Deals Aren't Made To Be Upheld, Part 2
He wakes up feeling rejuvenated. Hell, that’s an understatement compared to what he feels right now. He feels… new, alive, and reborn, as weird and New-Age-y as that might sound. It feels like he was in a deep, dark tank, suffocating and in constant coldness, and someone just pulled him up and this is his breaths of fresh air after so long in the tank, the warmth of the sun on his skin, and he’s on a bed. It feels like hiking in a forest after being stuck in Los Angeles, like the cool spring air after a sauna, like seeing the sun after an Alaskan winter, the stars at night in a forest, like the warm, comforting feeling of a bed after sleeping on rocks. Like being home after a month-long vacation to somewhere you don’t really like.
It feels amazing, yet horribly sad. Like you’re going to laugh and cry and spin around in circles and apparently wax poetic in his head about it, making thousands of similes and the last part would probably look like a tampon commercial, all pretty girl spinning and frolicking in a meadow wearing a white dress.
Dean groans, and it doesn’t hurt. He opens his eyes, and the light doesn’t pierce his eyes, doesn’t attempt to try and burn it out of his skull. Takes a deep breath, and it doesn’t feel like there’s an elephant on his chest.
Again: wonderful.
There’s a girl in front of him - she’s wearing her superhero costume, but Dean can see that she has bright, long red hair and kind green eyes and he decides he likes her already.
Her costume is a deep blue, made of some material he can’t figure out (not that he was that good at figuring out materials in the first place), and it sets off her hair and her pale, creamy skin. It hugs her figure, starts from her shoulders all the way down to her ankles. Obviously, it’s a one piece. She’s pretty skinny, and there are little white wings sprouting behind her. Some kind of accessory for the outfit. Dean guesses this is the infamous Risen.
Dean’s gaze only settles on her for a few seconds before it wanders off in a quest to find Sammy and Castiel. It only has to move for a bit before Sam’s shaggy brown hair and concerned hazel eyes move into view. Beside him is Castiel, his dark brown hair in disarray and his big blue orbs shining with worry. His tie is askew and his tan trench-coat is falling off his shoulders.
“Hey Cas,” he rasps, “how are you?”
Castiel blinks, “I think you should be more worried about yourself.”
Dean grins, pushes himself up with his elbows. “I’m fine.”
He stands up, bouncing on his heels. Everything feels springy and loose, and there’s no pain anywhere.
“You’re fine?” Sam asks cautiously.
“Completely,” Dean spreads his arms, turns around to show his flawless body. Sam rolls his eyes; Cas smiles lightly.
Dean’s eyes settle on the redhead, and he smiles with everything he’s got. “You’re Risen, aren’t you?” he asks.
The girl nods, and Dean looks down to see what he’s wearing.
It’s his superhero outfit - deep, dark black leather pants, so thick that it can double as armor, and his black shirt. No jacket, though, which makes sense. His amulet is, as always, still resting on his chest. Dean fingers it lightly, looking at Cas.
“Sorry,” he tells Cas, “I -”
“It’s okay,” Sam interrupts. He smiles sheepishly. “I slipped before.”
Dean frowns at Risen, then at Sam, “Does she know…”
“About the deal?” Sam grimaces. “Yeah.”
“We assured her that we would not let her be taken hostage by Crowley.” Castiel says gravely.
“I know Crowley - he’s not going to be happy about being double-crossed.” Risen warns.
“Screw that,” Dean snorts, “We’re not letting that smarmy bastard get to us. Or to you,” he adds, nodding towards Risen.
She doesn’t exactly look reassured, but Dean figures that he wouldn’t feel reassured of his safety by a dude that was just dying … how long ago?
“How long was I out?”
“Just over an hour,” Sam says. He looks slightly uncomfortable.
“We need to go,” Castiel says suddenly. “Crowley’s looking for us. I can feel his minions.”
He reaches towards Sam and Dean with two fingers outstretched and touches their foreheads.
There’s a small flash of light, and Dean suddenly finds himself in a dusty, abandoned parking lot behind a ramshackle motel.
There’s one small, rusty clunker with bits of orange paint falling off to the dandelion infested concrete. He buckles forwards, but stays on his feet.
“My baby,” Dean says immediately, “Get her.”
There’s a heavy clunk, and the Impala appears out of thin air. Dean nods, satisfied.
Sam sighs. “I’ll sign in.”
They get two separate rooms.
***
“I was very worried,” Castiel confides.
“You shouldn’t have,” Dean mutters, almost halfway to the land of dreams.
“You were dying.”
“I’m fine now,” Dean turns over, placing a hand on Castiel’s chest, feeling his steady heartbeat under his palm. He gazes steadily at his partner’s intensely blue eyes, “I’m not dead. I’m fine.”
“I know,” Castiel takes a deep breath, “But I didn’t know back then.”
“I’m fine now,” Dean repeats. “That’s all that matters.”
He snuggles into his lover’s embrace and crosses the veil to the land of dreams.
***
“You had a good night’s sleep?” a whispery voice breathes into Dean’s ear. He shivers a chill rushing down his spine. This, this isn’t Cas. Dean doesn’t know what this is, who this is, and he doesn’t like it.
The person attached to the voice laughs maliciously, his breath rotten, sour and sulfuric. It makes Dean gag, but the small movement of his neck sends twinges of pain racing up and down his spine. He trails a cold finger with overlong, yellow nails down Dean’s naked body, covered only by a scant, worn-thin blanket. The nail scratch his skin, the fingers leaving a lingering coldness behind. Dean shivers.
“You missed me, Dean?” The man asks, too close to Dean. His heavy breath falls on Dean’s face, suffocating him in the toxic fumes.
“I don’t know who you are,” Dean replies, voice wavering. He clears his throat, hating the way his voice sounds. But he can’t stop it, for some reason.
“But I know who you are.” The man leans closer, lips touching Dean’s ear. His breath tickles, and Dean would try to kick the man out if he isn’t paralyzed with terror. “Though I must say, it is very disappointing that you forgot me.
