#it is bordering on mildly suggestive so for my own peace of mind let me juuuust

[icarianarts]

I wonder what the tipping point was for Astarion realizing he actually does love the player character. Much to consider

[coffee-obsessed-writer]

The Pact - Chapter 2

Sam Winchester, Gothic AU

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

A/N: This idea was a long time coming. My first true AU, so please be gentle. This will be a slow burn, multi-chapter fic. A HUGE thank you to one of my besties @kazosa for continuing to remind me of this idea we had been planning for a long time now and for suggesting I finally start it. Hope you enjoy!!

Summary: Lord Samuel Winchester has lost the love of his life due to the actions of the Demon King, Crowley. As he plots secret revenge, his father, the King of Lawrence, decrees that Sam will wed Crowley’s daughter in order to unite the two families to protect the sacred ground the Winchester’s Kingdom is built upon.

Eventual Pairing: Sam Winchester x Crowley’s Daughter!Reader

Other Players: John Winchester, Crowley, Rowena, Dean Winchester (mentioned), Bobby Singer, Jessica Moore (deceased)

Warnings: mild language

Words: 6.3K

Everything Tags:

@sorenmarie87 //  @lefthologramdeer // @rockyhorrorpictureshowstyle // @his-paradox // @letsby​

Supernatural Tags:

@wings-of-a-raven // @kazosa // @negans-wife // @grace-for-sale // @geeksareunique // @tiquismiquis // @mrsbarnes-rogers  // @teller258316 // @spnhollis // @sweet-things-4-life // @hobby27 // @sweetlythoughtfulbird // @theoriginalvicki // @dreamchester67 // @xxwarhawk // @babykalika2001 // @superwhovianfangirl81 // @toobusynerdfighting // @missihart23  // @crowleysreigningqueenofhell // @idreamofplaid // @thewinchesterchronicles  // @wayward-gypsy  // @closetspngirl // @fatestemptress // @rebelminxy  // @22sarah08 // @witch-of-letters // @cole-winchester // @rainflowermoon // @adoptdontshoppets // @foreverwayward // @waywardvalkyrie // @fandomoniumflurry // @gnrfanfic // @blackcherrywhiskey // @jessieray98  // @lyoly  // @a--1--1--3 // @31shadesofbrown // @whereismyangel-damnitdeanshare

(I don’t normally tag series, but since this is an AU, I will tag specifically for this one if you don’t want to be on my SPN list. Let me know if you want to hop on any of my tag lists.)

The Pact Tags: @theplaid-wearingmoose // @zombiewerewolfqueen // @silkiechicken // @collette04​

The morning of the ceremony, Sam made his way through the maze of tunnels that lead to Singer’s Apothecary. At the end of the corridor stood the oversized wooden monstrosity that led to the lair’s entrance. Using the key given to him by Singer, he made quick work of the lock and let himself in.

Passing through the frigid stoned clad archway, Sam sighed with relief when he came through the other side and felt the warm breath of heat from the fire that was always burning beneath the cauldron. The invisible barrier kept unwanted and unworthy souls out, but the cost of walking through it left a chill in Sam’s spine for days after. Bobby said it worked better than the warding that was used along the Kingdom’s borders. “It’s just a smart play,” he’d said when Sam questioned why he’d set the barrier in the first place, “considering most of the stuff in here could wipe out all of Lawrence in one fell swoop.”

Bobby had always been a friend to Sam, even when John warned him against it. Robert Singer, Maester of the Winchester House, came from a long line of men who both understood battle and books. He was well versed in spell work, warding, potions and history of creatures, both common and mysterious. He acted as a counselor to John when the King wasn’t sure how to attack a certain enemy; he’d turn to Bobby, his trusted friend, and most sought-after advisor. Even when they didn’t agree, John would at least hear him out. So, Sam knew that if he needed a way to influence his father, Bobby would be the place to start.

Sam stepped into the room and let his eyes wander slowly around. The floor-to-ceiling walls of books loomed high above him. Dual spiral staircases rose up towards the cathedral ceilings, to a narrow metal catwalk that stretched out along the perimeter. Vines and greeneries were hanging or draped from the rails, some of them blooming with an array of speckled flowers.

No sign of the old man.

��Bobby?” Sam called out and took a few steps closer to the fireplace. No response. Sam waited for another beat, then called out for him again. “Bobby, you here?”

“Down here, boy!”

Sam followed the direction of Bobby’s voice through one of the heavy black draperies that separated the rooms and down into the root cellar where he was stocking jars of lamb’s blood.

Taking his time on the stairs, he ducked down into the small space. “How do you work down here,” he asked, finally just taking a seat on the cold stones.

“Well, I ain’t ten feet tall like some people,” he snorted and placed the last jar. “What can I do for you, Sam?”

“Tonight… you’re going?”

Bobby nodded then started shaking his head. “What the hell is your father thinking?” he mumbled, knowing that Sam wouldn’t fight him on it. “If you’re here to ask me to muck it up somehow…” Bobby inhaled sharply and passed Sam an admonishing look, “it’s not a good idea, son.”

“No, that’s not why I’m here. I’m resigned to it, Bobby. I am marrying her, and that’s it.”

Bobby gave him a challenging look. “And I’m supposed to just believe that?”

“It’s the truth,” Sam shrugged. “I’m tired of fighting him on everything. If it makes him happy and helps the family and the Kingdom…” Sam trailed off and gave Bobby, his most sincere smile as he repeated the mantra he and Dean had been programmed to live by. “For the Protection of Lands and Family. Saving people and killing things, the family business. Right?”

“Mhm,” Bobby mumbled and offered Sam a hand to stand up. “Come on, you can help me sort the herbs upstairs while you tell me what it is you can here for.”

Once they were back in the Apothecary’s main quarters, Sam took a seat at Bobby’s workbench and began to separate the lavender from the meadowsweet. Bobby worked on the greeneries and kept passing curious glances at Sam from the corner of his eye.

