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Castiel was tired of pink.
It wasn’t that he didn't like girls. They were smart and fun, and wonderfully pretty. He liked girls, he wanted them - he just didn't want one for the rest of his life.
It was a process very much resembling a shopping run (or, a royalty’s shopping run. It wasn’t actually like he went to the market and shopped for girls. Nor did he go to the market and shop for bananas. Other people did things for him – he just had to sort of be there). He sat on a heightened chair, a prince’s throne, next to the Queen’s. He watched them come and go for hours, head resting heavily on his fist, and noted the light changing on their gentle features from white to yellow, to orange and pink as the hours ticked by. They stepped forward from the long line, bowed gracefully, smiled charmingly, and left, disappointed.
Girls. Lovely and elegant, and none of them good enough.
His aunt waved another one forward, and watched for his reaction. Castiel waved his hand in dismissal.
“Too pink,” he said. The girl took a look at her dress with discouragement and stepped back.
“Next,” Amara called.
“Too shiny,” Castiel dismissed.
“Next!”
And such was his job: too perky, too tall, too sweet. Too white, too floral. Too eager or too indifferent. Too flirtatious. A wave of his hand and they were gone. Castiel wished he could go down there, pat their resigned shoulders and say, “I’m sorry. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. It’s just, if I see one more pink lacy gown, I’m going to disarm a guard of their shotgun and blow my brains out.”
Outside the great castle’s windows the sun was setting quick and vibrant, and Castiel couldn’t remember when exactly did he stop feeling his legs. Another princess came on, and he felt himself stand.
“Too ginger,” he dismissed her hastily. Blood shot through his legs in wonderful prickling discomfort. He turned to his aunt. “I’ve got to take a walk.”
She stood up to face him fiercely. “We aren’t done here, Castiel.”
“You can tell them all to go home,” he said. “You’ll save their time, and ours as well.”
Amara took a step closer. “You have got to pick one,” she hissed at him.
“I have got to eat.”
“What?”
“Aunty, I have not eaten in ten hours. When I squint, their dresses seem like cakes and their hair like icing.”
And with that, he went down the stairs and strode past the row of princesses, who straightened their dresses and fixed their hair breathlessly as he passed them by.
He didn’t know where he was going. He wasn’t one to roam aimlessly in castle halls, and the corridors were so intricate that anyone could easily lose his way in them. Now, he hoped he would get lost. There was nothing he wanted more than a reasonable amount of peace of mind.
He found a dark pantry behind the kitchens and entered it. In between shelves and shelves of supplies, he sat down and rested his pounding head on his knees. The only light in the room came from outside it, through the open door. Castiel closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of crisp bread and frying onions. His stomach turned. He wasn’t really hungry anymore.
He didn’t know what one did with a wife. He couldn’t imagine longing for someone, or wishing for their presence. He couldn’t imagine loving someone to the point of wanting to give them anything and everything they asked for. He could only imagine cheese, and the way it melted on spaghetti when it was hot.
Above him, he heard a sound. Someone had entered the room – he was climbing the shelves with strength and ease. And before Castiel could utter a word, the culprit reached the high shelves and started rummaging through them.
“Oy,” Castiel called. The man startled and plummeted to the ground, a good measure of breadsticks and chocolate candies collapsing on him from the shelves.
“What are you doing?” Castiel demanded.
“Um…” The man stuttered back. The outside light illuminated half his freckled face, light catching in one emerald eye. “Not… Stealing food?” Collecting the loot into his arms, he stood up bunglingly. “You’re, uh…” He squinted at Castiel. “Oh, shit.”
“Put those back,” said Castiel. The man – no older than him, and not seeming to have any concept of authority – shrugged and shoved a breadstick into his mouth.
“Stop it,” Castiel barked. He didn’t care whatsoever about some food being stolen from his kitchens – even the rats of a palace were well fed, right? – but it wasn’t like he could tell that to the guy.
“I’m already going to jail, ain’t I?” The man shoved another breadstick into his mouth. “At least I’ll sit there with a full stomach.” His voice was muffled by the salty delights that filled his mouth.
