[fic] Triskele - Part III
From what Dean could gather, Ellen at least went by 'Lady Harvelle'. At last he'd been granted some kind of continuity with this whole name thing. While he now understood why people were named what they were, keeping track of it all was probably about as hectic as taking care of twins on The Sims. He just hoped that Sam would be back soon, and that he could go home and be done with all of this. None of this mattered.
Ellen and Jo were most notably the same, if their personalities and attitudes were taken into account. He was sure that would have had the rest of Elizabethan society turn their noses up, but good for them. With them was Ash, still rocking his mullet, and wearing his jerkin unbuttoned. It was enough to catch John off guard, especially with how personable Ash was with everyone. Of course there were some differences, but nothing that would scream out of character. If anything, it was the most refreshing meet-up yet.
Another thing Dean found himself grateful for was that Ellen didn't seem too keen on marrying Jo off, especially to Dean. She may not have said it in quite those words, but it was good enough for him. Mary kept a grin on her face, relief or plain acceptance, it didn't matter. John seemed a little upset at the verdict, but there wasn't much he could do. Dean: 1, John: 0.
He just wished he'd enjoyed it a little bit more, because the day after was the day he'd dreaded the most: The arrival of Crowley-oh, wait, sorry, Duke Dunwhestle. Dunwhestle. It proved mostly anticlimactic, thankfully. He arrived, there were hellos; the end. Dean would have been just fine with that, but of course (because no one in England travelled without company) Crowley's guest stepped in to make things just that much more awkward.
Michael, but it was worse, because this Michael was currently wearing the Young John Winchester Edition vessel, which no one around him seemed to find strange. Dean was ready to figure out just how awkward the situation was on a scale of 1-10, but his math was cut short as Michael ('Michael Windom' he was called) was introduced as Crowley's charge. They mentioned something called a patronage, but that didn't do Dean much good as he had no idea what that was. So he just smiled and waved, deciding that being quiet was an excellent choice. It wasn't until someone mentioned a competition that Michael actually appeared interested in the conversation himself. It was a surprise to Dean, a random mention from his father, and it interested most - correction: all - of the company there.
Despite the excitement going around, talking about contests and promises to win them, Dean's attention kept snapping back to Crowley. He had to remind himself that the guy had come through in a pinch to off Dick Roman, but he was still keeping an eye on him. It didn't matter if he was the real Crowley, or if he was some fake, alternate universe Crowley; if he still wanted Cas dead, then he would have his work cut out for him. Fighting or not, Cas was still family.
Speaking of which, where was Cas in the first place? Dean had seen neither hide nor hair (or feather?) of him since he'd flown off after their fight. Dean hadn't checked his chamber, but the servants that usually tended to him had all said that they'd not seem him, either. His absence had to be notable if Jo and Ellen were surprised and commenting on it, but they didn't press much further. They'd been the only ones, but several nights later Mary added herself onto that list and pulled Dean aside.
They walked up and down the gallery, Mary having taken Dean's arm. They walked slowly, glancing at the different weapons fake-Dean had collected and mounted on the walls. Some appeared positively ancient, and others glistened with the last bits of sunlight filtering through the few windows. There were spears, and some swords, all different in length, in metals, and, assumedly, weight. Bows hung elegantly about, arrows decorating the extra space and pointing towards the end of the hall.
"Did you have a fight?"
"Fight with who?" Dean played, but Mary was a mom, and moms knew better. He really wanted nothing more right then than to revel in the moment, no matter how slight it was, but the self-reminder that this wasn't really his mom dampened it all. No matter how much she looked like, acted like, smelled like, or spoke like her, it just wasn't really her. Well, at least Dean was used to disappointment.
"With Castiel," she said, and his train of thought switched tracks. "No one's seen him. Do you think he ran off?"
Cas running off, there was a novel idea. (Right.) "He might have, but I doubt it," Dean huffed. "Probably just hiding off somewhere being emotional." Dean was close to regretting saying that, mostly because Cas' decision to leave hadn't necessarily been an overly emotional one; at least not in speech. He'd seemed sure of the choice, having left no room for wavering or flip-flopping.
Mary sighed as she paused to view a polished bow. "Did you check the chapel?"
"What? Chapel? No."
"Then go check the chapel! Dean, do you realize what could happen to him if he's out there and is captured?"
"What would he be captured for?" Dean asked, baffled. What would anyone want with a broken angel? (Unless your name was Crowley, and therefore possibly a scheming, two-timing son of a bitch.) "Nothing really calls out 'criminal' about him, the guy's probably handing out free batches of strawberries, with a free kitten if you give a donation to the church."
"Don't make fun of him!" Mary admonished. She was smiling though, so that was good. "If he's caught in suspicion of being a Romanist, it's over for him, and possibly you for harboring him. I know your father hadn't taken kindly to housing him when you left."
Dean almost asked what Mary meant by Romanist, but he was more than capable of putting two and two together. "Right, Catholic. Not good," he mumbled.
"Go find him and apologize. I'm sure you did or said something that made him disappear. Just be patient with him. I know it's a difficult thing for you to do; you get it from your father." Mary stopped them again, turning to eye Dean suspiciously as he grumbled to himself. "Thank goodness your brother will be back soon. Just take care of it before you're torn to bits in London, please? Preferably by tomorrow."
"Yes, Mom."
"Yes, Mom," Mary mocked. "I'm going to turn in, and I suggest you do the same. We'll need our strength for tomorrow. I refuse to lose to Dunwhestle and Windom."
Dean grinned. "Whatever, we'd totally beat their asses any day."
Mary quirked her eyebrow, reminding Dean certain phrases just weren't in use quite yet.
"We'll win," he amended.
Mary still regarded him oddly, but she smiled. "We had better." She reached up some to kiss his cheek. "Good night, darling. Angels are watching over you."
Worry shadowed over him, replacing the minute shock he'd felt before. Dean was unsure if Mary had picked up on it as she wished him a good night, but he did notice his fingers start to drum rapidly in nervousness as she walked away to the opposite end of the gallery. Once she was out of sight, Dean turned back to the arrows pointing towards his chamber.
Tomorrow's contests. Nothing huge-maybe some fancy swordfight, a bit of archery, or firing some rifles. Things Dean really didn't want to do. He couldn't remember ever firing an arrow in his life, and the closest he'd ever gotten to sword-fighting was sticking monsters with knives and daggers, or chopping heads off of vampires or leviathans. (Well there was that one time with the Shojo and the katana; did that count? And what about those dragons?) Sure he was handy with a firearm, but these particular 16th century 'guns' weren't exactly what he was used to. Inaccurate as all Hell: he may as well end up shooting someone behind him instead of the target in front of him. Dean all but growled at the violently decorative wall. He'd be making a fool of himself, and he really wasn't up for making himself look like an idiot. He was definitely not in the mood.
"Lord Smyth."
Nor was he really in the mood for Crowley, with that grating, self-serving tone of his. Dean had to force himself to turn around, and stare at him in his fancy, smooth clothes, holding a goblet of wine, or whatever he drank. Some things never changed. The only issue now was to try and remember exactly how to greet him; giving Crowley anything to be suspicious about would be bad news.
"Duke." Failsafe.
"Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear some of your more personal matters regarding a fellow named Castiel."
"Yeah? Well you can forget you heard anything and fuck off-"
"Why so hostile, Smyth? All I do is state that I overhear your conversation and you tell me to leave before I even get to the point of this."
Dean's mind didn't get very far in stopping his mouth before he said, "Make it quick."
"Your mum's right, you know. You can't let your friend get too far away, and then caught. Get found out, and, well. Good Queen Bess might not be in the most forgiving of moods. Tell me, Lord Smyth. What is dear Castiel's business here at Lawrence Hall?"
Dean hesitated. "Personal chaplain and friend." He remembered Cas telling him to keep that information low, but if Crowley already knew, what more harm could he cause?
"Oh, that is tricky, innit?" Crowley drank from his goblet, a bit of frown on his lips. "The chaplain part, of course. Unless the friend part is more … complicated? But that's not really my business."
"Get to the point, Cr-Sir."
"All right, all right. Your mum was right; you are an impatient little gink, aren't you?"
"An impatient little what?"
"It means you're annoying. Now quiet up and listen. Here's the deal. Our most kind and wonderful queen has gotten a bit harsher in recent years regarding Romanists, but it's not as if she's visiting every church to make sure things are going her way. No one's looking to make sure that worshipers are crying in thanks to the Lord for His salvation. What anyone cares about is what's in the coffer, and what's on paper; what's in the record."
"I really don't-"
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Crowley interrupted. "I didn't know I was finished yet! Shut your mouth and listen to me!"
"Okay, fine! Cool your jets, man!" Dean took half a step back, crossing his arms. Crowley glared at him, but continued on right where he'd left off.
"Since dear Harry married Annie, and Bessy came along, it's been back-and-forth. I mean, quite frankly, after the first two or three turn-arounds, you can't blame a man for just agreeing on paper and acting it out, but keeping his own faith within. It just works easier that way. Smoother, at any rate, and keeps people in line.
"I, luckily for you and Castiel, have the power to slip names in and out of the records without detection. If word were to get out that he's only just converted, there will be questions asked, and your family will be scrutinized for not conforming to the common faith."
"That's a load of bull-"
"You really have an issue with this whole 'not interrupting' thing, don't you? As I was saying." He took another drink. "I can put Castiel in there. Get a hold of the church records, write his name, and he's set. No need to worry, as long as you lay low and breathe not a word of it to anyone."
Dean examined Crowley up and down, trying to discern in the last drop of sunlight what he was up to. Crowley was always up to something. "That seems like really risky work."
"Oh, it is, no doubt. But I'm the duke of Dunwhestle, and on the Privy Council, am I not? I have quite a bit of sway, so it's easier for me than most."
"What has that sway gotten you?"
Crowley smirked as he brought the goblet back up to his lips. "A fair bit, let's say."
"And what do you want me to do for this? You're not just doing this out of the kindness of your heart." Dean's glare narrowed. Of course Crowley would want something. King of the Crossroads, and all.
"I'm hurt, Smyth; truly. Don't worry. I'll cash in when it's time. Till then, just remember you owe a favor. So, we've got a deal?"
Crowley stretched his hand towards Dean.
***
When Dean next woke, it was in pitch black to the familiar sound of wings and wind. It was followed by a snap of fingers, and the whoosh and cracks of fire. Dean hurriedly propped himself up on his elbows, blinking blearily about him as his eyes tried to focus. Yawning in a rather unattractive manner, he turned over to his back and breathed in sharply when he found Castiel the Missing Angel sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Falling back down and covering his face with his hands, Dean breathed in the scent of the fire, and exhaled loudly.
"Dude, I don't know how many time I have to tell you. Don't do that. One day I'm just gonna shank you cuz I'll think you're some monster, and you're not gonna be able to survive it. Man, what time is it?"
Cas' voice was low, and soft. "It's roughly quarter past three. I'm sorry for waking you up, I didn't mean to."
"S'fine. Where've you been?"
