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Dean is having a very pleasant day off, minding his own business and fishing, when a firebird descends out of the sky and lands in the lake, splashing water everywhere and, more importantly, scaring away the fish Dean had been so patiently luring in.

Dean wipes water out of his face and scowls. “Seriously, Novak?”

Castiel Novak – commander of the prince’s guard, master of the firebird legion, and the most annoying person Dean has ever had the misfortune of meeting – merely raises an eyebrow. “Lieutenant Campbell,” he greets, as stiff and informal as a wooden doll. “You’re a hard man to find.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I told Benny where I’d be.”

“You told him you would be finishing at a nearby stream. This,” Novak inclines his head at the lake, “is not a nearby stream.”

“Fish weren’t biting. I moved. Is that a crime?”

“You’re far away from camp. If you had run into any problems, it would have been difficult to reach you in time.”

“I can’t tell if it’s more insulting that you think I’d be helpless if I got attacked or that I don’t know how far away is too far away,” Dean says dryly. “Besides, Impala may not be as fast as your firebird, but she can cover a lot of ground quickly.”

“And yet your Impala is not next to you.”

Dean shrugs. “She’d come if I whistled.”

Novak hums a single disbelieving note. Dean would be offended, but Novak has been disbelieving about Dean for, oh, the entire time they’ve known each other, so really it’s nothing new. Plus, Novak has a low opinion of most of the prince’s guard, so, really, Dean is nothing special.

“Okay, but seriously,” Dean says, “this is my day off. Can you please get your firebird out of the lake before she cooks all of the fish I am trying to catch?”

Novak looks down in surprise, as if he’s only just noticing the steam rising as his firebird’s feathers heat the lake. He clicks gently at his firebird, and she responds to the command by spreading her wings and making a short hop out of the lake onto the grass.

On one hand, the lake stops steaming.

On the other hand, Dean gets covered in water again.

“Seriously?” he complains.

Novak ignores him, which is pretty par for the course. He says, “General Singer has summoned you.”

“Good for him. But I am off today, so therefore, any summons will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“This was not a request. Therefore, you are required to attend.”

And, yeah, it isn’t like Dean has actually caught any fish, and also it’s almost evening, so he’s had most of the day off. But it’s still annoying to be summoned like a child. “It really can’t wait for another hour?”

“Do you really think your luck will improve over an hour?” Novak makes a show of peering pointedly at the empty bucket Dean has at his side. “The fish don’t seem to be biting for you over here either.”

“Ha ha,” Dean mutters, but he stands up and begins reeling in his line. To add insult to injury, his hook is empty of the worm Dean had dug up for bait, which means that some enterprising fish got away with the only thing Dean actually caught today. He sighs, takes off the string, collapses the rod, and packs everything away into his case before he whistles for Impala to come to him.

Then he turns around and about jumps out of his skin when he finds Novak still staring at him.

“Uh,” Dean says, “you don’t have to watch me, you know.”

“You don’t always follow orders.”

“Dude, I literally have packed up my gear,” Dean points out. “You really think I can’t manage getting on my horse and riding home?”

Novak blinks placidly. “Well, you didn’t manage to properly report where you’d be spending your day off.”

Fortunately, Impala trots into view before Dean can say anything else. She sidesteps Novak’s firebird – horses are always nervous about firebirds, and it took a damn long time to train Impala about of immediately bolting the second she caught the scent of one – and comes to Dean, whickering softly.

“Hey, girl,” he says, petting her nose. “Ready to go home?”

Dean gets on his horse, settles his gear, and then realizes that Novak is still staring at him. “Seriously?”

“General Singer was most insistent that I make sure you made it back.”

“Well, I’m on my way, so he doesn’t have to worry.”

“Hmm.”

A horrible thought occurs to Dean. A firebird is faster than a horse, but that doesn’t mean they can’t pace themselves. He narrows his eyes. “So, what, you’re going to follow me all the way home?”

“I actually follow orders, Campbell.”

Dean debates throwing something at Novak. It would be a stupid idea – Novak is fast, for all that he looks quiet and calm, and he would likely either catch it or dodge it – but it would also be extremely satisfying.

Unless Novak threw it back. Which is not implausible.

Dean sighs and turns Impala’s head towards home. “Whatever,” he says. “Suit yourself. Let’s go, Impala.”

Novak really does shadow him from the air for the entire journey home. He is even still following Dean as Dean rides into camp, and doesn’t break off until Dean literally walks Impala into a stall.

Dean finds out that he isn’t the only person who has been summoned when he gets to the command tent and finds Benny milling about with a few other lieutenants. He nods to the others and then joins Benny.

Benny gives him a grin and a good-natured jostle. “Have a good day off, then?”

Dean flips him the middle finger.

Benny laughs. “So the rumor that Novak went off to find you himself was true, huh?”

“He shadowed me the entire way home, like he thought I’d fall in a bush or ride into a tree,” Dean complains. “I swear, he thinks that they should take my sword away and demote me to be a cook or something.”

“Nah, Novak knows you can fight. He’d never have let you join the prince’s guard if he didn’t.”

“He has a funny way of showing it,” Dean mutters, watching as Novak joins the group of commanders and General Singer. “And for that matter, why didn’t you volunteer to come get me?”

“And deprive you of the chance to have another disagreement with our glorious commander?”

“Screw you,” Dean tells him. “So what do you think this is about?”

“No idea. But whatever it is, no one up there looks happy.”

Dean squints. Benny isn’t wrong; he can see all of the commanders for the Winchester army have now gathered in the command tent, and indeed all of them have grim expressions on their face. One of them is even shaking their head, but General Singer says something and they fall silent.

“Maybe they just want to do another training exercise,” Dean suggests. The entire Winchester army rarely gathers in one place – they learned their lesson too well after the attack that cost them most of the royal family and the kingdom – but they do come together for big celebrations or training exercises, if only to remember that they are not just a dozen groups of scattered peoples, hiding in the forest and the plains, but one kingdom and one people.

Benny shakes his head. “They wouldn’t need us for that,” he points out. “The commanders would just round each of their units up.”

And, well, Benny has a point. Dean glances around the tent again, and this time unease wells in his stomach when he realizes just who the other soldiers that General Singer has summoned are. As part of the prince’s guard, he doesn’t generally rotate amongst the other units, but he recognizes these men and women – they’re the best of the best.

He blows out a long breath. “I hope it’s not another spy.”

“Brother, we all hope that.”

Finally, the commanders come to some sort of agreement, because they all step back. General Singer turns around, limps forward, and clears his throat.

“Evening,” General Singer says. “It’s good to see everyone, but we have work to do, so I’ll keep this short. In two weeks, the crown prince will come of age. He’ll be needing a coronation.”

No one says anything to that. Prince Samuel’s birthday is common knowledge; it’s one of the few occasions at that the Winchester people risk gathering together. It also means a ton of coordination and effort and time to keep everyone save from the Usurper and his demons, but Dean knows, as does everyone else, that that wouldn’t be enough to warrant summoning the best soldiers in the army to the command tents when most reasonable people would be heading off to eat dinner and sleep.

“Now, that’s the information we all know. What I am about to discuss next is something that cannot leave this tent, under pain of death. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir!” they all say.

General Singer actually looks into every single person’s face before he begins to speak again. It’s strangely more terrifying than his death threat.

“There is a plan,” he says, slowly and carefully, “to have the coronation take place in its proper place. In Lawrence.”

Dean keeps his mouth from falling open in shock only with great effort. From the way Benny jerks besides him, he’s not the only person who is surprised. After all, they’ve occasionally managed to take back a few small outposts or villages at the edge of the Winchester kingdom, but Lawrence is at the heart – there’s a reason it was once the capital. To take that back . . .

“It won’t be easy,” General Singer says, as if he can hear their misgivings. “Hell, it likely won’t even be hard – it’ll be complex, it’ll be difficult, and it may well kill us all. But the Usurper has grown lax over the years, and with allies, we have a chance – a small chance, but a chance nonetheless – to take back our home.

“Which brings us to all of you. You are all the best of your units, per your commander. We need someone who is willing to make the journey between kingdoms and find allies who are willing to support a Winchester king retaking the Winchester throne, now that the crown prince is almost of age. We will not command this; this will be a voluntary mission only. Any questions?”

Dean has only, oh, a few dozen, but another soldier beats him to the punch.

“Our allies didn’t come when Lawrence fell,” she says, her eyes hard and her mouth set in a firm line. “Why would they come now?”

“They didn’t,” General Singer acknowledges. “But they didn’t because the alliances were sworn with the royal house of Winchester, and with King John, Queen Mary, and Prince Dean all dead, the only survivor was Prince Samuel, and he was too young to call upon them to fulfill their oaths. The crown prince is not too young now.”

Benny shifts. “Once an oathbreaker, always an oathbreaker,” he points out. “Could we trust them even if they came?”

General Singer shrugs. “Not like we have many other options.”

Which, Dean concedes, is pretty true. The Winchester army was decimated during the attack on Lawrence, and even now, almost twenty five years later, they haven’t fully recovered. They’d never be able to challenge the Usurper on their own. With allies, though . . .

Dean thinks of Prince Samuel – or Sam, as he prefers to be known. The kid is young and he’s basically always got his nose in a book and recently he’s developed an irritating insistence on eating healthy. But he’s got a kind heart, and a goofy smile, and when he sets his mind on something, he goes for it. He’ll be a good king, even if he does drive Dean and the rest of the guard insane when he goes haring off on an adventure without telling anyone. Especially since most of his adventures are just hunting down rare books he’s gotten wind of.

He’d be an even better king if he had an actual kingdom to rule, and not just scattered peoples communicating by long distance messengers.

Before he even realizes it, Dean finds himself stepping forward. “I’ll do it,” he says.

General Singer raises an eyebrow. “Will you, now.”

Dean bristles. “I’ve protected the prince since I was old enough to raise a blade. Or do you not remember the last three assassination attempts?”

“Calm down, Campbell, no one thinks you can’t,” General Singer says impatiently, which is when Dean realizes that the general’s first response was less surprised and more resigned. “But you can’t go alone. For one thing, if you died, then we would never know until it was too late. For another – ”

“I’m not going to die!”

“For another,” General Singer continues, blithely ignoring him, “typically emissaries go in groups of two. Which means I need another volunteer.”

Dean grumbles. It is true, it’s one of those ridiculously complicated rituals that the nobles engage with, but even though Dean has suffered through many a banquet when guarding Prince Sam, he generally ignores the politicking and focuses on making sure Sam is safe and also eating all the good food.

He turns pleading eyes on Benny. They’ve have been paired up since they joined the prince’s guard, and they’re the team to beat during competitions.

But Benny is shaking his head, regret in his eyes. “I can’t, Dean,” he says. “Andrea and the baby, it’s too close.”

Which is when Dean remembers that, right, Andrea is pregnant. Benny had already informed the guard of his impending resignation, so that he could care for the Andrea and the baby, because no one wanted a guard whose attention was split between his family and his charge. He had been talking about joining the watch, or maybe retiring altogether and opening a bar or something.

Unfortunately, Dean doesn’t know any of the others well enough to know if he’d want any of them working with him. And from the looks on their faces, they know of Dean Campbell’s reputation enough to possibly not want to risk working with the guard who pulls crazy stunts.

And then: “I volunteer. I’ll go with him.”

Dean’s head jerks up in shock as Novak pushes his way to the front. He looks stiff and uncomfortable, but there’s a determined set to his jaw; he looks like he’d be willing to floor anyone who might challenge him.

General Singer, as usual, is more than willing to do so. It’s how he became the general. “Uh huh,” he drawls, crossing his arms. “Are you sure?”

Novak lifts one shoulder and drops it in a quick shrug. “Well, as you said,” he says, “we can’t afford to let Campbell die.”

General Singer’s mouth thins. He stares at Novak, and Novak stares at him. There had been a strange undertone to Novak’s voice, almost like he was saying some kind of code phrase, except it isn’t phrase that Dean recognizes, and it also isn’t a quote from any of their literature. Whatever it is, though, it must work, because General Singer sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes.

“Fine,” he says grumpily. “Novak, Campbell, get ready to leave tonight. Novak, I’ll discuss the plans with you.”

Dean bites back an irritated comment – he is right here after all – but the last thing he needs is to piss General Singer off and get himself taken off the mission entirely, so he just bows.

“The rest of you, dismissed.”

Dean is just about to leave when Novak clears his throat and says, “Pack light, Campbell.”

