[2012 DCBB] The Dreamer and the Mystic - Chapter Four
Title: The Dreamer and the Mystic
Author: bellanovaskies
Artist: littlestshipper
Genre: Fairytale, Romance
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Mary/John, implied Dean/Cassie, Sam/Ruby and Sam/Jessica
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 110,000
Warnings: Violence, language, strong sexual content, and scenes of graphic torture.
Summary: When Dean Winchester’s eighteenth birthday arrived, he was expected to choose his Queen-To-Be; instead he found himself falling for a mysterious stranger with eyes like stars. Eleven years later, accompanied by his brother and their father’s knights, Dean journeys into ancient lands that have long since faded into legend and lore, to once again find the eyes that had bewitched him. Castiel's tribe may be a force to be reckoned with, but nothing can prepare Dean to face his own father, and confess his love for a less-than-human being.
The sun rises over Rod’im as the populace moves.
The enchanted iron locks that hold back the darkness trapped behind the Eastern Gates are removed, thick links thumping and rattling as they hit the ground beneath them. Gears within the stone move and shift with a groan at Michael’s command, and ropes of ivy retreat like harmless, smooth green snakes into weather-worn shafts. The ground beneath their feet thrums. In the middle of a dry clearing just past the gates, is a lone oak. As it stands there, it rips down the middle, pouring a fathomless amount of blue light into the air.
A line of salt is set along the threshold.
Michael turns to Lucifer, who is dressed in the finest robes ever woven in the kingdom, and nods.
Without a word, Lucifer turns on his heels, and marches towards the city limits.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dean remembers a time in which he rattled within his own armor, too skinny to properly fill a breastplate and greaves. His gorget had once been taken to a blacksmith to be adjusted into the size of a child’s, and the chainmail reached well past his knees. But Dean has grown.
Standing before the mirror, he puts on his arming doublet, and Sam helps him attach the mail gussets to the dark blue fabric. The breastplate is now well-fitting, comfortable to move in during battle, and the spaulders, vambraces, and greaves, all flow with his every movement. He looks like the hunter prince he is, all rough pride and lethal presence.
Sam stands to his left, looking tense and closed off, but he has promised to stand by his brother’s side, regardless of his decision. That is not to say that he didn’t nearly rip Dean’s ear off with endless rants once the sun had broke across the horizon. Marching into certain death voluntarily guaranteed him as much.
Lastly, Dean adjusts his belt and scabbard with a firm tug.
When the knock on their door finally comes, both brothers feel their stomachs knot unpleasantly. Clearing his throat, head held high, Dean opens the door find Lucifer standing there with a sympathetic smile. For a moment, Dean entertains the thought that if the Devil had a face, that would most likely be it.
“Now look at you,” Lucifer says with a small lilt that betrays his wonder. “Seems like you’re man enough after all.” Dean turns a quick look to Sam, but fails to form any kind of response.
“I’m sure I’m expected to rant on about our sacred scriptures, give you the dramatic introduction, but I’ll cut to the chase. You look like the kind of man who doesn’t dally.” Looking skyward, where the sun has now crested high and blinding, Lucifer searches for a way to summarize endless pages of divine texts. Pressing his lower lip up in thought, he shrugs and says, “Actually, I’ll just pose it as a question.”
Sam walks up behind Dean, carrying his helmet and gauntlets. “All right,” he says, when his brother is still too stumped to speak. “Shoot.”
Lucifer looks at Sam like he’s the most delicious dumpling he has ever seen, which makes Sam intensely uncomfortable. Smiling in a way that does not exactly reach his eyes, Lucifer turns to Dean. “Are you ready to face your death for the sake of love, peace, and everything else our traditionalist brother wants to sacrifice you for?”
Dean’s face turns a little blue, Sam swears it.
“I’m not going to die,” Dean eventually spits out, doubting the statement altogether, but hoping that if he says it long enough, and repeated it enough times, it will eventually become true. “But yeah, I guess I’m ready.”
“You stupid little creature,” Lucifer murmurs as he turns and heads out into the square. Making sure that both brothers are close behind, he leads them to the courtyard they had crossed with Anna on the first night.
The stone angel is still resting at the middle, his wings up and struggling feebly against the weight set upon his wing. Its marble robes cascade into the subtly disturbed water beneath; silent against the thunderous sound of the river that cuts through only a few meters away. The sun bathes it in a bright yellow glow, and the Winchesters find themselves squinting against the glare.
“Wait here,” they are instructed, as Lucifer leans over the fountain and reaches into the water. He huffs, lips moving quickly, but neither prince catches what it is that he’s saying.
Dean goes cold when he swears he sees the statue move, but Sam is there with a hand on his shoulder, assuring him that it is just another of the many optical illusions the Nephilim seem to be known for. It is Lucifer’s chuckle that assures Dean that it isn’t an illusion at all, but he doesn’t press.
When a minute drifts by, the stiff air nearly suffocating, Lucifer finally straightens up, bringing a black box with him, about the length of his forearm, and twice as deep. The water seems to part as he brings it to the surface, and once he sets it on the marble lip of the fountain, Dean is shocked to see that the box is dry.
He feels sick. Dean has seen plenty of the mystical mumbo-jumbo since he had arrived, but he had not yet allowed for the reality of it to sink in. Now that he has, he doesn’t think he can handle it. Magic is a practice that has been purged from his kingdom since before he was born, and now there he is, ready to drink from the Devil’s cup for the sake of love and peace and whatever the fuck else Michael expects him to fight for.
“There are seven weapons within this box,” Lucifer intones, “and you will choose only two that will aid you in your mission.” He taps the sides of the box once, and then stops, before tapping it twice more. The lid lifts. “The outcome of your battle will be decided upon your choice, so choose wisely.” Stepping aside in order to let Dean approach, he adds, “For all our sakes.”
Sam says something, but Dean doesn’t catch it. All noise is canceled out by a high-pitched sound in his ears he doesn’t know what to attribute to. When a wave of bravery hits him (or maybe it’s stupidity, he isn’t quite so sure any more), Dean first takes a hesitant step forward, and then another slightly surer one, and then another, and another, until he takes the last ones in sure stride. He stops abruptly before the box, and peers down into it, and he isn’t sure whether he feels relieved or horrified.
The first weapon Dean notices is a flail, long and terrible, and so well polished that it seems unused. He nods thoughtfully when he sees the morning star, just as impeccable, and thinks about its attributes for short range battle.
Next is a weapon he has seen several times before, but never learned the name of. It is Balthazar’s weapon of choice: a blade so thin it looks fragile, about the length of a child’s forearm. The hilt is small enough to fit in a fist, making it as easy to wield as a dagger. It would come in handy at close range; good for balance and fast attacks.
The war scythe, best suited for short-range attacks, looks worn. Dean immediately moves on to the next one. He sees a claymore, much like the one given to him by his father on his twentieth birthday, and nods approvingly at it. The leather around the hilt looks tight and rough, and the sapphire gem on the pommel gleams in the sunlight. It is a lovely weapon, Dean contemplates, but the sight of it makes his chest rise and fall unevenly. Nostalgia is a dangerous thing, a powerful distraction that can cost him a fight, so he leaves it. He doesn’t need to be reminded of Castiel’s eyes.
The final two are no competition, and Dean immediately goes for the recurve bow. He takes the red-colored weapon and weighs it in his hands, humming favorably as he turns towards the mountains and takes aim, testing the tension of the string. It is light but sturdy; not as comfortable as his own, but it is something he can work with. It offers safety in its familiarity. Unfortunately, only six arrows are offered with it.
Dean turns to Sam with a confident nod, and his brother moves in to place its harness along Dean’s armor, which is no easy task.
“And your second choice?” Lucifer asks.
Dean looks at the last weapon in the box, if one would call it that, and gives it only a second’s thought before deciding that a shield will hardly do him any good. He takes the weapon he saw Balthazar using before, the silver blade. After slipping it into its oddly-shaped scabbard, he attaches it to his belt.
