the prince, you could say. Number three is her royal highness, Hannah Becket!”

Castiel looks at Hannah, who smiles at Dean. His heart stutters for a moment, because now there are just two left. His pulse thunders in his ears, hands shaking where they are folded in front of him. This part, of course, means nothing in the grand scheme of things. It is a mere formality; a way to liven up the proceedings, but it means something to Dean, so Castiel cares as well.

“Number two goes to…” Somewhere off camera, there is a drumroll as the crowd around her goes quiet. She peels open the envelope and Castiel holds his breath. “April Kelly!”

For a moment, the name does not register in Castiel’s mind. It swirls around at the edges, the implications refusing to set in.

Then, Dean takes a bite of his pie, and Castiel realizes that it is him. He is the favourite.

“That means, for the second week in a row, your favourite is Amarellino’s very own, Dean Winchester!” Castiel claps, pleased beyond measure.

Then there is a camera on Dean and the room is silent. Dean is on the television, is eyes wide and his cheeks full of pie. It is adorable, but Dean is bright red, obviously humiliated, with one arm still in a sling.

“If the viewers are wondering why his arm is in a sling,” Duma says, before the footage shifts to that of Dean making his way back to the palace, clearly in an incredible amount of pain as his knees buckle with every step, covered in blood and mud. “This is the aftermath of what happened.”

Horror settles deep in Castiel’s chest. He hadn’t seen Dean at his worst, fresh off his tumble, and it looks so much worse than he expected. Who approved this screening? It certainly was not him.

Then, there is a camera and microphone in Dean’s face, and Charlie is diving across the sofa to get out of the shot. Dean jumps, and Castiel’s whole body tightens.

“So, Dean,” the dark-haired camera man says. A new one, Castiel realizes. “How does it feel to be the fan-favourite for a second week in a row?”

“Uhh… um, it—” Dean starts, clearly overwhelmed and uncomfortable as he searches the room for some help and finds Castiel’s eyes. He looks up at him, and when did Castiel stand up? When did he decide to move? He grins at Dean, and it is real and warm, because even if Dean is not, Castiel is happy that he is here. That he is getting the love he so desperately deserves.

“It’s strange,” he says, slowly turning from Castiel to look back at the camera, and Castiel glances at the screen to get a glimpse of his face. So handsome. “I never pictured myself as… as a favourite, you know? I’m just a kid from the village; I’m not—I’m no one’s favourite.”

You are my favourite.

“Evidently, that’s untrue, but is there anything you’re nervous about? Or not looking forward to? Anything you’re not liking? Being the favourite is a big deal, after all.”

“This,” Dean says, blinking hard as he swallows. “This right here. I don’t like this.” Castiel is moving before he makes the decision to intervene.

“That’s enough,” he says, stepping in beside Dean, one hand raised in front of the camera. “You’re not here to make him uncomfortable, so that’s enough.”

The cameraman shrinks away from him, mouth open as if to argue, before they are gone. Castiel means to go back to his seat, but finds himself lowering onto the sofa in the spot Charlie vacated. Their knees brush, but Castiel doesn’t pull away. He watches Dean as he lets out a shaky breath and sets his mostly untouched pie aside.

“Are you alright, Dean?” he asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper as he leans closer to Dean. “You barely touched your pie.”

Dean studies his face, eyes travelling over his features, and his normally expressive eyes give nothing away.

“I’m not feeling well,” Dean says, and he does look tired, but there is something else there, too. Something guarded in the way he twists away from Castiel.

“Oh? Is it your shoulder?” he asks, concern rising, and he is calling for a servant before he can second guess the decision. Marie hurries over, keen to please, and Castiel smiles up at her. “Could you get Dean some pain medication, please? Perhaps some ice for his shoulder, as well?”

Castiel leans in when she wanders away, pressing three fingers into the joint to test its security. Dean flinches, hissing as he jerks away, and Castiel shakes his head.

“Hm,” he hums, scowling. He cannot get much of a look at it like this. “Would you mind taking off the jacket? I would like to see your range of motion—”

“Fuck, Cas, stop!” Castiel jerks back, holding his hand up as he meets Dean’s eyes. Embarrassment rolls in quick and hot; here he is caring too much again. Dean didn’t ask for his care, so Castiel should just leave well enough alone, but it is Dean. He pulls back, suitably chastised.

“Dean, I’m—”

“No, it’s… it’s fine, I just—” Dean shakes his head, and Castiel can tell that it is not, in fact, fine. Dean looks exhausted and upset, but for what reason, he has no chance of knowing.

Before Castiel can say another word, or attempt another apology, Dean is out of his seat and across the room. He leaves without so much as a goodbye.

Something sharp and bitter stabs at Castiel’s insides, peeling back the layers of carefully constructed indifference until he is stripped bare. Hurt and embarrassment spring up in equal measure, and suddenly, he wishes to be anywhere but here.

“Russell,” he says, his voice thick as he stands from the couch. “I am ready to go to bed.” He does not wait for Russell’s reply before he heads for the door, not caring in the least that he is being rude. He is tired of being polite to those who care so little for him or his feelings.

He is tired of being the Crown Prince, and for once, he is choosing differently. Tonight, he is just Castiel.

And Castiel is fucking exhausted.

He doesn’t make it to bed, though. Not yet, anyway, because apparently, the Crown Prince is still needed.

“We received this letter only minutes ago,” Russell is saying, standing on the other side of his desk as Castiel lowers into his chair. “We believe it is in retaliation for the fan favourites announcement, but we have no other leads.”

Castiel is only half listening to his words, his hands shaking as something sick twists in his stomach. The letter is written in simple black ink, not a smudge or a print, and once again unmarked by other means.

It says, simply:

We are short on patience and Winchester is short on time. Get rid of him now, or we will.

Castiel shivers at the implications. There is someone in this palace getting this information in, and they have no idea who it is. Not yet, anyway, and until they do, they need to be on high alert.

“Who received the missive?” Castiel asks, setting it aside before he throws up.

“The mailroom,” Joshua answers with a heavy sigh, as if he has already been down that route and come up with nothing. “Despite the lack of postage, is somehow made it in.”

Castiel nods. This, he knew. Somehow, their systems are being circumvented. “Where is he now?” Castiel asks, because he has to know.

“In his room,” Russell answers, and Castiel breathes a sigh of relief. Benny is with him, at least. If something is to happen, Benny will be there to protect Dean.

“Alright.” He nods, picking up the letter again and folding it into quarters. He shoves it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I want someone checking in on him every hour. In fact,” he says, pausing as he stands from his chair. “Have Benny check on him now.” He glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. It is nearly midnight.

The day has been long, but it is so close to over, he can nearly taste it as he makes his way from his office, through the wide hallways with the golden glow of the wall sconces to lead the away.

Castiel slows as steps thundering steps approach, and he looks to Russell, who steps in front of him just as Benny rounds the corner, a camera crew on his heels.

Castiel brushes back Russell to get at Benny when he stumbles to a stop, bent over as he sucks in a deep breath.

"Your Highness," Benny pants, swallowing hard as he glances up from where he is double over, hands on his knees. "He's gone. Dean's not in his room—Charlie, either."

Every part of him stops. His heart, his mind, the blood in his veins. It all stops as ice cold fear washes over him. He has the letter in his hand before he decides to take it out, then crushes it in his fist so that no one else can see it.

The letter.

Castiel looks down at the crumpled paper, stares at it for a long time as it dawns on him. No. No, it cannot be. This cannot be happening.

Everything inside him crumbles as he stares at that paper. He cannot do this here. He can’t.

Between one breath and the next, Castiel closes his eyes. He needs to get it together. To reel it all in so that he can fix this. He draws his shoulders back, sucks in a deep breath before opening his eyes.

"Search the palace and the grounds,” he says, running through all his options at lightning speed. “If you don't find him, search the village." He clears his throat, forcing authority into the words. "If they aren't found within the hour, report back to me."

Then, he turns on his heel, heading back to his office for what is sure to be another long night.

Chapter Text

The coffee in his mug ripples in the middle as Castiel lifts it to his lips with a shaking hand. There has been no sign of Dean, no call for ransom or indication that he has been taken beyond his empty room.

“Your Highness,” Benny says, standing in the doorway of his office, not quite out of range of his paperweight. “The village is clear, and all ships out of the harbour have been called back and searched.”

Castiel sets down his coffee and tries not to snap at Benny when he speaks. “What about the market? And the city centre?”

“They are being checked now, but it could take—”

“Get the national guard on the line.” He reaches for the papers at the edge of his desk, but his hands are still shaking. They flutter to the floor, and he curses under his breath as he snatches them up.

“Sir, don’t you think—” Benny starts, but Castiel’s sharp glare stops him mid-sentence.

“What I think,” he says, his voice razor thin, “is that you should get General Copland on the phone.”

Benny hovers, mouth open, before snapping it shut with an audible click of teeth. He nods, spins on his heel, and hurries away.

“Russell,” Castiel calls, not nothing to look up from the reports in front of him as Russell steps into view. “Make sure he does his job this time.”

“Yes, Sir,” Russell says, before he’s gone as well, the door clicking shut behind him.

Castiel drops his head into his hands. There’s an ache growing behind his eyelids, a steady pounding at the base of his skull that’s been growing over the last hour. Pretty soon, he is bound to start slurring his words and hallucinating, but he cannot sleep until Dean is found.

This is not sustainable, he thinks, the words running through his mind over and over. This little sleep and this much stress is going to drive him mad before he turns twenty-two.

Perhaps Dean is not the best choice.

The thought stampedes in, running down all other thoughts, and Castiel shoves it back as violently as it barrelled in.

Dean is his hope. His light at the end of a very dark tunnel. He is his peace as well as his chaos. This is not Dean’s doing, he reminds himself, having come to the conclusion already that this is connected to the letter. There is no proof, of course, because if there were, then they would have something to go on. As it stands, they have nothing, and that is so much worse.

The door creaks open across the room, but Castiel doesn’t bother lifting his head when Russell speaks. “Three-hundred of the best soldiers are waiting in the courtyard, just inside the gates, Sir.”

“Thank you,” he says, because even though everything has turned on its head and Castiel is exhausted, none of it is Russell’s fault. “I will be down in a moment to give orders.”

He is the head of the military, after all.

The sun climbs in shy increments over the sprawl of Amarellino in front of him, lighting both city buildings at its centre, and the creeping homes of the poor closer to the harbour. Castiel stands on the balcony, looking at all of it as he waits for the search of the city to finish. The moment he receives news, he will make his decision.

For now, though, he turns on his heel, heading back inside to descend the steps to the grand entrance. This early in the morning, a flash of water rainbow light illuminates the windows at the top of the staircase.

“Your Highness,” Joshua says, and Castiel spins on his heel to face the guard as he rounds a corner. Castiel’s heart skips a beat when he catches sight of the alarm on his face. Then, the note in his hand.

“What is it?” He asks, already reaching for the paper. Joshua does not answer; he does not have to as Castiel unfolds the note.

Winchester goes home, or we make him disappear.

This is it, then. The communication they were waiting for. This is something, at least, and he needs to remember that, because right now, all he can think is that this is the absolute worst thing that could have happened.

“Have you gotten word?” Castiel asks, his mind spinning, scrambling for a possible next option. Without any communication other than this note, there is noway of knowing where to even begin.

“Not yet, though we should have something within the next half hour.”

“Call me as soon as you—”

Castiel’s head snaps up at the sound of a shout and the distinct crunch of tires on gravel. He opens his mouth to tell Joshua to go investigate, but his guard is already striding to the doors.

Castiel waits, hope and dread springing up in equal measure. It could be Dean, he thinks, before the more realistic thought of it could be anyone follows right along behind it.

Still, he waits, his heart in his throat, watching the door. Guards round the corners, come to his sides, but Castiel doesn’t acknowledge them as the sound of many feet on the outside steps reaches him.

He holds his breath as the doors open, and then—

Dean.

Relief like he has never felt before settles in when he sees him, along with Charlie and seven of his soldiers. It washes over him so fast and so hard that, for a moment, he does not question why they are out of the palace.

Until he does.

Until the club clothing and neon paint registers. They were at a club.

Anger tears through him so hot and hard that he sees red, boiling in his veins until it is all he can think about. He opens his mouth to speak. To shout at them, but his heart is still in his throat, blocking any attempt he makes a voicing his anger.

He looks Dean over, checking for injuries, and there are a few. New ones, he decides, still oozing blood, thick and dark, over the sickly pallor of Dean’s skin.

His eyes lock on Dean’s, the anger and relief roaring inside him as he lets out a shuddering breath. He sucks in a lungful of air, drawing himself back together as he turns to face Dean more fully.

“Sir, I—” Victor starts, and Castiel’s hand snaps up so fast, the soldier actually flinches. He holds up his staying finger, never looking away from Dean as he approaches with slow, even steps.

Anger, he decides, because all his stress and terror and exhaustion was for nothing. It was done out of a callous disregard for anyone but himself, and that, Castiel can be furious about.

“Call off the national guard,” he says, the first words out of his mouth, and he is surprised by the steadiness in them. The coldness as he speaks to Joshua, who stands by the open doors, while never taking his eyes off of Dean. “Let them know they’ve been found.”

“Right away, sir,” Victor says, twisting at the waist, and Castiel shifts his attention for a fraction of a second before refocussing on Dean.

“Not you,” he snaps, his anger extending beyond Dean to his soldiers, whose job is to protect Dean. “You will stay where you are. Silent, unless directed to speak.”

“Cas,” Dean whispers, an aborted attempt at God knows what, and Castiel closes his eyes at the rush of relief he feels at the sound of Dean’s voice. He pushes a hand through his hair, feeling his fingers tremble as he swallows hard past the desire to give in to that relief.

“Cas, I’m—”

“Don’t,” Cas snaps, glaring at Dean as he shoves the relief down once more. “Don’t speak.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Dean says, annoyance bristling in the furrow between his brows and the tension in his shoulders, and it just about knocks Castiel back a step with the outright defiance of his authority.

“Excuse me?” He says, smiling the tiniest smirk, because he just absolutely cannot believe what he is hearing.

“We went out, Cas. So, what? I’m not a fucking prisoner here, and neither are they,” he says, pointing at the soldiers behind him with a thumb over his shoulder. “We were out for a few hours—who fucking cares? Calling the national guard is the biggest over-reaction I’ve ever seen, and just last week Meg through the mother of all temper-tantrums because her stylist filed her nails the wrong shape.”

“You’re forgetting who makes the rules here, Dean!” He shouts, his anger building with every word out of Dean’s mouth until it bursts out of him. “And it’s not you! Now, if you can’t accept that, then you can just—”

“What? I can what, Cas? ‘Cause I’ll go pack my shit right now.” The words freeze something in Castiel’s chest, turning him to ice, but he does not move. Does not dare to give anything up. “Actually, you know what? I don’t have anything here, so I’ll just walk out those doors right now and you’ll never hear from me again.”

No, he thinks, his breath hitching on his next inhale, getting caught on the lump in his throat. The thought alone makes him want to give up all his anger. To surrender to whatever Dean wishes, to his desires. It breaks his heart to think about Dean leaving, never to see him again.

Something of his feelings must show on his face, before Dean’s stony expression cracks for a second, but only for a second, before it hardens again.

Castiel barely notices the soldiers and guards in the entrance hall with them, too focussed on Dean. “The rules are in place to protect you,” he grates, teeth clenched and voice quiet, his jaw aching from all the tension collecting in his body.

Dean laughs—actually laughs—in his face, a sharp bark of sound without humour. It snaps his anger right back into place, fanning hot and out of control. “I don’t need your protection!”

“Yes, you do!” The words tremble from him, high voice rising, shaking, out of control alongside his anger, his fear. He is losing it, unravelling faster and faster, out in the open for everyone to see.

The entrance hall falls silent, nothing but his out ragged breathing filling the space as he brings his clenched fist to his forehead and closes his eyes. Pull yourself together, he thinks, a mantra to keep him sane.

“Your Highness,” Marla says, her familiar voice filtering through the haze of anger shrouding him. “Your mother wanted me to give these to you straight away.”

Castiel glances at her, letting the harshness of his anger abate when he meets her hesitant blue eyes. He smiles at her, taking the stack of magazines from her with shaking hands.  “Thank you, Marla,” he says as she hurries away.

He shifts the stack of magazines to the crook of his arm, his heart twisting, because no matter what this is, it cannot be good if his mother is involved. He settles his attention on the top one, reading the headline. Winchester Gone Wild, it says over a picture of Dean in a dark club, the flash of lights illuminating the beaming grin on his paint smeared face.

He flips to the next, his heart breaking with each new picture. Each new headline.

Dean Winchester, 24, was spotted late last night and into the early hours of the morning at one of the most infamous clubs in Amarellino , 1-3-4. The Amarellino native is one of eight remaining suitors, vying for his royal highness, Prince Castiel Novak, and the two-time fan-favourite, though, that all might change after tonight’s escapades.

Dancing with Charlie, who is currently attempting to look over Dean’s shoulder. With Jesse and Caesar, who inch closer to each other. Smiling and laughing and happy in a way Castiel has yet to see him.

Winchester’s New Girl?

Is the hometown hottie cheating on Castiel? Who’s the pretty lady, and what exactly went down at 1-3-4, Amarellino’s hottest club last night? All the dirty details inside.

He shakes his head, his brow creasing, mouth pinching. Another with a woman Castiel doesn’t recognize, and she is… God, he is kissing Dean.

Something in his chest splinters, cracks, and he shoves the stack at Dean without bothering to look through them all. “You’re all over the news, Dean. Look—”

Dean takes them, glances at him, then the stack. Blood drips off his chin onto the top magazine, and he is still so starkly beautiful that it makes Castiel’s chest ache.

Dean’s hands shake as he flips through the pages, not truly reading as he goes from one to the next. Then, he gets to the one with the woman and his eyes fly up to meet Castiel’s. “Cas, I didn’t do—”

Castiel holds up a hand to stop him, shaking his head as the thought of him purposely kissing someone else flashes in his mind. That is not Dean, though. That he knows. “I know,” he says, leaving it at that before folding his arms over his chest in a feeble attempt to protect himself from Dean and all that he feels for him.

Suddenly, the bulk of the magazines fall to the floor, just one left in Dean’s hand. He watches carefully as Dean reads the headline, blood flowing steadily from his wounds now, his shoulder hanging awkwardly in its sling. He begins to sway on his feet, dropping the last magazine.

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice trembling as he meets Castiel’s eyes, sharp and green and terrified. “Cas, what do I do?” He slides his fingers through his hair and they come away coated in blood.“What do I do?”

Confusion washes over him, and he looks to the floor at the magazines for what it is that has Dean so panicked.

His eye widen when he catches sight of the photo, Dean front and centre, swinging on a man about his size. This cannot be good, but he cannot let Dean see him panic. He cannot let it get the better of him.

So, he turns to his soldiers, covered and blood and exhausted as they are. “I’ll speak with you later; go get cleaned up. Benny, have someone clean up this mess and tell Duma to meet me in my office.”

Benny spins with a nod, heading for Duma’s office without a word. His soldiers stand stock still, but he ignores them for now. Charlie too, as she looks around for some sort of indication of what to do.

“Dean,” he says, meeting Dean’s eyes. Much of his anger has gone out of him, for now at least, but it is a precarious thing. “Come with me.” He turns away, heading up the stairs without looking back.

Dean follows. What other choice does he have?

“Let me see,” Castiel says, lowering himself into a crouch in front of Dean, who sits on the couch adjacent to Castiel’s desk. For a moment, Dean doesn’t respond, his eyes glazed over, before he drops the hand with his wadded up sling from his right cheek.

“Still think you’re overreacting,” Dean says after a moment of Castiel tracing the cut with his fingers. Castiel drops his hand from Dean’s face, his anger reigniting with a fierce jolt. 

Castiel shoots him a sharp look, eyes narrowed, a warning in his eyes, he’s certain. “There are reasons for the rules in place,” he says, his voice rising louder than he means to, but he cannot help it. “And I meant it, Dean. I make the rules, not you.”

“You think I’m kidding about leaving?” Dean arches an eyebrow, annoyance washing over his features in the blink of an eye, and Castiel can see that this is going to be a fight. Bring it on. “I’ll walk out of here and never come back, Cas, I swear to God—”

“Stop.” He holds up a hands, shaking his head, because Dean is wrong. This is Castiel’s line, and he is not going to budge. Dean is not going to leave, either. He can’t.

“No, you stop!” Dean stands, pacing to one side, and Castiel straightens up as he spins around with a glare of his own. “I’m not here to play your servant, Your Highness,” he says, swaying a little, but Castiel just listens. “I’m here to marry you, and won’t take orders from you like I’m less—”

“You can’t go out alone, Dean!” Castiel shouts, surging on as he straightens up, because there is something else forcing its way into his mind. Something far more concerning.

This is what he wanted.

The realization hits him hard. Dean wants him as a partner, as a husband, not just for his status and his power. He wants him for him, and that means Dean will not serve him as a subject, but love him as a person.

It is everything.

But he can’t let it sway him.

“I wasn’t alone!” Dean shouts, across the room now. Far enough away that Castiel cannot catch him if he falls. “Your fucking army was there—seven of the best, remember? They were there the whole time—”

“And you still got hurt!” His voice cracks, emotion taking over, breaking him, unravelling him. Dean freezes, stares at him, and waits. “I’m trying to keep you safe,” he says, because he needs to clarify. He needs Dean to understand. “But you’re making it so… so fucking hard.” His voice is nothing but a whisper by the end, and there is an ache in his chest that grows and grows the longer they stand there.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks, and Castiel wants to tell him more than anything. Needs to tell him, if only to get it off his chest. He just feels so helpless. Hopeless. And exhausted. Just so, so exhausted. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Castiel.” Dean says, and Castiel looks at him. He cannot do anything but look at him.

“Threats,” he whispers, lifting the hand with the crumpled paper. Dean inhales a sharp breath, understanding dawning in his eyes.

“Who?” He asks, and Castiel has to tell him. He must tell him.

“You,” he says, his voice cracking, and he has never felt so weak.

“Let me see,” Dean says, holding out his hand. Part of Castiel does not want to hand it over. He wants to keep this from Dean, to never see that panicked look on his face ever again. But Dean deserves to see this. It is his life, after all.

He studies Dean’s face as he reads it. Watches the pinch between his brows and the way his beautiful eyes scan the short sentence. He is a mess, covered in dirt and blood, but still, Castiel cannot look away.

“People are angry, Dean,” he says, unable to raise his voice above a whisper. “About who stays and who goes; about not being picked themselves, or…”

“About me; that I’m not of noble birth, or money,” Dean says, finishing the thought that Castiel did not want to say. His shoulders sag as the air wheezes from his lungs; he hates that this is the way their society works. That this kind of divisiveness even exists. He hates that he is at the head of it all. He just… he hates this.

But one look at Dean tells him that he hates it more. And worse, that he believes that people are right to think less of him. That just won’t do. “Stop,” he says, forcing some modicum of command into his tone. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” He knows what Dean is thinking, of course, and he steps closer, trying to step in the way of that self-hatred. To make Dean see that it means nothing to him.

Castiel lifts a hand to Dean’s cheek, letting on finger brush the sharp curve of his cheekbone. It is nothing but a whisper of a touch, and brush of sensation against his fingertips, but it sends a wave of awareness through him, rippling with a buzz of electricity that rattles his bones.

“I want you here,” he whispers, so close that he can feel Dean’s breath on his lips. He tracks the sweep of Dean’s lashes when he closes his eyes. Counts the freckles like stars on his cheeks. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes,” Dean breathes, and a fist clutches at Castiel’s heart. It squeezes, his heart beating anyway. This is what he wants. Just this.

“But I need you to be safe, because if something were to happen to you—” God, he cannot even think of it. He would crumble. Scatter on a breeze. They have known each other for little more than three weeks, but the love Castiel feels for this man is profound. It would shatter him if something happened to Dean.

So when Dean says “Tell me what you need me to do,” Castiel feels it in his chest like a physical touch. Like a balm to heal the burning in his lungs.

