Garlands of pure white ribbon, woven round with foxglove, poppies, thrift and roses made swags between each pew. The festivity of the colors was added to by the fractal of rainbow swatches created by stunningly bright sunshine scattering through immense panels of stained glass. The walls of the church were perfectly white, but seemed to absorb the colors, reflect them, remake them anew even brighter than before. As Dean walked arm and arm with Charlie down the wide, red-carpeted aisle, he felt like he'd stepped within a kaleidoscope. Walking just ahead of them, Ms. Harvelle looked every way, eyes wide, mouth ajar, green and blue staining her blonde hair. Standing with Samuel, Jessica made an audible 'oh!' every time she beheld some new wonder, a hand on her new-swelling belly. The wonder of it was not lost on Dean. It would have been beautiful had Dean's heart not felt so heavy.

It was over. Everything was over.

Wearing a smile painted on as if his face were a mask, Dean arrested Ms. Harvelle and indicated the row beside which they stood as a reasonable place for the Winchesters to ensconce for the duration of the long ceremony. The hard wood pew, cushioned in faded green velvet, was a modest distance back from the apse – close enough to indicate that they were close acquaintes with the family, far enough back to not indicate over familiarity with them. Several rows ahead, Ms. Masters craned her neck back to catch her first sight of Ms. Milligan. Her face had grown thin, her eyes showed moisture and a spider's web of red veins that gave proof that she'd been weeping. Nevertheless, she donned a smile that Dean suspected was very similar to his own as she gave them a forlorn imitation of a friendly wave.

These months had not been easy for any of them. As Charlie kept reminding him, and kept reminding him, and kept reminding him, fixing social problems took time. It took time for people to realize that Mrs. Lilith Novak had sincerely meant her printed retractions and her confession that she was Ms. Naomi. It took time for people to believe. It took time for them to accept that her flight to France was tantamount to an admission of guilt, and more time for them to realize that she would not be coming back.

The pews were rapidly filling with people, the finest of London society come to see two of their own wed. With the increase in Ms. Anna Milligan's dowry had come an equally impressive increase in the number of those who wished to solicit her acquaintance. Unlike Inias Milligan, who had handled the sudden influx of fortune and the accompanying pressure of society by behaving precisely as he always had, Ms. Milligan had felt that she had to be a presence in the Ton to match her wealth. Her personality didn't shift one bit save for her shyness, which gave way instead to the kind of self-effacing modesty that couldn't help but win over nearly everyone. The guest list for her wedding was truly enormous. Dean felt as out of place here as he had at the Milligan ball, a life time ago January last.

Though the confrontation had taken place in early February, the work of completing their coup d'grace – coup d'etat, more like, a true rebellion – was far from finished. Whispers reached the Ton from all directions of the Milligan crimes that, supposedly, the Winchesters were not revealing to the public. None alone was enough to be damning, but slowly, surely, the name on every gossiping tongue became Adam Milligan. It took time for people to put together the careful trail of breadcrumbs and realize that Mr. Adam Milligan was the culprit of all. It took time for them to reason out what that implied about Dean Winchester, about his family, about the others against whom Milligan and Mrs. Novak had acted in the past. It took time for the public to realize that it was the threat of worse scandal that drove Mr. Adam Milligan to a small estate in the south of England, the fear of reprisal that kept him there, the danger of exile or even arrest that kept him forcing a smile and explaining by word and letter to all who asked that he was the villain of the piece.

When Dean's temper had finally gotten the better of him in late summer, Charlie had sat him down and explained why he had to be patient. Gradually, she promised, ever so gradually, she and Mr. Novak were leaking every truth to the public, in terms that meant no others would be ruined. By doing it thus, they presented the Ton with one vast, enticing mystery to unravel, with new tidbits coming out all the time. It kept people interested, it kept them talking, it kept them distracted from all other scandals that might have tempted them. None would wonder at the identity of the mysterious Castiel, not after Ms. Naomi printed her retraction less than a week after the original piece was published, not after the word got out that Mr. Milligan was the true father of Claire Richardson. Intrigue drove talk, and what was more intriguing than the tantalizing puzzle of Adam Milligan's fall from grace? Indeed, as time passed, even Charlie and Mr. Novak lost some control of the helm, as information – perhaps true, perhaps not – reached wagging tongues that they had no hand in disseminating. It took time, but the overall jigsaw assembled was damning. There was ignominy from which one would recover from time – that society would forget or overlook as new events occurred or as public opinion changed. Such was the nature of Dean's exposure and disgrace. Then, there were misdeeds on the level of a Mr. Alder or a Mrs. Novak or a Mr. Milligan. Opprobrium would follow them for the rest of their lives. It drove Mr. Alder to the United States, it drove Mrs. Novak to Paris, and it drove Mr. Milligan to the seclusion of a quiet life alone on an estate that he loathed. Eventually. Given time.

Outside, the weather was everything that was fine and perfect for early fall. The trees were just beginning to turn, and Mr. Gabriel Novak had promised his interested guests a ride and a hunt the day following the wedding. Dean was looking forward to it, something to take his mind off of everything that hurt. The role of country squire fit Dean like a second skin, another mask, and he was happy to don it to prevent himself feeling too much that he ought not to at such a time. Mr. Novak's estates, known by the vaunted name "Heaven's Respite," comprised a vast manor house currently stuffed to the brim with guests and equally lovely grounds. The past few days – yea, it took days – had been spent in tours of the many delightful paths through the parks and gardens.

The church bells began to toll, and Mr. Gabriel Novak finally walked in, mock seriousness on his face as he gave his best proper nod to all he passed. Those he liked best were easy to single out, for he named them with a mischievous gleam in his eye. The Winchesters received a playful wink. Beside Mr. Novak walked Mr. Freeley, and both were dressed in their Sunday best. Mr. Freeley wore an easy, relaxed smile that, far from making him look casual or approachable, gave him an air of such distinction that it was practically forbidding. Behind them, drifting like a ghost, was Mrs. Freeley. There was nothing in her expression to indicate that she was even present. She walked through the fractured dazzle of colors as if through the familiar hallways of home, or as if through a graveyard. Dean had never felt more sorry for anyone in his life. Must it always be the case, that for some to be happy, others must suffer? He'd done his best to minimize the hardship that devolved upon his loved ones, but undoubtedly it had been the most difficult year of Dean's life save the time after his father and uncle died. Even the 19 months of Samuel's descent into dissipation had been neither so stressful nor so impenetrable. Both of those times, there had been action that Dean could take, things that he could do to ease the troubles. Now, there was nothing he could do but wait until the last of the storm clouds finally blew over.

Soon, he told himself. A lot of the pain would pass once the wedding was over, and all of the possible futures that he'd caught glimpses over the months, all of the things he'd dared dreamed of, disappeared. After today, the potentialities would collapse into one, actual reality, with which they would all have to live as best they could.

As Dean had roamed the manicured lawns of Heaven's Respite, enjoyed the carefully placed shrubberies, walked through wallpapered halls hung with generations of portraits and paintings by the finest artists in the history of Europe, he'd fully understood the difference between ₤2,000 a year and ₤8,000 a year. This was luxury on a level he'd never conceived of. He wasn't jealous, and he wasn't humbled, but he saw now the gulf between a family such as his and a family such as the Novaks. As he never had before, he could apprehend what James had meant when he'd spoken of the wealth and the expectation of wealth among the members of his family. It was vindication, in a cruel fashion, of all that Dean had seen done. James deserved more than Dean would ever be able to do for him, deserved the comfort and security that could come only from this marriage.

It took time, though, for that not to feel agonizing, time for it not to feel like a betrayal, though Dean knew it not to be.

The priest over seeing this fine, beautiful church was the elder Mr. James Novak, James' father. His entire, large family – five children, and his eldest son's wife and their three children – sat in the front pew, wearing fashion that would have cost Dean's discretionary income for several years. From what James had told Dean, it was far more than they could afford, as well. Dean sent a prayer heaven-ward that God would not permit the family accustomed to much but possessing little to bring disaster to their sensible brother and his over-generous wife. The thought made Dean flinch. Mr. James and Mrs. Anna Novak. He made himself repeat the names over and over again, had repeated them over the preceding days, and he never stopped until he could make himself mouth them without cringing. Mr. Gabriel Novak and Mr. and Mrs. Freeley took their seats with the rest of the family. Mrs. Lilith Novak had not returned from the Continent, and only lip-service paid to suggest that anyone cared for her absence.

The Milligan family sat in the other front row. Adam Milligan was, unfortunately, in attendance, but he was not the man he had been. Without the fawning attention of the masses, he was a nonentity. He clearly felt it keenly. As his estates were not far, he had arrived only the day before, and would departing the following day. To his surprise, Dean felt not the least desire to gloat in his family's triumph. What was the point? Their victory was absolute. At least Milligan had attended for Ms. Milligan's sake. Though she knew now all that he had done, like the impossible little angel she was, she avowed to yet love him. Dean believed her. Since it was obviously important to her that her father be there, for her, Dean could find it in his heart to even be pleased that Milligan had come. He'd be even more pleased to never see the man again.

The front of the church was all that was elegant and fine. Centuries of endowments, and a family who'd somehow managed to preserve the wealth of those donations from the ravages of the Dissolution and the upheavals of the 17th century, made it one of the richest establishments of its kind that Dean had ever seen. Silver and gold and ebony made the altar and accoutrements, an enormous triptych alterpiece painted by a forgotten Italian master made a gorgeous display of the crucifixion behind the altar, a mosaic in glittering tiles lined the domed roof over the apse and depicted the ascension of Christ, and a reliquary of the finger bone of some saint or other was housed in the chapel. Dean was not a particularly religious man, but he was happy to lose himself in a minute inspection of the holy family in stained glass, because the alternative was looking upon the two people standing in the apse.

