Chapter Text
There’s been times Castiel wished he could have Dean all to himself; no duties, no soldiers, no campaign against demons, no court, no clucking dowager duchess looking at them as if she knows exactly what the pair of them were doing all night long in Dean’s bed…
‘Be careful what you wish for!’ That’s a human expression. Castiel is starting to master those and even use them appropriately after so many years. He blows on his stiff fingers, looks around the desolate night-shrouded mountains covered in a powdery blanket of snow, the tiny fire, Dean shivering in his cloak on a nearby stone with no pillow but his horse blanket, and thinks, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’
“In the stories, they bundle up together naked under their blankets to survive nights like this,” Dean says out of the blue. His breath is powder-white until it reaches the small cone of heat projected by their measly fire.
“Really.”
“Indeed. Though in the courtly tales, the knight puts his sword between himself and his lady in the name of honor.”
“Right.”
Dean leers. “I always knew that was a euphemism. Putting his sword.”
Castiel snorts.
Dean wraps the blanket around himself tighter. “...Though in these circumstances, even the lustiest of knights and ladies wouldn’t do a thing. My own sword is currently the size of an embroidery needle surrounded by two grapes.”
Castiel can’t help himself and buries his snort of laughter in the furs he’s wrapped in. His counter of, “Just don’t get frostbite on your needle,” comes out muffled.
Dean grins proudly. He seems to take personal pride in making Castiel laugh, a feat since the latter still doesn’t fully understand humor, ten years since his fall (chances are he’ll never fully grasp it at this rate…)
The fire crackles. Its warmth is pitiful.
“Let’s not get frostbite anywhere,” Castiel says a bit more soberly.
“We’ll be fine.”
“I don’t share your-”
“The monastery has a healer on hand. Just keep any bits that fall off, they might come in handy.”
Castiel rolls his eyes. Dean smirks. Ten years of this; easy breezy teasing, serious back and forth, deep philosophy, small tender words, impious ribaldry, all and every bit of it like music, like something repeated over and over until it’s known in the bone yet always beautiful and harmonious.
Castiel rubs his hands. Despite his thick gloves, his fingers feel numb.
“Is this healer any good? Because I think we’ll need him. Or her.”
“He’s very good. I should know. Came fighting this way before, back before I knew you. Nasty battle near Sazchink, small affair but deadly. A lot of my men had need of his services that day.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Fall of… 1224 if I remember. Benny mentioned yesterday - before we had to split - that this guy is still in the same holy house and kicking around just fine, and it seems he brews the best eau-de-vie this side of the Holy Roman conclave. Now that will go down well… But fear not, he’s fifty years old by now with a large hairy nose and a voice deeper than yours, he’s not going to claim the part of a fair healing damsel dressed in white.”
“Haven’t had one of those in a long while,” Castiel says idly once he’s figured out what Dean is referencing.
“Yeah, and that really hurts my feelings.”
Castiel gives him a pointed look.
“You know you’re the only one for me,” says Dean with a charming grin that would win Castiel’s heart all over again if it didn’t already belong to him in the first place. “But think of my poor bruised ego. Back when I was king, they were hurling themselves at me with their flowers and white dresses, and now that I’m nothing but a poor errant crusader, I’m stuck here alone in the snow with you. It’s obvious what they were after all this time, and it wasn’t my pretty green eyes.”
“Your eyes are very pretty and very green, and your romantic story still resonates throughout the lands, as you well know. Many of these naive young girls would still love to make a bid for those eyes if they could, they just don’t recognize you under all that armor and grime.” Castiel says the last word pointedly; he’s hoping the monastery will do the christian thing and indulge their guests with enough hot water for proper baths.
“But my eyes are only for you, so the grime and the armor stays.” Dean reaches out without looking and knocks on the reinforced wood of his palm-crossed shield like a superstitious gesture.
It’s been five years now since Dean declared before his court that he has a higher calling, higher even than being anointed king. The crusade against the demons is a lifelong commitment. Lawrence is peaceful now, but other lands are still under threat.
