DCBB Fic: Bird of Paradise (Part IV)

[trinityofone]

Dean’s sleep was fitful, his dreams horrific: he held Jo in his arms and watched as she exploded into nothing, leaving his body an empty circle, leaving him empty. He saw his mother nailed to the windmill, blood staining her white dress red; he saw Sam ripped from his arms and torn to shreds by an enemy Dean couldn’t see, let alone fight. He woke up and found Jimmy gone, found himself alone, abandoned-everyone he knew or loved dead, let down.

“Dean. Dean.” He heard Jimmy’s voice, and he followed it out of the dark. The other boy’s arms were wrapped around him: “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why?” Dean asked. It seemed stupid for Jimmy to be apologizing: he was still here, Dean wasn’t alone.

“Because…” Jimmy said. “Because it’s fucked.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, taking a rough breath. “But we knew that already.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Not nearly so well.”

“Well,” said Dean, squeezing his hand, “at least now…” And suddenly he was grinning, wide and manic. “Now we’ve got nothing left to lose.”

He pulled himself onto his knees. His shoulder protested the motion, but Dean figured he’d live-long enough, anyway. “Hang on, I gotta piss,” he said. He slithered out from between the bushes. “Start thinking of a plan,” he called back.

“A plan for what?”

“A plan to kick those assholes’ asses!” Dean declared with relish.

He missed Jimmy’s response, too busy scrambling over to a nearby tree. He was surprised to have anything to release, but release he did, resting his head against the rough bark. He pressed his forehead into the grooves, and tried for a moment not to think at all.

His mind and his gaze were wandering when the latter came up harshly against a sprawled pair of legs. Dean straightened up, hand moving to the knife at his belt even before he’d finished tucking himself away. Keeping as much tree-cover as he could between himself the possible trap, he crept closer.

A body lay propped up against one of the trees. A girl, her long dark hair tumbling past her shoulders. It was Pamela, Dean realized. He’d forgotten all about Pamela: that she existed, that she might still be alive. Dean remembered Jo saying, “I hope she’s all right,” and felt twin stabs of guilt.

Then Dean took another step closer, and felt a totally different feeling blast through him.

Pamela’s eyes were missing. Now that he was more directly in front of her, he could see a pair of dark pits at the center of her face. They seemed to stare at Dean, more provocatively than Pamela’s warm brown eyes ever could. He could hide nothing from those empty holes, rimmed with dried blood. They knew him.

Dean was already shaky, backing away; when the body suddenly moved, head turning on the neck, his heart nearly stopped.

“Who’s there?” Pamela croaked. “I can hear you breathing! I can hear you!”

She was still alive. Dean didn’t have anything in him, but he wanted to throw up. How was it that she was still alive?

“Kill me, then!” Pamela went on; her voice had an edge to it even as it shook. “Go on-if you’re brave enough!”

It was a bold speech, but it seemed to take a lot out of her: Dean watched her slump back against the tree trunk, like a puppet with cut strings. He took a rough breath, bracing himself, then stepped forward.

“Pamela,” Dean whispered. “It’s me!” he added when she tensed. “Dean. From District 12?”

Her head rolled to face him, and Dean suppressed a shiver. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised.

Pamela snorted. “Like it matters.”

“What happened?” Dean couldn’t help but ask. “Was it…was it Alastair and his guys?”

Pamela shook her head. “I don’t know what it was. I was doing fine, hiding, staying one step ahead of everybody-” Her lips twitched a little, and Dean remembered that she was a psychic-special, just not special enough. “Then these-” She coughed, harsh and sudden, and Dean saw red on her lips. “-These things, they…they came down. They were so bright. And when they spoke… I think they were speaking, because there was another voice, a human voice-” She coughed again. “It hurt so bad. I- I can still feel it.”

Dean didn’t know what to make of any of this. It sounded sort of like one of Zachariah’s traps, but stranger than any of the ones they’d encountered so far. Not that that mattered, now; there was nothing he could do for Pamela.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She took a shaky breath; it was clearly hard for her, and Dean was amazed to think she had held on this long. “Never really thought I’d be the one,” she said softly. “Even if I made it to the end, I couldn’t see myself taking care of that final person.” Her shoulders shook. “But what about you, Dean? You think maybe you can do it?”

The black holes of her eyes stared up at him. Dean struggled to find something to say, to push the air out of his lungs. But in the end it didn’t matter. By the time Jimmy came to find him, Pamela was already gone.

Dean felt Jimmy’s presence at his back, felt the stiff shape of his shock. Without turning, he reached back and threaded their fingers together. They moved off through the woods in silence.

They were being quiet: not talking, not planning like they probably should. It was a sign of how tired and shaken Dean was that he did not pick up on the danger before it was too late, but he didn’t. Jimmy did, however, at the last second pushing in front of Dean so that it was his body that Ava yanked off its feet, his leg that her spiked chain wrapped around and tore.

Jimmy went down, Ava on top of him. Dean barely thought before he joined them, flinging himself on Ava’s back, wrenching her off Jimmy by her swollen and infected hand. She turned to snarl at him and Dean drove his knife in; he felt it bumping and scraping, pushing up under her ribs. Blood bubbled past her lips. As she looked at him, something in her expression seemed to shift, but before Dean could make any sense of what he was seeing, she was dead.

Dean pushed her away, dropping to his knees at Jimmy’s side.

Jimmy’s breathing was shallow, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Jimmy! Come on, man!” Dean slid bloody fingers to the other boy’s wrist, felt the pounding pulse. He looked down at Jimmy’s wounded leg, which still had the chain wound around it like a snake. Through the torn uniform pants, it looked like a pulpy mess.

“You’re going to be okay,” Dean promised, swallowing thickly.

“It hurts,” Jimmy said. He sounded surprised. “It hurts.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Dean bit his lip and tried not to cry. How did this keep happening? Why did people keep throwing themselves at death to try to save him? He wasn’t worth it. He just wasn’t worth it.

