Primary Ship: Dean/Castiel
Tags: AU- Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Temporary Marriage, Prince Castiel, Prince Dean Winchester, Strangers to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, Cultural Differences, Misunderstandings, Rope Bondage, Pining
Posting Date: November 9, 2024
Summary
Dean Winchester never wanted to wear a crown. He had no idea that he even could. It wasn't until the Campbell royals all got themselves assassinated by demons that he and Sam found out that King Samuel was actually their grandfather, and well, shit.
But Dean was a soldier before he was anything else. So maybe that's why he'll do anything to stop this awful demon war--anything. Even try to make an alliance with the angels.
They think they're gonna scare him off by telling him he's gotta be magically married--okay, okay, handfasted, but call it what it is--to some snooty noble angel for a whole year? They think Dean's gonna back out because the angels want him to be handfasted not to a proper princess, oh no, but to a prince?
Bring it on.
Excerpt
Gods and goddesses. Dean hasn’t even kissed the guy. Is he supposed to? The thought makes his whole face tingle–the thought of pressing his lips to that rich, pink mouth–but… that’s not what this is about, is it? Right?
“Look, I know you're not… I know this wasn't your choice,” Dean says, low. “Mine either, not really, I just… Lemme do this, okay? Pretty sure I can make it feel good for you.”
Shit, Dean's babbling, but what the fuck else is he supposed to do? He’s been thinking about how to fulfill the handfasting magic without everything going wrong for a while. Too long.
‘Consummation,’ right? Seed going into… somewhere? Yeah.
Castiel doesn't stop him, his hands falling back to hang loose by his side when Dean carefully untangles their fingers and then undoes the buttons of the placket of Castiel’s snowy white, coarse linen breeches, one by one. He does say something in that low gravel of his language, but none of them are the few words of Enochian that Dean understands. Dean just hopes he's not commenting on how Dean's hands are shaking.
His little sigh against the side of Dean's face as Dean starts nudging his breeches downwards with his fingertips, a warm, sweet, shaky puff on Dean’s cheek, sure doesn't sound like he's mad about it, though. His halo is glowing soft and bright, brighter than the lantern lit in the corner of the room, not that angry lightning flash that Dean’s gotten way too used to in the past week.
That does make Dean feel better. A little.
“You doing okay?” Dean says, pulling back and running a hand over the jut and arch of Castiel's hip, under the linen. And then doing it again, ‘cause. Huh. It's weird to feel those hard, firm planes, the jut of bone, rather than softness and curves. Weird, but not bad. He’s not wearing smallclothes under the stupid sacred pants–neither is Dean–but unlike Dean, Castiel hasn’t got any hair on his legs or his belly to catch on the rough woven cloth.
Cas nods and voices a low Enochian affirmative that Dean recognizes. Well, at least there's that.
But the quizzical look on Cas's face, the lilt of his voice, says volumes when Dean carefully pushes him down to sitting on the bed and then gets slowly down on his knees on the rug, shuffling his way forward between those spread thighs–shit, it's gotta be obvious to him by now what Dean's up to, right?
Because sure, Dean was in the Campbell army a long time, he’s heard some things about the kind of activities that men can do with other men… but like hell is Dean going to be sticking his bits into someone who can barely understand what he's saying.
He's not thinking about how hard–no, nope, difficult, difficult–it was to shimmy those breeches down and off Castiel's thighs, because well, fuck, the dude might be a prince of the angels, but he’s juicy like a game chicken, and–
So here Dean is, down on his knees, staring face-level at another guy's floppy dick, surrounded by the same thick, dark curls that Castiel has on his head but nowhere else on his body, smelling of incense and linen and… something musky and heavy. Not sweat, something darker than that, sharper, and…
And Dean’s mouth is fucking watering. It's watering. And he can feel the heat on his cheeks. On his neck. Spreading into the line of this stupid, scrubby, itchy linen tunic. Twitching in his breeches.
Gods of sea and stars. Is this the handfasting magic? What if it is?