Castiel fumed. It wasn’t a matter of a few stupid toasted snacks now; it was a matter of principle, and of him wanting to punch the guy in the face.
“Put them back at once,” he said through his teeth. The guy just shrugged, enjoying a nougat filled heart shaped chocolate with a coconut cream glaze.
Castiel has had enough. He lunged at the man and grappled for the nougat. With their chests pressed together, he pushed the other man into a corner and obtained his bread.
“Ha!” He called victoriously, waving the sticks in the air, a moment before the guy snatched them, licking them and placing them back in Castiel’s hand.
Castiel dropped the food instinctively in disgust. “You’re exasperating,” he seethed.
“You’re easy,” the man smirked. Castiel didn’t quite know what he was smiling about – they were both empty handed now; but he skipped over the mess on the floor with a “see ya!”, leaving Castiel to grouch alone in the dark room.
The following afternoon, Castiel stepped into his aunt’s office. His mind was filled with colors, his eyelids singed with variations of lavish dresses every time he closed his eyes.
“Aunty,” he said, shaking pastel and satin out of his head. “You wanted to see me?”
“Take a seat,” said Amara. To her sides sat her royal advisers, Crowley and Rowena, and his brother Gabriel. Castiel sat before them.
“Castiel.” Amara uttered his name cold and formal. “Now that you have come of age, we have a few things to discuss. Responsibilities you’re going to have to pick up.”
“I shall pick a bride in the next few days,” he said, feeling a cloud of weary resentment settling over him. He shall pick a bride who likes steak, so that in the very least he will spend the rest of his life eating what he wishes to eat.
“It’s not that,” said Amara. “Part of your responsibilities is to choose a bride, yes. Another is to sit through matters which you are required to sit through, no matter how dull,” she looked at him, her voice turning to ice, “you deem them. But another is to take part in the tasks of the council. You will fulfill your tasks with honor, with capability, and you will prove yourself worthy.” She did not need to explain herself. A royal offspring incapable of fulfilling his missions was not eligible to rule.
“So be it,” Castiel complied. “What is it that you want me to do?”
“A spy settled into town not too long ago,” spoke Rowena. “From the kingdom of Far, Far Away.”
“He seeks information about our armies, our regime and our warfare,” added Crowley.
“We need you to kill him,” said Gabriel, placing on the table a long silver blade.
“Dead,” said Crowley. “Dead, dead, dead. Shot, drowned, skewed. Dead.”
“Um… got it.” Castiel picked up the blade. “Where do I find him?”
“He works in the kitchens.”
“Of the castle?” Castiel scoffed. “Isn’t that a bit… bold?”
“He’s a cocky guy,” said Gabriel. “His name is Dean Winchester. We don’t know much about him, except that he’s not going under any cover, presumably because he wants to build himself a solid, believable cover in order to gain our trust. And what story is more believable than the truth?”
“Our… trust?”
“Our source says his ultimate goal is to gain the trust of one of the princes,” said Crowley, eyeing Castiel and his brother. “And in order to do that, he will have to tell you a hell of a story. We believe what he’s going to tell you is the truth. We expect you to befriend him… While he thinks he’s picked you – you’ll be the one picking him out.”
“Alright,” said Castiel. “I can do that. I can…” He felt the weight of the blade in his hand. “I can kill some guy.”
The kitchens.
That was where he was most likely to find his spy.
Crowley had said he would have to charm his way through this one, befriend the spy before he could get him alone and inflict permanent damage upon him. He deemed the mission more than possible: after spending days and weeks looking at girls, listening to girls, smelling them, tasting them on certain occasions – Castiel didn’t think spending his time wooing a guy in a considerable distance from any human female would constitute much of a challenge.
The kitchens were big, and Castiel didn’t quite find his place in them. He had no idea how to start. He stood at the margins of the room, watching the hectic life of the cooks and the bakers. And, from the corner of his eye, he saw a room he recognized.
Surely – no one would notice. No one would acknowledge him sneaking around corners of the big hall and opening the pantry door to a slit. No one would care if he slipped inside the dark room and closed the door behind him. Took his shoes off, perhaps, maybe even climbed up a few shelves. Grabbed a few chocolates – they were technically his, after all. And he was hungry, and in need of sugary comfort.
