Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two weeks. Two weeks on the dusty, poorly maintained road, with Charlie and Jo at each other's throats. They argued over everything. Which, was to say, nothing at all. Who got to keep watch first at night, who got to guard Dean when the caravan stopped so people could exercise, and more. So much more. And, because Charlie wanted to come off to Jo as being better educated, she used a 'posh' voice, fancy words, to really make the alpha girl crazy.

Dean felt fully prepared to kill them both, at this point. But, Dean listened carefully to that classy, educated voice Charlie pitched. He made full note of her inflections, her words, and her intonations. His quest to advance himself, to fit in as Cas' husband, made Charlie's content and syntax vital information.

Weapons against the high born. Even, apparently, the low born. Because, Jo kept her teeth bared a lot of the time. She'd started slinging back her insults and observations with a cruder brogue.

Dean, mindful of his balance, stood up and craned backward to have a look behind the carriage. They traveled with the top down today, so he easily viewed the four mile long procession of wagons, carriages, and people on horseback. He couldn't spy the very end of their chain, but he figured Bobby had command back there. Cas and John stayed at the very front, with Sam and Bill Harvelle just behind.

Dean knew Garth, the farmhands, and the cattle, weren't too far behind. Somewhere in this procession, Dean's young horse no doubt plodded along. All of the estate's dogs were in a group of wagons, being let out a few hours a day to walk and exercise. Dean expected Jo chaffed at her jindo pair's confinement, without her. Ruto made it very plain the very first day that he wouldn't tolerate them in the carriage with Dean. Not that they'd had room for them in the first place.

At the start of this trip to a new land, Cas made Standing Tall a gift to Sam. Dean didn't think he'd ever forget the look on Sam's face. Astonishment, delight, and awe. Standing Tall fit Sam. Standing Tall outshone ordinary horses. The gift of that special mare had genuine meaning to Dean's brother, a soldier accustomed to lesser horseflesh of ordinary dimensions. He'd confessed to Dean the first night of their camping that he enjoyed having a real 'land animal'.

Sam promptly gave his own, large horse, to John, that very day.

John's horse died their fifth hour out.

“Dean, you are a plain target. Get down,” Jo ordered, tugging on his kimono briskly.

“Jo, I am about five seconds from dusting my fans on your backside,” Dean replied. He meant it. He was sick of being bossed around by a girl he could snap in half, alpha or not. Just because she felt entitled over him by birth designation, she showed off her status. To Charlie, especially, but it bled over to Dean. She was snappish, out of sorts, and, quite often, rude. A lot of it had to do with leaving their home, and Dean understood that. He did. But, if he could deal with their situation, so could Jo. Because, he'd never had a real home, and, Jo had at least known what a home was before getting uprooted.

Michael, give me the strength to endure these sexual-friction harridans.

Precious Child, don't be afraid to complain to your husband.

Michael had an idea, there. Dean sat, closed his eyes, and prayed. I pray to the angel, Castiel. Would you please assign me to a different carriage? Charlie and Jo need alone time to ravish each other, or maybe shred each other to bits. Not certain which. Really, right now? Don't care either way.

Dean opened his eyes at the close of his prayer, staring at Cas' back. So, he saw Cas straightening up. He'd heard. Gracefully, Cas pulled Brave Soul to break formation, and stood there while the carriage drew parallel. Not saying a word, Cas reached an arm down in concerned irritation, his brows drawn inward with a very high amount of annoyance.

Not toward, Dean, though.

No.

Dean took his hand, and Cas hauled him to sit behind himself. Dean found an obscene amount of satisfaction from the solid 'smack' of his thighs hitting the backs of Cas' lean, strong legs.

Thank God. A relaxing and supportive presence, instead of snappy, estrogen-ridden shrews for company.

Women were strong, ever-present care-givers, but, their constantly fluctuating hormones made them unapproachable, or, insane, at random intervals. Their heats were almost monthly, or, on a structure that mimicked a monthly pattern by give or take. Six weeks, three weeks, five or four, no man had a way to to measure when his most significant female might turn into a crazed and vicious bitch. Didn't matter the designation.

“Dean, you can't hold it against her,” Sonny said as he led Dean from the postal dispatch. He threw an arm over Dean's shaking shoulders, giving him a tight, supportive half-hug. “She's an alpha with a very vulnerable, pregnant omega at home. She had to give up her exclusive sexual rights in order to have her mate impregnated, and she's snappy.” Sonny ruffled Dean's hair, briefly, affectionate without being smothering. “She couldn't give her mate a child, and that really hurts.”

Not the woman's fault. And, Dean held a lot of sympathy. An omega female had twice the aggravation as a beta female. An alpha female...?

Might be worse. Imagine being on top, but not being the seed of life...

Still.

Lock an omega male in with an alpha female, and, an omega female in close quarters, and there's a recipe for high temper.

Michael help him. Dean wanted away from the feminine issues he had no business attempting to reason out. Like, he would never. Sonny had very often lectured the boys under his care that they had no hope of being worthy. A man, no matter his designation, could not hope to understand the basic blueprint of human life. The best they could do was shut up, adjust, placate, and be respectful.

“I'm taking your prisoner for awhile,” Cas told Jo and Charlie while they silently boggled at Dean being removed from their care. In the aftermath, they had the grace to look ashamed. “Ruto, Sphinx, stay there quietly until Dean is returned to you,” Cas added.

Ruto barked once. Sphinx only made a show of washing her face.

“Thank you, Cas,” Dean said into his husband's ear with thankful breath, “aside from how annoying they are, I've missed talking to you.” Not an understatement, that. Dean burned to spend time with his lovely mate. “Why are we not in the same tent at night?” He'd assessed their situation early on as one that demanded Cas to be in complete charge of the traveling protocol, and hadn't questioned. Just kept his head down, and done whatever needed done. But, Cas' continual absence bothered him. Caused a raw, deep ache in his very bones.

Cas sighed. He took his former position at the head of the line. Briefly, he leaned his head back, resting on Dean's shoulder. The moment passed too quickly. “Because of Ellen,” he answered lowly, mindful of the show they presented, and the ears that would be attuned to their private words. “She is terrified for Sky's safety. She pressed Bill to look after Jo, their alpha inheritor, but insisted to me with lovely, heart-felt words, that I should keep to her youngest. If you think about it, it does make sense.”

Dean put his forehead between Cas' shoulder blades, and shut his eyes, relaxing. Ellen's plight hurt him. He easily put himself in her position. “Yes,” he concurred, breathing out a little shaky. “She trusts her husband to look after her precious, first-born alpha, and, in effect, also me and Charlie. But, at night, in a flimsy tent, in unfamiliar territory, with unseen threats all around her, she would only trust you to protect Sky, a child anticipated as an omega. You were the one who brought Sky to her, and you are a fierce alpha without mercy, if needs must.”

“Just so,” Cas said, with the musky scent of carefully controlled alpha duty. “I don't like being parted from you, either, Dean. I feel we only came to an understanding, then, were pushed apart. As my mother would say, it is very vexing. Yet, I know you are capable, so I rely upon you to be my second. I do not fear for you the same way as I would for a child less than a year old.”

Of course he wouldn't. Dean smiled to himself, feeling his muscles easing up a bit. How stupid to be jealous of a defenseless child. Called to the same decision, Dean would also opt to personally involve himself with Sky's well-being rather than his own.

“Let's talk about something else,” Dean offered, buoyed up by his mate's confidence while selfishly wanting that protection for himself. Dwelling on what he couldn't have, hurt. Yet, no child would ever be as important to Dean as his own safety. The very fact Cas held Dean to a standard of personal confidence, build Dean's ego up. “Tell me about this estate we're traveling toward. How far is it?”

Dean would not fail himself, his husband, or his family. He would not. He'd made sure to take the red Bible, and a precious dictionary, and focus upon not much else as they traveled. He needed to be eloquent and beautiful for Cas.

“Fen-Taven is a way off, yet,” Cas answered first, his tone carrying the scent of worry and hope, both. “Though braced to spend many years there, I didn't live in it for long.  It is not as personable as Tor-Valen.” Cas sighed again. He smelled of depression, and anxiety, now. Bitter like powdered almonds. “It is a monstrosity of a building. It will shelter our entire household, Dean, easily. And, be prepared for a colder clime; Fen-Taven essentially sees six months of winter, and six of summer, with very little space in between for fall and spring.”

“Okay.” Dean couldn't help shivering. Perpetual cold, or perpetual heat. Not appealing. “When do you expect us to arrive?”

He could and would adapt. He had to.

“In two or three more days, we reach the land bridge. It is called Merrisax Way. Many people consider it a miserable passage to Rocky White,” Cas answered in his low, gravely tones. “After that, we follow the east coast for a week. We will have to go slowly, more slowly than we travel now, because our road will gradually get worse and worse, degrading into little more than a logging road. The estate is partially remote, but not isolated.”

“I see.” Dean echoed Cas' previous sigh. More traveling, yet, and no privacy. Ten days, at least. No decent place to sleep. Dean grew jaded with the bunking schedule. He had either Jo and Charlie with him, or, Sam. Occasionally, Bobby. He hated being separated from Cas...

As much as Dean enjoyed soaking up Sam's colloquial, seaman's terms, Bobby's horseman vernacular, or the conflicting elegance and vulgarity of Charlie and Jo's intense interaction, he longed for some kind of standard. Their language, no matter how much it stayed the same, was not the same. And, Dean hated the lack of structure.

Arcalan, short-form, or long-form, was so much cleaner than this. A character posed as a thought-form, an idea, an understood concept. It did not hold as fluid. No. It started and stopped with organization.

Concepts, truthful meaning, were more honest than wordy dialogue. Arcalan was about solid communication. Characters were rigid truth. Other languages, not so much.

Dean's stressed husband now constantly threw out tension smells, so strong Dean often caught them even within the cover of the carriage. Cas put up a good front, but scent didn't lie. He had not recovered from his emotional shit-storm. This journey made recuperation difficult. And, the very fact Cas suffered while leading them all to a place of hopeful salvation, made Dean grind his teeth together continually.

Dean nuzzled his forehead to Cas' hard shoulder. “What can I do to make this easier for you?”

“Dean, your steadfast attitude, and, loyalty, already help so much.” Cas dropped his head back again, making contact the way a cat would. “Most everyone is holding up, but smaller fights, and, bickering in the caravan, are perpetual. I don't know how you've withstood Charlie and Jo this long. I hear everything, being what I am, and my teeth are gnashing together without my realizing it. Only when my jaw starts to ache do I know I'm in danger of shouting at everyone.” Cas shook his head, growling a little bit, now smelling of tightly constrained frustration.

“Alpha stress?” Dean asked, finding their teeth-grinding parallel disheartening. Alphas didn't have a great understanding of patience. Cas proved he could control himself, but Dean knew he had weak spots. Castiel didn't like strife, quarreling, or hostile, noisy environments. Those things spurred him to act, distance himself, or attack.

This trip to a new home was the exact opposite of what gave Cas comfort.

“The worst,” Cas confessed. “Having you behind me for awhile will soothe. Your scent is reassuring.”

“How about I give you some extra-good, then?” Dean asked. He again pulled up the memory of Sam receiving Standing Tall, and let his pleasure wash over Cas in the form of scent.

Cas relaxed into that comfort for a long three minutes before pulling himself to attention. “If I could, I'd bask in you completely,” he said. “But, I need to be alert. I have many people relying upon me. So far, I have managed to avoid a few raiding parties, and, wandering thieves, by directing us away. It is very taxing.”

Dean deeply appreciated Cas' determination to protect and provide. Though the house had been packed up swiftly, they weren't missing meals. And, Cas employed his incredible senses to the maximum for everyone's safety. Dean knew that, now.

This group of people stood only as a small sample of what Cas would eventually find himself responsible for. As the new head of two separate factions of Novaks, Cas had controlling interest, and, influence, over anything associated with his surname. King of the family, and all that crap.

Poor Cas.

Dean didn't let his smell turn sour with pity or worry. That would do Cas no good. Make it worse, even. Dean watched the scenery instead, careful to project confidence and trust.

“Dean,” John called over. “How y'holding up, son?”

Dean turned his head to view his father. “Glad I'm not saddle sore, like Sam's been complaining about.”

“I was a navy man,” Sam protested. “Put me on a ship, and I'm fine. Damn near made a complete cripple of myself coming to find you, Dean.” He patted Standing Tall's neck gently. “Can't complain too much, though, can I? Castiel gave me the finest horse I've ever seen.”

Dean was looking for it, so he saw it when Cas smiled to himself.

(_______________________________________________________________)

Dean endured three more days of bickering, both in the carriage and in the tent. He didn't know what maddened Charlie and Jo, or, how to stop it. So, he resolved to himself that he'd simply take his mind away. His ears would follow.

He went through every room in Tor-Valen's manor, remembering each detail to perfection. Next, he recreated the Harvelle's cabin, and Elizabeth's and Kara's. He spent extra time in his boat house, watching the spider in it's web. Silence coated him, a balm.

He missed his home more and more. The farther they went away from it, the sharper the ache.

“Dean?”

Dean didn't want to surface from his mental journey, so he ignored Jo's tiny invasion. He went to the lake, and used his father's knife to cut bamboo. He'd fish.

The bamboo resisted him a little. He managed. A little of Crowley's twine, and he finished the spear. He was alone at the lake, fearing nothing. The surface of the water rippled as he stepped into it. It was cold. He wanted a rainbow trout this time, not a carp. It would take more effort, but he felt it to be worth it.

“Dean?” Now, Charlie tried to remove him from his oasis. He ignored her, too. It was easy, having perfect memory, to be somewhere else. He wished he'd thought of this sooner. Because, it was a beautiful salve on his taxed nerves.

“Make Faraday stop the carriage,” Charlie said, sounding frantic. “I think we broke Dean!”

“I'm not broken,” Dean said, rising up in his mind long enough to give response. “I'm just not here with you. You two are making me insane.”

A horn blast brought Dean's attention to a slamming jolt. His eyes popped open. “Was that the dinner alert?” He asked Charlie, who stared at him like he might suddenly drop dead.

“Dean, you sat here through dinner,” Jo said carefully. “A single horn blast is an emergency stop alert.”

“Castiel told us to leave you alone,” Charlie explained. “He thought you were resting during the noon meal, and wouldn't let us get you out.”

The clamps for the carriage top released from the outside. They all blinked back the harsh evening sun. Cas stood there, hands on his hips, looking at the two females sternly. “Charlie and Jo,” he said. “You will take your estrus and mating cycles to the very rear of this wagon train, where your scents cannot stir up problems. We will wait while you walk, and if you aren't quick, we will leave without you.”

Dean could see Cas held a high dudgeon. His brows, drawn, framed his bright and brittle glare. That mouth Dean admired, usually soft, looked very hard, now. A straight line of displeasure, threatening to tip corners downward into real anger.

Charlie and Jo scrambled to obey their orders, whispering their apologies and 'yes sir's' before high-tailing it. Dean could have wept with relief. No more teeth grinding from Jo, and high, wordy airs from Charlie.

Peace.

Useful as Charlie's speech patterns were, Dean felt sick of them.

“Dean, you may stretch your legs while I find a more appropriate pair of traveling companions for you,” Cas said, helping him out of the conveyance. “Ruto, Sphinx, flank him.”

“Cas, could I just rely on them?” Dean asked softly. He didn't want to aggravate Cas' temper. His poor husband had enough to deal with.

Cas pinched the bridge of his nose, as if fending off a headache, eyes closing. “I will compromise with you. Take company with my mother. She is well able to entertain you without fuss. I will let Sam and Bill have your carriage, as they are very sore.” Cas opened his eyes to look at the hazy, orange sky. “John Winchester, apparently, could ride on horseback across the world four times without suffering like an ordinary person. I'll rely on your sire as my 'second', for a day or two. So... Go ride with my mother, please.”

“Yes, Cas,” Dean said. He wanted to ask his husband more about how he felt, but didn't want to do that in front of other alphas. The power balance needed to be very clear while enduring such a stressful move. Questioning Cas' stamina, put him in doubt. Also, Cas needed to know Dean would obey him during this tremulous transition.

Cas needed all his people in firm places, for survival's sake.

“I will be glad to spend time with Mother,” Dean added.

At hearing the family-familiar turned intimate, Cas relaxed a little. His shoulders stopped looking like a plumb line. “Thank you, Dean,” he said, deep and grateful. “Mother is in the third carriage. Evict Kevin, and tell him to join Wilkes in the fifth supply wagon. Wilkes is very depressed right now, and could use a companion.”

Wilkes asked his family to make the move with him. Charlie and Jo had gossiped about that for days, each one hashing out the plus and minus of this turn of events. Wilkes' family declined leaving, too. They were not of a mind to leave their tiny spot because of war. Castiel, aware of their poverty, left them with enough gold to survive the rest of their lives, if they were careful with it. And, he'd sent word to Samandriel to pay special attention to that family.

Samandriel refused to leave the poor people. Dean wondered how Cas took that. With the Starks being a problem, and the Maholak moving in, Samandriel's position seemed worse than precarious.

Dean hoped Father Sean and Samandriel would be careful and cautious.

Dean briefly clasped a hand on Cas' shoulder, just a light tap as he went by. He and his pets wandered to the third carriage, and Dean knocked politely. “Mother?”

“Come in, dear,” she invited, instantly, and with warmth. Warmth that couldn't be faked. Like, at all.

Dean always missed his birth mother, but Naomi was so much what he needed. She filled in a blankness long ingrained. He loved the fact she had flaws, because, he didn't worship perfection. Thank you, Dean found strength in people that had defects. Warm hearts, good intentions, and, brave honesty, meant more to him than flawlessness.

Ruto bounced inside first, then Sphinx. Dean heaved a sigh at their obvious, caged-animal energy. They were so bored by now. They hunted together when the caravan would stop, and the farther north they went, the better the hunting. Snow Hares abounded, evidently. His two pets, or, animal guardians, were constantly chewing up a rabbit in front of him, now. Dividing the wealth of meat with no squabbling.

“Dean, dear, you look drawn thin,” Naomi greeted. Her blue eyes, deep and concerned, focused upon him with purpose and strength.

Dean enjoyed that she cared. He really did. Outside of his new dynamic, he'd never had such complete focus.

“I'll take you at your word,” Dean said. “Kev, Cas wants you to keep Wilkes company for awhile. He's missing his family.”

“The guy with the really, really brown eyes, hair to match?” Kevin asked as he got up. He held a loop of yarn around his spread hand, assisting Naomi in a knitting project. As he spoke, he carefully dislodged it.

Dean took his place. “Yeah. Try to cheer him up, okay?” He gathered up the yarn so Naomi could continue. “He might never see his family again. That's terrible. I'm sure you can relate.”

In the wake of Kevin's departure, Dean felt as weary as Naomi claimed he looked. He let his head drop back. “Tell me a story, I beg of you,” he whispered. Any entertainment that didn't involve cross words and sharp tongues...

“Of course, dear,” Naomi replied in a kind tone as the caravan slowly started up again. They were moving at a pace that would allow Charlie and Jo to meet the end of the line without any real stress. “One about my son?”

“Oh, I'd be delighted,” Dean promised, beginning to smile. A story about Cas would give Dean more insight as to Cas' character.

“Good.” Naomi ended a row on whatever she made. “When Castiel was close to fifteen years old, the family lived fully in the Southerby Estate, Cold Croy. I have said before that it is an enormous pile of brick, and I meant it. It's more of a flattened-down castle, with four levels, and few of us knew how many rooms it had.”

“How do you heat a place like that?” Dean interrupted, thinking of Sonny's place, and many children sleeping before a few, separate fires.

“You have to keep the fires up,” Sonny told Dean, his dark eyes very serious. “Some of these children are really delicate, Dean.”

“Expensively,” Naomi answered. “Now, Castiel, who generally contained himself to the children's wing, took a sudden interest in how many rooms we had. But, it started with him reading a book that explained that people were once taxed by how many closets they had, a very long time ago. I told him that was a myth, but the idea of it took hold on him anyway.”

Yeah, Dean could see that about Cas. Grabbing on to a quirky little piece of information, and exploring it. Warmth swelled up within him. Cas was so different. So intense.

“With a ledger and a graphite stick, Castiel traveled room to room, marking down what it was used for, or, who lived in it.” Naomi started another row, smiling, now. Her pretty, smooth face, loosened merely by openly recalling her memories aloud. “We have numerous large parlors for people to gather in, you see, and many rooms are simply bedrooms.”

“Sounds like you all get along really well,” Dean observed. He envied such a family structure. He did. The very thought of so many family members united to promote each other, clawed a deep runnel of envy within. Yes, he had his own family reunited, now, but so much time lost...

“Oh, arguments happen, but they aren't very serious. Novaks stick together.” Naomi pulled on her yarn to free a long strand. “Castiel, at that age, drew a lot of attention from girls. There he was, very seriously going about inventory, politely knocking on doors, all purposeful, and...” Naomi paused to let her head drop back for a good laugh. Her eyes shone with life and humor just recalling her young son, so alive in the memory that Dean fell in love with her all over again.

A brave mother.

A mother who watched over her children.

“He didn't know that his cousin's friends were following him. Every day, he drew another admirer. None of the family told him, either, because it was just so ridiculously hilarious.” Naomi made several, swift stitches on her work, her eyes liquid with humor.

The carriage lurched forward very sharply. Apparently, Charlie and Jo arrived to the back of the line, or it had caught up to them. Cas, despite his words, would not leave them stranded.

Dean imagined his beautiful husband, younger and shorter, surrounded by girls, and not knowing it. He smiled, too. “Cas can be a little distracted sometimes, but, as you said, he's an artist.”

“Exactly,” Naomi agreed. “So, this clustering of females behind him? It continued on for weeks. Weeks, Dean. Until, one day, their numbers swelled to the point Castiel couldn't fail to notice his little ducklings. I, lucky enough to be present when he caught sight of himself in a mirror, saw the widening of his eyes as he realized he had about thirty girls following him...” Naomi pressed a hand over her eyes to laugh again. “True to his nature, Castiel simply turned around to ask them what they required of him. Painfully formal and polite, too, because these weren't relatives.”

Dean snorted out a laugh. “Oh, wow. What kind of answers did he get?”

“They varied. Some of those girls were very shy. A few of the bolder ones solicited him for attention and time. One of them, I remember, just stared at him, unable to speak at all.” Naomi shook her head. “D'you know, he wasn't even flattered. Had no ego to stroke, so to say.”

A knock came at the carriage door, and, as they were moving, it instantly worried Dean.

“Yes?” Naomi said, a touch on the sharp side.

“Mother, if you're going to embarrass me, I will ask you to limit the stories,” Cas said, and though he sounded irritated, it hadn't the same level of ire given to Jo and Charlie. “For shame, too. Because, I had no idea you were all waiting on baited breath to witness my overdue realization.”

Naomi opened the door a crack so she could look up at her horse-mounted son. “My boy, do you want everyone to know you can hear a flatulent moth at eighty yards?” She shook her head. “What's the matter? Is your cycle-?”

“I need to kill someone,” Cas ground out, making Dean shiver. “Bloody and violent.”

Naomi exhaled through her nose sharply. “The next time you steer us away from danger, put young Samuel and John to the lead, and scout ahead,” she advised. “As your father once told you, it is our duty to rid the world of cruel, un-reformable villains.”

“Understood,” Cas said, and Naomi shut the door fully.

Dean silently offered Naomi one of his fans. She knew the language, and Dean didn't think her tied back by ideas of propriety enough to not use it. Not in this case.

Naomi rallied to the covert double-speak like an omega spy. Her arm, hand, and the fan clutched within, blended into perfect omega communication. Dean expected no less. Naomi had loved her omega mate enough to learn all she could.

Thank you , Naomi told him. His rut should not be due yet. The stress of keeping us all together, and safe, wears on him . I would not goad him to killing, but better that than putting a child in your belly before we even reach our new lodgings.

Dean had to agree. I don't fear he will hurt me, or any of us, but, I am afraid for him , he confessed. Out loud, he said, “What can you tell me about Fen-Taven? I'm curious about the name. It's a lot like Tor-Valen. Same cadence and structure, nearly.”

I fear for him, too. We cannot reach the house too soon . “Fen-Taven is the oldest of Novak holdings, though purchased last. You are correct and clever to catch the nearness in word structure.” My son should have quietude and beauty around him in order to thrive, and this world does not allow for his sensitive temperament. “I would expect that a man versed in three languages would pay attention to that. Well, four, if you include the fan. My goodness, Dean. You have a cracking brain. Castiel told me you have perfect recall, too.”

“That makes my grasp of language a lesser thing, not a greater one,” Dean pointed out. “The more I speak to the well-spoken, the more I pass by my heathen upbringing, too.” He'd made an extra effort to read that large dictionary as they traveled, deliberately paging it at random so he wouldn't focus only on 'A' words at the start. Because, once he'd read the definition for 'alliteration', it just seemed wiser to let chaos handle things.

“No, dear, that is a basic survival skill, and your progression shows your determination.” Naomi put her knitting into a linen sack, stowing it where Sphinx wouldn't be tempted by the yarn. “Human beings adapt and adopt in order to keep numbered strength. It worries me, slightly, that bit of truth. Because, Fen-Taven will lodge every single one of our people. People accustomed to having their own cabins, their own gardens and livestock.” Another addition of stress for my son. He will want to preserve their privacy and...

Naomi stopped to find the correct fan movement. She hesitated, her eyes darting to one side. She wet her lips with her tongue, as if nervous. She then made the sign for omega freedom.

Dean went still. Cassandra, Naomi's beloved, had shown Naomi the only fan movement all omegas swore to never share with anyone other than an omega.

She gave it to me on her deathbed , Naomi told him. She wanted me to know when to help other omegas. I swore to her I would not misuse her faith in me.

“People accustomed to having their own dignity,” Dean said slowly, honoring Naomi's dual message while letting her off the hook. I trust you, too, Mother, he signed. “Well, surely it helps to preserve dignity that Fen-Taven offers separate spaces...?”

Thank you, dear. I won't fail you. “Yes, but individual plots of land, no matter how small, still project more space than sturdy walls and heavy doors,” Naomi pointed out quietly. “My son knows this. He will put people to labor for private homes the moment we arrive. Trees felled, stones cut, land cleared, and set spaces delineated.”

“Delineated,” Dean repeated as Naomi returned his fan to him. Clearly, she wanted no more sneaking around her son.

“Clearly defined,” Naomi provided. “Of course, in Jo Harvelle's case, it's the opposite. She will want to spread out and take inventory of everything, choose camping spots, and so forth.”

“She's really upset,” Dean said. “Tor-Valen meant everything to her. Her life.”

“I suspect her of townie birth, and only too glad her parents were purchased by Castiel,” Naomi said, her exhale of unhappiness saying more than her words could ever do. “Female alphas are not like male ones,” she went on. “The female mind enjoys beauty in a different way to begin with. Less about flesh and more about nature. Add alpha posturing, alpha need for providing, and, privacy, and one generally ends up with a creature more suited to living wild.”

“You took to Jo,” Dean said, thinking of that meal they had outside, the bear roast. Naomi heaped riches upon Jo and her family. “You identify with her?”

“I do,” Naomi confessed, her blue eyes gathering moisture. “My focus upon her comes from personal experience. I, too, started as a child of nature. This is why I felt sympathy for Castiel when he decided civilization held little for him, when he took to wandering the wilder places for respite. It is very, very hard, Dean, for the 'outdoors' identity to be satisfied indoors.”

Dean looked in those saddened, tired eyes, seeing so much similarity between Naomi and her gifted, oceans-deep firstborn. He pulled her in for a hug, simply holding her afterward. In ten minutes, maybe less, Naomi slept in his arms.

(_______________________________________________________________________)

Merrisax Way was, quite honestly, terrifying. The very narrow isthmus, only dry enough to travel in the very time they were attempting, submerged after spring. Until the next spring, of course. Sea water shouldn't behave this way, Sam explained the night before their approach. Tides go in, they go out, in patterns, daily, changing with the tilt of the earth's axis, and, something called gravitational pull.

Dean knew fuck-all about it. Additionally, he didn't care. The only cosmology in his education was finding a guiding star, or tracking how the rising sun came up in ever increasing degrees, one way or another, in a small point from one spot on the horizon to the other.

His mother once explained that the earth was a living machine for making itself over and over. A molten core pushing past harder layers, only to spew out and cause other layers to push down and become molten. It was magical, not anything precise.

Dean's new view of creation, of God, validated his mother's perspective.

Alphas, never denied any education, could tie themselves into knots over the why and how , but Dean's omega nature put him in the here and now, and that was currently the damn problem.

He didn't want to put one foot on that land bridge.

“You're holding us up,” Sam said quietly, so quietly. He'd stood beside of Dean for thirty minutes now, watching him pace and fret without speaking a peep.

True. When Dean spied what they were approaching, he'd leaped from the carriage just to stride back and forth in fear.

“Dean, I've used this bridge a dozen times getting from Rocky White, to Roemire. It only looks bad. I promise it's stable. Ignore the fucking tide crashing in on both sides. That fog isn't hiding something nasty. We won't get halfway out only to fall into the ocean.”

“You just told me, right there, that this thing spooks the hell out of you, too,” Dean parried, fancy words forgotten, unable to form in his mind. His heart hammered as fast as a rabbit's when running from a hawk. He hardly felt the difference between his nervous sweat and the sea spray. “This is wrong, Sam. This is so wrong. I hate it. How long will it take to get to the other side?”

Sam briefly bit his bottom lip. His hazel eyes gathered the glaze of deep thought. “It won't be as long as I'm used to, I think...” He gazed up at the grey-wash sky, blinking a few times. His eyes suddenly gained a strange and clinical consideration. “Six hours, probably,” he answered. “By the Wheel, I'd estimate two more weeks before the ocean closes in. So, think about that. Two weeks, against a mere six hours? We're okay, Dean.”

“No. Just, no.” Dean dug in his heels. “I just... I can't. This makes my skin crawl.” He felt acutely aware of Cas watching them talk. He was failing his husband with this fit of nerves, and that still didn't affect him to gather his courage.

Fuck it, this was terrible. Thinking about venturing out on a skinny land bridge less than ten feet across, the earth soggy and wet from the constant crash of tides from both sides...?

No.

Even as Dean fought failure, Castiel directed his horse toward him. He came to a full stop beside of Dean, looking down with sympathy radiating from his pretty eyes.

“Sam,” Cas said gently. “You lead the rest of our party across. I'm taking Dean, now.” He reached down, grasped Dean's reluctant hand, and pulled. Dean found himself behind Cas on Brave Soul in a couple of seconds. “Your father is under your orders,” Cas stressed, loud enough for John and Bill to hear him clearly. “Dean and I will precede you to the Incoming Line.”

Before Dean could even process, Cas urged his horse forward. “Dean, bow your head, press your face to my neck, shut your eyes, and breathe,” Cas commanded. “Hold on, and don't let go for any reason.”

Dean obeyed that alpha-command, happy to have this whole thing taken from his control. He felt their horse's hooves pounding into the soft, too soft ground, heard the salt water crashing on both sides, smelled the brine and tasted it. The fog, dank and cloying, threatened to choke the air from his lungs. He pushed his nose harder against the back of Castiel's neck, inhaling the rain-soaked autumn, cedar and heather bonfire of Cas' scent.

Dean's hysteria got smacked down within half a minute. And, once his heart calmed, he felt resigned to this scorching tear of a ride.

Many times, Cas slowed Brave to a reasonable speed, and, many times, took him right back to break-neck. Dean's arms, frozen fast around Cas' waist, went numb. Cas, warm, and strong, helped keep Dean in a calmer frame of mind. His back hurt from staying bent over, but he could not make himself rise up. He didn't want to see the waves slamming their milky-white crests over the rocky, narrow path. Bad enough he could hear them.

Without Cas, Dean would never have put himself on Merrisax Way.

It seemed like ages passed before the sound of the water went duller. He began to hear birdsong. Birds he didn't know. Now, the scent of brine abated, slightly. Replacing it, a rotten fish smell and a lot of smoke. Some of it smelled good, actually. Like food. Though, it also had the conflicting odor of an open latrine.

“Speak your name, and give your intention,” a strangely accented voice below demanded the moment Cas brought them to a halt.

Beta smell, Dean managed to catch, but only briefly. He kept his eyes shut, his body pressed to his alpha. No shame, either. Cas was Dean's rock.

“Castiel Novak,” Cas answered, his tone pure alpha strength. “I own land in Rocky White.”

Dean's arms began the preliminary stages of un-locking. But, he did not let go of his husband.

“I need your papers,” the voice said.

Castiel's body shifted slightly. He managed to reach into his riding coat for withdrawing a crackly item, despite how Dean hampered his movements.

Crackle, crackle, crackle. Whoever this person was, they took their sweet time examining Cas' accreditation. Cas smelled frustrated, and, more than a little bit pissed.

“You own the Fen-Taven Estate.” Now, that voice sounded a lot more respectful, even awed. “Who is the omega with you, sir?”

“My mate,” Cas said, not volunteering Dean's name. He probably wasn't required to. “My entire household will be upon The Line within a few hours. After that, my cattlemen and their charges. Then, servants with very large wagons. It is within my right to seek refuge from the Maholak on land I already own, I believe.”

His tone left no room for doubt.

“Yes, sir, of course,” the man agreed swiftly. “I shall send word to the governor the news of your arrival. Who shall offer papers to me, in your household?”

“My husband's brother, Samuel Winchester, valorously discharged by the command of Captain David Finnes, of Panomu's former navy,” Castiel answered. “Also, my father and mother, Zachariah and Naomi Novak, respectively. I trust those sources will be enough for you?”

Dean smiled against Castiel's neck. That voice was perfect for delivering haughty command.

“Yes, sir. T'will be a formality only,” the man said. “I only need head counts for people and livestock, now.”

“You will then speak to my butler, Meg Masters,” Cas said. “I strongly advise you to stay on her good side.”

“Her?” The man spluttered. “You have a female butler?”

“It's all the rage, don't you know?” Castiel parried.

“Is it?” The man sounded wrong-footed, now. “I'm a Thirscravie man, sir. No butlers, there.”

“Then, how did you know to turn your nose up at mine for being female?” Cas asked.

Dean smiled against Cas' neck again. His hot, kind husband, was also impatient and indignant.

“I meant no disrespect, sir,” the man protested weakly.

“See that you mean none to my butler, then,” Cas advised. He dug into his coat again, pulled something out, and moved his arm to pitch it down to the corporal. “Being out in the damp, interrogating political refugees, is taking it out of you. Keep the flask.”

“Sir, I could not! It is solid silver!”

“Send it to your family, then,” Cas suggested. “Empty.” With that, he urged Brave Soul forward, and to one side. Dean heard the clanging of metal, like a gate.

“Damn,” he whispered against Cas' silky, warm neck. “Who are you, and what have you done with my mild-mannered husband?”

“Your mild-mannered husband is fighting pre-rut, blood-lust, stress, and oncoming molt,” Cas growled. “He does not suffer fools when pressed, and he is never good with being questioned by puny adolescents in fancy uniform.”

Dean chuckled, but that molt issue worried him. Cas would need a week for that, and they had more traveling to do. “Aside from all that, you're fine,” Dean teased mildly. “Seriously, Cas. You're holding up better than anyone else would. Being an angel helps, I suppose.”

“It does,” Cas admitted, sounding much less strained. “Are you all right, Dean? We have a few hours to wait, and we're in Isleton Port. We could eat a meal not cooked over a campfire.”

“I'm not dressed well enough to do you justice,” Dean pointed out. “Yeah, Cas, I'm okay. Once my arms unlock, that is.”

“I'm sorry you had to endure Merrisax,” Cas said. “If it's any consolation, no one is really comfortable using it. Most would rather sail to the port. Indeed, we would have, if any of my family's ships had been close enough for summoning, and we hadn't had so much to manage.”

Dean forced himself to sit up properly. He couldn't let go yet, though. Why would he even want to? He opened his eyes, seeing a mix of dense vegetation and clear signs of human activity. Boats, moored to high posts in a deep, long, sandbar. Glimpses of people wandering the vegetation, baskets on their shoulders or hips. Well worn trails...

“As far as how you're dressed, Dean, you're perfectly fine,” Cas went on. “You won't see omegas in kimonos after we leave the port. Rocky White and Panomu don't fully agree with each other about dress codes.” Cas directed them onto a hard packed dirt road that stretched between rows of brick and wooden buildings. People bustled about everywhere.

“Are things better or worse for omegas here?” Dean asked, fearing the answer.

“Slightly better?” Cas answered. “I'm not altogether certain. Omega houses are government maintained, not privately funded. There are definite lesson plans, and physical conditioning. Starvation is not an issue. However, omega status seems firmly fixed into the ideals of child rearing.”

“Most omegas want kids, Cas,” Dean said quietly, thinking about his own wants and needs. “I agree they should have a choice about it, though.”

Fucking shit. Dean wanted children. It wasn't fair he'd have to wait.

“Yes. Rocky White's central government thinks so, too. There are no legal omega pens, here. Prostitution, while frowned upon, does prosper. As it will in every society, of course.” Cas stopped Brave Soul beside a man with a cart. The cart had an awning over it. Dean saw smoke coming out of it. Did it have a little oven inside? He smelled something really, really good. Salty, savory, meaty juices being scorched over high heat.

Cas got out a purse, and removed three copper pieces. He offered them down. The man accepted with a smile, pocketed the money, and reached inside his cart. In just a few seconds, he held up two sticks with some kind of meat skewered upon them.

Dean found he could let go of Cas, now. He accepted one stick, and Cas kept the other.

“I thought the idea of hot food might break you free,” Cas said, sounding smug.

“You can seduce me with food any day of the week,” Dean promised, and the man below them laughed heartily.

Dean bit into the hot, juicy meat. Salty and sweet at the same time, it jolted Dean in a very good way. The alien tasting spices came as a pleasant surprise. “What is this?”

“Lamb,” the man said. “Little bit of cilantro, some molasses, salt, and a special blend of other spices I can't reveal.” He then winked. “Baby meat is often good meat, pretty omega.”

Appalled, Dean quit chewing. “What?” Baby sheep? He was eating a cute, fluffy little baby? Cows weren't cute, so he could feel fine about eating them, but sheep?

The man shrugged. “You can't keep all the ram lambs, pretty boy. They cause trouble when they grow up. At least they aren't going to waste, yes?”

“I... Yes, I understand,” Dean muttered. Being a hypocrite didn't sit well with him. Baby cows actually were cute, and he'd happily eaten the meat from a yearling, hadn't he? He resumed eating. “You cooked it well. Tastes fantastic.”

The man grinned, and offered Dean another stick of lamb. “Just for that, have more. I don't suppose you are feeding a wee one?”

“No,” Dean answered, surprised at the question. He couldn't smell the man's designation. This far inland, the port reeked of fish. “Are you?”

“I had my fifth boy last month,” the man said. “Getting too old for breeding, but my husband doesn't mind.”

“Five?” Dean shook his head. “I'd be proud.” Wow. An omega selling food on a public street? “How do you stay safe out here, man?”

“My alpha owns the eatery behind me,” was the answer, delivered with a smile. “I hook people into tasting the lamb, and send them inside for more of it.” He winked at Dean again, and Dean had to laugh.

“Smart,” Dean praised. “Are we dressed well enough to go inside and eat your alpha's cooking?”

“Isleton isn't formal. You'll find bankers eating beside of fishmongers. Everyone's got to work and eat, right?” The man jerked his head toward the restaurant. “You go enjoy yourself.”

“May we, Cas?” Dean asked, somewhat eager, now. He did feel weary of road food. A new place to explore wouldn't upset him, either.

“Of course, Dean.” Cas dismounted, then helped Dean down. He gave the cart man a gold piece to watch Brave Soul, and Dean knew they could trust the guy. He had kind eyes.

Stepping into the restaurant, Dean felt astonished. The omega spoke truly. Many classes of people ate in here, dressed in all manner of bewildering finery, but also plain, homespun togs. No one looked at him, or, Cas, twice. The anonymity soothed Dean a great deal.

Cas gestured toward a long bar with stools in front of it, hanging racks of glasses above. A man in good clothes, wearing a white apron, nodded to them as they sat down. “Food, drinks, or both?” He asked.

“We enjoyed the lamb your husband offered,” Cas said, slightly smiling. “Give us what you think is best, and we'll pay accordingly.”

Dean didn't know how Cas could scent people's bonds. The food smells, strong and mouth-watering, seemed just as overpowering as the rotten fish outside. The cart man had detected Dean as an omega, too. Maybe he'd been in the stink so long he couldn't smell it anymore? Cas had angel senses, though, and should find all this even more confusing than Dean did...

The alpha smiled knowingly. “My mate is good for business,” he said, sliding a panel back within the wooden surface they leaned upon. “It was his idea to put a cart there. I don't know what I'd do without him.” He pulled two large glasses from the hidden compartment, and placed them before Dean and Cas. A large bottle was opened, golden liquid poured. It smelled of honey, when Dean sniffed it.

“Mead,” the man said. “Never had it?”

“Yes, but only once, and not of this type,” Dean answered, blushing. Because, the last time he'd had mead? The aftermath of Cas blowing his mind with breastfeeding. He took a cautious sip. “This is alcoholic?” It held a slight bite, but tasted very good. Castiel's home brew went down easier.

“Only a little.” The alpha stepped back to speak to someone for a moment, then returned. “I asked Lyddon to serve you both the house special. I hope you enjoy it. But, you must excuse me, as I have to pick up my children from their tutors.”

“Congratulations on the new baby,” Cas murmured, causing the alpha proprietor to smile broadly. He was still smiling as he retreated to the back of the place.

“I miss Tor-Valen,” Dean blurted out, apropos to nothing they currently did.

Cas loosened his cravat, took the pin out, then removed it altogether. “I do, too,” he commiserated. “Perhaps we will be able to return someday. I would have directed us to stand and fight, Dean, but our people are too precious to waste. We had four factions opposing us. I could fight the town alphas, Julian Wexley, and even the Starks, but not the Maholak.” Cas took a long drink, his throat flexing.

Dean stole Cas' cravat, and wound it around his wrist, tying it securely. “Does the taking of Panomu mean the Novak name is diminished?” Dean figured it might actually be dangerous to be a Novak, now.

“We still control Cold Croy, which is where Southerby Estate is maintained. Cold Croy is a small country, though, and honestly not strategic. The Maholak will most likely ignore it. No major exports, you see.” Cas glanced down at Dean's wrapped wrist, and smiled wistfully. “The real problem lies in the oceans and seas, Dean. Maholak pirates, and the disruption of Panomu's central government, means we will have to protect our people and wealth stringently.”

“You mean, we'll have to set up in Fen-Taven and start making money.” Dean felt disheartened, now. “Learn to obey different laws, make friendly contacts... Start all over. Like what you did with Tor-Valen.”

“Yes, Dean. You have the gist of it.” Cas finished his glass, setting it down.

Dean braced on the counter as a sudden thought came up. “Cas, your bees!”

“I brought two hives,” Cas said swiftly. “They had to be contained, of course, but the bees are weathering the trip well.”

“What about all the honey, all the plants? The greenhouse?” Dean felt sick. “Joshua and Charles, Rachel and Anna, they lived in that place!”

“They have a crew for the dismantling of the greenhouse, and will follow us in one week,” Cas said. “I couldn't leave it behind. It provided bounty for all of us. I hate that it had to be taken apart, Dean, I do, but it will serve even better at Fen-Taven, because winter is harsh there.”

Dean felt thankful for his husband's attention to detail. “Will it take long to get a good bee population?”

“Maybe. I planted many acres of flowers when I lived at Fen-Taven, but the caretakers would not have propagated them.” Cas stretched his neck, rolling his head around to loosen up kinks. “Meg kept the estate sorted for me, bless her.”

Their food came. The stuff looked like his mother's meat rolls, but the filling was entirely different. Lamb, tomato, cooked onion, and some kind of cheese Dean didn't know. The hot, spicy things were outstanding, and Dean groaned while he chewed. “I'm going to try making these myself,” he swore.

“I made sure to bring the cookbooks you like to consult,” Cas said. “The rest of the books in Tor-Valen's library went to Samandriel and Father Sean, for their literacy campaign. I hope they are able to continue on with that.” He paused. “Yes, these are very good.”

Cas ordered twenty more of the roll-ups, requesting that they be wrapped in paper and put into a basket, which he paid extra for. He tipped. And, once they stood back on the street, he tipped the omega who watched his horse for him.

“Can you eat all that?” The omega asked as Cas took the reins from him. “I mean, it isn't the first time someone left my alpha's place with extra, but that seems excessive.”

“I intend to hand them out to people who look hungry,” Cas explained.

“Oh!” The omega smiled. “Straight down the street about two blocks, and you'll find where the prozzie's gather. They're always hungry.”

“Thank you.” Cas took Dean's arm, and they began walking. “Keep a fan in one hand, Dean. Ports are notorious for crime, and we are walking into an area that isn't as safe as the tourist section.”

“That why you bothered to wear a saber?” Dean asked. Cas had put the thing on the moment they started their trip. “We're not at home anymore, and you're worried?”

Cas shrugged. “Sometimes, a show of strength is required. And, sometimes, you can discourage the criminal element simply by displaying a weapon. I know how to use this saber, and I won't hesitate to split an assailant open.”

Dean believed him. Cas had no trouble killing a bad guy on any given day, not just when fighting pre-rut. “Why a saber, though? That thing is almost a meter of steel. Most alphas use epee's.”

“Personal preference,” Cas said.

“Oh, being mysterious on me, now,” Dean teased, making Cas' lips twitch. “You know I'll pry loose the information I want.”

“You seem to have a knack for it, yes,” Cas agreed, chuckling. “Oh, Dean, a few hours with you, and I feel so much better. I cannot wait for a room and a shared bed.”

“You said it,” Dean replied with feeling. “You have an old bedroom to go back to at Fen-Taven, or do you want a different one?”

Again, Cas shrugged. “I was younger, and getting two degrees at once, Dean. I only went to the estate on the weekend, or on holiday. I mostly boarded in an alpha house, close to my school. I don't have any special feeling for the rooms I sporadically used at Fen-Taven.”

Dean remembered that Naomi had spent time in an alpha female boarding house, and that Zach had been in an alpha house in New American Brighton. “What are alpha houses like?” Dean asked, curious. “I mean, you're obviously not going to be learning fan techniques.”

Cas grinned briefly. “An alpha's parents sometimes opt to... push... their child into learning how to get along with other alphas. It usually happens at puberty. A freshly presented alpha can be a trial to raise anyway. I volunteered to go to one just after turning fifteen. You heard my mother's story, so would you like to take a guess as to why I'd ask to be sent away?”

Dean didn't have to consider it very long. He laughed. “Cas, you wanted out of Southerby because you didn't like all that attention!”

“Correct,” Cas said, smiling. “Besides, girls didn't interest me much, physically. I admire feminine beauty, but it doesn't move me in a carnal way.”

Dean thought about that as they walked. Being born an omega male, Dean hadn't much choice in what he preferred. Or, at least he thought so. What about Charlie, though? She didn't find alpha males attractive. And, hadn't he found the scent of alphas disgusting, until meeting Cas?

Maybe he had deeper issues than he knew.

“Hello, alpha,” Dean heard a woman call out playfully. He snapped to attention, actually seeing what was in front of him. Fifteen women in very revealing, tight clothing, were loitering around an information kiosk. Dean knew they were supposed to be attractive, but to him they looked tired. Their smiles, made of paint, didn't reach their eyes. They smelled terrible, too. Strong enough to get past the reek of dead fish. Like many different alphas and betas, not their own scents.

“Handsome, what do you need us for, when you've got an omega like that?” A brunette asked, and her compatriots laughed their agreement, winking at Dean and playfully leering.

Was Dean the only one in the port who couldn't reliably smell gender designation? No, wait. Their clothing probably gave them away. He felt stupid, now.

“I wanted to give you something to eat,” Cas said, holding out the basket of warm roll-ups. “I don't expect anything in return.”

Dean could taste their surprise. They looked at each other, and Dean saw hope mixing with fear. Hungry, but wary of free food.

“It isn't drugged,” Cas said lowly, calmly. “I just bought it. The place that sells lamb two blocks away.” He extended the basket farther out, blue eyes shining with generosity. “The omega husband to the restaurant's owner, told me I should give this food to you.”

The woman standing closest to Cas, slowly reached out her hand. “Cole,” she said. “Attractive, bright eyes, muscular?”

“He didn't offer his name, and I was uncouth enough to not inquire it,” Cas said.

The woman eyed him cagily. “Take my hand, then, alpha.”

“All right.” Cas took her hand, bending formally, taking her fingers to his lips.

The woman's eyes went wide. Very wide. Her mouth opened.

“What is your name, my lady?” Cas asked.

“P-Pamela,” she stuttered.

Cas released her gently. “My name is Castiel.”

Pamela nodded. “Yes, it is,” she said in a tone that sounded strange to Dean. Turning her head, she addressed her sisters. “Girls, it's fine,” she said. “Tessa, you eat two of Victor's gyros, you hear? Polly, you, too.”

Cas resumed standing at Dean's side, smiling ever so slightly. “Do any of you have gardening experience?” He asked as the 'gyros' were eagerly devoured.

The one named Tessa, snorted. “Of course. In our leisure hours, we do a lot of gardening.” She said it very sarcastically, but somehow, Dean didn't think she lied.

“There is a community garden not far from here, in the really rough part of town,” Pamela told them. “If you put in five hours a week, you earn the right to take enough vegetables for about one meal a day.”

“But, we don't want to go there,” Polly said quickly, quietly. “You enter gang territory.”

“I see.” Castiel patted Brave Soul's neck gently, rhythmically. “It's a trap, isn't it? Offer food for services, but lie in wait for vulnerable women.”

Dean's heart began to hurt. Given the choice between starvation or rape, he would take starvation, too.

“You catch on fast, handsome,” Pamela said, all bravado, but Dean saw fear in her eyes. She wouldn't look away from Cas for five seconds.

“I do, on the odd occasion,” Cas countered, and the women tittered or chuckled. “I ask these personal questions because I'm about to settle in an estate that hasn't had a lot of upkeep in years, and I will be erecting a large orangery upon the grounds. I'm prepared to offer you, and your families, food and shelter, in exchange for gardening, or even lighter duties.”

Pamela swallowed down a large bite, and outright stared at Cas. She took a few steps closer, and whispered to him, “Why would you open your home to cyprians?”

“What you do to survive in a world dominated by alpha males, would never be shameful,” Cas replied gently. “I know what men do. And, I have the means to help. The truly shameful thing is not offering you a way out.”

Dean found he had something to add to this. “You won't regret it,” he promised. “Cas took me out of bleak, survival mentality, and put hope back into me.”

Pamela cocked her hip at him, meeting his eyes. “You gonna kiss my hand, too?” She offered, smiling widely.

Dean took her hand, preparing to make an effort at being as suave as Cas, but Pamela suddenly pulled away. She staggered back, clutching that hand onto her shirt, gasping.

“Pam?” Tessa said, high pitched and worried. “They not okay, after all?”

“No, it's not that,” Pamela said very quickly. “The omega...”

Dean, brow wrinkling, still looking into her eyes, felt he was missing something. Pamela was the leader of this group, and, somehow, he'd scared her.

“Dean, honey,” Pamela said, straightening back up. Her voice sounded strong again. “Would you assure me of something?”

“If I can,” Dean said, confused.

Pamela nodded. “Tell me you know about the feathers.”

Dean froze. He blinked a few times. Pamela knew. How did she know Cas was an angel, and about the feather he'd burned? And, she'd called him by name even though his name hadn't been offered. “Black, glossy, shining with a rainbow slickness, highlighting blue, burning green,” he answered. He took Cas' arm demonstratively. “I felt confident enough to burn his brand into my back,” he continued. “Less than a week after meeting him. And, I'm not crazy.”

Pamela stared at him for about ten seconds before nodding her agreement. She turned to her group, and lightly clapped her hands. “Girls,” she said. “This kind gentleman and his husband are offering us a way out. Shelter and food in exchange for gardening, or domestic duty. We can bring our families. Put it to a vote. I intend to take the offer.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean whispered as the women began chattering in excitement, hope shining in their eyes. “There's nothing I like more than to see people being given real lives. A chance.”

Cas leaned against Dean's side a moment. “Help me to intervene for their sake, Dean, please. Most of our people won't have a problem with adopting prostitutes into the household. But, some of the St. Addams transplants will find the addition hard to bear.”

“I'll set Meg on them,” Dean swore.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, none of the women had any kind of transportation whatsoever. They would ride in the supply wagons. None of them looked upset about it, either. Pamela herded her ladies into the biggest wagon, and Dean heard her sternly telling the one name Polly to keep her nose out of the dried goods.

Castiel heard, too. He politely countermanded Pamela's order. The women were to help themselves, if still hungry. He ordered the rest of their people to buy hot meals, doling out the funds for that, and asked Dean for his company in meeting a dealer in horse flesh. Castiel also made it a point to pluck Crowley from his wagon perch, with the instruction for him to bring the writ of ownership for the promised Fresian horse. Apparently, Zachariah's favorite Fresian supplier lived in Isleton.

Dean expected that all the new horses would get chained to their procession.

“I thought it was a three day trip to get this animal. We've been slogging on and on for an eternity,” Crowley said as they walked Brave Soul toward the breeding stables in the distance. Cas had informed it was only a twenty minute walk, if they hurried instead of strolled. Dean, preferring to keep Cas' arms free for defending them, simply linked elbows with his best friend.

“It would be, if you'd taken a ship,” Castiel replied, looking ahead with a vague expression of summation. Cas, his senses at high alert, probably focused on souls around them. “Aren't you excited to get the best stallion in Marcus' holding?” He followed up, casting a brief, curious glance at the omega tailor. “That is what Father entitled to you.”

Crowley's eyes began to gleam in greed and excitement. He rubbed his hands together, temporarily knocking Dean off balance. “The dress was worth that?”

“No price is too high, not when my father wants to please my mother.” Cas withdrew a flat, shiny tin from an interior coat pocket, and offered it to Crowley. “Marcus loves cherry-vanilla cheroots. Offer him one before you speak a word, and he'll greet you very kindly. You need this man, Crowley. One doesn't keep a prime stud without considering future horses. Eventually, someone will need the horse for service, or, you'll want an exceptional mare to keep the bloodline going.”

“A stud, giving me the means to keep a stud in business,” Crowley muttered, looking happy, and, snatching the slim cigar case. “Castiel, you shine with generosity and goodness. Help me choose mares in the future, and I'll go the extra mile for you.”

Cas rolled his eyes in a way that told Dean he felt fond of the witch. “You should keep the breed strong, but I suggest crossing your Friesian with a Cleveland Bay, eventually. We'll have to travel a bit to accomplish that, but it will prove worthwhile. Strong, steady, ready to work. Also, beautiful.” Cas rubbed his forehead, and Dean knew enough by now to see that as a sign of an approaching headache. “We will have to purchase Irish Draughts today, preferably already broken for farm work and riding. Marcus, talented breeder that he is, also stands as the most pretentious, self-inflated member in my contacts.”

“Upper middle-class alpha, hmm?” Crowley asked, chuckling meanly. “Oh, he's gonna love me.”

Cas grabbed Crowley by the shoulder, spinning him around to peer down into his startled eyes. Again, Dean was knocked off balance. “If he does anything inappropriate, if anything passes from his lips that makes you uncomfortable, Crowley, then you immediately tell me,” he ordered. His azure eyes were alight from within, nearly. “He is not allowed to abuse you because of your social standing, and, he is not allowed to covet you because of your birth designation.”

Dean, rather well versed with Crowley's mannerisms and body language, at this point, understood by the omega's slouch and direct eye contact to Cas, that he was impressed by what he heard. He softened, leaning a little bit toward Cas.

“Sport,” Crowley said gently. “If I get the creeping fug-wugs from your horse man, at any time, I'll let you know. I promise.” He made the vow with clean truth. “Thanks for doing me a service. Tailors get little respect.”

Dean understood in a flash. Crowley could protect himself, but showing witchcraft in public was asking for disaster. However, Cas wasn't so tightly governed. He had the status to protect Crowley openly, and he would. He'd make it known Crowley was his.

They resumed their walk, passing into a lane bursting with color. Dean slowed to view tables covered in vegetables he'd never seen before, exotic fruits and herbs, and baskets of spices. Flowers, too. He felt dazzled by newness. The smells, the vibrancy, pushed Dean into slowing down.

Crowley didn't mind. He let go of Dean's arm in order to examine some pretty roses.

“Is there something you'd like?” Cas asked him, hovering close.

“What about something for Mother?” Dean asked back. “Pineapples and coconuts to make snowballs with?”

“What a good idea, Dean,” Cas praised easily. He snatched a deep basket from a stack obviously meant for a customer's ease, and chose three pineapples carefully while the vendor watched him. “Have you ever had limes?” He picked up what looked to be a green lemon. “They aren't popular in Panomu, for some reason, but I like them.”

“Sour as all hell,” Crowley muttered. “If you're feeling an urge to spend, why not get me some star fruit?”

Dean smiled. His friend certainly knew how to play the needy omega, when he wanted.

“Get whatever appeals to you,” Cas said mildly. He handed Crowley a mix of copper, steel, and silver coins, not even appearing to consider Crowley had his own money. Then, he handed Crowley a basket before the tailor could even voice that he required one.

“What are these?” Dean asked, pointing to some elongated, yellow things, that clung together at the top.

“Bananas,” Cas told him. He got a few green ones, but took a yellow bunch with some brown spots on it. “They're best eaten when they look like this, in my opinion,” he said. “The green ones will ripen over a short period of time.” He picked up a few glossy, heavy-looking fruits, added them to his basket. “Those are mangoes. I think you'll enjoy them.”

They spent about twenty minutes and fifteen steel, all said and done. Dean didn't have much to go by on the true expense of the produce, and it upset him a little. He would have had a better idea in his own country.

“Surely you don't need two,” a heavily accented voice said.

Dean looked up to see a man oddly dressed. He had on white, thick knee leggings, lacking the gaiters Cas would wear while farming and traveling. He wore thick, short shoes, and a very heavy, velvet coat of vermillion. White powder dusted his face, made glaringly apparent by some kind of awful, obvious rouge. His hair looked like white clay. A wig. It gathered into a ponytail tied by a black ribbon.

Dean's brain caught up to the man's words, and he stiffened. The man had been watching them, and mistook Cas' generosity to Crowley as a sign Cas owned two omegas. Probably only had that verified by the fact Dean held onto Crowley so insistently. Some alphas, rare ones, had as many omegas as they could afford. It wasn't polite, and Panomu frowned upon it, but maybe Rocky White had no such social stigma for the practice.

Cas turned to see his verbal assailant. He instantly shot out a scent of annoyance laced heavily with disgust. Dean could smell him over the wild mix of rotten fish and all these amazing fruits and flowers. “At least formally introduce yourself to the people who don't know you, before putting your foot in your mouth,” he growled.

The painted, but handsome, obviously wealthy man, smiled broadly. “Rushfell. Earl of Bragallen, David Rushfell,” he informed, looking at Dean only. “I'll give two thousand gold for the omega in the kimono, six if he's a virgin.” He ran his dark eyes over Dean again, lingering in rude places. The throat, the shoulders, the groin area.

Like Dean was meat.

Okay, alpha knot-head identified. Dean felt glad Cas stood close to him. Not for the protection factor, though appreciated, but because Cas' smell blocked the (small) chance of scenting this alpha. And, Dean found himself very willing to change a nasty alpha's point of view.

Dean opened one fan. Loudly. “You don't know the trouble you're in,” he said calmly. “If my husband doesn't kick your ass, I will.”

“Omegas should be seen, not heard,” Rushfell said, smiling. “Know your place.”

“I know your place,” Cas said coldly. “Be gone. The next time you speak to Dean as if he is of no consequence, I will run you through.”

“No harassing my customers!” The fruit vendor shouted, waving her fist in the air. “I'm tired of you, Rushfell! Your papa's gold makes you poison!”

“Be silent, you old bitch,” Rushfell said in a bored tone.

Before Dean could even take in the woman's movements, a rotten tomato hit Rushfell directly on his forehead. It exploded all over his face, shattered mushy bits over his expensive clothes. Some even got into his mouth.

Rushfell stood there, shocked, blinking past the juice running into his eyes. Watery, blackened seeds dripped from his chin. “How dare you, you dried up old costermonger!” He shouted, flailing in disgust. As if he could fix his state with distance from his clothing, he plucked at his coat and shirt, holding them out from his chest like a tent.

“I dare with pleasure,” the old woman sassed back. “I told you not to come around my tables anymore, foppish idiot!”

Crowley snorted, then began laughing so hard he could barely remain upright. He grabbed Dean's shoulder for support. “Oh, hell's teeth!”

One of the other vendors put a shiny whistle between his lips, blowing into it. Long and loud, six times. He then pointed at Rushfell. “Y'were banned from our lot two weeks ago!” He shouted in a deep accent that Dean found rather pleasing. “Yer a disgrace to yer title! Get thee gone!”

“You tell 'em, 'arry!” A woman selling bread called out, putting a fist in the air. “Get da scalawag out'o here!”

Rushfell, glaring in all directions, finally settled his mean, beady gaze on Castiel. “If you were gentleman enough to do business, this wouldn't have happened!”

Dean sucked in a breath. Those were fighting words. Duel worthy. Accusing Cas of not being a gentleman was very bad. Even Cornelius Errgard hadn't done that. Cas would be well within his rights to slap a glove across Rushfell's face, if he had one. Cas didn't wear gloves.

“If you were gentleman enough for me to bother, I'd still have told you 'no',” Cas replied, keeping his slap strictly verbal. “You can't buy a man's husband, Rushfell. I see you've gathered no better manners in eleven years.”

Two large betas in strangely cut, black clothing, pushed through the growing crowd of onlookers. One had a short club of metal, and the other, a pair of sword breakers. The tallest one scowled at Rushfell. “You aren't permitted in the market anymore, sir,” he said. “The magistrate made that arrangement with your father to keep you out of a holding cell.”

“I go wherever I please, whenever I please,” Rushfell said hotly, wiping his face with an ineffectual, gauzy linen, his every movement a display of contempt. “My father owns this port, you cunt!”

The collective inhale of the crowd, the falling silence, made Dean uneasy. He'd never heard that word before, but spoken with such venom, Dean knew it for a very insulting choice. He tugged Crowley backward casually, making him stand with him at a greater distance from the curious people gathering.

The shorter beta pulled away from his companion, and tackled Rushfell with no warning of any kind. Both men went down into the gritty dust. Punches were thrown fast and hard onto Rushfell's stomach, doubling him up in pain. “You don't speak to peace keepers like that, you thoughtless whelp,” the beta roared. “Andrew, get your cuffs out! This one goes back to court, right now!”

“Rocky White,” Sam said after swallowing a big bite. “They think we're insane for fighting the Maholak. No decent soldiers or fighters, except for the old police force descendants. Those guys are so hard-core. You don't fuck with them. Seriously.”

Crowley, still laughing slightly, sagged against Dean. “Your pretty face sure causes problems, Dean.”

“I'd be embarrassed about it, but what can I do?” Dean asked, starting to smile. But, he worried. Not in his new country a couple of hours, and he'd already drawn the eye of a connected creep who could cause trouble for them.

They didn't need more trouble.

(_____________________________________________________________________)

“So, Castiel knows that Rushfell knob-head,” Crowley said conversationally. “He said he hadn't changed in eleven years.”

Crowley and Dean rode together on Crowley's new horse, Dean riding behind so as not to obstruct Crowley's vision. So far, Crowley directed the horse with ease and grace, so Dean felt pretty relaxed. Too, he felt safe with Crowley. His friend cared about him, was powerful and ruthless.

“I caught that,” Dean admitted, eyes upon the head of the caravan, upon the back of his husband.

Aware Castiel could hear everything.

Wait.

Crowley had to know that, too.

“Are you trying to provoke Cas?” Dean asked, slightly mad. “You have something to say, say it in front of him, ass. I know about your delightful history with him, how you like to taunt.”

Crowley chuckled deeply. “He knows what, and, who, I am,” Crowley deflected smoothly. “I'm only giving the both of you something to think about. A topic for the next time you get a private moment. Be calm.” He steered them onto a curve in the ever-dwindling trail, projecting nothing but confidence. “I'm a loyal thing, Dean. But, I'm also someone who despises a lack of information. Secrets. I didn't like keeping pertinent facts from you. I only did it for your safety, and his. Now that the alpha angel is on display, I can't in good conscience participate in keeping mum. Not with things that concern you, flower.”

Deeply appreciative of Crowley's ongoing, rock-steady personality, Dean found himself again relaxing. He leaned against Crowley's back, inhaling the sweet scents of anise and clove. That particular, familiar smell of the omega, served to make Dean feel both safe and supported. “Yeah, okay,” Dean relented easily. “I'll talk to him.” He lowered his voice, projecting a prayer out loud. “I pray to the awesome angel, Castiel. Listen in. We're talking about you, and I don't want to rudely exclude you.”

Cas straightened up, turned his head toward Dean briefly, then nodded.

“Cas said he boarded in an alpha house while attending school,” Dean told Crowley very quietly. “He volunteered to do so at the age of fifteen. Since he was twenty when he assumed control of Tor-Valen, I have to assume a couple of things. One, he met David Rushfell in that alpha house, or at his school. And, two, that he got his art and architecture degrees within five years...” Dean chuckled. “Pretty intense, right?”

Crowley, who had listened carefully to Dean's monologue, bent over for a few seconds to gently laugh. “Intense?” He guided them around a large, cliff-fallen boulder. “Yes, buttercup. Your husband has a great mind, angel heritage or not. A good example of one using their natural gifts the proper way.” Crowley handed Dean his water skin, then, with a back-glance grin. “I fully bow to his big brain, Dean. But, I think he needs a few lessons on how to let go. He's too tightly in control.”

Dean thought about Cas' breakdown, about how thin Cas' shield actually proved. “He's improving,” he revealed, speaking just into Crowley's ear while knowing it did no good against Cas' hearing. “It's hard to let go of decades of conditioning, Crowley. I've been re-inventing myself a good few months, now, and I'm not 'okay' yet.” The water tasted stale, once he worked himself up for a drink of it. Also, it held a bitterness that made him think Crowley had put spirits of some kind in there...

Dean was really not okay. In fact, he felt shaky these days, traveling in a large group with so many things around him. Unfamiliar things, people, protocol, and even weather. A fish out of water. He felt his mind wandering to Tor-Valen a lot, even to Sonny's.

Comfort in the familiar.

Crowley took the water skin back, and drank from the thin stream twice before putting it away. “Darling, I know,” he said. “I'm fully aware. I spent years thinking I had to either be a predator witch, or an omega patsy. I went with physical talents in order to avoid choosing, and, in doing so, I discovered I had many more dimensions.” Crowley paused to discretely belch, and smile. “We have time, yet, to discover who we are. Now, give me a hug. All this personal disclosure leaves me wanting.”

Dean put his arms around Crowley, and squeezed. Crowley, slender and wiry, felt good, smelling like family. He buried his nose into Crowley's thinning hair to take good, bracing whiffs of wholesome support. “You really are such a good friend,” he reiterated. “When I can finally have some children, will you be their godfather?”

Crowley went stiff for a couple of seconds before relaxing down into a hot-melt of satisfaction that Dean's nose picked up as pure sanction. “Get your stud of an alpha to agree,” he rumbled, “and, I'll be the best damned godfather to your children, ever,” he swore. “If something terrible should happen to you and the pretty angel, I'll raise your babies to the very limit of my capability.”

Dean smiled into Crowley's scalp. “I believe you,” he said. “And, I don't need to consult Cas. He feels the same way I do. I know it.”

“Good. Take for fact, then.” Crowley steered them around a partial barrier, the jutting end of a long-fallen tree.

Dean had a sudden thought. “Hey. When I came to Tor-Valen, it bothered me, having Cas on the horse behind me. You know, the movement felt like sex. You aren't complaining about my being behind you, though.”

Crowley laughed, deep and rich. “Darling, I could never ponder sex with you, no matter how I throw the innuendo. You're too 'family'. Also, what you and Castiel have is quite above the usual bonding. Deeper. You think about that.”

“I will,” Dean promised, bolstered by Crowley putting him the category of relation, same as he did for the other omega.

(_______________________________________________________________________)

“Honey, I'm sorry I'm keeping your man away from you.”

Dean looked up from his campfire, surprised at hearing Ellen's voice. She stood before him in her dusty traveling cloak, clutching Sky close. She looked as tired as everyone else, and a little unkempt. But, they were all dirty, not sparing water for bathing, and Dean quite honestly hated the way he presented just now.