“Well, spill it, boy. You don’t just come and do grunt work with me for shits and giggles. You got somethin’ on your mind. So, speak.”

Sam snorted, the corner of his mouth turned up. “I never mind grunt worth, if I’m in here with you. But you’re right. I do need something. I want to find the Oracle. I know she’s been in town. Last I was down in the taverns, one of the men there talked of visiting her. I want to see her, Bobby.”

“To what end?” he asked, not taking his eyes from his work.

“I want to know how this all plays out. The marriage, the partnership. This tentative peace that lives between us and Crowley.”

It was Bobby’s turn to scoff. “If you think its that easy, you got another thing comin’.”

“What do you mean? She’s an oracle, isn’t she? She can see the future. Isn’t that what oracles, do?”

“Yeah, in theory. Doesn’t mean she can read your future.”

“Why not?” Sam asked, mildly incensed. “What’s wrong with my future?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, ya jackass. I just meant that, you're enchanted. You have been since you were a boy. Why do you think you just broke that hip instead of being killed?”

Sam sat up straighter at the mention of his accident. He hated talking about it… thinking about it. The way the sword pierced him through the back causing him to fall. The horse running across the battlefield, crushing his hip and shattering it to pieces. He was lucky to be alive, much less be able to walk at all.

Dean had carried him all the way to Singer’s Apothecary from the field where he assumed his brother had died. He appeared lifeless, his skin cool to the touch, his heartbeat so faint, it might as well have been non-existent. Dean demanded Bobby fix him… save him. But the old Maester said it was too late, the boy had died from the stab wound.

Minutes later, Sam gasped for air and immediately wailed in pain. The crushed bones in his hip causing a streak of discomfort like he never had before. The burning hot wound from the knife closing completely on its own. The youngest Winchester Prince sat up, eyeing his brother, fear rampant in his eyes.

“Dean… how?”

“I don’t know,” he said as he threw his arms around his brother’s neck, his hands balling into fists and beating against his back in triumph. “I thought we lost you, Sammy.”

Bobby’s voice snapped Sam back to the present, back to the favor.

“Did you hear me?”

“No, I drifted.”

“Hmm. I said the Oracle won’t be able to read you, ya idjit. Whatever your mother cast over you as a baby, it's impenetrable. No spells, potions or lore I’ve ever read can break what she did.”

Sam sighed. “I at least want to try.”

“It's your gold, son. I’ll take you to her, but there’s no time—”

“Make time, Bobby. I need to do this before the ceremony tonight.”

Bobby eyed him with frustration. “You and your father… so damn demanding,” he mumbled and pulled his cloak down from its hook. “Get your stuff, let’s go before your father realizes your gone.”

 The Oracle’s hovel was well off the beaten path that led from the Kingdom of Lawrence and into the dense forest that sat between the city and the portal entrance to the battlefields of Purgatory. She lived simply, but she accepted only gold as payment. Samuel’s coffer was full to the brim with as much gold as he could shove in there, unsure of what it would take to get her to read him truly. He didn’t really believe Bobby’s claim and needed to see for himself.

Bobby pulled the reigns of his horse, asking the beast to stop by the walkway that led to her small cabin that was built into the side of the hill. The ornate wagon Sam drove with his two best steeds came to a stop behind Bobby’s mare.

“Come on,” Bobby urged, looking up into the sky. “Day’s light is fading and its at least an hour ride back. If we’re late…”

“We won’t be. We’ll be there.”

They approached the door, and as Bobby raised his fist to knock, it opened before he could. A woman with long, dark hair stood in the entry, her eyes were as white as snow and the smile she wore was as bright as the sun.

“Robert… my old friend,” she beamed and moved to hug him without hesitation. Sam watched them with a small, satisfied smile. It was odd for him to see Bobby in anyone’s company or affections, except John’s.

“Pamela,” Bobby nearly sang. “Lovely as ever. I brought—”

“The Prince, yes, I know,” she released Bobby’s greeting and turned her haunting eyes towards Sam.

“Samuel Winchester, the enchanted boy prince. I was wondering when you would come to see me.”

Sam’s expression faltered as he looked between her and Bobby. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to read me at all,” he said, leaving out Bobby’s role in the seed of doubt.

“Let’s see what we see, shall we?” she urged with the same, bright grin. “Come,” she took his hand and led him inside towards the center of the room. She motioned towards the round wooden table, covered in a plum-colored velvet cloth. “Come sit at the table and let’s see what the spirits have to offer for you, Samuel.”

On the cloth was a gold leaf triad knot, at each point was a high back wooden chair for them to take place in. Their hands clasped together around the table, eyes closed, breath steady. Pamela mumbled a variety of words in the old Enochian. Some Sam could recall from his old lessons, others sounded foreign to his ears. As she pressed on, the air in the room became cold and heavy at the same time. It made Sam feel as if there was something in there looming over them.

There was a lengthy pause, and just as Sam begun to wonder if it was going to work at all, Pamela began to speak.

“You’re in deep despair,” she whispered, her ghostly eyes wide and raised up to the ceiling. “You mourn her, still. Though her spirit has crossed the veil, you cannot let her go. Need for vengeance drives you to make rash choices. But… they are meant to be made.”

The table began to vibrate, and a breeze cascaded through the room, causing the candles to flicker chaotically. Pamela continued with more Enochian as if she was holding a conversation with the unseen visitor, and then translating it to you.

“You hold jealousy in your heart. Wishing to trade places with your brother. To be gone, in battle. You must realize though, that isn’t your place. Your place is here. With her.”

“Her?” Sam rasped in question. “Her, who?”

“The twin to your soul. The one who holds your future. She’s yet to show herself, but behind the feathers, the dark, iridescent feathers, lies the match to your unburnt flame. She’ll be of great comfort to you when your grief folds you over and renders you useless.”

“That makes no sense to me,” he muttered in reply, looking to Bobby who sat and watched quietly, giving him no type of reaction at all.