“Stay safe,” Castiel says, the words falling out of his mouth on  a rush of air. He knows they are entirely unhelpful words, and he wracks his brain for something a little more concrete as he takes in Dean’s handsome face. He memorizes every angle, every edge. Every eyelash and freckle under smudges of dirt and blood. “Don’t leave the property without an escort.” Then, because he cannot not, he rests his palm over Dean’s bloody, paint-smeared cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, the life in his body. “And don’t ever scare me like that again,” he whispers.

For an all too brief moment, Dean leans into his palm, and Castiel lets himself revel in the momentary touch.

“Keep Benny with you at all times; if those who sent the letter have the ability to bypass security with mail, there is nothing to say they can breach the walls of this palace as well…” The list just keeps growing longer in his mind. Thing after thing that he and Dean can do to keep him safe. They fall off his tongue without thought until he is rambling. “I need you to check in a few times a day, as well. With me, preferably, but if you must, it can be with Susie. Actually, it’s probably best if you wear a tracking device, just in case—”

“Cas, no. No, I’m not doing that.” Dean shakes his head, and Castiel drops his hand from his cheek, scowling at Dean as worry invades his mind. “Besides,” Dean says, the does what Castiel has wanted him to do since the beginning. He reaches out with trembling finger and brushes the hair back from Castiel’s face where it has fallen in his eyes. The touch is easy, without though, and it sends a shiver through him. “If you can track me, what’s to say the bad guys can’t do the same?”

Dean is not wrong, of course, but does that mean they should not take the risk? He shifts forward, comfortable in his skin for the first time in what feels like forever, and places his hands on Dean’s hips. “I suppose you’re right,” he murmurs.

For a moment, indecision flashes across Dean’s face. Then, he is lifting his arms, wrapping them around Castiel’s neck, and moving closer. Closer, closer, until they are pressed together from hip to chest. A breath stutters out of him, warmth swooping through his body, and it is everything Castiel has needed for most of his life and so, so much more.

Castiel just holds him, soaking in the comfort of another person so close. He lets the tension melt from his muscles; lets himself sag into Dean’s hold until there is only the two of them. No threats, no wars, no duties beyond this moment.

He lets out a soft breath, feeling it puff against Dean’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, the words spoken into Castiel’s skin, and he just tightens his hold. Clings to him harder. This is the closest he has ever been to another person outside of his family. The longest he has ever been touched, and it is setting off a low-grade buzzing under his skin. A kind of pain he does not want to ever give up.

“Me too,” Castiel says, closing his eyes as tight as he can to block out the reality of the situation, which is that they cannot stay like this forever. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the soft scent of cigarette smoke and sweat on Dean’s skin, undercut by the shampoo in his bathroom, before he says, “I need to clean you up.” He doesn’t move quite yet, though, fingers tangling in Dean’s shirt for one more too-short moment. “And you need to stop touching me before one of my guards come in and put you in a chokehold.”

“Oh, fuck,” Dean says, jumping back at the words, eyes wide and hands help out at his sides as if he can reel back the last few minutes. “Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, turning his back on Dean before he does something stupid like reach for him again. He rounds his desk for some distance, looking at the high, arching windows and the cream coloured pain in between. He ignores the paint stains on his couch in favour of staring at the cherry wood grain of his desk.

“Sit,” Castiel says, reaching for the first aid kit below his desk before moving back to Dean’s side.   Then, when Dean doesn’t, Castiel pauses, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Please.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Dean says, throwing out a sloppy salute and dropping onto the sofa with a bounce, and Castiel has a sneaking suspicion that Dean is not exactly completely sober just yet. It is a little adorable, honestly. Not that he is about to say that to Dean.

“You are a menace, Dean Winchester,” he says instead, because that is close enough to the truth that he can grin about it, and revel in the way Dean grins back.

He crouches in front of Dean, the first aid kit open on the couch at Dean’s hip, and gets to work. He swabs all the tiny cuts and scrapes, both from his night out, and the fall he took the other day. He cleans the blood from Dean’s cheek, careful not to pull on the newly clotted wound. Castiel takes his time, concentrating on each area, making sure that Dean is comfortable as he works. It does not take long, and soon, he is checking Dean’s dislocated shoulder and wrapping his bruised and split knuckles in gauze.

“There,” he says, tucking the gauze around itself to hold it in place. “No more of this, alright?” He brings Dean’s hand up between them, arching one brow with the sternest look he can muster.“Doctor’s orders.”

A flush creeps into Dean’s cheeks and he squirms in his seat as Castiel watches him. It is an interesting reaction, and Castiel is not quite sure what to make of it. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles, and Castiel has to clamp down on the sound that tries to sneak out past his lips.

“The good news is you don’t have a concussion, but I would like you to keep me updated. If you feel nauseated, lightheaded, dizzy, or your headache persists—”

“I’ve got a hangover, Cas. I’ve got, you know, all of that.” Dean waves a hand as if to illustrate the all of that, and Castiel lets out a soft laugh.

“Menace,” he whispers, so much fondness collecting in his chest that he does not know what to do with it all. So, he collects the first aid kit and makes himself busy putting it away.

“Duma should be here shortly—” he starts, but when he turns to see Dean lying on the couch, shoes kicked off and eyes closed, he cuts himself off. For a moment, Castiel simply watches him as each breath brings on the steady rise and fall of his chest. He looks so comfortable, so cozy, and Castiel cannot bring himself to wake him.

Instead, he crosses the room to the circle of chairs by the door, grabbing the soft knitted throw he keeps in here for similar occasions as this. He spreads the throw out over Dean’s sleeping body, making sure to cover him head to toe.

Dean snuggles in with a contented sigh.

Castiel is halfway back to his desk when there is a knock on his door, and instead of calling out like he would normally, he crosses the office and peeks his head through.

Duma stands on the other side, her clipboard in hand and a grave look on her face.

“Are we ready, sir?” She asks, standing straight and tall, as if she is ready to move mountains to keep the waters smooth.

He looks back over his shoulder to where Dean is sleeping soundly. He should wake him, get this over with, but right now, he does not have it in him to disturb the peace he sees in Dean’s soften expression.

“Come back later,” he says, turning back to Duma. “Dean is resting; we will sort it out in an hour or so.”

Judging by the way her brow creases and her mouth pinches up, she is not pleased, but Castiel closes to door between them anyway. He has work to finish, and there is no harm in letting Dean sleep off whatever is left of his drunken state.

He crosses the floor to his desk, rounding the couch, but before he can pass too far, he stops. Dean just looks so peaceful like this, as if there is nothing in the world that could be wrong. Castiel wishes to freeze them in this moment, to come back to it again and again.

Something shifts inside him. Something soft and fluttering, but strong in its insistence. Boldness takes him over, fuelled by their earlier closeness, and with it, Castiel simply cannot help himself.

The easy push and pull Dean’s breathing does not change as Castiel bends close to him, pressing his lips to the smattering of freckles on his cheekbone, just north of the new gash on his cheek.

Warmth prickles inside him, spreading outward as he pulls away. Dean’s lashes flutter and shift, but he does not wake, lost to his slumber for now.

It is a difficult thing, not climbing in beside Dean for a rest of his own, but Castiel manages.

He lowers himself into his desk chair and gets to work.

Castiel is elbows deep in paperwork when there is another knock on the door, but Duma does not wait outside this time.

“Rather rude of you,” Castiel says, not bothering to look up when Duma charges in as he signs another dotted line.

“The matter is urgent,” she says, rounding the couch where Dean still sleeps, one arm tossed backwards over the top of the couch, the other tucked under his head, mouth open as soft snores float out with every other breath.

“Enlighten me,” he says, setting the paperwork aside for a moment to look up at Duma, who truly does look stressed.

“He is being charged with assault,” she says, setting an envelope down in front of him. Castiel does not reach for it, though. His insides freeze up as every possible outcome races through his mind.

“What do you mean?” He asks, though of course he knows.

Duma very nearly rolls her eyes, but stops herself at the last minute, as if remembering who he is. “The man from the club is pressing charges. He must have recognized Dean and is trying to use his new-found fame for leverage.”

She is right, of course. He is all but certain of it, but that does not stop the panic that tries to eat its way through him.

“I can pardon him,” he says, because it is the only option at this point. Dean cannot afford bail, which would mean he would go to prison until his trial. “Right up a draft—”

“You can’t,” Duma says, shaking her head. “You can’t get involved in this, and besides, you have no legal standing in this; it is your father’s decision.”

The man leaves everything else to Castiel, why not this, too?

He shakes his head, knowing she is right, but he still hates it. There must be something else. There must be—

“Let me wake him and we can discuss it,” Duma is saying, already turning for Dean, and Castiel speaks before he can think better of it.

“Do not touch him,” he snaps, glaring daggers at her back, but she stops in her tracks and turns to him once more. His fingers bounce on the stack of paperwork, the only visible sign of his unravelling. He can feel the meltdown creeping closer, feel himself spinning out of control, so he grabs onto this and holds on tight. Dean’s sleep is something he can control.

“We need to talk about it, Your Highness, with Dean. As in, he needs to be conscious,” Duma says, as if it is obvious. And it is, to some extent. Dean should be present for discussions about his future, but…

“He hasn’t slept that long, Duma. Keep your voice down, or you’ll wake him.” He keeps his words to a low whisper, urging her to do the same as he stares her down, but she is simply not getting it.

“That’s the point—we need to deal with this now before he ends up charged with assault!” She nearly shouts, arms out at each side, her composure unravelling.

“He’s not going to be—” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“There’s nothing you can do about it, Castiel. You can’t go around pardoning every little thing he does, just because you—”

“Enough,” Castiel says, his patience reaching its end, and she snaps her mouth shut with an audible click. At least there is someone who will listen when I speak, Castiel thinks, standing from his chair to round his desk as she makes her way toward the seating area in the corner.

Dean stirs, and Castiel’s attention snaps to him so fast, his head spins. He is blinking in the dull light, bringing a hand down to wipe at the drool at the corners of his mouth, before his eyes fix on Castiel.

“Oh, good,” Duma says, dropping into one of the chairs and crossing her legs at the knee as she sets a few folders on the table at her elbow. Castiel sighs, leaning against the front of his desk and crossing his arms over his chest.

“What’s up?” Dean asks, a little groggy as he sits up, rubbing one eye as he clears his throat, his voice still rough with sleep. Castiel watches as his eyes lock on Duma’s folder and he lets out a silent sigh.

“Will you tell him, or shall I?” Duma says, and the sarcastic tilt of her eyebrow is not lost on him. He narrows his gaze on her, and her features smooth out. Impassivity takes over and she ducks her head, breaking eye contact. Castiel stares at her for a moment more before looking at Dean.

“You’re being charged with assault for your attack on the man at the club,” Castiel tells him, keeping his tone as even and emotionless as possible so as not to make Dean panic.

“What?” Dean shakes his head, as if he does not fully understand. He frowns, a crease forming between his brows as he blinks his sea-foam green eyes. “Charged? But—”

“I’m sure it’s only an issue because he knows who you are now,” Duma says, opening the folding and flipping through its contents. She pulls out a few pages and sets them on the coffee table as Castiel watches. “Unfortunately, that means you’ll need to be arrested—booked and bail will be set.”

Castiel grits his teeth, anger swelling inside him. Why did she have to tell him that? Of course, he knows why, but did she have to say it like that?

“Bail? But I don’t—Duma, I can’t afford bail. I’ll… I’ll go to prison, I’ll—” Castiel watches as panic takes over Dean’s features. He twitches, swallows, and looks up at him. “Cas, I can’t—” The look on Dean’s face is pure desperation, and it breaks Castiel’s heart. He cannot help him; there is nothing he can do, and his composure crumbles.

“I can’t save you from this, Dean. There’s nothing I can do,” he says, hoping Dean understands that if there was something, he would do it in a heartbeat. That he would do everything in his power to make sure Dean is alright.

Dean drops his face into his hands, rubbing at his cheeks. Tension radiates off of him in waves, the peace from only moments ago long gone. “What am I supposed to tell my family? Shit.” Dean spirals in front of him, and Castiel hates that there is nothing he can do about it. His family is sure to find out about this, what with the press publishing every photo possible in every medium available to them. His stomach hurts just thinking about it.

“Dean,” Castiel says, straightening up from his desk, unable to be this far from him any longer, to sit beside Dean on the couch. He is careful not to touch Dean in any way, painfully aware of the other person in the room watching their every move. “We need to know what happened last night. Tell us everything.” If he were honest, he would say he does not want to know. The idea that Dean betrayed him, even unintentionally, is more than a little painful, and he would rather not hear about it. He knows of the woman; trusts that Dean did not initiate or, nor did he condone it, but hearing about it again is not something he is looking forward to.

“Okay, but, Cas…” Dean says, pausing for a moment, and Castiel looks up from where his gaze was locked on his own hands, meeting Dean’s eyes. He sees the earnestness in them, the need for Castiel to understand that what he is saying it the truth. “Please don’t let whatever’s going on inside that head of yours run away with you.”

He scowls, his whole face contorting with it, because despite the limited time they have had together, it would seem that Dean knows him well.

Dean smiles, just a small one, but it transforms his face in a way that makes Castiel’s heart thud. Then, he reaches out, brushes a hair back from Castiel’s eyes, and Castiel knows he should stop him. Should lean away or shake his head, but he cannot bring himself to deny Dean anything.

“That woman recognized me from the show. She was drunk, and kind of, I don’t know, threw herself at me.” Dean shrugs, the truth of his words so clear, it settles the worry in Castiel’s chest as Dean wiggles the fingers still tucked in the sling. “The sling kept me from holding her off.”

Castiel takes a deep, cleansing breath, letting it fill up all of his deflated parts, before he lets it out with a nod. He lets the relief wash through him; lets it soak into his bones as his scowl eases into a small smile. He believes Dean; of course he does. “Okay,” he whispers, as easy as that, and it has Castiel wishing that everything were as easy as trusting Dean’s word.

With a curt nod, Dean starts talking, his free hand gesticulating wildly while the other remains trapped in the sling. He doesn’t look at Castiel, but at everything around him. Castiel doesn’t look at anything else.

“Charlie came to my room while I was getting ready for bed,” he starts, scratching at the seam of his jeans. “Said the soldiers had invited her out and that I should come with. I figured it was okay if the soldiers were going too.”

That, Castiel can understand to an extent, and perhaps, from Dean’s point of view, he did overreact somewhat.

“She helped me climb over the garden gate into grounds, and we got in a car that took us downtown to this club—143, or something.” At this, he looks up at Castiel.

Castiel simply nods. He has heard of the club, though has never been. It is one of those rave clubs with the heavy beat music and the test tube shot glasses.

“Had a few drinks, was dancing with Charlie and a few of the others, when this girl came up to me and started dancing.” He shakes his head, biting his lower lip as he looks at the windows behind Castiel.

Castiel watches him, studying his face as Duma makes notes behind them.

Dean continues, and Castiel listens.

The hour passes slowly, Castiel’s stomach twisting at every other word, his face contorting into a scowl more than once, despite his best efforts to remain impassive.

By the time Dean is finished, Castiel’s mind is whirling. He looks into the middle ground somewhere near the floor, his hands folded in front of him as he tries to sort through all the information.

After a moment, Castiel decides what it is he wants to ask first. “Did you say he hit you first?”

In his peripheral vision, Dean scowls. “Yeah—couple of times, why?”

Hope springs up in Castiel’s chest as he shoots off the couch, ignoring Dean’s question in favour of action. He rounds his desk, flipping open his laptop to search the royal database for establishments under their power. “Duma, get me the footage from inside the club.”

“I’ll make a few calls.” She is on her feet and making her way to the door before Castiel can manage a thank you, speaking into her earpiece with clipped, direct instructions.

He scans the spreadsheet in front of him, searching, searching… damn, 143 is not on it. There is always the hope that the establishment will be helpful, but not likely, meaning they will need a lawyer to draw up the appropriate paperwork.

He picks up his phone and dials one-handed before bringing the receiver to his ear, ignoring Dean’s perplexed look from the couch.

“Needed, am I? Where am I meeting you?” Anael asks in lieu of a greeting. Evidently, she is already aware of the situation and, as always, excellent at her job.

“Yes, to my office. Thank you.”

“Twenty minutes.”

He hangs up without another word, on a mission now, because Dean cannot meet with a lawyer looking like this, no matter how delicious Castiel thinks him. It is not the right impression to make, and right now, everything is about impressions.

He sits at Dean’s side. “Here, let me remove this,” he says, siding his fingers beneath the bandana on Dean’s forehead. He pulls it off, watching as Dean reaches up to rub at the heat-reddened strip of skin on his forehead.

“Thanks,” Dean murmurs, taking it from Castiel’s fingers. It is not enough. Castiel pops back off the couch, rounding his desk once more, and searches through the drawers.

“We’re meeting with a lawyer; you need to look less like… well,” he waves his hands at Dean, not sure how to put it without sounding like he is insulting Dean.

“Do I really look that bad?” Dean looks down at himself, brows furrowed, self-consciousness evident in every uncomfortable shift he makes.

The thing is no, he doesn’t, but Castiel cannot tell him that, either. “Well, uh… well, no, but—” Castiel flushes, feeling the heat of an embarrassed blush creeping into his cheeks and he lets out a frustrated huff. The things that Dean does to him, he will never understand. “But, you’re meeting with a lawyer, Dean.”

“I’m going to need a shower, then, and probably some clean clothes.” Dean arches an eyebrow, his smile a little sarcastic and a lot attractive. So much so that Castiel shifts where he stands, something warm curling low in his stomach as he watches Dean closely. “No one’s going to take me seriously covered in neon paint, my own dried up blood, and smelling like a liquor store just threw up on me.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he says, his shoulders falling as he lets out a huffing breath. He sucks his bottom lips between his teeth. He could always use Castiel’s shower, though the implications of letting Dean into his personal spaces are not lost on him. He cannot let Russell know, or even Duma, if he can help it. They will both have something to say about it. But, and this is truly important, does he really care? “Here,” Castiel says, his decision made. “How fast can you shower?”

Dean frowns, his lack of understanding written all over his face, but he answers anyway. “Less than a minute, why? You got a—”

“Up, Dean. Get up. Follow me.” He reaches for Dean’s arm before he can think better of it, hauling him up, stumbling and confused, and nearly drags him across the room to the wall-blended doorway to his private dressing and washroom. “Everything you need is in here; I’ll lend you one of my suits.” Castiel is not going to lie, the thought of Dean in his clothing does things to his insides, but they neither have the time, nor the familiarity for that. “Hurry,” he whispers, his heart racing with nervous excitement of the whole experience. He opens the door and nudges Dean inside. “I’ll hang the suit up in the dressing room.”

“What—” Dean starts, but Castiel closes the door between them before he can finish. He needs to find Dean a suit to wear, and he needs to do so before either Duma or Anael arrive.

He is through his office door and on his way to his apartments before Russell has the chance to catch on.

Still, he calls after him. “Your Highness? Castiel!”

Castiel leaves him, calling over his shoulder to reassure him. “I will be right back!” He continues on, through the wide hallways, lit by sunlight through long windows. He crosses through the patterns of light on the floor, his head down. He cannot run, cannot be too eager, lest he run into someone who will ask too many questions.

Thankfully, he makes it to his rooms without any complications. His closet is packed with all of Susannah’s creations from the last few weeks. He peruses them with pursed lips, flicking through the hanging garments, taking as much time as he dares to decide.

He settles on a dark green suit, his mind flashing to how it would make Dean’s eyes stand out and his freckles more noticeable. He pulls it down, not bothering with a garment bag as he spins around, ready to head back to his office.

Something stops him, though, and he stands in the middle of his closet, staring at his undergarment drawer. Dean will need clean underwear, but he does not have time to go down to his room to grab any.

Heat rises hot and sharp in Castiel’s cheeks, the thought sneaking in before he can block it out. It is weird, he thinks, but what other options do they have?

With a sigh, Castiel opens the drawer, the suit slung over his shoulder. There are several new pairs of underwear in here, so if he brings Dean one of those, he can at least look him in the eye later.

With his load secured, Castiel leaves his room, heading back in the direction from which he came.

His heart pounds as he looks at his watch. It has been no more than ten minutes since he left Dean in the bathroom, but Anael may be early, or Duma could return before he—

“Head up!”

Castiel jumps, rounding a corner and nearly barrelling right into Susie. He blinks, meeting her eyes, and her anger turns to surprise, then suspicion in a matter of seconds.

“What are you doing with that suit?” she asks, as if it is any of her business. Castiel smooths out his expression, fixing his features into impassivity as Susie stares him down.

“I need an extra one in my office,” he tells her, doing his best to not let his anxiety show. The clock is ticking and at this rate, Dean is going to be standing around completely nude when Anael arrives.

“What for?” She snaps, hands on her hips now, her dark eyes narrowing on him, and he really does not have time for this.

“None of your business,” he says, eyes steady, the full weight of his authority at the forefront as he waits for her to step aside. “Excuse me,” he adds to stress just how much she needs to get out of his way.

Her eyebrows shoot up, but she does not argue as she steps aside. He hurries past her, feeling the daggers in his back as she stares him down.

Russell straightens up when Castiel turns the corner, shooting him an accusatory look. “Castiel—”

“I do not have the time,” he says, leaving out the nor the inclination, as he pushes through his office doors. Thankfully, Duma has not yet returned and Anael is still not here. He can hear the shower running faintly in the background.

Castiel crosses to the dressing room door, taking a deep breath before he enters. He is just going to leave the suit on the back of the door. The underwear, on the cushion, but when he sets both in their place, he finds himself pausing.

He stands on one side of the bathroom door, listening to the water sliding off Dean’s naked body onto the shower tiles; the sound of bottles being lifted, set down, the sound of scrubbing.

Castiel lets out a silent breath, arousal flooding him at he closes his eyes and lets himself think about the hot slide of soapy water down Dean’s naked skin. Skin he has seen, that he is imagining now, all hot water reddened, the sharp jut of hip bones, long, bowed legs, his muscled chest…

Castiel’s trousers tighten a bit as blood rushes south, and he forces himself to stop right now. God, this is not the time.

He knocks on the door.

“Dean?” he calls, knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing he should just let Dean find the clothes on his own. He doesn’t wait for Dean to respond before continuing. “I have a suit out here for you, but I’ve just realized that, uh… well, that you don’t have any clean underwear.” Castiel pauses, a flush rising in his cheeks, which is ridiculous, but there all the same. “I left you a new pair, never worn. I hope you don’t mind.”

“T-thank you,” Dean says from the other side of the door, closer than Castiel expects, and he nearly presses his ear to the door to hear him better. Dean clears his throat, then says, “Thanks, Cas. I’m just about finished in here.”

“Right!” He jerks back, because he absolutely cannot be in here when Anael arrives. Not if Dean is seen to follow moments after. He starts toward the door before pausing one last time. “Anael will be here shortly—my lawyer, that is.”

Then, he leaves, closing the door behind him before settling behind his desk once more.

But he cannot settle. There is this twitchy, jittery feeling in his veins, his blood pumping audibly as he takes deep, steadying breaths.

His eyes snap open when his phone rings and he snatches it off his desk and brings it to his ear without looking at the caller ID. He stands, needing to do something other than sit, and paces to the door. He steps through it, needing to speak with Russell, he is sure.

“Your Highness,” Duma says, all business. “I will be a while longer. The manager at 143 is giving me trouble.”

“I will have Russell go down there,” he says, looking at the head of his guard, who simply nods before heading down the hallway.

“Wonderful. Is Dean ready?”

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice carries through the double doors, and Castiel spins on his heels to head back inside. 

“Yes,” he says, looking up at Dean as he closes the door behind him. “I’ll let him know—” He stops, blinking a few times when he catches sight of Dean in his clothing. God, he is gorgeous. He hangs up, taking long strides across the room, dropping his cell phone on the desk, as he lets his gaze slide up and down Dean’s body.

“Uh, Cas?” Dean ducks his chin, trying to catch his attention, and Castiel flushes when he realizes what he is doing. “Is the lawyer…”

“A few more minutes,” Castiel says, answering Dean’s question before he can finish it. He looks back at Dean’s face and pauses. “You have some…” He points at his own face, and Dean’s hand flies to his face, but before he can ask, Castiel spins, grabbing a wet wipe from his desk drawer. “Here, let me.”