He wanted a hot bath.

“Ellen, it's fine,” he said. He understood Ellen's fears. She thought only of Sky, and only Cas would do for her protection. “Have a seat on my log. Rest. I'm cooking a rabbit.” He patted the log.

“When did you have time to hunt?” Ellen asked, seeming very grateful to sit. She settled Sky into a comfortable position, making sure her thick little blanket covered her.

“My cat brought me the rabbit. She rightly assumes I can't hunt.” Dean smiled. “She and Ruto always eat together, and this time she decided to feed me, too. They're sleeping off a food coma in the tent.”

“Who are you paired off with tonight?” Ellen asked. If she found it odd that Dean's cat would hunt for him, she didn't mention it.

“Dad,” Dean answered with a yawn. “He's out digging for edible tubers, or something. I don't know, but I suspect Dad can forage like a wild man. He certainly could gut and prepare the rabbit. He made this spit in five minutes.”

“Hm. I think you're probably right,” Ellen agreed. “So, two more days until we arrive in our new home. Are you excited?”

“I don't know.” Dean had two minds when thinking about the move. “I loved Tor-Valen. Mother told me Fen-Taven was their oldest property, but she also told me that her house in Cold Croy pre-dated Calamity. That means the place we're going to will be hundreds of years old. That intimidates me a little.”

“Yes, I feel unsettled about that, too,” Ellen murmured. “The kitchen... It would have to be enormous. I'm glad you assigned people to me. That sweet little Kara will be a big help, too. She's having some trouble on this trip, the poor thing.”

“Not having a kitchen, being unsure about when we're going to eat,” Dean guessed. He felt bad for that poor girl. Her suffering ever displayed as worse than his own. He should stand tall and take what came at him with grace.

“Precisely.” Ellen reached up to turn the spit that the rabbit roasted on. “Keeping her belly full helps, but she insists on riding in a different food wagon each day. Today it was one of the dry goods, beans and rice.”

Saddened, Dean got out his travel bag, digging out fruit, having to push past the red Bible and his dictionary to do so. “Give her one of these mangoes, and my bread ration for the evening. Tell her to chew each bite of her food twenty times, on the excuse of being kind to her tired body. It will make her focus on the taste. She'll feel like she ate more.”

“How do you know?” Ellen asked, curious.

“I want all of you to stop eating like the food will vanish,” Sonny said, striding up and down between the dining tables. “We have enough for everyone to eat at least twice a day.” He made eye contact with Dean, the oldest. At seventeen, Dean could never get enough to eat. “Dean and Edward, you two will fish today. Forget the laundry.”

“More than one half-starved omega came to Sonny's,” Dean answered. “I looked after the little ones more than the older ones, too. Sonny trusted me, and he needed the help.” Again, Dean yawned. He felt tired this evening. “You might have noticed I'm bigger than the average omega... Little kids like big people with soft voices and gentle hands. I made sure to follow that equation.”

“I'm sure you did,” Ellen said, smiling a tender smile.

“Speaking of which, why don't you let me put your precious to sleep?” Dean held his arms out. “Come on. A little rest will help you. Has she eaten?”

“Merciful God above, it's nearly all she does.” Ellen carefully handed Sky over. “She's gained a lot of weight.”

Dean could feel that. Sky was considerably heavier, and felt a lot more sturdy in his grip than she had been weeks ago. “I wonder how old she really is?” He wondered aloud.

“Almost a year. I wish I knew her birthday. Ellen sniffed wetly, and rubbed her face. Dean saw tears forming in her bloodshot eyes. “Bill says we should let her know, when she's old enough to bear it, that her birth mother died because of all the injustice in our world, but I don't think I can do it, Dean.” Her voice cracked. “I don't want her to think about her poor mother, starving to death when bounty was all around her.”

Dean evaluated Ellen's slumped shoulders, her quivering mouth and anxious hands.

Ellen would not hold up unless she got a respite.

I pray to the angel, Castiel, Dean prayed as he watched Ellen attempting to rein in her fatigue and worry. Bring me Ellen's baby care bag, and a jar of Sky's soft food. I'm watching over Sky tonight, while you and Bill watch over Ellen. She's about to crack apart.

“Ellen, of all people, wouldn't you say my monster-hunting father is a mean, capable fucker?” Dean asked, startling Ellen into a sob of laughter.

“Yes, honey, I would,” she said, wiping her eyes and face.

“And, wouldn't you imagine I'm good with my fans?” Dean pressed.

“I've seen that you are,” Ellen answered immediately. “I took your fan class, didn't I?” She again turned the rabbit so that it would cook evenly.

“Right.” Dean put Sky into the crook of his left arm. “I'm watching your darling tonight. You need rest. I promise that Dad and I will take good care of her.”

He thought she would refuse. She straightened up, her shoulders going stiff and her eyes steely. But, she then slouched back down, and gave him a weary nod.

“Dean, I'm so tired,” Ellen whispered. “Thank you.”

“Well, I like holding a baby, too,” Dean joked gently, downplaying the emotional for the sake of Ellen's pride. But, he felt awed she'd agreed to his plan. “I've been told I can't have my own for quite awhile, so I have to make do with yours.” He spied Cas coming toward them with a large, heavy leather bag, and a bundle tucked under his left arm. I pray to the angel, Castiel, he prayed quickly. Hide somewhere so I can pretend I'm sending someone to get you. Damn, that was stupid of me. Ellen doesn't know I can talk to you in my mind.

Dean, it's fine, Castiel sent back. I will merely pose as concerned for Ellen and Sky, anticipating her need for the things that pacify and nourish the child. He continued walking, drawing upon the campsite in moments. “Ellen, I have Sky's things,” he addressed directly. “Are you ready to sleep?”

“Bless you, I am,” Ellen said, lurching upward. “Dean is watching over my little one tonight, though. You may leave her things with him.”

“Good. You need a night of real rest.” Cas put the bag down at Dean's feet. “John and Dean are perfectly competent to keep Sky secure.”

“I know,” she vowed, sounding as if she truly meant her words. “Would you watch over me tonight, as always, with Bill?” She swayed in one spot, so exhausted that she couldn't even make a pretense.

“I will,” Cas said simply, holding his arm out for her. He rested his gaze upon Dean, then, lingering. “Sleep well, my hadja.”

A blaze of warmth, love, and affection for Cas, swelled up within Dean. Beloved responsibility. He'd needed to hear that quantification from his kind, beautiful husband, but he hadn't known how much until the sentiment hit his ears.

“Sleep well, my hadja,” Dean returned in kind, smiling, feeling full from the inside out.

Ellen collected the mango and bread for Kara, and slowly walked away with Cas supporting her.

The very moment Cas and Ellen vanished into the darkness, John appeared at the campfire with a small sack that bulged in every direction. Manners and movements soft, quiet, John took up the oiled frying pan from a nearby stone, and put it at Dean's feet. He sat beside him, got out his knife, and began cleaning strange looking shoots and stalks. Briefly, he glanced at Sky. “Are we on baby duty?” He asked, not a trace of anything in his question except curiosity.

“Yeah,” Dean answered, prying the blanket back so his dad could get a look at the gorgeous, snoozing Sky. “Dad, this is Sky. Cas and I rescued her during a trip to give hand-outs to the poor people in town. Her mother died of starvation. Ellen was quick to take her.”

John's dark eyes flicked over, but then they lingered. “That is one pretty girl,” he said very quietly. “She must be eating solid or semi-solid foods by now. Do you have her breakfast?”

“Cas brought it,” Dean told him, smiling at his dad's words and acceptance. “Ellen was able to can some appropriate stuff well before our trip, apparently.” He turned the spit again. “Rabbit's close to done, I think. What did you gather in the woods?”

“Good stuff.” John smiled slowly. “All kinds of natural abundance in edible plant life, here. I found morel mushrooms, tender bamboo shoots, and dandelion greens. We'll eat those raw. The first two need a bit of heat to taste good and to be safe. The morels need a salt water bath, but they'll be okay with a solid frying.” He was slicing as he spoke, light tan, funny looking mushrooms going into the pan first. “That cat of yours is better than a hunting hound, to bring you a rabbit. How did you train it?”

Dean briefly basked in the alpha approval of his father before telling him the truth. “I didn't. She thought I was hungry, so she went hunting.”

“Huh.” John smiled again, and shook his head. “Small cats do that, too. Bringing you rats, moles, voles, and birds. I always thought it was about proving they could hunt. Like a trophy, you know?” He continued slicing, and Dean could now see small black bits in the mushrooms. Bugs.

Nasty.

Still, Dean would eat them. Screw being squeamish. A fried bug wasn't anything but protein with crispy legs. He'd eaten many a fire-scorched grasshopper.

“Your mom had a big, mean old black cat,” John said. “He hunted snakes. You remember?”

Dean cast back into his mind, and came up with very clear memories. “Old Blue,” he recalled aloud. “He raced across the property like he was on fire.”

John gave a brief, but full, snort of a laugh. A guffaw. “That little guy was one tough bastard.” He chuckled as he finished slicing the last mushroom, his fingers agile and quick. His eyes sparkled in the light of the campfire. “Copperheads inject venom to kill things bigger than Old Blue,” he said. “That damn cat sprawled out on the hearth of our fireplace for three days after he got bitten. Mary and I thought he would die.”

“He didn't,” Dean said, accessing the pertinent memories.

John nodded. “He rallied. And, from then on, Blue only hunted snakes. He'd pass a crippled, baby sparrow to get at a snake. That little shit killed so many of them that Mary ended up trying to cook 'em.”

Dean remembered his mother including him in figuring out how to skin and prepare snakes. She hadn't wanted to ignore easily gained meat, but snakes made her uneasy. She'd used a lot of egg white and black pepper, and sweetened corn meal to deep fry the bits of snake. The short, slender tubes of meat had ribs he'd needed to drag his teeth across, sucking and gnawing in order to get all the meat into his mouth. The taste was clear in his mind. Not quite like fish, not quite like chicken, but very good.

“Damn cat was nearly a better provider than I was, a lot of the time,” John said, shaking his head again. “I mean, he killed at least one a day. I remember he killed five from sun up to sun down, twice.” He dropped his head back to laugh. “Your mother was pretty happy about that, Dean. She wanted you and Sam to have a safe place to play. The more snakes Old Blue killed, the more confident she was in letting you two go wander.”

“I get it,” Dean said. “And, I remember Blue dragging huge snakes home, dead, looking so damn proud.”

“Yeah,” John lowly breathed. He now sliced the shoots, letting them drop into the oiled pan. “One day, though, Old Blue didn't come home. I never found him, either.”

“Wild life,” Dean guessed out loud.

“I'd say,” John agreed. “Let me fry up these things, and we can commence to eating.”

John cooked in silence. It was peaceful, but also a little glum. New situations, trekking to a new home, and talk of the past put them both into a mood. Dean rocked Sky, singing to her, and that seemed to put John into a deeper slump.

“Your mother knew so many songs,” he said as Dean put Sky atop of a blanket he'd taken from the tent. “Had the voice of someone who got paid to sing.” He portioned food out for them both, and gave Dean a cup of water from a traveling crock. “And, so do you, Dean.”

“Can't take credit for what I was born with,” Dean pointed out. “I focus on what I can accomplish otherwise.”

“Well, that's smart of you. Smart, and humble.” John tried the rabbit first, and nodded his approval. “I wish I'd been more like you and less like me. Maybe I wouldn't have to learn my sons all over again. I wasted so much time.”

“You just made mistakes, Dad,” Dean said, his throat aching. “Forgive yourself, or you can't forgive others for what they do.”

John released a bitter chuckle. “It's easier to forgive others, son. A man is his own worst critic.”

As Dean finished his meal, he came to the conclusion his father was perfectly correct.

(__________________________________________________________________________)

Dean didn't know why Jo and Charlie acted sane, now, but he appreciated it. They carried on civil conversations, shared their food, and speculated about Fen-Taven. Chatter, chatter, chatter. The closed carriage filled with words. Dean felt crowded out by them. And, he felt nervous. They would arrive at the new estate in hours, now. Being both-eared while anxious, threatened to shatter his sense of control. He was barely able to read over their wagging tongues, and his lack of comfort also posed distracting.

Their new home. Terrifically old, huge, and foreign. Dean would have to be in control of it. Second in command. In reality, though, he and Meg were more like partners for that.

“Are you okay, Dean?” Jo asked, suddenly and quietly. “You've barely spoken a sentence since this morning.”

“I've never been very good with talking. It's easier to just listen to you and Charlie,” Dean replied, though he felt the word 'endure' a better choice than 'listen'. “Too, I resent having to leave the first real home I've had since I presented.”

Jo's face screwed up in pain and understanding, her eyes threatening to spill. “I know,” she whispered. “This trip is hard. I feel like a caged animal.”

Dean put his dictionary down, and leaned to pick up Sphinx. She never, ever minded being held or stroked. She was enormous, heavy, and, a distraction. Despite what Cas had said to him, she wasn't under a hundred pounds at maturity. More like a hundred and twenty. A beast. “No one's said if the estate already has people on it. Do you know?” He thrust his hands into Sphinx's mane, soothing both of them with contact. She was so soft. She made good noises, and arched into his touch.

“It has a staff in place for care-taking and upkeep, but no real domestics or workers,” Charlie told him, her tone as soft as Jo's. “I'm glad Master Novak isn't the traditional moneyed alpha, or we would have been sent ahead on our own before his arrival. I can't imagine taking this trip without strong alphas around.”

“You don't depend on alphas,” Jo argued lightly.

“I don't, but it's always nice to have weapons handy, and good alphas are better weapons than swords or guns.” Charlie winked at Jo, who began to blush.

“Really?” Dean rolled his eyes. “What happened between you two?”

“We came to an understanding,” Charlie said, giggling. “Nothing permanent, but useful nonetheless.”

Dean had a vision of Charlie and Jo tangled up together, and groaned. “Jo, your mother would not approve.”

“Damn right she wouldn't, but it was either give Charlie a whirl, or get exiled from the group. Didn't you see how mad Master Novak, sorry, your husband, got with us?” She shook her head. “It isn't our fault our cycles lined up like that. Simple nature.”

Dean supposed that to be true. At least with two females, a baby wouldn't happen. If they were discreet about their affair, no one would suffer from it. “I won't breathe a word of it, except maybe to Cas, who wouldn't let information like that drop out,” Dean promised. “Do either of you know what the estate looks like?”

“I've asked Madame Naomi about it,” Charlie admitted, “mostly when you take time to talk to Sam. Large gardens, a private lawn for the master of the house, and she teasingly intimated there might be a hedge maze. Other than the fact we have a side facing the ocean, she kept pretty mum. I think she wants us to be surprised.”

“I hate surprises,” Jo declared with feeling. “I like to be informed, to plan, to anticipate.”

“Me, too,” Charlie commiserated. She sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

Jo inhaled. “Bacon?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed after a good sniff. “We must be passing a settlement of some kind.”

“A large estate would have a town close by,” Charlie said, excited. “A place to shop and do business, law houses and eateries!” Practically vibrating in place, she clawed at the carriage top. “Maybe I can get a peek if I'm careful with the clamp.”

“Don't,” Jo said firmly. “There's got to be a reason all omegas went back into closed carriages this morning. It keeps the scent down. We shouldn't make things harder for Master Novak.”

“Aww,” Charlie mourned, sticking her lip out afterward. “Just one little peek wouldn't hurt!”

“You don't know that. It isn't worth the risk.” Jo wouldn't budge, which Dean thought very appropriate to their situation. “We can't be cavalier about Dean's safety, Charlie. If something happens to him, Master Novak won't recover. You know I'm right.”

Charlie sighed. She sat back with a little more force than needed. “I know. Their eye-sex alone proves it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Dean blurted. “We don't-!”

“You do,” Jo teased. “Everyone knows it. I think it's adorable.”

“Honestly, it's enough to make some of us too warm in our clothes,” Charlie kind of cackled. “And, I don't even like men!”

“Intensely staring at each other as they walk, as they talk,” Jo said, picking up the deviling and running with it. “I couldn't bear watching it when Master Novak fed Dean the snowballs. That second when he realized he was getting something out of the experience? That was shiver-inducing.”

Dean felt the flush of blood in his face and neck. That whole, tumultuous meal, posed as a wonderful but difficult memory.

He was glad for the blanket, because it concealed his hard-on. He had to be careful to not get into this too much, or he'd start making slick, and that would really call down the thunder. It was just so difficult not to let go. Castiel looked amazing up there above him, all confusion and cautious interest, blue eyes and spiky hair.

“It's very odd, choosing what he will eat,” Castiel said quietly. “Or, choosing that he eats at all.”

“The worst was after Master Novak put the beat-down on that alpha representative,” Charlie said, laughing pretty loud. “Dean came outside, found he liked a studly display of violence, and wham!” She clapped her hands together. “The eye-lock of pure sex!”

Now, both women giggled together. Dean sank down between them, mortified. “You two can stop any time, now,” he said. Sphinx patted his hot face with one of her huge paws, as if to soothe him.

“Charlie and Jo, quit making sport of my brother,” Sam's voice demanded just outside the carriage, moving with them. He smelled very angry, too. Enough to project inside the carriage. “Castiel is too busy navigating us through Clearwater to stop you, but he's getting pissed. This is your warning shot off the bow. Got it?”

“Got it,” the two women said at the same time, exchanging worried, guilty glances.

“I didn't know we were being so loud,” Charlie stage-whispered.

“A deaf man could hear you,” Sam informed. “Your conversation is the topic five carriages back from here.” Sam tutted, a condemning sound, for sure. “You think I want to know about my own brother's sex life? Or, yours, for that matter?”

“Oh, shit!” Charlie squeaked. She hid her face in her hands.

“By the way, Jo, Ellen would like for you to seek her out at the first available moment,” Sam added meaningfully. “I hope I'm not whistling psalms to taffrails.”

Useless effort, Dean remembered Sam translating when Dean asked about that odd phrase. He'd been reading his Bible the whole trip, drowning out the boredom, and had it shelved in his head about Psalms. It evidently meant 'songs'.

Honestly, some of Psalms had been pretty graphic, while still poetic, about sex.

“Damn it,” Jo said, covering her eyes. “She's going to cut my head off.”

“I'm not that bad of a match,” Charlie protested.

“That's just it,” Jo said as Standing Tall audibly clopped up ahead. “We aren't actually making honest women of each other. Mom doesn't approve of me making light of love."

“It's not like you can get me pregnant!” Charlie gasped, eyes wide. “You don't have a cock, Jo! I don't see a ball sack hanging from your chin, either!”

Someone up ahead of them groaned lowly, and Dean thought it might be Bill.

“I can't wait to get out of this carriage,” Dean declared.

(____________________________________________________________________)

Dean knew they'd arrived at Fen-Taven even before they stopped moving, as the air filled with startled gasps. Though his curiosity burned, he remained still. Charlie and Jo had fallen asleep on him, both of their heads on his shoulders. His lap was numb from Sphinx's hefty weight. Ruto panted at his feet, excited by the full stop. Because, the dog had come to know that stopping also meant eating, usually.

The carriage clamps released from both sides at the same time. Dean blinked up through the rough glare of the setting sun, to see Sam and John considering him with strange looks of awe. “Dean,” John said slowly. “Your new house is something else.”

Charlie, startled awake, thrashed a little. “We're here?”

Ellen suddenly just appeared beside the carriage. “Joanna Beth, you come with me right now,” she said in a terrifying, furious tone. Without pause, she handed Sky over to Dean. “Dean, I'll come get her after I have a word with my daughter.” She glared over at Charlie, who shank away from those hard, dark eyes. “But, I'll have a discussion with you, young miss.”

Alpha status could not protect Jo from her own mother's wrath. Jo spilled from the carriage, and, keeping her face down, walked toward a woodland with Ellen. Charlie stammered out a mostly incomprehensible string of words, jumped free, and ran in the opposite direction. Sphinx and Ruto were next, tearing toward the tree line in tandem.

Dean sat up fully, and got his first look at Fen-Taven. His immediate thought was nothing he could actually give voice to.

Gigantic.

Huge.

Dean's mind refused to accept it. The 'house' had three floors, to judge by the placement of the windows, of which there were at least eighty on the front side alone. The walls, stone, scalloped in and out with angular symmetry on each side, but left the center flat-faced. Double doors would lead one inside, but one first would have to climb stairs that sprawled left and right. The flat roof had three towers sticking up, equally spaced apart, just big enough to be considered an extra floor.

Omega presentation turrets. Dean had heard of those, whispered about by the boys at Sonny's. A place high up to put an omega in heat. You opened the windows to advertise you had a fertile one for sale. The smell would go miles and miles.

Disgusting.

Dean tore his gaze away from the house. He immediately noticed two pools of water on either side of the white pebble drive. They were shallow, and clear, lined with light-colored stones. To the far left stretched acres of open lawn, immaculate and green. To the right, a covered walkway leading toward the hedge maze, eventually bordered by forest. Even from this far away, Dean saw it as massive.

He could hear the ocean.

He smelled it.

A river ran through the estate, serpentine and wide, but, to the left of the approach road. It looked deep. There were many different docks with little boats moored to them. He saw people fishing with nets.

Castiel tilted his head as a sudden thought occurred. “Do you like that I'm rich, Dean, or do I seem vulgar to you? Riches are vulgar, aren't they? My father even says so.”

The Novak family wasn't rich. No, that was a foolish way to put it. Nobility. Kings and queens.

Cas had been perfectly happy at Tor-Valen. And, next to this, Tor-Valen was a fly speck. Had to be. Because, an estate like this couldn't maintain itself with only the property immediately available to the eye. Hell, Tor-Valen had been big enough that Dean didn't accomplish mapping it before their forced eviction.

Dean shook his head in several jerks of hard panic and disbelief, eyes rejecting all that he saw, his heart pounding. Sweat broke out upon his face and neck. He felt he couldn't breathe. Everything looked too real, looming and wavering in the red-gold light of evening. Shaking, he sought for a place to hide. To flee. But, he had a vulnerable, trusting child in his arms, and couldn't do that.

Sky came first.

“Dean, dear?” Naomi arrived upon the scene of Dean's distress, seeking his eyes, but Dean could barely look at her. His plain birth and plain roots had never been so keenly highlighted.

“Out of everyone you could have had for your son, and you thought I was acceptable?” Dean asked, hardly audible. His throat wanted to close off entirely. “I'm worse than a peasant, mere chattel. I come from dirt.” He pushed his nose against Sky's neck to scent something familiar, something loved.

Naomi's face, sorrowful, only gave her knowing eyes a sharper reality. “Dean, there is no shame in being kind, honest, and brave.” She took his hand, making him fully face her. “We love you, dear. You and Castiel are a perfect match.” She pointed at the estate only with her eyes. “Castiel has no especial feeling for this place, you know. He made his own home. And, it saddens me he can occupy it no longer. But, he has power, here.”

“I'm not questioning his choice,” Dean said, now aware his father and brother still hovered at his side. “I'll follow him wherever he goes until I'm dead.”

“I know,” Naomi said softly. “For me, that showed evident the moment I saw you. So loyal to my son that you would not shame him, even in great torment.” A tear dropped from her left eye, and she blinked against it. “Come, Dean. We'll leave the house alone, for now. Walk the lawn with me.”

Feeling like he'd vomit, Dean left his family standing, allowing Naomi to guide him to the beautiful lawn of green, soft grass with only the slight pressure of her delicate fingertips upon his shoulder. Sky squirmed in his grip, beginning to fuss, and Dean worried she had a wet bottom, or worse.

Jo ran up alongside them, holding out Sky's baby care bag. Her face flamed with high emotion. She looked like she'd spent days crying. “Mom is speaking to Charlie now,” she informed thickly. She thrust the bag into Dean's arms, off again, her shining, wheat-colored hair flying out like a banner.

Like the Novak banner on Fen-Taven's roof.

Michael, this is too much, Dean prayed.

Michael didn't answer.

Dean figured him busy with Lucifer again, easily forgiving his absence.

“Wealth, Dean, is a burden,” Naomi said gently. “One must be responsible with it, or other people suffer. As a Novak, you must learn how to distribute riches for the benefit of all, not only for Novaks.” She led him toward a sizable pond ringed by willow trees, but slowly, mindful of his state and the small child he protected. “Even in keeping this estate, we spread the wealth. People are paid very well to stay here, to protect and maintain the house and grounds. More people are paid to keep it clean. They are citizens of Clearwater, exclusively. Meg arranged it for us, and, for Castiel, once we all evacuated the estate.”

“Your other house...” Dean swallowed back the bile again.

“Yes, it is larger than this one,” Naomi said with a sigh. “We are a big family.”

Dean nodded. He expected he'd have to see Southerby, eventually. He didn't want to live in it. He hoped he would never have to. He couldn't even bring himself to go inside this house. Homesickness for Tor-Valen surged up anew. “I liked where we were,” he complained fiercely, compelled to spew it out. “That seemed like my home, not this...” He pointed backward without looking. “This obscene thing!”

“Wait until you see the inside,” Naomi said, laughing without humor. “Built over eight hundred years ago, when people thought the grander something was, the better. All the walls are covered in paintings, murals, and tapestries. The ceilings are woodwork gilded in actual gold. The previous owner used silver thread with the paint to give the walls a textured look in some rooms, including the formal dining room.”

“I'm going into shock just hearing about it,” Dean growled. “Tell me more so that I don't actually faint upon breaching the doors.”

“All right.” Naomi showed Dean to a bench under a weeping willow tree, beside a beautiful statue of a man with a strangely shaped pitchfork. A cool breeze, smelling of the ocean, the river, and warmed grass, prevailed in this spot. The blending of these scents, helped. Calmness. River water and grass took the salt-soaked cloy of the ocean, and tamed it, somehow.

They sat, and Dean began cleaning Sky up for a new diaper. She would be toilet training very soon, and also walking. Because when a baby knew to grab at it's bottom after a poop, it showed awareness in bodily functions. Sky kept grabbing at herself, and scowling.

Sam had walked at eight months, and toilet trained at eleven months. Early for one, but about on time for the other.

“Our entire world still had royalty, in the days that saw this estate being built,” Naomi began. “This was the home of a duke. His name was Harcort Tragellen.”

Dean barked out a laugh at that unexpected, ridiculous name. It reminded him of the ponce in Isleton.

“It is a strange name,” Naomi agreed with a smile. “But, what he named his estate was worse, and my family, our family, were only too pleased to change it. Fen-Taven means 'of the ferns' in the old language. And, Tor-Valen means 'in the wilds'.” Naomi wrapped Sky's soiled diaper up in a bag for him as she spoke, with the grace of one accustomed to the task. “Southerby was normal enough sounding that no one thought to change it.”

Dean couldn't resist. “What was this estate called, then?”

Naomi laughed. “Twickengower,” she answered. “Isn't it dreadful? Like something from a twisted fairy tale. Gnomes live here, or something.”

Now, Dean had to laugh, too. He finished cleaning Sky, and covered her again. She sat still in his lap, looking out over the sparkling water with fascination in her beautiful blue eyes.

“After the duke died, his family sold the estate to a corrupt archbishop,” Naomi went on. “He was a very, very bad man, Dean. He killed people with no thought. The evidence of that is plain, if one reads the historical documents. The townspeople had him executed, hung by the neck. No one protested it in the slightest. Then, the estate sat for a long time, protected by each successive government as a national treasure. We purchased it for Castiel, and, from then on, this was a Novak holding.” Naomi coughed delicately before sliding her attention sideways to Dean. “You would not have noticed it, but we acquired more people in Clearwater. The townspeople are very loyal to us.”

“Novaks are good people,” Dean said, giving Sky his fingers to play with. She grabbed and held on, let go, and repeated the process. He thought she had good strength and dexterity. “I want to live up to my new name.”

“Dear, you already do. I'd adjudge you as higher, though. My nose was working just fine when you pointed out how Zach and I failed our precious son.” Naomi's eyes, serious with the memory, held Dean fast. “You are an exceptional man, and an exceptional omega.”

Bless her for using 'man' before 'omega'. Dean took a great amount of satisfaction from that simple courtesy.

“Mother, I know it wasn't intentional,” Dean said, starting to feel emotional again. “I knew I'd grown to love good people. But, it was vital to protect Cas. Always, he is my most important consideration.”

“I fully understand,” Naomi murmured. “I fully approve, too.” She took a small container from an inside pocket of her dress, a flat tin, and applied some of the cream inside it to her lips. It smelled sugary, and left a sheen on her pretty mouth. “Topic change. The statue of Poseidon beside of you? Castiel carved that.” She smelled highly of pride, now. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“Really?” Dean hefted Sky, standing for a better look. He couldn't deny the beauty of the perfectly smooth, white stone. Poseidon, whomever he was, almost looked alive. He let Sky grab at the depiction, smiling at how she explored the even-textured man.

Dean appreciated art. He didn't like squiggly looking stuff, or paintings that looked daubed upon lightly. But, this? This was incredible. His talented husband could make raw rock look like life.

“There is a natural alabaster deposit close by,” Naomi informed. “When Castiel grew bored or restless during the family gatherings, he picked up his tools and sculpted. Or, he painted. He went through a stained glass phase just before taking Tor-Valen.” She smiled dreamily as she recollected her son's talents.

Dean found no fault with her pride.

Naomi's smile suddenly saddened. “He always wrote beautifully. He did ink-washes that made my heart pound. I wish I'd paid more attention to why my son felt compelled to express himself. I wish I'd looked at his subject matter, and thought about his choices. Upon reflection, I see how Zach and I drove out the artist while hammering home the businessman.”

“I didn't know that you could make me feel. How dare you make me feel things, Dean!” Cas' gliding, gripping hands were everywhere at once. “I was a numb, miserable, sleepwalking wreck until you came into my life with smiles, and silk, and long eyelashes! Your stupid green eyes and honest, bare feet!”

“Somehow, Mother, I don't think the world is very kind to artists,” Dean said, looking at his honest, bare feet. “Perhaps Cas will find a balance, now that he's here. Maybe it won't happen for awhile, because a lot must be done. But, I'll do what I can for him, I swear.”

“I know you will, dear,” Naomi assured. “Do you think you're ready to explore the house, now?”

“Yeah.” Dean put Sky to his hip, and grabbed the baby bag. Talking to Naomi, hearing about Cas, had gentled him down from an apex of terror. Too, the solid evidence of Cas' talent. It was one thing to know your mate an artist, but quite another to see what he'd made. Grounding. Deep. The stained glass hadn't been enough. Just pretty colors. But, Poseidon? He looked awesome.

Fucking unreal.

The walk back was interrupted by Ellen, who took her baby and her bag without saying a word. The hard lines of fury and disappointment on her face, gave every one of her years plain viewing. She stalked away from them, unusually discourteous.

Dean watched her go while feeling worried. “She feels Jo failed,” he said. “Mother, why would she take Jo and Charlie's liaison to heart like this?”

Naomi frowned thoughtfully. “No parent really wants their child to be casual about sex and relationships, dear. Charlie...” She tilted her head. “Well. I'm not accusing the young woman of anything. I find Charlie delightful. But, Charlie has had a fluctuating affair with an unfaithful woman, for years.”

“Ruby could have a disease, and Charlie could have given one to Jo,” Dean realized aloud. “We don't even know it's been avoided.”

“Marriages and matches happen parent to parent for some good reasons as well as bad,” Naomi said lightly. “You had a purity examination despite what my son would have said about the matter. You knew it was a good idea to prove to Zach and I that you weren't carrying something, or, already with child.”

“Very true.” Dean felt old, now. “That seems like so long ago. But, it wasn't.”

“I agree.”

They resumed walking. Dean spied people everywhere, just swarming to unload carts, to sort things, to deliver food to a large side door that faced what appeared to be a garden. “What is that? Vegetables?”

“Herb garden,” Naomi said. “Behind it is where the medicinal plants are grown. In her preparedness for Castiel, Butler Masters allotted the maintenance of both gardens, the plants to be distributed to the people of Clearwater. She gave me a thorough education as to how we Novaks have let things slide with her in control.” Naomi paused to press her lips together. “I do feel ashamed.”

“Meg is fucking smart,” Dean blurted.

Naomi laughed, delighted at his swearing. “She is,” she said. “She was Castiel's first hire. She went with him everywhere. Very quickly, Zach and I saw her loyalty. They had no romantic interest in each other, but a kind of spiritual connection.”

“Where did they meet?” Dean liked knowing little details about the people he cared for, and Meg fell into that category.

“In Isleton Port,” Naomi answered with a smile. “Meg's family were, and probably still are, pirates. She abandoned them for decent work.”

“Meg was a pirate.” Dean had to suddenly stop, to stand still in order to process that. “You know? It fits.”

Naomi grinned, and her eyes sparkled. “Doesn't it? We were so shocked when he brought a scantily clad, heavily armed beta woman into our fold. At first glance, that just looks bad, Dean. He was sixteen, and she was at least twenty.”

“The scandal!” Dean chortled.

“We made it our top priority to give her a smaller blade and bigger clothes,” Naomi said, laughing with him. “But, Castiel announced about six months later that he intended to make her his butler, no matter where he ended up taking residence, and I had the most fun escorting her into the all-male tailor's shop for the designing of a proper uniform.” Naomi paused. “Meg highly enjoyed herself, too. The tailor was practically vaporous by the time he finished.”

“I have to ask Meg about this,” Dean said. “Remind me to tell you the story of how I arrived at Tor-Valen.”

“It's not impolite discussion?”

“No. But, I'm sure Meg doesn't want other people looking at her like she's a hero. Which, she completely is, I assure you.” They'd reached the stairs, and were ascending.

No sooner had they drawn level with the front entry, the doors opened, and there the woman of the hour stood, hands on her hips. “All that work we did, Dean, and now we're going to have to do it all over again. This time, we learn the house and the functions, the funds, together. Agreed?”

“Of course,” Dean relented. “It's going to be a lot, isn't it?”

Meg rubbed her forehead. “It's night and day, Dean,” she answered. “Madam Novak, if you wish it, I'll give Dean his tour. I asked that tea and refreshment be offered to you in the blue, informal parlor, away from the noise of the servants settling.”

“There will be much noise and settling for weeks, so I fully approve,” Naomi replied. “Be certain you're kind to yourself, as well. Also, would you make it clear that Dean is to be the first to get a bath, once he chooses a place to occupy with Castiel?”

“Very well, madam.” Meg gave a formal bow.

“Meg, I wouldn't presume to tell you your duty, but I don't require high-society posturing,” Naomi said gently. “I do appreciate you understand your status has changed. You are in a higher tier, away from true country living. So, if you feel the need to follow the customs, I won't fuss. You may reflect upon it at your own pace.”

“Thank you, Madam Novak,” Meg said, relief washing over her face. “Come along, Dean. Let's get this part over so you can hide somewhere with a bathtub and a book.”

“Awesome.” Dean gathered his nerve, and stepped inside his new home.

(_____________________________________________________________

Chapter Text

Dean suffered only the small tour, which covered the fact the kitchen was a large, detached thing with more than forty ovens, and five fireplaces. It gave him culture shock to stand in the doorway. He'd briefly considered that Ellen must have suffered nervous collapse at seeing what she'd control. Poor Kara probably dissolved to tears. This kitchen presented far from the cozy arrangement either of them knew.

Now, wandering the place seemingly made of gold and satin, Dean desperately sought a room that didn't make him want to cry. “Meg said she'd send someone to confirm my choice,” he muttered aloud. “All I have to do is ring the bell.” By damn, the amount of paintings in this place staggered his mind. They looked important, self-inflated. Some of them gave Dean the creeps. He swore that portrait of a little girl had moving eyes.

Did every door have to be corniced and gilded? They were heavy as all hell, but completely silent on their hinges. Even the latches seemed oiled to death, giving quiet little 'snicks' as they housed their slanted pins.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean jumped at hearing Castiel's voice. He turned, seeing his husband standing there looking very unsure of himself. His pretty blue eyes floated, for one thing, like he felt guilty. His slouched back looked painful. Add in the twitching fingers, the constant lip licking, and Cas displayed as an offending party.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean breathed. “Are you actually standing there, feeling bad, about having dumped me into glaring wealth?”

“Yes,” Cas said emphatically. His entire mouth curled in many directions to deliver that simple affirmation. “I despise this house, Dean.” He made an emphatic little jab toward the floor with a sharply pointed index finger. “It's not even a house. It's a separate nation. As far from intimate as you can get with your lodgings.” Now, Cas dragged a hand through his hair, making it twice as riotous as before. “I never spoke a word about it to my parents, because they had such hope I'd like it, but honestly, how did they miss the part about my childhood that displayed my hatred of being inside? Making the inside bigger isn't a solution!”

Dean mentally sighed. Something else for Cas to feel bad about. All he'd ever wanted was to be was a wild thing, enjoying nature and all that God had provided. Cas, forced into a human understanding of beauty, instead of being allowed to explore the poignant elegance of raw creation, now felt guilty for taking his people to this extravagant rubbish heap.

Anyone who gathered food instead of buying it, understood that the stalk or trunk of a vegetable was the heart of the thing. Developing leaves stretched out, but roots, did, too. Varying from plant to plant, sometimes the roots were larger and more extensive, but the leaves and branches had a better than equal chance of being bigger.

Cas was lacking at the branch and leaves. He needed to push more roots into the ground. Roots were fine, and he needed them, because, he was an angel. But, he also needed to lift his arms up and embrace his humanity.

And, Cas needed a very firm middle. A tree with a supportive, healthy trunk. Because, he was the trunk of the Novak family. He united two separate Novak families.

Dean, and his children, were expected to form all new branches, all new leaves.

No pressure.

“The first thing Meg and I had to do was strictly enforce that the servant's tunnels and passages are only to be used with prior alert.” Cas ran a hand through his ridiculously messy hair again. “Also, that the underground quarters are forbidden. Dark, damp places, cause all manner of health decay.”

Dean frowned as he heard the message behind Cas' words. Hide the help? Make them unseen? “You mean to say that the traditional way to run this house, is for all the servants to be invisible?”

“It's worse than that, Dean.” Cas motioned for him to follow, and Dean couldn't refuse.

They went down the long hall, stopping at the very end. What looked to be part of the paneling design, gave way when Cas pushed on it. The cleverly disguised door was cramped, and nothing but darkness looked back at them. Cas grabbed a wall lamp, and unhooked it, his brows furrowing. “People plump in the pockets, now and in yesteryear, wanted silent, unobserved service.” He glanced at the wick, and flame burst to life within the glass cage.

Cas could make fire with his mind.

Dean blinked, and shook the surprise from his head.

Angel.

“Not only did they make their help tiptoe around in passages like this one, heavily laden with the burdens of their tasks, they made them do it in treacherous conditions.” Cas handed the lamp to Dean. “Follow me, but very stringently watch where you step. The grand opulence stops here, where poorer materials were used, and more sloppily put together. Be extra cautions when we encounter stairs, because the steps will be of uneven depth and width.”

Dean nodded his understanding, feeling sick of rich people crap all over again. Even eight hundred (or more) years ago, wealthy assholes subjugated the poor, down to the designs of their obnoxious homes. “I promise I'll watch myself,” he vowed.

Castiel nodded back, and he preceded Dean into the claustrophobic confines of the servant's tunnel.

The first few steps in, Dean knew fear. The walls closed in. He could hear himself breathing. This was worse than Tor-Valen's greenhouse tunnel, hands down. It was hot and stuffy, and had no smooth, even rail to follow. No, you had to navigate on your own senses, and, caution.

Focusing on Cas' back, he made himself walk. The air smelled stale and dusty. He fought the urge to cover his nose, knowing that would at least partially obstruct his vision. He put a hand on Cas' shoulder for a sense of security. Cas did better than simply allowing it; he slowed to accommodate.

They had to be in a half-floor arrangement. All the rooms Dean had seen so far, didn't allow for lack of windows. That theory was proven true very quickly, as a tiny shaft of light broke through from some odd placement combined with hooping, warped floor planking.

The first set of stairs proved horribly rough. They had to descend sideways just to keep their equilibrium, and the disparity in stair height kept Dean constantly off balance. With no windows, or overhead light sources to offset the gloom, their way was doubly difficult. “Would it have killed the duke to put in a handrail?” Dean asked, swearing afterward, when a step presented to him higher than it should. The fact the next one was too far down only pissed him off more. Cas basically acted as a stopgap brace, a physical barrier should Dean miss-step and lose his balance.

“What would a duke care about a servant's broken neck?” Cas riposted in a cold, black tone, his scent bitter and full of loathing. “He had his pick of poor, hungry people for replacing a dead slave.”

At the bottom, finally, Cas directed him into more blackness. But, when the corridor emptied into a larger limit, Dean knew it by the sound of the back-echo their careful footsteps made.

Dean held up the lamp to view a room filled with the heavily rusting frames of badly padded, single beds. Rotting standing frames, meant to conceal someone when they disrobed, were stacked at a slant in a near corner. No fireplaces, no windows, no artwork. Nothing but bleak decay. Dean could sense the misery, here.

“Imagine catching a simple cold,” Cas intoned, his voice bouncing around the vast room lined with crumbling plaster. “Your duties don't stop, and you slog on, determined to do your share. Because, house labor is better than field labor. Your master shelters and feeds you, after all, so your paltry salary can go to members of your family. Family depending upon you to keep them alive.” His voice dropped lower and lower with each sentence, redolent with disgust. “From scullery maid to footman, all but the top servants, buried alive underneath their masters. Suffering vitamin deficiency even if nothing else. Ague, pleurisy, all health complaints worsened by darkness, and a lack of fresh air.”

“And,” Dean said, his heart breaking, “breathing in each other's contagion. Even a poor mental state can spread like this. Misery loves company, I know, but when it never stops...?”

“Exactly.” Cas walked farther in, stopping just in front of the first bed. He stared at it, his upper lip curling. “If I had my way, I'd fill this room with cement. I would purify it by making it go away. But, I cannot.” He gave the bed a contemptuous kick with his work-hardened boot, moving it six feet or more. It collapsed afterward, partially, as if giving in to Cas' judgment. “If I do that, Dean, I cover up the suffering. I make those unfortunate, valiant, loyal people, go away as well.”

“So, you let it lay,” Dean finished after a few seconds. “It's a 'national treasure'. A monument in varied ways. But, only those sensitive to the little people can see it in more than one dimension.”

“You sum it aptly.” Cas took handfuls of hair, and tugged, a sign of overwhelming distress to Dean. “Heavenly Father, I hate this! I hate being here, Dean!” He tugged again and again, blue eyes burning with the weight of how he felt. “This house is a showcase of caste, of inequality! And, I cannot even sell it! It is an entailment! It will go to our first born alpha male, by right of law! I would never want to raise a child in a place like Fen-Taven!”

Oh, fuck. Fuck. Cas was gearing up for another emotional storm. Pressure and stress pushed at him from all sides. He hadn't even paused to breathe a sigh of relief once they'd arrived, just started enforcing rules about not using this room or the hidden passages.

Dean shoved his personal issues down. He walked five steps to Cas, took his hands, and forced them away from his head. “Cas, Cas,” he crooned with feeling. “Cas. You can't change the fact this was built all fucked up.” He made his husband look at him, then pressed himself against Cas, urging him to scent his neck. “Real change comes in grains of sand, not in whole beaches. It'll be okay. You've got me, and you've got Meg, remember?”

Cas more or less collapsed upon Dean, sagging. He let his not inconsiderable weight, rest nearly completely upon Dean. He threw out scents that made Dean ache with empathy.

Cas wanted everyone to have dignity and independence.

Cas wanted all of humanity equal.

Dean was pretty sure that would take billions of years.

“Dean,” Cas grabbed Dean's kimono, fisting the fabric. He let his wet face rest upon Dean's shoulder, trembling. “I only fear failing my charges,” he confessed thickly.

Dean knew that. He knew that to the fullest measure.

“It's that you're a flesh-born angel, and, because you're a good alpha,” Dean said quietly. “You have a deep, from-birth, need to provide, to protect.”

Cas nodded weakly. “Yes,” he admitted. “It's so arduous, Dean. All of you are unique. Beauteous.” He inhaled Dean's scent, then, audibly. “Golden, shining souls, meant to be free to walk the earth my heavenly father created just for them. Free will was a gift to you all. The gift of rejecting Him.”

“That's actually some kinda gift,” Dean replied, keeping his voice soft. “I read Genesis six times. The trees should have told me, huh? One for knowledge, one for mortality. We chose to eat the fruit, too.” Dean sighed, and put an arm around Castiel. “Don't you think that was kind of a dick move? We wouldn't have been curious or willful without being made that way.”

“I don't know my father's mind,” Cas said sadly. “I wouldn't presume to know it, Dean. All I know is how I'm made.”

“And, you wanted to turn Tor-Valen into Eden...” Dean hugged Cas harder. “I want to know, who among us, ate the fruit.”

A beat of silence. Then, Cas snickered. “It must have been me. You all followed me out. I'm Eve.”

Dean patted his back gently. He felt better for having broken Cas' downward spiral. “That casts me as the clueless patsy who obeys your will without thought, you know. Thanks, man.”

Cas chuckled tiredly. “You're welcome, Dean.”

Dean laughed out loud. “Sometimes, that deadpan delivery is spot-on,” he said. “Come on. Let's turn this around. Ellen will need to start a mushroom crop somewhere, and this is a good place for that. Don't mushrooms eat poop, or something? A little, subtle commentary about what we think of this room. Fill it with poop.”

Cas stepped back only to laugh, and Dean could see his eyes gleaming in the light of the lamp. “What a good idea, Dean. Only spores should live in the dark,” he said, his voice no longer holding such weight and sorrow. “And, since we can't fix the stairs immediately, I'll have a handrail put in.”

“Good plan.” Dean picked up the lantern. “Right now, though, I have to choose a room for us. Because, you certainly won't care what I pick, seeing as they're all garish.”

“I will indeed leave that decision in your capable hands,” Cas agreed.

(______________________________________________________________________)

In his life, Dean had been taken away, dragged away, summoned and sent, but he'd never been lost inside a house before. It was an unwelcome experience. He could be entirely alone, it was so quiet. Everything was different, yet exactly the same, too. He found he had to stop glossing over the paintings and decorations, because they were the only indicators of direction. The doors were all identical, seemingly.

The worst part, though? Mirrors. Mirrors everywhere. He was sick of seeing his own, startled face in them, catching glimpses of the emotions twisting him all up. He had no idea his thoughts showed up on his face like this. He'd been an open book to everyone who ever met him. That had to stop. For the sake of his family, now and in the future, that had to stop. He couldn't protect people if the enemy knew exactly what he had on his mind.

He should be like Cas, and wear a stone face whenever possible.

Dean stopped, and sat on an old, gilt framed, velvet cushioned chair that creaked and groaned as a protest to his weight. He hoped he'd break the thing.

No, he couldn't be like Cas, Dean decided after a mere moment's consideration. Cas' rigid demeanor was an act, carefully constructed over the years to conceal his sensitivity. The world thought very little of sensitive alphas.

Dean was sick of the dynamic. Sick of it. He hated the laws, the double-standards. Lucifer was a dick for doing this to people. Thought he'd foul up God's design. And, he had, apparently. Dean knew people usually needed little excuse to exploit. It didn't matter for what reason, either. Exploit the weak, the women, the omegas, chew them up and spit them out. For fun. For profit.

Why did everything come back to money? Dean was surrounded by gold and opulence. Naomi felt fine with it, because their occupancy meant giving people work and funds. Cas hated it because it was a monument to greed and slavery.

Castiel, though a good businessman, wanted people to prosper without money coming into the equation at all. He'd had that greenhouse, and, those farm animals, to cause prosperity. Tried to be self-sustaining. Made a fortune selling his special honey...

Dean hadn't missed the intimidated wonder on the faces of his brother and father when seeing Fen-Taven. Well-traveled Sam had never seen this place, and John would never have had an excuse to be here, not even as dustman. Now, here they both were, because of Dean. Married into the Novak clan as surely as anything, because Novak people highly approved of, and, promoted keeping family close, and, because they feared war would tear them apart.

What floor was he on? He couldn't remember how many staircases he'd climbed.

Dean got up, and gave the chair a backward kick without looking. He heard it break, and smiled.

So there, ugly chair.

Telling himself that he'd just pick the last room at the end of the hall and be done with it, Dean started walking again. He passed an umbrella stand made of an enormous, hollowed out animal's foot, and stopped, backing up. Yeah, that had once been part of an animal. He didn't know what kind, but it hardly mattered. Carefully, he removed all the (no doubt) antique parasols, putting them to the edge of the wall. The ugly, hollowed out leg, Dean picked up.

At the end of the hall, Dean opened the last door. It was a three-part living area, with one bedroom, a study, and a place for dining. Of course, all the rooms were completely furnished. Dusty, too. Dean sneezed. He walked to the dining area, which had windows and a door facing the sea. Or, ocean. Dean didn't know the difference, and, just like with the tides at Merrisax, he didn't care.

Dean opened the door to find a well appointed terrace. He breathed in the brine, and chucked the big, ugly foot over the side. With interest, he leaned out to watch it fall.

That was when he discovered he didn't like heights.

Dean looked down, down, down, seeing that it was a sheer drop elongated by cliff-side. The water smashed in rhythm against the craggy rocks with all the power nature could manage. If he fell over the bannister, he'd be dead. And, he'd have a long time to savor his oncoming demise, too.

Dean was tired of being afraid. No, he would not choose another suite. He went back in, and looked for the bell pull. That would alert Meg as to his choice. Someone would come up to clean, and he'd get a bath. The tub was in the bedroom, near the fireplace, of course.

Going to the standing closet, Dean indulged in curiosity. Maybe the previous owners had left a few belongings. Anything to occupy himself. He opened the door and found a single, violently red scarf lying crumpled and abandoned at the bottom. “I see why you didn't go with your owner,” Dean muttered. He picked it up, an idea forming.

Picking the scarf out didn't take long. He wound the yarn around his hand as he went. Once finished, he tied an end to his outer door handle, and began wandering again.

Dean would have thought a rectangular house, designed by a sane person, would have clear entryways and halls. As Fen-Taven had been designed by a barking mad duke, then decorated by a gold-loving, tasteless freak, not so much. Some doors had greenery hanging down, completely concealing their passages. Ivy in high mounted planters, left alone except for servants watering them, just growing happily on for years and years.

Other doors had large furniture sticking to one side or the other, crammed in, breaking up the line of continuity that told your eyes that you were looking at a door. It was stupid. Dean shoved a coat tree out of the way, battling old coats still on it, and went through a frame painted green and, of course, gilt with gold.

This was a music room, Dean supposed. Not only did it have a whopping great piano in the center, it had an enormous harp, some stringed instruments, and a display case full of flutes. “Can't make it to the opera?” Dean asked the past owners sarcastically. “Well, you really couldn't, if you came to my old town.”

But, it hadn't really been his town, had it? Only Tor-Valen had welcomed him.

Tor-Valen.

God, Dean missed it's warm simplicity.

There were two other doors, here, one on each side of the room. Dean chose the left one. It opened up to a turret staircase. Dean figured in the age of the building against Calamity, and concluded it wasn't really an omega presentation turret. He didn't want to go up in it, though. Why was it even here?

Dean re-entered the music room, and went out the only door he hadn't touched yet. It showed him to a hallway full of identical doors, lined in clusters of accent tables with curios atop. He heard distant footsteps coming closer, and paused to listen. That slight pause in stride sounded like Sam. He could only hope it was, because he felt full of friction.

His brother would calm him.

A door opened near the middle of the hall. It was indeed Sam. He looked both ways, spotted Dean, and headed right for him, quick, but not running. That seemed a good sign.

“Dean,” Sam said, eyes wide. “What kind of a place is this? I got lost taking just one wrong turn from the central parlor, and that was fifteen minutes ago.” He looked down at the yarn wrapped around Dean's hand, and followed the string. He smiled. “I was too proud for that, and look where it got me.” Sam tilted his head, frowning as a thought occurred. “You have perfect memory...?”

“I have no idea. Something about the jumbled up furniture, maybe, or the halls being laid out strangely,” Dean answered. “Some things I can remember. All this distracting stuff isn't going into my brain the right way.”

More footsteps, measured and easy. Dean caught Crowley’s scent in the breeze. He was already on this level, then, not coming up, like Sam had done. The last, left hand door at the end of the hall opened, and the tailor swaggered out like he owned the place. He saw them, but didn't hurry over. He started opening doors as he went, but only the left side of the hall. Taking his time, he glanced into each room, evaluating.

“He likes it here,” Sam observed.

“Crowley's a little ambitious,” Dean informed. “He came from poorer digs, I think, like us.”

“But, we think it's too much, and he thinks it's okay?” Sam made his 'I'm confused' face. It had just a touch of 'do I need to judge?' with it.

“Maybe it's about being secure. Linked to a powerful family.” Dean motioned for Sam to follow him into the music room. “Have a look at this. Someone wanted their time filled in.”

Sam stood with his hands on his hips, gazing about. “I don't play anything. Do you?”

“Drum, rattle, and bamboo flute,” Dean listed. “None of which are represented here.”

Sam quirked a smile at him. “Why those?”

“Katas are best learned and performed with music. A steady beat helps with concentration. Sonny and I, and whatever child was good enough, would play for the others.” Dean missed that music. He'd been remiss on his katas for a long time, now, and he'd have to get back to practicing. He'd do them in the morning.

“You mean, you were allowed to do katas?” Sam asked, again confused. “None of the omegas in Xia Pau said anything to me about that.”

“Sam.” Dean smiled at his brother, and shook his head. “An omega isn't going to strike up a conversation about his or her katas. Omega culture tends to be private. You, a big, hulking alpha, probably made them nervous. What were you doing, hoping for love?”

“Well, I wasn't against the idea,” Sam grumbled. “It's a big country, Dean, and the civilization is fascinating.”

“I begin to see why you seek Kevin for company,” Dean said. “Any interest...?”

“He's a friend,” Sam said firmly. “I like women, remember?”

“Women like Elizabeth?” Dean pried gently. “She seems all right. You were teaching her the bow, weren't you?”

“Um, she's very...” Sam started to blush. “I do like her. She's been a little preoccupied with helping Kara, though.”

“Hello, boys,” Crowley said, poking his head in. “Still choosing where to lay your heads at night?”

Dean showed him his yarn.

“Excellent. I'll take the room beside you, for strategic purposes.” Crowley began following the red string, putting a finger on it. “This top floor is apparently for the nobles, but who cares?”

“Ring your bell pull,” Dean advised. “Someone knows to come in and clean, that way.”

“Noted, buttercup!” Crowley called out.

“He's a really good friend of yours, Dad said,” Sam mused, watching Crowley leave.

“No, he's a great friend,” Dean corrected. “I hope he goes wherever I go. I really do. I never knew, when we met, that he'd end up so important to me. I think that's what happens with people, though. Sometimes you get a lucky break. I sure did.”

“Yeah.” Sam opened the piano, and plinked on it a few times. The tone sounded sour, and Dean winced even as Sam did. Sam closed the cover quickly. “You know, I understood that your new family was wealthy, but...” He breathed out heavily, eyes distant even though focused upon the wall. “It's one thing to know, and another to see. Maybe I thought since they contributed so much to the war effort, that they lived modestly. I'm a little off balance, here.”

“We all are,” Dean assured. “Cas more than anyone, I think. Possibly, it's a tie with Jo. She was married to the Tor-Valen land. Now, she's got to learn how to trap new game, figure out where to hunt, and so on.”

“Jo was the one who hunted the wild game?” Sam smiled. “Typical alpha. At least the alpha women aren't dumb brutes.”

“Sammy, you're not a dumb brute,” Dean said. “You were smartest kid, ever, and I see no reason for that to have changed about you just because you ended up in Panomu's navy.”

“Dean...” Sam turned his pained, dark eyes to him. “I feel like a dumb brute just being in the room with you, a little. You don't walk, you float. You don't stand in a room, you shine in it. And, I shouldn't be looking four inches down at you.”

“I'm perfectly comfortable looking four inches up at you,” Dean parried. “I think the difference is that you had to stay at home, and, brood about my absence. I wasn't given time to consider what happened to me. Not much. I wrote you letters after all chores were completed, and the children slept safely. Then, I went to bed, too.”

“Routine.” Sam's lips thinned. “I hate what happened. Dad is sorry. I know he means it. But, until I see him go without a bottle for a few years, and gain some confidence in his changes, it's gonna be rough. Me and him, I mean.”

“Just promise me you won't let the bitterness stand in the way of future hope,” Dean asked, keeping his tone gentle and easy. “And, don't use my circumstances to keep fanning the flames against Dad. All said and done, he's not the first person to haul a son or daughter off to an omega house. They exist for a reason.”

Sam frowned, but he did nod his understanding.

Dean patted his shoulder. “Any chance you found a toilet somewhere, while you were lost?”

“I'm still lost,” Sam lamented. “And, I've got a terrible suspicion we're using the pots under all the beds.” He shivered his disgust. “I liked the toilet at Tor-Valen, and the outdoor privy. I do not want people coming into my room to collect my...” Sam grimaced. “I have to water the lilies right now! Just talking about it!”

Dean laughed inwardly. Sam and Cas shared an aversion to having their waste carted away by servants. Being a navy man, Sam was accustomed to relieving himself on the open ocean, perching himself on the 'poop deck' to accomplish that. He'd said so himself, when Dean had asked what sailors did to get rid of all bodily waste.

Prudes, the pair of them. How funny.

“Come to my room, and you can pee off the terrace,” Dean said, now chuckling audibly. “Aim for a big, ugly umbrella stand.”

(___________________________________________________________________)

When Sam said he was going to wander some more, Dean took the opportunity to lie down on the freshly made, clean bed. It was too soft. It was too high off the floor. It wasn't Cas' bed. They'd had to leave everything not absolutely vital, and most of the furniture counted as non-vital. The only furniture they'd taken, actually, were the servant's.

Peri and Felicity were still cleaning this chamber. Dean felt bad about that. At Tor-Valen, he'd mostly kept clean the room he shared with Cas. He could do the same here, but right now he felt tired and overwhelmed. “I wonder how we're all going to bathe around here? This place is huge. I mean carrying water for so many people...” Dean mulled aloud, and Felicity smiled at him shyly.

“Sir,” she said, a touch of impudence in her tone. “That was the first question I posed to the man who oversees the house when it isn't occupied.” She walked over to the bathtub. “Allow me to demonstrate his ingenuity. Not having a full staff all the time, he's made some time-saving adjustments to Fen-Taven.”

Dean, curious, sat up.

Felicity pushed against a small panel on the wall, and what Dean thought was a ceiling vent hole, began flowing with hot water. It hit the tub in the center. “You can't stop it once you start it,” she informed. “The water is measured out in a tank, and the tank is on the roof.”

Dean finished his last glass and put his veil back on. Miss Masters took that silent cue and unlocked the door. “Charlie? He's all yours,” she announced. “You got his bath ready?”

“Summersby and Wilkes finished pailing it up five minutes ago,” Charlie said, coming in. “I'll be so glad when the collectors on the roof are finished. No more hauling hot water upstairs.”

Huh. Meg must have initiated the thing going on at Tor-Valen. Dean figured she'd been in contact with this yet unknown estate manager.

Fascinated, Dean stared at the ceiling. “How is it heated?”

“The sun,” she said cheerfully. “The tanks are black, and absorb the light. Unfortunately, the best time of day to have a hot bath is about four o'clock in the afternoon. Accommodations will be made for you upon request, though.”

“Do you want us to finish the cleaning tomorrow?” Peri asked, smiling.

“Yes, please,” Dean said. He wanted to bathe very much.

As soon as he was alone, Dean stripped. He pulled a screen to stand between himself and the door, then tested the water. A little too hot. He'd have to wait, having grown accustomed to lesser water temperature. Oh, he wished he had soap, and a change of clothes. He put his silk trousers back on, and made his way to the terrace again. On the way, he snagged a dining chair.

He would sit in the clouds until it no longer scared him. Even if it took years, he'd persist.

Dean had to admit it was a good view, if one didn't think about the height. Very faintly, he could see a ship out there, near the horizon. Large birds with keening cries flew all over the place. They were very white, with long beaks that looked capable of great force. They probably ate fish.

Didn't it figure a fisherman clan would seize a property like this? They were a big family, too, so...

“I miss my boathouse,” Dean complained to one of the birds that sat on the safety rail. “If I go back to Tor-Valen and find it wrecked, someone will pay. Even if I have to dig them up.”

The bird side-eyed him.

“You don't have any idea,” Dean went on. “For you, a house is something to fly over, or drop birdie bombs on. For me, a house is...”

He stopped.

He sighed.

“For me, it's wherever Cas is,” Dean finished. “I'm being a child. I'm better than this. Don't you tell anyone I'm sulking. Or, that I'm talking to a damned bird. No, you know what? Wait for Cas to get here. He can actually speak 'bird', or whatever.”

Contrarily, the bird chose that moment to fly away.

Dean didn't blame it.

He went back in, found his water perfect, and made short work of easing down into the tub shaped like a fancy soup tureen. It was a lot slicker than Castiel's copper tub. But, it felt good.

The door opened and shut. Dean heard Castiel's distinctive sigh. He set something heavy down. Dean judged it by the big 'thump'. “Just because I'm the master of the house, doesn't mean I can't carry things,” he uttered forcefully.

“Join me in the literal stew pot,” Dean invited.

“I dare not even look at you, Dean, not naked,” Cas replied. “As frustrated as I am right now, you'll present to me as a release valve. Your golden skin is beyond tempting. The only gold in this house I actually have a preference for.”

Dean heard the bed give a slight squeak.

“Heavenly Father, this old marshmallow!”

Dean, validated to his earlier opinion, grinned. “We could put some boards under the mattress...?”

“I'll add it to the nearly insurmountable list of improvements,” Cas promised. “There is a hollowed out elephant's foot on the shoreline. Please tell me I have you to thank.”

“It was hideous.” Dean used his hands to scrub himself, having nothing else. Already, his water looked grey. “What's an elephant?”

“A gentle, giant land walker that went extinct,” Cas informed. “People hunted them for their long tusks, and, apparently, their feet. Disgusting. And, there is ivory all over this house.”

“Ivory?”

“What they called the tusks, to distance themselves from their cruel, barbarous murders,” Cas said. “Elephants were intelligent and peaceful.”

“You weren't there to see them, so how do you know?” Dean resumed relaxing. He'd get a better bath tomorrow, with soap.

“It's part of my heritage to know about this planet's flora and fauna, past and present. Only light-born can know the future. For that, I am deeply thankful.” The bed squeaked again. “Flora and fauna means plants and animals, by the way.”

“Thanks for sparing me,” Dean joked. He'd known that already. “Crowley's settled in beside of us.”

“Most satisfactory. He is my go-to for your safety, when I am not available. Where are Sam and John?”

“No idea. Dad's still in Sam's black books, but I think they'll unite to be up here, with me. Are we on the top floor? It looked like it, but I may have been too overwhelmed to make a good judgment call.”

“Yes,” Cas said. “We are indeed on the top floor. My parents have taken the opposite side. For some gonzo reason, they like this antique gold dump.” Cas' words picked up some heat, now. “They always did treasure the bizarre. Maybe that's why they love me so much.”

“They love you because you're their son,” Dean corrected. “They love me because I love you. Leave it simple, grumpy. I'm out of my element, too, you know. I talked to a bird not seven minutes ago.”

“What did it say?” Cas asked, all innocent.

They broke up laughing at the same time. The bed squeaked more, because Cas was shaking it with his humor.

“Ah, I needed that,” Cas sighed out. “Tell me, why did you choose this suite?”

“I was tired of looking, and the terrace view scared the crap out of me,” Dean admitted. “Call it perversity, call it childishness, call it whatever. I'm going to sit on that terrace once a day until I'm not frightened of great heights anymore.”

“Admirable,” Cas pronounced. “I asked because this was my original set-up.”

Dean blinked in surprise. “You're not serious.”

Had that been Cas' red scarf he'd butchered?

“I am.” Cas chuckled briefly. “And, after all these years, there wouldn't be a trace of my scent in here, not with the sea constantly churning the gentle scent of aquatic rot into the very bones of the place. I wasn't in it regularly to begin with. I only chose this spot because it was as far away as I could get from everyone else, and I happened to like the view.”

Dean stared at the wall, astonished he'd selected Cas' old, seldom-used rooms.

“I'll admit, I also committed to this room grouping because it had a place I could eat in peace, and, the music room is throwing distance.” Cas sighed again, a sound of surrender and confession. “Meals, Dean, have never been particularly peaceful affairs in my family. The tumultuous family holidays were ear-shattering. And, smelly. When compelled to leave my alpha boarding house to attend religious observations here, I opted to withdraw a bit. My superior senses don't enjoy a constant bombardment.”

Dean could understand that. Sonny's, filled with quiet, respectful industry, and, somber personalities, was also isolated. The only traffic it experienced came in the form of alphas seeking well-spoken, dignified omegas, or the twice a month supply wagons. Going into town every time he'd been bought, felt stressful to Dean. Even when only accompanying Sonny somewhere, tumultuous activity made him jumpy and raw.

“Mother would love nothing more than to surround you with quietude,” Dean informed softly. “She admitted to me how much she'd like to see you thrive in it. And, she regrets that making a businessman out of you, took you away from your art.”

Cas didn't say anything for a good, solid minute, maybe more.

Dean didn't break the silence, preferring to let Cas think.

“Dean, you can't possibly know how that warms me,” Cas said at last. “She has never once expressed this to my face.”

“I think both of your parents have problems with overt praise. I also think their own parents may be the cause of it.” Dean stood, feeling the water run off of him in rivulets. He pulled the hard rubber stopper, wondering where the water went. He faintly considered that either Peri or Felicity had thought to block the drain prior to his bath. “We are all products of the people who raise us. It's up to us to not pass the bad crap to our own kids, but no one gives out parenting guides. You couldn't trust them anyway, as some stranger wouldn't know the complicated layers of your child's mind.”

Dean grabbed his silk trousers, hating to put them on. He also hated serving as an interpreter between Cas and his own mother. “You're an alpha reared by alphas. It's got to be a weird environment. I'm an omega, and to Mother, that means I'm 'safe' to talk to, to guide, to nurture. She would have been doing her damnedest to prepare you for a cutthroat, alpha world.” The lightweight fabric stuck to him awfully. He stood there, breathing in the scent of the sea, and, Cas' heartbreaking hope for his mother's sanction. “That's an alpha perspective, Cas. She was trying to do right.”

“It...” Cas made the bed squeak with a fretful movement. “It stifled me, Dean.”

“It had to,” Dean supported. “Damn, did it have to.” Dean felt heartened that his own children wouldn't face alpha conditioning like what Cas had gone through. Because, if Cas chaffed at the bit from being raised that way, he would on no account do that to their children.

“I thought my interests and pursuits were meaningless,” Cas followed through.

Dean shut his eyes a moment, and grabbed onto his center calm to keep his scent from reflecting sorrow.

“Cas, she showed me the statue you sculpted of Poseidon, specifically, and the pride in her voice wasn't something she could fake. Even so, I could scent her.” Dean stood there beside the tub, using the dressing screen as a way to let Cas keep his privacy during great emotion. “She smelled only of approval. And, she told me of your ink-washes, whatever those are. They moved her heart. I had to give her words some importance.”

Cas fell to silence, and Dean continued to stand there.

“Dean, you speak more like my mother now than you did before this trip,” Cas said at long last. “You are gleaning the formal speech patterns of the high-born. Less than a half month with educated servants and their masters, in close quarters, and you accommodate. You adopt. I heard your conversations.”

“Good heavens,” Dean heard his father say. “This entire family has perfect elocution.”

“Cas, it's been a steady progression,” Dean pointed out. “I don't ordinarily forget things, and I'm surrounded by eloquent people. I've been reading a dictionary, too.”

“Yes, I do understand,” Cas said after a few moments. “But, I loved your plain speech.” He groaned shortly. “You are so versatile. When you came to me, you were blunt, but not crude. Quieter. Then, you learned crudity for self-expression, lightning fast. After, you began to express yourself more fully.”

“And?” Dean folded the privacy screen, moved it to a wall, and propped it. “As Mother said, it's a form of survival.”

“It is,” Cas agreed. “I only mourn the fact you think you have to change in order to feel safe. Wanting to fit in is only about safety. And, to that point, I want you to go out onto the frightening deck, and look at the drop-down ladder made of chain and metal bars. It's there for an 'out' against fire. You can unroll it, and climb down to the cove.”

