Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2627570.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Castiel/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Castiel, John_Winchester, Gabriel_(Supernatural), Hannah
      (Supernatural)
  Additional Tags:
      Arranged_Marriage, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Underage_Sex, Dubious
      Consent, Cas_isn't_actually_as_fluffy_as_he_sounds_in_the_summary, just
      so_you_know, he's_actually_a_lil_shit, which_is_awesome, carry_on
  Series:
      Part 4 of Vintage_Tales_of_ABO
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-16 Updated: 2015-06-28 Chapters: 3/? Words: 9464
****** All That Glitters Is Gold ******
by J3_(CaseMatthews)
Summary
     That Dean is now betrothed to the King's omegan brother, Castiel, is
     a complete and utter fluke. Dean never asked for this and he's almost
     certain neither did the soft little thing he's now mating.
     But...maybe it's better that it's him mating this sweet-scented
     being. At least this way he can protect him, right? At least its his
     pups planted inside the boy and not some sickening stranger. And
     maybe, just maybe, the boy might grow to appreciate him too.
Notes
     Set in 1934.
     Castiel is 16.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Somebody Once Told Me *****
Some petty, depraved part of Dean really wishes the day wasn’t such a nice one.
The sun’s beating into the car in streams of golds and yellows, echoing heat
beneath the chasm of burning steal above their heads, gloating. God, he can
hear the birds for Christ sake, chattering away outside the car’s currently
unrolled windows, happy as can be and utterly ignorant of the vehicles final,
dismal destination. Yes, Dean wishes he were so naïve of that knowledge.
Ignorance is bliss. Dean’s inclined to believe it.
“Don’t slouch,” John snaps, flicking out a hand and nudging Dean harshly on the
shoulder. “You’re not slouching like that in front of the King, boy, mark my
words.”
Dean nods sulkily, only (only) lifting his frame because his Dad smells like
utter shit. Dean shouldn’t be happy about that. He is. His father’s currently
stinking the whole rear seat of the car out with his nerves and anxiety and
it’s making Dean’s nose itch even with open windows. And yes, Dean is glad John
smells so much like betrayal. It’s what he’s doing, after all, he should feel
like crap about it.
Still. Won’t do well smelling so ugly meeting with his future mate-in-law now,
will it? Dean’s about to meet the man he will be mated to for the rest of his
life, he’s not entirely eager to make a poor first impression. The Family can’t
rebound if they go through another…misfortune like Sammy’s. Dean understands
that. It is, annoyingly, why he’s currently the one crammed into the backseat
of a Packard and being whisked away to his imminent doom. Damn baby Sammy,
Dean’s blaming him.
And…alright, it can’t be so bad. From what Dean’s heard of the infamous omegan
Prince, he’s actually relatively decent. Handsome, very handsome, actually, and
it’s said his scent alone is enough to rouse the knots of alphas country wide.
Plus he’s a Prince, so that can’t hurt his cause. Dean should feel extremely
fortunate he’s the alpha chosen in such a ceremony, he understands that better
than most. But he can’t help feel a certain regret for this mystery Castiel and
sorrow for himself at being forced into such an archaic circumstance. The poor
thing probably just wants schooling (if the rumours are correct), the
reassuring scent of his family (apparently he’s very close to his monarch of a
brother), and no insistent alpha coming along and ruining it for him. He’s
sixteen, for God’s sake. He’s still a child.
And actually, selfishly, Dean likes his job in the forces. He wants to be
dragged into royal life about as much as Sam did—he’s just not selfish enough
to do something so drastic and family destroying about it as the omega was. But
this is different—it really is. Someone will be kneeling for Dean, not the
other way around, and at least this way…at least Sam’s not expected to become
some live in pet. Castiel’s used to it, surely, but Sam’s always been a
stubborn little thing. Dean can’t imagine how ruined he’d become being forced
to kneel at the King of the whole country’s feet. This…this is definitely
better for everyone. Definitely.
“These are the walls to the King’s land,” Hannah says, glancing amiably around
at the towers of bricks surrounding them, grey and taller than almost every fir
tree around them. Huh. Someone’s private. She pulls up to a stop and guards
with guns wave them on, peering nosily into the backseat. “He and his siblings
enjoy their isolation, I’m sure you can imagine.”
John smiles beside Dean and nods, “Of course. Winchester Castle has a moat, in
fact. It seems our family has always enjoyed it’s seclusion, as well.”
Hannah smiles in reply, pulling right at a fork in the road. “Before we arrive,
I am inclined to remind you…King Gabriel is a just king, there is no doubt. But
he is also fiercely protective. One wrong move against any of his siblings—let
alone the omega—and he will crush everything you own with everything he has. Do
not antagonize him. You’ll make every situation worse.”
John’s eyes are boring into the side of Dean’s head, but he manages to ignore
the obstinate beta. He knows that, obviously. And Dean is a good alpha. He
won’t harm the boy.
“I intend on doing my best by the Prince, Hannah,” he assures, staring out of
the window. “And I will not anger the King.”
Something in the air deflates at that, and John lets out a held in breath. As
though Dean would purposely sabotage the King. As though he’s that stupid.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Hannah says.
John just nods.
The driveway, apparently, is at least a mile long. The route Hannah seems to
have taken must be a seriously scenic one, because all that ever keeps cropping
up through the window seems to be fountains or bushes cut to look like
dolphins. Pointless and outlandish. Dean’s suddenly very glad he grew up in
Winchester Castle outside of all this…gallantry.
Finally, finally, the Palace of Eden comes into view. And maybe the long route
was worth it because even to Dean…this is stunning. Beautiful.
Pure white walls make up the whole outside of the building; spires rise above
it like every fairy-tale story book Dean has ever entertained Sam with and it’s
magnificent, miraculous. Glowing against the reflection of the sun, reaching up
for the clouds and almost managing to touch them in what Dean could only
describe as eagerness. He can understand philosophers quotes now. Because this
place…it looks built from the hands of the angels. Dean will vow never to
dispute such a claim again.
“It’s magical, isn’t it?” Hannah says knowingly from her seat up front, turning
slightly to gage the Winchester’s reaction. Dean quirks one corner of his mouth
up, still gawping at his future home, and nods slowly. Magical. Good word.