He holds up the wipe, moving into Dean’s space to grasp Dean’s chin between his finger and thumb.

Dean sucks in a soft breath, jerking slightly, as Castiel raises the cloth to wipe away the eyeliner still staining Dean’s eyelids. “I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs, and steps in closer as Dean’s eyes fall shut. “Good, keep them closed.”

Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs, but Castiel forces himself not to think about their nearness. He runs his thumb, covered by the wipe, over the delicate skin of Dean’s eyelids, careful not to put too much pressure on his eye. Dean’s breaths puff against his mouth, hot and moist, and it takes everything inside Castiel not to kiss the split in his bottom lip; to taste him on his tongue…

“What, eyeliner’s too much?” Dean asks, snapping Castiel back to the present. He blinks, shaking his head as he switches to the other eye, letting out a soft laugh as he does.

He adjusts his grip on Dean’s chin, the heat of his skin making Castiel’s palms sweat, and tips his head back a little more. “It’s a good look on you, Dean, but not quite what we are going for with this meeting.”

“A good look, huh?” Dean says, licking his split lip, and Castiel stares at the glossy sheen of saliva before he looks away. “Might have to do it again sometime?” Then he’s ginning and Castiel huffs, faux annoyed, but inside, he is buzzing with happiness as he slides the wipe to the edge of Dean’s eyelid, then rolls his eyes. “You want to come with next time? Huh, Novak? You can make sure we behave?”

“You are a menace, Dean Winchester,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips as Dean stares into his eyes. The thought of going clubbing Dean is exciting in a way that almost scares him. He has never been to anything like 143 before, and so go with Dean… “So much so, that I might just.” He gives Dean a look, one eyebrow arches as he folds the stained wet wipe and sets it on the edge of his desk to be disposed of later.

“Really?” He tits his head to the side, a strand of water-darkened hair falling into his eyes. It is hot and adorable at the same time, and Castiel doesn’t know whether he wants to kiss him or— “You’ll come out with me?”

“If you were allowed to leave the grounds,” he says, because he can be a menace as well, “then yes, but since you have already made a promise to stay put…” He grins; a rare, wide smile, full of teeth, before it falls away when all Dean does is stare at him.

For a moment, they just stand there, watching each other, and Castiel cannot for the life of him figure out what Dean is thinking. He is a mystery, this man, and Castiel is in love with him.

He takes in Dean’s appearance, and clicks his tongue in distaste when he reaches his hair. “Your hair is a mess,” he murmurs, speaking more to himself than to Dean before he slides his fingers into the damp strands, doing his best to flatten them out in a way that looks intentional, rather than haphazard.

“T-thanks, Cas,” Dean says, the words no more than a whisper, so close to Castiel that he feels the words against his lips more than he hears them. Heat bleeds from Dean’s body into his, his eyes dropping to Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel’s heart lurches. This is it, they are going to kiss and—

Castiel jumps away when the sound of knocking fills the room, his heart leaping into his throat. He turns toward the door, heat rushing into his cheeks, and calls for whoever it is to enter.

Anael steps into the room in all her beautiful, red-headed glory, a small, mischievous grin on her lips. She is of the uncommon sort, dressed more like a bohemian hippy than an attorney, but she is the best as what she does.

“Anael,” Castiel says, stepping forward greet her and create some more distance between him and Dean. “It’s wonderful to see you again, and looking as lovely as ever.”

“Such a charmer,” she says, winking at him with a bright, flashing smile that gets her her way more often than not in the court room. He simply shakes his head and smiles a small, fond smile. “What can I do for you, your highness?”

Beside, and slightly behind him, Dean kicks the floor, then curses under his breath as he looks at the shoe, and Castiel realizes Dean is wearing his shoes. God, no. Do not think about him wearing your clothes.

Instead, he turns to Dean with a smile and a wave in his direction. “This is Dean Winchester; one of my suitors. Dean, this is Anael.” The tension in Dean’s shoulders eases when Castiel’s fingers brush his arm. 

Dean takes a deep breath and straightens his shoulders before holding out a hand for Anael to shake. “Nice to meet you,” he says, a small smile on his lips.

It knocks the breath out of Castiel for a moment, stunning him into speechlessness, into immobility. The way Dean tilts his head, the way he flutters his eyelashes and turns his lips up at the corners in a small, delicate smile. He is beautiful, and Castiel is so busy watching him, he doesn’t notice anything else.

“He’s a pretty one, that’s for sure,” she says, and Castiel’s head snaps around so fast, he is certain he pulls something. She shoots him a knowing look as she turns away, and Castiel reels in the feelings that must be obvious on his face before Dean can see them too.

“Just pretty, huh? That’s all you got?” Dean snaps, annoyance radiating off of him, and Castiel understands, but her comment has nothing to do with him and everything to do with Castiel.

“Dean,” he hisses between his teeth, shooting him a look from the corner of his eyes, but Dean doesn’t so much as twitch.

Anael simply holds up the stack of magazines, newspapers, and reports, looking over her shoulder with a smile. “Anyone who does this while courting the prince of our great kingdom can’t be very bright.”

“Unexperienced, not stupid,” Dean says, and an odd amount of pride settles in Castiel’s chest as Dean stands his ground. He will need to be good at that if he is to be Castiel’s future partner; there is much scrutiny from everyone around them.

Castiel waits as Anael assesses Dean, her gaze travelling up and down the length of him in a quick, appraising way, before she nods. “Alright, then—point taken.” Then she looks his way, something knowing in her eyes, like a private joke between the two of them. As if she knows something she should not, and the worst of it is that Castiel fears that she actually does. That perhaps his love for Dean is written so clearly on his face that anyone who is paying even the slightest attention can see it. He looks between her and Dean, waiting for something. For her to reveal his secrets. For Dean to figure them out. But all she says is, “Fiesty, that one. I like him.”

“Wonderful,” Castiel says, feeling the exasperating taking him over as he pushes his hip off his desk and clasps his hands in front of him. “Might we get on with this? There is much to do before the end of the day.”

“Right, his royal highness has much to do,” Anael says, her expression so deadly serious that one would think someone had died. Castiel nods, short and curt, before turning for the seating area in the corner. He is not stupid; he knows when he is being made fun of, but he also knows that there simply isn’t the time to call her out for every little infraction she makes.

Besides, he catches the way she winks in Dean’s direction, and how he grins with secret delight. She is putting Dean at ease and for that, he cannot fault her for.

She may know more than she should about his true feelings for Dean, but it is clear she is still, and has always been, on his side.

“This is not simply a matter of privacy,” Duma is saying, pacing the room with her phone clutched to her ear as she speaks with the club’s owner. For whatever reason, he is being particularly difficult, and Castiel is on the verge of going down there himself and demanding the tapes. As it stands, he is waiting for word from Russell that the warrant has come through, though he is hoping to not need it.

Dean, for his part, sits at his side, in his own chair, staring into nothing. His eyes are wide and glazed over, dark circles under them. Perhaps his late night affairs are taking more of a toll on him that Castiel originally thought.

“His Royal Highness is requesting them; he is not just anyone.” Duma stops, huffing out her frustration as annoyance twists her features into something harsh. “Of course I am not him. I am speaking for him.” She resumes her pacing. “Prove it?” She turns to him, levelling her gaze on him as her patience reaches its end. “Speak to him yourself.”

Then there is a phone in Castiel’s hand, and an angry, shouting voice in his ear. “You have no right to demand this of my—”

“Do not speak,” Castiel says, his own patience walking a razors edge, and the man clamps down on whatever it is he is saying at the sound of Castiel’s voice. “The head of my guard is coming to you now. When he arrives, you will give him the tapes without argument. I am done asking.”

There is a choking sound on the other end of the line, some shouting, muffled by a hand over the speaker, then, “You got it, Your Highness.”

“Excellent,” he says, then hangs up. He does not like using his position to get his way like this, but this time, it was necessary. He looks at Dean as he hands the phone back to Duma, catching the heat in Dean’s gaze for only a moment before he blinks it away.

“What now?” Dean asks, a deep gravel in his voice that gives him away.

“Now,” Castiel says, reaching for his cup of coffee where it sits on the table, growing colder by the minute. “We wait.”

“Yeah, look there,” Dean says, leaning closer to the laptop, his finger grazing the screen as he points to the dark, grainy footage of Matt pushing him, then knocking him sideways with a fist to the face. “He hits first, see?”

“Hmm…” Anael hums, leaning closer with a finger on her chin as she squints, and Castiel starts to relax for the first time in hours. There is a headache mounting behind his eyes, the tension in his shoulders and neck doing him no favours. “I think we can work with this.” Anael nods, tapping out something on her own computer, and immediately to his right, hovering beside his desk chair, Dean sits up in his borrowed chair a little straighter.

“Are you planning a counter-charge?” Castiel asks, leaning back in his chair as he studies her. This is their only option as far as he can tell.

“Yes, I’m thinking that’s the best course of action.” She nods, snapping her computer shut with a click before straightening up and looking at Dean. “The goal here is to get him to drop the charges against you,” she says, explaining it to Dean in terms he will understand, and for that, he is grateful. “If he does that, we’ll drop ours. The last thing the royal family needs is for this to go to trial right now.”

Castiel nods, knowing all too well what she is speaking of. With his chin resting in his palm, fingers splayed over his mouth, he stares at the footage, the clear line of an arm, drawn back to strike Dean. This, they can work with. This is what will get Dean out of trouble. He can feel it in his bones.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says out of nowhere, and Castiel drops his hands from his mouth as he looks at Dean.

“Whatever for?” He asks, scowling at the implications that Dean need apologize for anything more than he already has.

“Uh, you know,” Dean starts, a flush rising in his cheeks as he waves a hand around, all flustered and frustrated. “For all this; for causing you stress.” His throat works as he swallows, but he holds Castiel’s gaze.

For a moment, Castiel wants to brush him off; to tell him it is fine. But it is not fine, and Dean has caused him an incredible amount of stress in the last long while. He cannot be truthful with Dean if he is willing to tell him little lies such as this.

So instead, he says, “We can speak about it later.” Knowing that they will not, and by the look in Dean’s eyes, he knows it too.

“Okay!” Anael says, dropping her papers on the desk. Castiel looks her way, torn from his momentary staring match with Dean. “I need signatures from both of you—lots of signatures, so I hope you’ve got lots of ink in those pens.”

Castiel takes two pens from their holder, holding one out to Dean, who takes it with a quiet “Thank you.”

Castiel nods, watching Dean for a moment longer than necessary as Dean takes the first piece stack of paper. Will this be their life together? He and Dean signing documents, side by side at his desk? It does not sound like a glamorous life, but his life really isn’t.

But the simple togetherness. Is this how it would be? Working silently, without complaint, just… together?

Castiel settles into his own stack of documents, hoping for it.

“I suppose you’re rather hungry?” Castiel asks, gathering the papers and pens, his laptop and phone from his desktop and tucking them away. He smiles over at Dean, who is busy rubbing the ache from his wrist.

“Starved,” Dean says, a smile of his own brightening his features into something warm and beautiful. It dawns on Castiel once again how lucky he is. That he waited for Dean’s application. That he had his men waiting at the post office just in case. That he even applied at all. 

Silence hangs heavy in his office, Anael now gone, having hurried out moments ago with a promise to let them know as soon as she heard from Matt’s lawyers, which may take a few days. Castiel is not concerned; it has become clear over the course of the day that Matt wished for relevance only, and will concede the moment he learns of the charges against him.

“Dinner started only a few minutes ago,” he says, rounding his desk, but stops when he catches sight of the old and soggy bandages Dean wears. “But I need to change these first. Take them off while I grab my kit.”

He turns on his heel to the sound of Dean’s huffing annoyance, and he can practically feel the eye-roll that follows.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Winchester,” he snaps, elbow-deep in the cabinet that contains most of his medical supplies. He does not bother to look back when Dean lets out a squawking sound of indignation; an overreaction to being caught out, he is certain.

“I did not!” Dean says, huffing and puffing against, and Castiel cannot hold back the smile that threatens to crack his composure. “What a thing to accuse.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t do it; I know you better than that.” With the entire hit in hand, Castiel turns, sufficiently losing the battle with his smile, before finding that Dean has done nothing to rid himself of the old ones. His smiles drops. “I told you to take those off.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” Dean snaps, but he is taking off his bandages with clumsy fingers, chewing on his bottom lip as Castiel lets out a soft sigh with a wan smile.

“No, I suppose you don’t,” he says as Dean’s eyes flick his way, a little uncertain, before the tension eases from his shoulders.

He sets the kit on his desk, flipping it open before making quick work of cleaning and bandaging Dean’s cuts and scrapes. He checks his dislocated shoulder before deciding to do away with the sling, before putting away the kit.

When he is finished and they are ready to go, he takes one last moment with Dean. In front of his desk, under the guise of checking his work, he stands close, studying Dean’s features in silent contemplation.

Dean watches him, not so much as a hint of caution in his eyes. He simply waits, content to do so, and Castiel finds himself lifting a hand to his face. He brushes back a strand of drying hair from Dean’s forehead, out of his eyes, and lets his fingertips linger for a moment longer than necessary. Dean sucks in a soft breath, a subtle shift in the tint of his cheeks, in the way his lashes flutter.

They don’t have time for this, but he wants to make time. He wants to stand here with Dean, just like this, for as long as Dean will let him.

Instead, he drops his hand and says, “Shall we?”

Castiel, of course, does not expect there to be an empty seat at his side when they arrive at the dining hall, but he is disappointed all the same. At his side, Dean’s shoulders fall with his own disappointment, and he takes comfort in knowing that he is not alone.

Dean’s warmth sinks through Castiel’s suit as he leans in, getting as close as he dares to whisper in his ear. “As soon as I know anything, I will find you, alright?” The tiny shiver that moves through Dean feels like a gift in itself, and Castiel delights in the knowledge of how he affects Dean.

“Yes, uh… yeah, thank you.” Dean clears his throat, and Castiel lets out a soft laugh at the way his pupils dilate and his lashes flutter as colour rises in his cheeks. Dean wants him, and Castiel would be lying if he said it doesn’t do something to him as well.

He leaves Dean behind him, their shoulders brushing as he moves away, and he will admit, it is fun to tease Dean in this way. He may have to do it more often.

Behind him, Dean huffs, and delight sinks into Castiel’s chest as he settles into his chair. He does not bother speaking to anyone around him, too tired from the events of the last few weeks, and too distracted by the way Dean loads his plate without a word to anyone.

Dinner is quiet for a while, no one daring to mention the events of the morning. Honestly, Castiel is not certain they even know, despite his rather public outburst this morning. Either way, he is not about to bring it up; it is none of their business.

“Hey, where’d you get the suit?” Charlie asks, startling Castiel into looking up. She is speaking to Dean, of course, one of her few friends, and Dean is just about as startled as he is. “I didn’t see anyone grab it from your room.”

Dean glares at her, a silent comment on her creepy knowledge of his comings and goings, he is certain.

Charlie just shrugs. “Was waiting for you to get back.”

Castiel watches closely for Dean’s reaction, his own heart pounding in his chest. It would not do well to let on that Dean is wearing his clothes, especially not in a room of his other suitors. Dean is panicking, though, shoving food in his mouth in an attempt to delay his answer. Scrambling to come up with something plausible.

“I, uh—”

“I had his stylist deliver a new one,” Castiel says, cutting over Dean before he can say something they will both regret. Thankfully, his ears of practice means his tone is calm, unruffled, and he sips at his wine in a show of nonchalance. Inside, though, he is quaking with the fear that his one secret, his greatest secret, is as clear to the others as it was to Anael.

Castiel looks back at his plate, ignoring the reactions of the others as he slices through a stalk of asparagus and slips it between his lips. He can feel the curious eyes and annoyed stares from around the table, some of them focussed on him, but most on Dean. They don’t buy it. Fuck.

“But why did he need it delivered?” Meg snaps, and Castiel bristles at her tone. She is becoming too comfortable here, and that will not do.

He levels her with a look, meeting her cutting gaze with one of his own, though his with the power to back it up. “That,” he says, arching an eyebrow as her anger wavers, “Is a matter that does not concern you, Miss Masters.”

She snaps her mouth shut, but Castiel does not miss the way she turns her anger on Dean; the easier target, in her eyes. He says nothing, though he wishes to. Dean is not some delicate flower, incapable of standing up for himself.

No, Castiel is learning rather quickly that Dean has a fire inside him that needs no stoking. He is far more confident, far more capable, than perhaps any of them realize.

Tea passes without incident, an unspoken agreement made between he and Dean to keep their distance, despite wanting anything else. He speaks with Hannah about her sister, about her father, before conversation lulls and she wanders away.

He is on his way back to his rooms now, Joshua at his back, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. There is still much to do about today; publishers to call, people to pay off, but he does not have the energy for anything more than changing out of his suit and dropping into bed.

He steps through his bedroom door with a sigh, the overhead lights flicking on, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he finds Susie waiting for him by the bed.

“He has his own clothes, you know?” She says by way of greeting. “Very good clothes, might I add.”

“I don’t have the energy for this,” Castiel says, his surprise shifting to exasperation in the space of a heartbeat when he realizes what this is about. “It is not a big deal.” Hell, it is not even a little deal, and yet, here they are.

“Someone will notice,” she says, as if they haven’t already. “You cannot go around dressing him up like your own personal plaything.”

He rolls his eyes, the patience he has been grasping onto like needle thin straws all days quickly slipping away. “He is not a plaything,” Castiel snaps, slipping out of his suit jacket and tugging at the knot of his tie. “I do not have to explain myself to you.”

“No,” she says, stepping closer. She takes the jacket from his hands before turning him around with a hand on his arm. With quick, practiced fingers, she undoes the buttons of his waistcoat. “You don’t, but let me tell you something.”

“I don’t have—”

“The energy, I know,” she says, her dark eyes flicking to his before refocussing on her task. “But you are putting him in danger with your indiscretion.” She slides the waistcoat off his shoulders and sets it aside. “The other suitors speak as if their stylists are not there. They are of a different class than you or Dean, Castiel. You have to realize this, yes?”

He doesn’t answer, keeping quiet for once, because he is sensing that she is getting to something important.

“They say things about him; not threats,” she says, correctly reading his mind as she has done so many times before. “But he is less than human to them. He is nothing but a nuisance, and you need to be careful with the dressing up, and the looking at him like you do, and—”

“Looking at him the way I do?” Castiel asks, alarm clear in his voice as he stops her hands from unbuttoning his dress shirt.

The look she gives him makes his stomach twist, as if he is a small child, too naive to understand. “Like he hung the moon and every star in the sky, my dear.”

A lump forms in his throat, choking off anything he might have said in his own defence. But there are no words. Anael saw it as clear as day, written all over his face the moment Castiel looked at Dean.

She undresses him in silence, having said her piece, and gathers his clothes before she leaves him. The door shuts between them with a soft click, but Castiel can do nothing more than sit on the edge of his bed, his mind in shambles.

He has known since the moment he realized his feelings for Dean that he could not tell him yet, but he hadn’t realized just how dire it was to keep them to himself entirely.

There is no doubt in his mind, now. He must keep his love for Dean under wraps until this is all over. More than that, he must not, under any circumstance, let anyone know he cares for Dean any more than he does the others.

The ceiling stares back at him for a long time as the weight of what he must do settles over him.

Starting tomorrow, he is going to have to spend more time with the others, even if he wants nothing more than to waste all his hours away with Dean.

Chapter Text

The sun has yet to rise when Castiel wakes.

He stretches his arms high above his head, groaning as his muscles flex and spasm. For a moment, he simply lies there, letting himself wake slowly.

Eventually, he will need to get up, but for now, he is happy to lounge, enjoying the warmth of his bedding and the contentment wedged deep in his chest.

After a while, he rolls to one side, letting his feet hit the floor before dragging himself up. Perhaps he will go for a run this morning. It has been a while, his lack of sleeping leading to a lack o motivation, but he feels good this morning. An energy present in him that has not been there in some time.

With that thought solidly in mind, he makes his way to his closet, grabs a pair of shorts and a sweat-wicking t-shirt, and slides into a pair of runners.

“Joshua,” he says, stepping through his bedroom door to find the guard he knows to be on shift. “We are going running.”

“Yes, Sir,” Joshua says, following him as he makes his way out of his apartments and into the more public areas of the palace.

While Joshua changes into something more comfortable than the all-black suit that is his uniform, Castiel does his stretches, warming up for his pre-dawn run.

“How far this morning?” Joshua asks, rubbing a hand over his shaved head as he follows Castiel into the grounds.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Castiel tells him, beginning with a walk to get his blood pumping. They head to the south, out toward the hills, and Castiel sucks in a deep breath of the chilly air. Dawn is slowly creeping in, the sun, hinting at peeking over the horizon, but when Castiel looks up at the sky, stars still blink down on them.

When he reaches the edge of the palace, he picks up the pace, moving into a jog. The burn in his calves and thighs only fuels him, pushing him to run faster. His lungs heave as he pumps his arms and lengthens his strides.

Behind him, Joshua keeps pace, his breathing steady and even, and Castiel envies his fitness. He is aware that his guards remain in peak physical condition for a reason, but Castiel’s lungs are already wheezing for air after only a week off.

He presses onward, running over the grassy hills as the sun rises, and Castiel soaks in the quiet morning for exactly what it is.

A chance to escape, if only for a while.

“Mr. Winchester was none too pleased with your early wake up this morning,” Susie says as she preps his skin for his camera makeup.

“You made him get up?” He is aware, of course, that Dean’s time with Susie revolves around his, but he thought Dean would just have to wait a while longer, not get up early.

“Of course,” she says, a brush in one hand and a bottle in the other. “He is at breakfast now; I couldn’t very well make him wait, now could I?”

“No, I suppose not,” Castiel says, imagining what a disaster that would be for everyone. Dean is a lot of good and beautiful things, but tolerable when hungry is not one of them. “Is he aware that his schedule works around mine?”

“He is now,” she says, entirely unconcerned and only half paying attention as she highlights the more light-catching sections of his face and contours the darker sections accordingly.

Of course he is. Castiel sighs, closing his eyes as Susie does her job. He will have to plan his time better so that Dean gets enough rest. After the other night, Castiel knows he needs the sleep, and he cannot imagine that Dean is a joy to be around this morning.

Still, he wishes he could make breakfast just to see him.

“Have Russell bring some food to my room,” he says, eyes still closed as she finishes up her work.

She huffs. “All this and you are hiding?”

He peels one eye open. “I am not hiding,” he says, though he supposes he is a little bit. Susie’s words from last night still echo in his head, a warning that he is not about to take lightly. Perhaps it is a good thing that he is not seeing Dean this morning.

“You can lie to yourself, but not to me,” she says in that apathetic way she has, only half paying attention to him as she packs away her brushes and gathers her hair products to make one last attempt at taming his unruly hair. “I will call for your breakfast.”

“Thank you,” he says, settling into the chair and closing his eyes as her gel-coated fingers push through his hair.

“You won’t be thankin’ me when I get you peanut butter and jelly,” she says, so close to him that he can hear the tsking sound she makes when his hair stands back up despite her efforts.

“I like peanut butter and jelly,” he muses, his mouth twitching in a smile as he taps out a rhythm on his thigh. “Get me some milk too, yeah?”

“I’ll get you something, alright.” It is a non-threat, and he takes it as such, ignoring the comment in favour of relaxing into the rare experience of another’s touch.

“Please tell me it is not a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” Castiel asks when Russell steps into his office with a covered tray balanced on one palm. He was not lying to Susie when he said he liked them, but he is also not five years old.

“What makes you think this is for you at all?” Russell says, one eyebrow raised as he crosses the room. “Perhaps I thought to get myself a little snack before coming to see you.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated sound at Russell’s attempt at humour. “While I have no objections to you eating on the job, but—”

“But, what, Your Highness?” Russell asks, arching an eyebrow as he tries to force back a smile.

“But,” Castiel says, a little more force in the word that he intends as he stares at the tray. Truthfully, though, he loves speaking with Russell like this; it is what he hopes other father-son relationships are like. “I’m starving.”