“There’s something dark, something laying in wait for… you, your family. A cloud, as black as a reaper’s suit. It waits. When you recognize it, don’t hesitate. Act and you’ll be protected, no matter what you think may happen.”

The Oracle made no sense. Sam couldn’t imagine anything she was saying to apply to him. There were no other women in the world for him. Ever. Regardless of the arrangement of his marriage. That woman wouldn’t be long for this world, that he could be sure of. Whatever darkness she spoke of, everyone knew of the past feud with Crowley, even the traveling Oracle must have heard the tales, so she could easily feed him a warning and apply it to Crowley.

As for Crowley’s daughter, she would be a sacrifice. An eye for an eye. The Oracle never saw that, nor any of his other plans he was hopeful she would have touched on. He was beginning to think that Bobby had been right all along and that Pamela was just saying anything to make him feel fulfilled with going to see her.

Pamela’s hands started to shake and as she quickly spoke in Enochian the entire atmosphere of the room changed, the heaviness was gone, and the warmth reclaimed the small space. She released both of their hands, then brought her nonexistent gaze back to Sam’s face.

“That was it?” he asked suspiciously, “Nothing else at all?”

Pamela just shook her head. “I know you don’t understand your message, yet. But I promise you, dear boy, you will.”

He considered straight out asking about the marriage, and if his plans for Crowley’s daughter would elicit the outcome he wanted, but he stopped himself. Revealing his plans to Bobby would just be stupid. The old Maester would surely try and stop him. Besides, he wanted the truth from the oracle. If he outright asked her, she could just give him the answer she thought he wanted.

Instead, Sam smiled and took her hand in both of his. “I sure hope so, madame. Here, a gift for your time.”

He reached into his coat pocket and placed the coffer of coins into her palm. When the weight of the bag sat heavy in her hand, she gasped slightly in surprise. “No, this is far too much, Lord Samuel. I know you aren’t pleased with what came through, and even if you were, this is just taking advantage.”

“No, take it,” he said and closed her fingers around the bag. “Use it to spread good cheer or help a neighbor if you can’t use it yourself. I just appreciate your time.”

“Well, thank you, M’Lord. I will put these coins to good use. Next time though, its’ on me. No matter what you think now, I have a feeling you’ll be back.” She smirked knowingly and gave him a lingering wink.

After a brief goodbye, Sam and Bobby were back on the road towards Lawrence. They rode in silence for a while until Bobby couldn’t take the quiet any longer.

“Well, feel better?”

“No,” Sam said, “I think maybe, you were right. She couldn’t read me.”

“Then what she was saying, you don’t believe her?”

“No,” he said again, “None of what she said rang true, nor did it feel genuine. I’m not calling her out as a fraud. But…” he trailed off and shrugged, causing Bobby’s expression to fall and replace it with disgust.

“Boy, don’t. That woman is the real deal. No tricks. No hoodoo. She’s a seer, through and through. If she couldn’t read you, or if what she read was false, its simply because of—”

“Whatever mother did.”

“Yes. So, can we move on now, please? Get back, get you cleaned up and get you married before your father realizes you’re not there?”

Sam nodded without saying anything more, clicked his tongue with the reigns to speed the horses up and get home to meet his new bride.

  It was the first time ever in your memory that you had been allowed to leave Crowley’s compound and the castle walls that had encased you for nearly your entire life. This day, you could pack your most favorite belongings and leave the grounds for good. You would never have to spend another night locked away in some old, musty turret, dreaming of escape. Though marrying a Winchester was not something you were happy about it, if it meant earning a one-way ticket out, you would promise to be his wife.

The caravan that was carrying you to your new life was moving slowly towards the other end of the realm where the Winchester Castle stood in all its ornate glory. Never having seen it with your own eyes, or any of the realms, really, you had to rely on the stories and descriptions from others. Even the man you were intended to marry, Samuel, you knew nothing about him except what you heard in whispers among Crowley’s people.

To your side, Rowena had her nose buried deep in an oversized book that was nearly as old as she was. Crowley refused to accompany you to the Winchester’s castle, instead of sending Rowena in his place. She complained, of course, but in the end, she relented and went willingly.

You watched her read the book and wondered if she knew the man you’d been betrothed too. Had she been to the Winchester castle? Had she ever met the King? So many questions ran through your mind as to what Rowena could answer for you now that you were out of Crowley’s reach.

“Rowena, do you know him?”

“Who’s that, dear?” she asked, not taking her eyes from the page.

“Samuel.”

“Aye,” she replied, drawing out the word slowly.

Rowena felt your eyes on her but did her best to concentrate on the book in her hand. It wasn’t just any book, and it had been her prize for escorting you to your new home and staying with you until the ceremony was done. She hoped you wouldn’t be peppering her with questions, but once you started, it was hard to stop.

“What’s he like? Is he deformed like some say? Hobbled?”

She sighed deeply and closed the Book of the Damned. “Well, yes, but not as bad as some would like to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“From what I understand, he was wounded in the early days of the war in Purgatory. Some said that his brother carried his lifeless body all the way home from the battlegrounds. Yet, when they got there, the young prince had found life again. It’s not impossible I suppose, I’ve certainly seen my share of men rise from the dead. Either that or the brother is a nit wit and can’t find a heartbeat properly,” she rolled her eyes and waved him off. “He healed, but he walks with a cane and couldn’t return to battle.”

You just grunted in understanding. “Is he kind or is he more like father? Purposely withholding and cruel, and unable to love anything.”

“Your father loves you, dear. He’s just… preoccupied. As for Samuel, I’ve only ever met him once, and from what I could see, I don’ think you’ll have much trouble with him.”

Casting your eyes out of the carriage window, you watched the countryside pass by as the horses slowly made their way towards the Lawrence River. It was the first time you could recall seeing it up close. The sound of the rushing water was soothing to your ears and for the first time, you wondered if you would miss the sound of the waves against the cliffs that would echo through your chambers throughout the night.