Dean obediently went to the terrace. He found the rolled up ladder in a half-moment, took another moment to assess how it was made to drop down very cleanly, and stared at it awhile. Here was a thing that would keep people on the top floor from burning alive. Very clever. Very smart. Cas may or may not be responsible for the ladder's existence, but his awareness for the need of it was obvious. Because he'd made Dean sleep in a stable rather than sleep on the top floor of Hideaway Inn.

Dean paced back to the bed, and fell upon it beside of Cas. He knew what Cas meant about feeling safe, and a small part of him very much agreed with that summation. But, the survivor in him was stronger, born of being a weaker part of the already stupidly strict, masculine part of the dynamic. He was a lesser man, born to give birth, but his status ever fluctuated.

A man that can bear child is strange. An omega woman is only a woman very suited to provide offspring. An alpha woman is an anomaly. But, she's more of a tomboy than anything else. An omega male is only suited for birthing alpha sons, if facts and figures align.

“I'm lucky enough, apparently, that all the well-spoken people in your elliptic have context and real meaning in their speech,” Dean said carefully. “Like anyone, I learn by what I hear. Babies learn how to talk properly by what they hear. Children, by what they write and hear. The ears come first, Cas.”

Castiel rolled onto his back, nodded, and closed his eyes. “I know. I just never wanted you to change because of being afraid. If I was an ideal alpha, you wouldn't have put yourself into adapting.”

Dean felt his face moving into a scowl. Cas was being a dick, even if he didn't mean to be. And, Dean was tired of hearing self-castigation from his beautiful husband. “Hey, screw you,” he threw out, sitting up so he could glare at him. “My efforts at self-improvement and education don't have shit to do with you.”

But, that wasn't exactly true. He was changing in order to not embarrass Cas. To present well.

Cas' pretty blue eyes opened wide. “What?”

“It's not all on you, man,” Dean stressed, ticked off. “I happen to like learning. I think you do, too. Don't push me into some kind of gender-related hole, okay? Let me do as I want to do, Cas. Sorry if you like me some certain way, because I'm not gonna quit improving myself, ever, not for any reason, not even for you!”

In heavy silence, they stared at one another. Dean could see he'd very much shocked Cas. He could smell it, too.

Cas licked his lips, and nodded. “I'm arrogant, Dean. Forgive me.”

Dean smelled Cas' regret, now.

Cas took everything to heart. Everything.

“It's of no consequence, as long as you actually heard me loud and clear,” Dean relented. “I know you alphas focus a lot on taking command. You take it a step farther, though, Cas. You assume too much blame. You can't control everything.”

“I'm beginning to see I have a few problems with it,” Cas agreed. “Dean, this aspect of myself, and some others as well, are why I so eagerly asked for the mission of saving Tor-Valen. Country living is very different from this...” He waved a hand in the air. “Well, living like a prince.” Cas smiled, and it wasn't a good kind of smile. More like a rictus. “This museum of a house has me on edge. My apologies, Dean.”

“It's fine, like I said.” Dean stared at the timepiece on the mantle. He couldn't even read it, it was so ornate. “What's a museum?” He hadn't touched upon a lot of 'M' words in the dictionary, yet, so intent upon opening to random pages for the fun and surprise.

“An historical depository,” Cas answered. “Collections of artifacts that have survived great passages of time.”

“Huh.” Cas had certainly summed this house up properly. “You're not allowed to sell Fen-Taven, but you are actually allowed to modify it, or the main caretaker wouldn't have been able to put water tanks on the roof. Why don't you throw some of these... artifacts, into a storage building?”

“A fine notion, but I liked your first solution. Pitch it out a window and let the sea swallow it.” Cas sat up, too, now, his gaze coasting over Dean's bare chest. “You are so lovely. Inside and out, simply stunning.”

Dean waited for Cas to act, to reach out and touch, but he didn't.

“You're having restraint issues, aren't you?” Dean asked quietly. Because, Cas' scent had kicked up with the sweet, musky tones of intimacy and longing.

“Dean, I want you so much,” Cas confessed, looking him straight in the eyes. “I'm afraid that by the time I'm allowed to have you, I'll be rough with impatience.”

Dean thought he'd be fine with the manhandling, actually. It was sweet of Cas to feel concerned, but at this point...

Well, Dean wouldn't complain about being given the high hard one. He had needs himself. Denying them both made his blood boil at night. Close contact in tents and carriages, with others he felt no attraction to, had only heightened his desire.

“Were you able to slake your nerves on a brigand or two, along the trip?” Dean asked him. “I wasn't able to constantly track your position.”

“I slew a man just outside of Clearwater,” Cas answered, sober and soft. “He was a multiple murderer with not a speck of conscience. It helped. But, I sometimes wish I could feel guilty, Dean. I can't force myself to sorrow, not for eliminating vermin, yet I know I ought to feel something.”

Dean looked into those deep, vastly intelligent eyes, anger with Zachariah resurrecting itself. “How about I just feel it for you?” He offered, his throat aching. “You can't change the way you're made. You shouldn't want to. There's nothing wrong with you, Cas.”

Cas smiled just a little. “Good of you say so.” He slid from the bed and stood. “Ruto and Sphinx have their own access doors to the house. I had Peterson arrange that while I showed Ellen the site for her mushrooms. She has spores enough to start the crop.”

So, business, then. Cas had hit an intimacy limit.

Understandable.

“How did she take the kitchen?” Dean allowed him his coping methods. Pushing people rarely accomplished anything, and Cas had been pushed enough already.

“Dean, she's intimidated,” Cas reported, blue eyes full of worry. “Kara, too. It will take thirty people, or more, to run a kitchen like that, because we will be serving a staff of at least eight hundred people, all said and done. This property sprawls over thirty-five hundred acres, and, much of it will have to go toward crops and livestock.”

“I'd thought about that,” Dean admitted. “You brought seeds with us, didn't you?”

“Yes. I always have seeds in storage, because they're valuable.” Cas took off his tail coat, and threw it onto the bed. “I have another matter for us to discuss,” he added. “In the country, I mostly followed country rules of dress and conduct. Here, my parents will expect me to set an example.”

“I need to follow suit, pun intended,” Dean intuited. “Luxuriant layers.”

“Yes, Dean, I'm sorry,” Cas said, his shoulders drawing down. “Rocky White is not like Panomu. It is a country where people go to be seen as civilized and law abiding. All other countries look to Rocky White for fashion, and worthwhile pursuits. You didn't see such at the port, because ports are too chaotic for standardized dress.”

Dean began to see the problem. Cas, kind of free spirit, would have to rein in his manner. And, he had to be careful to present a certain way at all times.

“What do you know of alpha society?” Cas asked.

“I know what I was taught,” Dean answered. “I know what I saw when taken into town. Alphas decide everything. Betas are free to be whatever they want, providing they have the funds. And, omegas are expected to bond with alphas, for their own protection.” Dean rolled his eyes at that one. “Sonny did tell us that we didn't always dress like this. He said there was a big furor over how to dress omega males, in Panomu.”

“He was correct.” Cas threw his cravat onto the bed next. “Panomu separated from Rocky White over the issue, if you can believe that. Rocky White maintained that omega males should be identified by lace.”

“Lace?” Dean couldn't have heard that right.

“Lace,” Cas repeated. “As we speak, Crowley is no doubt having his fabrics organized so he can begin making clothing traditional to this country.” Cas pulled his shirt off, and held it. “You might have noticed my shirts button all the way down?” He tossed the shirt to the floor. “That isn't the dignified way, here. Now it'll be lawn and half button style. I despise them. Having to button up after I pull the thing over my head?”

“Okay. Now, imagine wearing what I wear,” Dean said, poking him gently.

“I'm sorry, Dean.”

“You had nothing to do with it. And, you like me in my omega finery.” He winked. “Am I expected to wear the lace, here?”

“It's up to you.” Cas sat on the bed again. “Would you please open the chest I brought up here, and get me a new shirt?”

Dean spied the wooden, iron-bound chest, and smiled as he went to it. “Cas, this thing weighs a ton. That's why everyone protested your carrying it.” He popped the latch, and saw the left side was Cas', and the right, his own. In the middle, his keepsake box. He dug down, found a shirt. It was indeed only meant to button from halfway up. “If I continue to wear the kimonos and under layers, will it hurt your status?”

“No,” Cas said, taking the shirt when Dean offered it. “It will, however, make you very exotic. You'll draw attention when we go into the town. People will want to approach you, to talk, to see what you're like, Dean.”

“That isn't bad, is it?” Dean asked.

“Of course not. You should make all the friends you want.” Cas got the new shirt on, and Dean found him a fresh cravat without waiting for a request. “That black and white outfit you like so much, will be seen as very odd, be warned. Your best bet might be to come off as mysterious. The fact you're my mate will be reason enough for people to talk.”

“Cas, when I came to Tor-Valen, it didn't bother anyone when Ellen suggested I get clothing that suited kitchen work,” Dean pointed out. “No one cared. Is it this different, here? Why?”

“We've gone from a democracy to a monarchy, Dean,” Cas said, shaking his head. “Living here means I have to be given a title. I hope to God it's a simple one.”

“I don't understand,” Dean admitted.

Cas tied his cravat, and used a very elaborate knot. “Panomu had a system in place, in which all landed alphas could vote in their government offices. Rocky White has a king and queen, a prince. They rule over the entire nation, unchallenged.”

“Well, are your parents expected to-?”

“No. They handed the control of the entire family to me, in front of many witnesses. They do not have to receive a title. People will probably refer to them with respect to whatever position I fall into.” Cas went to the chest and got a fresh, black tail coat, shaking it out. “I shouldn't have interrupted you, I'm sorry. It's only that I find I'm running late. I have to meet with the family solicitor, who then has to find me a barrister. I need one on hold just for safety's sake.”

Cas was out the door in a blink.

Dean sat on the bed, his mind reeling.

Cas hadn't really answered his question...

He supposed the first thing to do was decide if he wanted to be 'exotic'.

(_____________________________________________________________________)

Only a single knock alerted Dean to a visitor. He barely had time to sit up in bed before Crowley was coming through the door, his arms laden with cloth. “Dean, I made sixteen kimonos for you, but you'll have to do the designs and embroidery yourself, I'm sorry. I'm in a terrible rush.” He tossed the kimonos down to the bed. “Where's your stud? It's past midnight.”

“Had to meet with a solicitor,” Dean said. “What's the actual hurry?”

“I can't let Naomi look under-dressed,” Crowley answered, his eyebrows going up, his mouth forming a scowl. “She's going back into polite society, Dean. I'm not allowing a decent family like the Novaks to come off as country chawbacons!”

Dean really felt adrift. He needed a rule book to figure out what was going on. He really did. No one had time to explain anything to him. “I could help you make lace,” he offered.

“Well, all right. Women and omegas may wear it.” Crowley fussed with his sleeves a few seconds. “I, ah, didn't ask, but...?”

“The kimonos are fine,” Dean promised. “Cas said I'd just look exotic.” Dean got up and opened the chest of clothes. “I need a dressing gown.” He found a decent one, and put it on. “Lead the way.”

If Crowley's room had been chaotic at Tor-Valen, here it was an explosion of color and contrast. Dean stared at the mess. He thought to tease his friend, but reconsidered as he listened to him curse. Crowley had a dress form standing up, adorned with what looked like a half-finished gown in white muslin underneath yellow eyelet. It had yet to be pinned and trimmed.

“You remember the drop-lace?” Crowley asked, pointing to the cork board and tatting pillow by turns.

“I do,” Dean promised. He collected bobbins, going directly to work. Thanks to his memory, he didn't need a guiding pattern.

“So, culture shock yet, flower?” Crowley asked after a good hour of independent industry had passed.

“I have no idea what's going on,” Dean admitted. “But, I think you do.”

“I lived in Rocky White during my boyhood,” Crowley said. “Greymoore, specifically. It's on the west coast. Not a well populated place.”

“What made you go to Panomu?” Dean had what looked to be enough for the bell sleeves, now.

“I thought I could make more money. Not much of a story, there.” Crowley came and got one sleeve's worth of lace. “I'm leaving this white. It will be embellishment, matching the under-layer.”

Dean glanced over. “Good eye. I agree.”

Another hour of mostly silent work passed by peacefully. Dean finished the lace and simply continued with another pattern, using a guide. It was worse than the drop-lace, but he managed it easily enough. His mind fell into a good place, a place where he felt useful. He didn't know anything about his new home, but he knew Crowley, and he knew textiles.

Crowley finished the day dress, as it was called, and began a different one. It had layers of organza, and required a lace overlay, so Dean joined up with Crowley to begin that work.

“Dean, you don't know how much it helps, having you here,” Crowley said suddenly, forcefully. “We've come to a country where appearances are high on the list, and we entered like starving mongrels. I must have a team of people to get us caught up, but at least Naomi may be seen as a proper alpha female if people call on us tomorrow. It isn't polite to impose yourself upon a recently transplanted family for seven days, but bold people take risks in order to evaluate, or, to get in the good graces of important people, before their peers can.”

Dean wasn't comfortable with this information. At all. This new house was all about invasion, same as Tor-Valen had become, only, worse. Because, there, the invaders had come later, and Fen-Taven's were already threats looming close.

Dean felt sick.

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do,” Dean whispered, heartsick.

“I'll get you a book that dictates the responsibilities of a valet,” Crowley said very quickly. “There is an art form to tying a cravat, and unless you do the job, Castiel will have to hire a stranger to dress and groom him. I don't think either of you want that...?”

The mere thought of someone tending to his husband's dress and grooming, enraged Dean. Castiel belonged to him, not some outsider. Not some fussy prick that was paid to touch an alpha with a mind to make him perfect. He ground his teeth together, aware that Crowley was standing close, and, standing still. “No one else is to touch my mate,” he growled.

“I thought so,” Crowley replied calmly, but Dean smelled the bitterness of worry in his scent. “Castiel's presentation is of paramount importance, Dean. Never is he to be seen in less than perfect dress, for every occasion. He can't, for example, have lint, small hairs, or any foreign bodies on his clothes. He must shave every morning, not just when he feels like it, and, most importantly, he cannot be allowed to wander about in just his shirt and trousers.”

“Explain,” Dean ground out, trying to work while his ire flared. He hated this uselessly strict country already, with its crazy, intricate rules and over-attention to dress codes.

“It's a matter of dandy versus fop,” Crowley told him, still using a soft and gentle voice. “A dandy is a man who chooses plain, immaculate dress over gaudy finery. Trust me, you want the dandy.” He shook his head, sighing, and sat on the over-stuffed stool just below Dean. His eyes glistened in the low light. “Even when I was small, this divide was plain and stressful. That man who was hit with a rotten tomato? He was wearing a powdered wig, and white leggings with no gaiters?”

That guy, David, the Earl of Bragallen, had worn wig and powder, Dean remembered. “He really wasn't dressed much like Cas,” Dean answered. “Why is this important?”

“Because, the stockings that go below the close-fitting leggings, are only shown in oddly formal occasions, among a set group of nobles, unless those people strictly follow the fashion of the fop.” Crowley leaned back, and briefly closed his eyes. “The king and queen have the only historical books about dress code, and they leek the information as they see fit, for whimsey. The king's family set the code years ago, and they play with fashion as they want. It's a way to keep people distracted from real problems.”

Dean strung the net lace over the gown, and began pinning it for sewing. “Cas is of the crowd that wants the plain dress,” he surmised.

“Your stud is of the mind that a strict garment is better than overly rich, painted whoredom,” Crowley told him with a slight edge to his tone. “And, he's perfectly in the right. Even the monarchy uses the fop fashion, but just as a way of shaming the poor. Not very many people can afford the silk velvet and top quality wool. Castiel's choice displays rigidity, not vulgarity.”

“Okay.” Dean finished pinning, and stood back so Crowley could stand with needle in hand for swift stitching. “The alphas in Panomu dressed like him, though, mostly. Except, they rarely wore belted trousers.”

“Because they couldn't afford the fop fashion, and, Castiel wore clothing suited to overseeing an actual farm,” Crowley said, chuckling nastily afterward. “Wool, versatile and plentiful as it can be, isn't exactly cheap. Not even if you own sheep, darling. Once it's treated, smoothed, or, blocked, you do your best to not wear it out. That's why Castiel's new shirts go down to his damn knees. Linen and muslin are more easily cleaned or replaced than wool. You don't know, because you were raised in an omega house in Panomu, but an alpha's shirt is his actual undergarment.” Crowley stitched swiftly and expertly as he spoke, his short and nimble fingers making the exercise a dance. “You can clean or replace your under-layer, but that smart-looking outer layer is what's desired and judged.”

“I get it,” Dean said as information compiled in his brain. “The shirt is his underwear. Like my inner layer of a silk shift for my kimonos The large under-layer prevents sweat from staining the wool.”

“Exactly.” Crowley round-hemmed the bodice of the dress, so precise and quick that Dean barely followed it. “In this country, everyone, man or woman, no matter their designation, isn't judged for wearing trousers or leggings, at least not overtly. It's just practical to clothe yourself against the elements, yes?”

“I'll take your word for it,” Dean mumbled, taking a train of lace and sitting upon the floor to start attaching it to the hem of the gown. “But, it's colder, here. Why do the 'fancy' here, where it's colder?”

“Again, it's because of status. Here, it's more important to look good.” Crowley gave a tut of pure disgust, then, and paused to wipe his brow. “This country is the head of free trade, but, because of that, citizenship is strict. You want to live in Rocky White, you have to look and act the part. Castiel brought us here as a last resort, pun intended, to keep us all alive and thriving, while knowing it would turn the screw to him.”

Dean, affixing the hem as fast as he could while bleary at two-thirty in the morning, wanted to start weeping in earnest. “He sacrificed himself, again,” he practically shouted. The words stuck in his throat more than a little. “Fuck it all, Crowley!”

“I know,” Crowley said with sympathy. “Your stud is a good man. He's playing a long game so that the rest of us won't suffer. He could have chosen to take us all to Cold Croy, but he opted for this formal, stuffy nation, because he already had complete ownership of the house. At Cold Croy, his parent's holding would have gotten in the way. Caused questions as to who really had the control.”

An unsteady knock at Crowley's door made them falter. Crowley stood, and straightened his clothes. “Yes?” He asked, flicking an index finger toward the door.

“Crowley?” Cas' voice.

Crowley strode over to answer. Cas leaned in. The burning scent of vaporous alcohol and juniper, shot into the room.

“What the devil?” Crowley staggered back, a sleeve over his nose.

“My solicitor is apparently allergic to gin,” Cas said, leaning in. “I am not the slightest bit altered. Mr. Liris vomited upon me.”

Crowley dropped his arm, and coughed. He grabbed the bell pull. “You sit right here on my desk chair,” he ordered. “And, you stay until I have a bath drawn in your room. Dear Lord, you reek!”

Cas obeyed Crowley. He slumped over, staring at his shoes.

It took less than three minutes before footsteps sounded close by. Dean, working more slowly now, just occupied the room with his reeking, dejected husband. But, after about a half hour, Crowley returned looked satisfied.

“Stud, your bath is ready, and I even got an unscented soap up here for both of you.” He gave Cas a thick piece of cloth. “You bathe, then turn in. I'll have breakfast brought shortly after ten. Meg tells me the only thing on your agenda tomorrow is organizing the pheasant hunting. You have a short reprieve.”

“Thank God,” Cas said with feeling. He made his body assume a vertical stance. “Take at least two people as personal servants, and organize your sewing crew, Crowley. You and Ellen are my most important people. You need apprentices the same as she, I'd imagine. Maybe, your need is greater.”

“Oh, I do know that,” Crowley said, pushing Cas out the door. “Bathe, sleep, and take a fresh look.”

Dean followed Cas to their lodgings. They were alone, but the bath stood as a steaming beacon.

Now, shortly before three in the morning, Dean felt done to a turn. He took his robe off, and turned the covers back in the bed. As Cas got naked for his bath, Dean built a fire in their fireplace. He felt clumsy and slow, even stupid, but he managed to do what was needed within ten minutes. And, as he sat on the hearth with his back to the swelling flames, he felt a small stirring of hope.

Ellen and Crowley were indeed the two most important people in making this move a success. He could help both of them.

“Dean, oh shite,” Cas groaned as he slid low into the tub. “Would you choose some incense?”

Dean went to the bureau and looked for the incense box in Cas' own little collection of personal stuff. He found it after a bare moment, opened it, and began sniffing. The one that smelled of fresh, clean jasmine, seemed soothing and light. Calming. He lit a cone, then passed through the other rooms to open the terrace doors.

Smelling the sea water might help him overcome his latent fear. And, if Cas had chosen these quarters for the view, no doubt he'd eventually gained an appreciation for salt air.

Dean came back, and picked up the lushly padded stool. He carried it to the side of the tub, set it down, and simply occupied the corner with Castiel, facing him.

Cas splashed about, trying to clean himself of sick.

“Liris has a delicate system,” Cas sighed. “I'm happy I managed to get business concluded before he fell ill.”

“That's good,” Dean commented, now staring at the far wall instead of at his pretty, tempting husband. Looking at Cas peripherally was okay. “You let me know how I can help you, okay? I'm not in my element.”

Castiel heaved out a breath before taking up the small sliver of soap. “In some ways, Dean, you might be better suited to this new position than I am. For example, a male omega is greatly desired in this country. In Panomu, they were common, so a view rose up to put your sort in a disposable category.” He rubbed the soap over his beautiful pecs. “Rocky White considers male omegas as unusual, coveted, and lovely. Only knot-heads like Rushfell will insult and demean you.”

“Oh, so I'm a sweet addition,” Dean replied, picking at his silk shift. His hands were so rough that he couldn't truly enjoy the feel of it. “Do I make you look like a studly-stud, Cas?”

Cas splashed water on his face, rinsed his chest, and relaxed back against the tub. Shutting his eyes, his shoulders drew to a normal, easy tautness. “You do enhance my standing,” he admitted gently. “In more ways than you suspect.”

Dean got up, and rang the pull. There were, apparently, people paid to be awake at all hours, and he'd take advantage. He stood by the door, waiting, listening to Cas trying to clean the gin vomit from his skin. What Cas needed right now was food on par with what his mother and father tended to opt for.

The door opened, and Dean was glad to see Peri standing there, awaiting instruction. She didn't even look tired.

“Sir?” She asked simply.

“Have a platter made of Tunworth cheese, if we have it, with brined olives, peach slices, and stone wheat crackers,” Dean ordered. “Follow the formula if everything else is impossible. Send up dessert wine and cherry gelatin, if you can. Just basically attempt salt and sweet in the same serving. The master of the house needs fortification before bed.”

Peri smiled slightly, then bowed. “I believe something suitable can be arranged. Give us fifteen minutes. Would you like a chocolate drink with molasses sugar sent up as well, using thick cream?”

“That seems nice,” Dean replied. “See me at noon or later tomorrow, Peri. I will want to speak with you.”

“I obey, sir,” Peri said, bowing. She eased back, and Dean shut the door.

Dean paced back, and checked the fire. He lit another cone of incense. Despite the fragrant smoke and the sea, he could smell Cas the best. And, he was lovely.

It was deeper than that, though. Dean considered that Cas had always smelled perfect to him. Always. First moment. But, lately, he'd started to smell even better. This trip, having less than constant exposure to Cas, had opened Dean up to certain nuances in Castiel's scent. The undercurrent was home, and safety, the middle stratum more about strength. The top notes were always in harmony with his immediate emotion, or, state.

Dean appreciated that Cas had so many different layers. After years of smelling brutish alphas, Cas' complexity presented real importance.

Cas eventually quit the tub, wrapping a drying cloth around himself. He stepped out, and pulled the plug on the drain. Easy, warm, loose of hip, Cas got a shirt from the dressing chest, and slipped into it before dropping the drying cloth. “You ordered me food,” he said in a carefully neutral tone.

“You need something on your belly before you sleep,” Dean replied, smelling Cas' caution.

Cas' awareness that Dean was taking command without him.

A short, light staccato knock, came at the door. Dean answered, accepting a large tray from a maid he didn't know.

“All that you requested, and more,” the young girl said. “Peri wished me to inform you that Ellen and Kara are sleeping in the kitchen together for a few days to learn what is required of them. Kara was only too happy to direct your needs.”

“They are to receive top priority help whenever they request it,” Dean said. “Thank you.”

Dean put the tray on the bed, then shut and locked the door. “Get into bed, Cas,” he ordered gently.

Cas made himself comfortable, and Dean put the tray across his lap. He then got in beside of him, and snitched an olive. “Crowley tells me you have to shave every morning, so don't try to sneak out of here without doing that,” Dean said.

Cas eyed him a moment before cutting a wedge of cheese. “Yes, Dean,” he murmured.

“Also, I intend to be your valet, so don't hire one,” Dean said next. “The mere idea of someone else touching you makes me insane.”

Smiling, Cas chewed an olive. But, he said nothing. Kept his pretty blue eyes toward the tray.

“I'll probably spend the next few days helping Crowley make clothing for Mother.” Dean stole a cracker next, popping the whole thing into his mouth so he wouldn't get crumbs in the bed. “Crowley used to live in this country, so I expect he still has an idea about contacts for fabric.”

“Having my tailor in my home is highly advantageous,” Cas said. He had a taste of the gelatin, then opened the wine labeled as coming from Tor-Valen. “Actually, it is somewhat extravagant.”

“Was it extravagant at Tor-Valen?” Dean asked, stealing cheese next.

“Very.” Cas tried a peach slice. “Here, it's more a sign of exclusion. Any designs Crowley comes up with might be copied by the gentry in our area.”

“By gentry, you mean...?”

“Baronets, knights, and squires. Very loosely, what I am. The meaning isn't the same as what it was the first time this period of history played out.” Cas ate a cracker, took a swallow of wine, and let his head drop back a moment. “I hate this, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean replied, using his best tone of soothing. He brought up a happy memory to influence Cas' mood. “Aside from being vomited upon, was your meeting at all a success?”

Sighing, Cas offered his wine glass to Dean. “Poor Mr. Liris. Yes, I think so. He oriented me upon what I need to do, who I must contact. I will need to take a trip to Gwiddith within the month, so as not to insult the king. Apparently, one doesn't wait to be summoned.”

Dean drank the glass of wine, glad for the cool, sweet wetness. He took over for Cas, and refilled, giving back the glass. “What's our king's name?” To make sure Cas got more in his belly, Dean cut more of the cheese, and placed the small wedges upon a fan of crackers.

“Richard Roman,” Cas answered. “His wife's name is Faith, which I think is hilarious. Their son, the prince, is Jerrick. He is an absolute, spoiled, waste of time.”

“What a name,” Dean muttered.

“It translates to 'fresh hope', and never was a child more wrongly dubbed.” Cas drank the next glass of wine, and finished off the cheese and crackers. “Jerrick is even more of a wastrel than Samandriel was. He's fathered four children, officially. I'm sure there are others. I have a friend that wrote me news fairly often, and he told me long ago that, should I return to Rocky White, I would have to deal with the royal family on an annual basis.” Cas put the tray on the bedside table. “I'll have to write to Gadreel, tell him I've returned. Remind me.”

Dean got up, and snuffed the single lamp that burned. He wiped his feet on the rug before getting back in bed. The moonlight, strong enough to navigate with, seemed soothing. It helped in dealing with the constant crash of the surf. “I'll remind you,” he promised. “Get some sleep, Cas.”

“I will.” Cas put the mostly empty tray on the table by his side of the bed. He arranged Dean as the little spoon, and breathed in his scent slowly, savoring. “At least, when all is said and done, I can sleep with you at night.”

Dean was still smiling as he relented to his fatigue.

(________________________________________________________________________)

Chapter Text

For days, Dean worked with Crowley in a frenzy. Dress after dress, gown after gown they made, in a rainbow of colors. And, Crowley hired his help, but the young, identical twin boys, irritated him. Their accents were so thick that Dean had trouble understanding them, but Crowley easily picked out their words.

“Jan and Jason, will you please get moving on that tulle?” Crowley barked. “God's goiters, how can you be the sons of the local? I know Wentworth Stiles, and he's fast as lightning!” Crowley threw his hands in the air for emphasis. “Did your mother get bitten by a tsetse fly while carrying you?”

The boys, cowed by Crowley's manner and words, redoubled their work on Naomi's evening gown.

Dean finished the embroidery on his current project, and stepped back to have a look. “Crowley, this is missing something. I don't know what.”

Crowley hustled over and scanned the dress. “Hm.” He pulled a box out from under his bed, and began digging through it. “Contrast, flower,” he said. “All that lovely jewel blue and cream needs played up with tasteful shine.” He took a roll of ribbon out. “This?”

The ribbon shimmered a pale and delicate gold.

Dean took it. “Perfect.” He got ready to work, but Crowley took it right back. “What?”

“I'll do it. You need to get started on your own clothes. Your stud will need to show you off to the townspeople before long.” Crowley pointed to the corner. “Behind that roll of red silk velvet is the embroidery frame I gave you. I removed it before our mass exodus. You're welcome.”

Dean supposed Crowley was right, and went back to his rooms to collect a kimono to embellish. He found Alisha in there, hanging shirts in the big wardrobe. “Hey, Alisha,” he greeted. “More clothing for Cas?”

“Good day, sir,” Alisha greeted, not missing a beat. “Yes. Charlie picked these up in town. They seem of very high quality. She knows her fabrics.”

“Crowley's supposed to be making her some clothes, but that got put on hold. I hope she's not upset.” Dean chose a solid purple kimono, thinking he'd use a thin silver floss on it. Maybe lilies?

Alisha tutted. “Charlie has no need for finery.”

“Maybe not a need, but a desire,” Dean chuckled. “How's the rest of the house holding up? Ellen and Kara?”

“They have their work cut out for them, sir, but things are not as dire as they might appear,” Alisha said. “The footmen arrived this morning. They are the people you will notice wearing black uniforms with brass buttons. Their job is to maintain all our candles and lamps, run errands, and accompany the women and omegas when they travel back and forth.”

“Okay.” Dean paused to think about that. “So, when I leave the house, I need a footman?”

“Ideally, two, sir,” she answered carefully. “Shall I assign them to you?”

Dean gave a mental sigh, as he was wont to do lately. “I'll look for someone when I need them,” he promised. “I don't think I'll be cut free of the tailoring duty for awhile.”

“Very good,” she said simply.

Dean left. When he got back to Crowley's rooms he discovered Sam in there, being fitted. “Hey, Dean,” Sam said cheerfully. “I get new togs, too!”

“He qualifies, technically,” Crowley said, measuring Sam's wingspan. “Retired soldiers get a certain status.” He eyeballed Sam a few seconds before smiling a bit. “It will be interesting, clothing you, Moose.”

“Sammy will be impressive,” Dean teased, setting up his frame. “Maybe Elizabeth will slow down for a look.”

Sam pulled a face. “She's not interested in committing right now,” he said sorrowfully. “She says I'm too good for her.”

“She's right,” Crowley muttered. “Sam, a gentleman doesn't bond or wed a servant, not in this country.”

“Why so many rules of conduct?” Sam bitched, echoing Dean's upset with the way things presented. “I've been reading about Rocky White's social system. It's stupidly strict, and actually insulting at times!”

Jan giggled a little.

“I know,” Dean commiserated. “Wait until you're tying your cravat. I've had to learn five different knots so far. Cas knows two, only.”

“Knots,” Sam repeated flatly. “Fuck. All the ones I know are for ropes. Do we have to do this to show we're knot-heads?”

This time, it was Jason who giggled.

“What about Dad?” Dean asked Crowley, who was now measuring Sam's waistline. “Dad doesn't fit in anywhere. He's not a gentleman, or even a tradesman.”

“Castiel will probably allot him a portion of land to make him a land owner, and take him along on the trip to see the king,” Crowley answered. “That will make John a member of the gentry. He, too, will be expected to dress the part.” He shuddered, then. “God. Seeing him in the fashion will probably undo me. I've got a kink for hanging braces. Seeing him partially dressed will...”

“Ew,” Sam protested faintly, and the boys giggled in unison.

“Jan, and Jason,” Crowley said warningly. “You aren't to voice your opinion in any way. No proper client will return to you for business. I know your father will have already informed you of this. I'm being privately kept, but you will inherit your family business. Keep your minds on that fact.”

Dean decided to take his work somewhere else. He collected what he needed, picked up the frame, and carried it to the door. “No offense, guys, but I think I need quieter surroundings.”

“None taken, buttercup,” Crowley replied. “I'll take care of your brother.”

“Bye, Dean,” Sam said, still sounding pretty upbeat.

Dean didn't feel like trying to navigate the enormous, confusing house, so he went to the music room, which had been cleaned very well. Sitting on a plain chair, he put his frame up and stretched the underside of the kimono upon it. He wanted an internal pattern. The kimono was double-layered, so his stitch work wouldn't show on the outside if he was careful to keep his left hand between the layers for separation. Better, he could turn it inside out to look like he had more clothes.

With every pass of the needle, Dean relaxed more. He'd decided upon using mockingbirds, because, the heavy application of silver thread for the banding on their wings, would look fantastic. So involved with his work, he almost missed the scent of his father getting closer. He kept an eye on the right hand door, and, sure enough, John appeared.

Noticing Dean, John stopped. He came in, looked at what occupied his hands, and cocked his head. “I can't believe what you and Crowley can do,” he admitted. “Did you learn this at...” He cleared his throat. “Did you learn this at the school?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered. “It was this, or learn all about tea and tea etiquette, and I'd rather learn something useful.” Dean finished a bird, and snipped his thread. Immediately, he began another one. “A lot of the boys chose tea. There isn't much call for tea ceremonies. Well, there might be, here. I don't know. This country is a mystery to me.”

John fully entered, and sat on a velvet couch. “I've only been here five or six times, for hunts, and never this far east. Emptied a nest of vamps close to the governing houses. Nasty fuckers, they were, Dean. I barely got out of that skirmish.”

Dean thought his father had chosen something honorable to do. Help make the world safer for people. It had cost him a lot of skin, though. “Do you miss it? Hunting, I mean.”

“I thought I would, but I'm content to just stay alert for targets,” John said, crossing his ankles. “The least I can do is keep you boys safer. You've got new lives, and I'd like to see you prosper in them.”

“I get it.” Dean filled in a wing, and started on the head of the bird. “Where did you end up in this grossly huge house?”

“Opposite end of your rooms,” John answered. “I'm having trouble finding my way. In fact, I haven't been off this floor since we arrived. Thank God for the composting toilet your husband had delivered to this floor.”

Dean snickered. “I know. Plus, meals are delivered.”

John grunted. “If you ask me, some of this food is dangerous. I had to specifically ask that nothing be sent to me made with alcohol. Every meal gets a glass of something, too. Thankfully, Ellen took charge of my meals. She knows how to handle my problem.”

“I never even thought of it, Dad. Sorry.” Dean finished the fifth bird, and steadily went on to threading his needle for the next. “Come to think of it, Cas and I get sparkling wine with breakfast, wine at dinner, and port after supper. We just drink it. But, I'd really rather have water or cherry juice.”

“We both know what I prefer,” John said, smiling sadly. “But, I'm keeping my promise to you and Sam.” He shifted, and looked around the room. “Why pick this one to do your work in?”

“It's quiet, and I knew where it was,” Dean said, smiling. “Were you on your way to see Crowley?”

“I was,” John admitted.

Dean resisted the topic all of ten seconds before caving. “He really wants to see you dressed up, Dad.”

John heaved a sigh. His eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Honestly? It's getting hard to resist his wooing.”

Dean cracked up. “I knew it!”

“Yeah, well...” John coughed into his fist. “How are you doing, Dean?”

Dean decided not to poke fun at his father. That might set Crowley back in his cause for the claiming of John Winchester. “I'm all right,” he answered. “I don't see Cas until evening, anymore, but apparently that's going to be how it goes for awhile. I discovered I'm scared of heights. Oh, and I'm learning the fine art of knot-tying for cravats.”

“I'll have to learn, too, I suppose,” John said. “Your husband told me this morning that he's giving me five hundred acres of farm land to play with. That puts me vaguely close to his class, or something. I don't know. Never had reason to pay attention to how things work outside my own position. I mean, I hunted darkness. End of story.”

Wow. Either Crowley eavesdropped, or he was intuitive as fuck. Dean shook his head in amazement. “Do you think we're safe now, Dad? I mean, will the Starks try to follow? Or, Wexley?”

“I don't know, Dean.” John let his head drop back. He stared at the ceiling as he considered their circumstances. “Panomu's no doubt a mess right now. Maholak invading, central government collapsed... Without laws to back up what goes on, and the invaders taking over, Wexley and the Starks might have too much on their plates to deal with us. Too, it's not exactly easy to get into this country. All the ports are gaited, and the shoreline is mostly hostile. Only so many places to take boats in.”

“You sure can't land behind the house,” Dean muttered. “Have you seen the view out the back?”

“I have. It's gut-wrenching. Like I said, I'm opposite of you, so I have a prime view of the ocean.” John grimaced, and rubbed at his eye lids. “You're not the only one who doesn't like heights. I can deal with it, but I'd rather not.” John sat up, and let his hands rest on his thighs. “Is Sam around?”

“Crowley's fitting him right now.” Dean completed a series of some smaller birds, and thought about embellishing, but then decided to let his hands rest. “I think he's excited to have a social status, even if he hates learning the system, here.”

“Well, in Panomu, a retired soldier is a drain on the government. Here, it's respectable,” John replied. “I know that much. A lot of retired soldiers ended up migrating to Rocky White. Panomu's pension program sucked anyway. Sam won't have one at all, now that the government that would issue it is gone.”

Dean rolled his kimono up while looking at his father. “Sam was a soldier for nine years.”

John winced. Guilt stole into his dark eyes. “I wasn't there to stop him. I didn't even know what he was doing. If I had known, I promise you I would have dragged him out.”

“I believe you. But, take a moment to consider how awesome he is, Dad. Thirteen, and he signs up to fight in a war. And, he lives through it long enough to get discharged with honors.” He paused. “At twenty-two, Dad.” Dean lifted his eyebrows. “Whatever anyone could say about my brother, that has to be faced. I'm seriously impressed, even though I just want to kick his ass for being so willing to throw his life away.”

John put his hands together, and stared at them a long time. Finally, he lifted his head, meeting Dean's eyes. “Both of you are remarkable men. I know Mary is proud of you. And, I'm glad I didn't ruin you. I've said as much before, and I mean it.”

“I know, Dad,” Dean said, getting up. He thumped his dad's shoulder in a gesture of support. “Go get fitted for some clothes. We'll see if John Winchester can hob-knob with snobs.”

(___________________________________________________________________)

“What do you mean, I have to learn how to walk?” Cas asked, narrowing his eyes at the man dressed much like the footmen around their table. Dean had seen some scornful looks on Cas' face in the past, but none of them touched this. That squinty, flinty, scowl of impatience and disdain, made Dean's cock jerk. He stealthily put his dictionary down over his crotch.

Cas, two days from molt, was as irritable as a badger facing a snooping bear. Dean had suggested taking the mid-day meal informally, outside, inviting Zachariah and Naomi with the idea they'd help calm Cas. And, that had been working nicely, until this guy poked his hooked nose into their midst.

“Sir,” the man said quietly. “You walk with aggression. It's not in style, currently.”

“Wait, what?” Naomi asked, also putting her book down, but for a different reason, of course. “Wainson, the last time we occupied Fen-Taven, an alpha had to move with purpose and grace. My son walks beautifully!”

Dean checked to evaluate Zachariah's expression. The retired head of the family had such doubt in his eyes. Dean refreshed his tea, and slid the platter of cucumber-cress sandwiches closer to him.

“Madam Naomi,” this Wainson person persisted, “the latest movement, no play on words intended, is that an alpha should display as peaceful, for the ease of omegas.”

“But, scent is what upsets omegas,” Zachariah said in a tone of befuddlement. “Aggressive scent, my man! You can't seriously expect my boy to tiptoe around in public. He's a new presence, and can't be seen as submissive!”

Dean had a sip of tea, and kept quiet. Four alphas, arguing in the bright day, politely, didn't seem right. Alphas butted heads physically, more often than not. This weird, mannerly... Dean paused, seeking a 'D' word. Discourse. That was it.

He eyed the fluttering hem of the table linen, then went back to watching Cas. In the background, outdoor servants were carrying a large and heavy looking tree trunk, struggling with it. Cabins were going up fairly fast, now, the most tiresome part being the clearing of certain trees. Because, Cas had set people to clearing immediately, as projected by Naomi, for the purpose of setting Tor-Valen's original staff at ease, at least.

“If he wants to be popular in court, he will obey courtly manner,” Wainson was saying, now. “The issue of scent is moot, as alphas are required to wear blockers at all times, now.” He produced a bottle from his pocket, and put it on the table. “Scent is offensive.”

Dean didn't quite agree. Alphas did tend to stink. He'd always thought so. But, it helped to identify their danger, too. Catch the smell of an alpha in the breeze, and you might arrange a hiding place...

Ahh! Scent blocker! That was why his nose hadn't worked too well in Isleton, aside from the reek of dead fish. He should have figured such a thing possible. Crowley had fake alpha smell in a bottle, for whatever reason. He should have... extrapolated. Yes, Dean should have taken that basic knowledge, and reasoned out more from it.

“Also, the man of the house should be on a strict regiment of daily exercise, in order to offset the strong spirits and rich foods so in demand.” Wainson turned, motioning to a very large man standing near the kitchen building. “Clark is the town's pugilist. Undefeated. He will be very useful to you.”

“How did you get past Meg?” Cas demanded suddenly. “Meg would never have put you to my correction.”

Dean agreed. Concurred. Meg wouldn't have let this snobby guy anywhere near Cas and his ever-increasing temper.

“I did not see the need to heed the words of a female butler,” Wainson said, completely serious. Innocent, even.

It never had occurred to Wainson that a woman should be obeyed.

Cas' eyes went from flinty to furious. They practically blazed. Not the angel-light that Dean had seen the night before the shit hit the fan, and they'd been forced to take energetic measures to evacuate Tor-Valen. No. But, a harder sort of light, a human light, heavy with disgust.

“I see that I need to have words with pre-existing staff,” Cas said ominously. “Wainson, Meg Masters is my butler, and you will respect her position. I appointed her to my holdings and interests with due thought and philosophy.” He patted his mouth with his napkin, an angry sort of movement, and stood. “For your information, I do not eat and drink to excess, so there is no need for me to go to fisticuffs with the town champion. Secondly, I am not going to change the way I walk to suit others. And, thirdly, I have no intention of blocking my scent.”

“Sir,” Wainson practically pleaded with that one word, “it is part of any gentleman's manner, to do these things. I fear you court disaster.”

Dean knew by the book of manners Crowley kept in his rooms, that if he stood up right now, Zachariah and Naomi would be forced to stand as well. Badly, he wanted to pace off his anxiety. Smelling Cas' mood made him want to go to his defense. That wasn't done, though, not in Panomu, or, Rocky White. So, Dean stayed still, even though he hated it.

“All right.” Cas impatiently gestured the boxer to come closer. “I'll prove to you I don't need training, first.” He made eye contact with the big alpha. “Clark, please forgive me.” And, with that, he put up his fists into a ready position. He arranged his body, angling toward Clark from his right.

Dean pitied the poor, unknowing Clark. The man had no idea what was coming. Even if he did take beatings for a living, he couldn't be prepared for a Castiel Concussion. The fact Cas had belonged to the Alpha Arrangement, was the winner about a decade running, wasn't in the man's foreknowledge.

Clark copied Cas' stance, grinning as if he relished a fight, bouncing in one place from foot to foot. “No, forgive me,” he said, and swung.

Dean didn't really even see Cas move. His arm and fist were a blur. One punch, and Clark was thrown at least eight feet back, landing unconscious with grass stains on his homespun clothes. And, for Cas, that had been a tap. Just hard enough to put his point across properly.

Seriously, hot.

Dean kept that stimulation out of his scent by thinking about diapering Sky.

“Satisfied?” Cas asked the gaping Wainson.

“Y-yes,” Wainson stammered out, torn between looking at Clark's limp body, or, his incredibly strong, fast, master. “But sir, the scent blocker...”

Cas picked up the bottle. “Public use, yes. Private use, no. That is discourteous to my husband, and don't ask it of me.” He put the bottle into the pocket underneath one of his coat's tails. “As far as mincing around, I have no wish to do it whatsoever. This, I won't relent on. A good alpha knows when to adjust his body language for someone, and he will do it faithfully. He does not have to affect a twee mien for the comfort of others. Such is repulsive to any self-respecting alpha.”

Wainson bowed his head in defeat. “Yes, sir. Shall I see to your fox hounds, now?”

“Fox hounds?” Cas began glaring again. Hard. “There will be no fox hunting at Fen-Taven. In fact, the only hunting here will be for food. I don't condone chasing frightened animals for miles only to have them torn apart by vicious dogs.”

Wainson cringed down, barely making eye contact. If he wasn't wearing his much insisted upon scent blocker, Dean would be smelling terror right now, he knew. “Sir, it's a traditional-.”

“I don't care! Hang tradition!” Cas thumped his fist on the table, rattling all the crockery. “It's cruel, and you cannot deny that in good conscience!”

“I shall send the dogs back to their breeders, sir,” Wainson promised quickly. “If you tell me your policy about estate hunting, I will leave you in peace.”

“My land is not sectioned off. Anyone who needs to hunt upon it, certainly may. But, not within three hundred acres of the house.” Cas quit glaring, and his scent dampened off to simple irritation. But, Dean felt that Cas teetered on the edge of his control. Indeed, Dean smelled it. And, by checking the expressions of his precious in-laws, Dean saw they were on the same page.

Worry.

“Once the cattle and other livestock arrive, I will confer with you over the boundaries for them. Thank you.” Cas flipped a hand at him, dismissal full of disdain.

Dean paged to 'disdain' in his dictionary. He found a lot of other words just as good. Contempt was a really nice one to read in full. Disparagement was important sounding.

Wainson hurried away, and Cas dropped back down into his chair. “What does an estate manager know about court etiquette?” He grumbled, his scent shot through with hormonal instability. “Why would I pretend to be something I'm not? I'm an alpha, not a beta. If things are really that jumbled up, court will be a nightmare.”

“Covering up scent!” Naomi chimed in, scandalized, blue eyes snapping. “If they want to whitewash us all, why make sure the omegas keep on wearing lace?”

“Did you notice, too, that although Castiel was obliged to cover his smell, Dean was offered no blocker?” Zachariah said. “That's a dangerous and bigoted practice. The omegas get no early warning of being approached by an alpha, but the alphas still know right away which people in the room are omegas.” He shook his head, projecting the distinct 'Zachariah' scent of anxiety.

Dean, warmed by Zachariah's attention to omega plight, attended a sandwich. He felt content to watch and wait. He'd learn more by the way his new family reacted, than by any other form of contact.

“A long time ago, when my family line solidified into unity,” Cas said, “our patriarch took a vow that all of humanity would find either shelter or correction under the name Novak. That vow is passed into each generation. None of us take it lightly.”

The Novak family stood strong against injustice. Dean trusted them for that.

“You know, I've noticed the strange lack of strong scent in the preexisting staff,” Naomi said thoughtfully.

“Meg made sure they were mostly all betas,” Dean supplied. He'd talked to Meg only this morning about it. “She thought it best. Without heat and rut cycles to contend with, there posed less risk of Cas being sued over something called 'negligent pregnancy'.”

Zachariah's eyebrows went up. “Good gracious. How insightful of her.”

“We employ mostly omegas at Southerby, and keep a close eye on them, but that sounds an ideal solution,” Naomi said. “Castiel, sweetheart, will you pass me the sherry-cooked salmon? Just as an aside, your waistcoat is beautiful.”

“Crowley stitched it, and Dean embroidered it,” Cas said. “I'll be a fashion success, if not an inept, social blunderer.” Cas put his hand under the table, giving Dean a warm squeeze to his thigh. “After my...” He paused to look at his parents meaningfully. “Oncoming illness,” he went on, “I will need to report to the king. Father, I want you to double me to Clearwater, so that I may take the mail coach. It's the fastest way. As I will be bringing Dean's father with me, you will have to lead his horse back.”

“I don't expect that to be an issue,” Zachariah said. “Are you sending your clothes ahead of you?”

“They left this morning, bound for the coaching inn, Wayside,” Cas answered. “I expect to be gone over a week.” Again, he squeezed Dean's leg, this time as an apology.

Cas would molt a week, then immediately leave for another week. It was upsetting news. But, Dean quickly put a hand down to Cas', giving a squeeze in return. He supported his husband. Yes, he hated knowing Cas would be gone for long lengths of time, but, at this point, what could be done?

Cas checked his shiny new pocket watch, obtained from a jewelry collection in the house, probably. He smelled of relief and hope, now. “I have to meet the curate in twenty minutes. While this place had no direct Novak representation, the vicar died. The church needs repaired, and refurbished, too, I imagine. Someone should have written one of us.” Cas stood, but bent to kiss Dean's forehead. “See you tonight, my hajda.”

Dean smiled broadly. Cas' scent simply projected his confidence that Dean would live up to all his hopes and standards. That sureness made Dean feel mighty. “See you tonight, my hadja,” Dean said back, pushing toward Cas all his hope and love, even his trust.

Dean fondly watched Castiel as he strode toward the stables, enjoying the lingering traces of certainty Cas left in the air behind him. Even with a tail coat hiding Cas' brilliant ass, Dean appreciated the strong, athletic glide of his mate.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with his husband's ground-eating strides. Those legs were amazing.

Fuck Wainson, and, his standards.

“Dean, dear, you make me so happy,” Naomi whispered. “My boy is thriving in the love you bring to him.”

“I fully concur,” Zachariah added. “Our amazing firstborn has a light in his eyes, and, real interest in what goes on around him, now. Before, he was just...”

“Sleepwalking,” Dean supplied. Again, he smiled. “He's not sleepwalking anymore.”

(_______________________________________________________________________)

Dean hated being parted from Cas, knowing his husband was suffering without anyone to help him. Worse, not knowing where Cas was. It had to be perfectly private, and remote. Somewhere secure. Dean itched under the skin just thinking about it. He busied himself with absorbing the confusing, conflicting information in a conduct book, alternating out with the Bible and the dictionary, but it eventually became too much self-improvement. He collected the waistcoat he was embellishing for Cas, the larger of Crowley's hand-held frames, and went onto his terrace.

For spring, the wind was typical. Gusty. Dean found that familiar and comforting, anyway. And, he found himself growing more accustomed to the smell of the sea, day by day. He barely heard the sound of the water on the rocks, now. The birds, used to seeing him, sat pretty close. He'd observed them well enough to accurately draw them, and now put them onto the blue-grey waistcoat.

Cas, the be-winged heir of a fisherman clan should have birds that fished, on at least one garment.

Dean paused every so often to watch the boats on the water. Zachariah explained that, this time of year, trade increased. The ships couldn't come any closer than Dean was used to seeing, now, because of a treacherous mix of hot and cold water off their coast. Only expert captains and crew dared to come even this far inland, no matter the reason.

A faraway 'boom' drew Dean's attention up from the waistcoat. He heard another. Two ships were nearly aside each other. He saw a black sail unfurl from one, and covered his mouth with his hand.

Pirates.

The canon fire became a volley. Dean couldn't believe he was seeing this. Pirates, this close to his new home? And, probably the Maholak, at that.

Oh, God. Not good. Not good. Just looking at the clashing ships made Dean's stomach turn in fear and shock. The bright bursts of fire, the plumes of smoke as one faction tried to murder another...

Why were people so intent to kill each other over money?

“Dean!” Sam burst through the terrace doors, his eyes glued to the horizon. “Oh, shit. It's what I thought, then.”

“What can you tell?” Dean asked. His nerves felt aflame.

Sam squinted, a hand shielding his eyes. “That's definitely a Maholak ship showing the black. They're smaller, faster, and have more armament than other ships. And...” Sam squinted again. “That's a Tolric plantation carrier, I think. They ship sugar and rum all over the world. The pirates might as well be sacking it for gold.”

“Dean?” Zachariah came to their position quickly, a spyglass in his hand. He relaxed a little upon seeing Sam with Dean. “I worried,” he admitted. He handed the glass to Sam. “Maholak against Tolric. The Tolric don't stand a chance.”

“I thought you told me the Tolric nation was peaceful and agrarian,” Dean protested to his brother.

“Dean, peaceful doesn't mean 'stupid',” Sam kind of condescended. “All trade ships, no matter where they come from, have canons.” He lifted the glass. “Wait a moment, wait a moment! I see another ship bearing hard. I think she's... Yes!” Sam punched a fist into the air. “It's a dococolain! From Xia Pau! Coming onto the fight with a bone in her teeth!”

“Let me see.” Zachariah took the glass eagerly. “Oh, yes. Yes! Maybe the Tolric can limp away, after all!”

“What's a dococolain?” Dean thought that sounded hopeful, just by Sam's tone, but, Zachariah was glad, too.

“Combat vessel,” Sam said, avidly watching with his naked eyes. “Xia Pau does not fuck around with the Maholak. They're vicious fighters in swift ships, experts at maneuvering. Their method is to just flank the enemy, and board 'em.” Sam's eyes glittered, and Dean wondered if his brother wouldn't like to be out there with all those bloodthirsty people. “They swarm the opposition, overwhelm them. And, their targets have minutes to decide whether to sink 'em, or fight hand to hand. Either way, they're screwed.”

“Why?” Dean asked.

“Because, if the Maholak decide to sink the Xia Pau vessel, they lose precious time. The Xians will just take their ship when the dust settles. Xians never carry cargo, except what to eat and drink while they sail. It would weigh them down. They only sail to fish, and, to kill the Maholak.” He paused a moment, thinking. “Huh. Xians usually sail in pairs...”

“Well, if they don't wrap this up soon, the undercurrent will take all of them down,” Zachariah said grimly. “This bowl-shaped coastline only contributes to pushing ships up against the jagged coast.” He handed the glass to Dean. “Keep it. I have a few more.”

“The Maholak vessel just caught fire!” Sam shouted.

Dean reluctantly raised the spyglass. Flaming arrows were going from the new arrival, toward the sails of the Maholak. Little, moving dots were men trying to fight while they put out flames. The Tolric boat abruptly fell back, and the Xian vessel made a hard turn. For what seemed like an eternity, Dean watched men racing back and forth, but then they suddenly began diving off ship.

Boom!

The ship exploded like made of toothpicks. Timber and ashing sails flew out in every direction. Dean knew anyone on board to be instantly killed.

“Hit the powder,” Sam said knowingly, satisfaction more than plain. “Xian tactic. They'll be splicing the main brace even as they report home. Good for them.”

Pleased.

Sam was pleased people had died.

The burning, three-quarters exploded ship, began to sink. Just the bottom of the hull intact enough to go to a watery grave.

“Well, that's that,” Sam said, dusting his hands together. “Another fifty-some Maholak dead. That's what they get.” He patted Dean's shoulder on his way back inside the house.

Dean felt almost afraid to seek Zachariah's eyes. He didn't want to see Sam's opinion in Zachariah's blue gaze. After all, Novak money had funded most of the war. But, he steeled himself. And, instead of seeing satisfaction, he saw a weary kind of grief.

“No, Dean, I don't share his thoughts,” Zachariah said gently. “I take absolutely no joy in loss of life. I'm just not too squeamish to do the job I was told to do. Protect and promote, until I have to correct.” He squatted on his haunches in front of Dean, his expression sober and kind. “If you were raised to kill the enemy from thirteen years old, you'd feel as Sam does. I'm glad that didn't happen to you. Your heart isn't suited.”

“No,” Dean said through lips that felt like stone. “No, I don't think it is.”

A paltry summation of Dean's place in the world, really. Dean didn't want people to die. He especially didn't want them to die over something as stupid as wealth. Money corrupted.

With ever-increasing solidity, Dean felt nothing but sickness when considering monetary abundance.

Cas hated money. Naomi and Zachariah had strict ideas about how to use Novak status in order to promote the ordinary person to a state of good living.

Cas, focused upon natural wealth, was the ideal. You want to eat? Grow a garden. You want meat? Raise those animals, and be kind to them. Fucking shit. Why couldn't everyone learn from Dean's holy, lovely mate?

Zachariah nodded, and stood, after a time. “Reflect upon this terrible state,” he urged. “I'm here to talk, if you need me.”

Cas' dad, so alpha, reached out to Dean. In his own, limited way, he really put himself on the line. He urged Dean to consult him. Needed it.

Wanted it.

Dean wished Zachariah, and Naomi, could be as open with Cas as they could him.

“Thank you, Zachariah,” Dean practically whispered. “I trust you.” He paused to swallow back a regurgitation of hot and acrid bile from his tricky stomach. His neck burned against that bile. “You go assure Mother, now. Please. Tell her everything is fine. I need you to do that.”

Zachariah departed, and Dean sat there to watch the ship be swallowed by the sea.

Human beings could be so awful to each other. Dean had seen evidence of it over and over again. But, they could also be like Ellen, like Bill. Like Bobby and Kara. Open hearts and open hands. Dean wiped his face, only then realizing he was crying.

Well, he'd just seen his first mass-murder. Why would he do anything but cry?

Dean lifted the spyglass, compelled to do it. He saw all kinds of floating wreckage. Smashed masts, floating barrels...

And, a man lying on his back, collapsed over a big piece of planking.

Dean was out of his chair in a second. He had no time to try and navigate the house, so he'd drop down the chain ladder Cas had pointed out to him, the ladder to use in case of fire. He kicked in a panic, and it sailed out, ending above the water in their cove. He stripped off his kimono, and let his fans drop, too.

His stomach lurched as he made himself go over the side, but he wouldn't let his fear stop him from saving a life. He didn't care if it was an omega-hating pirate. Decent people didn't leave other people to drown.

The ladder swung alarmingly as he descended, and Dean waited until it probably wouldn't kill him before simply letting go of it. Only a heartbeat later, he hit the water, narrowly missing the rocky coast.

Dean swam harder than he ever had in his life. The tide fought him, tried to push him back, and his arms soon began to burn with the strain. He cursed himself for being stupid, and remembered to use his legs, too.

This wasn't a lake or river; the sea will fight you for every inch gained.

Dean was surrealistically aware of the blue, blue sky, and the crying of the sea birds passing overhead. His eyes stung from salt, but he ignored it as best he could. Closer and closer he got to the man.

He might be dead already, just thrown by happenstance onto buoyant wreckage.

He might not live, even if Dean saved him.

Screw that. Life was precious. Humans were precious. Dean had to keep on. He had to make the effort.

At long last, Dean drew close enough. He clung to the planking, and tread water, catching his breath. But, he also put a hand up, and pressed two fingers to the man's throat for a pulse. He found it.

Strong.

Good.

Dean kick-paddled the board for the shore, at least secure that he wouldn't sink if he got tired. But, fifteen minutes of this, and he realized the buoyancy worked against him. He wasn't making much progress. He'd have to put the man in a head lock, and swim with one arm and both legs.

“You look after them, Dean,” Sonny said as the children surged forward to spend the day at the river. They were so excited to have a day off from ordinary duty. Sand, rocks, and pure water enticed all children. “You be the one to protect them. You're the oldest, you're responsible, and I've trained you for this. Now, I have to go back and do all the jobs these boys normally do.” Sonny clapped a hand to Dean's shoulder, and smiled down at him. “Thank you for doing this. Life should never only be duty.”

The sun roasted his head, now, but the water felt so cold.

Dean swam, and swam, and swam. He sobbed out in relief as he entered the cove, for the tide would help, now. He only had to be careful not to get his charity-case smashed on the rocks. His arms and legs were weak, burning. He didn't have much time left. All that kept him going was the knowledge that if he sank, so did the other man.

“Help!” He shouted at the house. “Help me!”

Panting and heaving, Dean managed to get the end of the ladder. It kept them from getting too close to the shore, but swung sickeningly. He shouted for help again, and again. Even in this relatively small cove, his feet didn't touch bottom. He couldn't rest...

Nothing. The crashing of the tide water made too much damned noise. His voice was swallowed by it. He needed something to throw at a window, but he had nothing. In desperation, he let go of the ladder to search the man's pockets. He came up with a large, folding pocket knife, and some thick gold coins. The knife would be too heavy to throw that far up, so Dean dropped it. Using the man's floating body as a table, he dropped all the coins but one onto his chest, and flung that one as hard as he could.

The sunlight made the gold coin flash, allowing Dean to see its path. It fell short, and plummeted back down.

“Damn it, no,” Dean growled. “I didn't get you this far to let you down.” He got another coin, and tried again.

“Luther, you're going too far! Come back!” Dean shouted, but the boy only laughed and kept swimming.

Again, and again, Dean's coins fell short. Down to the last two, Dean got an idea. The man had on stockings. His shoes had fallen off in the water, so removing one was easy. To his surprise, they stretched. They weren't silk. Well, that was even better. No need to use a sling.

Use a sling-shot.

Dean clumsily tied the stocking, one end to his thumb, the other to his first finger. So tired, so very tired, Dean struggled to put his plan into action. He put a coin in the center of the odd stocking, pinched to keep it secure, and drew back, aiming for a bottom window. “Please, please, God,” he said.

Luther suddenly went underwater. Dean, already stripping, sprinted toward the river.

And, Dean let fly the golden coin.

The streaking gold crashed through the window. Dean couldn't hear it, of course. He grabbed the man, for he was drifting dangerously close to the rocks, threatening to submerge, because he had no active awareness to keep his body inflated. Dean gripped the ladder, and waited, his vision fading in and out...

Luther, tangled in an old net, couldn't surface. Dean, not allowed a knife, tugged and tugged at the rotting lines. He failed.

He took up the last coin, ready to use it...

Again and again, Dean surfaced to draw air, pressing each breath into Luther. Keeping him alive with stale oxygen. With his last bit of strength, Dean pressed his muscles to their limit. Under the water, the sound of tearing fibers magnified, disgusting, but pure victory.

Dean hauled the thrashing, traumatized boy to the surface.

Dean passed out just as he heard the sound of his little brother shouting his name in panic and horror.

(______________________________________________________________________)

“We don't know he's a pirate,” Naomi was saying as Dean struggled to awareness. “He hasn't enough clothing to identify his trade. He could be a prisoner of the pirates, for all we know.”

“Well, he's not a Tolric, and he's certainly not a Xian,” Sam said in a stubborn tone. “I say he stays chained. I don't trust him.”

Dean groaned, and rolled. He was in a parlor of some kind, under a blanket. He still had the last coin in his hand. “He's still alive, then,” he said as Naomi, Zachariah, Sam, and Kevin, rushed toward him.

“Dean!” Sam reached him first. “Are you fucking crazy? Risking your life like that? For some scummy pirate?”

Dean, his stomach half full of sea water, his face burned by the sun, his very identity teetering against Sam's prejudice, felt his entire consciousness, heave.

How could his brother attack him? Right now, when he'd done his best to save a life?

“Dean, you did good,” Sonny assured him. “You can't control chaos, or willfulness. Luther disobeyed, and you still managed to save him.” He put the blanket more securely over the boy's shaking shoulders before giving Dean a sober, bracing pat. “He's going to be fine, and that's all on you. I knew I could trust you.”

Dean turned his face to the floor, helpless to stop a surge of seawater sick. He vomited, his stomach expelling a gross collection of his last meal, and, the brine of the sea. The splatter, horrible and hot, splashed upon the pretty throw rug.

“I risked my life for a human being, which is what you would have done, had you not seen the water battle,” Dean ground out, knocking Sam's hovering hand away. Dean panted, exhausted, feeling the dawning of horrible dismay.

This wasn't Sammy. This wasn't Dean's irksome little hero. This was a Panomu soldier, hanging over him, throwing his alpha arrogance out like his opinions needed written in stone.

“He was better off drowning.” Sam scowled. “He'll just get strung up, now that he's on land.”

“Dean, I couldn't breathe,” Luther sobbed. They were all alone, now, in the private room Sonny used for business and clients. For one night, at least, they'd not have to compete much for a space at the fire. “I couldn't breathe,” he repeated, sobbing. “The light was just above me, and I couldn't get to it!”

Oh, God. God. Sam was so sure. So determined. If he'd ever faced drowning, he wouldn't say that shit. Having your neck broken in a noose was so much better than having your lungs starving, your eyes given a plain view of a salvation that you couldn't reach.

Dean's contaminated stomach rebelled again. He vomited a second time, expelling a huge amount of green slime.

Dean's body ached. He sat up slowly. “I'm pretty sure you guys just ruined a velvet couch, putting my wet body on it,” he joked with very limit of his stamina. Maybe he could get through this unwelcome view of Sam, if he ignored it, passed it off.

Luther had lived. Luther had gone on to a happy home, actually. One of the few.

Dean's weary gaze settled upon the man he'd rescued, who slumped beside a cold fireplace. “Oh, a repeating theme,” he said. “Cas chained Samandriel to the andirons once, too.” Testing his strength, he got up. He could stand. His trousers were nearly dry, being lightweight silk. That was good. “My arms are going to ache for days.”

Dean had a look at the coin, now. It had no face upon it, just an image on each side. One was an odd looking thing that had the basic shape of Bobby's gun, the other, a fang.

Why wasn't anyone talking, now?

Dean looked at his family. “Why are you all staring at me?” Surely, head case as he was, he'd projected at least some small normalcy.

Naomi licked her lips. “Dean, dear, we figure you swam a great distance.”

“Took forever,” Dean muttered. “Fucking tide.” He didn't hate water, not even the sea, but he couldn't deny he liked dry land a lot more. He flipped the coin into the air, muscles twinging as he caught it. He saw the stocking slingshot lying on the floor. “The guy's stockings actually stretched. It was good luck, but I don't know of any fabric that stretches like that. Sonny had these rubber things he used to strap canvas tarps over our wood piles, but-.”

“Dean, you're rambling,” Sam accused, interrupting. “Quit being vague.” He pointed to the strange man. “You could have died. You almost did. It's nothing to be causal about!"

“Dean, you did good,” Sonny assured him. “You can't control chaos, or willfulness.”

Dean swelled with rage. It hit him so hard and fast he staggered under the weight of his own emotions. No, he couldn't ignore the wrongness of Sam. Not now. “I am not casual about life,” he roared back. He felt his brain had caught fire. His shaking, weakened body was part of that flame, too, because he flickered in staying upright. “I don't fucking care who he is, he deserves better than to become shark bait, or drown!”

Everyone in the room, even Kevin, shrank back from him. Sam swayed, his face going white, and he grabbed the back of a chair for support.

"I was born to give life, not take it,” Dean went on, airing out his sorrow, his disappointment. Sam was a little hero, not this unfeeling giant who watched in glee as people were burned, slain, blown apart. “You take your ex-navy butt-hurt out on someone else, Sam! You were the little boy who slayed dragons to protect the maiden, the boy who wanted to defend the weak! And, you have no idea who that man is!”

Sam sat down hard, his eyes bulging out.

Kevin fled the room.

Dean, exhausted with being a moral compass, ready to fall down, looked to Naomi. “Mother, will you please help me to my rooms? I need...”

“Of course, Dean,” Naomi said swiftly, tears in her eyes. She squeezed Zachariah's hand, then came to Dean at once. She took him under an arm, and escorted him from the parlor.

“Where's my dad, and Crowley?” Dean asked as Naomi led him down a corridor. He didn't feel right. No, he felt foggy, outside himself.

Sick.

God. Dean wanted to lie down and be insensible. Days of that, if possible. He ached everywhere. Even in his head.

“Many of the servants you've befriended are in Clearwater, gathering supplies,” Naomi informed. “Crowley is running low on fabrics, and wished to speak to Jan and Jason's father. Your own father refused to allow him to go unaccompanied. After that, it snowballed into a proper expedition.”

“Speaking of which, have you eaten any snowballs lately?” Dean asked, chuckling tiredly. The scenery swam in his vision. “Cas and I bought the pineapple and coconut for them in Isleton.” He could barely make his legs move. They felt fully like stones.

Oh, shit. He was a mess. Talking about dessert when he'd just saved a man's life. When he'd just raked his insensitive brother over the coals for indulging in mindless hate.

Naomi, still showing wet at the eyes, gasped out a little laugh. She reeked of worry, now, and had the same smell that Cas had when making hard decisions.

Duty.

“Castiel, or, Meg, put someone to making them for me the very moment after speaking to the help about the hidden passages, and, the old servant's boarding,” she informed, indulging Dean's small madness. “I lounged about in the informal parlor with delicious cream tea, the snowballs, and ginger preserve with toasted bread.”

“Cas and Meg will take care of you,” Dean said with confidence. “I forgot to ask Cas... Did he school the staff on obeying Meg?” He was rambling. Strain had hit him a bit too hard. All that swimming made his consciousness swim, too.