That’s how the tale goes, that’s how the bards will remember Dean Winchester the First, known as King Dean the Brave, or Dean of the Holy Sword and Rifle. And one has to admit that ‘I am taking up the cross of the crusade’ sounds better than ‘I get bored in a throne room, there’s demons to fight, and I want to make sweet love to my male companion in peace without the privy council pestering me about weddings and heirs, so I am abdicating in favor of my brother who is married with a son now and a good deal better at all this politicking anyway, fare thee well, sirs, fare thee well!’
Sam has since then completed the work Dean started; Lawrence is an elective monarchy, and the congregation of nobles did the smart thing and chose Samuel The First, known as King Samuel the Wise, to stay on the throne. Dean and Castiel can both travel in peace knowing that Lawrence is going to be absolutely fine. Better off than they are at this rate, with their rears in the snow in these dangerous Carpathian mountains, trying to rejoin the ragtag army of Hunters (now volunteers from all nations forming a sort of rough-hewn crusade, but without any religious claptrap wanted or needed, thank you.)
“...Are you sure we shouldn’t push on to the monastery?”
Dean’s response is muffled by the edge of the blanket. “In this snow and without a moon to light the way? Along a path bordered by cliffs? I’m sure.”
Silence falls, companionable on the back of many, many other shared nights. Castiel hums a hymn to himself softly under his breath. Dean stares off into the darkness.
“Hey, Cas...”
Silence.
Castiel finally looks away from the fire to see if Dean is going to add anything. “Hey what…?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Just… talking about that healer... it just reminded me of something. Something I occasionally-...” Dean seems to seize himself and says with a surge of energy, still staring off into the night: “Let’s talk or we’ll fall asleep and freeze. I never told you - I never told anyone - what I said to my savior on that fateful day in 1226.”
This comes so far out of the blue, Castiel can do no more than gape.
“Always kept that under my hat, as a test of honesty for any supposed savior who pops up, but if that man or woman hasn’t shown yet, so many years and so many tales later, well, they must have a good reason. But I’d like to know, you know, I’d just like to know they’re alright. That’s always nagged me, that they might have died that day. I personally checked all the ones who fell, and all were castle staff or soldiers I knew, or were recognized by their friends as people who could not cure a wart.”
“Why are we talking about this?” Castiel asks uneasily.
Dean is still staring out in the night. “Just talking. Anyway, yeah, it’s bothered me all this time. You know I’m not going to fall in love with this person, of course, but-”
Memory slams into Castiel. Ten years have passed, ten years full of love and joy and laughter and occasional arguments and a million other moments, small and large… but he still remembers those first months of being mortal. Confused, isolated, alienated, feeling bound to this human king by something intangible, and fearing it was nothing but chains of obligation. Then the shattering lightning out of blue sky that was Lutecia… the fear of losing Dean…
These memories shine brighter than the billion years of being an angel that precede them, they feel more relevant by far. There’s even times when Castiel almost… not forgets, no, but he only remembers intellectually those unchanging unyielding millenia of cold duty, all melding into a blank wall of Before, one that he lost - or escaped - to start anew in the world. His memory, his very life truly started the day he met Dean. His lover and his friends accept this, that Castiel cannot talk about his past, that he has none in a way; and as long as his future is with them, they seem content with that.
“-so yeah, hah, I have this, well, almost superstition about sharing the full details of that day. Because if I never say anything, and nobody else knows, then it’s surefire proof that the person who comes forward and repeats my words to me is the person I owe my life to-”
Owe your life to… Dean, that is such a heavy burden for both you and your savior, if you think about it...
“-but I have no idea why I stayed mum about it with the one man I trust above all else, and since it just so happens we're utterly alone right now, I thought I’d tell you-”
“DON’T!”
Castiel leaps up and hurries off, hands covering his ears, heart thundering in his chest.
He stands there, loose frost prickling the skin of his face, breath solid white. The darkness around him is like pitch, the utter void of it only magnified by the faint relief of dancing light reflected from the fire and ghosts lying motionless in the distance, the snow-capped top of mountains...
