heavenonearth | tale as old as time

tale as old as time

Aaron's hooves slam into the ground beneath him, a hard staccato beat that plays the earth like drums, and the chill evening air tugs at Castiel's thick cloak, whistles through the bare, gnarled trees and rustles his dark hair. He rides hard, the horse's strong hooves kicking up mud and dust as he streaks down the wooden path, lungs burning with effort, face flushed and breaths quick and heart hammering.

This is not the first time Castiel has left home, but surely he thinks it will be the last. He has never seen eye to eye with his brothers, and he runs now from their fury and abuse, leaving behind a soft life of velvet and cream that he has never truly enjoyed.

The youngest son of a noble lord, Castiel is educated and trained, but his ambition has always reached beyond home, past the cruel grip of his family, his brothers who always held their heads too high and ruled those beneath them with a tight fist. Soft, they had always called him, too warm, too kind; serfs and servants and commonfolk were little more than insects, puppets, tools to be used and squeezed for profit, and Castiel had tried to make change, used his father's protection to do what he could to ease the hard life of those he feels they are meant to protect and guard and provide for.

But his father is gone. Disappeared. Dead or abandoned them, Castiel cannot say, and the shock of Lord Novak's disappearance has rippled through them all, giving his brothers free reign to turn on him at last, to vent their fear and abandonment and anger all on him. Without his father to shield and sanction him, Castiel has fled, furious and chafed and angry, hurt, all of his paper thin self confidence pulled to shreds so quickly, like a straw hut in a hurricane. He had packed everything he could into Aaron's saddlebags, and fled.

He's well past his providence now, beyond the lines of his family's influence, for he knows he must melt into the landscape, and disappear as his father had, find himself somewhere safe to close himself off in, to sort himself out, to think.

The gnarled root rises from the earth in the shadows beneath him, neither horse or rider see it, and Aaron trips, stumbles with a whinny and Castiel is flung from the saddle with a shout, landing hard on the damp earth, unharmed beyond perhaps a few scrapes. But Aaron has thrown a shoe, and limps lamely, and Castiel feels the first hints of panic beginning to grip at his breast. It's quickly becoming dark, and they are miles and miles still from the nearest town, and in the distance Castiel can hear the mournful howl of wolves. Quickly, he snaps up Aaron's reins and guides him along the path as fast as he can, and it's only by chance that he sees the twisting, overgrown path that branches off to the east - on horseback, he never would have seen it, old and broken as it is, but when he squints through the shadows Castiel thinks he can spy a gate, some twenty or so yards down winding ribbon of earth.

It's his only hope.

With a gentle word and a palm smoothed along Aaron's proud neck, Castiel leads him quickly down the twisting, narrow road, pushing aside brambles and clinging branches until he finds the rusted iron gate looming up before them, its sharp spires piercing the grey, darkening sky, and beyond it.. a castle. The grounds are silent, the building itself tall and foreboding, beautiful in a sad and dreadful sort of way. There is no life here, no movement or anything to suggest that these grounds are inhabited. The doors are shut tight, the carriages overgrown and in disrepair, the marble paths and statues overgrown and choked with weeds and ivy - but lonely or not, it is the only option he has, the only safe shelter he will find before the sun sets, and when thunder rumbles dark and treacherous above, Castiel knows he has only this one option.

Shoving the creaking gates open with his shoulder, Castiel leads Aaron onto the grounds and closes the gate tightly behind them before he's leading the white stallion along the churned up path, over broken stones and toward the tall doors, dark and peeling, the hinges creaking and groaning loudly when he pulls the doors open - and it takes all of his strength to do it, sure that these doors can't have been opened for many, many years for how rusted the hinges have become. Tugging his hood up and his thick, fur-lined cloak tightly around his shoulders, Castiel ducks his head, and slips inside.

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Dean can hear his heart beating wildly under his fingers and he can't help but remember the curse placed on him, that snarling bitch's smug words about always being feared. And he doesn't blame anyone. He would have put a silver arrow between his own eyes if he saw something like him charging. His fingers loosen just slightly.

