Chapter Text
The Novak family was ancient beyond measure. In many ways, older than the lords they served. They’ve been working and protecting the lands since long before there was ever a Winchester lording over them in the stone castle by the river. They are in many ways noble, though only in the ways time can give a bloodline. There are no crowns or titles or honors bestowed upon their house; they remained a simple, but enduring family. Wars came and went; famines and floods; prosperity and destitution, yet there always was a Novak living on the homestead near the castle.
In recent years, the family dwindled to a single branch with a father and his young son. They were the last of the Novak clans, a knight and his boy, and they did their best to uphold the honor of their name, such as it was. He sold what little was left of their family lands and moved to the castle where the father was one of King’s John’s most loyal knights. The father served in the King’s Guard; fought and bled and, eventually died fighting in the name of his king.
Though his sacrifice was duly noted by the king himself, it would have soon been forgotten if not for the presence of his boy. The father turned knight had lived in the castle walls with his young boy, who was already motherless and now fatherless as well. When King John called the boy in for an audience to express his thanks for his father’s service and his sincerest regrets for his death etc. etc., he took pity on the young dark-haired boy.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Castiel, my lord.”
“And how old are you, Castiel?”
“Seven, my lord.”
“Have you lived in the castle long?”
The boy shrugged, then seemed to realize it was not an appropriate answer to give a king and spoke: “Since I can remember, my lord.”
The king leaned back in his throne, looking over the young lad. Charles Novak had been a good man and had no doubt set aside some inheritance for his son, but with no family to play as champion for him, the boy would likely end up in an orphanage like as not. A boy whose father had died taking a lance blow to the leg while protecting his king, who’d suffered terribly as rot set into the limb and sucked the life out of him, the boy deserved more than this. Charles Novak, may the gods keep him, deserved more, and King John would not let his only son end up on the streets or in some boarding house because of some poor turn of fate.
“Would you like to stay in the castle, Castiel?”
For the first time since entering the large audience hall, the boy perked up. Blue eyes found King John’s as he hesitantly said, “Yes, my lord, I would very much like to stay here.”
“No one stays here who doesn’t earn his keep, though. I’ll have to give you a job, and you’ll have to do that job as well as you can. No matter how hard or boring or unrewarding you might find it at times, it’s a very important job that’ll you have to do if you agree to it. Do you think you can do that, son?”
Castiel knew a lot about the tasks doled out to those living within the castle walls. There were stable hands, cooks and scullions, chambermaids and porters, smiths and clerks, and numerous others he didn’t know the name for but had seen milling about the courtyard and hallways. He’d never expected to have one of those jobs - Castiel had spent many a night dreaming of swordplay and battles like those his father told him about - but he supposed he could do any of those jobs if it meant staying in the only home he’d ever known.
“What’s the job?”
Instead of answering directly, the king stood up and stepped down to kneel in front of Castiel. “You know, I have a boy ‘bout your age. We’ve got an old tradition here that every young heir to the throne gets their bodyguard. Not just any bodyguard, but one who cares for their charge more than any hired knight ever could. Someone who’s raised with him, who values him as a friend rather than a lord or as the source of his next meal. When the Prince comes of age and needs someone to protect him, that’ll be your job. Do you think you can do that, Castiel?”
It confused Castiel to hear the word ‘friend’ when this was supposed to be a serious job he was accepting, but he nodded as long as if he understood the king’s meaning. “Yes, my lord. I can do that.”
“Good.” The king clapped Castiel on the back and motioned over a steward. “We’ll get you chambers near Dean’s room and have you start lessons with him in the morning. First, though, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Everything the boy owned fit neatly into a single bag (excepting of course his father’s sword and armor, which were placed delicately in the chest in his new quarters). Most of his clothes were unceremoniously tossed aside as he was given new, clean ones that actually fit. Looking at his reflection in a glass window, Castiel frowned. He didn’t recognize this boy who’d been scrubbed clean of dirt and grime, put into clothes more befitting of his new station, and had his hair trimmed in an attempt to tame it. The boy who stared back at him wasn’t a knight’s son, though, he was a knight in training, and perhaps that made all the difference.