So many nights it had helped lull you to sleep, especially when thoughts of things that plagued you invaded your dreams. That led to another question popping in your head. Something you had wanted to ask Rowena for years, but for fear of suffering Crowley’s wraith, you abstained. But now, his influence was far away, and there was no one to stop you from asking.

“Will you tell me about my mother? Now that we’re gone from his walls? He never tells me anything about her.”

Rowena glanced at you, her eyes filled with warning. “You’re just full of questions, aren’t you, poppet? That is not a place you want to go to. Let that sleeping dog lie.”

“But why? She’s my mother, why can’t I know about her? He tells me that I’m so much like them both, but I see nothing of myself in him. He’s cruel, and power hungry. All he cares about are his demons and his Kingdom. Being ‘the Red King’ has gone to his head, made him even more foul and loathsome than before.”

“Easy, child. He may be a right and proper cunt, but he’s still my son. An I won’ have ya speaking of him that way. Fergus is who he is, partially because I was an awful mum to him. Yet, look at what he’s built. If you don’ think that the Winchesters feel the say way about their father, you’re sadly mistaken. No child loves their parent truly, not if that child wants to grow up with power and purpose.”

“I’m not a child,” you mumbled and closed your eyes in disgust at what you heard pour from her lips. Deciding that was enough questions, you turned back to watch the scenery pass by. Rowena opened her book again, thinking the conversation was done, but the way your conversation ended sat heavily on her mind.

“Then stop acting like one,” she retorted and took her hand into hers. “You have every right to ask about your mother. But, its just not something that needs to be discussed now. Know that she loved you and she didn’ want to leave, but she had to. One day, I’ll tell you more, but for now, you just remember that she loved you and only wanted the best things for you.”

You exhaled deeply and when you looked back out of the window again, you could see the tall peaks and turrets of the castle in the distance. The closer you got, the more of the slate gray stones of the towers could be seen coming up through the dense forest that surrounded it. It was exciting and yet, terrifying, to think of being anywhere but your father’s compound. Up until this point, it almost felt surreal. Yet, here you were staring down the place that would become your new home. IF the Winchesters were true to their word and let you live, that is.

There was still some doubt as to the validity of Crowley’s claim to your safety and it had weighed heavily on your mind for the past two days. The deal itself felt sudden and strange, and you couldn’t help but feel like there was something more to it. An undercurrent of treachery so great, that it had the potential to cause irreparable damage to many lives. The Winchesters, after all, were your father’s greatest enemy for many years and the only ones who had ever proved to be so troublesome.

You weren’t going to leave the compound for the Winchester’s and not be prepared to defend yourself. Yet, straight up slaughtering your husband-to-be would most certainly lead to your death as well. There had to be a better plan…

The night before leaving home, you snuck down into the chambers Rowena kept for her visits. There, you paged through the stacks of books until you found the spell you wanted; a simple love spell. “Better safe than sorry,” you had told yourself as you waited for the clear liquid to cool. Once it did, it flashed a bright, blood red and then faded back to its transparent state. Two drops of that in Lord Winchester’s drink would guarantee him to fall head over heels in love with you.

“And unable to slice your throat from ear to ear,” you mused silently, as the castle continued to grow as the carriage closed the distance. It was self-defense if needed, or even an escape plan once you were sure no one was watching. Either way, the potion was hidden away between the swell of your breasts, ready to be used in an instant if need be.

The stone cobbled guard tower came into view, surrounded by at least four of the Winchester Guard. Your heart began to pound just as Rowena gave your hand a squeeze.

“Here we go girly, keep your wits and remember where you come from,” she said then plastered on her best fake, yet charming smile.

Once the carriage was granted passage, you and Rowena were escorted towards the castle’s entrance. When the carriage door opened, one of the Winchester Guards was there to help you carefully down and bowed slightly once your feet were firmly on the gravel.

Looking around, you were already in awe of your surroundings. The stark contrast of where you had lived to this new place was almost shocking. In place of the putrid and dank forest that caged Crowley’s compound, there were trees and greeneries that were dotted with an abundance of colorful, fragrant flowers. The breeze smelled of orchids and fruit instead of sulfur and death. The sun was bright and warm, and the clouds floated by like wispy remnants of cotton candy, instead of the thunderous threatening ones that plagued the sky and loomed over the MacLeod homestead.

This place was alive with beauty and hope, and suddenly you could see why Crowley wanted it so desperately. You’d only been there for a handful of minutes and you already never wanted to leave.

“Come, (Y/N), they want to escort you to your chambers,” Rowena beckoned. When you didn’t immediately comply, she grabbed your hand and yanked you forward. “Will you please act like you’ve been around people before?” she chastised under her breath.

Giving her a dangerous scowl, she recoiled sharply but not enough for the others to notice.

“Remember who helped you get here, dear,” she mumbled before linking her elbow through yours and moving you up the stairs and into the grand entrance of the Winchester’s Castle.

The guards led you through the winding passageways and up to one of the turret rooms. It was sparse in furniture and décor, but you didn’t care. It was the view from the window that captured your attention. From its height, you could see a remarkable amount of Lawrence, including the river and far off foothills that led straight back to the cliffs you used to call home.

“Never again,” you thought and absently touched your cleavage, thinking of the love potion hidden there.

“His Majesty would like you to remain here until the time of the ceremony. Should you require anything, a chambermaid will be up soon to see to your needs,” the guard proclaimed flatly before bowing his head and taking his leave.

“Alright, let’s get you ready for this,” Rowena said and opened the trunk you’d brought with you. She pulled the dress from it and wrinkled her nose. “This is what you’re wearing?” She held the pale-pink colored frock as if it were garbage out in front of her. “Come now, this is so… not you.”

“Father chose it. Said he wanted me to appear chased and innocent,” you mused, clasping your hands behind your back and slowly walking around it.

“Well, your father isn’t here, is he? No way I will let any grandchild of mine put such a wretched color on her body. Surely, I understand why he wants you to appear that way… no man wants a woman for a wife that isn’t pure, but you are a MacLeod for cryin’ out loud. You should be dressed as one!”

