Chapter Text
Castiel had been told that a war was never about winners and the vanquished, it was never about the righteous and the evil. Illuminated by the bluish light that shone in its glittering orb hanging from the study ceiling, his mother’s face looked gentle as she told him that he should not be fooled by the tales and the histories he studied, and that there was only one universal truth about conflict and warfare; people were always going to suffer, people were always going to die.
That was the only thing she had been right about. Because in the end the war was about who won and who lost. But his mother lay dead on a stone altar just like all of those who had woven Castiel in this soft and silken cocoon of blissful, gentle ignorance.
When the door to his room was thrown open, he had still been staring in disbelief at the smoke blocking his view over the fields. In just a few short days everything he knew had burst into flames. He was grabbed by rough hands, still slippery with blood and festering with blisters from wielding blades and righteous fury.
A war wasn’t a game.
Castiel knocked over the chessboard in his struggles to get away, wings trashing against their gold metal armor and long torn robes, shattering all the pieces of the unfinished game between his brothers - both dead, fallen behind enemy lines, tossed into a shallow grave and set fire to. Castiel had felt the burn of disgrace and loss in his very core.
There were no winners.
He could see the ominous black banners with their stark white writing. Humans. The city walls were torn down and smoke darkened the sky. A deadly silence had fallen over the capital, broken only by the regular beating of drums. Loud, penetrating and victorious. The thump thump of the Winchester victory set the rhythm of Castiel’s own pulse. Accelerating when he saw them in their armor of shining black metal and silver. He had read about the achievements of this rising power in the west, how industrious they were, how knowledgeable and noble in their unrefined ways. But the library was burning, the university’s walls had crumbled, the cathedral had been stripped bare. A huge fire was lit in the courtyard, mocking as it swallowed tomes, icons and angels alike. Castiel couldn’t help fighting the hands of the knights that held him, their countenance hard even as the tears left tracks on their ash covered faces. He was brought into the audience chamber where the crystal chandelier had crashed down and the mosaic floor shattered. He saw him then, a young man dressed in a dark uniform with his head held so high God Himself must have been shining on him.
This war did have a winner. Castiel later learned that he was called Dean Winchester.
There were no losers.
There were scorched wing marks burned into the ground, the mighty trees of the Garden had lost their leaves, the Grace dispersed into the air under the onslaught of these wingless beasts. Circles of fire littered the courtyard, some empty, their occupants having chosen death over the reality of their defeat. Castiel saw his king and the army generals arranged in a half circle around the human monarch. Torches whose light burned Castiel’s eyes kept them within a big circle of sigils. He gagged at the sight of his father’s wingless back and the dimmed light of his halo. He had lost his wings, his wife, a daughter and two sons to the war. And now, with Castiel’s face being covered by the white veil of sacrifice, he was about to lose another one. His father bowed his head when Castiel passed him and started whispering the laments for those having died far away from God’s guiding hand. Castiel’s very core turned cold. The king raised his hand and it fell heavy on Castiel’s shoulder before he could bolt. There was no Grace coursing through him, not in this human made trap, and Castiel gasped at the limp weight and dampness seeping into his tunic.
“To pay tribute to the conqueror of our holy land, we offer you this child. His name is Castiel,” Metatron spoke, the voice that had once filled the great halls and all the streets of the capital now sounded solemn and dreadful to Castiel.
“What would I want with a scrawny boy angel? I can have my soldiers take all your women and kill all your men,” the human king said, sounding bored.
“We do not have the strength to stop you if you wish to do so,” Metatron continued patiently and Castiel started shaking. “But Castiel is different. He has been bestowed with rare beauty and a sharp mind.”
“Any whore between here and the sulfurous swamps beyond the hills can give me beauty and what does a brain benefit a slave?” Winchester countered with a sneer. Castiel was pushed forwards a step, the veil slightly lifted away. Castiel caught a clearer glimpse of the human king’s face, youthful and beautiful, with bright, fierce eyes. “Okay, the beauty thing wasn’t exaggerated. But what do I need this toy for?”
“He is no toy and he is no slave.” Metatron’s voice quivered with rage and disbelief and even king Michael’s hand clenched around Castiel’s shoulder. “He will bring you prosperity and bear you children. He is one of the only angels left that can.” This was met with silence that lasted for a while. Metatron looked towards Michael, who gave him a slow nod. The human king was waiting for Metatron’s loud voice to fill the ruined hall again. “King Michael only asks you that you will take him as your wife and queen.”