One, of course, was Mr. James Novak, the elder, robed to serve as the officiate for his son's wedding.

The other was James.

Nearly a year and a half had passed since Dean had attended Samuel and Jessica's wedding and imagined how James Novak, Dean's beloved angel Castiel, might look on the occasion of his own nuptials. The reality was surprisingly similar to Dean's fantasy. His suit was all in white and fit him to perfection, revealing the smooth lines of his lean body, the slight slope of his chest and abdomen, the contour of his legs. The boots that accompanied the gleaming satin were black and polished to a high luster, probably new-bought for the occasion judging by their complete lack of scuff marks. A busy summer had brought some color to James' skin, giving his face a faint pink-brown hue, and he was clean shaven. Through some contrivance, his dark hair had been brought to complete order, swept back from his forehead, long strands left to curl about his ears and the nape of his neck. The only colors about his person were a red rose at his lapel, the reflected light of the stained glass windows painted dully on the satin of his clothing, and his astounding blue eyes, glowing in the luminous sunlight and directed towards the door through which Anna Milligan would enter.

James did not look happy, but he looked like he had accepted that this was what had to be. Resignation, well masked to any save those who knew him best, tightened his eyes and balled his hands tightly enough that his skin paled beneath the grip.

The letter that proved the resolution that Dean had so cruelly forced on James was yet nestled in Dean's pocket.

Dear A., it read,

With a heavy heart, I concede defeat. You are right, of course, but I would for all the world that it were not so. Let the words "it is for the best" never cross my lips nor drip from my nib, but I will own, "it is what must be." My feelings are unaltered, will never alter. Though she hold my hand or live in my home or even share my bed, it will ever be your eyes I seek, ever be your touch I long for, ever be your name I whisper into the still of my lonely nights. At least, this way, I will be able to see you sometimes. It will be enough – it must be enough. All my love,

C.

Dean had no need to take the letter to know its contents. He'd read it so many times over he had memorized it, and only on his best days did it fail to stir tears in his eyes. Even fully understanding the dangers of carrying incriminating letters, as he'd learned to his damage, he usually bore it on his person, most often in the pocket with his watch and the locket of James' likeness. Whatever Ms. Anna Milligan might have wished for when she accepted this marriage proposal, there were things she would never possess.

The doors of the church opened with a loud clatter of wood, and all eyes turned to see the bride.

Radiant, Ms. Milligan wore a gentle smile as she greeted those assembled to congratulate her with bashfully lowered green eyes. Her dress was exceptionally fine, cream colored and modest with trim and tassels of silver all along the lines of the skirt and the hem. It was embroidered about the bodice with more cream, and had a lace train that stretched behind her, pierced all over with knots of silver. A delicate veil did nothing to obscure her face, and her bright red hair was mounted with chains of silver, pendants in blue, and fresh flowers. A bouquet in her hands matched the garlands strewn about the pews. At a stately pace, she made her way down the aisle. Having taken in her appearance, Dean was satisfied, and turned his eyes forward to return to James. Dean's heart threatened to break anew at the bemused sadness that lined his face. By the time Ms. Milligan had reached her position, all such was gone, and both turned to face Mr. Novak.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony..."

Fixing his eyes on the mosaic overhead, Dean let the words wash over him and refused to let himself think of what they meant, refused to consider their ramifications. With what detachment he could muster, he realized that, in the astonishing work of art, even as Christ ascended to heaven, there were perfect stone teardrops inlaid in his pale face. It was all Dean could do not to join the Lord in sorrow.

The day passed in a blur after that. The ceremony was endless and over far too soon, the only words piercing through Dean's enforced reverie were James speaking his vows in a steady, deep voice that reverberated through the room and through Dean's body.

"I, James Novak, take thee Anna Milligan to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, the love and to cherish, till death us do part; and thereto I plight thee my troth." There was no inflection in the words, no happiness, no sorrow. James spoke them as simple reality. Dean coughed to cover a burst of grief, and prayed that time would pass quickly, that the evening would come soon.

Afterwards, the assembled guests return to Heaven's Respite to feast and fete, and Dean remained upright solely for Charlotte supporting him on one side and Ms. Harvelle on the other. Both wore matching reproving looks that spoke louder than words that he thought he was behaving immaturely, and he supposed they were right – it was only a wedding, what did it signify? Yet, it was easy for them to be judgmental. Neither of them had been forced to watch the person they loved wed another. Dean and Charlie had already been married when Charlie and Ms. Harvelle had met, and Ms. Harvelle faced no societal strictures requiring she take husband. The only person present who could share Dean's pain that day was Ms. Masters, and true to his sympathies with her, they secluded themselves for a time and inveighed angrily against a world that would force this on them. It was the most fun he had all day, even if their railery ultimately reduced them both to miserable tears.

As soon as he could, Dean fled the festivities for the privacy of his room. He wore his finest clothing, the outfit he had worn to his own wedding. It still fit, for a wonder, close on a decade later. His jacket was black, his vest deep green that Charlie swore brought out his eyes, and beneath he wore a crisp white shirt and cravat. The only remarkable thing about his tan breeks was how well they fit his thighs and calves, and he wore his usual boots, for no matter how special the occasion, they were his, comfortable and perfectly fit and well-worn. The room that Mr. Novak had set aside for him adjoined Charlie's room, and a door connected the two so that none need know that husband and wife were not together. His was the more modest room, surely meant for a servant, and he didn't mind. Small, with plain white walls and a simple wood frame bed, he'd been in it for over a week and was entirely pleased with the accommodations.

Regrets hounded through him, running him in ragged circles that he'd retread so many times over the past days and weeks and months that it was maddening that he yet dwelt on them. Standing at the small, uncurtained window, he looked down at the guests yet entertaining themselves on the green below in the fading sunlight. His view was full west, and the sunset was stunningly beautiful, streamers and wisps of orange, pink, blue, even green and purple, making a light show every bit as lovely as that which had decorated the church. It was as if the heavens themselves celebrated the wedding. Dean's fingers traced over the hardened leather of the mask he'd donned for the first time one cold January night, painted black with a long, crooked nose, large holes for his eyes, ears thin and veined like the wings of a bat, and lips painted in a bright red scowl. That was how it had all begun, an angel and a demon, dancing together, with nothing but their sight of each other's eyes to tell them aught of the person hidden beneath.

All things considered, Dean supposed they'd both proved true to their roles. James was certainly an angel, pure of heart, loyal, honorable, honest and steadfast. Dean was the devil who had shown him temptation, led him down a path to pain and loss, taught that naive youth the hard truths of a world that required sacrifice of even the best of men and women.

There was a faint click and a squeak of hinges as the door opened. Dean's heart began to race instantly. Slipping the cloth of the mask backing over his head, he donned the face of Asmodeus the demon for the first since that terrible night in May, and allowed himself his a smile. A clatter of wood striking wood marked the door closing once more, a key turned with a dull rattle of tumblers, and Dean struggled to keep his breathing under control. From across the room, he could hear his efforts being matched, quick inhalations and exhalations speaking of nerves and need and fear and longing.

Dean turned around.

An angel stood before his door, body clad in a white wedding suit that Dean longed with every fiber of his being to peel off button by button, black boots showing the faint marks of the busy day. The face of Castiel looked at him, blue eyes vibrant and alive in the dead porcelain face of a doll, smooth cheeks painted with a faint blush of color, creamy skin unblemished and smooth. His black hair was no longer neat, riffled by dance and nervous fingers. On his back, a harness strapped over his wedding suit, were black wings that caught the fading sunlight of the evening and shimmered with iridescence. Dean thought he would cry, that such perfection was before him, that after everything that they'd been through, this was something he was permitted to have.

"Castiel," Dean breathed.

"Asmodeus," whispered James.

They bridged the space between them in a heartbeat, James ripping the mask from Dean's head, Dean flipping up the angel's face, and their lips met. Even dry from a stressful day, nothing matched the rightness of the feeling of James pressing his mouth to Dean's. Gently, Dean parted his lips to lick moisture against James' lips, and James sighed into the contact and wrapped an arm around Dean's back, drawing their bodies together, hard planes matching and contouring together as if they were meant to be. They were meant to be. As happiness finally melted the cares of the preceding months away, the mask of Castiel feel from Dean's benumbed fingers and fragile porcelain shattered against the hard wood floor. It didn't matter anymore. They'd never need it again.

Six Months Earlier

"To begin with, Ms. Masters, why don't you acquaint Ms. Milligan with the sequence of events?" Dean turned from the window to watch the group, pushing grim thoughts aside. The room fell quiet as Charlie's assertive gaze alit on Ms. Masters, who appeared suddenly shy beneath the attention of all.

"I don't understand," Ms. Milligan looked at Ms. Masters with wonder, then scanned every other expression in the assembly. They presented an overwhelming collection, a wide array of reactions to the satisfactory conclusion of the conversation with Adam Milligan. They ranged from Mr. Gabriel Novak, looking profoundly relaxed as he leaned casually against a wall, watching everyone silently, to James, who looked positively triumphant as he stood near Dean, to Dean's own face, which he suspected revealed how relieved he was. After all, Lafitte had said that Dean's expressions were a mirror to his heart, and at that moment, comfort and deliverance were foremost in Dean's thoughts.