There is a twinkle in Lucifer’s eyes, a slight tilt at the corner of his lips, and Dean immediately knows that he has made the wrong choices. But Dean is a Winchester. He’s stubborn, doesn’t like being corrected, and once a decision is made, there is no going back. Straightening up, Dean jerks his head once, alerting Lucifer that he has chosen.
“The Eastern Gates will take you directly to the Fallen Tree, which stands guard at the very center of the Crossroads. There are four paths: two of which will lead you to eternal wandering, one which will pull the air out of your lungs until you suffocate, and one which will lead you to the Cage.” Lucifer, who is once again smiling in way that looks like he is secretly up to no good, gestures for them to follow him.
They cross the courtyard and up an open hallway, across a small bridge and out the city gates. The temperature immediately drops, and Dean finds himself shivering. It’s no different from the early winter afternoons in Eldosia, but the constant heat that lingers over Rod’im’s walls makes the shift harsh and startling. Sam remarks on the discrepancy, but Dean doesn’t hear it when he remembers the last time he experienced it.
If it had been just a dream, why did he feel it so vividly on his skin? Everything had felt far too real for it to be nothing more than that, and right there, as he crosses the border, he knows that it’s true. Castiel taking his hand and guiding him to the Garden wasn’t a dream, though it might have felt like it. He can’t remember for the life of him just how he got there, the memory blurring at the edges, like...-
Like a dream. Dean frowns as he crosses yet another bridge. There is really no way of telling what had been real and what hadn’t been.
When they reach a particularly dry patch in the forest, Lucifer stops and turns to them. “If you think this is going to be easy, Dean, you have no idea just how wrong you are. Across those gates,” he turns and gestures towards the stone arches, and it is only then that both brothers notice the monoliths, “you will face things you cannot begin to fathom.”
“You haven’t seen the shit I’ve hunted, buddy.” Dean tries for nonchalance, or maybe bravado, but his voice is hushed and tiny.
Lucifer smiles. “Your nymphs and elves, fairies and wolfmen, trolls and spirits... They all-all of them-pale in comparison. Every little twist and turn will hold something new, something real, and something that’s not real. Tread carefully, for the behemoth isn’t the only monster you will have to defeat.”
Dean is looking past the gates, at the wilted tree that stands twisted and dark in a dead forest swarmed with blue lights. It’s like the beginning of a nightmare, and the dread is already twisting around his gut and constricting his lungs.
He snaps out of his stupor when he hears Sam’s raised voice, and he turns to find him being dragged back into the small crowd he had not seen gather. “Hey!” Dean yells, and he’s ready to chase after him, but Lucifer stops him with a hand to his chest. “Let me talk to him, just for a moment and I’ll go.” Lucifer considers it for a moment, and lowers his hand.
Sam’s hugs, Dean thinks, are the equivalent of those given by big and friendly bears. His brother’s arms are strong as they embrace him, tight and homey, and Dean can feel the quiver in them. Sam’s huffing against his ear, first as a series of nervous chuckles, and then something Dean’s too reluctant to name. It’s an awkward thing to do when there is armor in the way, but Dean doesn’t give a damn. It is comfort, a taste of home, and it is luck, even if Sam’s long hair tickles his nose.
“I’m good, Sam. It’s all good,” he says, and pulls Sam a little tighter when his knees begin to shake.
“I swear to God, if you get your ass killed, I’m gonna kill your ass.” It’s intended as humor, but there’s a truthfulness to it that makes them both feel heavy as they part. Sam pats Dean’s shoulders, and he would squeeze if not for the spaulders that protect them. “You don’t have to do this, man. We can just take our horses and run,” he says urgently, brows knitted tight. “Please, Dean. This isn’t worth it.”
And Dean wants to listen. He wants to because he’s scared, because this could be easy. All he has to do is leave, return home and tell his father that it was all for naught. He can find himself a nice girl, with pretty curves and a gentle touch. It would be different from when he was young, when no one spared him a look because he was too awkward and gangly. Now he is big and strong, fearless, brave and handsome. It would be easier to find a woman who would be willing to sit by his side.
“Yes. Yeah, it is, Sammy,” he finds himself saying instead. Because it would be easy, and therefore, it wouldn’t be true. Nowhere near as true as the young man who had defied his superior’s orders for one reckless night with him. Nowhere near as true as Castiel’s hesitant touches and shy kisses. When an entire kingdom looked down on him as a clumsy prince, Castiel had looked up to him, had touched him and whispered to him words of wonder and promise. “It’s gonna take a lot more than a few monsters to kill me.”
Sam looks at him, long and hard, but nods and steps away. “Just come back in one piece, okay?” Clearing his throat, Dean waves at him with a smirk and a wink.
“If I don’t, there’ll be plenty of me to go around.” Looking over Sam’s shoulder, Dean sees Michael standing before a small crowd, his face set in an expression so serious, Dean wonders if someone’s slipped something in his drink. “I’ll see you in a bit,” he says to Sam, and turns to face the gates.
Castiel is standing by them, wearing a white cloak, much thinner than the ones the other Nephilim are wearing. Its hood rests gracefully on his head, and there is a thin, silver chain that crosses his forehead like a circlet. A thinner chain hangs from it, ending in a star-shaped sapphire that rests between Castiel’s eyebrows. He looks delicate, with pale skin contrasting sharply with the mop of dark hair and the glistening blue of his eyes. If Dean had ever thought Castiel inhuman, he now appeared downright otherworldly.
Dean approaches Castiel, but keeps a fair distance from the threshold. “You look nice,” he blurts out without thinking, and immediately colors.
Castiel’s entire body seems to deflate, the tension leaving him in an exhale at Dean’s words. He smiles faintly and looks to the side, a soft pink tinting his cheeks as well, much to Dean’s delight. “Thank you,” he says.
“Last night, I... I had a dream. You were in it and-”
“I know, Dean,” Castiel quickly interrupts, shifting his eyes to discreetly gesture towards Michael. “It was the only way I could come to you.” Sighing, he continues, “Do you have your necklace? The one from the ceremony?”
His tone is urgent, and Dean nods worriedly. “I haven’t taken it off. Why?”
“Don’t lose it. You truly will be on your own once the gates close, and that will be the only thing to offer you protection.”
“D’you think I’ll make it out of there alive?”
“No,” Castiel says bluntly, making Dean flinch. “It’s foolish. No human has ever crossed over and emerged victorious, never mind alive.”
“Aren’t you a marvelous motivational speaker,” Dean bites out tersely, feeling sick to his stomach.
“But I will support you, until the very end,” he amends, and takes a step closer to Dean. He only stops when his nose is about to bump against the prince’s, whose eyes are now dimmed in preparation for a kiss. Instead, Castiel whispers, “Prove me wrong, Dean. It’s all I ask of you. If you march through those gates, you must come back to me.”
Dean swallows around the knot in his throat, his heart beating erratically against his chest as he leans in the rest of the way, catching Castiel off guard when he steals a quick kiss. “Only if you promise me some victory sex.”
Castiel smiles bashfully after a brief flash of panic crosses his eyes, but he discreetly shifts his body to give the crowd his back, and leans in for another chaste kiss, just as quick as the previous one. It seems to Dean like Castiel does not care that Michael’s watching them, and that Lucifer and Raphael and all the others are bristling. Sexual advances might have been forbidden, but nothing had been said about kissing. Excitement shoots up Dean’s spine when Castiel leans in with an open-mouthed kiss, quickly swiping his tongue against Dean’s before pulling away with a secretive smile. “Very well,” Castiel concedes.
Bending to take a small, marble bowl from the ground, Castiel dips two fingers into a viscous blue ink. He swipes them across Dean’s forehead and cheeks. The words that fall from his lips are ancient, and Dean’s skin burn wherever Castiel touches his skin. He finally pulls away and looks up.
The sun barely filters through the thick canopy of leaves, leaving the forest understory gray, dull and quiet. It is only after a few seconds that Castiel looks at Dean again, his face gone gravely sorrowful, and says, “It is noon.” He stops, and visibly struggles to swallow. “Once you reach the Tree, you have eighty heartbeats to choose your path. If you hesitate a beat longer, you will die. If you choose the wrong path, you will die.”