“Why?” the human king demanded, the disdainful sneer audible in his voice. “Why would I want to give you the satisfaction of putting an angel on a human throne when I could as easily dispose of your king and sit on your throne?” A low murmur of appreciation went through the ranks of the soldiers, but there was outrage written on the faces of the angels. Castiel’s eyes were focused on the human king even though he wanted to look away. He appeared to be cool, composed and calculating even though his soldiers were readying themselves to make his threat reality. The king lifted his hand and silence fell again. Metatron took the silence as an invitation to continue.
“If you want to carry on your path of destruction then we are helpless. Castiel is a gift, one that will hopefully steer you towards more pleasurable past times, a gift that you will enjoy for many years to come. But if he comes with you he will be vulnerable in your court, as would be any child he bears. Through marriage he will be protected, as will be your children. We only ask that you do not spoil something so precious,” Metatron explained to which the king gave no answer. “Will you accept our tribute?”
Castiel knew that they had lost a war that had cost them all too much. A war that they had never intended on fighting.
“I accept your tribute.”
War had no universal truth, just perspectives.
Castiel was roughly shoved into a horse-drawn chariot, a cage on wheels that tossed him about as it started moving. He saw his lands in ruins and too many dead in the streets. Castiel didn’t understand. He simply couldn’t comprehend what they had done to deserve this destruction.
“Serves those feathered bastards well. They’ve been getting in the way of our affairs for too long,” one of the king’s men snorted as he spat on the ashes of wing marks. Castiel shoved his hands through the bars and would have burned the rotten soul out of him for the disrespect he paid to Zachariah, but the king grabbed his wrist. It was the first physical contact they had and it sent a bolt of dreadful cold through Castiel even though the king’s hand was warm and dry. Castiel quickly raised his head to look at the king, either in defiance or dread, he wasn’t sure, but the stern look of his green eyes were directed at the disrespectful soldier instead.
“Don’t be careless. As long as we’re in their land they can hurt us,” he warned and received a demure nod in return. The king gave Castiel’s wrist a firm squeeze until he could feel his bones strain against the grasp. Then he let go and slammed the little window closed, plunging Castiel into throbbing pain and darkness.
War had no universal truth. But the one.
Castiel heard the song of lament starting loudly, rising up from the very earth and he wailed. Good bye beautiful child, good bye our sweetest, glorious sacrifice.
He was dead, he was dead, he was dead.
The little hatch that would have allowed Castiel to see outside of the moving prison wasn’t opened again for what seemed like days. He heard the muffled sounds of people talking on occasion, but most of the time he was left alone with the creaks of the wheels turning and the smoky smell of the wooden case. It was dark but there was a cushioned bench towards the back on which he had sunk once the pain of his bruised wrist and the agitation of the past hours had threatened to make his knees give out. He couldn’t ponder the magnitude of what was to befall him, he couldn’t even process the loss he had suffered himself. He thought of all that old knowledge burning and if they’d clean the wing marks off the floor or if they’d make a monument out of them. He wondered what would happen to father with his wings cut off his back. He wondered how the echoes of his mother’s and sister’s grace would linger in the collective song of the host and how his brothers’ deaths left gaping, aching holes. He wondered what would happen to the capital and the villages now that the barbarians had violated their kingdom, trampling everything down with their heavy soles and splitting the land asunder with canons and firearms. He wondered how history books would document this. He wondered how his living siblings would cope. He wondered what Metatron would say. He wondered why God had given His favor to the humans. He wondered what he had done wrong to deserve this.
His wrist had healed by the time the chariot came to a definite halt. He heard people talking and shouting and it wasn’t long before the door was yanked open. Castiel saw high walls and a canopy of stars appearing in the darkening evening sky before his field of vision was blocked again by a man. His face was thrown into shadow by a bright light from behind.
“We’re here. Come on,” the man said, but other than roughly pulling Castiel out, he offered him his hand. Castiel didn’t want to face his uncertain fate, but staying inside wouldn’t help him either. He took the stranger’s hand and was helped out. In the peculiar artificial light Castiel saw that the man was rather tall and of broad built. The man didn’t offer an introduction, but wrapped the sacrificial veil around Castiel’s face, turning his vision hazy. He knew he was in some sort of backyard where chariots and other vehicles that he had never seen before were kept. “Sorry about the veil, but Dean doesn’t want anyone to get any ideas about you. It’s not as if this part of the castle is anything spectacular to look at,” the man said as he guided Castiel into the castle’s interior. It was slightly chilly, but soon they took a flight of stairs that brought them to a pleasantly warm corridor.
“Dean is the king?” Castiel asked and the stranger was silent before he chuckled.
“So you do speak!”
“Of course I speak,” Castiel answered with puzzlement. “We are in possession of vocal cords and the ability to structure utterances into languages.” The stranger laughed again, patting Castiel’s shoulder.
