FIC: Pulling Out The Nails, Chapter 2: Seneca State Forest, West Virginia, 2009 [3/20]
Back to 1. Lawrence, Kansas, 1983, or go to the Masterpost.
His quarry didn't move.
There was a frown at the man's mouth, a little wrinkle between his eyebrows. Occasionally, his fingers twitched toward the overpowering coffee scant inches from his grasp. He was too involved in his reading to notice Castiel, idly spinning a web in the corner of the room, waiting for his moment, which would undoubtedly come soon.
He looked tired, Castiel observed. Bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes, shadows standing out beneath the vaguely unfocused gaze. It was no wonder, either. Dean Winchester had been on the run a long time. Castiel felt a vague pang of displeasure at his assigned task. Ordinarily, he'd have no quarrel with a man like Dean; this was the kind of job that left a bitterness in his essence, the sort of thing that took years to fade, even left alone in the Other Place.
He had done precious little more than these kinds of jobs since Jimmy's death.
Dean yawned; Castiel heard his jaw pop as the man clapped a hand to his mouth. The djinni stilled, withdrawing further into the shadows. Dean's abilities were known, and caution was necessary for this mission. Castiel's spider guise would have fooled many of the others in this cold camp, but not Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester had the sight, and would look straight through to the seventh plane if he so much as glanced in Castiel's direction.
The spider wiggled two legs in irritation. Truth be told, this job was more repulsive than all the jobs in the last ten years combined. This was the pup he had once saved from certain death on Jimmy's orders; killing him now seemed a waste of effort after all he'd expended twenty-six years ago to keep the Winchesters alive, not to mention an insult to the memory of the only decent human being he'd ever known. And if that wasn't enough, the job had to be difficult, too. Castiel was formidable against an ordinary human, but Dean was not ordinary. No enemy of the state was, after all. There was something special about all of them.
He could have swept in and simply smothered the man-after all, Dean had the sight, but he was as susceptible to a spirit's attack as the average human-but Dean was bound to raise the alarm before he died, and then Castiel would be lucky if he got out alive. This nook of the Appalachians, deep away from the prying eyes of the government, was rigged with things that were already gouging an ache into Castiel's essence. Iron and silver everywhere. And if Castiel was really unlucky, Sam Winchester would be the first on the scene, and the djinni would be all but useless against the assault.
They had grown in the last few decades, this Resistance. Pity they weren't going to amount to anything once their general was dead. Castiel had done enough surveillance to know that Dean was the heart of the group-the big brother, the understanding father, the tragic hero-and humans without hearts...there was no precedent for that kind of thing.
A shaggy head poked into the room. Dean looked up again, and Castiel shrank further into his dark corner. "You still awake?" a voice accused from within the mane.
Dean didn't have the grace to look sheepish; he gave the other man a hard stare. "Work to do, Sam," he grunted, dropping his gaze back to the book.
The spider watched as the lion sighed and came into the room, shutting the door behind him. He pulled up a seat across from his brother and plopped himself down, smoothing the wild hair back from his face. Sam Winchester was not on Castiel's list tonight, but he would be someday soon; if Castiel didn't deliver the final blow, the job would surely be given to one of his fellows. Maybe Anna, whose power was still new to this world. She wasn't as worn down as Castiel. Her chances against Sam's resilience were much higher.
The Winchesters were no longer welcome on Earth, that was certain. Castiel doubted they ever had been.
Though younger, Sam looked scarcely better than his brother. They were both prematurely aged, the lines and wrinkles in their faces standing out. Sam's hazel eyes brimmed with worry; Dean's had the quality of flint, hard and flat.
Sam was focused, honed in on his brother, and he didn't have the sight. It was as good a time as any for Castiel to creep into position behind Dean and await Sam's eventual departure. He didn't think it would do any favors for his essence, but perhaps a quick swallowing was the best way to go with Dean. It would eliminate noise, at the very least.