"It's a long story, and one you'll not enjoy, Anna," said Ms. Masters, take a deep, fortifying breath. She continued more assertively, "but it needs to be told." And so she did. Drawing from her own knowledge of what had passed, she acquainted Ms. Milligan and Mr. Inias Milligan with all of Mr. Milligan's many misdeeds, from the misuse and abandonment of Amelia Richardson and her daughter all the way through his assaults on Dean. Occasional interjections from the Winchesters or Mr. Novak filled in the details, and nothing was omitted save for the role that James had played. Somehow, though there had been no discussion of such before hand, everyone seemed to agree that this was not the context in which to reveal that particular hard truth. Poor Ms. Milligan showed all the range of distressed emotion that could be expected upon learning that a beloved father was in fact a beast in human form. By the end, she was weeping, and a clearly reluctant James had taken up station at her side and laid her head upon his shoulder, apparently oblivious to the way that Ms. Masters' eyes were stabbing through him as surely as any dagger could.

When she'd cried herself red in the face, Ms. Milligan took a kerchief silently offered by Mr. Novak and wiped away the stains. "There's more to this, I'm sure of it," she managed with a small, grief-stricken voice. "Let's have all the blows at once, I am strong enough. Please tell me all." Courage marked her features, and acceptance.

To say that everyone was surprised at this announcement was an understatement. Think what they each might of Ms. Milligan, none expected to find such mettle beneath her meekness. No one spoke, though. Where to begin on the rest? Dean looked to Ms. Masters. It seemed to him, at least, that her declaration must come next. Perhaps she sensed it as well, for her face blanched and she licked her lips and looked around as if seeking escape.

"Nay, spare me not!" implored Ms. Milligan. She looked up and was clearly alarmed to see that none would meet her eyes. Finally, she focused on Ms. Masters, who grew, impossibly, more pale. "Are you well? Is there illness? Has he killed someone? What can be worse than knowing that he attempted to...defile...Mr. Winchester...and nearly killed him?"

"I..." Ms. Masters' eyes darted left and right, pleading with all for rescue. "I know not what to say," she whispered, and looked away from Ms. Milligan, who went wide eyed and frightened.

"Meg?" she asked, horrified. "What's the matter?" She hesitated, then said with steely anger making her voice rich and threatening. "Did he hurt you, Meg?"

Taking pity on the poor, speechless Ms. Masters, Charlie crossed the room and managed to find an edge of seat on which to sit beside her. "It's alright, Ms. Masters. Tell her the truth. She deserves to know."

Fingers twitched about skirts. James shot Dean an alarmed, confused look over Ms. Milligan's back, and Dean realized that there'd been no time to acquaint James with this particular aspect of the situation. Dean replied with a half-smile and a faint shrug that caused James to roll his eyes.

Ms. Milligan rose and crossed to Ms. Masters, knelt beside her chair and took both Ms. Masters' hands in her own. With her departure, James was free to rise as well, and he took a position beside Dean. Ms. Milligan and Ms. Masters shared a soulful look. "Please, Meg, you can tell me anything. Is it the presence of all these others that makes you so uncomfortable? Say they word and I will demand they remove."

"Nay, at this point there are few secrets left among us," Ms. Masters said with that strain of bitterness that was too common in her voice. "Let us have all out." She took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and then opened them again. "I love you, Anna."

Confused, Ms. Milligan looked about for an instant before locking eyes with Ms. Masters again. "What nonsense is this to cause such alarm? Was our mutual affection ever in doubt? You are my dearest friend in the world, Meg, of course I love you as well."

"Oh, precious Anna," said Ms. Masters effusively. "Of course you would think I mean...nay, I love you, as...as a husband loves wife . I love you!"

Ms. Milligan blinked.

James met Dean's eyes, and he blinked.

Mr. Inias Milligan stared boredly out a window. Mr. Novak's lips quirked into a smile. Sam shook his head in wonder.

"Meg, I think you mistaken," said Ms. Milligan, her tone impressively delicate and restrained. "Women do not love other women as they do men. That is not the way of the world."

"Untrue," interjected Charlie hastily, sparing Ms. Masters' having to come up with a reply to such a categorical rejection of the possibility of the existence of her feelings. "Believe me when I say – I speak from personal experience when I declare that it is entirely natural for women to feel such for other women."

"Personal experience?" Ms. Milligan's bewilderment grew, she blinked at Charlie where she yet sat beside Ms. Masters. "You love a woman, then, in such a way? Romantically?"

Wordlessly, Ms. Harvelle took up position behind Charlie and put a possessive hand on Charlie's shoulder. Ms. Milligan once again merely blinked in evident confusion.

Mr. Inias Milligan yawned.

"Then..." Ms. Milligan did a quick survey of the people in the room, clearly in awe of how little shocked or moved a single one of them was by a revelation that took a sledge to her entire worldview. "Pray, what then of Mr. Winchester?" Her green eyes fell on Dean, and he blushed despite himself as the gazes of the rest of the room followed.

"Ah, well," Dean's eyes flicked to James, who gave a helpless shake of his head. He did not know what to say, either. "It doesn't trouble me. Charlotte is like unto a sister to me, but not else."

"I don't..."

"If women can love other women," said Charlie gently, "can it come as such a further surprise that men can love other men?"

"Oh...Oh!" Ms. Milligan flushed, flustered. "So, when my father made advances on you, he must surely have known your...unusual...preferences? And he shared them...I suppose...?" The prospect appeared troubling to her, but there was no disgust in her tone, merely confusion and distress as she tried to bring order to the different information she had learned.

"That I know not," shrugged Dean. "My sense has been that your father – forgive me for being blunt on the matter – cared little of the preferences of the individual involved. He is rather more interested in the power he could exert in the taking of that which he wanted, and the gender of the individual was an irrelevancy."

"Right," speaking but faintly, Ms. Milligan set a hand to the carpet to steady herself. "Forgive me – I believe I need a moment."

"Of course," Charlie rose and offered a hand to help Ms. Milligan up. "Perhaps we could take a turn about the house? 'Tis a pity the weather be so foul, the garden and fresh air would be best." Dean shuddered at the thought of the garden, breathing momentarily ragged. The change was not lost on James, who looked at him with concern, nor on Ms. Milligan, who saw his reaction and looked horrified as the reality of what must have happened to Dean while he was at the ball finally, truly struck her.

"Wait," James voice came out strangled, and instantly all eyes were on him. Dean shook his head vehemently in denial, his lingering fears dissipated at the thought of James exposing himself to danger, but James gave a slight shake of his own. "If she is to know all, she should know all." He hesitated to see if anyone would object beyond Dean's own continued discouraging scowls. "Ms. Milligan, I know you saw the letter in the Intelligencer purporting to be written by Mr. Winchester to another man, a man known by the pseudonym Castiel? That's me – I'm Castiel. The man that Mr. Winchester is in love with is me."

Ms. Milligan's eyes were as wide as they could go, and her expression was suddenly very white. The sorrow on James' face hurt Dean to see, the determination was awe-inspiring. "Mr. Novak...James...do you love him in return?" she whispered.

"I do." James met Dean's eyes and gave him a warm smile that, a moment later, Dean returned it. There was such confidence and trust and love on James' face, Dean couldn't stand it. His resolution to give James time and space, to step away in order to ensure James' needs were met, wavered.

Ms. Milligan fainted.

"Well, that went well," Ms. Harvelle said, exasperated, as Charlie caught the slighter woman and eased her to the floor.

For the first time, Mr. Inias Milligan looked faintly interested in the proceedings.

The couch was vacated, Samuel lifted Ms. Milligan to lay upon it, and Ms. Masters fetched smelling salts. Hovering over her side with concern, Ms. Masters sought to rouse Ms. Milligan as everyone stood uselessly surrounding the couch. With a sneeze and a flutter of pretty eyelashes, Ms. Milligan awoke and looked at the faces arrayed around her.

"I know not what to say," she murmured, taking in each in turn. Rising, Ms. Masters shooed them all away to give Ms. Milligan more space. When they'd all backed up, Ms. Masters knelt once more.

"It's far too much to lay on your lovely shoulders," said Ms. Masters. "I'm so sorry. I tried to shelter you from all, but it was to no avail."

"Why shelter me?" asked Ms. Milligan.

"Because you are my angel," Ms. Masters replied. The moment seemed to personal to witness, and Dean felt intensely like he was intruding. James stepped beside him, placed a hand with apparent negligence on Dean's shoulder, and Dean gave his love, his angel, a grateful smile. "I'd do anything to spare you grief."

"But had you told me sooner..."

"You loved your father, and I thought he loved you," Ms. Masters explained. "I had no wish to take that from you."

"Not that," Ms. Milligan waved the words away and rose on her elbows, shifting to lean against the arm rest of the couch. "Why did you not tell me you loved me?"

"Because you so clearly did not reciprocate my feelings," said Ms. Masters, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I did not even know such a thing was possible! How was I to know my feelings?" Ms. Milligan's tone was growing warm, tinged with anger. "I am not a delicate flower, to bloom in the sun and wither in the moonlight, Meg! I deserved to be told, and have a chance to decide my inclinations on my own!"

"It does not work that way," Ms. Masters protested. "One likes men, or one likes women! You have given every indication of being in love with Mr. Novak – do not deceive both of us by pretending otherwise."

"Don't be absurd! Gender clearly made no difference to my father, why should it to me?"