“A more stern talking-to than I've ever heard from my boy,” she answered proudly. “He cowed everyone very efficiently. I expect Meg appreciated the support.” She took Dean to a doorway, and it proved an access to stairs. “Are you able to manage these steps, Dean?”

“Let me try.” Dean's thighs burned as he took the first and second riser. He stood still, leaning on Naomi. “I guess not,” he answered. God, he felt cold, now. Hollowed out. Cored.

His little Sammy, a bloodthirsty bigot...

Naomi swiftly and carefully got him in her arms.

That would never not shock Dean.

Mindful that being either too tense or too relaxed would make him a hindrance, Dean managed to keep his weight centered and still. Naomi easily carried him up three flights of stairs. “Your brother didn't notice your back, dear,” she said as she set him down at the top landing. “Panic of the moment, I suppose. Zach and I made sure to keep you covered once we sorted what was what. I didn't know if you'd told Sam about your past injuries...?”

Dean leaned on the door to push it open. “I didn't,” he admitted, waiting for Naomi to put her arm out for support again. “I get so damned tired of explaining things, you know?”

He didn't want to talk about Sam. He couldn't bear Sam. Not right now. The failure and let-down posed too hard.

“I can only imagine," Naomi murmured. “And, now that you've seen he can lose his reason rather easily, it's safer to keep quiet awhile longer, I'd wager.” She put her arm under him, bearing much of his weight. “Let's get you to your rooms. I'll run a bath and ring someone for a little food. Ellen made crumpets this morning. It will be a simple matter to toast them at your fire.”

Bless his new mother. She perfectly understood he was going through some next-level shit storm while barely managing to stay awake.

“I had those the day before yesterday, and I liked them,” Dean said. “Charlie showed me what to do. She thought it was funny that I tried to eat them as-is.” He laughed as he stumbled along. Giddiness swooped into his mind. “What did I know about genteel breakfast food?”

“Dear, you learn as you go,” Naomi said. “I don't know where Charlie picked up the knowledge herself. Panomu is considered quite raw.” She navigated Dean around a large ficus, and then had to steer them past a jumble of randomly placed furniture. “Oh, Castiel is quite right. Some of this bric-a-brac has to go!”

“I vote we throw it all into a barn,” Dean said. The silly, emotional vertigo in his head, made him want to shut down. It was worse than the anger and disappointment. “I'm just glad I didn't have to see the elephant leg umbrella bucket down on the rocks earlier.”

Naomi giggled, but she, too, now held a touch of the hysteric in her scent. “You liberated it from the house by throwing it over the balcony?”

“Pitched it without a blink,” Dean confessed, picking up the giggle. He thought he might be going crazy. “Made my skin crawl to even touch it.” He felt his strength draining out. “Where the hell are we?

“Nearly there, sweetheart,” Naomi assured him. “Here, I'll carry you the rest of the way. At this rate you're more in danger of drowning in the bath than you were while saving a man's life.” She hefted him up again. “And, I think you've lost a pound or two while swimming. That was rigorous, draining exercise, Dean, in very cold water. Did you know that men thrown overboard close to the northern pole sometimes get rescued some twenty pounds lighter? It just takes too many calories to stop freezing to death.”

“Wow.” Dean pondered that, ignoring the sensation of hanging ivy coasting over his face. “Do you think the guy will be okay?”

“He suffered a hard blow to the head, but he isn't bleeding,” Naomi said, now scenting of assurance and calm. “Time will tell. You did a good thing, Dean. Zach and I are pleased you care so much. But, we aren't surprised, needless to say. You have such a good heart beating in that firm chest.”

Dean felt himself blushing. And, with that flush of praise, Dean felt his terrifying mood swings start to settle. “Mother, that is so 'alpha-protector' of you.”

“I am what I am,” Naomi said, chuckling.

They reached their target. Naomi shouldered the door open, surprising Felicity, who was building a fire to offset the chilly spring breeze. “Madam?” She asked, eying Dean, and registering the fact the lady of the house could carry him.

“Dean is indisposed, Felicity,” Naomi informed while putting Dean on the unmade bed. She tossed his blankets over him. “I'm sure the others will gossip enough for you to discern recent events. Would you send word to have a tray dispatched? We would like crumpets, tea, honey and butter, and perhaps some fruit. Leave it to Ellen's judgment.”

“Yes, madam, of course!” Felicity ran out.

Naomi smiled down at Dean. “I never tire of surprising people with my strength,” she admitted. “Zach chides me for it, but that is simple jealousy on his part.”

Dean wasn't so tired and sick that he couldn't laugh loudly.

Naomi went to the tub, and plugged the drain. “Oh, dear. Is this the best soap you have?” She pushed the wall panel to start the water. “This won't do. You should have triple-milled, at least.” Quickly, she went to the pull and gave it a tug. “You must take care of your skin, because Castiel loves touching it.”

Dean smiled. “He does.” Thinking about Cas made Dean feel better. He hoped his husband was enduring the molt with little stress.

Naomi gave a little cry of dismay, then. “You've been using that soap to wash your hair, haven't you? Both of you!”

“Um, yes?” Dean replied. Naomi seemed to have high standards for hygiene.

“Tut. Castiel knows better.” Naomi answered a knock, revealing a footman. “That was fast,” she praised. “I need two lemons, a paring knife, soap from my own supply closet, and the cream shampoo from my toiletries,” she listed. “I'll give you a silver piece if you can get it all here within six minutes.”

The footman was running away even as she shut the door.

Going to the closet, Naomi took inventory. “Dean, dear, look at all these beautiful clothes!” She removed a sea green kimono Dean had embellished with white bamboo, and ran her hand over it admiringly. “You went the opposite in coloring, and it's magnificent! Let's put this one on you, yes?”

“Sure,” Dean said. “White trousers and under-layer?”

“Naturally.” Naomi began laying the clothes on the bed. “It distresses me that you go without footwear, but Castiel was quite firm about letting you do as you pleased, so I am compelled to heed him.”

Dean wormed his arms out from under the blanket he'd been bundled in, and looked at the gold coin again. “Is it odd, Mother, to be obeying your son instead of giving him directives?”

“No,” she answered. “Castiel is, without fail, fair-minded. He knows, too, that people are perfectly capable of doing what they're supposed to do without having a whip applied. Oh, excuse the metaphor, Dean.” She cast him an apologetic frown. “But, I always knew that I'd be under his control some day. He's the first born son, an alpha. You don't groom your children to stay under your thumb. You prepare them for what life can put on their plate, if at all possible.”

“I can't imagine what it was like, raising Cas,” Dean murmured. “You are very brave.”

Naomi covered her eyes, her shoulders out in a pose of great emotion. “I was desperate,” she whispered. “Desperate, dear. No one could know. Castiel's eyes were so upon me, every moment. I remember changing his first diaper, aware of those eyes. It was as if he knew I had no clue how to do the job."

“Well, we know that's not exactly the case,” Dean chuckled, lightening the mood instantly. For, Naomi chuckled in return.

“Dean, you slayed me while responding to the marriage vows,” she said.

The footman knocked, then entered. “Madam,” he panted, “all you requested.” He was red in the face, and sweating heavily. And, considering he must have had to go all the way to the outdoor kitchen, then, back to Naomi's rooms before zooming across the house again, it wasn't a surprise he'd be in such a state.

“Excellent.” Naomi accepted the linen sack, and reached into her neckline for a tiny bag hanging from her neck. She opened it one-handed, and dug out a silver piece. “You tell Meg you are to get an extra pudding tonight, on my authority.”

The footman bowed deeply. “You are quite generous, madam.” He put the requested things on the bedside table, swaying.

“Fluff and dross; you got here in five and a half minutes. Supposing the hallways were clear, you couldn't have been faster on horseback.” Naomi gave him the coin. “Thank you, Jacobs.”

“Madam.” Jacobs bowed again, backed out, and shut the door. Naomi promptly locked it.

“Footmen are all the rage, these days,” Naomi remarked. “Anyone who's anyone will try to have at least five.” She opened the bag, and began placing things on the bed, near to the tub. “Ours come from Clearwater. Meg informs me we practically employ all the young beta men in the entire town.”

Dean unwound himself fully from the blanket. He'd gained a little strength just lying still for a few minutes. “Cas was really being a rebel in Tor-Valen, wasn't he?” He asked quietly. Ellen and Meg being concerned by the way Naomi and Zachariah would inspect the manor, now seemed a clearer matter. Cleanliness, furnishings, and drapes, had impressed the elder Novaks a lot. “I didn't have the perspective to know where he really came from. That's fairly plain, now.”

“He ran from this kind of life as fast as he could,” Naomi said, a little sad. “Jumped into the country house with both feet, and landed solidly. I knew he could save the place. So did Zach. We just...” She bit her lip and looked up. “We missed the obvious. I hate that his simple, prosperous life, was interrupted by so much, and, just as he gained his ideal mate.”

“He has all of us to help,” Dean reminded, managing to stand. Slowly, he made his way to the tub.

“I take comfort in that, dear, but it's hard to watch him struggle with affluence and status.” Naomi tested the water. “I think you can get in, now.”

Dean removed his trousers, and got in the hot water, strangely unconcerned by his nakedness in front of Naomi. “What's with the lemons?”

“I'm peeling the rind off for your water, Naomi answered, sitting in a chair. “The lemon is astringent, and will cut the sea water scum right off your skin.” She held her hands over the water, letting the peelings fall where they would. “I love the ocean, but I don't love that tacky feeling it leaves on you.”

Dean had noticed it felt a little sticky when dried. “Seawater isn't harmful, is it?” He'd swallowed a lot of it, and had it come back up.

“No. Not any more than other water, but it's good you expelled it from your stomach.” Naomi finished one lemon, and dropped the thing into the water. “When that lemon gets hot, mash it with your feet.” She started the next fruit, her tongue pushing out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. “What do you use to scrub clean?”

“Actually, Cas, I just use soap and be done with it,” Dean replied. “Is that wrong?”

“Men,” Naomi muttered, rolling her eyes. “I'll have someone bring you an abrading net for next time. Pay attention to elbows and knees, dear. But, a good, all-over scrub can be very invigorating.” She paused to put the shampoo bottle and soap into the tub with him. “The rules of bathing are these, Dean. Number one, it isn't against anyone if you drink tea or wine in the bath. It's a civility to your soul to indulge in that.”

Dean smiled. “Okay.”

“Number two; have pails of water set aside for your rinse. You don't get very clean marinating in your own skin cells and dirt.” Naomi slid him an arch look. “I trust you'll heed that on the next bath?”

Laughing, Dean nodded. He began the actual process of bathing. The lemon felt disgusting when he smashed it.

“Number three, bathing with intent. You men make a mess when intimate. The bath is an ideal place to indulge and not get the servants involved with washing bed linens.”

Dean blushed as he laughed. “Point taken.”

Naomi finished the second lemon, and took a bite out of it before dropping it into the tub. “Last rule; always use the finest soap and shampoo. Use a conditioning treatment on your hair at least every other bath. If you don't pander to yourself anywhere else, do it in the bath.” She stood, and dragged the standing screen over. “If my estimation is right, your tray will be here in moments.”

Right on cue, a knock came at the door. Naomi answered, said a few words to the maid or footman, and came back with the heavy silver tray. She set in on the hearth, took up a pair of tongs, and grabbed a crumpet.

In peace, Dean bathed, and Naomi toasted crumpets.

Dean knew very well his new mother had 'managed' him right out of a full-blown breakdown.

(_____________________________________________________________________________)

Chapter Text

Dean finished the last waistcoat, and hung it up. He felt pretty good. In four days he'd managed to complete the last six in Cas' wardrobe, even with taking long breaks to sleep under the influence of some really good medicine Charlie kept ladling down his throat. These things helped distract him from the fact that Cas was suffering alone somewhere, and that his own brother was avoiding him.

Cas would be back some time tomorrow, hopefully.

Deciding to explore the house a little, Dean recalled the route Naomi had used to get them to his chambers. The end was a little fuzzy, but he pushed past the confusion. Really, he ought to just go room by room, and map every square inch. He didn't feel like doing that today, however.

Out and down, Dean went. Glad he'd recovered from the long swim, he gave his sore muscles little thought. At the bottom, Dean made a left, retracing to the parlor he'd awakened in. To his surprise, the man he'd saved was still there, still chained to the andirons, but given a long line of chain in order to walk about. He was alert, aware, and apparently not permanently damaged.

The man sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring. His luminous eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Dean considered him.

Alpha.

Irritated, frustrated, confused alpha, and also fearful.

“Have you been fed?” Dean asked. From this angle, he could see a standing screen concealing a composting toilet, and, a stack of wiping cloths set aside near it.

“Brookeya nah gavi,” the man replied, mystifying Dean.

Dean tugged on the bell pull, quickly summoning the footman, Jacobs. “Has this man been fed and given water?” He asked. Shit, this poor guy had been in one room for a prolonged period. Long enough that Dean could languish, recover, and prosper. Why had no one taken command of him, yet? Their unwilling occupant should not still be in this room.

“Yes, sir, but he won't eat much,” Jacobs informed. “I...” The young man frowned a little. “I think he's afraid of being poisoned. And, not because he's unsure of where he is, but because he doesn't seem to recognize the food being offered. He had no idea what to do with fruit, for example. He eats the bread, though, and will drink cold liquids. The tea and coffee he outright refuses. And, he wasn't familiar with beef, but ate the chicken with vigor.”

Dean thought about that a few seconds. Many of Sonny's boys had similar idiosyncrasies. It all had to do with the unknown. Fear, or instability, could knock the strongest personality off base. “Have you verified him as a Maholak?”

“Your brother, sir, said his money was proof enough. Plus, the fact he won't speak.”

“He spoke to me,” Dean said. “I didn't understand the language.”

Jacobs' eyebrows went up. “Sir, your brother interrogated him, and cruelly, I might add. He received not one intelligible word from the man's lips.”

Dean's teeth ground together. Stubborn, stubborn, so sure of himself, Sam. Dean didn't know what would make his brother cruel. He didn't. Yet, Dean could well imagine Sam's thought processes. Sam was a soldier, after all. “What did he do to this man?” His anger threatened to just spill over.

Why did war and culpability make everyone savage?

Jacobs audibly gulped. “He burned him with molten pitch, sir, on his back, where he could not move in order to drag the tar from his skin.”

Dean sucked in a long, shocked breath, eyes closing.

Sam had... This poor man...

On. His. Back.

Dean's brain exploded in fury. His heart raced forward triple-time. He could feel it beating, hard and strong. He watched in a vague sort of horror as all the veins on his arms, and the backs of his hands, plumped up to raging blue rivers.

Jacobs made a choking sound, backing away quickly. “Sir, how may I help?” He asked in a despairing, squeaking voice.

“Get me Crowley, and his medical kit,” Dean ground out. “Keep word of what Sam did, to yourself. Were you the only witness?”

Dean barely had control of himself.

“Yes, sir,” Jacobs said. “I have not spoken of it. I feared the repercussions for the family would be dire.”

“You did well.” Dean backed off the precipice with greatest effort. He needed to focus, to fix this and be useful, not crazed. Still, the sweat beaded upon his brow. “Tell Crowley to bring his lightest weight shirt with him. Have a tray sent here, with rich chicken soup, bread, and the best, unopened bottle of rum we've got.” Dean had never had rum, but he knew it for a naval drink, simply because of Sam informing him so during their trip.

Casually dropped knowledge, yakety-yak to fill in the time.

“Ask Crowley to include his art supplies, because I don't think any of us will speak the man's language, and drawing might be the only way to communicate with him.”

“Yes, sir,” Jacobs said, poised to flee. He shivered in place with the urge to get away from the scent Dean knew he emitted with violent force.

“One last thing,” Dean said. “I want Bill Harvelle brought here. Do you know Bill?”

“The head gamekeeper,” Jacobs replied. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You may go.”

Jacobs took off as if being chased by a wolf.

Dean faced the door, forcing calm. It was difficult. He was so angry with his brother, just sick with it. Did the navy teach him to be cruel and inhuman? Was burning pitch the method to question Maholak prisoners?

When Dean turned, full of regret and the desire to help the unknown alpha, he found the man standing so close that it would have been a simple matter for the guy to attack him. He quickly put his hands on his fans, but didn't remove them. “Hey, it's okay,” Dean said, keeping his voice soft and low. “We're going to fix this mess.”

The alpha backed off. Literally. He walked backward until he was near his chair, cast a quick look for it's position, and sat. His eyes were curious, not confrontational. And, he scented of increased bewilderment.

In ten minutes of silence, Dean began to fret. The estate was too big to summon people quickly, and he hated that. “I get that you don't understand me,” Dean said. “But, that's fine. Maybe a little human dignity will help you figure out things.”

The alpha blinked. He sniffed, trying to get more of Dean's scent. “Forabdis,” he said. “Brookeya nah gavi,” he repeated, but this time his voice went into a light, questioning tone.

Dean smiled. “You just asked me something. I wish I could answer.”

Jacobs returned with both Crowley and Bill behind him. “Sir, I see the tray coming. Shall I intercept?”

“Please, Jacobs,” Dean answered. “After, you will stand on the other side of the door, and keep anyone else out, excepting Naomi and Zachariah. Understood?”

“Perfectly, sir,” Jacobs said, and went for the tray.

“What's all this?” Crowley asked, entering the room as if he owned it. He set his supplies down. “Is this the man you pulled from the drink, buttercup? The lovely Naomi told me about it days ago. I've been so busy I never thought to investigate whether or not he's actually foreign to Rocky White.”

Jacobs set the tray inside, and shut the door.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Don't go letting everyone know, but Sam tortured him. Burned his back with hot tar. I want you to help him. Bill is here as a witness, and for protection.”

Bill accepted his duty by dragging a chair close to the other alpha. His big, sincere eyes met the other man's. “Behave, and I won't move,” he said.

Crowley, his face troubled, carried the shirt and medical bag over. “Eh, he's a Maholak, all right,” he said. “They brand their babies, the savages. See the fang-shaped scar on his neck? That's to remind them betrayal means beheading.” He took a free chair, and put his things on it. “I only know one Maholak word, but it should do for this circumstance.” He carefully, lightly, put his hand on the man's shoulder. “Cava,” he said gently.

The man's eyes widened. “ Brookeya, vahday?”

“He keeps saying that word, brookeya,” Dean told him.

“Hm.” Crowley looked at him for a moment. “He's an alpha, so...” He placed a hand on his own chest. “Brookeya?” He pointed to Dean. “Brookeya?”

The man nodded quickly.

“He was saying 'omega' when he saw me, then.” Dean smiled. “While you evaluate his wounds, I'll draw him a story.” He got the large pad of paper, and a graphite stick, and started. “Bill, make a show of opening that rum bottle, so that he sees it has a seal. Offer him a drink.”

“Smart,” Bill said. “People on ships drink rum, end of story.” He retrieved the bottle, and a glass, and put the glass in the alpha's hands. “Show some kindness, get him relaxed.”

Dean focused on the story drawing. He drew the back of himself, looking out a window at the ships on the sea, first. He'd been outside when he saw the massacre, but it was more telling to show a window. Secondly, he sketched the image of the man floating across a heavy plank. Third, the edge of the terrace, and the rolled up ladder. He showed on the next sketch, his own hands throwing the ladder down. Then, himself descending. Thanks to all the mirrors in this huge house, Dean did actually have a pretty good grasp of what he looked like, now. Not that it made a fuck for anything other than this.

“Dean, your brother...” Crowley shook his head. “It wasn't random torture. He put the Arcalan long-character for 'murderer' on his back. I can't do anything about the scarring, either. Guilty or not, this man can never show his naked back anywhere again. Anyone capable of reading the rarer form of Arcalan would at least jail him, but being a Maholak?” Again, Crowley shook his head. “This country might cut him some slack...”

Dean's throat summoned up a growl that began all the way from his toes. He'd never growled like that in his life. That was an alpha thing. Omegas weren't capable of it, that he knew of. The surprise briefly stopped him from doing anything at all. He met Crowley’s eyes, sick to his stomach, worried, and furious. “Later, we might change the character to something else,” he said. “That character is very close to the one used for 'house', strangely enough.”

“What sense would that make on his back?” Bill asked quietly.

“If Cas takes him under his protection, he can be branded like I was, alpha or not,” Dean said.

“I had no idea,” Bill said. “Why would an alpha do that? A man's word is good enough.”

“Bill, the old laws for branding are part of an omega's education, not an alpha's,” Crowley said. “Alpha means 'top', for a good reason. Some alphas don't want in the game, you know. They might want to belong to someone. It takes the pressure off.”

Dean drew himself swimming. He drew himself kick-paddling the wreckage with the alpha on it. “He might not agree to it, unless he understands it's the only way he'll ever be safe again. Sam said they hang pirates.”

“This is all assuming he remains peaceful,” Bill pointed out.

“Does he smell threatening to you?” Crowley asked. “Here I am, digging flesh out with the pitch, and pouring spirits on him, and all he smells of is pain.”

“For all we know, he's accustomed to great amounts of pain,” Bill argued.

Dean drew himself seeing the shoreline and house, far away. He started drawing him swimming with the man in a safety lock.

“If he's a bloody pirate, I'm sure of it,” Crowley countered. “But, considering he had a hot iron applied to his sparkling new skin right after his mother or father forced him out of their body, it's safe to assume he's used to hurting!”

Oh. Crowley's mom kept tattooing him over and over. Dean shut his eyes a moment.

Crowley fully sympathized with their prisoner for a good damn reason.

Dean opened his eyes to find the alpha looking right at him.

“He seems fascinated with you, Dean,” Bill observed. “Be careful.”

“It's not lust,” Dean protested. “He's very, very curious. I don't know why. He's older than me, and probably well traveled, like Sam, so he should have seen an omega in a kimono before.” He drew the scene of them entering the cove. “He might possibly scent that I'm the brother of the man who ruined his back, and find a disparity, there.”

Disparity. Inequality or difference, as in degree, rank, amount, or condition.

“Now, that last one is very likely.” Bill finally held the bottle up to get the man's attention. He cracked the seal, and began pouring for him. “I could smell that Sam was your brother, after meeting him indoors. If it hadn't been snowing, blowing wind so hard, you might have, too, when you met.”

“How could you?” The man was shouting as Dean drew up to the skirmish. “How could you do it?” Alpha rage combined with alpha shame in the air, making Dean shiver.

“No, I smelled him,” Dean said slowly. “But, it only translated as fury.” He drew the scene of searching the alpha's pockets, coming up with pocketknife and coins. “I was in shock.” He made the next drawing just of his arm, throwing a coin. Then, the outside of the house. “Mature people don't smell like children, anyway.” Those two frames, he began to repeat, so the guy would know what happened more fully.

Explain why he woke up concussed and empty in the pockets.

Wonderful.

“He likes the rum,” Crowley chuckled.

Dean glanced up to see the man just bolting the drink down. “Looks like he's habitual to it.”

“Not this stuff,” Bill said, laughing. “This is over a hundred years old.”

“Have a glass for yourself, too, Bill,” Dean said.

“Yes. A man shouldn't drink alone,” Crowley goaded playfully.

“Do you one better.” Bill tapped the glass, and held up the bottle. The alpha looked at him quickly. Slowly, Bill poured again, and then put the bottle to his own lips for a long pull. He then smiled at their captive.

The man smiled back cautiously.

Dean drew his hands taking off the man's stocking. “Crowley, this guy had on stockings that pulled like a rubber strap. I used one to make a sling-shot. That's how I got the coin through the window.” Dean looked over to see the glass had been replaced. “You ever hear of a fabric like that?”

“No, and I'm burning to know what it was.” Crowley affixed a bandage to the alpha's back, a very large one. “He hasn't got any stockings at all, now.”

Dean sketched the awkward sling-shot maneuver. A broken window, next. Him, clinging to the ladder while holding the alpha's head above water. He stopped with that, having no idea how people got them out of the water.

He approached the alpha, who now looked a lot more relaxed. Movements deliberate, he gave the sketch pad over. “You should feel lucky I'm fast and accurate with drawing.”

The man looked at each scene very carefully, still holding his glass, but forgetting about it. His eyes began to leak water. He lingered on the last depiction. Then, he bowed his head to silently cry, his shoulders shaking. He dropped his empty rum glass.

“Dean, that's brilliant of you,” Crowley said quietly. “Letting him know it was you. Showing him what happened.”

The alpha slid to the floor. Hands and knees, he crawled to Dean. And, before his shocked audience, he lowered himself to put his forehead on Dean' left foot.

(________________________________________________________________________)

Dean had nowhere to be, and he worried Sam would come after the pirate again, so he kept the man company. Crowley and Bill swore they felt safe leaving him with them, and how could they not? Only great, true emotion could make an alpha give himself to an omega. And, it spoke of having a very high personal ethics code.

Sitting beside the man on a couch, Dean touched his chest and said “Dean,” very clearly. He held a hand out to lightly touch the alpha.

“Gabriel,” the alpha replied, smiling.

Dean pulled his neckline out to show him his mating bite. Then, he got the drawing pad out again. He drew Cas, taking his time and being loving with the detail. It was a perfect likeness of Cas, smiling, by the time he finished. He wrote Castiel at the bottom, and handed the pad over, again touching his neck.

Gabriel studied the portrait, smiling a little. He touched Cas' mouth, then pointed to Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “We make each other happy.”

Gabriel flipped the page over, and cautiously took the graphite from Dean. He began to draw stick-figure scenes rapidly, frowning as he concentrated.

Dean got up and took the rum bottle from the side table. He put it beside Gabriel before opening the parlor door. “Jacobs, I'm ringing for someone to get our guest some clothes. Crowley's probably already thought of it.”

“Sir, I'll just send another footman to the tailor,” Jacobs offered. “I'm within Terrance's view, see?” He pointed down the hall.

“Okay.” Dean wondered how many footmen they had at Fen-Taven. “Roughly, what's the count for footmen, here?”

“Sir, your husband hired seventy,” Jacobs answered, drawing himself up proudly.

The man found some honor in being one of many in a single house, Dean realized. Status. Cas could afford a lot of extraneous servants, and Jacobs thought that amazing.

“Um, thanks,” Dean said, shutting the door. Seventy? He sat beside of Gabriel again, and immediately got the pad offered to him.

At first, the drawing made no sense. All the figures stood in a line, their hands poised above a long table. Dean made out clockwork gears, cogs and tools. One of the figures had an arrow pointing down at his head.

Gabriel tapped that figure. “Gabriel,” he said.

“That's you, huh?” Dean gnawed at his lip, thinking. “You make clocks?

Gabriel, chain dragging, got up and went to the clock on the mantle. He brought it back with him.

“Okay.” Dean went to the next drawing. In it, Gabriel looked very unhappy. So did all of his companions. He'd made tears coming from their eyes. The clock behind them, drawn very well, had no hands.

Gabriel tapped the paper clock, then popped the glass cover from the real one in his lap. Carefully, he rested his finger beside the minute hand. Then, he made it move. He smelled of sorrow, and anger, now. Over and over, he made the clock go through hours, until he'd gone well past a full day..

Dean understood. “You were a slave,” he whispered. “Made to work without stop.” He put a hand on Gabriel's shoulder. “I'm so sorry, Gabriel.”

Gabriel put the clock down, and motioned that Dean should keep looking at his drawing.

Dean went to the next scene. It showed a man, larger than the others, looming over the slaves. Their eyes were enormous, nearly taking up the whole face. A few were on the floor, bowed over with arms over their heads.

Fear.

The emotional impact of seeing what looked to be a child's drawing, depicting so much terror, hit Dean in the heart.

Dreading what he'd see, he nevertheless kept going. The picture was of the big man grabbing Gabriel's arm. The next scene was a ship, sitting at a dock, with men standing on it. They had slanted slashes for eyes, and jagged teeth.

“Bad men,” Dean said.

The second to last drawing was of Gabriel working on an elaborate clock, positioned near a wheel that Dean guessed moved the ship's rudder. “Taken to work on a clock,” he mused. “A clock on a ship.” The wavy lines around the vessel suggested they were sailing.

The last drawing was a ship's prow, Gabriel being given a sword. But, the man offering it to him was choking him one-handed.

“Forced to fight,” Dean said.

Gabriel hung his head. He took the pad back only to immediately start drawing again.

Terrence came in with a neat stack of clothes, putting them on the nearby table. “Sir, what else should I do?”

“Inform Naomi and Zachariah that I have information about the man I pulled from the sea, and tell them where I am,” he said. “Thank you, Terrence.”

Gabriel scribbled away while Dean helped himself to some rum. It tasted good, and burned like Charles' rotgut.

Dean figured Charles and his female gardeners, even Joshua, were with them, now. He hadn't seen them, but the greenhouse steadily progressed behind the private lawn, day by day.

Voices alerted Dean to Naomi and Zachariah's approach. Dean patted Gabriel's hand, as he'd gone stiff in apprehension. He put out a soothing scent for him, too, by thinking of his blue-sky happy place.

“Dean,” Naomi said, quickly coming through the door. Zachariah, behind her, looked worried.

“Mother.” Dean got up to kiss her cheek. “His name is Gabriel. He was forced onto the Maholak pirate ship to work on a clock.”

“So, he's not a pirate,” she said. “Oh, thank God.”

“Gabriel,” Dean said, touching the sketch pad. He asked with his hands if he could show the earlier drawing.

Gabriel nodded, and turned the page back before handing it over.

The elder Novaks looked at the page together, their expressions warring between sorrow and anger. “Conscripted out of a sweatshop,” Zachariah uttered, following it with a curse.

Naomi paged back to see what happened earlier, and spied Dean's work. “This is how you spoke to him, how you got him to open up,” she whispered. “We should have thought of that.”

Dean nodded. “He cried. And, he offered me his service. He put his forehead on my foot.”

Zachariah's mouth dropped open as Naomi gasped.

“Crowley and Bill witnessed it,” Dean added. “I think it's safe to let him off that chain.”

Zachariah pulled his watch chain free of its clip. It had a key on it. “I'll unlock him. We were only waiting for Castiel to return, to translate for us.”

Gabriel sat very still as Zachariah freed him of his ankle irons. The very moment he was completely unhindered, Gabriel got back on the floor to repeat his earlier vow of fealty to Dean.

“I've never seen an alpha do this,” Naomi said, astonished. “Dean, remember what I did? Do it for him, please.”

Dean threaded his fingers into Gabriel's hair, and stroked him a few times. Gabriel's audible sob of relief made Dean sick. But, that sick feeling suddenly tore through Dean, as he realized the universe had once again put a man with marks on his back, at the feet of someone who would welcome him into their home. “Mother,” he gasped faintly.

“What is it, what's the matter?” Naomi asked quickly, taking his arm.

Sam, wounding Gabriel because he was sure he deserved it. Crowley treating him. Bill on the standby.

Sam was the difference in the equation.  Still.  What symmetry.  Not a coincidence.

A message.

Gabriel, slaving away without hope, being chosen and taken, like Dean worked at Sonny's to justify being fed.

Gabriel was Dean.

“He's me,” Dean croaked. “Mother, he's me!” He bent to lift the shirt Gabriel wore, exposing the bandage. “Sam tried to torture Gabriel for information, and failed. I had Crowley treat his wounds.”

Naomi's eyes widened. She took Dean's hands, making him stand up straight. “Dean, I see,” she vowed. “This man didn't fall into our circle by accident! You were guided to rescue him!”

“My word,” Zachariah said, shaking his head. “God works in mysterious ways, indeed. Here we are, forced out of Panomu by the Maholak, and having a peaceful, Maholak slave, sent to us for help.”

Dean pulled free, and helped Gabriel to sit up. “We have to do this right,” Dean said. “He needs a good room, one close to me and Crowley. He should have regular meals, and some rest. As soon as Cas comes back, he needs informed.”

“I'll inform the house our prisoner is no longer a prisoner, but a respected guest,” Naomi offered. “All I have to do is tell Charlie, and she'll spill the information all over the place.”

“Well, I'll follow you along to help, Dean,” Zachariah said. “Let me get your drawing pad and stick, first.”

“Bring the rum, too,” Dean requested, taking Gabriel by the arm to lead him out the secondary door to the stairs.

(_________________________________________________________________)

Dean showed Gabriel which room belong to him and Cas with the use of the drawing of Cas, and a little pantomime. Gabriel sniffed to show he smelled Dean in the room. He next led him to Crowley's, and Gabriel smiled at Dean's friend.

“Long story short, his name is Gabriel, he's not a pirate, and we're welcoming him in,” Dean said. “Catch up to me later for details. I'm getting him settled on our floor.”

Crowley nodded. “Gotcha, sport.” He smiled back at Gabriel. “He's certainly a cute alpha.”

“No dumping my dad for fresh game,” Dean ordered, making Zachariah laugh.

“I wouldn't. Your delicious father is worth any wait, but a boy can look.” He shut the door on them.

Gabriel threw up a questioning eyebrow to Dean, which made Dean laugh. “He's just like that,” he said.

They went to the next door, which had a suite pretty close to what Dean had. Dean threw his arms out. “What about this one?”

Gabriel's look of incomprehension stopped Dean's enthusiasm.

Dean felt stupid for forgetting, however shortly, that Gabriel didn't speak a word of his language.

“Dean, allow me to help,” Zachariah said. He came into the room, and set down the sketch pad, the rum and the graphite stick, moving slowly. “Now, take out that coin of his you've been carrying around.”

“How-?”

“You play with it without realizing it. I think because you're worried about him.” Zachariah opened the closet, revealing a long, quilted satin banyan. “How fortuitous. Castiel's first purchase of alpha symbolism. Maybe it will help our new friend recover alpha pride.” He took it out, and brought it over to Gabriel. “It will drag the floor, but Crowley can alter it for him.” He took Gabriel's arm, and gently began threading him into the glorified dressing gown.

Gabriel allowed himself to be dressed in the garment, his eyes slightly showing fear.

“Now, Dean, show him the coin. Let him see it's his. Then, place it quite deliberately upon the bedside table.”

Dean 'got it'. He held up the coin to Gabriel, his heart pounding with hope. Once he saw the light of recognition dawning, he let the coin touch down on the table with a quiet little tap.

Gabriel's eyes filled. He touched the banyan, his coin, and very cautiously, the bed. “Gabriel?”

“Gabriel,” Dean confirmed.

Gabriel got up to pace, his every motion fraught with overwhelming emotion.

“Let's let him recover,” Dean suggested to Zachariah. “I never liked eyes upon me while I tried to get through intensity. When he's ready, he'll seek me out.”

“I concur.” Zachariah followed Dean out. They left the door open.

On the way back to his own rooms, Dean leaned companionably against Zachariah's shoulder. “I think I married into the best family, ever,” he said, his throat tight. “And, I think I did it so I could help someone else. This isn't coincidence.”

“It isn't looking like it, no,” Zachariah said, opening his arm out so he could draw him into a one-arm hug. “I'm very happy that God sees fit to give clear messages once in awhile. Why don't you invite me in for tea? We can talk.”

“Sure.” Dean breezed into his living space. “Have a seat.” He rang, and a footman appeared seemingly from nowhere.

“Wow, how do you guys make tracks like that?” Dean asked. The footman tried to smother a smile, but Dean saw it. “Ah! That was a smile,” Dean accused. “You know you don't have to be all solemn, right? Serving is hard enough. My husband wants his people seen and heard, you know.”

The footman nodded a bit reluctantly. “Sir, we've all a very serious mien. Most everyone wants invisible, silent servants.”

“My husband is awesome, and there's no one like him,” Dean said. “What's your name?”

“Greg, sir, but we have five 'Gregs', so you can call me Zed.”

Dean grinned. “Why 'Zed'?”

Zed looked up and down the corridor to check if anyone was close before leaning in. “Sir, first time I made it with someone, his name was Zed.”

Dean laughed out loud. “Unforgettable, huh?”

Zed nodded. “He was incredible, sir.”

“Okay, Zed.” Dean smiled. “Will you have a full tea service sent up here, for two?”

“I'll do it right away, sir,” Zed promised, setting off.

Dean left the door open for two reasons. One, Gabriel might dash for his rooms. Two, he didn't want to answer it for the tea. He decided to change into a heavier weight kimono, as the sun was going down. “Why would one of Cas' old dressing gowns be two rooms away, when this chamber was the one he always picked?” He asked Zachariah, who was looking at the red Bible on the bedside table.

“Oh,” Zachariah said. “Hael. Our cousin. She tended to opt for that particular spot. And, she stole his things because it maddened him. He usually got a little of his own back by pretending he couldn't hear, see, or detect her in any way.” Zachariah smiled as he remembered. “He was very, very accomplished at this, Dean. Down to not even moving if she shoved him. He's like a stone when he wants to be. It infuriated Hael.”

“Funny.” Dean chose his newest kimono, the one he'd decorated very extravagantly. It was dark blue silk, slightly lighter jacquard, and he'd embroidered it with cranes about to fly away. It felt good. Smooth, cool like water. But, it warmed against his skin. “The incense box is on the bureau. Choose one for us, please.”

“You took to my son's predilection for scented smoke,” Zachariah mused, doing as asked. “I think he just likes having his modality reduced. One smell as opposed to hundreds.” He lit a cone in the fireplace, setting it afterward upon the hearth. “Or, billions,” he amended. “I can't know, because I'm nowhere near as adept. Naomi and I sense things acutely, to judge by how we react to what humans can or can't detect, but we aren't like Castiel.”

Dean gave an internal huff of both amusement and surrender. He, like Cas' parents, would likely never suss the scope of Cas' abilities. But, Dean felt okay with that. “Cas can smell me over heavy smoke,” he replied, picking up the cloying odor of sandalwood. He consciously pitched his voice very low and soft. “And, he can hear it if I pray to him. He asked me not to while he endured molt, so I haven't tried, but, I'm tempted.”

Zachariah strode into Dean's personal space, but only just within it. The slackness of his face spoke of his astonishment. “You can pray to my son?” He asked in a whisper, awed. “He hears you?”

“He hears, and, he answers,” Dean told him, still at a very low level, mindful of the door. “He said he had just enough 'angel' to know people should be praying to him, but that they never do. I think he finds it soothing when I pray to him.”

“I will, too, then,” Zachariah resolved. “I will tell Naomi of this. I've no doubt we're of one mind in promoting and protecting our pride and joy.”

Dean clapped Zachariah's shoulder. “Maybe, if we pray, he'll feel less like a monster and more like an angel?”

“It's worth trying.” Zachariah sought a chair again, his shoulders slumped and his eyes distant. “It pains me how I've wronged my poor boy. Being an alpha, I'm less attuned to the sheer depth of emotion. And, being a nephilim, that makes it worse.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a maid coming with their tea tray. He intercepted, thanked her, and came back to his rooms. He placed the tray on the hearth. “Cream, sugar?”

“Neither, thank you,” Zachariah said, subdued.

Dean took his the same way. He poured for them, and gave Zachariah a cup on a saucer. “A little civility usually settles the high born, Crowley once told me. Take some comfort in a grounding, fully human, ceremony.” He poured for himself, and offered Zachariah one of the small, baked squares that smelled richly of chocolate. “What's this?”

“Brownie,” Zachariah responded, taking an eager bite. “I love them.”

Dean took a taste. The moist, thick, warm confection, was pure love going into his mouth. He chewed it slowly, savoring. “Hot damn,” he groaned. “It's so sweet and perfect!”

“I know,” Zachariah said. “I see a pot of chocolate syrup on the tray, and powdered sugar.” He leaned over, put two more squares of brownie on a tiny plate. “Watch. This makes it even better.” He sprinkled powdered sugar over both pieces, then tipped the spouted vessel of chocolate over them in a back and forth line. “This is why my waistline is so thick. By heaven, our servants are paying attention to where I am. You're the one who ordered the tea.”

For a long five minutes, they just ate and drank in mutual peace and pleasure. The strong, black tea made the brownies even better. Dean saved four of the things, put them on a clean plate from the offered stack, and treated them the same as the others Zachariah made. “Let's take this to Gabriel,” he said. “I'll give him my tea cup.”

“A most excellent notion,” Zachariah declared. “You offer him the sweets, and I'll show him how to get a bath. He can sleep in comfort tonight. Might be the first time he's ever gone to bed with his belly full, comfortable, and safe.”

Sobered greatly by that, Dean went along with Zachariah's plan. Together, they went back to Gabriel's rooms. Peering in, they evaluated the tired slump of Gabriel's back. The weary, despondent alpha had his back to them, staring out a window that faced the forest land. The air in his room reeked of uncertainty and cautious hope.

Dean knew exactly what Gabriel was feeling.

This is nothing like what I know.

Is it okay if I relax?

Do I need to make an effort to slip away?

Dean knocked. “Gabriel?”

Gabriel's head whipped around. Dean knew by the movements of his eyes that he evaluated everything on a fight-or-flight basis.

Dean mimed eating and drinking, keeping his scent and body language light, carefree. “Mmmmm,” he dragged out, displaying the tray. He then pointed to himself, and, Zachariah. He made walking motions with his fingers to ask for admittance.

Gabriel picked up on his request. He waved a hand inward to show acceptance and welcome. “Dean,” he added for emphasis before pointing to Zachariah to include him.

They came in, and Dean put the tray on Gabriel's lap. He rubbed at his stomach demonstratively. “Mmm,” he said again. Taking up a brownie, he broke off one corner. “Mmmm!”

Gabriel smiled. His scent projected relief, now, and understanding. He picked up a brownie and bit down.

Dean watched, gratified and thrilled, as Gabriel's eyes filled with pleasure. Gabriel's scent, light and slightly sugary, expanded into pure joy.

“Mmmm! Ahh, mmmm!” Gabriel devoured the confection like a starving man. He chewed and swallowed with abandon. “Dean!”

Dean grinned. “I know,” he said, putting the rest of his demonstration brownie back onto the plate. “Drink the tea with it, man.” He made an exhibition of taking up the cup, but he didn't drink. Instead, he offered it to Gabriel.

Gabriel trusted. He took the cup and had a drink. “Ohhhh,” he drawled out. Once more, his eyes went wet. “Dean.”

Dean combed his fingers through Gabriel's hair. “Enjoy, man,” he said.

(_____________________________________________________________)

Dean was so, so tired from emotional demands, that he missed Cas getting into bed with him. Oh, he snuggled into the warm, solid strength of Cas with no thought, but he didn't genuinely register it until the light of the sun stole in to awaken him fully. Rolling, he put them front to front, and had a look at his bedraggled, fatigued husband.

Beautiful, beautiful Castiel. He deserved every syllable of his noble name, even if Dean shortened it out of affection. Dean brushed his hair back from his forehead, using a light hand. That hair wanted cutting. Dean stroked a thumb over his mate's cheekbone admiringly. Cas was young while wise, and vulnerable while deadly. A constant mix of conflicting reality. Savoring, Dean leaned in to take a healthy inhale of Castiel's scent, right at his alpha glands. “You smell like pure perfection,” he said, mouthing at Cas' skin with every word. “But, also like crap,” he added, detecting the stress and pain lingering on.

Cas curled inward, and sighed. “It was hard, this time,” he confessed, not opening his eyes. “Harder than ever. It took every speck of my willpower to not come to you and beg for wing grooming.”

Dean ran his hands over Cas' strong, naked back. Lovingly. Covetously. “Why wouldn't you give in?” He wondered why he couldn't see Cas' wings, and why he'd once felt them as the sensation of air.

Cas let out a long breath. “It's very difficult,” he answered. “As my mate, you're the one I need to rely upon. But, as an angel, I'm compelled to keep you away from angel needs.”

Dean snuggled up to Cas. “Don't stress, and don't over-think,” he asked. “I'm content to have you back in this too-soft bed with me.”

“Well, we have the day together,” Cas promised, which thrilled Dean.

“You have to start your journey to the king tomorrow, don't you?” Dean asked.

Cas breathed out his fatigue and dismay. “Yes.”

Dean expected as much. At least he'd have the day with Cas. Maybe things would settle after Cas came back. “What's the best you can hope for, in getting a title?”

“It depends upon perspective.” Cas palmed Dean's cheek to feel his slight stubble. “Most anyone wants to be important, but I have no desire for a lofty title. I'd enjoy it if the king decided I was only good enough to be gentry, a lord. But, he might want to use me to cause court strife.”

“Sounds fun.” Dean kissed Cas' hand. “Want a bath? You need it.”

“A bath sounds lovely,” Cas answered, smiling.

Dean rolled from bed. He rang the bell pull, and opened the door. “We have a new addition to the house. Have you been informed?”

“No. I flew directly to the terrace, and entered that way.” Cas sat up, threw his legs over, and stretched. He groaned afterward. “Who is this new person?”

“His name is Gabriel. He's a Maholak clock maker, a slave. Some pirates dragged him onto their ship to fix a clock, but they attacked a Tolric plantation ship, and Xians came to the rescue.” Dean saw a footman coming, and went to meet him. It was Jacobs.

“Sir?”

“I need a bath water crew, because the tanks on the roof will still be cold,” Dean said. “Have breakfast sent up. The common fare for everyone else will do. Have word sent to Madam Naomi and Master Zachariah that their son has returned in good health.” Dean paused. “Have a tray sent to Gabriel's room as well. And, ask Crowley if he will entertain Gabriel until the afternoon.”

Jacobs bowed. “Yes, sir.”

Dean returned, and began laying out Cas' clothes. “Your father, Sam and I, watched the battle from the terrace,” he said. “It ended gruesomely. The Xians set fire to the pirate ship. It blew apart. A little while after that, I spied Gabriel floating in the water, on a plank. I swam out and got him.” He chose the waistcoat with sea birds on it, and the cravat that felt like it had the best amount of starch. “He doesn't speak a word of our language.”

Cas, standing close and listening attentively, began to smell of worry. “Yet, you were able to get his name, and his circumstance?”

See, this was why Cas was the best, out of all of them. No scolding for taking a risk, no doubt that Dean could do great things.

“We communicated through drawing,” Dean told him. “And, this will shock you. Gabriel swore obedience to me the way an omega would, even though he's an alpha.”

Cas stared at Dean for a long five seconds. “Does he know you have a mate?”

Dean smiled. “It wasn't like that. I drew a portrait of you, and showed him my mating bite. He knows I'm taken. He wasn't interested in me sexually, anyway.”

“I can't believe that,” Cas growled, grabbing Dean, and pulling him roughly to his body. His eyes sparkled with tease. He wrapped his arms around Dean, and scented his throat. “You're too beautiful to ignore.”

Dean shivered at feeling Cas mouthing the old bite. “Uhhmm,” he said stupidly. “You have a bath coming, and breakfast,” he reminded. “Get those out of the way first, handsome.”

Cas groaned, frustration leaking from his every pore. “Dean, your new civility is infuriating. And, since your mere existence is temptation enough for me, I'm in dire straights.”

Dean laughed, and pulled away. “It's only that I don't want us interrupted, and the probability of that is certain.”

Cas stalked to the far corner to choose his boots. They were shiny and new. “I'll wager that I can make you forget formality,” he said lowly.

Dean had no doubt. If Cas applied himself, he could make Dean swear like gutter trash. “Someone is still feeling the stress of unfulfilled rut,” he remarked. He chose a pair of buckskin breeches for Cas, since Cas intended to wear the appropriate footwear for morning. He loved the way the breeches buttoned at the bottom, on the sides.

“I don't need rut to want you, Dean,” Cas replied. “You make me mindless.” He opened the door just in time to greet the bath water brigade, and retreated from their path.

Dean didn't know these servants. He missed having the old crew at Tor-Valen so close and personal. These people were a little put off by their state of undress. Bare chests were offensive, he supposed. He never really minded how dressed or undressed he was in front of others, only that he wasn't being vulgar. An omega quickly cottoned on to not having rights to their own body, after all.

The servants were more upset by Cas' state than his own, Dean noticed.

I pray to the angel, Castiel, Dean prayed. Walk into the study. Your alpha chest might as well be a set of boobs.

Cas walked right in to the study, and shut the door quietly.

Dean threw a sheet over himself, and sat to wait. The water would take many trips. “On the last trip, don't pour in the water, but leave the two buckets by the tub,” Dean instructed a man going out.

“Yes, sir,” the man said.

Twenty minutes passed with Dean imagining himself to be in Isleton Port again. He'd like to go back, and personally buy more fruit. Try new varieties. Explore a place where formality lacked.

Dean came to awareness as the last buckets were brought in. “Thank you,” he said. In return, he got a quick nod.

“You can come back now, Cas,” Dean called out, shutting and locking their chamber door.

Cas strode in completely naked, and went right for the tub. “Are you joining me?”

Surprised at Cas having stripped down while waiting, Dean stared at him mutely. Oh, that beautiful ass. Those muscular, graceful legs...

Cas turned his head to smirk at Dean. “Not as stoic as you project, husband.”

“Cas, your butt is magnificent,” Dean whispered. “It was like I saw it for the first time, or something.”

Cas grinned as he settled in the tub. “Get in here.”

Dean obeyed. Of course he did.

Immediately, Cas grabbed him. Water went over the sides as Dean crashed onto Cas' chest. “Now, let's see if I can reduce you to incoherent gibberish,” he said, his voice ultra low. “It's wonderful you like to learn words, but I want to learn you.”

“Cas...” Dean let out a shuddering breath. He felt small against Cas, now. The scent of dominance and demand coming from Cas' glands made him weak.

“Arms up,” Cas ordered, and right in his ear. “Roll onto your back.”

Shaking, Dean complied.

“Grab the tub, and don't let go. If you let go, you get punished,” Cas growled underneath Dean. “Keep your head beside of mine.” Cas flexed his body, showing Dean he was getting hard. “I'm pulling my legs up, now, and you will keep yours on the outside of them, am I clear?”

“Yes, Cas,” Dean managed to say. He white-knuckled the tub.

“Good boy,” Cas praised, low and sultry, his scent gaining satisfaction. “You know, Dean, you have quite a nice cock.” He pushed his arms over Dean's chest slowly, traveling downward. “I wanted to pump you in my fist while drinking from you. You don't know how much control it took to keep that for the end, for pushing you over the edge.” One hand lifted Dean's balls gently, and the other wrapped around his base.

Dean panted. He was definitely hard now, too. Straining. Cas' dirty talk set him on fire. That big dick between his ass cheeks felt like silk over iron.

“This water isn't as hot and smooth as the slick you're making,” Cas went on, still talking in Dean's ear, his voice going lower and lower. “I'm going to use it properly, one day, but this morning I'm using it to frot your luscious ass.” Cas let go of Dean's balls, getting a hand between their bodies. “And, I'm using it to stroke your cock. I want to see you come on yourself.”

Whimpering, Dean squeezed around the finger Cas inserted into him. He felt him stroke his omega gland, coaxing it to produce more slick. Slow, and easy, but agonizing. He felt vulnerable with his legs apart, exposed, but it was still good, which Dean didn't understand.

“Heavenly Father, Dean, you are beautiful,” Cas rumbled. “And, the way you smell...” Cas licked Dean under his ear, shockingly hot and wet. “You put out a siren call to me with your scent. I could track you from the other side of the world.” He twirled his finger inside of Dean, hitting the prostate, and making Dean cry out.

Slick erupted from Dean. He could feel it.

“Ahh, there,” Cas breathed out like worship. “That's better than any of those big words.” He pushed his finger back in, twitching it. “Do it again, Dean.”

“Cas!” Dean thrashed a little, unable to help it. But, he didn't move his head or let go of the tub.

“Even better,” Cas vowed, growling. “You can say my name all you like, clever husband.” He teased Dean's hole, making a low noise of desire as Dean tried to suck him back in. “I don't like making you wait for what you want, Dean.” He got his hand out from between them, and took Dean's cock in his large fist. “And, I do know what you want.”

Dean shouted as Cas began stroking. It felt so good. The hot, slippery pressure made his balls draw up. Cas palmed them again, biting Dean's neck. And, he began to thrust his big, alpha cock.

What Dean wanted was Cas' knot. His hole was begging for it, flexing and spasming. He knew Cas could feel it, too, because Cas groaned so long and low that it made Dean's body hair stand at attention.

The air filled with their temptation.

It took everything Dean had not to plead.

Harder, but not faster, Cas pumped Dean's engorged dick. He slid his free hand back up Dean's body, fingers rippling over Dean's ribs. “This gorgeous body,” he said, almost pained. “It matches your soul, Dean.” Cas slid his hand higher, taking a nipple between his fingers.

“Castiel!” Dean arched his back.

“Good,” Cas praised again, “you didn't move your head, your hands, or your legs.” He panted too, now. Hot little breaths going over Dean's neck in bursts. He fucked against Dean harder, faster. “Just for that, let go one hand and stroke yourself. I'm going to put a finger in you, maybe two, and let you ride. For that, you'll have to sit up.””

Dean's head wanted to pop off. Getting to jerk himself with Cas as a witness was about the hottest thing, ever.

Taking control of his own pleasure.

Cas stopped thrusting his hips. “I'm going to come the moment you do, Dean,” he promised, pushing two fingers back inside of him. “Holy Father, I can't bear it. I want to pull your cheeks apart and ram myself home, where I belong!”

Dean sobbed his pleasure as he whipped his hand up and down his cock. “Cas! Cas, oh, shit, Cas!” Cas' fingers just danced inside him, touching every hot spot Dean had. Dean lifted himself up, then slammed back down on them, over and over, his thighs shaking.

Cas sat up. “That's it, Dean,” he urged. “Do this for yourself!” He put a hand under Dean's ass, helping him to lift and fall. He was so strong it didn't matter he had the other hand busy. “Take what you want from me!”

Then, Cas licked Dean's brand.

Dean came with a tremendous wail, harmonized by Cas' tortured groaning. He couldn't believe the amount of spunk leaving his dick. And, it kept going, because Cas didn't stop pushing against his glands. Long, white ropes hitting the side of the tub, splattering over and over with each, soft jab.

Cas was painting his back, just covering it.

Dean sat there, taking great pleasure in each hit. When Cas stopped, he carefully moved to straddle him in the three inches or so of water they had left. Eyes only on his mate, Dean wrapped his fingers around Cas' base, and applied pressure to the knot from behind.

Cas woozily stared back into him, moaning a little as he felt the pressure.

“Wait for it,” Dean advised. Just the clamping, for now. Holding on longer than ever before. Letting the force build.

“Whatever you say, Dean,” Cas replied, swaying a bit. “It... I like it. It feels very good...” He began to frown slightly. “It's not going away. In fact...”

“Yeah.” Dean smiled, feeling tender towards his studly husband. “When you finally get to knot me, we're going to be tied together for probably an hour. Maybe more. And, every so often...” He stopped talking, seeing the bliss building up in Cas' eyes to a critical limit. Dean very carefully, very gently, squeezed.

“AHH!” Cas screamed out in shocked ecstasy, body arching backward, neck exposed. “DEAN!” He splattered Dean's chest, hard and fast, in waves.

“Yeah, not like the first time I did it, huh?” Dean asked. Oh, this pretty alpha, who didn't know what most other alphas knew. “I didn't let the pressure off, and I gave it right at your base. Wait until you get the bonus of having that big cock of yours surrounded by hot, tight flesh.” Slowly, he loosened his fingers. “I'm so happy to teach you about your own body, Cas.”

On rubbery legs, Dean stood for a clean pail of water. “And, I'm happy I asked for rinse water, too.”

Cas sat up straight just in time to get a pail of water dumped over his head and down his chest.

“That's for making me forget my big words,” Dean joked.

Cas wiped his eyes, chuckling. “I hope you have a second bucket for yourself, because, I've covered you.”

Dean snatched the second pail, and got back in the bathtub. “Would you do the honors?”

“I will, but I'd much rather leave you dirty.” Cas got up, and took the pail. He sloshed little bursts of water on him at a time. “I don't think this actually counted as a bath.”

“Sure, nit-pick,” Dean replied. He wondered if Naomi had given her bath time advice to Cas,too, and he'd been inspired.

Snickering together, they got out. Dean had a warm, pleased feeling in his chest.

He loved Cas so much.

“Ma-king me in-to a sa-ap,” Cas sing-songed.

“You love it,” Dean shot back.

“I do,” Cas informed, smiling broadly. He got a towel for Dean, holding it out. “Oh!” He looked at his new waistcoats. “Dean, these are beautiful! You made more while I was gone.”

Dean grinned while choosing a set of braces for Cas. He liked the cleverness of these things. Cas had such slim hips, and the new type of trousers he was obliged to wear, now they they weren't at Tor-Valen, meant he couldn't wear a belt. Charlie had called them 'suspenders', but Cas called them by their other name.

“Dean, this one is my favorite!” Cas held out the one Dean had been working before all the commotion with pirates, and Gabriel. “I very much like seagulls!”

“Because they fish?” Dean asked. “Put your stockings on so your boots won't chafe.”

Cas grabbed a pair from the bureau drawer, and donned them by standing on one leg at a time. No loss of balance. “I want to wear the seagulls today."

“Of course, Cas,” Dean replied, pleased. “Tell Crowley your favorite colors, and I'll work with what he gives me. What other animals do you like?”

“Doves, tigers, dragons, and cranes,” Cas listed. “Lamprey eels. Horses and ponies of any kind.” He put on his big shirt, and grabbed his trousers. “I like all animals, but some have better or more interesting personalities than others.” He said this with 'angel know', so serious and endearing that Dean's heart melted while his sense of humor flared strong. “But, I love flowers, too.”

Dean smiled.

It was very telling that a certain, smutty bouquet made it to Fen-Taven, while the dining couches had not.

What Dean gave Cas with feeling, Cas treasured more than the expensive stuff he'd commissioned for Dean's good looks and presentation. Hence, his enthusiasm for the embroidered waistcoats.

Cas had finished stuffing his shirt into his trousers, and, evenly, too

Dean slid the bracer holes over Cas' front breeches buttons made of horn, going slow, savoring standing close to the man who could give him so much omega satisfaction while giving him some power. He deeply appreciated Cas for making their greedy need for contact a thing that finished with caring. And, he took his loving good time with the braces, taking them over Cas' hard shoulders, touching, dragging out the contact while crossing them.

Cas smelled so good, and the more Dean touched him, the more Cas scented of hope and protectiveness.

Skimming his hand from Cas' navel to his back, Dean walked to stand behind Cas, to finish the job of securing the braces. “It's a lot of fun to dress you,” he murmured against Cas' neck, watching him shiver. He buttoned the left side, dragging his knuckles against shirt and underlying skin, enjoying Cas' heat. “You might hate this fashion, Cas, but your body is made for it. I'm serious.” He buttoned the right side, and pressed a kiss to Cas' neck. “I've read about calf muscle padding, and, shirt stuffing for effect. You're the height of alpha without any help.”

Cas shuddered out a breath as Dean picked up the seagull waistcoat. He said nothing, but Dean smelled that his mate felt assured, pleased, even bolstered by his words. That had been his goal, but he'd spoken from the heart, too. He buttoned Cas up, got his collar perfectly upright, and put the stock on him. “I do hate you cover this throat,” Dean told him as he tied it. “You've got a neck that any omega would kill for. And, I hate that you have to put on this fucking thing before I even have to tackle the actual cravat, because, you can't move your neck naturally.”

Cas, still quiet, began to breathe a little hard. His eyes glued to Dean's face.

“Now,” Dean said, running the cravat through his fingers slowly. “Now, for the yard-long, heavily starched thing that makes you a gentleman. The thing you should never take off in public, but do, because you know I like to wear it around my wrist for the sake of omega pride.” He reached out, and began winding the thing around Cas' neck slowly, the very proper way. “It is kind of pretty. Not what I'd choose for you, but dignified.” As slow and methodical as he'd done for the rest of Cas' ensemble, Dean began to tie, using a simple but elegant form depicted out of dozens in his etiquette manual.

It wasn't a stupid knot, elaborate, long, or flashy. Just clean, crisp. Low enough to allow Cas to move better, but high and tight enough to be formal and proud. He trailed the ends down Cas' back, and felt himself smiling. “This is the 'Heath',” he informed. “A small square knot, doubled. I'm going to tuck the trailing ends into your waistcoat.” He pushed the ends down as he spoke, smiling. “Elegant and simple, appropriate, and all-around a symbol of a rich guy that doesn't care for showing off.” He clicked his teeth at Cas, winking. “This knot is you, Cas.”

Cas' eye-crinkles appeared with his pretty, effortless smile. “I don't know the 'Heath',” he confessed, moving to look into their floor-length mirror that Dean tended to avoid. “Oh, it's very simple, but stated. I like it, Dean.”

“Good.” Dean opened the jewelry case on top of the bureau, and selected a gold pin with a pretty head fashioned into a rosebud shape, from a stone of purple and green. He pierced the knot, adjusted the head to show at the front, and stepped back to get the tail coat of pure, unrelenting black. “Let me put this upon you, Cas, and I'll finish with a dangling charm off your waistband that has a silver accent in the shape of a lily.” As he spoke, Dean did what he listed. He ran a comb over Cas' hair, next. “You need to cut your hair, but a touch of sticky pomade will do for today.”

Cas, clean and neat, put on his heavy boots. His scent, rich with relaxation and dulcet notes, projected.

“Don't you look eye-catching,” Dean said, quiet and admiring.

“My valet stayed naked while he clothed me,” Cas said, not quite holding back a smile. “I had to be still just to savor.”

Dean, startled he'd forgotten his naked state, had to laugh. “My own uniform isn't as strict. Give me a minute.” He grabbed a pair of silk trousers, and stepped into them, tying them quickly. The under-layer sheath of silk felt good sliding down his back and arms. “It's time to shave,” he said. “You can get that done after breakfast.” He got out the pale violet kimono decorated with silvery green hemlock trees, and donned it, finishing with the customary, hated, white obi. “We can ask Crowley to cut your hair this evening.” Last, but not least, Dean affixed his fans.

Turning, Dean opened their door. “It's past ten. Breakfast should be here soon. I'm starved.”

“You would be,” Cas said, suddenly appearing in Dean's space, managing to loom while being a touch shorter. “You burned off a million calories gyrating on my hand.” With a quick shove of his chest, Cas pushed Dean to the doorway, crowding against him, caging him in with arms on either side of the wall. “My beautiful, smart, above any price, omega...”

Dean sucked in a quick breath born of blissful wonderment before his head got knocked back with a kiss.

Cas' lips, surrounded by rough stubble, were soft, warmly damp.

Dean opened up. He surrendered. This wasn't like any kiss Cas had given him before. No, this kiss was about tongue. His body quaked, fully committed to this, but also confused. Whatever Cas wanted, he'd give, even if he had no idea what. Every thrust of slippery, wet muscle, wheedled lust and need from him. And, when Cas gently bit his bottom lip, Dean whined with a primal itch to be underneath him.

“That,” Cas breathed against his mouth, “that, Dean, is what I wouldn't give anyone else. Hold it close to you.” He trailed the back of his hand down Dean's jaw, his eyes liquid blue and burning. “I am consumed with need of you,” he confessed. “Every moment I am away from you and your beauty, I have a hole inside of me. I am distracted, anxious, and barely functioning. I put on a brave face, but my need of you is a constant presence.”

“Sh-shit, Cas,” Dean voiced with effort, more breathing than speaking. His whole body vibrated like he fended off freezing wind, but his core boiled. “Your sweet talk rips a guy apart.”

Nervous coughing brought both of them to rigid attention in a second. “So, you're busy,” Charlie squeaked out, standing in their threshold with a tray. Her eyes were like holes. “I don't, you know, even swing your way, and you two just...” Her face looked sunburned with embarrassment. “Oh God, I didn't say anything. I swear, I spake not a word!” She shoved the tray into Cas' hands, and promptly escaped, the air in her wake reeking of shameful lust.

Cas stood there, inflexible as a flagpole, staring after her. “This,” he said deliberately, “is why I hardly ever let go. I don't know when to temper myself, Dean, if I do.”

Dean shoved off from the wall, giving himself a hard shake for orientation. The 'real' Cas knocked him for a loop, and he loved it. But, his stomach threatened to eat itself by now. He freed the tray from Cas, and set it on the nearby, bedside table. Then, he grabbed Cas by the hand, and pulled him in for a hug. “I would give nearly anything to not have you temper yourself,” he whispered against Cas' cheek, meaning it completely. “But, one day, Cas, we'll be able to love each other without other eyes and ears in our way.” He squeezed Cas, feeling his hard muscles relent, give in, and accept. “And, that day, we'll make the most of it, I swear.”

Cas slumped against him, a brief, very telling resignation. “Your promise will keep me going,” he vowed.

(_____________________________________________________________________)

Chapter Text

As it turned out, there was this thing called a newspaper. One had been included with their breakfast tray, a courtesy Cas enjoyed. Cas read aloud from it as they dined upon turtulong, seed cake, marmalade, and strong, black tea.

“Lord and Lady Pembrooke are pleased to announce the birth of their second son, Vincent Brent Pembrooke,” he said in a very sarcastic tone. “It is fully expected that he will present as an alpha, in the future. The boy weighed at ten pounds, six ounces, and his first cry, it is reported, rang the ears of the attending physician.”

“Is being shouty at birth a sign of alpha supremacy?” Dean asked.

Cas snorted his appreciation of the snide question. “I've no idea,” he admitted, tossing the paper down to the table. “My mother claims I peeped not a sound. And, I wasn't fat coming out of her, either.”

Dean laughed while chewing, which had the unfortunate effect of nearly choking him. “Have some seed cake, sneering husband.” He grabbed the newspaper, and opened it randomly, clearing his throat. “It is to be known that Lord Giles, of Wetherby, is not to be responsible for any deaths that occur upon his holdings. Any poacher will be shot on sight, in order to spare the hangman the effort of stretching his neck.” He dropped the edge of the paper down to look at Cas. “What's a poacher? Eggs are poached, not people.”

Cas slathered butter onto his slice of seed cake, his eyes troubled. “Many years ago, when I was around nine, the king enacted a tax on wheat and corn,” he said. “It caused riots among working class and gentry alike. He retracted the one for wheat, but not the one for the corn.” He poured more tea for them, and stirred a thin line of cream into his own cup. “A movement for privatizing land came next, and most gentry took full advantage of having a right to keep dirty, poor people in their place. Anyone wanting to hunt wild game for their table, now has to seek permission. And, it isn't often given.”

Dean stopped short of getting his cup to his mouth. “Wait. This country has no unclaimed land?”

“Some land isn't suited for crops or wildlife, and this type of land isn't legally claimed,” Cas answered with a sad sigh. “Here, Dean, a gentleman is defined by not having to work. So, rich families own land, and let people live upon it as long as they pay rent. A gentleman lives off of the rent fees. He doesn't actually get his hands dirty with honest labor.”

Dean thought about that while Cas attempted to eat the sweetened bread that was full of cardamom. “You're going to give my dad land, just for this, right? I mean, you intend he get it once it's established you have the power.”

“Yes,” Cas admitted. “As a rule, our family doesn't charge outrageous fees for using land. It goes against our ethics. For example, the trendy rate is ten steel per person, per family, each month. That is hard for most people to manage. Novak renters are charged three steel, flat, no matter how many members are in the family. If the family cannot manage that, we usually let it slide. There's no pride in crushing people.”

“What were you charging the Carrington's?” Dean asked. “The family Charlie's ex-girlfriend worked for.”

“I don't know. I shall have to ask Mother. It was probably well within the proportion of their wealth.” Cas scowled at his food. “The well-off renters don't have to worry as much about feeding their children. And, it would all be moot if the entire world wasn't consumed with gambling. My brother fell into that trap. It's the very reason the Carrington's had to rent their ancestral land from us; they gambled all their money and possessions away, forcing them to sell.”

Dean hadn't been too aware of gambling, at Sonny's. Some children that came in were excessive in their games of chance, making bets on everything from what they'd get for supper to the odds on being given laundry duty. But, most were content to play dice games for an extra sweet, or something similar. He'd never cared to play. “It's a big problem, then.”

“It's pandemic,” Cas complained. “I haven't figured out who is benefiting from this vice. Somewhere, there is a really rich person, money dripping off of them as they walk. With news traveling so slowly, it's hard to pinpoint a plump-pocket thug.”

Dean tried to wrap his head around the fact that, somewhere, there were people richer than the Novaks. It didn't seem credible. “We aren't on the top?” He asked

Cas, startled, shot his eyes to Dean. “Are we the most wealthy?” He shook his head slowly. “No. No, Dean. We are not. Top twenty in Rocky White, I'd hazard a guess. And, near the bottom of that, too.”

“Wow. Okay.” Dean got a sip of tea. “So, other rich people are making money off of their renters, and then gambling it away. But a stable group of wealthy people manage to keep their gold, and stay on top of the list.”

“Essentially,” Cas agreed. “My family frowns upon gambling, which was why Samandriel's habit brought shame. So many alphas habituate gambling houses, which they admit to as 'gaming hells'.”

