[2012 DCBB] The Dreamer and the Mystic - Chapter Four (Continued)

[bellanovaskies]

Dean’s knees are still shaking, his stomach heaving from both sickness and hunger, but he marches across the doorway, determined to see this through.

It’s warm enough to make him sweat beneath his shirt. The sun is long gone, leaving the forest in penumbra, but it’s still light enough to see. Thin tree trunks reach higher than Dean has ever seen, all of them dry and leafless. Several leg-like roots are frozen in mid-air, and he backs away instinctively, not wanting to disturb them. The ground is nothing more than red earth, not a single blade of grass within view. Everything is eerily flat for being natural terrain, and he’s vaguely reminded of the southern forests, and their lack of undergrowth.

This forest breathes, however, and Dean’s reaching for his bow in an instant. The ground inhales and exhales, shifts up and down with every step he takes, and it’s the most unsettling thing he’s ever had to experience.

Floating above the only tree stump he’s seen since his arrival, is a Guardian, fluttering in smooth pulses of light. It is much smaller than the rest Dean has seen, but glows just as fiercely. He tries to see what it really looks like, underneath its blue halo, but it is too blinding bright to properly examine. Dean stands two meters away from it, bow and arrow at the ready.

“Uh, I think you’re supposed to take me somewhere,” Dean says after six seconds of awkward silence. He swats a hand, as if urging the Guardian to flutter along the right path. “I really want to get this over with as quickly as possible, so if you moved your glowy ass, I’d really appreciate it.”

The Guardian’s light pulses, but doesn’t move.

“Let’s try this again.” Shuffling his feet, Dean leans in close and hisses, “If you won’t fly away on your little fae wings, I will rip ‘em out and feed ‘em to the hellbeasts myself, you hear me?” And to prove his point, he pokes the little ball of light with the tip of an arrow.

Without warning, the glow dissipates into nothing, leaving Dean behind to gawk.

“Son of a bitch!” Kicking the stump, he whirls around and stomps in the direction he had come from, before turning around and marching back. He’s pacing now, grumbling agitatedly at his own stupidity. The forest is closed around him, all the paths too narrow and impossible to tread on. He lashes out with a kick. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?” He’s yelling at the trees, seething when everything comes back in a single blow. The hunger, fatigue, the tightness in his chest.

“How about you don’t scare away my pets, eh?”

Dean whips around to face the voice and pulls up his bow. Shoot first, ask questions later. It’s an essential practice in the Winchesters’ guide for survival. He is thrown off by what he sees. A man, neither young nor old, dressed entirely in black, stands not a pace away, but the clothing is unlike anything Dean has seen before. Most noticeable is the silver-colored strip of fabric that is knotted beneath his collar, and extends down his shirt until it disappears beneath the outer layer of his clothing.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean asks defensively, edging away, but still looking sharply at the stranger.

The man smiles and holds up a finger. “King of the Crossroads. Less-formally known as Crowley. Pleased to finally meet you.” He lowers his hand and gestures towards Dean with an inclination of the head. “Hope you don’t my dropping in, your Highness.”

“Where’d you come from? And what the hell do you want?”

“I’m here to see what all the hubbub is about. Outer realms are just bustling with rumors that Heaven is nigh. Curiosity killed the cat, they say. Luckily, I’m not an easy cat to kill,” Crowley says, and pushes the tip of Dean’s arrow away from his face. “Tell me, Dean, what is it that you need?”

Dean is staring, too perplexed to be tactful. He lowers his bow but keeps the arrow clutched at the ready. “What do you mean, what I need? I don’t need anything.”

Crowley smiles, and it’s a grin that tells of endless knowledge, and of more than a handful of scandalous secrets that could bring down an entire kingdom overnight. “Or so you think.”

“And you think you can just-poof-grant me what I need?”

“You see, that depends entirely on what it is that you require.”

“I don’t require anything.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Dean shuffles his feet and squares off his shoulders. He takes a moment to really look at the man. His hair is dark but not black, thick eyebrows set over gray eyes. There’s an air of professionalism to him, an air that, Dean finds himself thinking, Alastair would find endearing. “What do you mean by ‘king of the crossroads’? You charge tolls?”

Crowley makes a gesture that is half eye-roll and half nod. He huffs out a closed-mouth laugh. “You’re close. Think of me more like a... genie.”

“Pop in, grant three wishes and you’re out?”

The man slips his hands into his pockets. “Think a little more sinister.”

The words rub against Dean’s skin unpleasantly. Everything about it feels wrong, and his hunter senses seem to agree. He takes up aim again. “Five seconds. Either you tell me what you really mean or I’m shooting.”

Crowley’s smile falls and transforms into a closed expression of pinched annoyance. “You lot, always with the violence.” He starts to circle Dean, considering him expectantly. “I make deals. Big leagues; deals of kings. You tell me what you want, and for a small fee, I’ll grant it, no fine print. Now, I must warn you, it’s non-refundable, so speak advisedly.”

Taking another step back, Dean swallows. “Define ‘fee’.”

“Ten years, and I’ll send my agents for your soul. It’s a fair trade, if you ask me,” he says nonchalantly, as if he’d just asked for ten silver coins instead of a human’s soul.

It takes Dean a moment to realize that the man is completely serious, and another to realize what it is that he’s dealing with. “You’re a demon,” he hisses.