“It’s stunning,” John says drolly, Dean almost rolls his eyes at his fathers
underwhelmed tone. As much as Dean’s really not a fan of being here, or of the
future laid bare for him, he won’t deny the palaces magic. It’s impossible.
Hannah pulls the car up, still smiling, at the front of the palace and motions
for them to disperse as she does. They alight quickly and efficiently, walking
from the car and over the gravel as fresh, neutral smelling servants move to
the vehicle and empty it in seconds, carrying bags and trunks into the palace
through the grand main door, double and open to reveal the even whiter interior
and…the King. The King currently stood in a soft-looking, cashmere jumper and
beige slacks. And the Prince. The extremely handsome young Prince looking about
ready to high-tail it and run in a dark blue vest, a shirt and a tie. And
gigantic big blue eyes. Dean wants to scent him. Dean’s needs to scent him.
The King trots down the marble steps with a smile—looking only slightly older
since the last time Dean met him five years ago, but not by much. A few soft
crow’s feet, but nothing noticeable. Just as charming as ever, apparently,
because he’s shaking John’s hand and offering quick, predictable
conversation—something about the journey, the offer of refreshments from a
maid—before he moves quickly onto Dean. Who’s still staring widely at the
stunning little creature just up there. Not far. Dean bets he smells good.
“Lord Dean,” King Gabriel says, offering a firm handshake. “You look well.”
Dean offers a bow in return, short and snappy, “Your Highness,” he says. “As do
you.”
The King waves his hand, face twisted in amusement. “Enough with the
formalities, Dean. If you are to join my family in, oh,” he glances at a
Cartier watch, considering, “two hours? I think you can call me Gabriel.”
Another test. Dean’s been warned about the King’s appetite for those so he just
nods with a pleasant smile, and says, “Of course,” and leaves it at that. He
has absolutely no intention to call the King Gabriel. He doesn’t wish for such
an embarrassment.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed my brother?” Dean snaps his gaze back to the boy with
the blatant invitation. Still timidly stood on the huge porch of the building,
gaze flitting from John to Dean and, periodically with a saddened tinge of
despair, to Gabriel. Dean nods and gulps. “Unusual to see the betrothed so
early on the day of the mating, I know, but you must excuse the slight flaw.
Castiel’s a curious little thing. He wanted to see you before it all became so
official.”
Unusual, definitely, but Dean hadn’t even considered it, he’d been too busy.
Another test he’s sure, and this one is easy. He won’t be keeping Castiel under
lock and key, he’s not so cruel. He nods with a smile and says to the King, “I
understand, of course; it must be difficult for him. It’s perfectly fine.”
King Gabriel smiles, short but what Dean thinks is real from him. More of a
smirk, really. “Good. Then I’ll see you for the mating, Dean. Good day.”
And then he’s walking off, John a hot, obedient little pup on his tail. Dean
watches them leave for all of two seconds before a movement near the door
catches his sharp attention again and he watches as a somewhat middle-age,
blonde man angles the young omega away with a smirk aimed at Dean. Blue eyes
swoop back into the palace along with the slim little body, and Dean’s alpha
growls in a pathetic betrayal. Who’s the omega here? Jesus.
Hannah leads him inside the main door and Dean…feels inadequate. Dirty, even,
after such a long drive here, wrong inside the pristine walls. Even the
entryway is stunning, pure white and shining like a reflection, long enough to
narrow right down to a small square at the end. Green plants and small cabinets
line the walls as he follows Hannah down the marble floor; huge, dark doors
leading off to other rooms, glass doors leading to what looks like a
lucratively decorated hall. Probably for evening entertainment after Dean
has…consummated their mating. Oh Christ, he hasn’t thought about this enough at
all. He’s sixteen. It’s 1934, for God’s sake.
Dean’s like some creepy old man come to rape him inside of his own palace walls
(okay, he’s twenty-three, not fifty, but still). Dean’s the weird intruder.
Dean’s the one about to ruin his life.
Oh God.
He follows Hannah, somewhat reluctantly now, up a set of stairs leading from
the right of the hallway, and he doesn’t even try to register where it is
exactly he’s going or remember the way he got there. He just keeps up and turns
when she turns, follows where she goes and tries not to barf up all over the
posh, spotless burgundy runner.
He manages all the way until she opens a bedroom door, leads him in, deposits
him in the washroom and reminds him his mating clothes are all pressed and
ready in the wardrobe. As Dean pukes up whatever the hell’s left of a crappy
breakfast, he scoffs inside his mind that they’re setting him up in a room he
probably won’t be using. He’ll be fucking a total stranger, leaving him to stew
in his own hatred to party downstairs before coming back and doing it all over
again. The kid’s…the kid’s and fucking kid. He shouldn’t be fucked by anyone,
let alone Dean. Especially Dean. He’s never even met the alpha, he doesn’t know
whether Dean’s about to knot him bloody and rip chunks from his shoulder. He’ll
be going into heat. He doesn’t know if Dean’s about to force him into a cubby
hole (with every right he has) and only drag him out to satiate his own needs.
The boy doesn’t know and neither does Dean. This…this can only go bad.
Bad, bad, bad…
But fuck everything, Dean washes up anyway. He bathes quickly—glad no-one’s
‘helping’ him to do so—and scrubs himself clean with every ounce of scented
crap he can find to at least attempt to give the poor thing some dignity. What
if he goes into heat early and starts begging for Dean in front of everyone,
both his King and brother? God, Dean won’t let that happen, so he masks his
scent as much as he possibly can without smelling like a bouquet of flowers,
and rubs what he’s sure to be too much shampoo into his hair. He dry’s himself
quickly before venturing, naked, out into the bedroom for his new, assigned
clothes.
And maybe he resents Castiel for not running like Sam did, cheating like Sam
did, but he can’t blame the boy. Maybe Castiel’s just more loyal to the bigger
picture than Sam was. It wouldn’t be surprising. It would be expected.
Dean’s only slightly surprised to find a dolled up version of his own military
apparel hanging happily, waiting for him in the wardrobe. He pulls it on
mechanically anyway, more than aware where everything goes and fits, before
scrubbing a quick hand over a spit-shining pair of shoes and shoving them onto
his feet as well.