“I remember Samandriel's apology,” Dean replied. He tried a turtulong, and felt ambiguous on how worthy it was for eating. “Your brother is very well spoken, Cas. More on line with what I hear in this country. Did he school here, like you did?”

“No.” Cas had a sip of tea, and sat back. “He gained his education in Cold Croy. The manners and speech are very much the same there as here in Rocky White. It's actually even more formal, as time and great bodies of water separate Cold Croy from Rocky White. Everything tends to stay in a stasis, until more manners and gentility arrive.”

“So remote that the fads come in sporadically,” Dean surmised. He ate the turtulong even though he remained undecided, because wasting food didn't appeal. He, too, sat back with a cup of tea.

Cas was looking out a window, the morning light very kind to his white skin and blue eyes. The latter gleamed, intelligent, and, deep in thought.

Damn, Cas was going to give Dean some fine children. He was smart, handsome, and athletic. Dean felt turned on by the prospect, and it took a lot of effort to not let that emotion bleed into his scent.

“Dean, I've decided to sell much of the house's furnishings in a free market in Isleton.” Cas said, monotone with thought. “The proceeds will go to funding poorhouses and orphanages. Meg has been informed. I would like you two to direct the division of proceeds.” Cas, still looking out the window, blinked a few times. “I know you've been meeting up with Meg regularly to learn the house finances, and this is good. You are both entirely capable of keeping things running smoothly.” He paused to have a sip of tea, slow and languid. “Three days from now, the servants will finish packing up the furniture and finery I tag to get rid of. Bill, Crowley, and Jo, will travel to the port to set up.” He paused to give Dean a worried glance. “I hope they don't think I've been high-handed. It's only that I trust select people to accomplish this task.”

Dean smiled, happy Cas had planned this thing. “High-handed?” He shook his head. “Not you, Cas.”

Cas slumped a bit, as if relieved. “Bill and Jo are to provide alpha representation, Crowley is the group's protection, and overseer.”

“Sound,” Dean said. “Did you give Meg the appropriate targets to receive that monetary bolstering?”

Cas shut his eyes, bent, and chuckled. “Fair disclosure? Your new eloquence is far from off-putting, husband. I only felt it so at first because I thought you might be losing the strength of your origins, not because I hated you were learning.” He slid his cup and saucer to the table, met Dean's eyes, and smirked. “Gradually, you've been improving, ever and always. I failed to notice it because you were selective with your verbal communication. But, I think your mind has held a constant with it, yes?”

“I think better than I speak,” Dean confirmed, smirking back. “But, not always.”

“I thought so.” Cas finished his tea. “It's gone eleven. I need to consult Mother. She may choose to go with everyone to unload all the furnishing clutter.” Cas looked at the wall clock, and sighed. “Meet me back here at one, Dean, please. We'll pay a call to Gabriel together.”

“All right.” Dean stood as Cas did. “Tell Mother I look forward to seeing her, please.”

Cas, smiling, gave Dean a nod and a bow. “I will,” he promised.

(______________________________________________________________________________)

Dean filled in his time with putting embroidery upon his deep blue, solid silk kimono, his mind constantly drawn to the good-time sex in the bath.

Dean loved Cas. And, he knew Cas had very deep feelings for him, too. It settled his very being to know Cas regarded him with all the deeper emotions. And, they were very intense. Cas hid them well, mostly, but when he slipped, he really slipped.

Dean worried that Cas' control would slip in other areas, too, eventually. Here, in this country of strict decorum and overblown speech, Cas had never been more out of his element.

“There you are.” Meg entered the parlor with a stack of account books under her arm, and a small, black satin reticule in her hand. “I've finished the general workings enough to know what our monthly expenditures should be, giving me an idea of what Castiel intends you receive as pin money.” She sat beside of Dean, cast an admiring eye over his embroidery, and smiled. “I never realized, Dean, that I was going to pick up the omega that would change everything for the better.”

“I doubt any of us gave the situation the appropriate weight,” Dean said. “What's 'pin money'?”

“Oh.” Meg handed the bag over. “Money not tied to anything, for your use. In your case, it's quite a bit. Still, I only allotted twenty gold, fifty silver, fifty steel, and one hundred copper.” As she spoke, Meg took a coin of each, placing them on the settee for him to view. “I don't think you would know what money is actually worth, here, especially with Castiel being as generous as he is, so let me give you a quick tutorial, yes?”

“Meg, that would be awesome,” Dean said in relief. He'd been fretting over this.

“Okay.” Meg put her finger on the copper piece. “Copper is pretty valuable, and the basis of the system, here. The reason is that it's able to be used for so much, from pipes to roofing. It can be hammered very thin, see? But Castiel pays his servants in silver.” Her mouth pulled up into a half-smile. “Castiel pays his servants very well. He doesn't have to, Dean. Not at all. Feeding and clothing us is all he's really required to do, aside from a yearly stipend to allow us buying clothing to wear on our off times, and a tiny wage for courtesy.”

“How much?” Dean was very interested to know.

“Well, that's where the perspective gets a bit tricky,” Meg admitted. “Here, the metal is valuable because it's got double the worth. In Panomu, we measured more by weight, but Rocky White assigns more worth if the coin is stamped with the king's face.” Meg pointed to the gold coin. “Notice that it's heavier and thicker than what you're used to seeing?”

“Yeah, but the Maholak gold coin is even bigger and heavier,” Dean said. “Sufficient to easily break a window.”

“I think they only use gold and steel,” Meg said. “It's a mysterious country and clan, Dean.” She pushed a steel piece toward him. “This is what you would use as the basic unit of money. Goods, such as produce, and the renting of horses, use this unit more. Steel can be made into swords, right? Much more, too.”

“What about this one?” Dean pointed to the silver piece.

“Fifty silver is worth one gold,” Meg said. “Fifty steel is worth one silver. Fifty copper is worth one steel. Not too hard to suss, right?”

“Not at first thought,” Dean admitted. “Say I wanted to buy something from a vendor, like Cas and I did in Isleton. How do I know if I'm being over-charged?”

“Ask their price, and offer slightly less,” Meg suggested. “As a rule, people are asking too much. They especially take advantage of others in ports, where foreigners gather.”

“Cas gave a man a gold piece for guarding Brave, and tipped him again when we returned.”

Meg's eyes threatened to roll out of their sockets. “A silver would have done it. But, as that's his favorite horse, be wanted to assure himself.” She swept the money back into the purse. “Bill will have to take at least twenty footmen with him when they go to the port to sell the junk in this house. Because, people will pay quite a bit for antiques. History is worth a lot, Dean.”

Dean hadn't thought of it that way, but Meg no doubt summed the situation correctly. “Right,” Dean said. “While you're here, ready to talk about stuff...” Dean smiled. “Can you explain the thing with omegas and lace?”

Meg nodded, a hard disapproval in her eyes at the topic. “As you go along, you'll notice that nearly any decent gentleman will try to dress himself along the style Castiel is using. Omega men of gentry will have lacy shirt sleeve cuffs, and maybe knotted lace for their cravat. Sometimes, though, they get outrageous with it, especially when they're on the market.”

“You don't like it. Why?”

Meg shook her head. “I don't like it because it's just like the subjugation in Panomu, only put out as something dignified. My poor brother, Brant, was delicate in his health, and my parents left him in Panomu because the weather wasn't as severe. And, it ended up being his death anyway, because of that bastard, St. Addams. May he rot in Hell for all eternity.”

“He deserved to get so much worse,” Dean agreed.

Meg nodded. “By the way, I want you to stop Castiel from taking his cravat off in public, okay? It's not done. I supposed you've noticed he tends to try and unwind when he settles? He can't do that anymore.”

“I know about it, and I already spoke to him on the matter,” Dean admitted. “It goes against my personal satisfaction to stop him publicly offering the dedication, Meg.”

“I'm sure it does, but... Well, be careful about it, okay?” Meg handed Dean the purse. “Don't spend all that before next month.”

“Where would I spend it?” Dean asked.

Meg smiled before grinning. “There's this thing called a 'catalogue'...”

(_________________________________________________________________________)

“He's a little off-center, okay?” Dean said as he poised to knock on Gabriel's door. “No sudden moves.”

“I understand,” Cas murmured.

Dean knocked. A few seconds passed before Crowley answered. The tailor looked ticked off, his brow deeply furrowed and eyes sharp. “I just sent your brother away,” he informed. “Did you pass him?”

“No.” Dean felt himself tensing up. “What did he want?”

“He doesn't believe Gabriel is innocent,” Crowley said. “When I showed him the drawings, he dismissed them. He said people could lie on paper as easily as with their mouths. I think he was here for a second round of torture.”

“I'm going to thrash him,” Dean said, grinding his teeth together afterward. Stubborn, stubborn Sam. Once he got something in his head, he wouldn't let go of it. He'd been that way from birth.

Cas put a hand on Dean's shoulder. “Let me talk to Gabriel before we involve ourselves in Sam's misconduct,” he urged. “We'll straighten up Gabriel's story. You can write it down in detail, which may persuade Sam.”

“Sport,” Crowley said. “Sam needs to be here. He needs to see how you interact.” Crowley took a piece of waxed paper from his pocket, and held it up. “Fortunately, I can track him easily. I plucked a hair from his coat while fitting him.” He stepped out into the hall, and shut the door. A few mumbled words in some language Dean didn't know, and the hair snapped out into a straight line, pointing left. “You stay here and guard the door, stud,” he told Cas. “Dean and I will find him.”

Cas, not a bit put off by being ordered around, simply leaned against the door and folded his arms into a stern arrangement.

Alpha sentry.

Dean paid strict attention to their route so as not to get lost on his way back, but he did note with a great deal of satisfaction that a lot of the gaudy, ugly things lining the hall, had twine tied to them. Cas had good taste in what he meant to be rid of. Some of the paintings he'd also tagged. The creepy ones, and ones that probably came along during the time period of the cruel archbishop.

They found Sam in an ante-library, at a table, reading. He looked up in surprise when he heard them, and Dean felt a bitter twist in his heart when Sam's eyes slid to Crowley with cunning. He could see Sam's thoughts. No one guarding the Maholak. Maybe I can slip away and beat him back to the room.

“Castiel is with Gabriel, and he's prepared to translate for him, get his full story,” Crowley said. “Maybe you'll be satisfied, and stop tormenting the poor man if you witness it. This isn't a request, Sam.” His voice, cold and hard, made Dean shiver.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He didn't have much else to say, really. His disappointment in Sam, and the sorrow attached to that, made him sick.

“I answer to Castiel, not you,” Sam said to Crowley coolly. “And, not to my brother, either.”

“I beg to differ. You answer to the entire household when you work at cross purposes with us, puppy. And, you'll answer to Dean because I've got his back.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and Sam stood up jerkily, like a puppet. “You'll answer to me, too, Moose. Walk over here.”

In short, staggering steps, as if he fought Crowley's magic, Sam came to stand before them. His eyes, wide and horrified, bulged at the tailor. “You fucking witch,” he ground out. “Using magic on me!”

“I'd use magic on anyone who needed it applied, and you qualify,” Crowley said. “Now, we're going back to Gabriel's space. You will sit in a far corner, well away from him, while Castiel and Dean talk to him. You'll listen. And, you'll use that big brain God gave you. Clear?”

Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“I thought so,” Crowley said smugly.

Dean led the way back, his heart in turmoil. Having Sam as an adversary was deeply ugly, and having Crowley play enforcer on him was worse. If Sam didn't see reason, soon, difficult decisions would have to be faced. Gabriel could be sent away for his own safety, but Dean didn't want that, either.

“Tell Gabriel that Sam can't hurt him,” Crowley said to Castiel first. “Then, we'll come inside.”

Castiel nodded shortly. He knocked, and waited for Gabriel to answer.

No answer came.

“He's frightened to answer, because of Sam,” Dean surmised. “Sam, you are such a horrible person to me right now.” He couldn't even look at his brother.

“Gabriel?” Cas called out. Then, he began to speak in that language Gabriel used. He said Crowley's name, and Dean's, a few times. Soon enough, the door cracked open a bit. Frightened, brilliant, brown-gold eyes peered out at them.

“Tira kae,” Castiel said. “Cava?”

Dean realized that 'cava' must mean 'please'. Because, it was the one word in the language that Crowley knew, and it had gained Gabriel's compliance quickly.

Gabriel stepped back to show he agreed.

Cas kept clear of the other alpha, showing respectful distance and manners. “Dean, take the chair by the door, staying close to him,” he ordered calmly. Again, he used the strange language. Gabriel sat on the bed, making himself smaller. “Every time I speak to you, I then explain what I've said, to him,” he informed. “People with manners do this.”

Gabriel pointed at Sam. “Neh grisa dorma!”

“That one hurt me,” Castiel translated. He said something back to Gabriel, his scent as calm as his words.

Crowley shoved Sam into a chair. “You may tell Gabriel that I have Sam under control. You may even explain how I accomplish it. The Maholak are very familiar with magic, witchcraft, and sorcery. It might give him assurance to know I'm a witch, able to control those larger and stronger than me.”

Castiel nodded. He spoke to Gabriel simply.

Gabriel started to smile, and at Crowley, not Cas. He tapped two fingers to his forehead, and winked. “Dormar fegree,” he said.

“He suspected as much,” Cas said. “That finger gesture alludes to his claim of being smart. I wouldn't doubt that he is.”

“Cas, would you ask him if he's hungry?” Dean requested. “I had breakfast sent to him, but it's after one, now.”

Cas faithfully translated. Gabriel's eyes, soft, now, went to Dean, and shone with admiration. He said Dean's name, and a whole slew of words followed.

“He said your kindness and strength are unmatched. He says he will be your shadow, if you'll allow it, a faithful dog.” Cas cleared his throat, and blinked a few times. “Also, that he is only accustomed to eating once per day. Slaves are not given many meals, as that would allow them to become as strong as their masters.”

Dean covered his eyes to collect himself. “Oh, God, Cas.”

“I know. We are dealing with a person born into captivity,” Cas said as Dean dropped his hand from his eyes. “Crowley, ring for luncheon. Full service for all of us. We will dine at Gabriel's table.” He turned, and related what he'd said to Gabriel. Gabriel simply nodded.

“Would you please tell Gabriel that any decent person wouldn't have left him to die?” Dean asked Cas.

“Buttercup,” Crowley said to Dean quickly, but evenly. “That's not a good idea. He comes from a brutal reality. Changing his perceptions too quickly might cause damage. Look what he did when he realized you saved his life.” Crowley tilted his head to show how serious he was. “He swore fealty to you. Like an omega would. He's not in a good place right now, mentally. Go slowly.”

Dean didn't have to be convinced. He trusted Crowley's outlook, and, his wisdom. “What should I say, then? I don't want him thinking I enjoy slavery.”

Crowley smiled, then chuckled. “Have Castiel translate a story about where you come from, flower. Give him something to think about. Let him understand you share certain things. It humanizes you.”

That sounded like a fine idea.

“You ready, Cas?” Dean asked.

Cas nodded. “Go a moderate pace, and pause from time to time,” he advised. “He knows little about your culture, and you are a class within a culture to begin with.”

“Yeah, I'm an enigma,” Dean said, not having the strength to smile. “Okay. Here goes.” Dean decided to start with his exit from home. “Where I come from, your parents worry about how you're going to present,” he said. “And, being an alpha male is a good thing. Betas are normal. Omegas are on the bottom. Is it that way for you?”

Cas relayed, and Gabriel listened avidly, greatly desiring to know Dean's personal information. At least, it looked like it. For, Gabriel watched Cas' and Dean both, eyes flicking back and forth quickly. His response, rapid and stressed, made Dean's pulse pick up.

“He says that only alphas are allowed to stay in their own country, that betas and omegas are sold,” Cas told Dean. “I knew this already.” He picked up Gabriel's nearly empty rum bottle, and had a short pull on it, either to wet his throat, or in the need of fortification. “In his society, lesser alphas end up doing all the work while the stronger ones make war.”

“Tell him about omega houses, Cas, and that I came from one in Panomu.” Dean took a turn with the rum.

He still couldn't look at Sam.

Cas spoke, then Gabriel.

“He is having trouble,” Cas informed. “He doesn't understand why we pretend to value the weaker. He thinks it's worse than selling them. At least an omega or beta gets to leave the country, and have a chance at being better than a pirate, a warrior, or a slave.” Cas reclaimed the bottle, and gave it over to Gabriel.

“He has a point,” Crowley muttered, and Cas faithfully translated that to Gabriel, who shrugged instead of smiling.

“It's a way out.” Dean thought that Gabriel did indeed have a point. A slave might get away. A slave might be successful in buying his freedom, too. “Ask him when he started making clocks.”

Cas asked. Gabriel said something shortly, and Cas nodded. “He doesn't remember a time he wasn't making clocks,” Cas said.

Gabriel said something else, and Cas cocked his head in curiosity before speaking back. They volleyed a few times before Cas shook his head in wonder.

“Gabriel wanted to know how we dealt with our cycles, being pushed into mixed company,” Castiel explained. “Apparently, his people simply abduct and rape foreigners, or even each other, when going into rut. He has personally never stooped to that. He has a specific item, or, did, that helped him believe he had knotted someone.”

“What is this item?” Crowley interjected.

Dean, remembering the giant false penis the tailor made for him, smiled. Crowley would be interested in this type of thing, the pervert.

“A false tract, made of modified rubber,” Cas said, not blinking an eyelash. “Apparently, his people aren't just pirates and invaders. They also are industrialists. Hence, the clocks.”

“If he's not used to mixed company, why didn't Crowley or I upset him? Why didn't he bow up at Bill?” Dean asked.

Cas asked Gabriel these questions, and Gabriel looked at Dean wide-eyed while answering.

“Aside from the fact he's never been around too many omegas,” Cas said, “he's attracted to other male alphas. And, used to hiding it. It would have earned him a death sentence. His people are not allowed to keep to their own sex unless breeding can occur. He also says that your scent made him afraid, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, tell him that's because I was angry at hearing how Sam had treated him,” Dean said. “And, tell him alpha-on-alpha isn't condemned, here.” Dean paused. “Wait, is it? It wasn't in Panomu. Or, was it? I never saw anyone-.”

“One thing at a time, Dean,” Crowley said, putting his hand on Dean's knee a moment.

Cas spoke to Gabriel for what seemed like a long time. Dean was compelled to open his door when a knock came, and he admitted three footmen and one maid, all carrying trays.

They reconvened in the dining area. Gabriel sat at the end of the table, after Cas directed him there, and looked warily at the covered trays. Cas sat beside him, to the left. “Dean, sit on his other side, the right corner,” Cas ordered. “He needs to be able to look at you. Crowley, flank Dean. Sam, sit at the other end. He needs to keep an eye on you, as well, from far away.” This was delivered with unveiled disapproval.

Sam put his head down.

Crowley snapped his fingers, releasing Sam from the compulsion. “You make a single move, and you're back in bonds,” he warned.

“I won't,” Sam promised. “I can see he's being truthful, now.” His voice was thick with emotion, and Dean caught a whiff of regret, faintly.

Not good enough. Sam had to be really sorry for what he'd done. Dean would take nothing less.

Cas told Gabriel what they were saying, and Dean could see how relieved he was to be continually let in on conversations he didn't understand. Gabriel probably wouldn't ever trust Sam, but at least he wouldn't run screaming.

“I believe I can make a translation spell,” Crowley said. “It might take some time, but I sometimes get inspired. I think it will be easier to help him understand us than the reverse.” He pointed at Cas. “You might have to serve him. The footman who looked to his needs told Dean that our guest finds fruit disturbing. Kindly inform him that it is not.”

Cas talked and talked. Gabriel talked. Castiel showed him how to cut his star fruit into neat little slices that did look like stars, then poured a milky cream over them. When Dean tried it himself, he found it to indeed be thick, vanilla-sweet cream, and it really tasted good. Gabriel certainly enjoyed it. He ate with his hands, smiling widely.

A slave has no use for silverware.

Next, Gabriel chose the bread. Cas put a ramekin of white stuff, and one of red stuff, before Gabriel. He showed Gabriel how to break open his bread, and apply one spread after the other on each piece, talking all the while. “This is a scone, with clotted cream and raspberry jam,” he told Dean before also telling Gabriel. “People fuss about which to put on first, but I assure you it doesn't matter.” He poured Gabriel a glass of sparkling wine.

“It certainly does matter,” Crowley muttered, doing the opposite of Cas' layering. He put the clotted cream on first, then the jam.

Dean felt such endearing sweetness in his heart, watching Cas make the food less scary for Gabriel. He was choosing the sugary fare to ease him into the other courses. And, going slowly, talking to him and everyone else, keeping them all in one spot.

“How did he gain a predilection for rum, if he's not a sailor?” Dean asked softly.

Cas inquired. Gabriel replied.

“Standard drink in the evenings, to make sure the slaves slept,” Cas answered. “I had to inform him that the quality of the bottle he's been nursing isn't the standard, here. He seems relieved to know it, too. I hazard a guess he fears dependency.” He paused to ask Gabriel a question, and to get an answer. “Oh. Some slaves will steal from each other, even murder, to get extra rum. The ration is based on how much product you put out, and the older slaves slow down, earning less rum. And, they are, of course, the very ones in most need of it.”

Swinging back into depression, Dean attended his broiled fish.

People could be so cruel. The deliberate cruelty was hard to overlook. The kind that happened when good people were sick and ignored themselves, that was a bit easier to deal with. Because, when people are starved and hurt repeatedly, they tended to not make good decisions, or, to take care of the ones under their care.

God.

Good and evil were so subjective. No wonder Zachariah had made such a code for Cas. A simple one, too. The ones without any redeeming qualities were the ones he set his son to destroying, not the negligent villains. Not the ones made into what they were by the blind eyes of the rich people that were supposed to help.

Dean let go of the small resentment he held for Zachariah giving Cas such a hard code to live by. He had to. Being fair, how could a new father be perfect? Especially, how could a stressed father, taking over an empire, be perfect when confronted by a child of his own loins that presented not only alpha, but as fleshly angel.

John released a bitter chuckle. “It's easier to forgive others, son. A man is his own worst critic.”

Fuck, what a dilemma.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, having to push the words out. “Will you tell him I'm sorry I dropped his pocketknife in the cove? And, that I'll help him get a new one. A better one.”

Just focus on the small. Focus on what he could actually change.

Cas relayed that. Gabriel shrugged before speaking a few sentences. “Gabriel says he stole it in the first place, so that is what he deserves,” Cas said, chuckling. He spoke to Gabriel again.

Gabriel's scent of thankfulness filled the room. He bent his head a moment before going back to eating.

No words were needed.

Dean slid a glance at Sam, finally. His brother just picked at his food. He looked about to cry. He'd shredded his cheese on toast, stacking the wounded bits of cheese to one side of his plate, the bread on the other. Dean felt sympathy stirring, but kept that from his scent. Alpha nature was obstinate, to be sure, and Sam wouldn't truly take this lesson to heart if he gained instant forgiveness.

Dean wanted to make sure Sam knew how he felt about torture. How he felt about human life. Sam had married into a family with strict rules about human life. Even Cas, who could look so cruel when taking someone down, didn't protract the process. No, not unless he felt his victim needed a dose of fear in his punishment.

“I like his eyes,” Crowley said. “Two different ways. One, that's a smart little bugger lurking behind them. Two, their color. I think I'll make John a waistcoat in that color, if I can manage to dye the brocade exactly right. I think Gabriel had interesting parentage.”

Cas interpreted. Gabriel snorted a laugh, then let fly a string of words filled with amusement. His handsome face so animated, so lively, that Dean felt some hope stirring for Gabriel's sake.

Cas let out a small chuckle of his own. “He said if you wanted to use his eye color to decorate, you'd have to patent it under his name,” he told Crowley.

“Fine.” Crowley slid Gabriel a leer. “Gabriel Gold, it is.”

(______________________________________________________________________________)

Certain that Sam wouldn't sneak back to hurt Gabriel anymore, Dean and Cas went back to their rooms to rest and talk. Ruto and Sphinx were on the hearth, close to the low fire, sleeping. Dean looked upon them fondly as he put his morning kimono on a hanger in exchange for one less heavy. “They don't stick by me like they used to,” he said. “Is that because I'm safer, now?”

“Yes.” Cas began changing his clothes, too. He needed a fresh shirt, so the whole outfit had to go. “No one may simply sneak up on us here, Dean. We have farm workers, guards, and suspicious servants all around us. Getting close requires effort. Even if that is managed, entering the house itself is very difficult. And, no one is climbing ivy, or a gutter, to get you here, not at Fen-Taven.” Cas threw his cravat onto the dressing table, along with the pretty pin that kept the knot tight. “Ruto and Sphinx are young and full of energy. Let them play for awhile. They will still accompany you on public outings. Well, at the very least, Ruto.”

“I'm not excluding Sphinx,” Dean said.

“You don't have to. I will tell them they have to walk together to let it be known Sphinx is a tamed cat. She won't like it, but she will oblige me.” Cas hung up his tail coat, and then the waistcoat. “Her sort is found more often, here. Don't be surprised if she disappears for awhile to solicit a male.”

“Speaking of which, how are our retired prostitutes doing?” Dean asked. He left his obi off his new kimono so that he wouldn't feel so confined while stretching out on the bed.

“I made sure to make casual contact with them to heal them of disease,” Cas said. He ran a hand through his hair absently. “Meg suggests I make Pamela the head housekeeper, but I believe that Charlie is the better choice. I think that, if given authority and status, Charlie will show herself very capable. As for the newest women's adjustment, that will take time. Most of them are filling in as groundskeepers until the orangery is completed.” Cas stopped speaking to shortly laugh. “Bobby has made a friend of one. Her name is Dominique. She's an omega. I didn't detect her as one. I believe she has enough maleness to mask her designation. No matter, she's the reason none of those unfortunate women have borne children.”

Startled, Dean turned to fully look at Cas. “How?”

“Sea sponge soaked in the juice of lemons, inserted into the birth canal,” Cas said, smiling.

“Would...” Dean licked his lips. He dared to ask. Because, he wanted Cas. “Would that work for me?”

Cas' smile fell away. “I asked her,” he admitted. “She tells me 'no'. Her brother is an omega, and he proved her method doesn't suit male omegas. Apparently, the physiology of male omegas determines that a mere acidic substance won't do. Women, omega, beta, or alpha, apparently already produce a caustic fluid that eliminates weak sperm. It's not perfect. It doesn't work every time, but, it works well enough. Men do not produce this chemical.”

“Is Lucifer the Evil One?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas said.

“And, Michael is the one who keeps an eye on him,” Dean remembered. “He watches out for all of human kind.”

“Yes,” Cas said again. “But, Lucifer is clever. Humanity wasn't always able to breed the way it does now. The Evil One is responsible for this change in dynamics.”

Dean flopped onto the bed face down, pissed. “Lucifer and his dynamic altering shit,” he said with feeling. “I hope Michael kicks the candy out of him.”

“So, this fight Michael has with Lucifer,” Dean said. “It's going on all the time?”

“...no,” Cas said softly. “Michael is stronger than Lucifer. Lucifer causes trouble and uprisings within the Host of Heaven, and Michael subdues him. Over and over. Lucifer never stays down for long, but Michael is loyal to God, and will always thwart the Evil One.”

“What would it take to defeat that Evil One for good?” Dean asked, rolling onto his back.

“Who can say?” Cas joined him on the bed, naked, and closed his eyes. “I don't understand it, Dean. Being an angel doesn't mean I'm in on the heavenly dynamic any more than I'm in on the human one. In fact, I'm muddled enough by being both that my confusion level is fairly high.”

Dean heard that 'I'm a monster' in Cas' tone. He sighed only in his mind. “Just means your perspective is open,” Dean said. “And, since you can share it with me, at least you get another feature of the human viewpoint. I can help you.”

“I'm very often thankful of your help,” Cas admitted. He frowned, and Dean heard their door locking.

Angel, Dean reminded himself. Maybe that had been Cas' way of accentuating his heritage?

“I want to sleep,” Cas said. “Gabriel's plight saddened me so much. In fact, it upset me to the point my scent probably didn't keep up with my thoughts.”

“Mostly correct,” Dean told him. “Put your face close to my neck, hadja. Breathe me in. Forget about everything else for awhile.” He drew Cas closer, and also scooted his own body to meet him. “Rest for a time. We have a few hours before eating again. And, I think we need this small respite. We've been thrust into a situation beyond our comfort.”

“Dear Lord, we have,” Cas agreed, snuggling in to rest his nose upon Dean's neck. He breathed in noisily, with relish, exhaling harshly afterward. “I've got little time between the bequeathing of a new title, and, planning a social occasion for celebrating it. Clearwater gentry have to be invited, as well as nobles. I have to learn who my peers are, and for what reasons. Horribly, to decide if I agree or not.” Cas dropped an arm over Dean, hugging him close. “I have to figure out how to present as strong while being approachable, while being fair, while adhering to the rules.” He breathed out only to breathe in, enjoying Dean's scent. “I have to play a game, play it well, and keep up a balancing act at all times. I'm vexed by it.”

“You'd have to be,” Dean said, snuggling against Cas. “Sleep now, Cas.”

“I hear and obey,” Cas said, a smile on his lips.

(_________________________________________________________________________)

Dean awoke alone, his eyes quickly focusing upon a note pinned to Cas' pillow. He pulled the pin free, which was a cravat pin, amusingly, and read.

Dean, my deepest apologies for making you wake up alone. I know you don't like it. I was pulled away from you in order to deal with pre-ordering. We have many more supplies that need delivered, and I want things set in motion during my absence. After all, I will be gone a solid week, maybe more.

Shall we meet for a fashionably late supper tonight in the formal dining room? Ellen and Crowley have brought it to my attention that we country people need to learn how to behave in front of gentry. To that effect, they will be giving us lessons ( a refresher on my part), on dining protocols. Since your father is coming with me tomorrow, he will be in attendance. He will be expected to comport himself as a gentlemen while in court.

I hope he survives the atmosphere.

Also attending, your brother, and Kevin. My mother sent his paperwork out for official adoption yesterday, and he will be expected to rub elbows with those in our peerage. I forewarn you, Dean. Not only is Kevin thrilled to gain a new last name and all the assurance of our family, he is quite enthusiastic about not wearing a kimono anymore. He wants to wear what the gentry wear, and doesn't mind the lace on shirt cuffs. I know this because he is the one who roused me from the bed, blabbing of the freedom of trousers though our closed door. I'm surprised he didn't awaken you, honestly.

So, nine o'clock, in the second-most appalling, overly flamboyant room in this monstrosity of a house? Wear your best kimono. Bring your appetite. Also, this cravat pin, to keep on hand for jabbing yourself awake. Formal suppers wear on for hours, and Crowley and Ellen will want to make sure we are all properly educated.

Yours, Castiel

Dean, smiling, folded the long note, rising to put it in his keepsake box, which now had a home upon the long, walnut bureau beside the fireplace. He touched the other letters in there, and the necklace. The scrap of green velvet he'd saved. His boathouse key. His father's rather mangled and smudged calling card. The cake of incense Sam had given to him at his wedding...

His obi.

Dean ran a hand over his beautiful, perfect symbol for unity with Cas, savoring the feel of it. He felt of two minds about it; hopeful, yet frustrated.

Dean, outside the postal dispatch office with his large, foul smelling guards, waited for his newest purchaser to finish his business. He'd already determined Liam Coxcoombe to be a bland, lecherous, lazy asshole who would only want to spread him eight times a day in between naps. No ambition. No drive. No heart.

Dean would wait two days before outright refusing him, the allotted time by law before the fucking could start, then throw a fan in his face and demand to be returned. That gave him an opportunity to eat three meals a day, twice.

“Dean!” Jon Harris waved to Dean from across the street, looking excited to see him. He, too, had big beta guards.

Jon had been gone from Sonny's two months, now, and Dean saw he was already pregnant. Two months for an omega male was about the same as four months for any female, since males didn't carry for nine months.

Dean didn't ever want a stupid, violent alpha knocking him up. If he had to risk his life trying to nurture a baby that would pull like hell at his body for six months, he'd better be damn sure of his sperm donor. Omega males died, if they couldn't eat enough while pregnant. It happened all the time.

Jon took a brisk pace across as soon as all horses and carriages were clear, guards right beside him. Grey eyes alit with pleasure at seeing Dean, he grasped Dean's hands and grinned like a happy fool. “Dean, I'm so glad to see you,” he gushed, and Dean could see he really meant that.

Well, of course he did. Dean had mostly raised him, come to think of it.

“You, too,” Jon,” Dean said. He made a show of looking Jon up and down. “Good work. Dressed very decently, and already carrying your alpha's child.” The words tried to stick in his craw. He had to force them.

“Thank you!” Jon rubbed his bulging stomach. “I decided to accept Mark that first day! He was so perfect...” Jon let his head tilt back, and sighed. “Still is. His mother and father took to me. They'd saved up a long time to get Mark a respectable omega. Wanted one with coloring opposite to theirs, too, thinking it proved diversity in the child.”

“Common,” Dean remarked neutrally. Jon's kimono, put on in haste due to youth and carelessness, sagged at the neck well enough for Dean to see the mating bite. It was huge, deep, and, though healed, still red as fire. Mark must have barely missed chewing through the kid.

Brute.

Fucking thoughtless, horny, alpha brute.

“Oh, Dean,” Jon said, giggling. “I had such fun using the obi!” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Why do you resist an alpha so much?” He asked. “You have no idea how good it feels!”

“I don't?” Dean prodded, slightly amused, and just a touch curious. Jon had obviously enjoyed himself, even if his knot-head had seriously hurt him.

“You have no idea,” Jon told him, smiling. “He tied me up with the obi, hands and feet, then used the end of it to blindfold me.” Jon waggled his eyebrows at Dean. “Being restrained, not able to see, being made helpless while not having to present...?” Jon shook his head. “Dean, that satisfied me down to my toes!”

Dean shook free of the old memory, and found he'd clenched down on the roll of his obi.

It had been four years, at least, since that day. He had no idea how Jon fared, or even if he'd lived through his pregnancy and labor. He very deliberately had not thought about his fellow omegas, once they left Sonny's. Sonny didn't encourage it, saying that it would interfere with their own progress. But, Dean had already been a veteran of the omega market when encountering Jon on the street that day, and it gave the boy a different view in Dean's eyes.

“Four-twenty, Hargate Street, duplex two,” Jon told him quickly as his conveyance pulled up to the curb. “Write me, or call upon me, if you can, Dean!” Jon backed up as the guards dropped down the folding stairs from the carriage, and opened the door. “It's just the four of us in Mark's house, and I get so bored at times!” He turned his head to assure the nearest groom he'd hurry, then looked at Dean a final time. “Good luck with your new alpha!”

Dean pressed a hand to his head against a pain, and also a pang of guilt. He'd been so busy fending off randy, stupid, stinking alphas, that he'd shoved the encounter aside. Jon had obviously been happy and well set, and he didn't really need Dean at all. Still, he'd admitted to being lonely.

And, he would be. Alphas had to occupy themselves, to figure out funding their families, leaving no time for their mates. Even Cas, hard as he tried to carve away time for Dean, couldn't be with him like either of them preferred. Doubtless, Mark Devlin was away from Jon for large chunks of time.

Instantly, Dean imagined Jon, sitting in a middle class parlor. Baby in his lap, no one one around, staring out a window.

“Don't do this to yourself,” Dean said out loud, the words grinding up from deep within. He felt he was sweating. Cold sweat, too. “You can't save everyone,” he added.

Dean slammed the lid of his keepsake box, and backed up until his butt hit the bed. Conflicted on what to do, second by second, he tried to calm his heart. He smelled the reek of failure and dread coming from his pores.

He should have made time to write.

He should have thought of that kid.

Dean's body worked practically by it's own volition to stagger to the forest-facing windows. He opened them one by one, letting the brine and salt of the sea, and the green smell of the river, invade his space in powerful gusts. Bare seconds only, he allowed that odd and pervasive collection of odors to fan his face. Then, he lurched to the study to repeat the process.

Vision flickering between the swoon of faint and the sharp of perspective, Dean managed to make it to the dining area. He slammed the windows up, hearing them creak and groan in protest at their treatment. He swirled around, his knees weak, and attacked the terrace windows next. Bang, bang, bang! His arms shook. His nerves shot-through with overload.

Desperate, Dean worked the knob for the terrace door. It relented after what seemed forever, and he spilled from it into the late afternoon sky, sobbing. Collapsing over the safety rail, Dean woozily registered the ultra-light blue of the cove. Such was his panicked focus he zeroed in upon individual fish, swimming happily about with no concept or care as to the human misery above. “Fucking fuck,” he gasped out, watching a long, ropey strand of drool escaping his mouth, erupting from the pre-sick his stomach churned. “Ahw, man.”

The crashing of waves taunted him. Magical, cyclical movement, unaffected by Dean's state of decay. Unrelenting, solid, moving on and on with no comprehension. Doing the work of the Creator as was meant, a vehicle to His will, carrying on the mysterious, unfathomable purpose of a thing so mighty no one could fathom it.

Dean sicked up. It was a hard, undeniable, relentless roll, from the bottom of his guts all the way out his fully stretched throat. He lost air, heaving, and, eyes watering, he didn't try to fight. He'd been food poisoned enough times in his disadvantaged youth to not find vomiting a pure torture, only a necessary evil. In fact, he welcomed vomiting. It would lessen his weight, stop the sick, and allow him to run however it proved needed.

Again and again, Dean hurled his nerves and most recent meal, into the brink. Pure bile came up, green and disgusting. He watched it falling, ever falling, gleaming horribly in the golden, slanted light of sundown, revolted by it's prismatic beauty.

Life, death, joy and suffering, all produced colors.

Dean wished he was blind, if only for a short while.

Strong, gentle, caring hands. Dean absorbed the bracing warmth on his shoulders. Hope flared. He sagged back, and identified Crowley's wiry, smaller body. His scent, sweet and full of anise, came to Dean's nose in conflicting gusts of sea breeze. “Oh, my God, Crowley,” he whimpered. He shook now, with failure and perspective. His body swelled with shameful sweat. “His name was Jon. I... I don't even know if he's alive. One of the boys I helped raise at Sonny's...”

Dean turned his head so he could scent Crowley's hair. His faithful friend smelled of sadness and determination, the proper mix of caring and strength. “I'm going to die,” he told him, certain of it.

“You're aren't,” Crowley promised, his low voice so certain that Dean latched onto it like a drowning man grabs a buoyant log of driftwood. “Dean, what you're feeling is the after effect of being overwhelmed. Not unlike what your stud suffers on a daily basis.” Crowley eased Dean onto a chair gently. “Start counting backward from one hundred, out loud. I'll be back within two minutes, maximum.” He paused.

“Got it,” Dean answered. He felt thankful to get an order. Any order.

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven...”

Sonny, holding a screaming eight year old, freshly dumped on his door mat. Some omegas presented far, far too early.

“Ninety-six, ninety-five, ninety-four...”

Little Julian Navarre, hiding under a table, terrified.

“Ninety-three, ninety-two, ninety-one, ninety.”

“How do I hold these?” Mickey Fields asked, brandishing his chopsticks. “I can eat with these, really? How?”

“Eighty-nine, eighty-eight, eighty-seven, eighty-six, eighty-five...”

“Oh, one is like a small graphite stick, and the other stays still!” Mickey declared. He got a noodle up, and fed himself with fair motor control.

Dean closed his eyes, and continued counting in silence. Flickering fast, images of many boys presented for his consideration. Daniel, Marcus, Joseph, Edward... Oh, and Forrest, who wouldn't speak at all, but could draw so well. Manny, the one with a scar over his eye. His milky, dead eye.

Dean felt something hot and smooth touch his hand. He opened up, getting a delicate cup.

“Buttercup, you drink that,” Crowley said, taking a chair beside of him. “Slowly, now.”

“Dean, I couldn't breathe,” Luther sobbed.

Numbly, Dean sipped the foul tasting stuff.

“You've been doing so well,” Crowley murmured, reaching over to take his free hand in a firm grip. “The thing is, Dean, a man with perfect memory quickly learns where to file things. You have to survive, so you put things away. Some of your files are opening up, and it hurts.”

Dean understood, and agreed. “I don't know why I'm made this way,” he admitted. “Cas has perfect recall, too. Maybe it works against him, as well. He sure had a hard time when I did the big reveal that I knew what he was.” He took another sip, swallowing with effort. Whatever this was, it stopped the churning in his guts, and put a slight damper on his mental turmoil. “Made me so angry, Crowley... I went down and tore into his parents. I made them afraid.”

“Your father has eidetic memory as well,” Crowley mused. He squeezed Dean's hand. “He tells me that it makes all the painful things worse. I believe him. Twice, he's been asleep in my presence, and his nightmares are ugly.”

Dean let out a weary snort of amused grimness. “He's got Mom's death to go over in loving detail, and, he's a fucking monster hunter. He must have big nightmares.” He drained his cup, and looked at it. “This is hideous. Where...”

Crowley laughed shortly. “Found it on a table in the hall. It was so ugly I perversely kept it for consideration. Chuck it over the side.”

Dean hurled the mustard yellow cup over the terrace. He didn't bother to get up, to watch it fall. “Probably worth a fortune.”

“Yes, which is why it needed to die,” Crowley replied airily. “Wealth isn't usually pretty, to me, but even I took exception to that thing.”

They sat in silence for some time before Dean thought to ask about Crowley's presence. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“Dean, the scent of you came in through my windows,” Crowley answered quietly. “I thought you were having a heart attack, your fear was so potent.”

“Well, it was a surprise,” Dean said. “I was just standing there, looking at my wedding obi, and all of a sudden I went back to a random memory of a nice kid I'd helped to mentor. Then, it was like I was responsible for what happened to him. Sonny always told me not to think about the ones that got bought...”

“But, you can't really ever forget,” Crowley finished for him. Again, he squeezed Dean's hand. “Do you want me to get Castiel for you? Or, John?”

Dean leaned until he could put his head on Crowley's shoulder. It was an uncomfortable stretch, but he didn't care. “You're more than enough,” he said. “Sometimes, I just want a friend, not a father, brother, or lover. A friend. I don't have to be anyone but Dean, with you.”

“Damn right, flower,” Crowley replied warmly. “Damn right.”

(_________________________________________________________________________)

Dean had a bath to get rid of any lingering scent that might bother anyone, dressed again, and went in search of the formal dining room with Cas' cravat pin through the shoulder of his kimono. He found his way with the help of a footman, eventually. Crowley and Ellen, standing in a corner, conversed quietly as Dean had a look at the room.

Big, just like the others, but, wow. Really big. The ceiling, at least thirty feet up, was a very delicate blue, with white cornices edged in gold. The paneling matched, being textured white. So many paintings... Damn, so many candles. The room practically blazed.

“A sign of wealth,” John said, easing up to stand beside of Dean.

“Which?” Dean asked, sarcastic and off balance. “All I see is wealth, Dad.”

John smiled as they shared a sense of overwhelming superfluous. “The candles, Dean,” he answered. “Beeswax is expensive. Your husband can afford to effectively light every room in this great house, fully. If you think back, we had tallow candles at home, and they reeked.”

“The beeswax is plentiful enough to make the household candles,” Castiel said. “We also use oil lamps, of course.”

Dean thought of Sonny's again, how Sonny would spend extra every so often for them to get oranges to eat. He'd cut the fruit at the top, dig out the delicious pulp, and they'd all enjoy it while he showed the newest boys his trick of filling the orange with vegetable oil. The spongy, central white part, he'd deliberately left intact, because it served as a wick. It never failed to delight the littler boys, but most of the long-term ones had been bored by sheer repetition.

Orange peel lamps.

Reeking, animal fat candles the poor people used.

Fifty thousand beeswax candles, filling the room with the smell of honey...

Dean focused on his father to keep from losing his control. John had on clothing right on status with Cas', except his waistcoat was a brocade of modest tan and gold. Hair neatly arranged, jaws shaven, and clean, he presented very well. The tail coat looked a little odd on him, but not in a bad way. Those were new shoes. “Dad, you look fantastic,” Dean praised, temporarily forgetting his stress level. “Crowley's good for you.”

John blushed, and looked at the ceiling. “He actually did dress me,” he admitted. “When I refused the stock, but agreed to the cravat, he gave me such a look. I tried to explain it isn't a good thing for a hunter to not be able to move his neck freely, but he wasn't impressed.”

“Cas hates it, too,” Dean admitted. “He likes his understated country clothes. This place is a prison, to him.”

“I get it,” John said quickly, nodding his understanding. “He had his own home, his own way of doing things. And, it was good. I have to hand it to him. His parents and I chat, sometimes. They told me he took that place and made it a success practically from nothing. Refused their help, even.” John shook his head. “I'm glad you linked to a self-made man. It makes me feel good to know he'll be able to provide for you, under any situation.”

“Yeah, but look at this place,” Dean muttered, watching Crowley point to something on a paper for emphasis, and Ellen throwing her hands up in relent. “Naomi and Zachariah bought it for him when he was a kid, and he just took to a far corner and hid. Now, he's the master of the entire clan. He has thousands of cousins, Dad. This is weighing on him.”

“And, on you, too,” John murmured back. “You're his second. Good thing you're a smart one.” He clapped his hand on Dean's shoulder, then pointed at Sam, who sat in a chair with his head bowed. “What's wrong with your brother?”

“Guilt,” Dean said. “I'll let him explain it to you, because I'm going to insist that he does. He needs to see he's not above making mistakes.”

John stared at Dean for a moment before resuming his examination of Sam. “Boy, your tone put a shiver up my spine,” he said lowly. “What's all this with your scent being so powerful, too? It's intimidating, and lawful.”

Holy judgment, Dean remembered Naomi saying. “I'm a righteous man,” he answered. “I don't approve of senseless torture.”

“Sam tortured someone?” John asked, dark eyes wide and stunned. “Sam? Your brother, who took spiders out of the house so I wouldn't kill them. Your brother, who hated killing a worm for fishing so much that he made fake ones.”

“My brother, Sam, the soldier,” Dean corrected, feeling cold to Sam all over again.

John pulled his shoulders back, and went to staring only at Sam. “I tried to make him into a hunter, and he learned the lore, but he drew a line at killing something that wasn't threatening anyone,” he said. “I can't believe this of him, Dean.”

“Believe it.” Dean saw Cas approaching from the left, his strides powerful. God, he had a hot husband. “Have you seen Kevin, Dad?”

“He's already in the room. Look to the far back.” John pointed. “His clothing matches the wall, and he's standing there as a joke, to see who notices. See? He's smiling, now.”

Dean spared Kevin a grin, and waved. “That's clever. The paintings and ornaments are close to his hair and skin color, too. How did you spot him?”

“You may be a righteous man, but I'm a grizzled old hunter,” John replied, chuckling. “My peepers are trained to notice what others don't.”

“We're ready,” Crowley announced, and footmen began pouring into the room. “Lesson one, the footmen and attendants do the serving and clearing.”

Dean watched as the black-clad footmen parted into two groups. The first group unfurled an enormous white cloth over a table that would serve fifty people. The second group instantly covered it with another tablecloth.

“Three courses,” Crowley said. “After the first one, all plates are cleared, the tablecloth removed, the table reset. After that, the remaining tablecloth will be taken away, with plates, and dessert is served on the bare, lovely cherry.”

More footmen arrived. They began setting out the tableware, and napkins, and glasses. Dean saw more gold, on the glasses and plates. The fucking silverware wasn't silver, but gold. Goldware? Was that a word? He shook his head. At least the blades of the knives didn't look like gold.

“Yes, these are real gold,” Crowley informed their gathering. “Solid, too. Needless to say, our master will be very careful of the company we keep, here. And, each guest will have his own footman, to prevent the 'accidental' loss of this heirloom set.”

John smiled, a wry arrangement of lip edges and eyebrow lifts. “Good thinking.”

Crowley nodded to him, accepting the praise with an equally large smile.

Sam just sat there, looking at the service as if it would bite him.

“Sam, would you please go to the door with your father, so we can teach you about seating importance?” Crowley asked.

Sam got up and obeyed, not looking at anyone.

“Gentlemen, it is your job to lead female guests to their seating, no matter who you are,” Crowley said. “The master of the house escorts the lady with the most social standing, to supper, and that decision is up to him. It can cause waves, who the master chooses, so pay attention to status. Because, he might pass over the obvious, titled woman, in favor of one he approves of, more.” Crowley sniffed, as if he barely approved of the custom. “Imagine that prior to this, you have been standing in a parlor, making nice with titled snobs. It's not hard to do.”

Again, John smiled. “Do we get a guest list and a cheat sheet?” He asked.

Crowley quirked a leer at John. “Darling, all guests will be thoroughly screened. By the time I'm done, we'll know enough for blackmail.”

Cas held his hand up for attention. “Winchester and I will get the insider's view when we pay the king a visit, as well. His highness will be very accommodating on that aspect, as he enjoys stirring up intrigue.”

“Most excellent,” Crowley said with relish. “Now, pay attention dearies, because this is where the etiquette starts to sting your britches.” He pointed at Cas. “You will be first in line, with Duchess Horseface, or whatever her name will be. Next will be your father, with Duchess Drearyass, then John, with Marchiones Breakwind.”

One of the young footmen snorted, and bent over in the attempt to hide his outburst.

“Soldier Samuel will follow with Marchioness Mushmouth,” Crowley went on, unperturbed. “Then, the beautiful Naomi, being an alpha female, will escort the first omega blue-blood. It will be up to the rest of our guests to determine who gets to lead Dean in, and it's going to be a fight, be warned.”

“Why will it be a fight?” Sam asked quietly.

“Because,” Crowley said, “proper as these slags and wags imagine themselves, they are all just horny little sods in nice clothes-.”

The unruly footman gasped out a hastily smothered laugh, which set some of his fellows off.

“-who will all be wanting inside Dean's kimono,” Crowley soldiered on. “He's got Midas for a husband, if that's not illustrated enough by this pompous setting. He's beautiful, and he's as exotic as it's possible to be. Netting him as a clandestine lover will be top priority for the illiberal coxcombs in attendance.”

Hm. Dean heard upper class words and phraseology in Crowley. Crowley had been born and raised in Rocky White. Maybe he was attempting to use that as a way to fit in. Like Dean was learning to do.

No one was getting in Dean's kimono but Dean, or his hadja. Dean would make utterly certain of that.

“But...” Sam's face scrunched up in horror and distaste. “He's married! Isn't this all about marrying people off, up here?”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Crowley said, rubbing a hand over his eyelids. “Sam, listen to me.” He paused. “Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Sam snapped out.

“Good, because you're going to be fending off pawing letches and overeager matchmakers, too,” Crowley said. “All that nobility and idealism is going to make you choke on opening night.”

“I know how the world works,” Sam protested. “I've seen most of it!”

“You know how the military works,” Crowley said, harsh and loud. “This is not a barracks, or the bottom hold of a ship. In this room, you will face people who have never had a speck of dirt on them. When you shake a gentleman's hand, it will feel like you're holding someone else's limp gigambobs; awkward and wrong.”

The easily titillated footman sagged on one of his friends, who was also laughing, and so hard he could barely help. Dean saw that a lot of the footmen now struggled to keep their faces clear of humor.

To be fair, Crowley could be hilarious, disturbingly to the point.

“And, that's even if they're polite enough to offer skin-on-skin contact,” Crowley said as Sam's face morphed into actual worry. “This set of people bob their heads at each other like their necks are hinged!” Crowley made an affected bow for sarcastic emphasis. “But, the real worry is the horde of women, desperate to marry off their whey-faced little wisps of baggage. You're going to hear platitudes of pulchritude, endure the pitching of petticoats!”

“You're an honorably retired soldier, Sam,” John interjected in a more reasonable tone while footmen shook with amusement. “You're going to be approached. This country has no active military, so you will be seen as attractively dangerous, an alpha's alpha. That you're linked to Dean's family will be all that more significant. The night you need to attend this shindig, you'll have to wear your uniform. So, polish it up.”

Sam, looking worried, bit his lip. “I get it.”

“Also, watch your words,” Crowley said. “That goes for all of you. Forbidden table topics are nearly anything anyone would construe as interesting. Therefore, be as diligently dull as a sun-warmed wedge of Stichelton cheese.” He pointed at the table. “Castiel. In reviewing the changes in etiquette since I left this country, you are no longer to sit at the head of the table. Now, you sit at the center right. Dean is opposite you. This is ostensibly for the ease of your close dining companions, but I believe it's so you can communicate with your partner through desperate eye contact.”

Cas sat where pointed, so Dean did, too. He wanted to eat close to Cas, but he'd make this work. Anything to support Cas.

“Dean, it's not a 'thing' in this country for your alpha to feed you in public,” Crowley went on. “You were taught by a Xia Pau traditionalist, and that was to make you more attractive to the alphas that wanted something different. Here, that 'eating out of your master's hand' bit, is very, very intimate. It's the same thing as openly giving a hand job.”

“I understand,” Dean promised while tittering footmen provided background noise. He looked at his place setting. “I'll have to be taught how to eat the right way.”

“All of you will,” Ellen finally cut in. “I served in a very fine house for years, and this is where I come in.” She pointed to a footman. “Get the first course out. Kevin, sit anywhere you want, but close to Master Novak.”

The footman drew a line of five from their gathering, and went out the door.

“You'll notice you have a lot of utensils.” Ellen gestured that everyone else should sit. “You always work from your outside to the inside. There are exceptions, but we aren't going to worry about them.” She picked up a tiny little spoon, the first one. It looked to be made of ceramic. “We have caviar first, as it rams it home that Sir is rich. The first hosting he does, we will be very opulent. A menu closely following the one we use tonight.”

“What is caviar?” Dean asked.

“Caviar is fish eggs,” Ellen answered. “Try to eat them, Dean. They can taste good, if you get the right kind, and we have the right kind. Your father in law has an enclosure in Galana, where he keeps a rare, albino sturgeon population. The Novak family saved it from extinction, and this is where the eggs come from.”

“Sturgeon live upwards of a hundred years,” Cas said, meeting his eyes from across the table. “The older the sturgeon, the more valuable the eggs. The texture and taste is smooth, rather nutty. Our family controls the caviar market. It is a higher point of leverage than one would imagine. Even the king purchases Novak caviar, which goes by it's original, pre-Calamity name, Almas.”

The footmen returned with trays, and Dean was soon served a small bowl of what looked like gleaming little spheres. They glistened. They were cream colored. A footman poured sparkling wine into Dean's tallest glass.

“This special, sparkling wine is also a showcase of Novak holdings,” Ellen informed, lifting a bottle. “Their vineyard in Hapstale, only a day's sail from the sturgeon enclosure, is roughly the same size as the Tor-Valen estate. There, many special, expensive wines are produced. Tonight, you are drinking a rarer type, called Golden. It will be served at the party, same as the caviar. We thought you'd need a dry run in order to talk about the fare to your table-mates.”

Dean noticed Sam cutting eyes toward John at the same time he did. John was being served water.

“Which, I might add,” Crowley said, “the first course you will only be speaking, generally, to the person on your left. That will be the duration of the caviar, and the next serving, which is a creamed soup from the recipe books of a civilization long lost. If you care to learn about this fascinating, talented people, go to the third library. There are many, many books on the French.”

John held up his hand. “There are French descendants,” he said, taking a spoonful of caviar for a taste. “They live in the topmost quarter of this country. And, they don't want that known, so don't spread it around.” He paused to make eye contact with every single footman present. “Or, I'll beat your asses bloody. Don't try me.”

The footmen, once so amused and carefree, lost their mettle. They snapped up, squared their shoulders, and looked straight ahead.

Dean sampled the caviar. It was chilled, slightly fishy in aroma, and had a taste he couldn't pin down. It was weird how it felt in his mouth. He didn't exactly have to chew something so light and spongy. The eggs burst under pressure, flooding his mouth with creamy, nutty slick. He had a sip of the Golden, and found it oddly complimentary. The fizz cleaned his palate between each spoonful of caviar, making each offering new all over again.

“Remember,” Ellen said soberly, “these people with titles will have had this sort of food before, but probably not regularly. The rich have to balance out their big-head food choices with their gambling habits. If they were lucky with their cards, they could splurge. If not, they ate a lot of bread, and pretended to be abstaining for the sake of their health.”

“This is the best caviar I have ever had,” Kevin said suddenly and loudly. He took a bite, his eyelids fluttering. “Amazing.”

Cas laughed quietly. “Your father was a roe farmer, wasn't he?”

“You can't take care of a bunch of omega children without a good occupation,” Kevin answered. “He got old, though, and my siblings couldn't support me like he did. So, I got sent to Panomu.”

“Dean, where do you think I came from?” Kevin asked, lifting an eyebrow. “All the stuff Sonny teaches? He knows my family. Since before I was born, actually. I was shipped here because my parents couldn't raise one more omega. I was the fifth one.”

“It's a respectable way to make gold,” Kevin added, and Dean noticed he was going very slowly with his caviar. Savoring. “I must come off as rude to not be eating at the pace the rest of you are, but I can't help it. It's been so long since I had caviar. I promise to keep up at the real supper.”

“You knew about caviar, but not cashews?” Dean asked.

Kevin shrugged. “Xia Pau is locked in. Cultural elitists. We know the sea, and we know tea, and we know decorum.”

“I didn't have this when I was there,” Sam said quietly. He was eating at a faster pace than the rest of them, in contrast to Kevin.

Dean, knowing his brother had never eaten enough, had the sudden urge to scream in a combination of pity and rage. He shouldn't feel both at the same time while looking at his brother. His brother should not have inspired the mix.

“You probably kept close to the port,” Kevin told Sam. “The caviar farms are further inland. Heavily guarded, maintained, and kept under wraps. Caviar isn't for foreigners.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam said, desultory and noncommittal. He drank his Golden down to the bottom, prompting a footman to pour for him again.

In due time, the caviar was finished. Footmen came to take their bowls away, leaving the original setting of flat bowl atop plates of gradually enlarged sizes. Dean watched them troop out with the soiled caviar bowls.

“Next, the soup,” Crowley said. “This is the French dish, a creamed soup made of rich chicken stock, herbs, and the blending of flour fried in chicken fat. You'll find huge shrimps in it. The shrimp isn't the actual point. Think of your plates as clock faces. Put your spoon down in there at the center, then drag up some soup to the twelve o'clock position. Skim the bottom of your spoons over the nearly flat edge of your bowl to get the drippings off, then lift your spoon to sip.”

Crowley shot a serious look around all occupants of the table. “Sip off the edge, not the tip. Be as silent as possible. Keep your elbows close to you. And, for God's sake, put your napkins in your lap. Unfold the things out of sight, below the table, leaving it folded in half, and place the outer fold away from you. That makes sure crumbs and other bits fall away from your clothes when you pick it up to dab your mouth. And, I do mean dab. No dragging the linen across your lips. You might see the dinner party's alpha males tucking their napkins into their collars, but in no way is that ever acceptable! No matter what, that is rude!”

Dean got ready to lift the spoon, but stopped, because Crowley was already correcting John.

“No, pretty,” he said, adjusting John's hold of the spoon. “Like a graphite stick. Loosen up...” He smiled at John. “Good.” He angled himself back to watch John a moment or too. “Oh, excellent, pretty,” he said after a short while. “You have a decent grasp of not slurping.” He faced the table, then, to address them all. “You sip off the bowl of the spoon with no noise, like John.”

Dean watched his blushing father eat for a bit, then copied him.

“No, Kevin,” Crowley said gently. “You carefully bring the spoon to you. You do not bend over the soup bowl. Sam, be more precise with eliminating the hanging drop from the underside of the spoon. It avoids mess. Castiel, you're too sissy about it. Be strong and precise.”

Dean had to admit, the rich soup tasted fucking fine. He had to work hard at not shoving it down his throat as fast as possible. Thick, perfectly salted, a balance of fatty versus clear.

“Good,” Ellen pronounced. “You're all doing very well. Sam, I wish I had your motor control. John, you make it look like you've dined this way your whole life.” She motioned for the footmen to start clearing. “Dean, you're graceful. You'll make everyone feel slow and stupid. Kevin, you've mastered soup like gentry.”

“Well, hallelujah,” Kevin said crossly as he relented his spoon. “What's this weirdly shaped knife next to the others?”

“That's the fish knife,” Ellen replied. “It's shaped like that so you can pick the fish apart. This is the time to pick up the first fork. You flake the thing apart, your fork in your left hand, knife in the right. To be polite, don't switch over to your right hand to hold the fork. Learn to eat left-handed. It's the mannerly thing to do, saves time, and is actually easier.”

There came a quick re-set, the footmen clearing, and, putting fish on their plates. Dean liked the scent of broiled fish. He smelled lemon, black pepper, and celery seed.

“Attend,” Crowley said, brandishing knife and fork. He showed them with slow and exaggerated movements how to flake the fish apart, take a bite, and continue on. “Fork tines always down, no matter what you're eating, unless dessert calls for it,” he lectured. “If there are other things on your plate, scoop them toward your fork with the knife, and make a composition of each bite. Imagine you have many things to eat, and play with the combinations.” He gathered fish up, and showed them all how to get the stuff to his mouth. “Never pull the food up to your mouth with the knife involved. It's rude, positively uncouth, and shows everyone you're of low class.”

Dean sawed off a bit of the fish, dredging it through a milky gravy. He had no trouble using his hands equally. He took his first bite, and melted with pleasure at the varying complexity of flavor.

This was some damn-fine fish. He wished he knew what it was.

“On some rare occasions, the tines of your fork are going to point up,” Ellen said. “Again, we aren't worrying about it. Just eat left-handed, try to be as genteel as possible, and match the pace of everyone around you as best you can.”

They slowly made their way through the fish course. Dean felt fully ready to eat more by now, having the food strung out so long. He drank two more glasses of Golden, and dabbed his mouth.

Footmen came in, removed all the soiled plates, reserved the glasses both unused and partly used, and revealed the second tablecloth. The primary plates were left, shining in gold and purest white porcelain. Flatware easier to discern, now, because the others were completely gone.

“Now for the impressive part,” Ellen announced. “Stuffed bull's head. All the meat removed, cooked into a paté of pork, tongue, brains, pistachio, bone marrow, bacon, and truffles. That paste shoved back into the hollow cavity of the bull's face, constantly basting the outside with bacon grease as it bakes.” She showed them the fake looking tusks of the bull with a finger. “The tusks are made of purest white fat, curled and shaped. The snout is considered the best part, and Sir, who carves the meat, will bestow it and the tusk fat, upon the most honored person in attendance, usually a woman.”

“Who is yet to be determined,” Castiel informed. “ I know this conglomerate sounds disgusting, but it isn't that bad. Take two slices each, and accept the salmon poached in Golden, plus the stewed truffles. There will be gelatins composed of both sweet and savory, for adjusting your palettes. I suggest the red wine jelly with the stuffed bull's head, or, perhaps the turmeric and port blend.” He took up the carving fork and long knife, and began to apply them. “John, for now, as my spouse's father, you are highest ranking after my parents, so the footman will give me your empty plate. Sam, yours will follow suit.”

The strangely shaped meat conglomerate was swiftly portioned. John got the largest pieces, Sam the next. More Golden was poured. Dean received a modest selection, the paté along with a serving of creamed asparagus and artichoke bottoms filled with chicken stock, and a serving of something called sweetmeats.

Dean ate at a pace, both enjoying the fare, and, worried by it. He liked the paté, gruesome as it was, slogged his way through the creamed asparagus, and used the turmeric jelly to liven up his bites of salmon. He drank four glasses of Golden in the meantime. The heaviness of the food served to offset the amount of alcohol he downed, interestingly.

“God,” John groaned suddenly, breaking the studious silence. “If I had gout, I'd be done for by now.” He lifted his water glass for deep pull. “Shite. This is heavy food.”

“It is,” Cas said, again meeting Dean's eyes. “This setting will give way to a bare table for the serving of dessert. Ellen tells me it is strawberry souffle and more Golden.”

Dean sat patiently for the next re-set. He accepted the newest plate, the afters, and let the footman give him more alcohol. He tasted the dessert, and thought he'd break apart at the tart, sweet, rich taste.

Holy crap. This was awesome.

“A pound of butter is used, making this,” Ellen told them. “One of the richest desserts I've ever had to serve.”

“It's fucking amazing,” Dean swore loudly. “Fuck, Ellen. This is so good. I love it.”

Ellen laughed softly. “Language, honey,” she gently chided.

“Kevin, now would be the time to point out your position,” Crowley said. “You're a Novak, now. Rich and exotic, like Dean, but marriageable. Very marriageable. Your good looks are just icing on the cake. Never be unchaperoned, not even in a mixed group. Ideally, your mother will be with you constantly.”

Kevin nodded, his face troubled. “What about when I'm approached?”

“You wait for Madam Naomi to accept or refuse. A gentleman won't try to take you out of sight of other people, but may suggest a walk. Madam Naomi will follow along behind at a respectful distance, allowing for conversation.” Crowley had a bite of the souffle, paused to roll his eyes in delight, and sighed. “Be careful not to lead anyone on. Be reserved. Play hard to get. You can afford to never be married, and they will all know it. And, a lot of your suitors will have Castiel's money in mind when they court you. You are worth more than all the finery we ate off of this evening. Remember that.”

Dean watched, a little worried, as Kevin dropped his head back. He stared at the faraway ceiling. Dean caught a whiff of fear coming off of the young man. “This is so different,” he practically whispered. “I always knew I'd go to someone who could afford to buy me. My opinion wasn't important. Then, Castiel bought me for triple what I was worth, all the while never expecting to bend me over.” Kevin ran a hand through his hair, and straightened up. “Now, I'll have my pick of suitors. I have the power.”

“Yes,” Crowley agreed, his tone very gentle. “Remember, people will try to investigate your origins. They will see how you and Dean dress, and rightly suppose you came from the same place. That's intriguing for them. For, Castiel married Dean, but promoted your adoption into his family. And, that means the Novaks find you very, very valuable. Do not disabuse suitors otherwise.”

“I won't,” Kevin promised. “I decided to stop wearing the kimonos, by the way.” He glanced nervously around the room, eying the footmen especially. “Do I need to come up with a good back story?”

“Don't worry,” Castiel said. “All the people in this room are discrete and loyal. They will keep family business inside the family.”

Dean supposed Cas knew the insides of people, being an angel, and had faith in his hires for good reason. Either that, or his comment reminded the footmen to be loyal.

“Your real story will be sufficiently grand,” Crowley told Kevin. “You come from a distinguished family in Xia Pau, and your father allowed you to travel to Panomu for formal training in the art of being the perfect omega mate. Castiel recognized your worth, and took you the same as he took Dean, intending you to have your own say in who got the honor of bonding to you.” Crowley had a sip of Golden, and winked at Kevin. “Too bad, isn't it, that all potential suitors have to go through Castiel, even if they get Naomi's approval?”

Kevin relaxed. He began eating his dessert, his scent changing to slight hope.

Dean wanted that hope to keep climbing.

Chapter Text

“It wasn't as bad as it could have been,” Castiel said as Dean undressed him. They were getting his low-heeled shoes off. “Crowley very sharply addressed the division of classes, making our house seem sympathetic to the low born."

“You mean being crude, pointing out our guests won't be like us. We don't agree with the games played here in Rocky White.” Dean slid the shoes under the bed, and unbuttoned the breeches at the knees so he could more easily get the stockings off. Being on his knees to help Cas remove his stuffy clothes, satisfied his inner omega. A lot. “I thought he and Ellen worked well together. Ellen's presence put it out that she had control, even though she's only in charge of food. It helped the footmen to see they are able to be promoted, and, taken seriously as people, not jobs.”

“Yes, exactly,” Cas said. He allowed Dean to take off the stockings, but stared at him while speaking. “All this business of rank and peerage is outright fuckery, to me.” He unbuttoned the front of his suspenders one by one, tossing the ends over his shoulders with a good amount of contempt. He reeked of frustration, now. “Crowley just assumes I'm going to be handed a high title. It's quite possible for the king's decision to go either way.”

Dean stood, and went to free the braces from the back. “I saw you talking to Dad, briefly, after the shindig rehearsal.”

Cas sighed, long and breathy. His shoulders slumped. “I offered your father a dowry for you, Dean,” he revealed. “It's the done thing, here. And, he refused. Outright, and stringently. When I argued that he could use it to support you, and even Sam, if something happened to me or my family, he finally accepted.”

Dean put the suspenders into Cas' closet, curiosity poked fully to life. “A dowry.”

“Yes.” Cas pulled his breeches off, and stood there in his long shirt, looking embarrassed. Peeved. Smelling of it, too.