“Just hold tight, okay?” Dean whispered. He glanced around the forest nervously; he’d never actually seen Alastair leave the town square, but he couldn’t help imagining that the other tribute could be anywhere. “I’m gonna…I gotta try to unwrap this, okay?”

Jimmy nodded, swallowing, panting hard. Carefully, Dean started working his fingers under the chain, peeling it back. The barbs were wickedly sharp, and they stuck to Jimmy’s skin like thorns. Dean pulled and unwound, pulled and unwound, wincing as he listened to Jimmy’s sharp breaths, the pained little moans that he unwillingly gave up.

When they were finally free of the chain, Dean flung it away. The wounded leg continued to ooze into the dirt. Dean though for a moment, then ripped off his shirt. He’d be freezing if he had to wait out another night, but Dean seriously doubted that’d ever be an issue.

The shirt was damp with sweat and with blood, and Alastair had put some tears in it already. Helpful guy, Dean thought, ripping the fabric into strips. He bound Jimmy’s leg to the best of his ability, which was unfortunately not much of an endorsement. But when he slowly and painfully inched Jimmy to his feet, Jimmy could stand on it, sort of. Leaning on Dean, he could kind of walk.

“Dean,” Jimmy whispered, close. “You can leave me here. I will be fine, I promise you.”

“I’m sick of that kind of promise,” Dean said. He tightened his grip on Jimmy’s back. “We’re seeing this through to the end together, remember?”

“I remember.”

“Good.”

Slowly, incredibly slowly, they crept on toward the small circle of buildings where they knew Alastair waited. Dean had no idea what they would do when they got there.

Sneaking to the top of the ridge and peering down, Dean still didn’t know. The square, which just a few days ago had consisted of pure brown dirt-and a massive pile of weaponry-now looked like something out of a nightmare. Blood had soaked into the earth, dyeing it dark. The weapons pile had been scattered, and amongst these instruments of destruction lay their varied victims, the corpses bloated and rotting, the smell so bad the Dean could catch it even from a distance, even beneath his and Jimmy’s ingrown filth. The smoking remains of a bonfire sat next to where the cache had once proudly risen, the charred shapes rising out of it not really something that Dean wanted to examine too closely. Nor did he want to get close to the boy who was perched atop his own pile of weaponry, refuse, and assorted body parts. But Dean would have to, because he had to figure out a way to kill him.

“Any ideas?” Dean whispered.

Jimmy’s eyes were closed. When Dean spoke, his eyelashes fluttered, then blinked open, flashing wide blue irises. “Smite him,” Jimmy suggested.

“Smite him?” said Dean. In other circumstances, he would have laughed.

“He deserves to be smote.” Then Jimmy did laugh. “‘Smote,’” he quoted.

Dean would be furious if he wasn’t so sick with worry. Jimmy was clearly loopy from the pain; and clearly, he’d be useless in a fight. Dean would have to take Alastair down himself. Which would be kind of tricky, considering Alastair had a big pile of weapons, and all Dean had was this-

“Nice knife,” a syrupy voice chirped. “Mind if I take it?”

The question was kind of moot: the little blond pigtailed girl who Dean had been next to in the starting circle had already somehow lifted it out of Dean’s belt, was smiling up at him with a grin that matched the knife blade. Dean felt his stomach drop: he’d forgotten about her. He’d messed up his count. He’d messed up completely.

“I’m glad you’re here,” the girl said, lightly teasing the knife up Jimmy’s sagging side. “I ran out of things to play with and I’ve been so bored.”

Casual as you please, she herded them down the incline.

Alastair perked up as they approached, his long body unfolding. He stretched out his arms toward them in a welcoming gesture, then began to sing.

“In Eden’s fair city, where girls are so pretty,
That’s where I first met sweet Molly Malone.
She wheeled her wheelbarrow
Through streets that are narrow
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive-o!

“You do bring me the most delicious things, sweet Molly,” Alastair crooned, sidling up to Dean and Jimmy with something long and sharp.

The girl preened, bobbing her knees in a mockery of a curtsey.

As she rose, Jimmy spun, grabbing her arm and jamming the knife in her hand into her own chest.

It happened so quickly that Dean barely saw it. He did hear Alastair howl, and saw him lash out at Jimmy, swiping him aside with the point of his spear. Jimmy crumpled like a pile of rags, and Dean saw Alastair swooping down to finish him off. Easy decision: Dean threw himself onto Alastair’s back, worked his arm around the other tribute’s throat. The move would have been more impressive if it hadn’t caused them both to overbalance; Dean’s back hit the ground and Alastair fell on top of him, jarring loose Dean’s grip. They scuffled in the dirt, and for a few seconds, it almost looked like a friendly fight between boys-just a bit of wrestling, like Dean and his friend Victor used to do. But then Alastair slammed his elbow back viciously into Dean’s eye, and the memory slid away.

Alastair had him pinned now. Dean could only sort of see him, a blurry dark shape above him, pulling back a fist. The blows landed and Dean felt pain until he could barely feel it anymore. He dug his fingers into the dirt and tried to crawl away.

Alastair let him. He let Dean drag himself, bloody and near sightless, across the ground. Occasionally he’d launch a kick at Dean’s ribs, or stomp down on Dean’s fingers. He was humming to himself, something tuneless and crazed.

Dean touched the side of a building, the worn wood splintering beneath his torn fingers. He rolled onto his back, pushing himself along with his heels until Alastair kicked his knee in.

Sam, Dean thought. Don’t look. I was wrong about telling you to always do what the Capitol says. They can’t make you look. They can’t make this the last you see of me.

Groaning, Dean rolled back over onto his stomach, as if this way he could hide his face from Sam and the world. His fingers scrambled over the scuffed earth, across a ghostly pattern of boot prints. Dean blinked sluggish lashes, realizing he’d been here before.

Alastair seized the back of Dean’s neck, hauling him up like a kitten he was fixing to drown. “Smile,” he instructed through red-stained teeth. “Give those folks back home a grin.”

