Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean loved the Roadhouse, really he did. It had the best tavern food this side of the kingdom and getting to work shifts in the kitchen gives him far too much enjoyment. Only the divine could tell him why seeing a pie crust come out perfectly golden and flaky gave him more satisfaction than all his wins in a decade of sparring.

However, he’s currently cursing his adoration for the damn tavern. He’d been swept away into the rush and cacophony of being part of the kitchen staff and now time is ticking, whisking him away from the sweet land of ‘Get a move on’ to ‘Head’s on a platter if you don’t make haste in ten seconds.’ He ditches his apron, operating strictly on muscle memory as he swings it onto his hook and speed walks into the bar area. He whistles to Charlie as he goes, exiting the bar of the Tavern following the normal route despite the temptation to just jump over it. He can’t waste time getting chewed out by Ellen right now.

The redhead perks up as soon as she hears the sharp note, short hair swirling in the air like fire as she swings her head around. He’s sorry to see her ditch the cute brunette she was chatting up, but as the insignia etched into her armour and royal blue under-tunic states, she’s the head of the guard. She’d been specially assigned to him after he’d snuck out to the local town one too many times but, now, the jokes on his father, Charlie just sneaks out with him. She was meant to be a deterrent; now he’s got protection and a partner in crime so really, he can’t complain. Despite the litany of rants and ravings he went on about how infantilisting it felt as the crown prince to have to be assigned a full time bodyguard rather than having a guard during big occasions when assassins usually want to take their turn in the panels of history. He can understand the motive, he too would love to disrupt a kingdom wide event by killing someone. Preferably himself as all the royal regalia is extremely uncomfortable to say they’re supposed to be paying for quality.

Eitherway, he and Charlie really need to haul ass if they don’t want to get publicly shamed and separated for being late to some big event. Honestly, Dean doesn’t exactly know why it is that the meeting has been called, nevermind why his presence is requested. The fact he’s the crown prince always seems like an afterthought, divine above knows his father always asks for Sam’s opinion first. When he becomes King he’s changing the inheritance law and then abdicating the throne to Sam. He would have been saved so much stress if the title of crown prince wasn’t given to the first born son and was instead decided at a later date.

He sprints into his quarters after leaving Baby with the stablehand, the time crunch being so narrow he didn’t even have time to indulge in the usual traded barbs about taking care of the black mare with the utmost of care. He just passes the reins over and bolts, Charlie doing the same to keep pace with him. By all means she could just wait where she’s needed but he appreciates the moral support.

Dean takes one of the servant routes up to his room, its an old, rickety staircase hidden behind a tapestry and a healthy dose of dust but it cuts his time down by a wide-enough margin that it’s completely worth it. It’s only the echoed creaks of footsteps following him up the same worn oak steps that indicates Charlie is still on his tail. They burst out behind yet another tapestry, this one intimately familiar since it's decorated this wing before his birth. Given it directly faces onto the antique double doors of his room, it wouldn’t be an overstatement to say he knows its appearance better than he does his own reflection. Blue and white celebrating the unification of the Campbell and Winchester houses and the birth of the kingdom with all three crests and a depiction of his parents on the day of their marriage. He hasn’t had to look at it for years but the image on that tapestry is still engrained behind his eyelids.

No use bemoaning how much time as a child he spent fantasising about having his own tapestry, especially now that having an oil painting done is all the rage - he should know that twenty-first birthday was a boring one until he and Charlie managed to get to the parties the lower classes were throwing. He’s never managed to stand so still and still be yelled at for blinking so much. It’s not like his eyes doing their natural thing was disturbing the painter but that didn’t dissuade him from being criticised about it. Shaking those thoughts off for now, Dean went into the bathroom attached to his room. Time was of the essence and he didn’t have enough to have a bath so he simply sponged down the parts of himself most covered in flower and other ingredients before spraying himself down with some fragrance to cover up the stink of the Roadhouse and pie. As much as he loved that smell, if anyone else outside of him and Charlie caught a whiff he’d be stuck in his wing of the palace until the next time they needed the crown prince to sit in procession and look pretty.

The next thing he did was slip out of the comfortable clothing he’d been dressed in to instead wear “something more befitting of his station.” The silk shirt did nothing to keep in warmth and felt like running water on his skin rather than the heavy and worn soft cotton of his previous shirt. It was also a blindingly pristine white and he mourned the soft yellowed white of the cotton shirt. Next he put on the leather surcoat, the winchester blue garment restricting movement in his shoulders - the restriction only becoming worse when he slipped on the dark navy cape that attached to the surcoat via the heavy, intricate and triangular bronze clips that pointed inwards on a diagonal towards his sternum. The worst items of his ensemble had to be the boots and the circlet that indicated his role. The leather boots pinched and left him in a constant state of ‘fucking ow’ when walking unlike the supple leather of his riding boots, those things are practically molded to his feet without loosing any of the comfort or practicality of them. The golden circlet sat heavy on his head near the brow, the craftsmanship was undeniably impressive, yes with fine strands of gold weaved together to form it, but due to its status as a heirloom it meant it didn’t quite fit right and pinched at his brow worse than the boots pinched at his feet. Dean is thoroughly convinced the reason he had so many migraines when he had to wear it more often is directly due to it. Sam always tried to reason that correlation doesn’t equal causation but in this case? His brother has no clue what he’s talking about especially since he hasn’t had to wear the damned thing.

Already rolling his shoulders in the discomfort of the garments he storms out of his room. Charlie falls in step beside him and they reach where they were demanded to be right in the nick of time. He can see Sam eyeing them from the side and just shoots his brother a little grin.

Both princes enter at the same time, Charlie leading the two of them in before bowing and taking her place at the right hand of Dean’s throne - throne is a dramatic description for it, well decorated chair is how he’d describe it. Wooden with gold and other metals embedded as decorations it is no match in opulence for the thrones of the King and Queen of their kingdom. The high council sit along their seats, facing inwards towards the thrones in a broken semi-circle. The rest of the council is also present within their assigned seats whilst the rest of the hall is empty.

He and Sam fall into their own bows, both only looking up upon their father clearing his throat. King John makes an imposing figure, even to his sons. A heavy, golden crown inlaid with sapphires and lapis alongside silver vines decorating it settled on a brow drawn down severity and three clasps holding a thick cloak to his shoulders. On the right shoulder the clasp depicts the Winchester crest, on the left is the Campbell crest and in the centre is the crest of the Kingdom. The symbolism of the garments is almost as heavy as their physical weight and Dean knows he will have to wear them upon his coronation and every public appearance following. His shoulders already ache with the weight of his own cloak.

Sam is dismissed first, rising and allowed to take a seat in his own throne. That leaves Dean alone and still bowed down to the entirety of his family. He already knows he looks completely off centre now that Sam has left his side.

His father only permits him to rise not take a seat, he centres himself as he does so. “Prince Dean,” His father begins and Dean has learnt to dread hearing that title from the man in front of him. It usually is followed by a declaration that he must leave the capital on a campaign or other such errand. They’ve become less of a drag since Charlie had been assigned to him yet he still hates them. All they do is remind poorer districts of the wealth of the capital whilst doing very little to help, the only project he readily endorsed was funding better infrastructure to deal with extreme weather. “As your twenty-sixth birthday is rapidly approaching,” He bit his tongue to stop himself from butting in about how it is next week. There's a rapid approach and leaving it until the last minute to inform him of this decision. His father continued, blind or otherwise apathetic to Dean’s internal monologue, “The high council and I have arranged your betrothal.”

That. That hadn’t been what he’d been expecting to hear. Dean could feel himself stiffening, shoulders going rigid and his posture likening to that of a cornered and feral cat. Mutterings spring up from the council. He kept his face blank yet checked towards Sam and Charlie. His brother was stone-faced yet the tick in his jaw and his brows being pulled down slightly spoke of his frustration at the announcement. Charlie on the other hand, was incensed. Her face read it clearly and it was starting to take on an angered flush that could rival her hair in colour. His parents are completely ambivalent, Dean’s mother going so far as to shoot him a warning look to hold his tongue.

He does hold it, feeling like a chastised and sullen child as he stares down his parents. He was aware he’d have to marry but Dean had assumed he’d at least be given the offer of being in the room when they decided to whom. Curiosity bites at him and he allows it to make itself known in the room, “Who is it that I shall be marrying?” It is through gritted teeth that he talks and his jaw only clenches further when he sees his parents exchange gladdened glances that he was not fighting.