"You are not your father," Ms. Masters objected, shaking her head. "Do not even think to make such an odious comparison! You are..."

Whatever Ms. Masters had been about to declare was lost as Ms. Milligan threw an arm around Ms. Masters' shoulders and drew her into a kiss. In the first instant of contact, Ms. Masters looked more shocked than anything, but it took mere moments for her eyes to slip happily shut and her body to shift into the contact and Dean politely turned around lest he see any more. Beside him, James nearly jumped to face the windows as well, his cheeks coloring pink.

"Ah, yes," Ms. Milligan spoke at length, and Dean turned back to see her dreamily gazing into Ms. Masters eyes. Ms. Masters had a wide, relaxed grin on her face, eyes softened with happiness. Her shoulders lowered, she looked calmer than Dean had seen her appear since the first time Ms. Milligan had come to their house and spoken of meeting a man she found charming. "I think I could grow to like that very well." She gave a gentle laugh. To one side, Charlie and Ms. Harvelle traded knowing glances, Ms. Harvelle's elbow nudging at Charlie's waist.

Silence stretched out, none wishing to interrupt the clear joy that Ms. Masters and Ms. Milligan were finding in staring at each other's faces. It was as if they'd never truly seen each other before, though they had been friends for over a decade. A touching moment, and intensely personal. Neither seemed troubled by the scrutiny, but despite that, everyone turned towards their friends and quiet conversations broke out. The overwhelming question of what now filled Dean's mind. Stealing glances at James, he could see the same preoccupation on his face. What did this mean for the two of them? What did it mean for Dean's so-recent resolution to ensure that James had what he needed for happiness? The obvious answer was that Ms. Milligan and James would need to wed, but the problems that potentially posed for a relationship between James and Dean were multitudinous. As Dean had known all along, there never was a chance of quietly taking a second son into his home and hoping things would be well, that no one would notice the unusual nature of the situation added on top of all of the other unusual things about the living arrangements at Lawrence Hall.

"Mr. Novak?" Ms. Milligan said hesitantly.

"Yes?" Mr. Gabriel Novak answered the call. He'd not budged from his post leaning against the wall. His expression was rapt as if he watched a play, a genuine grin spread his lips, a sparkle lit in his eyes, but traces of sadness made a cobweb of lines on his brow.

"Nay, I mean Mr. James Novak," she corrected.

James and Dean turned from the window to find her twisted to look at them over the back of the couch. In her hand, she held the blue star sapphire by the chain. It twisted and gleamed in the light, white lines forming and dissolving in the depths to make a twinkling star.

"It occurs to me why this gem has occasioned such distress," she continued. "Mr. Winchester, this was a gift from you to Mr. Novak, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was," admitted Dean. "I'm sorry if my behavior seemed beyond the pale, but things were not well the day you brought James to our house for the first time. We'd been long separated, and I thought him lost to me, and then to see him so unexpectedly! And to learn he'd given away that which I gave him!"

"Yet James, you didn't seem the least out of sorts...?" Ms. Milligan said with confusion.

"I knew him not, then," admitted James. "We met and came to know each other in unusual circumstances – at a masquerade – and though I knew myself to be entirely in love with him, I knew not his name nor had I ever even seen his face. I know sounds strange, but is truth. I am sorry, Ms. Milligan. The world has no place for men such as Mr. Winchester and I. I had no desire to mislead you or hurt you, but I knew not how else to proceed. I think you the sweetest, most endearing example of womanhood that I have ever met."

"But you love me not?"

"Not per se," he agreed. "As Mr. Winchester loves his Mrs. Winchester, perhaps – a sister, a kindred spirit, a woman I would be delighted to go for a walk with, read poetry to, accompany to the theater or a concert. However, as a lover? To tell absolute truth, it is a prospect I dread."

"I see." She offered the pendant, and James crossed to her and took it in his hand. A shudder ran through his entire body as his fingers enclosed about it, and he gave Dean a look of such profound relief, eyes swimming with tears, that it was all Dean could do not to wrap his arms around his love, and the opinion of the room be damned. In fact...to hell with it, he thought. If ever there was a group with whom he could be open! Dean seized James aggressively and crushed their bodies together. Another shudder wracked James, and a pulse of James' chest against Dean's spoke to a sob held back.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered. "I never meant to..."

"I know," Dean murmured reassuringly, patting James' hair. "I own as much of the blame as you do. Do not trouble yourself. All will be well."

"You really do love him," Ms. Milligan shook her head wonderingly.

"More than I ever thought I could possibly love another," Dean agreed, looking a challenge at her. "And I needs must see him safe. He needs a wife." Against his shoulder, James shook his head, but Dean ignored him. This was what had to be.

Ms. Milligan glanced at Charlie, who shrugged slightly, then at Ms. Masters, who bore every hallmark of sad acceptance in her tear-filled eyes, knit brow and fixed smile. "Well, I suppose I shall need a husband."

"Bravo!" Mr. Novak said happily from his post of observation. "Bellissimo! Encore!"

A knocking, fists pounding on thick wood, was heard from the hallway.

"What's that?" Ms. Milligan's head whipped in that direction.

"I believe Mr. Adam Milligan and Mrs. Novak have finally discovered that they are locked in the study," Ms. Masters commented, all her usual aplomb and wryness restored in an instant.

"Because...?"

"Why not?" Ms. Masters shrugged and gave Ms. Milligan a broad smile, who returned it in kind. Though the sadness remained in Ms. Masters eyes, it was tempered. Difficult times remained ahead, but there was a prospect of happiness on the horizon. With that thought, Dean settled James' head on his shoulder once more and wondered how long it would be before he could hold his angel in his arms again.

"So, what do you think of people who feel no arousal towards men or women, nor anyone or anything?" Mr. Inias Milligan spoke for the first time the entire conversation. Everyone turned to him in surprise. "What? Have I said something odd?"

The Wedding Night

James broke off their kiss with a throaty laugh when the mask broke. "We're going to have to beware the shards all evening," he chided. He leaned in for another kiss, and was arrested by Dean hastily placing a finger on his lips.

"Wait," said Dean. Nerves sent a thrill through him. Retreating slightly, James watched Dean, his head quirked in curiosity. Dean took a steadying breath. "Castiel." A shy smile played on James' lips. "From the first time I laid eyes on you, I thought you the vision of perfection. As I came to know you, my conviction only grew. It was not long before I realized that, however little time we'd spent together, I was owned completely by an angel whose name I did not even know, whose face I had never even beheld. Losing you was agony, and finding you again was the rapture of resurrection." Dean dropped to a knee, took one of James' hands and laid it upon his heart. Tears swam in James' eyes as he watched, increasingly amazed and breathless. Emotion threatened to choke the words from Dean's throat, but he pressed on, staring at a button on James' jacket to avoid the distraction of that gorgeous face peering at him with such intensity. "James Novak, beloved, there is none of me but that is yours. This body, this heart, this mind, all are in concurrence and ever shall be. There are things that can never be known publically, never be spoken of openly, but in the privacy of this room, I am at liberty to say to you what I thought never with conviction to speak to any. I love you, completely, without the least reservation. James – would you make this a true wedding day – would you marry me?"

"Dean," James breathed. Hesitantly, Dean looked up, and was swept away by the breath-taking joy on the face of an angel. Mouth parted slightly around excited breaths, eyes brilliant and moist, cheeks pinked with delight, James was beautiful. "What happens if I say yes?" he said in a rush.

A slow smile broke over Dean's face. "You'll have to decide if that's what you wish – I'll not spoil the surprise!"

James stuck out the tip of his tongue tauntingly, and then burst out, "Yes! Yes! A lifetime of yes! If it were possible, I would be husband to you, Dean Winchester, and let the world be damned in their opinion!"

With fingers trembling so he could scarce make them function, Dean reached into his pocket and withdrew that painful letter that James had written to him. The months preceding the wedding had been difficult. Appearances had to be maintained, the furor of Dean's purported improprieties had to be allowed to die down, and James had to maintain the appearance of doting fiancée about to embark on a happy life. They'd seen each other, from time to time, and exchanged vague letters while apart, and so had passed nearly six months, all leading to this moment, tonight, when they could begin a life that would bring them frequently together. The friendship between Ms. Milligan – Mrs. Anna Novak, now – and Mrs. Winchester was well known, and none to think it odd that the new couple, family so recently rocked by intrigue and infamy, should choose an abode far from the city and close to their intimate friends. James and his wife and Ms. Masters had taken domicile in the neighborhood of Lawrence Hall, and all expected the two families to be very close – if perhaps only a select few understood how very close. Unfolding the letter, Dean attempted to grasp the band of gold he'd stored within, but his fingers were near numb, and he dropped the ring amid the wreckage of the porcelain mask.

"Damn," he muttered. James stared without understanding, and Dean didn't think he'd seen what Dean had held. Feeling carefully amidst the shards, he found the wring without doing injury to himself, and raised his eyes to meet James' once more. The angel's breath caught when the last rays of afternoon sunlight played flame red over the surface of the gold.

"Dean—"

"I, Dean Winchester, take thee, James Novak, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, and thereto I plight thee my troth." Taking James' hand, Dean gently rubbed his palm, encouraging him to part his fingers. He slipped the ring onto James' fourth, holding it in place. "With this Ring, I thee wed, with my Body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow."