And maybe… Maybe he wondered why one would climb up dark pantry shelves. Perhaps he just wanted to know what it would feel like to touch the ceiling of the room.
He hopped back onto the floor, putting on his shoes in disbelief of the madness that took over him. He stepped out nobly, his back straight with feigned confidence and tension, his pockets full of sweets.
Alright. The spy. He needed to look for the spy. And he should start with-
Straight into him clashed a man cradling a big sack of potatoes in his arms. He wobbled for a moment and gained his balance back, taking a look at Castiel, who hurried to shove his hands – filled with chocolates – behind his back.
“Hello,” he said, straining to sound casual. The man looked at him with clear skepticism from behind his pile of spuds.
“Hi,” he said, seeming fazed, and kept walking. “You look better in a dark supply room,” he called after him, shaking his head, as if Castiel had blown a cloud into his mind.
“Do- Do you spend all your spare time in the kitchens?” Castiel called back. It was meant to sound insulting. It came out stingless. He watched the guy walk away – and then dump the potatoes in the very room from which Castiel had just emerged and come back to face him.
“I sure should, seeing as I work here,” he raised an eyebrow. “Do you spend all your spare time in the kitchens?”
Castiel blinked rather dumbly, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “…No.” He rubbed a hand at his face tiredly. “I guess I just… needed a break.”
“What from?"
He made a vague gesture with his hand. “Girls.”
“Ah,” said the other man. He went and leaned on one of the counters to Castiel’s side. “You came to the right place, then. That guy behind the ovens has got the most amazing ass. Just wait for him to turn around.” He took a glance at Castiel, and, seeing his unamused expression, cleared his throat. “I'm... Kidding. Kind of.”
“No,” said Castiel. “I'm... Bride shopping.”
“So your problem is too many beautiful women? Life’s hard when you’re royalty, I guess.”
“Trust me, you get tired of it. I might as well have tattooed the image of pink lacy underwear onto the insides of my eyelids.”
“Yeah,” said the man, dropping the cynical edge to his voice, as if that was a standard thing for a man to say. “I know the feeling.” He took a watch and a small screwdriver out of his pocket and started… clashing them together.
“What are you doing?” Castiel asked suspiciously. The other man seemed to feel much more at ease, now that no one was accusing him of theft or startling him into falling from a shelf six feet high. His relaxed posture almost made Castiel feel at ease, too.
“Fixin’ it.”
Castiel wasn’t sure how to take it from there. He grabbed a chocolate from his pocket and threw it into his mouth.
“So candy isn’t the only thing you steal,” he said idly.
The man grimaced, and raised his head at the sound of someone’s call. He waved the watch at a boy and made a gesture with his hand implying later.
“I don’t steal those,” he said to Castiel, his voice calm and pleasant enough, distracted by his craft. “I told you. I fix ‘em.”
“I don’t imagine why you would choose to spend your days carrying potato sacks, then,” said Castiel. “You must be making a fortune, doing that for people.”
The man looked at him sideways, his eyebrows furrowed and slight smile settling on his lips, as though he was both perplexed and amused at Castiel’s suggestion. “I do it for free,” he said.
“Oh.”
“So,” said the guy, the muddled smile working its way off of his face. “You never actually told me your name.”
Castiel felt his eyebrows rise. “I was under the impression that you recognized me.”
“Well, I did. Sorta. I know you’re a prince. I saw the murals, obviously. But I don’t know which, eh... Which one you are.”
“Oh,” said Castiel, brilliantly. “I'm the Castiel one. I mean- I'm the Castiel. I'm…”
He trailed off, hiding his face with his palm, and felt the other man laugh beside him.
“What's your name?” He asked, attempting to recover some of his lost dignity. He shoved another piece of candy into his mouth, and held one in his open hand. “Chocolate?”
The man shook his head. “Winchester,” he said. “Dean.”
For a moment, there was complete silence between them.
It was the sound of Castiel choking on his candy.
“Winchester?” He gasped, coughing into his hand as if he had just swallowed a medium-sized frog.