"I didn't take him. He came here to kill me. He's lucky he's alive." Truth being that Dean didn't kill humans. He refused to be that part of a monster. But he had grown increasingly angry and cruel in his isolation. Didn't see anything wrong with imprisoning someone who would have him dead.

"I didn't-!"

"Shut up!" Dean roars, head turning to the cage that immediately grows quiet.

The grip loosens, and Castiel gives a rattling exhale, feels as if he's able to breathe a bit easier but he's still only barely restraining his terror.

Monsters, of course, are well known tales, and Castiel has grown up on stories of vampires and werewolves, banshees and ghosts and demons, though of course, like any other, he had never thought them to be real, to exist, but even though he cannot make out the features of this creature, it's clear enough that it is far from human. That's.. fascinating, in a way, and were his life not in immediate danger he thinks he would be curious, enthralled, but he can think of only the sharp claws at his throat, and the state of his poor father, sick and freezing in the cell just behind them. Quickly, Castiel's eyes flicker toward the bars, where he can just make out his father's face in the slanting light, and Castiel swallows thickly, then raises his eyes to the beast's face.

"Please.." he says, a little more softly, his grasp on the creature's grasp loosening, though he flinches at the roar that all but rattles his eardrums. "Please release him, he won't harm you. He's.. he's very sick, and he's needed at home-"

Dean watches the boy's hand loosen on his own before his eyes dart back up to his face. Even in the dark, he's easier to see up close, and he thinks the light suits him better than the shadows.

"I know a hunter when I see one." Dean snaps, "He should have considered that before he left. He's mine. And he stays."

He does though, reluctantly, drop his hand from that fragile throat, "You need to go."

For all he's detached from humanity anymore, it's obvious this one isn't a killer. "And know that anyone you send back here won't have as lenient a fate."

The large paw drops away, and Castiel releases an exhale that is clearly relieved, one hand lifting to rub at his throat beneath the folds of the cloak where the monster's thick fingers had only just been grasping, and for all he has been threatened, he thinks perhaps.. this creature won't kill him. Or at least, it does not want to. It could have easily snapped his neck or torn him to shreds by now, likely already would have if it truly wanted to, and even though his father is kept imprisoned, he is still alive. That has to mean something

It's enough assurance, at least, that Castiel is brazen enough to challenge it, too fiercely protective of his father for his own good, perhaps, and the Lord Novak, he's sure, can see it in his face, knows that Castiel won't let this go without a fight.

"No," he says, at last, softly, before he's moving quickly to the cell, pressing his back to it with one hand open over his father's fingers that grasp still at the cold, rusted bars. "I won't go without him, I can't abandon my own father." And for all his voice is soft, there's a defiance that flashes in Castiel's eyes, a stolid force that suggests he means what he says, that there shall be no convincing him to leave. Instead, he lifts his chin and swallows thickly, already afraid of his own words and what they mean, but he forces them through anyway. ".. I will stay in his place."

"Castiel..." Comes the soft voice from the cell, a warning. Of course the man in the bars doesn't believe this course of action will do anything other than get them both locked up. Or his son's untimely death. Or he could return home, gather up his stronger brothers, and return for him. ...If he lasted that long in the cell.

Dean though, simply stares at him. He remembers that kind of devotion. He would have done the same thing for his own father in a heartbeat. And immediately he recognizes Castiel's conviction, knows that he won't leave his father behind. Dean could throw him out, but he can't stop him from coming back, again and again, until he's forced to do something worse with him.

So he doesn't have to ask if it's something Castiel would really do, it's obvious enough in that fierce look in blue eyes. He prefers that to the fear he saw earlier.

With a snarl he shoves Castiel away from the cell bars, rips them open with his hands, forgoing the keys on the ground and wretches out the older Novak. Without a word he picks up the panicked, protesting lord and quickly takes him to the entrance of the castle and then out to the barn where his horse has been kept.

He tosses him toward the ground and turns around in a dismissive flourish. "Return and I'll kill you." He warns, before he's moving back into his home, slamming creaking doors. Now it's just him and...his new house guest.

It all happens so fast - honestly, Castiel isn't sure what to expect, doesn't know if this beast will relent or not, or if he will have to plead his case even longer, if he will be thrown back out into the dark woods with only a lame horse and his own wits to protect him.