"Dean!" James pulled free, forcefully placed his hands on Dean's cheeks and dragged Dean to his feet and into a sumptuous, deep kiss. Every corner of Dean's mouth was marked by James' tongue, and he wrapped his arms around the slighter man as a wave of dizziness momentarily washed over him. He'd not been eating much of late, upset at the wedding, stressed about the evening. He'd been worried how James would react even though he knew he was being absurd to doubt the strength of James' feelings for him. All of that washed away in pleasure as James marked ownership with his mouth as Dean had done with a ring. The kiss ended abruptly, and, breathing heavily, James said in an urgent rush, "I, James Novak, take thee, Dean Winchester, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part. And dear God do I plight thee my troth. You, Dean. Only you – forever you." James kissed him again, arms wrapping around Dean and grasping possessively at his flesh.

"You never saw those letters," muttered Dean with confusion. "How could you know...?"

"Those have ever been the words in my heart," James met confusion with confusion. "I don't follow you."

"I burnt them," Dean clarified. "The letters I'd written you and brought to give you that May. After I returned to my inn, having...said what I said...I couldn't bear to think of them more, and I destroyed them. I signed each off just so – you, only you, forever you, my Castiel." He raised a hand to caress James' cheek, and adored the way James shifted into the contact, the way his eyes softened with love.

"Is it such a mystery, such a surprise, that I feel so very much in accordance?" A smile played on James' lips, danced in the light in his eyes. Deliberately, Dean leaned in and kissed him again, placing a gentle hand on the small of James' back. The cloth of James' wedding couture was pristine and smooth beneath the coarse skin of his hands, and James' lips were soft and giving beneath his. "Our tendency to concur has always been one of the things that has drawn me to you most, beloved Asmodeus. From that first dance, you'll recall that I noted it."

"Yes," Dean breathed, skimming his lips to the curve of James' chin, placing kiss upon gentle kiss along the firm line of his jaw.

"Yes," echoed James. Fingers found the buttons of Dean's jacket and unhurriedly opened each. With steady, easy pressure, James pushed into Dean's body, making him step back begrudgingly. Dean's jacket fell open, and James immediately shifted to his vest, moving more quickly, until it was open as well. With a sharp tug, James untucked Dean's shirt. There were hands on Dean's chest, chill against hot skin, a band of metal plain to be felt, palming up his muscles, brushing against his nipples. Dean's back hit the wall, and for an instant he felt the barest whisper of fear, the ghost of fingers closing over his throat. Despite himself, Dean flinched. James interpreted his reticence instantly and the movement stopped abruptly. "Is this alright? If I pin you to the wall? If I take you all the ways I've been dreaming about for weeks?"

The words filled Dean's mind with images, of all the ways he'd dreamed of being taken, and he couldn't repress a faint moan, wrapping his hands around James' arms to encourage him to continue.

"Nay, I'll not proceed until you answer me," said James. "I'll not risk triggering your fears."

"As long as it is you, your voice, your eyes, your body against mine, I am fine. If I begin to feel alarmed, I promise I will speak before it grows to panic. Please, James, I—" Lips on his swallowed the remainder of his plea, an adored body captured Dean against the wall forcefully, hands ravaged the skin of his chest, nails raked along his sides and back, fingers teased his nipples until they were so tight and aroused that further touch bordered into the painful, and then teased further still. Rolling his head back, Dean let his eyes slip shut as he moaned. With fumbling hands, he blindly sought the buttons of James' wedding suit, chased the feeling of skin on skin. If he could, he would enshroud his entire body with James'. Even as he undid the first, James' hands grabbed his, seized both his wrists and lifted them over Dean's head, pressing them to the wall. Straining, Dean attempted to win free – he could have, had he truly needed to, and he took reassurance in that knowledge, but the feeling of permitted restraint was enticing, and he struggled against it, enjoying James' strength and dominance as he prevented Dean from escaping.

Cool air raked his chest as James hitched his shirt up, and lips were upon his abused nipples, soothing, caressing, sucking at the sensitive skin. The only word he could form was a breathy sigh of pleasure, "James..." as he ceased struggling against the hold on his arms, went practically limp, his legs barely supporting him. With his free hand, James slipped a hand to the small of Dean's back and chuckled hotly against the nipple, puffs of air tantalizing against Dean's skin. Dean whimpered.

"I love how sensitive you are," murmured James as he switched to attend to the other poor, neglected nipple. Crowding closer to Dean, James pressed their hips together, slipped a thigh between Dean's legs to hold some of his weight. Surrendering to his desires, Dean rutted into the contact, thin, needy sounds accompanying each of his breaths. The aggressiveness of James' approach was driving him wild. The calm control that James asserted effortlessly was irresistible, the way he knew from their time together where and how to touch Dean to drive him to distraction. Bucking against James' thigh, Dean moaned as their hard members brushed through the fabric of their breeks, and James broke away from him with a huge groan, laying his forehead against Dean's chest as he panted. "God, I wanted this to last, but you are so unbelievably gorgeous. I can't stand how much you want me, Dean."

"What do you want me to do?" whispered Dean. "I'll stop, I will, anything, as long as I get to feel you inside me." With effort, Dean stilled his hips. "I've got oil by the nightstand. I've got cloths by the bed for us to clean up afterwards. I prepared everything. I need this, I need you, tonight."

Throwing his head back, James laughed. "I love you," he said with delight. He claimed Dean's lips for a kiss, and Dean's lips curled in a smile as he returned the pressure. Blue eyes caught and held Dean's. "You perfect man, I love you! Very well. On your knees." Matching action to word, the thigh supporting Dean shifted away, and James used his grip on Dean's arms to force him down before releasing Dean's hands. They dropped limply to Dean's side, tingling as blood returned to flow through his extremities. Positioned thus, Dean's face was directly before James' crotch, and Dean leaned forward to mouth at James' hardness through the cloth. "Yes," murmured James, "yes, that's exactly what I want. I'm going to make you feel so good. Do you trust me?"

I need you to trust me, Dean. Do you trust me? A voice from the past whispered through his thoughts. The memories weren't gone, the fears still stirred when something reminded Dean of them, but they were no longer associated with terror. The shadow that had hovered over him and his family, over James, was gone.

Dean nodded and drew more of the cloth and cloaked cock into his mouth.

"No, you have to tell me," The voice of the most important man in the world washed all else away. James spoke low, breathy, trust and love and a hint of concern in his voice. He always checked. He always made sure Dean was well. And Dean was, he was better than he'd ever been in his life. James placed a hand on the back of Dean's head and firmly pulled him away. Looking up, he saw James staring down at him, expression determined, eyes gathering the fading light to gleam brightly yet darkly, pupils grown wide with lust. "Do you trust me, beloved?"

"Implicitly."

James expression broke into a smile. Holding Dean's head still with one hand, he awkwardly tried to undo the buttons on his pants with the other hand. With thick, awkward fingers, Dean tried to help, but James swatted him away. Finally, the flap came free, and eagerly Dean nosed the remaining cloth aside and pressed a light kiss to the tip of James' cock. The way James' member twitched and bobbed in response, dancing against his lips, was entirely satisfying and rewarding, and Dean continued to tease at only the tip until the first drops of thick liquid emerged. Licking, he swallowed with a pleased sound, indulging his desires, enjoying the heat that pooled in him, that hardened him to strain against his breeks, that thrummed in his ears. Leaning over him, James placed one hand on the wall to support himself and curled the other over the back of Dean's head, murmuring indistinct words of encouragement. His wings peaked over his shoulders and made a shadow against the ceiling. Circling his lips, Dean took the head in his mouth and suckled on it, drawing faint moans tinged with gratitude that James. Fingers cradled about the base of Dean's skull, supporting him, soothing him, easing out all of Dean's tension, and with that encouragement he dipped further, took in more of James, and sucked hard.

Groaning, James his hips burst forward in response. Such reactions no longer took Dean by surprise – this form of love making had been relatively easy to steal time for even during their separation, a few minutes and a closeted space all that was needed. Smiling around the thick weight in his mouth, Dean rode each of James' thrusts and jolts, controlling deftly how deeply James went, sucking to draw him in further, shifting back to lave the head with his tongue when James seemed most determined to crowd into his mouth completely. Each action brought broken sounds of relish from the other man, and the pleasure in Dean's gut grew and spread through him. The urge to see to his own arousal grew, to stroke and moan his own enjoyment around James', but he restrained himself. James was going to take care of Dean, and so Dean took care of him first. He loved doing it, loved being able to concentrate entirely on James enjoyment.

Hands finally recovered, Dean lifted one to encircle James' hips and slipped the other into the flap of James' pants, seeking amidst cloth until he found James' sacks. In tempo to the rise and fall of his mouth, he began to massage the wrinkled flesh. "That feels so good," moaned James. Dean thanked him for the praise by swallowing hard and humming, and James' hand slid down the wall, his knees shaking with the effort of holding himself up, of restraining himself from thrusting for all his worth into Dean's enticing throat. Through panting breaths, he said, "I love your mouth, Dean. I love to see your lips wrapped around me. I love the joy in your eyes as you do it, love knowing that it makes you happy to make me happy." Dean hummed agreement. Hot liquid spilled onto his tongue, and he drew back, swallowed it down, and used his tongue to tease at James, urging James to give him more of the salty pre-release. The fingers cradling the back of Dean's head tensed.