“Yes, Dean’s the king. He’s a great guy, not that anything I’d say about him right now sounds right to you, of course… I’m sorry about your loss.” Castiel turned his head slightly and looked at the honest blue eyes he could see even through the veil. Castiel couldn’t think of anything to reply to that, so he just averted his eyes again.
The stranger stopped him after they climbed up more steps. “Okay. Here’s your room. Dean’ll probably send in maids to bathe, feed and dress you.”
“I don’t need maids attending to me,” Castiel said with a frown, but the stranger didn’t reply. He unlocked the door and asked Castiel to go in.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” he said and then the door was closed and locked and Castiel was alone again.
He took off the veil and looked around the room. It had white walls that met a high ceiling. The windows were big and showed out over dark lands and forests in the distance, intricately woven metal bars attached to them, so Castiel had little chance of fleeing if he opened the windows. The floor was polished wood with a dark green carpet laid close to the bed. The bed was pushed against the wall to the left. It wasn’t too big, but it had draperies of silk and dark green, thicker fabric that could probably conceal Castiel to the world, giving him hours of entire darkness even in the light of day. The opposite wall, not taken by the big windows, was dedicated to a writing desk, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. Castiel walked to the sofa that stood before the window and put his veil there. It still smelled of the ashes of his ruined kingdom. He sat down and looked to the locked door and the small book case standing next to it. As far as cages went, it certainly was a beautiful one.
Dean didn’t stay long enough to see the angel being guided away. The two day ride had been long and tiring. While he was curious to see just who this creature was that Michael wanted him to marry, he didn’t have the patience for it now. The moment he could breathe in the familiar air, made even more fragrant by the celebratory flowers hung everywhere, he felt the tension of the last week drain out of him. The banners were flowing in the light breeze and he knew that there was a victory march waiting for him. Pride swelled in his breast as he walked through the corridors, the servants’ cheers and awed murmuring following him. His sword was still attached to his hip, he was dressed in his best uniform and the elation carried him past the portraits of his ancestors. Past the eyes full of pride and determination, past the calculating looks, past the watchful eyes of his father and the intelligent and loving gaze of his mother.
He did it, this was the first step towards justice. He abruptly came to a halt when he saw Sam standing in the doorway, blocking his access to the secretary’s office. He could see relief and disapproval warring on his brother’s face.
“Hey there, Sammy,” Dean said with a wide grin and his brother’s resolve to stay angry dissolved. In a few quick strides Dean had him in his arms, hugging him tightly. Sam clung to him, disregarding the stench of day old sweat and smoke clinging to Dean.
“Are you hurt?” Sam wanted to know, quickly glancing over Dean even as he told him he was fine. Sam breathed a sigh of relief but then he scrunched up his nose, like the strong smell of smoke and ash finally registered. But the sour look was probably just the age old disapproval of Dean waging war.
“Don’t tell me you’re disappointed that I won?” Dean challenged and Sam shook his head. “Good, because I’d come back as a ghost and haunt your ungrateful ass.” The forced lightness of the tone didn’t fool Sam. “Where’s Charlie?”
“Still at Grandma Josie’s place, as you ordered. News of your victory will probably reach her soon,” Sam said even as Dean pushed past him to get into the office. “What’s that?” Sam asked curiously, eying the parchment Dean unceremoniously dropped onto the open book lying on the table.
“Treaty. Or rather purchase documents for an angelic toy,” Dean told him with a snort. “Bobby’ll have to check it for me.”
“Jesus Christ, Dean,” Sam exclaimed indignantly and snatched the parchment off the table before Dean could take it back. “Benny told me to prepare a room for a guest, but an angel? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Hey-“ Dean wanted to argue, but Sam’s eyes were going over the lines, his expression becoming steadily darker.
“You agreed to marry the captive angel and make him your queen? If I put aside how despicable this political scheming on the back of a human being is-“
“He’s no human being!” Dean interjected, but Sam just raised his voice and talked over him:
“-there’s still the fact that this future queen is an angel! I thought you hated angels!” Dean snatched the document out of Sam’s hands before he could find more reasons to complain.
“Oh I hate angels, alright!” Dean snapped at him. Sam shook his head.
“Then why marry one? You do understand that if you put an angel on the throne you’ll give him a certain amount of political power,” Sam told him. “I’m sure Bobby will tell you just how stupid it was to agree to the terms!” Dean’s patience was running out. He was tired and ached from the battles and the journey home and hearing his brother complain instead of celebrating his victory was not what he had wanted upon his return.