”
His hand darts under Dean’s throat, forces him to stare at the man. The man has dark hair, big, yellow teeth bared in something that looks like both a smile and a snarl. He’s gaunt and translucent and looks completely unhinged. The man’s long fingernails dig into Dean’s throat, his chin, splitting the skin. Dean takes quick, sharp breaths, both from the pressure on his throat and the rapidly mounting terror building up in his gut, his chest. He had been alive for thirty years and had never been so scared, not even at four when he saw his mom burning on the ceiling of his baby brother’s nursery.
“We had such fun together.” The man says, and he grinning the grin of The Joker just before a kill.
Then he strikes, quick as a snake.
Dean snaps onto his back, breathing heavily, his heart pounding furiously in his chest. Frightened eyes dart swiftly around the motel room, taking in the rusty fridge and the dusty, rotten armoire. One that probably holds a black-and-white television that only got three channels.
He scans the drab grey walls and the wood floors, until his eyes settle on Castiel, sleeping soundly beside him. Castiel’s hair is mussed, his face peaceful and innocent, and it immediately calms Dean. Well, that and the fact he can see no danger, for now.
Dean frowns; who was that man? Why did he claim to know Dean when Dean has never seen him before in his life? Except … there was something oddly familiar about that man, something Dean can’t place no matter how hard he tries. It’s excruciatingly annoying, and Dean frowns harder, trying to remember. All he gets is a pounding headache, one that is gone as quickly as it starts.
That’s when something occurs to Dean.
His power is one of healing - it heals physical wounds, it raises the dead, so what if it heals mental wounds too? What if it erased everything from Dean’s captivity? Except that doesn’t really make sense, because all of his life was pain, so why now? It never did any erasing before.
Dean sighs: his power never made sense before. Why should it start now?
His new body feels different now. Sinister, like it’s plotting against him. It isn’t like the betrayal he felt as he was dying - more like a sneaking suspicion that it’s spying on him. Dean doesn’t like the feeling. Staring at his hands, Dean admires the flawless, baby-smooth skin. There’s none of the hard-earned calluses he gained from years and years of brutal training. His fingernails are clear and blunt, not long or yellow.
He’s used to not having scars or any remnants of old injuries - he’s not used to not having calluses, or bits and pieces of memory missing.
***
The next morning dawns bright and beautiful, with golden sunlight streaming through the dusty windows and the happy chirping of bird songs bouncing through the clear cotton-candy blue sky.
Dean doesn’t notice a bit. He’s too busy still staring at his hands. It has been seven hours, and he ought to be exhausted. Ought to be lightheaded and disorientated, except he’s not.
Risen has boosted his power up so high, Dean thinks that anything, anything at all, that would impair him in any way is being healed, whether physical or mental or emotional, except he still remembers his dream, no matter how hard he tries to forget.
His quiet contemplation (not brooding, never brooding), is interrupted by a sudden, hard rap on the door. Dean’s head flashes up, and he rises carefully from his bed. Slowly moves to the door, grips the rusty brass knob lightly, and he pulls it open with a swift yank.
Sam is standing behind, looking normal and polished. His brown hair flops over his forehead, and he still has abnormally large sideburns. Cat-like hazel eyes smile at Dean even though his lips don’t, and he looks exactly the same.
Dean doesn’t feel the same.
“Hey,” he says, “Sammy. How are you?”
Sam frowns, forehead crinkles. “I’m good. Why?”
Dean brushes it off, “no reason. Where’s Risen?”
Sam steps back to reveal the petite redhead. She’s not wearing her costume, instead an orange leather jacket, a purple shirt, and jeans tucked into boots. Dean wonders why almost every Super has leather in his or her jacket. Sure, he’s seem battle armor, spandex, normal cloth, and Batman style, but there’s a huge amount of leather. Risen smiles.
“Call me Anna.”
Dean smiles weakly back, “Hey.” He clears his throat, “Anna.”
Risen - no, Anna - grins happily and walks in. She spies Castiel, still sleeping, and quirks an eyebrow.
“Not a morning person, huh?”
“No,” Dean laughs, “He’s not. Neither am I, normally, but...” He shrugs, runs his hand gently through Cas’ hair.
Anna nods. Sam walks in after her. Dean doesn’t really know why they’re here. He feels like he should, but again, he can’t.
“So, uh,” Sam says not so helpfully, “We thought we should meet. Talk about our plans.”
Right. Plans, Crowley, double-crossing. Dean groans suddenly exhausted.
Castiel echoes the groan from the bed, slowly struggling up using his elbows. He blinks bleary blue eyes, yawns loudly. Dean’s pretty happy for the distraction, immediately sits back down on the bed and stares helplessly at Cas, not sure what to do, but preferring to simply stare at Castiel.
“Are you okay?” Sam asks, voice coated with dense concern. It feels restricting, and Dean shifts, uncomfortable.
“I’m fine, Samantha,” he says, even though he feels anything but. “Good as new. Hell, better than new.”
The younger Winchester nods, a touch of skepticism still gleaming in his eyes. However, he lets his brother get away for that little lie.
Cas is awake enough now, and he looks around suspiciously. “What is going on?”
“We’re going to discuss strategy,” Sam informs his brother’s boyfriend.
Cas nods; he understands why. Directing his gaze to Dean, he frowns, puzzled. “You’re never up before me.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean clears his throat, “New body, new life and all that. Shouldn’t you be doing something?” He asks pointedly to Castiel. When all he receives is a blank stare, Dean sighs.
“Teeth, Cas.”
Castiel nods as if he’s always known this, even though Dean knows he never thought of it until Dean reminded him. He stands up… and disappears. A second later, Dean hears water rushing out of a tap. He sighs.
“Gonna get flabby if you don’t walk, Cas,” he mutters.