That night, alone in a new bed in a wing of the castle he’d never even been given leave to step foot in before, Castiel hid under his blankets and cried. He missed his papa, he missed his old room, and he was starting to worry about what he’d agreed to. King John had been kind, but there was a sternness behind his words that left Castiel unsure how to react to the man. He’d been distant, like more adults were though moreso, yet called Castiel “son.” Castiel was not so young that he mistook that for actual affection, but it made his position with the king more nebulous. He was still his king and liege lord, but was he acting as a surrogate father as well? Or was he strictly Castiel’s employer?
Far too young to understand more than that his life was changing, Castiel fell into a dreamless sleep just before dawn struck his window.
- - - -
Castiel needn’t have worried. For all that King John felt responsible for Charles Novak’s death and the upbringing of his son, he had little personal interest in the boy. Once he’d passed him off to his castellan and stewards, his interest in the boy waned. Aside from greeting the boy with a curt nod if their paths crossed throughout the day, Castiel might as well have not existed for all the the notice the king paid him. Perhaps it should have been insulting, but all he felt was relief.
He also did not have the pleasure of meeting the prince in the morning as the king had suggested. It was decided by the castellan that his manners and dress, though impressive for a knight’s lad, were not equal to the task of being a playmate of the young heir. One of the chambermaids took it upon herself to teach him as much as she could in a day’s time. Though the king may have forgotten him for now, it was unlikely that would remain the case - whether he was ‘ready’ or not, he would need to begin in the training the king expected him to follow.
The day was exhausting and dull, and only the promise that he would meet the prince the next day kept Castiel from regretting his decision to accept the king’s offer. Still, he sniffled and trembled alone in his new bed once again, unable to calm his nerves. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his whole life hinged upon meeting Prince Dean, and if that didn’t go well, it was very likely he would be kicked out of the castle. Dreams of being homeless plagued him that night, and another night spent tossing and turning has him wondering if he'll ever feel rested again.
After a brief meeting with the castellan at breakfast, it was determined Castiel was adequately prepared to join the prince. Or, as the exasperated man declared, it was “as good as it was like to get.” A steward escorted him to the far side of the castle. He spared a final moment to fuss over the boy’s clothing and make sure he knew how to properly address the prince before thrusting him into the chambers set aside for education of the young prince and then disappearing.
Stumbling inside with a yelp, Castiel nearly tripped over the doorstep but managed to catch himself in time that he merely stumbled awkwardly. As he steadied himself, he took in the space before him. The room overlooked the inner courtyard of the palace and large windows let in copious amounts of light. The wall opposite was lined with maps and charts, while the remaining space was occupied by bookshelves and long tables lined with benches, both filled with books and globes and other things Castiel could only guess at the purpose of. A guard stood still as a statue in the corner, silently assessing Castiel before ignoring him altogether, but otherwise the room held no one else. And at the table nearest the door sat a boy near his own age.
Considering his whole life would come to hinge upon this moment, it passed by in such a blur that later Castiel could scarce recall the details.
Looking up from his book with a bored face, the boy did a double take when he saw Castiel lingering in the doorway. Green eyes appraised him before a smile appeared. Patting the empty space next to him, he said, “You must be Castiel. I’m Dean.”
“Hello, my prince.” He bowed low as he’d been instructed. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, my- ow!” A rolled up ball of paper landed at his feet after bouncing off his head, and Castiel couldn’t help but glare at the young prince.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t call me that. Prince. I don’t like it. I’m just Dean, okay? If we’re going to be friends, you’re gonna have to call me Dean.”
Castiel tilted his head to the side as he tried to parse what the prince had told him. The stewards had made it clear he needed to show the utmost respect, never calling the prince by his given name…
… And yet Dean had said they were to be friends, and Castiel found himself longing for a friend more than a prince to serve.