Russell’s face cracks into a smile as he sets the tray down on the corner of the desk. “You are a lot of things, Your Highness,” he says, pulling the lid off with far more flourish than is strictly necessary, “but starving is not one of them.”

“Yes, well,” he says, waving him off as the scent of bacon and eggs wafts over him. His mouth waters as he pulls the tray over. “I can guess at what it would be like.”

“Eat your breakfast,” Russell tells him, apparently in a position to give orders now as he pours Castiel some orange juice from a carafe. “And while you are at it, stop assuming the identities of those truly struggling.”

There is no judgement in the words, but Castiel knows he means them in some way, and he takes them for the fatherly advice they are. “Leave me be before I start harping on the pitfalls of guarding a spoiled, twenty-one-year-old man-child of a prince.”

Russell holds up both hands as he backs away. “You said it, not me.” He spins on his heels and heads out the door, and Castiel shakes his head as he lays a napkin over his lap and gathers his cutlery, smiling like a fool as he digs in.

The hours are long as he waits to hear from Matt’s lawyers. So, he decides on a walk.

Russell walks with him, slightly behind, and does not speak. They are content to walk in silence for now, meandering through the halls with no real aim.

Alright, so there is an aim, though not one he will admit out loud.

Dean is a serial wonderer, guilty of walking the halls in his boredom, and perhaps Castiel is hoping to run into him on this walk. Maybe even join him.

A sense of expectation buzzes in his veins as they make their way closer and closer to the centre of the palace and the conservatory where he used to hide as a child.

It is not an easy route, full of hidden doorways and dark, nearly-hidden passages, but that is why it is such a great escape. He walks his way around it, passing through the amphitheatre with its vaulted ceiling and balconies carved from ancient teak. Even in the middle of the day with no events scheduled, the lights are full and blinding, his footsteps echoing through the otherwise empty theatre.

Instead of passing through the doors opposite the ones he entered through, Castiel makes his way to the back of the theatre to where a thick sapphire curtain hides the panel through which they will go to arrive at the passage that will lead down to the conservatory.

“I remember the first time you can this way,” Russell says after they have passed through into the forgotten hallway, lit by the glass ceilings that reach up to the sky. “I followed you when you ran away, you know?”

Castiel looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t comment. He hadn’t known that, no. He had just assumed Russell managed to run into him when he finally decided to leave the peace of the interior garden.

“I was always close, but don’t forget that I’ve been with you since the day you were born,” Russell muses, his hands folded behind his back, the wrinkles that line his eyes deepening when he smiles. “You needed time to yourself; I knew that.”

Castiel nods, refocussing on where he is going as a deep sense of being known settles inside him. It is not one he has felt often, though he knows there are a select few who truly do understand him on a level not even he is certain he knows.

“I am assuming you never told my mother,” he says, figuring he is correct simply by the fact that his mother never interrupted his alone time, nor has she ever hinted at knowing about the conservatory at all.

“Your mother is many things,” Russell says on a quiet sigh, “but kind is not one of them.”

No, Castiel supposes she not overly kind. Overbearing? Yes. Particular about many things? Absolutely. Understanding? Not in the least.

“It is a quality you seem to have cultivated all on your own,” Russell adds, and emotion swells in Castiel’s chest, a lump rising in his throat at the implications of what he is saying. It is not entirely true, of course. He did not become kind on his own. He has Russell to thank for that, and Susie, and his nanny, rest her soul.

It is everyone but his parents that influenced who he is today, and Castiel cannot say he is anything but proud of that fact.

Around him, long vines crawl up the glass panels surrounding the small space, a pond with goldfish in the centre, a bench by the door where he sits with his hands folded in his lap. Sunlight streams down the narrow shaft, the conservatory open to the sky above, and Castiel tips his face into the warm rays as the sound of rushing water fills his ears from the small fountain in the centre of the pond.

It has been about twenty minutes since he sat down, Russell just outside the glass double doors, waiting for him, but the calm that would usually take him over is nowhere to be found. He is all jittery inside, a restlessness in his bones that has him wanting to get up and pace.

Really, what he wants is to go find Dean.

He opens his eyes with a huff, dropping his chin back down to look at the pond. This is not working. His calming spot is not as calming as it once was, and he is starting to wonder if perhaps what he needs is changing with the arrival of his suitors.

Just before he stands, the door opens behind him.

“I hate to do this, but you are due for your date in an hour,” Russell says, before closing the door once more.

Damn, he had forgotten about the date. He glances at his watch, and sure enough, there is a little less than an hour before he needs to meet Meg in the car that will take them on their date. It does not leave him enough time to find Dean, or even to do anything more than have Susie touch him up before he calls for a car.

With far less energy than he had moments ago, he stands from the bench and heads out of the conservatory.

“Any word on Dean’s whereabouts?” Castiel asks, determined to sound professional and unemotional and failing miserably according to the raised browed look he is receiving.

“He is in the barn with the horses,” Russell tells him, and Castiel takes a moment to calculate how long it would take to get to the barn and do everything else he needs to do in the not-quite hour he has left.

No, there is not enough time.

Castiel’s waning mood hits a slippery slide, and he takes a moment to sit in his sourness, leaning against the wall across from he conservatory glass, before sucking it up and heading for the narrow, winding staircase.

“Tell me we can cut this one short?” Castiel whispers to Russell, who stands at his side by the car as they wait for Meg to join them.

“You’re the prince,” Russell says, as if that means anything in these situations. Especially considering just how short he would like to cut it. “Make it an hour, at least.”

“She is not even a contender,” he says, watching her throw her arms up as she yells at someone over her shoulder on her way through the towering double doors. “I should not have to entertain this level of disdain directed at my staff.”

“You are the one who agreed to her being here,” Russell reminds him, as if he has not thought of that fact every time he contemplates sending her home.

“Enough of the ironclad logic,” Castiel says with a huff. “Could you just be on my side for once?”

“I could be, but that would in no way help.”

“It would help me feel better.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Russell says, at full volume now as the cameras approach alongside Meg. Castiel forces a smile as Russell takes the opportunity to step around the car and slide into the driver’s seat. Lucky bastard.

“Castiel,” Meg says, all suggestive with her long lashes and pretty red lips. Castiel smiles, forcing his own feelings into the back of his mind as her guard opens the door for them.

“Lovely to see you, Miss Masters,” he says, before allowing her to slide into the back seat ahead of him.

He does not have anything particularly special planned; only lunch and a walk before they head back to the palace, but he should put in as much of an effort as possible, even if only to protect Dean from the spotlight of his affections.

So that settles it, he will give her all of his attention. He will smile and ask questions and listen to everything she has to say, even if her involvement here is a hoax. Even if they both know he will never marry her.

The park to which they are heading is owned by his family, filled with gardens and plum trees, ponds and paths for them to walk. Thank God, it is a nice, warm, sun filled day, stunningly beautiful. It is a wonderful day for a picnic, and Joshua walks behind them with their basket, Benjamin with their chairs.

Despite the beauty of the day, there are few others on the grass lawn, and Castiel chooses a spot near a copse of trees for some shade. It is not his favourite spot in the park, but it is nice all the same, and he waits patiently as the camera crew sets up and his guards sort out their picnic.

“What a girl wouldn’t give for some privacy,” Meg says, shooting him a look as if they share the feeling. It is equal parts suggestive and disdainful, and Castiel is exhausted already.

He does not comment, choosing instead to gaze up into the tree above his head. A bird sits high in the branches, hopping along the narrow, bobbing twig.

If only he were a bird.

“Let us eat,” he says, dropping his chin and forcing a smile as he takes his seat and the bottle of water Benjamin hands him.

“Tell me something,” Meg says, wiping the corners of her mouth as Castiel screws the cap back onto his water bottle.

He looks her way, as comfortable as he can be in front of a camera with a stranger. There is a gentle breeze that keeps him cool, and not too many others wandering around. It is nice, he will admit.

Castiel waits, studying Meg as she looks back, eyes narrowed in the sunlight, lips a deep red and pursed, a small smile twitches at the corners. “If you could choose anyone in the world to marry, this whole contest aside, who would you choose?”

Castiel’s heart twists. She cannot possibly believe he will answer her, surely? Still, he pretends to consider it, staring up at the sky as he gives a passing thought to the notion, and his mind lands on one person. Like a thump, a bomb dropping on a bullseye, the only choice there has ever been is clear.

He shoves the thought back and meets Meg’s eyes with a smile. “I cannot begin to know,” he says, avoiding the question as well as he ever has. “And I will never know, so what is the use in considering it?”

She is not pleased with his answer, that much is written all over her face. “But if you had to choose. Say we all died tomorrow and you got to pick all new suitors.” She pauses, shakes her head. “Or suddenly you woke up tomorrow and you weren’t the prince, but still got to choose anyone you want, who would you pick?” She smiles, and it is pretty, he will admit, but he knows why she is asking. She wishes to be flattered. She wishes for him to say her name, but he will not. He cannot.

“Let us take a walk,” he says, standing from his chair. His staff will need a chance to pack up, and he is more than ready to wrap up this date. Meg huffs, but she does not argue, joining him as he wanders along the bank of the river that flows through the park. The camera follows, along with Russell and Benjamin, but at a distance.

For a while, they do not speak, just following the winding river where ducks float and the reeds have begun to die. He slips out of his suit jacket and flips it over his shoulder, hooked on a finger as they continue on.

“I wouldn’t mind moving here permanently,” Meg tells him, a finger brushing over the fence that separates the path from the riverbank. “It is a beautiful country, and your palace is really something.”

Castiel nods, offering her a smile when her dark eyes meet his. He is only half listening, going through the plethora of tasks he will need to complete when he gets home. There is also the matter of sending one of his suitors home. He must admit, he has not spent nearly enough time with any of them to know if they should stay or not.

"What d'you say, Clarence?" Meg says out of the blue, standing too close to him now, and he tucks his hand in his pocket to that their hands do not accidentally touch.

"To what?" Castiel murmurs, annoyance pricking at the nickname, but he pushes it down and forces himself to look at her with a smile.

"You know," she whispers, stepping closer, and there are alarm bells going off in his head, as if something is about to happen. He should step away, move back, because this is beyond improper, but a small part of him wants to see what she will do. She bats her lashes in so obvious a flirtation that is nearly rolls his eyes. "I could just show you."

He scowls, not quite knowing what she intends, but he is not stupid. Will she reach for his hand? Touch his arm? He doesn’t know.

Then her hand is tangled in his tie, in the collar of his dress shirt, and she jerks him forward with more strength that he expects. Panic surges to the surface, but he does not quite get his hands up to shove her away before he lips land on the corner of his mouth.

He shoves her back, but she’s already being pulled away, both Russell and Benjamin with hands on her arms, dragging her back.

God, he is an idiot.

He spins on his heel, wiping the smear of lipstick off his face as he hurries down the bank, away from the cameras, away from the guards, and away from Meg.

He knew she was going to do something, so why did he let her? A glutton for punishment, he is. That must be it, because there is no other explanation for why he did not step back the moment she stepped forward. He has known her longer than the others, he knows how she is, what she is wiling to do to get what she wants. It is why she was brought here to begin with, after all.

No matter, she will be gone before the day’s end.

Castiel takes a separate car back to the palace, staring out the window as his kingdom passes him by. It is still a stunning day, but he can no longer appreciate it. He knew this date was a bad idea, that he should have sent her home last week, but he had homed that their conversation would change things. He can now see that it was all in vain, and this will be the end of it.

He does not wait to speak with his guard when he arrives back at the palace, the car pulling around in the courtyard with more speed than necessary, but he is almost glad for it. He doesn’t wait for his driver to open his door, stepping out and heading inside as Russell grumbles at his back.

He heads straight to his office, not bothering to take note of where Meg has disappeared to, though he suspects she is being confined to her room, much in the same way that Dean was after she and Lily tried to set him up.

Just as with Dean, Castiel has no intentions of pressing charges. Still, he will need to speak with her before tonight.

Behind his desk, Castiel takes in the piles of paperwork he left behind this morning. There is so much to do, but he does not have the mental capacity for it right now.

He needs a nap. He wants to see Dean.

But he cannot. He needs to call Meg here, needs to let her know, in no uncertain terms, that she is no longer welcome in his palace. Not as a suitor, anyway. There is the small matter of her surveillance that they will need to discuss, because he is certain she will not wish to return to Dura, especially in the current state of things. She may not stay here without being in his employ, so there is only one other option if she chooses to accept it.

“Russell,” Castiel calls, knowing the head of his guard is listening through the door, as he is known to do, for the call. Russell steps through moments later, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He stands across the room, hands folded behind his back.

“Are you okay?” he asks, almost too quiet to hear, but Castiel’s office is silent, nothing but the ticking of the grandfather clock across the room to cut through the oppressive quiet.

“I am fine,” he says, the words rushing out on an exhale. They are not a lie, not exactly. Nearly a month with his suitors, and with Dean, especially, has made him more expectant of touch. Though Meg’s was a shock, it did not rattle him in the way it once would have. Sure, his face burns where her lips touched, and he can still feel the tightening of his collar around his neck when she grabbed him, but he is fine.

“She is in her room, though not confined,” Russell tells him, answering the question he had not asked, but had been wondering about all the same. “She is refusing all visitors.”

Castiel nods. He is not sure he cares where she is, so long as she does not disappear into the streets of his kingdom. “Bring her here; we need to speak.”

Russell looks at him for a moment, those aged, watchful eyes assessing him in a way Castiel is more than used to. Then, he jerks his chin in a curt nod and turns to leave the room.

He can actually feel his heart pounding in his chest, his blood pressure ratcheting higher as the time stretches on. He hates this, but there will be consequences. He just wishes he did not have to be the one to dole them out.

He should distract himself, get something done. He cannot imagine getting Meg out of her room will be easy, even with the mention of his name. Maybe even more difficult because of it. She has to know what is coming, at least. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, he will have a suitor who is not surprised to be going home. It takes some pressure off of him, in fact; he does not need to spend the next several hours deliberating over who must go.

A knock on the heavy wooden doors startles him out of his thoughts, and he calls out for them to enter.

Russell steps through the door first, followed by Meg, then Benjamin. Castiel studies her, keeping his anxiety at bay, his emotions out of his features. She does not look sorry, or as if she has done anything at all. A little expectant, but more than anything, she appears bored.

A spark of anger lights in his chest and he straightens in his chair as the three of them stop just this side of the sofa across from his desk. His guards wait for his dismissal, but he does not bother to give it. This will not take long, and he trusts them with his life.

“You will be returned to Dura immediately following the ceremony tonight,” Castiel says, beyond tired of her disrespect and feeling all the more vengeful for it. It is time she remember who he is. “All protections offered to you by the crown will be revoked.”

Meg sputters, real fear flashing in her eyes as colour rises in her cheeks. “No, I—they’ll kill me!” She pushes both hands through her hair, the dark waves frizzier than they were this afternoon. She is out of sorts, not as perfectly put together as she usually is, but still, Castiel does not buy it.

“I suppose you should have thought of that,” he says, still calm, still angry, as she slowly unravels.

“You don’t understand,” she says, desperate now, pleading, as she takes a step toward the desk, only to be jerked back by the rough hands of his guards. He does not stay them, letting them do the job he pays them exorbitantly todo. “I betrayed my country; death will be a mercy when they’re done. Please, Castiel, you have to—”

“I do not,” he snaps, gritting his teeth against the urge to shout at her. To tell her exactly what he thinks, and has always thought, of her. “You are forgetting your place. You forgot your place a long time ago, but I had foolishly hoped that you would remember it, but you have crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed.”

“I can still be useful!” She shouts, and he is less convinced that she is being dramatic now. No one can fake that kind of fear, he is certain, but still. She will have to ask for what she wants. He will not just give it to her. “I—I can still keep watch.”

“How do you expect to do that without access to my suitors?” He asks, and he does not miss the way she flinches at being cut out as one of his.

She swallows hard, eyes dark and wide, before she straightens up, smoothing out her dress, her hair, before wiping a fingertip over the skin at the edge of her bottom lip. Pulling herself together. It is almost admirable.

“Your palace has tunnels in the walls,” she says, before pausing for a reaction as if he does not already know. As if he had not spent his childhood hiding in their labyrinth while escaping the oppression of his position. When he does not react, she huffs, her grand surprise obviously ruined. “I can be of more use moving through them than I can getting my hair done and painting my nails with the air-headed ditzes you have fawning over you.”

Castiel does not bother to mention that she was one of them. “You believe that you are still useful to me, but you were never particularly good at your task.”

She huffs again, raising her arms, only to drop them back to her sides. “Like I said, there wasn’t much opportunity to find anything out.”

Castiel regards her for a long time, not because he is deliberating, but because she deserves some discomfort for her actions today. For her actions of the last month, really. She is a thorn in his side and he is glad to be rid of her in front of the camera.

“You are to go unseen by all. My parents should think you gone, my soldiers and guards as well,” he says, before pausing to take a sip of water from an old bottle Russell brought him this morning. “It goes without saying that my suitors should not know you are here, either.”

She nods, brows raised, as if that were obvious to her, but she is holding herself back from saying as much. “You got it.”

“Let me make myself perfectly clear,” he says, leaning forward, hands clasped in front of him on his desk as he stares into her eyes. “If you are found, you will be arrested. You will be deported. I will not stand in the way for you.”

“Yeah,” she says, a little breathless now, her attitude at least subdued, if not gone for the time being. “Just tell me what I’m looking for, and I’ll keep a lookout.”

“Very well,” he says, before turning back to Russell. “Take her to her rooms,” he says, before making an effort to reorganize some of his paperwork. “Make sure she does not leave them until the ceremony.”

“Yes, Sir,” Russell says, before they step back through the double doors.

As soon as the doors bang shut, Castiel drops his head into his hands. He lets out a long, ragged breath, feeling for all the world like the most miserable man alive.

Castiel takes a breath, then another, staring at the closed double doors that lead into the ceremony room as he waits for his entrance. Susie caught him up as he left his office earlier, letting him know, in no uncertain terms, that she needed his time immediately to prepare him for the ceremony.

It is a wonder why, honestly, since he is in one of his more basic suits. Navy blue and rather plain, his tie a deep sapphire colour that make your eyes look like perfect little gems, boy. Her words, obviously.

“Okay,” he whispers, under his breath, to no one but himself. This is an easy one, no thought involved. He will read out the names, as if from a list in his head, before arriving at Dean. His final rose. Always his final rose.

Beyond the doors, the sound of trumpets has the chatter falling away, and he has no more than half a second before the doors swing open and he has a camera in his face.

With his carefully crafted mask in place, Castiel steps inside. His heart is thundering, whether with nerves or anticipation, he cannot say, but he lets his gaze slide over his suitors until his eyes lock on Dean’s.

A silent sigh falls from him, taking with it all the anxiety that had been bubbling at a steady simmer all afternoon. He doesn’t hold Dean’s gaze long, but it is enough.

Dean is still beautiful. He is still strong and tall with that crooked almost-grin, even with his not-quite hidden black eye and the subtle way he tucks his arm into his side, as if his shoulder still smarts.

Beautiful.

He stands beside Duma, who smiles and speaks, her speech as flawless as always. Castiel lets his gaze float over the rest of his suitors, smiling at April, Sarah, Kelly when they grin in his direction. He even meets Michael’s eyes, who blushes just the tiniest shade darker. Castiel suspects that is all the reaction he will ever give, not that he much cares.

Then, Duma is turning it over to him.

“Good evening,” he says, feeling more like a stranger to his suitors than a lover. It has been a month, and he knows not one of them deeply enough to consider marrying.

Alright, so perhaps one of them.

“It has been quite the week,” he continues, reaching for the first rose. “I haven’t much to say, I will admit, other than that I am looking forward to more time together. To getting to know each of you in the weeks to come.” He holds the first rose between both index fingers and thumbs, twirling it round and round and round. “Hannah,” he says, an easy beginning, and smiles at her as she crosses the floor with a dazzling smile.

She takes the rose, that glazed, prideful look in his eyes that he is beginning to hate. She turns back after a moment of staring into his eyes.

He calls through Sarah, Michael, April, Kelly, and Charlie, each name rolling off his tongue with ease, almost robotic. There is certainly little feeling in it, which he hopes he hides well with his smiles and short words of greeting.

Then, of course, there is Dean.

"The final rose," Duma says, stepping into the light, before tucking herself away again.

He breathes, trying to quell the feelings that swell up inside him. It is like a tidal wave, an overwhelming rush of love that he dare not let show on his face. He inhales, exhales, reaches for the rose, and before it is even between his fingertips, he says, “Dean.”

But Dean doesn’t move. He blinks, and Castiel watches the slow trudge of his mind as it tries to catch up with his ears. He looks at Castiel, but does not move, and a twinge of anxiety tries to weasel its way through her excitement as Dean just keeps staring.

Then, before Castiel can truly panic, Dean jerks forward, moving almost mechanically as he lifts his feet and puts one in front of the other until he is in front of him.

And he is smiling. It is small, but there, and happy, and Castiel’s heart bursts with joy of his own. For a moment, they simply look at each other. Castiel catalogues the different shades of green and gold in Dean’s eyes, the bronzed tips of his long, curling lashes, and the freckles that smatter the bridge of his nose and both cheeks. Lord, he is beautiful. More so than the first time they met, or the photo on his application. Castiel did not think it possible that Dean Winchester could grow even more lovely than he was when he saw him a month ago, and yet, here he is, making Castiel’s heart explode in his chest,

He finds that he is smiling, and it makes his cheeks ache just a little. A real smile this time. Dean bites his bottom lip, and Castiel can almost hear the teasing lilt of his voice, the words that are telling him to get on with it, Novak. A whole conversation passes between them without a single word spoken.

"Dean," Castiel finally manages, quiet and gravelly, for Dean alone.

"Cas,” Dean whispers back, so impatient, and yet, appearing entirely at ease, and Castiel could stand here with him forever.

Instead, he clears his throat, a smile tugging at his lips as he pulls himself together. It does not take much to gather himself, the ease he feels with Dean making it all the easier as he holds the rose between them. "Will you accept this rose?"

"Yes," Dean says on a exhale, and with a smile that has him catching his breath. Dean is still looking at him, still holding his gaze, as he takes the rose from his fingers, his touch a flash-burn against Castiel’s skin. It lights him up inside, sends shivers up his arm and down his spine as the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A delicious kind of heat settles in his bones.

The moment shatters when Dean steps back onto his platform and Castiel’s eyes meet Meg’s. They are cold, unfeeling, and entirely void of emotion. Then, they erupt with tears, and a fierce sob rips out of her as if she is heartbroken by the news. An act, he knows, and he almost appreciates it. It would not do to have a suitor react as if they knew they were going home.

She runs from the room, followed closely by Russell, who will ensure that she does not get in the waiting car. The room erupts around him, his suitors stepping out of their places, and Castiel takes the opportunity to slip out of the room.

The hallway is dark and silent, but for the chatter that follows him from the ceremony room. His footsteps ring through the hallway, echoing off the marble that encases him, until he is in the entrance hall, running a hand along the wall just beneath the stairs. They do not have long before the other suitors follow.

Meg waits with Russell a few paces away, her tears cleared away now, and she is entirely calm. There is a coldness about her still, the act of tears having fallen away probably the moment she stepped through the doors.

Castiel refocusses on the wall, the shadows playing tricks on his vision as moonlight filters through the stained glass windows. He peels off his glove and lets his palm drift over the panelling, feeling his way to the divot he knows to be there somewhere. Just about… there.

His heart thunders in his chest as he presses his finger into the latch, before shouldering the secret doorway open. It is entirely black inside the passageways, no lighting having been installed along with the rest of the palace, as they had fallen into disuse about a decade before.

“Two left turns, a flight of stairs, four right-facing exits and one left, another flight of stairs, and there will be a secluded servants chamber where you can stay. There is no access from the main halls of the palace,” Castiel tells her, before hurrying her along as the sound of his suitors swells. The doors have opened, he realizes. “Any threat,” he says, as she passes by him. “Anything at all.”

“You got it, Clarence,” she says, before shooting him one last wink. She disappears into the darkness and as Castiel closes the panel, he cannot help but feeling as if he has just let loose a fox in the hen house.

Chapter Text

Sunshine filters in through the wall of windows in his bedroom, weak and yellow as the sun rises over the Eastern side of the palace, but it wakes him all the same.