“Er, well,” Sam starts awkwardly after Castiel comes back. “Well, Crowley is pissed. Obviously. So he’s...” He sighs, shakes his head. “Anna, do you know why Crowley wants… to look for you?”
Anna nods. “I boost powers, right?” She doesn’t wait for the men in the room’s response. “And he steals powers. So he wants to steal my power to boost his own.”
“How does that work?” Dean asks. “Shouldn’t that just boost the powers of everyone near him?”
Anna shrugs, “That I don’t know.”
Naturally. Because when was Lady Luck ever on the Winchester’s side? Instead, everything has to drag on for seven months before they get to the final showdown. Sometimes, Dean is sure he lives in a TV show. Then again, if his life were a TV show it would be a lot easier. And there’s a pretty big chance that he and Cas wouldn’t be together. Freaking homophobic TV producers, I swear, Dean thinks.
Sam clears his throat, jolting Dean out of his little rant. “Who does he have? With him, I mean.”
Dean blinks, “You didn’t know? Did you just… hear of his name and go?”
Sam nods sheepishly. Dean wonders just how many people his brother had to fuck to get into Stanford.
“How many people did you have to screw to get into Stanford?”
Sam flushes, “Shut up, Dean.”
“Crowley is from another planet - one that is the long enemy of mine.” Cas interrupts, his voice lower than usual. “The planet, called Gehenna-”
“Isn’t that the Jewish hell?” Sam asks, curious.
“Yes, but that planet is not. Rather, the Jewish hell is named after that planet, the name give from an early philosopher from the planet who had travelled to Earth. The planet is still, one side facing the blood-red sun and one constantly cloaked in darkness, so one part is hot, deadly hot, with no wind or water. The other side is freezing cold, with torrential winds and devastating hurricanes. Oddly, there is vegetation - but everything is black. The two sides are divided by a wall, tall as the building you call the Empire State Building, and it stretches across the planet in a circle. Ironically, that middle strip is the best place for the people to live.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Dean asks. He doesn’t care about the geography of hell.
“Let me finish,” Cas snaps. Dean raises his hand in a gesture of surrender “The hot part is named, rather unoriginally in my opinion, the South, and the cold North. In the North, the sky is a deep, matte black, and in the South a shining, bloody crimson. When it rains, it rains sulfuric acid. Obviously, the population of Gehenna is not a fan of the planet. When they found a gate that could get them out, they all rushed out. With the smaller population now, I can only guess that Crowley aims to take the Throne and become the King.”
“Why would he become the king there?” Dean wonders. Then something occurs to him. “Wait. You said someone was already the king there?”
“Yes. The second oldest son of my planet’s king. But that is another matter entirely.” Cas looks away. “Every person on the planet has a kind of power - but if Crowley is the most powerful one on the planet, then he will rule it.”
“Got to admit, that sounds tempting.” Anna remarks. Dean sighs, and then takes a deep breath.
There’s a flash of lightening, followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder rumbling through the suddenly gloomy skies. Wind picks up, howling and tearing through the heavens, ripping through trees, viciously snapping branches. It bangs and smashes at the motel, rips wood panels from the walls and shingles from the ceiling.
“What the fuck?” Dean roars, because this is not normal. Dean has seen storms just appear out of nowhere before, and that’s normally followed by pissed off assholes from Castiel’s planet, or a yellow-eyed bastard infecting babies and burning women on ceilings. None of them have exactly been good memories, either. Or it’s a tornado. But that’s not exactly good either, and normal tornado give you a warning, or at least the weather channel does.
“It’s Crowley,” Castiel yells over the smashing and ripping, “He’s found us.”
“Great,” Dean snarls sarcastically, “What now?”
There’s a small flash of bright, pure white light. A small gale of wind and a few dust motes explode in the air.
Then the ratty old motel is completely empty, with the exception the normal furniture: the beds are made, towels on the appropriate shelves, new soaps on the counters and everything placed back to its original place.
Outside, the windstorm rages on, banging against the door. It splinters open, revealing a man with dark hair and a scruffy beard. He’s wearing a pitch black suit, ironed to perfection and impeccably tailored. Behind him are two men, big as Californian Redwoods and dumb as bricks. The only difference between the two is one has black hair and one brown.
“They’re not here,” the black haired one says. His name is Hastur.
The leader, whose name is Crowley, rolls his eyes in exasperation, “No way,” he replies sarcastically, “What the bloody hell gave you that idea?”
Hastur exchanges a confused look with his fellow goon. “Um,” he says uncertainly, “There’s no one here.”
“I know there’s no one here!” Crowley explodes, “You morons! I said, find the Winchesters. What did you find? An empty motel room and no bloody Winchesters. Now how do you explain that? Huh?” He challenges.
Hastur and the other goon exchange another look, this one panicked. “Um,” the brunette one, whose name is Ligur, says “I tracked them here. They should be here.”
“And yet they’re not. Which means they’re gone. And they have the girl.”
Hastur looks puzzled. “But they were here. Ligur is the best tracker here.”
“Well apparently he’s not,” Crowley snarls. He raises a hand, places it against Ligur’s broad chest. Ligur gapes, mouth opening and closing in an impressive imitation of a fish. His dull brown eyes bulge out of their sockets, spit frothing from the mouth. Ligur’s skin turns a chalky, corpse white and a pale yellow smoke, the color of sulfur, emerges from the pale skin. Crowley grins and the pale yellow smoke enters his own body. The brunette goon seizes violently, and drops like a marionette with cut strings, dead.
“Now,” Crowley grins, “Let’s see just how good his power is.”
***
“Goddamn it!” Dean screams (although he’ll deny it to his dying day), when he finds himself in some field in the middle of nowhere.
“The fuck are we?”
“A field in Montana,” Castiel replies.
“Oh,” Dean says, deadpan, “That’s very helpful. Why are we here, Cas?”
Castiel has the decency to look ashamed. “It was the first place I could think of.” He admits. Dean feels himself melt unwillingly at the look on the little alien’s face. His boyfriend is an alien. It still feels weird to say this, even after two years.