Winchester. Dean Winchester. Of all the handsome young strangers in the kingdom, he has somehow managed to make an enemy – or befriend? – the one foreign spy he was designated to murder.
“Yeah,” said the other man, looking at him with concern. “Dude… you okay?”
“I, eh…” Castiel gasped for air. “I saw a… mouse.”
“A mouse?”
“Um. Yes.”
“You're scared of mice?” Asked Dean, his nose wrinkling.
“I... Under these circumstances, it appears that I am.”
He looked over at Dean, every muscle in his body tensing. And the other man looked back at him, but he was smiling, soft and quiet.
“I'm scared of heights,” he said, looking into Castiel’s eyes with new familiarity. As if they’d shared something.
But Castiel hadn’t meant to share something with that man. He hadn’t meant to share anything at all.
And yet here he was, sharing something that didn’t have the slightest bit of truth in it. For he had never seen a mouse, and no animal frightened him. Not a thing frightened him, except, perhaps, the feeling that started to spread in his heart.
He couldn’t get Dean out of his head.
He had spent nineteen years hoping to ever meet someone who would catch his attention. It felt more like a million.
And then came Dean. Maybe he was just there at the right place, at the right time. Maybe it was the way he moved, or spoke, like nothing in the world could hold him back. Whatever it was – Castiel’s brain painted a hell of a picture every time he closed his eyes, and it didn’t give him a rest.
That night, more than ever, he was struggling to clear his mind. Around him whirled dancers and servants carrying trays of food and drink. In his stiff suit, he located his brother within the crowd of extravagant guests and made way towards him. He nearly made his escape when his aunt appeared before him.
“Castiel,” she said, straightening his tie. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Any updates on our… Situation?”
“I have not decided on a bride, yet, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
“The other situation,” said Amara, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Your mission.”
“I’m not sure this is the time or the place to talk about this,” he replied in a low voice, glancing around at the ballroom, at the people dancing in swirls around them. Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention; a man leaning against the wall across the room with a drink in his hand. His stare scouring the room lazily, turning to fire the moment it caught Castiel’s eyes.
Dean.
“Have you made any progress?” Asked his aunt, somewhere in the back of his mind.
“I’m…” His throat dried, and his tongue ran over his dry lips as he watched Dean detach from the wall and cross the room in his direction. “I’m working on it.”
Fire. Fire, everywhere inside his mind, drying his mouth and burning down his lungs; fire in his fingertips. Dean walked past him, his stare so intense Castiel felt that he was drowning in the fire. And when he was gone, Castiel couldn’t help but turn around and watch him go.
“I have to go,” he said, not seeing his aunt, not seeing anything but the hint of a smirk on Dean’s lips right before he passed Castiel by. He felt himself moving slowly, stiffly, after Dean. Outside the ballroom were a dozen other doors leading to one place or another in the castle. He went through an old, small door that led to a dark supply room. And Dean was there, looking at him with no trace of pride or mockery, one eyebrow raised in invitation. Castiel wasn’t entirely aware of his movements, his leg kicking the door closed, his arm wrapping around Dean’s waist. His lips colliding with Dean’s like he’d never kissed anyone before. All he felt was Dean’s fingers trailing up his back and pulling at his hair; Dean’s chest pressing against his; Dean’s arm pulling him closer; Dean pinning him against a wall.
“Still can’t get those girls out of your head?” Dean hummed into his lips.
“They’re all… So soft and beautiful,” Castiel breathed, and any edge he intended his words to have was gone.
“Yeah…” Dean trailed off, kissing down his neck. “Well, do you let them touch you like this?”
And then Dean’s lips were on his own again, and he didn’t have the breath to reply.
It was hard to fret for the future of his kingdom when he was lying in tall grass, soaking in the sun and his fingers laced with someone else’s.
Still, he managed.
He had no intention of killing Dean. He accepted that truth with little remorse, for two reasons:
First, the way Dean looked at him made Castiel feel like he was the source of light reflecting in Dean’s eyes, rather than the scorching sun that touched them through fluttering tree leaves.