“Let me see yours first,” Dean spat, and slashed his buried axe blade across Alastair’s throat.

The wound gaped wide; Dean felt the blood sting his cheeks. Then Alastair fell, and Dean fell with him. The impact took the last of the air from his lungs; Dean knew he would not be getting up again.

So much for Paradise, Dean thought. It had never seemed real to him, anyway. He lay there, crumpled at the site of his first and last kills, and wondered vaguely what the Capitol would do without a victor. Joke’s on you, he thought, smug for a second, although maybe… Maybe, he realized, Jimmy could still make it. Dean liked that thought significantly better. Jimmy had Jo’s pin, and he could take it with him, reunite it with the rest of the birds in Paradise…

He was drifting somewhere warm with that warm thought when someone shook him hard by the arm and all the pain came rushing back. Trembling, Dean blinked up with his one good eye: Jimmy was standing over him, an expression of poorly-concealed torment stretched tight across his features.

“Hey,” Dean slurred, “you made it. Tha’s good.”

“Dean…”

He said Dean’s name like he was asking a question, some sort of big question that Dean didn’t really get. Though maybe he could guess.

“It’s okay,” Dean said. “I’m glad it’s you. Pamela’s right, I couldn’t… But you can do it, you can help me. C’mere.”

He dipped his head, a small motion that ached more than Dean thought was possible. But it didn’t matter; it would all be over soon. He watched as the blurry Jimmy-shape knelt down beside him. Jimmy really looked like he might be okay. Dean was glad.

Slowly, carefully, he groped for Jimmy’s hand, then pressed the bloody axe blade into it. “There,” he murmured. “Go ahead. I’m ready.”

His vision was flickering in and out, but Dean saw Jimmy bow his head. He looked like he was praying, which was funny, because Jimmy was the only person Dean had ever met who didn’t at least make a show of prayer.

“Do it,” Dean whispered, tasting the blood bitter in his mouth. He slipped two of his fingers past the slick blade and curled them around Jimmy’s, squeezing tightly before forcing himself to let go. “Jimmy, please-”

Finally, he saw what looked like a flash of acceptance in the other boy’s eyes. Jimmy leaned forward, reached out, and Dean braced himself. He’d trusted Jimmy throughout the Games, and he trusted him now, at the end of it. He closed his one good eye and offered himself up to his ally’s last embrace.

When the cool fingers brushed against his forehead, Dean thought of his mother.

Then all at once he was bent over at the waist, fighting sickness. The pain was especially intense because it was the only discomfort Dean felt. Then it passed, and he straightened up, body tense. His body-he could feel it, all of it; he wasn’t injured. Both of his eyes were open, staring out at an expanse of swaying grass: a beautiful green field, clean and bright, completely foreign to him. The air smelled fresh and sweet, like they had somehow arrived at a place where no one had ever died.

Jimmy was standing in front of him: he, too, entirely without injury. Dean gaped at him. “What-?” he began, before realizing he couldn’t even figure out how to proceed with the rest of the question.

“Dean,” Jimmy said, and something in his tone terrified Dean. “I am so very sorry.”

A breeze wafted over them, soft and warm. “I don’t understand,” Dean said. And then, stupidly, “Is this Paradise?”

“No,” said Jimmy, his eyes dropping, hooded. “There is no such thing. At least, not as you’ve been told. The promise of Paradise is but one of many lies associated with the Games.”

Dean’s heart was pounding, the sick feeling back again, but different now. “What are you talking about?”

“They’re rigged,” Jimmy said. “The Games are designed to keep humanity in line, but even the promise of a human victor is a falsehood. No human has ever won the Games.”

Dean took this in, too shocked to speak. He stared at Jimmy, and his fellow tribute seemed to crumple under the weight of that simple look.

“It’s considered a great honor among us,” Jimmy said, “to be given the task of participating in the Games. But it was not an honor I sought”-this statement spoken with vehemence, as if it would make all the difference to Dean, as if Dean had any clue what was going on, what he was being told. “For me it was a punishment, disguised as an honor-one last chance to prove my loyalty. Your assessment of Zachariah was entirely correct: he possesses a singularly twisted sense of humor.”

“Zachariah,” Dean said. His mind was skittering all over the place, not entirely over the shock of having been near death mere moments before, of being here now, listening to this. He flashed back to Zachariah’s appearance at the banquet, looking at him in his crisp black suit and knowing… Dean looked at Jimmy now, still wearing his regulation outfit from the Games. Jimmy. He knew Jimmy. He trusted Jimmy. And yet-

“What are you?” Dean demanded, voice cracking.

Jimmy raised his head. He still looked the same: messy dark hair, bright blue eyes, long, strong fingers that Dean had held, that Dean had put his faith, put his life and his death in. But it was all a lie.

“I’m an angel,” Jimmy said, and Dean nearly wept.

“My name is Castiel,” the thing continued. “Dean, I’m so sorry.”

Dean hit him. He’d had a lot of practice at fighting recently, and it was a good punch, firm and fast to the angel’s jaw. Dean was pretty sure that there were stone walls more forgiving. The angel simply stared at him while he clutched his hand to his chest, biting his lip to keep from crying out and giving it the satisfaction.

“So it really was just a game to you,” Dean said finally, in a low, even voice. “I know what kind of power you guys have. You could have stepped in and stopped it any time. You could have,” he stumbled slightly, “you could have saved Jo, but you didn’t. This whole time, you were just playing with us.”

“I wasn’t.” The thing was trying to find Dean’s eyes, to hold his gaze, but Dean kept his head down, refused to allow it. “I don’t know how to make you believe me, but it’s true: from the moment I was set down in the arena, my powers were limited. Zachariah saw to it personally, I believe-I did not cooperate as he would have liked, so he punished me. After I healed you from Alastair’s attack, he cut off that ability and several more. I was only restored when…”

Dean caught the slight shifting of the angel’s body. “When it was time to kill me, you mean,” Dean spat. “So why didn’t you? You didn’t even need to take the blade yourself, if you were too chickenshit; you could have just left me there to die!”