"About. When I left here the other day, I went to check in on Sam. He's quite handy at what he does in this reality. Actually, it's almost frightening, to tell you the truth. He should be home in the next day or so."
Dean sat up, realizing this wasn't going to be a quick check-in. Granted he was the one asking questions, so that made it okay. "Good, that's good. You didn't go anywhere else."
"I did." Cas' voice took on a slightly more excited tone, only just noticeable, and he situated himself more comfortably on Dean's mattress, shifting just a bit closer. Cas completely ignored the slightly baffled expression Dean wore, and continued. "I went to the forest. It was beautiful, Dean. I almost wish you could have seen what I saw."
"Oh my God. You really are a hippy, aren't you, Cas?" He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
"Life is amazing. Do you remember when I told you that God laid everything out? Blueprints? Plans? How everything was perfect."
Dean wasn't sure if Cas noticed his nodding, and as Cas continued, Dean was sure that he was never going to find out.
"I lied. In the forest, I was watching a young bird - not a hatchling, it had feathers, but wa-"
"To the point, Cas!"
"Yes, I'm getting there. I was watching him for a while. He approached the edge of the nest, then retreated, and repeated it over and over again. He couldn't decide, and that's when I remembered. My father gave every living creature a mind of its own. The bird did what my father had planned: gather the knowledge that would allow it to properly hop away and learn to fly. Of course, with humans…." Cas laughed. "Humans always take things further than necessary."
Dean yawned once more, followed by a sigh. "I suppose you're going to elaborate? I am so lost."
"Well, for example, in this era. God gave humans faith to worship Him, and yes, He had some pretty strict rules about it in the beginning. But then Man thought it was okay to kill in His name, and," Cas chuckled. "You should have been there when He found out what Constantine did, and what others did to the Bible and Gospels after that. (You thought your dad had a temper.) At the same time He couldn't blame you guys entirely. He did give you the capacity to think for yourselves, et cetera."
"That's wonderful, Cas, but it doesn't explain anything, and has nothing to do with this time period, or birds," Dean groaned. He rested his cheek on a fist, watching Castiel with naught but a bored daze.
"It does. The history of religion is bloody, especially Christianity's wars with Judaism and Islam. God never cared after a while, so long as Man kept faith and worshipped Him. Europe's obsession with Catholicism, and Britain and Scotland's issues between Catholics and Protestants were medieval even for the times. God had moved on - and disappeared - by then. It's just … Man's faith, and the choices Man makes. Towards anything. It's a beautifully terrifying thing, don't you think?"
"Shaking under my covers."
"Well I thought so. But then I made the most important discovery. I was created to follow my father's order's, but then you and Sam taught me about free will, and making my own choices. I've been making my own choices. I've more than diverted from the course of my father's plan, but still am this great, great creation of His regardless of my rank, or status, or even species!"
"…Congratulations. You woke me up at three in the morning for that?"
"No. I hadn't intended to wake you up, as I said. But…." Cas trailed off, but grinned. He barely hid his teeth. "I had overheard your discussion with Crowley."
Dean huffed an amused breath. "You mean His Grace, the Duke of Dunwhestle? What a joke."
"It's a funny name. But while you're awake, I thought I'd let you know that I've already fixed all of that. After our discussion in the library, I realized what could happen, so I checked the books. We're perfectly safe, as long as you stop calling me your chaplain."
"Done."
Cas' next words were hesitant. "You didn't make the deal, right?"
Dean stood to grab himself some water, his shirt falling to his knees. "Course not." He stopped himself from making the next comment as he filled a fresh goblet with some water from the basin. He kind of jiggled it a bit in Cas' direction, subtly asking for a quick chill. The metal grew colder in Dean's hand upon Cas' quick glance to the goblet, and Dean continued after a (rather refreshing) draught. He turned back to top it off. "I'm not making any deals with that dick. I ain't kissin' that mouth, I don't know where it's been, 'sides Bobby." He paused, shuddering, but slowly spun around to face Cas. "Did you…?"
Castiel appeared taken aback. "I'm an angel. I don't think demons' deals with angels need something so earthly to hold."
"Not that angels should be making deals with demons in the first place."
Dean returned to the bed, Castiel standing up with a hardened gleam in his eyes. Oh, yeah-Dean had forgotten. It had been so easy to forget they'd fought, yet with one comment, defenses were up. From what Dean could recall, Cas said he'd help Dean and Sam return home, and then be on his way. Apparently Cas had forgotten, however temporarily, as well. Dean closed his eyes, thinking frantically of what to say before Cas could spirit off again to who-knew-where. His mom said to be patient, and to apologize, but apologizing to your best friend was a surprisingly difficult task.
"Castiel, look." Dean forced himself to keep his eyes on Cas. If this was going to happen, it was going to happen right. "I'm sorry, for all of it. I still don't like what you did. I still am kind of annoyed, but I understand why you did it." His eyes jot to a few places, but not for long; they found Cas' right away once more, unable to focus on much else while apologizing. "You put Sam back on his feet and sacrificed yourself to do it, and you helped beat Dick when you didn't want to; I gave you a lot of shit when you didn't deserve it. So I'm sorry."
At first, Dean wasn't sure if Cas was going to accept the apology (which he maybe couldn't blame him for), but he'd be lying to say he'd be surprised. That was when Cas grinned, nodded, and sat down closer to Dean on the bed. "You wouldn't be you otherwise, Dean. Thank you."
"This means you're not. Y'know. Going away, right?" Dean rushed. The proximity was starting to work that awkward feeling he'd felt in the library, probably not at all helped along by the Friendship Circle Time apologies. "You'll stay with Sam and me? It's your choice." He would just feel exceedingly awkward without Cas around anymore.
"I hadn't actually planned on it," Cas admitted. He was grinning, and he was almost ogling Dean with such formidable conviction that it came very close to scaring him. It was a different look, one Dean had never truly been leveled, and the unfamiliarity scared him. It didn't help that warm, maybe uncomfortable feeling stop, either. Instead, it almost started to feel as if it was settling, and making itself right at home.
"Good luck tomorrow, and good night, Dean."
Just like that the fire was out, its light gone. The dip where Castiel had sat on the bed was gone, and though he'd felt no heat from the fire earlier, Dean felt a chill sweep over him. Warily he slipped under the sheets and glanced around in blackness until he wasn't sure his eyes were opened or closed. It took some time and wrestling around, but finally Dean fell asleep.
***
The next day proved to be most worrisome. The sun was high, and the sky bright blue without a cloud to be seen for the first time in the two weeks since their arrival. The breeze was light and pleasant, the birdsong was soft, and it was neither hot nor cold.
It was a horrible day.
Breakfast was fine, and lunch (thank you very much) was far too excited and jovial. Crowley and Michael sat across from John, Mary, and the Moores, while Jess spoke with Ellen, Jo, and Ash. It left Dean to lament his to-be-showcased failures to Cas, while Cas had played with the turnip on his plate. (In the meantime, he had been welcomed back with only a few questions as to his whereabouts.) It hadn't been long after that when they all decided that going outside for the start of the contests was a good idea. Fleetingly, Dean considered faking ill and going inside, but he caught Mary's, Jo's, and Jess's eyes; there would be no backing out of this if he wanted to survive.
Teams were drawn through straws. Dean, Jess, Mary, Ash, Cas, and Jo would be competing as a team while Crowley, Michael, Ellen, John, and Jess's parents comprised the opposite. Having Jo, Ash, and even Jess on his team put him a bit at ease, but with Ellen and John on the opposing side, it was still a very crippling reality.
Servants hurried about, getting things set up. From what he could tell, archery would be first, and starting it off would be John and Ellen. Dean watched on, worried. He couldn't remember ever having fired an arrow, even after all that hunting with Bobby. Jo seemed to have noticed his anxiety, and without question helped him with his shooting glove and bracer. She fixed his quiver around his waist, but then tied a kerchief around the leather strap.
"For good luck," she said.
That was a favor, right? Sixteenth century flirting, or whatever? Dean had a quick shock of panic, but Jo soon enough winked to him with a whisper of, "And to get your dad to stop giving us angry glares."
By whatever grace of God, the scores stood in favor of Team Dean, even if only by only a few points. Despite the lead, it didn't ease Dean's worry any more as he set up to try and hit the targets. (It was cruel and unusual punishment that the target had been placed so far away; he just knew it.) What was worse - because it could always, always get worse - was that his direct opponent was Michael. Why Michael? Well that was easy: God hated Dean.
Dean would shoot first. He stepped up with a groan and to a loud round of applause from his team. Maybe if he just … closed his eyes and hoped for the best? He did his best to stand as everyone else had, hoping he didn't look like an idiot, but no one was laughing so that was good, right? Dean drew back and holy crap how had Jess done this? That woman was deceptively strong; Sam had definitely picked a good one.
He aligned his shot, unsure exactly of what he was doing, and more or less chanting, Shoot the aliens and save NYC to himself over and over. He closed his eyes before releasing the arrow, and peeped them open the tiniest bit to watch as it flew, flew-and dug its way into the ground. The following three seconds were comprised of that horrible silence that allowed no distraction from the pitiful display of Dean's talent. (Which, according to his recent performance, was incredibly lacking.) It allowed the shock and disappointment and utter embarrassment to sink in that much more, but Dean wasn't going to let this deter him. He tried laughing it off.
"Didn't really have time to warm up, haha…." No one seemed very settled at the statement. He tried again with, "But what kind of host would I be, not letting my guests win, right?"
That seemed to amuse them enough, even Cas (whose arrows had at least hit the target, he was probably cheating), so the rest of the shots in his end were more for lax amusement than competition. Dean's last arrow had only just stopped shuddering from its planting when Michael nocked his own. Everyone had stopped their laughing at Dean, and Michael's arrow was loosed to land two rings from the center.
Show off.
The consecutive shots all hit within 8 inches of the middle, and of course they would, this was Michael, God's favorite pretty-boy angel. Of course Michael would be perfect. He'd earned an appreciative round of applause and nodded to Dean.
"Lord Smyth, thank you for helping to make my skill appear better than it truly is."
"Heh, yeah." Dean's smile could only last so long.
The next little event was firearms targets, which Dean was eternally grateful for. Guns weren't so huge in Britain just yet, from what he gathered. Loading it was a small adventure, but even for as inaccurate as the guns inherently were, Dean's shots weren't far off target at all and he'd won the round without trouble. Michael came in close second, but Dean didn't care. He was hyped up and confident, even for the next, and last, part of the games.
Fencing.
Dean couldn't decide if he was nervous or not for that event. Fighting was a thing he did, but fighting with rules was something just a little different. And he'd never really handled a sword, or whatever it was, before. This would be a test all on its own, and so Dean watched carefully as everyone fought. Their feet, their directions, and how they would attack and block. Castiel would lean over and point out things to watch for; Dean filed it away and when it was time he stepped up to face his opponent.
And because God hated him, of course it would be Michael. Fucking. Michael.
"Lord Smyth." He bowed.
"Mr. Windom." Dean returned the bow with a smite-me-now-but-not-really smile, and hoped to God he was doing this right. (The bowing, of course, not the sarcastic prayer to be smote.)