But then the creature is moving, tearing open the bars and yanking his father out without preamble, all but dragging him to the front doors to toss him out into the night before Castiel even has a moment to speak with him. He follows after, quick on their heels, cloak billowing behind them as he all but trips over his own feet in his haste, crying out for him to wait, please! but there's no chance, and it's only through a dusty window that Castiel is able to watch his father go. His only comfort is that at least he has his horse, and will hopefully be able to make it home safely, even in the dark of night..

Once the doors slam shut, a cold silence falls over the castle, and Castiel feels the first hints of apprehension grasping at his heart. What has he done? What will happen to him here? Will he be forced to live out his days in a cold, dank dungeon too, until the chill and sickness take him?

.. it will be worth it, he must convince himself, in order to see his father freed, to have the lord of the land restored to his place. He will have to simply content himself with that.

Dean can smell him the moment he steps back into the castle. It's alive and fresh and he decides he likes it all but immediately. It's certainly better than the dusty scent that has settled over much of the castle. It hasn't been cleaned in so long. And then suddenly he's wondering where the hell he's going to put Castiel. The cells would hide his scent, would keep them separated by bars. And for all this is the hunter's son, he hadn't come here to harm him. Imprisoning him for caring about his father is kind of a dick move. And it's not like he could kill him if he even found the courage to try.

So with a huff, he moves over the window Castiel is lingering at. "...Well, come on. I'll show you your room."

Castiel jumps a little when he hears the footsteps approaching, and the low, growling breath of the beast, and he watches him approach, throat squeezed tight, hand in a fist, holding his cloak to his neck.

"My.. my room?"

Castiel sounds hesitant, confused, his brow drawn tight over his eyes as he tries to search the face of his new captor, to discern his features but it's still so dim, and night is fully upon them now, makes it all but impossible to get a read on what he really looks like. It seems too that he's purposefully staying out of the shafts of light, hiding his visage purposefully.

Dean friend at the surprise and hesitation in Castiel's voice and he growls his displeasure. "You want to stay here?" The question is rough enough to sound more like a lecture, it's unintentional, but it's been a long time since he's needed to temper his anger, or any emotion for that matter.

"Come on, before I change my damn mind."

Castiel falls silent for a moment, before he takes one last glance toward the window, watching the dark landscape through the grimy panes before he dips his head and acquiesces, dropping his eyes to the floor, the thick carpet dusty beneath his riding boots, though it feels thick, like it was once plush and beautiful. Much of the castle, he can only assume, must have been something to behold, majestic and impressive, with its tall gothic arches and high windows and marble pillars.

He can't appreciate the beauty of it right now, though. Not when he feels cold inside, lost and confused and trapped. It feels good to at last have an answer regarding his father's whereabouts and safety, but it's Castiel who must endure here now, with this unpredictable creature he cannot hope to trust, or begin to understand.

Clenching his jaw and clasping his hands tightly together, Castiel follows in silence, his eyes down and his stomach churning.

"Haven't exactly had many visitors in a while, you might have to dust your room a little bit." He grumbles, voice a little lower, trying to reign in the gruffness that always accompanies his voice now.

But he doesn't bother saying anything else. His conversation skills are rusty, and that's being kind. He used to be good at it, a natural, really, but it's been so long.

He pauses next to the double doors of one of the more elaborate rooms in the mansion. He never bothered claiming it for himself, he's fine in his dank little part of the castle. It must have belonged to a king once upon a time. There's strong sturdy furniture, all ornately decorated. There's chests and bureaus still filled with robes and silks and jewels, and a vanity in the corner. There's an unused fireplace. All of it covered in cobwebs and dust.

"I'll bring you some clean furs."

Castiel can't say he understands why this creature is being so, well.. kind to him, in comparison. Not that he's a particularly pleasant thing, and Castiel's anger at the treatment of his father and subsequent imprisonment still burns low in his heart like molten magma beneath a dormant volcano, but still. He'd expected to be thrown into a dungeon, to be locked away in the cold, not given a.. a room, and fresh furs.