Castiel moved carefully, staying out of Dean's line of sight and sticking close to the shadows in case Sam became suspicious of the spider's movement. He was a small spider, though, and he would have been almost impressed if Sam did catch sight of him. Displeased, of course, but impressed. The vigilance of their people was largely to thank for their continued survival.
"What're you looking for, anyway? You've been over that report a dozen times."
Dean scrubbed a hand over his face; Castiel could no longer see his expression. His voice was rough from long disuse. "You know what I'm looking for."
That was all nicely ambiguous. Azazel wouldn't be pleased with the mediocre intelligence. Though it wasn't Castiel's primary mission, his master expected something other than an assassination to come out of this trip. He wanted information. Something that would help him understand what the Winchesters were planning.
"There's no chink in the armor, Dean." There was a tiny, ruffled bit of Castiel that wanted them to stop talking. Almost. He didn't want to be compelled to tell Azazel anything about these rebels. He actually wished they would succeed, even if it was a hopeless desire. He was about to squash almost all chance of that, given a few minutes.
The bitterness gnawed at him anew. He only hoped that after this job, Azazel would dismiss him for good. There were other things in the works-bigger things-and his master would hopefully begin to overlook him, in time. Perhaps his name would not be unearthed again for centuries. Perhaps no magician would find a footprint containing the name Castiel and think to summon the demon to their side.
But it always would be unearthed, eventually, because this Resistance would fail, like so many others before it had failed. In the short term, maybe not; the rebels in England had done the job well enough, thirty short years ago. The magicians always rose again, though, cropping up like a determined patch of weeds...
"Force is our only option," Sam continued. Castiel balanced between wall and ceiling, waiting. "We know enough, we could-"
Dean slammed his fist down on the table, hard enough to knock over his coffee. It spilled, and neither brother took notice. Both Sam and Castiel flinched at the impact. "We're not stooping to their level," Dean snapped. "That's that, Sammy. I'm not Dad. I can't." His voice cracked. "I won't."
"I could," Sam suggested, too casually to be truly casual. "It'd be safer for me, anyway."
Dean laughed. It was a starved, exhausted sound. Castiel flipped through the planes and studied Dean's aura, the stifled brightness of it. It was all muffled by that ugly human pain. Underneath, though, it was a nice aura. For a human.
"It's never safe," Dean shot back. "They've been enslaved for centuries, Sam. For millennia. Our lifetimes are a blink to them. Do you think they'll really be taken in by this? They won't believe for a second that you're actually offering them a way out."
Sam's mouth popped open a bit, eyebrows scrunching upwards. "But I am," he protested. "I don't want them in this world any more than they want to be here-"
"I know," Dean said, a little gentler. "But why should they believe you? Why should they believe us? We'd have to use the magic that binds them in order to summon and talk to them at all, and that's not exactly a gesture of good faith. It's slavery, plain and simple."
"You're too black and white," Sam said mulishly, but the heat of his argument had subsided. "It's the only way to talk to them."
Castiel considered rubbing a leg into his tiny spider ears, just to check that he wasn't mishearing things, but no, they were really talking about this. About an alliance with spirits. One that put them on equal footing, rather than enslaving them. How quaint.
"You heard what happened in London," Sam continued quietly. "Same as me. It worked for John Mandrake."
"It was a shot in the dark, Sam. And Mandrake's been missing ever since, and so's the spirit that helped him, and you know what missing means. You really think any of the rest of 'em are willing to go on a suicide mission for the good of the people?"
"But it would be in the best interest of spirits, too," Sam said, frowning.
"They don't have bonds like we do. Magicians ruined that for them."
In the form he was currently manifesting, Castiel couldn't actually frown, but the sentiment was there. For being commoners, the Winchesters seemed to know an awful lot about magic and spirits. Of course, they were bound to have picked up some bits and pieces while the Resistance had actually given their allegiance to American magicians, but that was years ago, well before their time-and the Mandrake affair had been strongly classified.
Perhaps it had something to do with that manila folder loosely grasped in Dean's hand. If Castiel could get closer...