“Well, what am I worth?” Dean asked, chuckling. Cas was taking all of this very seriously, and to heart, but Dean knew Cas didn't assign him a monetary value. His sweet talk was too intense for that.

“With prior help from both my solicitor, and barrister, I gave John Winchester a Zalan gold mine,” Cas said after a pause. “It's quite productive. One of our better mines. The title is now in his possession. On our way to the king, we'll stop at my bank to open an account for your sire.”

Dean, shocked, leaned on the closet. His brain clouded over. “Cas, you gave my dad a gold mine?” He shook his head to clear himself of a vague sense of unreality. Wow. Cas had meant to give John wealth the moment they hit this house. “You say your family isn't the richest, but you've got a gold mine. A shipping business, the market on caviar and special, sparkling wine...”

“Dean.” Cas sat on the bed, giving Dean a pleading look, blue eyes shining with entreaty. “It isn't simple, our situation. Here, your rank is as important as your money. We need your father to have his own status, and he can't accomplish that without financial security, plus a title of some kind. For us, your father is an investment of security. If our entire family collapses due to disaster, or theft, or sabotage, John will still have his own holdings. Do you see?”

Dean thought he understood, but this was such a surprise. One of our better, Cas had said. That meant there were others. “Mother said anyone who's anyone would try to have many footmen,” Dean said, quiet and thoughtful, holding Cas' eyes. “We have seventy.”

“Yes, Dean, and we may easily afford them. Many, many, more, even.” Cas patted the bed. “Come here, please.”

Dean couldn't refuse him. He sat beside of Cas, enjoying the feeling of Cas' warm, strong arm draping over his shoulders.

“My family, and, by that, I mean all Novaks, have ever been careful to spread their income-creation to varied venues,” Cas explained. “They find their markets, and are serious about them. However, as I said before, we don't approve of gambling. Instead of squandering wealth, we use it to prosper people's lives.” He hugged Dean a moment, warm, kind, and supportive. “Those footmen? To the wealthy prigs who visit us, those tall, handsome young men, waiting in every nook and cranny of the house to be used, will be a blatant show of power. But, to us, those footmen are seventy young men able to support their families in Clearwater. So, those families have more money, and can buy things, which strengthens the economic system.”

Dean began to see that his bigger picture was even bigger than suspected.

“Selective breeding, my dear,” Naomi said. “That's the only way to build the human race back up. God forbid it be like they do for dogs, because that's unhealthy. I'm not talking about pure-bred anything. But, children do need to be born. I'm only sorry my womb tapped out at two boys.”

“The population goes up,” Dean murmured. “You keep people fed and healthy, they get stronger in society, and more babies are born.”

“A long time ago, when my family line solidified into unity,” Cas said, “our patriarch took a vow that all of humanity would find either shelter or correction under the name Novak. That vow is passed into each generation. None of us take it lightly.”

Dean didn't know, until this moment, how much he'd been following the Novak way. Trying to keep everyone together, fed, and safe. Rescuing anyone he could. Even correcting people when they were out of line.

No wonder Naomi and Zachariah were so proud of him, so full of faith he was perfect for Cas.

“It's nearly one in the morning,” Cas said. “Shall we go to bed?”

“Yeah.” Dean slowly broke free of Cas in order to stand. “Let me hang up my kimono, and I'll douse the candles lit for us before we came back. And, fuck, if that's not a small yet huge showcase of the difference between here, and Tor-Valen.” He opened the closet again, untied his elaborate obi, and took the kimono off his shoulders, letting it slide down gracefully before catching it last moment. He hung it, and removed his white silk trousers, throwing them to the bottom of the closet so the maids would know they needed washed. This left him only in his silk under-layer, and he decided to leave it. He and Cas weren't getting any intimacy tonight, as Cas needed to leave early in the morning.

As he settled into the bed with Cas, moving close, Dean thought about going another week without his husband. How he'd fill in the time as best he could. He'd probably decorate more kimonos. He heard Crowley's voice in his head. “It isn't polite to impose yourself upon a recently transplanted family for seven days, but bold people take risks in order to evaluate, or get the good graces of important people before their peers can.”

“Should I expect visitors while you're gone?” Dean asked sleepily. Cas' drugging scent, so safe and strong, promoted the best sleep, always.

“Perhaps. Remember to have a chaperone. Stay within sight of friendly contacts. I'll relent to having only two footmen following you around, if you promise me to never leave this room without your fans,” Cas answered.

“I promise, Cas,” Dean said, gladly becoming the little spoon.

(_______________________________________________________________________)

“I wonder what title the king will give him,” Dean wondered aloud, watching Cas, John, and Zachariah heading out for Clearwater, where the first two would catch the mail coach. Apparently, the royal mail stopped for nothing. The punishment for interrupting it, was death. Only a really foolish person would dare try.

“Buttercup, the king is no idiot, and only an idiot would title Castiel lowly. He's too influential.” Crowley sniffed, and rolled his eyes. “His family is too influential,” he stressed. “I suggest you get used to hearing everyone address you as 'Your Grace', and don't let anyone call you by your first name, except close friends and family.” Crowley brushed nonexistent lint from his shoulder, the lace at his cuff flopping. “I'll darken the day lights of the first person to sidle up on you.”

“I know you would,” Dean said, partly amused, partly awed. He didn't really know what got him a friend out of scary, accomplished Crowley, but he loved the support. “I've seen what you can do.”

“Darling, you haven't seen the least of what I'm capable of,” Crowley vowed casually, unconcerned. “Shall we go visit Gabriel? I want to try the translation spell I came up with last night. We'll have to stop by my rooms for the cravat pin I attached it to. In theory, as long as he's wearing it, he can comprehend us, and reply. This is my trial run of the thing.”

“I can't wait to see how this works,” Dean said, following Crowley back inside.

“The real fun is convincing Gabriel to wear the togs of an alpha in this country,” Crowley replied, crooking his arm through Dean's as they navigated the hall. And, Dean loved that easily given, warm contact. “We need to play up Gabriel is now part of a household that can well support him, remind him that he has status. It will be healing for Gabriel to get his alpha nature going properly.”

“Maybe he doesn't really enjoy being an alpha,” Dean said, thinking of himself, and, how many times he'd hated being an omega. “I don't know what it's like to be an alpha, but it seems stressful. Always having to prove yourself, taking command...”

“Dean, darling, I imagine it's very hard, but one's rightful place is one's rightful place,” Crowley said, and Dean hadn't expected that opinion from the system-bucking, omega tailor.

“Heavenly Father, I hate this! I hate being here, Dean!” Cas tugged again and again, blue eyes burning with the weight of how he felt. “This house is a showcase of caste, of inequality!

“Do you really believe that?” Dean navigated them around a group of servants, who were putting paintings into thin crates designed just for hauling paintings, apparently. He stopped them before Crowley could answer, and pointed at the depiction of crimson dressed men on horses, with dogs chasing a red fox. “That one goes, too,” he said. “My husband hates that sport. I don't care how historic it is.”

The footman bowed, and reached up in order to take the painting down. It was enormous, and in a gilt frame.

“Are the frames going, too?” Dean asked the man.

“Sir, yes,” the footman answered. “The master of the house thought they'd fetch a better price that way, as the frame is sometimes worth more than the painting.”

“Smart,” Dean said.

They went on.

“To an extent, I believe it,” Crowley said, picking up on the dropped thread of thought. “Some people never embrace the strengths and weakness of their character, sex, or designation. Very early on, I told myself that I couldn't change what I was, and it helped me adjust. Dance where you're thrown, dear, dance where you're thrown.” He bypassed the hidden staircase, going straight for the massive one made of thick mahogany, with intricate scroll work. “For example, be seen. Servants are encouraged to go about their business out in the open, so you should, too. Quit using the private stairs.”

“I only just learned where they'd go,” Dean protested, groaning. “This house is a network of doors, passages, and turns.”

“All because of the interior orangery,” Crowley informed. “I take it you haven't discovered the glasshouse courtyard, yet.”

“Courtyard?”

“Yes.” Crowley smiled at him. “I'll show it to you later. It would be a good place for you to receive your visitors. A secure place, too. Naomi and Zachariah's rooms, six in total, face inward to the courtyard on one side.”

“I take it you think the place is pretty,” Dean said.

“Lush lawn, goldfish pool with a waterfall, plants,” Crowley listed, “all of it protected by glass. And, the panes can be moved to allow for natural rain to take care of the watering. Zachariah and Naomi had it designed and put into place years ago, thinking to make it more attractive to their withdrawn first born.” He paused his litany to shrug. “Meg told me about it all.”

“They put the outside inside, and Cas didn't like it,” Dean said. “Damn. Well-meaning, but missing the point.”

“The Novak family had to destroy a quarter of this house to accomplish making an indoor sunny space, and it took getting permission to do so. In the end, it was only allowed because of pre-existing damage.” Crowley pointed at everything and nothing. “This is an old building. People need money to keep up a place like this. And, the king didn't want to do that. He knew, eventually, someone would buy it in order to look important. And, behold.”

“Well, maybe I'll like it,” Dean said, feeling hopeful. “Outdoor beauty appeals to me more than the indoor kind, too. And, maybe since Cas is older, now, he'll appreciate it better.”

They were on the next landing, now, having to constantly dodge footmen carrying twine-tagged items of questionable taste. Dean spied a couple of men struggling to move a butt-ugly armoire down the stairs, and he and Crowley were forced to move quickly out of the way. Crowley eyed the hideous thing with distaste. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he muttered, making one of the footmen laugh out loud. Dean recognized him for the one who hadn't held together well at the supper rehearsal.

“You'll engender an ego in me, Kelly,” Crowley called out after him.

“I genuinely pay doubt to that, Crowley,” the man shot over his shoulder.

“They can talk to you without saying 'sir' every five seconds,” Dean observed as they continued upward.

“I'm a tradesman, with no class whatsoever,” Crowley said. “Your father will be marrying below his station.”

“Dad-!”

“He hasn't proposed, no,” Crowley said, all fake remorse. “Darling, he hasn't even officially made it known he agrees to my fancies. All that flirting you saw at the rehearsal? Unexpected loveliness.”

At the top, they first made their way to Crowley's spot. Dean felt surprised to see the room in order, until he spied the two boys working. They were organizing the materials, but stopped to bow to Dean first, then slightly nod at Crowley.

“Good work, boys,” Crowley said, and he got a bag from his coat pocket. “One silver each.” He flipped them a coin apiece , and they eagerly caught them. “Ah-ah,” he said, as they prepared to scarper. “You get a bonus for being fast and accurate. Always remember that.” He flipped them two more silver, each. “Fast, and accurate? Those make your customers gladly pay more. You get loyal clientele that way, too. People will talk you up to others.”

The boys listened, their young, smooth faces very serious, eyes wide, dark, and attentive.

“Now, do your overworked father a favor. Stop in town on your way home. Buy him a present with one each of your silver. A gift he didn't anticipate will please him so much, because it shows you both think about him. I know you care, so, apply that caring. Pick your mother some flowers, and wash the dishes for her tonight, too, eh?” Crowley made a shooing motion. “See you both tomorrow morning at ten, not seven. Have a lie-in for a change.”

This time, Crowley got full, deep bows from the boys. They walked past him with all decorum, but the very second they hit the hall, broke into a run, pushing and shoving each other, giggling.

“I knew I could trust you as a godparent,” Dean joked while Crowley searched his jewelry box. “But, seriously, you were good to them. You were snappy with them, before.”

“They have little idea of discipline,” Crowley said. “I'm teaching it to them, as I can. They behave as they should, they get rewards. They behave as they shouldn't, and I correct their thinking.” Crowley acquired the cravat pin, and put his box away. “Get the bag under my bed, darling. I have clothes ready for Gabriel, and, actual footwear.”

Dean got down on hands and knees, looked under the bed, and found the bag. “Why did Cas hire Glasser to make shoes-?”

“I didn't make them,” Crowley informed. “I had a footman go into town with a trace of Gabriel's feet. Gabriel needed decently shod. It also gave Edward a chance to visit his lover.”

“Do you know everything and everyone in this house?” Dean asked, not doubting for a moment Crowley capable of that.

“I make it a point to know as much as possible.” Crowley took a small box from his dresser. It was very fine, made of silver, and something beautifully rainbow hued. “I hate to deliberately give Gabriel a bad habit, but he's going to need an affectation in order to endure learning social skills. Why not bestow the most haughty and accepted bad habit a gentleman can have?”

“Which is?” Dean pressed.

“Snuff,” Crowley said, his lip curling. “An alpha gentleman's habit. Your hot little stud is the only person I know who could indulge in it without harming himself, but I still had to argue with him for ten minutes before he agreed to play along.” Crowley opened the box to show Dean a dried up, shredded plant material of light brown. “Tobacco. Very habit-forming. Gives the addict a head rush, and, usually, a sneezing fit. But, sneezing is bad form. You have to practice.”

“Why the fuck would you deliberately give yourself a compulsion for something that would hurt your health?” Dean asked, outraged at alpha posturing. “Crowley, you can't do that to poor Gabriel!”

“Once he's accepted, and in a 'set', buttercup, I'll help him to stop,” Crowley promised quickly. “I can do that. I'm a man of medicine.”

Soothed, Dean took the small, beautiful box from his friend, and ran a finger over the smooth rainbow inlay. He trusted Crowley. “What's this pretty stuff?”

“Julek shell. All the colors you see in mist against sun, except for yellow and orange, which I deeply appreciate. Truly high quality Julek has the green melding with the blue, or lies alongside it in harmony. The cheaper shell has it paired with the red, which is eye-shattering.” Crowley showed him with his finger that the green was with the blue, weaving in and out to make a beautiful 'between' color. “Red should be against indigo, see?” Again, he pointed out the swirling, liquid pattern. “It makes purple in places, a less vibrant shade of ultraviolet.” Crowley tapped the box for emphasis. “I found this inside an old parasol up here, and it was full of fake pearls.”

“It's really pretty,” Dean admitted. “What's the Julek look like before someone takes it's shell and turns it into a snuff box?” He thought it was funny Crowley had examined all the umbrellas he'd taken from the elephant foot, discovering this little treasure.

“It's a very tasty mollusk that tends to live in water far too deep to dive,” Crowley answered. “The females nest underneath the shells of their ancestors, and, it's the females who make the best pattern. However, the pattern isn't truly pleasing until the mollusk is about fifty years old. This one was nearly a hundred, to have this rich, perfect showing of color.”

Dean caught on. “This tiny box of habit-forming poison is worth a lot. You're making Gabriel look like a little prince with it. He will constantly draw this thing out to the view of greedy eyes.”

Crowley smiled slowly. His oddly colored eyes sparkled with wicked, mutual understanding, even pleasure. “Dean, it's worth fifty platinum, new. But, this is an heirloom. About three hundred years old. That makes it fecking priceless.”

“Platinum. That's better than gold.”

Crowley nodded. “Five hundred platinum is worth one piece of iridium. But, that's 'business' currency, the kind of currency that bought this house. Most people stop at gold. Gold is more useful, all around. Platinum is for status. The only thing higher is iridium. Don't get me started on it, please.”

Dean nodded, and had another look at the box. “What's this metal? I thought it was silver...”

“Platinum,” Crowley said. “This little trinket is astoundingly valuable.”

Dean met Crowley's eyes, and smiled while shaking his head. “You are a damn-fine, calculating, smart guy,” he praised. “With one, small, fashion bauble, you're going to make everyone think Gabriel is connected, flush, and above your better alpha rich guys. And, no matter how he comports himself, or how he dresses, his oddities will be attributed to eccentricity. A polite, accepted way to look at awkwardness.”

Crowley winked at Dean. “Flower, you grasp my method perfectly. I'm making Gabriel into a ball of hotness, mystery, and intrigue. As exotic as you and Kevin, but with a heavy dose of power. He's an unknown, foreign, strange, but rich, and, connected to the Novaks. It will smooth his way in our current placement. People will rupture themselves to be in his company, simply because he's well dressed, intimate with a powerful family, and takes his snuff with grandeur.”

Crowley cocked a grin at Dean. “A gentleman takes out his snuff box at first opportunity, puts a pinch on the back of his hand, between thumb and first finger, then passes his box to others in a show of generosity. The box will be seen, admired, coveted, and reluctantly passed on.”

“Just make him the first to offer the snuff,” Dean said, 'getting' it.

Crowley nodded. “Exactly.”

(______________________________________________________________________________)

Dean, sitting on Gabriel's bed, watched Crowley put the cravat pin into Gabriel's hand, smiling a little bit. The alpha trusted Crowley, but didn't know what was going on. His brilliant, intense gaze of golden brown, affixed entirely upon the omega tailor.

“Hello, Gabriel,” Crowley said as soon as the pin was in Gabriel's possession. “I'm Crowley. I'm a tailor, a witch, a doctor, and, Dean's closest friend. With this cravat pin in your hand, or, upon your clothes, you can understand any language, and return in kind. The spell makes your mouth seem to naturally form the words, so the secret of your origin is perfectly safe.” Crowley patted Gabriel's shoulder in a light, comforting way. “Welcome to a new home. Welcome to a new world of food, fun, and freedom.”

Gabriel, agape, looked back and forth between Crowley and the pin a few times. His hand clenched. He pressed the head of the pin to his forehead, breathing deeply. “Thank you,” he said, the pin and the spell translating for him perfectly. “Thank you, Crowley, elemental friend of Dean, for giving me the means to express myself as I need. I bless you among men,” The words spilled out in a tumble of deep, deep feeling. “You are truly of diamonds. I will never bury your kindness and consideration.”

Crowley smiled, tilting his head. “What beautiful words you have, Gabriel. I'm glad to hear them.” He clicked his teeth at the closely attending alpha. “It will be nice to learn your culture, your opinion on things.” He took a step or two back, and pointed at Dean. “Now, you can tell Dean what you really wanted to tell him. Take advantage.”

Gabriel faced Dean with his eyes shining. “Dean,” he said, drawing it out, gratitude and hope shining in his eyes. “You gambled your own life to preserve mine. I even looked gone, to you, but you challenged nature, and displayed yourself to be above all I know. No one in my land would have done this.”

Dean nodded his understanding of Gabriel's emotional plea, careful to keep eye contact with his body strictly facing the outsider alpha. “You come from a rough place, Gabriel,” he said gently. “In a way, we all do. The finer aspects make all the difference. But, you are a precious, human life. My husband and I want all people of quality to find support.”

“You yielded to me his identity, but I couldn't read it,” Gabriel said, eyes going dark with sobriety.

“Castiel,” Dean said. “His name is Castiel.” Dean reached, and got Gabriel's hand. “You managed to fall under the influence of a very rich, very kind alpha,” he said. “So did I.” He squeezed Gabriel's hand for emphasis, for the pleasure of contact with a good alpha. “You are now in a really well-placed, affluent family, Gabriel. Castiel, and his mother, Naomi, his father, Zachariah, only want you to thrive and succeed. As do I,” he revealed, letting his feeling shine forth. “I despise bondage. Castiel despises slavery, too. We are going to do our best to make you your own man. A man of means and respect. It might be slow, at first.”

Gabriel scented the air around Dean, deeply, and with enjoyment. “You smell like protection and authority,” he said in more or less a whisper. “Tell me what to do, Dean,” he added, begging. His eyes, so bright with earnestness and hope, entreated Dean.

“Okay.” Dean pointed to the heavy, thick bag. “Crowley made you clothes. He and I will help you get into them.”

“Good.” Gabriel opened the bag. He up-ended it upon his bed. “I want to look like someone who has meaning.”

“Everyone has meaning,” Crowley said, moving to help him. “Not everyone knows that, however. Once we get you decently covered, we'll introduce you to Naomi and Zachariah formally.”

Gabriel picked up the shirt, first. He dropped his banyan, revealing he wore nothing underneath, and Dean quickly turned his head. But, not Crowley. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Crowley wink and leer at Gabriel.

“You're going to make someone very happy,” Crowley said.

“If you are making known I have a large sabada, then, I agree,” Gabriel said, laughing a little.

“Why didn't that translate?” Dean asked Crowley. Sheer intuition and context told him Gabriel was talking about his dick. Sah-ba-dahh, meaning 'cock', that was an easy translation.

“He's using slang,” Crowley said. “I didn't focus on slang when creating the spell. It would have been exhausting, and we needed Gabriel to understand and respond quickly, anyway.”

Once Gabriel had the shirt on, Dean was able to join Crowley in dressing Gabriel. Soon, he was showing the man how to put on his cravat, and, how to knot it. Gabriel watched him in the mirror, his eyes very focused.

Serious. Sober. Fucking intent.

“Now,” Dean said, putting the cravat pin in place. “You look like a gentleman.”

Crowley handed Gabriel the snuff box. “Do you know what this is?”

Gabriel held the box a moment, feeling slick shell and heavy metal with both thumbs. “It is worth more than two hundred slaves,” he whispered. He opened it. “Ah, the substance my masters indulged in. They snort it up their noses, and contort their faces.” He took a little pinch out, and did exactly as Crowley said it should be done, without instruction. “It makes me want to empty my nose. Is it needed that I use it?”

“It makes you fit in more,” Crowley said, gentle with his answer. “Once you don't need to try so hard, or be so careful, you can quit. You have to offer it when you male alphas gather to talk in groups. The box lets everyone know how wealthy you are.”

“But, I am not wealthy,” Gabriel replied. “You mean for me to lie.”

“Lie if you want, or don't. The fact is, it's rude for someone to ask how much you're worth. If you don't volunteer the information, all anyone has to go by is this box, and the clothes you're wearing.” Crowley pointed at Gabriel's tall boots. “These are for morning. You wear shoes in the evening. We'll get you a valet, someone to help you dress, and to make sure you present as the perfect picture of an alpha male.”

Nodding, Gabriel had another look at himself in the mirror. “I don't recognize myself. This does not upset me.”

“You like it.” Dean smiled. “Well, that's good. My husband hates it. He's a wild child.”

Gabriel smiled back. “He is a magnificent alpha,” he teased. “It must cause you pain to leave the bed every morning.”

Dean laughed out loud. “Hey, now. Crowley already eyeballs my stud. Don't you start.”

“I would never let my mind carry out a fantasy for him in front of you, but I cannot make a vow as to what I will do in private,” Gabriel said with a twinkle in his magnetic, golden eyes. “His face is hard to ignore.”

“Too right,” Crowley muttered. “You should see him when he's angry.” He opened one of Gabriel's windows, and had a look outside. “If I'm not mistaken, I spy lovely Naomi and her husband, walking the grounds for a breath of fresh air. Why don't you and Dean have a chat with them? I'm going to arrange more clothing for you.”

“I need more?” Gabriel tilted his head. “Oh, yes. My masters had several different ones of these.” He pointed to his waistcoat. “The one you gave me is superior in color and thickness. I shall enjoy displaying it.”

“I'll take that for the compliment it is,” Crowley said, smiling. “Go out, get acquainted with the parents of your patron, now, charming.”

“I hear your words.” Gabriel turned to give Dean a small smile. “I am frightened, but I must work through it. It is the way of my life.”

“Mine, too,” Dean confessed. “Let's grab a couple of footmen, and go.”

Dean collected two, random footmen from the hall, and showed Gabriel the way to the stairs. “We've only just arrived here at Fen-Taven ourselves,” he said as they walked. “That's the name of the house, or the estate itself. I came from Panomu.”

“The land joined to this one by a seasonal bridge,” Gabriel said, frowning slightly. “The country my people decided to take for themselves. You were fortunate to escape them, Dean.”

“So I gather,” Dean replied. “All this industry you see around you is my husband's attempt to clean up. The house is very old, and cluttered. What is being taken away will be sold in Isleton Port. The money from the sales will go to orphanages and poor houses.”

Gabriel's face drew into pensive lines. Dean saw a question in his eyes. “Why not keep the money?”

“Because, Castiel has plenty, and he wants everyone to go to bed at night with a full belly,” Dean explained. “His family is all about spreading the wealth.”

“Opposite to all I know,” Gabriel admitted. “I fear I won't fit in with you and your family, Dean.”

“Just take it slow, watch what goes on, and make an attempt when ready,” Dean advised. They'd already reached the stairs, aided in their speed by the fact a lot of clutter had been removed. “There's no harm in being thankful for things, or for saying so. Start with that, and it should go easier.”

“I'm thankful for you,” Gabriel said swiftly.

Dean smiled at him. He felt honored by Gabriel's instant vow. “I know you are, man. It's fine.”

Down they went, Gabriel marveling at the paneling and the wood of the stairs. At the bottom, before a grand receiving room, he stopped dead. “I did not understand the enormity of where I'd been taken,” he said. “This building is easily seen from the water, but I was occupied trying to preserve the flame of my life.”

“I get it,” Dean said. “Hey, I don't know all the rooms, either. We can explore them together, or with Crowley. I think he's already got the map in his head.”

“He seems to have cleverness in his flame,” Gabriel said. “Making him a friend is wise.” His eyes went to the paintings, the décor, the use of gold and white everywhere. “I have never been inside of a place like this, Dean. The room where my eyes regained their light, I thought was the house by itself.”

“Until someone opened a door,” Dean guessed. “I had to be calmed after viewing only the outside, Gabriel. It overwhelmed me to know I was second in charge of all this. I'm still not adjusted.”

“You are the second in charge?” Gabriel's face morphed from shock to fear in a split second. “Dean, why did you not send someone to catch my flickering flame, then? A servant, or anyone beneath your rank?”

“I didn't think I had time, and it wouldn't have occurred to me not to help you myself, Gabriel,” Dean said carefully. “Ordering someone else to risk their life for you... Is that common where you come from?”

“I have taken many injuries on the word of my masters,” Gabriel informed, not batting an eye.

Dean nodded. “Okay. But, that stops, now. You have no masters anymore.”

“But, Dean, I would do anything for you,” Gabriel protested.

“I know, and I'll never take you for granted, if I can help it,” Dean replied calmly. “You are not my slave. I hope to make a good friend of you.”

Behind them, the footmen stirred a little, as if uncomfortable with the intensity of the moment. Dean ignored them. It was too important that Gabriel knew exactly where he was in this enormous household.

“As my personal friend, Gabriel, you have so much freedom. Your caste doesn't matter, here. And, no one you meet will likely know your circumstance, outside the house. The reality we build for you will be all that matters. I'm sure you never want to go back to being a slave.” Dean gave him a pointed look, then. “You're an alpha. A free man in Rocky White. And, soon, I expect you will start enjoying those facts.”

Gabriel, his face and body tense, gave Dean a short nod of understanding. “Then, I should meet your alpha's family, for certain.”

“Hey.” Dean, keeping his voice and scent tranquil, reached out to touch Gabriel's shoulder. “I was once in exactly the same spot you are. Like, you don't know how much. I was raised to be nothing more than an accessory to whatever alpha could afford to buy me. I came to Castiel with a scarred back, and my head all full of confusion. I was scared, around people that did things I didn't expect. Every moment was an obstacle to get over.”

“But, your flame grew brighter,” Gabriel whispered.

“It did,” Dean replied, kind of enjoying Gabriel's unique speech. “I'm not perfect. I'm not completely at ease, no. But, I'm better. And, you will be, too. Give it time. Let freedom... feed your flame.”

“I give your words weight,” Gabriel promised quietly. “Only grant me one boon, Dean.”

“What's that?”

Gabriel met his eyes as Dean took his hand away from his shoulder. “Keep the tall one away from me.”

Dean closed his eyes a moment. It hurt to know Sam had damaged this man. He'd insisted Sam confess to John, and that went as expected. “Sam. Yes, of course. But, I have to warn you. He's my brother.”

Gabriel winced. “I thought... I thought he smelled a little like you from close proximity.” He sighed, and bowed his head. “I retract it, Dean. I could not ask you to be without him while in my presence. As your brother, he is part of your earthly foundation.”

“Sam is sorry for what he did, and will probably seek you out to ask forgiveness,” Dean said. “For my part, it doesn't matter if you forgive him or not. If he had done that to an omega, I don't know that I would have ever felt anything but disgust when setting eyes on him. I...”

“I know how you felt, when you saw,” Gabriel reminded. “I smelled it. You were frightening.”

“Sorry.” Dean motioned that they should start walking again. “I've recently learned the potency of my judgment. How it came about, I don't have a clue.”

They made their way outside.

(_______________________________________________________________________)

Dean spent several days helping Crowley make clothing for their key people. They didn't talk very much, low-spirited because they both missed someone. It was enough to be in each other's presence. Gabriel visited a few times, and when Dean or Crowley took a break from sewing, he'd ask one of them to read to him. He didn't know how to read in his own language, much less a foreign one. But, he needed information on how to behave.

Jan and Jason worked quietly, watching the adults interact without speaking.

On the fourth day of toil, a knock at Crowley's door interrupted all the quiet industry. Dean volunteered to answer, and wasn't surprised to see Sam standing there. Despite his good clothes, he looked droopy and unkempt. “Hi,” he said, barely audible. He wouldn't look Dean in the eyes. In fact, his eyes floated back and forth in the deliberate attempt to not make any sort of real contact. “Is Gabriel here? I'd like to apologize to him.”

Dean debated. Moving on was good, but Gabriel had suffered. He'd suffered horribly. “Let me ask if he'll see you,” he answered. Even scenting Sam as full of guilt and remorse, he wasn't quite ready to let go of his opinion that Sam needed judged.

Sam nodded, just standing there.

“Let him in,” Gabriel said from his position at Crowley's hearth.

Dean stepped back.

Sam practically crept in, his head pointed to the floor. He stopped in the center of the room. “The only thing I can think of is to sit still while you do the same to me,” he said. “Words would never be enough. How can I apologize for scarring you for life, and putting you through all that pain?”

Dean tracked Gabriel walking toward Sam, wary. Gabriel deserved to hurt Sam a great deal...

“Why did you assume I was a dangerous fire, ready to burn you?” Gabriel asked. “You must have, for you turned fire back onto me.”

Sam flinched his understanding. “I've been fighting your people for nine years,” he answered. “Since I was thirteen. I don't know. Maybe it's in me, now. Maybe that's who I am. Fire.”

Quiet.

Gabriel's voice broke the silence very softly. “No. I don't think that's who you are at all,” he said.

Sam's head shot up. Hope filled his eyes. “You don't?”

“No.” Gabriel's sharp gaze went over Sam slowly. “I think you've wanted your life to mean something. And, I think it frightened you that you nearly lost your brother because of me.” He jerked his head toward Crowley's dining area. “Come talk to me, Sam. Use your words, so that I may listen.”

Dean watched, mostly amazed, as Gabriel led Sam into the dining room. The door shut quietly.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Crowley muttered, sitting down with a tatting pillow. “I think if Sam had chosen his words less carefully, Gabriel wouldn't have listened to him at all.”

Dean joined him. “That bit about saying his age when he enlisted, wasn't for sympathy.”

“I know,” Crowley said. “And, Gabriel knew it, too. He heard that Sam was very worried he'd become a monster.”

“Hell, I was worried, too,” Dean admitted, very, very quietly. “My brother wasn't able to torture when he was little. A long war changed him inside.”

Crowley guided Dean's hands over a bobbin, correcting where he'd started to stray. “Wouldn't it change anyone?” He resumed working on the horizontal ribbon of lace while Dean worked on the vertical.

They made enough lace for a few shirt cuffs before Gabriel emerged with Sam right behind him. “Sam is taking me outside for awhile,” Gabriel announced. He looked exceedingly calm and pleased. “We want to talk away from the house. Maybe take a boat ride on the river. Water does not have to be cruel. It will temper our flames.”

Dean checked Sam's face, and saw his hope had not diminished. “I don't expect two alphas to need footmen,” he said. “Both of you be careful, though, and try to stay in sight of others. Tell Meg where you're going.”

“Yes.” Gabriel smiled a little. “Thank you, Dean.”

They were gone before Dean could even really process it.

“Aaaannnd, I didn't see that coming, either,” Crowley drawled. “What the devil was all that?”

“I have no idea.” Dean sat back down. He'd work a few more hours, then go visit Venture. “Let's go to the stables in awhile, and see our horses.”

(______________________________________________________________________)

“Dean, dear, you have to get out of this house,” Naomi entreated from Dean's open door. “I know you miss Castiel. A change of scene will do you good. Go into town with me and Zach. I insist. All protests to me will fall on deaf ears.”

Dean put his embroidery down. Naomi had the right of it. He did need to get out. “Yes, Mother,” he said. “Come in, and choose a kimono for me.”

“I'd be delighted,” she exclaimed, making Dean smile. She went to his closet, and opened it with a flourish. “Let's see... You need to look stunning. First impressions, you know! And, we don't know whom we might meet!” She stroked her hand over his garments with reverence. “These are all so lovely. Thick, flowing silk. I think the peridot one, with white trim. It won't clash with your white obi.”

“That accursed obi,” Dean said. He hated the color white, by now. “I'm working on sewing a new one, white on white. At least it'll be a different one to wear.”

“I'm so sorry, dear.” Naomi gave Dean a sympathetic look. She handed him the kimono. “The hunt for a doctor is still in effect. Take some comfort in that.”

“I'm going to come the moment you do, Dean,” Cas promised, pushing two fingers back inside of him. “Holy Father, I can't bear it. I want to pull your cheeks apart and ram myself home, where I belong!”

Dean donned the kimono. “Mother, I am fully willing to wait, but I fear Cas won't stand up to much more waiting.” He felt compelled to give his fears a voice, especially since Naomi served as his natural partner in protecting and promoting Castiel.

“Why?” She asked quickly, her tone full of worry.

Dean licked his lip as he thought. “As Cas develops into a fully fleshed alpha, he gains...”

Naomi quickly took Dean's shoulder in hand. Worry filled her scent. “Dean, he isn't... ungentle with you, is he?”

“No,” Dean was quick to assure her. “But, a mated alpha, denied his mate?” He shook his head. “It's different for men, Mother. Sonny told me quite a lot about mating imperative. It's very possible for a mated alpha to wait a very long time to claim his mate, but Cas is an angel. He feels things very deeply.”

“You're saying he might lose control?” Naomi asked. Her soft, denim blue eyes filled with the worst sort of worry. Concern for her precious child. Her sheer validation as a woman, even.

Castiel was Naomi's pride piece. Born from her womb, favored, treasured. Her masterpiece.

“No. I'm saying something worse,” Dean told her, his throat aching. “He will not disobey his father. At the cost of his sanity and health, he won't budge an inch. I'm worried that all this ongoing conflict will erode Cas by degrees. It might make him feral, eventually.”

Naomi gave a cry of distress, clutching at Dean a little painfully in her panic. “Are you saying that Zach and I, again, have harmed Castiel without intending to? That my husband has given Castiel an order that will bring him to coming undone?”

“I don't know,” Dean said. “But, we had an interlude in here the day before he left to see King Roman, and he was very...” Dean swallowed, and gave a jerk of his head. “Intense,” he said. “Dominating. But, not harmfully. Speaking with his needs.”

Naomi stepped back, a hand over her mouth. She shook her head from side to side, then let her arm fall, rigid with inner horror. “Heavenly Father, what can we do? Your life cannot be at risk, and Castiel cannot relent!”

Dean thought about telling Naomi about Michael. She deserved to know. But, he didn't think she'd understand, even if she believed. And, an order was an order, to Cas, anyway. “I'll watch him,” he promised. “Closely. The moment he shows even a flicker of feral, I'll drink a contraceptive from Crowley, and we'll risk it. Best we can do.” He paced forward to take Naomi into his arms. “Mother, this isn't a panic situation. Crowley is good at what he does. And, we have Michael on our side.” He drew back a little so she'd have to look him in the eyes. “You don't doubt that. You don't. Our family has prospered for many, many years, because of Michael. He wouldn't drop us now. Trust me.”

Naomi sagged against Dean, smelling of faint hope along with severe dismay. “I believe in Michael,” she said, and he could hear she meant it. “Oh, Dean. Zach and I fail our precious Castiel time and time again. Why does God allow such failures to mentor his fleshly angel?”

“God just has Michael in charge of Novak blood,” Dean said. “Michael is paying attention. If you were cocking it up, Castiel wouldn't be with us, right?” Dean kissed her head. “You're not a failure. You're human, too, as well as angel. Maybe failing at things every so often is just a way to keep you humble, keep you learning things.”

“Son, Castiel's parents...” John sighed. “They could have handled that better, yeah, but they weren't laughing at you. They were laughing because they'd never heard common sense applied to holy scripture. They've heard and read the holy word for so long they don't actually see it anymore. Do you get me?”

Dean would take his father's perspective. Because, it was a good one. “It's not really for us to try and reason what God thinks. I've learned that, reading the red Bible. I mean, look for yourself. Those Israelites were devout, and they screwed up sometimes, but they are his favorites.”

Naomi wound her arms around Dean, and hugged him tight. Dean caught a hint of humor in her scent, as well as renewal. “How true,” she whispered. “Because they are so much about free will, I think.” She let go, drew back a step, and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Shall we depart? I find I am in much need of shopping, now. Perhaps pick up a few things for my lovely son...?”

Dean grabbed his money bag, affixing it to his obi, along with his fans. “Let's spoil him,” he said.

(_____________________________________________________________________________)

Clearwater was a jumble of smells and sounds that blended into a barrage of colors and castes. Dean, between Naomi and Zachariah, felt like a treasured thing. He easily kept apace with them, being attentive to their individual 'draws'. Zachariah was tempted to deviate their course at shops selling the latest in scientific advancement, but Naomi was drawn to bazaars selling fabrics and housewares.

Every step, every moment, Dean drew eyes. Astonished, lingering, appreciative eyes. He pretended to not notice, because making eye contact meant confrontation, big or small, or even encouragement.

“Oh, Dean!” Naomi pulled him to a shopfront to show him it was for kitting a home that expected children, along with general furniture offerings. “I know of your time-frame, dear, but may we indulge anyway?” Her pretty blue eyes sought his for approval. “It's not too early to plan.”

Dean read the conflicting, feminine message between the lines.

I'm so afraid.

I want to see my grandchildren.

Surely, Michael won't let you die.

It's my duty to see children born from you.

Dean forced himself to smile. “Let's see if we can buy a nice crib,” he said, tightening their elbow lock. “Something pretty and solid. We can get Zachariah's opinion, too.” He reached out, snagged his father-in-law's arm, and pulled him closer. “Zachariah, you didn't get much of a chance to contribute to Cas' upbringing. This is your chance to include yourself.”

Zachariah, willingly and easily tugged to the window, took one look and sighed. “Dean,” he said, “I would be so pleased.”

“Good.” Dean pushed open the door, and went in with only Naomi attached to him.

As a group, they took about five steps before a beta clerk intercepted them. He was short, slender, and well groomed. His smile, friendly, radiated that he got his pay by commission. “Hello,” he greeted, giving a brief bow. “May I help you in a selection?”

“My son's hadja wants to see baby cribs,” Zachariah said. “He is planning a child, and wants the best.”

The clerk brightened. “This is our specialty,” he announced. “Master Xu is renowned in three continents for his expertise in wood carving and carpentry. And, he is on-site today.” The man angled his body toward them in a way that projected servitude. “I could, perhaps, intervene on your behalf, and give introductions?”

“Do,” Zachariah said genially.

The clerk motioned they should follow. He led them to a door, which emptied them into a long hallway. Dean smelled freshly cut wood, and the scent of beeswax. At the end of the hall, the clerk stopped before a large door painted red. “Master Xu will continue to work while you converse,” he warned. “This is just his way. Do not be offended.”

Zachariah assured him they understood.

In they went. Dean moved to one side to allow others full clearance, looking about in wonder at all the completed furniture hanging from hooks in the rafters. The vast room had many windows for full light, and lamps burning to supplement for the darker corners. The floor, covered in wood dust, was made of very wide planks Dean could only assume were very thick. The fact they didn't squeak suggested the room was either new, or had been well made.

At the window, an older man knelt to carve on a table. He had very dark, slick hair, and Dean saw his eyes were just as dark, as the man glanced up at his visitors.

Dean felt himself bowing his head in respect.

The clerk went to him, and spoke shortly. Master Xu didn't speak, but gave single, short nod. So, the clerk came back, smiling at them. “You may consult with him, now. Use your manners.”

“Maybe you two should go,” Zachariah suggested to Dean and Naomi. “I'd like to talk to the clerk about getting a decent bed. I feel positively bumbling in front of that elegant old fellow.”

Dean took Naomi's arm, and they began their approach, slowly. Dean would use the manners Sonny taught when addressing an elder of unknown temperament. “Follow my lead, Mother,” he said quietly. “A master craftsman deserves our regard.”

“I can see by his work that he is an expert,” Naomi replied. “The details, Dean!”

Yes, Dean had seen. Scroll work and embellishments so smooth they seemed to flow. Quality.

“Master Xu,” Dean said, bowing deeply. Naomi quickly followed suit. Dean backed up two steps, and waited, watching the gnarled old hands shape a table leg at the top to resemble a lion's face. He smelled the old man was an alpha, now. Had been a potent one, in his time.

Master Xu continued to work in serenity, as if they weren't there, but Dean had expected that, and didn't fidget. He only waited, perfectly still. Naomi, pressed to Dean's example, stayed silent and motionless.

Ten minutes passed.

“Finally, people who understand manners,” Master Xu said at long last, his voice soft and low. “This continent supports people who care about little else but decorum, and propriety, but they fail to have quietude and honor.”

Naomi opened her mouth as if to speak, and Dean gave her a warning squeeze with his hand. She stayed silent, smelling of confusion.

“Ah, it is the classically trained omega who corrects his alpha mother-in-law,” Xu said, smiling, taking up a sanding block. “Only one who came from Sonny's House would be so aware of protocol. Is it not so?”

Now, Dean had permission. He'd been asked a question. “Sonny trained me, Master Xu,” he answered. He was dying to know how this old man knew Sonny, but he wouldn't ask.

Xu smiled again, and began applying himself to taking the hard edge from a cut. “Again, you display your awareness. Your time with those of lesser understanding has not diminished you. You are quite unlike this wood that I render soft to the touch. I approve of you keeping your sharpness, handsome omega.”

Dean bowed his head.

“You see by my manner the notion behind your training, do you not?” Xu asked.

“Master Xu, if the people in Panomu were like you, no omega would fear being wrongly placed,” Dean answered. An alpha with such control, such understanding of beauty, respectful of the process of making beauty, would not abuse an omega.

“Yes. Panomu was in need of precision and grace. I am sorry to hear it has not improved. But, Sonny had to try.” Xu took up a carving tool, and began shaping the lion's left eye, his movements sure and certain. “What will he do now that the Maholak have his country?”

“I expect him to leave. My husband gave him the money to pack up and flee, Master Xu.” Dean pressed a hand to Naomi, a clear sign for her to stay still, and knelt in the sawdust close to Xu. The man had indicated by conversation that he was satisfied to speak to Dean for a longer time.

“You make me wish for my native land,” Xu said. “Of course, my people are not colored as you are, nor as large.”

“I would bring a friend to you, also from Sonny's, that would please your eyes more?” Dean asked.

Xu chuckled. “Oh, that would please me,” he answered. “I am too old to concern myself with taking a mate, but there is nothing amiss with looking at a beautiful omega.” He finished the left eye of the lion, and went on to the right one. “But, you came here looking for beauty, didn't you?”

“My mother-in-law, who I am proud to say is my mother, suggested we come here in preparation for the children I will have,” Dean said. “This is she, Naomi Novak. I am Dean Novak.”

“Ah.” Xu spared Naomi a glance. “You must be happy with your son's choice.”

Naomi nodded, and volunteered to kneel beside of Dean, which was correct. She even assumed Dean's position, kneeling on her knees with her hands clasped together on her thighs. Her dress swirled out elegantly in the sawdust, and Dean found her surrender to Xu unexpectedly lovely.

“You are occupying the country's vanity,” Xu said. “A house no one would buy because of the damage, but no one would let go of because of the history.” Xu made a tisk-tisk. “Some history should be lost. However, as your family supports others instead of suppressing them, I expect history to be made for the better at Fen-Taven.” He smiled sideways at Dean. “What better way to chase away the grim past than to prepare for a brilliant future?”

Dean smiled back. “If it proves possible, I want many children, Master Xu.”

“Hmm.” Xu's smile became a small grin. “You see my carving tools, handsome omega?”

Dean did. He gathered them into his hands, expecting Xu to ask for a specific one.

“Hold them over your heart a moment, then drop them onto the floor.” Xu's eyes gleamed with hidden meaning.

Dean didn't question, he simply did as told, immediately.

Xu looked at the scattered tools for a very long minute. Then, he nodded. “Five times, you will be blessed, with your bounty of surprising strength. You will endure the pain well. You will not shame your alpha.”

Dean's heart made an extra beat. Xu was a Seer. He said Dean would have five children. Five would do, though Dean wanted many.

“One who is close to you, will need you often in the coming days,” Xu continued. “Assure your support very quickly, and do not hesitate to use your fans.” He met Dean's eyes. “Power is hiding among you, in plain sight. Keep the lessons in your past firmly in mind.”

Dean bowed his head. Already, what Xu told him held as words carved in stone. He would not forget, because he could not, but, he would reflect upon this sage advice often, with intent.

“I will make the item you came here for,” Xu added. “This will not be the only item I provide.” He touched Dean's shoulder lightly, and very briefly.

A sign to leave. A sign of approval.

Dean took Naomi's hand, and helped her up as he got himself off of the floor. He bowed, and Naomi copied him. She held the bow as long as he did, and adjusted herself to walk backwards when Dean began his retreat. Once in the hallway, door shut, she turned to Dean with wonder written on her face.

Dean put a finger over his lips in warning. They made their way back to the main selling room in utter silence.

“Ah, there you are!” Zachariah greeted cheerfully. “I ordered a new bed, dear.”

Dean felt as if Zachariah shattered the only civility he'd encountered since leaving Sonny's. It wasn't Zachariah's fault, of course. Not everyone proved suited to ritual and quiet.

“Pay for it so that we may leave, husband,” Naomi said, softly firm. She was tense, and Dean caught a hint of fear in her scent. She wanted to get out of the shop so that she could ask questions of Dean.

Zachariah, oblivious to the tension Dean and Naomi shared, took his time with paying, and the arrangement of delivery. Naomi clasped her hand in Dean's. “We will wait outside,” she announced. With that, she steered Dean from the shop.

On the cobblestone walkway, Naomi stared down the double row of stores. “Is it for discussion?” Her question barely broke the air. Yet, Dean heard her over the noises of horses, carriages, and shouting vendors.

“In private, I should think,” Dean replied in a whisper, equally of a need to retain the stillness Master Xu inspired.

The moment Zachariah joined them, Naomi put Dean in between. She forced them to walk. “We have things to discuss, Zach,” she said. “There used to be an outdoor dining venue in the park. Tell them we want a secluded table.”

“I've missed something,” Zachariah deduced, then.

“Not here,” Naomi insisted.

They walked for a good ten minutes, with Dean avoiding eyes again. He was glad to have someone on each side to help guide him.

He would have five children.

Dean went over the words again. “Five times, you will be blessed, with your bounty of surprising strength. You will endure the pain well. You will not shame your alpha.”

Bounty of surprising strength...

Like infant Cas?

The park, a wide, sprawling thing with many couples walking back and forth, most of them escorted, smelled good. Recently shorn grass, smoked meat, and hot oil, mostly. Dean paid attention to styles of dress shown to him. He allowed himself led over the thick, almost violently green lawn, toward a faraway copse of hemlock trees. “Mother,” he said quietly. “I see veils being used in many ways. What is the protocol in this country?”

“Women omegas open to being courted, wear a veil rolled up to their heads as ornament. It stays rolled shut, unless one wishes to 'cut' someone, or, to flirt in a vulgar fashion. Male omegas may wear them to avoid the eyes of others.” Naomi sighed explosively, making open eye-contact with a male alpha boldly staring at Dean, standing almost in their path with eyes and mouth wide open. “But,” she said loudly, “your wedding ring should be reason enough to not approach you.”

The alpha startled at her words, snapped his mouth closed, turned red in the face, and walked away swiftly, the reek of embarrassment trailing in his wake. Evidently, he hadn't known he was staring.

Hm... Why wasn't he wearing blocker?

“My goodness, it's not as if Castiel gave you a dainty ring,” Naomi added, sounding disgusted. The male alpha had disturbed her. “That thing is blinding out here in all this sun.” She glanced down, eyed Cassandra's ring, along with the one Castiel gave him. Then, smiled sadly. “Thank you, dear,” she said. “I noticed before, but I never spoke of the honor you did me with accepting.”

“I'm still in the dark,” Zachariah muttered. “It's as if you and Dean have your own language.”

“We might,” Naomi teased, but her heart wasn't in it. Her tone came out weak. She obviously felt rattled by Master Xu. Over-set. Dean figured that hearing prophesy about her grandchildren put her in on shaky ground.

Bounty of surprising strength...

Confirmation that nephilim would continue to carry in their bloodline.

Dean would think about that later, when he had ample time to consider what it might mean to birth children for Cas and his new family. He simply didn't have the strength to dedicate himself toward the seriousness of that. Not right now.

Dean and Naomi waited while Zachariah got them a server, once they actually reached the site of outdoor dining. Escorted quickly, they seated at a table made of glass and wrought black iron, accepted menus, and began perusing the offered fare. Their attendant darted away to deal with a somewhat distant table occupied by a large family, a family with an alpha male that snapped his fingers repeatedly for attention.

“You can actually just order cheese, in a big hunk, for lunch?” Dean asked after a moment's perusal of the offered fare.

Naomi leaned, and Dean pointed. “Oh my, no, dear!” She said quickly and vehemently. “Never order that kind of cheese, just never!” She shivered all over, closing her eyes. “It's considered more tasty because of the maggots living in it. I've seen them pouring out the holes so hard and thick that the cheese appears to be moving! Some of our business contacts actually request a spoon for eating them!”

Zachariah groaned. “Do you have to be so absolutely vivid about it, darling?” He, too, gave a shiver.

Dean looked over at his father-in-law. “Would you order for me, Zachariah?” He didn't feel up to the food choices. Not now.

“I'd be glad to,” Zachariah told him, his face warm and relaxed, happy Dean wanted to rely upon him.

The waiter returned. Zachariah gave the order for Dean and himself. Naomi chose differently. She asked for pickled fish and cream cheese on brown bread toast, with lemonade and a side of asparagus. Zachariah gave her a look as the waiter hurried away. “Dear, I must thank you for ensuring we don't share a bed this afternoon. I thought I told you to stop eating asparagus.”

Naomi pressed her lips together briefly. “Do I tell you to stop eating brownies?”

“Brownies don't make a fellow leave the room.” Zachariah adjusted his coat, and looked between Naomi and Dean. “We seem to be quite alone, now.”

Naomi took a careful look around them before leaning closer to Zachariah. “Master Xu is some kind of magus; I'm not sure in how to categorize him. He is completely of a good alignment. He predicted Dean would have five children. And, the information would not even have been given to us if Dean hadn't known exactly how to approach, how to speak.”

Zachariah absorbed the information with his mouth open and eyes widened. “So many things,” he said faintly. “So much is attached to Dean. Everywhere he goes, excellence and good fortune follow. I don't understand it.”

“It's a bit more than that,” Naomi said. “Dean thinks Castiel will eventually go feral if we don't allow him to mate Dean. He's becoming dominating.” She held her hand up to stop Zachariah from talking, as he looked ready to interrupt. “No, he hasn't harmed Dean. But, Dean surely sees Castiel better than we do. He's proven it. If he believes something to be true about our son, I take his word.”

Zachariah slumped over as if defeated. “So, the children are happening sooner than we planned. You know, I watched Castiel during the trip here, and saw he wore thin. He showed his temper to that little Harvelle girl, and, Charlie, which he wouldn't have done at home...”

“At Tor-Valen,” Dean finished for him quietly

“You've never seen him angry. Think about that.”

“But...” Dean had seen him angry, though.

“No,” Naomi said gently, shaking her head. “You've seen him peeved. Only once have I seen him genuinely angry, and it was like the wrath of God had descended.

The food came. Dean and his family ate in worried, stilted silence.

(_______________________________________________________________________)

Chapter Text

Jo, Crowley, and Bill, left with the wagons full of artifacts, taking many men for safety. They would move quickly, Dean knew. They didn't have any choice. The threat of theft loomed as an ample problem.

Because Dean had promised Crowley, he went to his room and continued working. Crowley had cut forms for garments. All Dean had to do was stitch them together, and do the embellishments. He wouldn't be as fast as Crowley, of course. He hadn't Crowley's skill. He would go slowly to make sure he didn't screw anything up.

Cas would return in two or three days, hopefully. Dean hated to be the kind of person who pined, but he couldn't really help it. He'd not been praying to Cas for fear of distracting him, too. So, not even a little bit of contact.

Dean left Crowley's door open just for the illusion he wasn't alone. Seeing a footman or two was better than staring at walls. Feeling jangly, Dean began to work on an item tagged as Sam's waistcoat.

Sam.

Dean had seen him with Gabriel for days, now. Sam and Gabriel never smelled of desire when together, just contentment. Curiosity. Sam projected a bit of lingering regret, though. Dean figured Gabriel informed Sam about the inner workings of Sam's old enemies.

A knock came at the door frame. Dean looked up to see a girl he'd only spoken to once before, though he'd been in her company many times. Aria. The girl Crowley had protected by killing her abusive father. She'd taught Dean how to make baskets. “Aria, hi,” Dean greeted. “Come in.”

Aria entered, and looked around without moving further. “I help Mr. Crowley, sometimes,” she informed. She paused to look at what he was doing. “You should always be the one making your husband's shirts. It's your responsibility to make his shirts. Your brother's too, as he has no mate.” She edged a little closer, hesitant and shy. “I'm off duty, now. I thought you might like my help, too.”

Dean smiled. “Of course. Are you any good?” Nothing in the etiquette book, so far, had told him he'd be responsible for making Cas' shirts, but he'd just go with it. Not a hardship.

Aria nodded. “Mr. Crowley let me stay in his store, and sew with him when Daddy was in the mood to hurt Momma. I don't know how he always knew, but, he did. He'd come get me, and Momma didn't care. She just wanted me safe.” Aria frowned slightly, then, and looked away. “She should have taken me, and fled.” Aria picked up a collection of cut patterns, quickly choosing a shirt pattern intended for Cas. “I never want a husband.”

Dean clenched his hands together in sorrow and fury. He hated the idea of this child being exposed to the raw, utter shit-garbage, adults could create out of their own, horrible issues. Do what you want to each other, no matter how sick, but leave the children out of it. Children soaked up information like sponges, and a responsible adult took a lot of care to not let their child soak up filth. “Not every man is like your father,” Dean answered, trying to be objective. But, he'd rather have the pretty omega woman-child safe forever, too. “My husband is wonderful.”

“For now,” Aria said, sitting beside him on a low stool so that they could share the sewing kit. Her nearly poreless, young face, arranged into worry. Her scent changed to worry, too. And, resentment. Anger.

Her sense of justice.

“Aren't you scared he's going to make you bleed like he makes other people bleed?” Aria asked, those scents staying strong even though her face had smoothed out.

She had a lot of control over her body language, even if her scent betrayed her. She hadn't been taught to project her scent in a lie for the sake of smoothing issues over.

“No.” Dean hated Aria's observation on Cas' violent tendencies. It was too close to pertinent problems. “He respects me very deeply, Aria. People that respect each other, don't cause harm to one another.”

Aria paused in making her second stitch. Her liquid, blueish-grey eyes filled with thought. “You didn't use the word 'love'.”

“Well, people fall in and out of love,” Dean pointed out, hearing a need in the girl for actual romance. He didn't know where that need came from, but, he didn't have to know. “The best kind of love is one that's patient, and, reverent. The other kinds are weak against all the things that hurt us.”

Dean had thought about this a lot during his life. To him, the 'patient love' was the kind one could strive for in taking care of difficult people, and, difficult situations. Children, especially. Reverent love was the kind of warmth that demanded you give warmth. “It's hard to keep close to someone, when things outside your control start closing in around you.”

Aria went back to sewing, throwing off a scent Dean had never smelled. He couldn't identify it. It wasn't a bad smell, but it certainly filled the room.

“Define 'respect' for me, Dean,” Aria asked after a few minutes of both of them working.

Dean snorted. “I can tell you what I think it is, and then you can ask others what they think. How's that?”

Aria nodded. Again, her scent changed. And, again, Dean didn't exactly have a way to pin it down. Yet, he did smell a sort of openness.

“Okay.” Dean paused in his sewing to make eye contact with the girl. “To me, respect is what happens when you constantly see all the qualities you want in yourself, shown to you in the behavior of someone else. I love honesty, and compassion. I love seeing a bad person get what's coming to them. That's not especially good of me, but, I include it so you know respect can be gained for reasons less than ideal.”

Again, that scent. It emanated from Aria so strongly.

“You said nothing about money, and respect for that is all I seem to see,” she said.

Dean let out a long, heavy breath. “I know. I've noticed. Doesn't it piss you off?”

Aria's scent changed again, this time to something Dean could pin down. Humor. High humor, too.

“Yes, Dean, it does,” she declared strongly, turning her face toward him with slightly curving lips on display.

“I'm glad we agree,” Dean said, grinning at her.

They resumed work.

Gradually, Aria's scent went back to the mysterious one. But, it had tempered somehow.

“You said 'behavior',” she pointed out quietly.

Dean called that up in a flash. “To me, respect is what happens when you constantly see all the qualities you want in yourself, shown to you in the behavior of someone else.”

“I did. People can talk fit to exhaust themselves, but what they do tells you what they are. Who they are. That's why it's important to really spend time with people before you commit yourself. And, yeah, it's not really done. People like us get bought. No omega I've ever known got much of a choice in getting to know the alpha that decided they were good for breeding.” Dean resumed sewing, his heart on fire from so many separate sources of flame. “Cas bought me to comply with a lot of different pressures, from the family, and from law. He never intended to bed me if I didn't want him.”

Aria, still scenting strangely, corrected one of her stitches. She had more speed than Dean, though they were matched in precision. “Did it hurt when he...?”

Dean melted inside.

The poor girl was a virgin, and worried. She'd come to him, of all people, to have this curiosity sated. “Aria,” he said very, very quietly, mindful of the open door. “Cas hasn't yet lain with me. He, and his parents, were worried that my being older, and a man, that I'd need a good doctor to survive giving birth. They seek an in-house doctor, even now. This white belt I wear in my fancy bathrobe? That tells anyone who knows my cultural upbringing, I'm still a virgin.”

Aria jerked a little as Dean spoke, and began to sew swiftly. Agitation teemed from her pores. “Because you are an omega, your virginity is prized,” she said, angry and taut. “I know. I wasn't raised like you, but I know. But, worse for you, Dean, that you have to show that to people who don't deserve to know. It's private.”

“Marriages and matches happen parent to parent for some good reasons as well as bad,” Naomi said lightly.

“You said a mouth full,” Dean agreed. “But, I gotta point out something.”

“All right.” Aria made eye contact. Just for a second, though. Her soul windows blazed with wrath. “Just so you know, your reasoning must be absolutely sound to argue with me on the virginity issue.”

“You have standards. I get it.” Dean put a hand over one of hers, and very gently squeezed. “We don't have very many people in the world, Aria. We're trying to build the populace back up. From what I gather, we've been trying for quite awhile, now. Hundreds of years. And, we can't do it with diseased people. One or two people, with rotting privates, having indiscriminate sex, could infect dozens. From there, hundreds, From there, thousands. What happens when we all have syphilis, or malignant, oozing wounds?”

Shock and horror permeated the air, born from Aria's glands. She turned her hand over, and grabbed Dean, holding tight. Her horror filled the room in bare seconds.

“Exactly,” Dean said. “Parents guide the marriages of their children for more reasons than wealth and status. In theory, omega houses are to ensure that pure, childbearing people, get matched to pure alphas worthy of providing stud service. Money gets in the way, yeah, because the wealthy can buy what they want without having to prove they don't have some repulsive funk to pass on. And, it's not just a person's privates that can carry nasty disease. Mouths, open sores, anything hot and moist.”

Aria leaned her forehead against Dean's knee, breathing hard. Her scent fluctuated between revulsion and sadness. Dean put a hand in her hair, and began to stroke her. Sanction to another omega. Support. Caring. She gradually relaxed, one tensed muscle at a time.

She took comfort from him. Dean smelled she already considered him some sort of mentor. How, he didn't know. The 'how' made no difference. It was up to him to live up to her expectations. If he didn't at least try, he was a miserable failure to the sweet girl.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't. Dean hated the Dynamic at times, but he could see how it was. Lucifer had tried to beat them all down by making a separate, third sex, but God put a twist on it. Diversity in the children. A male that was able to give birth, and, also create life in a woman, was very much of value. The new Eve. More fertile, and with less of a term than a beta or alpha female.

Dean would remind himself to tell Cas that Cas wasn't actually Eve.

Dean held Aria for at least an hour before she was ready to work again. And, when she was, he didn't give her the weight of his eyes.

(____________________________________________________________________________)

Dean made his brother five waistcoats over the course of the next day. The two days after that, he decorated them. On one, he put silver cutlasses on silver-blue, tiny and pretty. The second, he used an albatross theme on sea green. Because, he'd learned from talking to a footman named Quinn, the albatross was a respected bird to sailors. He'd had to look them up to get their likeness, in the fourth library.

The third waistcoat, Dean sewed knights in various poses, on horseback, swords or pikes at the ready, on a rust red background. The fourth, Dean depicted Galahad himself, his shield proudly bearing a red cross. Because, when Dean accessed the fourth library again, he'd discovered that the knights of old were Christians, and that they had tried to display that as often as possible. It made Dean feel closer to Sam, actually.

Sam might not have the faith of Dean's new family, but they were still connected.

The fifth waistcoat was the best. On a royal blue brocade, that included equally spaced arms of brilliant gold crosses, Dean had filled the 'dead' space with a perfectly matched gold theme of honeysuckle vines. He'd spent hours on it. And, it was utterly perfect. A masterpiece.

Dean hung the waistcoats carefully, admiring the buttons he'd chosen from Crowley's supplies to compliment each one. The silver cutlass waistcoat got solid silver buttons in the pattern of a schooner. The second, silver discs with wave patterns. On the third, Dean had used white horn. The fourth, wood shaped into fully bloomed rosebuds. And, the last, Dean's favorite, Dean had used buttons made of cut crystal. They had been fashioned onto raised discs with lilies etched into their centers.

Feeling highly satisfied, Dean set off for Sam's quarters. He was getting better with navigation, now, having the benefit of perfect memory. And, now that a lot of the clutter had been removed, the going proved easier. He affected an ease he didn't really feel, projecting a smell of calm confidence. Though still upset with Sam, Dean did love him. Deeply.

Dean rapped upon Sam's door smartly, and waited. He heard a thump, then a shuffling noise. Sam opened his door cautiously, but his eyes brightened, showing a thankful sort of amazement when he clapped eyes upon him. “Dean!” He threw the door wide, and stepped back.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean said, taking advantage of the wordless invitation. He handed the hangers over. “Crowley had a few waistcoat patterns ready for sewing, and I finished decorating them about an hour ago.” He went to Sam's fireplace, spreading his hands to enjoy some powerful heat. Sewing took the blood from bone. “How are you?”

“Um, better,” Sam said, subdued. He put the waistcoats on his bed, one by one, taking his time to look. “Dean, oh shit,” he added a heartbeat later. “These are outstanding. You did the embroidery?”

“Naturally,” Dean said, spurred to a full smile. “Sewed them up, too.” He rubbed his hands together before spreading them again. “Give me some favorite plants, animals, or some-such, and I can do better. Favorite colors, too. I can't do as well if I don't know what you like, Sam.”

Sam, quiet, carefully examined every waistcoat with great care, again. His hands lovingly caressed the fabric, the embroidery, even the stitches used to put the garments together. “Why would you even want to help me present well?” He asked somberly. “I hurt and scarred an innocent man.”

“Who is gradually forgiving you, and, even giving you sanction,” Dean reminded. “If Gabriel is capable of that, so am I. You're my brother.” Dean sat on Sam's hearth to enjoy the heat some more. It was a cold afternoon, and he had no idea if it was a 'thing' or not that one could have warm weather here one day, and cold the next. “I expected him to be with you, actually. You do seem to enjoy each other's company, now.”

Sam sat on the bed, meeting Dean's eyes. “We have little in common, but that's the fun part, I guess,” Sam said. “He tells me about the Maholak nation, what he's seen and done. I tell him about my voyages.” Sam pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes a moment, as if tired. “Fuck, Dean. Language was the only barrier between us, and look what I did.”

“You'd never make that mistake again, and, Gabriel is able to forgive you, so just move forward,” Dean suggested, relieved that Gabriel's approval hadn't given Sam enough reason to stop inventorying himself. “You went into service too young. It slanted your view of things, I think. But, you're a young man yet. You have time to grow.”

Sam dropped his hands. He again met Dean's gaze. “You're four years older than me,” he said, “and, it might as well be forty years, instead. I don't understand how, in so much isolation, you ended up wiser than me.” He flapped a hand at him a couple of times for emphasis. “I mean, look at you. Wearing clothing specific to your omega training, but only in the countries or schools influenced by Xia Pau. All over the world, there are omegas with dress codes. Dad didn't choose Sonny's for you out of foresight. Sonny's was just the only place he knew. I'd bet anything on that.”

Dean shook his head. “You're saying I should have turned out ignorant, and, backward, because I grew up stationary, restricted to one place?” Sam really needed an education about omegas, and, omega houses. Yes, they were specific to training an omega how to please an alpha, but a clever omega could use the knowledge given as a weapon, as well. “We had books, Sam. What Sonny could afford, anyway. We talked at night when our chores were finished. Exchanged upbringing, and, information.”

“I get it. I do.” Sam gave him a pleading look. “But, being confined like that...”

“I begin to see the issue,” Dean said. “You think we were all together in there, until we grew up. That wasn't the case. Most omegas leave by the age of sixteen. Not only are people difficult to feed, but a lot of alphas want young omegas. The childbirth survival rate is better when one is very young, and, the children tend to be healthier, as well. Too, it's just expensive to keep us.”

Dean got up to ring Sam's bell. He was hungry. “I was at Sonny's the longest, being the troublemaker who wouldn't settle for the alphas that bought me. So, I got exposed to a lot of different young boys. I joined Sonny in being a caregiver, Sam.” He opened the door to wait for whomever would answer his summons. “Taking care of frightened, sometimes traumatized children, makes one give up their personal issues pretty damn quick.”

Dean had learned a lot about the world through the eyes of the people hurt by it.

Sam, his face stricken with dawning understanding, began to shake. “Holy crap, Dean,” he whispered. “How many boys went through Sonny's while you were there?”

“I didn't keep track.” Dean waved a hand at an approaching footman. “I was a kid, Sam. Then, I was simply too busy to worry with numbers.”

But, Dean had kept track.  Just by the incident in remembering a particular omega that had struck him as so young and innocent, even with training, he'd had to come to terms with that.  He'd been sick over it.  He just didn't want to hurt Sam with the truth.

Dean hated not telling the truth.  Didn't want to talk about it. Didn't have the strength to go into the true trauma of his upbringing. He shoved his guilt down into the pit of his stomach.

The pit he'd carried his entire, childhood life, just for Sam.

“What may I do for you, sir?” The stupidly quick footman asked, appearing as if by magic.

“I just rang the bell-.”

“Yes, sir,” The footman said, smiling a little. “I was dispatched to serve you.”

Dean blinked. “How are you guys so fast?”

“We number greatly, sir,” the footman answered. “But, during the day, there are twenty of us assigned to this floor. The bell rings in a central chamber on the second floor, where we and the rest of the servants are housed. But, each floor has it's own relay and response. It's the only way to manage a house this large. Additionally, we patrol each floor.”

Dean absorbed all that. “You know what? Thank you so much for telling me. I thought you guys sprouted wings, or something.”

The footman only smiled mildly.

“Would you have a full tea sent up here?” Dean asked. “I don't care what's chosen for me and my brother, only that there's a lot of it. I missed lunch, and my brother could eat an entire goat at any given time of the day.”

The footman bowed. “As you request, sir.” He turned, and walked away.

“Finally got some kind of explanation,” Dean muttered, watching him go, “and, I'm still not really sure how they operate.” He shut the door, thinking it would help keep the heat in.

“Dean...” Sam stood up, and got right in Dean's space, his eyes watering. “Those letters you sent me. You didn't write anything about taking care of other boys. You must have been about seventeen when you quit writing...”