It's a nice room, too. Thick with dust like everything else, but the furniture is fine and the windows and arches are beautiful, and there's a good view overlooking the overgrown, ill-tended gardens. Castiel can't help but feel like a bird in a gilded cage.

"Thank you," he says, stiffly, standing ramrod straight in the center of the room, his features schooled into perfect unreadable stone.

Dean stares at Castiel's cloaked backside for a long moment before he moves to close the door, but he pauses right before. "Stay on the grounds." He orders, before he does close the door.

He hesitates outside the door, wondering what the odds are that Castiel will make a run for it as son as he thinks he can.

Probably not tonight. Not with the lame horse he saw outside, not when the wolves in the area are in full activity. But such things don't scare Dean. And considering he has no food inside, he needs to go for a hunt anyway.

Leaving Castiel alone is something he's reluctant to do, but he can't let him starve. So he uses his night to go for a hunt.

The door snaps shut with a final sort of snap, and Castiel is left alone to the quiet, with nothing but the sounds of the empty, ancient castle to keep him company, and it isn't until now, when he's alone, that he can really here how very silent and still the place is, almost as if it is suspended in time, lost and forgotten, tucked away from the outside world; Castiel is sure he's never felt so isolated in his entire life.

Without the need to hold his head high, however, Castiel finds himself weakening, his shoulders slumping and his eyes closing, a soft breath leaving him like a sigh, and he feels his stomach tighten, a sob held behind his teeth, but he swallows it down.

Everything had happened so quickly.. he has hardly had the time to process it, to understand what has happened here, to process everything that has passed. He's a prisoner now, locked away like a prize in a tower, guarded over by a hulking monstrosity. He could attempt escape, likely at some point will, but for now it seems too dangerous, too risky, so.. better instead to wall himself off, to do all he can not to draw attention to himself until he somehow finds a way out of this terrible, knotted mess.

So Castiel sits at the edge of the large unused bed, his arms tight around his abdomen and his eyes squeezed shut, feeling small in this enormous room, insignificant in the burdening silence, but still that small fire of anger burns in his breast and he will keep it alive, nurse it as long as he needs to to keep focused.

It's hours later when Dean knocks on the door with candles and furs. It came as an afterthought that he probably should have brought them before. he went hunting for food, but well, hosting wasn't exactly his forte. At least he remembered at all, and he doubted Castiel was asleep. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep with if he was prisoner in a monster's castle.

"Hey, I brought you things." He offered, keeping to the side of the door where the shadows were better. There'd be nothing to hide him in the morning, but if he kept some of his features hidden until then, maybe Castiel would at least step out of the room. And he wanted him out of the room. He wanted him to talk to him. He wasn't stupid to expect anything more than a tentative acquaintance, but honestly, he'd take it. Hell, the idea even excited him a little bit.

Edited 2016-06-14 02:09 (UTC)

Castiel sits in silence for a long time, doesn't notice the passage of time as the evening dusk sets into dark, deep night, and he finds in his room he can hardly see for the thickness of the shadows, at least until the moon begins to rise and cast its eerie silver light slanting through the windows. It lays in patterns on the floor, and where he sits still, back straight, Castiel stares at the shifting squares of light, unfocused and lost in his thoughts, going over and over everything in his mind until he's thinking himself in circles.

It's too overwhelming to parse right now, to figure out what it is what he needs to do, to even begin to wonder at how he got himself into this mess in the first place. It feels strange, surreal, like this could not possibly be his life, what he has become, as if he's watching a play unfold, reading a story in a book written about someone else's life, another man's misfortunes, and not his own.

He's too tired, too spent to consider what he needs to do, so he ends up only feeling sorry for himself, and getting nowhere.

When the door finally snaps open again, he's snapped from his cyclical thoughts, reminded again of his hulking captor filling the doorway, and it certainly doesn't escape his attention that he's standing in the shadows, doing everything he can to conceal his form. Castiel supposes he can't blame him. Standing, he moves slowly toward the doorway, to accept the items.

".. thank you," he says, after a halted moment, and then, squinting into the shadows, he tilts his head and ventures - "Who.. who are you?"