Second, there was something so naive about that light that Castiel wished to spend every day of the near future kindling it.
“Tell me something,” he asked. Dean hummed above him, lacing their fingers together.
“I like to pretend that you are mine,” he said with the shadow of a smile, although it had an unhappy edge to it.
Castiel snorted softly. “Aren't I?”
“Not in the practical sense.”
“Just in every other sense,” he replied, and Dean’s smile grew genuine. Yes, he would spend the rest of his words trying to make that man laugh if he could. But Dean was right. They were both lying to themselves, and to each other, and truth would catch up eventually.
“I can't find my breath when you look at me,” he mumbled, not quite knowing why, not being able to stop himself. He didn’t intend for those words to be the ones to elicit Dean’s laughter, but he succeeded nonetheless.
“I'd rather that you breathed.”
“They're pushing me to pick a bride.”
“I know.”
He rose on an elbow, and Dean shifted to look at him. “And you have no problem with me getting married?”
“It's not like we ever said we're exclusive,” he said, resting his head on Castiel’s chest, but Castiel could tell it was an excuse.
“Are you seeing someone else?” He asked, working to sound unaffected.
It’s only been a couple of months, anyway. But in those months, they both clung to each other like they insisted the other would be the one to let go first. No, you hang up. No - you try to kill me first.
“No, Cas. Great Gods, chill. But I knew what I was getting into.”
“So why did you get into it?”
Dean looked at him again, a grin settling on his face. “Maybe I just couldn't help myself,” he said, and fell again into the art of touching his fingertips to Castiel’s and making his heart beat to whatever rhythm he wished. Something in his expression shifted.
“Who do you think you’re gonna pick?” He hummed, and Castiel could feel it in his chest.
He had been staring at the walls for hours when someone walked to the front of the line and caught his attention the previous day. He had looked her over – her tight leather clothing, the defiant look in her eyes. She wasn’t like any of those other rosy gals. She was something else, chewing on a hay straw and crossing her arms like she had a hundred better places to be.
“Her name is Meg,” he told Dean. “A lifetime with her might be tolerable.” He felt Dean’s eyes on him, but his mind was elsewhere.
“Hey,” Dean said, fingers trailing Castiel’s jawline. “Can I ask you something? Just out of curiosity?”
It wasn’t just his tone – Castiel had been waiting for this moment. He felt a chill wash the sun from his skin.
“What’s it like? Having so much power over people’s lives?”
“I don’t have power over any life,” he replied stiffly. He felt as though the blood was freezing in his veins; this was going to kill him, one way or the other. This was going to turn his heart to stone.
He reached for his blade anyway.
“Don’t they give you any responsibilities?” Dean asked, and Castiel had to admit, he was exceptionally good at his job. There was no hitch in his voice, no falter. “Any missions?”
This was just the tip of the iceberg, he knew. Dean had broken his mind apart and shaped it to his liking, and he was starting to dig in. If Castiel would only let him, he would shape his heart, too, and his willpower. He had that power.
Or, he would have. If Castiel hadn’t known to pick out the deceit in his words.
His fingers closed around the hilt of his weapon, colder than the silver they were gripping.
Dean looked at him and something passed across his face, an expression that might have reflected Castiel’s. Pain. Disappointment. Resolution.
“You know,” he said, and his self-assured facade was gone and replaced with a tense, uncertain surface. “Forget it.”
He smiled – the saddest, smallest smile Castiel had ever seen. Not the smile of someone in love; more the smile of someone who had just watched everything he cared for burn, and tried to convince himself he was fine.
“Forget it.”
He kissed Castiel, kissed him like he meant it.
Slowly, rigidly, Castiel let go of his blade. When Dean replaced his head back on his chest, Castiel pulled him closer. They could both taste the tension in the air.
“I screwed up.”
Gabriel looked up at him from behind piles of books and candy on his desk. “Close the door,” he said, “and tell me what happened.”
Castiel sat down across from his brother. The room was his office, but it was littered with candy wrappers and bed robes were thrown carelessly on the floor.
“There was an unexpected complication in my mission.” He rubbed a palm at his eyes tiredly. “I swear it all started because I didn't know what Dean looked like. And when I finally met him, it was too late. One thing led to another...”