Crowley laughs pitifully. “Not just any demon, dimwit.” He gestures at himself and says, “King.”

Dean’s heard of creatures like Crowley before. Foul, evil things that seduce and corrupt, lure individuals in with the promise of fame and fortune. He’s faced his fair share before, while training with John. It had been easy to spot them then, but this is a completely different story.

“You’re just more of the same scum I destroy every day. The only difference is the size of your ego,” Dean says, spitting near the man’s impossibly clean and shiny shoes.

“I take offence to that, but say what you may, truth is that... you need me in order to make it out alive,” Crowley says, his smile returning to full force. His teeth are absurdly white and straight.

“Yeah? What makes you so sure?” Dean knows he sounds challenging out of panic. He doesn’t have any salt or holy water, and performing an exorcism without trapping the demon will only make him flee.

“Because history repeats itself, Dean. You’re not the only one the Nephilim have sent to their death, and I’m here to make sure that this is as convenient as possible for the two of us. Namely, you live, and I get an extra soul to cuddle with once your number is up.”

“I live, and in ten years you come to drag me to Hell? Sorry, I don’t really see the convenience.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. You get more if you phrase it right.”

“But in ten years, I’d still go to Hell.”

Crowley’s whole face shrugs, like the disclosure is something entirely plausible and worth the risk. “You’re young, there’s a lot you can do in just ten years. You can spend them screwing your boyfriend, if you like.”

Dean scowls, but falters when Crowley turns and starts walking between the trees. “Did I say you can leave? Hey! Where’re you going?!”

“To the well, obviously; since you spooked off the little bugger. Give you a little time to think about it.” He jumps over a root, and Dean’s briefly reminded of a goat.

“There’s nothing to think about. My answer’s still no,” Dean insists as he follows the demon along the path.

“And why is that, eh?”

They take a left turn and Dean is surprised to find a wide, clear path. It is reminiscent of the one in the dark woods, but lacks the glowing, blood thirsty eyes. “Because I don’t plan on going to Hell?”

Crowley’s laugh is high and short. “You think you’re making it to Heaven after you die, squashed like some insignificant beetle? Especially after last night’s little fiasco? Oh, don’t look at me like that. The whole realm caught whiff of you spanking the monkey.”

Dean wonders what the phrase means, but doesn't dwell, as he has far more important things to worry about. “What realm are you talking about?”

“Hell by deal holds far more honor for nobility if you ask me,” he says instead.

“Exact-” Dean begins before stuttering. “I mean, n-no. I have a kingdom to look after!” Dean all but yells, but is startled when Crowley comes to an abrupt stop and faces him.

“It’s really quite adorable, this loyalty you have to your people.”

The sarcasm is clear, but there is something else set in Crowley’s eyes. “They’re my people,” Dean says. And that is explanation enough.

Nodding, Crowley taps his chin. “Truly,” he says, and takes a step closer. “It really is a shame that you won’t live to see your coronation.”

The already tense atmosphere becomes something unbearable until Crowley finally says, “We’re here.”

It is anticlimactic and depressing, an ordinary looking well standing in a small clearing covered with moss and fallen leaves. There is still no sun, just more of the same pale gray lighting that dulls the crumbling stone to monotone.

“That’s it?” Dean asks, disappointed by the lack of grandeur the Nephilim pour into everything else.

“More importantly,” Crowley says, “are you ready?”

Pushing past him, Dean reaches for the damaged bucket that rests on the lip of the well. “I’m not making any deals. My soul’s sticking with me.”

Crowley comes to stand next to him, leaning against the crumbling stones. He flicks a rock, and it plummets down, Dean waiting for a splash that doesn’t come. “Oops, seems like it’s dry,” Crowley says with a knowing smirk. “Without water, you won’t be able to get the key. And without the key, you won’t be able to release the Big Bad.”

Swallowing back the anger that begins to bubble in his chest, Dean looks in the direction Crowley’s pointing at, and sees a ramshackle-looking house, bathed in the shadow of an evergreen tree with branches in the shape of a crescent moon.

“I’m not gonna do it, Crowley.”

“So you prefer being stuck in limbo forever? Look, Dean, I can make this happen. I can get you the water, the key, the beastie-your victory.” Crowley pats Dean’s shoulders as an attempt at both motivation and persuasion. “Limbo, death, or ten years with your honey bun. It’s a damn good deal.”

There is a terrible moment where Dean considers the options; weighs them on a balance. A part of him thinks that it isn’t real, just another illusion created to throw him off his path. But what if it isn’t? Ten years wouldn’t be bad at all. But nothing guarantees that Crowley is being the slightest bit honest. He is a demon, after all.

“Believe it or not, Hell is very well known for its integrity.”

“Stay out of my head,” Dean says, snappishly.

The rope he is holding in his hand is worn and thin. Even if there were water in the well, the weight of a full bucket could snap it. The bucket itself has holes in it, like someone had driven an ax to it several times. A green film covers the bottom, making Dean grimace. He has to drink from this thing? He is not in the mood to get poisoned.

“Well? I don’t have all day, champ,” Crowley prompts.

With his last scrap of defiance, Dean throws the bucket down the well and wraps the rope once around the wooden column. “I’ll take my chances, thanks.” After an agonizingly long five seconds, the sound of a splash makes Dean laugh in relief.