Dean's hand is only held out as long as it takes for Castiel to take the items before he's pulling it back, tucking it out of view.

That Castiel lingers in the doorway longer than is necessary to take the furs and candles is a little surprising all in itself, and he can see with eyes far too adjusted to the darkness that he's trying to get a better look at him. Curiosity. And he doesn't blame him for that.

But that he actually asks, well that has him blinking in surprise. Even more shocking though is that he asks who, not 'what'.

"...It doesn't matter. You can call me whatever you want." Beast. Monster. Creature. All of it's fitting, probably more so than his actual name that he hasn't heard uttered since his brother passed years ago.

It's true that Castiel has always been a curious creature, it's in his nature, something he will never be entirely rid of. He's inquisitive, and while he might be passive, he is not easily frightened or intimidated. This beast before him certainly does not appear innocent, and it's clear enough in his father's imprisonment that it is capable of cruelty, and yet there is an intelligence in its rough voice that has him giving pause, that makes him think that perhaps there is more to this creature than meets the eye. Since being flung against the wall by his throat, he has not been threatened, and he might be imprisoned, but.. he does not feel as if he is in any immediate danger, so he's not really hesitating from this creature, or drawing back. As of yet, he sees little enough reason to.

But even if he isn't afraid, he's still angry, still distant and cold, and he doesn't pursue his line of questioning any longer. For the moment, he's too aggravated to really care about this creature's name or identity past a brief question, so he does not probe any deeper, only seals his mouth closed and looks away, silent.

He must have said something wrong, it's there in the tight jaw of his very human guest. And he's not even going to guess where he went wrong, what part of the evening has him getting such a cool reaction. He doesn't care to dig that deep into motivations that aren't his own anymore.

But it also leaves him with nothing much else to say. Conversation still lingering just outside his reach. "You'll join me for breakfast."

Maybe he should have phrased that like a question. But it's not one. He's not going to watch some angry human wither away and die from stubbornness. And if they're going to have to do this face to face thing...it's going to be on his terms.

"That's it."

And he turns away, walks back down the hallway with his heart pounding in his ears. It's part of the witch's curse, to be loved as the creature he is, and he hasn't had so much as a chance to test it before now. He's going to fuck it up. That's always been his kind of luck.

Castiel positively bristles at the demand, even if he doesn't refute it just yet. Though he is quite humble in comparison with his brothers and fellow nobles and royals, Castiel is still highborn, has never been given an order in his life that did not come from his father or elder brothers, and it certainly chafes him to be commanded in any way. He's a living, sentient creature after all, capable of his own fully formed wants and opinions, with an independent streak a mile wide; though he's always been very obedient when it comes to his family, Castiel has always nurtured his own defiance, that lurks deep beneath the surface of his complacency.

So he doesn't argue, is wise enough not to open an argument with a large and potentially violent animal that he does not yet know well enough to entirely predict, on its own turf, entirely defenseless. But there is surely no missing the way his body tenses and his shoulders stiffen, Castiel's jaw setting tightly.

Once the beast is gone, he's quick to snap the door shut behind him, leaning against it, the thick furs hugged close to his chest.

Whatever will he do, here? How will he manage?

For now, he simply keeps one foot in front of the other, strips the bed of its dusty dressing and piles on the fresh furs instead; a musky scent clings to them that he can only attribute to his captor, and he hates that it is a pleasant smell. Still, stripped down to his underclothes and huddled tight beneath the furs, it is a long time still before Castiel finds sleep, and even then it is fitful and broken. He most certainly makes no effort to come to breakfast, that's for certain, he does not even leave his given rooms come morning.

Dean actually takes the early mornings to clean the dust from the dining table, to wash grime from dishes so they have something to eat on. It's been so long since he's used them, he's simply ripped into his food like the animal he certainly feels like he is. But he'll make some accommodations for the human now in his care.

All his efforts go to waste though as morning fades into noon and Castiel makes no effort to show up, or even step out of his room. And Dean's mood worsens with every ticking moment.

How is he ever going to break the curse if the guy won't even make an attempt to socialize with him? He's going to be stuck like this for another eternity. He can feel it looming over him. No death. No reprieve. No friends. No family.