Eventually he has to look back.
Dean sits where he left him by the fire, in that tiny island of light and warmth in the darkness, watching him steadily, expression unreadable.
“Don’t… don’t tell me. You shouldn’t...” Castiel goes back and sits on the snow-dusted log, hands still near his ears just in case, and tries to think of a reason why he wouldn't want Dean to talk about it. “You… you kept it a secret all this time for a reason… Um… I would never betray you of course, but- but no need to tempt fate…”
Silence. A silence that says almost as clearly as Dean could, ‘You’re the least superstitious man I know, why are you of all people talking about fate?’
Castiel sits on his log and inwardly sways.
Why…?
From the very beginning, he has never wished for the burden of Dean’s gratitude. Now that they’re so close, share a bond so strong and real, he would never want things to change between them. So… why did he stop Dean? Why didn’t he just let the king trot out that single secret word - wings - so that in the entirety of all the kingdoms on earth, Castiel will become the one person to not be able to prove he saved Dean’s life - an achievement he never did wish to take credit for?
But if that last is true, really true, he would not have stopped Dean right now…
Castiel comes to a strange realisation. That he wants Dean to love him for himself, certainly, but… he’s a little weak inside. A little scared; a strange fallen angel with no sense of humor still somewhat at odds with most of humanity he now belongs to... He’s not willing to give up that other bond between them, however unworthy that is of him, however unwished for the type of relationship would be. There would be nothing good that’d come from it… yet Castiel cannot utter the words, ‘sorry, I interrupted you, you’re right, it doesn’t matter either way, so what did you say back then?’
Now that he has confronted it, the knowledge of his shameful frailty slinks away. It is tiny, an old fear of abandonment that comes like a backhanded blow from his Father. It is insignificant.
Yet even now he can’t bring himself to speak. No, he does not want Dean’s gratitude, yet he does not want to give up his secret either. Reason comes to the fore belatedly; another Lutecia could show up one day - someone a little smarter who would attempt to use divination or some magic trick to obtain that secret word, that intangible proof, and then Castiel would need his knowledge to counter it. It’s a perfectly valid reason, it makes sense, but it’s not at all what moves Castiel to remain silent now. No. Just like a gold coin still hanging around his neck - a coin returned to him on that night ten years ago when two bodies became one, never to truly sunder - this knowledge belongs to him, it is precious and not to be deliberately thrown away even if he will never, ever need it and will certainly never use it in this lifetime.
All this winds its way through his mind in a few minutes, a few minutes in which Dean has been exceptionally silent.
“Sammy drove me crazy for years.”
“What?”
“He admits he doesn’t need to know - I know this watchword, that’s what matters - but he just wants to know!” Dean does a rather unkind yet quite evocative imitation of his brother’s whining sour-vinegar expression, and Castiel can’t help a snort.
“Bobby tried to get me to tell him too. His reason is more rational: if I get hit in the head and forget, somebody else should know as a caution. Seems a stretch, but I do get hit in the head a good deal.”
“I always tell you to be more careful and wear a helmet,” Castiel grouses.
“A lot of other people - friends, courtiers, hopeful swains and ladies - have asked me over the years. Some want it as a token of friendship and trust, others as a dare. And some, like Sammy, just because they want to know, because for them this whole affair is nothing but a story, and a story needs a resolution, a proper end.”
The fire crackles. The snow falls a little heavier now, a sort of non-noise that muffles any others.
“You’re the only one who’s never asked. To the point you’ll sprint off into the night rather than hear it.”
Castiel doesn't answer, doesn't try to think up excuses. He’s certainly not going to lie to his heart’s match. He doesn’t say anything. There’s a kind of acceptance in his silence. If Dean confides in him, if he confides in his lover Castiel as a proof of ultimate trust, well, the knowledge of what really transpired will still be in the angel’s mind and heart, it won’t change anything truly. It’s not a problem, though Castiel won’t go courting the revelation either.
“Yep,” says Dean, and pokes the fire with a stick.
Nothing for a long minute.