“It’s only on the document. He has been given to me as a brood mare and that’s already fucking weird man. But he’s selling it as procreation and prosperity, right? So what if I’ll have to play along with Michael’s desperate attempts at saving his hide and preserving some sense of dignity? I don’t care. I didn’t have to give him as much, hell, I didn’t have to give him anything. Because he lost!” Dean breathed in loudly through his nose and took a second to control his voice before he continued. “I’m not a total asshole. He was desperate, he asked for a small mercy and I gave it to him. So I got a pet and he thinks he’s got a chess figure inside my court.”
“Dean… I’m… I’m just telling you that this is a bad idea. Just consider his position. Do you think you can just lock him away for the rest of his life and only visit him when you want to put your dick somewhere?”
“What my dick does isn’t your business,” Dean said defensively and Sam rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of desperation in his eyes that made Dean bite back on the next sarcastic remark.
“It is my business, Dean. As your brother! You’ll eventually have children. And any children that aren’t born to you by Castiel will be illegitimate. Maybe here in Lawrence there will be no issue with putting an illegitimate daughter or son on the throne, but think about the reactions in the rest of Winchester.”
“I don’t fucking care, Sam. Okay?” Dean groaned, tossing the document back down for Bobby to take care of. “This is politics. And I will marry a beast if I have to.”
“But you don’t have to!” Sam shouted after him when he left the office. Dean ignored him. He had a victory to celebrate and a wedding to prepare. It was all a show, but he did at least deserve a feast.
The victory ceremony was still going strong when Dean finally joined it. Despite the late hour, song and jeers came from all the corners of the town around the castle. Often having to stop and receive congratulations on the well-earned dominion over angel territory, it took Dean almost two hours to get from his castle to Ellen’s tavern at the other end of Lawrence.
“I need you to prepare a lavish feast! I won’t trust my cook with it,” he said before she too could congratulate him.
“A feast?” Ellen asked, one eyebrow raised while her daughter Jo and all of the patrons came closer to listen. “I assume you’re not talking about the victory march as we’ve already covered that weeks ago.” Dean shook his head, sitting down at the bar, where he received some more claps on the back.
“Nah. I brought a prize from the land of angels. And I need you to make a wedding cake. Or pie, preferably.” The explanation was met with a moment of surprised silence, before some or the patrons started laughing and congratulating him. Dean wasn’t surprised and the doubts about the union were swept away under the cheers. And why shouldn’t he cheer as well? He had conquered the angels and he had brought home a visible sign of it. The creature was beautiful beyond all means, clad in white robes and graced with dark feathers. Any man would envy him his trophy.
“You can’t have pie for your wedding!” Jo told him with a snort. “And are you out of your mind? You want to marry? An angel on top of that?!”
“Those were the conditions. The union has to be legitimate, as well as the children coming of it.” Jo looked at him with very much the same incredulous disapproval as Sam had, not three hours ago. It was starting to get on his nerves. “It’s just a title, Jo. Being my consort doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Not mean anything? Has an angel blown out your brains? A queen has power! A queen can rule! And she’s an angel! You want to have a monster sit on the throne next to you!” Jo screamed but most of her anger was met with laughter from the other patrons. Before Dean could say anything Ellen intervened.
“Calm down, Jo,” Ellen warned her and Jo made a disgruntled face but leant back against the counter, frowning to herself. “You better explain yourself. What’s that talk about your wedding? Whispers are all over town.”
“And of course your ears are all over town as well,” Dean joked and Ellen rolled her eyes. “But yes, it’s true. I guess they tried to win my favor by handing over one of their most precious angels. His selling points were beauty, brains and babies.” Ellen looked puzzled for a moment, but then her face hardened. Dean noticed at once and groaned. “Come on. Just say yes and let the details be other people’s worries. Okay?”
“Fine then, I’ll take care of your wedding ceremony, but I don’t agree with it.” Dean grinned despite the criticism.
“Great! How soon can we get this over with?”
“Wow, don’t you sound thrilled?” Jo supplied from behind the bar, but she went largely ignored.
“Those things take time to prepare, boy. Give me a month,” Ellen told him, then she turned away, ending the conversation. While Dean was slightly put off to be met with disapproval, he thanked her and, after a drink, left to find the angel.
The angel sat on the sofa, reading, by the time Dean came into the room. This was the first time Dean could get a proper look at who was become the official person at his side for the rest of his life. He would be lying if he said that he didn’t feel ill at ease with the prospect of being in close proximity of an angel, but when he thought of him as a trophy it was easier. He was washed and dressed in a long white robe. The veil was lying next to him. The angel looked up, eying him warily as Dean walked over to him, pulling an armchair close to sit opposite him. His mesmerizing blue eyes were framed by long black lashes. His face was smooth and pale maybe just a shade darker than Dean’s when he wasn’t out in the fields waging wars, with a soft looking mouth that invited kisses but was currently turned down at the corners. His cheeks were pink, a natural dusting of gentle color that made him look healthy. His hair was dark and tousled, some strands curling around his temple and ears. He was breath-taking and Dean felt an unexpected spike of interest. When he had accepted Michael’s offer he had thought of it as a formality. A necessity because the desperate plea reminded Dean that even an enemy deserved a chance at mercy. But was mere beauty enough to sway Dean?