A hard thrust took Dean by surprise as, simultaneously, James firmed his grip and prevented Dean from drawing back. He choked and took a frantic breath through his nose, waiting for startled tears to clear from his eyes. Musky arousal filled Dean so completely that coarse hairs tickled at his chin and nose, and he had to close his eyes and concentrate not to sneeze. As he strained to repress it, his throat stuttered and contracted, and James moaned and didn't move, waiting for a sign from Dean that he was prepared to proceed. Tilting his head to accommodate the deeper intrusion, Dean let the relaxation that had crept through him as James had caressed his neck fill his thoughts. His jaw relaxed, the clench in his throat eased, and he let the hand holding him carry the weight of his head, shift him, place him so that James could invade him as he wished. Only then did James begin to move again, hips subtly guided by the arm Dean yet had around them, thrusts deep and hard, the blunt head of James' cock pressed into the back of Dean's throat.

James was close. Tension filled the body arched over him, increasing urgency drove his movements. Fingers trembled against Dean's skull. Dean's thoughts screamed for him to interrupt, not because he minded James filling his mouth with semen, but because if James finished so soon, what of his promise to penetrate Dean? Trust me, James' voice repeated in his thoughts, a strange counter point to the desperate grunts and moans winning through James' gritted teeth as he used Dean's mouth to reach the apex of his pleasure. Longing and faint regret teased at Dean, a hollowness between his legs reminded him of his own arousal. His neglected cock twinged against the fabric of his pants, even that slight brush causing him to burn. He pushed the need clawing at him aside. James wasn't going to let him have anything other than a fabulous night, and he was going to do his part.

Firming the arm gripping James' hips, Dean seized control, tipped his head up, and took all of James that he could, swallowing as cock filled him far past the point that normally made him gag. James' voice broke into a fluttering, stuttering moan and he released, body giving way to rest heavily on Dean's supporting arm. Pulling back enough that he could swallow and breath, Dean took all that James spilled, licked him clean, teased out more, until James was whimpering from the continued stimulation. The hand that had gripped Dean's head now gently threaded through his hair, patting him, communicating unspoken thanks and gratification. Only when he felt James begin to grow soft did he stop, withdrawing his lips, placing a gentle kiss on that beloved cock, and leaning back on his haunches, breathing hard.

Dazed blue eyes looked down on him, a lazy, satiated, lopsided smile showed James well-pleased. Dean couldn't keep the hunger from his face as he looked back. His entire being buzzed with the need to be touched, to be thrust into, to be stroked.

"You didn't touch yourself," James said hoarsely. With growing strength, James got his legs under him and straightened, tottering only slightly as he adjusted himself within his breeks.

"I trust you," Dean's voice was very low and gravelly, tongue and throat roughened by James' treatment. The smile James gave him was worth the sacrifice of the moment's pleasure.

"Get your clothes off and get on the bed," said James. "I need to show you how appreciative I am."

Taking a slow, calming breath, Dean shifted so he could remove his boots, setting them aside. As he rose, he shrugged off his open jacket and vest, then pulled his shirt over his head. Walking over, he unbuttoned his breeks, and tugged them off even as he flopped down onto the mattress. Even the brush of his own fingers against his skin was over stimulating, making walking difficult, making it hard to think of anything except all of the ways that James could bring him bliss. James was deliberately, slowly, removing each article of his own clothing. The wings went first, set carefully aside. He unbuttoned his jacket and vest next and removed them, carefully folding each before setting it aside on a low bench. A taunting smile played on his lips as he saw Dean watching, saw how Dean's breathing grew ever more rapid, saw how Dean's cock twitched and danced with longing. Even more slowly, James pulled up his shirt, revealing the pale skin that never saw the light of day, nearly glowing in the dusky darkness. Only the necklace remained, silver pale, star sapphire black save for a gathered light in its core as if it emitted the beams. It shifted and twisted with every motion James made, winking in the night.

James' pants were removed last, leaving James revealed in all his splendor, muscled and strong, lithe and gorgeous, his limp member nestled nearly invisibly amongst the dark hairs that trailed down from his belly. Dean swallowed, wondering what would be involved in bringing James back to arousal. They'd never had time enough to make the attempt for twice.

"Don't worry," James said as if reading his mind. "With you lying there, looking like sin, tempting me, I'll be ready soon. Would you mind preparing yourself for me?"

With a slow nod, Dean rolled over on the mattress and took the pot of oil from his nightstand, dipping his fingers into it. The viscous liquid coated them thoroughly, chill against heated flesh, and he tried to keep it from dripping and staining the blankets as he hitched his hips up and reached around himself. The angle was poor, though, and he knew it would be unsatisfying. Practice at pleasuring himself was another thing he'd had far too much of over the months. Grunting, he twisted onto his front, laying his chest against the bed with one arm curled around so he could rest his chin on it, knees supporting his butt in the air. Reaching, he tentatively explored himself. It wasn't great, but he'd have some access to himself. It would give James a good view, too. James, who was…Dean swore. He'd positioned himself facing away from James, he hadn't even been thinking. He started to shift again, but a hand on his shoulder arrested his movement.

"Wait. I like this idea," said James teasingly. "You won't be able to see what I have in mind. I like keeping you in the dark." The very thought forced a groan from Dean. He'd not be able to lose himself in blue, watch the play of muscles as James moved, but it meant that at any moment, James might be aroused again, might be about to touch him, might be about to fill him.

Sighing with acceptance, he stopped trying to change his view. An anticipatory shudder wracked his body, and he reached his pucker and brushed oil over himself. Breath hissed from James lungs, the hand on Dean's shoulder left, and, achingly untouched, Dean continued to finger at himself, pressing in only gently to coat the exterior and the first, tightly contracted muscle. The only way he knew that James was near was the sound of breathing, barely audible over his own. He could feel eyes on him like a touch, though, and he strove to satisfy that gaze. Between his legs, the weight of his arousal bobbed, dripping amply enough that his early release and droplets of oil fell to the blankets. He'd owe Novak an apology for ruining his bedding. Laughing at the thought, Dean pressed a finger into himself and allowed his eyes to slip shut at the wonderful feeling of having even the inadequate penetrate him.

A moan whispered from Dean's lips, and a faint echoing moan came from James. The mattress shifted as weight settled behind him on the bed. Immediately, Dean's thoughts spiraled out with imagined touches, caresses, and kisses, but none came, and a longing mewl escaped him. The desire to look behind him and see what James was doing was immense, but he resisted. He knew his task. His finger thrust in and out as he focused on building up the slickness in his channel and opened himself in preparation for the greater thickness to come. It felt good, but it was the promise of better that had him moaning with increasing desperation, had his hips pressing up even as his finger quested deeper.

Hands settled on the front of Dean's legs, just above the knees, and he groaned at the firm touch. Fingers dug into his flesh, urging his legs further apart, kneading at his muscles, spreading pleasure that increased in intensity the further up his legs the hands roamed. Dean stopped moving within himself to add a second finger, waiting with marked impatience as his muscles eased. The intrusion was pleasant, adding to the craving that sucking on James had left him a-hum with, but the difference between that which he could give himself and that which he received when James administered to him was marked. His own actions were by definition expected, predictable, known, whereas when James opened him, when James touched him, when James thrust into him, Dean never knew until it happened whether the movement would be hard or soft, fast or slow, angled or straight. Wishing he could imitate that, Dean arched his back, shifting his rear further into the air, and pushed into himself harder.

"I know what you want," whispered James. "I've got you." Weight settled between Dean's legs, and he trembled wondering what was coming. When nothing immediately followed, he grunted, answering the demands of his body by pressing in a third digit. It was an action that gave mixed gratification – he was more stretched, more filled, and that felt excellent, but rendered the angle awkward, and he could no longer thrust his fingers in past the first knuckle. Frustration forced tears from his eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" Dean said, voice strained and wrecked. "Please, James." A hand settled on Dean's back, fingers splayed, easing him, soothing him, as James made inarticulate noises like he was calming a spooked animal.

Lips brushed against the dripping tip of Dean's cock, and a groan lifted Dean's entire body from the mattress. Paralytic pleasure froze him in place, stilled his hand, tensed him. "Don't stop," James urged him on, continuing his mollifying touches. Shivering, Dean took up the stuttering, weak thrust with his fingers once more. James' mouth enfolded the head of his cock, tender, soft, and James lips and tongue expertly massaged against his aching flesh, throbbing in time to his heart beat. The feeling enflamed Dean's mind, and he needed more, needed James not to stop, needed to be filled from behind, needed both at once. He'd never imagined such a thing possible. His body simultaneously tried to lower into the heat of James' mouth and buck up into the pressure of his hand, and only James' anchoring hand on his back keeping him from falling. His hand cramped and froze, and James stopped again. A growl hummed from Dean's throat, pulsed through him, annoyance and desire. James gave a discouraging cluck, and Dean knew that he'd get nothing more unless he continued to fill himself. Hand spasming, he forced himself on, feeling his tension mount, the heat mount with in him. With an approving hum, the lips returned. Sucking and teasing at him, James showed as surely as Dean had done all he'd learned of how to use a mouth to create pure, unadulterated pleasure. Dean finally found a rhythm, pulsing his hips into perfect wetness, raising them to meet his own hand. The combination was unbelievable, could only have been better if...

One of James' fingers pressed in beside Dean's, easily slid in to the knuckle, far deeper than Dean had been able to manage, and a searching fingertip found that indescribable place within him, and an explosion of pleasure caused the world to disappear for an instant.

When Dean returned to himself, heart pounding, James was still within him, his own fingers had stopped moving, his gasping breath rasped in his throat as his head was bent at an angle just shy of painful, and James had shifted his hand from Dean's back to the flat of his lower belly, supporting his hips and murmuring, "It's okay, you're okay. I've got you, my love. I'll not let you fall." He waited until Dean's inhalations were less frantic, then asked, "Are you alright? Was that good?"