“I’m not an idiot, Novak. I know how to pack.”

“Hmm.”

The first thing Novak says to him when he turns up at the edge of camp is, “We’re not taking her.”

It’s not exactly the greatest start to their partnership. Also, it took a damn long time to get packed and say goodbye to Sam without tipping him off and get the supplies for Impala, so Dean thinks he’s fully justified in scowling.

“Excuse me, who decided you were in charge?” he snaps from atop Impala.

Novak doesn’t even blink. He tilts his head at his firebird, who is curled on the ground with a saddle and some packs neatly arranged on her back. “I did,” he says, without a hint of shame. “I am the commander. Also, Grace will be faster than Impala, and harder to track.”

“Grace is a giant firebird.”

“Who will not leave hoof prints wherever we go.”

“I know how to cover my tracks.”

“Grace can also hunt her own food.”

“Impala can graze!”

“Campbell,” Novak snapped, irritation clear in his voice. “We don’t have the time for this. Grace can cover more ground, it’ll be easier to hide her, and she can provide for herself and us. We can’t take Impala.”

Dean blows out a long breath. They are all good points – a firebird is faster, and she can hunt, and she can fly them high enough that they can’t be easily tracked.

But also: she can fly.

“I hate flying.”

“I’m aware.”

“You could at least be more sympathetic,” Dean tells him as he climbs off Impala. Impala whickers in confusion, nudging at his shoulder, and Dean spends a precious few moments patting her nose and grounding himself in the comfort of normal human transportation.

Then he slings his pack over his shoulder, grits his teeth, and marches towards Novak and his damn firebird.

“You look like you’re walking towards your funeral,” Novak says dryly.

“I am,” Dean mutters darkly. “At least if I fall off Impala, the worst I’ll get is a bruise.”

Novak rolls his eyes. He puts his foot in the stirrup and swings himself into his firebird’s saddle with ease. He makes it look no different from mounting a horse, except that when Dean tries it, he has to make sure not to step on the wing or the tail feathers or flickering hot patches of flame.

He still manages to burn himself.

“Are you ready?” Novak asks.

Dean clutches hard at the saddle, tight enough that his fingers hurt. He kind of wishes that they had a harness, but it would need to be a custom order and they don’t have the time. Also, it could be incredibly dangerous if they were shot out of the sky and Dean couldn’t fling himself to safety.

“Nope,” he says, and hopes that his voice doesn’t crack. “But let’s go.”

Novak says something to his firebird. She pushes herself upright and flares her wings. True to her species, flames come alive at the edge of her wings, at the end of her tail, and at the top of her crest. It would be mesmerizingly beautiful if Dean weren’t fully aware of what happens after a firebird ignites.

With a single click from Novak, the whole world tilts dizzyingly as Novak’s firebird launches them into the air.

Dean shuts his eyes, clenches his jaw, and tries not to vomit.

Sometime later, Novak brings his firebird to land. Dean really only notices because Novak leans forward, dropping the reins and patting his firebird the same way Dean might to reward a long journey.

He tentatively opens one eye, and then another, and then breathes out a long sigh of relief at finding themselves on solid ground.

And then Novak says, “See, nothing bad happened.”

“This time,” Dean retorts. He shimmies off of the firebird as fast as he can, wincing as he stretches his legs. A firebird saddle isn’t that different from a horse one, but it’s apparently enough to give him interesting new aches. “So where are we?”

Novak slides down and points in the distance, where Dean can see lights. “There. Crossroads. The seat of House Talbot.”

“King Edward and Princess Bela, right?”

Novak gives him a startled look. It isn’t much – Novak is pretty good at controlling his face – but the way he blinks twice before resuming fishing about in his pack is a pretty good indication that he was not expecting Dean to know that.

Dean sighs. “I had to babysit Sammy through all of the royal etiquette classes too,” he reminds Novak.

“I didn’t think you paid attention to them. Didn’t you say they were gibberish?”

“I stand by that opinion. But we went over the royal houses so many times that even I eventually picked them up.”

Novak pets his firebird and utters a few soft commands. She chitters back, but eventually she takes off to hide in some brush, leaving them with the fun trek up to the city. It isn’t far, but night has come and Dean has no desire to trip over anything or fall into any holes, so it slows their progress.

Novak is a silent shadow besides him. It’s actually a little bit unnerving, since Dean is used to Benny chattering away about Andrea or a new recipe or music, so eventually Dean clears his throat and asks, “So, uh, what do you think our chances of getting are for getting a yes out of House Talbot?”

“I think that we should keep our swords within reach,” Novak says.

“That bad, huh?”

“Crossroads was the closest to Lawrence. Yet none of our people found refuge here. I think that speaks volumes to their intention to uphold their alliance.”

Dean sighs as they crest the last hill and the city gate comes into sight. There are two soldiers stationed in the front, and more patrolling atop the gate. They are all, from what Dean see, armored and heavily armed. It’s not exactly the most welcoming sight, but at least they aren’t flying the Usurper’s yellow-eyed banner.

Then again, Dean can’t see House Talbot’s banner either.

Novak must notice too. His eyes narrow, but his stride remains easy and open.

“Follow my lead,” he orders crisply, and marches forward.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Dean mutters.

King Edward Talbot responds to the missive by snorting and refusing to even accept it, much less read it. It’s not exactly the best start.

“House Winchester is dead,” he says dismissively. “There’s no alliance anymore.”

Novak tilts his head. “Prince Samuel Winchester is alive and well. So long as he lives, so does House Winchester.”

“That snot nosed brat? He hasn’t proven himself in combat, and if the rumors I hear are true, he has no desire to. He likes books,” the king sneers. “He’ll never be king. In fact, he’ll be lucky if he even makes it to his birthday.”

Dean doesn’t go for his sword, although it’s a close thing. He’s not an idiot; he knows that not everyone thinks Prince Sam will be able to rule when he comes of age. But usually, people just brush him off. They don’t make threats about his continued existence.

“Is that a threat?” Novak asks, voice as cool as the first winter storm.

King Edward sprawls back in his throne. He’s the very picture of arrogant nonchalance, like a big cat full after a large meal, confident in its place in the food chain and daring anything or anyone to try and attack. He opens his mouth –

And Princess Bela, who has said nothing at all in the proceedings, leans forward and lays a delicate hand on her father’s arm.

“Of course not,” she says, her voice sweet and soothing. “We are merely discussing our concerns with this potential alliance. We don’t see that we have anything to gain, and yet there is a lot we might lose.”

“You swore an oath to King John and Queen Mary,” Novak reminds them.

“And King John and Queen Mary are dead,” she shoots back.

“But Prince Samuel is alive.”

“He’s just a boy.”

“Well,” Dean pipes up, unable to hold back any longer, “by that logic, Your Highness, you’re just a girl.”

Princess Bela’s face goes bright red. Her hand curls into a fist at her side, creasing her beautiful butter yellow gown, and for a moment, Dean wonders if they’re about to be tossed out of the gates – or into a dungeon. From the way Novak’s hand twitches towards his sword, he’s not the only one thinking.

Then: “Well, aren’t you an interesting one,” Princess Bela says, and she offers him a sly smile. “Father, I think we should let these weary travelers rest. We can discuss their proposal and its benefits to us tomorrow.”

King Edward glances at his daughter, and then he shrugs. “If that is what you wish.”

“It is,” she says, and she follows her words with a wink at Dean.

As the servants lead them away, Novak mutters, “Do not sleep with the Princess, Campbell. That’s an order.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Dean replies.

An hour later, Dean is fully regretting sending Novak away instead of agreeing to share a room when Princess Bela slips inside wearing the most indecent thing he’s ever seen on a woman. He jolts to his feet and directs his gaze at the ceiling.

“Um, Princess, I don’t think – ”

“Don’t worry, no one knows I’m here.”

“Still think you shouldn’t be.”

Princess Bela laughs; it’s quiet and sultry, and probably meant to be seductive. It would totally work, too, if Dean wasn’t tired out from the long trip and the terrible experience of flying on a firebird too. As it is, all he wants now is beer and sleep. Mostly sleep.

“Oh, come now. You can’t tell me that this isn’t a tempting prospect. That you haven’t considered it.” She circles him on soft feet, the swish of her skirt the only sound that gives her away. “And sometimes negotiations are best conducted in more . . . intimate settings.”

Dean coughs. “Well, um, we’d kind of need my commander here for that, he’s – ”

“Novak? That man has no imagination, I can see it in his eyes. But you . . .” She takes her hand and trails it down his arm, a whisper of temptation. “Now, you, I think, are a much better candidate for . . . imagination.”

“Your Highness,” Dean says, “the only thing I’m imagining right now is sleeping. Alone.”

She pouts at him. “You’d deny your princess?”

“You’re not mine. I am sworn to House Winchester.”

“Allegiances can change,” she says airily. It makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck. “I have been on the lookout for a honorable champion, after all. A good swordsman, you could say. Someone who knows their way around a blade. Especially if my father chooses an insufferable man for my husband, which he likely will. I think you’d find that being my champion would be a much more desirable position than the bodyguard of a disgraced prince with no kingdom or crown.”

“Your Highness – ”

“Call me Bela,” she purrs.

“Your Highness,” he repeats, and gives her a tight smile. “I am sworn to House Winchester, and Prince Samuel is far from disgraced.”

“He’s won no battles, and he has no kingdom.”

“And I wonder which house allowed his kingdom to fall without providing the aid they’d once promised.”

Princess Bela glares. All of her seductive airs leave her in an instant, and she looks a lot less beautiful and a lot more like a sullen child ready to stomp her foot.

“You,” she spits, “are turning down this – ” she waves at the opulent room, the heaping pile of food on the table, the gold edges of the dress that barely covers her “ – because of some silly old oath?”

“Well,” Dean says with a tight smile, “you did call me an honorable champion.”

She stares at him like she wishes that lightning would strike him dead right where he stands. And then, just as suddenly as she had barged into his room, she scoffs and tosses her head to the side, as if he is nothing.

“Fine,” she says. “Then you’re of no use to me. Guards! Kill him!”

“Oh, come on,” Dean complains, and he throws himself at his sword while dodging the first guard. He cuts one on the legs, hits another on the head, blocks a third’s blow and twirls to meet the fourth –

Only to find the fourth guard gurgling around a sword in his throat.

“What,” Novak says, sounding incensed as he yanks his sword free, “did I say about not sleeping with the princess?”

“Hey! I didn’t do anything!” Dean says indignantly.

Novak gives him a disbelieving look, but at that point, with so many guards coming in, they have to turn their attention to fighting and staying alive instead of arguing about what Dean definitely didn’t do. Dean has fought against Novak before in many training exercises, but he’s rarely fought with him – normally he is fighting with Benny or another member of the prince’s guard.

Now, as he slides smoothly into a rhythm with Novak, he wishes he had. They cover each other without asking, and when Novak feints, Dean is there to cut down the guard, and when Dean falls back, Novak is there to stab his opponent in the chest. He’s never fought so easily and so smoothly with anyone.

And then, quite suddenly, there are no more guards, just a lot of dead bodies and Novak’s warm back pressed against his.

Dean clears his throat. “So, uh, my vote is that House Talbot won’t be saying yes.”

“I concur,” Novak says, breathing heavily. “I say we run for it.”

One rushed take off from the courtyard later – Novak thankfully does not smugly grin about how his firebird has proven to be the better choice – they land at a good distance from Crossroads and make camp. Dean’s legs hurt and his arms ache and his fingers are cramping from holding onto the saddle, so he gets off with much limping and groaning. Even Novak isn’t unaffected; he stumbles after sliding down and pets at his firebird with a clumsy hand.

By silent agreement, they divvy up the chores of finding water and firewood, and in short order, they have a small fire and freshly filled water skins.

“You fought well,” Novak says suddenly, startling Dean out of a light doze.

“Uh, thanks?”

Novak pokes at the campfire. “You sound like you think I’m lying.”

And normally Dean would approach it a bit more subtly, but: he’s tired, he’s aching, and he’s really had his fill of flying today. So what comes out is not a polite deflection, but rather a snappish, “Well, what else should I have thought, since you put in a request to never be paired with me?”

Novak jerks upright. The surprise is clear in his face, and it’s the most emotion that Dean’s ever seen out of him.

“What?”

“You,” Dean says slowly, “requested to never be paired with me. Ever.”

“General Singer was not supposed to reveal that,” Novak mutters darkly.