“Because you were right,” the angel said, and his voice still sounded exactly like the one that whispered in Dean’s ear, that kept him going. “It’s fucked. And I can’t stand by and watch anymore. I prayed, Dean, that last night: I prayed to my Father to intercede, to stop what His first sons were doing in His name. But only my brothers responded. They set down in that arena and they laughed.”

Was it trying to win Dean’s sympathy? Dean stared at it, stony-faced, and he thought he was doing pretty well until it stepped closer, reached out a hand. Dean flinched back.

“Don’t touch me. You don’t get to touch me. Those aren’t even your hands.”

Its eyes conveyed almost infinite sadness-but a sort of excitement, too, and that was what Dean couldn’t trust. “I wasn’t given a choice. But we have one now. We can run away-I can help you hide, Dean; we can disappear. We don’t have to be part of their games ever again.”

Dean felt his lip curl. He was shaking, hysterics wracking his body. “Imagining that for even one instant I would ever go anywhere with you, let me ask you this. While we’re hiding out forever in a cave somewhere, just what do you think Zachariah and the others will be doing to keep busy? You just poofed us out of the arena in front of all of New Eden! Do you really think they’re going to let us get away with that? And assuming that you’re not totally delusional and they can’t find us, who do you think they’ll go after instead?” Dean’s panic finally boiled over; his arms flailed out, entirely without his control. “Who do you think they’re probably rounding up right now? My brother! My brother, Castiel, who I did all of this for in the first place! I was supposed to die, not him, and now thanks to you, I’ve gotten him killed!”

The regret on the angel’s face seemed genuine, but then, the emotions it displayed in the arena had seemed real, too. Dean couldn’t believe he had almost- He turned away from the angel in disgust. His mind was filled with images of Sam: Sam being dragged from their house by Capitol guards, Sam being spirited away by Zachariah, Sam being dumped into the arena…

He was pacing, agonizing over these imaginings, when a hand touched his shoulder. Dean felt too worn out to shrug it away. “I’m sorry,” the angel said again. “I know it’s probably too late. All I’m trying to do is find a way to make it right.”

“Well, try harder!”

To Dean’s surprise, it nodded. “I can feel my brothers approaching. I’ll hold them here for you, Dean.” Its hand moved up the slope of Dean’s shoulder, touched his neck briefly, then fell away. “Find your brother. Find your brother and run.”

Dean opened his mouth to demand, Run where? but the angel cut him off. “The true nature of the Games is not the only thing about which you’ve been misled. There is more to the world than New Eden.”

This piece of information hit him like an earthquake; so much so that it took Dean a moment to realize that the sudden shaking of the ground was not entirely within his own mind. “They’re coming,” Castiel announced, over the sudden din. “I’ll hold them off, I’ll hold them all off…”

His mouth stayed open after these words were out; he looked like he wanted to say more. But he remained silent as he reached out, fingertips to Dean’s forehead, and that was the last image Dean had of him-sad and solemn and resigned.

Then-

He landed on hard-packed dirt, stumbling. The low, rough buildings were achingly familiar to Dean: after everything, he was back in his own District, a place he had thought he was never going to see again. The buildings in front of him all had their shutters drawn tight; it was night, and a heavy curfew was clearly in place. But, Dean realized happily, he knew just where he was: all he had to do was turn around, and there would be Ellen’s bakery…

The pile of rubble was still smoldering; the haphazard assemblage of brick and beams looked hot to the touch. Nevertheless Dean surged forward, ready and willing to dig, to throw himself on the smoking remains until he found someone or they buried him. Only the sudden sweeping flash of one of the District guard’s lights killed this impulse. Breathing hard, Dean faded back into the shadows between two buildings. Sam. Sam had to still be alive-he had to. If Dean let himself get caught doing something stupid, he would never find him.

Doing his best to keep his panic in check, Dean slunk through the streets until he reached Bobby’s workshop. The shop itself was tightly shut, but Dean crept around back and stealthily as he could, climbed the staircase to Bobby’s living quarters. He listened at the door, but couldn’t make out a sound. It’s a trap, it’s a trap, it’s a trap, part of his brain insisted-but if he waited out here forever, he’d never find out anything, and he’d certainly never find Sam. Crouching low, bracing himself to flee or attack, he rapped his knuckles on the door in the pattern his mother had taught him, that Dean had never given much thought to until now.

After a few tense seconds-that seemed to stretch on for hours-Dean heard the bolt draw back, and a familiar face peered around the edge of the door. Rufus did not look pleased to see him. His stare was icy as he stepped back just far enough for Dean to inch inside. “Come see,” was all he said, reaching behind Dean to rebolt the door.

Heart like a ball of lead, Dean followed the pale glow of a candle throwing its shadows against the dull wood. The candle was set by Bobby’s bedside. He was lying, hastily propped, sweat beading across his brow. Dean swallowed hard: he looked bad off, like Dean’s mom had near the end, but he opened his eyes and fixed Dean with a stare when he approached. “Boy, you don’t do things by half, do you?”

Dean opened his mouth. Eventually, he managed to make the word “Sam” come out.

Bobby swallowed hard. “Took him. We tried to stop ’em, me and Ellen…” When he trailed off after saying Ellen’s name, Dean knew exactly what that meant.

Bobby coughed, and Dean saw him forcing himself to go on. “How’d you do it? You and that skinny Capitol tribute. They’re saying he killed you and then they whisked him off to Paradise, but anybody with half a brain knows that’s not what they saw.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dean said. “I couldn’t manage anything. Couldn’t protect Jo or Sam. Couldn’t even manage to die-”

Bobby beckoned him closer, and Dean didn’t hesitate to obey. He earned a slap upside the head for his trouble. Dean took it without flinching, and ignored Rufus’ snort.

Dean did flinch, though, when Bobby’s hand moved shakily back to Dean’s forehead, brushing back Dean’s hair and then resting his palm there, like he was a priest offering Dean benediction. “You’re a fool, and your mama was a fool. But you’re some of the best dang fools I’ve had the occasionally dubious pleasure of knowing.”