“Take it up with Father,” you replied nonchalantly, secretly loving Rowena’s disgust of the dress he chose and laughing to yourself that Crowley assumed you were so chased. It occurred to you then that maybe he didn’t know all that you had been up to while living under his roof. Just because you had been a virtual prisoner in your father’s home, didn’t mean that you didn’t explore your sexuality and feelings of need over the years.

“He won’t even be here until the damned ceremony, the little twat. Suppose in that time I could find you something more appropriate.” Grabbing her wrap from the end of the small bed, she draped it over herself and cocked the corner of her mouth into a pursed grin. “I’ll be back with something more fitting for you. Until I get back, rest dear, you’re going to need it.”

Once she was gone, you slipped the small vile of the potion from between your breasts and held it up to the light. Would it be enough to save you? Would it even work on the hobbled Lord of the manner? Sighing deeply, you returned it to its hiding place and paced the room before closing the trunk and sitting on top of it. Beside you on the bed, one of Rowena’s bags was half open, and out of it stuck the corner of the Book of the Damned. Knowing she would be gone a while, you dared to peek inside. As you paged through the ancient text, a new idea began to form in your mind and a devilish grin right along with it. The magic that the book contained was far too powerful for you, but there were a few spells that you may be able to manage and would certainly help if you found yourself backed into a corner.

Without hesitation, you jumped up from the trunk and opened it again, rifling through it to find your own parchment and quill. Quickly copying down the spells you thought may come in handy, you felt your spirits rise even more than they had when you first laid eyes on the castle.

  The dungeons were dark and dimly lit, but Samuel could find his way there blind if he had too. The echo of his hard heels and cane against the stone floor rattled against the walls as he rounded the corner and entered the small room where the ceremony was to take place.

He’d heard the girl had arrived earlier in the day, while he was off with Bobby at the seer’s hut, but he had no desire to see her. Instead, he quietly retired to his own chambers and spent the rest of the afternoon mulling over the things the seer foretold. Mingled with that, were his plans for (Y/N) MacLeod. He tried to think of her only as Crowley’s daughter, hoping it would make ending her life a bit easier. But it did not. Despite his desperate need to enact vengeance for Jessica, a sliver of doubt had begun to seep into his veins. This girl was innocent, wasn’t she? She couldn’t help being a spawn of that creature, just like he couldn’t help being born a Winchester. It had just been their respective crosses to bear. Should she suffer for her father’s crimes? Could he live with himself to take the life of a woman, even if she was a witch in training, that bore the name of his enemy?

These questions and concerns plagued him for most of the afternoon, and even now as he made his way into the chambers where the ceremony would be held, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was going about this plot of revenge all wrong.

Footsteps from behind caught his attention, as his father appeared from the curve of the staircase.

“Samuel,” he greeted, a satisfied smirk buried on his lips. “Glad to see you here, promptly, and even dressed as the Lord of Winchester Castle should be.” John plucked at one of the pointed corners of Sam’s black coat and brushed the wrinkle from the front of the black silk vest worn beneath it.

“Stop it,” Sam mumbled and turned from John, so he wasn’t within is reach any longer.

“Have you seen her yet?” John asked, unphased by his son’s show of rejection.

“No.”

“I’m surprised. I’d thought you would want to taste the milk before you bought the cow,” John scoffed, clearly proud of his joke at the expense of his future daughter-in-law.

Sam just rolled his eyes and limped about the room, gripping the pommel of his cane and preying it would absorb the growing rage he felt towards his father.

“Nervous, son?”

Turning sharply on his heel, Sam glared daggers at his father. “No. Please stop acting like you care how I feel about this.”

“But I do care. This… this is bigger than you, Sammy—”

“You don’t call me that,” he growled and turned away again.

Shuffling towards the table that held a decanter of wine and goblets, Sam poured himself a cup full and drank it in one gulp, relishing in the sting of it as it cascaded down his throat. He was about to pour another when approaching voices from the corridor stopped him.

Bobby entered, followed by a petite woman in a blood red dress that bore a high lace neck and flowing lace skirt. Her shock of red hair and bright red lipstick almost made her hard to look at, yet there was something quite beautiful about her. Sam wondered for a moment if this was the woman that he was supposed to wed. She looked to be around the same age as his nemesis, but witches… they could mask their true ages now, couldn’t they?

“Rowena MacLeod,” John said, half a smile forced on his face. “Lovely to see you again.” He bowed his head slightly and turned to Sam. “This is Crowley’s mother, Rowena. Rowena, my son, Lord Samuel.”

Sam took her hand gingerly and bowed his torso slightly as he shook it. The movement sent a bolt of pain down from his hip to his feet, but his face would never tell the others how badly he wanted to cry out. In turn, she offered a polite smile and curtsy before stepping back, leaving a great distance between herself and the rest of the Winchesters.

Bobby took his place at the forefront of the chamber where there were two small cast iron containers of wildflowers. Candles flickered around the windowless room. As Maester Singer cleared his throat, John and Samuel took their place on one side of him, as Rowena took the other.

“No Crowley?” Sam asked casually, though inside he was deeply disappointed. He had so badly wanted to look the man who murdered the love of his life in the eye.

“He should be here,” Rowena said, trying not to sound annoyed. “He said he’d arrive—”

“And so I have,” Crowley smirked, appearing in the doorway, red smoke dissipating in the air around him. “You know how I like to make an entrance.”

The room fell awkwardly silent as Crowley sauntered into the room, his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his black suit pants. His dark eyes pounced from person to person, until they landed on Sam. That’s when he grinned. It was smarmy, a knowing type of grin and Sam resisted every urge to lunge at the man, tearing him limb from limb.

“Samuel,” Crowley cooed, approaching the boy and secretly wishing for him to act on whatever was hiding behind his blazing glare. “I hope you accept my sympathies. This can’t be easy for you. Marrying a woman that wasn’t… what was her name again?”