Dean didn't remember much of how he'd moved. He didn't know any names of moves. He knew he did a sloppy job. Michael was absolutely merciless after having lost at the firearms contest, and it overwhelmed Dean. Yet, given that, he did a fine job reading Michael's movements, if he did say so himself. Maybe a few (lot) thrusts were unconventional, or some (most of the) steps were a bit (really) out-of-the-way. And maybe he'd lost by a couple (ton of) points, but for a guy who barely knew the first thing about fencing, and fighting someone who clearly knew what they were doing, he wasn't complaining. Even if there was a lot of wincing from the others.
Following was supper. Dean had no time for many niceties. He was starving, and had several helpings of the options closest to him at the table. Cas, Jo, Jess, and even Ellen found it amusing. The others? Not so much. However, stomachs full, the party went back outside to the gardens for an event that Dean was even more lost on than fencing, and that event was dancing.
Around the gardens were torches, not only lighting the area around them, but also throwing off more heat than what was probably necessary. Thankfully there was just enough of a breeze to refresh everyone every few moments or so, and the flowers actually added a nice aroma to it all. Once there, Dean made sure to sit himself down to drink, making no motion that might at all hint the desire to dance. He drank through one goblet, then another; he was just about to begin the third when Ellen came up beside him with her own very-filled goblet.
"What's got you so worked up?" she asked. "The entire time I've been here you've been acting funny, and I know you're not the best swordsman but you were pathetic out there."
Dean choked on that sip, and set the goblet down with a heavy thunk. "Thanks! Comforting."
"Well, lying's looked down on, last I heard. Are you gonna tell me what's wrong, or do I have to force it from you?"
Dean grinned, showing the barest amount of teeth. "Just a couple of off weeks." Really off. "Nothin' to worry about." Except everything.
"Huh. Well that's too bad. I worry." Ellen took a seat next to Dean, watching some of the others do their weird little dances. There was no way Dean would survive dancing; he'd surely find a way to knock everyone down. He noticed Cas was having a somewhat difficult time keeping up with some of the dances, and it made him grin. (Though he was probably doing better than Dean ever could.)
But he sighed, and played a bit with the top of his right boot. "I appreciate it, I do, but I'll be fine."
"Don't lie to me, I watched you grow up. You can't lie to me."
Who needed a polygraph when you had women like Ellen Harvelle around to tell when you were lying? He thought, and thought some more. How did one tell the truth without even knowing all of it? Or a lie. "I'm sorry about my dad. He was being-" A dick. "-rude." He grinned at the lip of his goblet. "Honestly, I was kinda relieved you weren't interested in any of that."
"Don't apologize for him, he's not your responsibility. Plus, and I dunno if you've noticed, but John's a little slow." Dean grinned. "I'm not ready to give her away, either." She paused, and Dean wondered if it was because of the past between Ellen and John. Giving her daughter to a Winchester seemed like a silly move, didn't it? "Not that I'd mind having either you or your brother as a son-in-law, it'd be an honor, but that's not what either of you want."
"Ellen-"
"No," she interrupted. "Past is the past. You move on, keep going, and you put things in order. You do what you have to, and you'll find you can do more than you thought."
Ellen rehashed the story about her husband and John, and hearing it now was hardly any different, but there was something else associated with it. Maybe it was putting the time into perspective, or realizing how Ellen managed to just make things work. It was pretty awesome, and having her around again gave Dean a bit of a boost. Enough of one that Jo's and Castiel's interruption didn't bother him all that much. (Just a little.) Jo was smiling and laughing, probably a little light headed from dancing, while Cas kept a tame smile on his face.
"I believe the spinning of the dance is the most fun of it," he said. Jo laughed some more in agreement, and Ellen stood up to grab Jo's shoulders and straighten her posture. Her sudden complaining became their backdrop as Cas grinned down at Dean and teased, "You should go spin. You may cheer yourself up after earlier's defeats."
"You know, I'd say, 'Aren't angels supposed to be benevolent and nice?' except for now that whole idea has been shattered, and I know better." Despite the accusation, Dean grinned along, picking up his goblet to drink some more. When he lowered it, Castiel's familiar stare was on him a little more intently, and Dean again felt that uncomfortably familiar and warm tugging sensation. This time he could feel it start to localize; warmth under his diaphragm, gentle twisting in his stomach, and a tug from deep down that pulled up towards his heart. Then it stopped. It just dissipated, and the only reason he realized he'd blocked everything out was because Ellen was pulling Cas away, and Jo was giggling next to him, having taken Ellen's seat as she watched her mother and Cas go off.
"Castiel's not danced in a long time, I take it?" Jo finally asked, watching as Cas stepped in the opposite direction of everyone else on the floor.
"Oh, you noticed," Dean laughed, playing along. Yet the sad part was that Cas had probably never danced, unless angels had some kind of special dances up in the clouds.
Jo laughed again, this time a little louder, as she pointed to Ash trying to put his own groove in the steps and bumping into people left and right (even more than Cas was). Dean sighed, shaking his head. Jo continued to smile, actually snorting a little bit, which made Dean laugh. He had to suppose that, in all, the evening wasn't shaping out too badly and was actually a lot of fun. It would probably have been more so with Sam around, but counting what he was lucky enough to have around him, it wasn't bad. His parents were chatting with Jess's, Ellen was pushing Ash along to dance correctly, and Cas was slowly falling into step with the others. Jess was playing niceties with Michael, poor girl, and even Crowley wasn't making a fuss of anything.
Mostly because Dean couldn't spot him anywhere. A shock up his spine sat him straight, and every bit of instinct told him Not good. He stood and peeked around and through the servants coming in and out, but there was no sign of him. The hairs on the back of his neck tickled in a way he was pretty sure wasn't supposed to be good. He managed to catch Cas' attention, mouthing, Where's Crowley? but received a shake of the head and a shrug in answer before he was spun around.
Jo tapped his arm with a, "Look over there."
Dean glanced down at her, who pointed out just to the edge of the fires' light's reach. A figure was slinking away, growing fainter each moment. Dean would likely have not noticed it if not for Jo, and it made everything probably three times more suspicious. She'd found Crowley. So again Dean caught Cas' attention, and gestured out towards the forest to his nod.
"Isn't that Dunwhestle?" Jo whispered.
"Yeah," he said. "That's him. Stay here."
Ignoring Jo's, "What?!" Dean worked back towards the manor, and then carefully shuffled away to find himself a dark patch away from any light, and from where he could start jogging to where, he hoped, Crowley had disappeared to. He knew Crowley was up to no good, but figuring it out and proving it were on a whole new level. One of the only cards he had on Crowley was that they were both human in this universe. Sure, Crowley was still as creepy and sneaky as he was in the real world, but he was still human here. He didn't have demons at his command, or Hell Hounds to snap at his enemies' heels (thank you God), so that could only mean that he had some other sneaky and worse way to screw everyone over.
Though Dean had turned down Crowley's offer, Dean still was curious as to what on earth Crowley could gain from him. Dukes were higher-ranked than earls, so unless there was another rule Dean was unaware of (and he wouldn't be surprised if there was), Dean was stumped. As far as he knew, Dean's only estate - and man it was weird saying that - was Lawrence Hall, and whatever he would inherit when his father died. (Not that he planned on staying at all long enough to find out.) There wasn't much Crowley could gain from Dean, which meant that Crowley would need something not monetary, nor worth any material value.
Reaching the edge of the forest, Dean stopped, listening carefully for some kind of noise to find Crowley. The snap of a twig, or the rustle of clothing. When he did hear a noise, it wasn't quite the kind he was expecting; it was the sound of Jo stepping up on one side of him, with Ash on the other. He shook his head in question, mouthing a Why? up to the heavens.
"You actually thought I wouldn't tag along? You wouldn't have seen him without me! I deserve to tag along," Jo whispered. Ash was right behind with, "And who knows if you ever need my gifted knowledge?"
"You two need to go back, this could get dangerous."
That seemed to be the wrong thing to say.
"Why?!" Jo silently screeched. Dean winced at the noise. So much for quiet. "Because I'm a woman? That makes me weak?!"
"Augh, no!" Dean whispered harshly. He tried pushing them away, but they weren't giving at all. "It's because it's dangerous, and I'm not going to be responsible for it if you get hurt!" He tried pushing them back a few more times, but neither really budged, and Dean didn't want to risk pushing any harder. If they made more noise than was necessary - which really was any amount at this point - they'd be discovered and would probably find themselves in some boiling, scalding water. (And given the time period? That was a pretty literal assumption.) So Dean massaged the sides of his forehead, trying hard not to lose any composure. "You remain quiet," he warned slowly, and he made sure to articulate each sound. "So quiet that…." He paused, thinking. "…Even God can't hear you." Yeah, that was a good one.
Jo smiled to Ash's nod, and Dean suddenly wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about them. For Jo, with women basically being nothing but the property of men and having all these rules to follow, but being as outgoing and headstrong as she was, she probably didn't have an easy time with much of anything. As for Ash, well…. He still wasn't exactly sure about what Ash's role or job was with Ellen or Jo in this time, but if he was anything like the Ash he'd known, random exorcisms had probably been performed on him several times. …It still didn't mean he should have had to babysit them! They were their own people after all.
Dean returned to stalking-mode, and what he wouldn't give for a proper rifle. Actually, the Colt would have been great, too, even if just to make him feel better. His steps were careful as he entered the forest and he made sure he heard whatever he could within a decent radius. Jo and Ash kept quiet for the five-minute walk, stepping carefully as they stopped. The silence of the moment between having breathed out and being ready to breathe back in proved just the ticket. There was a murmur ahead; a murmur that was unmistakably Crowley's.
He gestured Jo and Ash forward, and once close enough to hear Crowley just a bit more clearly, he motioned them to sit, or crouch, or something. Hide behind something. It wasn't long at all before his ears managed to catch … sounds. Just sounds. He thought he might have recognized some words, but he wasn't sure. It sounded odd, and heavily accented, but it definitely wasn't English. From what he could make out, Jo looked to share the same opinion, but Ash…. Ash was focused, and seemed to know just what was going on.
Quickly and quietly, Dean stalked over to hide on the opposite side of the larger boulder they hid behind. "What's going on?" he whispered.
"It's in Scots," Ash said. "Dunwhestle says that the queen's becoming impatient, and something about the post traveling faster."
"Love letters to the queen?" Dean asked. "Setting his sights a little high, isn't he?"
"He said, 'He won't care, his interest isn't with family.'" Ash hmmed. "'I've got things to take care of.' He's getting something to Canisbay, to Gavin. 'If he gives you any trouble then do what you need to.' He's threatening this guy to go fast, or he'll kill him."
The odd threats made both Jo and Dean cringe a little, while Ash just sat there, not really all that affected until Crowley turned around. Freshly inspired, Ash zipped back immediately, squeezing Jo between himself and Dean. Crowley started stomping his way back and as carefully and quietly as they could, Dean, Jo, and Ash shuffled around to stay out of sight. Dean's foot accidentally caught on a few small cobbles, shifting them some with an audible-enough scrape to stop Crowley for just a moment. Dean held his breath, silently cursing himself, and Crowley mumbled something as he walked away with no real incident. But there was one small issue, and that was Crowley's dropped letter. He didn't look like he'd taken any notice, and so carried on.
