oriflamme
Oriflamme: scarlet banner or a knight’s standard.
The scarlet standard of the knight of Winchester ripples in the breeze above Dean’s mounting yard, as he performs the final checks on his gear and hefts the weight of his lance one last time.
This tournament has been the talk of the kingdom for weeks, but very few people doubted that the final contest would be between anyone but the knights of Eden and Winchester. Dean has been training for months for this event, and he’ll be damned if he lets himself lose today. The sun is shining overhead, the ground is firm, and the crowd is in his favour. Surely he’ll be able to carry away the victory and every single one of the bragging rights that goes with it.
Sam holds his horse as Dean mounts up, settling himself firmly in his saddle. Further down the field, he can see the knight of Eden doing the same, his blue standard standing tall at his mounting area. The sunlight glints off the metal of his armor, and Dean allows himself a moment to watch, the corner of his mouth curving up in a smile. Gods, he’s so looking forward to this.
Dean accepts his lance from Sam, ensures that it’s nestled securely beneath his arm, then flips down his visor and nudges Impala in the direction of the tilt. The sound of the crowd picks up as both Dean and the knight of Eden begin to move, until they’re shouting their support to the two armor-clad knights waiting at either end of the tilt.
Everything quiets as the king stands in the royal box, but Dean pays little attention to his speech—it’s something that he’s heard many times before, after all, and he’d much rather focus on the competition and the opponent he’s about to face.
The call comes, and they take their positions at either end of the tilt. Impala dances in excitement, held by Dean’s reins and the weight of his seat, whereas the other knight’s grey horse stands perfectly still. They wait, lances at the ready…
And then they charge.
It all happens in a matter of seconds. Dean has done this hundreds of times, and yet the adrenaline still carries him through. He barely thinks about his actions, just focuses on the centre of the knight’s shield as they gallop towards each other.
He feels his lance hit, fights to keep himself in the saddle as they exchange blows, and then he’s riding out the other side, still seated.
When he reaches the end of the tilt and turns to look back, the other knight is picking himself up out of the dirt.
They look at each other for a moment, and the knight of Eden nods—an acknowledgement of the point scored, with an edge of challenge and determination—and then remounts.
The second time through, Dean manages to stay in his saddle once again, but the other knight’s lance shatters into pieces when it hits Dean’s shield. The crowd cheers wildly as the knight of Eden canters back to his end. They’re even.
And so it all comes down to this final tilt.
Dean takes his place, lance gripped firmly, Impala steady between his legs. He just has to stay in his saddle—few people are lucky enough to shatter their lance twice in a row. All it will take is one good blow to his opponent’s shield to unhorse him, and then Dean will get his victory.
They stare each other down along the tilt, and then the call comes, and they’re off.
Impala’s hooves dig into the dirt.
A bead of sweat rolls down Dean’s forehead inside his helmet.
The tip of his lance wavers, then steadies, his eyes fixed on the oncoming shield.
They strike each other at the same time, Dean’s lance biting into metal and finding its target. The other knight’s lance hits him square on target, though, and before he has time to recover from the blow—
He hits the ground.
Son of a bitch.
Dean lies there as the crowd cheers and catches his breath, having had the wind knocked out of him. His ego is more bruised than his body, and he takes a moment to compose himself before he flips his visor up. At least it feels good to get some air on his face.
The knight of Eden appears in his field of vision, and Dean gives him a wry smile as he accepts the offered hand and lets his opponent pull him to his feet. “Well done, Cas,” he says, reaching up to pull his helmet all the way off.
The knight of Eden mimics the gesture, and Dean’s heart double-beats at the sight of those bright blue eyes and a wide, beaming smile. He’s sweaty and pink-cheeked and gross, but still so undeniably gorgeous.
“I didn’t think I’d be able to unhorse you on that last pass,” Cas says with a chuckle. “It was just lucky. You’ll have to work on breaking your lances, though.” He winks, and his tone is light, teasing—he’s being a lot more gracious about his win than Dean would have been, that’s for sure.
They turn to face the crowd, still cheering wildly, and bow to the royal box. No matter how often he and Cas compete, and how often they compete against each other, the thrill of it never wears off. They keep track of their victories at home, too, and this one will be another notch on Cas’s list.
Like he said, though: Dean will get him next time.
For now, he lets Cas enjoy his victory, watching the crowd applaud him with a proud smile. When Cas turns to face him, still beaming, Dean gives him a small, respectful bow, as is befitting of the contest’s loser… then steps up close, cups Cas’s face in his hands, and kisses him soundly.
There have to be some benefits to jousting against his husband, after all.