Sam towered over him silently, but inside, he was seething with rage.

“Enough, Crowley,” John warned, his head ticked to the side with frustration. “Can we just move this along, please? Then you and I have some things to discuss up in my chambers.”

“Right,” Crowley said, turning on his heel. “We most certainly do. Alright, let’s go. Where’s the girl?” he asked Rowena absently as he took his place beside her.

“She’s right outside, I’ll get her.”

Rowena scurried from the room, while the men stood in tense silence for what felt like an eternity. Finally, the echo of two sets of footsteps on the stone grew closer. Sam felt his mouth go dry and his chest tighten at what he was about to do. Marrying her was going to be the hard part. Speaking promises of love, caring and adoration for a woman he never met, who’s family he loathed with every bit of his being, would take every bit of strength he was able to muster up.

There was no music, no standing ovation from a crowd of weepy onlookers as there would have been, had Sam married Jessica as intended. A blanket of silence buried the room as (Y/N) walked in linked on Rowena’s arm. She looked to Crowley to come take his place to escort the bride to Sam, but he pretended not to notice.

Sam drew in a deep breath and finally had the courage to look at the woman approaching him. His heart began to pound the moment his eyes landed on her face. The dryness of his mouth extended to his throat, and he found it hard to swallow as he took her in, head to toe.

Her features didn’t resemble Crowley at all, she was nothing like him in the slightest. (Y/N) was beautiful, but Sam didn’t think that was the right word to describe what he was seeing. She was an ethereal being somehow manifesting in his presence. He felt his chest tighten, his hands grow sweaty and nervous. His tongue darted quickly over his lips, desperately giving them moisture that had seemed to leave his body.

Then, he saw what she was wearing, a black, strapless floor-length gown that was covered in tiny, reflective gems that made her simmer as if she were a dark angel straight from one of his childhood dreams. Quick flashes of lustrous blues and purples radiated from the wrap she wore over her shoulders, catching his eyes. When (Y/N) finally met him at the top of the aisle, he saw that the shawl was made from a flock of feathers… dark, iridescent feathers.

“Lord Samuel Winchester, Lady (Y/N) MacLeod, are you ready to be wed?” Bobby asked, holding his hands out, palms up, waiting for them both to accept. He watched as they both slowly nodded, barely holding the other’s gaze. “Great. Let’s begin, shall we?”

[kuriquinn]

Penthesilea [8/?]

Cover & Disclaimer

Chapter Summary: It isn’t until Sasuke’s recovered his breath that he recognises the feeling that flooded his entire system just now.Jealousy, he realises with disbelief that borders almost on horror.

Chapter Beta: Sakura’s Unicorn

戦国時代

With Sakura’s continued treatments, Itachi is soon at the point where he can receive visitors for longer periods of time. To make the most of it and to offer a show of strength, he asks Sasuke to convene a meeting one morning with his remaining advisors.

The war council of the Uchiha is a different sort from ages past; time and bloodshed have robbed them of the traditional council of twelve; these days, they settle for barely more than half that number.

The last member of their father’s council, Yakumi, sits at attention beside Shisui and Obito, frowning at the younger men in disapproval. Obito’s grandmother, Masumi, the oldest living Uchiha, sits beside Uruchi, Itachi and Sasuke’s maternal aunt. Their Uncle Teyaki once joined them here, but his mind has left him in his old age and, as such, he’s often left with an attendant. Finally, there’s Itachi’s mother-in-law, Hazuki, who’s sat in since the death of her husband.

She peers worriedly at Itachi. “Are you well, my son? It’s been so long since we’ve seen you, and I worry about your pallor.”

“The healers assure me that I’ll be back to normal soon,” Itachi says, waving dismissively. Only Sasuke knows the effort he puts into the gesture.  

They’ve continued circulating the story throughout camp that Itachi is fighting a stubborn strain of pneumonia. Given the poor battlefield conditions and the general stress of his position, it’s entirely plausible, and even medics sometimes have difficulty with the disease. Many a common soldier has succumbed to it over the years.

“Healers?” Yakumi echoes. “None of our camp healers have been in to see you for weeks.”

“One hopes it’s because they are seeing to the men,” Itachi says in a way that isn’t really an answer to the old man’s unasked question. “Let us return to the matter at hand. My brother assures me that the latest conscription efforts have been successful, and there are more than enough recruits at the ready should there be an imminent attack. Yet, the same cannot be said for our supply situation.”

“Another eight months to a year, at most, barring unforeseen circumstances,” Sasuke elaborates.

“There’s a village to the southwest offering supplies in return for manpower,” Yakumi says. “Enough to keep us going for another six years if necessary.”

“You speak of Oto, yes?” Itachi asks, glancing at Sasuke in confirmation; he nods. “Then, no.”

“But Itachi-sama—”

“Orochimaru betrayed the Senju to form his little mercenary state. There’s no reason he wouldn’t think to do the same to the Uchiha. His purposes are his own, separate from ours.”

“Then the army will starve!”

“If our army is starving, you can be sure that the Senju army is as well,” Shisui interrupts. “My people report that they face the same concerns over supplies and rations that we do.”

“So, it’s a long-game—who can outlive the other in the face of starvation,” Obito says, grim.

“Or perhaps it’s the opposite,” Itachi suggests. “If we bring this war to an end then both sides will be able to focus on survival, and our children and their children will not have to die.”

There’s almost a palpable collective sigh. It’s not the first time Itachi has expressed interest in armistice with the Senju, but given the unsuccessful nature of past attempts, everyone reacts with the same weary exasperation.

“Peace is obviously the preferable solution, but not if it comes at the price of the Uchiha being relegated to second-class,” Uruchi says.

“I remember my mother telling me stories,” Masumi says quietly. “Before the Madara and Hashirama’s failed peace talks, of how the Senju tried to claim all Uchiha on their land as their serfs. They wanted us to be no more than a sentinel force, bred to serve and guard them.”  