For a moment, he does nothing more than lie there, staring up at his ceiling.

Then, he shoots upright, panic surging in, because there is not a day in his life where Susannah did not have him up at sunrise. Something must have happened, that is the only explanation. He has so much to do, and so many people to speak to, and he is so, so, so late.

He is out of bed in the next heartbeat, his feet tangling in his sheets as he scrambles for the phone that rests on his bedside table. It rings in his ear once, twice, then—

“Are you ready for me?” Susannah asks by way of greeting, not at all sounding as if some great catastrophe has occurred.

“I do not understand,” he says, his heart still attempting to punch through his rib cage as panic licks at his insides. “Why didn’t you…?”

“It is Saturday,” she says, and he does not appreciate the annoyance in her tone. “Am I require to wake you before dawn each and every day of the year?” She huffs, and before he can form an answer, she adds, “You are allowed to sleep in on occasion, Castiel; especially when you’ve been functioning on not enough sleep in the first place.”

“But I…” It just is not making sense to him. Perhaps it is the grogginess that is still muffling his mind, but he is the Crown Prince; he has responsibilities and they do not simply go away because he is tired.

“You slept in a couple hours and the world is still turning,” she says, rightly guessing his thoughts as she is known to do. “Quit with the worry—you will get wrinkles.” With that, she hangs up.

Castiel stares at the phone in his hand, his feet still tangled in the sheets where he is half-kneeling, half-flopped on the floor in his haste. Quite truthfully, he is feeling rather ridiculous, and he is certain he looks it, too.

With a deep breath, he hangs up the phone and sets about the far-more-difficult-than-it-needs-to-be task of untangling himself from his sheets.

By the time Susannah arrives, he is a sweating, panting mess on his bedroom floor, sprawled out on his back, fingers tangling in the thick carpet as he stares at the ceiling with his sheets on the floor at his feet.

“Perhaps you should have taken a few more minutes of sleep,” she says after a moment of staring. She rolls her bag in behind her and heads for the bathroom. “Might have done you some good, boy.”

With a heavy sigh, Castiel rolls onto his stomach, before pushing to his feet, but he is only halfway across his bedroom when Susie calls out to him.

“Don’t forget about the trial tonight.”

He lets his head fall back on a groan that he feels right down to his toes.

Of course, he missed breakfast.

Which, as a result, means he missed Dean. Dean, who he has had this urge to see since, well… alright, forever, but more specifically, since last night when he had to leave the ceremony early. As it is, he is spending an exorbitant amount of time in his office lately, but now he is eating here as well?

It is infuriating.

“If you will excuse me, Your Highness,” Russell says, standing by the door with a phone in his hand. Castiel sits upright, dropping his pen to his desk as his attention turns to his guard.

“Where are you going?” He asks, so much in need of a break from the tedium of paperwork and waiting to hear from Anael that he does not care how strange it sounds for him to worry about where Russell is going. “Never mind,” he says, waving him off as he pushes his chair back from his desk. “I will come with you.”

“Alright,” Russell says, dragging the word out as if he is trying to figure out why on earth Castiel is so eager to walk with him all of a sudden. But he does not ask and Castiel does not offer an explanation.

In the vast hallways, the walls stretching stories above his head, their footsteps echo. For once, he lets Russell lead since he never did get an answer to where they were going. With his late awakening, he missed his run, so it feels nice to stretch his legs after being seated for so long. It must be coming up on lunch now, and he knows that he does not really have time to sit down with his suitors, but he wants to. He wants to speak with them, to learn more about them, but there is just so much to do.

He is so lost in thought that he does not notice where they are until Russell is knocking on Dean’s bedroom door.

“What?” He blurts, looking at Russell for some kind of explanation.

Russell just holds up the phone with a small, knowing smile. Castiel does not respond, but his heart has taken on the task of escaping through his rib cage as they wait with ever-growing anticipation for Dean to answer the door.

He does not.

“Are you certain he is in there?” Castiel asks, looking from Russell to the door as every possible terrible thing that could have happened to Dean runs through his mind.

“No,” Russell says, as if the matter is neither here nor there. As if Castiel is not about to spiral into a panic. “He could still be at his interview.” Russell knocks again, then looks down the hallway in the direction of the entrance hall. “I suppose he will miss his phone call today.”

“Give me that,” Castiel says, snatching the phone from Russell’s hand. “I will find him before I have my meeting with Susannah.” He turns away from Russell before calling over his shoulder. “Do not bother coming with me,” he says, knowing that this was Russell’s final task before he heads home for the night. “Have Joshua come to my rooms.”

He hurries away before Russell can argue, excitement brimming in his veins at the prospect of seeing Dean. He lengthens his strides, hurrying through the halls so that he does not miss Dean, and it is a good thing, too, because as he turns the corner, he catches sight of Dean closing the door to the interview room behind him.

"Dean,” Castiel calls before Dean can disappear, and his heart races when Dean’s head snaps up. A thousand thoughts flash in his eyes in the few seconds it takes Castiel to reach him. "I don't want you to miss your phone call," he says, holding out the phone as evidence. “My guards were preparing to leave your room when you didn't show up, but I thought..." Alright, so he sounds a bit desperate, perhaps even overeager, and he can feel the flush rising in his cheeks at the prospect of Dean thinking the same thing. He looks at his shoes, unable to meet Dean’s eyes as he finishes the thought. "Well, I thought I'd come find you."

Dean’s features soften, his eyes going wide, the tension around his mouth easing, as if something about Castiel’s fervent desperation makes him feel good. "Thank you," Dean whispers, taking the phone from Castiel’s hand. He does not look him in the eye, but when their fingers brush, Castiel swears the whole palace gets a touch brighter.

And he cannot force himself to leave, because now he is thinking about all the things that might wipe that look off Dean’s face, and all the problems that they are having, and the fact that he still has not heard from Anael.

Which is strange and terrifying and he needs Dean to be prepared for the worst. At least while he figures out what he could possibly do to help him if they really do encounter the worst-case scenario.  "Dean,” he says, watching closely as Dean dials the number for his own home phone. “I think you should ask about the show money." Dean stops, his attention snapping up to him, finger not quite touching the dial button. The alarm in Dean’s eyes is unsettling; the fear he sees deep down inside.

"What's... what's happening, Cas?" he asks, and there is that fear again, but there is fight, too. Just another thing that Castiel loves about him; he is so strong. So stubborn. 

"Nothing yet,” Castiel says, hoping that settles the tumble of emotions Dean is feeling right now. “But I want to be sure you are prepared should this not go our way." He tries to shrug, but he is stiff and aching. He is not used to moving in such casual ways, and he is certain he looks awkward going it.

But Dean says “Okay," with a nod and a small smile that means something more to Castiel than it is likely supposed to. "But you'll find me when you know something, right? As soon as you know something?"

A sudden and disturbing swell of excitement rising in Castiel’s chest; the thought of Dean wanting to see him at any time is thrilling to him, even if it has more to do with Dean’s future than it does with Castiel’s presence. God, he is so foolish and it is going to get him hurt. Still, the fact that Dean thinks he would not find him immediately is perplexing. "But of course, Dean,” he says, tilting his head to one side as he studies the beautiful man in front of him. “No matter the time or the occasion, the moment I know, you will, too." And he means it.

The relief in on Dean’s face, the way his shoulders, his whole body, sags with it, makes all the fear, all the waiting, all the panic worth it. So, so worth it.

"I should hurry,” he says as Dean presses the call button on the phone and holds it to his ear. “I have an appointment with Susie right about now, and you know how she is about tardiness." He smiles at Dean once more, if only for the opportunity to see him smile back, before he turns on his heel and hurries off to his rooms.

Because he is late and Susie is going to tear him a new one.

“Are they all in their rooms?” Castiel asks, speaking to Russell even as he looks into his own eyes on the mirror. Susie is putting the final touches on his outfit, pinning the mantle over his shoulders, its weight nearly dragging him down, as Russell gives him the schedule of events for the night.

“They are,” he says, flipping through the pages on his clipboard as he speaks. “With guards posted outside of each door to ensure they do not leave their rooms until morning.”

Castiel nods, still taking in the gems and jewels glittering all over his suit, his mantle, the pins on his breast. It is a show of power and nothing more; a way of letting those who are on trial know that there is nothing they can do to escape their crimes, committed or not.

Susie steps up behind him and, taking his crown from the cushion on which it rests, she places it on his head, right over his brow. Suddenly, he is no longer Castiel, the unwilling heir. He is transformed.

In front of him stands His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Castiel James Charles Novak, Duke of Anderass and heir apparent to the Amarellinian throne. He is different, and yet, exactly the same. He is still not enough, even with the crown and the clothes. He is still just Castiel on the inside.

“It is time to go,” Russell says after a moment too long, but Castiel takes one last second to try and find a version of him that is eager for this. That believes he is capable of running a kingdom, and not just into the ground.

He does not find what he is looking for.

The double doors are propped open wide, allowing the flood of spectators through the front door. Castiel is stuck by the doors, nodding to the guests as they come through. It is the most boring of posts, and as such, his father has decided that is should be his.

So, here he stands, not shaking hands, but accepting half-assed bows and curtsies from the nobility who this it a good night out to watch the lower classes go to prison for the rest of their lives.

For the most part, Castiel tunes it all out.

Until there is a shift in the crowd and a swell in the voices as they move toward the other side of the staircase.

"Hey, is that—"

"Dean! Over here!"

"Mr. Winchester, are you attending—"

Fuck. Fuck. He should have known that Benny could not be trusted to stand his post outside of Dean’s door. He truly does need to find a moment to let him go, but time is so short these days. Still, annoyance brims inside him, not at Dean, who could not know better, but at yet another member of his staff ignoring a direct order and putting Dean at risk as a result.

He is moving be he means to, the crowd of people separating for him with every step, until he is at Dean’s side.

"I—I, um—" Dean is saying when Castiel reaches him, utter terror on his face as he scrambles for something to say. Honestly, Castiel is marginally grateful that Dean has never done this before and therefore has nothing to say, because it make it all the easier to get him out of the way.

"Come,” he says in Dean’s ear, the wraps a hand around Dean’s still-suited forearm. He pulls Dean through the crowd, which scrambles to step back from him in the lens of the cameras pointed their way. "You find yourself in the most unfortunate situations, Mr. Winchester."

Dean” does a double take, the tension in his shoulders easing visibly when he realizes who has a hold on him. ”It would seem so," he murmurs as Castiel leads the way up the steps along with the rest of the crowd. There are too many cameras; he cannot simply hide Dean now. Fuck, Dean is going to have to attend. He’s going to have to see. The worst parts of Castiel’s life are about to be on full display and Dean is going to have to see him. For everything he is. Everything he was born into.

Nausea rolls through him, twisting his stomach into knots as he searches the staircase and all the landings for what he knows he will find.

All cameras pointed at him.

"Keep your head down," Castiel says, feeling the urgency to get out of sight of the cameras in every part of his body. “We'll be alright when we get there."

"Where are we going?" Dean asks, but Castiel ignores him as he navigates the swell of people, all dressed to the nines and smiling like they haven’t a care in the world. Which, he supposes, they do not. Why else would they wish to see the destruction of others, if not to reassure themselves of their own power?

"The amphitheatre," he says after several minutes, because he knows Dean does better with all of the information. Or, most of it, anyway. The information he can give him. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, studying him as he navigates the march of feet to the upper floors of the palace. His skin burns with the non-contact, his fingers prickle where they touch Dean’s arm, even through gloves he wears.

"Why?" Dean whispers, and Castiel hates that he asks. Hates that he must now tell him. God, if only Benny had done his job. If only Dean could forever think well of him. If he even did, that is, because Dean is not stupid and he is not naive. He knows just how little Castiel’s parents care for anyone that cannot add to their power.

So he looks at Dean, studying his beauty, his openness, and sucks in a soft breath. He must say it. He must. "To sentence criminals for their crimes."

It is the worst thing, the way Dean goes quiet. The way his features solidify into stone. It is the absolute worst thing.

“Almost there,” he says, at the edge of the crowd now, searching for the hallway he knows is coming up. It will take them to the back door of the amphitheatre, where he was going anyway, but he had not expected an accompaniment.

Dean says nothing, and only makes a small squeak when Castiel reaches the hallway he is looking for and jerks him to the right. They do not stop, Dean’s gasp not slowing him for a moment as Castiel steers him through the labyrinth of hallways, staircases, and doors, away from the crowd, the din fading at their backs along with the light, the warmth.

Dean tries to slip away from him a few times, but Castiel clamps a hand around his wrist, pulling him on. There is no choice; Dean must attend the trials now that he has been seen. Not that he minds having Dean near him, of course. In fact, if it must be one of his suitors that breaks the rules, he is glad that it is Dean whose body heat seeps into his back.

The silence permeates the air around them, nothing but Castiel’s beating heart to be heard for miles and miles, it seems, within the palace. Outwardly, he is calm, focussed, but inside, he is reeling. So much anticipation rattling in his chest that he does not know what to do with it, so he keeps moving as the hallways grow darker. Darker, until he is moving on instinct and years of knowledge alone.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, his skidding feet preceding a thump on the stone wall as Castiel turns. He tsks, but wraps a hand around Dean’s wrist and pulls him ahead of him before nudging him up the stairs.

"Why aren't you in your room, Dean?" Castiel hisses, for the first time since they escaped the crowd, he lets his irritation bleed through. He refuses to call it fear; to let that sharp, white-hot feeling take over. "The suitors were rounded up hours ago. How did you get past Benny?"

Dean twists around to shoot him a glare, his back tensing, shoulders drawing up, but Castiel just presses his palm between Dean’s shoulder blades to get him to walk on. "I didn't sneak out; I was never rounded up, as you say."

Castiel lets out a sigh, deflating at the annoyance in Dean’s tone. “It wasn't my intention to insult you, Dean, but you must know, this is the most unpleasant part of being a member of the royal family. I didn't want any of you to have to witness it."

"Oh." Dean does not say any more, but the shifting glow of the wall sconces on his face reveals the easing of the tension there. The thoughtfulness that stutters in his eyes with every step up the endless staircase.

"I'm afraid you must see it, though, now that there's footage of you and I together." Castiel pulls up his mantle so that he does not trip over it, sweat beading on his forehead, but his breath is even and slow. There are advantages to his almost-daily runs, which he is becoming more and more aware of the harder Dean pants on their way to the top of the amphitheatre. He does not mention it, though; he cannot imagine Dean would take it well.   

"I couldn't just stay here? Leave when the crowd's all inside?" Dean asks, hope springing up in his face before dying in the wake of Castiel’s head shake.

"I'm sorry, Dean,” he says, and offers an apologetic smile as they reach the top of the stairs. “But every person on camera is now considered a witness and could be called on for questioning if the events of the trial are deemed unjust. You are required to attend."

"Damn, I was just trying to find the kitchen," Dean whispers, looking away from him, and that comment alone shatters Castiel’s annoyance. A laugh bursts out of him, echoing down the stairwell as he throws his head back. It’s like the sun bursts in his chest, so warm and bright that is spills out of him. but he jumps when his prince laughs, his eyes snapping back to see full lips twisted in a smile and glittering blue eyes.

"There is a reception afterwards; I will make sure there is pie,” Castiel reassures him, fondness rising up to match the love he feels burning in his chest. Dean opens his mouth to respond, but trumpets sound on the other side of the door, and the happiness fades as he looks past Dean’s shoulder to the door where he is expected to pass through. "It's time, Mr. Winchester."

Dean sighs, a perfect mirror to how Castiel feels about leaving this intimate moment in the darkness of the stairwell. For a moment, Castiel watches Dean. God, he is handsome, standing there in a burgundy suit. Like the perfect prince consort.

Castiel shoves the thought as far away as he can, pushing it down, down, down until it is as gone as he can get it.

Then, the double doors swing in, a shock of light burning his retinas as the cacophonous sound of the crowd hits them. Dean stumbles back into the stone wall at Castiel’s side, eyes wide, panic so clear on his face that it twists in Castiel’s heart.

"I will go first," Castiel says, leaning close enough to Dean that he can smell his shampoo when he speaks in his ear. "And when the proceedings start, you can follow. They should be preoccupied by then. If you wish, of course."

He should not have said it; not entering the proceedings will put Dean at risk, but he cannot make him go in. Not with that look on his face, as if the whole world is going to end if Castiel makes him do this.

But Dean is shaking his head almost immediately. "No, uh... no, if it's alright, I'll go with you." Castiel had not realized how much he needed Dean to agree to come with him until now, and the smile that stretches across his face makes his cheeks ache. Staring back at him, it is not difficult to get lost in his eyes. Those perfect green eyes, bottomless and beautiful. "What do I do?"

Castiel blinks twice, dragged back to the present by the sound of Dean’s voice. He straightens his shoulders, lifts his chin, and forces himself to be the Crown Prince of Amarellino. "You will still follow, but just behind. You may even stand by my shoulder, if you'd like." A thrill of pleasure shoots through him at the thought of Dean at his side, standing in the place of a spouse. He shoves the thought back, though, buries it with the rest of his hopes and dreams. "Chin up, Winchester; you are welcome here." He tucks a finger under Dean’s chin, unable to stop himself, and tilts it up with the slightest pressure until Dean’s eyes meet his. He smiles, doing his best to be reassuring despite his own fears.

"Ready?" he whispers, turning to face the open doors, but he does not move just yet, waiting for Dean’s response. He looks at Dean from the corner of his eye to see his shaky nod of assent. "Alright."

Castiel takes that as his cue and steps through the double doors, Dean nearly pressed against his side, just as his name is announced.

"Castiel Novak, first in line for the Amarellino throne, presenting as Prime Witness for tonight's proceedings,” The chief of police says from the podium, a short, bald man Castiel does not much care for. Clark Adams is his name, and he lives for nights such as this.

He spots his parents easily as he stops in front of his seat, separate from everyone else with only one chair at his side, usually empty. They stand side by side on the stage fully adorned in their finest clothes and jewels. It is a show of power and nothing more, and it has a hot flush of anger rising in Castiel.

Around them, the crowd cheers, every person on their feet, clapping, shouting, making a show of their own freedom from this event. They are all, of course, witnesses in their own right, liable to be called upon should one of the accused question their verdict. Not that they ever do. Not that Castiel has ever seen it happen in all of his years as prime witness. Even if they should.

Even if their only true crime in the eyes of the kingdom was to question the choices made by the crown.

Beside him, Dean’s knees bend as if to sit, and Castiel takes a moment longer, an extra beat to tilts his head in Dean’s direction with a tiny smile, as Dean hastens to straighten up when he realizes the rest of the room is also waiting for Castiel to sit, before he lowers himself into his chair.

There is a deep flush rising in Dean’s neck, through his cheeks, and into his ears that is more endearing than anything Castiel has ever seen. It is beautiful and captivating and he wants nothing more than to kiss every inch of that pink skin.

"That was mean," Dean whispers when Clark starts his speech, leaning close to Castiel so that he can be heard.

Castiel raises both eyebrows, putting on his best performance of innocence. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You know what you did,” Dean says, a glare firmly in place, but there is no real anger in it, and it makes Castiel a little bold. A little reckless.

And so, without ever letting slip a hint of a smile, tilts his head forward the tiniest bit and, pitching his voice impossibly low, he says, "I do, and what will you do about it?"

Castiel is not sure what he expects from Dean, but it most certainly is not the tiny, high-pitched squeak he gets, nor the deeper flush in his cheeks. It sends a thrill through Castiel and he grins over at Dean before turning back to the proceedings.

After a moment or two, he sighs and settles his fingers over Dean’s where they are clenched into tight fists in his lap. Perhaps that was unfair of him to do; Dean is new to all this, after all. "You are right; that was mean."

"Damn straight," Dean grumbles, but the words are more sulky than truly upset, and Castiel takes that as a not-quite acceptance of his not-quite apology.

They settle in to watch the proceedings just as the first accused is called to the stage.

”Lee Chambers, you are accused of one count of theft under five-hundred dollars and one count of Offence to the Crown." Clark says, speaking into the microphone, relish in his voice as Mr. Chambers cries, on hands and knees, begging for mercy. "How do you plead?"

There is only one answer to that question.

"G-guilty," he sobs, crumpling to the floor, and Castiel can feel his own anger bubbling to the surface. Can feel that anger matched at his side as tension radiates from Dean. The man is accused of is stealing a loaf of bread to feed his daughter; something he is almost certain Dean has done of several occasions.

Except, of course, that is not all this man is accused of. No, he is also guilty of dissension. Of questioning the laws that bind this kingdom together and, as a result, keep him, and those like him, so impoverished that they cannot afford to purchase bread for their families.

"The accused pleads guilty to all charges. How does his majesty wish to proceed?" Castiel watches his parents so intensely that he imagines he can put into their minds what it is they should say. He wills them toward mercy, toward generosity, and hopes beyond hope that they do not disappoint him in this, though he knows they will. They always do.

His mother speaks before his father can so much as take a breath, her voice ringing through the auditorium, sharp and high and devoid of warmth. ”For the theft, five years in prison. For the Offence to the Crown," she pauses, her words ringing out through the auditorium, in Castiel’s years, before silence settles once more. Then, with the utter finality of absolute power, she says, "Life."

The collective gasp of the crowd is the biggest reaction of shock he has ever seen, and one that might be close enough to have this trial called into question. It is appalling, horrid, and makes Castiel so angry that he shakes with it. At his side, Dean lets out a tiny, nearly pained sound, and he is shaking too. With rage or despair, Castiel cannot say, but he understands it. He has felt it at every single one of these sentencings.

"The first thing I plan to do when I assume the thrown," he says through clenched teeth, leaning a fraction of an inch closer to Dean so that only he can hear, “is abolish the Offence to the Crown conviction."

"What the fuck is an Offence to the Crown charge?" Dean snaps, and yes, that is definitely rage in his voice. Pure, unbridled rage.

Castiel sucks in a deep, calming breath. “A charged placed on an accused for something they've done, or are suspected to have done, but that can't be proved by any legal means. The Crown finds it offensive and an insult to their power, and thus, the Offence to the Crown charge." He has no idea who created the charge, or if it is yet another of the traditions passed down from time immemorial to punish all who question their power. He does not much care for its origins, only that is stops with him when the time comes.

He and Dean, a little voice adds, small and whispering, almost too quiet to hear in his own mind, but it is a comfort he will gladly take as Dean settles deeper into his seat and leans closer to his side. Castiel watches him for a moment, takes in his splendid profile, and tries not to let the unwarranted fear of seeing Dean down there one day eat him up inside.

This one seems worse than those Castiel has seen before. Perhaps it is because Dean is at his side and he is unable to numb himself to the horrors going on below as a result, more maybe they just are worse. Either way, petty theft is treated as grand larceny, minor assaults like murder. It is appalling, all of it, and Castiel does not know how Dean gets through it all with so much composure. It is a testament to his character, if nothing else. A demonstration of his ability to hold himself together despite everything going on around him, and honestly, Castiel is in awe of him.

Then, it is over and Dean is strung tight at his sight. Tension radiates from him, a pinched look about his face that looks more like pain than anything else. Castiel leads him from the auditorium, back through the doors at the back of the space.

“There is a cocktail hour afterward, but I'm going to make an assumption and say you are not up for it." Castiel searches his face, taking in the subtle lines, the flashes of tension, exhaustion, and figures he is probably correct in that assumption.

"It's been a rough day," Dean whispers, looking away from him. What happened today to make it so rough? Before the sentencing, that is. Castiel spent most of his day in his room and, come to think of it, he did not see a single other suitor today besides Dean. Anything could have happened in the hours between breakfast and dinner.

"Come with me," he says, determined to turn Dean’s troubled look into some form of happiness if it is the last thing he does tonight. He grins when Dean meets his gaze, then heads for the stairs, back down to the hallway from which they came. Dean follows close behind, asking no questions, which Castiel is choosing to take as a good sign for the night ahead.

First things first, though. They need to lose his guard.

As they round a corner, Castiel ducks into a sitting room, pulling Dean in behind him, before he dashes to the door on the other side and slips through is as quickly and as quietly as he can. This hallway is narrower, quieter, but Russell knows his tricks, so they will need to move quickly.