He looked down at his brother, expecting to see deep disappointment in the lines of his face – and finding something entirely else there.
“Look, we've all been there,” said Gabriel.
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s no big deal. These things happen to every guy sometimes, it’s almost common. You just need to understand that what we do is really important for the cause, Castiel. If a few people that didn't deserve it get hurt on the way… That’s just what we have to do for our people.”
Castiel rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Bottom line is...”
“He's still alive.”
“Yes,” he said. “I don't know what to do.”
Gabriel stood up and started collecting random items from corners of the room – a shovel, salt, sheets. “You have to start with covering your tracks.”
“Covering my tracks?” Asked Castiel, puzzled, watching him storm around the room.
“Yes. Bury the body, make sure no one ever finds out, etcetera etcetera. We don't want any stories to start spreading, do we?”
“Body?” Castiel shrieked. “What body?”
Gabriel halted in place, rope dangling from his one hand and knife clutched in the other. “Of the person you accidentally killed,” he said slowly, “instead of Dean.”
“What? I didn’t kill anyone!"
“Then what the hell happened?”
“I'm in love with him!” Castiel spat out in somewhat of a panic.
“You're in love with him?”
“Well, I don't know if in love...” He gripped his head desperately as the weight of what had just occurred sank in. This wasn’t that common. It didn’t happen to every guy, and it was a big deal.
“It was an accident,” he mumbled into his hands.
“An accident? What happened, did you fall and have your lips land on his?” Gabriel was hysterical now, his knife swinging in all directions, and Castiel had to duck to stay out if its range.
“I made him fall from high shelves,” he said with a sigh. “I'll fix it, brother. I guarantee it.”
“How? The kingdom depends on you, Castiel. Not with killing some stupid spy boy, but with ruling in honor and making tough decisions when you have to. Imagine being a king, and falling in love with every man you have to kill!”
There was a moment of silence.
“…Doesn't sound that bad to me.”
“Ugh!”
“You're being melodramatic,” he said.
“You're being a brat!” Gabriel flicked him on the forehead.
“Ow!”
“Look, does this Dean guy seem to like you back?”
“If shoving his tongue in my mouth counts any,” Castiel muttered, crossing his hands over his chest.
“Agh,” Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mental image. Has he started prying for information yet?”
“Not really. He… tried. But he changed his mind.”
“He’s hooking you.”
“Is not,” Castiel said defensively.
“He’s making you trust him,” Gabriel ignored him. “Believe he’d never do that to you, and then when you’re nice and heart-eyed, he’ll be able to reach into your head and take any information he wants.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Castiel mumbled, but his voice sounded a little bit wrecked.
“Proof is,” Gabriel said with a lifted eyebrow. “You’re hooked.”
“You’re wrong,” Castiel insisted.
He left the room making sure his brother didn’t suspect for a minute he didn’t believe his own words.
He woke up to the feeling of being yanked from his bed. It was dark, and behind his eyelids danced the colors of a flame. Before he could manage to open his eyes, he was lifted and hurled against whatever – whoever – had had the strength to lift him up, and something sharp and cold was pressed against his throat.
His own blade, he found as he opened his eyes. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he took the scene in: the hand that was holding the blade to his throat belonged to Dean, his other arm placed across Castiel’s bare chest, supporting his unsteady posture. Castiel’s silk bedspread was making its slow way onto the floor, sliding with grace from the bed, where he and Dean had been fast asleep, deep and undisturbed, just moments ago. And across the room, at the door, were Amara’s advisers and a group of fully armored soldiers behind them, torches and swords in hands.
If there was any kind of god above, he couldn’t thank it enough for making him keep his underpants on before he went to sleep that night.
“Stay back,” Dean called while Castiel was still absorbing the situation, his voice strained, and Castiel realized that Dean was going through the same process he was: waking up, struggling to shake off his shock; comprehension, and decision.
He acted quick, elbowing Dean’s side hard, but Dean took in the blow with a clench of his teeth. Castiel was still clearly much more out of it than he was.