He banished the cobweb he'd been trailing behind him and instead started to spin a faint strand of web, anchoring it to the ceiling. He was only two feet behind Dean; if he lowered himself far enough, he would be able to make out some of the fine print.
"You should clean in here more often," Sam remarked as Castiel carefully worked his way into midair and swung silently forward. He could make out some of the Latin-basic summoning rituals, neatly typed into printer paper-but he strongly suspected some level of encryption at work.
"Yeah, okay, Mom," Dean shot back.
Castiel should have been prepared for what came next, but they were the type of men who changed tack in conversation at lightning speed, for no apparent reason; he could not have imagined that this, too, was a code, the cue for Dean to turn, a fine silver net already grasped in his fist. The djinni saw the net too late to flinch back from it, and the silver burned hard into his essence. He had been in the world too long; had he been stronger, he might have put up a fight.
As it stood, he blacked out as soon as the net made contact.
*
"For a demon, the thing's not bad-looking."
"The term is spirit, Dean."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered. "Call it what it is."
Sam glared at him, full of righteous indignation, but Dean ignored him, examining the demon-fine, spirit-they'd caught in his room barely an hour before. It wasn't a surprise-to Dean, at least. The thing had been tailing him for a while, biding its time. Watching his patterns. He'd only caught glimpses, but they'd been enough. Azazel wasn't screwing around anymore. This wasn't an imp or a foliot-too complex. It had long since lost its spider guise, but underneath the puddle of slime it was now, Dean saw its true form, cramped up and flinching away from its prison.
"Aren't they usually..." Sam hesitated, staring at the slime. "I mean, usually you say they're ugly."
"Fugly is the term, and yeah, they usually are. All tentacles and bulges. He's still got a form on the seventh plane. Looks sort of polished."
Sam was already digging a small notebook out of his back pocket, full of eagerness. "What's it look like?"
"Cut it out," Dean instructed sharply, moving forward to adjust the netting. It clung to a large cage, constructed of iron bars. A platform inside gave the spirit enough space to avoid the damaging elements, but only barely. Dean could just as soon give the cage a good push and send it howling right into the pain.
"Think it's an afrit, maybe?"
Dean snorted. "No. See how easy it went down? It's not that strong. Probably a djinni."
Sam mouth tightened, a worried line that had Dean rolling his eyes. "Azazel's getting serious."
"Yeah. Still, should've sent a better sample than that." The spirit was starting to stir; Dean raised his voice. "Gets knocked out by one silver net, that's not a thing that can take me down."
Dean saw it move. Abrupt and sudden, it reared skyward within its prison, which wasn't nearly big enough for it; its essence quailed, avoiding the walls with its many masked faces, but the form within materialized into something on the lower planes.
A man. He wore an overlarge, tan trench coat with a threadbare, plain suit beneath. The white shirt was too big for him, the blue tie rumpled and off-center. He cocked his head to the side, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. He considered Dean with a gaze that was both very, very blue and very, very alien. Dean stood his ground.
"That was embarrassing," the spirit admitted, almost rueful. "It happens to the best of us. I'm surprised you haven't killed me yet."
"Information first," Dean said casually. "As much as we can get, anyway."
The spirit went on staring at him. It hadn't blinked at all. "Then you know that I am, in all likelihood, bound by my master not to reveal anything to you, should I be captured." His eyes narrowed, only minutely, as though scrutinizing Dean, who didn't enjoy the feeling.
"We know there are loopholes," Sam piped up.
The man's lip curled up at one corner. The half-smile was predatory; Dean stood his ground with some effort.
"Are there, boy?" he asked, cool as you please, and Sam flushed. Dean started to smirk, but quickly scowled instead. He admired the thing for making Sam squirm, but it was still the enemy, technically speaking. "And why would I sing for you?"
"No love lost between you and the magicians," Dean said clinically. "You're a slave to them."
The spirit's attention turned back to Dean. "Yes," it said cryptically. "That is the term."
"We're your best bet," Dean said. "Being the Resistance, and all."