“I didn't start fully mentoring them until then,” Dean explained. “I couldn't waste time writing letters when Sonny needed so much help. He would have allowed it, had I gotten letters back. But, he thought I'd been forgotten.” Dean patted his brother's shoulder. “I hate that we missed out on so much, Sam, I really do. But, I'm not at Sonny's anymore, and, you're not on a ship. Here we are.”

Sam back up, turning away as if the sight of Dean pained him. He went to a window, braced on the sill, and looked out. Dean could view his brother's face in the reflection.

Sam wasn't seeing anything but his own insides.

Content to let Sam work through his issues in silence, Dean walked into his brother's study. Of course, Sam already had books in the shelves. Sam's collection consisted of an alpha etiquette book, a history of Rocky White, and, one on the flora and fauna in Rocky White. He researched his new location. It was expected. Typical of serious-Sam. Also typical of Sam, he had a stack of vellum, an inkwell, and a good quill.

Dean took out his money bag, putting five gold on Sam's shelf. He grabbed the quill, dipped it, dragged the excess ink off on the well's rim in much the same way he'd been taught to politely eat soup. He took a piece of clean vellum, and wrote upon it. Go into Clearwater with Gabriel, and buy some books you'll both enjoy. Make your shelf less empty. He finished off by sketching Sam holding a sword, facing off a dragon. Smiling, he wiped the quill on a handy piece of scrap suede.

Dean considered the paltry collection Sam had, again. In contrast, Dean had the red Bible, an omega etiquette book, which was much thicker that the corresponding alpha one, a volume about peerage, the valet duties handbook, and his dictionary. He hadn't opened the peerage one at all, even though he knew he should.

He picked up the one on alpha etiquette, curious. He should borrow this when Sam was done with it, just to know if an alpha was screwing around in his presence. He carried it to the bedroom, holding it up. “What's this one told you?”

Sam turned, saw the book, and rolled his eyes. That demonstrative exhibition of disgust, told Dean so much. “To ignore my instincts, to hide my scent, and to defer to all alphas above my social standing. Within reason, of course. I'm very surprised about the dueling stuff. It's weirdly specific.”

Dean smirked inwardly. Put Sam to a topic, and he usually snapped out of a blue mood. “And, how do you feel about covering your alpha scent?”

“Not good,” Sam admitted. “It's not polite.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, smiling, “you can't pretend to be one thing while being another, usually, while natural. I'd say political intrigue caused the scent blocker to be invented. Or, sneaky alphas that want to take an omega by surprise. Either way, I don't trust.”

“Me, neither,” Sam agreed. “At least I won't be expected to live up to some kind of court life, like Castiel will.” Sam took the book, paging forward. “How are we supposed to know what rank, and, in what order? My little primer here, says-.”

“Reads,” Dean interrupted with a smile. “Or, informs. It doesn't 'say' anything.”

“Dick,” Sam said, but he was smiling, too. A gentle formation of his mouth that managed to convey Sam's absolute gratitude to get Dean's presence. “It informs that the king has a certain amount of people to give titles to upon every equinox. The titles are awarded by four factors. Breeding, money, wit, and manners. If you have all four, the king might make you a duke. Not having any, you're toast.”

“Not the toast of the town, though,” Dean observed, which made Sam smile broadly.

“Right.” Sam pointed back to the book again. “But, I did a little digging around in the second library, which is mostly about history, and discovered that a big estate like this one constitutes it's own privileges. Such as...” Sam shot eyebrows up at Dean. “Hereditary peerage. As long as Castiel lives here, he has some power. And, any kids you'd have, would get a title, too.”

Dean grimaced. “I'm pretty sure he doesn't know this. He was hoping to end up being a baron, or, something low on the list.”

Frowning, Sam kind of shook his head. “Why would Castiel not know he's going to get a title with Fen-Taven?”

“His parents bought this place for him when he was a kid. The title is in his name,” Dean explained. “But, it doesn't make any sense for a house to grant a title. I don't understand it.”

“It's because part of his land has to be used to grow crops that support the king,” Sam said, paging through the book again. “Your husband will grow corn and wheat, probably even cotton, if he can manage it. The food, or the proceeds, go to the government for distribution.”

“Still not clicking in my head,” Dean persisted.

Sam gave an exasperated sigh. “Novaks had the money to buy this for Castiel. Castiel is a big land owner, now. The estate is huge. Big estate, plus wealthy owner, means profits. The king will want those profits. Taxes come in the form of money, or goods.”

“Castiel has no especial feeling for this place, you know. He made his own home. And, it sorrows me that he can occupy it no longer. But, he has power, here.”

“So, the Novaks knew, when they bought this place, that it would grant Cas a title of some high rank,” Dean surmised. “But, they didn't try to trap him here. They let him go on to rescue, and reestablish, one of their hereditary homes. Giving him a title wasn't as important as letting him make his own decisions, to be his own man.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam said, scowling at the book. “This, a Great House, is the oldest standing, intact building left from pre-Calamity time, at least in Rocky White. That gives it some prestige. I read about it in the first library.”

“And, from what Cas tells me, most of the nobles and gentry have pissed away their money with gambling habits. The king must have been so glad the Novaks decided to buy Fen-Taven.” Dean rubbed his eyelids. “Oh, shit. Cas is gonna come home with even more weight on his shoulders. I can feel it, Sam.”

A knock. Sam jerked upright. He'd been leaning toward Dean by degrees for the last minute. He ran a hand through his hair, nervous and quick. “I'll serve us. Make your way to the dining area, Dean.”

Dean obeyed his brother. He didn't have to, but he did. It gave Sam some control back, which was important to his secondary designation.

Alpha males had a lot to deal with. The primary gender was hard enough, but throw extra maleness, extra dominance into that, and, there presented a concoction hard to fight against. Dean had always supposed that was why the male alpha could evolve into a brute. The fight meant conquering a constant need for violence and sex.

Fucking Lucifer.

Dean seated himself. Michael, he prayed. Next time you have to fight Lucifer, you knock his dick into the dirt. Just for me. Because, he tried to ruin your dad's favorite creations. God did his best to make that right, but damn.

Precious Child, Michael answered two heartbeats later, I give out the force and punishment allotted to me by my holy sire. Ever and always, I am a soldier. I do as told. Yet, I do speak to Him, and I tell Him what you say. Be comforted. Life moves along as my father decrees, and it is all for a reason, no matter how mysterious.

A feeling of warmth, pure compassion, flooded Dean, then. Filled him completely. Michael's love was so equable and strong.

Child, you have the perspective of a created thing. You cannot see as God sees. You are too weak, even if you are the Righteous Man. Trust that no matter how deep the suffering, it is for a purpose.

Cas' breathing hitched. He wound his arms around Dean's chest and drew him as close as possible, squeezing Dean into a hug of support that acknowledged Dean's entire, rotten existence prior to Tor-Valen. “And this,” he whispered, “is why the light of your soul shines brighter than the sun. You know what suffering is. Suffering is a crucible. You come out as a strong, honed sword, or you melt and fall apart.”

Dean filled with appreciation for Michael, and, for his perspective. Michael knew. Michael was sensitive, wise, and steadfast. Because I am a creation, I'm not able to understand my creator, Dean prayed in the form of a question. In the same way that my drawings don't know me?

Michael's gentle humor, and, approval, washed through Dean. You have more awareness than a drawing, but you grasp the basic understanding of it, he replied. Understand, Dean, that you are not lowly for being human. Far from it. You are God's favorite. He put special work into your kind. And, you shine among them. This is why my distant brother, Castiel, cannot take his eyes from you. You are glorious with idealism, and kindness. You are good.

Dean bowed his head, then put his arms upon the table, distantly aware of Sam accepting a tray from a servant. Oh, Michael. I want to be, he confessed. He rested his forehead on his crossed arms. Help me to do what is right. Help me to be of benefit. I want to be worthy of the name Novak.

Child of Adam, you were born to be of benefit. Michael relied, warm and kind. Take sustenance with your brother, now, and rest easy. All will happen as is meant to happen.

Dean relented to the figurehead of his alpha's line. He relaxed. He felt hopeful. Thank you, Michael, he prayed. He heard/felt/smelled, that Sam was putting the tray down so that they could eat.

You're welcome. Make sure your husband's quests and displays, involve me.

Sam took the cover from the tray. Dean's mood, buoyed up by Michael's attention, brightened even more at seeing the dish he'd created to tempt Cas' appetite. Ellen had made the granola and yogurt stuff, putting peach slices on the bottom of each bowl. That, with hot tea, and a serving each of roast beef slices, would quiet their hunger, he thought.

“Dean?” Sam sat beside him, sniffing the air. “You smell of contentment. Strongly.”

“I was praying to my new family's patron angel, Michael,” Dean said, taking up a spoon. “He's a good guy. He makes me feel better.”

Sam gave him a thoughtful frown. “I've seen all kinds of faiths being displayed, with the amount I've traveled, but nothing about Michael. Nothing about this religion you share with Dad.”

Dean got up, and went to Sam's closet, taking out the waistcoat embellished with knights. He brought it back to the table, placing it so Sam could look at the tiny details. “This is a cross. Knights wore this to show their faith in God. Michael is God's big, hard hitter.”

Sam chewed while looking at the cross on the shield. “That, I have seen. Not often.” He stroked a finger over the embroidery. “What does the cross mean?”

Dean had read the entire Bible. He didn't entirely understand it, even in parable format, but he'd read it. “I don't know that integral meaning,” he said, touching the raised thread on the waistcoat. “I only know that one, rebel guy, took on the sins of the entire world to give us our purity back. And, that he allowed himself to be killed for the sake of us.” Dean took a drink of the tea that Sam had offered with too much milk and sugar. “You want to know more about it, borrow my Bible. I don't want to influence you. That's wrong.”

“Okay.” Sam abandoned his yogurt dish to sample his roast beef. “Don't you think it's a little weird Dad got into it first, though, and you landed into a family that worships like him?”

Dean, cradling his cup in his hands, looked out Sam's window. It faced the enormous lawn, with the hedge maze. “Things happen for a reason,” he replied, watching a young footman chase a maid in the labyrinth. By their sprightly movements, it was a game all in good fun. “Have you explored the property, here, Sam?”

“Some. Gabriel and I, wander. I had to teach him how to ride a horse, but he really took to it,” Sam said, smiling. His eyes were warm, now. Green and brown, alive with hope. “I usually take the alpha etiquette book, and read to him where we stop. That way, we both learn.”

“That's good, Sam,” Dean praised. “You both could use a friend. Him, especially.”

Sam nodded. “He talks a lot about you,” Sam said quietly. “About how good you were to rescue him. He took a lesson about helping others from you, there, and, I think in some other ways. He makes a game of finding someone who needs help, and offering it. Yesterday, he and I stopped our wanderings to help one of Castiel's tenants fix his roof.” Sam smiled again, this time very broadly. “The guy was surprised to see two alphas in expensive clothes, stop to give aid. But, he allowed it. He had to teach us both how to put the shingles on, too.”

“Sounds as if you two enjoy yourselves,” Dean remarked, warmed inside by seeing his brother being a hero again.

“We do,” Sam said, sliding his gaze to Dean. His eyes were sparkling, now. “But, Dean, Gabriel's got a sense of humor, too. His 'payment' for helping the farmer was to sneak into his barn, and put a rock that looked pretty much like an egg, into the brooding box for the guy's chickens.”

Dean chuckled. “Causing a broody hen?”

Sam shook his head. “Maybe, but the main thing was he wanted the farmer to think his hen had laid a rock.”

Startled, Dean laughed suddenly, and, loudly. “Has he pulled any pranks on you?”

Sam grinned. “Offered me a beautiful snuff box full of powdered pepper. Since I didn't know what snuff looked like anyway, I was easy to fool. I mean, soldiers smoke, and dip; they don't snort. I sneezed for ten minutes, randomly.”

(_________________________________________________________________________)

Around noon the next day, a letter was delivered directly to Dean. It was from Cas. He recognized Cas' beautiful handwriting. All loops and swirls.

Dean tipped the postal clerk with a steel piece, and got up from his chair in the music room. “Is there a reason to send a reply back with you?” He asked.

The beta clerk, who had been eying Dean in curiosity, quickly shook his head. “No, sir. I am only a short time away from His Grace. He informed me that this was to be given to you so that you could prepare the house for a guest.”

His Grace. That sounded pretty impressive. And, burdensome.

Crowley had been perfectly correct in his summation of how Cas would be titled.

Oh, God. Poor Cas.

“Thank you,” Dean said, and the guy was off, the footman who had guided him to Dean, right behind him.

Dean began the long trek downstairs, excited, while worried for his husband, wondering who Cas might be bringing with him. He'd open the letter with Meg, so that she could direct him on what to do...

He found Meg quickly, as she had a set station, and a strict schedule. She had her hair up in an elaborate but severe sculpture of pins and combs. It made her look very no-nonsense and proper. She wore gloves, today, white, so that she could examine how well things were being cleaned. Her austere, solid black uniform, immaculate, only served to emphasize that she was in charge.

“Meg?” Dean held up the envelope. “Cas had someone-.”

“I directed the clerk and footman to your whereabouts,” Meg said. “Are we in trouble?”

“I don't know. Let's sit on the waiting couch, and read together. Should we send for Charlie?”

Dean thought Charlie a good source for input, mental or physical.

“Sir promoted her to head housekeeper before he left, so, yeah,” Meg said, snapping her fingers at a passing footman. “Go, and fetch the head housekeeper, please, Edward.”

Edward. The guy who had a lover in Clearwater. He'd been sent with Gabriel's foot tracings to get the Maholak clock maker decent shoes and boots...

Edward sped away.

“Those guys can really travel,” Dean muttered.

“Point of pride in their job,” Meg told him, sitting with him. “We have so many of them that they compete with each other. At Sir's direction, I instructed that one of them would be singled out each month for exemplary service, and given the subsequent month off with full wages. Imagine what that does to a young man away from his family and friends.”

“Inspires loyalty, and drive,” Dean thought out loud.

“Yeah,” Meg said slowly. She looked at Dean's kimono, a shining, black satin creation, covered in silver, serpentine dragons. It didn't clash with the white obi. Plus, Dean had embroidered the dragons on it, too. “Dean, you look amazing,” she said.

“I was just thinking pretty much the same thing about you, a few minutes ago,” Dean admitted, grinning. “You must be really impressing the staff.”

“They learned their lesson about pushing me,” Meg told him slyly. She leaned to whisper, “Castiel lined them all up, every single one of them, including the ones we brought with us, and gave them the devil of a talking-to. He whipped them in two minutes, talking about equal rights, bigotry, and how his family didn't stand for demeaning people for their designation, primary or secondary. It was glorious.”

“He knows your value,” Dean teased.

Meg nodded, smiling. “He does,” she agreed.

The footman, Edward, arrived, walking behind Charlie, and Dean blinked his astonishment at the way she presented.

Charlie had her hair up the exact same way as Meg's, and it shone in the light of the windows like the rubies on Dean's wedding band. She wore a thick, black, silk velvet gown, with simple and short, black lace trim on the hemline. The dress showed no cleavage. The neck went up pretty high, and was also decorated in short lace. The full, fitted sleeves had it, too, on the cuffs. She had a silver chain around her waist, and it dripped with individual, shining brass keys. It had to weigh twenty pounds.

“Charlie,” Dean said, astonished, rising to greet her. “Charlie, you look fantastic!”

“I am the Keeper of the Keys,” Charlie said with an affected eye roll, and, crafty smile. “You like?”

“Like?” Dean shook his head 'no'. “I love,” he corrected. “What's it like to be in charge?”

“Good,” she answered. “Meg and I are sharing rooms in order to keep the house running smoothly. She teaches me what to do, and puts my hair up for me. It's really fun. I hate being alone, she hates being alone...”

“Her topics of conversation are up my street,” Meg said, smirking. “Turns out we have more in common than I thought.”

Dean wondered if Charlie had been a pirate once, too. “Fathoming each other out, then?” He said carefully, meaningfully.

Meg and Charlie both looked at him in mild shock.

Dean had to give them both a very cheeky grin.  “I'm not all a-sea,” he informed. “I know which way the wind blows.”

Meg eyed him in a mix of humor and respect. “Someone's been telling tales to you,” she said.

“Mother told me an amusing story of how you came to be my husband's most trusted and valued,” Dean replied. “And, Sam's been using nautical terms on me. Mostly on the trip here, but they slip without him knowing he's doing it.”

“This is your warning shot off the bow,” Charlie said, quoting Sam directly.

“Yeah,” Dean drawled, winking.

Charlie put her arms in the air in a clear sign of surrender. “You know the ropes! The jig is up. Batten down the hatches, Meg. Dean is no loose cannon.”

“Hilarious,” Meg deadpanned. “Sit down with us, so Dean can open his letter from Sir.”

They sat with Dean in the middle. Dean flipped his letter over. The green wax bore Castiel's signet ring impression. The same emblem on Dean's back, actually, just with more flair. But, there was a little white feather between the seal and the envelope. Meg tapped it to get Dean's attention. “Green wax means he's hopeful, wishing to send hope to you,” she said. “Black is for mourning, red is for business that requires urgency. Did you know?”

Dean let out a short sigh. “No. He used a red seal for the letters we sent out for finding Sam. I never noticed there were other colors of wax sticks in the box. Didn't pay attention. I guess I was just in a bad place, not committing things to my good memory.”

“Yeah, I can kind of imagine,” Meg said kindly. She opened her coat, drawing out her knife, offering it. “Long for a letter opener, but, you'll make it work. You don't want to destroy that seal. Castiel paid extra to have it delivered this way. That feather means 'make this letter fly'.”

“Interesting.”

Meg was right. He didn't want to damage that seal. Dean took the knife, held it a moment, enjoying the feel. “I'm not supposed to ever hold a weapon,” he murmured, quickly shooting his gaze to the waiting Edward.

The footman wasn't even looking their way. He had his eyes on a painting of a naked woman.

Dean relaxed. He pushed the point of the knife to the edge of the envelope, as Meg silently directed, easily slitting the paper. Very neatly, too. He gave the knife back, drew out the crisp, off-white document, and unfolded it while Charlie offered to hold the wrapper made of less expensive paper.

Dean cleared his throat. “Footman?” He asked.

The guy snapped out of his appreciation. “Yes, sir?” He asked quickly.

“I'll tell my husband I want you to be a winner, if you'll find somewhere else to be for ten minutes,” Dean plainly offered. “Plus, I'll give you a silver piece.” He reached into the money bag affixed to the interior of his obi even as he spoke. “What's your full name?”

“Edward Walsh, sir, thank you,” the footman said, his brown eyes gleaming. “I believe I hear the cook calling for me right now!”

Dean, smiling, got the silver piece, and flipped it to him. “Come see me later for another one, if you can keep this room private for as long as you're gone.”

The footman bowed, and swiftly departed.

Dean unfolded the smooth but textured missive. “My hadja,” he read aloud. “I chanced to encounter my dear friend, Gadreel Penikett upon venturing formal court with His Highness, King Roman. Gadreel is the Duke of Wenthis, an estate roughly two day's travel from Fen-Taven. In short, his property borders mine, to the rising sun.”

Meg gave Dean a little shoulder shove with her own. “Castiel writes Gadreel every month, faithfully. Long, long letters, to judge how thick they are in the envelope. I have been diverting Tor-Valen funds for the upkeep of Fen-Taven for years, now, and, every so often, the Duke of Wenthis writes directly to me, giving reports of the estate.”

“But, you don't actually know him,” Dean said, picking up on Meg's slant. “You write back?”

“I do,” Meg replied. Her dark eyes pinned Dean. “He seems a very honorable man, straight to the point, sober, and open. He's the reason I was able to keep this estate going. Because, he's so close that he's had his finger on the pulse of it. And, he really cares about Castiel. He's an alpha with an invariable code.”

Dean experienced a swelling of great satisfaction. It pooled under his heart, spilling over with gratitude. “Would you say he's Cas' best friend?”

Meg nodded with slow and somber agreement. “Yeah. Yeah, I would. Gadreel is rock-solid, Dean. A man made of rules for himself. And, open-minded, for all that. He never had a problem corresponding with me, while knowing I was a woman. Didn't matter to him. All that he cared about was Castiel's people giving him fairness and loyalty, and, guarding his friend's property.”

Dean turned his gaze to the far wall a few seconds, reveling in the fact Cas had one friend of true worth to keep him going. His husband might have been alone with the secret of his biology, but he hadn't been completely isolated. He'd had a friend to write to, every month. Someone he shared his life with. That was very, very good. And, Dean felt warm to Gadreel sight unseen, merely for that. He gathered himself, turned his eyes back to the single sheet of paper, and started reading aloud again.

“I met Gadreel long ago, in my alpha boarding house,” Dean recited. “His love of nature and order made him shine above the coarser males in my company. He is private, earnest, and mild. I think that you will like him a great deal, as he is not one to assign value by birth, monetary means, social standing, or sexual characteristics. His humor is complicated and clean. He uses his position to do good things, Dean, like you. In fact, your similarities are many. It is a hope of mine that you will form an attachment to Gadreel.”

Dean paused to swallow, and wet his throat with saliva. He lowered the paper a moment. “Oh, Meg,” he said lowly, seeking her eyes. “It's great to know Cas has this guy standing for him. Why didn't he mention him to me before we got here?”

“I can answer that,” Charlie said quietly. “He's been busy, you've been busy, and, as valued as this guy is, he wasn't in the master's immediate circle. He is now, though. And, Castiel is really wanting you to like his pen pal.”

Meg nodded her accord with Charlie. “I know it feels like you've been a part of Castiel's household for a long time, but it hasn't been a year, even. Just a matter of many months.” She put her hand on Dean's back, her contact warm and bolstering. “This is Castiel's way of breaking you in to the fact he does have another person in his support group.”

Dean, full of feelings, smiled at Meg. “I get it,” he swore. “I'm glad, too.”

Meg gave him a couple of light, supportive pats. “Go on.”

Dean refocused. Again, he cleared his throat. “Have every servant at Fen-Taven, except for the outdoor workers, lined up to greet us,” he read. “By the time you receive this letter, Dean, I will be less than four hours from our new home. I want Gadreel to have the greeting due his rank, but, more importantly, I want him welcomed according to his status as a good man.” Dean paused to smile, then. He took that moment to enjoy the imagined, dark tones of his very serious husband, hearing Cas' voice in his head.

“Gadreel is to receive a top floor set of rooms, with a pair of footmen permanently stationed outside his main door,” Dean read aloud. “Have his place facing the forest. Supper is to be an hour after our arrival. He is very partial to beef and pigeon pot pie for breakfast, and likes plentiful stout for drinking in the afternoon. See if you and Ellen can arrange a very rich and fruity sweet, involving heavy amounts of cream, on the finishing of whatever meal she has planned for the evening repast.”

Charlie exhaled. “He knows his friend. They've eaten together very often.”

Dean tossed her a knowing look before going on. “Gadreel will be staying with us for a time. He is welcome as long as he deems appropriate. Dean, see that he is greeted well, and is treated as especial to our household. I dearly esteem him.”

Charlie stood suddenly, brushing out her skirts. Her smart-as-a-whip eyes gleamed. “I'm on it,” she announced. “Leave it to me and Meg. We'll have it all arranged. And, in a little while, I'll send someone to get you for the formal line-up outside, so you can great your man. You'll be flanked on either side by us all.”

Meg found her legs, then. “No one shabby, Charlie,” she prompted. “Best in dress. Send a small crew to the appropriate quarters. Have it dusted, and a fire built. I want Gadreel very comfortable, even pampered.”

“Is it appropriate to have my brother in the line-up?” Dean asked, also standing.

“Not really,” Meg told him. “Introduce him at supper. We'll dine in the fancy room. I'll go inform Ellen myself of Gadreel's arrival. She has just enough time to arrange a meal befitting a duke.” Meg smoothed her sleeves, and tilted her head back. “Dean, you should inform Madam Naomi and Master Zachariah of Gadreel's impending arrival. Also, Sam. Dining will be full dress. What you have on is very appropriate, but you should change out of it right now, and greet Castiel in green, as he sent you his letter with a green seal. Change back into that kimono for supper.”

“Okay.” Dean had no trouble complying. He wanted Cas' friend catered too. Was excited to make the shit happen.

“Now.” Charlie interrupted quickly. “Dean, you must be aware that Rocky White didn't comply with the Gun Purge. Here, people find it recreational to walk about with guns, shooting game. At some point, Castiel and his guest will want to go out and hunt meat for us, probably pheasant or quail. You might be asked to accompany them.” She gave Dean a look of humor. “It's unlikely you'll be expected to actually fire a rifle. But, you might offer to carry their kills. Bill will be back before any hunting, I'd think, so consult him on how to accomplish that.”

Dean nodded. “I'm good. Thanks, Charlie.”

Charlie took his shoulder as Meg hurried away. Her eyes serious, she squeezed him a little. “Hunting is a big deal to alphas, you know. You should show Gadreel how you fish. He will enjoy it, and you'll make Castiel proud, doing that. You know, showing you off.”

Dean felt his lips stretching for a grin. “I get your meaning,” he said. “I'm actually somewhat of a trophy, here in Rocky White, right? I make Cas look good.”

Charlie nodded. “You do, Dean, more than you realize. Naomi and Zachariah were very concerned that Castiel should find a mate. There's nothing more shameful than an unmarried, viable alpha male. That's world-wide, in view. You saved him from eternal bachelorhood.”

“I really don't know anything, do I?” Dean asked. He wondered if he could ever catch up. Maybe Sam was right to think of him as isolated and backward.

“You'll be fine,” Charlie assured. “Now, go tell your in-laws what's 'in the wind'.” She winked.

Dean smiled, held his letter tightly, and went back upstairs. He finished the letter as he walked.

My hadja, this was the worst trip I've ever taken. I expect to be in a snit by the time we arrive. Please, have fresh clothing awaiting me, so that I don't have to think about it. Even as I write this, I remember you will be dressing me yourself. Apologies. I got accustomed to the substitute-

Dean frowned at the crossed out word that halted the sentence. Castiel had blackened it so completely as to make it a blot.

Forgive me, I am very tired. I cannot wait to see you again, Dean. Love, Castiel

Dean smiled. He was almost to his in-laws, now. Carefully, he folded his letter back up, and slid it into the envelope. A sharp rap on the Novak's door brought Zachariah very quickly. “Come in, Dean,” he greeted, stepping back.

“Oh, hello, dear,” Naomi said, getting up from her dressing table to hug him. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Dean held up his letter. “Cas is less than four hours away. He's bringing a friend, Gadreel Penikett, the Duke of Wenthis. The house is about to be on fire with activity. Charlie and Meg are taking care of everything. I just wanted you to know.”

“The Duke of Wenthis is Castiel's friend?” Zachariah shot to attention, going rigid. “Since when?”

Dean, surprised at Zachariah's surprise, did a little head shake. “Meg says he and Castiel have been pen pals for years. He wrote to her, too, frequently, conferring upon the upkeep of this estate. Apparently, Cas met him as a boy, in his alpha house.”

Naomi, eyes wide, put a hand to her forehead. “His property joins this estate. He's reclusive. I had no idea Castiel knew him. He's very respected for his books.”

“He writes?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yes!” Naomi went to a chest, and opened it. She started digging through personal items. “I had one with me, to read while visiting with you and Castiel. It made the move with us.” She found the book, and held it up. It wasn't large. The cover read Reflection. “This is his personal account of a voyage he took to one of the most remote islands in the world. He spent two years entirely alone, living off of natural bounty, and came back to civilization with no fanfare whatsoever.” She handed the book to Dean. “Feel free to read it.”

“Thank you.” Dean accepted the book. He wondered how Castiel and Gadreel had kept up monthly correspondence when Gadreel isolated himself. “I have to go and prepare for the evening, now. We'll all be lining up to meet the duke before long.”

“Thank you for the warning, dear,” Naomi said, kissing his cheek. “Be sure to look your best.”

“I intend to,” Dean said, smiling. He nodded to Zachariah, and headed back for the suite he and Castiel hardly every got to be alone in. And, the very moment he was inside, door shut, he started a bath. He put his letter into his keepsake box as the water ran, but, as he looked at it, he thought of the blotted out section. The mystery of it made him unfold the letter again. He stared at the preceding words.

Even as I write this, I remember you will be dressing me yourself. Apologies. I got accustomed to the substitute-

Fire shot through Dean. Cas had been given a courtesy valet while on his trip.

Someone had been touching, staring, at his alpha. And, Cas had realized he'd be in trouble if he let that slip. But, he hadn't been thorough, because the word substitute told Dean all he needed to know. “You aren't good at being sneaky,” Dean said aloud. “Cheating on me with some other valet. I'm going to rip your clothes off, Cas. Everything you wore to that fancy affair is getting boiled.”

Dean felt better for having made his threat verbal. He hung his kimono up, leaving the obi in it. His fans he carried over to the tub, placing them within easy reach. He'd learned his lesson about bath time and fans. Dean locked the door, stripped down to his silk trousers, and went out to the terrace. His water needed a few minutes to cool.

The breeze was brisk, and made his trousers whip. Dean held his arms out, shutting his eyes. This felt like his dream of flying, just a little. But, he still had his omega identity, and, the reality of diving into water from here was madness. He'd never.

A gull landed on the balustrade, crying out. These birds were used to seeing him out here, now. He'd taken to saving bread or kippers at breakfast, to feed them. Dean knelt to get into the heavy crock he left for that purpose, and retrieved the turtulong he'd decided just wasn't any good. Nothing against Ellen or the staff, but this kind of bread was bland and chewy. Not worth the aching jaws, thanks.

“Here you go, Arthur,” Dean said, offering a bite. He knew this one the best. It had a peculiar black spot on its head. “When you finally meet my cat, better stay back. Sphinx can jump really high.” Dean missed his pets. He tried to do as Cas advised, and let them learn the estate, to play together, but he'd really grown to depend on them for company. Maybe, if he was asked to go hunting with Cas and Gadreel, he could take them along.

Arthur ate half the turtulong before finding pressing business elsewhere. Dean stowed the remainder, and went back inside. His bath was perfect, now. He finished undressing, and got in.

Dean relaxed in the heat for a whole five minutes, at least, before thinking about moving. He rolled his head and neck to loosen up before spotting a strange canister on the tub ledge. He made a grab. A note was affixed by its string being screwed into the can. USE THE MILK, it demanded. Knowing this had to be a gift from Charlie, Dean smiled, and opened the can. Powdered milk, of course, with a small scoop made of zinc. He put two measures into the water, leaving it at that.

Dean couldn't help staring. Even soft, Castiel was big. He was also as neatly trimmed as an omega would be. “I don't care what you say, that's not going to fit,” Dean told him.

Castiel smiled even as he rolled his eyes. “Yes, it will. You'll find that out should you ever desire me in that way, Dean.”

“I miss our bedroom at Tor-Valen, Cas,” Dean said. “This one is fine, but it's not...” Dean supposed the word he needed was intimate. “I invited myself into your room, and you let me in with open arms. You let me lie beside of you, never thinking of using me.” Slowly, Dean began to soap himself, thinking of how Cas made him feel safe.

Cherished.

“I could watch your eyes every minute of every day and never get enough,” Cas said, still holding him gently under the chin. “You're made of love and intelligence, and sacrifice, and those shine in you every second. I've never seen anyone like you. In some moments, I can't believe you're even real.”

Dean wanted to bask in those moments Cas gave to him. Life never seemed to slow down enough, though.

They had plenty of room, and, with the two of them, the water level went up nicely. Their backs on opposite sides, facing each other through clouds of intermittent steam, their eyes met and locked.

Dean had never seen eyes like Castiel's. They were alive, bright blue, and possessed of high intelligence. Those qualities could be found in other eyes, he knew that even though that combination hadn't been shown to him before. But, there was something else, too. Something vast in scope and powerful.

Angel.

Dean rinsed himself, and cleaned his hair. He rinsed again, and applied the conditioner, wondering what it was like to be a beta, encouraged to use scented toiletries. Omegas and alphas were supposed to be 'scent available', at least in Panomu. Still, Castiel had a large collection of scented soaps, when Dean arrived at Tor-Valen. Charlie admitted to using them, too.

Dean, sitting on the floor, watched Castiel sift through a large container of hygiene aids. His alpha's hair was sticking straight up, eyes burning bright blue in vexation.

“Scented, scented, scented,” Castiel pronounced, throwing bar after bar of soap into the trash near his work table. The table was across the bedroom, and Castiel wasn't even looking, but every bar went neatly into the can with a dull, resounding 'bongggg'.

Again, angel. And, Cas hadn't been expecting a mate. He'd bathed himself as he pleased, probably, except for Charlie insisting upon the milk. Dean wondered at just how embarrassing it had been for Naomi and Zachariah to have such a successful, handsome, eligible first-born son, unwed. They'd certainly been happy to see an omega at their son's estate.

Dean rid his hair of conditioner. He scrubbed himself with the net Naomi had given him, leaving no rough spots anywhere on his body except for his feet. He let the water out, and walked around a few minutes to dry naturally. And, while still a little damp, he applied odorless grape seed oil to his skin. He wanted to feel very smooth for Cas, tonight. Cas would probably want to touch him. He might be too tired and stressed for much else, but Dean would at least be available for that tactile comfort.

The oil soaked into him slowly. Dean passed the time with a trim job to his pubic hair, reminded by his memories. He had to stand in the tub to accomplish this, legs wide apart to keep from getting hairs stuck to his skin. “The things I do to be beautiful for you, Cas,” he said aloud. “All this work, and I cover it up in yards of silk or satin. A present for you to unwrap.”

Only Castiel.

But, Cas couldn't dress himself while away? Dean's eyes narrowed. The minute he got Cas alone...

Dean went to the closet. He chose the sea green kimono covered in white bamboo, and put it on the bed. He'd wear a white under-layer, again, and white trousers. But, the under-layer would be the one Crowley painstakingly embroidered for him many days ago, white on white like Dean's new obi, covered in cranes and lotus flowers. His obi would be the old one, simple white.

Dean dressed. Because of nerves, he couldn't get the formal knot on his obi just right. It frustrated him. He'd have to go to Sam, teach him the knot, and let him do it. Growling, he stalked from his room, and made it a quick trip to Sam's quarters. There, he knocked, and waited.

Sam answered after a very short time. He had the alpha etiquette book in his right hand. Gabriel was sitting on Sam's hearth. “Hey. We were practicing our manners,” Sam admitted.

Gabriel stared at Dean. “Dean, that is a richness of garment,” he said in his oddly formal and all-encompassing speech. “You have very green eyes while wearing that.”

My stupidly green eyes, Dean thought, smiling. “Thank you, Gabriel,” he said. “Would you stand up and let me show Sam how to tie a formal knot in this, for me?” He held up the obi, and dropped his fans to Sam's bed.

“It is nothing to ask of me.” Gabriel stood, holding his arms out. “You wear it around your middle. I saw that.”

Dean began showing Sam what to do. “Cas is coming home,” he said, going very slowly so Sam wouldn't miss the way he wound the cloth. “He'll be here before long. He's got the Duke of Wenthis with him, Gadreel Penikett. You and Gabriel will likely be asked to come down and mingle, and eat supper. Can you give Gabriel a quick lesson on how to eat properly?”

Sam, eyes on Dean's work, nodded. “We've already covered it. Ellen gave Gabriel a private lesson. He looks very rich when he eats, now.”

Gabriel laughed with a freedom of self. “Making clocks is easier than pretending to be rich.”

“You do very well,” Sam was quick to say. “You have a good memory, and you anticipate things better than I do. That means you're really paying attention.”

“I'm too frightened to fail,” Gabriel said. “I want to make everyone think I fit in, but, that I am beautifully strange, like Dean.”

“It's working.” Sam took the knot out that Dean made, and unwound Gabriel. “I got this, Dean.”

Dean stood still while Sam tended to him. It took but a moment. Dean reached behind himself, and felt the knot. It was perfect. “You did it exactly,” he said, surprised.

“Dean, we've talked about this. I was a sailor. Knots are a skill. I learned new ones as fast as I could. Failure meant being really uncomfortable.” Sam stepped back to have a look at Dean. “Man, I know you don't 'do' shoes, but maybe you ought.”

Dean looked down at his callused feet. “My toenails are clean. Bonus, my feet aren't deformed by being forced into shoes my whole life.”

Sam gave him a head tilt of reluctant agreement. “Yeah. It's just that outfit is so awesome, and it ends with your weird feet.”

“I think his feet are lovely,” Gabriel mildly interrupted, deadly serious. “He bears the mark of hardship in nature like the banner of a conqueror. He has worked his entire life, bravely. His feet exhibit honesty and courage.”

Dean grinned at Gabriel, his heart touched. “That's what Cas says, Gabriel,” he informed. “Thank you.” He picked up his fans, and attached them to his obi. “I'll see you at supper, okay? Both of you. Try not to drink directly out of the soup bowl. They don't like that in this country.”

Sam and Gabriel chuckled at the same time.

Dean exited, almost running right into footman Jacobs. He twirled in place to avoid bodily contact, and succeeded. “Jacobs, apologies,” he said in a rush. “I wasn't watching my path.”

“Sir, the insult is mine,” Jacobs rushed to say, bowing. “I am on an errand. Time is of the essence!” He bolted from Dean's presence, speeding down the hall.

Dean couldn't spare any time himself, so he shelved his curiosity. He made a direct path to the hidden stairs, ignoring Crowley's advice, and soon hit the bottom floor. There, he collected two footmen, and went toward the enormous kitchen that was separate to the main house. He needed to speak to Ellen. “You know what's got everyone all stirred up?” He asked the men, curious as to how quickly word went through the servants.

“Sir, a duke is arriving,” the footman on the right said quickly. “Deep cleaning, polishing of silver, and immaculate dress are vital to our position.”

“Duke of Wenthis,” Dean informed. “He's my husband's friend.”

“Shire of Wenthis is respected,” the one on the left ventured cautiously, as if afraid to share information, but tempted by it nonetheless. “Twickengower Shire is every bit, if not more, respected. It is advantageous of our master to have a strong alliance with his closest neighbor.”

“You take pride,” Dean stressed immediately. “You work for a very good man.” He turned around, slowing his pace, walking backward so he could look at the men directly. He recognized one of them, the one now on his left. He'd been in attendance when Gabriel expressed so much emotion to him on the stairs. Personal, deep issues. “I think you both understand that giving is better than getting. My husband thinks so, and this duke coming here must also think this way, or he wouldn't be a friend to the master of the house.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said at once, so Dean turned back around.

“Good. Let's see what our excellent cooks and workers are going to slop the royal pigs with.”

A small gasp, then some muffled giggling came to Dean's ears. He smiled. “You two make sure to tell Meg you need to be in attendance of the flamboyant supper tonight,” he said. “You can decide between yourselves, but I want one on my brother, and one on Gabriel, our esteemed, foreign guest. They need strong help. You're dealing with country people, myself included.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused again.

“Very good. Seek me after the dinner. If you do a good job, I'll give you both a gold piece,” Dean promised. “I've already nominated this month's footman winner, but I'll tell my husband you two get joint honor next month. What are your names?”

The stunned silence behind Dean told him he'd shocked the footmen.

“Uhh, Dennis Harding,” one managed, stuttering.

“T-Travis Weiser,” the more familiar footman answered.

Dean reached the main door to the kitchens. His men busted ass to open it for him. He allowed it, and preceded them into a room that looked, smelled, and sounded like controlled panic. Kitchen maids dodged each other with pots, platters, trays and bags. Scullery girls labored to keep fires maintained, ashed scooped out. The clamor was incredible. Ellen, standing amidst it all, was pointing her finger at specific individuals, calling out instructions. Sky, on her hip, played with a jangling ring of keys.

This would not do.

Time for Dean to rough up Ellen's kitchen help again.

Why were the kitchen workers always so disorderly?

Dean put two fingers in his mouth, and let blast a sharp, piercing whistle. Everyone froze in shock, even Ellen. Dean suddenly had eighty or more eyes upon him.

“Ellen is the queen of this kitchen,” Dean boomed, disgusted. “And, I know she's a clear-headed, smart woman, so what the hell are you all doing, dashing about like headless chickens?” Dean crooked his finger at Kara, who stood close enough to immediately identify. “Kara, what is wrong, here?” He asked.

Kara chewed her bottom lip about three seconds, her eyes going wet, before blurting out, “Oh, Dean! Dean, our elder mentor died, and we're all a-panic, in mourning, and not ready for peerage!” She rushed forward, and grabbed Dean's kimono, pressing herself to him in her need for assurance. “Missus Carty fainted at luncheon, and didn't wake up! Then, she stopped breathing! Butler Masters arranged for her body to be taken in state to the Neutral House, as was only right, but Missus Carty was telling us what we needed to do!”

Kara's broken speech told Dean quite a lot. Ellen had been figuring out the workings of this big house through an older woman. And, she was second in command, not first. He needed to make everyone obey Ellen, and, right now.

“Listen,” he commanded the entire line-up, an arm over Kara's back, holding her close. “Your master entrusted Ellen to run his house for years, and if you don't follow his example, you will all be dismissed.” He delivered his words harshly, giving vent to his anger. He walked Kara over to Ellen as he spoke, and plucked Sky from Ellen's arms. Kara obliged him, letting go so Dean could take the child. “You are all part of a house, a unified army. Either you do as Ellen says, or I tell my alpha you can't keep it together. I understand you lost a very valuable and loved member of your squad today, but, would she approve of this chaos you're causing?”

About every head in the room bowed, with the exception of Ellen, Kara, and a transplanted St. Addams maid that Dean knew as fairly reliable.

“Glad I could sort this,” Dean said, more than mildly disgusted. “Ellen, allow me the honor of taking care of Sky until just before the grand supper? Give me her care bag. I need quality time with this sweet thing.”

Ellen, smiling a watery smile, pointed to a far corner. “There, Sir,” she said, radiating gratitude and relief. “I will come for my daughter in two hours. Where will you be?”

“I will be on my husband's private lawn, close to the statue of Poseidon,” Dean answered, walking toward the baby bag. “I'm taking Kara with me. She needs a reprieve. Maybe we can teach your girl to walk today, while you sort chaos into order.” He grabbed the strap of the bag, and motioned to Kara, who was already approaching. “You and your family are to share the lawn with us, Ellen. It is not denied you. Sky should walk and play on a soft, clean lawn. Castiel would not have it any other way.”

Ellen, aware of what Dean had done for her status, bowed, then curtsied. “Yes, Dean,” she said, using his name to push her status with all the new help. “We will accomplish the meal, never worry.”

“I never do worry, if you're in charge,” Dean replied. He slung the care bag to his shoulder. “Come along, Kara,” he said, gently, but with a tone that would carry. “Ellen is kind enough to allow you this respite. As her pupil, you should do as she wants. Take my hand.”

Shy and eager, Kara slid her hand into Dean's.

Dean led her out, holding Sky close, and they navigated the kitchen to the outdoors very quickly, footmen trailing along behind in watchful silence.

It took a strong eight minutes to reach the bench that overlooked the pond. Dean set the bag down, and took his time in looking at Sky. Even in the short time that had elapsed since their arrival, Sky had grown so much. Her red hair and impossible blue eyes shone in the evening light. Her white, porcelain skin glowed. She grabbed Dean's face, and laughed, unbidden.

“I know,” Dean said. “Pretty thing, Kara and I are going to teach you how to get around, okay?” He pulled her from her vantage, and knelt on the ground, showing her through patience that she had two legs to use for walking. She swayed a bit, holding on to Dean, but stayed upright. Dean saw she wasn't weak to holding herself up. She'd been crawling back and forth, then, and grabbing onto things to be vertical.

Good.

“Kara, look around in Ellen's bag,” Dean said. “Anything sweet?”

“Chocolate digestives that Ellen keeps to tempt Sky into eating more,” Kara said after a little while. “Sky loves them, Dean.”

“Perfect.” Dean pointed to a spot about five feet away from himself. “You hold a digestive up for her to see, sitting just there.” He slowly began turning Sky in that direction. “You want to teach something to anyone or anything, you first find out what motivates them. Then, you use it.” With a good grip on Sky, Dean pointed her at Kara. “Wave that sweet around, and be encouraging,” he said. “Smile, and beckon to her with your arms inward. Use a light, comforting voice when you talk.”

Kara complied, smiling. She sat, holding the dessert out. “Sky-iii,” she called out, instantly getting Sky's notice. “Come on! You can do it!”

Sky's first impulse was to crawl, but Dean stood to draw her back up. Holding her shoulders, he kept her vertical. She hesitated but a moment before lurching forward with one leg out. Dean steadied her. “Good girl,” he said, quick, and with feeling. “One foot before the other.” He helped her shift her body, dropping a hand down to help her move her other leg. “Keep on, sweet pea.”

Kara, in accordance with Dean's teaching, waved the little cookie, pretending to take a bite. “Mmm!”

Sky gave a grunt, and, with Dean's help, took another, faltering step. Another, and another, then she suddenly gave a lurch, and practically ran to Kara, giggling and shrieking. Dean paced beside her, grinning. “Good girl! Go, go, go!”

Sky grabbed the digestive, and sat on her little ass with a hearty 'thomp', to cram the sweet between her lips.

“She was ready to learn,” Dean said, squatting. “Ellen was too busy. I think we just made life harder for her, too. Perhaps we need a room set aside for children, with caretakers to watch over them.”

“Female alphas?” Kara suggested after a moment.

“Omega females,” Dean corrected. “From our own original house. They are trained to fight, and are more invested in Sky. When we go back to the house, seek Meg, and consult her on this before you return to Ellen, okay?” Dean got the care bag open, and found a comb. He'd straighten the mess of curls on Sky's head while she was distracted. “How are you doing, kiddo?” He asked, meeting Kara's gaze. “This was a hard trip and transition for you.”

“Oh, Dean, it was,” Kara said, her large eyes going moist at the corners. “But, Ellen showed me that chewing slowly would help. That was really, really difficult, at first, but now it isn't as bad. I think tasting things for a longer period of time tricks my brain into thinking I'm eating a lot.”

Warmed that his advice to Ellen had paid off, Dean smiled to himself. He began working at Sky's snarls from the bottom up, so as to not hurt her by tugging on the scalp. He'd learned this method because of Sam's propensity to long hair. “Why don't you carry snacks with you?” He asked. “An apple, some of my husband's beloved cashews, some granola sticks, or maybe a few sweets wrapped in waxed paper...?”

“I fear to,” Kara confessed. “If I indulge in such habits, Dean, I may grow to be enormous. Fat people have a harder time finding a life partner.” Kara got into the baby bag, and took a small bottle out, uncorking it. It looked to be apple juice. She held it out, and Sky made a grab. “It isn't good, choosing between the fear of starving and the fear of enjoying food too much. I feel cursed.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, drawing it out to show his understanding. “I think I know a little bit about it. Not with food, but other things. We just do what we can. Try to forgive yourself, either way, Kara. We're only human.”

Kara nodded, and dropped her head back to look up at the blue and white vastness above them. “At least I'm in a house of plenty, owned by a good man, and have a reason to get up every morning. Those things are so important.”

Dean nodded. “Of course they are, Kara,” he replied, his throat tight. “Of course they are.”

Chapter Text

The bugle blast, made at least two miles away from Fen-Taven, alerted everyone to begin the household line-up. Dean, the awaiting spouse, had the most status. He stood at the center of the line, Meg on his left, Charlie at his right. The amassing of the household staff was long, and perfectly still around him. The only aspect of movement, the wind causing clothing to flap.

The horn sounded again, very close. Dean put a hand on Meg, and a hand on Charlie, giving silent aid while also asking for the same. Both women eased up against him, nearly in unison, lending their strength to him. And, they moved back in the same way. They supported him.

Dean spied movement. His eyes narrowed upon a man on horseback, then, another. One by one, twelve men came onto the grounds. A carriage followed, then at least twenty more men on horseback. A carriage held the end of the line, covered with men clothed in uniforms like the ones the footmen wore at Fen-Taven, but in red instead of black. The whole contingent bore upon the house swiftly.

The man at the front of the line guided his steed to a complete halt, making eye contact with Dean. “Your Grace, Secondary Duke of Fen-Taven,” he said, stiff and important. “His Grace, Duke of Wenthis, and, His Grace, the Duke of Fen-Taven.”

Dean felt a pang of fear and sorrow for Cas. He'd been made a duke. Probably his husband's worst nightmare. Dean gave a nod, then a graceful bow, shoving all of his fear into the back of his mind. Later, he might take the time to consider all of this next-level turmoil. “Welcome to Fen-Taven,” he said, strong and clear, wondering why he'd been given Cas' title, too. “Take charge of your men, and have them put at ease within the boarding house, annex of the rear kitchen. Baths and meals will be offered in short order.”

The man bowed back, very deeply, holding his pose on the horse for a long time. A seriously long time, actually. Showing respect, even if he didn't dismount. “His Grace is generous,” he said before straightening up. He was freakin' loud, too, as if others were listening to him for social cues or clues. “I obey.” He flicked his horse's reigns, bringing the front portion of the line to heel again.

Dean didn't know how to feel about being 'His Grace', too...

Crap, this country loved titles, formality, and rigid rules.

The line of people, horses and such, flowed past Dean. The last carriage stopped just in front of him. A sturdy, tall, graceful man, stepped out the moment his men got the door open and the steps deployed. He wore pretty much what Cas would wear, was immaculate, square of jaw, dirty-blond and handsome. He straightened his shoulders, rolled a traveling kink from his neck, and let his eyes slowly explore the entire line, start to finish. As he went back to the center, he made full eye contact with Dean. His lips twitched into a bare but honest smile. And, he bowed. “Your Grace,” he greeted. “My dear friend speaks of you often, and with pleasure.”

Dean returned the bow, going lower. “Your Grace,” he greeted back. Oh, this could only be Gadreel. “My husband and his family speak of you with esteem. Mother Novak enjoys your literary works very much, and Father Novak holds you in very high regard for your more earthly works. As for myself, any true friend to my husband, is a friend to me. Welcome to Fen-Taven.”

Penikett, smiling more fully, now, stepped back to allow Cas an exit from the carriage. “You did not say your husband was charming,” he accused lightly, his voice full of familiar teasing. “Intelligent, beautiful, and fierce, yes. But, so mannered and graceful?” Penikett grinned, and gave Cas a hand down, circumventing the waiting attendant. “Do say you will allow him to accompany us when we hunt quail.”

Dean locked eyes with Cas. Those beautiful, smart orbs of liquid blue, were shining with pride.

It was so good to see Cas again. Dean's heart already held more blood.

“Oh, Lord Novak is brilliant in accomplishments,” Cas said, using yet another title, eyes not flickering from Dean's for a single moment. The weight of his consideration felt, to Dean, like a heated ton of stone. “The very moment the weather and time permits, he will indeed accompany us to the grounds for sport.”

The carriage rattled away, leaving them to confront the household, and, protocol. Dean bowed to Cas and Penikett again, individually. “Your Grace,” he addressed his husband's best friend. “Allow me to introduce Charlie Milton, our head housekeeper, and, Meg Masters, our butler.” He tapped them on their bowed shoulders as he spoke. “If you need anything, secure a footman, and send word to these esteemed ladies. The other woman of note, Ellen Harvelle, is the lady wearing a white mantle, holding a redheaded girl.” Dean pointed for emphasis. “She arranges all of our meals, and is without equal.”

Ellen, pale from being singled out, bowed before curtsying. Sky clutched at her clothes, and giggled.

Penikett, smiling, gave each member a respectful nod.

“Your Grace, and Lord Novak,” Dean said, gaining Cas' attention as well as Penikett's. “Chambers have been arranged for our reputable guest. Footman Jacobs will act as an escort. I expect you both are in dire need of rest and refreshment.” Dean motioned to Jacobs, who eagerly broke formation. “Jacobs, please guide the honorable Duke of Wenthis to his quarters. After, have a bath drawn, and all amenities delivered. You are to act as his valet during his stay.”

Jacobs deeply bowed. “Your Grace, I obey,” he said.

Dean watched Cas and Penikett make their way into the house, his heart on fire to be near Cas. The very moment he adjudged they were fully on their way upstairs, Dean stepped out to address the enormous line of servants. “You all know what to do,” he said. “So, do your duties with excellence.” He clapped his hands together. “Meg, make sure the duke's men reside in complete luxury. Charlie, you do the same from the inside of the house. Ellen, you got your game on, so I don't need to make a speech. Let's show Castiel's best pal a great time, okay?”

A chorus of agreement filled the air. The servants disbanded quickly, flowing into lines of purpose, and vanishing as if never there. Dean soon stood alone at the front of the building. He wondered where his father was. Had he been inside the carriage? Had he been given a rank, also?

Dean looked up at the blue, blue sky, at the low hanging, fluffy white clouds, and gathered his strength.

He was in charge.

He was the host for his husband's friend and peer.

He had to do his best.

(_________________________________________________________________________)

Dean went upstairs, intent upon reading Reflection. It would give him a topic at supper, if called to get conversation flowing. He entered the bedroom to find Cas in there, sitting on the bed. Bent over, hands in his hair, he looked tired. He threw out a stress scent, too. And, fucking hell, even seeing him like that didn't matter to Dean's rather artistic libido.

Cas was gorgeous, and, at all times.

“The blocker doesn't work, by now,” Cas said, lowering a hand to his tail coat pocket. Out came the bottle. It was half empty. “I stopped using it yesterday, knowing I'd be with you soon.”

Yeah, the blocker wasn't working. Dean detected so many different scents, right now.

Dean sat beside of Cas, all notion of reprimanding him for the substitute valet, gone. He put an arm around Cas' shoulders. “I missed you, Cas. It's good to have you back.” He squeezed, and Cas crumpled against his side. “Do I have to call out 'Your Grace' when you're fucking a new hole into me at night?”

Cas let out a little gasp of appreciative, dark humor. “Please, do not,” he answered. “I am only thankful the king allowed for the ridiculous name of my shire, and dubbed me 'Duke of Fen-Taven', not 'Duke of Twickengower'!”

Dean snorted, which set Cas off into low chuckling.

Cas felt good. He was warm, and strong against Dean's side.

“He made me a duke because of this house, and to shame his reprobate son,” Cas said after a few minutes of quiet, in which they both quietly soaked in each other's presence. “Prince Jerrick anticipated being named a duke, you see. And, a few members of court were kind enough to inform me that he expected his father to eventually negotiate with our family to take this house, entailment or not.”

Dean thought about that a few seconds. “Sam discovered this house came with a title, not too long ago. I suppose Mother never told you because she quickly stopped expecting you to live here. Don't be angry with her.”

“I'm not.” Cas leaned on Dean, and pushed his nose against Dean's neck, inhaling. “Mother and Father have always done their best, with me.” He sniffed Dean again. “Oh, Dean. It's wonderful to be back here, with you. You have no idea the things I've seen, the people I've endured. All the intrigue and political drama... You are a high contrast to my most recent surroundings.”

Dean smiled. “Well, but your friend seems okay,” he replied. “He has kind eyes.”

“Gadreel is the reason I'm not in prison right now,” Cas said, sighing. “He helped me keep my head. And, he is far more involved with the king and court than I ever expected. It seems his reputation for being moralistic, and honorable, gave me a considerable amount of clout. For, once it was known we befriended each other more than a decade ago, and kept in regular correspondence, I was seen to be as steady and genuine as he.”

“Everything Jerrick isn't,” Dean surmised. He felt glad, very glad, that Cas had such an influential friend close at hand. It was more than welcome, that falling of fate.

“Just so,” Cas said. “I wouldn't say King Roman is a particularly upright man, but he is a good king. He understands how to play up a person for the benefit of his country, and, how to publicly humiliate one for the same purpose. He used me to teach his son a lesson. I expect fallback for that.”

“Jerrick is our enemy, now?” Dean asked, quiet. He dreaded the answer.

“Not publicly, no,” Cas told him. “He cannot openly act against his father. I hope King Roman has tasters in his employ.”

Dean shuddered. “How can a man kill his own father, Cas? That's horrible.”

“It's more common than you would believe,” Cas muttered. “Especially when money and power come into play. If Jerrick can discretely kill his father, he becomes king, and can do as he likes. This country wouldn't survive having that spoiled, depraved teenager, taking the crown.” Cas straightened up with another sigh. “Speaking of which, get into my travel valise, and see my beautiful new hat.”

Dean smiled at Cas' depreciating tone, and slid from the bed. He went to the large wooden case, and worked the lock. “Brought the clothes home yourself instead of mailing them, I see.”

“I was afraid someone would put a poisonous spider in my trunk, perhaps a trained scorpion,” Cas said. And, seriously, too.

“It's that bad,” Dean murmured. He threw the latches, opening the trunk.

“It's that bad,” Cas agreed as Dean spied the glint of gold.

There, haphazardly thrown into a wad of used shirts and limp cravats, was Cas' 'hat'. It was a sculpture of heavy gold, rich indigo velvet, and blue gems. The gold was fashioned into lilies every few inches. Dean lifted the thing, and craned his neck to look back at Cas, his funny bone completely tickled. “Cas, this thing is stupid,” he declared. “Please tell me you don't have to actually wear it.”

“Only if I'm attending a coronation. I wore it for my own, and that was enough.” Cas said, falling back onto the bed. “In the meantime, it can go into a display case. Maybe the one in the assembly room...? It should be available for viewing, but not put out for vulgarity and vainglory.”

Dean tossed the gaudy crown, or whatever it was, onto the second bureau. He had little respect for status symbols. He went to the tub, and pushed on the release valve for the water. He put the powdered milk in so it would mix with the hard flow. “Sky is walking, now,” he informed, putting out information that simply meant more.

“Oh, that's excellent,” Cas said, a smile in his voice.

Dean heard that purity. He loved Cas' blend of angel and human perspective, because it made him, too, appreciate the finer things. The personal things.

“Mm.” Dean got a fresh cake of good soap just to be extra indulgent to his tired, stressed out husband. “Sam apologized to Gabriel, and they've been spending a lot of time together, figuring out how to fit in to this new dynamic. Sam reads the etiquette book aloud to him. Crowley made Gabriel a translating cravat pin for him before he left for Isleton port, but Gabriel can't read.”

“Dean, what a relief,” Cas said, blowing out a huge breath. “I worried about Sam and Gabriel the entire time I was gone. Sam must have made one hell of an apology.”

“He was pretty humble,” Dean informed. “Gabriel saw his regret.” He threw the scrubbing net into the tub, then collected the grape seed oil for putting in a handy place. “Let's get you into a bath, Cas. We have to clean up and look shiny for supper. Are any of your friend's people attending, or are they all servants?”

Cas groaned, but he levered himself off the bed. His boots came off first, then his dark grey stockings. “Gadreel will be the only one,” he said, attacking his cravat. “He will send for his family in a few days, I have no doubt.”

Dean came over, and pushed his hands away. “Let me. I haven't seen this pretty throat in so long.” He winked and smiled at Cas, who was now eying him intently. “Did it cause you distress to have someone else dressing and undressing you, Cas?”

“It was a monstrous thing-!” Cas said, cutting off as he realized Dean knew. Guilt filled his gaze. “Dean, I had little choice in the-.”

“Don't apologize,” Dean said, releasing the knot, drawing the cloth away a bit at a time even as he palmed the huge, ruby headed pin. “Was he professional, at least? Didn't eyeball you?”

Cas rolled his eyes. “He was a prig. A stuffy little prig who followed me around the room with a lint brush and scent blocker. I don't believe he even had genitals.”

Dean snorted out a laugh as he pulled the cravat free. He took off the stock, next. Oh, this throat. “Maybe the next time, you can bring someone along. Shall I hire a valet you can live with? Just for trips out?”

Cas made a face. “You're the only one I'm comfortable with, Dean. Still, I suppose I should have one for the sake of show. It's good of you to put aside your territorial nature for such a... useless thing.” He practically ground out the word in his contempt of the formality he was expected to display. “A man shouldn't have to spend an hour getting dressed or undressed. I want to rip my clothes off, and roll in a mud puddle.”

“Settle for letting me take them off, and getting into a bath,” Dean said soothingly. He worked Cas' waistcoat buttons as he spoke. “Would you like the basic civility of tea before resting, beautiful husband?”

Cas blushed a little, his gaze drawn to Dean's lips. That attention felt like a raging wildfire couched in perfect blue. “Tea in the bath, Dean? Mother has been schooling you on the luxury of bathing, hasn't she?”

Dean grinned while helping Cas out of his waistcoat. “Before you left the second time,” he informed. “And, I believe we have some chrysanthemum black, if you want to try something other than your favorite. I spied the container when I went to the kitchen, earlier.” He took Cas' braces off, and applied his fingers to Cas' shirt buttons next. “One of our servants died, Cas,” he added, sobering. “Missus Carty? She was helping Ellen figure out what's what, and collapsed.”

Cas drooped a little. Once Dean got his shirt unbuttoned, he pulled it over his head, and tossed it down. “Another for the cemetery. Many are buried on the grounds, Dean. Is Meg arranging for her internment?”

“Yes, but I will look into it as well.” Dean helped Cas slide his breeches off, and took a moment to look at the cock he thought so attractive. It wasn't the time to open a discussion about it, however, or to even act upon attraction. “You say many are buried here? Any Novaks?”

Cas nodded. “A few. Most Novaks are buried in Cold Croy.” He walked for the tub.

Dean watched that beautiful ass flexing, his mouth dry. Hot damn, Cas was a man to inspire lust.

Dean set up the privacy screen, and went into the hall. He saw a footman immediately. “Will you have a tea service sent up?” He asked. “Ask Ellen to use the new tea. Also, I want a service sent to His Grace, Duke of Wenthis.”

“It will be done, your grace,” the footman said, bowing before swiftly leaving.

Dean returned to his rooms. “Cas, where is my dad?”

“Your father is a few hours behind us, but he should arrive before supper,” Cas answered, splashing around. “The king made him an earl. That further enraged the prince, because John is completely unknown to this continent, and Jerrick felt he didn't deserve the distinction. He was the only real dissenter in the court, however.”

“Yeah?” Dean threw Cas' dirty clothes into the travel chest. He went to the large closet to select a new ensemble. He should have had Cas' new clothing arranged already, as Cas requested in his letter. “Why?”

“Because, your father proved exciting, and bold,” Cas said, chuckling. “He has a sharp wit, and found no cause to conceal his observations about court life.”

Dean paused in going through the waistcoats. “Dad just walked in like he was above it all, didn't he?”

“He did, and the king loved it,” Cas said, laughing a little. “John had manners, spoke well, and, with economy. He spared no one who tried to cut him, Dean. He made waves.”

Dean grinned. He chose the waistcoat he'd made of cream brocade, embellished with gold Arcalan long-character symbols for truth. “Oh, Cas. Cas, I can see it in my head.”

“Indeed. I was worried he'd find the atmosphere stifling and tedious, but he took the court by it's ears, and shook people up.” Cas made a big splashing sound, and let loose a curse. “I've dropped the powdered milk in here,” he complained.

“Charlie will get you more. Just don't sit in it very long. We don't want your sanded pearl look to develop any deeper.” Dean put out a cravat, and examined his choices for cravat pins. “You already practically glow.” He decided upon a gold pin with a small diamond for a head.

“Your comment makes me homesick for Tor-Valen,” Cas said, sighing a little. “I worry about the estate, Dean. There isn't cause for anyone to vandalize it, but it may be seized by the Maholak anyway.”

Dean had considered that himself. He hated what he was about to say to Cas. Hated it. “Cas, you have to let Tor-Valen go,” he advised softly. “It's out of our control, what happens in Panomu. We have a new home, now, and we can make it ours, if we but try.”

Cas was quiet as he finished his bath. He remained quiet as Dean answered the door for the tea tray, even through donning a shirt and banyan. He followed Dean into the dining area, took a chair, and watched Dean pour.

Finally, Cas lifted his eyes to Dean, openly sorrowing. “You're right,” he whispered. “I have to focus on our new life, our new home. I have considerably more influence here, and am able to keep you safer.”

Dean, nodding his support, dropped a cube of sugar into Cas' tea. “Crowley informed me of the interior courtyard. I suggest you reacquaint yourself with it, Cas. Darken, or, block, the interior windows that face it, make it entirely personal to you. Now that you're a fancy duke, you can't go around all wild. That's a place you could let yourself go, just a little.”

Cas put a spoon in his cup, long fingers expertly manipulating it back and forth to dissolve the sugar. “I could plant flowers, and put a hive in there,” he said in a small voice. “Order everyone to keep their window covers down when I intend to visit...”

“That's the spirit,” Dean encouraged. “We'll install a warning bell, or rig one that already exists.” He sat with Cas, and attended his own tea. “But, I've been told sporting is very much the thing, here, too. You can regularly go out with a gun, and hunt for our table. That's expected. You'll enjoy getting outside with that excuse. Hell, your friend even suggested it.”

“Gadreel is very outdoorsy, and quite a hunter,” Cas said, picking up a shortbread. “You will like his company.”

“Not afraid he'll take me away from you?” Dean teased.

Cas chuckled. His scent stopped being so heavy with regret and longing. “Not at all. Gadreel likes alphas. You should be more worried he'll take me away from you.”

Dean plonked him with a biscuit.

(________________________________________________________________________)

The gathering before supper had many in attendance. The elder Novaks, John, Kevin, Gabriel and Sam, clustered the enormous, ornate fireplace, talking between themselves. Dean watched Cas enter with Gadreel, and guide him over to their party. Gadreel, well received by all, had an air of relaxed pleasure. Dean thought he was happy to meet the people important to Cas.

Working on a shirt for Sam, Dean made his stitches slowly and perfectly. He sat near a window. The light was dying outside. Footmen would soon come in to light the candles and lamps.

Gadreel socialized for a while, paying special attention to Naomi, before glancing over to see Dean. He bowed to the group, and came over, sitting before Dean on a low divan. “His grace isn't in a mood to mingle?” He asked lightly, smiling.

Dean smiled back, looking at how Gadreel had his body canted forward.

Asking for Dean's notice, hopeful for friendship.

“It seems to be all I do, lately,” he replied, finishing a sleeve, and snipping his thread to move on. “Thank you for taking care of my husband during the visit to court, your grace.”

“You may use my name, as I expect us to be friends,” Gadreel offered. “As for your husband, I would not leave him to the mercy of wolves wearing wool. He deserves better. Even for those who love the intrigue, it wears thin, that environment. I am forced to spend more time near the king than I like, but I suffer it so that I am not taken off guard.” Gadreel looked at what occupied Dean's hands, and smiled again, slightly. “I have no spouse to make my shirts.”

“This one is for my brother,” Dean said. He liked the way Gadreel spoke. Formal, but not hard.

“He seems a smart man,” Gadreel said, glancing at Sam. “His friend is very engaging...?”

“Gabriel is in a class all his own,” Dean replied, feeling mischievous and sly. “I asked that you be seated beside each other. This is an intimate supper, and we'll be able to converse easily. Once your family arrives, we will be more formal.” Dean began the next sleeve, working pins out as he went. He shoved those into the cushioned arm of his chair, uncaring. “Tell me about your people, please.”

Gadreel tilted his head at Dean in a way that seemed very familiar. Cas did this, too. “I was married to a beautiful omega, once upon a time. An arranged marriage, you understand. Marie gave me two children before she died. A boy, Nathaniel, then a girl, Honoria.” Gadreel's eyes went soft as he spoke of his children. He obviously loved them. “Nathaniel is ten years old, Honoria, seven. They occupy much of my time. I do not care if it is seen as beneath me to raise my own children.”

Dean thought that would be awful, not having close contact with his own children. He'd be damned if he let someone else have exclusive influence on them. “Good for you,” he said. “You know what goes into their ears and eyes as long as you do the work.”

“It isn't work,” Gadreel corrected gently. “I treasure them. My aunt and uncle will be bringing them here in two days. I think you will like my aunt, but my uncle is quite a chore to endure. I spend as little time in his presence as possible.”

“He has a grudge against you, or something?” Dean asked, having to really focus upon his sewing to do it right. Gadreel had a way of making him want to interact.

“He did not inherit a title. My father was the first born.” Gadreel reached out to help Dean, holding the sleeve in such a way that it was easier to gauge his stitches. “I myself would not be a duke, had everything fallen into place naturally. But, I garnered the attention of the king early in life. I have been writing for many years, you see. It is a natural talent, and the king happens to enjoy my works.”

Dean looked over at Naomi. “My mother-in-law also enjoys your books, as I have said. She gave me one to read, but I haven't been able to open it, yet. A lot to do.”

“Operating a house such as this, you must be very busy, indeed,” Gadreel replied. “And, so recently transplanted, too. I know that you come from a very different place, and, also a very different culture.” Gadreel's eyes, kind and blue, reached into Dean. “My friend was fortunate to find you. I can see the morality and caring within you.”