It takes him an hour. He’s sure it shouldn’t, but it does. And then Hannah’s
coming to fetch him and Dean’s following and everything’s wafting past him in a
weird, spitefully fast blur, until Dean’s being lead out into the courtyard
and…cheered. People, hundreds of them, cheer the second his black-clad shoe
hits the polished decking, the second Hannah’s court-shoe touches down, people
are gathering at the balcony and cheering him. As though…as though him raping
an omega is something to be celebrated. Oh god, he’s going to throw again.
The next hour passes as though it isn’t in existence. As though God’s making
this whole thing zoom past just to spite him. People, mostly strangers, crowd
to congratulate him, shake his hand, pat him on the back or offer their
throats. They say things like, “good on you”, or “he’s a stunner, you’re very
fortunate”, but sometimes Dean can see the spite in their smiles and the
repressed alpha inside of him puffs up grimly in defence of the boy who isn’t
even yet his. At least, maybe, it’s Dean claiming ownership. At least Dean
knows he won’t hurt the boy on purpose.
And then, all of a sudden, Dean’s at an altar. Quick as anything, Dean’s at an
altar, John’s in military dress (less outlandish than his own, more
sophisticated) at his back and the King is opposite them, every single one of
them waiting patiently for the omega. It’s silent until the second it’s not,
until music starts playing from a live band Dean’s never listened to before
and…and then there he is. Dean can smell him (oh fuck) the second he exits the
back doors, the second that crop of black hair becomes visible over the top of
the balcony, Dean can scent him out like a bloodhound. Apparently the opposite
happened with Castiel. His scent swoops over the happy, ridiculously huge crowd
like a perfect shadow, dropping and lifting and taking them all with it as it
goes. Dean inhales before he can help himself and he’s suddenly grateful for
the thigh-length, thick tunic in such a hot climate. He is not popping a knot,
he is not popping a knot…
The young Prince looks stunning either way. The royal-blue, barely shear chiton
they’ve clearly forced him into is, to be fair to them, absolutely stunning. A
soft circlet of silver dons the boy’s head beneath an apparently untameable
mess of raven-black hair, giant, timid looking eyes are wide on the King as he
finishes descending the stairs and starts his way down the aisle. Alpha’s are
practically vibrating in their seats—Dean’s watching them—as the omega passes
by; leaving behind the tail end of That Scent. And when he stops barely a metre
away—all barefooted and soft skinned—Dean finds it to be a miracle he doesn’t
fuck him right there. He’s going into heat, it’s stuck on him like a plague.
Like the sweetest, most perfect plague there ever was. He smells utterly
terrified and Dean’s alpha urges to cover those eyes, palm at the small of his
back and coax him into comfort, whisper assurances. Rut into him and knot that
stomach full of pups.
“We are gathered here today…” begins the priest, though Dean’s not really
listening. The boys blinking up at him right now and that holds so much more
interest…
Their wrists are tied together in the softest silk, but Dean doesn’t feel it.
He feels the heat radiating from the boy, feels perfectly supple flesh beneath
his, minute trembles as blue eyes shine against green, and then they’re
kissing.
Like honey. Dean’s first thought: his second, mine. Plump, spit-slick pillows,
soft beneath his own mouth but perfect, so right it’s impossible to…Dean needs
him. He wants him. Badly.
The alpha’s all but taken over once the ribbon’s untied, the King has given his
blessing and Castiel is ordered to remove the shoulder of his robe, shuffle it
down his arm and reveal the stretch of one, perfect shoulder-blade.
Everything zips from focus when Dean’s teeth sink into it, blood pools into his
mouth and Castiel mewls beneath him. It’s just OMEGA after that.
***** I Ain't The Sharpest Tool In The Shed *****
Dean’s mate has the bluest eyes Dean’s ever seen. Dean’s mate mewls so goddamn
prettily when Dean’s tugged back down the aisle and his mate is inadvertently
tugged with him. Dean’s mate has the softest hands known to mankind and Dean’s
mate’s blood tastes like the sweetest chocolate Dean’s ever indulged in. Dean’s
mate…well, he’s all that matters anymore. Because Dean actually has a mate and
he’s an omega and he’s the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever been allowed. He’s
perfect. And nothing else matters.
“We’ll make this so good, little one,” Dean promises him, uttering his most
important vows into the boy’s ear, making them wind the length of a bloodied
torso and inspire that miraculous little whine. They’re clear of their audience
and the beta’s are (not a threat, won’t touch Dean’s omega) leading them deeper
into the Palace beside his beloved, safe from dangerous, prying eyes that want
to hurt Dean’s mate, claim him for themselves and he’ll never let anyone do
that, he’ll never let this perfect omega come to harm. “Keep you safe with me,
angel, I promise, you’ll always be safe with me.”
Hannah’s leading them up the stairs with soft, coaxing noises off her own, but
neither Dean nor his mate really care all that much right now, and they follow
because they know the stairs will lead them closer to their mating bed, and
really, that’s what matters.
And Dean’s mate. He matters too.
“Mate me,” Dean’s mate whines, those slim little hips sharp as they rut into
Dean’s thigh, pushing the sizeable erection against his flesh and fuck, who
needs a bed when Dean’s boy is so eager right here, who cares about anything
else when all Dean has to push him back to the sturdy surface behind him and
rut against him and kiss into that soft little mouth and swallow those mewls—
“Lord Dean,” comes a voice to Dean’s right, but he has his hands in that black
hair—so soft, softer than it has any right to be, like down—and he’s not paying
it the slightest of attentions. “Your highness, this isn’t the place, you need
to get to your bedroom…”
Dean growls at the annoying natter, and it’s only when he turns his face from
the stretch of alabaster flesh beneath his lips that he realises who he’s
barking at. Hannah’s stood there, scowling right back at him. Another
man—blonde, and something sharp in the back of Dean’s mind says he recognises
him—is stood, arms folded, smirking at Dean and his mate and the only reason
Dean halts his pending attack is because the two are betas, and therefore safe.
Safe from claiming what is Dean’s, not safe enough to warrant total relaxation
when Dean’s mate is so pliable and willing beneath his hands.
Dean cocks his head at Hannah and sieves through her words.
Not the right place…of course not. Dean’s mate deserves more than some cruddy
hallway to be knotted in—needs a nest and a pile of sheets to crawl beneath,
needs a mattress and Dean’s clothes to burrow into and Dean’s scent to sate
him, he needs…he needs everything.