In those first moment, all Dean could manage by way of answer was a groan triggered by the mere memory of how good it had felt. "Very good," he managed to gasp. "But I want…"

"If I do that," James interrupted, "I can't do this." James' mouth was all around Dean and a second of James' fingers insinuated its way into Dean's hole, forcing his own fingers out. Liquid moisture coated him and drove Dean to the brink, and James barely thrust as he applied near constant pressure to that glorious spot.

There was nothing Dean could do but go limp and feel. The unbelievable ecstasy of it coursed through him, overwhelming his muscles, overwhelming his mind. He wasn't sure what sounds left his mouth, he wasn't sure how he moved, he wasn't sure what James did, only that he felt amazing and didn't ever want it to end. The thrust and friction and bursts of bliss from his backside collided and melded with the feel of lips and tongue playing expertly over his cock. His vision flickered and he seemed to see the room in glimpses as bright as day though he'd not opened his eyes.

But James was still not inside him.

"No," he croaked. The movements ceased as James obeyed without hesitation, and in the absence of blinding pleasure, Dean felt like all his strength was gone. Only the continued hand pressed to his belly kept his hips from collapsing atop James' body. "Please, James, I want to feel you. Please, please, you, James, please, you..." The word dissolved into inaudible, incomprehensible pleading that mumbled against the blankets.

"Shh," the exhalation of the soothing sound brushed against Dean's cock like a shock. He was so close to his release that even hot air on his skin was more than he could bear. "I'm going to, I'm still going to." Dean's hips surged weakly against James' hand. There was a low moan, and James said something Dean couldn't make out that nonetheless managed to communicate profound desire. "This first. Okay?"

For an instant, Dean actually thought about it. Was it okay? The fingers in his rear twitched suggestively, and he moaned, long and low. He pressed back against them, and whatever his mind might think, he knew his body was desperate to reach the climax that was just out of his reach. "Yes," he whispered. James wouldn't continue until he actually said the word. Wonderful, caring, loving, gentle James...Lips kissed Dean's cock, massaging up and down his length, a third finger swelled him and all thrust gently together. James hummed a sweet tune as he closed his mouth over Dean once more, and to such soothing, tender ministrations, Dean groaned and released, hips rolling uncontrollably. "James!" he ground out a low moan, face pressed into his arm and the blankets, mind filled with bliss and blue. "James…" His only answer was a swallow, and he moaned again. The hand slipped free of his behind, and James eased Dean back to the mattress even as he slid up, wrapping arms around Dean's torso. Dean allowed James to coax him, relax him, draw them together chest to chest to lie on the mattress. Overwhelming feelings made independent action impossible, each touch causing shock through him, and he didn't dare open his eyes. Any additional stimulation would be too much for him.

Trembling against James' steady body, he luxuriated in the feeling of being together, of knowing that they did not have to move unless and until they wished to. James' fingers threaded through his hair, and affectionate, throaty whispers filled Dean's ears, filled his mind. "Did you like that?" Too spent on lethargic bliss to conjure speech, Dean nodded against James' chest, trailing a hand over firm breasts and defined muscles, tangling his fingers in the necklace. As far as Dean knew, James hadn't taken it off once from the day he'd gotten it back from Ms. Milligan. "Me too." The arms around him tightened, smudging his arm with oil, drawing a faint grunt. "We finally have time, Dean. We finally have each other. I know I urged that we handle our relationship elsewise, but you were right. Though we will not be together all of the time, we will have the stability to see each other over the years, can be less concerned for we will not be forever hovering on the edges of discovery. It is what must be, and I'm sorry that I resisted so long. It wasn't fair to you."

Dean opened his eyes and he was instantly met by James', navy in the darkness that filled the room. "I wish it were otherwise – you know I do," Dean murmured. "But we have this. We'll continue to have this, as long as you want it."

A hand came to his forehead, brushing away sweat and strands of hair, then drew back and flicked him stingingly. "Absurd as usual, my love." James' other hand drifted to rest at the slight crook at Dean's waist. "As long as we each want it – forever. Were we not wed, mere minutes ago?" Fingers traced along Dean's cheek, settled beneath his chin and urged him up into a gentle kiss. Dean shifted into the contact, finally feeling able to support some of his own weight. His body slid against James and he worked into the kiss, dragging it out indulgently. Dean's thigh brushed James' arousal, and he sighed happily.

"What was that?" asked James with amusement, a glitter in his eyes.

"You made me a promise," said Dean with a bawdy wink.

"Were you worried I'd break it?"

"Never." Dean took hold of James' shoulders and rolled them both over, Dean onto his back, catching James easily between his arms and legs. James kept an arm beneath Dean's neck and kissed him again, lips skilled, tongue gentle, teasing out the first hints of renewed arousal from Dean. A mostly-hard cock settled between Dean's legs, temptation incarnate. "I've never met a man in whom I repose more faith."

"Does that mean you are ready for more?" James lifted himself over Dean and wiggled his hips suggestively.

Dean laughed. "God help me, yes!"

Leaning back on his haunches, James grabbed a pillow and slipped it beneath Dean's hips. With his back straight, his body bare save for the necklace, his hair disheveled by love making and sweat, his erection prominent between his legs, he was a sight to be seen, and Dean drank it in. Raising an eyebrow, James put on a cute, curious frown and began to play with Dean's limp member. The heat of James' touch trailed like fingers down Dean's spine. "I know you didn't wish to wait," said James casually as he reached into the oil jar and coated his fingers. "We are always forced to such haste." James brought the hand to his member and coated it liberally, stroking away his last lingering traces of softness.

"You're absolutely gorgeous, you know," Dean breathed, awed by the sight.

James' grin was absolute perfection. "What if, thought I, we did the deed, had a wonderful time of it, and sated that urgency." James broke eye contact to look at Dean's hips consideringly, and then lifted them on the pillow, shifted them, adjusted Dean's legs. Unsure what James was attempting to do, Dean relaxed and allowed the manipulation of his body. "Afterwards, we'd be placid. Then...we could go again. Not in hurry. Calmly, slowly, tenderly." Leaning forward, James used a hand to position himself against Dean's entrance. The pressure, though expected, drew a faint moan of longing from Dean nonetheless. No matter what else they did, this was ultimately what he wanted, what he always wanted. They'd had no opportunity in months.

"I've missed you," Dean said. By way of answer, agreement, James pressed in with a low, burgeoning moan. Muscles fought against the initial intrusion, the broad tip sought to spread the tight constraint, and the moment stretched out, feeling like they would never be joined. Then, James was in, Dean's muscles surrendered completely in the wake of his earlier relaxation, and the copious amounts of oil coating each of them enabled James to seat all the way home in a smooth, slick motion. Like a key in a lock, James filled him perfectly, slotted into place, applied wonderful force to every inch of needy flesh, and a groan of profound satisfaction rattled him, combining with James' as their bodies combined. Flaccid flesh hardened between Dean's legs, and he reached for James, running hands along firm, smooth skin, coaxing him to keep moving.

Biting his lip against another moan, James slid back just as easily, thrust into Dean again, and his eyes slipped shut rapturously. "This," groaned James. "No franticness. No desperation. Just an opportunity to show you with my body how much I worship and adore you. Oh, Dean." Shifting his hips up, Dean wrapped his legs around James' waist and urged him to adjust his angle slightly. Expertly, James followed Dean's lead, sank in slowly, and brought the full strength of his hips to a stop against Dean's pleasure. Dean's body arched deliberately into the contact, straining, asking for more instead of begging for it.

Bending from his waist, Dean put his hands to James' shoulders and drew him down into a kiss. "James," he said. Another lazy thrust ended in another bone-melting shiver of pleasure, and Dean's member awoke completely, pressing into the skin of James' pelvis. Dean sighed with satisfaction. "I want to do the same for you. What do you want?"

"I thought I was perfectly clear," James said, not pausing in his steady movements, "this is what I want." He shifted further forward as he rolled in and out again, easing Dean's shoulders back down to the mattress. "More than anything." He cupped Dean's cheek with one arm, supporting his weight with the other, and kissed him gently. "Every time your muscles clench around me." He pulled back and pressed in, a little harder, drawing a startled grunt from Dean as pleasure manifest as light burst before his eyes. "Every sound you make." James repeated the movement precisely, and Dean anticipated, raising his hips to meet it, drawing James into himself perceptibly deeper. "Every time..." James broke off with a faint moan, settling his hips to gain even more depth. "...Every time your body moves to meet mine." He paused and gave Dean a cocky smile. "Every time you beg for me to be inside you." He thrust hard and Dean moaned. "God, you're tight and hot and powerful and it feels so good." James shuddered and forced himself back to his slow, deliberate pace, in and out, their hips rising to meet flush, drawing apart again, pressing together.

It was wonderful. Dean started barely aroused, thought himself content, but each movement of their united bodies built at the heat within him. Each brush of James' skin against Dean's cock sent sparks coursing through his blood. Each new push within Dean hit him like a blow, spurred his heart beat, sent pulsing light and want through his thoughts. Each sound that dripped from James' mouth drove Dean to urge him deeper, drove Dean to encourage James to take everything Dean could give him. Their bodies moved as one, their lips periodically brushed, Dean's hands gripped James' shoulders, and together, gradually, wondrously, they rose higher and higher.