Dean wasn’t really sure what to say to that. The smell of copper was stinging his nostrils; with a start he realized what the dark spreading stains on Bobby’s sheets were.

“You know what you gotta do now, don’t you boy?” Bobby rasped.

Dean shook his head; the simple motion felt like fighting through quicksand, he was so close to paralyzed with fear and shame.

“You need to finish what you started.”

The confusion of the arena hadn’t left him; Dean felt baffled. “What did I start?”

“More than you know.” The look Bobby shot him almost seemed like it might have a smile hidden in it somewhere. Then he turned to Rufus.

“You think one of your contacts can help get him out of here?”

Dean cut Rufus off before he could respond. “I’m not going anywhere without Sam.”

The two older men exchanged a look. “Your brother’s gone,” Rufus said finally, harshly.

“No.” Dean shook his head again, and this time it was easier-he felt almost calm. “They’re only using him to get to me. They want me to try to find him.”

“So you’re going to play right into their hands?” Rufus was scowling again.

“It doesn’t matter.” Dean raised his chin. He was as tall as Rufus now; he had been for a while, even if he never really noticed it. “I’m going to find my brother, and I’m going to tell that bastard Zachariah that I’m sick of playing his games. That we all are.”

Rufus turned away, clearly disappointed. But Bobby was definitely managing something like a shaky grin. He gave Dean’s arm a sharp squeeze, then let go.

“I only wish I could see the little weasel’s face.”

Dean sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ll tell you all about it,” he lied.



Armed with a fresh shirt and Rufus’ begrudgingly-shared info that the Guard had dragged Sam off in the direction of the shuttle docks, Dean slipped back down the stairs and out onto the street. The patrolling Guards seemed closer than they had before-Dean could hear two of them, their boot treads and a few whispers; they sounded like they were right around the corner. Fortunately, Dean had spent his whole life sneaking around the District’s side streets and back alleys; it took only a few careful turns before the sounds receded and the District began again to seem as quiet and deserted as the abandoned village in the arena.

The arena - Jo - Jimmy - Dean forced himself to stop; he couldn’t let his brain go there. Sam, Sam-he had to stay focused on Sam. Sam he could still save. He wouldn’t betray his brother the way others had betrayed him.

He had nearly reached the docks when he heard noises again, approaching footsteps. Quickly, he ducked around the side of a building, slipped down a short flight of stairs, and broke on soft, silent feet for a nearby alleyway. He was almost at its entrance when a beam of light swept across his body. Dean froze, pressing himself to the wall, praying-to whom?-that the light would continue on, would not lap back. But it did. Dean’s heart in his throat, he turned and stared into the brightness, at the dark outline of a man in a neatly pressed Guard uniform.

For a moment, the guard didn’t move. Dean began thinking frantically of ways he might be able to overpower him, despite the sophisticated Capitol weapons the Guard carried. He was about to just go for it, fling himself at the other man, when the guard spoke.

“Nothing over here,” he called to his partner, looking straight at Dean. Dean was still too blinded to see much, but he recognized the voice.

“Let’s try to the East,” Victor continued. And he may have smiled at Dean. But then the beam of light swept away, and Dean’s old friend vanished with it.

Shaking but determined, Dean crept the rest of the way to the docks.

The administrative building was silent and empty, its hallways dark. Moving on instinct, Dean made his way to the holding rooms where he and Jo had been kept prior to their departure for the Capitol. No helpful shafts of light crept out from any of the doors. The first few rooms he checked were empty, but opening the thin wooden door of one yielded the eerie image of a dark, hunched shape at its far corner. Holding his breath, Dean slipped inside.

“Sam,” he whispered.

When all the lights came on and Zachariah appeared behind the chair from which Sam was shaking and straining to rise, Dean couldn’t say that he was really surprised. He may have even rolled his eyes a little.

“So nice of you to join us,” Zachariah boomed, projecting like he was performing to a packed theater instead of a nearly empty room. “I always do appreciate prompt replies to my invitations.”

Dean decided to ignore him. “Sammy, are you okay?”

Sam’s eyes were wide as saucers; he was clearly trying his hardest not to wince away from Zachariah’s hand on his shoulder. He managed a nod, though, and a fervently whispered recitation of Dean’s name.

Dean saw the hand on Sam’s shoulder slowly start to squeeze. “And isn’t this a heartwarming family reunion?” Zachariah said. “I can’t say I expected it-I didn’t really expect our Dean here to last the first day, but this honestly does present us with a unique opportunity. Sam and Dean Winchester-aww, heck. Let’s bring the whole gang back together.”

Dean’s eyes were already on Sam’s, so he saw the revelation pass across his brother’s features even as it registered with him. Zachariah took in the panic on their faces and laughed. Dean stared helplessly back, feeling as frozen as if his blood had turned to ice.

“You really think we didn’t know?” Zachariah crowed. He shook his head, unbelieving. “It amused us to no end, watching your mother dash around, risking her life and the lives of others just to change some insignificant records. You know, if she’d wanted to get herself labeled a whore so badly, there were easier ways to do it.”

“Shut up,” Dean snapped. “You don’t know anything about our mother.”

Zachariah shook his head and tisked. “I know everything about you, Dean. And in another lifetime, a different universe, I might have even cared. But you’re pointless here, Dean. Just like your brother. Two useless expulsions of sperm, good enough for living and believing and dying. And not much else.”

The angel dropped Sam’s shoulder and stepped closer, staring down at Dean with a pitying expression on his face. “Your mother destroyed her life for nothing, Dean. We don’t give a rodent’s bottom about you or your brother. You’re redundant.”

Dean forced himself to breathe. “Well, then let us go. If we’re so meaningless to you. What threat could we be?”