“Come on, kiddo, don’t wanna do this here, do you, huh?” the blond man says,
toeing that warningwarning inch closer until Dean’s lips curl back and he
fucking growls. His mate curls beneath his fingers. The beta raises his hands
and winks. “Protective one, huh?” he says, but he’s further back now, so Dean
slots his teeth away. He laughs, but Dean’s not looking at him anymore. His
mate is kinda tanned, isn’t he? “Gee, Cas, you’re going to adore that one.” His
voice sounds sarcastic and bitter, but hell if Dean gives two shits. Look at
the being he has beneath his reach. Why would he care about anything else?
They move again, and Dean’s mate is practically dragged along by that slim-
fingered hand, but obviously Dean doesn’t mind. He’d carry the wondrous little
thing like they would centuries ago, rip him of his robes and knot him for the
whole ceremony to see and bare witness, that this angel, this perfect
thing…he’s Dean’s. He belongs to no-one.
The angel mewls like he’s been personally affronted once they reach their
destination (finally) and Dean pulls him back in the same exact instant. His
mate is hurt, his mate knows there’s bad in there, he doesn’t want to move
closer, Dean won’t make him, won’t let him, protectprotectprotect…
“Cassy, come on now,” the blond beta says, and for the second time in too short
a space, Dean’s growling him away. The angel doesn’t want to go in there and
no-one’s going to force him. “We discussed this, didn’t we? You know you can’t
do it elsewhere, come on, kiddo.”
Dean’s mate writhes in Dean’s grip, curling closer until he can duck his
entire, perfect face against Dean’s chest and just breathe in there all
perfectly and amazing, pressing the lithe length of his body to Dean’s.
“Smells wrong,” he whines haughtily into Dean’s tunic—too thick, too wrong, not
close enough. “My room. Wanna…wanna my room. Balthazar, please.”
Dean pushes his fingers through his love’s hair, pulls him closer, lowers
another hand to the push of his mate’s backside and clutching handfuls and
tugging it to mould, eliciting these mewls that just fucking…
“Cas, this is where you’ll mate, I warned you didn’t I, you need to mate in
here. You’ll regret going to your room cousin, mark my words.” Ugh. This beta
is too mouthy for Dean, and he’s making his mate smell wrong, too bitter,
making his sounds turn desperate and raw.
“It’s not right,” he says, lifting himself slightly to nuzzle at Dean’s throat.
Good God… “It’s wrong. Know it is. Won’t do it here. Won’t.”
Dean watches as Hannah and the male exchange glances for something, but the
only thing he offers the conversation is a scowl from over his mate’s head and
a rumble of a growl that vibrates through his angel and ends in Dean’s
fingertips, right where they massage the skull beneath them.
He follows when Hannah sighs and leads them away. Angel mewls in some gust of
relief, and he takes Dean’s hand in his own, leads him down the hall instead
and Dean knows this should feel wrong. He knows, somewhere, somewhere where his
Dad would be scowling at him, he knows he should be leading his mate, he knows
Castiel shouldn’t be in front of him as they approach their mating but
this…this feels right. This feels like a means to a conclusion, and Dean just
needs inside his mate, for his scent to be moulded into another’s. He needs a
bite marking up his own neck.
It’s the angel who pulls them into the second bedroom, but it’s Dean who shuts
the intrusive betas out. It’s the both of them that rip at clothes, rut against
bare thighs and tumble onto the mattress. It’s the both of them that make their
nest.
“Mine,” Dean growls in his frenzy, taking those mounds of flesh into his hands
and pulling, rutting that leaking cock against his hipbone and revelling
excitedly at the horny yip his mate yelps out. He’s on his back in their nest
(it’s not perfect, not yet, but it will certainly do) and his mate as spread-
eagled above him as they move together in unison, as their bodies scent-mark
the other and their mouths move like old lovers finally reunited. That’s how
Dean feels. Suddenly, inexplicably whole. This angel just feels right.
He flips the delicate morsel of a being to his flat little stomach once the
need builds enough and their scents have mingled just that edge into real mated
couple—he spreads apart listening cheeks and buries his nose into the fold. He
whines himself when the hit of sweetness bombards him, when the slick touches
his tongue and nothing else matters. His knot is throbbing right down at his
base and as much as…as much as he needs to keep tasting that sweetness, he also
knows what must be done. And really, it’s not a real hardship.
He wrestles a few fingers deep into the soft pink furl for a few seconds,
presses kisses to the tanned flesh of his mate’s shoulder blades, licks across
his own sensitive mating bite, before he pulls out and lines his cock to plunge
straight in.
The angel is writhing again, and it’s making Dean pant. He’s mewling these
wonderful little chitters, and it’s doing all sorts of things to Dean’s
insides, his air-humping alpha.
His lips are on the boy’s shoulder as Dean forces his way in. He cries out. He
pants. He stutters his hips forward with gasps of air, and he starts wailing in
pain when Dean’s knot forms around his heavy thrusts. He cries real tears when
Dean knots them as one, but the euphoria alights the space within seconds, and
the boy comes in troves over his own bed sheets. Dean follows in earnest,
rutting as deep as he physically can and coming like a madman.
Castiel, the angel, Dean’s mate, falls asleep like that. Knotted on the end of
Dean and curled against his chest.
                                       *
It’s almost an hour later when Castiel awakens again, and by that time, Dean’s
deflated enough to have pulled out a little while ago, and he’s sat up in the
bed, peering down at the rousing sixteen year oldboy with emotions flitting
between disgust and humiliation, and recognition that he now has a mate. A
sixteen year old boy of a mate, to be precise, but a mate nonetheless. A
responsibility he didn’t have yesterday, let’s say.
Gigantic orbs of azure blink open slowly for a few minutes, adjusting against
the mid-afternoon light casting its way into their room—not theirs. Castiel’s.
Dean’s scented enough from their ‘nest’ to have figured that out by now. It’s
wrong. Castiel will be forced to live within this place now, he’ll be forced to
scent the reminder of Dean forever in his bed, even if he changed the mattress.
He’s trapped, now. His cousin was right. They would have been a million times
better off mating in the confines of that other, more neutral room, one that
the king could border up and ensure Castiel never set foot in again. This
room…Castiel’s like a bug in a cage. Constantly reminded of his shitty hand in
life. Of his seven year older mate.