"You are not the only Resistance," the spirit said idly, "and Azazel is not the only magician."
"So it is Azazel, then," Sam interrupted, frowning now.
The man in the trench coat didn't stop looking at Dean. "Yes," he intoned, obviously bored. "It's no secret that he wants you both dead, but this mission was for Dean alone."
"Sam isn't a target?" Dean asked. He hoped that his face didn't show how his heart had picked up speed.
"I didn't say that. It was not, however, on my to-do list."
The brothers exchanged a glance.
"This is nothing you don't already know," the spirit pointed out.
"Then tell us something we don't," Dean suggested, taking a step closer to the cage.
The spirit tilted its head to the side again. "Ask, and perhaps you shall receive. Though it would be preferable for you to release me after your interrogation, rather than attempt to kill me."
"It wouldn't be an attempt, buddy."
"Easy," Sam warned. "We can make a deal."
Dean snorted. "Yeah? And what's going to keep him upholding his end of the bargain? The instant we let him out, he'll kill us. He's got a prime directive."
Sam looked on the verge of throwing up his hands. The spirit's eyes narrowed. "A crude summary," he said. "But accurate."
"Look," Dean said, half to Sam, but looking at the spirit. "You've got your orders."
"Yes."
"And you can't violate them."
"It's not within my power, no."
"You'll have to stay here, then."
The spirit eyed its prison. "I'll be dead in a fortnight. I might not be touching it, but the silver's proximity still does me no favors, and I am already weak. Azazel has kept me in his employ for too long."
"We could dismiss you," Sam volunteered. The faces on the seventh plane curled back in disbelief; Dean offered up a tiny shrug. "We know the words."
"Only my master can give the Dismissal," the spirit returned. Sam looked crestfallen. "It would be easier for you to kill me." It settled within its cage, sitting cross-legged on the platform, the great tan trench coat spread around it.
"Let's not get hasty." Dean stepped back. "You think of anything useful, give us a shout. I'm sure we'll hear you."
He felt the blue gaze on the back of his neck as he made for the door. There was something eerily familiar about those masked faces.
Forward to 3. Negotiations.
His quarry didn't move.
There was a frown at the man's mouth, a little wrinkle between his eyebrows. Occasionally, his fingers twitched toward the overpowering coffee scant inches from his grasp. He was too involved in his reading to notice Castiel, idly spinning a web in the corner of the room, waiting for his moment, which would undoubtedly come soon.
He looked tired, Castiel observed. Bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes, shadows standing out beneath the vaguely unfocused gaze. It was no wonder, either. Dean Winchester had been on the run a long time. Castiel felt a vague pang of displeasure at his assigned task. Ordinarily, he'd have no quarrel with a man like Dean; this was the kind of job that left a bitterness in his essence, the sort of thing that took years to fade, even left alone in the Other Place.
He had done precious little more than these kinds of jobs since Jimmy's death.
Dean yawned; Castiel heard his jaw pop as the man clapped a hand to his mouth. The djinni stilled, withdrawing further into the shadows. Dean's abilities were known, and caution was necessary for this mission. Castiel's spider guise would have fooled many of the others in this cold camp, but not Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester had the sight, and would look straight through to the seventh plane if he so much as glanced in Castiel's direction.
The spider wiggled two legs in irritation. Truth be told, this job was more repulsive than all the jobs in the last ten years combined. This was the pup he had once saved from certain death on Jimmy's orders; killing him now seemed a waste of effort after all he'd expended twenty-six years ago to keep the Winchesters alive, not to mention an insult to the memory of the only decent human being he'd ever known. And if that wasn't enough, the job had to be difficult, too. Castiel was formidable against an ordinary human, but Dean was not ordinary. No enemy of the state was, after all. There was something special about all of them.
He could have swept in and simply smothered the man-after all, Dean had the sight, but he was as susceptible to a spirit's attack as the average human-but Dean was bound to raise the alarm before he died, and then Castiel would be lucky if he got out alive. This nook of the Appalachians, deep away from the prying eyes of the government, was rigged with things that were already gouging an ache into Castiel's essence. Iron and silver everywhere. And if Castiel was really unlucky, Sam Winchester would be the first on the scene, and the djinni would be all but useless against the assault.