Castiel chews his lips, and Dean stares, mesmerized, as Castiel’s white, white teeth works nervously at his plump, pink, kissable lips. He imagines those chapped lips on his, moving against his.
Sam clears his throat.
“Cas, I think we should go to Bobby’s.” He says. Castiel shakes his head.
“We can’t. Not for long. Crowley will be able to find us.”
“Where’s my baby?” Dean asks abruptly. Sam sighs, wondering vaguely why his brother is freaking obsessed with the damn car.
“I placed her in Robert Singer’s yard,” Castiel says. Dean looks offended, but lets it go.
“Guys,” Anna asks suddenly, “Do you have any idea what we’re doing? Or what Crowley’s doing?”
“Sure,” Sam says immediately, “Crowley wants your power, and we double-crossed him, so he’s probably pissed, and he’s looking for us. And we have to stop him.” He glares at Castiel, “And you know what the best way to stop him is? Go to Bobby’s and research.”
“On what? I doubt your mentor has books on Gehennian aliens.” Castiel retorts, using his stupid human expression. “And Gehennians are only killed by one thing on the Earth.”
“What is it?” Dean asks. He’s pretty pissed that the Gehennians can only be killed by one thing. Not that it’s particularly surprising. Apparently, all the villains needs a freaking magic sword to gank them.
Castiel shrugs, “I do not know. There is a legend that says there is a special dagger that will kill all aliens - that could be helpful.”
Okay, so no magic sword. Special knife, like that’s any better. Even better, special dagger that’s apparently a legend. How the hell are they supposed to chase a legend?
“How the hell are we supposed to chase a legend?” Dean inquires very, very nicely and patiently, because he’s just a nice and patient guy. “Do you even know where the legend says it is?”
Castiel shakes his head sadly. Dean huffs through pursed lips. He loves Cas, really, but sometimes he’s really not helpful.
There’s another flash of light, and this time they land smack-dab in the middle of Bobby’s living room, the wheelchair-bound man pointing a sawed-off straight at them.
***
Dean remembers the first time he met Castiel. He was confused, hair mussed and defying gravity; trench coat tattered. Dean was staring wide-eyed at the smoldering wreck of his gold and silver spaceship, twisted, burnt, and smoldering. Castiel was un-burnt, although covered in soot. His unearthly blue eyes were wide and shocked, clothes frayed and torn. He was staring at Dean intensely, like he was staring at a piece of meat he wanted to eat, or like a science experiment, or worse, both. And he didn’t look away, didn’t even blink.
“What the hell?” Dean had asked, not believing what he was seeing right before his eyes.
“It appears my ship has crashed,” Castiel had said sadly, although Dean had not known his name and had simply called him ‘Creepy Alien Dude’ in his head, and he had worn a kicked-puppy look that reminded Dean so much of his brother that he had relaxed almost involuntarily. The alien, he remembered thinking, looked like any normal human being. Not that he was used to seeing aliens - he was used to dealing to standard juiced-up villains, had only heard of aliens in legends and bedtime stories. In fact, he’s never even believed in aliens before.
“You - you’re an alien?” Dean had spluttered, and Castiel had cocked his head to the side like a curious bird.
“I am from the planet Elysium.” Castiel had declared. His head tilted a little bit more, “in your language, ‘alien’ predominantly means ‘foreigner’, or an extraterrestrial entity. As I am from a planet other than yours, I imagine I am, in fact, an ‘alien’, as you humans would call it.”
“Yeah, thanks for the observation, Sherlock.” Dean had retorted, wondering how the hell someone could take a simple ‘yes’ and stretch it to two freakishly long sentences. He squinted hard at the alien, searched for something - anything - that would differentiate him from a regular human. The only thing he could find was the color of the eyes. Well, that and the fact he found (still finds) the alien unnaturally attractive. He had (has) beautiful, blue-blue-blue eyes, one where someone could have probably determined the color from a mile away. Castiel had (has) an obvious aura of confidence and control surrounding him, and a chiseled, lean body, pink, plump, (remarkable chapped) lips. His voice was (is) gravelly, sends vibrations running through his entire body and to the more… sensitive areas.
Wait. Where were they?
Right. After, Castiel had tilted his head even more, until it was practically parallel to his shoulder. “My name is Castiel.” He had said, “I do not know anyone named Sherlock.”
Dean had guessed that aliens wouldn’t get any of the pop culture references here on Earth, but it was still pretty sad. Seriously: Sherlock Holmes was a freaking classic, not that Dean had read a book. Or watched the movie. No, that was all Sammy.
Dean, frankly, did not want to believe that aliens were, in fact, real. However, he was never the kind of man that denied what’s right in front of him, and he figured that a frigging space ship was probably the most proof one can get when faced with E.T. So he was forced to believe it.
“What is your name?” Castiel had suddenly asked, gorgeous blue eyes piecing him like a laser.
“What?” Dean had spluttered, completely taken aback at the sudden question. Thoughts had raced through his mind. Was the alien evil? Good? What if he wanted to take Dean to his freaky ship and probe him? Dean had shivered from - disgust, it was totally disgust - and shifted to another subject. Maybe, he had thought with a sudden spurt of pessimism, he wanted to take Dean’s name so he could report it back to his superiors who would then take Dean for testing and then make him their slave. And then maybe they’ll reveal his identity to the world and everyone and ruin his reputation and kill everyone he’s ever cared about.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel frowned, “Is that not the norm for you?”
Dean had bit his lip in contemplation. “Righteous Man,” he had declared after much consideration. “They call me Righteous Man.” It was a bit - okay, a lot - pretentious and arrogant and, well, douche-y, but he didn’t name himself. It was a from a newspaper - this idiot journalist saw him go all righteous fury on some idiot and resurrect himself (not in that order) and thought he was the Second Coming or something, and the name stuck.