“Hello,” comes a roughened, timid little voice, and Dean glances back down
again and smiles at the short one offered to him. Castiel sits up, slightly,
resting on one hand and ducking into himself to peer up at Dean as he sits
where he is, scent timid and unsure. Dean crosses his legs under the sheets and
sits higher up on the headboard.
“Hi,” he replies.
“Do you, um,” says the beautiful little omega, eyes covered and revealed slowly
in long blinks, downcast and flicked up every now and then to meet suspiciously
with Dean’s chin. “Do you want me to leave, sir? I know you have to be at the
feast later, and…I-I thought you might want to…get ready. I could go to my
brother’s rooms to…wait it out.” He gulps and shoots his gaze down. “W-wait for
you to…come back.”
Oh god. Yeah, he’s definitely sixteen, if Dean was ever under any doubt. No
adult, omega or not, speaks like that and looks so goddamn innocent at the same
time. It just doesn’t freaking happen. Fuck.
“I’m not needed for another few hours. And no, Castiel, I don’t want you to
leave your own room, that’s unfair. I’ll leave to prepare in my own, I’m sure.”
He laces a hand out before he can really consider his actions, and angles a few
fingers beneath the boy’s chin, tilting it until plush lips part, wide eyes
meet with his and short breaths come out quicker. He offers the being a slim
smile. “You can look me in the eye when we’re alone, or when you know you won’t
be in trouble for it. It’s really not a problem. And call me Dean. Not sir.
We’re…we’re mates now.” Dean sighs and smiles. “Call me by my name.”
“Sorry,” comes a whisper, but Dean shakes it off and takes his hand back.
“Don’t apologise. This is going to take some getting used to on both parts, but
I hope we can run this as smoothly as possible. Look, Castiel, I won’t ever
force you, alright?” Dean says, hoping his eyes portray just how sincere he
really is. “You don’t have to be scared of that, I can promise. Earlier…I
should have had more control, but…it was a mating frenzy, I don’t think either
of us had much of an option. I will take care of you beyond anything else. I
will help you through heats. I will be there when you need me. Ask me anything,
and I’ll do my best to answer. I want you safe. You’re mine, and I will keep
you safe. I promise.”
Castiel’s blinking up at him, head tilted obscenely adorably as he sorts
through Dean’s recently practiced speech (he didn’t sleep, he planned) and
licks his lips when his eyes shift down again. Dean waits him out. And out. And
out.
Ten minutes later, Dean swears, and Castiel finally looks up again, still
squirming, flinching even as his mouth opens around the word, and asks, “C-can
I, uh…D-Dean, would it be okay if I…”
“It’s alright, Cas, go on.”
“Can I scent you?” Dean blinks and the boy blushes furiously, scampering away
again to shiver off on the other side of the bed. “Sorry, it’s fine, it’s just
the heat’s still around but it’s not terrible and you’re my mate and all and I
just thought maybe it would be alright for both of us if we were close and,
but, I, uh—”
He stops talking when his mouth is marred by Dean’s sternum, once he’s dragged
to straddle Dean’s lap and his head is tugged to Dean’s chest, he stops
talking, freezes for a second like a startled animal, and sucks in a gigantic,
dizzying breath. Dean palms his hair and wonders how long this docility will
last. Depends on the length of the heat, he supposes. He can’t imagine mating
this boy will always be so easy.
                                       *
They don’t utter a single word before Hannah fetches Dean to prepare for the
evening—beyond the husked out mine or please or yes during the two times they
knot leading up to it, and Castiel’s head is nuzzled in Dean’s lap, both
relaxed in a half-dazed snooze when the beta sticks her head through the door.
Dean smiles over at her.
“Time, my lord,” she says quietly, smiling loosely when Cas looks up at her.
Dean moves to shift out from beneath him, but hooks dig into his hipbone, and
he halts right where he is. He glances softly down at the pliable little boy
and quirks the corners of his lips into a smile. Castiel frowns unsurely and
Dean’s alpha whines for him.
“You can stay,” he says timidly. Dean huffs out a humourless chuckle and
Castiel sits up.  “Please? Stay the night and…and don’t leave me here. Gabe
won’t be mad. He’ll just be pleased you’re…um…you’re satisfying me. Please?
Please don’t leave me.”
Oh, Christ.
“I won’t be long, angel,” Dean soothes, palming the soft expanse of hair at his
fingers. “I’ll come back as soon as I can, I promise. But…my Dad’ll be pissed
if I don’t show up for an hour or so, and I really don’t need to get on the bad
side of your family. But I’ll be back. I swear it.”
Castiel doesn’t look at him again, after that. He shifts until his back is
displayed when Dean moves to the door, and he hunches his shoulders when Dean
says his name.
He’s not in his room when Dean returns five hours later that night.
***** A Finger And A Thumb *****
The party ends just past midnight, if the lack of echoed cheers and drunken
hollers from the palace’s expanse are anything to go by. Not a second too soon,
if Castiel’s opinion is counting—a thousand hours too late, to be perfectly
frank, if anyone cared what he thought…oh, ha, hang on…no one fucking does.
Oh God, he has a mate. A mate…overbearing and demanding and possessive and
angry and, and…abusive. They all are. Every single damn one of them. This ‘Lord
Dean of Winchester’ will be no different, Castiel knows this as well as he
knows anything. This strange alpha, a shadowed memory of a young pups youth,
this beast…he will rule over Castiel’s life as though it belongs to him. He
will order and he will expect and if his mate doesn’t comply he will be furious
and he will lash out and strike and beat and he will demand.
Castiel can’t do this.
He won’t.
The need pulsing in ever growing waves beneath his ribcage is secondary to the
hatred burning inside his skull. With this Dean. With society and life and what
everyone expects of docile little omegas all soft and sleepy and ridiculously
stupid. With…his own brother. Gabriel, his damn highness. He was betrothed
first, he was meant to marry the Winchester, to give the boy pups and rear them
as royalty, to care for the omega as Castiel knows for a fact he will, always,
and now…now it’s Castiel who’s linked with the Winchester line, married and
mated to the alpha of the family, expected to breed like an animal and just…be
docile and dull.
Castiel has never been docile and the idea of dullness bores him like an
eternity locked inside on a rainy day. Castiel was born to be…to be the black
sheep of omegas everywhere. He was born to be shunned from weekly meetings with
other highborn omegas sipping tea and dressed in pastels. The very notion of
obedience has had him balking at his big brother’s feet since he could walk and
now…now he has no choice. Now he has been bound.