It shouldn’t sting to get confirmation of his theory, but it does anyways. Dean swallows past the hurt and forges ahead. “He didn’t have to. You think I can’t notice how everyone worked with everyone except you and me? I know you might think otherwise, Novak, but I am not an idiot. Even if apparently I’m so idiotic that you never wanted to be on the same shift as me.”

Novak says nothing. Somehow that is worse than if he had confessed he thought Dean an idiot.

Dean sighs. He bundles up his pack, manhandling it into something that can serve as a pillow, and lays down on the ground.

“Don’t worry,” he tells Novak, closing his eyes. “After this, we can go back to never talking again. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“ . . . Dean.”

It’s the first time Novak has ever said his name. Dean tenses.

“It’s not – ” Novak exhales heavily. “I didn’t request to be kept separate from you because I thought you an idiot or incompetent.”

“You don’t need to lie to preserve my feelings, Novak.”

“I requested it,” Novak continues, as though Dean hadn’t spoken at all, “because you were the best of the prince’s guard, and so between the two of us, there was always someone watching Prince Samuel who I knew could keep him alive.”

Dean rolls that around his head. Breathes. Thinks.

Then: “What the hell?” he spits, sitting upright to glare at Novak.

Novak looks calmly back at him. “I requested it because you were the best of the prince’s guard,” he repeats. “Since we worked separate shifts, I always knew that Prince Samuel would be protected. As opposed to if we worked together, and then left him with the others for the rest of the day.”

“Benny and the others aren’t that bad.”

“No. But they are not as good as you.”

Dean shakes his head. He feels rather like he’s been underwater, struggling past the current to stay in place, only to find out that he should have been moving with the current, because it was bringing him exactly where he needs to go.

“I can’t – ”

“You were the best,” Novak says again. “From the moment I first fought you, I knew. That’s why I ensured we never worked together. I couldn’t watch Prince Samuel all the time, but – I knew he was safe with you.”

“And you couldn’t just tell me that?”

That earns him a confused eyebrow. “I thought you knew.”

“Clearly, I didn’t,” Dean snaps.

“Oh.”

“Oh?! That’s all you have to say?”

“Would you prefer an apology?” Novak asks, and he sounds genuinely confused. And genuinely willing to do it.

Dean falls back down onto his pack. At least the ground won’t shift under his mind, unlike everything else that’s currently happening in his life. “You’re taking first watch,” he tells Novak. “That’s my apology.”

“I would have taken it anyways. You’re not used to flying; you’re tired.”

“Shut up and let me sleep, Novak.”

The next morning, over a breakfast of hot oats and dried fruit, Novak announces that they are heading to the Roadhouse next.

Dean raises an eyebrow. The Roadhouse is less of a kingdom and more of a ragtag group of nobles who share resources and protect each other. That isn’t to say they wouldn’t be a valuable ally, but they would have to do a lot of talking to convince everyone to actually agree to support House Winchester’s bid to retake Lawrence.

Novak, when Dean shares that thought, just smiles. “There won’t be any need for that. The Roadhouse might be a group of houses, but they all obey the laws of House Harvelle. If we can convince them, they will fight.”

“House Harvelle? I don’t recognize that one.”

“Lord William died a long time ago, so it isn’t surprising. The seat is held by Lady Ellen and her daughter, Joanna Beth, now.”

Dean blinks. “Wait. Little Jo?”

Novak gives him a long look. It’s the same look he gave to Dean when he found Princess Bela in Dean’s room in Crossroads. “Do I want to know why you’re referring to Lady Joanna as ‘Jo’ instead of using her proper title?” he asks wearily.

“Uhhh . . .”

“No, I guess I don’t,” Novak decides, correctly. He shovels the last of his oats into his mouth and takes a swig of water. “Are you ready to leave?”

Dean looks to Novak’s firebird, which is curled up on a patch of burned grass. She appears perfectly happy to nest on the ash and embers. This morning she roasted three fish and gulped them down whole, which was both fascinating and slightly terrifying to watch. As Dean watches, she lifts her head, and her crest ignites with flame.

“Sure, let’s get back on your terrifying bird of death,” Dean says, scraping his bowl clean.

“Grace is a bird of fire, not death. No human can ride a deathbird.”

“If I fall off of her, she’ll be a bird of death.”

“Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

Lady Ellen Harvelle actually breaks the seal and reads the missive Sam wrote for her, which is an improvement over what King Edward did. Her face is calm and composed, as a proper lady’s should be, but she has a sword on her back and two daggers at her hip, and Dean knows from the way that she moves that she can damn well use them.

After a long moment, Lady Ellen looks up. Her eyes narrow. Then she says, “You look just like your mother.”

For a second, Dean thinks she is talking to Novak, but then he realizes she is looking at him. “Um, thank you, Your Highness,” he says awkwardly.

“Hmm.” She continues staring at him, and then, finally, she switches her gaze to Novak. “You claim to come on behalf of Prince Samuel of House Winchester. As far as I recall, Prince Samuel was the second born. What happened to Prince Dean?”

“Prince Dean died in the attack,” Novak replies.

“Did he now.”

“Yes,” Novak says, and there’s a terse edge to his tone now. He shifts his feet – not too much, just a slight twitch, but enough that Dean can tell he’s readying himself for a fight. He’s also subtly moved himself in front of Dean, which is annoying, but he can always turn around and they can fight back to back again. “Prince Samuel was smuggled out along with a few other children. He is the crown prince now – or will be, when he comes of age. It’s his right as a survivor of House Winchester to call upon allies.”

“And what do you need allies for? Your people have been surviving fairly well.”

“The point,” Dean cuts in, before Novak can get any more irritated, “is that we are surviving, Lady Ellen. Just surviving. We would like our people to live.”

He gestures to the Roadhouse – to its peaceful streets, and its bustling market, and the carefree smiles of all those passing by. They have no need to wonder if they’ll find shelter during winter, or food during a failed harvest, or water during a drought. They never wake up in the middle of the night needing to move because demons from the Usurper’s army have sniffed out their latest hiding spot. They have a home – a safe, solid, tangible home.

“You’ve built up an amazing place here,” Dean says. “Your people are thriving. They are happy. They are safe. That is what we want for our people. A home.”

“You could build a new place as well,” Lady Ellen says. “If I could do it, so could you.”

“You know as well as I do that the Usurper would attack immediately if we tried. We’ve had to be on the move ever since Lawrence fell. An entire generation has grown up knowing nothing of stability. I don’t even remember having a roof over my head, and I was born in Lawrence. Prince Samuel wants a better future for our children, and their children, and their children’s children.”

Lady Ellen leans back in her chair. She is not unmoved by his words; he can see the sympathy in her eyes. But she’s a ruler in her own right, and she has not earned that place by being foolish.

“Why didn’t Prince Samuel come himself, then? A king should always lead from the front.”

“If he died,” Novak says quietly, “it would be end of House Winchester. And we had no guarantee that anyone would say yes, Lady Ellen.”

“And if we do?”

“The crown prince is prepared to lead. He’s been preparing his whole life.”

Lady Ellen turns her eyes back to the missive. She reads it again, and Dean can spot Sam’s handwriting even from across the room. He has no idea what Sam wrote, but he hopes it was convincing. The Harvelles are not big, but they have a lot of connections, and the weapons they could procure would make any attack much easier.

Finally, Lady Ellen lifts her head. She looks at Dean and asks, “Do you think you could succeed? Truly?”

She’s asking about Prince Samuel. Or she should be.

Dean has the strangest feeling, however, that she is asking him.

But he’s Dean Campbell, lieutenant of the prince’s guard and, apparently, the best of the guard according to its commander. When Sam goes into battle, Dean will go with him, and he’ll make damn sure that Sam survives long enough to reclaim the throne from the Usurper.

He lifts his head. “Yeah. We will. Or we’ll die trying.”

“Dean,” Novak groans quietly.

Lady Ellen, however, smiles. It’s a slow smile, a cautious one, but it’s a smile all the same. She gives a decisive nod, and declares, “Then House Harvelle will answer your call. We will march on Lawrence with House Winchester.”

Novak is ready to move on and seek out the next alliance once they have the formal agreement, but Lady Ellen insists that they stay for a celebratory meal. They even offer up food for Novak’s firebird in addition to the drinks and hot meals they’re providing to them, so eventually Novak agrees to stay.

While Novak goes off to call his firebird down, Dean happily tears into provided meats and breads. It’s nothing fancy, just meat roasted over a fire and stuffed with spices, but it’s better than the rations they’ve been eating, so he settles in to thoroughly enjoy himself.

Or he would, if Lady Ellen didn’t slide into a seat across from him.

Dean swallows his latest bite and wipes his mouth self-consciously. “Um, Lady Ellen, hello.”

“So,” she drawls, “Dean Campbell, was it? See, I could have sworn you told my daughter that your name was Dean Bonham.”

Dean winces. “I was just passing through for the night last time?”

She hums a single note. On the bright side, her hands are empty when she brings them onto the table, so he isn’t in immediate danger of being stabbed for accidentally lying to and then flirting with the heir of House Harvelle.

He doesn’t want to tempt fate, though, so he returns to his meal. And carefully keeps his eyes on his meal.

Then Lady Ellen says, in a very casual voice, “I had heard that Mary Campbell died in the attack on Lawrence.”

“That’s what I was told.”

“Told? You don’t remember?”

“I was, like, four years old,” he reminds her. “And a lot of us don’t remember much about the attack. Or what came afterwards. We were kids.”

“Were you told how she died?”

Dean looks up. He feels unnervingly like he’s being tested, and he isn’t really sure why. His mother was a trusted member of the castle staff, but she wasn’t anyone important – not a noble, not a courtier, not a warrior. And most of the kids around his age who survived the attack are orphans just like him, all of them adopted out or raised by other surviving families.

“ . . . Fire,” he says eventually. “She died in a fire. Holding the line in the nursery, so that more children could be smuggled out.”

Lady Ellen sighs deeply. She looks, for a moment, deeply pained, as if the answer is both exactly what she expected – and what she most dreaded. She says, “Yes, that sounds like the Mary I knew. A fighter to the last.”

“Were you two . . . friends?”

“We knew of each other. But no, we were not friends. Perhaps we could have been.” But then the attack happened, she does not add, and she does not need to. It’s the unspoken end to most stories Dean has heard about the attack.

Dean inclines his head. “I understand.”

“You really do look a lot like her,” Lady Ellen says as she pushes herself to her feet. “Good luck on your quest to find allies, Dean Campbell.”

“Thank you,” Dean replies on reflex.

Then he goes and seeks out Novak, because at least he knows where he stands with Novak and won’t get interrogated over strange things where he hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s being tested on.

Novak, when he finds him, has about ten shot glasses in front of him – five that are empty and turned over, and five more that are in front of him and filled to the brim.

As he watches, Novak downs all five in quick succession, hardly even blinking.

“Did you just – Are you getting drunk, Novak?” Dean asks in disbelief, squeezing into a seat beside him.

“No,” Novak says, and to his credit, his voice is the same calm and unshakeable tone it always is. His eyes are clear, and his hands aren’t shaking, but Dean still eyes the pile of empty glasses in front of him with suspicion. “They wanted me to get a taste of their alcohol.”

“I think ten shots is more than a taste.”

“I hardly tasted anything,” Novak replies, and does not even seem the least bit intimidated when a grinning Lady Joanna pours him five more shots.

Dean winces, however, because he’s tasted that alcohol before. And he doesn’t really remember much about what happened after he tasted it.

“Let’s see what you got, big boy,” Lady Joanna says with a laugh. “Dean over here didn’t make it past five.”

“Hey!”

Novak gives him a raised eyebrow. “So is that the story of your previous experience at the Roadhouse?”

“Uhhhhh . . .”

Lady Joanna taps the table. “Hey, no,” she interrupts. “Less talking, more drinking.”

Novak turns away, but only after another moment of staring at Dean like he wants to read his mind and access the memory of Dean’s extremely hungover escape from the Roadhouse. His brow furrows slightly as he sees the next round of shots: five more, filled to the brim with glorious and terrible golden liquid that is the pride and joy of House Harvelle and the Roadhouse.

Then he downs all of them with barely a pause for breath.

Dean stares. Lady Joanna stares. Hell, most of the surrounding people stare.

“Damn, Campbell,” Lady Joanna whistles. “Where’d you go dig him up?”