“Lady Anna of the Milton house,” the King tells him and Dean nods, apparently disturbed by Dean’s lack of external response his father goes on to explain, “The Milton house holds sway over the north, it will be useful in ensuring that part of the country's continued compliance.” Dean is well aware of the insubordination of the north. He’d been sent on no less than five military campaigns up there in the years between his eighteenth and twenty first birthday. The north would be more likely to behave if they had one of their own as Queen so whilst Dean can see the justification in the eyes of the council he still cannot silence his guts own call for revolt at the news.

He stays tense, staying within the rigid posture he had adopted. In contrast, he can see his parents relaxing giving him an appraising look. Dean wants to yell out. Scream, throw a tantrum, make a declaration that they can’t just give him off as a bargaining piece. He doesn’t want to be married. He grits his teeth, arguing with his father will never work, he’s seen it in the arguments between Sam and their father.

“She’ll be arriving within the next few days,” His mother speaks up, her voice firm in the ways only a mothers could be - a soft tone with a severity hidden beneath it, “We expect you to be courteous.” Her eyes narrow, a reference to his reputation. He keeps his head down, staring up through his eyelashes, praying that the resentment of this situation isn’t showing on his face.

His father calls the meeting to a close, nodding to Dean that he is dismissed. He takes the opportunity to spin on his heel and leave, Charlie echoing that movement with decisive footsteps. He fumes silently as he goes, building up steam to the point where he’s surprised it's not whistling out of his ears like an overboiled kettle. He gestures, hand and arm movements jerking and stilted as if the rage inside had ironed out his ability for fluid movement. Anger churning in his gut so harshly that word’s fail him and narrowly avoiding slamming the Great Hall's doors behind him.

Chapter Text

The doors to his room open with a satisfying slam, the wooden groaning under the force and finally giving him a slight release of pressure in his skull. The next thing to go is the golden circlet, flung off his head and hitting the wall with a crack, if it broke he wouldn’t miss it. He huffs out harshly, nostrils flaring and hands clenching and unclenching as he turns to face Charlie. She looks concerned, face drawn into a frown and watching his every movement closely.

“It’s not fair,” He snarls, sounding once again like a child as he paces. It's mortifying to feel his face flushing aggressively and tears pricking at the back of his eyes, the heat in them making his harsh blinking feel like a soothing balm on a sunburn. “Why- No, how could they do this to me?” He asks, spinning around to face Charlie once again, his face crumples slightly, “They didn’t even ask? I- I could have already promised myself to someone, by the damned I was promised to someone!” Admittedly it hadn’t ended well with Lisa running away to be with a farmer but that was beside the point. “They can’t just act like I’m a bargaining chip,” He growls, pulling at his hair, “They could have at least made sure I was okay with it first.” He knows why they waited to tell him until they were in front of the wider council, if he kicked up a fuss not only would it damage his reputation but now the news of his betrothal would be spreading faster than a drought wildfire. He gave up on verbalising why he was so angry, the sting of having the rug ripped out from underneath him with zero concern was overwhelming and he just wanted to scream.

“Dean,” Charlie began, grabbing him by the elbow and forcing him to stop moving, “They aren’t using you as a bargaining chip.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes before hissing out, “My father got to marry someone of his choice, my brother is already discussing marriage with someone of his choice.” He paused for a moment, willing the hurt not to show in his voice, “Why don’t I get a choice?”

Charlie stayed silent, shifting her arms to be more open for a hug. He raised an eyebrow and she just pulled him in anyways before muttering, “Get out of here with that attitude Dean,” into his ear. Using their position to her advantage, Charlie also reached up and poked him in the ribs. He gave a half-smile against Charlie’s shoulder, her grip tightening in response for a brief second.

Sighing, Dean relaxed his shoulders before muttering, “Alright get out I’m getting changed.”

Charlie laughed and simply just turned around before making loud fake hurling noises as soon as she heard him start taking off the surcoat. His ego is definitely thriving thanks to his number one supporter. He ends up back in the same outfit he had on earlier in the day just with the surcoat on but undone, already appreciating the lack of breath restricting fabric clinging to him.

Opening the curtains wide, he looked out from his window and tried to assess how climbable the route down would be. It hadn’t rained yet but the clouds had been steadily darkening for a while now and Bobby’s been talking the big talk about a massive tempest about to unleash over the capital for an entire week now. It’s worth the risk anyway, he can’t breathe in this castle without someone informing him of improper etiquette and divine only knows that if he tries to leave the castle a regular way he’s going to get herded right back up into his room like a caged bird. If he thought about it, Dean would liken himself to one of those mine canaries.

The balcony would be the easier way to access the route he has in mind but he’s too restless to even care about ease of way so he opens up his windows as far as possible. Hooking a foot over and keeping a careful balance on the ledge below he slips out of the window, Charlie’s sigh and the clank of metal indicating she’s following. “You really ought to take the usual way down,” He calls to her, a challenging smirk etching its way up his face.

She scoffs back, red hair swirling in the slowly rising wind, “As if you’re having all the fun Dean-o!”

So they make their way down the side of the castle, taking advantage of the detailed carvings, pipes and windowsills highlighting a clear route to the floor. Leaving might not have been the wisest idea but the moment his feet hit the floor the feeling of relief that swept over him nearly toppled him like an overwhelming wave. It made his knees weak and he let out a giddy half laugh spinning on a foot to greet Charlie as she landed next to him. Admittedly, her landing was more heavy footed due to the armour she’s wearing. Really, he preferred being out in the open air rather than the castle.

They walked quickly, snickering whenever they had to hide behind hedges or half-walls when part of the guard patrolling the castle walked past. Bumping his shoulder, Charlie looked over at him with a soft smile, “You doing alright?”

Scoffing, Dean speeds up slightly, aiming to get to the cliff-face before anyone can even realise they’ve slipped out. Charlie always calls it his brooding spot, he’s just of the opinion that it makes a good thinking spot.

It’s a headland, the hard-rock sticking out far further than any of the receded cliffs. It made an excellent vantage point to see the horizon, whenever merchant ships came into port he loved to stay out here and watch them sail in. Right now the view did little to soothe him yet the saltwater breeze did help the anger fizzing in his bones feel slightly more distant. It was like he wasn’t the one being subjected to an arranged marriage, rather it was more like it was one of his distant cousins - one of the Campbell’s, from the eastern side of the kingdom.

“It’s still not fair,” He said once he’d reached the furthest point of the headland, picking up stray stones and launching them into the horizon as far as he could manage. Charlie stayed back, not comfortable enough with the stability of the cliff to stand so close to the edge like he was.

“It isn’t” She agreed, bitterness sweeping into her tone faster than the stormfront on the horizon was sweeping in.“I couldn’t say it in the castle,” Charlie huffed aggressively, both of them very aware that most of the time ears were everywhere in there, “But it’s bullshit! They should have at least let you meet before agreeing to pair you up like your some prized horses!”

He shivered and grimaced at the imagery, he’d rather not think of the future queen as a breeding mare, thanks Charlie. “I mean,” he continued once Charlie said her piece, “It’s not like I’m on a time crunch to get married? The kingdom is fine my father is fine. We don’t need another royal couple anytime soon, I made it perfectly clear after you know who I wanted to wait.” That relationship going down had been one damned burn to overcome. His family had clearly decided it was time to put the still healing flesh back over the fire.

The storm was near fully upon them now, wind whipping rain into arrows to fall down onto them as precise attacks. Dean found himself squinting as he faced the storm front, inky black clouds blotting out the sky and casting a veil of darkness across the churning sea below. He understood now why Sailor’s claimed towering sea-serpents to be behind the rolling commotion of storms, especially at sea - the sea itself was white with froth thrown up by wicked waves thrashing into each other in a warped wrestling match. Whatever of the oceans true colour could be seen was dark, as if the lack of sunlight had leached all the good will out of the sea and now it was operating strictly on trying to bring the land into it, consuming and feasting on chunks of rock ripped loose from the cliff side by raiding winds and rains. He squinted, turning to face Charlie slightly whose pale face and red hair stood out like a beacon within the rapidly turned weather. Gale force winds made it hard to see nevermind stand strong. Rain had mixed the ground beneath him into viscous mud and he barely made the turn before his feet tried to slide out from underneath him. He laughed, exhilaration mixing with hysteria, some form of manic joy bubbling up inside of him from his place in the storm.

Even the serene bay of his childhood wasn’t free from the influence of the tempest, winds whipping sands into their own frontal assault. It was a stark difference from the golden haze of his memories where days were spent doing fake sword fights with his dad and taking Sammy to the tide pools that popped up. He doesn’t know when those summer days changed to sparring at Bobby’s estate day in day out whilst Sammy still got to run about the beach. All he knows now is he hasn’t been to that bay in a good two decades, all the expectations and strict schedules draining his time and want to just spend a day there. It's only now, staring down at the little beach as it gets flattened and reshaped by the storm that he realises that he misses it.