“Castiel? You had better be in here, little one,” comes a bitterly sweet
familiar voice, and Castiel perks slightly from his corner by the balcony and
rears up enough to allow him sight over the edge of his brother’s bed. Light
begins to pool slowly into the King’s bedroom from his double doors as he treks
around his chambers, no doubt, in search of his freshly fucked young brother.
Good God.
Castiel stands shakily from his perch on the hard mahogany flooring once it’s
clear Gabriel will scent him out anyway, allowing himself to be shown to the
alpha.
“Jesus,” Gabriel startles, illuminated by the hallway light at his back. “Have
you been in here this entire time?”
Castiel shrugs sulkily, staring glumly at the dresser across the room from them
both. He doesn’t exactly owe his brother anything. It’s not like he’s done much
for Castiel in recent weeks.
“Now is not the time to be angry with me, sweetheart,” he says softly, stepping
closer. “Your Lord has been looking for you for the past hour.”
“He’s not my Lord,” Castiel hisses, turning his shoulder, ruching the robe to
his ear. This is not fair. “I don’t belong to anyone. Especially not to him.”
“Oh, Castiel,” Gabriel says in that ridiculous soothing voice of his alpha, the
one he breaks out when Castiel’s hurt from his own brazen stupidity (falling
from the oak tree beside his window; it would have absolutely worked if Hannah
hadn’t shut the damn thing) or simply shushing an angry Castiel about one thing
or another. When he’s trying to soothe his uproarious young omega sibling.
The bastard reaches to touch, then, soft fingers warm, alpha marks against
Castiel’s shoulder blade before he shrugs them off with a fiery glare and steps
out of his brother’s way.
“You couldn’t keep your hands off of him a few hours ago; what happened to
that? Hm?” he prompts, when it’s clear Castiel has no intention of actually
replying. “You even begged for him to miss the feast, you seemed to enjoy him
well enough then, little one.”
“That’s not—” Castiel starts, glaring incredulously up at his King’s face,
huffing and turning back when the alpha just smirks. “I’m in heat. He was in a
frenzy, it’s, it’s…shut up, Gabriel, that was instinct.” Like he’d meant to
scamper about like some drunken rabbit, crawl away in fear. That is not him.
The sooner this Lord Winchester understands, the better.
“You still reek of it, sweetheart,” Gabriel says quietly, and this time when
his hand massages into Castiel’s hair he doesn’t flinch away or push him off.
He sighs huffily enough to let the man know that he isn’t happy about it,
but…he lets him. He figures he might as well.
Before Dean has him back again. Ugh.
“I don’t want to go back there,” Castiel admits, finally meeting amber-hued
eyes head on, gripping them and tightening. “It smells like…like him.”
“Christ, baby,” Gabriel says, pulling him in against a sturdy, tuxedoed chest.
God, he smells nice. Nothing to quench this heat, of course (not Castiel’s
alpha for one thing; his goddamn brother for another) but it quells something
inside of him; calms the tempest at least. “No wonder. You used it as a mating
room.”
“I didn’t—” Castiel tries, but what’s the point, huh? He did let Dean fuck his
brains out in his own bed. Crusty with come and slick and sweat. Fucking
disgusting.
“Hush, I know, sweetheart, it’s alright,” Gabriel soothes, pulling him closer.
“It’s hard to ignore that instinct; harder than anyone who hasn’t had to deny
it can imagine, really. It’s alright, Castiel. I’ve got you.”
It’s not the tears streaming down Castiel’s face that proves to be the problem
right now, or the heated blaze that’s getting just that bit harder to ignore.
It’s…it’s the seconds being chased by the imminent return to his alpha—the
closer he’s getting to being back in his mates arms that rocks him to the core.
“I don’t want this, alpha,” he says, eyes wide. “I don’t want this at all.”
“Hush, sweetheart, it’s okay, sshhh.”
They start walking then, Castiel pressed to his older brother’s side, breathing
in his soothingly alphaic scent. Towards the door. Towards Dean.
“Please, Gabriel…I don’t want him. Please don’t force me, I don’t…”
“Cas—”
“Stop it!” Castiel cries, once the hands encompassing him become that inch too
tight, the arms enwrapping his shoulders pull him just  too sharply and that
threat of imminent…mating earns itself a deeper pit inside Castiel’s stomach.
He wrenches from his brothers hands and backs his way towards the balcony, back
towards the window. “Stop forcing me! I don’t want to go back there!”
“Castiel.”
Shit. Shit and crap and…shit.
God, the fights draining, it’s leaving his bones, it’s… “Please, brother,”
Castiel sobs, dropping slowly but surely to his knees, skin bare and cold where
his robe has slipped against the wood flooring. “Please don’t make me.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Gabriel soothes once more, all but running to Castiel’s side
and dropping until they’re on the same height, pushing heavy fingers into
bedraggled hair. “I know it’s hard. I know it feels so wrong right now, but it
will get better. He’s your mate, little one…even if you don’t think much of him
now, he’ll grow on you, I know it, all right? And if he ever touches you; ever
does a single thing to harm you, I will end him, right then and there, you know
that, don’t you? And I will help you through the repercussions myself. Has he
hurt you, Castiel? Has he made you cry?”
Not in the way Gabriel will want to know of, no.
But…but that doesn’t mean he won’t. In a few months when they’ll be moving into
their own home (Dean had better damn well choose the House of Ciel hismelf if
he doesn’t allow Castiel an opinion) Castiel will barely be able to see
Gabriel. Except on formal occasions, stately visits or simply because they miss
one another, Castiel still, legally, won’t be able to visit with Gabriel unless
Dean allows him to. Unless he sends him on his travels with signed documents
declaring his omega fit for cross country travel. Who knows if he will care?
Who knows if he won’t lock Castiel in the literal tower overlooking the vast
Seas of Bourne and visit him to fuck and rear pups of their own. He’ll have the
right. Gabriel won’t know until he visited, and by then Castiel could be…he
could be suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, he could be brainwashed and
nuzzling into his abusive mates evil knees from his threadbare cushion on the
floor. Gabriel can’t promise anything because I won’t know himself. He just…he
won’t.
And Castiel knows, alright? He knows his brother doesn’t believe half of the
words spouting from his mouth—declarations of Castiel’s imminent devotion for
his betrothed that will never come to be.