“Might not have been a healer at all.”
Castiel looks at him interrogatively.
“Might have been, I dunno, a holy man who came out of nowhere to pray for my safety in the midst of all that death. Maybe it was a miracle.”
Castiel opens his mouth to say that there aren’t any of those anymore.
Then he catches himself, because an angel who falls from grace for a mortal at just the right time and is willing to sacrifice an eons-long existence in the blink of an eye for a man he’s met once, lifting him from perdition… for two hearts to then meet and twine and bind for eternity...It’s not a miracle, there’s a sound chain of events that explains every step of the way rationally, yet ‘miracle’ is still what it sounds like when you think of it.
“In which case it could have been anybody, could be dead, or gone, or they just don’t mind staying a mystery, because who would be bold enough to claim the merit for a miracle?”
“More importantly, miracles are not known to happen twice, so please be careful in the future,” grumbles Castiel, remembering some of the highlights of their recent attack on a village of monstrous human-eating hags that ended with their separation from the Hunters and this lonely trudge through snow-bound mountains. Their friends are fine, along with their young squire, Jack, who everybody knows is Dean and Castiel’s adopted son even if nobody ever says it; he and the others made it out of the pass before the avalanche caused by the magical battle snowed it under, only Dean and Castiel got caught on the wrong side. So the Hunters did what they were trained to under Benny’s leadership, they retreated in good order and will meet the two of them at their fall-back position at the monastery, assuming the two lovers don’t romantically freeze to death together on the side of this bloody mountain first.
“I promise to try to be more careful,” says Dean with over-the-top solemnity that makes Castiel want to strongarm him to the ground and rub his face in snow or maybe kiss him senseless or something- “I wouldn't want to throw away the life someone gave me. No that it’s mine to throw away at any rate, right, since I went and gave it to you.”
Castiel wants to do the whole wrestle-to-the-ground-rub-face-in-snow-kissing thing more than ever, but it’s really too cold for that. He can barely feel his fingers anymore, or his face, and his cheeks are probably going to freeze around the embarrassingly tender smile he’s currently sporting...
Dean hops nearer, off his stone and onto Castiel’s fallen log, comically bringing his horse blanket beneath his butt with him. “Speaking of which… my little needle and grapes could really do with a warm caring hand right about now, if they’re not to fall off.”
“Dean!”
“What?”
“We’re- it’s- you’re not seriously-...really?!”
“It’s that or freeze,” says Dean philosophically. “Come on, I don’t think we’ll last the night, we were being too optimistic. Let’s set up a lean-to in these trees, crisscross branches and these blankets for bedding, then cover us and the horses with evergreens. Bundle under every speck of clothes in our bags, as well as our cloaks. That’ll keep us warm.”
“Very well.”
“And then you can take care of my needle.”
Castiel growls.
“I’ll take care of yours. A proper exchange, as these things are measured, I’m sure, though some things can never be truly repaid, and thus must be seen as gifts, not to be questioned. Am I right? Well, I know I'm right. My head’s pretty dense, but some things I can figure out eventually, given a few years.”
“You are talking complete nonsense again,” grumbles Castiel as he takes out his sword and heads to the trees.
He does eventually let Dean persuade him to take care of each other’s needles (it’s too cold to sleep, and as Dean points out, what is there better to do?)
He distantly puzzles about the way Dean phrased those last few words for a while before he decides his lover’s brain was only half thawed at that point and anything he said should be set aside as ultimately unintelligible.
And life carries on, as it has a habit of doing, without grand demonstrations of faith or waxing lyrical. Over his armor Dean wears an old surcoat of what used to be cotton and velvet, pretty much all changed over for linen in patches by now, but the arm always stays the same, a crudely stitched cream colored cloth tied around the sleeve. Castiel wears an old gold coin around his neck. They don’t need to talk about such things. Years later, semi-retired in an old fort from whence newly trained Hunters come forth to make the world a safer place, many, many years later, it’s no longer truly a secret between them, this knowledge that’s never been shared, even if it’s never really been acknowledged either. It just is.