Dean leaned forward carefully to eye the letter, and he noticed Jo doing the same. Only once they could no longer hear Crowley's footsteps did Dean finally resume breathing. The new air was a definite refresher, but it also helped him realize his heartbeat. He hadn't been terribly afraid, but somehow the stress was enough for him to hear his own pulse. Calming himself down, he stepped out and went towards the letter as Jo pulled a twig or two out of her hood, and Ash pulled at his jerkin.
The folded letter seemed to have some weight to it and turning it over, Dean found why in the presence of a wax seal. Turning it back to the front and squinting his eyes, Dean tried to read the name scrawled there. (Was it a name?) It was spelled N-A-U, but he really couldn't be sure. There was no real light to read by except what moonlight filtered through the trees, and it was all hurried and scribbly. Dean stuffed it inside his jerkin, and quickly led Jo and Ash out of the forest.
They followed close on his heel, almost too close, and he made sure to stay outside of the light from the fires lit at the party. From what Dean could see, Crowley was just rejoining with a little-more-than-friendly greeting to Mary. But Dean rushed on, almost jogging around to the front of the house to read this letter in private. (Just with two other people.)
"Well that's interesting, don't you think?" Ash asked once they'd slowed down some to catch a quick breath. "Why would Dunwhestle be speaking Scots?"
It puzzled Dean, because Ash was right; he'd heard Crowley speaking, and it couldn't have just been his imagination if Ash and a nodding Jo had heard it, too. More confused than he wanted to be, Dean rubbed his thumb along the parchment of the letter, wondering just who or what this Nau person or thing was (and how exactly to pronounce it). One more time he flipped it over to look at the wax seal, and then it hit him. The man he'd been hosting, the man he'd tailed into the forest, was not a man named Crowley, nor the duke of Dunwhestle.
"You guys go back to the party. It'll look suspicious if we all go missing and return at the same time," he ordered. There was no room in his voice for argument, and both Jo and Ash took their leave; without a word they turned around and left him to continue on his way. As he walked, Dean glanced around just to make sure he was in the clear and when he found a lit fireplace he headed straight towards it. He couldn't wait for Man to harness the power of electricity. How many more years?
Once he'd sat down, Dean peeled roughly at the wax, getting it under his fingernails, and unfolded the letter with just a little too much noise. He stopped for a moment to push off any worry, and fixed himself to start reading. Or he would have, if he knew how to read Scrawlish Scratches In What Might Have Been English. There wasn't much he understood in the letter. There were a few small paragraphs, and some kind of list. Beyond that, all he knew was that it was to someone named 'Nau', and down on the bottom, it was signed just as he thought it would be: Fergus MacLeod.
"I suppose this is what they would call an awkward situation."
Dean's head snapped up, his hands clutching at the crinkling parchment. Crowley stood there wincing at the action, and shook his head. Dean refolded the letter, and kept his hold on it firm. "Dunno what you mean by awkward, unless you think I'm reading a letter to Maxim."
Crowley had been ready to respond, but stopped in confusion. Right, no decent pornography just yet. Dean shook his head, and stood up; being beneath Crowley was a little too humiliating for him. "Something you need?" he asked.
"Yes, actually. You see, I know you said 'no' to my little offer earlier, but you've got me in a bit of a bind."
"Do I?" Dean asked.
"Yes. For as quiet as you were trying to be, and bless your soul you tried so hard, you … weren't. Didn't really change much, of course, but still. Given my position, as you know, things could get a little messy for me if that letter is read by the wrong people. Rather embarrassing."
"I'd be embarrassed too, if my name was actually Fergus. Your mom must have hated you."
"Amusing." Crowley stepped forward, and Dean wasn't sure he'd ever seen Crowley so calmly threatening, before. It must have been the way the fire illuminated him and reflected red from his skin. "So how about you hand me back my letter, and I, say, pay you each month to keep your mouth shut? How much would you like? Two pounds a month?"
"Who are you, Cruella DeVille?"
"I just want the letter back, Man!" Crowley roared. He didn't wait for Dean to comply before snatching the letter from him with a quick hand, and he stuffed it into a small purse. "Personal property, mate! Have some respect!"
"Respect? How about not sneaking off into the forest on my property! Or leaving letters with a different, suspicious name on the ground?"
"Or following and invading the privacy of said guest?"
Dean rolled his eyes, but Crowley just shrugged. He was quiet, pensive, for a moment or so, before he sighed and reached back into his purse. "You know," he said, shuffling around. "How about, instead, I give you the letter as collateral?" He held it up and waved it around some. "That way, I may as well be at your beck and call. Keep your mouth shut, but still have the upper hand." Crowley tossed it to Dean, who nearly missed it but saved it just in time with another hard clutch.
Dean regarded him conspicuously. "What's your game?" he asked. "Buying me off and trusting me with the letter?"
"Oh, Christ-give you an incriminating letter that could make me the London gossip and you think I have a game. What do you think I'm trying to do, kill the queen? What more do you want from me?"
Dean shook his head. "Whatever, go back to the party and … don't drop anything else."
Before Crowley could move anywhere, Dean roughly swept past him to his chamber to store the letter before returning to the gardens. He'd at least show his face to his guests like the proper host he was before heading to bed.
***
He had no need to open his eyes to the daylight to know it was late. His eyelids proved no match for the sunlight piercing through them, and he heard a few people bustling in the gallery, probably cleaning. He groaned, murmuring into his pillow about, "Just five more minutes," and promptly pulled all the covers he could over his head to try and dim the assault to his eyes. It was comfortable, it was warm, it was dark, and he was tired. It was perfect.
But as most things in Dean Winchester's life, such perfection simply didn't last for more than a few brief, fleeting moments. The only pleasure he could take from that fact was that he would never take such peaceful moments for granted, and he could appreciate them to their full extent. So, when he forced himself up (because having people come in to do it for him seemed just a little much) he was sad, yes, but he promised himself - and the pillow - that he would definitely be back.
Dressing himself was still a difficult task, one of which the groom of the wardrobe helped him with (damn that doublet and jerkin), but in doing so, Dean made a realization; one that he wasn't so sure he liked.
Two weeks had passed since his, Sam's, and Cas' arrival to Ye Olde Dayes of Our Lyfes. Even for as accustomed as Dean was or wasn't to things, there was nothing he wouldn't prefer from his own time. There was no shortage of women in 1586, but there was no way that Dean wasn't going to prefer Clean over Walking Biohazard. Plumbing was a thing he sorely missed, and t-shirts-never before had he realized the beauty of a Hanes cotton t-shirt. When it came to music, he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone so long with some Nirvana or Motorhead, and truth be told? The minstrels just weren't doing it for him. There was a forever-growing list of things Dean didn't like, no matter how used to them he became. One of those things didn't even have to do with the time period, but with the inconvenient habits of the one named Castiel.
What probably shocked Dean the most about his annoyance with Cas' habits was that it wasn't even about them. He realized that his annoyance was that he wasn't annoyed. Yeah, the popping in-and-out thing whenever he wanted was an inconvenience, but he couldn't honestly say (to himself) that he was annoyed. The worst thing about this was Cas' inability, still, to perceive personal space, and Dean's discovery that he, himself, was more confused about it than Cas could probably ever be.
Somewhere down the line, Dean had simply accepted Castiel's ignorance of personal space with a quickly-dying complaint. Shortly after, Dean had begun to take no notice, and it became a non-issue between them. Now, though - after having no Cas, and then naked-guy-at-the-rave Cas - the invasion of space was back, and it was the worst. Not because it made Dean feel uncomfortable, but because it made him feel the opposite. Actually, it kind of made him feel better, like he'd found something he'd been missing.
And those were the feelings that were making Dean confused, and the most annoyed when it came to Cas, because he wasn't even sure he could blame Cas for them. The popping in-and-out thing only ever made Dean think about those things even more, and that morning was no exception as the servant left the room: Castiel materialized out of nothing, right there in front of Dean and no farther than 14 inches away. Dean inhaled sharply in surprise, his foot sliding back some, but he was back to normal in no time with something close to exasperation on his face.
"Dammit, Cas, I'm putting bells on you."
"Bells?"
"Yes, so I can hear you when you're nearby. That way you don't just appear outta nowhere."
Dean's foot returned, and he caught himself automatically searching to catch Castiel's eyes with his own. It hit him how often that used to happen, even after Cas had taken Sam's hallucinations from him. Staring was a hybrid of competition and even communication between them, and it just happened. Thinking of it made Dean couple it with the whole personal space thing, but to look away now would make Dean feel like he'd backed down and forfeited to Cas instead of proving he was just as Big and Bad, and that was not something Dean Winchester wanted.
"I see. But I come with news," Cas announced. He cleared his throat to continue, and Dean snapped out of his thoughts. "The Lord Samuel Winchester will be arriving in a few hours."
"How do you know?" Dean inquired with a shrug, and a small bit of excitement.
"A messenger arrived early this morning." Cas stepped around Dean and went to sit in a chair. He took off his hat, allowing himself to play with the feathers again. For the first time, Dean noticed how fondly Cas held them. His hands were careful and soft with them, and despite the small grin they gave him, there was something like regret in his eyes that made Dean feel just a little bit guilty. He couldn't think of what he might have done to make Cas sad about feathers, but Cas was a bit of an odd one, anyway. So instead Dean moved his focus to Cas' tapping foot, but it only made Dean want normal music again.
Cas cleared his throat, distracting Dean, and continued. "The kitchens are already to work, and maids are cleaning everything. The Moores are having quite a difficult time keeping calm, discussing the wedding like it's the first one ever performed, and Jessica won't stop smiling. It … is actually rather nice. It's a nice change from the discontent I usually see on your face." Cas pointed the feathers towards Dean, with a particular, sharp emphasis on your; like he was implying that Dean was always some grumpy kind of guy, which Dean found funny because until recently? Cas was the one with a stick up his ass and barely knew the meaning of the word 'fun'. So ha, take that, you suck, I rock.
"What do you mean, 'discontent'?"
"Um, discontent? I thought the word's meaning was commonly known. But I mean discontent in terms of unhappiness. Your expression is often pinched, or heavy, and you allow yourself no opportunity for leisure. In fact, I don't seem to remember the last time you honestly laughed, or were relaxed and unworried."
"Well, haven't really had too much to celebrate recently, sorry."
"There is no need for apology. I simply stated a fact."
"Sarcasm is still a foreign language to you."
Cas started drawing circles in the air with his fingers, and completely ignored Dean's own statement. "But," he said, "I wouldn't mind seeing you turn your frown upside down."
Castiel's sentence ended with the rustling of feathers, and, well, no more Cas. He'd flown off God knew where this time, leaving Dean to fix his stare into a glare at the seat Cas had occupied. Huffing along, Dean went to grab his flat cap. (After all, a gentleman was only half-dressed without it, dammit.) He shoved it on his head and with a quick glance that was definitely not a pout in the mirror, he left.
