A/N Huge THANK YOU to my wonderful beta bethanyyerinn, who did an amazing job to correct my horrible mistakes. Also, special thank you goes to Phoenix xxxxx and Evanna Adams for their help. Also, thank you to Marple Juice for suggesting to use Sam's name.
Special note: The story may seem little bit rushed in the beginning. I never thought I would write 25 chapters. I was aiming for 5-6 chapters. So that's the main reason. But it gets better and I think and really hope that you will like it :) Thank you very much!
This story also has arts. Check my profile for the links.
In April, year 998, the dragon-headed Drakkar, with 120 furious warriors led by Dean the Berserk, landed at the Isle of Wight. Due to a terrible storm, the ship had gone off course and they ended up at this island.
The Berserk jumped off the ship and stomped through the water. Cold, spring wind blew his long, blond hair around his face. Dean held his sword tight, wiping the splashes of sea water off his forehead with his free hand as the warriors followed their chieftain.
The Vikings made their way up the beach, cautiously checking every direction for possible enemies. The quick scouting revealed that there were none and as the night slowly approached and the earth sank into twilight, they built a bonfire from gathered branches, cones, and moss and settled around it and took out the ale. What else was there to do except drink? So that's what they did.
Time passed slowly. Fire cracked merrily, warriors drank ale, joking and laughing. Dean raised a toast: "May Odin, Thor, and the Norns be our guides to victory 'til we all meet in Valhalla!" With this Dean emptied his horn.
The warriors roared whole-heartedly in agreement and drank with their chieftain. Soon the alcohol took over and traditional Viking style feasting went on until late. Laughter, belching, dirty jokes, and snoring mingled in the night air.
Dean realized that if he drank even a single drop more of ale he would be wasted. He tried to stand up and walk off the drink, but instead he fell flat on his face. Dean shook his head, trying to sober up, and tried again. He drove his sword into the ground and grabbed the hilt. It took almost all of his strength to get up, but after some sweating and panting he finally managed to.
"I….Imm gna take a wlk…." He croaked and frowned at his warriors with a hazed look. "And dnt trr…rrraah to follow me, or I'll ssnnd ya to Helheim!" Dean added with a snarl.
The Vikings had witnessed his rage before, so no one argued—not to mention half of them weren't listening or couldn't understand him. Dean the Berserk staggered along the beach, holding his dearest sword and yelling some dirty, old song at the top of his lungs. Despite the fact that he fell down four times and almost broke his neck twice, Dean the Berserk was in an excellent mood and continued hollering his song. He did not realize that he had gone too far from his camp.
Suddenly he stopped to listen. There was a strange, inexplicable noise. Dean peered through the darkness, but couldn't see anything. He decided to get a closer look at where this odd noise was pouring from.
At first he thought he was looking at a dead bear, because it looked just as heavy and appeared to be covered with dark fur. But after a few seconds, Dean heard the noise, a gods-awful drunken snore—the worst he had ever heard in his life. Then things became clear to his foggy brain. Bears don't drink ale, so this must be a man. A drunken Anglo-Saxon warrior dressed in bear skin, to be precise. Looking closely, he saw that the man was lying on his stomach and that a long, heavy sword lay close to his right hand.
Dean tried to decide what to do. He did not want to attack the sleeping man because, of course, he was a Viking, a wild and fearsome warrior, yet he still liked a fair fight. So instead, he kicked the sleeper.
"Get up, you coward, and fight like a man!" he yelled at him.
The stranger just snorted slightly and mumbled: "I wish these God damn rats would leave me alone."
Dean lost his temper when the man called him a rat. "You're the dirty rodent! I will tear you into pieces!" Dean yelled into the stranger's ear.
It was enough and the sleeping man jumped instantaneously to his feet. The bear skin fell to the ground and revealed a very handsome face. Dark brown curls fell to the man's shoulders and his blue eyes flashed with anger.
