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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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."

It's another demand, and it makes Castiel bristle just the same as they all have, and his expression stiffens again, muscles all tightening up, clearly perturbed by the order, however calmly it was given. Swallowing thickly, he pulls in a deep breath to calm himself, jaw clenching up tightly.

"Fine," he says coolly, tense but acquiescing if only because he doesn't want to argue, but it's clear enough he doesn't like it.

It's not that absurd of a demand. It's not like he has a chef on board, food can't be waiting at all times of the day. It makes sense to eat together. Even if it was for no other reason than that. And yet the man stiffens, all but looks indignant for the order.

"...Who are you?" He had heard the older man shouting the name Castiel. But that's not what he's asking. The cloak spoke of riches, but he had been certain that the older man was a hunter. Unless times had changed, hunters weren't exactly the richly type. And they certainly didn't bristle at an order.

It makes sense, but that's hardly the point; Castiel simply doesn't take well to being ordered around by someone he does not know, let alone a captor that had abused his father. Making demands of people is generally not the best way to endear yourself to them, but then, Castiel doesn't expect a creature like this to understand that sort of thing. Just how long has he been hiding away here, anyway? Has he lost all sense of what it means to interact with another sentient creature?

Tearing off another hunk of hard bread, he frowns. "I asked you that first, didn't I?" he asks, both hooded eyes lifted to the creature's furry face, one dark brow arched.

Seriously? Dean's face twists into as much of as scowl as he's capable of, and he reaches out to snatch the bread from Castiel's hands. He just said he couldn't eat unless they were eating together. And the bread is bad anyway, he can smell it from here.

"And I answered." He's never been a fan of that particular game unless it worked in his own favor. If anything, it's a bit of a sore spot when he remembers that same game with his brother, even if it's just a dusty memory now.

"You're nobility?" He'll just start guessing then.

"No, you evaded," he says pointedly, looking entirely affronted when the bread is snatched unceremoniously from his hand; so this is how it's going to be, is it? Freedom is clearly an illusion.

"Yes," he says, stiffly, his entire body tensing tightly. "And you?"

He never promised freedom. He gave a room instead of a cell. Castiel is certainly not free to do whatever he wants here. He tosses it onto a dusty table pointedly. Every bite is just a reminder of how he was stood up for breakfast. How moldy bread is more satisfying than cooked meat and his company.

Now that he's said it, sees the way Castiel straightens, he wonders how he could have missed the fact at all. It radiates from him. Great. Nobles he knew in his day were hard enough to get along with even when he had his looks. Luck just isn't in his favor, it seems.

"No." He answers. He thinks that seems obvious enough. But then...he is living in a castle. But it's obvious that it's been abandoned long enough. He simply took ownership of it when he was fleeing from hunters that he had once been friends with.

It's impossible to know where this creature could have come from, who he was before he was what he is now, or if he perhaps has always been what he is; it's not as if Castiel has ever seen anything like him before, outside of his books, and fairy tales. What he is, or how he came to be that way.. it is a mystery.

He wants to keep his mouth shut, to not offer any sort of attention at all when he's angry and chafed, but he's too damned curious for his own good, can't help but want to know more about this strange, curious, dangerous creature, because he's an inquisitive thing, always has been, and likely always shall be.

".. will you tell me who you are?"

There's a fault in Castiel's questioning, and that's asking about who he is now. He holds up a fur covered hand, full of sharp nails and stares at it for a moment. It's a familiar sight. Far more familiar than his actual skin had ever been. "I'm a monster who moved into an abandoned castle."

And that's all there is to tell. He drops his hand and stares back at Castiel. He has no idea what to do with him. No idea what conversations to have. And a piece of him still just wants to walk away. Apparently company makes him a little nervous. Might have something to do with the fact that most of it tries to put a spear or sword through him.

But he forces himself to stay. "...It used to have ghosts. Have you ever met a ghost?"

It's a little.. peculiar to him, that this creature should seem so interested in his company, for that is really the only way to describe it. He's making conversation, asking him questions as if it's curious, which Castiel finds more than a little puzzling. Why should it want to know him? Why should it care? He can't say that he rightly understands, but there's little enough to be done for it, even if Castiel doesn't particularly feel like conversing. It seems he has little enough choice.

"Of course not, ghosts do not exis-"

He starts, then stops himself, because well, clearly Castiel's assumptions about the world were wrong enough when monsters seem to roam freely in abandoned castles, so he presses his lips tightly together, and starts again.

"No."

"They don't exist?" He finishes for Castiel, fuzzy brows furrowing slightly. "...What kind of hunter doesn't tell the truth to his children?" Maybe the world has gone softer since his days as a hunter. But he had certainly been raised with an understanding that there really were things that went bump in the night. That fairy tales were often based in some sort of weird facts. It was how hunters stayed alive. It was a paranoia.

"Hmm." He grunts and turns around without another word on what Castiel should do. He's got an idea on his mind and after so many years alone, it's easy to take it and entertain himself with it, forgetting conversation entirely.

Castiel still doesn't understand what hunting has to do with anything, or why he keeps going back to it as if it's something of importance - of course his father hunts, most men do, and it's certainly expected of a man like his father, but this creature is still saying it as if it's meaningful, as if it could in any way tie back in to ghosts. Castiel opens his mouth to ask, but finds his would-be host is already stalking away.

