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 pauses in his chewing, pulls down his piece of rabbit from his face and licks at his teeth and gums as he considers. "I...don't know. Eighty? Maybe. I quit keeping track. All I know is that I was never supposed to live this long." That just wasn't how the lifestyle worked for people like him.

He takes a more controlled bite this time, "How young are you?"

The phrasing there is odd, but when you're old, Castiel can only assume that's how you see things. He takes another bite, chews long enough to savor the smokey flavor, and swallows.

"I'm twenty-eight," he says, though honestly he's hardly interested in sharing details about himself, because Dean's answer has opened up an entire slew of questions. I was never supposed to live this long. That comment alone is enough to make it entirely obvious that what Dean is, what he has become, is.. unnatural. That it's likely that he was not born this way, but changed somehow. Werewolves come to mind; of course he's heard plenty of stories of wolf men, of merfolk and minotaurs and all semblance of creatures that are not quite human. He presses his lips together, trying to be tactful, but really, he suspects tact would be more or less lost on a creature like Dean, anyway.

"So you were.. not born this way?"

Well. That kind of question kills what appetite he has left and he tosses what's mostly bone anyway back onto his plate before licking at his paw to clean it off. The answer is easy, talking about it is a little more difficult.

"No."

He answers only after he's finished cleaning his hand off. And he knows what comes next. The how. The why. And he's no more inclined to answer those.

So it's much easier to try to shift the topic of conversation. "That's old enough to have your own family. You don't have one?"

Castiel can understand how it might be a sensitive subject. Having been changed into what he is.. Dean doesn't necessarily seem proud of what he has become, has holed himself away in a dusty, decrepit old castle, so he knows better than to push, even if he has a thousand more questions lining up behind the first. In time, perhaps, he can learn more, but for now he'll have to satisfy himself with this.

So Castiel clears his throat and glances toward his plate, but he hardly has a moment to reroute the conversation before Dean's doing it for him. Inhaling deeply, Castiel shakes his head. "I.. haven't been given permission to marry, no," he says, eyes down, expression smooth but hard. "I'm not sure I ever will, at this rate. But it's no matter, I'd rather study and travel, anyway."

"Why not?" Dean asks, confused scowl on his face. "Isn't that what you nobles do? Buy brides that double your land and have boys to inherit them? You got someone in mind that the old man does't like?"

THat's the only thing that makes sense to him, but really, Castiel doesn't seem the type to fight his father. But then, Dean probably seems the type that would, so, first impressions can be deceiving.

"No," Castiel says, tightly, all of his body language stiff and tight, shoulders tense and back straight. Talking about his family isn't something that Castiel really likes to do, and the only reason he is even answering is likely because he feels it is owed, for all he has probed Dean, but it's clear he doesn't like it, would rather simply move on.

"I am the youngest, and I have many brothers and sisters, so it will take time to find suitable matches for all of us."

Of course it's obvious that Castiel doesn't want to discuss this topic, even for someone as socially retarded as Dean has become, but he doesn't exactly care. It's been long since he's needed to be considerate. And he doesn't think he needs to be now.

"That's hardly an excuse if the youngest is so old. Your father must be otherwise distracted, hm?" By things like hunting, he's guessing.

"My father is.. very busy."

Truth be told, Castiel doesn't really know what his father has been up to. Surely he's been trapped here for the better part of several months, unbeknownst to his children, but even before that he had been.. reclusive. Quiet. He kept to himself, cloistering himself away in his study or libraries, spending entire days, sometimes months behind closed doors without whispering a word to anyone. The flow of politics had all but ceased, and while his children rushed to pick up the slack, there were certain things that could not happen while he was hiding himself away and refusing visitors.

"Not that it matters. I answered your question."

"Alright. Fine." He gets being defensive about family. He's certainly had his own issues with his. Even if it's hard not to feel a little removed from it all when they've all been gone for a while now.

"Is he going to come back for you?" If he was really a hunter and not simply a man winding up at the wrong place, he's more than likely return. Dean certainly couldn't imagine leaving his family to a monster. Hell, he wouldn't have even let a stranger stay with one if he was aware it was happening.

It was probably dumb as hell to let him live. Dumber still to keep his son. But it's not like they can do anything to him. Cut him and he simply heals. If dying was that easy he would have done so years ago. And there's plenty of scars under fur to show he's tried.

He finishes with the last of his rabbit and licks his fingers, before moving to stand. He's got nowhere to go, but it's easier to pace than sit still.