"Who the hell are you?" the deep voice barked at Dean.
Dean pierced his rival with a studying gaze. "My name is Dean the Berserk and from this moment on, you are my captive!" he announced unceremoniously.
The man bent his head back and laughed. "I'm your captive? I don't care if you are Dean the Berserk or Dean the Simpleton. I am Lord Castiel and there is not even a small chance that you could capture me." Castiel laughed and showed Dean his perfect white teeth.
The Viking chuckled. "So, you would prefer to die? That is fine with me. Take your sword and fight me if you can, but you are just another weak, shitty, useless Anglo-Saxon son of a bitch."
"Don't mess with me, you stinking Barbarian," Castiel hissed, narrowing his eyes. "I'll smash your skull on these rocks," he continued in a dangerously calm voice.
Now it was Dean's turn to laugh. "You amuse me. It is a pity you are going to die. I will impale your head on my sword so everybody may see what a true jester is."
"We will see about that," Castiel huffed and held his sword tightly. "I'm ready. Are you ready, milady?" he asked ironically.
The Viking looked at him in slight surprise. The sword which Castiel was holding was very hefty and Dean wondered how such a lean, slender man could manage to hold it. Dean could have easily lifted it, but he was slightly taller and a lot more muscular than Castiel.
"Go on, ladies first." Castiel grinned at Dean. The Viking was getting annoyed with this stupid insulting business and lunged quickly at the Anglo-Saxon. Castiel easily parried his attack and in turn brought his own sword up in three quick strikes at the Viking. Dean managed to block them. In an instant he attacked Castiel with raw, furious rage.
Castiel, as Dean found out, was a very experienced and skilled warrior, being able to resist for so long. By this time, every enemy Dean had ever fought before would be dead. But not Castiel. The Viking was really rather amazed about this.
Quite a long time passed, but neither of them intended to stop. After Dean brushed away a few more of Castiel's strikes, he knew that he was getting tired and the sweat was burning his eyes; the ale was surely to blame for this. Suddenly he brought down another blow, one with terrible force at Castiel, and the Saxon's sword fell out of his hand. Dean instantly kicked it and the sword disappeared into the bushes.
Castiel stood there amazed, with wide eyes, open-mouthed, his breath coming out in short gasps. Dean gazed at him in awe; tired, sweaty, and panting, Castiel was a beautiful sight. The Viking felt a lump in his throat and barely managed to swallow. He felt tell-tale tingling sensations in his groin. Dean shook his head and pointed his sword tip against Castiel's throat. "I will send you to Helheim, pretty face." He laughed.
Castiel bit his lip and feverishly sought for a solution. Then an idea struck him. He fell down to his knees in front of Dean.
"Please, Dean. I beg for forgiveness. Be merciful. Let me live and I will do whatever you please." Castiel's voice trembled and he sobbed. Dean could see the tears streaming down his face. The Viking could not believe his eyes.
"Odin our father, I cannot believe my own eyes. Am I dreaming? Or is it the ale?" Dean threw his head back and laughed, which was a big mistake. Castiel jumped to his feet and grabbed Dean's fist. The Viking abruptly stopped laughing and clutched Castiel's hair brutally, making the Saxon cry out in pain. But somehow, Castiel managed to bite Dean's arm, causing the Viking to roar like a wounded beast, and he hit Castiel in the face with the flat of his right hand. The last thing Castiel saw were bright, dancing stars in front of his eyes, before he fell into Dean's hands.
"Ha, this little ferret really thought he was stronger than me?" Dean laid the unconscious body on the ground and dropped his sword. "I will not kill you. I might have other plans for you." He smirked at Castiel and seemed to want to add something else, but instead he swayed, fell backwards, and hit his head against a rock. The Viking passed out instantly. A few minutes passed and Dean started to snore.
And in the cold April night there were two bodies lying under the pale moonlight; two rivals, enemies; and yet, they were sleeping side by side.