Dean can hear the shaking in his voice, however faint it is. He takes the gauntlets Castiel offers him, and he vaguely wonders how they had made the transition from Sam’s hands to his. “I’ll be back.”
Casting a glance over his shoulder, Dean spots Sam and Balthazar, along with the rest of his men in the small crowd. They all look at him with a mixture of respect, and questions of his sanity. He offers them a nod, before sparing a glare for Michael and his henchmen.
“Dean,” Castiel says urgently when a creaking sound startles Dean. “You have no time.”
The gates are beginning to close, and Dean knows he has to cross over, but his feet are frozen in place. He gives Castiel a desperate look, and the man looks troubled. “This better be worth it.”
Castiel has the decency to smile, however bitter it may be. “For what it’s worth, I would give anything not to have you do this. But as it is...” He licks his lips and settles Dean with a far more honest smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“That’s not gonna get my ass out alive.” There’s no malice in his voice as he takes that last step forward, his boots crunching dry leaves as he crosses the salt line.
Castiel, standing on the other side, offers him a sympathetic smile. “May your God be with you, Dean.”
With a quiet bang and a click, the Eastern Gates close behind the prince.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sam is huffing when the gates click shut, shuffling his feet as he glares at Balthazar. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“He made the choice, your Highness,,” he says with a faint smile. “Now, we wait.”
“We wait? That’s it? We just sit around and wait?”
Balthazar looks to him in the eye, then turns away. “Yes, we wait. Dean’s not the only one about to be tested.”
Sam fights the urge to bash his head in. He exchanges a brief look with Castiel, who is standing stiffly by the gates, the bowl still clasped in fragile hands. There is fear settled heavily in his eyes, fear for Dean. Sam has to look away.
He wants to be angry with him. Sam wants to be angry with the entire world right now, because his brother has just been driven to fight monsters by himself. No one will be there to help him, and Sam is nothing but useless in this situation. But he can’t be. He can’t be angry at Castiel, not when it is so painfully obvious just how much Dean is in love with him, and how much the man loves his brother in return. Everything is sick and twisted, but he can’t do anything about it.
With a growl beneath his breath, Sam storms back into the city to search for Ruby.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
It’s dark.
That’s the first thing Dean realizes when the gates close behind him, the clink and clatter of bolts slotting into place and finally falling quiet. Where just five seconds ago there had been daylight, albeit dull and gray, now it is dark and thick as midnight. If he does make it out of there alive, he hopes he is never again forced to witness magic firsthand.
Although the world is completely cast in shadow, some spots are darker than others, and he finds himself thinking that the phenomenon is completely unexplainable.
The trees that surround him are all dead. Uncovered branches twist and wrap in unnatural ways, like spider webs or ivy. There are holes on several trunks, but Dean refuses to look beyond their surface, deathly terrified of what he might witness climbing out of them.
Worst yet are the endless amount of glowing eyes like ember, all of them staring and shifting with every move Dean makes. They are attached to shadows that have shapes, but whenever he comes close to comprehending what it is that he is seeing, a hound-like shadow darts behind the tree line, startling him into forgetting his train of thought. The same thing occurs so many times that he finally decides to stop trying.
With his eyes shifting from side to side, Dean slowly approaches the tree with the short blade gripped tightly in his hand. He swats away the balls of light that flutter too close to his face, and sharply turns around when he swears he hears someone behind him.
Of course there’s no one there, he thinks to himself, before pressing forward. His armor may no longer rattle, but he’s still shaking like a leaf, and he’s somewhat glad that no one is there to witness it.
A branch snaps to his right.
At least, no one he knows.
Dean stands before the Fallen Tree. No longer keeping his eyes on the monsters and swatting the lights away, he spares a moment to look at the eerie thing in front of him.
Its bark is black, like it has been struck by lightning. The smell of rotten eggs is intense enough to make him gag, but he coughs it off and covers his nose and mouth with one hand. It is when he leans against the tree for balance that something shifts inside his mind, and he begins to feel disoriented.
The beating of his heart is suddenly the only thing he can hear. Fast, erratic, and hollow.
One, two, three, four...
Dean hears nothing else as he spins in place. He can still see the eyes, and it looks like they are coming closer, but there is no sound to tell him just how close they are. It’s terrifying, seeing advancing creatures made up of darkness and shadow, and not hearing them so much as breathe. There are no footfalls, no crunching leaves even though they are ancient and dry, no snapping twigs.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...
It’s a countdown, Dean finally realizes.
Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three...
Dean twists and turns and looks at the four paths. Bile builds in his stomach when he realizes that he can’t recognize the path he had come from. He is left with four choices, instead of the three he was hoping to cheat with. They all look exactly the same: never-ending and straight over the horizon, narrow. All of them littered with leaves, branches, and to his dismay, bones.
Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine...
One path will kill him, two will trap him, and one will let him fight to his death. The realization that he is caught in this quandary makes his chest tighten so much it physically hurts, and he becomes short of breath.
Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six...
He can feel something looming behind him, and Dean tries to clutch at his own chest, but the breastplate prevents him from doing so. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus...”
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine...
Dean wheezes. He can’t hear his own words, but he knows they aren’t working. Whatever it is that’s behind him is not a demon, and therefore cannot be repelled like one.
Sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five...
Stumbling forward, the blue lights disperse down three of the four paths, startling him. He looks quickly at all three of them, and wonders why the Guardians would tip him off in the right direction. Is it even the right direction? He isn’t sure whether to follow the only path that is not illuminated, or one of the three that are.
He steps closer to the three illuminated paths and peers into them, trying to discern any telltale signs. Dean sees it at long last, a gate standing at the end of one of the highlighted trails. It’s the same gate he walked in through, and he briefly wonders if he can leave through it as well.
It seems far too easy. One will kill him, two will trap him, and one is the exit. Going back is not an option.
Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three...
Two choices. There are only two choices now. The silence is maddening, his skin is crawling, and he can no longer take full breaths. He can feel the creatures closing in...
But a hand, burning hot even through his armor, pushes him softly towards the more dimly lit path on the right.
Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine...
On his last painful heartbeat, Dean sluggishly dives towards the left.
Dean heaves a long, shuddering inhale that he feels burn his throat. “Jesus Christ,” and he could weep from the joy of being able to hear again. He is still in the forest, he notices as he sits up; it’s still dark, but at least he’s alive, and hearing, and he’s also wearing nothing but his skin.
There’s a brief moment in which he panics, his armor and weapons nowhere in sight. He is torn between hiding behind a tree and not moving, but he then remembers the burning, red eyes that are still watching him. It’s pleasant there, however, and his limbs feel deliciously heavy, but it is nothing more than an illusion. Or so he wants to believe.
It is the same feeling that had tried pushing him down the wrong path. Whatever it was, it had tried to pass off as comforting-as Castiel, Dean realizes-but it had felt wrong. Castiel would never push him into anything.
Dean’s ears pop, like the pressure around him has changed. In front of him, he can see Cassie in all of her dark skinned glory. She is all long legs and muted curves, supple breasts and a long, graceful neck framed by dark curls. She is every bit as beautiful as Dean remembers her to be.
Cassie, who he had liked when he was just a kid. A fierce girl who rode a horse like a man, and could handle a sword just as well as he did. Cassie, who liked him back. The daughter-in-law John always wanted.
“Dean?” And her voice, soft and clear. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t seem to remember being locked behind hellish gates. Neither does he seem to notice that he is in a dark forest surrounded by beasts, wearing nothing but a star-shaped pendant that is hanging innocently from his neck.
“I-uh, I came to see you,” he says, suddenly sounding like the insecure eighteen-year-old he used to be. “I missed you.”
“You did?” Her tone is suggestive, her hips swaying as she walks towards him. Her breasts move in time with her stride, before she stands before him and leans down, hands on her knees. “Tell me how much you’ve missed me.”
Dean chuckles when she straddles his thighs and pushes her hands into his hair, tugging lightly at the short strands. She touches her forehead to his and laughs quietly, angling her head so that their noses bump playfully.