Dean's question should be easy to answer, but Castiel soon realizes that he.. does not know what to say, and it shows. He inhales softly, a quizzical expression flitting over his face, something dark ghosting behind his eyes before he averts them, looking down and away.

"I.. I don't know."

It's the best answer that he can give. His father might have been grateful to Castiel for finding him here, but he has never been a particularly warm man, never shown Castiel much love. He's been a decent enough father, and he is good at what he does, but there has been little enough gentleness in his upbringing, and the man who raised him feels more a stranger than kin more often than not.

"I'm not important. I'm not sure he would waste the resources to find me."

Of course, the smart answer would be to say 'no', whether there's any truth to it or not, so he's not surprised to hear that response. What does surprise him is all the hints around it that tell him Castiel isn't lying. That for his sacrifice his father might really leave him here.

"Well. That's just sad."

Well, that was dickish even of him. He quits in his pacing and runs a paw through the scruff on his head, "I mean-well, no it is sad. If you can't count on family, who the hell can you count on?"

And he's got no love interest, no family. "You at least got some friends?"

It's a bit of a nasty comment, and it shows as much in the way Castiel's expression evens out, his posture even stiffer, a flash of hurt behind his eyes. He's well aware of his family's shortcomings. For years he had simply taken it, allowed himself to be used and walked on, kept himself quiet and docile and tame because it was easy, and it was all he knew. It's difficult to understand what is lacking in your life when you have only been exposed to one sort of perspective.

But now it's an aching sore, and Castiel would like to think that he isn't desperate to be loved and appreciated, but in many ways he is, has gone so long neglected and abused that he feels like a dried flower gasping for sustenance in a pit of sand. But there's little enough to be done for it.

"I have acquaintances," he says, quietly, his voice tight and his mouth a severe line; there's little enough left on his plate, but he pushes it away now nonetheless, his stomach too twisted to keep up his appetite, and Castiel rises from his seat, smoothing down his shirt as if he doesn't know what to do with his hands.

"May I be excused?"

Nasty maybe, but it doesn't change the fact that it's true. He understands lonely. And lonely sucks. Enough so that he's taken on a prisoner and is trying to befriend him. And he's definitely not doing very well by the way Castiel all but shuts down on him, wants to get away.

"Yeah, okay." He answers, waving a hand at him dismissively. He won't force him for company beyond mealtimes, but already he can feel the silence of the castle and it's something he doesn't really want to go back to. "Go."

It's not necessarily that Castiel is angry with him - Dean might not be being particularly gentle, but he certainly isn't wrong. The truth of the matter is, though, that Castiel is hardly any better at making friends and being close with others than Dean is himself. He's always been reclusive, quiet and awkward and easily pushed around, and while he's come into himself a great deal over the years, a part of him will always be that shy, clumsy boy who doesn't know how to make friends with others, who doesn't know how to properly connect with people.

So he certainly doesn't know how to connect with Dean, and has no real desire to. He doesn't know there's any hidden agenda here, doesn't know that Dean actually wants him around, to get to know him; he's a prisoner, after all, it's absurd to think that they could be friends, that Dean would even want to try. It's the very furthest thing from his mind, a thought that does not even occur to him.

It's best, then, that they simply keep apart, isn't it? That they exist separately from one another. Castiel is still too overwhelmed to even know where he wants to go from here. For now, though, he's closed off, shut tight and protectively, and once he's dismissed he's quick to turn and slink back off to his tower rooms where he can bury himself in welcome silence.

It became a rather unwanted routine. Castiel kept to himself most days and if he did any roaming it happened when Dean was out of the castle. They saw each other at meals, managed to get through with awkward and stinted conversation, and then as soon as it was over, Castiel dismissed himself. It added a little routine to Dean's life though, even if it was hardly the kind of connection he wanted with another person. It gave him a reason to leave the castle, to eat, to keep at least one room in the house clean. It gave him some meager purpose, and after not having much of one for too long to count, he liked it. When he was a human he always insisted he was fine being alone, but he never really had been. He had his dad. And then he had his brother. And when he didn't have those anymore he learned that he absolutely hated being alone.

So he clung to the minutes, even if that's all he got a day, tried not to look too eager about them. But meals were always at the same time every day, and he didn't even have to go searching for Castiel to tell him about dinner.

It might have been a week. Or two. Time was lost in a castle and being that had been there longer than they should have been. But every night Dean had food ready and set out.

Except for tonight. He wasn't home at all when dinner arrived. There was no food set out. No scent of it even in the kitchens. It was just Castiel alone in a castle and the sound of a pack of wolves somewhere outside it.

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tale as old as time

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