“He’s my commander,” Dean says, because it’s a lot easier than explaining that Novak is the leader of the prince’s guard. Mostly because Novak is currently staring at his hand with the fascination of the slightly inebriated, and therefore looks about as dangerous as an overturned turtle – not someone who is the commander because he could wreck an enemy in three seconds flat.

Then Novak squints at him. “I’m not your commander right now,” he says.

“Says the stickler for rules.”

Novak scowls. It’s almost kind of cute, given that his eyes are slightly glazed. “We’re both the emissaries right now,” he insists. “We are, essentially, equal.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says, casting about for a place where they can crash and drink off the good food (Dean) and the very good drinks (Novak).

Novak, however, apparently isn’t finished. As Dean waves off the next round of shots and starts pulling him to his feet, Novak says, in an extremely determined voice, “You should call me by my name.”

“Sure.”

Something about Dean’s voice must set him off, because Novak plants his feet and nearly sends them both plummeting to the ground. Dean scowls, struggling against their combined weight until he manages to find balance again.

“Seriously, now is not – ”

Novak grabs the front of his shirt. For a guy who’s had like twenty shots, his grip is remarkably steady. “You and I,” he says, low and fierce, “we are equals. You could be the commander too.”

“Novak – ”

“Castiel.”

“Fine,” Dean snaps. “If I call you Castiel, will you let me help you into bed?”

For some reason, that turns Novak’s face as red as his firebird’s feathers. Or maybe it’s just a delayed reaction to how many shots he’s drunk. Either way, he nods in acquiescence and Dean manages to haul him to a quiet room where there are two beds. Dean rolls Novak into one and then collapses into the other, fully prepared to enjoy an actual night’s rest in an actual bed.

At least, up until Novak speaks again. “I’m serious, Campbell. You and I – we both could have been commanders.”

Dean groans. “Listen, I’m man enough to admit that you beat me fair and square, so the commander’s position was yours to have. I’m not bitter about it. I never have been.”

“I beat you because I got lucky that day. You could have gotten lucky too.”

Which is, to be fair, what Dean had known too. And what General Singer had known, if the look he had given Dean afterwards had been any indication. He’d limped into the nearest bar to nurse his bruises and wounded pride, but he had also made his peace with it long ago. They had too many enemies to be hating their own people.

“That was years ago,” he says roughly. “You were the commander – are the commander. And I’m your lieutenant.”

“And on this mission, we are equal. We are both emissaries of House Winchester.”

Dean blows out a long sigh. Long winded talks about feelings and logic are more Benny’s style than his. “Is this really that important to you?”

“Yes.” Novak’s reply is immediate and solid. There isn’t an ounce of hesitation.

“ . . . Fine,” Dean says. “Go to sleep, Castiel.”

Even in the darkness, he can feel Castiel’s smugness at winning. It’s really annoying, except for some reason Dean feels more like grinning and scowling. It feels like the last barrier in their relationship has been lifted, and they are now free to find their footing as fellow soldiers. Or, as Castiel has insisted, as equals.

“Good night, Dean,” Castiel slurs, and then he starts snoring.

Dean groans and pulls a pillow over his head.

Castiel is somehow not hungover the next morning. Or if he is, he’s got the best poker face Dean has ever seen, because he gets through a farewell with Lady Ellen and Lady Joanna without a single misstep and walks off towards Grace without stumbling.

Dean follows him pretty quickly, though, because he has no intention of testing their luck.

“How’s, uh, how’s your head, Novak?” he asks.

Castiel gives him a look. “I believe we agreed that you would use my name,” he says.

Dean sputters. “What the – How do you even remember – I didn’t agree, I just wanted to you go to sleep!”

“You said, and I quote, ‘fine,’” Castiel says pleasantly. It’s the tone of voice he typically uses right before he slams someone into the dirt for disobeying an order or, worse, endangering Prince Samuel. And the way Castiel is carefully preparing Grace’s saddle – with too controlled movements – doesn’t help matters. “Does that not count as agreement?”

“I – It’s just weird,” Dean says weakly. “You’re my commander.”

Something dark passes over Castiel’s eyes. Dean’s never seen it before, not in all the time they’ve been in the guard together.

Castiel purses his lips. “Not out here, I’m not. We are equals.”

“Why are you so fixated on that?” Dean demands. “What does it matter if we’re equals or commander and lieutenant? It’s not like anyone out here even cares.”

Castiel tugs at one last strap. He lowers his head and takes a deep breath, like he’s preparing himself for a battle. But when he turns around, his face is clear and controlled, without a hint of the storm Dean had glimpsed beforehand. He says, cool as a winter breeze, “I care. You should not put yourself down. We were both tasked with calling upon others to honor their alliance with House Winchester.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been following your lead. As you requested.”

“And if something should happen to me?”

The suggestion is not a surprise. Soldiers die all the time. And Castiel, as a commander, is used to being on the front line and one of the first targets. But the thought of Castiel dead or hurt – it makes Dean take a step back, unexpectedly pained.

“Nothing will happen to you,” he says, and is surprised by the vehemence of his own voice.

Castiel too is taken aback, if the way his eyebrow raises is any indication. But it’s only for a moment; he leans forward and continues his attack. “But what if it did? Would you stop and wait for new orders? Drag my body all the way back to General Singer for a new commander?”

Dean says, “No. I would – I would complete the mission”. Saying the words like biting into a frozen hunk of bread – difficult and painful but also terribly necessary – but he would, if he had to. For their people, he would do anything.

Castiel nods. “Then there is no need for us to maintain the false semblance that I am ranked higher than you. In this, we are equals. Agreed?”

He holds out his hand.

Dean looks at his hand. Looks at Castiel. Blows out a long breath. Says, “You can be a right bastard sometimes, Castiel.”

But he shakes Castiel’s hand anyways, and from the sly grin, Castiel doesn’t mind the insult at all.

Dean squints up at the castle after Castiel sends Grace off to find somewhere to hide. It’s not a very large castle, nor a very old one, nor a very fortified one. It also looks nothing like a moon or a door.

“Moondoor? Really?”

Castiel shrugs. “Queen Charlie of House Bradbury renamed it,” he says. “And none would naysay the queen.”

“I don’t recognize that house.”

“It’s a relatively new one. Queen Charlie ousted Boltar the Furious, and I understand it, she wiped all mention of his House when she took over.”

And that name, Dean does know. “Wait, isn’t he the one who – ”

“The Queen will see you now,” announces a serious-faced page. He’s wearing armor, and good armor too, but over the top of it he is wearing a cloak with colors so bright that it hurts Dean’s eyes.

At first, Dean thinks that perhaps he comes from a noble house that has the right to wear its colors in the open, but then they enter the throne room, and Dean quickly revises that opinion.

The throne room is bursting with colors. Flags and banners of all types are hung from the ceiling, beautifully woven tapestries are covering the walls, and richly dyed rugs blanket the floor. Every single person in the room – servants and knights and ladies – are all dressed in gorgeous clothes. It is not surprising, exactly, for Moondoor sits on a land known for its dyes and skilled weavers, but Dean still takes a few moments to adjust to the sheer amount of color.

The Queen, by contrast, is wearing pretty plain clothing. A shirt of faded maroon, leather pants that have seen better days, and just the hint of chainmail underneath. She bears no crown, just a circlet of fresh flowers.

She is also sprawled across the throne in the least ladylike fashion Dean’s ever seen.

“Your Majesty,” Castiel says, after they bow to her. “We come to you – ”

“On behalf of Prince Samuel of House Winchester, yeah, yeah, we know,” she interrupts, sounding bored. “You’re looking for allies so that you can attempt to retake Lawrence.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Castiel says after a moment. “We have a missive in Prince Samuel’s own words, if you would – ”

“Nope,” she says. “Not interested.”

Castiel tries again. “Perhaps if you would read the words that Prince Samuel wrote – ”

The Queen sits bolt upright. It’s more of a battle pose than a proper pose, with one hand on the sword resting by her throne, and it makes Dean twitch. Her eyes are burning with anger – this, Dean realizes, is not boredom or dismissal.

This is fury.

“And where,” she spits, “was House Winchester when Moondoor called for aid? We took some of your people in, gave them food and shelter and clothing, and when Boltar began making sport of his own people, you ran. You ran from the Usurper, and you ran from Boltar, and you still run, even now. Why should we aid you?”

Silence falls in the throne room. Castiel works his jaw, but when Dean looks to him, he says nothing.

Which is when Dean remembers that Castiel had not been with the Winchester army when word of Boltar’s atrocities had come forth. He had been in the far south, claiming the firebird mount he later named Grace. Not that Castiel alone could have made the call to aid Moondoor, but it significantly limits his knowledge of what was happening during that time.

Dean takes a deep breath. It’ll be up to him then.

He takes a step forward, feeling more than seeing how Castiel comes close to protect his back. “We did run,” he admits. “This is true.”

“Exactly – ”

“We ran because the Usurper was coming, and we were in no shape to fight both him and Boltar,” Dean continues. “As we left Moondoor, the Usurper’s attention turned away from your people – and Boltar stopped worrying about a rebellion. He grew complacent. And then you successfully overthrew him.”

The Queen narrows her eyes. “Are you trying to take credit for what we did?”

“No. But consider what might have happened if we had stayed and openly assisted you. What the Usurper have done, had House Winchester helped overthrow Boltar?”

The Queen is young, but she isn’t stupid. Dean can see in her eyes that she has read the reports of what happened when the Usurper took Lawrence. Boltar the Furious had committed atrocities – the hunting of his own citizens for sport, the maiming of his servants for his own amusement, the casual killing of those who annoyed him – but everything he had ever done paled in comparison to what the Usurper had done, and they both knew it.

She takes a deep breath and slowly leans back in her chair. “That doesn’t explain why I should believe that you’re ready to stop running now,” she says, and her tone is still razor sharp but no longer quite as aggressive.

“Well, who ever said that we only ran?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

Even Castiel gives him a curious look now. It’s something Dean never ever explained, not to anyone, although he suspects General Singer knew.

Dean grins. “I understand that you’ve been courting Lady Gilda of the Hollow Forest. Did you never wonder how exactly she came to Moondoor?”

“She never said.”

“I asked her not to,” Dean says. “As the last of our people left Moondoor, I walked into the Arkhmoor Forest and laid out an offering to the Hollow Forest. I didn’t exactly stick around to see how it all played out, but when I heard that Boltar had fallen, I had a pretty good guess.

“So, yes, Your Majesty – we ran. We ran from the Usurper, and we ran from Boltar. But we never, ever admitted defeat. We smuggled out the crown prince from right under the Usurper’s nose. We called upon allies from the Hollow Forest even as Boltar began to hunt us down. We ran, and then we waited, and then we prepared.”

The Queen’s face changes. It’s a subtle twitch, but Dean can see the way her fingers tighten in surprise on her sword.

“You did too,” he tells her. “You waited and prepared and then you struck when the moment was right. And now, the moment is right for House Winchester. We are done running. Will you help us?”

The Queen tilts her head. She is mostly convinced, but something is holding her back. Dena isn’t quite sure what.

Then she says, “Why did you help us? Why make an offering on behalf of Moondoor, and not yourself?”

“It was the right thing to do,” Dean answers. “You needed help.”

“And you didn’t?”

“Not then. We weren’t ready then. But you were. Or at least, Celeste of House Middleton was.”

The Queen jerks in surprise. She does look different – her hair is longer, and she is taller, and she wears completely different clothes – but Dean’s always been good at faces. He remembers the young woman who was ready to fight, full of righteous fury and the determination to do what was needed to protect her people. He’d admired her, even if she had also kind of scared him.

Then she says, “And what was your name again?”

Which is when Dean remembers that, oh yeah, he had been using a fake name back then. He winces. “Uh . . .”

Castiel comes to his rescue. “We were all using different names back then,” he says smoothly. “May I introduce you – or reintroduce you, I suppose – to Dean Campbell.”

“Huh,” the Queen says. “Well, at least you didn’t lie about your first name.”

“My apologies?”

“I suppose I can’t really throw any stones there,” the Queen says thoughtfully. She nods to herself. “Very well. I understand why your people chose to run, even if we would have preferred you to say and, oh, explain why you were running.”

“Then,” Dean dares to ask, “will you help us?”

“Well,” the Queen says, and now she flashes him the same mischievous grin she had first greeted Dean with, all those years ago, “I always did want to go beat up some demons. Moondoor will answer your call, and help House Winchester march on Lawrence.”

