The Cage - Part 1
Master Post
Yes.
The word kept playing over in Dean’s head. He’d thought through every possible scenario that could have turned that yes into no. Not happening. Not ever.
A year ago, it had seemed ridiculous. No way either of them would’ve ever said yes to angels riding their asses to an apocalyptic showdown.
It was the punch line to a bad joke. Two angels walked into a cemetery...and Dean was the only one who walked out. He wasn’t sure if he was more pissed at himself for not having stopped Sam or for not having stopped himself.
Either way, Sam was still in Hell, where Dean should have stayed. Castiel was MIA, ignoring or not hearing his prayers. Damn angels could stick their prayers where the sun didn’t shine anyway.
Dean sat alone in the Impala. His body was cramped from endless hours of driving and sleeping in the seat because he couldn’t bear to lay in the dark of some crap motel room and not hear his brother’s breathing.
His gaze locked on a distant point somewhere far beyond the foggy bay. He must have parked beside it last night just before he’d finally passed out. Everything was washed with grey. The sky blended seamlessly with the water, which flowed into the grey mottled rocks. Even in the car, the air was heavy and wet, thick with the smell of rotting fish. Rotting flesh.
Yes.
He’d meant to say, yes, stop the torture, but it had come out, yes, let me do the torturing.
Let him break the seal. Let him tear this world down. Let him be the reason his brother was being tortured in the deepest reaches of hell. He was a goddamn selfish son of a bitch.
Sam had taken this one way ride out of some sort of twisted penance because he thought he’d awoken Lucifer or had some kind of evil inside of him. Dean should have told him. He should have told Sam the truth - that it wasn’t his fault. At least Sam had evil forced on him. Dean had chosen it for himself.
And somehow, Sam honest to God thought that Dean could just move on, like there was anything else in this sorry world for him. He could just suck it up, knock on Lisa’s door and waltz in to destroy her and Ben’s life, too.
Even if he could do that to Lisa, it wouldn’t fix anything. Sam was wrong. Dean didn’t want a family. He wanted his family. The one he’d destroyed.
Because he’d said yes.
Dean tossed the bottle aside only because he’d found the bottom, probably had a while ago but the fact that he was knocking back an empty drink had just caught up to him. He’d thought maybe enough whiskey would wash it down, just for a moment lift that suffocating weight from his chest so he could catch one precious gasp of air. Instead, it only made his chest, limbs and entire body heavier. Too heavy to move. Too heavy to exist.
A foghorn sounded in the near distance. His gaze became lost in the coming and going of the lighthouse’s rotating light, flashing and disappearing. Disappearing just like Sam had into that abyss.
Sitting here in the silence of the morning where the sun was only beginning to light the bay, he could still hear it. The screams. The howling wails of the damned crying from the chasm they’d opened. Familiar, but worse because they hadn’t been screaming for him. They’d been screaming for Sam.
Beneath the salty air he could smell it. The sulfur, blood and bile wafting up on stale winds. Death and decay and charred flesh. His brother’s flesh.
He was still aside from his fingers, caressing the amulet that hung around his neck. He’d found it in Sam’s bag and with it had found new ways to hate himself all over again. He’d barely stopped touching it since and would never stop wishing that he could take it all back.
Bobby was right. It had been his brother, not this damn battle, he’d been so afraid of losing. He’d always known there was no way to win the war, but he’d sworn to protect Sam.
He’d screwed up. He’d let his brother go to hell, but nothing could make Dean leave him there.
~~~
It was half past three in the morning when Bobby heard the quiet footsteps moving through the dark. He held his breath, kept an ear out and reached for the .22 resting beside the leg of his desk.
The shadow crept through the living room, heading straight for the far bookshelf. Bobby waited until he had its back before lining up his shot and cocking the gun. The figure spun on its heels before crouching into the shadows.
“Damn it, Bobby, it’s me.”
Bobby grumbled beneath his breath as the fool kid popped back out from behind a chair. Dean stood on the far side of the room, still in the darkness.
Bobby set his shotgun aside and flicked on the desk lamp. Dean squinted against the light and didn’t quite meet Bobby’s eyes. The boy looked like hell.
He was half sure Dean was still wearing the same clothes he had the day they’d lost Sam. From his sunken eyes, Bobby was sure he hadn’t slept much since then either or bothered with feeding himself.