Castiel has heard him speak with Hannah and Balthazar, heard him threaten on
Castiel’s behalf about the “stuck up cock” he’ll be mating with. He knows
exactly what Gabriel thinks of the prestigious, brave warriors of the
Winchester House. He’s not an imbecile.
But what good will that do now, with Dean’s come cooling in Castiel’s guts?
What can Gabriel do within his own home to his brother’s mate that won’t either
irrevocably ruin Castiel’s mind or start a war between family’s?
Nothing can be done and Castiel is a mated omega.
A mated omega with slick beginning to spill between his thighs and dampen the
robe, edge closer to Gabriel’s floor. The need burning inside his gullet.
Oh God. It’s starting.
“My sweet love,” Gabriel breathes in uncharacteristic tenderness, holding
Castiel’s face between his soft hands, noses bare inches apart. The alpha
presses a kiss to the tip of his brother’s. “I will keep you safe,” he says.
Castiel can smell the whine, solving his earlier query on his brother’s readily
available kindness. “I swear it by God, little one. I promise.”
Castiel begins trembling, timid cock filling and hole fluttering around nothing
but slick and air and his brother’s grip tightens on his jaw line, his kiss
lowers to Castiel’s lips and love spreads between them like an aura.
It makes Castiel dizzy.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he says once they part, lifting Castiel by his elbows
into standing. “Let’s get you satisfied, yes?”
All but hanging from his brother’s side, Castiel grips onto the suit he dons
and follows with him as he leads through his brother’s lavish room of teals and
aqua towards his own rooms, before…Gabriel moves them straight beyond the small
passageway to his own room, ignoring it all together.
Because…they’re going the long way? So Dean isn’t clued in to the secret path
to the king’s chambers…does that make sense?
Balthazar meets them halfway, all but guarding one of the main stairways
leading straight to the ground floor. He takes Castiel other side and Castiel
no longer bothers with the upset of walking. If he doesn’t need to—
“You left it too long, you little idiot,” his cousin chastises wickedly,
pinching him in the side.
“He…he left,” Castiel whines, chagrined. It is not his fault. Dean left him to
go get drunk and he didn’t come back for hours. Castiel waited. Castiel came on
his own accord when it was clear Dean wasn’t going to help him before
scampering off to hide in his brother’s quarters. “His fault.”
“Alright, handsome one,” Balthazar teases. “Let’s just get you laid, yeah?”
“Mmm,” Castiel hums, already imagining it, that slick pressure, the sure
pleasure.
“Balthazar,” Gabriel flinches. “That’s my brother you’re talking about.”
“Yes, well. The Prince needs to get laid.”
Castiel cackles into his neckline. Balthazar pets him.
“Oh thank—” comes a new voice, though he’s not particularly new, not really.
Comes a voice that makes Castiel cock leak onto his thighs, anyway. His mate.
Jesus good Lord above, Castiel could slip on the abundance of slick pooling
from him, he really could.
“That’s close enough for now, Lord Dean,” Gabriel says, lifting a hand from
Castiel and holding it out, when Castiel bothers to squint his eyes and look,
to Dean. In the spare room, designated to this, specifically. It still doesn’t
feel right, not in Castiel’s bones, but he’s made that mistake once already.
Never again. He’ll get Hannah to spring clean the hell out of his own room. He
should help. He should…Dean.
“Where on earth has he been?” Lord Winchester…the Lord Winchester demands,
beard bristling atop his flushed face from where he’s stood to Dean’s right, to
his mates side, to his mate—
“D-Dean—” Castiel tries, picking his way from his family’s grip and trying to
slide out of it, towards his mate, towards relief from this hell, he needs—
“With all…due respect, your highness,” Dean starts, cheeks blooming in a very
pretty pink. He inches towards Castiel like a magnet. “It’s been hours. And for
that…for that I couldn’t apologise enough,” he’s talking to Castiel, he’s sorry
for leaving, “but I’m here now, sir, and I would like to…” he’s flustered,
nervous. Castiel wants to spear himself on that thick cock. “I would like to
help your brother through this, if I may.”
Lord Winchester grips his son by the back of his shirt and pulls, yanking him
back until they’re both in line, further from Castiel than ever. Dean holds in
a growl, Castiel can see it. He can feel it.
“While I appreciate the very carefully thought out speech, Dean, I would like
to point out to everyone that my brother hid from his mate because he is
terrified of him. Of you.” Castiel just wants to fuck him. Right about now,
yes? “So, I would like to get some things straight before you jump back into
bed together, if I may.”
“Of course, your majesty,” Lord Winchester says, staring widely at Castiel
between his brother and cousin. Castiel…flinches back. The man is intimidating,
to say the least. “Whatever you feel is best.”
“Good,” Gabriel assents. “Dean, we have already discussed, yes, that Castiel be
your responsibility throughout his heat?” Dean nods but he’s staring at his
mate like a viper. Castiel knows what he’s thinking and it involves his mouth
and Castiel’s slick. He hopes. Christ, he’s shivering at the very notion.
“Think of it as a trial run. If Castiel feels comfortable in your presence once
he is relinquished—or at least holds some sort of faith in you—then I will
endeavour to feel the same way. But if he ever comes to me again like he has
tonight, even looks at me from across the table with anything like fear in his
eyes, I will take him away from you and the alliance between Winchester and the
crown will be done. I will risk the world for my brother. I’ve already gone
this far, Lords of Winchester, but I will not risk his wellbeing as well. Do
you understand?”
“Of course,” John says, voice brisk. He nudges his son with a harsh elbow, and
Dean’s emerald green eyes lift from Castiel’s chest (his night-robe may be
floor length but it isn’t as opaque as some of his others—he’s practically
dripping at the thought of Dean staring at his nipples) to bore into the King,
gulp under his vision and nod eagerly, standing up straight.
“Good. I’m glad we’re clear,” Gabriel smiles. “Lord Winchester, it’s late. I’m
sure we can leave these two comfortably for the night, yes?”
The frightening man tilts his chin in compliance, already moving towards them
for the door.
“Enjoy yourself, cousin,” Balthazar mutters into his ear, hand squeezing his
bicep. “Try not to break anything, hmm?”
Castiel huffs at him but excepts the press of lips to his temple all the same.