This is Cassie, the girl he liked when he was just a kid, and the same one who didn’t like pie. She presses a kiss to his shoulder.
She didn’t like pie, and she had forgotten all about him the day of his coming of age. “Dean, is something wrong?”
Cassie had looked down at him, treated him like a child when he was in fact, older. She had ignored him when he had chased Sam’s ghost lady. Had gone off with someone else when Dean had disappeared to show Blue his horse.
Castiel, his mind corrects.
Cassie is a closed book. A bittersweet one with lovely chapters, but closed. Dean had never kissed her, had never tasted her skin like he had Castiel’s. Because Castiel is his, in a way Cassie never was.
Castiel is his, as he is Castiel’s. His Cas. Not Cassie, never Cassie, because Cassie could never love him the way the disgruntled prince does.
The pendant hanging around Dean’s neck warms, and when he blinks, he finds himself still sitting in the same place. There is no Cassie, no warm feeling in his limbs, but he is fully clothed, and-he hopes-still sane.
He pulls himself up quickly, stumbling a few paces before he can straighten up fully and flex his back. There’s a tiredness settling in his bones, making them ache with every step he takes, but he marches on. Dean pushes against the invisible wall of coldness and fear until he is numb to it, and then goes on anyway. Hand tightly grasped around his blade, he walks deeper into the hell he has chosen to face.
Dean walks, and walks, and walks. His feet grow sore and his calves ache; he is hungry and thirsty and his head is pounding. There is sweat trickling down his neck, and he has long since removed his gauntlets and gorget, casting them aside a few miles back. He walks and walks, but there is no end in sight. Only endless dirt road that rolls on forever, illuminated by the blue lights and nothing more.
The eyes are still watching, the occasional howl piercing the thick quiet, but they never close in on him.
For one frightening moment, Dean hears children laughing and singing lullabies. He chases after their shadows but stops when they lead him to the tree line, and by light of some unidentified source, he can see their silhouettes between the withered trees. They have the same glowing, red eyes as the foul-smelling beasts.
At another point in time, he sees Sam running across the path, wearing nothing but his underwear. Dean finds it in him to laugh, but the amusement turns to absolute rage when Castiel joins him, and they are nothing more than a mess of tangled limbs on the ground.
He has faced his mother and father, he’s faced Bobby and his dead wife, he’s seen Michael and Lucifer as angels, and he’s seen Castiel kill Balthazar with the very blade Dean is carrying. And it does not end. The path keeps on, and he pushes on until he feels like screaming.
“Hm, something told me you’d be here,” says a voice, and Dean figures it’s just another illusion, hopes it to be, for once. “What a terribly sticky situation, your Highness. Young love will make you do such stupid things.”
“You’re not real,” Dean says, his voice flat and hoarse.
“Oh, but I am. I am but a nightmare to you, and those are the scariest; which means: those are the ones you grant life to. I am what you grant life to, and, therefore, I am real. Sticky isn’t it? Everything is always sticky when it comes to you.”
Alastair keeps in stride with Dean, hands tucked behind his back as he hums a jaunty tune. He contemplates the path and the trees and clucks his tongue in disappointment. “La purgatorium ain’t all it is chucked up to be, eh?” He stops momentarily to snap a branch off a tree and frowns when it dissolves almost instantly in his palm. “I figured it’d be more… hm, what’s the word I’m looking…-dimensional. Everything is just so flat.”
Dean twitches. He’ll take having to watch murders, fighting off hellbeasts by hand, cutting off his own foot, anything, to not have to listen to Alastair’s smoggy voice. “This really is hell, isn’t it?”
“Hardly, your Highness. Hell is much… colder. And louder. The constant wail of tormented souls is like music,” Alastair says, dragging out his s with relish. “Tell me, though, professionalism aside. Have you fucked your little angel yet?”
“You really need to get the fuck outta my face already.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’. The tension must be killing you, Dean. I remember the first time you two went at it. Mmm, yes, yes, I remember. You were disgustingly loud. Poor Sammy was scarred for life, but at least Daddy Winchester was proud. If only he knew it wasn’t some poor, tasteless dame.
“You should have seen your mother, though. Poor Mary was so heartbroken that her son had given into his father’s pathetic attempts at making him a man. If only she knew,” Alastair quickens his pace so that he is standing in front of Dean, stopping him in mid step. “If only she knew, that it didn’t matter just how much her little morsel fucked and killed, he would never really become a man.”
Dean’s eyes are hard, face flushed with anger, but he knows it isn’t real. He doesn’t physically react because he knows that that is what it wants. “Even as an illusion, you’re so full of shit.”
Alastair chuckles, a deep and rotten thing lodged deep in his throat as it hacks its way from his chest. “Oh, no, Dean. I just know. I know more than any of you pathetic little slimes will ever know, more than Michael, even. But that’s not my story to tell,” he says as he straightens up, running a hand down his chest and leaving it lingering on his stomach as he thinks.
“This prophecy thing, the one that has the little angel wrapped around Michael’s finger? Void. No such thing. The bosom of young lovers? Come on, Dean, you’re smarter than this. You know better than to trust the winged wonders. Daddy John would be disappointed if he saw you now.”
“Shut up.”
“Well,” Alastair turns on his heels and continues to walk down the path, twirling his wrist overhead as he starts humming again. “The little angel is in love, though he is not sure of it himself really. Hm, your taste for corrupting the innocent goes unmatched, young prince. Now, how in love are you?”
“I said, shut up.”
Alastair comes to a halt again, holding out his hand to Dean. “I have the key to take you to the behemoth, your Highness. But first, I’m afraid we are going to have to host an impromptu confession. Pretend am I priest, will you?”
Dean snorts at that, unable to believe that he’s about to entertain a hallucination, of all things. “I see you more like the Devil himself, but I think that guy has a better personality than you.”
“You wound me, sire,” Alastair coos, pressing a hand to his chest. “But tell me, this… love you have for that creature.”
“It’s not love.”
“Oooh, wrong answer.”
“Look, it’s not, okay?” Dean says, more than a little aggravated now. “I came because I wanted to see him. I thought it’d be the same as last time but it’s not. There’s a family here that I can’t just shit on a whim.” And there it is. Dean feels something shift in his chest, and he can’t stop talking. “His brothers and sisters love him. They respect him and treat him like he deserves to be treated. So Michael’s a dick, there’s one in every family. But taking Cas out of this place and shoving him in a kingdom that would shoot him on sight?” He takes a step back and heaves in a breath.
“It’s called being selfish. I’m being a fucking brat, is what. I have everything I could ever need: a good horse, good parents, a little brother, friends, people who look up to me. Everything is good. Taking Castiel with me just because I want to have a happy m-ma…” Dean bites back the word. “Just because I want everything to end happily? I’m not sacrificing the guy’s wellbeing just so that I can be comfortable.”
Dean turns away with a sigh, running a hand down his face and pinching his nose. His heart aches at his own words, because yes, he does have feelings for Castiel, but he can’t allow himself to accept them. If he did, Dean would only be dragging him down. Castiel deserves so much better than a deadbeat prince like him, who pretends to be fearless when in truth all he does is kill supernatural shit because he’s told to.
“I don’t know why I’m going through with this. I keep saying that I’m going to pack up and leave, but I keep jumping into these things whenever they pop up.”
Alastair is quiet, but his grin is so wide Dean fights the urge to retch. Joy is a disturbing look to see etched upon Alastair’s face. It is worse when he begins to sing in a foreign language before stopping to say, “oh, you pathetic little misguided soul. So many years, so many harlots that have come and gone and it is only now that you’ve fallen in love.” Clapping his hands, the endless path suddenly opens like a door, revealing a forest just like the one he had been in at Rod’im.
“Follow the light of your angel’s eyes, and you will find a well. Drink from it three times, and a key will then appear at the bottom of the bucket. Past the tree in the shape of a crescent moon will be a door." Alistair pauses to suck in a breath, his smile creeping ever wider still as he savors the words. “Within will be the behemoth which only the righteous man can slay.”