Sam had always been his own kid. He’d looked up to Dean in ways that Dean could never realize, being as dense as he was. But Sam had his own ideas about the world and what he’d needed from it. Dean never had.
It had never been what Dean wanted or needed. It had always been what John wanted and what Sam needed and then everything had just come down to Sam. Sam could never be right without Dean, but Bobby feared that Dean just plain couldn’t be without Sam.
He’d tried to keep Dean close, but the boy had taken off nearly right after. Dean had just left in the middle of the night without so much as a damned note and hadn’t bothered to pick up a phone. After two weeks, Bobby had switched from wondering if Dean was okay to wondering how he’d decided to end it.
“You damn idjit.”
Bobby closed the distance between them, lightly boxing Dean’s ear before pulling him into his arms. The boy was stiff, his jacket cold and damp. He smelled of blood and whiskey just like his daddy had.
Bobby didn’t relent. He held on until Dean wrapped his arms around him, his breath hitching as he clung to Bobby so tight it hurt.
Dean’s head still rested against his shoulder when he finally spoke. “Don’t you wanna check to make sure I’m me?”
Bobby pulled back so he could get another good look in. Dean shied away from the scrutiny, but Bobby kept a hold of his shoulders.
The kid’s lip was spit and the left side of his face bruised. Knowing Dean, it could’ve been a bar fight as much as anything else, not that the thought made Bobby any less concerned about how the boy was caring for himself.
“Nah,” Bobby said. “If there was something else up in you, you’d look a hell of a lot better than you do.”
Dean’s bloodshot eyes rose to glare at Bobby. He ran his tongue over his lips, but kept quiet.
Bobby shrugged and stepped away to give Dean his space. It didn’t seem to relax him any. The kid just shifted awkwardly, running his hand through his oily hair before looking back to his boots.
“Hey, Bobby? I…uh.”
“Well, spit it out, boy.”
Dean’s mouth hung open for a long moment before he seemed to find the words. “Can I crash here?”
“Can you...?” Bobby stepped forward again, tempted to knock Dean on the back of the head, but settling for grasping his shoulder. “Of all the stupid questions you could come up with. What in creation would make you think you had to ask? This is your home as much as mine, you know that. But I’m tell you, kid, you walk out on me like that again...”
“I know. I’m sorry, Bobby. I had some stuff I had to take care of.”
Bobby looked closely into Dean’s uneasy eyes. “Lisa?”
Dean turned away, walking towards the couch. “Yeah...right. Look, I’ve been driving for twelve hours straight. If it’s all the same to you, I’m gonna hit the sack.”
Bobby didn’t get another word out before Dean collapsed down into the sagging cushions, kicking his feet up on the armrest and closing his eyes as if he could fool Bobby. He sighed as he watched Dean’s fingers curl around the amulet that lay on his chest.
He’d let his kid have his time tonight, but they’d be having a damn long talk come morning.
~~~
Three days later and they still hadn’t talked.
It wasn’t like living with Dean. Even at his best, Dean had tended to keep to himself, always with Sam. But this was like living with a ghost, feeling more Sam’s absence than Dean’s presence.
Dean only ate what Bobby set right in front of him and only if Bobby hung around to stare at him until he did. Dean hadn’t been out to the garage and didn’t even seem to be drinking anything but coffee.
He was helping Bobby out with researching other hunters’ hunts, but hadn’t once shown a spark of interest in any of the hunts himself. He didn’t say much of anything at all, letting Bobby do the talking, and spending most of the day passed out on the couch or just staring off looking as if he was struggling to keep his eyes open.
The boy might be a zombie by day, but Bobby heard Dean rummaging around and pacing the downstairs all night long.
Nightmares, maybe, God knew the kid had his right to them, but he’d known the boys since Sam could barely talk. Even if nightmares were driving Dean from sleep, he’d bust open a bottle and head on outside like Bobby wouldn’t notice.
There wasn’t anything downstairs Dean had any need to be fussing with unless he was up to something. It wasn’t until Bobby had the right mind to do an inventory and check for which books had been brushed free of dust that he figured out just what Dean was up to.