Beside him, Crowley scoffs. “Stubborn little prick.”

Dean braces a foot on the wall for balance and begins to pull up the rope. On more than one occasion it slips and burns his palms, but he drives on.

Sweat is running down his neck, his armor mysteriously hot by the time he takes hold of the handle, and hoists the bucket up to the ledge. It’s only half full. Peering into it, he notices that there is no key.

“Stop fucking with me,” he says.

Crowley snorts, insulted by the accusation. “That’s not my doing, I regret to inform.”

It takes him a moment, but he remembers Alastair’s instructions.

Scrunching up his nose, he brings the bucket to his lips and tips it back. The water tastes oddly of strawberries.

He pulls it away and swallows, awed by the absurdity of it. When he finds that the water does not pour out of the holes as it sloshes around, he is convinced that the moss has some sort of hallucinogenic property. Taking another swing, it tastes like apples.

Dean smiles crookedly at the madness of it, but doesn’t complain when he swallows his last gulp. That one, he refuses to put a name to, but his stomach flutters at the familiar taste.

At the bottom of the bucket, a Guardian flickers out of existence, leaving a blue key in its wake. Exclaiming with delight, Dean takes the key, and marvels that it’s warm to the touch. Riding the excitement, Dean advances towards the hut framed by the only tree that is green in the otherwise dead forest.

He is reaching for the door when he sees Crowley blink into existence between Dean and his goal.

“Get out,” Dean says, stopping dead.

Crowley holds up a hand. “This is your last chance, your Royal Pain-In-The-Ass. You open that door, and you’re dead within the next six minutes. If you’re lucky.”

Running on his last ounce of bravado, Dean straightens up and squares his shoulders. “We all gotta go sometime, eh?” He says the ‘eh’ mockingly, poking fun at the demon’s accent.

Crowley pulls on the hem of his outer layer, and flattens a hand over the gray stripe that starts at his collar. “Suit yourself, lad. I hope you have a hell of a good time,” he says, chuckling at his own line and the brilliance of it. “See you in a little bit. Exit stage Crowley.” And like everyone else in this forest, Crowley vanishes within the blink of an eye.

Dean is left alone once more, and this time, he feels fear gripping coldly at his spine. He looks down at the key, tries to think of the reward that awaits him if he wins, but all he finds are conflicting thoughts. The sensation of Castiel’s mouth against his is still fresh in his memory, and with it, all of the doubts and insecurities.

He wraps a hand around the rusted lock, and exasperatedly knocks his forehead against the wooden door.

Once he twists the key, there is no going back. He tries not to think about the warnings, of the certainty of death just behind the door. In the end, he chalks his paranoia up to the fantastical feel of it all. Everything is too similar to the bedtime stories Mary used to read them. None of it can be real, therefore, none of it can hurt him.

Holding his breath, Dean slides the key into the lock, and turns it.

His eyes are clenched tight, his breathing shallow as he tries to pick up any sort of sound from inside the hut. Moments pass and his stomach grows in unpleasant knots, the tension making it hard for him to move.

In a split second, the mortifying realization that he has left his bow by the well hits him. But that blow is nowhere near as painful as the thing that sideswipes him.

Dean knows what it’s like to get the breath knocked out of him, having received innumerable blows to his person during fights, but this is something new. He lands, back smacking against a tree, and even with his armor to take the initial impact, it feels as if his chest has caved in.

He can feel his ribs crack, bones chafing painfully as he tries to move again, but there is another blow he doesn’t see coming. This time, landing on his side, Dean lies perfectly still. There isn’t a bone in him that doesn’t scream of sheer agony, and to make matters worse, he can’t feel his left leg.

Through wide open eyes, he can see the shadow that looms over him, and that is all it is. A pale gray shadow of gargantuan proportions, with two perfect circles for lifeless eyes that shine a dull blue. Dean can see two appendages at the side of its head-horns or ears, he can’t really tell, but they are long and spear-like. What little light there is in the dehydrated forest evades the creature in glimpses and odd angles, and Dean isn’t sure whether or not he’s relieved or horrified by his lack of a proper visual.

A lump of a foot whumps into his side, and Dean skids backwards until he thuds harshly against the well the well. He swears he hears something loud snap, and when he realizes that it isn’t his back, Dean rolls away for cover just in time for a tree to come down where he had lain.

The behemoth wields a tree trunk like a club, slamming it fiercely against the forest floor, and Dean feels like a bug about to be squished. Using his smaller size as an advantage, Dean grabs his bow and makes for the forest, where he hopes the narrow trees will deter the giant from pursuing him.

Dean knows it would be nowhere as simple as that, but he still groans when the trees begin to move out of the way, roots scurrying like startled spiders. Their branches creak and groan, and those that don’t move out of the way fast enough are knocked over by the behemoth’s solid mass. Every trunk that crashes down makes the ground beneath Dean’s feet jump, along with the heavy footfalls of the beast, making it all the more difficult to run between the flurry of hurrying roots, hidden boulders and random sinkholes.

He skids to a stop when he spots a sturdy-looking oak just a few meters away, hesitates, before making a break for it. It won’t hide him for long, but it would be enough to grant him time to nock his arrows and come out with a plan. Jumping over a slithering root, Dean yelps when he meets face-first with an invisible barrier that catapults him right back to the clearing with the hut and the well.