“What was your name?” Dean asked and watched the angel look back into the book, turning a page and avoiding Dean’s eyes.
“Castiel,” the angel said and Dean put both hands on his knees, bending closer slightly.
“Okay, fine Castiel. Welcome to your new home.” Castiel looked up, the flash of something dangerous lighting up his eyes before the angel exhaled, the gentlest quiver going through his shoulders, rustling the dark feathers of the tightly folded wings. They seemed small to Dean but he knew that those wings could be massive, strong enough to carry grown angels.
“What do you intend to do with me?” Castiel asked and Dean looked at him with a grin.
“Well, since your people gave you as a tribute to me, we’ll both uphold the ends of our bargains. The wedding ceremony will be held in 4 weeks.” Castiel didn’t say anything, he merely looked at Dean with sorrow etched into his features. Despite himself, Dean found that the creature’s sadness touched him and he reached out to put his hand to Castiel’s cheek like he would touch a nervous horse. The angel jerked back, bringing up both hands to fend off Dean’s fingers. Dean caught sight of the bruise around one of Castiel’s wrists and he remembered how it had felt in his palm. How warm and soft his skin had been, how frail. “I’m sorry about your wrist.”
“It is healed,” was all that Castiel said, but turned his head away when Dean reached out again to touch his face. “Don’t-“
“Shh, I’m not going to hurt you,” Dean said, taking Castiel’s chin between his fingers and turning it towards him. “Look at me.” Castiel reluctantly looked up at him, his eyes dark and reproachful. “I’m not a monster. I’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible,” he said, dragging his thumb over the soft flesh of Castiel’s lower lip. “What do you need?” Castiel lifted his hand to put it over Dean’s and pushed it away. Castiel’s eyes had lost that spark of fight and now the sorrow shone wetly in them again.
“I want to go home,” he said. Dean sighed and drew away his hand. “Please.”
“That’s not possible and you know it.” Dean said, rising and stepping away before the angel could grab his shirt and beg. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Castiel.” As he closed the door and turned the key in its lock. For a moment Dean stood in front of the closed door, listening, but the angel was silent. Dean shook his head and walked away.
Castiel woke on the first day of his captivity as the lock sprang open. He recognized the woman as one of the maids that had washed and dressed him yesterday. She didn’t talk to him and clearly still stayed as far away from him as possible, even as she put breakfast on his table and a new set of clothes on the sofa. She frowned at Castiel sitting in his bed, eying the state of the blankets.
“I’ll dress myself and I can make the bed myself,” he told her, startling her.
“The king ordered-“
“I’m not a child. I can do it myself,” Castiel insisted and the maid seemed torn, before she gave a nod and left swiftly, the key turning and the lock clicking. Castiel wondered what she thought of him, what all of them thought of him. Did they even understand what he was? Did they understand the glory they were debasing, locking away in a splendid prison?
Castiel dragged himself out of bed, even though he wished he could just sleep until he died or the Winchester kingdom crumbled, whatever happened first. He dressed himself, the fabric feeling itchy on his skin despite the apparent high quality and the beautiful embroidery on the silken shirt and the soft pants. He longed for his own robes again, even if they were covered in ash, stank of smoke and the veil reminded him of how he had been given up to spare lives.
The food was peculiar, but since he wasn’t sure when he would be served another meal he ate it all, thanking Heaven that small mercies were still bestowed upon him.
The door wasn’t unlocked again after breakfast and Castiel was unsure what he should do in his isolation. He didn’t know if anybody would come to demand something of him. If Dean would tire of him and destroy him quickly, or if he would come to claim and bind him. His core vibrated with dread when he thought about being bound for all eternity to a man who had taken his land and killed so many of his family.
Fear and fantasy kept him occupied until another maid came to take away his food and supply him with more. She prepared a bath for him and asked if he wanted for anything. She was visibly uncomfortable when Castiel had to bite back a sob (because of course… of course he wanted! He wanted to leave this castle, he wanted to go home, he wanted his family to be alive and well). She swiftly left with his used plates from breakfast once he had managed to shake his head. He went into the adjoining bath room and sank into the hot tub and tried to keep himself from crying.