~~~
Dean had been grabbing what little sleep he could deal with during the day or whenever Bobby happened to be hovering. Dean didn’t need his pitying looks and he didn’t want to talk about it. More than that, he didn’t need Bobby looking over his shoulder.
He lay on the couch with his eyes closed. He heard Bobby mumble good night and laid there pretending to sleep as he listened to Bobby head upstairs. Dean remained still until sometime after he’d heard Bobby’s movements go quiet.
He sat up and flexed his kinked neck before heading over to the bookshelves. He was so damn close to making this right, to getting his brother back. Sure, if he’d involved Bobby or if Sam had been the one here doing this, it would’ve gone a hundred times faster, but he was all there was.
Even though he was working out of a dozen books, he only pulled one off the shelf at a time in case he needed to throw it back in a hurry. He kept his extensive notes folded in his jacket pocket where he could try to make sense of them any time he had a few free minutes. Mostly, they just made his head hurt, but slowly the relevant bits were starting to sink in.
He fidgeted with the rings in his pocket, cut from the fingers of the horsemen and handed to him by Death himself, before pulling out the newest notes to check what page he’d left off on. He flipped on the lamp, grabbed the right volume and settled down at Bobby’s desk for another night of head throbbing research. His thumb traced the horns of his amulet as he slowly turned through the musty, yellowed pages.
He’d been working to the pre-dawn hours before passing out with the rise of the sun. Tonight, he felt more uneasy than usual.
Dean looked up, his ears straining in the quiet. There was only the hum of the fridge and slow drip of the sink. Dean reopened the book, writing it off as nerves raw in the dark hours.
The clock was counting down. Every minute he sat here too stupid to figure out these texts, days of torture were passing for his brother.
Floorboards creaked and Dean shut off the lamp, closed the book and jammed it back onto the shelf. He reached for his gun when he turned to see a figure standing in the dark.
It took a moment for his eyes to readjust to the dimness of the room before he could see Bobby standing with his arms crossed over his chest and looking pissed as hell.
Dean was already working up to giving one of his many practiced excuses. It didn’t leave his lips before Bobby pushed past him to grab the book off the shelf. He threw it down onto the desk and grabbed Dean’s arm, backing him against the bookshelf.
“Just how stupid do you think I am?”
“Bobby, I...”
“You can’t do this, Dean. You goddamn know you can’t do this!” Bobby shook him. Dean stood unmoving beneath his furious glare. “You think your brother would want you throwing away the world he sacrificed himself for?”
“It’s not like that, Bobby. I can get him out.”
“No, you can’t. Damn it, Dean! Sam knew he wasn’t coming back. We all knew. You even said-”
“I lied.”
“You listen to me...”
“No.” Dean shoved Bobby away, just hard enough to slip past him. “You listen to me.” He put the desk between them, not afraid of Bobby, but afraid that his own nerves were too raw to deal with being cornered without lashing out. “I only went along with that stupid ass plan because I thought there was a way out.”
“Not without ending the world! You go poking at that Cage and we don’t know if Sam will come back, but we damn well know that Lucifer will.”
“I’m not trying to figure out how to open the Cage.”
Bobby flicked on the light and slammed his hand down on the book. “You don’t think I know my own books? You’ve read every last one I got on opening doorways to hell.”
“Yeah, to hell,” Dean said. “That’s all.”
“Oh, that’s all, is it?” Bobby asked, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “Well, in that case, go right ahead. What’re you thinking, Dean?”
Dean threw his accumulated notes down onto the desk in front of Bobby. “Just look for yourself.”
Dean crossed his arms over his chest, watching anxiously as Bobby read through the pages. He wasn’t afraid of what Bobby would figure out, but he was afraid his logic was off and that Bobby would tell him there was nothing there.
Bobby was silent for a long while after he finished reading. Dean raised his brow. “Well?”
“No.”
Dean’s shoulders slumped.
He already knew how to get into the Cage, a way to slip in through the back. He’d had the rings bound to his soul, which if the hunter who’d helped him do it was right, should let him slip into the Cage without actually opening the door. Worst case scenario, if the door did end up open, Lucifer and Michael would be released into hell, but would still be trapped in the Pit. The problem was that the only way to get to the backdoor was through Hell.
There were a million roads to Hell, but only a few that ended with him coming back topside and even less that ended with him coming back with Sam.