“You know, there were subtler ways of getting my attention than using my old name,” Queen Charlie says, after they’ve shuffled to a private room for a meal. She’s shed her chain mail and her sword, but she still bears the circlet of flowers.

“Dean? Subtle? You must be thinking of someone else,” Castiel says dryly, before Dean can reply.

Dean glares at him.

Queen Charlie laughs. “So, he hasn’t changed, has he?” she says in amusement. “Come on, you two, you must be starving. Let’s eat.”

“We can’t stay for long,” Dean warns, even as he slides into a nearby seat. “But thank you for the hospitality.”

She shrugs. “I figure a good meal can’t hurt. So who else has agreed to join this crazy venture of yours?”

“House Harvelle and the Roadhouse,” Castiel answers, mostly because Dean is too busy stuffing his face with a sandwich.

“That’s it?”

“Well, House Talbot didn’t have a high opinion of us,” Dean says, since Castiel is midway through a spoonful of soup. “Not that we were expecting them to agree, but – ”

“More numbers would have been nice,” Queen Charlie finishes. “Where are you going next, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Dean looks at Castiel. There aren’t many more kingdoms that are close enough to offer aid, and their two week two limit is fast approaching. Castiel must agree, for he only offers one name to Queen Charlie when he speaks.

“To the Dreaming Place.”

Queen Charlie raises an eyebrow. “The Dreamwalkers have never allied with anyone.”

“No,” Castiel says, “but even with House Harvelle’s weapons and your inventions and all of our numbers, we will likely not have enough. We will need the Dreamwalkers to even the odds. Especially since the demons are . . . difficult to fight.”

“And if they do not agree?”

“They will. We will convince them.” Castiel grants Dean a rare smile, one that warms him in a way that has nothing to do with the hot soup he’s just consumed. “Dean convinced you, did he not?”

Dean flushes and ducks his head. “Uh, yeah, I’ll try,” he mumbles, and quickly stuffs his mouth with a piece of bread.

Queen Charlie looks from Dean to Castiel. Dean has no idea what she sees, but she smiles too, and the unease vanishes from her shoulders.

“Well then,” she says, “I will wish you luck. Lady Gilda and I will begin coordinating our people.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Dean says.

They do not stay the night, tempting though it is. Castiel points out that Grace has been resting the entire time, and is therefore fully capable of flying onwards even if they doze. Dean isn’t exactly thrilled at the idea, but he can’t deny that time is not on their side, and they will still need to return to General Singer with the news and to join the army.

He still has to swallow hard not to lose his dinner when Grace ignites and takes off, though.

After a moment, Castiel turns his head backwards. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You do know that you can put your arms around my waist, right? This saddle is not exactly meant for you to grip it quite so tightly on the edge.”

And Dean has been noticing that the saddle is starting to creak where he grips it, but: “Uhh, I don’t think – ”

“Don’t be stubborn, Dean,” Castiel says. “Just hold my waist. It’ll be easier. Especially if you fall asleep.”

Dean glances towards the horizon. They left Moondoor just after lunch, so it’s still bright outside, and will likely continue to be bright for some hours until they reach the Dreaming Place. Dean could sleep through the sun, of course, but the wind in his face and the way Grace bobs underneath them as she flies kind of keeps him awake.

“I don’t think I’ll be falling asleep anytime soon, Cas,” he says.

Or starts to say, because then Grace banks hard to the left to avoid colliding with another bird, and Dean is thrown rather hard into Castiel’s back.

After Dean finishes swearing, Castiel says mildly, “Now if you had been holding onto my waist, perhaps it would have steadied you through that.”

“You suck,” Dean says.

But he does tentatively wind his arms around Castiel’s waist. Castiel is warm, and solid, and smells of sweat and fire and leather. It’s interesting, to feel how he guides Grace with twitches of his palms on the reins and slight pressure applied by his thighs and feet – not unlike guiding a horse, but of course Dean has never needed to tell Impala that she needs to change her altitude or wing speed.

Plus, plastering himself to Castiel cuts down on the wind in his face.

“See?” Castiel says, his words vibrating against Dean’s chest. “Not so bad to fly, is it?”

Dean considers it for a second. “With you, maybe. Not on my own. And I’m sure as hell not looking down.”

“That’s why Grace and I are flying, and you are just riding,” Castiel says in amusement, and he folds one hand over where Dean has grasped his waist. “Don’t worry. We won’t let you fall.”

Dean thinks of Castiel moving wordlessly to guard his back, of Castiel arguing that they are equals, of Castiel cutting down enemies that threatened him. He rests his head against Castiel’s shoulders and says, “I know” and lets his eyes drift closed.

Somehow, high in the sky, with the wind blowing around him and the sun high overhead, he sleeps.

If Moondoor had been bright, the castle of the Dreaming Place is decidedly less so. Dean is aware that the storm is not caused by the Dreaming Place – weather is not something Dreamwalkers can mess with or control – but the storm clouds overhead and fog saturating the walls certainly adds to the creepy factor.

Even Grace is agitated, and Castiel has to tell her to stay two or three times before she finally settles down.

“This place is creepy as hell, Cas,” Dean says as Castiel attempts to pet Grace.

“Keep your voice down,” Castiel says reflexively, right before he takes a step forward and Grace follows him. “Stay, Grace. We’ll be back soon.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. Castiel and Grace have bonded pretty deeply, just like Dean and Impala. She’s still her own creature, capable of independent thought and disobedience, but she rarely fails to follow Castiel’s commands.

Then again, firebirds are sensitive to magic, and the Dreaming Place hums with it.

“Soon? You think we’ll get a quick answer here?” Dean asks, lengthening his strides to keep pace with Castiel as they head inside.

“I am not sure. The Dreamwalkers never formally allied with House Winchester. But they’ve also made no secret of their disdain for the Usurper,” Castiel says, which answers Dean’s next question of then why are we here. “We’ll just have to see what the Dreamwalker Queen has to say.”

They are not led to any grand throne room or magical laboratory. Instead, they are brought to a small hut in a distant courtyard, built with simple wood and with a small fire burning in the front. Dean would think it nothing special, but for the fact that it has no door, and the opening where the door should be is a vast ocean of darkness – darkness deeper than even the blackest of nights.

“Castiel Novak and Dean Campbell, here to petition you on behalf of Prince Samuel of House Winchester,” their guide announces.

For a long moment, there is only silence, and Dean wonders if they are about to be refused before they can even give their plea.

Then the darkness – ripples, there is no other word for it, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone, and a hand clutches the side of the wall. It pulls, and a second hand emerges from the darkness, and then a foot, and then a second foot, and then at last a young woman steps forth. She is dressed entirely in black, as though the darkness of the hut’s doorway had folded around her and become cloth, and she has a terrifying spear held in one hand.

Castiel twitches and slides one foot over, so that he is partially in front of Dean. Dean tries not to roll his eyes.

“Queen Kaia,” Castiel says, giving her a low bow.

“Castiel of House Novak,” Queen Kaia says, surveying him with cool eyes. “And Dean of House . . . Campbell.”

Dean offers her his own bow. “Your Majesty,” he says politely.

“You’ve come to ask for the aid of the Dreamwalkers on your quest to retake Lawrence,” Queen Kaia says. “The Dreamwalkers do not involve themselves in the affairs of others. You of all people know that, Castiel.”

Dean can’t help his startled glance at Castiel. He doesn’t know much about Castiel’s past, really, because Castiel keeps very much to himself, but “association with Dreamwalkers” would not have been his first guess.

Castiel does not seem fazed, however. “There have been times in the past – ”

“And those times are in the past,” Queen Kaia interrupts. She lets the bottom of her staff impact the ground; the resulting thump is far heavier than it looks like it should be. “We keep the balance between this world and the other world. That is all we do.”

“Balance?” Castiel tilts his head. “Was it balance, allowing Azazel to cross into this world?”

Queen Kaia’s face darkens. “Do not speak his name here – ”

“Was it balance,” Castiel continues, blatantly ignoring her, “ordering me to kill the child Azazel desired rather than protect him from Azazel’s clutches?”

Dean knows that Dreamwalkers are faster and stronger and magical; he knows that their fighting skills are unparalleled by any other warrior. He knows all of this, and yet he is still surprised when, faster than he can blink, Queen Kaia leaps forward and brings her spear to rest against Castiel’s throat.

“Cas – !”

“I’m fine, Dean,” Castiel says, still cool despite the razor sharp spear against his throat.

Queen Kaia says, “If you had fulfilled your orders, Castiel, Lawrence would not have fallen.”

“Or Azazel would just have found someone else,” Castiel retorts. “He wanted a child, Kaia, and you and I both know that those of the other world don’t really care which one. If not Prince Sam, he would have gone for Prince Dean; if not House Winchester, he would have found another House. What balance is to be found in sacrificing a child?”

“One life to save the many,” Queen Kaia replies. “That is the bargain we make.”

“Azazel certainly counts as one life,” Castiel shoots back.

His words seem to startle the Queen. She blinks, just once, but it’s the first damn time Dean’s seen her blink, so it’s definitely a reaction.

“You would ask us to take his life instead?” she asks slowly, like she isn’t sure what she’s hearing.

Castiel raises his chin. The move causes the spear to break skin, but Castiel merely stands tall and proud, unconcerned about the blood that wells up. “Why do we always give ground? Why do we always send children into death? Why do the dreams always take precedence over the living? Why,” he asks, and his voice hardens, “do not we demand an equal balance, and this time take the life of one from the other world?”

“That is not our way.”

“We’ve changed before. We can change again.”

“And is that what you’ve been doing all this time?” Queen Kaia tilts her head in Dean’s direction, and her gaze burns through his skin like she’s peering at his soul. “Changing?”

“Protecting,” Castiel corrects her. “I protected the life and dreams of a prince from Azazel. We can protect the lives and dreams of this whole world from Azazel. Why shouldn’t we?”

Queen Kaia says nothing in response. She stays perfectly poised, her spear tip wet with Castiel’s blood, and Dean wonders if he can be fast enough to knock it aside and draw his blade. He tenses and inches his hand over –

And Queen Kaia takes a step back and lowers her spear. “You have changed, Castiel,” she says. “You are no longer the soldier Naomi raised you to be.”

“If Naomi wanted a weapon, then she shouldn’t have named me for a shield.”

A flicker of a smile passes over Queen Kaia’s face. “There is that. But then again, she did not have a choice in the matter of naming.”

“I will continue to protect House Winchester. But protecting this world – that is your duty, as Queen of the Dreamwalkers. Balance is more than just standing idly by; it is making sure that both worlds are equal. And right now, letting Azazel sit in Lawrence and grow stronger – that is not equality. Are you going to help us, or not?”

“You think House Winchester is worth your life?”

Castiel looks back at Dean. He smiles, very faintly, and Dean is filled with the oddest urge to take his hand – but then Castiel looks to the Queen, and the moment passes. “Yes,” Castiel says softly, and the very air rings with the depth of his promise.

Queen Kaia inclines her head. “Then we will help.”

As soon as they’re left alone, Dean whirls on Castiel. “What,” he hisses, “the hell was that?”

Castiel winces, but his face is straight and composed when he faces Dean. “That was me securing an alliance with the Dreamwalkers.”

“And were you planning on telling me, oh, any part of your plan to secure that alliance? Like the fact that you apparently are a Dreamwalker? Or that Dreamwalkers apparently don’t interfere in the ‘affairs of others’ whatever the hell that means? Or that – ”

“Was.”

Dean blinks, derailed. “What?”

Castiel lowers himself into a seat. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Was,” he repeats. “I was a Dreamwalker. I left behind my spear and armor when I defied my orders.”

Which reminds Dean: “Oh yeah – you had orders to kill Sammy?”

“Technically,” Castiel says, “I had orders to kill both Prince Dean and Prince Samuel. Azazel wanted Sam, but he would have taken Dean, if Sam was gone. Two lives,” he says, and his voice is heavy with sarcasm, “to save hundreds.”

Dean digests this for a moment. It’s weird, to hear that Castiel – who has faithfully guarded Sam ever since he was a baby – was once ordered to kill him.

Then he rallies, because that raises a whole new slew of questions. “And, what, the Usurper – I mean, Azazel – I didn’t even know we knew his name, what the hell, Cas – would have just left if the princes were dead?”

Castiel shrugs wearily. “Most times, yes. If they didn’t get the target they wanted, those of the other world left. They’re rather . . . single-minded.”