“Take my hand,” Castiel says, holding one hand back for Dean, who takes it with only a moment’s hesitation. He tries not to think of the warmth of him, the weight of him, as their fingers twine together. Tries not to let the shiver building inside him tremble through his body.

There is a servant’s staircase up ahead that leads down to the kitchens that they can take, but Russell will be expecting that. In fact, he is likely already there, knowing Castiel is with Dean, and Dean loves to eat.

So they pass it by, heading instead for the one place Russell will never expect him to go.

Exactly where he should be.

"Come close," he whispers when they step back into the main hallway, the lighting turned up to catch the gold-flecked walls and glittering floors. The ceilings stretch high above them in a sweeping archway, the paintings here far more extravagant than in any other part of the palace. This is, of course, the public section. Or, more public, considering the palace is never fully open to the people.“The event hall is just ahead."

He runs through all the possibilities in seconds, scanning the hallway, the swelling crowd, everything, as he formulates his plan. There is a servant’s entrance up ahead, hidden between a pair of wall sconces, and if he is just quick enough, perhaps they can escape without him getting sucked in.

“Alright," he says, pulling himself up before stepping back into the darkness of the side passage. He faces Dean, his back to the wall, and locks eyes with him, mischief sparking in his chest for the first time in years. He is a little rusty at this, a little out of practice with sneaking around, but he figures now is as good a time as any to try it on for size. So, he licks his lips and asks Dean for the hardest thing in the world. "I need you to trust me."

"Of course," Dean says, and the swiftness of his answer, the immediacy of it, shocks him into silence for a moment. He blinks. Then again. Is it truly that easy?

He shoves away the feelings that surge up with Dean’s words; this is neither the time, nor the place for that. He forges on. "Do you see that cart? The one with iced champagne?"

Dean leans to his left, sneaking a look around the corner before looking back at Castiel with a nod. "Yeah, the one by the doors?"

"Yes," he says, his excitement mounting as he edges closer to the corner. He will have to move quickly, which will not be easy with his mantel, nor the crown on his head to catch the attention of all those inside the open double doors. "We are going to walk by very fast. We cannot run or we will attract attention, but if we are too slow, I will be pulled away and my genius evasion of my security detail will be for naught."

"Wait, you evaded your—"

"Did you think I was just lost?" He shoots Dean a look, eyebrows raised. It has been many, many years since he has gotten lost in this palace. "I know this palace better than anyone, and I intend to show you that, if we could just..." He trails off, peeking around the corner. The hallways is empty, not even a servant to notice them. His heart does a little skip as he drags Dean forward by the arm. "Now, Dean. Go now."

Dean stumbles, tripping over his own feet. He very nearly hits the marble floor, but catches himself just in time. Oops. Thank goodness for those large feet, or Castiel might be showing him the hospital wing right now.

Ah, well, perhaps not. Dean has dealt with worse.

Dean still shoots him a scathing glare, which he ignored, because honestly? They do not have time for his dramatics. Castiel shoos him along with both hands, still watching the door as Dean rolls his eyes in his periphery.

Then, Dean is walking, his long, bowed legs carrying him down the hallway just fast enough that he looks busy, which is exactly what Castiel had imagined. He follows behind, not too close, but close enough that he can watch Dean’s ass in those trousers—

"Oh, Castiel!"

No.

It is akin to a slow motion horror show. He lifts his head, catching sight of one of three people he absolutely cannot brush off, and she is heading right for him. Drunk, of course, but not so much so that she will not remember him sneaking off. Oh, this is a nightmare. Just an absolute nightmare—

"Oh!" Amara cries as Dean faux-stumbles into her, catching her up in his arms with patented heart-stopping smile. God, he is brilliant. How did he ever manage to find someone so perfect?

Castiel hurries past, not about to waste this golden opportunity to get away, and with the practice of a child never allowed to have what he wants, he slips two bottles of champagne from the ice bucket on the unattended cart.

He does not wait for Dean, who is still holding onto his aunt, that dazzling smile keeping her attention off of him.

Dean will be fine, of course. His aunt is not one to spend much time with those she does not know, feeling that her time is too precious for that. It is more than a little ridiculous, if you asked him, considering he is the heir and she is only seventh in line, and Dean is the only person he wishes to speak to most of the time.

Lost in thought, he shoulders open the hidden passage way and steps into the darkness. Dean should not be long behind him, but he takes what time he has to find the wall sconces and light a few to see by.

Then, he waits, keeping the flames low so as not to draw attention to the sliver of light he is letting through as he watches for Dean. It does not take long; only a moment or two before a single set of footsteps approaches.

The panicked, laboured breathing accompanying the steps is unmistakably Dean’s, and Castiel’s heart skips a beat as Dean comes closer… closer…

As fast as he can, he reaches out through the crack in the wall, grabs hold of Dean’s wrist, and yanks him into the darkness.

Dean stumbles, his yelp of surprise lost in the passageway as Castiel pushes him back against the door with a deliriously please grin.

Slowly, as if he is just realizing who Castiel is, Dean lowers his hands from in front of his face. "Did I frighten you?" he asks, grinning and grinning and grinning as the reality of his situation settles in.

He’s free.

For the night, at least.

And Dean is scowling like he’s annoyed, but there is no hiding the delight in his eyes, and Castiel just smiles wider.

"What's gotten into you?" Dean asks, his nose scrunching up as he stares at him, searching his face.

What is that supposed to mean? Is he being weird? Oh no, he is, isn’t he? He is no good at this. Has never done this before, and he should not have come on so strong.

His smile falls as he steps back, and the hold Dean’s eyes had on his falls away. He cannot look at him. Cannot meet his gaze. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No!” Dean nearly shouts, and Castiel cringes at how loud he is being. Someone will hear them, for God’s sake. “No, no it's okay, Cas. That's not what I meant." With his hands held up in front of him, his eyes wide and pleading, Dean rushes on. “It's just, uh... It's nice, you know? To see this side of you—to get to know the not-so-serious side of you." He shrugs, one side of his mouth tilting in an awkward smirk.

Oh.

Alright, then.

The tension melts out of his shoulders as he takes that in. He is not too much, then. Not to Dean, anyway, and that is enough for him. Slowly, his excitement regrows, the mischief he was feeling before swelling up again until he is grinning once more. 

"Alright, then," he says, out loud this time, and then starts undressing. He unclips his mantle, letting the heavy, priceless fabric billow to the floor at his feet before he starts plucking at the fingers of his gloves.

"Wha... whatcha doing?"

Castiel looks up from his hands to find Dean blushing ten different shades of red as he watches him undress. Castiel drops his gloves to the tiles, wishing he could burn them instead. Still, a smirk twitches at the corners of his mouth at the thought of Dean watching him.

"Getting more comfortable," he says, and grabs his mantle from the floor to hang on the hook by the door. He really should not get it dirty, even if he would rather never see it again.

"By... getting naked?" It is getting harder and harder to ignore the way Dean is looking at him; every emotion is written all over his face. The heat. The want. God, it is as if he could ask for anything and Dean would give it to him in a heartbeat.

That thought is not as tempting as he thought it might be. Honestly, he is so used to getting everything he asks for, that it no longer appeals to him. Instead, he wants…

He wants to be told no.

He wants Dean to challenge him, to make him wait, to push his buttons and drive him crazy because he is damn good at it.

So Castiel shoots him a bland look and says, "Of course not,” before peeling off his suit jacket. Dean’s eyes burn into him, bright and hot, scorching a trail over his shoulders, down his chest, his thighs, right down to his shoes, and back up again.

He takes his time rolling up his sleeves, loving the feeling of Dean watching him like that. Sure, he is used to being looked at, even in the way Dean is looking at him, but never by anyone he wants to have looking at him like that. Never by someone like Dean.

After a few moments where his mouth just hangs open, Dean asks, "Where are we?"

Castiel looks around them at the passages he has been frequenting since childhood. They are nothing special, certainly not a match for the opulence of the rest of the palace, but the tile floors are clean, and even if the ceilings rise no higher than about six inches above their heads, they are wide enough for two grown men to stand side my side. The wall sconces have been redone in this part of the palace, replaced with electric lights instead of the flame that used to light them.

"Abandoned servant passageways,” he says, turning in a slow circle. “We no longer find them useful, and the staff much prefer to travel through the main hallways, so the only one who uses them now is me." And Meg, but he is not about to tell Dean that. He shrugs, feeling the history here as he does in few other places in the palace. There are thousands of years between now and the time it was built, stories that are no longer told about this place because all who could tell them have been gone for hundreds of years.

Sadness trickles through him at the loss of that history. It is all unrecoverable, lost to the ether, and there is nothing he, or anyone else, can do about it.

He shoves the thought away.

“This way," he says, walking into the darkness without a care to what may be in it. This is a safe place for him. For them. He walks and walks, his steps carrying up and down the hallway as they travel deeper into the palace. Despite the darkness, he knows exactly where they are, and he wants to get far enough away from the festivities that he and Dean can talk without being overheard.

The heat of Dean’s body soaks into his back, through the thick material of his waistcoat and deep into his skin. He does not need to look over his shoulder to know he is there, even without the sound of Dean’s uneven breaths and the clink of champagne bottles following close behind.

Castiel stops, doing a tiny mental calculation of where they are. The is as good a place as any, he supposes. Far enough away from the event hall, and some distance from the residential areas of the palace. They should be somewhere near his office, actually, and if this is not the perfect place to open a bottle of champagne, then there is not one.

"Castiel," Dean says, and when Castiel glances at him, he has one bottle between his feet and the other held between both hands, peeling the foil off the top. He is grinning like an idiot, his cheeks aching and aching and aching, because of course Dean is on the same page.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" He steps closer to Dean because he can, still grinning. Still feeling like the sun is inside him. He sets down one of his own bottles and peels the foil off the top of the second. "Ready?" he whispers, still watching Dean as Dean watches him. He does not answer, that heavy-lidded look on his face sending waves of heat through Castiel.

A pop startles him from his staring, and Dean stumbles back, champagne bubbling over his fingers.

Laughter bursts out of him, and he throws his head back with it. Dean fumbles with the bottle, scrambling to get his mouth under the foam, and Castiel’s stomach aches with how hard he is laughing. Happiness burns hot inside him, so wild and free that he does not know what to do with it all.

So, he pops the cork on his own bottle, not spilling even a drop, and lifts it high in the air. "Cheers!" he shouts, his voice ringing through the passageway as Dean grins right back at him.

"To what?" Dean laughs, his own bottle held high, champagne shining on his knuckles before he wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

Castiel’s eyes track every movement, from the laugh, right to his slick, full mouth swiping over his sleeve. The whole thing is hot; everything Dean does is hot, even all those little dorky things he does. Castiel just wants him, end of story.

He pushes those thoughts aside for now, though, and ponders what it is he wants to raise a toast to. It does not take him long to find the right word. The one thing he has been searching for since childhood. "To freedom," he says, touching the side of Dean’s bottle with his own.

"To freedom," Dean murmurs, and they tip their bottles back.

Castiel sucks back the bubbling liquid as if his life depends on it, feeling the cool champagne leak from the corners of his mouth as he strangles the neck of the bottle. The fast he gets drunk, the faster he can stop thinking about everything he should be concerned with.

Dean whistles long and low, his eyes burning into the side of Castiel’s face. “Where'd you learn to drink like that, young prince?"

Castiel drops his chin, letting the bottle swing by his side as he eyes Dean. God, his lips are shiny, slick with champagne, and he has a rosy glow to his freckled cheeks that just makes Castiel want to kiss him. "What's the matter, pretty boy?" He says instead of grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him senseless. "Can't keep up?"

Dean laughs, the sound ringing in his ears like music, like a challenge, and then he is drinking again, his throat exposed and working as he swallows back the champagne. Castiel watches, captivated as rivulets of champagne escape his mouth and slide down his throat, soaking into the collar of his button down.

He pictures sliding his down along those lines of wet skin, tasting the sweet champagne and the even sweeter taste of Dean’s skin. He could kiss and lick and suck until Dean whimpers and whines, until he is breathless and flushed and begging.

"Happy?" Dean gasps, letting the bottle fall back to his side as his eyes meet Castiel’s, half-lidded and glassy as the alcohol begins to take over his senses. He is even more beautiful like this, under the low, golden lights.

"Always,” Castiel murmurs, answering Dean’s question in the only way he knows how. He licks his lips and cocks his head to one side, grinning easily for the first time in forever as he stoops to pick up the unopened bottle at his feet. "But you're still not keeping up." Then he runs, taking off in the opposite direction as laughter lights up his insides.

"Hey!" Dean shouts at his back, and a few aborted curses follow him as he runs and runs, knowing Dean will chase him no matter how far he goes. Loving that it is the God honest truth.

The alcohol is well and truly saturating his brain by the time he slows to a stop, sucking in lungfuls of air as sweat drips down his spine. At some point, Dean caught up, and he bends double with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

"Your shoes are terrible for running," he says, shaking his head as it become more and more apparent that Castiel is the cardio enthusiast in this relationship.

"My shoes?" He looks down at his own feet where his oxfords sit comfortably. "I thought I did quite well."

"Not you, dummy,” Dean says, straightening up before sticking out one of his feet. Castiel studies the scuffed toe, squinting a tad to put them back into focus. Then, he grins, because he absolutely does recognize those shoes as his own, and the thought of Dean wearing his clothes lights him up from the inside out.

"Those are mine!" he shouts, pointing to Dean's foot. Giddiness floods him, and he is happy Dean is the one here to see it. 

"They are." Dean nods, then tips his bottle back and drinks some more. He takes a stumbling step back, hits the wall, and stays there as he drinks. "Susie made me wear them."

Thank God for small miracles that go by the name of Susie. At the very least, she knew Dean would think of him every time he looked at those shoes. He takes a moment to study Dean’s face, to take all of him in like this and catalogue every detail. His eye is still bruised, the yellowing colour showing through his fading makeup.

Before he can convince himself that it is a bad idea, he steps forward, his shoes squeaking on the tiles, and lifts a hand to Dean’s face. A shock of heat zips through him from where his fingers touch Dean’s warm face, shooting up his arm and down his spine. It is not a new sensation where Dean is concerned, though he is not certain he will ever get used to the way it makes his heart race. 

"The make up is almost gone," he murmurs, moving closer still, and Dean's breath catches ever so slightly. It sends a thrill through Castiel, that he has so much influence over Dean. That the softest touch can make him react. He slides his thumb over the bruise, feels Dean’s jawline with his fingertips.

"So is the bruise," Dean says, and clears his throat, but never takes his eyes off Castiel’s. His lashes flutter, so long and curling he fears they may tangle together. Freckles scatter over his skin, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Like stars. Like constellations he could map for the rest of his life. He could get lost by them, found by them. He could live and breathe and die by them.

He could live and die in that smile. The one that rests on Dean’s face now, so easy, so free.

Castiel blinks, coming back to himself, and realizes how close he is to Dean. He pulls back, turning away and glacing at his shoes as he says, "I'm glad." For a while, they walk in silence, tendrils of embarrassment trying to take over Castiel’s happiness, but he shoves them down. He is drunk and he is happy and he will not let that be taken from him.

"So," Castiel says after a moment of truly battling with his own mind. He looks at Dean over his shoulder with a wicked kind of grin. "How was it? Flirting with my aunt, I mean."

Then, he turns back around and continues walking, leaving that little bomb-drop with Dean. He can hear the rushes exhale of a huff, can practically feel the scowl and the glare, and then he decides it is just too delicious to miss and pivots to walk backwards so he can see every beautiful reaction on Dean’s face.

"I didn't flirt with your aunt—wait," Dean cuts himself off, his dropping eyes widening as horror flashes through them. A bright flush rises in his cheeks as he comes to some kind of realization. "That was your aunt?” He ask, his voice choking off in a strangles whisper. “Your... the kings sister? Oh God."

Dean stops walking, one hand braced on the wall as his complexion goes a tad green. He is sucking in breath after breath to ease whatever panic is running rampant inside of him, and all Castiel can do is laugh.

And laugh.

He giggles like a child, mirth welling up and spilling over like the overly expensive bottle of champagne he has clutched in both hands. He throws his head back with is, feels the ache in his cheeks because of it.

"The one and only," he breathes, wrangling what little self-control he has left to settle his laughter. "My aunt Amara was never one for subtlety, and she certainly loves her drink, but she is seventh in line for the throne..." He shrugs.

"Seventh in line, you say?" Dean hums, pursing his lips as he pretends to give it some thought. "That's not so bad, actually. Is she single?" He bites his bottom lip, fluttering his lashes like some sort of romantic savant.

Castiel just winks, knowing Dean more deeply than that. Knowing he could not handle that particular Novak with all the experience in the world afforded to him. “She would eat you alive."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean's grin drops to a scowl, but Castiel just lifts his bottle to his lips, never taking his eyes from Dean's as he tips it all the way back, swallowing the last of the bubbling liquid as Dean watches.

"It means," he says, knowing exactly the effect he is having on Dean as he takes a step closer. So close, now, that they are nearly chest to chest, nose to nose. The heat of Dean’s body seeps into his as his breath catches.

Castiel can feel Dean’s panting breaths against his lips, can smell the sweet champagne on his skin. He leans impossibly closer and parts his lips, lets his lashes flutter, and Dean actually trembles against him.

"What?" Dean chokes out, and Castiel finds himself unable to tear his gaze off Dean’s mouth. All slick and shiny and wet… "What does it mean?" He takes another step closer and Dean’s back hits the wall. His knees dip, and Castiel would be lying if he said he is not turned on right now. That he hasn’t been this entire time.

"You're too innocent for her; too sweet and kind..." He trails off with a smile, taking in every inch of Dean’s face, from his sharp, shadowed cheekbones to the straight edge of his nose. His stubbled jawline and the rosy red of his lips…

Dean sways closer and Castiel only just stops himself from kissing him.

"She is dark, and you..." He adds, trailing off with a shrug as what he truly means to say makes itself known to him. As he realizes that it is not only his aunt that Dean is too good for, but himself as well. "You feel like sunshine."

Like light, itself. Like stepping outside for the first time in years and feeling the sunshine on his face. Like hope.

Dean opens his most to say something, but there are no words. Castiel does not expect any, really. In fact, he does not want any. He did not say those things to get a response.

He nearly jumps at the sound of a muttered curse, a bang, and a distinct accent on the other side of the wall.

Dean twists to see what it was, and Castiel grins wide and wicked when he realizes who it is, exactly, that is wandering through the palace so late at night. “Benny,” he whispers, and starts digging through his pockets for the earpiece he removed about the same time that Russell began cursing in his ear. “He’s rather terrible at keeping track of you; would you like to have some fun?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean whisper-yells, pressing his ear to the wall to better hear his terrible guard.

“Here,” Castiel murmurs and Dean turns back to him with an expectant look. “Hold this for me, would you?” He lifts his crown off his head and places it on Dean’s, feeling instant relief at having that weight off of his brow. “There,” he whispers, a pleased little grin turning up his lips. “Perfect.”

Castiel nods for Dean to listen to Benny again. Then, Castiel clears his throat and fits an earpiece in his ear. 

He looks at Dean one more time, presses the button on the side, and says, “Mr. Laffite.”

“Fuck,” Benny say from the other side of the w all, just a whispered curse, and then, much clearer, and in Castiel’s ear, he says, “Yes, Your Highness?”

Dean fits his knuckles between his teeth, grinning around them as he eyes Castiel. Delight radiates through him as he watches Dean watch him, mischief taking over as he carries on.

“What is your update on Dean? Has there been any suspicious activity of late?” He blinks, focussing on the middle ground as he mentally scripts what he must say. Like a magnet, though, his gaze is pulled back to Dean’s where they catch and hold. He fights off a smile, lest Benny hear it in his voice, and waits.

“Mother fucking Christ, shit,” Benny says, still a barely-audible whisper, before he speaks clearly into his own earpiece. “Uh, yes, sir—I mean, no, sir. Nothing suspicious. He’s been in his room since dinner wrapped up.”

Castiel frowns, trying to decipher whether or not Benny has been outside of Dean’s room at all tonight, because he is either lying, or he genuinely has no idea that Dean is out and about. Either way, it is concerning, because it means that Benny is a truly terrible guard and needs to be removed from Dean’s detail as soon as possible. “Oh?” Castiel says, and even he can hear the annoyance in his voice. “I saw him wandering the halls only hours ago.”

“No, sir. He should be in his room.” Lying, then. He rolls his eyes and grins through his annoyance. This is a night of fun and freedom from his responsibilities. Tonight, he will laugh at the guard’s incompetence. Tomorrow, he will deal with it.

“I will be checking in on him in an hour. Make sure he’s there,” Castiel adds as a final dig, then pulls out his earpiece and tucks it back in his pocket before Russell catches wind of him being on it and tries to give him an earful.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Benny says, before a beat of silence stretches out on the other side of the wall. Then— “For fuck’s sake, Winchester, where the hell are you? Going to get me in trouble you fucking asshole…” Benny’s angry, thumping steps bleed through the wall before fading out entirely, and it is only then that Dean’s laughter explodes from him. He doubles over with it, hands on his knees, wiping tears from his eyes. The sound is so full of joy that all Castiel can do is stare at him and soak in as much of that happiness as possible. He is grinning, too, his cheeks aching, his insides all warm and glowing. This is the best night of his life.

“Oh my God, he’s going to kill me when he finds me!” Dean slumps next to him, close enough that their shoulders brush as Castiel’s chest quakes with silent laughter so as not to drown out the sound of Dean’s.

“He will do no such thing,” he says, turning into Dean’s side and snagging the unopened bottle of champagne from his loose grip, peeling back the foil as he stares into those green, green, green eyes. “Then he’d really be in shit.”

He presses both thumbs into the cork, only barely startling as it flies off with a pop, before he tips it back and takes a long swallow. It bubbles down his throat, sticky sweet, and he gasps when he’s finished before wiping his mouth on his sleeve and handing the bottle back to a staring, slacked-jawed Dean.

“Come,” he says, and they walk on. He leads Dean around on an old wooden set of stairs, their construction sturdy and well-kept, up three floors and along another passage way, lit by the same golden lights that run through most of the passageways these days.

“How old were you when you found these?” Dean asks after a while of walking in silence. Then standing in silence when Castiel decides he is tired of wandering for now. Instead, they sit, passing the bottle back and forth between them, taking sip after sip as their shoulders bump.

“Hmm,” he hums, swallowing the mouthful of champagne he had been swishing between his teeth before passing the bottle back. “My nanny—who I’ve told you about—snuck me through them on my birthdays. This is how we got to the kitchens.” Those were some of his best memories, honestly. She was one of very few people who truly loved him.

“What were your birthdays like?” Dean asks, leaning more heavily into his side, and Castiel loves that, too. “I know you always did the parade, and the greetings, but what else?”

“What do you mean?” His brain is a little slow, a little fuzzy, and for a moment, Dean’s words do not register. He looks at him, searches his shifting face, and frowns as Dean takes a drink of his own, tasting Castiel on the lip of the bottle, he is certain. He might just love that the most.

“Did you have a party? Cake? Presents?” Dean cocks an eyebrow as if Castiel should know that these are the ingredients to every birthday. That these are things every child has, but Castiel was not just any child. “I never got many presents, but there were always people over, and at least a slice of pie for me.”

Bitterness wells up inside him faster than he expects, bursting out of him in a bitter bark of laughter. His mother would scold him for it; she would tell him that bitterness does not befit a prince. That sadness and self-pity have no place in his mind. He takes the bottle back from Dean’s hands, his mother’s biting words filling his ears. “I never got a cake. Or a party.” He shrugs, as if to say that it does not matter, but it does. “I received lots of gifts, but I was never allowed to open them, let alone keep any for myself.”

“That’s… awful,” Dean murmurs, and yes. It is awful, but it is not even half of the awfulness that was his childhood. He lets out another bitter laugh.

“Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever had a birthday I enjoyed.” He punctuates the admission with a swig from the bottle. Then another until it is a three-quarters empty, but he still feels the pain. “The parades are exhausting, and greeting thousands of people, without ever shaking a single hand…” Oh God, he is going to cry. He shouldn’t, his mother is screaming at him right now, but he is too drunk to stop the tears that are welling in his eyes. Too drunk to care what his mother would say.