“No way I’m letting you go through with this on a maybe,” Bobby said.
Dean lifted his head, staring back at Bobby. “Then it could work? If there’s even half a chance...”
“Even if it were a sure thing, it’s not happening. Dean, your brother’s gone and one of these days you’re just going to have to accept that...”
“That what?” Dean asked. “That my entire family is dead because of me?”
“Dean, it ain’t like that.”
“Bull. And you tell me just what the hell I’m supposed to do. He’s my brother.” Dean walked back around the desk until they were standing inches from each other. “You can help me or you can get out of my way, but I’m not leaving him down there.”
Dean grabbed for the notes. Bobby intercepted him, his hand clasping hard over Dean’s wrist.
“I am through watching you Winchesters throw yourselves down the Pit! I get that you wanna save your brother, Dean, I do. But Sam wouldn’t want this.”
“You don’t know what’s it’s like down there. And where Sam is? The ways they tore into me were nothing compared to what’s happening to him. Right now.” Dean scrubbed his hand over his face, taking in a breath. “I put him down there, Bobby.”
“This was Sam’s choice.”
“And he made it because of me!” Dean spun away and paced towards the door before turning back on Bobby. “Look, you think what you want, but I’m doing this.”
Bobby shook his head. “I ain’t gonna watch you kill yourself.”
“Then help me because that’s the only other way this ends. I can’t live with this. I won’t.”
Bobby sighed, collapsing back into his chair. He lifted up the notes, reading through them again. “Whoever came up with this nonsense was crazier than a loon.”
“Will it work?”
“How the hell should I know? I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m pretty damn sure it’ll send your soul straight to hell, but beyond that? It’s not even a shot in a million. It’s...there’s just no way, Dean. Even if Sam’s soul could hitch a ride back on yours, you’re assuming you’ll be able to navigate your way through Hell, find the Cage, slip in and get Sam away from the righteous fury of two damned angels.”
“I know Hell.”
“Just because you were in Hell don’t mean-”
“I wasn’t just a tortured soul, Bobby. I got the behind the scenes tour. I know how to move around down there.”
“You’re talking like it’s Mexico. The chances of you coming back at all, let alone with Sam... Boy, we don’t even got a body.”
That was one of the problems he was still just making wild guesses on. There wasn’t exactly a lot of info on people falling into hell, but it wasn’t as if Sam had died in the traditional sense, which was maybe better or maybe worse. Either way, he’d make it work.
“It’s down there, I guess." Dean shrugged. "Maybe he’ll just come back with it.”
“Right. Because we’re lucky that,” Bobby said. “Maybe you should just drive the Impala down and pick him up.”
“Come on, it can’t be harder than reanimating my rotted corpse, right?”
“Do I look like a damn angel to you?”
“I don’t know, Bobby. I’ll figure it out.”
“While you’re down there dodging demons?” Bobby grunted as he met Dean’s uneasy eyes. “That’s right. You might think you were close to black-eyes but I know you like the back of my hand. Your soul is as good as they come. Whether or not you get that, you’re gonna have a huge target on your back.”
“I know some tricks,” Dean said.
“Like?”
“Like you don’t wanna know. I was off the rack for ten years, Bobby.”
“Compared to things that have been down there for millennia.”
“I trained under Alastair. I know enough.”
Bobby shook his head. “No way this works.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean said. “If I can’t make it back, at least he won’t be down there alone.” Bobby eyes narrowed, but Dean wasn’t giving him a choice. “It took me two weeks to get here because I was gathering the supplies I didn’t think you’d have.”
“Is that how you got yourself beat?”
Dean’s fingers brushed over the still tender side of his face. He hadn’t been able to look at himself in the mirror and hadn’t considered how he must look. No wonder Bobby was feeling sorry for him. It didn’t matter. Dean would take the help however he had to get it.
“You should’ve seen the other guy,” Dean said dryly as he rubbed his bruised knuckles.
It wasn’t much of a joke considering that the other guy had barely been recognizable as human once Dean had finished getting what he’d needed from him. Of course, he hadn’t been human to start with, not anymore.
“Told you, nothing’s gonna stop me, but you help me and I got a glimmer of a chance.”
“You damn Winchesters are gonna kill me yet,” Bobby grumbled.