Dean gasps loudly, and falls to his knees, disoriented and panicked and running solely on the adrenaline pumping through his veins. It’s quiet, but his ears are ringing so loudly that he thinks he can feel blood trickling from them. There is still no sun, his chest is constricting again, and he can see where the behemoth carved its way into the woods.

“J-Jesus Christ,” Dean says between desperate intakes of breath. It doesn’t matter how much he tries, he can’t fill his lungs properly, leaving his throat aching and body weak.

Scrambling up and plastering himself against the outside of the crumbling walls of the hut, he thinks. His eyes scan the clearing for anything he can use to his advantage, but while Sam is the expert tactician and could turn hay into a spear, Dean is not. He only has six arrows and a small sword, all of them ill-chosen weapons.

He hurries around the dusty red forest floor, desperately looking, and trying and failing to think of anything ingenious that could save his life. There’s no sound, but Dean can tell that the behemoth is near, so he runs in the opposite direction. He cuts through trees and branches, and he can feel them slicing his face as he drives himself forward without looking back. Part of him regrets having left his helmet back at the Gate, but it is too late to worry about it now.

There’s an oak a few meters away, sturdy and regal, and this time Dean stumbles to hurry over. He hesitates, trying to spot any tell-tale signs of magic and when he spots none, he inches his hand forward.

Dean is back in the clearing.

His shoulders sag in defeat, and he cries out with frustration. Either at his stupidity, at his family, at his choices, at Michael, at Castiel, or maybe all of them, he doesn’t know. But he’s angry, he’s angry and yelling, and even he knows that it is a recipe for disaster.

He should have listened to Sam, should have gone when he had the chance. They had all tried telling him, given him a choice to back down, but the Winchester blood had not allowed him to back down. Once again, he is trapped with nowhere to go. Only, now, he has a colossus with a vengeance swinging at him with a tree.

The ground beneath his feet begins to rumble. Taking a deep breath, he fights to rein in his nerves, get them under control long enough to think. His body aches, and there is blood trickling down his face, but he steels himself, and thinks.

There are fallen trees, a hut, a well, a bow and six arrows, a dagger and... and that’s it, Dean concludes. There is nothing more, nothing new from the last time he had been here, just thirty seconds ago. He tries to think like Sam, slipping back back to the times they had both gotten themselves into sticky situations, and tries to set his mind on something his little brother would choose.

Dean trudges over to the well and looks down, willing in vain for some magic weapon to appear out of the blue and save his skin, but what he notices is just as good. This could work, he thinks to himself, and grabs the rope.

Since Sam turned ten, the number of times the younger prince had tripped the castle’s staff was a kingdom record. Taking a page from his brother’s book, Dean ties each end of the rope around two of the trunks the behemoth had trudged by.

The ground is jumping severely now, and once Dean gets the last knot in place, he makes for the hut and begins to climb. His armor clangs loudly against the worn stones, and he hopes it won’t weigh him down when he gets on the hay roof, and it doesn’t. He crawls towards the ledge just when the behemoth breaks the tree line and, to Dean’s annoyance, steps over the rope with a grace that should not be possible for a thing of its size. Dean smacks his head against the crumbling chimney. “Stupid son of a bitch.”

Running on his last resort, Dean takes a stand. If he is about to die, then he is not about to do so without a fight, and much less without having used his weapons.

Bracing his back against the chimney, Dean loosens his body, letting his shoulders relax as he nocks his arrow and positions his fingers, hooking the string. He winces as he draws back the string, past its alignment with his shoulder and settles it just beneath his jawbone. It is taut with coiled power. If pulled any other way, it might as well break, but Dean handles it with precise ease. Lowering his shoulders, he aims, and releases.

The arrow cuts through dry air with a barely noticeable whistle, keeping its straight line as it punches with bone-breaking force through the behemoth’s forehead. The giant careens to the left, swatting its gangly arms in the direction of its face.

Dean draws again, this time, impaling one of his arrows in the creature’s eye.

The behemoth bellows, a low and terrible sound that rattles Dean’s armor, as well as the building beneath him. Dean is quick, pulling another arrow from the quiver, but the creature is undeterred as it makes its way towards him.

Dean fumbles, adrenaline no longer enough to eclipse the pain in his ribs as he draws back his arm, making him flinch. His pause nearly proves fatal. A hand roughly the size of his torso barrels into him, knocking him off the roof and onto the dry shrubs of a dead garden. Withered thorns bite into his hands and cheek, making him bleed. His eyes blur with the impact, but he is surprised that his head hasn’t come into contact with the ground. Soft hands cushion it instead.

Castiel is looking down at him, eyebrows pinched with worry and anger. There’s a cut on his cheek, but it heals as Dean stares on in bewilderment. The cloak is gone, but he isn’t wearing any kind of armor with the exception of thick leather wrapped around his forearms. His eyes are shining fiercely as his hands skim over Dean’s armor in a swift movement, and Dean whimpers in relief when the agony subsides.

“Cas, watch out!” But before Dean can finish the cry, Castiel has his sword out and is driving the behemoth back with short measured swipes.