They had grown in the last few decades, this Resistance. Pity they weren't going to amount to anything once their general was dead. Castiel had done enough surveillance to know that Dean was the heart of the group-the big brother, the understanding father, the tragic hero-and humans without hearts...there was no precedent for that kind of thing.
A shaggy head poked into the room. Dean looked up again, and Castiel shrank further into his dark corner. "You still awake?" a voice accused from within the mane.
Dean didn't have the grace to look sheepish; he gave the other man a hard stare. "Work to do, Sam," he grunted, dropping his gaze back to the book.
The spider watched as the lion sighed and came into the room, shutting the door behind him. He pulled up a seat across from his brother and plopped himself down, smoothing the wild hair back from his face. Sam Winchester was not on Castiel's list tonight, but he would be someday soon; if Castiel didn't deliver the final blow, the job would surely be given to one of his fellows. Maybe Anna, whose power was still new to this world. She wasn't as worn down as Castiel. Her chances against Sam's resilience were much higher.
The Winchesters were no longer welcome on Earth, that was certain. Castiel doubted they ever had been.
Though younger, Sam looked scarcely better than his brother. They were both prematurely aged, the lines and wrinkles in their faces standing out. Sam's hazel eyes brimmed with worry; Dean's had the quality of flint, hard and flat.
Sam was focused, honed in on his brother, and he didn't have the sight. It was as good a time as any for Castiel to creep into position behind Dean and await Sam's eventual departure. He didn't think it would do any favors for his essence, but perhaps a quick swallowing was the best way to go with Dean. It would eliminate noise, at the very least.
Castiel moved carefully, staying out of Dean's line of sight and sticking close to the shadows in case Sam became suspicious of the spider's movement. He was a small spider, though, and he would have been almost impressed if Sam did catch sight of him. Displeased, of course, but impressed. The vigilance of their people was largely to thank for their continued survival.
"What're you looking for, anyway? You've been over that report a dozen times."
Dean scrubbed a hand over his face; Castiel could no longer see his expression. His voice was rough from long disuse. "You know what I'm looking for."
That was all nicely ambiguous. Azazel wouldn't be pleased with the mediocre intelligence. Though it wasn't Castiel's primary mission, his master expected something other than an assassination to come out of this trip. He wanted information. Something that would help him understand what the Winchesters were planning.
"There's no chink in the armor, Dean." There was a tiny, ruffled bit of Castiel that wanted them to stop talking. Almost. He didn't want to be compelled to tell Azazel anything about these rebels. He actually wished they would succeed, even if it was a hopeless desire. He was about to squash almost all chance of that, given a few minutes.
The bitterness gnawed at him anew. He only hoped that after this job, Azazel would dismiss him for good. There were other things in the works-bigger things-and his master would hopefully begin to overlook him, in time. Perhaps his name would not be unearthed again for centuries. Perhaps no magician would find a footprint containing the name Castiel and think to summon the demon to their side.
But it always would be unearthed, eventually, because this Resistance would fail, like so many others before it had failed. In the short term, maybe not; the rebels in England had done the job well enough, thirty short years ago. The magicians always rose again, though, cropping up like a determined patch of weeds...
"Force is our only option," Sam continued. Castiel balanced between wall and ceiling, waiting. "We know enough, we could-"
Dean slammed his fist down on the table, hard enough to knock over his coffee. It spilled, and neither brother took notice. Both Sam and Castiel flinched at the impact. "We're not stooping to their level," Dean snapped. "That's that, Sammy. I'm not Dad. I can't." His voice cracked. "I won't."
"I could," Sam suggested, too casually to be truly casual. "It'd be safer for me, anyway."
Dean laughed. It was a starved, exhausted sound. Castiel flipped through the planes and studied Dean's aura, the stifled brightness of it. It was all muffled by that ugly human pain. Underneath, though, it was a nice aura. For a human.