For the first time since Sam, the corner of Dean’s lips upturned. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
~~~
Bobby’s chest was tight as he opened the book. He might as well be getting ready to put a bullet through Dean’s head.
In the fireplace, the flames crackled. Dean’s breaths were uneven, rapid pants he struggled to quiet. His eyes were distant, lost in the flames. The flickering light played over his bare chest.
Dean’s shirts were folded on the table and Bobby’s gaze locked onto the raised handprint on his shoulder. Dean kept saying that if things went sideways, Castiel would come. Bobby wished he could believe that.
Over Dean’s chest, beside his tattoo, were four circles of angry red, raised skin. Dean hadn’t said much about it, only that he’d gotten help so he could enter the Cage without carrying the actual rings with him.
Bobby got why Dean hadn’t asked him to do it. These rings had belonged to the horseman, Bobby wouldn’t have done it and Dean damn well knew that. But it only agitated him more to think that Dean had let what had to have been a stranger brand his skin, let alone his soul.
Any part of these rituals could kill Dean outright and all commonsense said that once they hurled Dean’s soul to hell that he wouldn’t be coming back. Bobby couldn’t bury this boy again, but he knew he’d be doing exactly that one way or another. At least this way, Dean would be doing what he needed to then Bobby would do what he had to.
Dean was bound in a chair, his idea. As far as Bobby could tell, the kid was more afraid of himself than anything he might find in Hell. Not that he wasn’t scared. Bobby could see that beneath the surface he was terrified. It just wasn’t slowing him down any.
Dean flexed his grip on the armrests of the chair. “Just do it.”
Dean said it like he was asking Bobby to change the oil in the car. In fact, Dean might have been more particular about that if the Impala was concerned. But no, all they were trying to do was exorcise Dean’s soul from his own body and pitch it into Hell.
“What if I can’t pull you back?” Bobby asked.
“Then you shoot me.”
“You wanna run that by me again?”
“You heard me, Bobby. You can’t pull my soul back in then you shoot, burn, slice-up...whatever you gotta do to get rid of whatever’s left.”
Bobby slammed the book closed. “Are you even planning on trying to come back?”
“I’m gonna get Sam out. Or I’m staying with him.”
“And how exactly is that that supposed to help anything?”
Dean settled back in the chair and looked away. “It’s what I’m doing. Deal with it.”
Bobby stormed forward. “I oughtta deal with you, boy.”
“Then do it,” Dean’s gaze flashed back up to lock with Bobby’s. “Do whatever you gotta to make yourself feel right about this, but just hurry it up.”
“I plan to,” Bobby said, not referring to hurrying things along.
Bobby wasn’t okay with any part of this, not by a long shot, but he had his own contacts with hell. Winchesters weren’t the only ones who could throw their souls away.
~~~
Dean heard himself scream.
It was far off and distant, as if he was hearing someone else, but he recognized the sound. He’d spent decades in hell listening to cries torn from his own bloody throat.
He’d still be screaming if he had the lungs to do it, but everything had been ripped away. There was no lingering or waiting around for a reaper he’d have to bribe to let him pass.
His soul was shot from his body like a bullet, knowing exactly where it was destined for. There was a bang, silent but deafening, before the free fall of blindly rushing energy, like jumping off an Olympic springboard to smash headfirst into an empty pool below.
Dean gasped. The sound was sharp and desperate, but lost amongst the roaring moans and wails that settled over him like a familiar blanket, suffocating.
Hands grappled over his bare flesh, fighting for an escape that would never come. They clambered up him, a thousand hands forcing him down into an endless sulfuric mass of the writhing damned.
He swam back up through the molten sea of agony, kicking away the clawing grips, pushing up through the masses of mediocre souls not good enough for heaven, but not bad enough to rate more than occasional individual attention in the Pit.
Dean stopped struggling.
He remembered. He remembered this place, remembered his place. And in an instant, he was on top, resting on the backs of the damned. There with them, but somehow out of reach. Above them.
He’d been here before.
Not in the fiery lakes, but beside them with Alastair’s hand resting on his shoulder, absently digging claws into his flesh. Dean had leaned in, seeking the assurance, the promise that the next soul on the rack wouldn’t be his.
Alastair had gestured towards the burning souls and told Dean to take his pick. Just reach in, pull one out, any he liked. And God help him, he’d done it.