“Oh,” said Zachariah, “none. None at all! But you frustrate me, Dean. You waste my time. You and my errant sibling.” At this the angel’s lip curled in disgust. Then he waggled his finger. “The two of you accomplished nothing, you understand, with that little stunt. But it’s irritating to have to go in and correct a superbly simple system that has run perfectly year after year. My Games, you see, are an art form-designed to evoke the ideal combination of fear and rapt belief. Now that message is confused. I’m not fond of confusion, Dean. And I’m afraid I just can’t let something like that slide.”

The look of false regret on Zachariah’s face made Dean want to risk the pain and try to punch it off anyway, but before he could, the angel stepped back. He glanced up toward the ceiling, then shot Dean a sideways grin. “Just what would Daddy say?” he teased.

Even as Dean’s stomach churned with impotent anger, the room around him began to shake. Bright light seared Dean’s eyes. He winced, but pushed himself forward anyway, taking advantage of Zachariah’s moment of rapturous distraction to rush to Sam’s side. He pulled Sam up and his brother leaned against him, shakily, as they braced for whatever was coming.

Then the light dispersed, and Dean found himself face to face with his father.

“Dad?” The word slipped out before Dean could stop it, before his more rational, cynical brain could process everything that he was seeing. Like the fact that his father was holding a bloody, bruised Jimmy-no, Castiel, Dean remembered-in one hand like a little girl might carry a doll with which she had become bored. As Dean stared, his father let Castiel go, and he dropped like a stone to the pristine carpet laid out across the floor.

Then Dean’s father spoke-but he did not address Dean. His gaze slid past Dean and Sam as if they weren’t even there.

“I’m not pleased with how this has been handled, Zachariah.”

To Dean’s shock, Zachariah bowed his head, repentant. “Your servant apologizes for his error.”

“I have very little interest in apologies,” said the thing with John Winchester’s mouth, with John Winchester’s face. “They do not alter anything.”

“Oh, I agree!” simpered Zachariah. “Which is why I’m going to take care of this right now-”

“No.” A foot-a foot wearing boots Dean recognized, that he could remember his father tugging on that last morning-inched lazily forward, nudging Castiel in the ribs. Dean saw him wince, try not to cry out, and he remembered Jimmy whispering, It hurts-shocked, like it was the first pain he had ever felt.

“You allowed this one’s open rebellion to continue far too long; he will have to be dealt with publicly.”

Zachariah nodded again; this time some of his pleasure even looked genuine. “Yes, Michael.” The Gamemaster shrugged his shoulder in the direction of Dean and Sam. “What about these two?”

Dean felt his father’s familiar brown eyes slide over him, impassive. “Obliterate them.”

Dean felt Sam’s hand clutch his shirt, his nose press against Dean’s side. Dean stroked his hair and held him, because there was nothing else for him to do.

Then something in the archangel’s expression changed, his held tilting to the side as he regarded his vessel’s sons. “No,” said Michael, and for one stupid second Dean felt hope. “Keep one. In case I ever need a spare.”

Zachariah moved toward them, grinning. Dean wracked his mind for anything, for some sort of plan, for something to say to make sure the angel chose to save Sam and not him. But before he could manage a word, a rough croak forced its way up from the floor.

“This is not what our Father would have wanted,” Castiel said. “I may not be able to stop you, but He-”

“He left us in charge of a vile, disgusting heap, full of corrupt creatures like you,” Michael said dully. “And we remade the world.”

He knelt down at Castiel’s side, reaching out with a hand whose soft touch made Castiel swallow a scream and recoil. “It saddens me that it has to be this way,” Michael murmured, as Castiel’s body spasmed and jerked beneath his hands. “But you know as well as I do, Castiel, that we can’t allow anyone to threaten what we’ve built here. Heaven on Earth...”

“You call this Heaven?” The words tore out of Dean-but that was good, that was fine: anything that made him more obvious, more obnoxious than Sam. “A bunch of starving slaves, living in fear? That’s Heaven? That’s Paradise?”

Michael didn’t pause, didn’t for one second lift his fingers from where they were touching Castiel, pressing into him, bloodlessly penetrating skin and meat and bone. Dean heard Castiel finally break and cry out, and he had to fight the urge to go to him, to protect Castiel from his enemy the way he had protected Jimmy in the arena.

Not that he would be any use against Michael. Dean’s father’s face looked almost serene at the sound of Castiel’s tense screams. “No one said it was your Paradise,” Michael told Dean, calmly. “You animals had your turn.”

“Nobody liked what you did with the place,” said Zachariah, looking as full as himself as a tick about to burst. Dean tried to tell himself that he wasn’t afraid of him, glaring straight at his fat, smug face, but then the angel moved faster than Dean could process, snatching Sam by the arm, tugging him away from the relative protection of Dean’s body.

“Time to throw the small fish back,” Zachariah said, and Dean twitched, confusion mixing with terror. “I’m sorry, is my metaphor unclear? I’m going to kill your brother, Dean.”

Some sort of noise erupted out of him, blending with Castiel’s strained cries.

“You’re not seriously surprised?” said Zachariah with a scoff. “You’re a irritating pustule of a person, Dean, but you have a famous face, and it occurs to me that’s something we might be able to use to our advantage. What do you think, Boss: why don’t you shed Daddy’s skin and hop inside big brother here? It’s been a while since we’ve done a proper victory tour. It would be nice for all the Districts to hear first-hand the touching story of how the power of prayer gave devout Dean Campbell from little District 12 the fortitude to do what was necessary in the arena...”

Dean’s eyes kept flicking between Zachariah and Sam as he tried to think of some way to lunge for his brother. “They’ll never believe that. You already told them that Castiel won.”

Zachariah laughed. “You fool. They’ll believe whatever we tell them.” He nodded at Michael, who had finally let a limp and wrecked Castiel go and was now rising slowly to his feet. “Whatever you’ll tell them, Dean.”

“No,” Dean said, forcing himself to stand his ground, to not back away. “I know how this works. I have to say yes.”

Michael stepped over Castiel’s crumpled body and smiled at Dean-an almost fond, paternal smile. “You’ll say yes,” he said calmly. “They all say yes.”