The Nephilim’s nothing but a dark flurry of movement in the gray light, as he twirls the blade in his hand and lunges himself at the creature with a ferociousness that is unknown to Dean. Castiel sidesteps when a blunt arm tries to swat him away, and he closes in quickly to jab the sword onto the giant’s leg. The behemoth roars, but before it can do anything else, Castiel is stabbing it again and again, until it collides with one of the dead trees that encircles the clearing. With one last growl, Castiel flings the small blade into the air with an accuracy that has Dean gaping. Castiel doesn’t stay to see the weapon connect with anything, because he’s turning, running towards Dean in the space of a heartbeat.

Dean does watch, mesmerized, as the blade pierces the beast’s palm, impaling it to the tree it is slumped against.

“Move!” Castiel orders sharply, grabbing Dean by the arm and pulling him to his feet.

They don’t look back, the trees nothing but a blur as they run through them, Dean’s arm still clutched in Castiel’s grasp as heat begins to build. By the time they reach the massive oak that marks the perimeter of this goddamn clearing, Dean feels like he’s inside an oven, his flesh bubbling within his armor and he could scream from the pain. He comes back to himself for a brief second when Castiel yells something in his native tongue.

Dean braces himself for impact. He tenses his shoulders with the expectation of being sent back to the clearing with the hut and the well again. He will have to fight, but he no longer has his arrows to defend himself.

Instead, the heat subsides abruptly the moment he and Castiel break through the magical barrier.

First, he fills his lungs with the crisp cool, night air until he notices that he is still running. When Castiel releases his arm, he simply collapses into a heap of shuddering gasps, clutching at his armor to get it off. But he’s alive. Dean is alive and back on the outskirts of Rod’im. Not in an enchanted forest, not Hell, and most importantly, not squashed between the behemoth’s toes.

Sam nearly tackles him, his gigantic body crashing to his side, hands cupping his face and checking him for injuries. He’s saying something, rushed and hurried, but Dean cannot understand him. His ears are popping, mind elsewhere even when Balthazar joins them, barking out questions and wrenching off his armor ungraciously in the pale moonlight. There’s a collective sound that reaches him though, a sea of gasps quickly followed by shouting.

From between Balthazar’s knees, Dean sees bare feet plodding on dewy grass. The dark hem of loose trousers that caress them is a dead giveaway as to who they belong to, and he finds himself struggling to stand up when he realizes that the person shouting is Castiel. Both Sam and Balthazar hold Dean down, so he twists in their hold and looks crookedly at the scene that is unfolding.

“We do not interfere, Castiel,” Michael shouts, and Dean has to turn his head further to properly see him among the crowd. “These laws exist for a reason, and you simply barge in and expect them to be disregarded on a whim?”

“You nearly got him killed!” Castiel says, rage bubbling around the edges of his usually monotonous voice. He is standing dangerously close to Michael, nose to nose, and staring him down defiantly. “Laws or not, I will not stand by and watch you slaughter him simply because you expect to be entertained.”

“Mind your tone, boy,” Michael says coolly, blue-gray eyes hard and unwavering. “I may favor you, but that does not make you exempt from punishment.”

Castiel laughs, and it is harsh enough to make Dean and the hands now inspecting his chest flinch. Castiel snaps his wings open in one sharp beat, and it sounds like a distant clap of thunder. His feathers are as ruffled as his hair, wild and untamed, and it lends a gravitas that allows him to tower over Michael menacingly. Shoulders set, Castiel looks far bigger than anyone present, and he isn’t stepping down.

Dean only half notices the fact that he’s clutching at Sam’s chest as he holds his breath.

“Are you... threatening me?” Michael’s question is terse, and almost sounds amused as Castiel tips his head to the side in a bird-like manner. The corner of his lips tilt up, challenging.

Michael, too, spreads his wings, but in a slow and graceful movement. This is what an angel truly looks like, Dean finds himself thinking, and not for the first time, he has to correct his thoughts. These people are not angels, and therefore they can lie and cause harm, if they wished to.

“You have a terrible misconception of your own worth,” Michael says, words stony despite his pleasant smile. “Do not push me, Castiel. I love you, brother, but I cannot have you going against our established Word with reckless abandon. I understand that you care for this...” he waves a dismissive hand at Dean, “this human. But please, you must understand that there is a protocol here.”

“One that you created.” Castiel’s eyes are wide with an emotion Dean can’t name. “These tasks are not a part of any Word.”

“That is inconsequential. He must prove himself worthy-”

“Dean will not be subjected to any more of your sick games, Michael. If it is confirmation you are after, you have it right before your eyes,” Castiel says, settling his wings back down and pulling them close against himself. He turns to look at Dean. “I chose Dean, as he has chosen me. Nothing you can say, or do, will change that.”

“Your heart is in the right place, but your will is misguided,” Michael says, looking disturbingly pleased.

Dean meets Castiel’s gaze for a long moment, until Sam accidentally nudges something on his side that makes him hiss and roll over. “Sorry,” he says, giving Dean an apologetic look. “You’re pretty banged up.”

“You’d think I’dve noticed that, huh,” Dean says bitterly, briefly glaring at his brother. His legs hurt too much to move, so he stays where he is.

“Suck it up, your Highness. You’ll live to tell the tale.” Balthazar is grinning down at him, patting the top of his head. There’s worry in his eyes, and Dean immediately feels guilty about questioning the man’s loyalty.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Dean can still hear the conversation going on a few steps away from him, but he is too damn tired and achy to listen in any more. He sags against Sam’s hold, letting his brother dab at his forehead as he shuts his eyes.