“The Uchiha are not blameless in this,” Itachi reminds her. “Madara and his vassals tried to utterly eradicate the Senju from the face of the planet.”

“As a preventative measure to ensure our own survival,” Yakumi reminds him. “If any of the Senju continue to sympathise with the ways of Senju Tobirama, there is no possible way to reconcile. We cannot be the vassals of our enemies, or war will begin again in another generation.”

“There won’t be another generation if we don’t at least try,” Shisui argues.

“But it’d be stupid to rush it just because we’re desperate,” Obito shoots back.

“Itachi—why not wait a little longer?” Hazuki suggests softly. “The floods will end soon. When they do, request a parlay with Tsunade-hime. Find out what they would expect for a truce—or a long-term peace. In the meantime, we can go amongst our people and learn what they will tolerate and what they will not. If we then present our conditions to the Senju, whether they choose to honour them or not will indicate whether they have the same wish for peace as you do.”

“And if they do not accept everything, we simply continue as we have done for so long?” Itachi asks mildly, but his distaste for the idea is clear.

“Well, obviously, there are certain things we couldn’t waver on, but we, too, can be flexible,” Shisui suggests, briefly putting a comforting hand on Itachi’s shoulder. “If it’s just a matter of convincing our people what we should be willing to bend on, I can manage that.”

“That’s not an option I would like to pursue,” Itachi replies darkly.

Obito snorts. “If, after charging it up for ten years, you’re finally going to use your Kotoamatsukami, you should use it on the enemy. It’d be nothing for you to flutter those pretty eyes of yours and make the old woman do exactly what we want.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Shisui asks, affecting an air of surprise.  

“Have some decorum,” Yakumi snaps at the younger men.

“You know why that isn’t an option, Obito,” Masumi interrupts the argument, and her grandson frowns as if he’s been chastised. “You too, Shisui. Peace that is not arrived at honestly will disintegrate. It would be a short victory for us, yes, but in another generation, the children of those you’ve ensorcelled will begin to question. And we will return to this same conundrum.”  

“Brother?”

The prompt makes Sasuke startle, and the rest of his relatives adopt an uncomfortable quiet. It’s no secret that he doesn’t support peace initiatives, that he believes them to be nothing more than idle fantasy and naiveté. His enjoyment of battle is also well-known.

But he envisions Sakura’s eyes shining at him, and Naruto’s idiot grin, and Hinata’s hopes for peace before he is forced to kill the other man. And there are deep, secret hopes that he barely wants to pay attention to that linger in his heart and could only exist in a world where there is peace.

And so, out loud he says, “If armistice is what you deem best for the Uchiha, then it should happen as soon as possible.”

There is a sense of astonishment and disquiet among his relatives, but Itachi nods slowly. He has an irritatingly unsurprised gleam in his eyes that suggests he expected Sasuke would say this.

“Go then,” he tells the others. “Obito, inform our generals that we will continue this ceasefire as long as possible. Have them focus on finding new providers for our supplies. Shisui, you have a means of getting a message to Tsunade-hime’s forces that we wish to consider a truce?”

“Of course.”

“Keep it quiet. The fewer people who are privy to this—on either side—the lower likelihood of sabotage. The rest of you will go among the people; find out under what conditions a peace could be possible. But be careful in your information gathering. Sasuke—”

“Hm?”

“Speak with Hyūga Neji to gauge what his clan elders might think of the truce. It’s best we know their frame of mind before we broach the subject in earnest.”

“Fine.”

As the other members of the council speak amongst themselves, Sasuke stands to leave. He pauses, sparing a moment to study his brother, who’s smiling wanly at something Shisui whispers in his ear. For a brief instant, Itachi looks happy and hopeful, and Sasuke decides that alone is worth attempting a peaceful resolution to this conflict.

戦国時代

As he leaves the Hyūga compound later that day, Sasuke finds his way blocked by several of his relatives and members of their vassal clans. At the head of their little group is his cousin.

“Inabi,” Sasuke says, attempting to walk around him, but the other man steps to one side, planting himself in the way. He stares down at him, jaw-clenched in the same annoyance he always feels when they interact. Inabi has never made it a secret that he dislikes deferring to Itachi and Sasuke in matters of leadership, especially given they are younger than he. But he has never tried to argue with clan law, at least. “Was there something you wanted?”

“You were in council with your brother this morning. What’s the news? Should I prepare my raiding squads for departure?”

“It’s been months since we’ve left this godforsaken camp,” one of his cronies adds.

“The Senju still have many deaths to pay for,” another agrees. “Their blood will be sufficient recompense!”

The statements are met with cheers of agreement.

“You are to continue to mind your posts and remain on the defensive,” Sasuke says. “There will be no incursions into enemy territory until the order is given.”

“If we simply wait, they’ll take us when we least expect it!” Inabi protests.

“Then don’t simply wait,” Sasuke advises. “Spend your time doing something useful like rebuilding our fortifications or distributing the non-perishable supplies to our outlying caches.”  

“But—”

“Until there is credible threat, we are not launching any attacks,” Sasuke snaps. “Those are our leader’s orders, and if you disobey them, you’ll answer to me—is that understood?”

He allows his Sharingan to spin to the surface, hammering the point home. Inabi steps forward, his own eyes bleeding red to meet the challenge, but Sasuke doesn’t move, unimpressed by his cousin’s show. They both know that in a fight, Inabi is no match for Sasuke.

Eventually, Inabi looks away and grunts, “Fine.”

Nodding, Sasuke deactivates his Sharingan and turns his back on the group. He walks away.

“That’s a change,” he hears one of Inabi’s lackeys mutter. “Remember the days when he’d have jumped at the chance to spill Senju blood?”

“He’s gone soft.”

Someone else snorts. “Some men are like that when they finally get a woman on her back.”

“Heh,” Inabi jeers, “who would’ve thought the great Uchiha Sasuke would turn into a weakling because of some common whore?”

Sasuke tenses.