Beside him, Dean opens the last bottle, but does not comment. Castiel gets the sense that he is taking it all in, realizing, perhaps, that Castiel’s life was more hell than not. Still, it is a comfort to have him here. To be able to speak with him like this, to trust that he will take Castiel’s secrets to the grave.

“They would greet my siblings—kiss my sisters’ hands, and shake my brothers’, but never mine. I know why, but it just… Give me that.” He snatches the bottle from Dean’s hands, letting the empty one roll over the tiles as he sucks back the lukewarm liquid. He passes it back to Dean, who takes a long sip and leans more heavily into Castiel’s side.

He slides down the wall a little further, his feet grazing the far wall as he takes the champagne back from Dean’s loose grip. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, watching, assessing, but not in the way most people do. Not trying to get anything from him, but just… just trying to figure him out, he guesses. Trying to see if he’s okay.

“So, no, I’ve never had a birthday party,” Castiel says, and finishes off their final bottle of champagne like it is no big deal. As if never being celebrated for his own birth does not mean a thing to him. He lets the bottle roll away and stares at his hands.

“That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it? You were just a kid.” He does not get it, Castiel thinks, ignoring him when he tries to catch his eyes. He picks at his cuticles and tries for anything but bitterness when he smiles. It does not work.

“I was never just a kid, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head in Castiel’s peripheral vision, and no, he does not get it. “Come on, you never got to—”

"Before you, I hadn't been touched by another person in fourteen years," Castiel whispers, enunciating the last two words so that maybe Dean will understand. "It was... it is hell. I hate it." He shakes his head, staring at the ceiling as every unbearable second of his life crowds in on him. Every helpless minute of needing… of need closing in and resulting in nothing. In being ignored, pushed aside, and forgotten because he is not a person, he is a prince.

"And before that? Who touched you then?"

What a fucking question. He almost laughs out loud. Almost tells Dean exactly who, but it does not matter. “Just some kid who wanted to shake my hand." Castiel says, and then he does laugh, and it is still not funny, but he likes the way Dean smiles at him now, just as he had smiled at him then, back when they had first met. "He just," Castiel says, thrusting out his right hand in the same way Dean had so long ago. Emotion swells inside him, collecting in his eyes until it spills over. They have lost so much time, so much happiness, to Castiel’s life.  "Stuck out his hand and said, 'Pleasure to meet you.' That's it. And we shook, and he was torn away from me."

"D'you know what happened to him?" Dean whispers, and the question has pain flaring hot under his skin. It eats at him, because yes, he does know, but also no. He knows in the sense that Dean is in front of him, living and breathing, but he does not remember, and the lack of memory is a mystery to him.

He rolls his head to the side, too drunk to lift it, and meets Dean’s eyes with a lopsided grin. He tries to shrug, but only pushes himself closer to the floor. "I've an idea, yeah."

Dean gets this scowl on his face, all confused and drunkenly adorable. Castiel can tell he is trying to piece the mystery together, though he knows he won’t. "But you never tried to find him?"

He shrugs again as sadness overwhelms him, and he meets Dean’s eyes. If only he could tell him that he did try. That he did find him. "He doesn't remember it."

"How do you know?"

"I just do," he says, and leaves it at that, because he cannot explain to Dean that he, himself, is the one with no memory. It is a pointless endeavour, one he is not intent on pursuing. So, he pushes his hands up beneath him, arms shaking, and manages to sit up, still shoulder to shoulder with Dean. "Besides, no one wants a prince for a best friend. It's exhausting," he says, yawning around the words and not even thinking to cover his mouth. "Just ask Hannah."

"But that's not why you didn't find him," Dean says, and for the love of all that is holy, can he not just let it go? But Castiel can see it in his eyes that, no, he cannot. Because the idea that someone else holds his heart is painful to Dean, even if that someone else is Dean.

"No," he confirms, "that's not why."

"Then why?"

Castiel takes a deep, shuddering breath before speaking, feeling all the truth of the words before he gets out a single one. "He made me feel human." He lifts a shoulder in a half-formed shrug. "Like a person—a friend he just hadn't met yet—not some god put up on a pedestal." He laughs, but it is not a happy one. More sadness than anything, and he can feel the tears in his eyes, welling up and threatening to spill. "And I hadn't felt that way before, or since, for that matter. I didn't want to meet him and discover that I was wrong about the way he made me feel."

"If it's any consolation," Dean says, about to make a joke. Castiel is sure of it, what with that smile on his face. That stupid, beautiful smile that could break Castiel’s heart a million times. "I don't think you're a god."

And then it does, because Castiel is laughing, but there is this cracking sensation in his chest. A splintering that turns his laugh into a sob, and he is so, so drunk, and Dean is, too, but he has to look at him. He has to. And then he is looking at him and he can feel every atom of his being pulling toward him. Like Dean is the sun and Castiel is nothing but a speck of dust in the cosmos, destined to be burned up by him.

"I won't do that to my child, Dean," Castiel whispers, feeling the sudden and fierce conviction that he will not. He feels splayed wide open, cracked and vulnerable, and impossibly scared. He does not realize that he is shaking his head until he stops and Dean isn’t blurry anymore. It is the absolute worst thing that he could do to a child and he will not. "I don't care about tradition, or ancestry, or what's deemed proper; my child will feel loved."

Dean makes a strangled sound, his eyes all wide and sad, and Castiel knows in his heart that Dean would never allow their child to be raised in the way he was. He imagines Dean as a father for a moment; fiercely protective, the most fun and the most good. He cannot imagine having children with anyone else.

Then, without pause, Dean reaches across the space between them and takes his hand. Dean slides their fingers together, twining them together and resting them in Castiel’s lap. The touch is the single best thing he has ever felt, even as little as it is. Dean’s hands are warm, but still, Castiel shivers, the feeling of another person touching him almost too much for him to handle.

Then Dean squeezes his hand tighter, the bones in his knuckles grinding, aching, then hurting. Castiel squeezes harder, desperation taking over, and he is so fucking grateful for him.

After a while, Castiel takes a deep, rattling breath. "Come, let's get you back to your room before Benny has a breakdown," he says, letting go of Dean’s hand and pushing to his feet. He stumbles, hitting the wall, before he straightens himself up, brushes off the front of his waistcoat, and reaches for Dean’s hand to help him to his feet.

They head for an exit, any exit, hand in hand.

Castiel does not let go.

They end up back at the entrance through which they came, where Castiel’s mantle and jacket hang on the hook by the door. He does not bother getting re-dressed yet, instead waiting for Dean to collect himself. They stand just outside of the secret passageway, the hallways dark now that it is past midnight. To his dismay, they are no longer holding hands, but Castiel still lets his knuckles brush Dean’s as they stand in the dark.

"This was fun," Dean says, swaying into his side and sending him stumbling. Still a little drunk, it would seem, on both their parts.

He laughs, shaking his head and wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist to steady his swaying. "It was," he whispers, unable to do anything but smile as he stares at his shoes. If there is one thing that he is thankful for from this night, it is this closeness. This ease of touch that has developed between them. "Thank you, Dean."

"Anytime." Dean slides an arm around his back, mirroring him in this way, and pulls him closer with more strength than he is expecting. Dean’s cherry-leather scent wafts over him, an intoxicating mix that has his head spinning. He could live in that scent forever, just soak into it, settle into it, let it wash over him until there is nothing else.

"Winchester!" Dean jumps against him, pulling away as Benny storms down the hallway. Castiel does not move, curiosity burning inside him because he is ninety-five percent cure that Benny does not know he is here. "Where the hell have you been? The prince has been hassling me all night, and—"

"Hassling you, have I?" he says, the words popping out of his mouth before he can stop them, though he is not sure why he would stop them. He arches an eyebrow as Benny glances his way, then stops in his tracks. Dean snorts at his side, and he waves him quiet with a hush.

"Your Highness, I—I’m sorry, I didn't recognize you—" Benny stammers, shifting from foot to foot, but Castiel just waves off his panic with a small smile. He is a terrible guard, but he is not that bad of a guy.

"Inform my guard that I'm perfectly well before they tear the palace apart, and have them meet me in the entrance hall in,” He looks at his watch, then their surroundings. "Twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” Benny says, and hurries in the other direction.

"Perhaps we were a little cruel," he muses, watching after Benny as he turns the corner. "I'll have to apologize to him in the morning."

"Hmm," Dean hums, and leads him down the hallway, swaying and exhausted. He does not know how he is going to get back to his rooms with the way his palace is spinning. Oh well, perhaps he will sleep on Dean’s floor instead. "Probably a good idea." Dean’s words are cut off by and yawn, and then he is resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel’s heart nearly explodes in his chest.  "D'you think he'll be mad?"

"He might be,” Castiel murmurs, shrugging off the thought. So what if he is?

“I really did have fun tonight,” Dean says, when they reach his room. He sags against the doorframe and Castiel steps closer. Too close, but he does not care. He can still smell him. Still feel the tattoo of his warmth. “Apart from the sentencing.”

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” he murmurs, swaying closer, like a moth to a flame. The hallway is silent but for their soft breaths, revealing how late it truly is. The moon shines bright through the floor to ceiling windows that lead out into the grounds, and it is enough to see Dean’s face by. “I’m sure I’ll hear about it from my parents tomorrow, but I’m glad you were there.”

The silence stretches on and on, just Dean’s breathing. Just his heavy-lidded eyes staring back. The milky glow of the moon turns his skin white and glows in his eyes. He is beautiful, prefect with Castiel’s crown atop his head, even with the dark smudge of the bruise under his eye, and God.

Castiel loves him so.

“I should be going. My guard is sure to come looking for me.” Castiel leans closer, and for a moment, he is going to kiss Dean. He doesn’t know how his mind gets there, but still, he manages to stop himself just before he does.

Instead, he twines their fingers together and grins.

“Is this the part where you nod and smile?” Dean asks, a smirk already on his lips, but Castiel just shakes his head and lifts Dean’s hand to his lips. He closes his eyes, soaking in the feeling of being this close. Warmth blossoms inside him, unfurling in his stomach and spreading out to his extremities.

When he lets Dean’s hand fall and straightens up, Dean is breathless. They both are, he supposes. Neither any less affected than the other.

"Goodnight, Dean,” he whispers, “Until tomorrow."

Dean grins, that smile doing things to his insides. “It is tomorrow." He cocks his head to the side, his hair falling onto his forehead in a way that makes him look almost boyish.

“Well, then,” he says, smiling as he considers that. “Until the sun rises again.”

He turns his back on Dean, then, before he can succumb to his urge to pull Dean in and kiss him senseless.

“Russell,” Castiel says, pleasantly buzzed and tucked into his bed with his earpiece in. “Before you lose your mind,” he continues, breathing hard as his eyelids droop. “I am in my room, completely alone, might I add,” he says, rolling his eyes as he imagines Russell opening his mouth to snap at him. “I am in my pyjamas, safely ensconced in my bed, and I expect to be left here until such a time that the sun has satisfactorily risen. Please bring me some breakfast should I not be up by eight o’clock, and a hangover cure or two.”

He lets go of the button of his earpiece and sinks into the pillow.

“Oh,” he adds, pressing the button one more time. “Take the rest of the night off.”

He tosses the earpiece aside and sinks into his pillow, happiness easing him into sleep.

Chapter Text

“What is that infernal ringing?” Castiel snaps, flipping over to bury his pounding head in his pile of disarranged pillows.

The ringing continues, a high-pitched, repetitive jab to the inside of his brain, and he is on the verge of crawling under his bed to hide when he realizes that it is his phone.

Fuck.

With his head still pounding like the big drums they use in his birthday parade, he scrambles for the side table and the phone that sits in its receiver.

“Hello?” he says, half-flung across the beg, blankets on the floor and his feet tangled in the sheets. He truly will need to apologize to the housekeeper who makes his bed each morning; he is a disaster of a sleeper.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” a soft, teasing voice says down the line, and Castiel jerks upright when he recognizes it.

“Anael,” he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as his heart kicks in his chest. “It is early.”

“It is,” she agrees, something in her tone that has him moving to the edge of his bed. “Not too early for lawyers to be making calls.”

For a moment, he does not understand her meaning and a frown pulls at his mouth as he stares into the middle ground. “I do not—”

Then, he gets it.

“Matt’s lawyers?” He asks, hoping beyond hope for good news, though he is so used to the opposite these days, that his stomach twists up in knots trying not to get his hopes up.

“The same, sweetheart,” she says, before continuing. “They’re dropping all charges in the hopes that we do the same.”

For a moment, he cannot speak. His heart pounds so hard, there exists the possibility that it will burst through his rib cage and land on the floor at his feet. “When?” He manages on a shaky inhale. This could be the very best news to give Dean. It would make his day and Castiel absolutely must be the one to tell him.

“The decision will be finalized the moment Dean gives his consent to drop the charges,” Anael says, the sound of a pen scratching on paper carrying down the line.

“He consents,” Castiel says, and perhaps he should run it by Dean, but it does not matter. Dean will drop the charges as was their plan, and they will wash their hands of the matter. “Call the lawyers back and let them know; I want this done by noon.”

“Sure thing, Your Highness,” she says, and then she’s gone and Castiel is out of his bed so fast, his head spins.

For one terrifying moment, he thinks he is going to throw up. His vision pitches, stomach twisting up in knots, and it takes several deep, slow breaths to settle himself.

Then, he slips into his bumblebee slippers and a robe, knowing the palace will be near freezing, even as the sun rises over the distant oceans, and he is not about to walk around in just his silky pyjama bottoms, barefoot like an icicle.

He slips out of his bedroom door and walks right into Russell, who is standing there with a scowl to end all scowls. Castiel skids to a stop, straightening up and adjusting his robe as he does his best to look dignified in his fuzzy bee slippers.

“Russell,” he says, his toes curling in his slippers as Russell pulls out a small vial of orange liquid from his inside pocket.

“Your hangover cure,” he says, and passes the vial to Castiel, who takes it and tosses it back without hesitation. It burns going down, but there are worse things in the world, and Castiel hands the empty vial back with a grimace.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, before swerving around his head guard and heading for the stairs. He wants to get to Dean before anyone else does, and he nearly tumbles down the stairs when his slippers snag, but he keeps going until he is in front of the double doors of Dean’s room, pounding on them so that they rattle on the hinges.

“Dean? Dean, wake up,” he calls, waiting with jittery impatience for the door to open. 

“Go away,” Dean grunts, the words carrying through the door in a soft muffle, and Castiel smirks at the thought of the hangover Dean must have. His own is still rattling between his ears, though slowly dissipating with the hangover cure he downed.

“Mr. Winchester,” he tries again, quieter this time, though he still pounds on the door with a fervour that will annoy Dean into getting out of bed to let him in.

He does not let him in, though, and impatience grows inside him until he shoves through the door himself and steps into the room.

“Go away!” Dean grumbles, one arm thrown over his face, flat on his back in nothing but his sleep pants. Castiel takes a moment to peruse his bare chest, down his long, bowed legs, before he pulls himself together with a shake of his head.

“Dean, I have—” he starts, but Dean, apparently, is in a rather terrible mood.

“God, Cas,” he says, peeking through one eye as he rubs the other, looking at him for the first time since he came in. “When you said, ‘until the sun rises again,’ I didn’t think you meant that literally.” Incredibly moody, it seems. Mental note that Dean does not handle hangovers well.

"Dean, you need to—“ Listen is what he was going to say, but he does not get the chance, because apparently, he is in desperate need of ridicule.

"And what's with the slippers, huh?” Dean asks, staring down at his bumblebees with so much disdain, Castiel’s toes curl. “Why do you have bees on your slippers? Better yet, why are you in my—“

"Dean!" he huffs, impatience bleeding into his tone the longer Dean goes on not listening. He waits as Dean sticks his bottom lip out in a pout, but keeps his mouth shut as he pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, facing him. He sucks in a deep breath as his excitement hits its peak. “Matt's lawyers just called; they're dropping all charges."

"What?" Dean freezes, his hand pausing over his eye where he was rubbing it, and Castiel cannot help the grin that splits his face in two. "Are you serious?"

"Yes!" he nearly shouts, his insides vibrating with excitement as the full implications of his news hits him. A laugh spills out of him, full of joy, and perhaps he looks ridiculous right now, but he does not care. How could he care when Dean is safe?

"They... they dropped them? All of them?" For a moment, Dean does not seem to understand what he is saying. Does it not matter to him in that same way it does to Castiel? Is he truly making a fool of himself for coming in here in this manner? Perhaps he should have waited until later, or just called him instead.

"The video footage is pretty undeniable,” he adds, his smile faltering as he shuffles his feet, ready to leave now as Dean’s non-reaction stretches on and on.

Then, Dean is standing in front of him, a myriad of emotions flashes across his face, too quickly for Castiel to read a single one. So expressive; it is something he loves dearly about Dean, though right now, he just wishes he would say something.

Castiel watches him closely, wary as Dean steps closer, closer, but he does not dare to move. He does not want to move. So, he waits.

"What—“ he finally starts, but the words, along with all the air in his lungs, is sucked out of him as Dean wraps his arms around his waist, squeezing him so tightly, he can not move if he wanted to.

He lets out a shuddering breath and sinks into the embrace, feeling a buzz under his skin as he wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders and holds on for dear life.

"Thank you," Dean croaks, emotion clogging his voice as he buries his face in Castiel's neck, and he realizes that he was wrong. Dean is not indifferent, but overwhelmed. It is not that he does not care, but rather, that he cares too much about the outcome of the charges, and the realization that he did the correct thing in coming here to tell him hits Castiel square in the chest. He holds on tighter still. "For helping me; I can't thank you enough."

Another realization comes over him, taking over like a wave of warmth. He would do anything for Dean. Not nearly anything, or almost anything, but absolutely anything for him. For this feeling. To have him in his arms, bare skin hot against his, and his face buried in his neck. He would live and die and kill for him.

It is the deepest he has ever felt for anyone and cold terror settles in his bones, because he could still lose him. There are threats abound, people who do not want Dean here, and the threat of war on top of it all.

There is so much that could take Dean from him.

After not nearly long enough, Dean pulls away, stepping back as Castiel lets his hands slide over his bare skin, feeling the heat of him.

He pulls a deep breath in through his nose, feeling the chill of it as he forces himself calm. Dean is here, and he is fine, and he is free.

Freedom is a length of rope, Castiel thinks, the words coming to his mind unbidden as Dean flops onto the edge of his bed with a soft bounce. And God wants you to hang yourself with it.

He shoves the thought away and focuses on this moment, settling into it as he watches Dean’s ever movement, every shift and look and smile. He’s smiling too; he can feel it on his face in the way his cheeks ache and his lips crack. It is such an unnatural feeling, something he does not do nearly enough, and it has the happiness in his chest feeling foreign. A terrifying parasite that only does damage when it is snatched away.

"Anything for you," Castiel whispers, shifting from one foot to the other, meaning the words with every fibre of his being, even as he becomes aware of how ridiculous he must look.

"Seriously, though, Cas,” Dean starts, flinging one hand in the direction of his slippered feet. “What's with the slippers?"

A hot blush surges into his cheeks, because yes, they are the height of ridiculous, not fit for the Crown Prince, and yet, he loves them with his whole heart. "Oh, my little sister, Hael, bought them for me,” he says, trying, and probably failing, to play it off. “She knows how I love bees." In an aborted move for unbothered, he tries to shrug, but the movement is so unnatural that he feels all the more stupid, and crosses his arms over his chest as his hair falls into his eyes. God, he has fumbled this six ways to Sunday. Perhaps it is time to leave before he does something far more embarrassing, such as profess his undying love to Dean right here and now. "I should be going; there's much to do before the viewing, as you can see," he says, gesturing to his silk pyjamas and robe, and Dean nods, a soft laugh bubbling out of him to lift Castiel’s spirits. "I just wanted to be the first to tell you, as I promised I would."

"I'll see you in a bit, then," Dean says, grinning and grinning and grinning like he knows just how embarrassed Castiel is. "Hopefully, in some real clothes." Dean looks down at his own attire, reminding Castiel of their mutual undress and, yes, it truly is time for him to leave.

He chuckles, backing toward the door as part of him begs to stay. A very large part, in fact, but he has things to do, clothes to put on, and so he steps through the doors and pulls them shut with a soft click.

Then, he leans against them, closing his eyes as he grins at the ceiling, the warmth of Dean’s presence still soaking into his bones.

“Make sure my hair will stay in place,” Castiel murmurs, staring at himself in the mirror as Susie finishes with his tie. His fingers itch to fix the stray strands himself, and after a moment of being ignored, he does just that, comb them back into place.

“Stop,” Susie snaps, waving his hands away from his own face before gelling the tips of her fingers and pushing his hair back. “Why are you insufferable this morning?” she asks, focussed on her task instead of staring him down, which he is glad for because, his stomach does a somersault, his heart skipping a beat. Of course she noticed his finickiness this morning, but is it really so bad that he wishes to look nice?

“There doesn’t have to be a reason,” he says, even as he stretches out of her reach to grab the lint roller. He runs it down his front, pulling off invisible bits of fabric as he speaks. “I am the Crown Prince; looking nice is my job.”

“No, it is my job,” Susie snaps, snatching the lint roller from his hands and tossing it aside. “And you look fine all the time.” She drops her hands to her hips, scowling at him as she purses her lips and taps her toe. “This is the least important day to look your best.”

Which is just not true, because today is the day he gets to spend hours in the same room as De—all his suitors. Truly the only time they get to look at him uninterrupted, and he wants to make a good impression. He wants him—them to think he is the most handsome man they’ve ever seen.

“In any case,” Castiel says, as his mental gymnastics fails and his mind settles on Dean’s grinning face from only hours ago. His heart gives a kick in his chest as he stares into his own eyes, takes in his complete appearance. “I wish to look my best.”

Every movement, every shift, draws his gaze to the door of the screening room. Most of the suitors are present, but not the one he wishes to see. Not yet, anyway. He fidgets with his gloves, running a finger along the fine seam, toying with the hem around his wrists, as he tries not to look too eager, but he cannot help it.

Something changed between he and Dean last night, shifting into something deeper, more profound than before, and he is desperate to know where they stand in the light of day surrounded by the rest of the world.

There is a commotion at the door. Chatter, panic, then Susannah’s voice, demanding to know what’s going on. Castiel’s heart flip-flops, and he twists in the most un-regal fashion, to look over his shoulder. God, if his mother could see him, should would lose her mind, which seems extreme, but so is not allowing a soul in the world to touch your eldest child.

Castiel waits, his pulse pounding in his ears as the voices quiet, the servants scurrying away. Another minute passes, and then Dean is in the doorway in all his undressed glory.

Christ.

Wrapped in a robe with moisture strips beneath his eyes and a shower cap on his head, Dean comes straight for him, slippers slapping the soles of his feet before he skids to a stumbling stop at his side. Castiel looks up at him, dumbstruck by his presence, by his wonderful face. He scrambles for something to say, but no words come.

"I have your crown," Dean blurts, and for a moment, Castiel has not the slightest idea of what he is talking about.

"What?" he asks, cocking his head to the side, distracted by the soft pout of Dean’s mouth and the  brightness of his eyes.

"Your crown," Dean pants, sucking in a deep breath as his hands shake by his sides, trembling like a leaf in a wind storm. "I still have it. You never took it back, so... yeah, it's in my room."

"Alright," he says, drawing the word out as he tries to decipher why on earth Dean is so out of sorts. "I'll come by later to collect it. Dean, why are you shaking?"

Dean clasps his hands, wringing his fingers as he takes deep breaths in through his nose and lets them out through his mouth. He looks to the ceiling, then the floor, before finally meeting Castiel’s gaze. "I, uh... I thought I'd get in trouble for it," he mutters, then lifts his shoulder in an awkward, half shrug that breaks Castiel’s heart. "You know, like someone would think I stole it."

He blinks, then shakes his head as the enormity of Dean’s childhood trauma lands in his lap. The realization that no one has ever trusted Dean in his life is like a bucket of icy water poured on his head. "I remember giving it to you, Dean,” he says, making sure that Dean is looking at him. That he hears every word. “It's fine."