He wonders at the extent of the damage he has received during the day. Castiel might have been able to make him feel better with his magic touch, but did that mean that his wounds were all gone? He wonders how much time had passed since he had embarked on his little task; it couldn’t have been as long as it felt, since Sam looks not a day older. The hallucinations, the visions, the thoughts, the hunger. What the hell had he crossed into the moment he stepped past the Eastern Gates?

Dean groans. Screw the conscious world.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dean wakes up later with what he suspects to be the worst headache in known history. His temples are pounding and his eyes are stinging. Even the bridge of his nose feels like it has been broken, and put back together with burning hot nails. All in all, he feels like crap, but at least he can move.

He sits up, and notices two things are out of place. First, this isn’t the room that he and Sam had been assigned to when they arrived. And second, there is a man he doesn’t know folding clothes by the edge of the bed. It takes Dean a moment to recognize him as the guy Castiel was so familiar with.

“You’re awake,” the man says, but doesn’t bother looking at Dean. “That took longer than I expected it would.”

“What did?” Dean sounds defensive, but who can blame him? “Where’s Sam?”

The man smiles minutely as he places a freshly folded tunic by Dean’s covered feet. “Healing. You took quite a beating,” the man says, in answer to his first question.

“That’s an understatement,” Dean mutters. He stretches his legs, knees and calves groaning with the effort, and his neck aches as he moves his head in a circle. He’s sore, but he no longer feels like he is teetering on the edge of death. He cringes as he takes a moment to look underneath the covers and finds he’s naked. “So, uh....”

“Inias,” the man offers politely, making his way out into the balcony, presumably to offer Dean some privacy. At least he isn’t a jerk, like many of the Nephilim seem to be.

Making quick work of slipping on his clothing, Dean sits back down with a gasp to put on his boots. Even his ass hurts. “How long have I been out for?” He doesn’t bother calling for Inias. Nephilim have a tendency to wander into places uninvited.

“Thirty nine hours.”

“Huh.” Dean grunts, clutching his knees as he thinks about standing up again. “How bad was it?”

“Thirteen rib fractures, and a broken one, a dislocated shoulder, ripped ligament on the left knee, a crushed ankle-” Inias stops for a moment, seemingly to think about what else had been destroyed. “Three missing teeth.”

Dean immediately swipes a tongue across the inside of his mouth, but finds all of his teeth in place. “Care to explain how I’m even alive?”

“Castiel did well when he healed you, after he and Michael resolved their dispute. I’m afraid that some scars will only be fully healed with time, but you’re safe. And I believe that is all that matters.”

Holding on to his arm, Dean looks at Inias steadily and nods. The man is tall and thin, younger than Sam with the beginnings of light-colored scruff. Dean can’t help but be reminded of Castiel when they first met, but Inias’ hair is slightly longer. His face is long, chin sharp, and it’s almost attractive in a boyish sort of way.

Inias is staring at him in the same creepy way Castiel does, and Dean wonders if it is a genetic or a cultural quirk. “What?”

“Forgive me for staring, your Highness. It’s just... my brother has told me so much about you. I’m very pleased to finally meet your acquaintance,” Inias says, and he actually looks relieved, floppy hair sliding into his left eye.

Dean scoffs and shakes his head. “Good things, I hope.”

“Quite so, yes. You are very handsome.”

“Of course he’d say that,” Dean grumbles, coloring, as he turns away to look out onto the balcony. It’s nighttime, and it’s then that he takes notice of the candles flickering around the room. “I really don’t want to know what else he said.”

Inias chuckles, moving across the room and pulling out a small, velvet box from a wooden dresser. “No need to worry, I made sure to stop him before any sort of intimate information was disclosed.”

“Nice to see you have a better sense of decorum than he does.”

The box is set by his side, and Dean watches as Inias opens it, pulling out the protective pendant Castiel had given him. Dean takes it from him with unspoken gratitude, and puts it on.

“I’m older than Castiel, and I’ve experienced the human world firsthand. Give him time to adjust; he’s still young.” Inias sounds fond, making Dean unsure about how he feels regarding their relationship. Friendship, Dean quickly amends, because he’s sure that Castiel and Inias are just good friends and nothing more.

“Not saying that I mind or anything,” Dean says, and it’s more of a petulant grumble than he intends.

“He’s waiting for you at the archway.” There is humor in his voice, and Dean can’t help but clear his throat at it, fighting back a smile. “Castiel requested that I send you his way once you woke up,” Inias says, and he offers Dean a small vial.

“What’s this for?” Inias doesn’t answer, walking out of the room and leaving Dean on his own.

He looks down at the small glass bottle, and turns in his palm. It is about the size of his middle finger; pale blue. Dean shakes it, and opens it without giving it another thought. Maybe it’s medicine, he thinks with a shrug, as he brings it up to his nose and hums. There’s a spicy scent to it. Placing his fingertip over the top, he quickly tips it over, straightens it, and rubs his thumb and forefinger together. It’s too thick for drinking, Dean realizes.

“Oil,” Dean says dumbly, looking at the vial like it has personally insulted his intelligence. “Why would anyone give me oil? What the hell?” It takes him a moment to try and rationalize the action, but finds himself far too groggy and sore to look into it. He pockets the vial and heads out into the corridor.