“But Azazel didn’t.”

“Azazel revels in destruction, and death, and pain,” Castiel says quietly. “I have crossed blades with many from the other world, but I knew from the moment I saw him that he would not stop at one life, or even two. Killing the princes would have accomplished nothing beyond annoying him. And I . . . I was tired of death, Dean. I was tired of just watching and waiting. I wanted – ”

“To protect,” Dean finishes, because Castiel has always, always protected. He’s the first to take down an assassin, the first to venture in unknown territory to see if it is safe, the first to take the watch so that others may rest.

“Yes.”

Dean lets himself fall into a chair. It’s a sturdy one, and barely moves despite his weight, but even now, he can see how Castiel shifts himself to ensure that if someone attacked, he would be able to stop a blade from reaching Dean. Such a small thing, and Dean has never put two and two together to realize that Castiel is basically always protecting those around him.

And, really, he can’t be mad that Castiel didn’t kill Sammy.

“You couldn’t have at least given me a heads up?” he asks plaintively.

“Would you have believed me?”

“Yes!”

Castiel gives him a look.

“Okay, maybe not,” Dean concedes. “But in my defense – dude, you do not look like a Dreamwalker.”

Castiel seems amused by that. “A Dreamwalker can be anyone, Dean. All we need is a spear and an order. It would rather defeat the purpose if we stood out from the crowd.”

“I thought the flowing black robes were part of the requirement.”

“Here, in the Dreaming Place, yes. But outside – no. We blended in to fulfill our missions.”

“And how many missions have you fulfilled?”

“Enough,” Castiel answers. “And no more. I walked away from the Dreamwalkers; my place is no longer with them. My place is with you, and Prince Samuel, and House Winchester.”

A strange warmth fills Dean’s chest. To think that Castiel had a place amongst the most feared warriors – a place of honor, most likely, given the way that he had been received by others as they walked in – only for him to give it all up just for them? It’s certainly a heady feeling.

He clears his throat. “Aw, shucks, Cas. You sure do know a way to a man’s heart.”

“I know a dozen ways to a man’s heart, yes. Most of them involve a blade,” Castiel deadpans.

Dean laughs so hard he falls out of the chair.

The Dreamwalkers apparently have the ability to create portals. Castiel gives some technical definition – something about moving between this world and the other world to cut down on distance or something – but really the only part Dean cares about is that the Dreamwalkers are able to help assemble the soldiers of House Winchester, the Roadhouse, Moondoor, and the Dreaming Place all in one location in far less time than the usual weeks it would have taken for travel.

“This is so cool,” Dean says, emerging from the portal to the plateau where everyone has assembled.

Castiel, emerging from behind him with Grace, gives him an amused look. “You were terrified of riding Grace, but you’re okay with traveling through the other world with only a torch to guide you?”

“I don’t need a torch with that flaming featherball you call Grace next to us,” Dean feels compelled to point out, because Grace is indeed in flying mode, her feathers a mass of writhing flame. “She’s probably bright enough to be seen for miles around.”

“Queen Charlie will ensure that we are not seen,” Castiel says, sounding distinctly unbothered. “One of her many excellent inventions. Let’s go find General Singer.”

General Singer breaks into a wide smile when he catches sight of them. It’s the biggest show of emotion Dean’s ever seen from the man, and then he has to quickly reevaluate that when General Singer hobbles around the table and hugs him.

“Damn, it’s good to see you, boy,” he says, his voice as pleased as the smile on his face. “And you as well, Novak.”

“Sir,” Castiel says politely. “We have secured alliances with House Harvelle, House Bradbury, and the Dreamwalkers.”

“Yeah, I kinda noticed,” General Singer drawls. “Although I don’t remember telling you to go bother the Dreamwalkers. That was a dangerous bet to take.”

“With House Talbot refusing to join us, we needed more numbers,” Dean points out. “And Cas wouldn’t have let anything happen to us.”

That earns him a weird look. Not a bad look, per se, but General Singer’s gaze is definitely full of something when he looks over at Dean. Castiel seems unbothered, though, so Dean just lets it go when General Singer replies.

“No, Novak wouldn’t have,” General Singer says. “Well, I believe congratulations are in order, gentlemen. Now go find some food, get some sleep, and get ready. We march tomorrow.”

Castiel splits off from him when they leave General Singer. After spending so much time with him, Dean feels kind of weird not having a Castiel-shadow plastered to his side. He makes up for it by scaring up Benny and Andrea, where he’s presented with their brand new baby and gets to cuddle her and make fun of Benny for his obvious adoration. Then he goes and swipes some food, because the palace meals have been nice but nothing beats good old Winchester food. And finally he goes and tends to Impala, who nickers in welcome and trots over when she catches sight of him.

“Hey, girl,” he calls out. “Miss me?”

She does step on his foot, scolding him for leaving her behind, but she quickly forgives him when he offers her apples and sugar.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I missed you too. Wish you had been with us, Impala – we saw so many things . . . But it’ll be nice to ride into battle like a normal person instead of worrying about flying. Although I bet Cas will. Crazy man.”

He continues babbling to Impala, filling her in on the travels, as he takes a curry comb to her coat. She crunches down the apples, content to stay where she is, and Dean falls into the familiar rhythm of brushing out her coat while talking to her. Of course, sometimes he finds himself turning to the side, waiting for Castiel to reply, only to realize that he is alone, which is not helpful, but Impala can’t say anything about that, so he just carries on.

He’s about to move onto Impala’s other side when someone speaks from behind him.

“Dean Campbell.”

Dean spins around, dropping the comb and going for his sword. Then he stops, because drawing a sword on a queen probably would not help things. “Queen Kaia,” he greets. “You surprised me.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

“Um, can I help you?” he asks, after a few moments of silence where she just stares at him.

“Actually, I came to help you,” she says, as if she had been waiting for him to speak. She raises a hand, drawing forth a sword that Dean hadn’t even realized she had been holding, and offers it to him hilt first. “You will need this in the battle to come.”

Dean eyes the blade uneasily. It has a strange sheen to it, like nothing he’s ever witnessed. And also he has no desire to accidentally end up in debt to a Dreamwalker Queen. But he’s not a fool; politely, he says, “Thank you, Your Majesty, but I already have a sword. There’s no need for you to – ”

“Your sword won’t help against Azazel, or his demons. His regular army, yes, but his demons are from the other world. Your weapons won’t be able to harm them.”

Which explains a lot about the times Dean has faced off with the Usurper’s demons and had to flee. But he still hesitates to accept the blade.

“Your Majesty, I don’t – ”

“Queen Kaia.”

Castiel appears out of nowhere, like he’s stepped out of his own portal. His eyes are hard as stone, and his own blade is in his hands, as if he has no care for threatening an actual queen. He steps up next to Dean, tenser than Dean has ever seen him.

“What,” Castiel says quietly, “do you think you’re doing?”

Queen Kaia tilts her head. “Evening the odds,” she says. “His sword will be useless against the demons, as you well know. And he lacks the skill needed to overpower them through other means, as you can.”

“He is not meant to carry our weapons. He can’t.”

“I can use a sword,” Dean hisses, feeling vaguely insulted.

Castiel makes a frustrated noise. “It’s not about your abilities,” he snaps. “It’s about the sword itself. That is a Dreamwalker sword, forged in the other world. Mortal men aren’t meant to hold it.”

“Oh.”

“I have not forgotten our laws,” Queen Kaia says. “Nor would I endanger your charge, Castiel. The blade was forged in the other world, but the hilt is from a mortal sword. He can wield it safely.”

Castiel gives the sword a deeply suspicious look. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Well, that’s because it has never been done before,” Queen Kaia says calmly. She offers the sword again to Dean. “Try it, Dean Campbell.”

Dean looks at Castiel, because the sword is still creeping him out. Castiel frowns and sheathes his own sword, but then he steps forward and takes the proffered blade himself. He winces a little when he closes his hand around the hilt, but his face eases as he twirls it around, testing the weight and balance.

Queen Kaia, for her part, watches in amusement.

Finally, Castiel turns and offers the sword to Dean. “It should be safe,” he says, as though he is a food taster testing for poison and not the commander of the prince’s guard who had just swung a sword about. “But if you feel strange while using it, drop it immediately.”

“Well, with the ringing endorsement,” Dean mutters, but he reaches out and takes the sword.

He understands immediately why Castiel winced; the hilt is ice cold, even after Castiel had been holding it for a while, but it warms under his fingers. The balance is somehow perfect for him. Dean gives a few experimental thrusts and finds that using it is as natural as breathing. It would be creepy, but then again, the Dreamwalkers have always been creepy.

“See?” Queen Kaia says. “He is suited to the blade, and it to him.”

Castiel doesn’t apologize, but he does incline his head ever so slightly. Dean, because he isn’t an idiot, thanks her for the sword.

Queen Kaia accepts his thanks, and then she turns to Castiel. She raises her arm again, and this from produces from her flowing black robes a shield. Dean squints, because he has no idea how she hid that and a sword, but Castiel doesn’t seem surprised. He doesn’t accept the shield, though, eyeing it just as suspiciously as he eyed the sword.

“For you, Castiel,” Queen Kaia says pointedly.

“With what conditions?” Castiel asks.

She smiles faintly. “None, of course. That sword and this shield – they are gift. That is all. Take them in the spirit they were given.”

Castiel gives her another narrow-eyed look, but he does take the shield. It’s a beautiful shield, gleaming in the fading sunlight, and it has a pattern around the edge that reminds Dean of Grace’s flaming feathers when she prepares for flight.

Castiel says, in a tone of deep surprise, “This – This was my spear.”

“Yes.”

“But why – ”

“You did say you had changed,” Queen Kaia says. “It was only appropriate that your weapon changed with you. Use it well to protect that which you love, Castiel.”

Then she marches off, with nary a pause to accept Castiel’s thanks.

“Well, that was weird,” Dean says into the silence left in her wake. “Does, uh, does the queen normally hand out special weapons?”

Castiel’s jaw twitches. He sighs. “No, but normally she does not need to. Each Dreamwalker has their own spear, and we carry it with us wherever we go. We are never without it.”

“So when you say that that used to be your spear – ”

“She had it melted down,” Castiel says. He runs a hand down the edge, a nostalgic look on his face. “Changed, as I had changed. I – But perhaps it is for the best. I could not wield a Dreamwalker spear.”

Dean frowns. He’s seen Castiel fight, and while Castiel is most vicious and best with a sword, he’s not bad with other weapons. “What, have you forgotten how to fight with a spear?”

“It’s not about the memory or the skill. It’s about the weapon. Dreamwalker weapons cannot be wielded by mortals. It’s why she had to give your sword a regular hilt, and why she had to change my spear. Otherwise, we could not use them.”

“Oh – wait. Cannot be wielded by mortals?”

Castiel nods shortly. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.

So of course Dean puts his hands on hips and asks. “Are you telling me that you were immortal?”

Castiel sighs deeply. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

“Cas, I swear to all the gods – ”

“Walking in the other world – it has side effects,” Castiel explains. “It is what makes us stronger and faster. It also allows us to wield weapons forged in the other world, which are the only things that can kill demons.”

“And, what, it makes you immortal?”

“Not quite. But we don’t die unless we are killed. So, we tend to live a bit longer than humans.”

“Just how old are you, Cas?” Dean asks suspiciously.

“That’s a rather rude question to ask,” Castiel says dryly. And then, before Dean can harangue him further, he quickly adds, “And besides, I am not immortal anymore. I laid down my spear, and I stopped walking in the other world, and I am no longer a Dreamwalker. I’m as mortal as you, Dean.”

He says it like he thinks Dean will be relieved by the fact. And Dean hadn’t known that once upon a time Castiel was immortal – he had thought Castiel a normal human like everyone else – but now the stark reminder that Castiel can die, just like everyone else, causes the blood in veins to turn to ice.

Dean says, “You’re not allowed to die on me, Cas.”

Castiel rears back, his brow furrowing as if he’s confused. “I have no intention of dying,” he says. “But I will do my duty to House Winchester. And if I die in the attempt – ”

Dean doesn’t remember dropping his Dreamwalker sword, or stepping forward, or grabbing Castiel. Yet somehow he finds himself with Castiel’s shoulders grasped in his hands, and Castiel’s face only inches from his face.

“You,” he says, and he has no idea where the words come from but he cannot stop them, “are not allowed to die.”