"It's never safe," Dean shot back. "They've been enslaved for centuries, Sam. For millennia. Our lifetimes are a blink to them. Do you think they'll really be taken in by this? They won't believe for a second that you're actually offering them a way out."
Sam's mouth popped open a bit, eyebrows scrunching upwards. "But I am," he protested. "I don't want them in this world any more than they want to be here-"
"I know," Dean said, a little gentler. "But why should they believe you? Why should they believe us? We'd have to use the magic that binds them in order to summon and talk to them at all, and that's not exactly a gesture of good faith. It's slavery, plain and simple."
"You're too black and white," Sam said mulishly, but the heat of his argument had subsided. "It's the only way to talk to them."
Castiel considered rubbing a leg into his tiny spider ears, just to check that he wasn't mishearing things, but no, they were really talking about this. About an alliance with spirits. One that put them on equal footing, rather than enslaving them. How quaint.
"You heard what happened in London," Sam continued quietly. "Same as me. It worked for John Mandrake."
"It was a shot in the dark, Sam. And Mandrake's been missing ever since, and so's the spirit that helped him, and you know what missing means. You really think any of the rest of 'em are willing to go on a suicide mission for the good of the people?"
"But it would be in the best interest of spirits, too," Sam said, frowning.
"They don't have bonds like we do. Magicians ruined that for them."
In the form he was currently manifesting, Castiel couldn't actually frown, but the sentiment was there. For being commoners, the Winchesters seemed to know an awful lot about magic and spirits. Of course, they were bound to have picked up some bits and pieces while the Resistance had actually given their allegiance to American magicians, but that was years ago, well before their time-and the Mandrake affair had been strongly classified.
Perhaps it had something to do with that manila folder loosely grasped in Dean's hand. If Castiel could get closer...
He banished the cobweb he'd been trailing behind him and instead started to spin a faint strand of web, anchoring it to the ceiling. He was only two feet behind Dean; if he lowered himself far enough, he would be able to make out some of the fine print.
"You should clean in here more often," Sam remarked as Castiel carefully worked his way into midair and swung silently forward. He could make out some of the Latin-basic summoning rituals, neatly typed into printer paper-but he strongly suspected some level of encryption at work.
"Yeah, okay, Mom," Dean shot back.
Castiel should have been prepared for what came next, but they were the type of men who changed tack in conversation at lightning speed, for no apparent reason; he could not have imagined that this, too, was a code, the cue for Dean to turn, a fine silver net already grasped in his fist. The djinni saw the net too late to flinch back from it, and the silver burned hard into his essence. He had been in the world too long; had he been stronger, he might have put up a fight.
As it stood, he blacked out as soon as the net made contact.
*
"For a demon, the thing's not bad-looking."
"The term is spirit, Dean."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered. "Call it what it is."
Sam glared at him, full of righteous indignation, but Dean ignored him, examining the demon-fine, spirit-they'd caught in his room barely an hour before. It wasn't a surprise-to Dean, at least. The thing had been tailing him for a while, biding its time. Watching his patterns. He'd only caught glimpses, but they'd been enough. Azazel wasn't screwing around anymore. This wasn't an imp or a foliot-too complex. It had long since lost its spider guise, but underneath the puddle of slime it was now, Dean saw its true form, cramped up and flinching away from its prison.
"Aren't they usually..." Sam hesitated, staring at the slime. "I mean, usually you say they're ugly."
"Fugly is the term, and yeah, they usually are. All tentacles and bulges. He's still got a form on the seventh plane. Looks sort of polished."
Sam was already digging a small notebook out of his back pocket, full of eagerness. "What's it look like?"
"Cut it out," Dean instructed sharply, moving forward to adjust the netting. It clung to a large cage, constructed of iron bars. A platform inside gave the spirit enough space to avoid the damaging elements, but only barely. Dean could just as soon give the cage a good push and send it howling right into the pain.