Dean's lips twitched. Interested in other alphas or not, Gadreel could drip honey about the same way as Cas. “I'll bet you say that to all the large, traditionally educated, omega males,” he replied, making Gadreel smile broadly.

“No,” Gadreel said softly, with humor. “But, if I were not so oriented upon my own kind, I would challenge Castiel for you. You surpass the men I am accustomed to viewing.”

Dean fought to hold back a laugh, and succeeded, but his chest and belly jerked. “Just between us, Gadreel,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Cas would kick your ass.”

Gadreel, grinning, nodded. “I know,” he agreed. “Some day, I will tell you about the time he took on six grown men in Isleton Port for harassing a doxy. It is a good story. We were not even close to our twentieth year.”

“I see you two are getting along,” Cas said, suddenly standing over them. His light and gentle smile showed Dean he was pleased that his husband and his best friend, were talking.

“Your husband is interesting and beautiful,” Gadreel volunteered. “Just as you said. I wish that I had seen him first.”

“Liar,” Cas said fondly, patting Gadreel's shoulder. “Come talk to my mother a little more. She is infatuated with you.”

“Of course.” Gadreel reached for Dean's free hand, and bowed over it before rising. “Forgive me, Dean?”

“Naturally,” Dean said with a small smirk. He resumed his sewing, internally amazed at Gadreel's easy charm. No doubt he'd been very, very useful to Cas in court.

A bell chimed some few minutes later, and Meg appeared in the doorway. “Supper may commence, your grace,” she said to Cas, bowing. She looked every bit as sharp as before.

“Thank you, Meg,” Cas said, holding his arm out to his mother. “I expect we may sit where we like?”

“Your husband asked that our two most recent guests sit together, but that is the only stipulation,” Meg said smoothly. She turned, and preceded them into the dining hall.

Gadreel offered his arm to Dean. “Will you sit on my right?” He asked.

“As it pleases you,” Dean said, accepting.

In short order they were seated, a footman for each of them waiting close at hand. Another group came in with the first course. Dean found himself looking at a lobster bisque. It had been the first course of the meal he'd shared with his family, at Tor-Valen. It pained him a little to look at it, remembering how Samandriel had spilled his heart-felt apologies to the ones he'd dishonored. He hoped Samandriel was safe, and well fed.

Cas caught his eye, across the table. His expression, knowing, was full of commiseration.

I pray to the angel, Castiel, Dean prayed. This makes me think of Samandriel. I worry for his sake.

Cas nodded, but didn't reply.

Dean ate as Crowley had taught him, regretting social caste would prevent his friend from eating with him publicly. It wasn't at all fair. He looked to Cas' right, making eye contact with Naomi. “Any word on Samandriel, Mother?” He asked, hoping it was at least a halfway appropriate topic, but, also uncaring. He felt concerned for the kid.

“I received a letter from him yesterday,” Naomi said, her eyes brightening. “Forgive me, it slipped my mind. Samandriel is well, as is Father Sean. But, they are leaving Panomu.” Naomi looked to her eldest son, then. “Castiel, dear...?”

“I would never turn them away,” Cas said evenly. “Who are they bringing?”

“Only themselves, and Cousin Bartholomew,” Naomi replied with a small wince. “Bartholomew was a-sail when the Maholak invaded Panomu, and they cut him off from port. Burned his ship. He and a cabin boy were the only survivors.”

“Bartholomew intended to visit me,” Cas surmised quietly. “Why? He swore to never have anything more to do with the family. A vow he never intended to keep, since all I've seen is meddling.”

Dean wondered why he'd never heard of this cousin of Cas'. Why would a member of the very tight Novak clan, pull away? Was he a black sheep?

Naomi looked a little nervously toward Gadreel, and Castiel patted her hand. “Gadreel knows as much about us as we do,” he said. “I spared him no words in my letters, over the years.”

“And, with my own uncle such a wastrel, it would be difficult for me to pass any judgment,” Gadreel added. “He managed to lose all his monthly stipend from me in a single night of gambling, last week.” He sampled the bisque with perfect manners.

Naomi relaxed slightly. “Well, from what Samandriel writes, Bartholomew intended to pitch a plea for funding his little alpha club.”

Cas frowned into his water glass. He swallowed, and looked at his mother. “Why would he think I would fund his group of hot-headed, syphilitic, wastrel poets?”

Sam choked on his soup.

John clapped him on the back, not even pausing in eating, but landing the hit squarely.

“I don't know, dear,” Naomi confessed. “News of your social advancement must have gone to Cold Croy astonishingly fast. Now that the king has titled you, Bartholomew won't be alone in seeking you for financial aid.”

“It is expected,” Gadreel said quietly. “I suggest you hand the seekers over to your husband, Castiel. It is his duty as the head of your household, to direct the charity work. And, Dean does not strike me as a man to let money go to the undeserving.”

Dean was well within his right to speak for himself, but he refrained. Speaking would interrupt the flow of information. Thank you, he wanted to learn as much as possible.

“Charity is a noble cause, here,” Gabriel said slowly, joining the conversation in a cautious way.

Dean knew his Maholak friend only tried to puzzle out the way this country looked at the poor and weak. The last time Dean had been able to speak to Gabriel at length, he'd informed him that truly poor people couldn't even own land, but, the upper class touted charity as a responsibility. Gabriel hadn't understood that any better than Dean. In fact, the very concept of owning land, threw him. Aside, he didn't know why anyone would act as they pleased while giving lip service to theological virtue.

“One cannot own land. Land owns you,” Gabriel insisted, frowning. “Land is charitable for allowing you to live upon it without opening wide to swallow you.”

Gadreel turned his head to smile at Gabriel. “Charity should always be about kindness, and never about wanting everyone to know you have given. True charity is done behind the scenes, so as to not put pressure or shame upon the recipient. Some are embarrassed of their misfortune.”

Oh, he was so Cas' friend. Dean wondered which one was the most influence to the other. Or, perhaps they'd built their moral codes together. Good friends could do that. Dean had observed such, over the years, watching omegas bond together as children.

“Except in cases like the townspeople of Dark Woods,” Cas amended. “There were so many in need, and none so prideful they could refuse help.” He finished his soup, and sat with his hands in his lap. “Pride is hard to get around, usually. Swaggering disdain is never attractive.”

“Neither is false humility,” John said. “Proverbs 6:16-19; 'There are six things that the Lord hates, seven that are an abomination to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that make haste to run to evil, a false witness who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers'.”

Zachariah, right across from John, lifted his wine glass in salute. “I like a man who can quote scripture,” he said. “Especially such an important passage.”

John nodded to Zachariah, his dark eyes very sober.

Dean thought about his father being the reason he'd inherited good memory. Proverbs was part of the Old Testament, not the New. Even though John carried around the New, he'd read and absorbed the Old, apparently. How, was a mystery.

“Who is this 'lord'?” Gabriel asked innocently. His eyes seemed troubled, now.

John leaned so that he could look Gabriel in the eyes. As he had Dean and Gadreel in his way, it wasn't easy. “I have a book you can read.”

Gabriel nodded. But, Dean knew he couldn't read. He couldn't even read in his own language. But, that was fine. Sam would help him.

Gadreel gave Gabriel another smile, one of assurance. “One generally doesn't discuss religion at a table, but we are all friends, here. Do you have a particular faith?”

Interested, Dean refocused on the ex-slave.

“My people regard the elements as their masters,” Gabriel informed hesitantly. “Disasters befall when we cower from nature's wrath. We are taught to stand strong, no matter the weather. I have seen eleven people die from lightning alone.”

“That,” John said flatly, “is horrible.”

Gabriel's eyebrows went up. “I... suppose it is,” he agreed. “I never agreed with worshiping the elements, though I respect nature. Rain does not care if it falls upon you or not. Neither does the sun mind to burn you.”

Dean thought Gabriel's sometimes odd choices of words very obvious, now. Any culture that worshiped the elements, would have the elements included in their speech.

“My people revere the family that came before,” Kevin interjected. “Incense is burned to honor the dead. I never had a problem with it. I agree with it, actually. I would hope my ancestors look upon me with feeling.”

Sam coughed a little. “Well, sailors sometimes worship the sea. I don't.”

“Diversity is good,” Gadreel remarked as their first course was removed, the tablecloth taken away. “No one should ever insist you worship as they do. That is the same as demanding you never think for yourself.”

Oh, yeah. Cas really had a friend, here. The guy was so much like him, yet, nothing at all. Dean compared them for a moment. Similar in ideology, but their coloring was of contrast. They were both very graceful. Cas spoke fluidly, when called to do so, but Gadreel had this odd, lilting speech that seemed more of a dance than dialogue.

Dean wondered what Gadreel believed in. And, he felt thankful he didn't have to cherry pick his own faith. He had Michael to help him, after all.

Michael, why do people believe so many different things? Dean prayed as the table was served a fish course.

Precious child, this reality is not the only one, Michael answered gently. Reality is infinite, and folds back upon itself. Would you have human development stop because everyone believes the same way?

No, Dean answered. It only confuses me.

Consider the Tower of Babel in your studies tonight, Michael suggested. And, consult the books written by the poet your husband enjoys so much. Remember that your holy father is the Holy Spirit. Think on these things for a time, then seek me again about them.

Thank you, Michael. I will do as you say.

“Dean?” Sam asked, and Dean realized everyone at the table was looking at him strangely.

“Just praying to Michael,” Dean said. “I'm fine.”

Cas smiled at him with contentment in his eyes. “Your faith humbles me, Dean.”

Dean winked at him. “You know he's listening.”

“I do,” Cas vowed.

Dean took up his fish knife and fork, and began eating, noting that everyone else was halfway through the course. It didn't take long to pray to Michael. He wondered about the time discrepancy.

“Your clothing is beautiful, Dean,” Gadreel said, gaining everyone's attention. “Do you do the embroidery yourself?”

Dean had put his black and white kimono on for supper, as Meg had suggested. The silvery-white, serpentine dragons shone reddish orange in the candlelight. “I do,” he admitted. “My friend, Crowley, makes the kimonos, and I decorate them. I could make the kimonos myself, if called to do it, but silk is heard to sew, and Crowley is wicked-fast. So, I let him do the work, there. I make lace for him in return, and other, little things.” He paused to aim a small leer at Cas, then. “My husband provided me with very beautiful clothing, in the beginning. It is now my honor to play up his own presentation. That waistcoat he's wearing, I embroidered.”

“Ah.” Gadreel made a show of examining Cas from across the table. “You know long-character. I'm surprised, but not surprised. It is a form of writing that dies daily, an infusion of many different cultures which melded after Calamity.”

“It's heavily of Xian beginnings,” Kevin interjected. “But, no one of my original country would make sense of it. To me, it looks like the waistcoat is telling me to wash my hands.”

Sam gave a hearty laugh, as did John.

Dean smiled. He supposed that 'truth' translated to 'clean', and that was an obvious way of word evolution. “No one of your country would be caught dead in a waistcoat, so Cas is safe,” he said to his friend. “You look good in the style of the gentry, Kevin. Enjoying that lace dripping off your sleeves?”

“I love it,” Kevin vowed. “Wearing breeches is awesome.”

Laughter went around the table.

All in all, it was a very good meal.

(______________________________________________________________________)

“Thank goodness,” Dean muttered the moment his eyes fell upon Ruto and Sphinx. Someone had let them into his rooms. They were sacked out on the hearth, dead asleep. “Cas, who do you think let them in?”

“As I said, they have their own entrance to the house. They let themselves in,” Cas said, shedding his cravat. “But, Ruto stands on Sphinx, and trips the door latch to our rooms. Round knobs are a problem, but Ruto is nothing, if not determined.”

“Did you teach them that?” Dean asked, delighted at his pet's cleverness.

“They got no instruction from me.” Cas was shedding layers fast, now. “They are both exceptionally smart. I may have helped them out, there, a bit, but not too much. And, yes. Before you ask, I was responsible for Sphinx's accelerated growth.”

“Angel,” Dean said, “you might not be a good liar, but you're good at diverting.” He shed his kimono, and hung it. It wasn't dirty. “If you're okay to entertain yourself for a time, I have to read the eleventh chapter of Genesis again. I think I missed something in that parable.” He went for the red Bible as he spoke, and sat down on the bed afterward in his trousers and under-layer, only.

Cas paused in removing his waistcoat, causing Dean to stop paging. “Dean,” he said carefully. “You understand that you are reading a parable?”

Dean met his eyes. “Isn't all of Genesis?” He asked.

Cas slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, facing Dean. His eyes were glistening. He scented of gratification, now quite intensely. “How much have you read?”

Dean shrugged. “In between the trip here, and moments I'm not playing seamstress, all of it,” he answered. “Most of the Bible is a parable, seems like. Well, that, or, a history lesson. Some odd laws. Poetry that gets a little... intimate. I don't think Jesus himself is a parable, though. If he was, he's a parable giving parables.” Dean scratched his head. “Which would work, I guess. But, I don't think he was. Too much was made out of his birth circumstance. If he'd been born after Lucifer's big plot to ruin us all, he'd have been a perfect, neutral beta, I like to imagine.”

Dean felt a small amount of alarm as Cas covered his eyes with a hand, and breathed in deeply. “What?” He asked Cas quickly. “Am I wrong?”

“No, Dean,” Cas said, dropping that hand to make full and weighted eye contact. “You aren't wrong. I'm only thrilled and pleased that you worked that out for yourself. It's not that I believe you incapable, but even the best biblical scholars miss what you discerned entirely through the right of your own, untainted viewpoint, through your openness and intelligence.” Cas put a hand on the Bible, still looking into Dean like the whole world was behind Dean's eyes.

“Cas, Dad's carrying around something called a New Testament. He said you might have one I can read.”

Cas inhaled through his nose. “Yes,” he said, his voice odd. “There's a complete Bible in Crowley's room, in the bookshelves there. Would you like to get it?”

Dean looked at Cas until Cas finally looked back. “Is this something I shouldn't have?” He asked. “You've gone all weird.”

“No, you're absolutely allowed to read it,” Cas insisted. “But, I want you to talk to me if you read something that bothers you, or if you have questions. Some of them I might not be able to answer, of course.”

And,

“I mean, I understand being tempted, but it wouldn't have been able to tempt me, because I draw a line at talking snakes,” Dean went on, not understanding why Zachariah kept laughing. This was their family's religion he was asking about. Their faith. It was very serious. “Why did Eve listen to a snake? I would have just kept running no matter how it followed me.”

“Oh,” Dean said. “I haven't spoken to you about the Bible for awhile. You missed my big revelation.” He laughed a little. “You gotta understand, Cas, that a lot of kid's books are formatted like a parable. Once I understood this was a guideline for how to behave...” He held the Bible up for emphasis. “Well, it put things like eviction from Eden into a better perspective. The history wasn't as important as the message. And, laws change, too. I mean, Leviticus was a big buncha no-no's that didn't fit into the post-Lucifer dynamic, and that just came off to me as the laws of the time getting put in as gold. Between you and me, it's more like tin. Shiny and useful, but flimsy-!”

Dean couldn't talk anymore, because Cas was kissing the fuck out of him. His insides jolted, his groin flooding with heat as Cas wrapped his tongue around Dean's. It felt like falling from a great height, but in a good way. Cas tasted like home, safety, and need.

Cas pulled back as suddenly as he'd attacked. He took Dean by the shoulders, his eyes shining like the gems on his duke's crown. “You are the epitome of why it isn't good to push faith at someone,” he said, practically panting. “Tonight's dinner conversation has gained a deeper meaning, even within myself, a fleshly angel struggling to understand the circumstances of his entry to this world.”

Dean felt himself smiling. He put a hand out, and cupped Cas' slightly stubbly jaw. “Maybe, just maybe, you're a parable, too?” He ventured. “Maybe, we both are?”

Cas leaned into the contact, his eyes sliding shut. “I don't know, but isn't it good to imagine you serve by example? Even your mistakes can be used to help others.”

“Especially the mistakes,” Dean said after a moment's thought. “I don't think there's a lot of difference between student and teacher. It's all about learning.”

Cas nodded. He exhaled sharply. “I think I'll go to the balcony, and reflect,” he said. “Anyone who might spy me in only this shirt, can go hang with their stupidly rigid sensibilities. I need to gaze upon what my father made, to delight in his divinity.”

“If I need you, I'll come for you,” Dean promised. “Go get some alone time, Cas. I'm just going to pick through the holy words, seeking disclosure of my own.”

Cas, a complicated mixture of scent going from sobriety to ecstasy, slowly got vertical. “Thank you, Dean,” he said quietly. And, with that, he swiftly departed.

Dean, aware that Cas sailed in turbulent emotions, but, sensible enough to know he could do nothing about it, read one through nine of the eleventh chapter of Genesis again. He read about The Flood once more. He knew the Word by the virtue, or, curse, of his perfect memory, but the texture of the pages, the smell of the old book, helped him to focus more. And, he began to grasp the serious, hidden message displayed.

Gadreel turned his head to smile at Gabriel. “Charity should always be about kindness, and never about wanting everyone to know you have given. True charity is done behind the scenes, so as to not put pressure or shame upon the recipient. Some are embarrassed of their misfortune.”

Noah was a representative of God's teachings. An icon of charity and faith, surviving a cataclysm of sinful self-indulgence. For, how could a single family survive such a deluge only to find people on the earth afterward? No. No, he represented God's laws. And, obedience. He was there to show the reader the only way to survive sin was to put faith in God's will.

Further, Noah's ways had fallen to the dust. The Tower represented people trying to elevate themselves to godhood by virtue of their own ideas of worth.

By pride.

They journeyed away from the east, came down from the heights into the valley.

Dean paged to Psalms, stopping on 103, and read verse twelve again.

As far as the east is from the west, So far has He removed our transgressions from us.

God represented the east. Where the sun rose. Light and hope and growth. The people, long united by an idea of charity, had gone away from God, and fallen into the valley of self-worth. In a valley, the sun shone so dimly, so seldom. Hours and hours a day, the sun had no presence. The people felt their distance from God, and began building a tower to reach Him again, but powered by themselves, not by God's might. No, they used their own strength.

Isaiah 65: 2, 3- “I have spread out my hands all the day unto a rebellious people, that walk in a way that is not good, after their own thoughts – burning incense upon bricks.

Even their building materials reflected the change in their faith. All monuments before were made of stones that God and the earth provided. But, here, they chose to make bricks of clay for their structure. Man-made building blocks, not godly ones. They wanted everything to their standards, to their own sense of 'inner God'.

Instead of conforming to the building blocks God had already provided.

No artistry, only uniformity.

Fabricated.

Dean shut the Bible, and got up. With reverence, he put it on top of the bureau. His mind swirled with implications and inner symmetry.

Would you have human development stop because everyone believes the same way? Michael had posed to Dean.

It seemed that even God, the creator, preferred for people to have diverse beliefs rather than stick to a simple faith that corrupted all of Man. For Dean, a newly made believer, this was staggering. His god preferred a heretic to a blind devotee. It was right there, plain, black and white. Shouting at the reader.

God loved his creations so much that he would have them prosper by any means, even if it meant ignorance of Him, or outright rebellion. That suggested a much bigger plan than presented. That meant devotion. That meant something beyond the Bible.

That meant pure love.

Dean was crying. He could feel it. But, the slow and hot, stinging tears, were just a product of being thankful that his unworthiness was a natural state. God had made him to be unworthy. Then, had given his precious son over for a human life and death, to display that the effort of being good, was worth any price to be had. No matter how much it hurt.

It made so much sense, now. And, though Dean didn't fully understand, could never hope to fully understand, that really didn't matter. All he had to do was invest his life in being as good to others as he could manage, and to let people be people without trying to make them see things the way he did. Because, the whole idea was about growth.

Let the people grow into their own concepts of goodness and spirit. As long as that happened, everyone praised and honored God. The Holy Spirit. It was all about support, kindness, and giving homage to that which you trusted, but couldn't prove.

Proving God, wasn't possible.

Dean went to the pitcher and bowl stand, which he'd never yet used, and poured a little water out to wash his face. He dried off with his under-layer, and then shed it, leaving himself in only his silk trousers. He contemplated the single button that held the pants up, seeing in the gleaming shell a myriad of meaning.

God had designed every fucking thing on the planet, and it was all on display for Dean's contemplation. Every tiny detail. He'd first gained an understanding, there, in contemplating trees. But, now, more viewpoints presented.

Dean smiled. “Cas. Once I knew someone had actually designed everything I see?” He chuckled. “Look all around you. I know a tree when I see one, but they're all different. Even the ones that make the same fruit aren't really the same, right? So much thought and brilliance, every tiny detail on display, and no one really thinks about it. Or, if they do, they don't speak of it.”

Dean burned with the need to read Kahlil Gibran, now, as Michael had suggested. He went to the far end of the study, aware that Cas was very close, and found seven books in his husband's collection. Three had Gibran's name on the spine. Trusting synchronicity, Dean randomly chose one, and opened it just as randomly.

The passage that presented to Dean, proved he was right to act with anticipation. With faith.

“I love you when you bow in your mosque, kneel in your temple, pray in your church. For you and I are sons of one religion, and it is the spirit.” The short and simple passage was labeled as from The Prophet.

Remember that your holy father is the Holy Spirit .

Michael had told him this. Told him how to look, where to look.

Dean slid the book back into the shamefully bare shelf, went to the bed, and turned down the covers. He was tired, emotionally done, and almost neutral with the conflicting importance of all he'd gained. Sliding under the smooth, silky weight of the sheets and quilts, Dean fluffed his pillow, easing into a sense of relaxation.

God knew he was flawed.

God knew he was weak and conflicted.

God knew.

Dean drifted into a state of sweet fatigue. He heard Cas coming back inside. Smelled the ocean breeze wafting through their rooms. He listened, tracking Cas' return to the bedroom, heard Cas pacing to the bed. He smelled his husband's olfactory melody of hope, weariness, and resignation. And, once Cas had inserted himself between the covers and mattress, Dean rolled to spoon Cas from behind.

Cas let out a long, heavy, low breath of surrender. He pressed backward, getting the length of his body against Dean's. “So often, Dean, you teach me what it is to be human,” he said. “My whole existence is about being an angel, and I've lost myself in angelic codes and duties. But, your knowledge of me allows me to have another heritage, and it is so welcome.”

Dean wended an arm over Cas' waist, and hugged him tightly. “I love you, angel,” he whispered against Cas' pretty throat. Right at the nape. He felt barely able to get the words out, but they needed said. “I don't know crap about crap, but I know what it is to be lost inside concepts. Just be happy that we have food, warmth, a roof over our heads, and some pretty awesome comfort.”

“I am thankful, Dean,” Cas confessed, snuggling back into the contact Dean offered. “Please, give me your warmth tonight, your scent, your strong body against mine. You are pleasing to me in every aspect.”

Dean, moved by Cas' words, leaned forward a bit to kiss Cas' neck. “I'm here for you,” he vowed. “Sleep now, hadja. Tomorrow is another day.”

Cas let out a long breath, and went still.

Dean lay awake an hour, maybe more, making sure Cas slept in earnest, before allowing himself to follow suit.

Chapter Text

Dean greatly enjoyed awakening to the knowledge that Cas was home, and not going to be called away anytime soon. He felt he was alone in the bed. Yet, he heard activity in the bedroom. He opened his eyes to orient upon his husband. Cas had mostly dressed himself, opting for the blue and green, marbleized waistcoat decorated in hundreds of tiny white doves. He'd used a Heath knot on his cravat, and was preparing to draw on his tail coat. Dean thought he looked very handsome, but he missed Cas' old boots. Those he had on lately were far too shiny for a beekeeper and artist.

“Pick out what you want me to wear today?” Dean asked him softly. An offer of intimacy.

Cas promptly opened the closet, taking out Dean's usual under-layers, then chose his eternal favorite, the green kimono with the tiger emerging from bamboo. “This one, even if it twists my insides up with lust,” he declared.

Dean felt a very brief flare of intimate amusement, but it quickly died into a sense of profundity. He slid from the bed to stand close to Cas, breathing in his welcoming scent. “Am I a tiger to you, Cas?” He asked quietly.

Cas laced his fingers together, and looked at the ceiling. “Rare and ferocious, suits you, Dean,” he replied softly, his voice a rumble of soothing mixed with uncertainty. “I'd love to claim you, hadja. I want it so much.”

Dean nodded, smiled gently, and began shedding his sleepwear. “I know,” he said, fortifying while being submissive. “Go to your friend, now. Tell Gadreel we hunt soon. We can spend an entire morning, maybe even an afternoon, getting meat for the table of our new home.” Naked, he grabbed the fresh under-layer, and began dressing. He diverted his motions in order to press a brief and sanctioning kiss to Cas' neck. “Enjoy Gadreel's company,” he stressed. “When we return, and get near the house, I'll take over. Everything will be fine,”

Cas shuddered, then took Dean into his arms for a strong, thankful hug. “I will,” he said. “Be in the main hall in twenty minutes, please, hadja.”

Dean finished dressing quickly. He poked his head into Crowley's room, curious as to if he'd returned, and found the wily tailor asleep in a pile of muslin. He had a bolt of silk fallen across his butt, and snored on, oblivious. John was in there, too, sleeping in an armchair, a book spread apart to the floor at his feet. He'd probably waited up for Crowley's return, and succumbed to sleep.

Smiling, Dean carefully shut the door, and made his way for the formal stairs. He felt a moment's surprise when Ruto and Sphinx suddenly flanked him. They matched him for pace, and when Dean finally made the main hall, it became clear they were escorting him just as they used to. Perhaps Cas had instructed them.

“Ah.” Gadreel looked up from his quiet conversation with Cas, eyes bright and pleased to see Dean. “It seems you've invited friends, Dean. How are you this morning?”

“I slept well, having my husband back,” Dean replied, smiling. “I trust your accommodations are adequate, Gadreel?”

“I confess the bed was a bit too soft. But, I have been assured by your husband that it is a common complaint at Fen-Taven.” Gadreel paused to smile broadly at Dean, and Dean knew he was about to be gently deviled. “He conferred to me as a stoic, but I would pay less attention to the mattress, too, had I one such as you sharing it with me.”

Dean couldn't help but grin. He shot his gaze to Cas, who was rolling his eyes while pointing his head to the ceiling. “Your best friend is a honey-dripper, and, inappropriate,” he scolded without any heat whatsoever.

Cas gave a short sigh before looking Dean's way. “It's possible he's using you for practice. I'm sorry. You have to understand we have been with the royal court for a week. It leaves one on edge. You are, likely, stress relief.”

Dean tilted his head at Gadreel. “Practicing on me because you don't have your sights set on someone?” He asked airily. “I deliberately sat you beside an interesting alpha with your own preferences, Your Grace.”

Gadreel bolted straight up, looking at Dean in surprise. He glanced back and forth, seeking listeners, but their footmen were too far away to overhear anything. He paced closer to Dean, standing near, and licked his lips in a swift, darting movement. “Are you telling me,” he asked lowly, “that the beautiful Maholak alpha you put to my left, is of my inclination?”

Dean slowly nodded, smiling broadly. “My brother probably has Gabriel engaged for the day. Perhaps tomorrow, you would be interested in taking him out with the rest of us when we stroll the hunting grounds? ”

Gadreel's eyes lit from within with interest. “Indeed. Might I count upon you to arrange that, Dean?”

“You may, Gadreel,” Dean replied. He held his arm out to link with Cas'. “Shall we go? Do we need footmen?”

“No,” Cas replied, smiling slightly. “I doubt we bring back very much. The season is new.”

In a short time their group strolled the huge lawn, heading for the forest line. Cas and Gadreel had long guns that Dean knew nothing about, naturally, held over their shoulders in a casual position. Ruto and Sphinx stayed close to Dean. He'd been given a net sack for collecting and carrying the corpses of whatever they managed to kill. As Dean hadn't the chance to consult Bill, after all, this seemed fine.

How wrongly could one carry dead animals?

It was a beautiful day. Dean relaxed into walking through the lush beauty all around him, letting Cas go ahead of him to talk to his friend. He faintly paid attention to the conversation Cas and Gadreel initiated about an incident at royal court. The two were now fairly engrossed in their discussion.

Dean noted with pleasure how they were so in tandem, how they leaned together. They were very good friends, in tune with each other. And, by body language, also full of trust.

It warmed Dean to see that Cas would have a dependable fall-back, should he die early. Cas would always have Gadreel on his side, no matter what, and Dean felt infinitely thankful.

Sphinx suddenly went still, her body snapping in line with alertness, staring into the brush. Her ears twitched, but otherwise she remained quiet. Ruto did the same, then.

They hunt together, Dean thought. And, as that realization gained full importance, Sphinx gracefully sped into the shrubbery with lethal intent. It took her less than thirty seconds to come out with a Snow Hare. She trotted past them all, hare in her jaws, to rejoin Ruto. They began to eat, Ruto showing the deference Dean had already seen long ago.

Gadreel, chuckling, watched the minor carnage. “Looks to me that your beautiful omega has pets that feed themselves,” he observed to Cas while winking at Dean.

“Ruto and Sphinx are capable,” Cas replied, smiling slightly. “We'll wait until they've eaten enough.” He sat down on a thick patch of moss, lying the long gun to his right side.

Gadreel settled beside Cas with the ease of companionship. He, too, laid his gun to rest at his right. “You must tell me how Dean acquired a lynx for a pet,” he said.

Dean sat in a position to face them both, keeping silent for the pure luxury of it. He wanted to watch how his husband interacted with his best friend. He felt enchanted that Gadreel existed. Cas was so open with the other alpha, so relaxed. Dean had never seen this kind of male alpha relationship.

“We found her as a kitten,” Cas said. “Ruto found her, actually. Dean nursed Sphinx with goat's milk, as she was too young to be weaned, then. She has been very loyal. Dean inspires loyalty, of course.”

Dean blushed, and gazed into the forest, his ears burning. “I may not survive it, having two alpha males constantly pointing out my virtues,” he said, making both men laugh richly.

“Apologies, Dean,” Cas said after a moment. “Court really was stressful for us. A palace full of spying, double-speak, and alpha aggression, combined with highly covert, scheming betas. Throw in ambitious omegas, and there is an environment guaranteed to set your teeth to grinding.”

“Yes.” Gadreel nodded at his friend's summation. “King Roman endures it all as if made from stone, which makes me ponder his disposition. Even the most mentally secure of men would find themselves degrading toward collapse, abiding so much negativity. His control never seems to waiver, either.”

“I think he must have several lovers to work his way through at night, to relieve his stress,” Cas said, unsmiling. “He certainly isn't touching his wife. She sits beside of him rigidly, as if fearing his attention.”

“Having no experience with the king, I can't add anything,” Dean replied, “but, if I had to go through what you two did, I'd be doing a lot of pacing back and forth.”

“You cannot pace back and forth in the presence of others,” Gadreel said, shaking his head. “That is a sign of stress. The rooms we are assigned come complete with a valet, and a man to attend your hearth. No privacy of any kind, not ever.”

“I'd have an ulcer,” Dean muttered. He noted that his pets were nearly finished eating.

“I would imagine many in regular court, do,” Gadreel said thoughtfully.

Cas got up, and offered a hand to Dean. “Your guardians are satisfied, so we can continue.”

Dean accepted the help, and got vertical.

Again, they set out for the hunt. Dean had no trouble being quiet in a woodland, his bare feet making far less noise than heavy boots. Even so, his companions were very near to his level of silence. He soon got caught up in watching smaller animal life, such as birds, and some kind of tiny, scurrying creatures the same color as dead, fallen leaves. Whatever those were, they were fast, hard to make out.

Gadreel tapped Cas on his shoulder, and pointed to a large thicket. Cas nodded. He picked up a stone, waited for Gadreel to lift his gun, and then threw the rock. The thicket shook, and a dozen birds or more burst from it, going in all directions. Gadreel fired, bringing down three at once. Ahead of Dean, Sphinx leaped high, bring down two in her paws.

Gadreel, grinning, began wringing the necks of a bird who hadn't yet died. “Not a bad count, if your cat allows us her prey,” he said.

“She only eats hares,” Dean said. “I'm pretty sure she's feeding me.” He collected the dead birds, and put them into the sack. “Cas, it might be best if you're the one who takes the live birds from Sphinx.” She would never harm him, but no sense in wasting an opportunity to honor Cas' alpha nature.

Small things counted, too, not just fights and posturing.

“Yes, of course.” Cas knelt, took the birds from Sphinx, and praised her. He killed them quickly, and handed them to Dean.

“What are these birds?” Dean asked. They had speckled feathers, and weighed a decent amount.

“A type of grouse,” Gadreel informed. “They taste very good. Perhaps we should head toward the next river, and see what we can get. Waterfowl are larger, with more fat.”

And so the morning went. Between them, Cas and Gadreel managed to bag two large geese, and seven ducks. Ruto proved capable of retrieving those kills from the water, happily. Gadreel was impressed by that, especially since Dean and Cas confessed they'd never trained him to do it.

Early in the afternoon, they ventured onto Cas' tenant land. Dean looked upon the scattering of pretty white cottages, the children running around, and the signs of gardens going into the ground. He remembered Cas telling his estate manager that people weren't forbidden to hunt on his land, and figured Meg had made that plain to the people many years ago. Still...

“Cas? There might be an elderly person, or two, that would appreciate delivered meat,” Dean said.

“Of course, Dean,” Cas said warmly. “Let's knock on a door, and inquire. I'm sure this community is well in touch.”

Gadreel joined them in looking for a house with signs of neglect, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “I see a cottage in slight disrepair, just there,” he said, pointing. “See? The paint is faded, and no garden is being prepared.”

“A likely candidate,” Cas agreed. “Ruto, Sphinx, stay close to Dean.”

As Dean's pets flanked him, Gadreel smiled. “Well trained,” he observed.

“I cannot always be near Dean, and they are alert,” Cas said as they walked down the gentle embankment toward the dirt road.

They drew eyes. Two very well dressed alphas, and Dean in his kimono, plus the lynx and mastiff, were severely out of place in this settlement. These people in homespun clothes stopped what they were doing to stare. One woman looked as if she might faint with fear. She'd stopped in mid-motion of hanging a sheet out on a long line for drying. Dean smiled at her, and she lost a little of her fright. He scented her for an omega.

“Ma'am?” Dean asked softly. “We're looking for people in need of a meal.” He showed her the bag full of birds. “My alpha, and his friend, hunted all morning. We have more than we can eat.”

The woman, perhaps in her late forties, gave a startled little shake. She looked toward Castiel and Gadreel, who had stopped when Dean spoke. She looked at Dean's cat and dog. Her eyes finally went over Dean's clothing. “Good sir, from whence do you hail?” She asked, nearly whispering.

“Panomu,” Dean answered, deliberately pushing a calm scent toward her. The wind wasn't bad, so she'd smell him soon enough even with a fence line separating them to a good degree. “I'm Dean Novak. This is my husband, Castiel Novak,” he added, pointing to the gently smiling Cas. “He's your landlord, yes?”

The woman's eyes bulged in surprise. “I have never seen you before!” She said to Cas. “Sir, forgive me for not-!”

Cas held up a hand. “Think nothing of it, madam,” he said quietly. “I have been in Panomu these last ten years. The Maholak prompted me to return. You have heard of the war?”

“Sir, yes, yes we have!” She gestured to the people slowly gathering around them. “The tinkers coming through give us news. But, can you tell us more?”

Cas paused, his eyes going to the left as he thought. “Do you have a public house, here? We might inform all of you at the same time.”

“Yes, sir!” The woman turned, her eyes scanning the crowd. “Someone get Matron Lewis! Tell her we have a meeting with our master!”

“I'll take you to the public house,” a grizzled man offered, pushing through. He looked Cas up and down a moment. “Lived here for awhile, and rent's not gone up,” he said, a touch on the suspicious side.

Cas frowned slightly. “Why would it go up? Prior to my family's acquisition, this shire paid rent to Clearwater coffers. The fee was set by a magistrate, adjusted to suit poverty level. I remember hearing my parents speaking of it, long ago.”

The man blinked. “Goes up for everyone else's shire, right regular,” he said. “'Cept Duke Penikett's, a'course.”

Smiling, Gadreel, gave the man a bow. “At your service,” he said.

Gasps went through the crowd, now.

“The duke!”

“Lordy, the duke's here!”

“Our master, and the duke!”

Dean leaned on the fence, directing a smile downward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman with the laundry examining him. He turned his head, and widened his smile. “My husband is a duke, too,” he said. “Just returned from court. You all now have more status, I expect?”

“Our master is a duke!” She practically screamed, and the news shot through the people like fire on a grass plane.

Chuckling, Dean leaned down to pet Sphinx. Cas would certainly call him a troublemaker, now, for inciting the people.

In moments they were all being escorted to a large building that Dean imagined served nearly any purpose the village folk had, and all the while, listening to excited chatter. The large, double doors opened. They entered a room filled with long benches. The floor was covered in sawdust. The windows were merely small, square holes that could be covered with their heavy interior shutters. A raised platform at the end, meant for public speaking, had no adornment of any kind, not even a chair.

Cas and Gadreel urged Dean in that direction. In what seemed a moment, they stood above a gathering throng. Dean saw a lot of children. Some of them looked a little dirty, but children simply attract filth. Dean knew that. And, he saw that most of Cas' people were fairly well groomed. Country life means hard work, but not necessarily poverty. Cas and Meg keeping the rent low had been good for these people.

Dean wondered how many of these little settlements were on the Fen-Taven estate.

The uproar in the place banked to complete stillness when an elderly woman at the back began banging her cane on the door. Loudly. “Settle down, settle down! Lord, it's like you people have never gotten off your mama's teat!” She stamped down the middle of the room, the people parting to allow her passage pretty quickly. “No manners a'tall,” she added, grumbling.

Matron Lewis. Had to be. Dean liked her instantly.

She stopped at the edge of the platform, and peered up at them all individually. Her eyes rested on Dean, taking in his clothing and pets just like the laundry woman had done. “Well,” she declared, hooking her cane across a bench to put hands on her hips. “Ain't you something? I ain't never seen a man this pretty before. You make me wish I got out more, young'un!”

Dean grinned. “You must be Matron Lewis. A pleasure, ma'am.” He squatted down so he could hold his hand out to her. “I'm Dean Novak. The dark haired alpha is my husband, Castiel, and the other alpha is his friend, Gadreel.”

Matron Lewis allowed Dean to bow over her hand, her grey eyes sparkling with humor and intelligence. “I like you,” she said. “You give names, not titles. Would that everyone acted so sensibly. All this peerage nonsense is an excess of icing on a cake already good enough to eat plain.” She grabbed up her cane, directing her attention to the smiling Castiel. “Came back, I see. The Maholak, it's rumored. I don't listen to gossip, but I'd sure like to hear the story from the source.”

“I'm happy to inform you, Matron Lewis,” Cas told her. “Shall I start with politics?”

“Matters not to me,” she said, tapping her cane to the floor a few times. “Though, I would like to know what that king of ours intends to do about the corn tax!”

Many people agreed with her, to judge by the muttering that followed her words.

“As in the past, King Roman has no intention of lifting the corn tax,” Cas said, shaking his head. “I'll be planting enough of it so that my renters won't have to. You may focus on crops for your own families, now. My apologies for allowing that injustice to continue for so long. I quickly forgot, once out of country, that land renters are often expected to support the crown.” Cas frowned, then, shaking his head again. “It might be more true to say that I never wanted this estate, and forgot about it deliberately. That was terrible of me.”

Matron Lewis lifted an eyebrow at him. “Beggin' Sir's pardon, we ain't exactly been sufferin', here. You keep the rent so low we c'n manage. Fact is, you and your friend, there, have the best land and the best hunting. People all around these two shires are bustin' themselves to get in.” She paused to shake her head at him, intelligent old eyes full of life. “But, you ain't been here, so you didn't know that. They tell you that at fancy court?” Again, she shook her head, this time with a sad sort of censure. “I'll wager my gold back molar no one breathed a word o' that to you.”

“Indeed, no,” Cas replied, his face falling into deep worry. All those tiny little frown lines went stark.

“It was something I intended to discuss with you, Castiel,” Gadreel informed quietly. “My renters have been dealing with crowding, too. Every week I must go through a list of hopefuls, and examine their situations. I've been doing the same for you and your property. Meg Masters arranges what I cannot manage. Now that you are here, of course...”

“Thank you, Gadreel.” Now, Cas looked embarrassed. He rubbed at his neck, his eyes roaming freely. “Without you and Meg, this estate, and all these people, would have suffered. It was selfish of me to retreat to country living.”

“Now, you have the right of it,” Matron Lewis said firmly. Scolding, even. “You have a good friend, there. We appreciate him. But, that don't mean we think you a knave for beatin' feet outta Rocky White. Lord, most of us would like a little more democracy, and, a little less idiocy!”

Murmurs of agreement went through the gathering. Dean thought Cas looked a little hopeful, now. He quit slouching over, and focused fully upon Matron Lewis again.

Good. Cas already felt responsible for so much.

“It don't hurt none that we were allowed to hunt as we pleased,” Matron Lewis said. “All around us, people are paying for meat because their masters insist on exclusive rights to the wild game. And, here you are, draggin' in a net full o' birds to give to us!” She cackled, an alarming, infectious sound, quickly taken up by many others.

Dean dug into the bag, got the biggest goose, and grandly offered the thing to Matron Lewis, smiling. She winked at him before making an equally grand exhibition of accepting it.

Oh, Dean did like her.

“I want ta know,” she said, addressing Cas again, “how you and your friend got to be so good. We're surrounded by hypocrites and louts.” She threw her hand up. “No, don't answer. I'm sure you're humble, as well as giving. I'm not sure we c'n stand here and listen to you bein' so modest.”

More laughter. Oh, Matron Lewis had crowd control down pat. The elderly beta could really work a room.

Cas' face was red, now. Full of blood. He wasn't used to praise, and had little defense against it.

“Tell us what our chances are for Maholak invasion, and I'll let you off'n the hot seat,” she offered to Cas, smiling. “I know Rocky White won't war with 'em, and I know we got the advantage of trade, but those bastards keep grabbin' more and more land. We worry.”

Cas nodded solemnly, and the people quieted again. He cleared his throat. Some of that embarrassed blush faded. “Rocky White's trade alliance with the Maholak keep us fairly safe,” he said. “I put it to the king that we need a real military, and he dismissed me. But, I intend to pursue the issue. It's not that I want to see young men die, never think that. However, we have no overt shows of strength. The Maholak only respect strength. Eventually, they will turn their eyes to taking from us instead of trading with us. History shows this.”

Matron Lewis narrowed her eyes. “Smart man, aren't you? I thought you must be. The king gave you a fancy title to keep control of you, I 'spect. You in a dangerous, long game, and you need to find your allies pretty quick. Don't you turn your back on anyone, you hear? There's more snakes in the palace than in Pedor. That's the sayin', and I know it to be the truth.”

Cas bowed his head in agreement. “Matron Lewis, I heed your advice. With my friend, Gadreel, and my husband, Dean, to support me, my outlook is better than I would have anticipated. Still, I cannot relax.”

Matron Lewis nodded, as if satisfied. “Well, if I had a husband like yours, I'd worry every second, anyway,” she teased. “Lordy, do you know how to pick 'em!”

Cas blushed all over again. Dean laughed out loud, not able to help himself. If only Matron Lewis knew the truth. Cas had chosen him sight-unseen.

For being trouble.

Everyone started laughing bare seconds after Dean did. Matron Lewis let it carry on a bit before banging her cane on the platform. “All right, all right!” She shouted. “Our lord and master came to give food. I want Widow Shields to direct the meat. And, I want you,” she said, looking at Dean, “to come visit with me some time. You're something special.”

“I promise,” Dean said, meaning it.

(_______________________________________________________________________)

Back in the great house, Gadreel, Dean, and Cas, soon occupied a quiet little parlor. Sphinx and Ruto went farther into the house, as if they knew their duty completed. Dean rang a pull, and the answering footman appeared swiftly. “Full tea for five,” he requested. “See if Madam Naomi and Master Zachariah will join us.” He thought Cas could use his parent's support, and their thoughts on recent events.

“As you wish, Lord Novak,” the footman said, vanishing.

“I'll never get used to that.” Dean took a chair near a low table. No one had said much since their introduction to Matron Lewis. Dean knew it was because his husband and his new friend were mulling over court intrigue, and, politics, once more.

Cas leaned back into a plush, velvet chair, putting a hand over his eyes. “What would have become of those people had you and Meg not been taking care of things for me, Gadreel?” He asked quietly. Lamenting. “I've been a poor landlord, and a poor friend.”

“You make too much of it,” Gadreel said gently. “If I had any difficulty with the duty, I would have written to say so. I'll help you get on track with the business, though, and you will feel much more stable.” He made deliberate, meaningful eye contact with Dean while Cas sat occupied with his guilt. It was a look that meant understanding. Gadreel had full comprehension of Cas' sensitivity. “You would not have been able to prosper at Tor-Valen while worrying about Fen-Taven, anyway, Castiel. I know this. I considered it an honor to help you.”

“Your people like you, anyway, Cas,” Dean pointed out softly. “Matron Lewis said they'd not been suffering, and I believe her.”

“Yes,” Gadreel said, his eyes shining with gratitude to Dean that he'd opted for a positive approach. “You are well liked despite your absentee years. The fact you came among them, on foot, bearing gifts, and remained the same person throughout the exchange, only made them appreciate you more. I think Matron Lewis is a fine judge of character. She helped you get through the awkwardness quite deliberately.”

“She certainly knew her audience,” Cas muttered. “I suppose she must be the unquestioned leader of that particular settlement. Everyone heeded her.”

“I want to visit her sooner rather than later,” Dean said, smiling. “I thought her magnificent.”

Gadreel chuckled. “I liked her, too.”

Cas heaved a big sigh, rolled his eyes upward, and held his hands out. “I was putty in that harridan's paws, and you both like her.”

“You don't fool me,” Dean said, low and intimate with his tease. “You thought she was interesting. You like people who are right out in the open.”

“I do.” Cas shot him a mostly pretend look of annoyance. “I am glad you made it a show, giving her the best goose. It set the mood in the room.”

Naomi and Zachariah entered the parlor together, then, projecting rather worried scents. When they evaluated the room's settled occupants, they relaxed, slightly. The tea setting arrived just after them, and Naomi took over the serving. Once they each had a cup to their liking, Cas cut off any immediate questions. “I discovered today that Gadreel and Meg had more influence on this holding of ours than suspected,” he began. “Because of them, I received warm greetings in one of my rental settlements, despite my face being completely unknown.”

Zachariah winced. “Ah. Your mother and I should have been more forthcoming with our help. You didn't realize how much went into the care-taking of this estate. I expect Meg has been paying your taxes here, with funds you generated at Tor-Valen.”

“Yes.” Cas had a sip of his tea. “The leader of their group schooled me on how remiss I'd been, but she liked me well enough.”

“I got an invitation to come visit,” Dean said slyly, prompting Naomi to giggle.

“What is her name?” Naomi asked.

“Matron Lewis,” Dean informed, and Zachariah spat tea. Thankfully, back into his cup.

“That old woman is still alive?” Zachariah shouted in astonishment. “Dear heaven, she must be over a hundred and thirty!” He eyed his son, then, a gleam in his pale blue eyes. “She wagged her clapper at you, did she?”

“Zach,” Naomi chastised. “I'm mortal certain there's no need for that language.”

“Oh, do pardon,” Zachariah said, completely false in his words by delivering them monotone. “I only wanted clarification.”

“She did make sure I knew she wasn't pleased by my non-achievements, here,” Cas said, sighing again. “How is it you know her, Father?”

“Ah, well, she knew your great grandfather, Arlis,” Zachariah said. “Never figured out how. But, I rather got the idea she took him to task for his delinquent attendance to local politics. You might say she's carrying on tradition, with you. Seems you got off easy, my boy. Arlis slunk around like a whipped puppy for two months after she took him in her jaws, and jumped any time she looked at him.” Zachariah paused, his eyes moving to the right as he sought his memories. “Which ended up as a fair-often occurrence; she had a stand in Isleton port, selling herbs. He had to pass her in order to attend Port Hall. Arlis lived in a townhouse in Clearwater almost exclusively, you see. He made trips to Cold Croy, but didn't enjoy that country much.”

Dean sensed a lengthy discussion, and didn't feel up to it. He'd done as expected all day, and needed an 'out'. He finished his tea, and stood, prompting everyone else to do so as well. “Please excuse me,” he said. “I need to wash, and to catch up with Crowley. We have a lot of work to do.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas said, leaning to kiss Dean's temple. The contact, brief but sweet, warmed Dean from the inside out. “Thank you for coming out with me and Gadreel.”

Gadreel, smiling, added his good wishes. “As lovely as the scenery,” he said. “I, too, am thankful you attended our hunt. If not for you, we'd have never thought to go into the village. I am convinced of that. Alpha single-mindedness, you know.”

Dean smiled, then turned and left. He really did want a quick wash, and to change clothes. After, he'd visit Crowley.

A few swipes at himself with cloth and water, a fresh outfit, and Dean felt better. He knocked on Crowley's door briskly.

“Come in, Dean,” Crowley called out. “Here to get your prezzies from Isleton?”

Dean entered, seeing Crowley working on a shirt. John was with him still, reading. He waved a hand at Dean in greeting.

“Well, you two look domestic,” Dean observed, pushing things off the bed so he could perch. “I didn't know you could be in the same room together without sniping.”

“Fergus wanted company,” John defended, his ears going pink. He didn't make eye contact.

“Fergus?” Dean asked.

“Darling, I do have two names,” Crowley said, tutting. He finished affixing a button. “You may use either one.”

“Good, because I like Crowley a lot more,” Dean told him.

“So do I, but your father...” Crowley slid Dean the most wicked smile. It lit him up like he'd swallowed the very sun from the sky. “Your father is courting.”

Dean processed that about three seconds before bolting from the bed. “WellthatnicesoIgottago,” he slurred out, going right for the door. “Happyforyouboth!” He practically threw himself into the hall, and slammed the door. Panting, leaning on the wood, Dean heard his father say, “Better than I'd expected.”

And, Crowley responding, “He's not unhappy. Just doesn't want to see it right away. Dean is very flexible. He'll be all right, soon.”

Dean tip-toed away. He went straight to his balcony, and had a seat.

His big, alpha father, going for a male omega... A witch.

Dean thought about that. In a hazy way, he'd already prepared himself for an eventual union between his father and his friend. But, he'd also held doubt it would happen. John Winchester, in the past, hadn't been good with omegas. Now, he was contemplating having one for a mate. It was a big change in his dad. The gradual development of his softer side, had somehow...

It had been so slow. Dean had missed some of the indicators. Probably, John and Crowley talked more than he knew. Well, they obviously did. He felt stupid for reacting the way he had.

He needed to go back.

Dean forced himself up, and returned to Crowley's room. Again, he knocked. This time, John answered the door, his dark eyes full of worry. He stepped back to let Dean in, and just stood there all rigid, as if expecting a blow. A blow that Dean knew John would take. He wouldn't fight back.

Dean licked his lips, and struggled for words.

“If it upsets you, Dean...” John sighed. “I never meant to take your friend from you...”

“You couldn't take him from me,” Dean protested immediately. “Crowley is loyal to a fault, and he cares about me.”

“I'm in the room, darlings,” Crowley called out, sing-song.

John's lips twitched, as if curbing a smile. “Would you rather we discuss this in the hall?”

“Discuss me, you mean?” Crowley stopped sewing, got up, and went to Dean directly. Eyes wide and full of sobriety, Crowley put a hand on Dean's shoulder. “I'm not taking your father from you, buttercup. You only just got him back. What do you want me to do?”

“I...” Dean leaned into Crowley's contact. “It's okay. I'll just spend more time with both of you, I guess. But, you'll have to tell me when to scram. I might not... pick up on it, you know.”

Crowley nodded, and gave Dean a gentle pat. “Thank you, Dean. Do you want to visit with us right now, or do you need a little more time to think about us?”

Crowley had used Dean's name.

Dean stared at him. “You-.” He felt himself huff out a laugh. Warmed by Crowley's very serious approach, he smiled. Relief poured into him. He pulled Crowley into his arms, and hugged him. “My kids are going to be so confused,” he whispered in Crowley's ear. “Godfather or grandfather?”

“I can be both,” Crowley said cheerfully. “Does this mean it's okay if my dried up old womb manages to work?”

Dean squeezed him a little harder. That Crowley would ask... That he'd put Dean's comfort over his own need for children...

Oh, God. The selflessness of this crafty omega...

“Of course it is,” Dean answered, tears coming to his eyes. “More family is always better.” He clenched up around Crowley one more time, then slowly let go. “I have to say, maybe it's better if I talk to Sam before you guys do. He's probably still stinging from...” He lifted his eyebrows meaningfully at his friend.

“My forcing him to see reason about Gabriel?” Crowley asked carefully, omitting his use of witchcraft on Sam. “I've already informed your father of what I did. He didn't exactly like it, but he agreed it was the only way, likely, that Sam would have come to his senses.”

“That being said, compelling my children with witchcraft is very much an as-needed scenario,” John commented dryly.

“I know, love,” Crowley said, smiling.

Dean would have made a teasing remark about their new relationship, but, as he opened his mouth, he heard a scream. Far away, down below them, by the sound of it. He met eyes with John, then Crowley, and Crowley went out the door first.

It didn't take long to reach the commotion, as fast as they went with Crowley's house knowledge. In the primary assembly room, Meg stood, scolding a maid who had her hands up to her face, sobbing. On a table full of letters just beside of Meg, was an opened box. Half in and half out of that, was a writhing, angry snake with diamond pattern scales. Meg had it by the back of the head, holding it tightly down. Pinned.

“Not only was it an attempt to thieve my master,” Meg raged, her face livid and red, “you mutton-headed little traitor, but a dishonor to the rest of your fellows!” She pointed at the gathering maids and footmen, eyes blazing. “I should have let the thing strike you! I may yet!”

Castiel came striding into the room from a door opposite, his parents and Gadreel close behind. He took one look at the scene, and his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Meg. Am I to understand that this maid opened my correspondence, and received a diamond altogether different than what she hoped for?”

“Sir,” Meg said, turning to face him quickly. “Yes. The Diamond Back was in your post. I haven't yet been able to get the particulars of the package.”

Cas went to her. “Give me the snake.” He held out his hand.

Meg carefully transferred the snake to Cas' grip while the room watched in suspense, and, not a little horror.

Cas wasn't affected by the snake coiling around his arm in a bid for freedom. He just held it calmly as it struggled. He checked the box. “No return address, of course,” he muttered. “A foolish hope.” He flicked his gaze to the weeping maid. “I leave it to you what to do with her, of course.” He straightened to address the room, then. “I want you all to come and look at this snake. It isn't venomous, and won't attack you unless you're aggressive to it. Don't mistake this snake for a cottonmouth.”

Meg, her status as Castiel's law giver having been reminded to everyone, instantly rounded on the cringing woman again. “You worked for the most generous man ever born, and you rewarded his goodness with betrayal! You're no longer employed here!” She dug into a drawstring bag pulled from her waistcoat pocket, bringing out a gold piece. “I'm giving you more than your due share, because I don't want you settling anywhere near the Novak family. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, yes,” the girl sobbed. “I'll go far away!”

Meg dropped the coin on the floor, so that the girl would have to bend over to get it.

Further humiliation.

“Be glad you didn't succeed in stealing from my master,” Meg went on, evidently intent to ram it home how offended she was. “Because, even the theft of a tea biscuit is punished with the noose, in this country!”

Dean heard that for what it was. Meg used this incident to remind everyone not to steal.

“It wasn't a threat, the snake” Crowley said in Dean's ear, but loud enough for John to hear, also. “Someone sent that to Castiel to show him he has hidden enemies. Someone fairly up in years, too, for snake signs aren't used anymore. By process of elimination, Castiel can figure out who his ally is.”

“Snake signs?” John said doubtfully. “Who the fuck would communicate with snakes?”

“Eve,” Dean said promptly, giving a nervous laugh. He didn't like knowing it was a thing, even an old thing, to mail snakes to people. And, he hated the idea that someone could be sentenced to death just for stealing. What about really poor people, who resorted to stealing bread for their children?

John spared Dean a moment's eye contact, smiling at the reminder of their time in the boat house, and went back to looking at Crowley. “So, if I sent someone a garter snake, what would that mean?”

“Happy wishes for your crops to prosper this spring,” Crowley said. “If this person feared for Castiel's immediate health, he or she would have used a rattlesnake milked of venom.”

Dean began to see the reasoning behind this disturbing system. No words were used, in order to deter spies, but by the nature of the snake itself, you knew what you were dealing with. “Early warning,” he said. “Rattlers tell you not to get any closer.”

“Exactly,” Crowley said approvingly.

“You still haven't said who this could be,” John pointed out. “What people use snakes to communicate?”

“Witches, magic users, sorcerers, and, old-timers that might have been in contact with any of the first three,” Crowley listed, waving a casual hand. “We're looking for an older person with arcane powers. Someone fairly close by, too, because there aren't any air holes in that box. And, that's a snake that fishes for it's food. We have a river, here, with many places it might hunt. It's a local beast. That's why Castiel is taking the time to make sure his people know how to identify it.”

There's more snakes in the palace than in Pedor. That's the sayin', and I know it to be the truth.”

Dean took a breath as he reasoned the facts.

Matron Lewis. She'd given her clue with that sentence, using an apparent adage to the region. She controlled that whole settlement, was nearby, and could easily go to the Clearwater postal dispatch. She was very old, too. Zachariah said so.

“One who is close to you, will need you often in the coming days,” Xu continued. “Assure your support very quickly, and do not hesitate to use your fans.” He met Dean's eyes. “Power is hiding among you, in plain sight. Keep the lessons in your past firmly in mind.”

Xu's words didn't say to be afraid of the lurking power, only that it existed.

Dean needed to go into Clearwater, right now. He didn't know how quickly the mail traveled from that dispatch. He could question the clerks about Matron Lewis. If he got a positive on her presence, he'd know to go to her, and thank her.

“What kind of snake is a 'thank you'?” Dean asked Crowley, interrupting a quiet conversation the wily tailor was having with John.

“Jewelry shaped like a snake is ideal, but if you don't have that, a drawing of one is very good, too,” Crowley answered promptly. “Why, buttercup?”

“I need to go into Clearwater, right now,” Dean told him. “Will you and Dad go with me?”

“Of course,” they said in unison, then, shyly made eye contact.

If Dean had the energy and focus to spare right now, he'd smile at their unity.

“Let me change again,” Dean said. “I'll meet you in the stables, okay?”

“Certainly,” Crowley agreed.

I pray to the angel, Castiel, Dean prayed silently while taking the nearest staircase. Crowley and Dad are going into Clearwater with me for shopping. Is that okay?

Get me a new flask while you're there, Cas answered. Enjoy yourself.

I will. Is it all right if I go ahead and visit Matron Lewis, too?

Yes. Is something wrong?

No. Just doing some checking. I'll let you know tonight, okay?

Thank you for consulting me, Dean. I like to know where you are headed, in case something goes wrong.

Thank me when I remember to ask you about both directives at once, not when I remember just in time to tack on a secondary destination, Dean prayed. Little mistakes like that can ruin everything. He was at their rooms, now, and racing for the standing bureau. I'm putting your favorite kimono back on, just in case a description of me needs given.

All I would have to say is that I'm missing a beautiful, green-eyed man... Cas' mental voice, sultry and low, sent chills racing up Dean's spine.

Maybe he shouldn't wear Cas' favorite?

With soft hair the color of wet river sand , Cas continued, getting into it. Golden skin, tiny little freckles dusting over his nose and cheeks...

Cas... You gotta stop, Dean pleaded.

Ah. I didn't get 'Please desist with your attempt to stir me', or, 'I humbly request you cease your incitement'. I do love taking your big words away from you, Dean .

Damn it, Cas. Dean fumbled in tying his obi. I don't want to go to my dad and friend reeking of the lust you cause. There. Was that good enough?

It was more 'you', Dean. Use the alpha scent blocker, and see what it does to your scent. It's in my travel chest.

Dean found the bottle, and liberally doused himself. It doesn't have a smell.

I found that rather curious, myself. I wish to find the manufacturer, and see what goes into the stuff. If I discover it's made from harmful ingredients, I will campaign publicly about it's eradication.

Dean put his fans on his obi. It's oddly nice to have you in my head, but disorienting. I think we should stop.

By all means, hadja. Enjoy your outing. Pray if you need me.

Will do. Dean left it at that, and hurried down. He'd have to double either his best friend, or, his dad, on this trip, and thought maybe it should be Crowley. Sharing John's horse might stir up latent alpha traits in the reformed villain of the piece.

Dean thought he really should be spending more than thirty minutes a day with Venture. Just because his horse wasn't big enough, or broken to ride, didn't mean he should slack off.

He found his father and friend standing beside their horses, talking softly. They didn't see him as he entered the large stable, even though Dean had to stop and acknowledge the stable attendants, who bowed, wishing him a good evening. So, Dean had ample opportunity to watch how his much-changed sire, and his cagey companion, interacted without him.

Crowley leaned his body toward John, asking for attention silently. John gave him full eye contact, his body at the same loose-ready position as when duty might fall upon him at any moment. It was strange to see them like that with each other, but also inspiring. They looked like a pair. A team. Like they understood each other, and anticipated how to act in unison.

Hope filled Dean's heart. The lonely tailor and the lonely hunter. Similar in years, in hardship, and, even in killing what they considered a blight upon humanity. John and Crowley would probably argue hotly over human death, but maybe they needed each other for that. Tempering. Adapting to each other's values.

Trying. Actually, both of them trying doubly, for including and promoting Dean within their dynamic.

Crowley put a hand up, stroked the back of it down John's jaw, murmuring in his smooth baritone. John kind of relaxed into it, closing his eyes.

Yeah.

Yeah, John was fucked. Crowley knew what he was doing.

Dean let them have their moment, all squeamishness gone from his system, and when they half tried to get a good hold on themselves, realizing they were in public, he made a show of advancing while pretending to be distracted by a man moving a horse out of a paddock. He oriented upon them, pleased that they didn't immediately pretend distance with each other. They were being honest with him as well as with each other, and only good would come of that.

“Dad, I'm used to riding with Crowley. Do you mind...?” Dean felt certain John wouldn't care one bit. But, he offered John the option of alpha decision. A bow-down to his father that John wasn't obligated to either confirm or deny.

Show John the deference, knowing he wouldn't take it. Not after the debacle that happened with Sam's arrival at Tor-Valen. Yet, unobtrusively displaying confidence in his sire's decisions, was good for John.

Trust.

John frowned very slightly. His scent kicked up for full obeisance to Dean's will, but, it blended into a complex ambivalence. It was the same as the mysterious smell Dean had caught coming off of his father in the boat house. Strong...

John sighed, and bowed his head. His scent swelled with guilt. “You weren't taught to ride. That's why you always rode in a carriage, or with your husband. You didn't know about the horse breeds, either.” He straightened, and gave Dean such a look of regret. Heat-breaking. “I'm so sorry, Dean. Some omegas do ride. I thought you would, too.”

“It's okay, Dad,” Dean hastened to assure, nearly overwhelmed by importance. He finger-combed his dad's hair twice. And, as always, John relented to the omega reassurance. Gave in. Grateful to have Dean's sanction in any way or form, whatsoever. More apology, and thankfulness, in scent and body language, than Dean could ever hope to get through stupid words.

“Got your gun?” Dean swallowed against an ache in his throat. His dad would never stop punishing himself for what he'd done to him. That was okay while being horrible. Dean didn't know which held as the strongest emotion. Not yet. “We need the protection, and, yes, I do know you have one, thanks to your prospective mate having a witchy mock-up of Tor-Valen.”

John's shoulders went back as he assumed protective detail. He gave Dean a short nod. “I always have the Colt. I pay no attention to country laws when traveling to destroy the Dark.”

“Good.” Dean smiled at him. “You should ride in front. I'll feel better, and Crowley probably will appreciate the view of your broad shoulders and strong back. So, mount up.”

John, supported by Dean's confidence, and the idea he'd be attractive for his future mate, put a boot in the foot brace that dangled from his horse's saddle. He swung up and astride with the ease of someone who spent countless hours on the back of a horse. Looking down at Dean and Crowley, he reined in his anxious steed to a complete standstill. “Fergus,” he said while slightly smiling. “You knew Dean would ride with you. You didn't put a saddle on Shade Blossom.”

Shade Blossom? Dean mentally shook his head. Nice, actually. The solid black horse was suited to that, and Crowley liked flowers enough to assign them to what he cared for.

“Of course Dean would ride with me,” Crowley said, a teasing arrogance to his tone. He guided his horse nearer to a bale of hay, stepped on, then hoisted himself. He offered down a hand to Dean. “He knows what I can do when irritated by an enemy. He's yet to see how studly you are in action, Pretty. So am I. I confess I'm eager.”

Dean chose the hay bale's help, too, but still took Crowley's hand for that final hoist to the horse's back. He landed solidly, and was quick to get his grip to Crowley's laterals. “Dad's a complete and total bad-ass,” he said, loud enough for John to hear. “One doesn't have to see that to know it.”

“Oh, I agree, sunshine,” Crowley purred while looking over at John. “I agree.” He took a moment to audibly sniff the air. “What did you do? I know you're here, but I can't smell you, not even with the breeze back-blowing.”

John sniffed, too. “You're like a nasal void, son.”

Smiling, Dean shrugged. The scent blocker apparently worked for omegas as well as alphas. Good to know. “I used Cas' alpha blocker, because he got me all worked up before I left. I guess I'm in 'stealth mode'.”

Chapter Text

This is not a new chapter, I am sorry to announce. This is a message to my readers. First, thanks to all of you who have written, offered help, given encouragement. You have no idea how much your kindness has been helping me get through my physical handicaps while I take care of my elderly parents. Truly. You can't know what a joy it is for me to see a comment in my inbox after all this time of being unable to write. I don't even have a space to myself in order to write, sadly, and all my attention is being pulled in two different directions at once.

Also, I will not be posting any new chapters until a problem is taken care of. While reviewing previous work, Tor-Valen, with the intention of trying to get back into this universe, a reader Shugo123ert:D emailed me to inform my work was being posted on Webnovel.com under the name of Daphne Hart, called On Free Wings. https://www.webnovel.com/book/14678739306343405/On-Free-Wings

This person is not Daphne Hart, an LGBT+ writer you can find on Amazon- https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B016XCUFPI?_encoding=UTF8&node=283155&offset=0&pageSize=12&searchAlias=stripbooks&sort=author-pages-popularity-rank&page=9&langFilter=default#formatSelectorHeader

To sum up, this is day five of trying to get the administrators of Webnovel to take care of the theft of my intellectual property. All I can do for now is not post another thing. As the thief has a lot of my material to go through, posting one or two chapters every day, it might take a long time to get her to this point, unless she is now reading this to see what else she can take.

If this is you, fake Daphne Hart, enjoy.

Everyone else, I will be making a list of email addresses. Maybe I can give you chapters that way, when I can manage to write. I hate to stop writing altogether, but it is depressing to have a work that is five years in the making, stolen so gleefully, and going unpunished.

My love, Savaial

Update! I was reading what she posted to gather evidence, (she was lazy), and she started deleting the entire thing. That's thanks to you guys, by the way. The moderators on Webnovel were pretty much ignoring me, patting me on the head. I intend to inform them that the people who like my story did their work for them. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I am being considered for a real book. If that happens, I will have to remove this fic. So, you guys download it, if you haven't already. Also, I am keeping comments moderated, so email is safe to post to me. I would like for the original readers to get my newer chapters even if I decide not to post here.

If not for you guys, that inconsiderate, lazy person would still be stealing from me. I am grateful to every last atom.

Chapter Text

Dear fanfic lovers-

I am not ignoring your comments, suggestions, and email.  I am going through a Covid crisis, an elderly parent crisis even before that, and a lot of health issues.  I love getting comments, but I don't have the time or strength to respond.  Honestly, I go moment to moment as either a sobbing mess, because my mother got taken from me 22 days ago for injuries sustained from a fall, to a berserker for having no power in the same crisis.  She took a fall 22 days ago, and I called and ambulance.  She's 85.  She went from ER to another hospital, then a quarantine, then to another place.  She will be within where we live in a 9 mile radius as of the morrow.  In the meantime I am solely responsible for my 92 year old father, who is of a good heart, but wishes I was a complete retard so that my good eyes, ears, legs and hands, didn't have an opinion attached.  In short, my creative intent is for shit, right now.  And, my negotiations for making this work into a real novel, got a hard back burner.

My thanks to all of you who cared enough to say something.  I really don't know what's going to happen, now.