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly, and he touches Dean’s cheek like an apology, “I will do my duty to my charge. I will keep you safe. By any means necessary.”

“It’s not your job to keep me safe!”

“Yes, it is. I am your commander, and your safety is my responsibility – ”

“What happened to ‘we are equals’ and all that?” Dean asks irritably.

Castiel hesitates. It’s only for a moment, but with his face so close to Dean’s, it’s like Castiel has lit a signal beacon. And Dean – Dean can see past Castiel’s controlled façade, his tight mask, his emotionless front.

Castiel means every word. He’ll die, if it means Dean will live.

“I’m – I’m not worth that, Cas.”

“You,” Castiel says, as unyielding as a diamond, “are worth everything, Dean.”

Dean kisses him. He doesn’t remember making any conscious decision, but – how can he not kiss the man who gave up everything to protect their people, who risked death to convince the Dreamwalkers to ally with them, who stands in front of him and says that he’ll die to protect Dean?

For a moment, a single, glorious moment, Castiel kisses back, and it’s amazing.

And then Castiel jerks back, a sharp noise of distress leaving him, eyes wide and very, very blue. “Dean – no. We can’t. This is not the right time – ”

“Tomorrow, we might die,” Dean murmurs, leaning forward to try and kiss him again. “I think now is the best time.”

“You are not going to die,” Castiel snaps. “And things – things will change tomorrow. You might not think the same of me, after – afterwards.”

Dean frowns. “After what?”

“I need to meet with the other commanders,” Castiel says, a bald-faced lie if Dean’s ever seen one. He jerks free of Dean’s hands and stalks away, agitation in every single line of his body.

Dean stares after him. From anyone else, Dean would take it as a no – but he has the strangest feeling that for Castiel, it was less of a no, I don’t want you and more of no, you don’t want me.

Which is ridiculous. Dean can’t imagine wanting anyone more.

“What the hell, Cas,” Dean says.

The battle goes great for approximately ten minutes, which is honestly nine minutes longer than Dean had expected. After that, they have to break ranks, because the Usurper’s demons are clawing and forcing their way through the lines, and it’s either break or be eaten. Or torn apart.

Fortunately, the Winchester army is used to always being at a disadvantage, so this is not terribly new for them. Dean settles in back to back with Benny and Victor and sets to work felling demons and sellswords and everyone else the Usurper can throw at them.

“Damn, Campbell,” Victor says, after they’ve managed to fight themselves into a corner where they can take a brief moment and catch their breath. “Where the hell did you get that?”

Dean spares a single glance for the sword in his hand. Unlike Victor and Benny, his sword bears not the faintest trace of blood or gore; it is as clean as it was when he drew it forth this morning, even though Dean has killed most of the enemies they faced. Not because Victor or Benny are unskilled, but rather because Dean can kill them with one blow, and Victor and Benny mostly have to trade off hacking them to pieces.

“It was a gift,” Dean says, and the blade seems to glow in agreement.

“Tell your gift giver that it’s rude to not spread the wealth,” Benny jokes. “Also, I definitely want a closer look at it later.”

Dean fights the instinctive flinch to hide the sword. It’s just a frigging sword, after all – but he feels an intense need to keep it at his side, away from others. Not hidden, per se; but he can definitely understand why Castiel was so wary of accepting it from the Dreamwalkers.

Not that Dean regrets accepting it. It has made fighting so much easier.

“Where do you think the prince got off to?” Victor asks, craning his head around a wall to survey their surroundings.

Dean shakes his head. “He charged off with Garth hot on his trail.”

Victor makes a face. Benny does too, and honestly, Dean agrees. But there had been a lot of demons, and they hadn’t really had the choice to pursue Prince Sam, so it is what it is.

“Ready for another round, gentlemen?” Benny asks, as polite as a noble.

“Only if by round you mean drinks,” Dean shoots back, but he follows when Benny steps forward. They do have to find Prince Sam and the others at some point, after all.

Two fights and one ambush later, they run into Castiel.

Or, more accurately, Castiel runs into them, because he has them all on the floor in the five seconds it takes them to recognize Castiel and, more importantly, for Castiel to recognize them.

“Gods – Cas! Cas, it’s me!”

Castiel blinks and the sword he has leveled at Dean’s throat wavers. Then his eyes clear when he realizes that it is indeed Dean. He steps back so quickly that Dean would call it a jump, except that Castiel’s feet don’t both clear the floor.

“What are you three doing here?” Castiel asks, frowning, as he adjusts the shield on his left arm.

“Looking for the prince,” Victor answers, grunting as he pushes himself to his feet. “Damn, Commander, did you really have to hit us so hard?”

Castiel’s eyes gleam in amusement. “No. I could have hit you harder.”

He gets three scowls for that. Dean rubs at his chest; he suspects that he’ll develop a hell of a bruise where Castiel’s elbow connected, but after today, his entire body will be one big bruise, so he refrains from saying anything.

Mostly, anyways.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Cas. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Castiel answers. “I saw that you weren’t with the others, so I came looking.”

Dean puts his hand to heart. “Aw, Cas, just for little old me? You shouldn’t have.”

“And what are we, chopped deer?” Victor demands, while Benny gives Dean a narrow-eyed look.

Which is when Dean realizes that he’s been using Castiel’s nickname instead of his title.

Fortunately or unfortunately, in the next moment, a horde of demons descend on them, so Dean doesn’t have to worry about trying to cover for himself verbally. Everyone’s focus immediately turns instead of just staying alive, and Dean finds himself back to back with Castiel, falling back into the rhythm they’d begun finding as they travelled. When Castiel feints, Dean is there to take advantage with his sword; when Dean dodges, Castiel is there to protect him with his shield. It’s seamless and beautiful, and Dean finds himself sweat-soaked but grinning with exhilaration at the end of it.

“Dude, that was awesome!” he says, when all of the demons are dead at their feet.

Castiel rolls his eyes. He bends over and cleans his own sword against a demon’s shirt, wiping it free of blood and gunk. “Battle high. You’ll come down eventually.”

“I’ve fought before.”

“Not with a Dreamwalker sword. There are side effects.”

“I am not – ”

Castiel plucks at his sleeve, twitching. Or, at least, Dean thinks Castiel is twitching, until Dean realizes that in fact he is the one almost vibrating out of his skin, and Castiel is the one standing perfectly still.

“ . . . Okay, maybe I am a little affected,” Dean concedes. “But this isn’t a bad thing, right?”

“Your eyes haven’t melted out their sockets and your ears aren’t bleeding, so, no.”

“What.”

“As I said: Dreamwalker weapons are not meant for mortals,” is all Castiel will say, but he does keep holding onto Dean until Dean finally stops vibrating. “Now we should really find – ”

“Sam, yeah, I know. Hey, where do you think – what the hell,” Dean says in exasperation, when he turns around to find that their fight with the demons has separated them from Victor and Benny. “Damn, I hope they’re okay.”

Castiel opens his mouth to reply – and then his eyes go narrow and his mouth goes flat. He slides in front of Dean, dropping into a perfect defensive pose, shield up and sword at the ready, and Dean is just turning to ask what he’s doing when he feels the sword in his hand do – something. He’s not sure what. If he had to, he might say that the sword had recognized something, and jolted him in warning, but that’s silly, it’s just a sword.

Except for the fact that every atom of his body is now on alert, so when he himself turns around, he has it raised and on guard as well.

In front of them, eyes blazing yellow and smoke rising from his shoulders, the Usurper grins.

“A Dreamwalker,” he purrs, and even his voice is twisted, rasping like broken glass being trod upon. “And a prince! I am truly blessed.”

“Azazel,” Castiel snarls. Each syllable is full of seething hatred, the likes of which Dean has never heard, and it would terrify him if he didn’t know, to the bottom of his bones, that Castiel would never hurt him.

“Castiel,” Azazel says, and he sounds bored. “You again. I should have stepped on you the last time we met.”

“And I should have carved your heart from your chest.”

“Like you even could. You were too busy trying to protect your charge. You made yourself weak, Castiel.” Azazel makes a show of sniffing the air, and his leering smile widens. “And it doesn’t appear you’ve learned. You stink of this world, now, and mortals. Or should I say, a mortal?”

Dean doesn’t shiver, but only through intense effort.

Castiel, meanwhile, goes tense as a taught wire. “You will not have Dean,” he says quietly, each word like a vow.

“Of course not,” Azazel says agreeably. “I shall have you and Dean.”

Then Azazel launches himself forward, and there is no more time to speak. Dean blocks the first blow by instinct, the second with his shield, and the third by pure luck. Castiel fares better, but not by much; he is fast enough to catch most of the blows on his shield, but not all of them, and a kick sends him reeling backwards to catch his balance.

This also means that Azazel is off balance as he draws back, so Dean takes the shot and opens a cut on Azazel’s side.

It’s a small cut, hardly anything worth bragging about – but Azazel roars.

“You little mud monkey,” he seethes, battering at Dean with sword and fist, hardly seeming to notice when Castiel sweeps in to help divert some of the blows. “You dare to raise a weapon against me, the Yellow Eyed, the Conqueror, the Prince of – ”

“Shut up,” Dean says, and cuts him on the neck for good measure when Castiel forces Azazel’s arm away with his shield.

Azazel’s infuriated response is less words and more just a terrifying howl. Castiel and Dean are driven back and back and back, and Dean has zero idea how they both avoid a death blow. As it is, one of Azazel’s blows are powerful enough that Dean’s shield snaps clean off his arm, and only Castiel’s frantic lunge saves him from being punctured like a pincushion when Azazel presses the advantage.

Unfortunately, Castiel’s lunge leaves him off balance and vulnerable, and in the next second, Dean finds himself going flying when Azazel whirls and lands a solid kick on his chest.

The ground is solid and unforgiving when Dean hits it. It drives the breath from his lungs, and for a moment, he sees black instead of the sky.

Then he hears something he actually has never heard before: Castiel screaming.

The world returns to sharp focus at rapid speed. Dean rolls to his feet before he can even register moving, his palm finding his sword as easily as water finding the slope of a hill. It feels right, easy, natural, and when his vision catches up to his mind, he takes in the sight in front of him.

Azazel has lifted Castiel clear off his feet, one hand tight around his throat. His other hand is on Castiel’s shield arm – except there is no shield in sight, and it is at an awkward angle that Dean instinctively knows means it is broken.

“You really haven’t learned,” Azazel is saying to Castiel in a conversational tone. “All these years, and you still fall for it. Oh, well. Thank you for delivering Dean to me.”

Castiel kicks at Azazel. It’s a weak effort, hardly any strength behind it, and Azazel grins and twists his broken arm.

Something in Dean snaps at the sight of it, the sound of it, the sheer wrongness of it. Castiel should never be hurt; should never be choking and powerless; should never be at the mercy of anyone. Castiel should be enjoying shots and needling Dean about how firebirds are faster than horses and showing off his stupidly good skills with a sword and –

Dean stands up, aims his sword, and runs.

“I’ll make sure the last thing Dean sees before I consume him is me tearing you apart,” Azazel says, right before Dean stabs him in the heart.

“Dean, my arm is fine, you – ”

“He literally snapped it, you are not fine – ”

“He kicked you hard enough to send you flying, if anything, we should be worrying about – ”

“I landed on my back, I’m fine; you got dropped – ”

“Um, Commander? Lieutenant?”

A shy voice intrudes on their argument. Dean flinches, hand flying to his sword, but a second later he recognizes the voice as belonging to Garth and he relaxes.

Well, as much as someone can relax while hauling around a very battered Castiel.

Castiel sends him a very annoyed look. “You’re just as battered as me, Dean,” he says irritably. “Now put me down so that a healer can take a look at you – ”

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean says, tightening his arm around Castiel’s waist. “If we’re going down, we’re going together, Cas.”

Castiel sighs heavily. Then he seems to remember that they have an audience, because his face smooths out, settling into that composed mask he always uses. “Fitzgerald. Report.”

“The battle is over,” Fitzgerald says, falling into step with them as they limp forward. “The demons broke and began fleeing, no one knows why – ”

“Azazel is dead,” Dean grunts.

Castiel clarifies, “The Usurper.”

“Oh. Oh! Are you sure?”

“Stabbed him right in the heart.” Dean pauses. “And a few other areas.”

“Dean.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who chopped his head off.”

“With demons, one has to be thorough,” Castiel says, although the last word comes out in a pained hiss as they stumble up some steps. They’re not big steps, but Dean carefully shifts his weight to better support Castiel, and he counts it as a victory when Castiel doesn’t yell at him. “We will need to burn the body as well.”