As quickly as he had appeared, he is gone.
Chapter Continued Here
Author: bellanovaskies
Artist: littlestshipper
Genre: Fairytale, Romance
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Mary/John, implied Dean/Cassie, Sam/Ruby and Sam/Jessica
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 110,000
Warnings: Violence, language, strong sexual content, and scenes of graphic torture.
Summary: When Dean Winchester’s eighteenth birthday arrived, he was expected to choose his Queen-To-Be; instead he found himself falling for a mysterious stranger with eyes like stars. Eleven years later, accompanied by his brother and their father’s knights, Dean journeys into ancient lands that have long since faded into legend and lore, to once again find the eyes that had bewitched him. Castiel's tribe may be a force to be reckoned with, but nothing can prepare Dean to face his own father, and confess his love for a less-than-human being.
The sun rises over Rod’im as the populace moves.
The enchanted iron locks that hold back the darkness trapped behind the Eastern Gates are removed, thick links thumping and rattling as they hit the ground beneath them. Gears within the stone move and shift with a groan at Michael’s command, and ropes of ivy retreat like harmless, smooth green snakes into weather-worn shafts. The ground beneath their feet thrums. In the middle of a dry clearing just past the gates, is a lone oak. As it stands there, it rips down the middle, pouring a fathomless amount of blue light into the air.
A line of salt is set along the threshold.
Michael turns to Lucifer, who is dressed in the finest robes ever woven in the kingdom, and nods.
Without a word, Lucifer turns on his heels, and marches towards the city limits.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dean remembers a time in which he rattled within his own armor, too skinny to properly fill a breastplate and greaves. His gorget had once been taken to a blacksmith to be adjusted into the size of a child’s, and the chainmail reached well past his knees. But Dean has grown.
Standing before the mirror, he puts on his arming doublet, and Sam helps him attach the mail gussets to the dark blue fabric. The breastplate is now well-fitting, comfortable to move in during battle, and the spaulders, vambraces, and greaves, all flow with his every movement. He looks like the hunter prince he is, all rough pride and lethal presence.
Sam stands to his left, looking tense and closed off, but he has promised to stand by his brother’s side, regardless of his decision. That is not to say that he didn’t nearly rip Dean’s ear off with endless rants once the sun had broke across the horizon. Marching into certain death voluntarily guaranteed him as much.
Lastly, Dean adjusts his belt and scabbard with a firm tug.
When the knock on their door finally comes, both brothers feel their stomachs knot unpleasantly. Clearing his throat, head held high, Dean opens the door find Lucifer standing there with a sympathetic smile. For a moment, Dean entertains the thought that if the Devil had a face, that would most likely be it.
“Now look at you,” Lucifer says with a small lilt that betrays his wonder. “Seems like you’re man enough after all.” Dean turns a quick look to Sam, but fails to form any kind of response.
“I’m sure I’m expected to rant on about our sacred scriptures, give you the dramatic introduction, but I’ll cut to the chase. You look like the kind of man who doesn’t dally.” Looking skyward, where the sun has now crested high and blinding, Lucifer searches for a way to summarize endless pages of divine texts. Pressing his lower lip up in thought, he shrugs and says, “Actually, I’ll just pose it as a question.”
Sam walks up behind Dean, carrying his helmet and gauntlets. “All right,” he says, when his brother is still too stumped to speak. “Shoot.”
Lucifer looks at Sam like he’s the most delicious dumpling he has ever seen, which makes Sam intensely uncomfortable. Smiling in a way that does not exactly reach his eyes, Lucifer turns to Dean. “Are you ready to face your death for the sake of love, peace, and everything else our traditionalist brother wants to sacrifice you for?”
Dean’s face turns a little blue, Sam swears it.
“I’m not going to die,” Dean eventually spits out, doubting the statement altogether, but hoping that if he says it long enough, and repeated it enough times, it will eventually become true. “But yeah, I guess I’m ready.”
“You stupid little creature,” Lucifer murmurs as he turns and heads out into the square. Making sure that both brothers are close behind, he leads them to the courtyard they had crossed with Anna on the first night.
The stone angel is still resting at the middle, his wings up and struggling feebly against the weight set upon his wing. Its marble robes cascade into the subtly disturbed water beneath; silent against the thunderous sound of the river that cuts through only a few meters away. The sun bathes it in a bright yellow glow, and the Winchesters find themselves squinting against the glare.
“Wait here,” they are instructed, as Lucifer leans over the fountain and reaches into the water. He huffs, lips moving quickly, but neither prince catches what it is that he’s saying.
Dean goes cold when he swears he sees the statue move, but Sam is there with a hand on his shoulder, assuring him that it is just another of the many optical illusions the Nephilim seem to be known for. It is Lucifer’s chuckle that assures Dean that it isn’t an illusion at all, but he doesn’t press.
When a minute drifts by, the stiff air nearly suffocating, Lucifer finally straightens up, bringing a black box with him, about the length of his forearm, and twice as deep. The water seems to part as he brings it to the surface, and once he sets it on the marble lip of the fountain, Dean is shocked to see that the box is dry.
He feels sick. Dean has seen plenty of the mystical mumbo-jumbo since he had arrived, but he had not yet allowed for the reality of it to sink in. Now that he has, he doesn’t think he can handle it. Magic is a practice that has been purged from his kingdom since before he was born, and now there he is, ready to drink from the Devil’s cup for the sake of love and peace and whatever the fuck else Michael expects him to fight for.
“There are seven weapons within this box,” Lucifer intones, “and you will choose only two that will aid you in your mission.” He taps the sides of the box once, and then stops, before tapping it twice more. The lid lifts. “The outcome of your battle will be decided upon your choice, so choose wisely.” Stepping aside in order to let Dean approach, he adds, “For all our sakes.”
Sam says something, but Dean doesn’t catch it. All noise is canceled out by a high-pitched sound in his ears he doesn’t know what to attribute to. When a wave of bravery hits him (or maybe it’s stupidity, he isn’t quite so sure any more), Dean first takes a hesitant step forward, and then another slightly surer one, and then another, and another, until he takes the last ones in sure stride. He stops abruptly before the box, and peers down into it, and he isn’t sure whether he feels relieved or horrified.
The first weapon Dean notices is a flail, long and terrible, and so well polished that it seems unused. He nods thoughtfully when he sees the morning star, just as impeccable, and thinks about its attributes for short range battle.
Next is a weapon he has seen several times before, but never learned the name of. It is Balthazar’s weapon of choice: a blade so thin it looks fragile, about the length of a child’s forearm. The hilt is small enough to fit in a fist, making it as easy to wield as a dagger. It would come in handy at close range; good for balance and fast attacks.
The war scythe, best suited for short-range attacks, looks worn. Dean immediately moves on to the next one. He sees a claymore, much like the one given to him by his father on his twentieth birthday, and nods approvingly at it. The leather around the hilt looks tight and rough, and the sapphire gem on the pommel gleams in the sunlight. It is a lovely weapon, Dean contemplates, but the sight of it makes his chest rise and fall unevenly. Nostalgia is a dangerous thing, a powerful distraction that can cost him a fight, so he leaves it. He doesn’t need to be reminded of Castiel’s eyes.
The final two are no competition, and Dean immediately goes for the recurve bow. He takes the red-colored weapon and weighs it in his hands, humming favorably as he turns towards the mountains and takes aim, testing the tension of the string. It is light but sturdy; not as comfortable as his own, but it is something he can work with. It offers safety in its familiarity. Unfortunately, only six arrows are offered with it.
Dean turns to Sam with a confident nod, and his brother moves in to place its harness along Dean’s armor, which is no easy task.
“And your second choice?” Lucifer asks.
Dean looks at the last weapon in the box, if one would call it that, and gives it only a second’s thought before deciding that a shield will hardly do him any good. He takes the weapon he saw Balthazar using before, the silver blade. After slipping it into its oddly-shaped scabbard, he attaches it to his belt.