He’d only hesitated on account of being given a choice. By then, the rest had been easy. He’d already carved through every one Alastair had put in front of him.
Finally, he hadn’t had to settle for souls that shouldn’t even be there. He could justify it. He could enjoy it.
Dean crouched on top of the groaning mountain of flesh and twisted bones. Discards from torturers like him mingled with the souls. A stream of blood curled around his bare toes, lapping at his feet. It seared like boiling water, but Dean didn’t flinch. This was a pain he could abide.
It wasn’t exactly like coming home, but it wasn’t far off.
It was like going back to Kansas, decades after the fire. It was like remembering the charred air and everything he’d never wanted to feel again, but had never actually stopped feeling.
Castiel had dragged him out kicking and screaming and stuffed his stained soul back into his rotting corpse. He’d left hell, but hell had never left him.
He always heard the echo of the screams, smelled the sulfur-laced flesh, and felt the depth of the darkness so deep his eyes couldn’t penetrate it. He still saw the fires in that darkness, pockets of light so blinding it would sear a human’s retinas. Souls burning.
It was what he saw when he closed his eyes. It was the demons that lurked in every shadow, the blood of souls he saw on his hands every time he lifted a knife. It was black eyes he saw looking back at him through the mirror, what he was so afraid that Sam could see, too.
He’d gone for Sam, to save him, but instead he’d damned him to the same mounds of burning flesh and stagnant horror. Or worse.
The thought pulled Dean from the indistinguishable tangle of memories and nightmares, urging him to his feet. Sweat beaded over his bare skin, dripping down his knitted brow.
Traveling through Hell wasn’t like a hiking trip. There was nothing truly physical. It wasn’t a matter of distance or knowing whether to turn left or right. It was a decent, each level leading deeper into the Pit.
Dean knew how to travel, but hadn’t exactly explored much of Hell. Alastair had kept him on a short leash at first and by the time he hadn’t, Dean had stopped caring.
This place was the lawless version of Heaven. There were private hells, created and destroyed by those who were the most powerful. Reality bent to the strongest.
In the shadow of Alastair, he’d only had power over the rack so that was where he’d stayed, twisting the reality of the souls he destroyed. It had still been practice, as innate to his soul as riding a bike, and there was no one to hold him back now.
“I see it’s true what they say about shoe size.”
Dean’s eyes snapped up at the voice that cut through the howls that filled the endless chasm. The voice was louder than the rest if only because it was speaking directly to his soul, pushing the rest to background like Alastair had.
Dean coiled for a fight he didn’t care that he couldn’t win. He’d find a way. He’d find his brother.
It wasn’t until he looked to the side that the familiarity sunk in. The grip of fear loosened slightly as he stared down the short, properly dressed demon. Crowley couldn’t have looked more out of place standing in human form, suit jacket spotless amongst the mangled souls that crawled away from him.
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What’re you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Crowley asked. “Seriously, Dean? I’m the King of Hell and you weren’t even invited, but as long you’re here...” Crowley snapped his fingers. “Have a seat.”
Dean squinted against the light that suddenly flooded around them. He followed Crowley’s gesture to a leather chair. He scanned the room that they now stood in. He was as distracted by the quiet, soft music playing in the background, as the fact the sea of fire had been replaced by some kind of posh private lounge.
“All that incessant wailing. It really wrecks havoc on the blood pressure. Drink?”
Dean was still reeling, standing frozen in the middle of the lounge, the blood from the seas congealing over his bare skin in the cooled room. Crowley kicked back in the seat across the small table, a bottle of scotch already poured into two glasses.
“You’re serious?” Dean asked. “You? The King of Hell?”
“The one and only.”
Dean stalked over, leaving bloody footprints in the carpet behind him. “You’re just a piss ant crossroads demon.”
“King of the Crossroads, you moron. Now sit down!”
A wall of energy knocked Dean back into the chair. The leather stuck to his skin as he shifted beneath the force pinning him there. The restraint let up a moment later, but Dean remained where Crowley had put him. He might not buy the King of Hell crap, but he knew which one of them held the most power here.