“Ah,” Castiel had nodded, looking relieved, “You are of the Homo Eximuis subgroup.”
Dean had grinned. Sure, his favorite superhero was (and will forever be) Batman, but it was (still is) really fucking awesome that the scientific name of his little group literally meant ‘super man’ in Latin.
Castiel had looked utterly confused yet oddly happy at Dean’s grin. It is the same look he has now, as Bobby lowers his shotgun with the muttered, “Idjits,” under his breath.
Dean knows now that the yellow-eyed bastard was an alien, one that stayed on Earth for too long, and that Castiel is anything but evil. It was a long two years, but a fun one.
Okay, so not that fun.
They still call him Righteous Man, though.
“Why are you here?” Bobby asks. Bobby Singer is a gruff old man who is a genius when it comes to other Supers or aliens. He’s the Professor Xavier of the real world. He rallies the Supers together when shit hits the fan, and saves their asses more than once. Like Professor Xavier, he’s telepathic. Although he can’t read minds, thank god. He’s also in a wheelchair, something that was completely Dean’s fault.
“Do you know anything about the planet Gehenna?” Sam asks eagerly, and behind him Anna stands, looking lost and uncomfortable. Dean feels for the girl - he knows how awkward it must feel, to be stuck in the middle of a kind of family reunion.
“Ain’t that the Jewish hell?” Bobby frowns. However, he wheels over to his desk, on it a pile of old, dusty books.
“It’s a planet,” Castiel corrects. He doesn’t exactly understand why Robert Singer would ask if Gehenna is the Jewish hell if Sam called it a planet. It makes no sense.
Bobby sighs, staring at his pile of books with doubt. “I’ll try,” he says apprehensively.
“Good,” Castiel nods, completely calm and in control. “With Crowley after us, we should constantly move. No directing attention towards us.”
“Woah,” Dean exclaims, a horrible thought striking him, “Woah, no. No way. We are not running like cowards and leaving innocent people to die. Or, or, get robbed, or traumatized and hurt or injured or maimed or tortured-” Dean shudders involuntarily, even though he can’t remember his own torture, “We are not leaving the civilians alone, without protection.” Determination is present with every word, and Dean says it very firmly.
Sam sighs, like Jesus Dean we’ve been doing this since the start of time why can’t you just let it go already? Apparently, Dean is extremely vexing when he’s going on about saving innocent people. Really, it’s just some civilians - who cares about them?
“Dean,” he says, “Crowley probably wants to kill us. Dead superheroes help no one. Plus,” he adds as an afterthought, “We can tell Trickster, Vixen, and Huntress. Hell, even Doctor Badass.” Sam grimaces at having to hear those two words in his voice, escaping his throat.
“Do you really trust Trickster? Or Vixen?” Dean demands of his brother, “Doctor Badass is more of a researcher, and Huntress is way too young. Her mother will flay us alive and then roast us slowly in an oven.”
Castiel places his warm hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean calms without even thinking of it. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes.
“I’m not saying she’s not scary,” Sam says pleadingly, “But she’s good. Really good. We can trust her.”
Dean rolls her eyes, “I don’t care, Sam. It’s my job. It’s my job, it’s what Dad raised us to be, and damn it, I will not leave people alone because I’m running away from some asshole like a gambling addict running from a loan shark!”
Castiel once again cuts in before an argument could erupt between the brothers. “How about a compromise? We go somewhere, ward ourselves against them, and still protect the city.”
“We protect Lawrence, you know that,” Dean says stubbornly, even though he already knows now that he’s going to agree. It’s Castiel, and he’s always going to agree.
“Then we’ll go to Lawrence,” Castiel agrees, smiling that curious little half-smile of his. And Dean can’t help but smile back, because as disgustingly cheesy as it might sound, Castiel does and always will be on his side. It feels amazing.
Sam sighs overdramatically, blows on a stray strand of hair, purses his lips and rolls his narrowed eyes. Dean calls it Epic Bitchface of Doom. It fits. It fits incredibly well, in fact.
Epic Bitchface of Doom as it may be, Sam still lets his brother do it his way. Dean’s not exactly sure why, because in all of the year’s he’s known Sam, his annoying little brother has never let anything go exactly his way. Not that easily, at least. He wonders if it had to do with his recent near-death experience.
“I’ll take first watch,” Sam volunteers grudgingly. Dean grins. Beside him, Castiel is getting ready for another transport, looking vaguely constipated (but last time Dean said that he ended up in the doghouse, so he’s not saying it again), and Sam looks pissed and prissy, hair waving around like it thinks it’s in a fucking shampoo commercial. Bobby is reading, a heavy, dusty volume, and Anna is…
“Hey,” Dean asks. “Where’s Risen?”
They all look around, scanning the room, the couches, the beds, and the kitchen. Castiel poofs out to check the bedrooms, and Sam knocks on bathroom doors. Dean searches the living room, looks everywhere. Somehow, Risen just isn’t here.
After much pleading and puppy dog eyes from Sam and Castiel, Dean finally succumbs to the fucking eyes and they stay for one more day, just to find Anna. Dean’s not particularly pleased with how it’s going to turn out - he still thinks that one day away from Lawrence is one day where the civilians are helpless, even though he knows that the other superheroes in his group are amazing and are perfectly capable of handling themselves.
Castiel places his hand on Dean’s back, rubbing it in a slow circle. Dean sinks into it, leaning against his boyfriend’s hand. He’s pretty sure he purrs.
Then, they go to their bedroom.
There’s a hand stroking him from head to toe, leaving cool tingles and sweet agony. Dean twists, arches his back so the hand can get to more spaces. The hand strays away, paints a flower and various patterns and styles on his naked skin. Dean shivers, gasping faintly. Another hand joins the first on, running down the curve of Dean’s spine, resting to lightly cup his buttocks. The other hand his still moving, searching. He moans as arousal sweeps his body, groans out a name.
“Cas…”
The hands stills, and Dean whimpers with need.