“Dean we should go back,” Charlie calls, her voice high pitched. He can see her slowly backing away from the cliff front and pouts slightly.

“C’mon Charles,” He yells back, spreading his arms and feeling the wind try to buffet them into submission. The sheets of rain pounding down have cemented his clothing to his skin and a cold chill is edging its way into his bones. It's therapeutic, he thinks as he continues his sentence, “It’s awesome out here, don't you want to enjoy it?”

“Maybe on more solid ground?” Charlie’s question is yelled in an inflection that screams she thinks he’s being stupid - a tone he’s extremely familiar with, “Let’s just go back to the gardens.”

“Fine,” He calls, imagining more than hearing Charlie’s sigh of relief but he turns for a moment to admire the ferocity of the storm. The horizon line was nothing but a murky, blackness with streaks of grey being the only implication of light existing outside. Lightning split the sky in deafening strikes and the waves soared up to connect with them.

Later in the storm index kept within the library of the kingdom this storm would be reclassified from a major tempest to one of the most powerful and brutal weather fronts ever unleashed onto the kingdom with it being the catalyst for record numbers of landslides and floods across the western coast. Dean, however, realised the violent extent of the storm when finally walking over to meet with Charlie. The headlands had stood for decades, it had been in its early infancy when Dean’s grandfather had ascended to the throne at twenty three. Over these decades it had been the victim to a number of storms, all throwing their all at every angle they could manage of the hard rock making up this segment of the coastline. It was on its last legs, the lifetime of abuse from the weather and waves finally making itself known. The headlands gave in under the brutal assault from the storm. Dean had the unfortunate luck of passing over the massive arch, carved into the rock from the aforementioned lifetime of consistent damage. The great rock arch caved in on itself with a grumble, debris falling loose in its own costume version of a downpour and Dean, woefully unprepared and slick with rain and mud, had nothing to cling to. He ran, slipping in the mud and scrambling to make it over to Charlie - Charlie who had frozen in feared awe of the act of nature in front of her, Charlie whose very survival instincts coded into her DNA were screaming at her to get away from the cliff, Charlie who still dived forward and tried to catch his hand as the collapse of the cliffside caught up to him.

She missed.

He didn’t miss a large crack in the cliff face he was plummeting down into, grabbing onto it and nearly wrenching his arm out of the socket as his momentum was cancelled and left him suspended for a second, the briefest of seconds just long enough to suspend his fall and for him to lock eyes with Charlie. The rock he was clinging to gave out and suddenly he was wrapped in the winter colds of the ocean. It swirled around him, pushing and shoving him in every direction but up and when he broke the surface it was only long enough to take a desperate gasp before a wave overcame him again. The cold sapped his strength and kicking his legs was seeming more and more like wasted effort as it was harder and harder to reach the surface with every passing minute. Breaking the surface one last time all he could do was splutter out salt water as Charlie yelled for him, barely audible over the rush of water and screams of wind above him. Yet another wave crashed into him, sending him under the water with such force that he was buffeted around and cracked his head against the very cliff he had just plummeted from. There was no slow bleed of awareness into blackness, all he felt was agonising pain for a brief moment and then nothing.

—

Fuck his head hurts, was the only thought ricochetting around his head when he awoke. Eyes desperately fighting against the monumental weight of his eyelids and completely unable to focus. The only thing he really could notice was the throbbing in his skull. It wasn’t some dulled by time headache but the feeling of a pickaxe drilling into his brain with all the finesse of a newborn with no fine motor skills.

Groaning, he pushed himself up on weak arms, they trembled under his weight scarcely able to support him as he lumbered into a sitting up position. His gaze was still unfocused, head lolling as the energy required to hold his head up was too sapped by simply sitting up. No details were making themselves clear, all he knew was he was somewhere dark and could hear water. What he was sat upon felt like it had the sturdiness of wood but blankets and other fabrics had been piled up to form a sort of nest making the idea of curling up into it seem more and more tempting by the minute.

Dean’s brain was going about as quick as a full wagon pushed up a hill by an old lady, that is to say it took him multiple minutes to realise he was cold. The sort of cold that cannot be banished just by sitting in front of a fire for five minutes - the sort of cold that etched its way into one's bones and took hours to thaw. It took almost double the amount of minutes to realise he was stripped bare, only his undergarments, that were soggy and sticking to his legs like how honey sticks to everything, left upon his body.

Before he could panic, hands gripped his shoulders, they were damp and cold as the dead but gentle in their movements as they guided him back into laying down. The hands even went as far as to wrap some of the covers on the nest around him and a gravelly, deep voice spoke. Dean was falling too fast into unconsciousness to make out the words, only able to hear that divinely deep cadence before he went under.

Chapter Text

Next time he woke up his vision was much clearer and whilst still as painful as being kicked in the head by a horse, his head was slightly more manageable - manageable enough that he could tentatively reach up and feel at his forehead. White hot liquid agony dripped from where he pressed his fingers to on his forehead but from that brief contact it was clear that one, his brain was still trying to leak out of where his head got bashed and two, somebody had done him the favour of wrapping his head. It was done with clear care, not overly tight yet enough that it didn’t have any give and was staying firmly placed where it needed to be.

Mercifully, he’s dressed again. His soft cotton shirt is halfway buttoned up and his trousers aren’t fully on how he’s comfortable wearing them but just having them on again is a blessing from the divine. He adjusts how he’s wearing them to be more comfortable and then prepares to take stock of his surroundings.

Now that his vision has focused enough to look around, Dean can appreciate the insanity of his own situation, because it looks as if he’s in a cave. An admittedly very large cave but a cave nonetheless, a yawning cavern with no clear exit nor place for natural light to seep in and a massive open span of water covering a lot of the floor space of the cave. From his perch, the land within the cave seems limited but a camp has been very clearly established. The turned over hull of a ship has been dragged onto the shoreline yet only the skeleton ribs of the boat remain. Within wooden walls have been constructed yet they do not fit to the arch of the ship’s build, instead on the side of the hull closest to dean, old mast fabric from multiple different ships given the pathwork look of it has been strung up and tied to ribs of the ship giving it the look of an ancient, strangely built tent. From what he can see of the inside of the hull, shelves are lined with different glass bottles, shells and random trinkets and what he thinks is leather is draped from rope strung from the front into the depths of the boat tent. Lanterns litter everybit of the surrounding area, from being strung from rope attached from the upturned hull to where Dean is sat to being nestled onto spare space of the shelves and desk. Even a long and clearly ancient piece of rope is strung out from the shipwreck to a far out rock emerging from the water in the cave, and this piece of rope too has lanterns hung upon it. The part of the aforementioned rope closest to the shoreline also has fabric thrown over it like a washing line.

Dean himself is on a wooden platform, one half is on the sandy shore and the larger half is erected over the water. A broken mast pole makes up a tent-like shape above him, rope tying the two halves of the post together, and other parts of the mast are also used as support beams to the structure. A large net like one used on fishing boats is strung across the mast post on the side above water, it is attached to the platform at the base and creates a curtain like effect. Shells and shards of sea-glass have been strung on old fishing wire to create charms tied to the net. He looks at the craftsmanship with an appraising eye, the charms reminiscent of those sold at little seaside towns as tokens of a trip well spent.

On the platform is the nest he has woken up in two times now. From his now much more focused vision he can see the nest is made up of pillows, blankets, thick duvets, more mast fabric scraps sewn together and the same fabric he assumed was leather. Touching what he is now calling faux leather, it is soft to the touch and feels slightly furred. The smallest of these faux leather blankets are white and the most fluffy. Overall, the nest feels decadently comfortable even in spite of Dean’s own standards. The question is what or who uses it.

Looking back over his surroundings, Dean freezes. A figure is in the water looking at him, he hadn’t even heard them breach the water and he’s halfway convinced he’s just hallucinating them. As they approach the hallucination theory wavers as despite knowing that nothing could look like that, they’re also far too realistic to be fake. He can hear the water they’re disturbing by moving closer, see how it laps at the shore and support beams for the platform. He even dips a foot into the water and yep, the water is in fact moving. That means the figure in front of him is real, painfully real and the way they're swimming doesn't seem natural.