“Oh, Mikey-so presumptuous,” interjected a new voice. “You could at least take him to dinner first.”

Dean had no time to react. One second he was staring down Michael; the next he felt a woman’s warm arms wrap around his body. Then a tug-

“Since you can’t play nicely with your toys, we’re going to borrow them,” he heard someone say, and then the room melted and twisted and he was somewhere else.

“Sam!” was the first thing he gasped when he came back to himself. But Sam was there, he was here with Dean, and the alarmingly beautiful woman who stepped out from between them fixed them with a look of vaguely tolerant pity.

“Do not think yourselves so large that I could not easily transport you both.”

“Dean,” Sam breathed. “What’s going on?”

A short, spritely looking man appeared in front of them, supporting a slumping Castiel with one arm thrown casually over his shoulder. “You’ve just been rescued, kid,” the stranger said. “A brilliantly executed deus ex machina, if I do say so myself.”

The woman’s smile looked somehow dangerous. “And you never fail to.”

The man pouted. “Kali, don’t be a tease. Congratulate me.”

She glared.

The man amended, “Us.”

She slunk forward, flashing teeth that reminded Dean of polished knives. The man stepped far-too-eagerly into her arms, letting Castiel slump to the ground in the process. Or he would have, had Dean not moved without thought and caught him.

He still felt the same in Dean’s arms, wiry and solid, if at the moment feverishly hot. As Dean shifted his grip on Castiel’s shoulders, his eyes flickered open. Something softened on his face when he saw Dean.

“Do you forgive me?”

Dean thought of Jo, of Ellen, of Bobby’s blood staining his blankets; he thought of Sam, still alive, and Castiel himself, crumpled and writhing on the floor.

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess.”

Castiel made a sound that was something like a snort. “You better’ve.”

“Excuse me?” Sam’s voice sounded surprisingly assertive. “Where are we?”

This was a good question, Dean thought, taking in this strange building’s rich sandstone walls for the first time. They were standing in a courtyard scattered with vibrant green trees the likes of which Dean had never seen, the sun warm and bright above their heads. The air smelled spicy and alive, nothing like the cloud of wet decay that hovered over New Eden.

Then Sam asked an even better one. “And who are you?”

The woman looked at him with dark, glittering eyes. “My name is Kali, child. You should hear it and be afraid.”

Dean didn’t like the sound of that. But the man standing next to her laughed. “She means that in a nice way. Mostly.” He grinned, and for the first time Dean saw that there was something unnerving in his smile, too. “You can call me Loki.” Then he looked at Castiel and added, almost hesitant, “Or Gabriel.”

Castiel’s expression remained blank. Loki-or-Gabriel sighed. “You don’t remember me, brother?”

Castiel tried to straighten his shoulders and stand tall-an effect somewhat ruined by the fact that if Dean were to let go of him, he would probably fall over. “I am no brother to pagans.” The other man twitched. “That is what you are, is it not? False gods?”

“Charming,” said Kali. Beside her, Loki let out a long breath. “Yeah. Well. You can keep singing that lovely little tune that Zach and Mike taught you, or you can listen to what we have to say.”

Castiel’s expression remained sharp, even as he trembled in Dean’s arms. “Why should we?”

“Uh, besides the fact that we rescued you, angelcakes?” Castiel bristled. “Because we’re at war, and thanks to you two and your Emmy-winning Games performance, we’re offering all three of you the unique opportunity to come over to the proper side.”

Dean said, “Huh?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Loki, unapologetic. “Alternate universe humor.”

Dean found this explanation unhelpful.

“Wait,” said Sam. “You said you were at war. You mean...you’re at war against New Eden?”

Pieces of information clicked together in Dean’s mind-all the soldiers in District 2, the manufacturing that occurred in Dean’s own District 12. He’d never even questioned it, what all of that could be for. All his life he’d been led to believe that there was nothing outside of New Eden. So what could New Eden possibly need an army, need weapons for?

He was such an idiot. They were all such blind, passive idiots.

“Most of the world and its religions were surprisingly unenamoured at the thought of bowing down before the Christian god and his angels,” said Kali.

“My father did not do this,” said Castiel, quietly.

“No, but he let it happen.” Loki’s twinkling eyes looked suddenly sharp.

Sam seemed oblivious to this exchange, chattering excitedly. “So there’s more to the world? More gods?”

“More than you’ve ever dreamed, kid.” Between the sharpness and another burst of merriment, Dean thought he detected a flash of tiredness. “Want to meet them?”

Loki and Kali exchanged a look as Loki steered Sam toward a wide wooden door. Dean wanted to rush after them-so recently reunited with Sam, Dean didn’t want for a moment to let him out of his sight. And yet he knew with a sick certainty that he was at the mercy of his rescuers as much as he’d been helpless before Zachariah and Michael.

“I still don’t understand what you want with us,” Dean told Kali, once the wooden door had clicked closed. “Me and Sam, I mean. Castiel’s got some pretty sweet angel powers.”

Kali regarded them coolly. “Perhaps,” she said, and Dean tried not to flinch when he felt Castiel stiffen. “Nevertheless, it is you and Castiel we want.”

“Why?” said Castiel.

“Because you openly defied the angels of New Eden. No matter what lies their leaders may now spread, hundreds of thousands of people saw you both prove that your Capitol is not impervious, that it is not omnipotent. You have shaken people’s belief in the angels’ power.” She raised an eyebrow. “And that weakens them, more than you know.”

“So you rescued us so you can use us,” Dean accused.

“Yes,” said Kali, calmly. “Of course.”

“I have not thrown off one yoke just to assume another,” Castiel said tightly. Pressed up against him, Dean could feel the extent to which he was struggling, just to keep himself together.

Kali smiled. Then before Dean could react, she had darted forward and seized Castiel by the chin. Her fingertips burned bright red, and even Dean, who was not directly touching her, could feel the heat.

Then just as swiftly, she let Castiel go. His eyes were wide and clear, his body clean of blood or bruising. Dean knew this was his cue to step back and let him go, but he didn’t.