There is a twinkle in Lucifer’s eyes, a slight tilt at the corner of his lips, and Dean immediately knows that he has made the wrong choices. But Dean is a Winchester. He’s stubborn, doesn’t like being corrected, and once a decision is made, there is no going back. Straightening up, Dean jerks his head once, alerting Lucifer that he has chosen.
“The Eastern Gates will take you directly to the Fallen Tree, which stands guard at the very center of the Crossroads. There are four paths: two of which will lead you to eternal wandering, one which will pull the air out of your lungs until you suffocate, and one which will lead you to the Cage.” Lucifer, who is once again smiling in way that looks like he is secretly up to no good, gestures for them to follow him.
They cross the courtyard and up an open hallway, across a small bridge and out the city gates. The temperature immediately drops, and Dean finds himself shivering. It’s no different from the early winter afternoons in Eldosia, but the constant heat that lingers over Rod’im’s walls makes the shift harsh and startling. Sam remarks on the discrepancy, but Dean doesn’t hear it when he remembers the last time he experienced it.
If it had been just a dream, why did he feel it so vividly on his skin? Everything had felt far too real for it to be nothing more than that, and right there, as he crosses the border, he knows that it’s true. Castiel taking his hand and guiding him to the Garden wasn’t a dream, though it might have felt like it. He can’t remember for the life of him just how he got there, the memory blurring at the edges, like...-
Like a dream. Dean frowns as he crosses yet another bridge. There is really no way of telling what had been real and what hadn’t been.
When they reach a particularly dry patch in the forest, Lucifer stops and turns to them. “If you think this is going to be easy, Dean, you have no idea just how wrong you are. Across those gates,” he turns and gestures towards the stone arches, and it is only then that both brothers notice the monoliths, “you will face things you cannot begin to fathom.”
“You haven’t seen the shit I’ve hunted, buddy.” Dean tries for nonchalance, or maybe bravado, but his voice is hushed and tiny.
Lucifer smiles. “Your nymphs and elves, fairies and wolfmen, trolls and spirits... They all-all of them-pale in comparison. Every little twist and turn will hold something new, something real, and something that’s not real. Tread carefully, for the behemoth isn’t the only monster you will have to defeat.”
Dean is looking past the gates, at the wilted tree that stands twisted and dark in a dead forest swarmed with blue lights. It’s like the beginning of a nightmare, and the dread is already twisting around his gut and constricting his lungs.
He snaps out of his stupor when he hears Sam’s raised voice, and he turns to find him being dragged back into the small crowd he had not seen gather. “Hey!” Dean yells, and he’s ready to chase after him, but Lucifer stops him with a hand to his chest. “Let me talk to him, just for a moment and I’ll go.” Lucifer considers it for a moment, and lowers his hand.
Sam’s hugs, Dean thinks, are the equivalent of those given by big and friendly bears. His brother’s arms are strong as they embrace him, tight and homey, and Dean can feel the quiver in them. Sam’s huffing against his ear, first as a series of nervous chuckles, and then something Dean’s too reluctant to name. It’s an awkward thing to do when there is armor in the way, but Dean doesn’t give a damn. It is comfort, a taste of home, and it is luck, even if Sam’s long hair tickles his nose.
“I’m good, Sam. It’s all good,” he says, and pulls Sam a little tighter when his knees begin to shake.
“I swear to God, if you get your ass killed, I’m gonna kill your ass.” It’s intended as humor, but there’s a truthfulness to it that makes them both feel heavy as they part. Sam pats Dean’s shoulders, and he would squeeze if not for the spaulders that protect them. “You don’t have to do this, man. We can just take our horses and run,” he says urgently, brows knitted tight. “Please, Dean. This isn’t worth it.”
And Dean wants to listen. He wants to because he’s scared, because this could be easy. All he has to do is leave, return home and tell his father that it was all for naught. He can find himself a nice girl, with pretty curves and a gentle touch. It would be different from when he was young, when no one spared him a look because he was too awkward and gangly. Now he is big and strong, fearless, brave and handsome. It would be easier to find a woman who would be willing to sit by his side.
“Yes. Yeah, it is, Sammy,” he finds himself saying instead. Because it would be easy, and therefore, it wouldn’t be true. Nowhere near as true as the young man who had defied his superior’s orders for one reckless night with him. Nowhere near as true as Castiel’s hesitant touches and shy kisses. When an entire kingdom looked down on him as a clumsy prince, Castiel had looked up to him, had touched him and whispered to him words of wonder and promise. “It’s gonna take a lot more than a few monsters to kill me.”
Sam looks at him, long and hard, but nods and steps away. “Just come back in one piece, okay?” Clearing his throat, Dean waves at him with a smirk and a wink.
“If I don’t, there’ll be plenty of me to go around.” Looking over Sam’s shoulder, Dean sees Michael standing before a small crowd, his face set in an expression so serious, Dean wonders if someone’s slipped something in his drink. “I’ll see you in a bit,” he says to Sam, and turns to face the gates.
Castiel is standing by them, wearing a white cloak, much thinner than the ones the other Nephilim are wearing. Its hood rests gracefully on his head, and there is a thin, silver chain that crosses his forehead like a circlet. A thinner chain hangs from it, ending in a star-shaped sapphire that rests between Castiel’s eyebrows. He looks delicate, with pale skin contrasting sharply with the mop of dark hair and the glistening blue of his eyes. If Dean had ever thought Castiel inhuman, he now appeared downright otherworldly.
Dean approaches Castiel, but keeps a fair distance from the threshold. “You look nice,” he blurts out without thinking, and immediately colors.
Castiel’s entire body seems to deflate, the tension leaving him in an exhale at Dean’s words. He smiles faintly and looks to the side, a soft pink tinting his cheeks as well, much to Dean’s delight. “Thank you,” he says.
“Last night, I... I had a dream. You were in it and-”
“I know, Dean,” Castiel quickly interrupts, shifting his eyes to discreetly gesture towards Michael. “It was the only way I could come to you.” Sighing, he continues, “Do you have your necklace? The one from the ceremony?”
His tone is urgent, and Dean nods worriedly. “I haven’t taken it off. Why?”
“Don’t lose it. You truly will be on your own once the gates close, and that will be the only thing to offer you protection.”
“D’you think I’ll make it out of there alive?”
“No,” Castiel says bluntly, making Dean flinch. “It’s foolish. No human has ever crossed over and emerged victorious, never mind alive.”
“Aren’t you a marvelous motivational speaker,” Dean bites out tersely, feeling sick to his stomach.
“But I will support you, until the very end,” he amends, and takes a step closer to Dean. He only stops when his nose is about to bump against the prince’s, whose eyes are now dimmed in preparation for a kiss. Instead, Castiel whispers, “Prove me wrong, Dean. It’s all I ask of you. If you march through those gates, you must come back to me.”
Dean swallows around the knot in his throat, his heart beating erratically against his chest as he leans in the rest of the way, catching Castiel off guard when he steals a quick kiss. “Only if you promise me some victory sex.”
Castiel smiles bashfully after a brief flash of panic crosses his eyes, but he discreetly shifts his body to give the crowd his back, and leans in for another chaste kiss, just as quick as the previous one. It seems to Dean like Castiel does not care that Michael’s watching them, and that Lucifer and Raphael and all the others are bristling. Sexual advances might have been forbidden, but nothing had been said about kissing. Excitement shoots up Dean’s spine when Castiel leans in with an open-mouthed kiss, quickly swiping his tongue against Dean’s before pulling away with a secretive smile. “Very well,” Castiel concedes.
Bending to take a small, marble bowl from the ground, Castiel dips two fingers into a viscous blue ink. He swipes them across Dean’s forehead and cheeks. The words that fall from his lips are ancient, and Dean’s skin burn wherever Castiel touches his skin. He finally pulls away and looks up.
The sun barely filters through the thick canopy of leaves, leaving the forest understory gray, dull and quiet. It is only after a few seconds that Castiel looks at Dean again, his face gone gravely sorrowful, and says, “It is noon.” He stops, and visibly struggles to swallow. “Once you reach the Tree, you have eighty heartbeats to choose your path. If you hesitate a beat longer, you will die. If you choose the wrong path, you will die.”