Dark hair is stuck to their forehead from the water yet it does little to hide their inhuman eyes. Their sclera are a dark navy and their irises are the brightest watercolour blue he’s ever had the pleasure of seeing. Their ears are elongated and angled downwards with the skin looking discoloured, almost black. Discolouration follows the creature's cheekbones slightly before breaking into freckle-like splodges, said discolouring also traces down the creature's neck, shoulders and back in the same rounded triangular pattern. That is not the only discolouring present with their inner ear stained a pale white colour and around their eye in massive swathes of white like the killer whales he saw once on a visit to the north of his kingdom. Fishing wire dangles from a piercing in the creature's left ear, a fishing hook dangling from the wire - a fishing hook that seems to have been painstakingly cared for and preserved. Another accessory the creature wears is a shark's tooth dangling from a necklace made of rope. He’s probably going to die, if that thing fought a shark and won? He’s so irrevocably fucked.

They smile at him, revealing a row of sharp teeth and Dean is very much convinced whatever is approaching him is ready to make him their next meal. He swallows very obviously and it finishes approaching, basking in the shallows near the shoreline and wooden platform. A large, black tail emerges from the water for a brief second as it adjusts and settles below the water again. Oh by the divine, he’s dealing with a siren. Said siren smiles again, a close lipped smile this time, before it speaks, “You’re finally awake.”

It speaks in a familiar voice, that deep cadence plucking at the strings of Dean’s memory. This creature is the one that had him go back to sleep - this creature could have killed him at any time and yet he’s still alive in an otherwise abandoned cave with his head wrapped.

“Did you do this?” He asks, gesturing loosely towards the wrappings stopping his brain from taking its chance at freedom. It’s a strange thought, that something so inhumane would do something so kind.

It cocks its head to the side before nodding. It’s the earnestness in his expression that does him in.

He can feel his face scrunch up slightly, nose and eyes crinkling at the corners whilst he asks, “Who are you?” Suspicion acting as a secuity blanket and smothering any undercurrents in his tone.

It pauses, a light frown on its face. Chapped lips are parted in confusion slightly before, “I’m Castiel.” The way it pronounces its name, it's like it was trying to make it obvious and easy to follow along. Dean is amused in spite of himself, he didn’t think a monster from the deep would care so much about the pronunciation of its name.

“Alright, figures,” He grumbles, jumbling words about in his head through a concussed haze until they land in the correct way to guide him to the information he wants, “What are you?” It’s an intrinsic burning in his chest, that thirst for knowledge. He needs to know, it’s not just a want anymore. It was barely a want to begin with, a primal fear guiding him into seeking out as much information for surival purposes as possible.

Abruptly, the siren clams up. Eyes going from wide open in their earnestness - to the point where Dean would have called it naivety if he didn’t know better than to trust it - to shut down. He didn’t realise how open the creature in front of him had been until it was locked down tight, shoulders curled slightly. Yet it stays leaning towards him slightly, like a planet locked into orbit. Curiosity, it seems, is a vice shared between the two of them. Voice lowered somehow, rough at the edges and sounding closer to a whisper, like the crunch of footsteps on gravel it says, “I’m a mer.”

Dean reels back, staring at the sir- mer in front of him, “Mer what? Mermaid, merman?”

Castiel stares back at him blankly like the terms themselves have no meaning, its brow furrows. He might as well have just spat gibberish based on how it seemed to be calculating his words. One thing Dean knows is when someone, or in this case, something thinks he’s said something stupid. That reaction, whilst still there, isn’t to the extent he’s used to seeing, instead the mer seems to be internally debating if it recognises what he said. Looking back up at him, its head twists to the side slightly, “No,” a heavy pause, “Just a Mer.”

He hisses out a strangled, “No..” in response, clutching at ways to phrase the question yet not finding one good solution, “as in, like, what’s in your pants?” Dean grimaces before he’s even finished the question, scratching and plucking at the wooden boards beneath his hands. Pretending as if he hadn’t just asked a ridiculous question to a creature out of every sailors worst nightmare. Honestly, if he got eaten for asking that he'd understand.

Castiel squints at him, before looking down at its waist and back up again, still squinting with its mouth pulled into a bewildered, slight sneer, “I don’t have any pants on.”

“Nevermind,” He splutters, face heating and waving a hand dismissively as he does so. Explaining gender to the mer in front of him seems to be a losing battle and he was taught you pick those carefully. The concept of male and female to an entity that seems to care for neither is not the hill to die on. Given Dean has picked a mountain range worth of hills to die on in his nearly twenty six years of life, finally not choosing one seems like a cause worthy of a celebration, Bobby would shed tears of joy if he could see him now. Ignoring the sudden melancholic pang in his chest, Dean moved onto his next question, “Why? Why pull me out of the water?”

It seemed like the mer hadn’t expected that question, spine straightening as it gave an answer, “Because you needed help?” There was an edge of incredulity to those words, as if it needed no other reason than that.

He scoffed, an ugly, bitter noise,“Yeah right.” Rolling his eyes, he leant forwards, facing Castiel head on, “So I’m just supposed to believe some mer saved my life for what? Out of the goodness of its own heart?”

Castiel subverted his expectations yet again, instead of flinching away at the razor’s edge of his words, it straightened up and set its shoulders with the sort of resigned determination he’s seen in the mirror one too many times, “Why is this so hard for you to believe?”

Because I’m smarter than that, he thinks. It’ll take a lot more than just some announcement of good intent to make him believe. He isn’t stupid and is very aware that between the two of them the concussed human is about as free of a meal as one can get. He refuses to speak that train of thought aloud, going with his next most prevalent reasoning.

“Because good things don’t happen for free,” He spits, frustration chewing up his words and spitting them out in a verbal landslide where greater thought to what was being said. It is simply part of the litany of bitter afterthoughts running down in their own approximation of a waterfall, “Not in my experience. Not to me.”

“Good things do happen,” Castiel insists, face reaching back into the grounds of naivety that Dean is struggling to believe is as false as originally assumed. Poor bastard hasn’t realised the only reward for optimism is a sinking pool of dread in your gut. Scoffing again, Dean turns his back to the mer and a moment later he hears a sigh and a rush of water.

He’s alone again.

Chapter Text

The next time he sees the mer it’s when it breaches the surface, two silver scaled fish dangling from a dark clawed hand. He can’t tell if they’re dark from blood or natural discolouration like the pattern crawling its way down the Mer’s ribs. Blinking back grogginess he squints at the mer as it approaches, nervous to see if their earlier disagreement ,so to say, would be brought up again. His concussion had drawn him into sleep once the quiet of the water had slipped into ringing in his ears so yet again he has no clue how long he’s drifted for.He can’t see what's in the other hand as it paddles over but it looks as if it’s a bottle of some kind.

Reaching the platform the Mer smiles, wiping back the black hair cemented to its forehead by the salt water with the back of its hand - its hand that held the bottle. A completely intact bottle with a cork and deep coloured liquid still inside. Huh, he glances appraisingly at the mer as it pulls itself out of the water, managing not to lose its grip on the treasures in its clutches, guess the dude is a scavenger. Now that the rest of its body is out of the water, he can see gills running up Castiel’s ribs and the scales are the same colour as its skin discolouration and his earlier comparison to the killer whales of the north proves accurate - the patterning and build of its fins is near identical if his memory of the whales is accurate. Handmade belts and bags hang off its hips, old bottles tied on loops and a sheath rests heavy against its left hip. The sheath isn’t empty but Dean knows better than to reach out and try to wrestle the blade off the mer. He’d rather not antagonise something that could break his neck as easily as it did to the limp fish in its grip, especially after their argument earlier.

He looks up, catching the mers eye as he does so and reels backwards at almost breakneck speeds when he realises how close they’re sat. All the mer would have had to do is slouch and they would have been curled in towards each other, like wilted plants relying on one another to stay in a vaguely upright position.

Castiel hums, before shaking the fish in his direction, “I caught some food.”

“Right. Thanks,” He says deadpan and staring into the cold dead eyes of the fish. They really do look gormless in death, he almost misses how the mer puffs up in pride at his words. Its tail curls up slightly and its mouth twists upwards at the corner simply radiating how pleased it is. A realisation hits and he blurts out the question mere seconds afterwards, “How you gonna cook ‘em?”

Castiel pauses, seemingly wracking its memory to figure out what he means by that. Dean tries to help out by saying, “You know,” and making fire noises and gestures, “So it’s good to eat?”

The mer seems fascinated, leaning over into Dean’s space to the point where he can feel the saltwater chill emanating from the body next to him, “Humans cannot eat food fresh?”