Garth wisely doesn’t question them. He continues, “The sellswords surrendered when they saw the demons fleeing. The, uh, the Dreamwalkers, they said they would find the rest of the demons.”

“Where is everyone else?” Dean asks.

“Gathered in the throne room,” Garth answers, which is when they step out of the last corridor and into said throne room.

The Lawrence throne room is not in the greatest shape. Cracks run up the walls; spider webs have commandeered the ceilings and lights; the windows are caked with dust. Yet the pillars holding up the room remain strong, and even though the demons have taken down the Winchester flags and sigils, the throne remains intact.

Dean stares at the throne. The most unnerving feeling creeps into his spine – a memory, or perhaps more accurately an echo of a memory, of a cold stone square against his legs.

“Dean? Are you all right?”

“Uh – yeah. Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, shaking off the phantom memory. “Just – I didn’t think I remember anything about Lawrence, but I think I remember this room.”

Castiel makes a soft sound. “We smuggled you out through the throne room,” he says quietly. “You, and Sam, and a few others. It was probably . . . the last thing you ever saw of Lawrence.”

“Oh.” Then Castiel’s words sink in, and he says, “Wait, we? You were here when – ”

“When Lawrence fell? Yes. I had – I had been ordered to come. To prevent Azazel from taking you, or Sam.”

Dean blinks. He can understand why Azazel wanted Sam – demons always want someone from a royal bloodline – but Dean?

“Why me?”

Castiel presses his lips into a thin line. “I chose to disobey those orders,” he says, deliberately not answering Dean. “Instead, I helped get you and Sam out. It was . . . I wish I had been able to do more, but . . . Azazel went for your parents first.”

“My parents – ” Dean cuts himself off, well and thoroughly confused. All the stories say that when Azazel and his demons descended, they went for King John first. They’d torn him apart at the gates, and then they had gone for Queen Mary. “Why the hell would my parents – ”

“Novak! Campbell!”

General Singer stomps up to them, puffing for breath. He has bloodied pants and tears in his shirt, and in general looks like he’s gone through hell.

“You two look terrible,” he says.

“You fight the Usurper and see how pretty you look afterwards,” Dean retorts instinctively.

General Singer’s eyebrow goes up. “You fought the Usurper? And lived?”

“Queen Kaia graciously gave us some gifts to face him with. Otherwise it would not have been a successful endeavor,” Castiel says. “But, yes, he is dead now, General. Thoroughly dead. I think it is time.”

“Hmm. We still haven’t found the – ”

“Found it!” someone yells, and someone comes trotting up to them with a battered but still intact item in their hands.

A crown. The Winchester crown.

Dean inhales sharply. If the throne had caused him to think of a phantom memory of sitting on it, the crown is not an echo – the crown feels as familiar to him as his sword now does, an extension of his body rather than a tool, a part of him that everything in him yearns towards. It’s absolutely ridiculous.

Which is when it hits Dean that absolute silence has fallen in the hall.

He looks up sharply. Everyone is staring at the crown like it holds the answer to the universe.

Then he realizes they aren’t staring at the crown. They’re staring at him.

“Um, Cas . . . why is everyone staring at – ?”

“It’s time, General,” Castiel says, and he pulls himself away from Dean. It’s like someone has peeled off a layer of his skin; he grabs for Castiel and pulls him back, because he can’t stand the idea of letting Castiel out from his sight while Castiel is still limping around with a broken arm and bruised neck. “Dean, no – this isn’t – we can’t – ”

“You’re hurt, I can’t just – ”

“Dean,” Castiel says, and his eyes are a confusing mix of sorrow and joy. “ . . . Your Majesty.”

Dean says, “What.”

General Singer takes pity on him. “So, remember how we told you that you were the son of James and Mary Campbell?” he asks.

“ . . . Yes.”

“Welllll,” General Singer says. “So that isn’t wrong. But it isn’t the whole story either. See, James – that was your dad’s nickname, before he ascended. And Mary – Mary Campbell was her name before she got married.”

“What do you mean, ascended?”

“Your father was King John. And your mother was Queen Mary.”

Dean whirls on Castiel. The words are soft-spoken, but diamond-hard – they’re the same sort of words that he heard from Castiel when he called on the Dreamwalkers to come to their aid. They ring of truth, and yet, and yet –

“No,” he says stupidly. “No, that isn’t – that can’t be – that can’t be right, Cas – ”

Castiel closes his eyes, briefly, as if he can’t bear to look. Then he opens them again and delivers the final blow.

“Your name,” he says softly, “is Dean Winchester. You are the Crown Prince of Lawrence, the firstborn son of King John and Queen Mary, the heir of House Winchester. And now . . . now that Azazel is dead . . . you are the King. Your Majesty,” he adds, and sinks into the low bow.

“Your Majesty,” echoes General Singer, and Garth, and Victor, and Benny, and every other damn person in the room.

And hadn’t he wondered? Hadn’t he thought about it? Hadn’t he joked about it, once in a blue moon, how funny it was that he had the same name as the dead prince, that his parents had similar names to the King and Queen, that he was so close in age to Prince Sam? But he had never thought twice about it, because after Lawrence had fallen, the names “Dean” and “John” and “Mary” had been bestowed upon many a babe.

Dean looks at the Winchester crown. It’s nothing special – no fancy gems, no ornate ornamentation, no gleaming gold. Just a plain, simple silver circlet, with the sigil of House Winchester set at the front.

He knows this crown. Just as he knew the castle, and the throne.

But: “Prince Sam – he’s the king,” he protests weakly. “He’s the crown prince, shouldn’t he be the king?”

Castiel shakes his head. “You have no heir,” he says. “So he is your heir, and therefore, should be the crown prince. But you are the king.”

His words are diamond-hard again, but his voice is different. Now he says it with reverence, like a priest at an altar.

Or a warrior, sworn to their king.

Dean shakes himself. “I can’t be king,” he repeats. “I don’t know anything about being a – ”

“A leader, capable of inspiring others to follow him? A general, capable of making the right choices for their people? A warrior, capable of fighting for what matters?” Castiel smiles slightly. “Dean, you have everything you need to be a king. You are everything we need in a king. You are our king.”

Castiel goes to bow again, but this time his leg buckles under him and he hisses as he crumples half to the side. Dean moves without thinking, brushing past the crown General Singer is holding out, and grabs him, halting his descent to the floor.

“Dean,” Castiel says in alarm, and his eyes are very blue and very wide when he stares up at Dean.

He looks exactly as he did when Dean kisses him last night.

And just like that, Dean knows. He narrows his eyes. “You knew all along?” he checks, and Castiel grimaces and nods. “Is that why you ran away from me?”

“Dean – Your Majesty, I don’t – ”

Dean leans forward, emboldened by the slip, because Castiel is never less than perfectly put together, even when he’s covered in blood. “You knew that I was the rightful king,” he says. “All this time – is that why you volunteered to come with me? To watch over me?”

“I could not let you die.”

“And you never worked directly with me – you said that was because of Sam, but – ”

“Someone had to guard you too,” Castiel says, a flicker of a smile appearing on his face. “You manage to get into an awful lot of trouble when you’re not around your fellow guards.”

“Screw you too,” Dean says instinctively.

Castiel flinches and looks at the ground. “Your Majesty,” he says lowly, “if I have given offense – ”

“Yeah, you damn well have,” Dean interrupts. “Here I was, thinking you just didn’t like me like that, but no! You had some stupid idea that because I was king, I couldn’t love someone like you. Am I right?”

“Your Majesty – ”

“That’s not my name.”

“Dean,” Castiel corrects, his tone as irritated as when Dean tried to insist on taking Impala on their road trip. “You are the king. I am just a commander, and you cannot just – you deserve someone better.”

The scariest part is that Dean can actually follow that logic. He can literally see how Castiel can rationalize it to himself: that Dean is the king, the ruler of Lawrence, the head of House Winchester, while Castiel is just the commander of the prince’s guard, not attached to any noble house or special profession.

It’s still a stupid leap of logic, however.

“Someone better?” Dean says, keeping his voice light and his hands tight on Castiel. “Like, oh, I don’t know, one of the finest soldiers I’ve ever crossed blades with? Someone who disobeyed orders to save my life and then devoted the rest of his life to keeping me safe? Someone who has walked in the other world and fought demons and rides an actual firebird? Someone like that?”

“Dean,” Castiel tries.

“Someone who went toe to toe with the Queen of the Dreamwalkers to get an alliance? Someone who risked death to save me from Azazel? Someone who, even now, is thinking of me above themselves? How about someone like that, Cas?”

“You are the most infuriating man I have ever met,” Castiel growls. “You are the king, you deserve – ”

“Yeah, screw that. If I’m the king, then I get the right to choose who I want.”

“I’m not – I’m not the kind of man you think I am,” Castiel says, and for a moment, Dean can glimpse in his eyes very different – but no less real – demons. “I have done things I am not proud of, that I can never take back, that I cannot undo.”

“Well, I kind of figured you had a lot of naughty stories from your youth,” Dean teases. “Considering you were immortal once upon a time.”

“Dean.”

Dean sobers. He leans forward, until their foreheads touch. Castiel closes his eyes, almost on reflex, but Dean does not; he watches that beautiful face, that wild hair, those tempting lips. He says, “Castiel. Cas. You’re the kind of man who chose to protect. That’s who you are. And that’s who I want. I want you, Cas. No one else.”

This time, when Dean kisses him, Castiel kisses back.

It’s simple. Easy. As natural as breathing, or drawing a sword, or lifting a shield.

It’s everything.

It’s Castiel who ends up crowning Dean. Dean insists, but he finds it an easy fight, for General Singer is too busy rolling his eyes to argue, the council of advisors and commanders is too busy squabbling, and Prince Sam takes one look at them and starts laughing until his sides hurt.

They hold the ceremony in the throne room, swept clean of ash and blood and cobwebs, the windows thrown open for air and the curtains drawn back for sun. Every day, it looks more like the room Dean so vaguely remembers from his childhood, even if he has to pinch himself every once in a while that his childhood was a royal one.

There are a lot more people in attendance than Dean expects, when he surveys the crowd. Obviously, there are the people of Winchester and his fellow guards – they are the ones he grew up with, the ones he ate and drank and cried and laughed with. They are his people.

But Queen Charlie is here, standing with arm in arm with Lady Gilda. Lady Ellen is here, and her daughter, and many barrels of their finest alcohol. Queen Kaia is here, a silent spectator in black, even though everyone giving her a wide breadth even though her spear is sheathed on her back.

Hell, even House Talbot has come, although their presence makes Castiel twitch.

“Hey, if anyone gets to be nervous, it’s me,” Dean mutters out of the corner of his mouth. He resists the urge to tug at his ceremonial robes, which are obnoxious and stifling.

“I just want to make sure Princess Bela does not do anything – rash,” Castiel says.

Something in his tone is different. Dean side eyes him. “Cas,” he asks, “are you jealous?”

“No,” Castiel says, far too quickly.

“Oh my god.”

Fortunately, before Castiel can say anything else, Prince Sam steps up, bearing the Winchester crown in his hands. He gives a respectful bow and offers it to Castiel, and there is a weight off of his shoulders that Dean knows is because he is very glad that he is not king.

Dean’s only known that Sam is his brother for two days, and already he’s viciously jealous of him.

Castiel has to raise himself on his toes to elevate the crown over Dean’s head, but he refused to let Dean kneel, so Dean bears it through gritted teeth.

“I recognize Dean of House Winchester, firstborn son of King John and Queen Mary, the rightful heir to the throne of Lawrence,” he says, his voice strong and proud as it echoes throughout the room. “Would any challenge his right to the throne?”

No one says a word.

“Then I crown thee Dean Winchester, King of Lawrence,” Castiel says, and he places the silver circlet on Dean’s head. “Long live the King.”

“Long live the King,” Prince Sam repeats.

“Long live the King!” the people roar, over and over again, until the very ceiling shakes from the force of it.

Dean takes a deep breath and reaches out with a hand – and Castiel takes it, as steady as the mountain, as warm as a firebird, as necessary to Dean as air.

“Are you ready?” Dean asks. I love you.

Castiel’s mouth twists into a wry smile as he recognizes the words, both spoken and unspoken. But he plays along anyways. “No,” he says. “But let’s go.” I love you too.

FINIS