And he wasn't thinking about Cas' proximity or what made him turn his frown upside down.
Part II (b) | * | Part IV (a)
Ellen and Jo were most notably the same, if their personalities and attitudes were taken into account. He was sure that would have had the rest of Elizabethan society turn their noses up, but good for them. With them was Ash, still rocking his mullet, and wearing his jerkin unbuttoned. It was enough to catch John off guard, especially with how personable Ash was with everyone. Of course there were some differences, but nothing that would scream out of character. If anything, it was the most refreshing meet-up yet.
Another thing Dean found himself grateful for was that Ellen didn't seem too keen on marrying Jo off, especially to Dean. She may not have said it in quite those words, but it was good enough for him. Mary kept a grin on her face, relief or plain acceptance, it didn't matter. John seemed a little upset at the verdict, but there wasn't much he could do. Dean: 1, John: 0.
He just wished he'd enjoyed it a little bit more, because the day after was the day he'd dreaded the most: The arrival of Crowley-oh, wait, sorry, Duke Dunwhestle. Dunwhestle. It proved mostly anticlimactic, thankfully. He arrived, there were hellos; the end. Dean would have been just fine with that, but of course (because no one in England travelled without company) Crowley's guest stepped in to make things just that much more awkward.
Michael, but it was worse, because this Michael was currently wearing the Young John Winchester Edition vessel, which no one around him seemed to find strange. Dean was ready to figure out just how awkward the situation was on a scale of 1-10, but his math was cut short as Michael ('Michael Windom' he was called) was introduced as Crowley's charge. They mentioned something called a patronage, but that didn't do Dean much good as he had no idea what that was. So he just smiled and waved, deciding that being quiet was an excellent choice. It wasn't until someone mentioned a competition that Michael actually appeared interested in the conversation himself. It was a surprise to Dean, a random mention from his father, and it interested most - correction: all - of the company there.
Despite the excitement going around, talking about contests and promises to win them, Dean's attention kept snapping back to Crowley. He had to remind himself that the guy had come through in a pinch to off Dick Roman, but he was still keeping an eye on him. It didn't matter if he was the real Crowley, or if he was some fake, alternate universe Crowley; if he still wanted Cas dead, then he would have his work cut out for him. Fighting or not, Cas was still family.
Speaking of which, where was Cas in the first place? Dean had seen neither hide nor hair (or feather?) of him since he'd flown off after their fight. Dean hadn't checked his chamber, but the servants that usually tended to him had all said that they'd not seem him, either. His absence had to be notable if Jo and Ellen were surprised and commenting on it, but they didn't press much further. They'd been the only ones, but several nights later Mary added herself onto that list and pulled Dean aside.
They walked up and down the gallery, Mary having taken Dean's arm. They walked slowly, glancing at the different weapons fake-Dean had collected and mounted on the walls. Some appeared positively ancient, and others glistened with the last bits of sunlight filtering through the few windows. There were spears, and some swords, all different in length, in metals, and, assumedly, weight. Bows hung elegantly about, arrows decorating the extra space and pointing towards the end of the hall.
"Did you have a fight?"
"Fight with who?" Dean played, but Mary was a mom, and moms knew better. He really wanted nothing more right then than to revel in the moment, no matter how slight it was, but the self-reminder that this wasn't really his mom dampened it all. No matter how much she looked like, acted like, smelled like, or spoke like her, it just wasn't really her. Well, at least Dean was used to disappointment.
"With Castiel," she said, and his train of thought switched tracks. "No one's seen him. Do you think he ran off?"
Cas running off, there was a novel idea. (Right.) "He might have, but I doubt it," Dean huffed. "Probably just hiding off somewhere being emotional." Dean was close to regretting saying that, mostly because Cas' decision to leave hadn't necessarily been an overly emotional one; at least not in speech. He'd seemed sure of the choice, having left no room for wavering or flip-flopping.
Mary sighed as she paused to view a polished bow. "Did you check the chapel?"
"What? Chapel? No."
"Then go check the chapel! Dean, do you realize what could happen to him if he's out there and is captured?"
"What would he be captured for?" Dean asked, baffled. What would anyone want with a broken angel? (Unless your name was Crowley, and therefore possibly a scheming, two-timing son of a bitch.) "Nothing really calls out 'criminal' about him, the guy's probably handing out free batches of strawberries, with a free kitten if you give a donation to the church."
"Don't make fun of him!" Mary admonished. She was smiling though, so that was good. "If he's caught in suspicion of being a Romanist, it's over for him, and possibly you for harboring him. I know your father hadn't taken kindly to housing him when you left."
Dean almost asked what Mary meant by Romanist, but he was more than capable of putting two and two together. "Right, Catholic. Not good," he mumbled.
"Go find him and apologize. I'm sure you did or said something that made him disappear. Just be patient with him. I know it's a difficult thing for you to do; you get it from your father." Mary stopped them again, turning to eye Dean suspiciously as he grumbled to himself. "Thank goodness your brother will be back soon. Just take care of it before you're torn to bits in London, please? Preferably by tomorrow."
"Yes, Mom."
"Yes, Mom," Mary mocked. "I'm going to turn in, and I suggest you do the same. We'll need our strength for tomorrow. I refuse to lose to Dunwhestle and Windom."
Dean grinned. "Whatever, we'd totally beat their asses any day."
Mary quirked her eyebrow, reminding Dean certain phrases just weren't in use quite yet.
"We'll win," he amended.
Mary still regarded him oddly, but she smiled. "We had better." She reached up some to kiss his cheek. "Good night, darling. Angels are watching over you."
Worry shadowed over him, replacing the minute shock he'd felt before. Dean was unsure if Mary had picked up on it as she wished him a good night, but he did notice his fingers start to drum rapidly in nervousness as she walked away to the opposite end of the gallery. Once she was out of sight, Dean turned back to the arrows pointing towards his chamber.
Tomorrow's contests. Nothing huge-maybe some fancy swordfight, a bit of archery, or firing some rifles. Things Dean really didn't want to do. He couldn't remember ever firing an arrow in his life, and the closest he'd ever gotten to sword-fighting was sticking monsters with knives and daggers, or chopping heads off of vampires or leviathans. (Well there was that one time with the Shojo and the katana; did that count? And what about those dragons?) Sure he was handy with a firearm, but these particular 16th century 'guns' weren't exactly what he was used to. Inaccurate as all Hell: he may as well end up shooting someone behind him instead of the target in front of him. Dean all but growled at the violently decorative wall. He'd be making a fool of himself, and he really wasn't up for making himself look like an idiot. He was definitely not in the mood.
"Lord Smyth."
Nor was he really in the mood for Crowley, with that grating, self-serving tone of his. Dean had to force himself to turn around, and stare at him in his fancy, smooth clothes, holding a goblet of wine, or whatever he drank. Some things never changed. The only issue now was to try and remember exactly how to greet him; giving Crowley anything to be suspicious about would be bad news.
"Duke." Failsafe.
"Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear some of your more personal matters regarding a fellow named Castiel."
"Yeah? Well you can forget you heard anything and fuck off-"
"Why so hostile, Smyth? All I do is state that I overhear your conversation and you tell me to leave before I even get to the point of this."
Dean's mind didn't get very far in stopping his mouth before he said, "Make it quick."
"Your mum's right, you know. You can't let your friend get too far away, and then caught. Get found out, and, well. Good Queen Bess might not be in the most forgiving of moods. Tell me, Lord Smyth. What is dear Castiel's business here at Lawrence Hall?"
Dean hesitated. "Personal chaplain and friend." He remembered Cas telling him to keep that information low, but if Crowley already knew, what more harm could he cause?
"Oh, that is tricky, innit?" Crowley drank from his goblet, a bit of frown on his lips. "The chaplain part, of course. Unless the friend part is more … complicated? But that's not really my business."
"Get to the point, Cr-Sir."
"All right, all right. Your mum was right; you are an impatient little gink, aren't you?"
"An impatient little what?"
"It means you're annoying. Now quiet up and listen. Here's the deal. Our most kind and wonderful queen has gotten a bit harsher in recent years regarding Romanists, but it's not as if she's visiting every church to make sure things are going her way. No one's looking to make sure that worshipers are crying in thanks to the Lord for His salvation. What anyone cares about is what's in the coffer, and what's on paper; what's in the record."
"I really don't-"
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Crowley interrupted. "I didn't know I was finished yet! Shut your mouth and listen to me!"
"Okay, fine! Cool your jets, man!" Dean took half a step back, crossing his arms. Crowley glared at him, but continued on right where he'd left off.
"Since dear Harry married Annie, and Bessy came along, it's been back-and-forth. I mean, quite frankly, after the first two or three turn-arounds, you can't blame a man for just agreeing on paper and acting it out, but keeping his own faith within. It just works easier that way. Smoother, at any rate, and keeps people in line.
"I, luckily for you and Castiel, have the power to slip names in and out of the records without detection. If word were to get out that he's only just converted, there will be questions asked, and your family will be scrutinized for not conforming to the common faith."
"That's a load of bull-"
"You really have an issue with this whole 'not interrupting' thing, don't you? As I was saying." He took another drink. "I can put Castiel in there. Get a hold of the church records, write his name, and he's set. No need to worry, as long as you lay low and breathe not a word of it to anyone."
Dean examined Crowley up and down, trying to discern in the last drop of sunlight what he was up to. Crowley was always up to something. "That seems like really risky work."
"Oh, it is, no doubt. But I'm the duke of Dunwhestle, and on the Privy Council, am I not? I have quite a bit of sway, so it's easier for me than most."
"What has that sway gotten you?"
Crowley smirked as he brought the goblet back up to his lips. "A fair bit, let's say."
"And what do you want me to do for this? You're not just doing this out of the kindness of your heart." Dean's glare narrowed. Of course Crowley would want something. King of the Crossroads, and all.
"I'm hurt, Smyth; truly. Don't worry. I'll cash in when it's time. Till then, just remember you owe a favor. So, we've got a deal?"
Crowley stretched his hand towards Dean.
***
When Dean next woke, it was in pitch black to the familiar sound of wings and wind. It was followed by a snap of fingers, and the whoosh and cracks of fire. Dean hurriedly propped himself up on his elbows, blinking blearily about him as his eyes tried to focus. Yawning in a rather unattractive manner, he turned over to his back and breathed in sharply when he found Castiel the Missing Angel sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Falling back down and covering his face with his hands, Dean breathed in the scent of the fire, and exhaled loudly.
"Dude, I don't know how many time I have to tell you. Don't do that. One day I'm just gonna shank you cuz I'll think you're some monster, and you're not gonna be able to survive it. Man, what time is it?"
Cas' voice was low, and soft. "It's roughly quarter past three. I'm sorry for waking you up, I didn't mean to."
"S'fine. Where've you been?"
"About. When I left here the other day, I went to check in on Sam. He's quite handy at what he does in this reality. Actually, it's almost frightening, to tell you the truth. He should be home in the next day or so."