The voice whispers, with a horrifyingly familiar whispery voice, “I’m not Castiel, little Dean-o.” A hand, a glacial, slimy hand caresses his face, rotten fingers with bits and pieces of flesh falling off push Dean’s head towards the ceiling. The fingers squish against his high cheekbones, and Dean’s immediately aware of a pungent, rancid smell, like burning human flesh and rotting meat.
It’s the same man as the night before; only the eyes are blue as ice and covered with a misty sheen. A big part of his cheek is missing skin, revealing shiny red muscles and sinew. Blue veins run underneath, and parts of the flesh are black and brown, crawling with maggots, while other are a pale translucent white. His lips are swollen, peeling and far too dry. When they part, a cotton-white maggot slithers out of the gap, twisting and fighting to get free. It falls to the ground, shivering. His tongue is black, a floppy piece of useless flesh, and yet he can still talk clearly.
Dean’s scared to look down, but he’s never been able to control his eyes, nor his dreams, and so he looks.
What he sees is horrifying.
There are entire strips of flesh missing from his arms - dull brown bones visible beneath. His nails are no longer long and yellow, instead broken and black. They look like charred wood. Fingers are a dark, purplish color and swollen, so much Dean’s not exactly sure how the man can even move it. The stomach is the worst, though. There’s a large laceration on the bottom of his abdomen, and raw, pink guts are protruding out. Maggots are slowly eating through the intestines, leaving holes filled with a brownish-green… substance, and it’s slowly sliding out onto his hips. His intestines are slowly falling to the ground, unraveling in his stomach and descending down to the tile floor, hitting it with a wet, meaty plop.
The man grins, pulling back dry lips to show mismatched yellow and brown teeth. His lips are split from his grin, clotted blackish blood stuck, and his gums are bright red and filled with boils and blisters. As he watches, the decaying lump of flesh and nerves that is supposed to be the tongue pokes at a boil relentlessly, until it explodes in a mixture of brown blood and white pus. The creature - it’s not a man anymore, can’t be a man - sucks at it, drinking it down and smacking his lips.
Acid rushes up Dean’s throat, fills his mouth with the faint taste of decomposed pancakes and cheeseburgers, a bottle of beer and, of course, the always welcomed frickin stomach acid. There are chunks of something there, something that sticks to his teeth and his gums and the top of his mouth.
“Who are you?” Dean finally forces the words out after several minutes of trying to control his gag reflex. He gulps down the bile, closes his eyes so he won’t have to see the sight in front of him. He wishes that he could somehow block his sense of smell too, just so he wouldn’t have to smell the corpse.
“I have many names,” the creature says, grinning. “But you,” he forces his head down, and his breath smells rancid, like guts and shit and vomit and blood, “You may call me Alastair.”
Alastair. There’s something familiar about the name, something that sends bloodcurdling terror racing through him and phantom pain, excruciating pain, appear at what seems to be everywhere in his body, and some places he’s never known existed. The pain is gone as fast as it appeared, Dean is insanely glad that it’s gone.
Alastair pulls a rusty scalpel from the hole in his gut, shakes some stubborn maggots from the blade, and shows it to Dean proudly.
“Remember this, Dean?” Alastair grins maniacally. “This is the first thing I used on you, when you first came. You were so … innocent then, or so it seemed. Oh, sure, you were a firecracker, but I never knew your power … your beautiful, glorious, exquisite power. Yess…” he draws out the ‘S’ like a snake. “You are certainly my favorite.”He chuckles, “And so much time to play … before your brother murdered me.”
What? Dean shivers at the words. He doesn’t remember any of it… except he kind of does. He remembers pain and laugher and spikes, so many spikes, and hope and light. Remembers taunts and hurts and tears and no, no please no, and rape and murder and blood. Except it’s all in blurs, little pictures instead of the real thing, and for the most part Dean’s grateful for that. Another part, a self-punishing, masochistic part, wants to know every gory, traumatizing, detail.
“I don’t remember,” Dean chokes out defiantly. He coughs, because suddenly, he’s got blood building up in his lungs and his throat. The blood is salty and metallic, and Dean licks at a droplet unconsciously.
“Too bad,” Alastair sings, but he doesn’t look sorry. If anything, he looks happy, excited, and eager. “Guess I’ll have to do this again, then.”
And he plunges the knife into Dean’s flesh, and it’s rusty and it must have been dipped in acid or hellfire or something, because first it tears, then it burns. It burns like fire and lava and being on the surface of the sun, and Dean screams and screams and screams until his voice is hoarse and his throat is raw.
He wakes up with a scream, panting and gasping for the air, which is miraculously sweet and cool. It smells like old book and some kind of flower. Castiel’s scent. Dean takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself down. One. Deep breath. Two. Three.
Deep breath.
The next thing he knows, there’s an arm behind his back, holding him tight. It’s Castiel’s, and he’s hugging Dean, murmuring reassurances and promises, promises that he’ll be safe. Dean buries his head in Castiel’s shoulder, thinks of all the times Castiel bust him out, all those times Cas had saved his life and his brother’s life, and the sex and friendship and all the moments good and bad, and it’s nothing, nothing like Alastair. It’s the exact opposite - it’s trust and love and warmth and sweetness and safety and being whole.
Dean looks up and stares deeply, intensely, into Castiel’s warm blue eyes, so different from Alastair’s. “I love you,” he proclaims solemnly.
“I know,” Castiel sounds confused, “I love you too.” He stares worriedly at Dean, “Is something wrong?”
Dean smiles wanly, thinking of all the things that are currently very, very wrong. He needs to know one thing first, though. And it might just be a nightmare, but Dean very much doubts it. However, he’s never heard of anything or anyone making contact after being dead. It seems ludicrous, like something out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or a like show.
“Who’s Alastair?”
Castiel’s eyes dim. “Why?” He’s curious, albeit confused. Dean guesses it’s because he and Alastair has some history between them, something that’s not easy to forget. Also, Dean guesses that the history they share is what his power wiped away during the epic power boost.