Dean came into the angel’s chambers with the fall of night. The creature was in the same position as he had last seen him: holding a book in his palms, sitting in front of the window. Now that Dean had entered, the angel was tense, the book forgotten, the wings drawn close to his body and his eyes firmly fixed on Dean’s every move. Dean lifted both his hands to show that he was unarmed and meant him no harm.
“Hey!” he greeted and sat down in the armchair again. “What did you do all day?”
“I was reading,” Castiel answered slowly, almost as if he feared that the answer might be met with punishing fists. Dean bit back a sigh and decided to lower his voice a bit, trying not to spook him.
“Don’t you get bored? What did you do in your old home?” Castiel opened his mouth as if to protest, but he closed it again and didn’t answer. “Come on, tell me. We have to get to know each other.”
“I was in training,” Castiel replied eventually, “not as a soldier, but as a tactician and expert on spell work.”
“Spell work,” Dean repeated curiously.
“Nothing that would work against humans. We did not believe to be endangered by your kind,” Castiel said and Dean wasn’t sure how to reply to the reproach in his voice. So he merely shrugged.
“I can’t really see you as a tactician though. According to Michael, your selling point is your ability to bear children,” Dean said and looked down to the angel’s lap. “I always thought you were junkless, all of your lot. Sam told me that only 1 in 1000 angels has the ability to procreate and those that can bear children are even rarer.” Castiel didn’t reply, but he nodded. “It’s odd to think that you will be the one to have my children. But well… I’m not the kind of guy to be unfaithful, so I guess it’ll happen sooner or later.”
“I would prefer if it didn’t happen,” Castiel bit out and Dean was momentarily stunned. But then he covered the sudden bite of uncertainty gnawing at him with an uneasy chuckle. Political arrangements aside, they had not actually started off well. Some reluctance on the angel’s part was to be expected. But in the end Castiel was here to have children and Dean doubted that he was as unwilling as he claimed if childbearing was such a rarity for angels.
“We’ll warm up to each other eventually,” he said, more to himself than to Castiel
“It’s still a while until the wedding will take place. I’ll get you things to entertain you until then. What do you want?” Castiel turned to look at him, his expression bordering on angry. Certainly it was challenging, not the same reluctant meekness of before.
“I want to go home,” he said and Dean lifted an eyebrow. “Release me. I want to go home,” Castiel repeated.
“There is no home you can return to,” he said and saw the defiance crumble away instantly. It made him pause and he regretted being so tactless. He hadn’t meant to be mean. “So… uhm… games? Do you play an instrument?” Castiel opened and closed his mouth voicelessly, choking on a sob that wouldn’t quite pass his lips. Dean retreated a little bit and the angel breathed loudly through his nose, tears making his eyes shine bright. “I always thought angels played harps. I’ll go get you a harp.” Dean got out of his chair and gave Castiel’s shoulder a tentative squeeze. He was almost surprised when he met no resistance or flinch. Unsure what to make of it, Dean left. The sound of Castiel’s sobs followed him to bed.
The days passed in similar fashion, one blurring into the next. A beautiful golden harp came to stand in the corner, but Castiel did not know how to use it and his fingers plucked nothing but wrong, painful tunes from it. Maids came and went without speaking a word and Dean’s visit became more frequent. While he had kept himself to creeping in like the shadows at the end of day, he now came at random intervals. Sometimes with sweat glistening on his brow and dirt in his hair. Sometimes bleeding. Always laughing as if he had no care in the world, as if there had not just been a war, as if he wouldn’t soon marry one of those he had despised enough to slaughter them. Dean’d tell him each day of things that meant nothing to Castiel – of lands conquered, of settlements and colonies, of siblings and most of all of the progress in the wedding preparations. Since Castiel’s window was facing out over the gardens within the castle wall and then the fields and forests and hills beyond, he saw nothing of the decorations that were set up or the cheerful colors the citizens wore.
Each day Dean would ask him what he wanted and each day Castiel gave him the same reply. While Dean usually bore this with minimal reaction, this evening something dark crosses his expression.
“I understand that you miss your home, but Michael’s deal was very clear. This castle is your home now,” he told him.
“This place can’t be my home,” Castiel told him fiercely, not sure where he got the energy to be angry from. But he was angry. “You might have stolen me from my home-“
“I didn’t steal you!” Dean interjected but Castiel ignored him.
“- and you might have a parchment that tells otherwise, but I don’t belong to you.” That got a reaction out of Dean almost instantly. Dean got up from his armchair and loomed above Castiel, staring down at him. He might no longer be wearing his uniform or his weapons, but right now he looked just as threatening as he had on that fateful day when the city walls had fallen.