"Okay," he says, the word escaping on an exhale as his shoulders sat and he lowers himself to Castiel’s side, settling on the cushion placed there for exactly that. A thrill shoots through him, electric in his veins, because he had hoped beyond hope that Dean would choose this spot, but there is never a guarantee. "Just making sure you know, is all."

Castiel watches him from the corner of his eye, forcing himself not to look at him fully, lest Dean think him weird. Still, he cannot possible keep himself from watching when Susannah kneels behind him, a tub of water between them, and urges him back with a hand on his shoulder.

Dean closes his eyes, the flutter of bronze-tipped lashes all Castiel can see for several seconds, as Susannah peels off the shower cap and begins the process of rinsing whatever hair mask she massaged into his scalp before coming here.

Castiel swallows hard as he takes in Dean’s stretched out form. From his slippered feet, up his bare shins and mostly naked thighs, up his torso, to his chest where his robe is falling open, the tie loosening, falling off… fuck.

"All done, boy," Susie says, wrapping a towel over his head before helping him sit up. She kneads the fluffy cotton into Dean’s hair and Castiel cannot help but notice how comfortable he looks with all of it. There is not an ounce of tension in him, even as his robe slips open another half inch, revealing a flash of one nipple. "When your hair dries a bit, we'll tailor the suits." Dean’s face reddens, a slow flush rising in his cheeks as he glances Castiel’s way, but there is nothing but excitement burning in his chest. He looks Dean up and down one more time, that feeling in his chest only growing stronger as he licks his lips and wonders what it would be like to run his fingers over Dean’s collarbone.

"Hmm," he hums, catching Dean’s eye for the half-second he manages to look his way. "So much for your hope of real clothes."

"Oh, fuck off.” The laugh that bursts out of Dean as he sways toward him feels like fireworks in his chest. And then Dean’s shoulder bumps his arm, his insides explode with, dynamite burning bursting, burning, eating him alive. "I've decided that it's her mission in life to embarrass me, which apparently means undressing me in a room full of people."

"A lovely woman," Castiel says, both meaning it, and trying not to laugh at Dean’s predicament. If there is one thing he has learned over the years, it is that Susannah Sampson has no regard for the hangups of others. "How are you feeling?" Castiel asks, barely holding in his laughter, grinning and grinning and grinning as he meets Dean’s gaze.

"I smell like egg," Dean deadpans, yanking the laughter out of Castiel despite his best efforts. It is so startling that he lets it free, tipping his head back and briefly closing his eyes. "I have a hangover from hell, I've got nothing by my briefs on under this robe, my brother broke his leg and I can't see him, and I'm about to watch the weekly screening of my fuckups." Dean raises on eyebrow, looking at him sideways with a smirk that has Castiel’s heart skipping a beat. "How do you think I'm doing?"

"So, not great, then?" He remembers the abject horror on Dean’s face when he woke him this morning; the clammy pallor of his skin and the bleary sheen in his eyes, speaking of a hangover to match his own. Castiel, of course, is nearly fully recovered, the hangover cure working wonders on his system to put him to rights.

"Could be better," Dean says, laughing through the words as his shoulders jerk in a small shrug. He crosses his legs at the ankles, leaning back on his hands, and that bloody robe just keeps falling more and more. It slides down his arm, revealing his freckled shoulders, and Castiel does his best not to stare, but it is one of the hardest things he has ever done. "And you? You got some magic hangover cure or something?"

"You could say that,” he says, because that’s exactly it. He smirks in Dean’s direction, then all-out laughs when Dean rolls his eyes with a soft grunt. "The staff here are wonderful to me, though I have no idea why."

"Shut up, asshole," Dean says, and Castiel gets this bubbly feeling inside his chest at the directness of his reply. It feels genuine. Intimate, even, and the way Dean’s grinning back at him like he is the only person in the world only compounds the feeling.

And then Dean lies his head on the armrest, and something in Castiel’s chest cracks right open. He knows he loves Dean, knows it deep down to his bones, but how much is still to be determined because it changes daily. Every morning he wakes up and loves him a little bit more.

"They gave me some extra if you'd like it?" Castiel says, keeping his voice low as he digs out the vial he had been keeping just incase his headache returned. He will gladly give it to Dean, though.

"Oh?" Dean's head pops up, the towel unwinding as he jerks around, and from across the room, Susannah shouts at him to keep still. Dean ignores her, focussed on him as digs in his pocket for the vial of hangover cure he’s been using since he discovered the unlocked cabinet in the kitchen.

"Here," he murmurs, shifting in his chair to loosen the constraint of his pants on his thighs, the smooth glass slipping between his fingers once, twice, before he manages to pull it free.

"What is it?" Dean asks, taking the vial from his hands with a cautious frown. He brings it close to his face to inspect it, turning it between his fingers and scowling at the floating bits of herbs in the amber liquid.

"Ginger, I'm certain, and honey. There's a dash of mint, and some orange juice for the vitamins, but Dean--" he starts, the words its main ingredient is whiskey on his tongue, but Dean is already popping off the stopper and tipping his head back. He swallows in one big gulp, his face contorting with displeasure as he coughs and chokes.

And Castiel laughs.

"God, holy fucking shit, Cas! Warn a guy before you give him a shot so early in the day,” Dean says, but Castiel has his head thrown back, eyes shut, as delight roars through him. Tears well in his eyes, the look on Dean’s face playing on a loop in his head as giggle after helpless giggle falls out of him.

"I'm sorry," he sputters, wiping his eyes and the makeup off, too as he fights to control his laughter. "I tried... to tell you--" Another fit of laughter rolls through him when he sees the look on Dean’s face, all squinting and fighting back a smile. The towel and eye masks do nothing to help matters, either, and he is sure the entire population of this room is watching him now as if he were mentally unstable.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t care.

"Enough, Mr. Winchester," Susie says, her voice floating into the periphery of his joy, but she is smiling, he can tell by the cadence of her words that she is amused.  "Your hair should be dry enough for the suits."

Castiel does not quite register her words, laughter rippling through him in waves, but he doesn’t miss the way the towel falls from Dean’s head, or when he stands.

And when his robe slides off and hits the floor, leaving Dean in nothing but his tight white boxer briefs, Castiel chokes on his laughter.

Suddenly, it is not so funny anymore.

Stop staring! Look away! But he can’t. Not for long, anyway, his eyes always sliding back to Dean’s body; the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowing at his waist, the jut of his hip bones and the bow in his legs.

Dean doesn’t look at him, keeping his gaze on the floor at his feet like he has no idea that Castiel is losing his mind. God, it is indecent, but that is the least of his worries. Castiel is about to be indecent, his thoughts running away from him, sliding all over Dean’s body as if—

"Mr. Winchester, we need you to put on some clothes; you are rather indecent in the presence of the prince,” Russell says, and if the man were not like a father to him, Castiel might have him killed where he stands for such a comment. He is correct, of course, but he will be damned before he allows Dean to feel embarrassed by his body, least of all when Castiel is enjoying the view so much.

"He is fine, Russell,” Castiel says, forcing his voice into evenness as Dean looks between him and Russell, who steps back into his place with a solemn nod and a barely-there smirk that Castiel does not appreciate.

"Well, he's seen me naked, so..." Dean says, then shrugs, a half smirk on his face as the words slide into the room.

"He what?" April shouts, all shrill and angry, drawing the attention of all who gather in the viewing room. Dean flushes bright red, cringing, squinting, and before he can stop it, the most undignified snorting sound Castiel has ever made slips out. He clamps a hand over his mouth, laughter shaking in his chest, his shoulders, as the ridiculousness of the whole thing hits him.

"This is true," he says, laughter breaking free as he shakes his head, because of all the times Dean could have let that slip, standing nearly-naked in a room with the rest of his suitors is surely the worst time, but that, as he has come to find, is one of Dean’s rarer gifts. He knows just the wrong thing to say, and it always makes Castiel feel better.

Sure, Dean is embarrassed; Castiel can see the way colour stains his cheeks even in the low light, but he has never felt more like a child without a care than he does now, laughing with Dean, giggling behind hands and holding eye contact for longer than anyone has in a while. He ignores the silent stewing of his other suitors—April, whose nose pinches, and Michael, who has one eyebrow raised so high, Castiel would be surprised if it did not stick like that. There is Kelly, too, who looks about on the brink of tears, but he just does not care.

"Come on, boy,” Susie says, drawing Dean’s attention and snapping the others out of their silent disdain. “We have more suits than time." The room fills with sound again, the steady onward march toward the screening resuming. 

Then it begins.

Dean is at his side, close enough to reach out and touch, to inhale the scent of him. If he thinks about it hard enough, he swears he can feel the heat off Dean’s skin.

"Four gone, seven remain as we finish of another week at the palace," Duma's voice says, echoing through the speakers as the room falls silent.

Castiel turns his attention to the screen, because he should at least appear interested in anything that is going on here.

Monday is rather enlightening in some ways and entirely boring in others. It rained so there was little to do outside, but it would appear that at some point in the day, Meg’s hair dye had been switched, the dark brown replaced with what he can only assume is bleach, judging by the sickly yellow-orange colour she ends up with.

There is screaming, even more cursing, and then a frantic run to get out of view of the cameras. God, it is bad, and he is so beyond grateful to not have been there for it that the words accidentally slip out of his mouth.

"I'm grateful to not have been there," he murmurs, not really speaking to Dean, but watching him anyway as Susie hems a pant-leg.

"No?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow when Castiel meets his gaze.

"I was with you." It’s not exactly a happy memory, and he would really rather not relive their fight, but even then, all time with Dean is good time. All of it is worth it.

Still, he can feel the remnants of panic from that day. The rain sliding down his back, dripping off his nose, as Dean appeared in the downpour, so angry he practically radiated rage. The apology, fumbled and stumbled over, because he is not used to offering them. He has really had the occasion.

"I remember," Dean says, before turning back to the screen, clearly uncomfortable with the line of conversation. Castiel lets it go, but watches him, taking in the subtle shifts in his expression as he tunes into the dinnertime conversation  on screen.

"Foot up, boy,” Susie says, and then Dean’s stumbles, flails, tipping toward him, and before he can think better of it, Castiel reaches out and takes hold of his hand to steady him. That icy-burning sensation he always has when another person touches him shoots up his arm, but underneath it is a steady warmth he’s not used to. One that tugs on his heart strings and has his breath catching in his throat.

Before Russell can step in to interfere, Castiel holds up his free hand to ward him off and Russell steps back with a nearly imperceptible sigh. He almost feels bad for it because Russell truly is only doing his job; he knows that the head of his guard is only thinking of the repercussions of his contact with Dean, imagining the ease with which others will touch him with a precedent now set.

He understands, but that doesn’t stop him from holding tighter. From squeezing Dean’s fingers when Dean meets his eyes.

"Thank you," Dean mouths and releases his fingers with a soft smile.

From accross the room, someone gags, and Castiel tilts to one side to look past Dean, who is already spun around, he finds Charlie staring right at Dean with a finger in her mouth like she's making herself puke.

Dean makes a rude gesture. Castiel smile despite himself.

"Dean!" Susie snaps, patting Dean’s leg. "Pay attention."

He turns back to the screen as the exchange ends and cocks his head to one side as the screen shifts to a dreary Tuesday. Grey sky on brown grass and in the distance, a man covered from head to toe in mud.

Dean covered from head to two in mud. Jesus Christ.

"Jesus," Dean whispers at his side, apparently seeing himself for the first time after his tumble, limping, shaking, scowling like mad as Benny loses his composure. By the door, the sounds of his muttering can be heard, calling Dean an idiot, a moron, and he is not wrong.

“What the hell, Winchester?” Benny shouts as Dean comes close enough to hear. God, he is truly covered in mud. Blood as well. A sight to see.

"I'm going to my room," he says, before pushing past Benny, and beside him, Dean throws his head back and laughs.

They both know what follows this, after the mud is gone and the doors are unlocked. After he knocked instead of waiting, opened the door instead of calling out. He lets out a little huff as an embarrassed huff puffs out of him.

"What's the matter, Cas?" Dean teases, all light and happy as Castiel’s embarrassment mounts. He shoots him a look before immediately turning back to the screen.

"You know," he mutters, settling deeper in his chair as the horror that overtook him upon seeing miles of tanned, dripping skin comes back to him. Those long legs and broad shoulders, the softness at his stomach where the evidence of that last few week’s steady meals has collected, and then lower, his soft cock—

"Yeah, I do!" Dean grins, cutting off Castiel’s wandering thoughts before he gets to the good part. He shakes his head with a sigh.

"You are insufferable," he adds, though it's with a smile, because he just cannot help himself.

When Wednesday begins, something churns in Castiel’s stomach. For a moment, he puts it down to his lingering hangover, but as the Fan Favourite’s announcement begins its playback, the feeling worsens.

Not his hangover then, but the God-awful feeling of panic he has grown so used to since his early years when he realized his place in this world.

Part of him still feels the humiliation of Dean’s words. How he snapped at him and how Castiel had left moments later, his hurt so clearly on display. Vulnerability seeps into his bones as Dean’s overwhelmed face appears on screen. His own face, so full of joy, of pride, until he looks to Dean and sees that look. He remembers it as if it were happening now, not just on the screen. Remembers his concern over Dean’s untouched pie, over the panic, the sick look on his face. He’d defaulted to physical pain. Assumed it was his shoulder, and then…

“Fuck, Cas, stop!”

Castiel’s eyes close. Not on purpose, but in a desperate attempt to shut out his own hurt. He can feel it in a chest; a dull throbbing in his sternum.

Stop.

Not here.

His eyes snap open and he sucks in a deep, slow breath. He is not this. He is not sadness, nor weakness, nor pain. Not here, anyway. Not anywhere outside of his own mind. Here, he is only strength. Only symbol.

Remember that.

"Do you think the red is too much?" Susie murmurs, snatching Castiel’s attention, though she is not speaking to anyone but herself. Castiel’s eyes slide to Dean, a blood red suit jacket hugging his broad shoulders, narrowing at the waist, held together by pins, and, God he looks good. Even in a half-finished suit with tired eyes and messy hair, the light of the screen turning his freckled cheeks a pale white, and—Oh God, why is he taking off his clothes?

Castiel’s breath catches, heat blazing in his veins as Dean’s trousers drop to the floor, leaving him in nothing but his underwear. Tight, white briefs, hugging the swell of his ass and the bulge of his—

"You!" Susie shouts, and before he knows it, Susie swats him in the back of the head. "Watch the screen; keep your eyes to yourself."

The heat in his veins turns to humiliation at being caught, and he flicks his gaze up to Susie as he frowns. "Yes, ma'am," he says, his cheeks burning so hot, he would not be surprised if they were glowing in the dark room. But he returns his gaze to the screen, sufficiently chastised.

What he sees on screen is a significant downgrade from his view of Dean. He hates this part; hates this whole day.

That thought loops through his mind as he watches himself run on-screen, the shaky camera view and distorted audio bringing it all back. The panic, the fear and frustration. All of it returns as Benny’s words fill the room.

"Your Highness. He's gone. Dean's not in his room—Charlie, either."  He watches his own face fall. Watches his mask slip away as fear swallows him whole. The letter from that night returns to his mind, a crumpled piece of paper just visible in his clenched fist. The threats made haunt his nightmares still, but nothing compares to the fear he sees on his own face now.

"Search the palace and the grounds. If you don't find him, search the village." He is surprised by the power in his own voice, though he is not sure why. This is what he has been trained for from birth. Strength in the face of adversity. To put himself aside for the sake of others. "If they aren't found within the hour, report back to me."

Castiel’s eyes glaze over as his thoughts drift to the letter. They have no leads, no ideas, and no additional evidence to begin to understand who might have sent it. Castiel has endless resources and connections beyond anything anyone can imagine, and yet, in this, he is powerless. There is nothing at his disposal that will give him the answers he so desperately needs.

Something in his chest clenches and he can feel the meltdown coming on event before his throat tightens and his hands go clammy. He knows the signs by now, but that does not stop the panic that washes over him as his lungs shrivel up. It is all so ridiculous; Dean is right next to him, after all, safe and steady and here, but that does not stop the roaring in his ears.

The screen blurs before him, and he is peripherally aware of the murmur going through the room as the events of his date with Meg play out, but he cannot focus on that right now. Panic swells, compounding, doubling, increasing tenfold every second until—

From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Dean’s fingers as they settle on his armrest. Not asking, but offering. A lifeline.

Castiel snatches it up, his fingers closing around Dean’s as his first deep breath in minutes fills his lungs. He sucks it in, holds it in his chest, before letting it out in a slow, stuttering stream. Dean is safe. Dean is safe. Dean is safe with me.

He lets the words double, triple, spiral in his head. He will make them true. He will make them true. If it is the last thing he ever does, God help him, he will make them true.

"Okay, boy. We're all done. Just in time too,” Susie says, to Dean as the screening comes to an end and the other suitors voices fill the space.

For the first time in hours, Castiel looks at them. Hannah looks the picture put together, a true royal with her perfect posture and level chin. April has her hair in curlers, a face mask turning her creamy skin a sharper, slicker shade. Michael stands, scowling as his stylist packs his bag, and Castiel cannot help thinking he would love to send the man home.

"Thanks," Dean mutters, his voice catching Castiel’s attention. Dean shifts from foot to foot, a dark blue robe clutched in his hands, his muscles flexing under a growing layer of softness around his hips. Castiel’s teeth sink into his lower lip as his mouth waters, because fuck, Dean grows more attractive every time he looks at him.

"Oh, hush," Susie says, waving Dean off as she zips up a garment bag, and Castiel did not catch the end of Dean’s comment, but there is a soft blush rising in Susie’s cheeks, so it must have been complementary. "Go get ready for dinner."

With that, she flips the garment bag over her shoulder, grabs her suitcase, and leaves Dean where he stands.

"Go get ready for dinner?" Dean parrots, looking down at himself as Castiel finishes his slow perusal of Dean’s body. He grins at Dean’s words, one eyebrow rising as delight settles in his chest. "You hear that, Cas? She's been dressing and undressing me all day, but I have to get my own self ready for dinner."

"I suppose she is tired of it for the day." He shrugs as something bold washes over him and, with Dean watching, he lets his eyes take a lazy tour down Dean's body. God, there is no one on this earth more gorgeous than Dean Winchester.

"Well," Dean says, pulling on his robe as the last of the suitors file out of the room. "Let's see how she likes it when I show up in sweatpants."

If there is one thing he will not miss, it is Dean in sweatpants.

Often, he takes Sunday’s break as a chance to spend time with his siblings, but if he knows one thing about Dean, it is that he is never one to miss an opportunity to disturb the peace. Dressed down in a cream button-down and navy trousers, Castiel steps out of his quarters, a lightness in his chest that can only be attributed to one thing.

Russell and Benjamin walk at his back, quiet for now, but he is more than aware of the look they gave each other the moment he stepped from his room. It is one they wear often these days, and one he is not willing to acknowledge.

Even as he lengthens his strides to arrive at the dining hall faster. The lights are low, the hallways empty so late on a Sunday, and he is lost in thought when he turns a corner and nearly runs headlong into Susannah.

“Cas—Your Highness,” she says, forcing the words from her mouth. A rare occurrence, he might add.

“Susannah,” he says, nodding his greeting as she dips her chin in a slight bow. Anticipation snaps in his gut. He was hoping to run into her before dinner. “Dean’s new suits are lovely,” he says, stopping her quick retreat to whatever task she has her mind set on.

“They are, aren’t they?” She says, stopping fully now as she basks in the compliment. “No surprise that you think so, of course. Only the best from Susie.” She gives him a decisive nod, her accent sharpening her name. “Dinner will be the last time you see him in an old suit, I can assure you.”

Fucking perfect.

Castiel  adopts a faux confused look. “Is that so?” he asks, tilting his head to one side. “It is my understanding that he plans to wear sweat-trousers to dinner tonight.”

The words hit her like a bomb, and for a moment, she can only stare at him, frozen. Then, she laughs, shaking her head. “He would not dare.”

“You said he could dress himself, did you not?” Further tilt of his head, more confusion, and her smile fades. “He made it quite clear to me that he intended to opt for a casual outfit for a change.”

Anger flashes in her eyes, teeth grinding as a vein in her forehead pops. Delight flutters in his chest as steam practically billows from her ears, building, building—

“That boy!” she shouts, her gaze fixing beyond him in the direction of Dean’s rooms where he is surely dressing in the offending sweatpants. She does not bother to acknowledge him before she leaves, barreling down the hallway on her way to crucify Dean.

Castiel barely contains his amusement as he turns on his heel, wasting no time now to get as far away from the impending shouting match as he can get.

Except, when he steps through the double doors of the dining hall, Dean is already in attendance, sitting two over from Castiel’s own place setting, so clearly dressed in the offending garment that Castiel can hardly contain himself.

A part of him almost wishes he had not told on him. Susie will surely make him redress, and he is so lovely like this. His hair is a tousled mess, freckles dotting the bridge of his nose and both cheeks, and an ease in his shoulders that is never there when he wears a suit. He almost prefers Dean like this. A little rumpled, a little cozy.

Remembering himself, Castiel tears his gaze off of Dean, greeting each of his other suitors with small questions, tiny anecdotes, and careful smiles before he turns his eyes on Dean.

Finally.

Instead of taking his usual place, he lowers himself into the empty seat beside Dean, a swarm of butterflies taking flight in his chest as their eyes meet.

"Good evening," he murmurs, soft and quiet, the way he imagines saying it twenty years from now as the sun peeks through his bedroom curtains and cuts across one of those golden green eyes.

"You never come to Sunday dinners," Dean blurts, startling Castiel with the abruptness. Dean’s lashes flutter, his hands clenching on his cutlery, as he stares Castiel down.

Castiel raises an eyebrow, amusement taking over the butterflies, and gives Dean a dry smile. "I couldn't possibly miss the sweatpants," he says, glancing down at Dean's heather grey pants and cotton t-shirt. "Or the meltdown Susie will have when she hears of them."

"How long d'you think I have?"  Dean asks, laughter jolting the words as he skewers a piece of meat and slips it between his teeth. He only looks away when the waiter steps beside him, filling the borrowed plate with more food than he would ever think of eating. Dean might finish it, though, so he nods his thanks and says nothing more.

"Well, I ran into her on my way down the steps and might have hinted at her outfit choice for the evening, so... not long at all?" He shrugs, letting the devious little smirk he has been holding back take over his features as he lays a napkin in his lap and straightens his cutlery. This, the teasing, is all new to him, and for the life of him, he cannot figure out if he is doing it right. But, by the way Dean lets out a high-pitched, breathy laugh, her thinks perhaps he got it right this time.

"You bastard," Dean mutters, grinning so wide Castiel could just fall right out of his chair. The accusatory look only warms him, and he can feel an ache in his own cheeks from grinning so wide. "I guess I should eat up, then, huh—“

"Dean Winchester!" Dean drops his fork back to his plate, the clatter catching the attention of a few of the staff, but Dean never turns his gaze from Castiel as he sighs.

"Yeah, Suse?" he calls as bites down hard on both his lips, fighting harder than he has ever fought to hold in his laughter..

"You damn-well know what!" Oh, she is mad. Castiel can only imagine how her anger compounded when she found Dean not in his room, but out in the palace looking like that. "Sweat pants? You chose sweat pants?"

Without a work, Dean pushes back from the table, accepting the anger with ease that Castiel almost wants to take it back. "Nice knowin' you, Cas. Save my dinner, would you?"

God, he cannot do this! He slaps a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking, as every part of him struggles to keep it together.

Then, Susie looks his way, her eyes narrowing, finger jabbing the air between them. "You... you little brat. Don't think this is the last of it for you."

Castiel explodes. Laugher bursts out of him, his head thrown back, delight burning through him like it has not done in years as Susie leads Dean away.

Tears spring up in his eyes, and for the moment, he does not care that he is being watched from all sides. Cannot care about this overt emotional outburst that is strictly forbidden, because, for the first time in his whole damn life, he can imagine it.

A future. His future. Living between these walls with the no-longer-alien sound of laughter filling the space. With love on every side of him.

He can see it, if only for a second, and he wants it so badly he can hardly stand it.