“Just wondering,” Dean shrugs nonchalantly, and it’s the wrong thing to say. Castiel’s eyes narrow and he stares searchingly at Dean, who fidgets uncomfortably under the intense gaze. Castiel frowns, apparently in deep thought.
“Do you remember your captivity at all?” Castiel finally inquires, and Dean bristles without even thinking of it. Of course he remembers it! He remembers blood and pain and blood and terror and anger, an all-consuming fury that roared up his veins and clouded his mind and broke the tight hold of pain and fear. On the other hand, maybe that won’t be a good thing to say.
“A bit,” Dean shrugs, “Just little flashes. Who is Alastair?”
However, Castiel frowns, this time in confusion. Dean remembers suddenly that if he doesn’t remember a bit of his time being someone’s personal punching bag/pincushion/crash test dummy/new experiment for Hell’s new type of Picasso-style art, then technically he shouldn’t be able to remember Alastair, let alone his name. Dean hates it when his lies have big-ass plot holes in them.
“Cas, please.” Dean pleads, pulls out his own version of Sammy and Cas’ puppy dog eyes, and like always, Castiel succumbs.
“Alastair is the man who tortured you,” Castiel says in a rush, something he would have never done two years ago. Dean feels a fleeting sense of pride for a good job done. Then Castiel speaks again, “He was very angry when we rescued you. In fact, angry wasn’t the right word for it. He was more… distraught. We - your brother and I - brought him to the base, and your brother killed him.”
Killed him. Alastair was dead. Dean feels loss stab him in the stomach, wonders if his guts are going to roll out like Alastair’s last night. Then, he wonders why he’s feeling so sad that the person that singlehandedly made his life hell had died. If anything, he should be jumping up and down and popping the champagne.
“How do know of Alastair, if you remember nothing of your captivity?” Castiel asks the thing Dean wants him to say the least. Dean sighs, debates between telling the truth and lying his sweet ass off. For one, telling the truth will make Cas tell Sam, and that will incite those pitying looks Sam is so fond of. But then again, lying will keep the dreams from going on and on and on, whereas the truth will set him free - quite literally, if they try hard enough. Hell, maybe it’s just memories of his time with Alastair breaking through. It shouldn’t be a big deal. In all twenty or so years that Dean have officially been in this business, and in the extra six years when he heard and saw but didn’t participate, he has never heard of anything like this. There hasn’t been anything even remotely like people communicating beyond the veil of death.
Just as Dean is about to dismiss it and lie again, Castiel frowns even harder (any harder and his face will be frozen in the position), and says, “Dean, I do not care if you are hallucinating unicorns. Tell me. Please.”
Dean wishes that he is hallucinating unicorns. It would make everything so much brighter and happier.
“Alastair is… I’m dreaming of him. And I thought he might be dead because I was dreaming of him and he was-” rotten, sick, decomposing, crawling with pests and parasites with various organs falling out- “Decaying. And he told me that Sam killed him. He was talking about how he missed me and how.” Dean stops. Starts again, voice cracking, “How we had such fun together.”
Castiel’s eyes flare blue fire, and he glowers down at Dean, hands gripping Dean’s wrist so hard it hurts. Growls, “Dean, I will never, ever, allow something like this happen to you ever again. Ever. You never did anything bad with Alastair, and I will find out how he is invading your mind.”
“Maybe it’s just normal nightmares?” Dean suggests as a last hope kind of thing. Hell, you never know. Maybe it is simply nightmares - it would make a lot more sense.
But Castiel shakes his head firmly, “Dean, how would you know that Alastair was killed by Sam if you did not even know of his name?”
Good point. Dean hadn’t thought of that. He bites his lips, unsure of what to do next. It’s just one more thing on the list. Find Anna, get the magic dagger, get Crowley, make sure nothing bad happens along the way, protect civilians, and now find out how Alastair is invading Dean’s mind beyond the grave. Dean doesn’t even know where to start.
But apparently Castiel does, because he says, “We’ll start in the morning. While you were asleep, I have gained a lead on the dagger, and we will see what happens with Crowley and Risen.”
It isn’t enough, not nearly enough, but Dean’s suddenly exhausted. He struggles to keep his eyes open and focused, and Castiel’s face swims above him. His vision greys at the edges, and the next thing he knows, he’s sleeping.
***
There are dark trees flashing all around her, the sky flashing blue lightning. The ground is spongy and it bounces off her running shoes, and her breaths come in dehydrated, exhausted pants. She’s careful not to leave footprints or to breathe too loudly, but it’s hard after running for what seems like forever. Behind her, there is a thunderous rumble of stampeding feet, of thousands pursuers. She knows there probably isn’t a thousand, but it seems like there is. Terror grips her tightly around the stomach with a cold, clammy grip, and she feels her guts freeze. But no matter what, no matter how terrified she is, she keeps running. Keeps running until there’s nothing left but running, everything else fading into faint, indistinct blurs.
Then there’s a small, manicured hand, and it curls around her wrist and jerks her back. She twists, falls on the dark brown, spongy forest floor right on her butt. Above her is a petite blonde girl with pin-straight hair and dark eyes wearing a dark leather jacket, a crimson red v-neck shirt, and black jeans with leather high-heeled boots. She looks like what every biker chick wants to look like, and frankly it’s astounding that she can even run in those boots. The girl sneers, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth. She places a boot on the other girl, presses down.
Anna grunts at the feel of the heel pressing on her stomach, and twists violently. She’s pretty sure that the heel dug a hole in her stomach for a second, but she’s free. The blonde snarls. Anna snaps a leg up, catches the blonde on the thigh. She buckles. Grabs Anna by the hair and pulls her up. Anna struggles, manages to bite the blonde on the arm. The blonde shrieks and drops Anna, who scrambles up.
Then she bolts.
The blonde follows.