He stands with a roar and throws the long heavy table onto its side, lets washed dishes shatter on the floor and the food along with them.

His steps start to take him up the stairs before he even realizes what he's doing, and he stops himself. Raging at Castiel isn't going to win him any favors. So he takes his anger out on the stairwell, slashes at it with sharp nails that leave deep grooves in the wood, before he's turning on his heels and storming out the castle doors instead.

Castiel doesn't like to think he's the sort to wallow quietly in his own misery, but he finds himself prone to it, sometimes. Finding a reason to climb out of the furs is all but impossible, and as the morning waxes on he only finds himself curling deeper and deeper into them, hiding his face from the light and trying to find solace in sleep that will not come.

The roaring and crashing, however, is enough to garner his attention, but Castiel only burrows himself deeper, squeezing his eyes closed and trying to block out the reminder of where he is, and why he is here. But there is no drowning out the sounds of the beast's howls and raging roars, the crack and slash of old wood.

But the sounds wane soon enough, with the boom of the castle's doors slamming shut, and Castiel descends into silence again.

Soon enough, however, even he cannot deny the rumbling in his stomach, or his own burning need to climb out of himself, to look into what he can expect, to do something aside from swimming in his own misfortune. He should move. Make himself get up, explore, understand more about what he's doing here.

So Castiel begins to explore. He rises from the furs and dresses in yesterday's clothes, then begins to move about the place, finds himself greeted only by silence. In the daylight, the castle is no less intimidating than it had been at night, still dark and dank, dust and cobwebs clinging to everything, a sense of age and neglect hanging over everything like a fine mist, as if this place is suspended in time, trapped and unmoving. There are signs of violence everywhere as well, deep grooves in the walls from angry scratches, furniture knocked aside and finery smashed, evidence of his captor's volatile temper written everywhere.

It doesn't take him long to find the kitchens, and they're hardly any better than the rest of the residence, but he is able at least to find some water and stale bread, which is enough to quiet his stomach.

Dean returns just in time to hear noise in the kitchen, and the fury he managed to slash into trees rises up again. Thinking is hard to do when he's seeing red and he storms into the kitchen where Castiel is eating, and he stiffens, snarls. It probably makes for a terrible first impression in the light of day. Without the shadows to hide in, he's tall and broad, fur a brown and grey peppering. There's something human about his basic shape, about the way he walks on two legs, but his eyes glisten like a wolf's, his teeth and nails sharp.

Without the darkness to cloak him he suddenly feels...vulnerable in a way, exposed. Everything he hates seeing in the mirror the only thing anyone else is likely to see at all. But he's still too angry to dwell on it for long.

"What are you doing?" It's all but growled. Because he knows exactly what Castiel is up to. Raiding spoiled food from the kitchens rather than joining him for fresh food at breakfast. That's how much he already despises his company.

It's not his company that Castiel despises, he hardly knows this creature, after all, cannot get an entirely accurate read on him, but prisoners are not generally wont to be fond of their captors, and Castiel surely is no different. His father's treatment alone is grounds for his aggravation, and Castiel worries still for his safety, cannot know whether or not he has gotten home, if he's still sick, how he is doing..

Of course, he's not about to explain all of that. He doesn't feel the need to explain anything, really.

"I was hungry," Castiel says, coolly, lifting his eyes to at last look upon his captor in the daylight, to take in his shape and visage, and all of the sharpness and shaggy fur. He looks a monster, for sure, broad and strong and dangerous, but he walks like a man, speaks like a man, and for all his blinding fury he still boasts an intelligence, a sentience beyond that of an animal.

Castiel is curious, but he does not seem to be afraid; at least, he does not shrink away in any way, only looks over this creature's face with a quiet sort of inquisitiveness, though his distance remains. "So I'm eating."

Dean would appreciate the fact that Castiel doesn't gasp, that he doesn't take a frightened step backwards out of natural instinct. He just examines him with cool curious eyes that Dean has no idea how to translate.

But it does give him some small spark of hope.

"If you want to eat." And he's slow with the words, even though he wants nothing else than to shout them, "You will eat with me."

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