“I conquered your kingdom and I brought your species to its knees. Your king bowed before me, your king threw you at me, like you were a sacrifice for a wrathful god,” Dean told him, his voice low and dangerous. “Everything belongs to me, including you. I am your king.” Castiel flinched at hearing that word and averted his eyes, unwilling to look Dean in the eyes.
“You’re a cruel king,” was all he said, willing to risk punishment. Dean didn’t reply and left Castiel to his own despair.
Castiel’s voice echoed in Dean’s head and he slammed the door in anger, making both Sam and Bobby jump. Dean narrowed his eyes, finding his mentor and brother conspiratorially bent over documents.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, holding on to the discomforting anger that Castiel’s refusal and his own harshness towards his betrothed had caused him.
“What’s going on with you, boy?” Bobby asked in return, “get out of my office if you want to speak in that tone to me.” Dean frowned, but he kept his mouth shut and walked up to the table.
“We’ve been going over the documents that have been supplied to you by this Metatron guy. You know, information on your future queen,” the older man explained, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding his head towards the parchments strewn over the table.
“So, what’s it saying?” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam giving him a dirty, disapproving look. He had had better things to do than read stuff on Castiel, like getting to know him first hand for example.
“I get now why that douche feathered king demanded that he became at least a part of your court,” Bobby said and Dean put his hands on the rough wood, peering down at the documents.
“You mean besides him being a haughty dick with wings?” Dean spat and Bobby rolled his eyes at him.
“Because your Castiel is part of the higher echelons of angel society. His mother was a princess, married to one of the wealthiest angels. He’s got the pedigree to sit on the throne next to you. And on top of that he’s one of the fertile ones. Scheming aside, it’s not all that surprising that Michael would dare to demand at least some social recognition for him even if he’s being debased.”
“Debased? I thought you were on my side!” Dean said, banging his fist on the table. “That Sam with his high moral standard would disapprove was obvious, but you? You know how hard I fought!” Bobby lifted his hands at that.
“Yeah, boy, but-“
“No buts! I gave up the life I had and risked everything to fight the angels! So I deserve something good!” Dean shouted and both Sam and Bobby didn’t dare contradict him on this. “So what if I marry Cas? Or some other pretty princess of a neighboring territory? It doesn’t matter!”
“But the way you treat those that rely on you for happiness does,” Sam spoke up, for the first time since Dean entered the room. Dean glared at him, feeling even more defensive than before. The look on Sam’s face let Dean know that his brother expected some sort of angry retaliation but Dean was not in the mood for this now. So he snorted and put on a smile so fake that it hurt his cheeks.
“Are you done? Because the way I see it my marriage is none of your business.”
“Dean,” Sam started but Dean fixed him with a warning glare. “If you go through with the wedding night, he will be bound to you. I found very little on that magic, but-“
“But he’ll be mine when I have sex with him, yeah I get that. I know how angelic soul bonds work.” Sam seemed surprised that Dean knew what he was talking about and Dean was too annoyed to be as offended as he should be. What did Sam think Dean did in preparation of a fight against angels? He probably knew more about what made them tick than Sam did. He just didn’t care beyond how things worked.
“Yes, but do you really understand it beyond the bare necessities? It’s not just the angelic version of a wedding vow. It means that where you go, he has to go. He can’t go far away from you without feeling pain. This soul bond means that he won’t be able to leave you, no matter what you do.” Dean frowned at that. “Is that really what you want?” Dean didn’t answer, feeling the weight of both Bobby and Sam’s eyes on him. For some reason he wanted Castiel more than most things he had wanted before. And he knew he could get it. A low nausea settled in his stomach and he decided that it was time to take the easy way out and change the topic:
“Hey, Bobby. I need to tell Ellen how many people we’ll be expecting during the ceremony,” he said and Bobby didn’t lose a beat before he nodded wordlessly. Dean kept his eyes lowered, focusing on the task at hand. The wedding. He would have power over Castiel. He would be his conqueror, his king. It was a show of his human dominance visible for all kingdom to see. It was what he wanted. Hell, it was what he deserved.
“Dean? Are you okay? You’re a bit pale” Sam asked, voice nearly a whisper. Dean frowned, pushing down the queasy feeling in his stomach.
“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean said and lifted up a paper with the calculated costs for the flower arrangements. “Just fine.”
More than a week passed and Castiel found himself an expert on the history of humans as written in the tomes in his chamber. He could recite poetry – quite basic and uninspired but he assumed that nothing would be as glorious as the host’s song – and he knew how humans loved in those books. Destructive, all-encompassing and possessive. Dean seemed to be the same though Castiel would hardly call Dean’s interest in him love.
Right now the king leaning against the writing desk and looking at pictures. Flower arrangements he had been told, but once Castiel had made his disinterest visible, Dean had abandoned his attempt at showing him the pictures. But when Castiel next looked up from his book he found Dean had stopped studying his flower prints and was studying Castiel instead.