“Alright... Dean,” he said, trying the name on his tongue. It sounded nice. It was certainly less cumbersome than ‘my prince’ or ‘my lord’ or ‘my liege.’ All of those sounded like things for grown-ups, anyway. He took a few cautious steps over to the bench and then sat down. “My name is Castiel-”
“I know who you are.” Dean closed his book and turned to straddle his seat so he could face Castiel. “Papa says we’re to be friends and one day you’ll serve as High Knight of the King’s Guard and blah blah blah. Basically you’re gonna be my best friend like Uncle Bobby is for my father.”
He had no idea who Uncle Bobby was nor how that related to Castiel and Dean, but he nodded as though he did. “Yes, I’m going to serve as your bodyguard when I grow up. At least, that’s what the king said.”
Dean’s knuckles wrapped on the wood bench as he chewed his bottom lip. After several moments of heavy silence, he said, “You don’t look much like a bodyguard. You’re kinda small and don’t look very big.”
Indignant, Castiel momentarily forgot he was talking to a prince. He puffed up his chest as he said, “My father was a knight. He was plenty big and strong, and I will be too once I grow up.”
“Oh yeah?” the boy responded, a challenge in his eyes. “Prove it!”
“How?” It seemed an impossible challenge. How does one go about proving a future that hasn’t yet come to pass?
Dean immediately put an elbow on the table, hand up and palm out. “We should arm wrestle.” He wiggled his fingers in invitation. “C’mon, let’s see what you’ve got.”
He’d seen the guards and knights play this game many times before and knew the basic idea of it. What Castiel didn’t understand is what Dean hoped to learn from this. Castiel had helped his father carry and polish his armor on a number of occasions, as well as helping him load and unload his bags before trips out to the borders. Nevermind the hours he’d spent completing chores for the miller, the blacksmith, the porter, and anyone else who asked in exchange for candied treats. Though small, there was certainly muscle there.
The prince, however, looked as though he’d never lifted more than his fork to his mouth. The hand he offered Castiel was smooth and uncalloused, not a speck of dirt beneath the nails. His coloring was healthy, but the tan suggested he spent his time playing in the sun instead of working. Young as he was, Castiel saw and noted these differences and wondered how the prince did not. For all his bravado, the prince’s confidence would do nothing to help him in this contest. Surely the prince must know this.
“What do I get if I win?”
Dean snorted. “We can discuss that if you beat me, okay?”
It must be nice to be a king’s son, born with such assurance in one’s own abilities. Though he wouldn’t admit it outloud, Castiel would secretly enjoy beating Dean just for the chance to say he’d bested a prince at something. Angling himself to put his own elbow on the table, he clasped Dean’s hand in his own.
“We go on three. One… two… three!”
The boys immediately started flexing and pulling. Dean was stronger than Castiel had thought him to be, but it was easy to hold his ground. Castiel thought of seeing how long he could keep the match balanced here at the precipice of him losing, but that seemed a foolish waste of his effort. After only a few seconds, he pushed back against Dean in earnest and quickly ended the match.
“Huh…” Dean said, genuine confusion on his face. “Best two out of three?”
Though Dean lost the second as well, they continued on to the third match. After being swiftly defeated three times in a row, Dean sighed. “I… I lost.” He looked adorably baffled. “I’ve never lost. Everyone always lets me win. Everyone. You beat me.”
Alarm immediately set in. Of course everyone let him win, he was the prince. Castiel had let himself forget it, and now the other boy would be upset with him. He’d be kicked out of the palace, sent to find his way on his own-
“This is awesome!” The prince doubled over in laughter, resting his head on the table and banging his fist on it with delight. Once the laughter died down, Dean pushed himself back up and brushed the tawny locks of hair from his brow. “Papa said never trust someone who always lets you win, but even he does it most of the time.” He reached out to muss Castiel’s hair, some errant giggles escaping. “I like you, Cas. Don’t ever let me win at stuff and I think we’ll be good friends.”
“Oh.” A smirk began to grow. Dean offered friendship, and all he asked for in return was honesty. Hardly a challenge, given that his father had encouraged Castiel to be nothing but. “I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean winked at him before grabbing a small chalkboard. “Frank, my tutor, went to get some tea. When he gets back, he’ll continue his lesson on history. Then we’ll practice letters and reading. Can you read?”