Pushing Castiel back slightly, Dean elaborates, “Just cause it’s cooked doesn’t mean it aint fresh anymore. Technically we can eat some meats raw but only after they’re cured or dried.” Castiel nods eagerly at the new information and Dean is reluctantly endeared. A soft twang of amusement strumming in the gap of his chest in-between his lungs.

He watches as Cas holds us the fish, squinting at them before looking at Dean, “I only used to dry these for longer storage.”

Dean blinks, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth far too easily, “We do that too, it’s called jerky.”

Cas mouths ‘jerky’ to themself before nodding with such solemn seriousness that Dean has to muffle a laugh into his elbow. Afterwards, Cas lays the fish next to him and asks, “What do you need to,” it hesitates on the next word, “cook, the fish.”

“Just need a fire,” Dean shrugs, “So dry wood and a non-flammable spot I guess?”

The mer nods, taking his words in with an unusual amount of earnestness. It leans back before saying, “I can get firewood for you.” Dean wants to ask how, looking at the rough cave landscape and wondering if Castiel really thinks dragging themselves across the ground is a better solution than just giving Dean directions.

When he looks back there's a perfectly human man looking back at him. Yes, it’s still clearly Castiel with eternally scruffy black hair and violently vivid blue eyes just the long ears, markings and, its fish tail and fins were missing. Well, Cas’ markings weren’t fully gone - just diluted, where the black part of the markings had originally sat on his cheek bones the skin was now slightly darker and the inverse was true with where the white markings had been sat. Frankly, it was only when Cas was squinting at him in confusion with its head cocked to the side did Dean realise he’d been staring at the other’s face too long.

Floundering, he began looking everywhere but Castiel’s face, becoming rather uncomfortably aware that the mer’s magical transformation did, in fact, not magically give him clothes. He tried not to look, really he did. Cas is definitely a guy.

He scrambled upwards, intent on following Cas rather than dealing with that thought spiral. Would it be considered rude to ask them to put on clothes? Does Cas even have clothes? I hope he does, Dean thinks as he stares at the curve of the mer’s shoulders. Maybe he has too much of an internal debate going on as he traces the Mer’s markings downwards slightly before snapping his eyes to the back of Cas’ head.

“Hey Cas,” He starts, the mer turning to look at him in confusion, “Do you have any clothes? Sorry it’s a human thing.” A little sheepish grin made its way onto his face, Cas just giving a half shrug.

“I can wear some,” Castiel suddenly gave a little smile, “It’s fascinating how you humans make these things, I’ve tried remaking some garments but it’s never turned out well.” Dean’s grin took on a genuine edge at Cas’ pout, the mers frustration at his inability to sow clothing fueling the facial expression.

Afterwards whilst Dean was cooking his own fish, sucking on his thumb after burning it slightly, Cas reappeared next to him. He’d pulled on a shirt and pants, both aged at the edges and completely oversized, the belt they wear when a mer being the only thing helping the garments to fit properly.

“Where’d you get them from?” He asked, curiosity bubbling up violently. Since he’d first seen the cavern he’d been intrigued, scared for his life yes but intrigued too. Staying on the wooden platform had limited his ability to investigate, admittedly so had his head injury.

Castiel suddenly grinned, his teeth in the human form being completely blunt. It’s surprising that Dean found himself missing the sharper points of Cas' smile already. He’d rarely seen it but still found the absence strange. Probably some left over fascination from the fairy tales he’d grown up on in between history and strategy lessons. Gesturing widely, the mer launched into an explanation, “I’ve been scavenging shipwrecks for fabric and I only recently found a recent enough wreck that these are still whole. I did have to patch them up slightly however, see?” As his sentence finished up Cas leant forward pulling a part of the shirt into Dean’s view. Mismatched fabric sewn together greeted his view. The stitches were quite neat, a bit of wear and tear around them indicating the multiple attempts at getting them done to that quality.

“Impressive,” He comments, watching as the mers face lights up in joy at the compliment. It’s not like a massive grin overtook its face like an ice sheet cracking violently but the jovial energy swimming around them is easy to read, at least in Dean’s opinion. He’s still intrinsically aware that Cas isn’t human but it’s one of those facts that hums around in the background of his head. He’s the older brother, water is wet and Cas is a mer. That doesn’t mean it's something he actively remembers either, not when Cas is sitting next to him looking completely human - human and staring at the cooking fire as if it’s something completely new and fascinating but human nonetheless. Dean is abruptly reminded of the whole mer thing when said mer takes a bite out of his own fish, completely raw with no hesitation or fear of illness.

It makes sense that Cas can eat fish raw, how else is he going to eat fish if he didn’t know what cooking was? Pretending he wasn’t as blindsided as he was, Dean just checks his own fish is safe to eat.

They eat together in silence until Cas slips back into the water, leaving his clothing neatly folded on the edge of the wooden platform.

—

One morning, he wakes up to someone prodding at his head. Grumbling, he sat up, squinting at the figure messing with him. Cas’ features fade in slowly, the mer looking thoroughly unapologetic at his rude awakening. A book is held on the mer’s lap, clearly hand made with the papers yellowed at the edges and the leather cover softened at the edges and discoloured with age. He glares at it, willing it to give up its secrets despite the angle he’s at not really being conductive to reading calligraphy, especially with bleary eyes.

“Dean,” Cas says, catching his attention with their morning rough voice, “It’s just medicine recipes, I saved it from being burnt a few years ago.” A tinge of pride made its way into Cas’ voice as he spoke. Dean follows Cas’ gesture to the side, noticing a bowl filled with what looks to be green mush giving off a vaguely herb and mint scent.

“Don’t tell me that-”

“Is what I have been using on your head wound?” Cas finishes the sentence, looking at him with an unamused brow raise, “It has been working remarkably well, there might only be slight scarring once it is finished healing.” Given Dean has no memory of hitting his head against the rock, only being submerged for that final time he assumes that speaks towards the severity of the head wound. Slight scarring is impressive at any rate, he still has a large and twisted scar running up his shin from a horse ride gone wrong.

“Now,” Cas says, grabbing Dean by the chin with a bruising grip and yanking his face into a better position, “Sit still whilst I reapply the salve.” The head wrappings fall down into his view suddenly once Cas is done fiddling with them, they’re a surprisingly bright white with obvious blood stains where they’d been sat against the wound and carrying that metallic stench of blood yet with an undercurrent of a soapy, lavender like scent. Cas frowns at the blood on the bandages, putting them to the side and pulling out fresh ones from one of the satchels attached to his belt. They’re clean but kept loose in the bag indicating that they’d been hand cleaned for reuse rather than being brought in fresh. Given he’s in a cave, Dean figures he can’t exactly be picky about the quality of fabric stopping his brain from leaking.

He hisses when the first touch of the salve is applied, the sting reminiscent of the antibacterial medicines back at the palace. Blue eyes narrow in a warning look, glaring daggers with the warning of ‘stop moving or else the head wound will be the least of your worries’ etched into the blades. Dean thinks he should be given more credit for his ability to stay still in this situation, restraining flinch and noises like that of a wounded animal everytime more of the medicine is applied to his forehead. Before the bandages are reapplied, the smell causes his nose to scrunch, its a strong and abrasive smell - heavily medical and herby with an undernote of cleaning supply he can now recognise due to the balm being applied so close to his nose. It’s a mercy when the bandages are reapplied, the lavender smell neutralising the more violent aspects of the medicinal stench.

He watches absentmindedly as Cas puts the remaining salve into an old glass jar and tightens the lid with the utmost care before retreating into the upturned hull to store it away.

Suddenly, the mer darts back out and dives into the water after stripping down with an unusual amount of urgency. Maybe it’s a mer thing, can’t spend too much time out of the water and Cas had just forgotten what time it was. Really he was just musing aimlessly and ignoring the steady hum of the headache behind his eyes. The salve was doing him the service of lessening the pain thrumming in his head, really it was a miracle from the divine that it was working so well.

Cas reamerged just as quickly as he had dived down, tugging himself up onto the wooden platform. The way Cas moved reminded Dean of a seal, pulling forward with his forearms and his massive tail dragging behind. Grinning, the mer held up a cork sealed bottle. It looked to be the same one he’d shown off after catching the fish.

“I remembered I forgot to give you some things the other day,” Cas explained, looking sheepish as he put the bottle next to Dean. Four other bottles quickly joined the first one, these all smaller, missing lids and empty. He blinks, trying not to look too confused and ending up accidentally insulting Cas but he really doesn’t know what he’d do with empty glass bottles. He is curious about the liquid in the sealed bottle - it looks like wine and the divine knows he needs a drink after all this. “They’re so you can get water whenever you want some,” Castiel continues, pausing for a moment before talking onwards - it’s almost as if they’re thinking out loud rather than actively communicating with Dean, “I suppose I need to show you where the spring is.” The mer breaks off into murmurs and clicks.