“Put down the weapon, boy,” said Rowena. “You’ve got no chance of leaving this room free, but you might just leave it alive if you’re smart.” She eyed Castiel then, who felt Dean’s chest swell and flatten against his back as he breathed rapidly. “That goes for both of you.”
“I don’t see how I could be accused of anything, Rowena,” he grumbled. “My own blade is being held against my throat, and I am every possible type of naked.”
“The order is out,” said Crowley. “You are accused of treason, Castiel. If it’s up to me-“ he eyed his accomplice- “There is no scenario where you leave this room breathing. As to him…” His eyes shifted to rest on Dean.
“Your plan didn’t work quite as well as you’d hoped, did it?” Asked Rowena.
"I got him right where I wanted him," Dean sneered.
This, Castiel absorbed immediately. Hard and cold, like the silver against his throat.
“So this was all just a trick?” He said through his teeth. His mind was already mapping out the weak spots in Dean’s body, devising a strategy against his heart’s will.
“Did you really think I was interested in you?” Dean growled into his ear. “That I would betray my entire kingdom for you?"
It hurt. It hurt because when Castiel turned to look at Dean, the knife grazing the skin of his throat, he realized that Dean was never about to do that for him, but he would go as far as he had to for Dean. He was in love, stupidly, fallen right into the trap. And it hurt more than whatever the knife could do to his throat. It was lonelier than Castiel had ever imagined loving someone could be.
Outside the turmoil of his mind, the two royal advisers turned to each other, arguing.
“You are not killing any princes.”
“But, mother-“
“Do you want the Lucifer incident to happen all over again, Fergus?”
“It’s Crowley.”
“Sure, dear. Now, Fergus-“
“Crowley!“
Suddenly, he felt Dean’s breath on his ear. “Reach into my pants.”
“What? Dean, I doubt this is the time-“
“There’s a knife strapped to my leg, you idiot.”
“Oh.”
He didn’t think about what this meant. He didn’t begin to think about the motives behind anything Dean had said tonight. Instead, he reached into the pants, and he grabbed. Dean let him go and they charged, fighting their way through the soldiers.
“Where are we going?” Asked Castiel as they darted down the corridor.
“I have no idea,” Dean panted. There was a smile in his voice.
“It's the middle of the night and we have nothing but our clothes.” He grabbed Dean’s hand and pulled him into a hidden stairway that spiraled away from the corridor.
Dean looked him over doubtfully.
“Alright, we have nothing but your clothes.”
“We'll work something out,” Dean said, but the confidence in his voice was subverted by the intensifying sounds of footsteps and shouts behind them.
“Dean, I need to tell you something.” He slowed down, but Dean tugged on his hands and pulled him forward.
“Can you tell me while running?”
“I suppose. If we take a sharp right here, there’s an unattended hall down the stairs.”
“Window?”
“Window. Dean, listen. I know you're a spy. I was assigned to kill you.”
“Okay, well, that's not really relevant anymore.” A night guard appeared around a corner, and he pulled Dean back the way they came. For a moment they were pressed together between two walls, and he could see Dean’s afire eyes, feel him breathe.
“You don't care at all?”
Dean rested his forehead against his, although Castiel saw it more as a warning that he might just fall asleep than a romantic gesture.
“Cas,” he huffed. “We can go back to killing each other once we get out of this alive. Right now all I know is that I'm throwing away my entire life for just the chance of being with you, if you can do the same, and I'm not regretting it the slightest. That's all I know.”
Castiel nodded.
“So?”
“I care for my people. My family.”
Dean hung his head. “I understand.”
“But I don’t want to serve them if it means I’m the one who decides whether one lives or dies.”
Dean rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “Well, that works for my benefit.” And he reached up a hand, but the guard was gone and Castiel pulled them forward.
“The hall is just around the corner.”
“Okay. We run into the window, break it, escape.”
He threw a backwards glance at Dean. “Or we could just open the window.”
“Okay. We run to the window, open it carefully, step outside unharmed and escape.”
In the dark, they crossed the hall running, a squad of soldiers on their trail. With one set of pajamas, a pair of boxers and two blades, they made their escape.