Castiel hesitated before accepting the chalkboard and piece of chalk. He’d never held such things before, luxuries as they were for a low ranking knight to buy his son. All the letters he’d learned had been scrawled across the dirt. “I can write my name,” he admitted shyly.
“Okay, then we’ll probably spend a lot of time on that. Don’t mind Frank. He likes to call people stupid, but don’t let it bother you. He’s called Papa stupid in front of the whole council. It’s just the way he is. But he’s actually pretty nice and a good teacher. Don’t tell him that, he likes to be a pain, but if he sees you need help he’ll help. Can you show me how you write your name?”
The boys sat there spelling out words for another half hour before Frank found his way back. The young lads were already well on their way to being best friends.
- - - -
Two young boys - one in a homely brown tunic, the other in a more stately green one - continued sneaking around the edge of the stables. The courtyard wasn’t particularly crowded at the moment, which made their task easier, but they still had to duck and dodge around corners as they did their best to keep out of sight as they make their way to the kitchens. They’d managed to evade all the guards and the servants so far, but this was always the trickiest part.
“Stay here and keep watch,” Dean whispered loudly as they hid behind some hedges near the back entryway to the kitchens. “I’ll go grab some snacks, then we go to the clubhouse and eat them.”
Castiel nodded solemnly. “Okay.”
“We’re gonna need a codeword. If you see someone coming, call meow.”
“Why meow?”
Dean rolled his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because then everyone will just think it’s a cat and not know it’s us.”
“Oh. Okay, good thinking.” It seemed reasonable enough that Castiel didn’t argue the point. He watched as Dean darted across the archway into the kitchens and disappeared.
There wasn’t much to do other than cast suspicious glances at anyone who came near, but none went towards the kitchens and none noticed (or cared) that Castiel was crouched behind the hedges. More likely than not, they were used to the young prince and his future bodyguard’s antics and found it easier to pay them no mind. Castiel stayed there, challenging himself by counting to a hundred to see how high he could go. He’d barely reached twenty when shouting came from the kitchens.
“Meow!” Dean called as he rushed out the door, arms full of tarts. It took Castiel a moment to understand what was going on, but when he did, he sprinted after the other boy.
“You idjits, get back here!” Bobby called after them as he emerged from the kitchens, hot on Dean’s trail. The bodyguard always had a knack for catching them when they were up to no good or avoiding their lessons, and today appeared to be no different.
The boys kept running and didn’t turn back, giggling once they realized they’d outrun the aging knight.
While Winchester faced border skirmishes regularly, the castle was at the heart of the kingdom. There was no danger of attacking armies or bandits or anything even half so nefarious, and it showed. The ramparts held a few soldiers on duty, but they laughed and joked more than they minded the drawbridge. The bridge itself was almost always down, except at night or when the king was paying homage to his long dead wife Queen Mary; he accepted no visitors and held no audience on the days marking her birth, her death, and their marriage, though the realm was long used to the king’s mourning. All three of those dates were months ahead or behind, so the gates remained open and busy with wagons and visitors moving in and out of the castle.
“C’mon, Cas!” Dean called as he weaved through the traffic on the bridge. Once across, it was all too easy to duck underneath the gap between the bridge and the hill it rested on. The matted grass provided them with comfort as they lounged just above where the moat’s waters lapped at the man-made shore. This was their secret hiding place that kept them safe from being scolded by the King’s Guard or the various stewards who disliked their pranks and games. Four years the boys had been causing trouble, though their type of trouble was rarely worse than stealing pastries from the kitchens or playing hide and seek in the closed off sections of the castle.
“One for you, one for me. Two for you, two for me. Three for you, three for me.” Dean continued to hand out the mini-pies one by one, licking his fingers occasionally. For the last pie, he split it in half and offered Castiel the larger slice.
The boy shook his head, letting his friend take the bigger piece. “You like pie more than I do, anyway.”
“Thanks, Cas.”