Dean can hear the shaking in his voice, however faint it is. He takes the gauntlets Castiel offers him, and he vaguely wonders how they had made the transition from Sam’s hands to his. “I’ll be back.”
Casting a glance over his shoulder, Dean spots Sam and Balthazar, along with the rest of his men in the small crowd. They all look at him with a mixture of respect, and questions of his sanity. He offers them a nod, before sparing a glare for Michael and his henchmen.
“Dean,” Castiel says urgently when a creaking sound startles Dean. “You have no time.”
The gates are beginning to close, and Dean knows he has to cross over, but his feet are frozen in place. He gives Castiel a desperate look, and the man looks troubled. “This better be worth it.”
Castiel has the decency to smile, however bitter it may be. “For what it’s worth, I would give anything not to have you do this. But as it is...” He licks his lips and settles Dean with a far more honest smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“That’s not gonna get my ass out alive.” There’s no malice in his voice as he takes that last step forward, his boots crunching dry leaves as he crosses the salt line.
Castiel, standing on the other side, offers him a sympathetic smile. “May your God be with you, Dean.”
With a quiet bang and a click, the Eastern Gates close behind the prince.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sam is huffing when the gates click shut, shuffling his feet as he glares at Balthazar. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“He made the choice, your Highness,,” he says with a faint smile. “Now, we wait.”
“We wait? That’s it? We just sit around and wait?”
Balthazar looks to him in the eye, then turns away. “Yes, we wait. Dean’s not the only one about to be tested.”
Sam fights the urge to bash his head in. He exchanges a brief look with Castiel, who is standing stiffly by the gates, the bowl still clasped in fragile hands. There is fear settled heavily in his eyes, fear for Dean. Sam has to look away.
He wants to be angry with him. Sam wants to be angry with the entire world right now, because his brother has just been driven to fight monsters by himself. No one will be there to help him, and Sam is nothing but useless in this situation. But he can’t be. He can’t be angry at Castiel, not when it is so painfully obvious just how much Dean is in love with him, and how much the man loves his brother in return. Everything is sick and twisted, but he can’t do anything about it.
With a growl beneath his breath, Sam storms back into the city to search for Ruby.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
It’s dark.
That’s the first thing Dean realizes when the gates close behind him, the clink and clatter of bolts slotting into place and finally falling quiet. Where just five seconds ago there had been daylight, albeit dull and gray, now it is dark and thick as midnight. If he does make it out of there alive, he hopes he is never again forced to witness magic firsthand.
Although the world is completely cast in shadow, some spots are darker than others, and he finds himself thinking that the phenomenon is completely unexplainable.
The trees that surround him are all dead. Uncovered branches twist and wrap in unnatural ways, like spider webs or ivy. There are holes on several trunks, but Dean refuses to look beyond their surface, deathly terrified of what he might witness climbing out of them.
Worst yet are the endless amount of glowing eyes like ember, all of them staring and shifting with every move Dean makes. They are attached to shadows that have shapes, but whenever he comes close to comprehending what it is that he is seeing, a hound-like shadow darts behind the tree line, startling him into forgetting his train of thought. The same thing occurs so many times that he finally decides to stop trying.
With his eyes shifting from side to side, Dean slowly approaches the tree with the short blade gripped tightly in his hand. He swats away the balls of light that flutter too close to his face, and sharply turns around when he swears he hears someone behind him.
Of course there’s no one there, he thinks to himself, before pressing forward. His armor may no longer rattle, but he’s still shaking like a leaf, and he’s somewhat glad that no one is there to witness it.
A branch snaps to his right.
At least, no one he knows.
Dean stands before the Fallen Tree. No longer keeping his eyes on the monsters and swatting the lights away, he spares a moment to look at the eerie thing in front of him.
Its bark is black, like it has been struck by lightning. The smell of rotten eggs is intense enough to make him gag, but he coughs it off and covers his nose and mouth with one hand. It is when he leans against the tree for balance that something shifts inside his mind, and he begins to feel disoriented.
The beating of his heart is suddenly the only thing he can hear. Fast, erratic, and hollow.
One, two, three, four...
Dean hears nothing else as he spins in place. He can still see the eyes, and it looks like they are coming closer, but there is no sound to tell him just how close they are. It’s terrifying, seeing advancing creatures made up of darkness and shadow, and not hearing them so much as breathe. There are no footfalls, no crunching leaves even though they are ancient and dry, no snapping twigs.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...
It’s a countdown, Dean finally realizes.
Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three...
Dean twists and turns and looks at the four paths. Bile builds in his stomach when he realizes that he can’t recognize the path he had come from. He is left with four choices, instead of the three he was hoping to cheat with. They all look exactly the same: never-ending and straight over the horizon, narrow. All of them littered with leaves, branches, and to his dismay, bones.
Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine...
One path will kill him, two will trap him, and one will let him fight to his death. The realization that he is caught in this quandary makes his chest tighten so much it physically hurts, and he becomes short of breath.
Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six...
He can feel something looming behind him, and Dean tries to clutch at his own chest, but the breastplate prevents him from doing so. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus...”
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine...
Dean wheezes. He can’t hear his own words, but he knows they aren’t working. Whatever it is that’s behind him is not a demon, and therefore cannot be repelled like one.
Sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five...
Stumbling forward, the blue lights disperse down three of the four paths, startling him. He looks quickly at all three of them, and wonders why the Guardians would tip him off in the right direction. Is it even the right direction? He isn’t sure whether to follow the only path that is not illuminated, or one of the three that are.
He steps closer to the three illuminated paths and peers into them, trying to discern any telltale signs. Dean sees it at long last, a gate standing at the end of one of the highlighted trails. It’s the same gate he walked in through, and he briefly wonders if he can leave through it as well.
It seems far too easy. One will kill him, two will trap him, and one is the exit. Going back is not an option.
Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three...
Two choices. There are only two choices now. The silence is maddening, his skin is crawling, and he can no longer take full breaths. He can feel the creatures closing in...
But a hand, burning hot even through his armor, pushes him softly towards the more dimly lit path on the right.
Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine...
On his last painful heartbeat, Dean sluggishly dives towards the left.
Dean heaves a long, shuddering inhale that he feels burn his throat. “Jesus Christ,” and he could weep from the joy of being able to hear again. He is still in the forest, he notices as he sits up; it’s still dark, but at least he’s alive, and hearing, and he’s also wearing nothing but his skin.
There’s a brief moment in which he panics, his armor and weapons nowhere in sight. He is torn between hiding behind a tree and not moving, but he then remembers the burning, red eyes that are still watching him. It’s pleasant there, however, and his limbs feel deliciously heavy, but it is nothing more than an illusion. Or so he wants to believe.
It is the same feeling that had tried pushing him down the wrong path. Whatever it was, it had tried to pass off as comforting-as Castiel, Dean realizes-but it had felt wrong. Castiel would never push him into anything.
Dean’s ears pop, like the pressure around him has changed. In front of him, he can see Cassie in all of her dark skinned glory. She is all long legs and muted curves, supple breasts and a long, graceful neck framed by dark curls. She is every bit as beautiful as Dean remembers her to be.
Cassie, who he had liked when he was just a kid. A fierce girl who rode a horse like a man, and could handle a sword just as well as he did. Cassie, who liked him back. The daughter-in-law John always wanted.
“Dean?” And her voice, soft and clear. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t seem to remember being locked behind hellish gates. Neither does he seem to notice that he is in a dark forest surrounded by beasts, wearing nothing but a star-shaped pendant that is hanging innocently from his neck.
“I-uh, I came to see you,” he says, suddenly sounding like the insecure eighteen-year-old he used to be. “I missed you.”
“You did?” Her tone is suggestive, her hips swaying as she walks towards him. Her breasts move in time with her stride, before she stands before him and leans down, hands on her knees. “Tell me how much you’ve missed me.”
Dean chuckles when she straddles his thighs and pushes her hands into his hair, tugging lightly at the short strands. She touches her forehead to his and laughs quietly, angling her head so that their noses bump playfully.