“I think you’ll find this one much more comfortable, little cousin,” Kali said. Then in a blaze of light, she was gone.

Dean and Castiel were left alone in the center of the courtyard, beneath the bright blue sky-just the two of them, supporting each other in silence.



Epilogue

Alastair loomed over Dean, tapping a bloody hammer against his hand. He had Sam snagged by the hair and was dragging him over the rough ground, singing as he pulled Sam away from Dean and toward the windmill, and Dean couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t raise his broken body to-

-meet the warm hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake. Dean started and gasped, then tucked his head with a sigh into Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel rubbed his back, and when he felt strong again, sane again, Dean nodded his head. Castiel eased his grip, and they separated slightly, just slightly-inching down the pillows until they were lying together again, side by side.

“Sorry I woke you,” Dean said.

“It’s all right. I was awake anyway.” He winced a little, and Dean could see his wiry legs twisting beneath the blankets.

Under normal circumstances, Dean would never, ever laugh at Cas’ pain, but- “Growing pains? Again?”

“Shut up,” Castiel panted, “it’s...surprisingly uncomfortable.”

“I’d’ve thought you’d be happy,” Dean said, rubbing Castiel’s side, half-teasing, half-soothing. “You just might catch me yet.” They-or at least their bodies-were twenty or so now, but Castiel had only recently started aging-and therefore growing. Dean figured that he’d continue to love Castiel no matter what, but he was sick of Ala glaring at him like she thought he was a pervert and of Zeus shooting him little approving winks.

“I must admit, my feelings on the subject are somewhat mixed,” Castiel said tightly, and Dean felt his stomach twist. Dean had lost many of the people he loved, had abandoned his home and had irrevocably altered everything he knew to be true. But he wasn’t in the process of switching species as well as sides, and he hadn’t betrayed his family to fight for something he wasn’t entirely sure he believed in. That Cas had done all that-done much of it for Dean-was often more than he could rationally process.

Much easier just to promise, “I can make you feel better,” sliding down the bed and taking one of Castiel’s slim, strong ankles between his hands. He kneaded gently, then with more vigor when Castiel let out an achy little moan. Dean was just pushing up toward more exciting territory when Sam burst into the room.

Dean realized that they’d grown up in a one-room house, in an environment where no one would attempt even an unsensual massage on someone to whom they were not married. But Sam was sixteen now, and he had his little girlfriend and the encouragement of a half-dozen fertility goddesses, and he really ought to know better. “For fuck sake, Sammy, knock!”

Sam flushed scarlet and turned with awkwardly slumped shoulders back toward the door. “Sorry! Loki just wanted me to ask you if you wanted to do a flyby with Isis and Mercury.”

Dean shot Castiel an apologetic look from between his legs. “Can’t someone else do it? Kali’s got me and Cas making ‘appearances’ for the rest of the week.” Just the thought made Dean want to sink back into the bed, onto Cas, and never move again.

It was weird, watching Sam’s head bob from the back. “I’ll ask him. Sorry again. Bye.”

Dean saw him poised to race off again. “Sam, wait,” he said, surprising himself-and no doubt annoying Cas.

Sam paused, then turned half around, curiously. His body had become stretched and lanky these past few years, the victim of growing pains that far exceeded Castiel’s. But his face, though young-younger than Dean had been when he’d spoken for Sam-looked ancient in its unflinching seriousness.

“You’re not Mercury or Isis,” Dean said finally. “Maybe slow down for a few minutes today, do something for yourself? Priya was asking after you again the other day...”

Sam shook his head, emitting the tiniest little sigh. “This is important, Dean,” he said. “I don’t have time to-” For a moment there was something harsh and judgmental in Sam’s gaze as he looked at Dean and Cas and their unmade bed. Then he turned and raced off again, the door slamming shut behind him.

Dean sagged against Castiel as if he’d been the one hammered into his frame. The sound of Sam’s retreating footsteps were still audible, echoing down the long, cool corridors of the fortress. It was quiet where they were, on a lower, central level, safely ensconced, but Dean never lost his awareness of everything going on around them, the buzz of men and gods making plans, making war.

When the sound finally faded, Dean let out a breath and mumbled a sorry against Cas’ warm thigh. Castiel’s fingers massaged Dean’s scalp for a moment. Then, “Come here,” Castiel instructed, and Dean crawled unsexily back up the bed, curling weary at Cas’ side.

“It won’t always be like this,” Castiel whispered.

“I know,” Dean lied. “It’s just...I thought we’d have made more progress by now. I thought this would be the year we’d finally be able to get back into 12, see if-”

He cut himself off. Instead of looking up when Castiel murmured, “We will get there,” Dean kept his head down and ran his fingers over the silver circle surrounding the wings of the bird of paradise, which Castiel now wore on a chain around his neck. As usual, the metal felt warm from its contact with Cas’ skin. Jo and Ellen had warmed it once, Dean thought, but now they, like so much of what they’d lost and left behind, were long cold.

“Do you really believe that?” Dean asked.

“This world we live in was built on belief,” said Castiel. “Gods and nations exist because enough people believe in them. As did I, once.”

Now the people Dean and Castiel dropped down on like bombs and spoke to all across New Eden believed that they were simply two human tributes who had defied the rules of the Games and risen up in the face of the angels’ immeasurable power. Even if Michael and Zachariah hadn’t had the ability to cut off the source of Castiel’s abilities, Dean knew he and Cas both suspected that the more people Castiel convinced he was human, the more it became true.

“Given the chance to believe more than simply what I am told,” Castiel continued, “I would choose to believe in this.”

He wrapped his fingers around Dean’s, folding their hands over the jagged metal wings. Dean could feel the sharp points where the wingtips eclipsed the circle, where they broke free.

“Someday,” Castiel whispered, and Dean echoed him, the rhythm of liturgical repetition springing easily from his lips.

“Someday.”



Part III / Masterpost / Art Post + Soundtrack