Together, they lounged away a good portion of the day under the bridge. They threw stones in the moat as they ate their pies, told made up stories about pirates and mermaids, and finally, when they knew their time was almost up, made plans for the next time they could escape here. After the sun reached its zenith, Castiel and Dean snuck back across the bridge and through the gates. They slinked around corners, nimbly avoiding getting caught on their way back to the castle.
“Gotcha!” Large hands closed around their shoulders and the two shrieked. Instinct kicked in and Castiel tried to twist out of Bobby’s grip, but the knight merely picked him up by the arm and shook him. “Would you two quit it? I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” Both relaxed, remembering all too well how Bobby had tanned their hides the time they let the pigs out in the great hall. “That’ll be for the king to do.”
Of course, they’d been tanned at King John’s orders, so perhaps they shouldn’t have been comforted by the knight’s assurances in the first place.
Leading them with an iron grip to the throne room, he scolded them the whole time for being “idjits who don’t know when to quit.” This was the fourth kitchen raid in a fortnight, and the kitchen staff had had enough. Without a word, Bobby dragged them before the king, who dismissed his attendants with a wave of his hand.
“Dean. Castiel,” he greeted them both coldly. Castiel suppressed a whimper, never much liking the king’s anger directed his way, but Dean remained defiant. “I hear you’ve been bothering the servants again.
“It’s no big deal-”
“I don’t remember giving you leave to speak, boy,” King John snapped as he cut Dean off. “I will decide if it’s a big deal, and since you have been stealing from my kitchens and therefore from me, I have decided to take action.”
Dean looked about to protest, but he held his tongue and cast his gaze down. “Yes, Papa.”
“I hope you boys got your fill of tarts, because the cooks have been instructed not to cook anymore for the next month. You’re banned from the staples until I feel you’ve shown the proper respect to myself, this castle, and its staff. This is not your playground to do as you please, this is the home of hundreds and the seat of this kingdom. You’ll learn that or you’ll suffer the consequences. Understood?”
“Yes, my lord.” Though the punishment seemed moderate enough, Castiel knew all too well how deeply it would bother Dean. He hated being cooped up in the castle walls for too long, and without leave to ride one of the fine mares or stallions kept in the stables, Dean would go stir crazy. And that was hardly the worst of it. Though the king probably didn’t know it, his words couldn’t have been better chosen to wound Dean. He might like to play around, but he took his role as future king quite seriously. His father’s lack of confidence in him, no matter how mildly stated, would plague Dean with self-doubt.
“Good. Now go to the kitchens and apologize. Go on, out of my sight.”
The young prince stalked away without a look back, cursing under his breath the whole way.
“Castiel,” the king said sternly once Dean had disappeared from the throne room. The young boy flinched and waited for a scathing rebuke to match the one his friend just received. Instead, he saw the king giving him a thoughtful look. “I know the pie stealing was Dean’s idea. Boy has his mother’s sweet tooth and my knack for getting into trouble. That’s not why I want to speak with you, though.”
“Then why, my lord?” If not upset about the pies, Castiel could think of no other charge the king could lay upon him.
The king looked thoughtfully at Castiel, choosing his words carefully before speaking again. “A good bodyguard doesn’t just give in to his liege’s every whim. You need to know how to balance following orders and doing what’s in Dean’s best interests. Even if it means going against his wishes or his express commands. I can’t trust you two together if you’re conflagulating and stealing from my kitchens or otherwise causing a ruckus. There’ll be times you’ve got to be the bigger man and make a stand against Dean. Today it’s bothering my cooks or disturbing my pigs. Someday you might be the difference between whether Dean lives or dies, and I need you to keep your wits about you and think for yourself, be ready to make the right choice. You understand me, son?”
Castiel nodded solemnly. He didn’t, not really, but he took every word to heart. Dean was his best friend, and he wanted them to have fun together, but it was more important to him to see Dean alive and healthy. If he might someday be called upon to save Dean’s life, he wanted to be in the best position possible to make sure he did just that.
Maybe someday he’d understand the difference and know how to balance being Dean’s friend and his bodyguard.