This is Cassie, the girl he liked when he was just a kid, and the same one who didn’t like pie. She presses a kiss to his shoulder.
She didn’t like pie, and she had forgotten all about him the day of his coming of age. “Dean, is something wrong?”
Cassie had looked down at him, treated him like a child when he was in fact, older. She had ignored him when he had chased Sam’s ghost lady. Had gone off with someone else when Dean had disappeared to show Blue his horse.
Castiel, his mind corrects.
Cassie is a closed book. A bittersweet one with lovely chapters, but closed. Dean had never kissed her, had never tasted her skin like he had Castiel’s. Because Castiel is his, in a way Cassie never was.
Castiel is his, as he is Castiel’s. His Cas. Not Cassie, never Cassie, because Cassie could never love him the way the disgruntled prince does.
The pendant hanging around Dean’s neck warms, and when he blinks, he finds himself still sitting in the same place. There is no Cassie, no warm feeling in his limbs, but he is fully clothed, and-he hopes-still sane.
He pulls himself up quickly, stumbling a few paces before he can straighten up fully and flex his back. There’s a tiredness settling in his bones, making them ache with every step he takes, but he marches on. Dean pushes against the invisible wall of coldness and fear until he is numb to it, and then goes on anyway. Hand tightly grasped around his blade, he walks deeper into the hell he has chosen to face.
Dean walks, and walks, and walks. His feet grow sore and his calves ache; he is hungry and thirsty and his head is pounding. There is sweat trickling down his neck, and he has long since removed his gauntlets and gorget, casting them aside a few miles back. He walks and walks, but there is no end in sight. Only endless dirt road that rolls on forever, illuminated by the blue lights and nothing more.
The eyes are still watching, the occasional howl piercing the thick quiet, but they never close in on him.
For one frightening moment, Dean hears children laughing and singing lullabies. He chases after their shadows but stops when they lead him to the tree line, and by light of some unidentified source, he can see their silhouettes between the withered trees. They have the same glowing, red eyes as the foul-smelling beasts.
At another point in time, he sees Sam running across the path, wearing nothing but his underwear. Dean finds it in him to laugh, but the amusement turns to absolute rage when Castiel joins him, and they are nothing more than a mess of tangled limbs on the ground.
He has faced his mother and father, he’s faced Bobby and his dead wife, he’s seen Michael and Lucifer as angels, and he’s seen Castiel kill Balthazar with the very blade Dean is carrying. And it does not end. The path keeps on, and he pushes on until he feels like screaming.
“Hm, something told me you’d be here,” says a voice, and Dean figures it’s just another illusion, hopes it to be, for once. “What a terribly sticky situation, your Highness. Young love will make you do such stupid things.”
“You’re not real,” Dean says, his voice flat and hoarse.
“Oh, but I am. I am but a nightmare to you, and those are the scariest; which means: those are the ones you grant life to. I am what you grant life to, and, therefore, I am real. Sticky isn’t it? Everything is always sticky when it comes to you.”
Alastair keeps in stride with Dean, hands tucked behind his back as he hums a jaunty tune. He contemplates the path and the trees and clucks his tongue in disappointment. “La purgatorium ain’t all it is chucked up to be, eh?” He stops momentarily to snap a branch off a tree and frowns when it dissolves almost instantly in his palm. “I figured it’d be more… hm, what’s the word I’m looking…-dimensional. Everything is just so flat.”
Dean twitches. He’ll take having to watch murders, fighting off hellbeasts by hand, cutting off his own foot, anything, to not have to listen to Alastair’s smoggy voice. “This really is hell, isn’t it?”
“Hardly, your Highness. Hell is much… colder. And louder. The constant wail of tormented souls is like music,” Alastair says, dragging out his s with relish. “Tell me, though, professionalism aside. Have you fucked your little angel yet?”
“You really need to get the fuck outta my face already.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’. The tension must be killing you, Dean. I remember the first time you two went at it. Mmm, yes, yes, I remember. You were disgustingly loud. Poor Sammy was scarred for life, but at least Daddy Winchester was proud. If only he knew it wasn’t some poor, tasteless dame.
“You should have seen your mother, though. Poor Mary was so heartbroken that her son had given into his father’s pathetic attempts at making him a man. If only she knew,” Alastair quickens his pace so that he is standing in front of Dean, stopping him in mid step. “If only she knew, that it didn’t matter just how much her little morsel fucked and killed, he would never really become a man.”
Dean’s eyes are hard, face flushed with anger, but he knows it isn’t real. He doesn’t physically react because he knows that that is what it wants. “Even as an illusion, you’re so full of shit.”
Alastair chuckles, a deep and rotten thing lodged deep in his throat as it hacks its way from his chest. “Oh, no, Dean. I just know. I know more than any of you pathetic little slimes will ever know, more than Michael, even. But that’s not my story to tell,” he says as he straightens up, running a hand down his chest and leaving it lingering on his stomach as he thinks.
“This prophecy thing, the one that has the little angel wrapped around Michael’s finger? Void. No such thing. The bosom of young lovers? Come on, Dean, you’re smarter than this. You know better than to trust the winged wonders. Daddy John would be disappointed if he saw you now.”
“Shut up.”
“Well,” Alastair turns on his heels and continues to walk down the path, twirling his wrist overhead as he starts humming again. “The little angel is in love, though he is not sure of it himself really. Hm, your taste for corrupting the innocent goes unmatched, young prince. Now, how in love are you?”
“I said, shut up.”
Alastair comes to a halt again, holding out his hand to Dean. “I have the key to take you to the behemoth, your Highness. But first, I’m afraid we are going to have to host an impromptu confession. Pretend am I priest, will you?”
Dean snorts at that, unable to believe that he’s about to entertain a hallucination, of all things. “I see you more like the Devil himself, but I think that guy has a better personality than you.”
“You wound me, sire,” Alastair coos, pressing a hand to his chest. “But tell me, this… love you have for that creature.”
“It’s not love.”
“Oooh, wrong answer.”
“Look, it’s not, okay?” Dean says, more than a little aggravated now. “I came because I wanted to see him. I thought it’d be the same as last time but it’s not. There’s a family here that I can’t just shit on a whim.” And there it is. Dean feels something shift in his chest, and he can’t stop talking. “His brothers and sisters love him. They respect him and treat him like he deserves to be treated. So Michael’s a dick, there’s one in every family. But taking Cas out of this place and shoving him in a kingdom that would shoot him on sight?” He takes a step back and heaves in a breath.
“It’s called being selfish. I’m being a fucking brat, is what. I have everything I could ever need: a good horse, good parents, a little brother, friends, people who look up to me. Everything is good. Taking Castiel with me just because I want to have a happy m-ma…” Dean bites back the word. “Just because I want everything to end happily? I’m not sacrificing the guy’s wellbeing just so that I can be comfortable.”
Dean turns away with a sigh, running a hand down his face and pinching his nose. His heart aches at his own words, because yes, he does have feelings for Castiel, but he can’t allow himself to accept them. If he did, Dean would only be dragging him down. Castiel deserves so much better than a deadbeat prince like him, who pretends to be fearless when in truth all he does is kill supernatural shit because he’s told to.
“I don’t know why I’m going through with this. I keep saying that I’m going to pack up and leave, but I keep jumping into these things whenever they pop up.”
Alastair is quiet, but his grin is so wide Dean fights the urge to retch. Joy is a disturbing look to see etched upon Alastair’s face. It is worse when he begins to sing in a foreign language before stopping to say, “oh, you pathetic little misguided soul. So many years, so many harlots that have come and gone and it is only now that you’ve fallen in love.” Clapping his hands, the endless path suddenly opens like a door, revealing a forest just like the one he had been in at Rod’im.
“Follow the light of your angel’s eyes, and you will find a well. Drink from it three times, and a key will then appear at the bottom of the bucket. Past the tree in the shape of a crescent moon will be a door." Alistair pauses to suck in a breath, his smile creeping ever wider still as he savors the words. “Within will be the behemoth which only the righteous man can slay.”
As quickly as he had appeared, he is gone.
Chapter Continued Here