Chapter Text
At long last, Castiel's days of traveling are ended. Though his lodgings are bare, he is provided for, and wants for very little. The Earl of Winchester has many fine instruments - plenty of violins, Italian harpsichords, even a new fortepiano, a rare treasure indeed. Castiel cannot wait to play each and every one. As per his contract, he is given full access to the Earl of Winchester's library and musical instruments, provided he produces enough concerts and compositions to satisfy his new master, an access of which he is taking advantage at this very moment, foregoing unpacking his things in exchange for rifling through the library. The Earl of Winchester is clearly a man of popular tastes; the man has scores by Mr. Haydn, the young Mr. Bach, Mr. Scarlatti, and even the young Mr. Mozart, though nestled in between are compositions by the elder Mr. Bach, or operas by Mr. Handel. He is taking the opportunity to flip through a composition by Mr. Stamitz, reduced for four hand piano, so thoroughly entranced and absorbed that he doesn't notice the Earl of Winchester's son leaning against the frame of the door, watching him with an odd look upon his face, until much later than he should have.
"Lord Winchester!" Castiel jumps up from his seat, nearly dropping the score in the process, "I apologize, I did not hear you come in -
The viscount just laughs, arms folded across his chest. "No, no, do not worry. It is good to see you so invested in your literature; this is the mark of a true musician, so I hear."
"Yes, well," he stammers, clutching the manuscript to his chest as though it were a shield, "I apologize for my unintended rudeness, sir."
"I accept your apology, and all is forgiven," he says, clapping a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Now, come along." He turns on his heel, beckoning Castiel with a wave of his hand, and Castiel hastily tucks the Stamitz back into its box, hurrying after him.
"Yes, sir."
Lord Winchester has a long stride, tearing down the long hallways of the estate as though he were in a race, though his face is uncomplicated and his manner carefree. "My father has asked me to see to your accommodations, I trust they are adequate?"
"Oh, yes, sir," replies Castiel, struggling to keep apace, "I can think of few things which would make my stay here more pleasant. Your home is very beautiful." Situated in the rolling hills of northern England, the manor rests just on the edge of a great forest to the East, with miles of meadows stretching to the western horizon. The house is kept tidy with apple orchards and blankets of wildflowers, mossy stone and sweet little streams, like veins through the countryside. Castiel can see it all from his window, every morning and evening.
"The Lord has indeed blessed us with this beautiful land," says Lord Winchester with fondness, "but in truth, it was my mother, may God rest her soul, whose vision brought it to life." He bows his head, crosses himself in remembrance of the dead.
Castiel does as well, touching his thumb to his lips. "She must have been a very kind and loving woman," he murmurs, "if the beauty of your estate is any indication of the beauty of her soul. Whenever I eat an apple from your orchard, I shall pray for her soul, in thanksgiving," he promises.
"An oath for which I thank you, most profoundly." Lord Winchester smiles. "Apples were always her favorite."
"Pardon me, sir," Castiel asks as they turn yet another corner, "but might I inquire as to where we are going?" The setting sun has passed beneath the line of the horizon, the chill of autumn twilight already settling in. This wing of the manor is old, and cold, and dusty, with rough-hewn stone walls and wooden floors. The forest creeps towards the manor as though it were Dunsinane, so close and thick that one could not open a window for want of hitting a branch.
"Well," the viscount leads him up a flight of stairs, steep and worn by time, "you have met my father, of course, and myself, and we are both delighted to have you in our family's employ. We look forward to the excellent concerts and sublime compositions which you will surely produce. However, there is one more member of my family you have yet to meet."
They stop in front of a wooden door, dark and heavy, a plan cross of wood and metal nailed to its center, and Lord Winchester knocks, twice. There is silence on the other side, but for the rustling of sheets. Then, a voice coughs, and softly calls out, "Come in!"
Lord Winchester pushes open the door, its hinges creaking from the cold. Inside is a bedroom, small but cozy, with a merrily roaring fire in the hearth. The walls are lined with bookshelves, each stuffed to the brim with tomes of varying sizes, haphazardly pushed together and stacked upon each other. In the small bed is a young man, younger than the viscount, deathly pale and propped up by many pillows, a heavy quilt laid over his feet. On his lap is an open book, but the young man is not reading it; rather, he stares slack-jawed at the open door, eyes soft and unfocused. "Hey ho, little brother," says Lord Winchester, so soft and tender. He rushes to the young man's side, takes up his hand and places a gentle kiss upon his palm. "I'm here now. Big brother is here."
"Dean?" whispers his brother, fearfully. "It is not yet supper, I don't..." he trails off, confused. "Who is..."
"Come in, Mr. Milton," orders the viscount, and Castiel steps inside. "Mr. Milton, this is my younger brother, Samuel. Sammy," he addresses the young man, squeezes his hand tight. "This is our new kappellmeister."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," says Castiel, though he suspects that the young man does not quite hear him.