"Think it's an afrit, maybe?"
Dean snorted. "No. See how easy it went down? It's not that strong. Probably a djinni."
Sam mouth tightened, a worried line that had Dean rolling his eyes. "Azazel's getting serious."
"Yeah. Still, should've sent a better sample than that." The spirit was starting to stir; Dean raised his voice. "Gets knocked out by one silver net, that's not a thing that can take me down."
Dean saw it move. Abrupt and sudden, it reared skyward within its prison, which wasn't nearly big enough for it; its essence quailed, avoiding the walls with its many masked faces, but the form within materialized into something on the lower planes.
A man. He wore an overlarge, tan trench coat with a threadbare, plain suit beneath. The white shirt was too big for him, the blue tie rumpled and off-center. He cocked his head to the side, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. He considered Dean with a gaze that was both very, very blue and very, very alien. Dean stood his ground.
"That was embarrassing," the spirit admitted, almost rueful. "It happens to the best of us. I'm surprised you haven't killed me yet."
"Information first," Dean said casually. "As much as we can get, anyway."
The spirit went on staring at him. It hadn't blinked at all. "Then you know that I am, in all likelihood, bound by my master not to reveal anything to you, should I be captured." His eyes narrowed, only minutely, as though scrutinizing Dean, who didn't enjoy the feeling.
"We know there are loopholes," Sam piped up.
The man's lip curled up at one corner. The half-smile was predatory; Dean stood his ground with some effort.
"Are there, boy?" he asked, cool as you please, and Sam flushed. Dean started to smirk, but quickly scowled instead. He admired the thing for making Sam squirm, but it was still the enemy, technically speaking. "And why would I sing for you?"
"No love lost between you and the magicians," Dean said clinically. "You're a slave to them."
The spirit's attention turned back to Dean. "Yes," it said cryptically. "That is the term."
"We're your best bet," Dean said. "Being the Resistance, and all."
"You are not the only Resistance," the spirit said idly, "and Azazel is not the only magician."
"So it is Azazel, then," Sam interrupted, frowning now.
The man in the trench coat didn't stop looking at Dean. "Yes," he intoned, obviously bored. "It's no secret that he wants you both dead, but this mission was for Dean alone."
"Sam isn't a target?" Dean asked. He hoped that his face didn't show how his heart had picked up speed.
"I didn't say that. It was not, however, on my to-do list."
The brothers exchanged a glance.
"This is nothing you don't already know," the spirit pointed out.
"Then tell us something we don't," Dean suggested, taking a step closer to the cage.
The spirit tilted its head to the side again. "Ask, and perhaps you shall receive. Though it would be preferable for you to release me after your interrogation, rather than attempt to kill me."
"It wouldn't be an attempt, buddy."
"Easy," Sam warned. "We can make a deal."
Dean snorted. "Yeah? And what's going to keep him upholding his end of the bargain? The instant we let him out, he'll kill us. He's got a prime directive."
Sam looked on the verge of throwing up his hands. The spirit's eyes narrowed. "A crude summary," he said. "But accurate."
"Look," Dean said, half to Sam, but looking at the spirit. "You've got your orders."
"Yes."
"And you can't violate them."
"It's not within my power, no."
"You'll have to stay here, then."
The spirit eyed its prison. "I'll be dead in a fortnight. I might not be touching it, but the silver's proximity still does me no favors, and I am already weak. Azazel has kept me in his employ for too long."
"We could dismiss you," Sam volunteered. The faces on the seventh plane curled back in disbelief; Dean offered up a tiny shrug. "We know the words."
"Only my master can give the Dismissal," the spirit returned. Sam looked crestfallen. "It would be easier for you to kill me." It settled within its cage, sitting cross-legged on the platform, the great tan trench coat spread around it.
"Let's not get hasty." Dean stepped back. "You think of anything useful, give us a shout. I'm sure we'll hear you."
He felt the blue gaze on the back of his neck as he made for the door. There was something eerily familiar about those masked faces.
Forward to 3. Negotiations.