Intent on waiting out Cas’ debate with themself, Dean grabs the sealed bottle. Holding it up to the golden yellow lantern light, he squints at the colour of the liquid and attempts to figure out what the liquid is inside. It’s a deep and dark colour, he can’t accurately judge what the shade is exactly but his guess of it being wine is feeling closer to accurate than not. Cutting off the still ongoing ramblings of the mer, he asks, “Do you have a knife?”

Cas freezes, looking over at him in a way that seems almost nervous leaning into fear territory. Dean would like to pretend he doesn’t know why that question spawned that response from the mer in front of him. That’d be deliberately obtuse - he can see the scarring stretching across parts of Cas skin and scales. He shakes the bottle in the air and taps on the cork twice to indicate why he’d asked, watching with too much satisfaction as the tension in Cas’ spine snaps like a severed rope as the mer sags slightly. It fiddles with the hilt on its hip, offering him the knife gingerly.

Dean takes it, giving Cas a tiny little smile. He doesn’t want to break the tentative outreaching of trust provided to him. Yes, the mer had let Dean in on frankly quite a lot of their way of life, but Dean was always a non-threat, but now he’s got a weapon? The battlefield is as close to even as it could be. The smile he gets back is creased at the edges, a shaky thing that is about as put on as a circus performance.

He pops the cork out quickly, offering the knife back just as fast. Dean can see the moment curiosity wins out against Cas’ residual fear, there’s that moment where his face relaxes by a smidgen and they’re both just looking at each other. He doesn’t know how long he stares at the mer, Cas’ face falling into a deeper squint being what snaps him out of his revere. It’s not his fault the mer’s eyes are enchanting. That’s probably a mer ability, siren’s are supposed to be able to enchant people so his reasoning here is perfectly solid.

Taking a large gulp from the bottle in the form of a distraction, he keeps his eye on the green glass of the bottle. Its taste has preserved well despite the unclear timeline for how long it’d spent on the seabed. Reminiscent of a crisp Pink Lady or Granny Smith apple Dean savoured the drink he had taken. It sure as hell tasted better than the expensive ‘sparkling’ wine that was always in stock at the castle under his mother’s insistence. That stuff hit the victim in the face with enough sour and fizz to crumple their face inwards - Dean’s well aware of that expression he’s snuck enough to Sam under the pretence of it being something else.

He offers the bottle by the neck to Cas, the mer tentatively grasping it and taking a small sip. The visible way the mer perks up was remarkably funny, ears and fins standing more to attention than he’d ever seen before.

“You like it?” He could already tell Cas enjoyed it, the rhetorical question flooded with amusement. Dean could feel his face crinkling at the edges when the mer nodded at him, face blank but eyes glinting.

“I’ll try to look for more,” hesitating on the next word, Cas just pointed to the cork, “of those bottles.”

“Sealed?” Dean offers, the mer nodding before it placed the bottle next to the other empty ones.

Cas trilled slightly, before looking to Dean, “I forgot I was meant to take you to the freshwater source.” The mer had taken to bringing him random bottles of water, it was well appreciated but admittedly, Cas had no clue how much water a human needed so Dean had taken to rationing it out throughout the day.

He looked away when Cas pulled himself out of the water to slip into a different form. Dean didn’t need to check the water to know his reflection was sporting a violent flush - the heat in his face was enough to tell.

Clearly unbothered with fully getting changed, Cas walked past in only the patchwork trousers he’d shown off so proudly a few days ago. Dean scrambled to get up and follow him, falling into step and clutching a few bottles in the gaps of his fingers.

He was led to a part of the cave that was more heavily vegetated, moss softening the route with dents matching footprints clearly pressed into the grooves of the rock below from years of walking upon it. A curtain of lichen draped across an opening within the cave, Cas pulling it aside. Behind it the air tasted cleaner, finally free from the everpresent salty tang and instead fresh and clear. It was damper too, water vapour invading this part of the cavern with ubiquitous wetness. The reason for this highly saturated air was soon revealed as they walked into the room, a waterfall fell from the cavern’s ceiling downwards into a deep crystalline pool. He couldn’t stop the awed exclamation of seeing the pounding rush of water. Around it the cave changed elevation multiple times, handmade ladders bridging the gaps and allowing access to a higher pathway that seemed to be flooded with greenery and light.

On the edge and inside the pond Dean was surprised to see a massive amount of mud, thick and slippery grass and other plants had forced their way up despite the inconsistent light filtering in from the higher cavern. Stubborn shoots of green with dots of white flowers stood out of the mud, angling themselves to catch the dying sunbeams and light from the lanterns swinging from the ropes suspended across the cavern. He remembered Ellen forcing him and Charlie to go collect plants that he’s pretty sure looked near identical to the shoots standing out of the water. What was their name again? Katniss something? All he knows is the roots when cooked taste pretty close to the copper-skinned sweet potatoes they import occasionally. On the walls fan-shaped cap mushrooms grew in shelf-like stacks with a greyish tan making itself known in the cap’s colour.

He nudged Cas with an elbow and pointed to the mushrooms, “Kinda look like oysters, don't they?”

The mer squinted, frowning slightly before giving a hesitant nod, “I haven’t visited my usual bay in a few moons so I cannot confirm unfortunately.”

Huh. Of course Cas would eat oysters, mers have probably been eating them for longer than humans have.

It was then he tuned into Cas mutterings, they were halfway in between chirps and actual words but he picked up on enough about teeth and strengthening minerals. He’s not touching that with a ten foot pole and would appreciate it if Cas kept their teeth away from him thank you very much.

Chapter Text

On a random day, Dean finds himself sitting at the edge of the seawater with a massive crick in his neck. His concussion symptoms are still on their way out, he barely even gets nauseous after standing too quickly. Divine only knows how annoying dealing with them at their worst had been. Cas hadn’t been talking to him, too preoccupied bringing up salvaged materials from a recent shipwreck. Based on the rich reds and yellows on the shields and masts Cas had dragged up, it's not one from his kingdom. He’d questioned the shields originally but Cas had started chittering about deconstructing them for supplies and he figured that’s just what the rest of the supplies are for. His conclusion had been supported by the masts, nets and barrels pulled up from the depths too.

Other things pulled from the water included two extra sealed wine bottles, bonus, alongside shattered glass, shells and a surprisingly only semi-cracked mirror.

Yawning loudly as Cas rolled a second barrel out of the water, he stretched craning his neck to one side and relishing in the almost violent crack and the release of tension.

He hadn’t noticed Cas’ near violent full body turn at the noise before suddenly a very confused and startled mer was essentially on top of him. Hands were gripping at his face and patting at his neck. Realising his confusion the mer near hissed at him, “Did you break your neck? Humans are strong but they’re incapable of surviving that,” a long pause followed with Cas now squinting at him suspiciously, “aren’t they?”

Muffling his laugh under the pretence of a cough, Dean says, “yeah, that’s a guaranteed kill.” He shrugs slightly, making no move to dislodge Cas from his practical perch on him, “I was just cracking it.”

“Wouldn’t that damage the integrity of your bones?” Cas tilts his head with that ever present squint as if that would cause Dean to reveal why he’d do such a thing. It probably could given that the mer never asks questions that he’d want to avoid.

Warmth beating in his chest, Dean shakes his head, “No it’s more like- uh, just give me your hand?” He smiles as he asks, trying to imbue it with as much earnestness as he can muster.

With a distrustful look Cas does as he asks, Dean just holding it for a moment before cracking the mers knuckles with little mercy. Cas jolts back quickly, floundering in the water and splashing fiercely whilst shaking and patting his hand. Cradling it, Cas turns towards Dean looking scandalised and betrayed. It’s that expression that breaks his resolve and he devolves into manic laughter, heaving under the force of it to the point where he nearly cracks his head against the rock he’s sat on. His laughter lasts until a sudden wave of ice cold water drenches him and he shrieks - a loud and shrill sound that covers some of Cas’ huffing laughs. He’s firmly convinced the mer using their tail to launch a tidal wave at him is cheating.

—

Later in the same day, Cas pops back up dragging yet another barrel. It’s almost impressive the sheer amount the mer has been able to squirrel away in one day but this barrel seems to be fighting back. Hopping up to help Dean becomes very aware of two things very quickly. One, this barrel is definitely full of something, two, it’s heavy as shit. His respect for the sailors who hoist them around for their job is multiplying by every second it takes for him to haul it up off the shore whilst Cas shifts.