Rude. Castiel's cheeks puff a little in aggravation, but he doesn't chase it; clearly this conversation is over. He has no idea if he's meant to follow, however, but Castiel isn't the sort to need permission, so after a moment's thought he stands and trails along after, stopping in the hallway.

".. do you truly expect me to simply call you - monster? Creature?"

Dean pauses in his steps, almost surprised to hear the voice behind him, and he turns his head over his shoulder to stare at his noble prisoner.

When phrased like that, he's not exactly fond of the idea. "...Dean. If you must call me something."

The word sounds strange to his own ears anymore, however. Maybe he should have lied. But he doesn't really find that necessary much these days.

Dean. It's not really the name he had expected to hear, but then, he's not really sure what he would have expected at all, though he has to wonder at what it might mean, if it suggests that he was named, that there was someone who chose to give it to him. Did he have parents? He must have, yes? Was he born this way? Is he an animal? Was he human, once? If so, does that make him a werewolf?

Castiel's mind is all but swimming with questions. But he keeps them all behind his teeth for now, and instead only offers a short, clipped nod. Better to keep his host relatively in his good graces, he supposes, lest he end up in the dungeons himself.

"Thank you." A pause. ".. though I am still hungry."

Dean watches him expectantly for a few moments, but when Castiel says nothing about it he turns around again, starts to move down the hallway and only pauses again when Castiel brings up yet another new subject. He sighs and waves towards the dining room.

"It'll be a while before the next meal is ready." Considering he flipped the whole table, that might be an understatement. And broken the only dishes he had cleaned.

Well, that answers that. And apparently he isn't even permitted to eat stale bread, in the meantime. Hardly a day here and he's already beginning to learn the length of the nice, comfortable leash he's expected to acknowledge and respect. Castiel sighs sharply through his nose.

There's no reason to keep going on, not when the creature - Dean - apparently has an agenda of his own. So Castiel watches him turn again, standing stiff and still, before he, too, turns toward the corridor back up to his tower room again.

Dean hears the sharp sigh and it's about all the attitude he's ready to handle. Even as a perfectly normal person, he didn't have infinite patience and he turns just in time to grab Castiel's arm before they separate, holding him in place.

"If you had come when you were supposed to, you wouldn't be hungry now. There is no one else here to cook for you. There's no one else to clean. We are alone. Your impatience isn't going to get you far, even if I cared about it."

Given how blasé Dean had been about their entire interaction, he's surprised when he finds himself grabbed and tugged backward, greeted with a pointed accusation that, as far as he's concerned, is entirely unwarranted. That cold ice melts away quick with a lick of hot fury, and the mild shock in his expression gives way to a sort of ferocity.

"If you expect me to be appreciative of my captivity, you're out of your mind," he says, voice a veritable hiss, clearly affronted. "You can't possibly expect me to smile and dote on your every order. I'll eat with you, if you demand it of me, but don't behave as if I'm happy to be here."

If he were anything but pissed off at Castiel's words, he might appreciate the fact that he can even get angry in his face, that he has a fire that even his sharp fangs and claws and animalistic features can't frighten into submission. But he's a little one track minded at the moment.

"God, you're just like all those stuffy nobles aren't you? Someone always laying out your clothes and delivering your food to you on a silver platter. That's not how the rest of the world works. You hungry, why don't you go find us some meat and fruits or vegetables to make a meal. Otherwise, suck it up, princess. And I'll feed you when I find the time. So yeah, I expect a little bit of appreciation for the fact I gave you what you wanted. That I let your asshole of a dad go. And then I didn't toss you in a cell."

"Oh, so I am to appreciate you for being a benevolent dictator? A kind warden? I am your prisoner, not your friend, and a gilded cage remains a cage. I cannot so much as eat without your permission, and you ask me to be appreciative?"

It's absolutely absurd, sounds foolish even to his own ears, now that he's said it out loud, and he really has to wonder just how long this creature has been locked away to not see that, as plain as day. To be so distanced from reality as to expect a prisoner to be grateful for the sweetness of the bars. Sure, it could be worse, but Castiel's freedom is forfeit, he is locked away in a filthy castle far from everything he has ever known, by a monster that imprisoned and mistreated his father.

Maybe he should be afraid. And he had been, a mere day ago, when Dean had thrown him into the wall and pinned him by the throat - but Castiel has always been a defiant thing, and if this beast wanted him dead, he would have killed him. Perhaps he shouldn't tempt fate, shouldn't rile him to murder, but he has far too much pride, far too much independence to stand it.

"This has absolutely nothing to do with my nobility, and do not presume to know anything about me. You've made of me a pet, but you cannot force me to love the leash."

He's offered him an alternative to waiting to be fed, but he's not surprised that he ignores that completely. What noble brat would consider cooking themselves, let alone gathering ingredients to do so. He knows enough, some things never change and the rich have always been one of those.

here's nothing to say that can't be twisted, and he's not good enough with words to find a way to phrase them that would placate his prisoner. So, Dean chews on his words for a few moments as he stares at Castiel. "You are ridiculously dramatic." He finally says with a snicker.

"You've locked me away for no reason, and I am dramatic?"

It's all but impossible to see through his fury, and Castiel yanks his arm away, out of Dean's grasp, and turns back toward the corridor again, to stalk toward his room, his voice low and tight. "Perhaps Beast is a better title for you."

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dadssoldier - 2016-06-17 19:00 (UTC) - Expand

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