The effort of maintaining such a relaxed pace was telling on James. There was sweat on his brow, his eyes grew increasingly unfocused, his arms trembled. An idea struck Dean. Reaching up, he placed a hand on James' cheek. "Look at me, beloved." With obvious difficulty, James forced his sight into focus and met Dean's eyes. A silly smile played on his face. "Stop moving." The smile dipped into a frown. "Trust me." The smile returned, and James ground to a halt, buried within him, panting, the pendant dangling in the open air between their chests.

Dean sank his hips into the mattress to force James out, then used the combination of his hips and his legs to drive James back in deeply, clenching his muscles as he did so. A deep groan growled from James' throat, his entire body shivering. Pleased with the reaction, Dean repeated his actions again, again, again, adoring the slackness overtaking James' expression, the pleasure evident in the dilation of his pupils, the liquid leaking from the corners of his eyes, the moans that started as discrete sounds but slowly bled together until one continuous, rumbling sound of profound bliss came from Dean's angel. Driven by the urge to see James finish, he forestalled his own pleasure. James would never leave him unsatisfied. He thrust his hips again, and James' moan was interrupted by a whimper as he bit his lip, tensing with the effort of restraint.

"What about..."

Dean interrupted him, clenching hard, and James groaned.

"But Dean..."

Rolling his hips, Dean cut him off again. The threads of James' self-control snapped, and he lowered his body so he was resting on his elbows, his damp forehead pressed to Dean's chest, and with sharp jerks of his hips, he sank himself into Dean's heat, releasing with a cry ripped from his lungs. Breathing hard, he didn't move for several long moments, and then he shifted his weight as if his body were too heavy for him to lift, got a hand on Dean's cock. The touch brought home in an instant how thick Dean's thoughts had become, how much longing possessed him. Feebly, James fondled him, thumbed his head, and Dean thrust weakly, hoping for a stronger grip, a confident stroke. True to Dean's desires, James' fingers curled around him and began a loose-gripped caress. The glow in his thoughts became overwhelming, and he teetered at the edge of heaven.

"That wasn't fair," muttered James petulantly. With his quickly fading hardness, he managed one final thrust that hit Dean squarely in that most wonderful spot, James' hand gave a decided twist as he stroked down Dean's length, and Dean climaxed with a whispering sigh of pleasure that whistled through his teeth.

"I'm sorry if you didn't like it," murmured Dean. Their bodies slid together, slick with sweat, and they tangled arms and legs together, conjoining their flesh "I promise I'll make it up to you next time." James chuckled, low and raspy, and gave Dean a squeeze.

"I look forward to it."

The night grew slowly pitch black, their bodies grew cool, and the sounds of frivolity outside faded until all that remained was a faint strain of piano music seeping up through the floor boards. They lay together, breathed together, ran hands gently along the smooth lines of each other's bodies. Tomorrow morning, they'd be able to wake up together. Everything was alright now. The threats to their future together were gone. Things would not always be perfect, but they had built as safe a world for their love as could be managed within the constraints they could not escape. Both their families knew the truth, and the small community around Lawrence Hall would look the other way provided the manor was well tended. Dean's friends at the Intercontinental League – rapidly becoming James' friends as well – had clearly guessed all, and couldn't care a farthing. When Dean looked at the situation taken as a whole, he had to confess himself the luckiest man in England. He was enfolded in the arms of a man he adored, and who adored him. His loved ones were accepting, society was ignorant, and all their futures were secure. If he hadn't experienced it, if he were not still experiencing it, he'd not believe it. Some part of him, a small voice that couldn't believe that complete happiness was actually attainable, mumbled in fear-laced tones that it was all a dream and would come to an end.

In his heart, Dean knew that wouldn't happen. Not because life was fair, or because he deserved this, or because of luck. No, he would be able to hold on to this because he wasn't alone, he and James were not alone. Any problem that arose, however insurmountable it might seem, would meet the Winchester family, the Novak family, Singer and Ellen and Ms. Moseley and Ms. Masters. It would have to overcome all of them to overcome one of them. Illness or mischance might yet rob them of a happy ending, but society? Society would never touch them again.

"That's Mrs. Freeley playing," James murmured into the night after they'd lain in comfortable silence for some time.

"She's very good," observed Dean.

"Yes," James nodded against Dean's chest, hair tickling Dean's chin. "It's her only love in life. She's never cared for Freeley, you know. Doesn't care what he gets up to. Had she not been a gentlewoman, she'd have been a concert pianist, I believe, but in her youth such was denied her by her birth, and now it is denied her by the rheumatism that often plagues her hands. It is a sad story, and naught a thing any of us can do about it."

"Shall we go downstairs and do her the honor of hearing her performance?" Dean suggested.

"I should like that," James said.

As rapidly as they could, they used washcloths to clean themselves and donned their clothing, being careful not to step through the fragments of pottery that Dean would have to clean in the morning. It was a challenge in the darkness, and judging by the fit they had accidentally traded boots, and possibly shirts as well, but Mrs. Freeley hadn't stopped by the time they stumbled out of their door into the comparative brightness of the hallway. Feeling content and joyful in a way he'd never dreamed of, Dean brushed James' fingers as they walked together, and received a priceless smile in return.

Hurrying down the stairs, they turned and confronted a delightful scene in the parlor. The day's mess had been cleaned up, the furniture had been pushed aside, and couples were arrayed in Mr. Gabriel Novak's sitting room, now an improvised dance floor. As Mrs. Freeley began a spirited reel, Sam and Jessica began a promenade. Ms. Masters and Ms. Milligan followed, and Ms. Harvelle and Charlotte. Inias Milligan had seized the hands of young John Winchester, who clearly hadn't a clue what they steps were, but Inias seemed not to mind. Singer and Ellen, come along to see to the carriage and help with the children, made a couple. Though they each refused to look at the other, Singer wore the happiest smile Dean had ever seen on his bluff face, and Ellen was flushed with happiness. If only they'd actually gaze at each other's faces, they might find their embarrassment dissipating in the discovery that the pleasure they took in the pairing was shared. Ms. Moseley danced alone, carrying the infant Henry. Mr. Novak and Mr. Freeley pranced a stately pace, both ridiculously maintaining the appearance that they were not with precisely the partner they'd have chosen. Little Diana, left to her own devices, skipped along by herself, littering her pathway with cloth petals that she plucked from her adorable dress. As Charlie brushed by her, the child began to tumble, and before Dean could react Claire was there, hands under Diana's arms, righting her. That done, Claire took Diana's hands, and they skipped together across the floor in an imitation of the formation the adults followed so familiarly.

Dean gave James a suggestive, cocked smile, received an identical one in return, and in perfect harmony, they joined hands and stepped into place at the back of the line.

It was the most unusual dance that Dean had ever participated in, and the most wonderful, for everyone in it loved, and everyone in it was loved. It was a pleasure he hoped to have repeated many times in the future.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

So...that's that! I hope you guys have enjoyed this wild ride with me! When I first started thinking about writing a Regency AU last month, I can't say I had the least clue that it would grow into this, nor that I'd finish a novel in 16 days (!) All the wonderful feedback and chat with ya'll has really been awesome, and has kept me going, and I can't thank you enough.

Is there more?

Well. I'm a writer. I've only got two short stories out so far, but I hope to be published someday - if I opt for self-publishing, maybe even later this year, as I have several manuscripts in various states of completion. This is completely original fiction - not modified from prior fanfic. The trilogy I'm currently working on is an urban fantasy series set in a world where much of mythology is true. There's a strong romance component, male/male - not erotica like this, but just as much angst and cuteness, promise. My pen name is Nina Waters, and if you want to see what I do in the future, you can follow me on Tumblr ( ninawaterswrites) or a Goodreads. In case your curious, my real name is Claire, and writing Claire in the story was SUPER weird, I've never tried to write a character sharing my name...)

I expect to publish mostly fantasy and romance, m/m, m/f and f/f depending, and at least some will be erotica. Both my published short stories (both fantasy, neither romantic, neither erotica) are also listed on my Goodreads profile. In everything I write, as in this (to the extent possible, given the constraints of the SPN cast), I strive to represent the diversity I see in the world, so I try to include characters of different sexualities, races, gender identities, ethnicities, as well as folks with mental illnesses and/or physical disabilities. I am VERY committed to such things.

Beyond that, well, if you prefer your m/m smut to be free (heck, that's how I prefer mine!) I'll definitely be writing more Destiel. I expect to have the next two stories of the "I Dream of Deanie" series done by the end of the week - it's a Canon divergence Destiel AU, branching off S5ish, and really don't ask about the plot because the whole point is that it's Plot, What Plot? All Dean and Castiel porn, all the time. :) I'm also working on "The Devil Went Down to Detroit," which is AU, has a slow build but will be erotica soonish, and for which I'm writing (and recording and posting to YouTube...) original music.

As to future longer historical pieces...I have the kernel of an idea for a Civil War era AU, that might happen after I finish the first draft for my next original novel. It would, of course, be Destiel, and erotica. (I'm a history buff, and I'm particularly interested in the US Civil War.) Not sure beyond that. Need a little brain reboot time. :)

In terms of more of THIS SPECIFIC STORY...well, I have a sort-of outline for a chapter from Charlie's point of view set mid-book, and I have two or three outlines for sex scenes I didn't end up writing that I thought I might type up as bonus content. So, though I'm marking this complete, if you want more, subscribe, cause I'll add them as further chapters, I expect, rather than make it a series.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! Your follows, your favorites, your reviews, your messages...writing a novel this fast has been *really really hard* and if I hadn't kept seeing the encouragement, it would never have happened. I hope that you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. You all are amazing! :)

Don't be strangers, now!