Samuel curls into his brother's side, hiding in the fabric of his shirt. "Now, now," says Dean, one hand in his hair, "Mr. Milton is nothing to be afraid of! Father knows how much you've missed music in this house, ever since Mr. Smith went away, so he hired a new musician, just for you!" He strokes his brother's hair, speaking lowly and softly. "We'll have concerts all the time, now, just like when we were little. You'll like that, won't you, darling?"
The young man shivers, whispers something into Dean's arm which Castiel cannot hear. "Shh," shushes the older brother, "hush now. I promise you that he is real. You believe me, don't you?" Samuel nods, and Dean takes his hand again, squeezes it tight. "Listen to me, Sam. Stone number one, remember?" He pauses, looks to the intruder in the room. "Mr. Milton? Would you mind stepping outside for a moment, please?"
"O-of course." Grateful for the opportunity to escape, Castiel slips outside, closing the heavy door as gently as he can behind him. He'd never heard any tell of the Earl of Winchester having a younger son, and now he can see why - the poor child, plagued by illness and waking nightmares each day. What a dreadful existence that must be. His heart is so full of pity, and as he glances again upon the cross, he sends a quick prayer to God for the young man's mind, though He must have heard pleas for this child's soul for many years now, and one more shall, in all probability, not make much of an impact.
After some time, Dean steps out, calling into the room his farewells. "I shall return with dinner soon, Sammy," he says, with a smile on his face. "Try to get some rest? For me?" He shuts the door softly, then lays his head upon it, sighing. "I'm so sorry you had to see that," he mutters into the wood, shoulders slumping. "He was... he was fine this morning, he was eating breakfast and telling me all about Mr. Shakespeare's Hamlet. I thought... I had hoped he would have stayed like that when he met you." He drags a hand over his face, covers his mouth as though he were holding something in - a sob, or perhaps merely his lunch.
"Please, sir," says Castiel, "do not feel as though you need to apologize to me for anything. I am merely sorry that your brother is so ill. Tell me," he takes Dean gently by the elbow, leads him away from his brother's room. The hallway is long and dark and frightening, almost, like the scene of a bedtime story meant to put the fear of God into a child. The air is heavy and weighs on them both, Dean's countenance changing as soon as they reach the bottom of the stairs, turning from the old and dark stone tower to the new, warm, house. "Has he always been like this?"
Dean shakes his head. "No, poor thing. As a child he was always so energetic, so bright and precocious, always running about and getting into trouble. Mind you," he says, his half-grin easing the deep lines of sadness on his young face, "he never got into any sort of trouble without me there to get him out again, after our schemes had so totally and eventually failed." Castiel can almost picture it; the two children running about the fields, climbing trees and stealing the choicest of apples, dodging the troubles of tutors and valets in favor of endless summer days. "And then, when my mother passed away... he was different. I'm not certain I can explain it."
"I am sorry that I asked you to relive such painful memories, sir," says Castiel, heart in his throat. He remembers very vividly his father's disappearance, remembers how his brothers and sisters had never quite been the same afterwards. The loss of a parent can be worse than any battle wound, and he knows this very intimately.
"It's important that you know," admits Dean. "Sometimes... sometimes Sammy sees things - hallucinations, you know. Fire and demons and other such monsters. On bad days, he will not be certain whether he is awake or asleep, whether or not anything he sees is real." Dean rubs at his mouth again, draws in a shaking breath. "He has nightmares, near constantly. He'll be anxious and sorrowful one minute, then have the rage of a fury the next, then have the sweetness of a cherub. But," and here Dean places a hand on Castiel's shoulder, looks him in the eye. "He loves music. He likes the Italian school of opera, yet his favorite air is from Mr. Handel's Messiah. Harpsichord pieces may give him headaches, but before Mr. Smith passed on, Sam had loved to hear him play the fortepiano."
"I will keep that in mind, sir."
"Do you understand what I am asking you?" Castiel sees in him, suddenly, a vision of his own eldest brother, Michael, sees the same determination and the same instinct to protect, yet tempered with the sweetness of love and devotion. "As I grow older, my father is asking more of me, for which I am happy to help. But I refuse to leave my little brother alone to his waking nightmare. Can you be there for him? Can you talk with him, give him whatever he asks for?"
"Yes," promises Castiel. "I can, and I will, Lord Winchester, for I am an elder sibling myself."
Dean searches his gaze, and must find something which he likes, for after a time he nods, lips pursed, as if coming to a decision. "Well," he removes his hand, straightening his jacket. "I suppose that's it, then."
"Yes, sir." They shake hands, and go their separate ways. Later that night, as Castiel watches the moon climb ever so slowly, listening to what he hopes is the shrieking wind of autumn, he finds he cannot sleep, his thoughts turning at every silence to the young man in the western wing, how pale and fragile he looked, how fearful and miserable his life must be. If Castiel can help to relieve that pain, however little his effort may be useful, then he will know that God has answered his prayers.