Dean sat up, realizing this wasn't going to be a quick check-in. Granted he was the one asking questions, so that made it okay. "Good, that's good. You didn't go anywhere else."
"I did." Cas' voice took on a slightly more excited tone, only just noticeable, and he situated himself more comfortably on Dean's mattress, shifting just a bit closer. Cas completely ignored the slightly baffled expression Dean wore, and continued. "I went to the forest. It was beautiful, Dean. I almost wish you could have seen what I saw."
"Oh my God. You really are a hippy, aren't you, Cas?" He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
"Life is amazing. Do you remember when I told you that God laid everything out? Blueprints? Plans? How everything was perfect."
Dean wasn't sure if Cas noticed his nodding, and as Cas continued, Dean was sure that he was never going to find out.
"I lied. In the forest, I was watching a young bird - not a hatchling, it had feathers, but wa-"
"To the point, Cas!"
"Yes, I'm getting there. I was watching him for a while. He approached the edge of the nest, then retreated, and repeated it over and over again. He couldn't decide, and that's when I remembered. My father gave every living creature a mind of its own. The bird did what my father had planned: gather the knowledge that would allow it to properly hop away and learn to fly. Of course, with humans…." Cas laughed. "Humans always take things further than necessary."
Dean yawned once more, followed by a sigh. "I suppose you're going to elaborate? I am so lost."
"Well, for example, in this era. God gave humans faith to worship Him, and yes, He had some pretty strict rules about it in the beginning. But then Man thought it was okay to kill in His name, and," Cas chuckled. "You should have been there when He found out what Constantine did, and what others did to the Bible and Gospels after that. (You thought your dad had a temper.) At the same time He couldn't blame you guys entirely. He did give you the capacity to think for yourselves, et cetera."
"That's wonderful, Cas, but it doesn't explain anything, and has nothing to do with this time period, or birds," Dean groaned. He rested his cheek on a fist, watching Castiel with naught but a bored daze.
"It does. The history of religion is bloody, especially Christianity's wars with Judaism and Islam. God never cared after a while, so long as Man kept faith and worshipped Him. Europe's obsession with Catholicism, and Britain and Scotland's issues between Catholics and Protestants were medieval even for the times. God had moved on - and disappeared - by then. It's just … Man's faith, and the choices Man makes. Towards anything. It's a beautifully terrifying thing, don't you think?"
"Shaking under my covers."
"Well I thought so. But then I made the most important discovery. I was created to follow my father's order's, but then you and Sam taught me about free will, and making my own choices. I've been making my own choices. I've more than diverted from the course of my father's plan, but still am this great, great creation of His regardless of my rank, or status, or even species!"
"…Congratulations. You woke me up at three in the morning for that?"
"No. I hadn't intended to wake you up, as I said. But…." Cas trailed off, but grinned. He barely hid his teeth. "I had overheard your discussion with Crowley."
Dean huffed an amused breath. "You mean His Grace, the Duke of Dunwhestle? What a joke."
"It's a funny name. But while you're awake, I thought I'd let you know that I've already fixed all of that. After our discussion in the library, I realized what could happen, so I checked the books. We're perfectly safe, as long as you stop calling me your chaplain."
"Done."
Cas' next words were hesitant. "You didn't make the deal, right?"
Dean stood to grab himself some water, his shirt falling to his knees. "Course not." He stopped himself from making the next comment as he filled a fresh goblet with some water from the basin. He kind of jiggled it a bit in Cas' direction, subtly asking for a quick chill. The metal grew colder in Dean's hand upon Cas' quick glance to the goblet, and Dean continued after a (rather refreshing) draught. He turned back to top it off. "I'm not making any deals with that dick. I ain't kissin' that mouth, I don't know where it's been, 'sides Bobby." He paused, shuddering, but slowly spun around to face Cas. "Did you…?"
Castiel appeared taken aback. "I'm an angel. I don't think demons' deals with angels need something so earthly to hold."
"Not that angels should be making deals with demons in the first place."
Dean returned to the bed, Castiel standing up with a hardened gleam in his eyes. Oh, yeah-Dean had forgotten. It had been so easy to forget they'd fought, yet with one comment, defenses were up. From what Dean could recall, Cas said he'd help Dean and Sam return home, and then be on his way. Apparently Cas had forgotten, however temporarily, as well. Dean closed his eyes, thinking frantically of what to say before Cas could spirit off again to who-knew-where. His mom said to be patient, and to apologize, but apologizing to your best friend was a surprisingly difficult task.
"Castiel, look." Dean forced himself to keep his eyes on Cas. If this was going to happen, it was going to happen right. "I'm sorry, for all of it. I still don't like what you did. I still am kind of annoyed, but I understand why you did it." His eyes jot to a few places, but not for long; they found Cas' right away once more, unable to focus on much else while apologizing. "You put Sam back on his feet and sacrificed yourself to do it, and you helped beat Dick when you didn't want to; I gave you a lot of shit when you didn't deserve it. So I'm sorry."
At first, Dean wasn't sure if Cas was going to accept the apology (which he maybe couldn't blame him for), but he'd be lying to say he'd be surprised. That was when Cas grinned, nodded, and sat down closer to Dean on the bed. "You wouldn't be you otherwise, Dean. Thank you."
"This means you're not. Y'know. Going away, right?" Dean rushed. The proximity was starting to work that awkward feeling he'd felt in the library, probably not at all helped along by the Friendship Circle Time apologies. "You'll stay with Sam and me? It's your choice." He would just feel exceedingly awkward without Cas around anymore.
"I hadn't actually planned on it," Cas admitted. He was grinning, and he was almost ogling Dean with such formidable conviction that it came very close to scaring him. It was a different look, one Dean had never truly been leveled, and the unfamiliarity scared him. It didn't help that warm, maybe uncomfortable feeling stop, either. Instead, it almost started to feel as if it was settling, and making itself right at home.
"Good luck tomorrow, and good night, Dean."
Just like that the fire was out, its light gone. The dip where Castiel had sat on the bed was gone, and though he'd felt no heat from the fire earlier, Dean felt a chill sweep over him. Warily he slipped under the sheets and glanced around in blackness until he wasn't sure his eyes were opened or closed. It took some time and wrestling around, but finally Dean fell asleep.
***
The next day proved to be most worrisome. The sun was high, and the sky bright blue without a cloud to be seen for the first time in the two weeks since their arrival. The breeze was light and pleasant, the birdsong was soft, and it was neither hot nor cold.
It was a horrible day.
Breakfast was fine, and lunch (thank you very much) was far too excited and jovial. Crowley and Michael sat across from John, Mary, and the Moores, while Jess spoke with Ellen, Jo, and Ash. It left Dean to lament his to-be-showcased failures to Cas, while Cas had played with the turnip on his plate. (In the meantime, he had been welcomed back with only a few questions as to his whereabouts.) It hadn't been long after that when they all decided that going outside for the start of the contests was a good idea. Fleetingly, Dean considered faking ill and going inside, but he caught Mary's, Jo's, and Jess's eyes; there would be no backing out of this if he wanted to survive.
Teams were drawn through straws. Dean, Jess, Mary, Ash, Cas, and Jo would be competing as a team while Crowley, Michael, Ellen, John, and Jess's parents comprised the opposite. Having Jo, Ash, and even Jess on his team put him a bit at ease, but with Ellen and John on the opposing side, it was still a very crippling reality.
Servants hurried about, getting things set up. From what he could tell, archery would be first, and starting it off would be John and Ellen. Dean watched on, worried. He couldn't remember ever having fired an arrow, even after all that hunting with Bobby. Jo seemed to have noticed his anxiety, and without question helped him with his shooting glove and bracer. She fixed his quiver around his waist, but then tied a kerchief around the leather strap.
"For good luck," she said.
That was a favor, right? Sixteenth century flirting, or whatever? Dean had a quick shock of panic, but Jo soon enough winked to him with a whisper of, "And to get your dad to stop giving us angry glares."
By whatever grace of God, the scores stood in favor of Team Dean, even if only by only a few points. Despite the lead, it didn't ease Dean's worry any more as he set up to try and hit the targets. (It was cruel and unusual punishment that the target had been placed so far away; he just knew it.) What was worse - because it could always, always get worse - was that his direct opponent was Michael. Why Michael? Well that was easy: God hated Dean.
Dean would shoot first. He stepped up with a groan and to a loud round of applause from his team. Maybe if he just … closed his eyes and hoped for the best? He did his best to stand as everyone else had, hoping he didn't look like an idiot, but no one was laughing so that was good, right? Dean drew back and holy crap how had Jess done this? That woman was deceptively strong; Sam had definitely picked a good one.
He aligned his shot, unsure exactly of what he was doing, and more or less chanting, Shoot the aliens and save NYC to himself over and over. He closed his eyes before releasing the arrow, and peeped them open the tiniest bit to watch as it flew, flew-and dug its way into the ground. The following three seconds were comprised of that horrible silence that allowed no distraction from the pitiful display of Dean's talent. (Which, according to his recent performance, was incredibly lacking.) It allowed the shock and disappointment and utter embarrassment to sink in that much more, but Dean wasn't going to let this deter him. He tried laughing it off.
"Didn't really have time to warm up, haha…." No one seemed very settled at the statement. He tried again with, "But what kind of host would I be, not letting my guests win, right?"
That seemed to amuse them enough, even Cas (whose arrows had at least hit the target, he was probably cheating), so the rest of the shots in his end were more for lax amusement than competition. Dean's last arrow had only just stopped shuddering from its planting when Michael nocked his own. Everyone had stopped their laughing at Dean, and Michael's arrow was loosed to land two rings from the center.
Show off.
The consecutive shots all hit within 8 inches of the middle, and of course they would, this was Michael, God's favorite pretty-boy angel. Of course Michael would be perfect. He'd earned an appreciative round of applause and nodded to Dean.
"Lord Smyth, thank you for helping to make my skill appear better than it truly is."
"Heh, yeah." Dean's smile could only last so long.
The next little event was firearms targets, which Dean was eternally grateful for. Guns weren't so huge in Britain just yet, from what he gathered. Loading it was a small adventure, but even for as inaccurate as the guns inherently were, Dean's shots weren't far off target at all and he'd won the round without trouble. Michael came in close second, but Dean didn't care. He was hyped up and confident, even for the next, and last, part of the games.
Fencing.
Dean couldn't decide if he was nervous or not for that event. Fighting was a thing he did, but fighting with rules was something just a little different. And he'd never really handled a sword, or whatever it was, before. This would be a test all on its own, and so Dean watched carefully as everyone fought. Their feet, their directions, and how they would attack and block. Castiel would lean over and point out things to watch for; Dean filed it away and when it was time he stepped up to face his opponent.
And because God hated him, of course it would be Michael. Fucking. Michael.
"Lord Smyth." He bowed.
"Mr. Windom." Dean returned the bow with a smite-me-now-but-not-really smile, and hoped to God he was doing this right. (The bowing, of course, not the sarcastic prayer to be smote.)