Gabriel holds him tighter, however, hips flushed despite the horrifying press
of Castiel’s erection, winds his arms around his brother’s back. Castiel holds
him back, breathing in his scent. “You come to me at any time, day or night, do
you understand?” Castiel nods into his throat. “Good. My good boy.” He backs
off slowly after another press of lips to Castiel’s own, leaving them with a
wink in the doorway. “I’ll see you both in the left-wing conservatory for
breakfast, yes? Please try to be decent.”
And then…then he’s gone. All of them, gone, with the double doors firmly closed
behind them and Dean…
“God, my angel, I’m so sorry,” he says, plastering himself to Castiel’s back
from where he’s still facing the door—his rock hard cock riding the sodden
cleft of Castiel’s ass even through the silken fabric of his night gown. Dean
thrusts, but it feels almost accidental. Castiel couldn’t care either way. “I
had no idea—you were frightened of me, little one?” he asks, and his voice is
almost painfully taught as he pulls harshly at the tie around Castiel’s waist
without even undoing it. “Never again, sweetheart. I’ll take good care of you.”
“Knot me,” Castiel whines, thrusting back onto the offer of thick cock.
“Aah…ugh, please, put…put something in me, please, Dean, I—”
“Hush, angel, I’ve got you,” he whispers, finally undoing the belt. He feels
with his talented fingers as the material comes loose and reveals Castiel’s
milky-white body to the moonlight. He ghosts a few over the scarlet-headed
erection jutting up towards them both, where Dean’s head is propped on
Castiel’s shoulder, watching.
“Aahah.” Castiel all but shouts, spinning like a top until he’s facing his mate
once more, erections grinding in an accidental jolt until they both cry out
moans into each other’s mouths. Fuck. This is good, good, just need, Castiel
needs—“Put them in me, in me please, God…”
Three, all in one fucking go, and Castiel’s shoving himself against that sturdy
thigh and he’s rubbing slick all the hell over Dean’s tux trousers, that clear
pre-come leaking near his groin, where his cock is disfiguring the fabric,
fuck, fuck—
Castiel comes with four fingers inside of him, knuckles pressed against his
prostate and Jesus, he rides it out humping against Dean’s leg like a fucking
hound, he needs, needs…shit.
A knot.
Dean lifts him, then, like he weighs nothing, hauls him into the air and props
him around his waist, Castiel’s legs clinging like spiders, the gown hanging
off his shoulders and dangling to the floor. “Knot me,” he huffs into Dean’s
ear, rutting closer because it didn’t help. “Have to knot me, fuck me, please.”
“God, I will, sweetheart, I’m gonna take such good care of you, come on, baby,
fuck,” he says, dropping Castiel to the bed, not even stripping himself of
anything before following and using the dip of Castiel’s thigh to rut into,
hump at like…like…like he isn’t fucking him! He’s still clothed, for God’s
sake.
“No…no,” Castiel pants, pushing the man away from him with his hands against
sturdy pectorals and a crisp white shirt. He tugs at the buttons for sheer
seconds to get Dean with it, give him the hint that they can’t do this if he’s
still covered in fabric, before moving further down, unclipping his mate’s
braces and undoing his fly in what he’s sure is record timing. Castiel shoves
them to strong hips, lower against tensed thighs and by then the shirt has
gone, Dean props himself to rid the trousers.
And then he’s back.
Castiel takes it upon himself to turn and present traditionally, allowing his
alpha to see his slick, his hole and relish in it himself, to take pride of
what he’s done—Mistress Naomi spent an entire lesson ensuring the idea was
engrained into Castiel. He knows alpha’s want that. He’ll be good, make it
better when they knot.
But Dean…Dean whines.
He doesn’t…he doesn’t plunge straight into Castiel’s body and shove himself in
like a piston, until Castiel can’t breathe. He just…Castiel can feel his breath
on the base of his spine, his cheek against his flesh.
What…the fuck?
“Alpha?” Castiel asks quietly, shuffling back for his mate to take the hint.
He’s being good. Right. He wants to be tied. Doesn’t Dean? “For…for you. Tie
me. Please.”
“Oh, sweet…I want to see your face, angel,” he says and his own is right
fucking there and he’s talking into Castiel’s ass! Fuck! “Let me kiss you,” he
presses a kiss to the centre, right there, Castiel can’t breathe. “Take care of
you,” nothing, nothing feels like this, not kissing, not…this is heaven on
earth, right here.
And Castiel shouldn’t be surprised, he should—fuck, his tongue, his fucking
tongue—he should have remembered, realised…Dean never chose to fuck at
Castiel’s back. He has, out of necessity when Castiel was too worn out to do
much else in their rut and frenzy, but now…now he wants to watch Castiel.
Naomi taught him about this as well.
“Yes,” Castiel supplies, rutting himself back to indulge for a few seconds, let
himself feel the dig of that ridiculously talented tongue. Jesus. “Lie…lie
down, alpha,” Castiel says. They’ll do this another time. Tomorrow maybe, when
the heat has soothed some. Dean can lick him out until he’s trembling. For now,
they need to knot.
Castiel slides away, leaving space for his alpha to lay along the comforter. He
does once a few dazed seconds have passed, eyes on Castiel as he licks his
shining lips. Castiel will kiss him. Soon.
“Oh, God,” Dean cries once it’s been made abundantly clear what Castiel has
planned, clambering onto his chest too kneel for a second, hands balancing him
on strong, wide shoulders. Dean’s war-tough hands come to hold him upright by
his shoulders, level him while Castiel gets himself together. “My perfect mate,
you miraculous thing, holy crap.”
The member between Castiel’s fingers is pulsing and hot, when he reaches back
to stable it, twitching when Castiel’s hand slips a little. Dean writhes along
the sheets, almost as effected by the heat as Castiel must be. He’s on the edge
of a rut. “Fuck into me, please,” Castiel says, sitting right above that
familiar edge of hard cock. “Hard.”
Dean…Dean fucking does.
Castiel cries, at some point, collapsing into a defined and perfect torso until
his alpha stops—stills entirely and wraps Castiel in strong arms. “Sshhh, my
angel, it’s alright. Let me knot you, yeah? Let me get you better.”
They sleep like that, just like it, Castiel splayed onto his alpha’s torso,
Dean’s knot pulsing several orgasms out of both of them before they’re anywhere
near through. But they sleep in unison.
And Castiel…Castiel is at peace.
Christ.
End Notes
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