“It is odd,” Dean said, “I always thought that angels had golden halos and fluffy wings.” He showed up a picture of an arrangement that was mostly white and yellow even though Castiel couldn’t name the flowers. “The florist said that this would match an angel. Well, he apparently hasn’t seen you.”
“I have a halo and my wings are more than decorations,” Castiel replied tensely. “You have seen them burned into the ground, you have cut them off the backs of my brethren. And just because your eyes aren’t able to see me for who I am, doesn’t mean that I don’t exist beyond this image you’ve concocted of me,” he spat in the end, but it still sounded feeble to him. At times he wished he had the strength to fight Dean, maybe just enough to take the key that dangled so temptingly from Dean’s belt. If only his fingers were nimbler or he had any hope of overpowering him just long enough to unlock the door and find the next open window to fly out of. Dean looked at him, frowning slightly as he seemed to think something through.
“So your wings…,” Dean said, thoughts of flower arrangements apparently forgotten for the time being.
“I’m away from home, they’re weaker now without the Grace to sustain them...,” Castiel said, clenching his hands into fists.
“And you can fly?” he wondered eventually. It wasn’t the retort Castiel had expected, so he nodded slowly, uncertain why Dean wanted to know. Castiel felt unease spread within him as Dean’s eyes wandered over the space over his shoulders. “Would you fly from me if I gave you the chance?” he asked after a while, stunning Castiel with the question. When Castiel couldn’t answer, Dean sighed and put the pictures down on the writing table. He kneeled down in front of Castiel. Castiel didn’t know what he was planning to do, so he didn’t resist when Dean took Castiel’s hand into his. “I don’t want to see you unhappy.”
“Yes,” Castiel breathed and Dean looked up, his expression hard to read. “Yes,” Castiel repeated louder this time. “I would fly from you in a heartbeat.” Dean didn’t answer. “You lock me up in here but expect me to be happy? You can’t make me happy Dean. I want to go home.” Dean narrowed his eyes, studying Castiel’s face, before he lowered his head and nodded pensively.
“Okay, fine,” was all Dean said, then he let Castiel’s hands go and rose to his feet. Puzzled, Castiel blinked up at him. “You’ll change your mind.”
“No,” Castiel told him sadly and Dean breathed in deeply, probably holding back his anger, then he turned and left him alone. The tension left Castiel right away and he let himself fall against the sofa’s back, feeling boneless, tired and sad. So, so sad.
It was four days to the wedding and Dean was throwing his glass against the wall.
“What do you expect?” his brother asked with a disapproving snort, not taking his eyes off the book he was reading. “He’s an angel. You’re not supposed to cage him.”
“And why not?” Dean demanded, turning around swiftly, slamming both his palms on the table, before he lifted one hand again, and fiercely pointed towards his chest. “I conquered his lands and they practically threw him before my feet in an attempt to appease me! And I did let them off lightly.”
“You reduced the angelic population by half. You’ve made the angel kingdom your colony and you placed a couple of your best men there to guard the towns and build settlements. You haven’t let them off lightly,” his brother said, raising his eyes to look at Dean disapprovingly.
“I could have burned it all down, Sam. I could have torched all of those winged bastards not because I had to,” Dean said, again pointing to his chest, “but because I could. I was superior. I was stronger and I could have shown these assholes what it means to underestimate the Winchesters.” Sam glared up at him, slamming the book shut.
“And why?! They are angels, Dean! They’ve never actively harmed us! Just because they didn’t provide aid against the demons doesn’t mean that they’re bad! That’s n-“
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean hissed warningly and Sam did bite his lips and ceased talking. “This is not about them. It’s about Cas.” Sam sighed and leant back in his chair, shaking his head at Dean.
“You think he’ll magically stop being miserable if you shower him in luxuries?” Dean shrugged. “Well he won’t. You’re treating him like a pet and not a person.”
“He’s an angel,” Dean interjected defensively and Sam snorted.
“And yet he’s to be your husband… Dean. Don’t you see how that doesn’t work? You can’t treat him like a prisoner and expect him to behave like your beloved…” Dean didn’t say anything and his brother lowered his head. “It’s sad… Just remember that once you take him, he’ll be bound to you for the rest of his life.”
“That’s why I want to make him happy, why won’t you understand that?!” Dean asked pulling his hand through his hair.
“Happy?” Sam asked with a sorrowful expression. “I think you know that you can’t make him happy, Dean… From the moment you plunged your sword into the breast of the very first angel, you doomed him.” Dean took the book off Sam’s table and hurled it at the wall.