“Do you know what's in this?” He asks and Cas cocks his head to one side, “I’m just saying there’s no reason for it to be this heavy unless there’s something in it.” The knife he’d used to open the bottle is passed over without much hesitation this time. He takes a moment to actually admire the craftsmanship of it, carved from bone and deceptively sharp with soft leather straps woven around the hilt. He’d have to ask Cas how they made it later.

Wedging the knife into the barrel and cranking the lid off takes a lot more effort than he was expecting and Dean is very thankful that the knife didn’t snap under the abuse. Finishing pulling the lid to one side reveals a whole lot of grain. No wonder it was so heavy to lug about, the stuff was completely packed in.

“It’s rice,” He explained to Cas, seeing the mer assessing the grain, “Cook it in fresh water. It's good for bulking out meals and adding to stuff like soups or stews.” Once again the mer is listening to his words with some form of reverence, clearly fascinated and wanting him to tell it more, “I’ll have to try to make you something with it one day.” One day at a much later date since he isn’t sure his limited experience cooking at the Roadhouse will give him much room to improvise and still come out the otherside with something edible. His own negative attitude is juxtaposed by the mers' almost eager nod before it fixes the lid back in place and moves it to be with the rest of the barrels, inside the upturned hull on the shore.

He’s surprised to find Castiel leaves him with the knife until next time they need it.

—

He has no clue how much time he’s spent in the cave with Cas, long enough that his concussion had been gone long enough to be considered a thing of the not so distant past and the bandages had been removed too. A neat scar, still in the tender infancy stages, is all that remains and it stretches from his left temple up and along his brow to the part of his hairline near to the centre. It's long enough that he can’t help but miss Sam and Charlie. Not having to care about being crown prince was nice though. It was a weird thing to think about but for once he’s the one who's unsure how to act around someone not the other way around. Normally most people he deals with act as if one wrong move will get them beheaded, benefits of his name coming from a line of mad Queens. Blessedly the Deanna he was named after was one of the few to not be insane but the stigma hangs around a little too much. Charlie’s great but she’s still unfortunately aware he’s her superior no matter how many stupid ideas they get up to together. Nowadays, Dean’s the one that gets tongue tied whenever the mer needs some of his idioms or turns of phrase explaining. He’s not going to admit how strangely refreshing it is.

The massive side glance Cas had given him when he’d declared, “Man, I’d kill for some pie right now,” was enough to dislodge the craving through sheer laughter. He’d gotten flicked with water after he’d added, “I hear fish pie’s all the rage right now,” whilst clearly looking at Cas’ tail. The mer had sighed out a laugh, rolling his eyes as he did so. Dean will take full blame for introducing that habit to the mer. That and the air quotes gesture, in his defence Charlie did it a lot and it’d rubbed off on him.

Still laughing at the memory, he rolls over to lay on his other side and pauses, then finds himself glaring up at the mast, wishing he’d not been so distracted by his fascination with seeing a real breathing mer so as to not scratch a tally of the days into it.

Sitting up he sighs, sleep isn’t gonna catch up with him anytime soon. It clings to his shoulders and eyes but his mind is too active to shut up enough for him to slip into blissful quiet. A small, muffled half snore half purr like noise grabs his attention and he gnaws on his lip to stop a massive smile from breaking out. Cas is curled up on the nest too, near where Dean’s feet were just a minute ago. The mer is folded up on himself like a settled cat yet the end of his tail is still draped into the water.

The strangest part of the snoring is the fact that Cas is sleeping closed-mouthed and showing no indication of making any noise yet is still emitting that distinct noise. Squinting over in the dark is when he notices Cas’ gills moving slightly. The snort ripped out of him is thoroughly undignified and firmly muffled when Cas showed signs of stirring.

Of course he’d meet a mer strange enough to snore through their gills.

—

Another few days go by and his reflection is starting to look noticeably scruffier, the cracked mirror doing nothing to hide the way his hair is beginning to curl downwards towards his ears and stubble reaching the point of being more closely classified as an early stage beard than just plain stubble. His face itches. It’s an uncomfortable sensation made worse by the constant salt water in the air drying him out like a fish on a hook.

Even Cas is starting to notice how obsessively he’s scrubbing at his face and staring into the mirror with more than just a slight glare.

“Dean are you alright?” the mer asks when he pops up for the morning, blood on their teeth and a few fish tossed up onto the wooden platform soon after their sudden appearance. Cas waits for a moment for Dean to budge the fish to the side so he can pull himself up and fill their spot. It really is a bad habit of Cas’ to hop into recently vacated spots, Dean once got up from around the fire to grab some water and came back to the mer cozied up right where he’d been before. Needless to say his remark of ‘by the light, are you gonna jump in my grave that fast?’ wasn’t so well received.

Breaking out of his moment of reminiscing, Dean grumbles back, “Yeah I just really need to shave.” He sneers at himself in the mirror, pushing his lower jaw around to see the growing out peach fuzz at different angles. At this point he could use his face as a damn calendar given he’d only seen this sort of growth on his face after getting past the half-way point of a two month long campaign. It was back when he’d still actively wanted a beard, he’d grown sick of it by the end of the campaign and every trace of it had been firmly eradicated by the time he got back to the castle. He sighs, glancing over to Cas and complaining, “I swear I’m gonna end up skinning myself with a rock to get this off my face.”

One thing he needs to be constantly reminded of is the fact that Cas is consistent in missing some of his more dramatic exaggerations. His daily reminder comes at Cas’ quite alarmed face and rigid posture. It takes a minute before the mer blinks and, stone faced, says “That was one of your jokes, wasn’t it?”

The sheer disdain dripping from the word ‘joke’ was enough to break Dean’s composure slightly. Little chuckles permeated the air and through them he said, “What, you don’t think it was funny?” The mer simply raised an eyebrow at him, its posture more relaxed with a slight slouch taking over his frame and arms crossed. Ignoring Cas' reaction, he turned back to the mirror, “I think I’m hilarious.”

“You would,” came an ever so tired reply.

“Oh ha ha,” Dean grumbled, staring at Cas’ reflection through the mirror, “Decided to grow a sense of humour now?”

He sees the mer smile, a coy and smug little grin, “Well one of us has to be funny.” Completely unashamed, Dean gapes. Going so far as to turn around as he makes a shocked exclamation, just a pure noise of complete and utter betrayal.

Cas shrugs and hums a soft note before passing over the bone knife and perching at the edge of the platform, “You can use it to prepare your food after ‘shaving’.” The mer then disappears under the water in a neat dive, the tiniest waves and slightest seafoam being the only indication he’d ever entered it at all. Dean’s convinced the only reason why Cas hadn’t done the little air quotes around ‘shaving’ is because the mer was already moving into the water as his sentence was coming to a close.

Next time Cas emerges he finds Dean patting at his now beard free face happily, no longer wishing to go riving at his own skin to be rid of the sensation of it. The mer’s look of resignation was almost as beautiful as Dean’s freshly shaven face.

Chapter Text

“Cas?” He calls one day, boredom hitting him far too hard. He doesn’t want to go rooting through the mer’s stuff just yet. It seems a bit too impolite, a violation of the roommate code. He’d be more aware of what said code was if he’d ever actually shared more than a wing of a palace.

The mer popped up out of the water, a bag slung over his shoulder and a curious glance directed towards Dean.

“How long have I been here?” He’s hoping for something exact but divine only knows how great of a miracle that would be. Cas lives in a cave and Dean doubts the passage of days means much to the mer. A general estimate would be welcomed too, it’ll give him an inclination on whether or not he’ll be considered dead by the kingdom by now.

“Just over two moons.” The response came surprisingly quick, maybe the mer had been tracking the days he’d been here by itself. Dean has a moment of quiet amusement to himself at the mental image of Cas having a secret diary or journal.

“Moons?” He asks, having just realised the term Cas used - he’d never heard that being used as a measurement for time before. He’d never even heard it used as a calendrical term by some of the university folk which is definitely an accomplishment given those people are always using their wider than average vocabularies to subtly brag about their education.

“How long it takes for the moon to complete a full cycle, full moon to full moon.” Cas explains, appearing to be vaguely pleased, maybe at the fact he gets to be the one to explain this time rather than it being the opposite way round.