He’ll meet Castiel at the archway, wherever that is, but first, he has to find his brother and complain about every little ache he’s got, and how everything is Sam’s fault.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Dude, you look like crap,” Sam greets him, giving him a once over from where he’s sitting on a bench by the angel fountain. “Being knocked out for two days not enough to get you up and running?”

“Sam, if I run, my legs are likely to disintegrate from under me,” Dean says. He plops down next to Sam, who has a small basket filled with all kinds of fruits, breads and cheeses. “Is there, you know, anything that can feed a man in here?” Grinning knowingly, Sam takes an apple and flings it onto Dean’s lap, who recoils in disgust. “Dude.”

“Doctor’s orders.”

The piece of cheese Sam pops into his mouth looks way more edible than the atrocious fruit. “Like hell they are.”

“I’m serious. In fact, Castiel insists that you eat more fruit,” Sam says, voice teasing and grin far too big on his goofy face. “Before that pat-down that drove us all from his room, he made sure to mention that your midsection has gone ‘pudgy’.” He wiggles his shoulders in Dean’s direction.

Dean’s stare is incredulous, cheeks pinkening. “Whoa, wait-w-wait a second. What do you mean pat-down? What the hell did he do?”

“Can’t say for sure when the fiasco started. When I walked in, he was already removing your underpants. That’s the point when Inias ushered us all out.”

“Us all?”

Sam sits a little straighter, sounding off the names and counting them with his fingers. “Balthazar, Anna, Gabriel, Lucifer, Ruby-”

“Oh, Christ,” Dean groans, burying his face in his hands. “All you people saw me naked?”

“Not entirely. Only Castiel and Inias.”

“Fuck.”

“But yeah, he says you really let yourself go.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“Your glutes however-”

“Sam, it would be very easy to attribute your death to some unknown tribe in the Far South. If I were you, I’d quit while you’re ahead.”

Sam laughs, taking another bite from his cheese and humming at the pleasant taste of it. Teasing aside, he’s visibly relieved by the sight of Dean walking around. “No, but really. He was really careful with you while you were out. Castiel, I mean.” Sam takes a drink from a bottle. “He kind of reminded me of Mom a little. Didn’t want to leave the bedside once he cleaned you up.”

“Gee, thanks for the mental images.” The defensiveness is there, blunt in his words. He doesn’t need to be taken care of.

“I’m serious, Dean,” Sam says, annoyed by his brother’s pigheadedness. “Don’t start this again.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“Yes, you are. I can already hear your macho speech on how you don’t need to be cared for.”

Dean scoffs, getting up from the seat and walking towards the fountain, his back towards Sam. He stares at the crumbling angel with the single wing, and he thinks back to the strange black box of weapons. The blame is entirely on Dean, though, for having chosen the wrong weapons to begin with, and Dean wonders which ones would have led him to safety. But it is over and done with, now. He failed miserably, and there is no use lingering on it.

“Dean-”

“Sam.”

“No, hear me out. Being cared for by someone... it doesn’t make you weak,” Sam says, gently turning him around by the shoulder. “I’m not hearing any of it. You went in there for Cas, and Cas went in there for you. I don’t know what you want to call it, and I honestly don’t care, but you can’t keep proclaiming to the hills then ducking your head.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Dean eventually blurts out, eyes so wide and confused that Sam is forced to take a step back. “Fuck, I know we’ve talked about this before, but Sam, this is me we’re talking about. Aren’t you at least a little freaked out that your brother’s hitting on another dude?” Dean is all hands, venting his frustration through gestures as he tries to make his point. He wants Sam to see it, whatever it is, and realize that he has every right to be disgusted with him.

Sam knows better than to pressure Dean into ‘feelings talk’, and he can tell that his brother is already teetering on the edge of an emotional crisis. Winchesters repress, not show. Putting up his hands, Sam tries to tell Dean to calm down, but he turns away, hands gripping his short hair. “Should I be?”

“Yes!”

“I’m not, Dean. Honest to God, I’m not. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this. If Cas is it, then he’s it. What’s your deal?” Sam hesitates, debating whether or not he should put it out there. He decides that it is for the best. “I love you, man,” he says, sees Dean flinch, but he pushes on. “That’s not gonna change because you’re messing around with another guy. It doesn’t make you any less of a man. Hiding from it? That’s what makes you a sissy, and a coward. If you want to go ahead and pick flowers, then do it. I’m not gonna judge you.

“You’re my brother, Dean. You are a good man, and that’s not gonna change because you-” he stops his train of thought, thinking better of it. “It doesn’t matter what. You’re not gonna change, my opinion of you isn’t going to change.” Sam wets his lips, driving the tip of his boot into the grass and accidentally nudging a touch-me-not. He watches for a moment, as the tiny leaves close up at the gentle touch, and Sam has to smile. If Dean were a plant, that’d be it. “You’re still my big brother, and that isn’t going to change.”

Dean looks at him, hands in his pockets, having been unsure as to what to do with them during Sam’s discourse. The knot in his throat bobs with every swallow, and he doesn’t even trust his voice enough to speak. He nods, running a palm over his mouth and sniffing to clear his nose. Or so he tells himself.

It feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. Right then, it no longer matters what John will think. The acceptance, the need to be the perfect son, they don’t really matter any more. Sam is okay with it. More than okay, even, and Dean’s not sure how to answer or react to that information. He is sure that Sam’s probably said the same thing countless times before, in countless different ways, but right then, he is speaking Dean Winchester. Simple, precise words that jab, but got past his skin and into his head.

“Inias said Cas would be waiting for me at the archway. Any idea where that is?” It isn’t an actual subject change, and he knows that Sam knows, judging by the grin that slowly lights up his face.

Sam starts walking with an extra bounce in his step, and Dean holds back a groan. “You mean the Absconditom?”

“The abscon-a-what now?”

“The hidden gate. Ruby mentioned it a few days ago, but I kind of forgot about it once she did,” he says, and scratches his head awkwardly. Dean elbows him in the side as they walk, and wiggles his eyebrows. “What?”

“You plan on telling me about this Ruby chick? She’s all you ever talk about nowadays.”

“Castiel is all you ever talk about nowadays.”

“Screw you.”

“She’s a friend,” Sam confesses, tugging at the collar of his beige tunic. It’s a nervous tick that has stuck with him since childhood; people usually found it annoying once they picked up on it. “Guess you can say she’s been showing me the place.”

“Personal tour guide, huh? What else has she shown you?” Dean asks lewdly, and the pink that bursts on Sam’s cheeks is adorable. It isn’t even a slow blossom of color, just a sudden explosion all over his face. Rather ungraceful, Dean thinks.

“You’re a jerk.”

“But you wuv me.”

“Oh my God, Dean. Don’t you even start.”

Dean laughs, boisterous and happy, feeling elated as he crosses the city by Sam’s side.

They stumble past a small shop that sells jewelry and statues made of precious stones, all of them meticulously handcrafted. It all shines in the candlelight, glimmering and beautiful, and Dean promises Sam that he’ll get him the little swan pendant before they leave. The comment earns him a punch, and Dean can’t help but chuckle. He does make a mental note to buy something for their mother, however.

The busy streets are alive with laughter, and they notice tiny taverns and shops subtly built into the city walls. Clothes and shoes, weapons, riding gear, jewelry; they had it all, and Sam can’t help but marvel and squeak like a girl every time he sees something new. Dean admits that it’s the coolest thing he has seen in a very long time.

“I can’t believe we’re just seeing these,” Sam says, blowing into a tiny porcelain bowl and inhaling the gentle swirls it stirs up. The tea is made of herbs he has never even heard of, but the brewer was kind enough to offer him a sample. It’s the best damn thing Sam has ever had the pleasure of tasting.

Beside him, Dean is eating a blueberry-filled pastry. It’s a cheap imitation of pie, he thinks, but it’s still warm and flaky against his tongue, so he figures it’s good enough for his taste buds. “This place looks familiar. I’d remember if I’ve walked through here before, which I haven’t, but it feels like I have. Sort of like déjà vu.”

“You probably did and were too drunk to remember.” Sam takes a sip and hums with pleasure. The air around them is warm, and the drink is hot as it slides down his throat, but it’s a good feeling that makes his toes curl.

Dean shrugs in a way that proves Sam’s theory correct. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Heading down a small set of stairs carved from limestone, Dean notices the surroundings become increasingly familiar.

The wrought iron arch is entwined heavily with both ivy and white flowers. It is set inside a stone wall that is no longer visible behind the moss that covers it, and could have been easily missed if their attentions had been elsewhere. Small and artful; beautiful in its own way as nature took hold of it.

“Guess this is the archway?” Sam ponders, voice lost inside of the bowl, frowning down at it once the last drop dissolves on his tongue. “It kind of looks like the one I saw, but I can’t really tell.”

“That’s it, trust me,” Dean says. His voice is hushed and breathy as he steps closer. “I’ve been here before.”

“When? I thought you said...”

Dean opens his mouth, and then shuts it. He can’t say that Castiel has brought him here before in what must have been be a crazy dream, but standing there, Dean is more inclined to believe that he wasn’t asleep after all. Part of him is starting to wonder if Castiel really does have power over the dream world. “Don’t know. Probably wasn’t as drunk as we thought I was,” Dean says, and it’s lame, but Sam nods absently.

“Want me to come with?” Sam is finally looking up from his bowl, fixing Dean with a dewy stare that translates to ‘I’m worried about you. You shouldn’t go through a dark, creepy archway by yourself’. “For, you know, emotional support.”

“Sam,” Dean starts to say, but stops before he can go on. He wants to say something witty, like how he doesn’t need Sam there while he makes out with Castiel for an undetermined but very extensive amount of time, but instead he sighs and shakes his head. “I’m fine. I’m not one for post-traumatic stress.”

It’s a lie. Dean’s knees feel weak as he stands there, waiting for the behemoth to break through the stone walls and eat him like he had just done with his pastry. He fights back the looming fear that threatens to rip his chest into ribbons. He seals the fear inside himself, safe. He is stronger than this. He can handle it.

Sam isn’t having any of it. “Dean-”

“Go get yourself another hit of whatever it is you’re drinking, Sammy. I haven’t gotten any in weeks, and I’m not sure how much longer my resolve is gonna last.”

Thankfully, the threat of more mental scarring is enough, and Sam is scurrying up the steps with a grumble about how much of a pig his brother is.

“Works every time,” Dean says, and steps underneath the arch.

Chapter Five