His first instinct is to draw his katana and cut the man to ribbons at the insult, but he forces himself to stay utterly still. Killing these bastards now while his brother is desperate to promote peace, will be counterproductive. As he draws a slow breath in through his nose, Sasuke tries to ignore the disbelief and dismay that threaten him. He and Sakura have been very careful since Kakashi expressed his concerns. No one among the men should know of his dalliances—unless they noticed Sakura slipping away following those first illicit encounters.

“I bet if she disappears, he’ll get his balls back.”

The words are said at just the right volume that they could either be a passing comment between chums or an actual threat.

Rage at the audacity threatens to overwhelm him, and his fingers clench around his sword, but he stays his hand. If this is meant to provoke him, his reaction will show that they have touched on a nerve. That will make him appear weak, which, historically, would lead to a fight—either with him, or someone foolhardy enough to try to find Sakura.

He imagines her crushing Inabi’s bones for his trouble and smirks.

Turning ever so slightly—just enough to show that he’s heard them—he meets Inabi’s gaze. Perhaps he and his cronies note the expression and the message behind it, because a general atmosphere of uneasiness falls over them at the sight. Sasuke leaves them like that, his languid gait proving that he isn’t worried about their bluster.

But when he is far from their line of sight, his mouth turns downward.

戦国時代

Whisperings of a truce aside, the temporary ceasefire is not utterly without incident.

During a routine visit to one of the nearby neutral villages to recruit workers for their fields, Sasuke and his men encounter Naruto, accompanied by his own cadre of men. It isn’t the first time this has happened; there’ve been instances throughout the years where they’ve met outside of the battlefield. There’s usually a tacit agreement not to cross blades until far from civilians, as these are the people who feed them.

Usually.

This time, certain words are exchanged—also, certain kunai—and the skirmish begins before Sasuke or Naruto can quite stop it. Once their hot-blooded comrades are set off, it becomes a chore for them to prevent any fatalities that might spark a full-fledged battle. The only saving grace for Sasuke is that Inabi and his crew are patrolling in a completely different area, or they would be knee-deep in their next siege.  

“Since you’re their leader, shouldn’t you be able to better control them?” Sasuke sneers as he uses the hilt of his katana to knock a face-painted, Senju lunatic in the back of the head.

“I could say the same for you,” Naruto shoots back as several of his shadow clones try to divert the growing melee away from any of the village’s structures. “Or is it that you people don’t have the same understanding of ‘ceasefire’ as we do?”

“That you understand what a ceasefire is at all impresses me,” Sasuke snorts.

“Oi!”

Sasuke snaps at his men to fall back and leave the village, but they are too far away to hear him.

“Maybe you’re just having an off day,” Naruto suggests. “Could it be that you’re a little…distracted? Possibly thinking how it’s not worth it anymore? I bet you’re getting tired of all this fighting, too.”

“Don’t project your wishes on me.”

“Aw, come on—I say we get over the past and think of the future,” the blond man declares, ducking a stray kunai. “I don’t even know what we’re fighting about anymore—your man insulting Kiba’s mother or some pissing contest from way back.”

“If you feel that strongly about it, you could always surrender,” Sasuke suggests.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Naruto shoots back as the momentum of the fight brings him and Sasuke into close quarters. Both of them have unsheathed their katanas, and the blades cross as they meet. “Speaking of fun, asshole—check out my latest jutsu!”

He disappears in a cloud of smoke and when it clears, a bevy of buxom, half-naked women stand in his place. It’s a version of his favourite, idiotic technique which has never worked on Sasuke, who disperses it easily with a minor Katon.

“Moron,” he adds as Naruto reappears, diving out of the way of the flames.

“You just wait! One day, I’ll figure out what your poison is!” the other man insists with a grin that isn’t affected by Sasuke’s actions in the least. “Then you’ll be knocked out cold on the floor and I’ll win.”

“Sure.”

“And after that, we can put all this stupid clan stuff behind us and be friends again.”

Sasuke bristles. “Who says were we ever friends?”

“We were when we were kids,” Naruto reminds him insistently.

“Those days are long gone.”

“So? We can start over. And I was also thinking-–”

“You? Thinking?”

“Shut up! Anyway, when this war is over-–”

As if it’s the exercise of an afternoon and not a generations-long feud, Sasuke scoffs inwardly.

“—you should come over for dinner. We can eat ramen!”

“No.”

“Fine. If you don’t like ramen, I’ll get Sakura-chan to make something else—but just so you know, she’s a terrible cook.”  

Sasuke is startled at this. What does Naruto know about Sasuke’s connection to Sakura? Is he somehow informed about their liaisons?

She wouldn’t tell him… Would she?

Carefully controlled, he asks, “Why on earth would your medic be cooking your food?”

“Huh? I dunno… That’s something a wife’s supposed to do, right?” Naruto asks absently, pulling back his fist. “I mean, I guess we’ll be married by then, but maybe you’re right. Maybe we won’t be yet…”

At this point, Sasuke is so caught off-guard that Naruto’s next blow sends him reeling backwards. There are distant cheers from Naruto’s people and rallying cries from his own, but Sasuke barely hears them. The words ring in his ears, over and over like the fading echoes of a bell.

Wife. Married.

His eyes film over with red.

“Oi! You were supposed to duck that!” Naruto yells at him, hurrying over. “Listen, that was not me breaking the truce, okay? I was just—”

Sasuke is barely cognisant of his palm full of electricity or his body moving forward. He’s on a collision course with Naruto’s face, and the other man barely dodges in time.

“What gives?” Naruto demands, but Sasuke doesn’t bother answering, instead swerving around to take a second shot at him.

And suddenly, the light-hearted skirmish transforms into the usual duel to the death. Lightning and wind clash against one another until their comrades finally manage to drag them away from one another.

It isn’t until Sasuke’s recovered his breath that he recognises the feeling that consumed his entire system just now.

Jealousy, he realises with disbelief that borders on horror.

つづく

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