“I’ve been here two months?” Dean near yells, shock increasing his volume massively to the point where Cas’ ears twitch back against his head, quite possibly to muffle the screeches coming from Dean. “By the light,” He hisses to himself, suddenly much quieter and more sullen. Everyone at the castle definitely thinks he’s dead by now, even if his body hadn’t washed up after the storm. It’d be nice to entertain the idea that they're still holding out hope for his miraculous return but Sam is almost definitely wearing that damned golden circlet that gave him so many migraines by now. Oh divine’s light they might have blamed Charlie, he hopes his idiocy didn’t get her fired. She’s a good knight, certainly undeserving of having her title ripped from her because he wanted to yell about his woes on a cliffside.

“Months..?” Cas’ confused mutter to themself breaks him out of a sudden downward spiral. Banishing all thoughts of Charlie, especially those of the ‘Oh by the divine what if they think she killed me’ sort, he looks back over to Cas and smiles.

“It’s how us humans categorise the passage of time,”He shrugs to one side as he explains, the mer nodding as he talks, “hours, days, weeks, months that sort of thing.” “I can teach you one day?” That offer is always a fun one to make, whenever he does get round to finally telling Cas about things he’d mentioned off handedly the mer always listens with rapt attention. It’s unquestionably nice, to be listened to like no other words or things matter.

“That would be nice.” Cas agrees, a small smile on his face. Then he dives down and Dean is all too promptly reminded of why he started that conversation to begin with - sheer, unrelenting boredom.

He groans, a loud violent thing ripping its way up out of his chest. He misses his horse and the sun.

—

It’s a day where his boredom is at its worst when he decides it's time to start investigating. Hoisting himself up, Dean looks around. Cursory glances that avoid the main object he wants to investigate most. The veritable dragon’s hoard of boredom alleviating treasure - the upturned hull. He wants to ask Cas about it all the time, how did it get up here? Did you move it? Was it here when you first found the cave?

Given the mer hasn't reappeared for a few of what can be loosely considered days, outside of dropping off a week’s worth of fish, he can’t really get his curiosity sated at the moment.

Shaking his head to clear his head, Dean loops around the wooden behemoth, trying to see if he missed anything in his wanderings towards the part of the cage bursting with blooming vegetation. Unfortunately, just like every time he meandered by the smooth rock of the cave is just as barren as it always is. Maybe one of the stalagmites had grown by a centre-metre or so. The only thing he can say with confidence that are different is the grooves he steps into. They’re worn down but that is merely just from how often he paces, echoing the same steps at a frequency that could be considered uncanny.

He loops back round to the front of the skeleton of the ship. Nearly tripping over some of the rope used to keep it standing as he does so - this side of the vessel clearly hadn’t been lit up as well as the otherside. In front of the ship, connected to the bow, is a large line of rope. It’s pulled to tautness with a secondary line underneath having far more slack. From his vantage point, Dean can see that the rope is tied to a small sea stack - a small yet extremely jagged sea stack that was probably made of stalagmites the closer he looked at the conical spikes reaching towards the ceiling of the cave.

He tries to remember what Cas could use the rope for outside of hanging lanterns but the answer eludes his grasp, stubbornly avoiding his attempts to figure out the question until a basket catches his eye.

Well, not quite. He’d been wandering around the rope and squinting until he’d stubbed his toe into the basket and fallen over it in a dramatic pile of floundering limbs and cut off curses. He’s the picture of elegance.

In the basket is fabric. Some is clothing, and some are large sheets of what he assumes is collected from masts and some are large swathes of the soft furred leather. To put it bluntly, it’s a laundry basket. He looks down at his own clothing, trying and failing to suppress a nose scrunch at the smell. He’d done his best with swashing the garments around the clear water pool over in the other room of the cave and even rinsed himself off in the rushing waterfall but without soap there’s little he can do to discourage the smell - especially when according to Cas’ calculations and his own loose mental calender he’s about half a month off his third month and all he’s had to wear is the same shirt and pants.

Surprisingly, the basket has a fragrant smell. It smells like lavender and soap like the bandages he’d had wrapped around his head. Frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised if he went rooting through the basket and came out with those scraps that had stopped his brain from leaking out.

Maybe Cas wouldn’t mind him stealing a change of clothes, and soap. All of the soap. He needs at least fifty gallons of soap and hot water before he’ll feel fully refreshed and clean again. He also needs a sheet of something tough with a flat edge to scrape off all the dirt on him - it really isn't a pleasant second skin to live in.

Once again shaking his head to clear any lingering thoughts, Dean turns his attention to the hull of the ship. He needs to stop acting like it's as easy to clear his head as it is to swipe a foot through an illustration made in sand. Just because he needs to doesn’t mean he will, Dean thinks as he shakes his head again and strides into the wooden echo of a cave.

The smell of pine wood is heavy inside the ship hull, it permeates every smell inside alongside the consistent smell of dust. It takes deliberate effort for Dean to not immediately start sneezing, summer allergies he'd thought to be renderred null until a cat came along rekindling their efforts with spiteful glee.

He gives himself a moment to adjust to all the kicked up particles and then starts patting around until he finds and turns on an oil lamp. The light helps him notice a few things immediately. One is that this is a place of storage yet also lots more than just storage. There's different tools hung up on shelves of one of the walls - a spear carved from bone and stone with shells decorating the rope holding it together grabbing his attention first, the regality of the spear could convince Dean that Cas isn’t some regular mermaid quite easily but thats on the assumption that mer’s aren’t solitary creatures. Other tools are more obviously scavenged from an old gun, the metal rusted with age and no proper tools to care for it, to a fishing rod with all its wire stolen. Speaking of wire, an entire shelf is dedicated to different spools and at a first count there's nearly thirty spools with most being a different colour from the last. He isn’t as surprised at the collection as he ought to be, there's only so many crafts made with fishing wire he can see before he realises Cas must have a massive stash stored away somewhere.

On the wall over a rickety old work table is a map that's made up of torn up segments of other maps, some aged by candle smoke with crisped edges and others more clearly water damaged with the illustrations smudged and the paper heavily warped. The sections of this patchwork map that look to be in the greatest health are those embroidered into fabric despite the fraying edged and some torn stitches creating geysers of thread that interrupt otherwise smooth lines. Its surprisingly comprehensive, on a piece of paper pinned onto the map in an area Dean knows his kingdoms castle is located, in fact it’s directly where the headlands used to stand before the storm took them out and him with it, is a drawing of a human with spiky hair and freckles. It's an amateur drawing but even then Dean was able to piece together it was him before he read the shakily written script that says his name above the doodle. It's hard not to feel strangely flattered, seeing the care put into the drawing as it lacks the shaky lines of everything else that Cas has written on. Looking across the rest of the map, up at the top near the northern side of the kingdom Dean can see another paper stuck on, it's a little drawing of a cave with the same sharp and shaky hand-writing above it. This time ‘home’ had been inscribed above the drawing. There's miles upon miles of difference between where Dean went in the water to the cave on the map, maybe Cas got the location wrong? It’s nearly three weeks on horseback for that distance. Admittedly it takes far less on a boat due to not needing to go over the stretch of mountains but it's not the sort of distance to be scoffed at.

If the map is accurate it’s a miracle Dean is even still standing. He should have drowned before they even reached half-way nevermind bleeding out from his skull. Many questions will be awaiting the mer once it resurfaces.

He moves on from the map quickly, looking at everything else Cas had nestled away in the boat’s shell. A larger stack of shelves has truly the most baffling collection of herbs Dean has ever seen. There’s even spices mixed into it. Underneath everything placed on the shelves Cas has written what he thinks it to be including a string of three jars all with ‘basil?’ written underneath. It’s ridiculously endearing and if Dean knew where Cas kept his writing materials he’d do his best to help organise it further. Chances are he’d be completely useless at it but maybe his infrequent shifts at the Roadhouse would prove useful outside of making him able to exist in a kitchen with a modicum more grace than before. There's different little symbols scribbled onto every name tag, theres a pattern to them definitely but not one he can discern without picking at Cas' brain.

Everything else seems to just be loose storage for miscellaneous bits and pieces: a net hanging from the ceiling and filled with pillows and blankets, shells and seaglass in clouded glass jars, and cutlery and jewlerry piled in the same box with the only similarity being they're all made of silver. Satisfied, Dean nods to himself and heads out. Curiosity satiated for now and a figurative boat load of questions to ask the mer once it reamerges.

Not before grabbing three jars, one labelled salt, another pepper and a final one labelled paprika. He vaguely remembers Benny - a knight who serves in the northern sector of the kingdom more often than not - mentioning it on one of his rare visits to the capital.

He can see why the knight lamented it being one of the rarer imports so often, the fish tasted near divine the minute he got access to seasonings.