Dean didn't remember much of how he'd moved. He didn't know any names of moves. He knew he did a sloppy job. Michael was absolutely merciless after having lost at the firearms contest, and it overwhelmed Dean. Yet, given that, he did a fine job reading Michael's movements, if he did say so himself. Maybe a few (lot) thrusts were unconventional, or some (most of the) steps were a bit (really) out-of-the-way. And maybe he'd lost by a couple (ton of) points, but for a guy who barely knew the first thing about fencing, and fighting someone who clearly knew what they were doing, he wasn't complaining. Even if there was a lot of wincing from the others.
Following was supper. Dean had no time for many niceties. He was starving, and had several helpings of the options closest to him at the table. Cas, Jo, Jess, and even Ellen found it amusing. The others? Not so much. However, stomachs full, the party went back outside to the gardens for an event that Dean was even more lost on than fencing, and that event was dancing.
Around the gardens were torches, not only lighting the area around them, but also throwing off more heat than what was probably necessary. Thankfully there was just enough of a breeze to refresh everyone every few moments or so, and the flowers actually added a nice aroma to it all. Once there, Dean made sure to sit himself down to drink, making no motion that might at all hint the desire to dance. He drank through one goblet, then another; he was just about to begin the third when Ellen came up beside him with her own very-filled goblet.
"What's got you so worked up?" she asked. "The entire time I've been here you've been acting funny, and I know you're not the best swordsman but you were pathetic out there."
Dean choked on that sip, and set the goblet down with a heavy thunk. "Thanks! Comforting."
"Well, lying's looked down on, last I heard. Are you gonna tell me what's wrong, or do I have to force it from you?"
Dean grinned, showing the barest amount of teeth. "Just a couple of off weeks." Really off. "Nothin' to worry about." Except everything.
"Huh. Well that's too bad. I worry." Ellen took a seat next to Dean, watching some of the others do their weird little dances. There was no way Dean would survive dancing; he'd surely find a way to knock everyone down. He noticed Cas was having a somewhat difficult time keeping up with some of the dances, and it made him grin. (Though he was probably doing better than Dean ever could.)
But he sighed, and played a bit with the top of his right boot. "I appreciate it, I do, but I'll be fine."
"Don't lie to me, I watched you grow up. You can't lie to me."
Who needed a polygraph when you had women like Ellen Harvelle around to tell when you were lying? He thought, and thought some more. How did one tell the truth without even knowing all of it? Or a lie. "I'm sorry about my dad. He was being-" A dick. "-rude." He grinned at the lip of his goblet. "Honestly, I was kinda relieved you weren't interested in any of that."
"Don't apologize for him, he's not your responsibility. Plus, and I dunno if you've noticed, but John's a little slow." Dean grinned. "I'm not ready to give her away, either." She paused, and Dean wondered if it was because of the past between Ellen and John. Giving her daughter to a Winchester seemed like a silly move, didn't it? "Not that I'd mind having either you or your brother as a son-in-law, it'd be an honor, but that's not what either of you want."
"Ellen-"
"No," she interrupted. "Past is the past. You move on, keep going, and you put things in order. You do what you have to, and you'll find you can do more than you thought."
Ellen rehashed the story about her husband and John, and hearing it now was hardly any different, but there was something else associated with it. Maybe it was putting the time into perspective, or realizing how Ellen managed to just make things work. It was pretty awesome, and having her around again gave Dean a bit of a boost. Enough of one that Jo's and Castiel's interruption didn't bother him all that much. (Just a little.) Jo was smiling and laughing, probably a little light headed from dancing, while Cas kept a tame smile on his face.
"I believe the spinning of the dance is the most fun of it," he said. Jo laughed some more in agreement, and Ellen stood up to grab Jo's shoulders and straighten her posture. Her sudden complaining became their backdrop as Cas grinned down at Dean and teased, "You should go spin. You may cheer yourself up after earlier's defeats."
"You know, I'd say, 'Aren't angels supposed to be benevolent and nice?' except for now that whole idea has been shattered, and I know better." Despite the accusation, Dean grinned along, picking up his goblet to drink some more. When he lowered it, Castiel's familiar stare was on him a little more intently, and Dean again felt that uncomfortably familiar and warm tugging sensation. This time he could feel it start to localize; warmth under his diaphragm, gentle twisting in his stomach, and a tug from deep down that pulled up towards his heart. Then it stopped. It just dissipated, and the only reason he realized he'd blocked everything out was because Ellen was pulling Cas away, and Jo was giggling next to him, having taken Ellen's seat as she watched her mother and Cas go off.
"Castiel's not danced in a long time, I take it?" Jo finally asked, watching as Cas stepped in the opposite direction of everyone else on the floor.
"Oh, you noticed," Dean laughed, playing along. Yet the sad part was that Cas had probably never danced, unless angels had some kind of special dances up in the clouds.
Jo laughed again, this time a little louder, as she pointed to Ash trying to put his own groove in the steps and bumping into people left and right (even more than Cas was). Dean sighed, shaking his head. Jo continued to smile, actually snorting a little bit, which made Dean laugh. He had to suppose that, in all, the evening wasn't shaping out too badly and was actually a lot of fun. It would probably have been more so with Sam around, but counting what he was lucky enough to have around him, it wasn't bad. His parents were chatting with Jess's, Ellen was pushing Ash along to dance correctly, and Cas was slowly falling into step with the others. Jess was playing niceties with Michael, poor girl, and even Crowley wasn't making a fuss of anything.
Mostly because Dean couldn't spot him anywhere. A shock up his spine sat him straight, and every bit of instinct told him Not good. He stood and peeked around and through the servants coming in and out, but there was no sign of him. The hairs on the back of his neck tickled in a way he was pretty sure wasn't supposed to be good. He managed to catch Cas' attention, mouthing, Where's Crowley? but received a shake of the head and a shrug in answer before he was spun around.
Jo tapped his arm with a, "Look over there."
Dean glanced down at her, who pointed out just to the edge of the fires' light's reach. A figure was slinking away, growing fainter each moment. Dean would likely have not noticed it if not for Jo, and it made everything probably three times more suspicious. She'd found Crowley. So again Dean caught Cas' attention, and gestured out towards the forest to his nod.
"Isn't that Dunwhestle?" Jo whispered.
"Yeah," he said. "That's him. Stay here."
Ignoring Jo's, "What?!" Dean worked back towards the manor, and then carefully shuffled away to find himself a dark patch away from any light, and from where he could start jogging to where, he hoped, Crowley had disappeared to. He knew Crowley was up to no good, but figuring it out and proving it were on a whole new level. One of the only cards he had on Crowley was that they were both human in this universe. Sure, Crowley was still as creepy and sneaky as he was in the real world, but he was still human here. He didn't have demons at his command, or Hell Hounds to snap at his enemies' heels (thank you God), so that could only mean that he had some other sneaky and worse way to screw everyone over.
Though Dean had turned down Crowley's offer, Dean still was curious as to what on earth Crowley could gain from him. Dukes were higher-ranked than earls, so unless there was another rule Dean was unaware of (and he wouldn't be surprised if there was), Dean was stumped. As far as he knew, Dean's only estate - and man it was weird saying that - was Lawrence Hall, and whatever he would inherit when his father died. (Not that he planned on staying at all long enough to find out.) There wasn't much Crowley could gain from Dean, which meant that Crowley would need something not monetary, nor worth any material value.
Reaching the edge of the forest, Dean stopped, listening carefully for some kind of noise to find Crowley. The snap of a twig, or the rustle of clothing. When he did hear a noise, it wasn't quite the kind he was expecting; it was the sound of Jo stepping up on one side of him, with Ash on the other. He shook his head in question, mouthing a Why? up to the heavens.
"You actually thought I wouldn't tag along? You wouldn't have seen him without me! I deserve to tag along," Jo whispered. Ash was right behind with, "And who knows if you ever need my gifted knowledge?"
"You two need to go back, this could get dangerous."
That seemed to be the wrong thing to say.
"Why?!" Jo silently screeched. Dean winced at the noise. So much for quiet. "Because I'm a woman? That makes me weak?!"
"Augh, no!" Dean whispered harshly. He tried pushing them away, but they weren't giving at all. "It's because it's dangerous, and I'm not going to be responsible for it if you get hurt!" He tried pushing them back a few more times, but neither really budged, and Dean didn't want to risk pushing any harder. If they made more noise than was necessary - which really was any amount at this point - they'd be discovered and would probably find themselves in some boiling, scalding water. (And given the time period? That was a pretty literal assumption.) So Dean massaged the sides of his forehead, trying hard not to lose any composure. "You remain quiet," he warned slowly, and he made sure to articulate each sound. "So quiet that…." He paused, thinking. "…Even God can't hear you." Yeah, that was a good one.
Jo smiled to Ash's nod, and Dean suddenly wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about them. For Jo, with women basically being nothing but the property of men and having all these rules to follow, but being as outgoing and headstrong as she was, she probably didn't have an easy time with much of anything. As for Ash, well…. He still wasn't exactly sure about what Ash's role or job was with Ellen or Jo in this time, but if he was anything like the Ash he'd known, random exorcisms had probably been performed on him several times. …It still didn't mean he should have had to babysit them! They were their own people after all.
Dean returned to stalking-mode, and what he wouldn't give for a proper rifle. Actually, the Colt would have been great, too, even if just to make him feel better. His steps were careful as he entered the forest and he made sure he heard whatever he could within a decent radius. Jo and Ash kept quiet for the five-minute walk, stepping carefully as they stopped. The silence of the moment between having breathed out and being ready to breathe back in proved just the ticket. There was a murmur ahead; a murmur that was unmistakably Crowley's.
He gestured Jo and Ash forward, and once close enough to hear Crowley just a bit more clearly, he motioned them to sit, or crouch, or something. Hide behind something. It wasn't long at all before his ears managed to catch … sounds. Just sounds. He thought he might have recognized some words, but he wasn't sure. It sounded odd, and heavily accented, but it definitely wasn't English. From what he could make out, Jo looked to share the same opinion, but Ash…. Ash was focused, and seemed to know just what was going on.
Quickly and quietly, Dean stalked over to hide on the opposite side of the larger boulder they hid behind. "What's going on?" he whispered.
"It's in Scots," Ash said. "Dunwhestle says that the queen's becoming impatient, and something about the post traveling faster."
"Love letters to the queen?" Dean asked. "Setting his sights a little high, isn't he?"
"He said, 'He won't care, his interest isn't with family.'" Ash hmmed. "'I've got things to take care of.' He's getting something to Canisbay, to Gavin. 'If he gives you any trouble then do what you need to.' He's threatening this guy to go fast, or he'll kill him."
The odd threats made both Jo and Dean cringe a little, while Ash just sat there, not really all that affected until Crowley turned around. Freshly inspired, Ash zipped back immediately, squeezing Jo between himself and Dean. Crowley started stomping his way back and as carefully and quietly as they could, Dean, Jo, and Ash shuffled around to stay out of sight. Dean's foot accidentally caught on a few small cobbles, shifting them some with an audible-enough scrape to stop Crowley for just a moment. Dean held his breath, silently cursing himself, and Crowley mumbled something as he walked away with no real incident. But there was one small issue, and that was Crowley's dropped letter. He didn't look like he'd taken any notice, and so carried on.