Hellhounds paced in the shadows. Dean watched them warily, their musty scent of decay assaulting his nostrils. His shoulders tensed as he listened to the scrape of their claws against the linoleum floor of the hallway and the panting of their rancid breaths. One massive beast strolled over to sit beside Crowley, barring its teeth at Dean.
“Good boy.” Crowley reached up to scratch behind the beast’s ear before looking back at Dean. “Bobby really didn’t tell you about my self-promotion? I have to say, I’m hurt.”
“Why the hell would Bobby know?”
“He and I are soul mates, after all. Or...well, you know. With Lilith gone, someone had to step up around here. You should have seen the coronation. Everyone wept. It was really quite moving. If I’d known you’d missed this place so much I would’ve sent an invitation.” Crowley took a sip of his drink as he watched Dean. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you slipping down here?”
Dean shrugged, lifting his own drink and knocking it back. “Didn’t give it a thought either way.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me? You walked into Hell, no doubt intent on releasing sodding Lucifer right when I’m about to clean up the neighborhood. Tell me why I shouldn’t just heave you back into that cesspool out there?”
“You think I’m a pain in your ass topside?” Dean leaned forward over the table. “You try keeping me here and I’ll make you wish you were just the King of White Castle.”
“Oh, stop. You’re giving me chills. I still don’t see why I should help you.”
Dean’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“So you didn’t come here to find me? Your plan was what, then? To march across Hell until you made it to the deepest depths and walk back out carrying your dear, sweet prince in your arms?”
“Something like that.”
“You are truly a marvel of arrogant, self-righteous stupidity. It boggles the mind. You should thank your lucky starts that old drunk of yours is so persuasive. You should give him a big kiss if ever you see the light of day again, though I would recommend offering him a breath mint first.”
“Bobby called you?”
“More like summoned me out of a very important, private meeting. I’m on very tight schedule with these seventh circle remodels. You should see the plans, quite stunning. Here I was going to have the racks decommissioned, but with a skilled hand such as yours... Is it true that you pulled a soul inside out through his-”
Dean abruptly stood from the table. “Keep playing tea party and you’ll find out for yourself.”
“You show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” Crowley replied with a smug smirk. “I’m hardly in a hurry to poke at two angels who are nearly as much of a pain as you and your oversized brother.”
“Are you the King of Hell or not?”
“I’m not stupid. What exactly do you plan on doing with that mangled soul if by some exceedingly unlikely miracle you manage to slip him past the angels? Because I can tell you that right now, what’s left of Moose isn’t going to look any better than the defecated scraps of Macduff’s dinner,” Crowley said with a pat to the hellhound beside him.
“I don’t care. I’ll fix him.”
“You won’t even make it through the door. It’s not as if I have the key.”
“I do.”
Crowley swished the scotch in his glass. He glanced over Dean’s bare body and raised his brow. “Dare I ask where you’re hiding it?”
But Crowley’s gaze settled on the amulet that Dean hadn’t realized still hung around his neck. Dean’s body was still topside. What he was now was only a visual manifestation of his soul.
“You gonna get me there or not?”
“I’ll even bring you back. If by some unexplainable insanity you manage to stumble out again.”
“What did Bobby promise you?”
“I don’t kiss and tell, but don’t give your old man too much credit,” Crowley said. “It’s that pet angel of yours I don’t want snooping around on the off chance you do get out. Shall we?”
Crowley had barely stood before the room was gone. The comfortable temperature had been replaced by a chill in the air that rose goose bumps over his bare flesh and left him shivering. The ground beneath his feet was barren. There was no flesh or blood wriggling beneath, only jagged, icy rocks that tore the soles of his feet.
It was quiet. The screams of hell were distant echoes so soft he wasn’t sure if he was actually hearing them at all.
The yellow glow of burning souls had faded to a dull grey light that shone from the ice beneath their feet. When he looked closer, he saw them, twisted bodies with screams of agony frozen on their faces. Some were locked beneath the ice, others half in and half out, but all as still as statues.
“This is as far as I go,” Crowley said. “The air’s far too nippy for my likes. Have a lovely eternity down here.” Crowley turned away, but looked back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Dean? If you release Lucifer into my new kingdom you’ll wish you were hellhound scat.”
In the next moment, Crowley was gone, leaving Dean standing alone in the soul-chilling stillness of the frozen wasteland.
Continue to Part 2