Dean leaned forward carefully to eye the letter, and he noticed Jo doing the same. Only once they could no longer hear Crowley's footsteps did Dean finally resume breathing. The new air was a definite refresher, but it also helped him realize his heartbeat. He hadn't been terribly afraid, but somehow the stress was enough for him to hear his own pulse. Calming himself down, he stepped out and went towards the letter as Jo pulled a twig or two out of her hood, and Ash pulled at his jerkin.
The folded letter seemed to have some weight to it and turning it over, Dean found why in the presence of a wax seal. Turning it back to the front and squinting his eyes, Dean tried to read the name scrawled there. (Was it a name?) It was spelled N-A-U, but he really couldn't be sure. There was no real light to read by except what moonlight filtered through the trees, and it was all hurried and scribbly. Dean stuffed it inside his jerkin, and quickly led Jo and Ash out of the forest.
They followed close on his heel, almost too close, and he made sure to stay outside of the light from the fires lit at the party. From what Dean could see, Crowley was just rejoining with a little-more-than-friendly greeting to Mary. But Dean rushed on, almost jogging around to the front of the house to read this letter in private. (Just with two other people.)
"Well that's interesting, don't you think?" Ash asked once they'd slowed down some to catch a quick breath. "Why would Dunwhestle be speaking Scots?"
It puzzled Dean, because Ash was right; he'd heard Crowley speaking, and it couldn't have just been his imagination if Ash and a nodding Jo had heard it, too. More confused than he wanted to be, Dean rubbed his thumb along the parchment of the letter, wondering just who or what this Nau person or thing was (and how exactly to pronounce it). One more time he flipped it over to look at the wax seal, and then it hit him. The man he'd been hosting, the man he'd tailed into the forest, was not a man named Crowley, nor the duke of Dunwhestle.
"You guys go back to the party. It'll look suspicious if we all go missing and return at the same time," he ordered. There was no room in his voice for argument, and both Jo and Ash took their leave; without a word they turned around and left him to continue on his way. As he walked, Dean glanced around just to make sure he was in the clear and when he found a lit fireplace he headed straight towards it. He couldn't wait for Man to harness the power of electricity. How many more years?
Once he'd sat down, Dean peeled roughly at the wax, getting it under his fingernails, and unfolded the letter with just a little too much noise. He stopped for a moment to push off any worry, and fixed himself to start reading. Or he would have, if he knew how to read Scrawlish Scratches In What Might Have Been English. There wasn't much he understood in the letter. There were a few small paragraphs, and some kind of list. Beyond that, all he knew was that it was to someone named 'Nau', and down on the bottom, it was signed just as he thought it would be: Fergus MacLeod.
"I suppose this is what they would call an awkward situation."
Dean's head snapped up, his hands clutching at the crinkling parchment. Crowley stood there wincing at the action, and shook his head. Dean refolded the letter, and kept his hold on it firm. "Dunno what you mean by awkward, unless you think I'm reading a letter to Maxim."
Crowley had been ready to respond, but stopped in confusion. Right, no decent pornography just yet. Dean shook his head, and stood up; being beneath Crowley was a little too humiliating for him. "Something you need?" he asked.
"Yes, actually. You see, I know you said 'no' to my little offer earlier, but you've got me in a bit of a bind."
"Do I?" Dean asked.
"Yes. For as quiet as you were trying to be, and bless your soul you tried so hard, you … weren't. Didn't really change much, of course, but still. Given my position, as you know, things could get a little messy for me if that letter is read by the wrong people. Rather embarrassing."
"I'd be embarrassed too, if my name was actually Fergus. Your mom must have hated you."
"Amusing." Crowley stepped forward, and Dean wasn't sure he'd ever seen Crowley so calmly threatening, before. It must have been the way the fire illuminated him and reflected red from his skin. "So how about you hand me back my letter, and I, say, pay you each month to keep your mouth shut? How much would you like? Two pounds a month?"
"Who are you, Cruella DeVille?"
"I just want the letter back, Man!" Crowley roared. He didn't wait for Dean to comply before snatching the letter from him with a quick hand, and he stuffed it into a small purse. "Personal property, mate! Have some respect!"
"Respect? How about not sneaking off into the forest on my property! Or leaving letters with a different, suspicious name on the ground?"
"Or following and invading the privacy of said guest?"
Dean rolled his eyes, but Crowley just shrugged. He was quiet, pensive, for a moment or so, before he sighed and reached back into his purse. "You know," he said, shuffling around. "How about, instead, I give you the letter as collateral?" He held it up and waved it around some. "That way, I may as well be at your beck and call. Keep your mouth shut, but still have the upper hand." Crowley tossed it to Dean, who nearly missed it but saved it just in time with another hard clutch.
Dean regarded him conspicuously. "What's your game?" he asked. "Buying me off and trusting me with the letter?"
"Oh, Christ-give you an incriminating letter that could make me the London gossip and you think I have a game. What do you think I'm trying to do, kill the queen? What more do you want from me?"
Dean shook his head. "Whatever, go back to the party and … don't drop anything else."
Before Crowley could move anywhere, Dean roughly swept past him to his chamber to store the letter before returning to the gardens. He'd at least show his face to his guests like the proper host he was before heading to bed.
***
He had no need to open his eyes to the daylight to know it was late. His eyelids proved no match for the sunlight piercing through them, and he heard a few people bustling in the gallery, probably cleaning. He groaned, murmuring into his pillow about, "Just five more minutes," and promptly pulled all the covers he could over his head to try and dim the assault to his eyes. It was comfortable, it was warm, it was dark, and he was tired. It was perfect.
But as most things in Dean Winchester's life, such perfection simply didn't last for more than a few brief, fleeting moments. The only pleasure he could take from that fact was that he would never take such peaceful moments for granted, and he could appreciate them to their full extent. So, when he forced himself up (because having people come in to do it for him seemed just a little much) he was sad, yes, but he promised himself - and the pillow - that he would definitely be back.
Dressing himself was still a difficult task, one of which the groom of the wardrobe helped him with (damn that doublet and jerkin), but in doing so, Dean made a realization; one that he wasn't so sure he liked.
Two weeks had passed since his, Sam's, and Cas' arrival to Ye Olde Dayes of Our Lyfes. Even for as accustomed as Dean was or wasn't to things, there was nothing he wouldn't prefer from his own time. There was no shortage of women in 1586, but there was no way that Dean wasn't going to prefer Clean over Walking Biohazard. Plumbing was a thing he sorely missed, and t-shirts-never before had he realized the beauty of a Hanes cotton t-shirt. When it came to music, he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone so long with some Nirvana or Motorhead, and truth be told? The minstrels just weren't doing it for him. There was a forever-growing list of things Dean didn't like, no matter how used to them he became. One of those things didn't even have to do with the time period, but with the inconvenient habits of the one named Castiel.
What probably shocked Dean the most about his annoyance with Cas' habits was that it wasn't even about them. He realized that his annoyance was that he wasn't annoyed. Yeah, the popping in-and-out thing whenever he wanted was an inconvenience, but he couldn't honestly say (to himself) that he was annoyed. The worst thing about this was Cas' inability, still, to perceive personal space, and Dean's discovery that he, himself, was more confused about it than Cas could probably ever be.
Somewhere down the line, Dean had simply accepted Castiel's ignorance of personal space with a quickly-dying complaint. Shortly after, Dean had begun to take no notice, and it became a non-issue between them. Now, though - after having no Cas, and then naked-guy-at-the-rave Cas - the invasion of space was back, and it was the worst. Not because it made Dean feel uncomfortable, but because it made him feel the opposite. Actually, it kind of made him feel better, like he'd found something he'd been missing.
And those were the feelings that were making Dean confused, and the most annoyed when it came to Cas, because he wasn't even sure he could blame Cas for them. The popping in-and-out thing only ever made Dean think about those things even more, and that morning was no exception as the servant left the room: Castiel materialized out of nothing, right there in front of Dean and no farther than 14 inches away. Dean inhaled sharply in surprise, his foot sliding back some, but he was back to normal in no time with something close to exasperation on his face.
"Dammit, Cas, I'm putting bells on you."
"Bells?"
"Yes, so I can hear you when you're nearby. That way you don't just appear outta nowhere."
Dean's foot returned, and he caught himself automatically searching to catch Castiel's eyes with his own. It hit him how often that used to happen, even after Cas had taken Sam's hallucinations from him. Staring was a hybrid of competition and even communication between them, and it just happened. Thinking of it made Dean couple it with the whole personal space thing, but to look away now would make Dean feel like he'd backed down and forfeited to Cas instead of proving he was just as Big and Bad, and that was not something Dean Winchester wanted.
"I see. But I come with news," Cas announced. He cleared his throat to continue, and Dean snapped out of his thoughts. "The Lord Samuel Winchester will be arriving in a few hours."
"How do you know?" Dean inquired with a shrug, and a small bit of excitement.
"A messenger arrived early this morning." Cas stepped around Dean and went to sit in a chair. He took off his hat, allowing himself to play with the feathers again. For the first time, Dean noticed how fondly Cas held them. His hands were careful and soft with them, and despite the small grin they gave him, there was something like regret in his eyes that made Dean feel just a little bit guilty. He couldn't think of what he might have done to make Cas sad about feathers, but Cas was a bit of an odd one, anyway. So instead Dean moved his focus to Cas' tapping foot, but it only made Dean want normal music again.
Cas cleared his throat, distracting Dean, and continued. "The kitchens are already to work, and maids are cleaning everything. The Moores are having quite a difficult time keeping calm, discussing the wedding like it's the first one ever performed, and Jessica won't stop smiling. It … is actually rather nice. It's a nice change from the discontent I usually see on your face." Cas pointed the feathers towards Dean, with a particular, sharp emphasis on your; like he was implying that Dean was always some grumpy kind of guy, which Dean found funny because until recently? Cas was the one with a stick up his ass and barely knew the meaning of the word 'fun'. So ha, take that, you suck, I rock.
"What do you mean, 'discontent'?"
"Um, discontent? I thought the word's meaning was commonly known. But I mean discontent in terms of unhappiness. Your expression is often pinched, or heavy, and you allow yourself no opportunity for leisure. In fact, I don't seem to remember the last time you honestly laughed, or were relaxed and unworried."
"Well, haven't really had too much to celebrate recently, sorry."
"There is no need for apology. I simply stated a fact."
"Sarcasm is still a foreign language to you."
Cas started drawing circles in the air with his fingers, and completely ignored Dean's own statement. "But," he said, "I wouldn't mind seeing you turn your frown upside down."
Castiel's sentence ended with the rustling of feathers, and, well, no more Cas. He'd flown off God knew where this time, leaving Dean to fix his stare into a glare at the seat Cas had occupied. Huffing along, Dean went to grab his flat cap. (After all, a gentleman was only half-dressed without it, dammit.) He shoved it on his head and with a quick glance that was definitely not a pout in the mirror, he left.
And he wasn't thinking about Cas' proximity or what made him turn his frown upside down.
Part II (b) | * | Part IV (a)