And they keeping running and running and running, until finally the blonde grabs Anna by the arms again. This time she’s ready. Anna strikes quickly at the stomach with a tightly clenched fist. The blonde grunts, twists a branch off a nearby tree, and directs it at Anna. She quickly grabs one of her own. The blonde strikes - she blocks, for the third time.
The blonde is rapidly getting pissed, Anna knows, and she wants to find a way of getting rid of her. She looks around rapidly, all the while fending off blows coming at every direction. It’s at times like this that she wishes she would have gotten laser eyes instead of power boosting, which really doesn’t help her during fights. In fact, it hinders her and giver her opponents a huge boost.
And it’s happening with the blonde. Anna isn’t sure what her power is, but it isn’t exactly a pretty one. The girl dances off Anna’s strikes, her blows, her kicks. Then she stops. Takes a deep breath. Anna takes that as an invitation to strike. She delivers a harsh scissor-kick right up the blonde’s chin. It snaps backwards, the blonde’s eyes rolling back to the back of her head.
A second after that, the blonde’s eyes roll back, this time oil-black and leaving no other color or shade except for the reflection of light, and she twists her neck. Anna hears the continuous crackling sound, like a cracking a dozen knuckles. Her eyes focus on Anna, who is momentarily paralyzed with fear. The girl smile widely, shakes her head to fix her hair. She steps forward, and by then Anna knows that if she doesn’t run right the fuck now, she’s going to be royally screwed. So she does.
Pain, harsh and white-hot, pierces her neck and she falls forward, unconscious.
***
This is what happens the day that Sam and Dean and Castiel are away: first, a building in downtown Lawrence is blown up. Thankfully, it’s an abandoned, nondescript, falling away building. Dean thinks Crowley simply wants to scare. His brother and boyfriend are inclined to agree. Second, the town is thrown into chaos thanks to the loud explosion. Third: two people are murdered brutally by Crowley’s goons, although Crowley didn’t look all too pleased at that. Fourth: they figure out where Risen is, when Crowley shows a picture of her, mouth duct-taped shut and tied to a chair, unconscious. Fifth, they realize what Crowley wants.
“This goes out to Righteous Man, Angel and Liberty,” Crowley drawls into the shaking camera that’s broadcasting news all over Kansas. Dean spares a pitying thought to the poor cameraman, “You double-crossed me. Me. Did you really think you could get away with it?” He grins, “And you know what? I hate double-crossing. We make a deal - we keep it. That’s my motto - and honestly, what are we? Wall Street?” The tone is conversational, and then he looks dangerous, “And you know why I wanted Risen? Really why? Well, I bet you know about where I’m from. Gehenna isn’t exactly a good place to live, but it is a good place to rule. And that’s what I want to do - rule. But I don’t exactly have the resources. Really, if I try now it’ll be suicide. But, and this is when you boys come in, but if I get a major power boost, then I can. That is where Risen comes in. But you know what? As I was going to get her power, I realized something.” He looks straight into the camera, eyes focused and perfectly calm and reasonable, “I realized that your power, Righteous, would be really helpful. I mean, healing so strong that one is capable of resurrection? It would be a huge help in the upcoming war. So this is the plan: I get you, and then I kill your precious friend, and your little boyfriend, then I suck your power out. And I guarantee it won’t feel as good as your boyfriend’s sucking does.” Dean groans. The conservative people of Kansas do not need to learn of the Righteous Man’s sexual orientation, even though he suspects most of them already knows.
“That’s all, thanks.” Crowley grins. Crowley has the grin of smarmy politicians banking on false promises and corrupt CEOs. Dean guesses that technically he is a kind of smarmy politician, although it seems more of a game of thrones or civil war than a free and fair election.
The camera clicks to black, leaving only a stunned brunette reporter staring at the teleprompter in shock. Quickly, it flicks over to the weather.
Oh, Dean thinks despairingly, that’s the most clichéd speech I’ve ever heard. And yet, it still manages to strike fear into the hearts of all three men, albeit for different reasons: Dean because Crowley has Anna and is probably torturing her, or at least scaring the living hell out of her. Sam because Crowley wants to suck Dean’s power and kill him, so soon after he almost lost Dean and Cas for the exact same reason. On the bright side, at least he knows what Crowley’s M.O. is.
Castiel grips Dean’s hand in his, stares deeply into his eyes. Dean flushes, and Sam raises an eyebrow. Those two were always disgustingly sweet around each other, save for the times when they looked at each other like a piece of really hot meat or are wondering what their lips would look against their cock. Sam can’t believe he thought that. He’s going to be freaking scarred for life now.
Suddenly, Castiel starts speaking and glowering at Dean at the same time, “Dean, tell your brother about what you told me last night.”
Dean looks a little sheepish, ashamed, and a little … scared? That sends Sam’s brain into overdrive - he’s known Dean since he was born, and never, ever, has Sam seen him look scared over something he told someone else. Sam’s thoughts race - what now? Is he dying again because Risen’s power boost didn’t work? Sam won’t be surprised, he’s seen it and it didn’t seem like anything happened. He still has no idea how it worked and he hates being stuck in the dark.
“There was a dream,” Dean mumbles, and Sam is surprised because normally it’s Sam making a fuss about dreams, “About Alastair. He told me that you killed him.” Dean’s leveled stare accuses Sam, for what reason Sam doesn’t know, “so Cas thinks that somehow Alastair is invading my mind beyond the grave, even though it’s never happened.” He scowls at his boyfriend.
Castiel makes his own version of a bitch face, “It is happening now, Dean.” He stares imploringly into Dean’s emerald green orbs, “And we need you in top form,” Dean looks offended, breaks eyes contact. Castiel sighs, “And I’m concerned for you.” This he says softly and gently, and Sam sees Dean melt accordingly.
Sam’s more interested in Dean’s torturer tormenting Dean beyond the grave, because if there’s any reason for killing Alastair, beyond personal vengeance, it would be so Dean would never, ever have to experience that pain ever again. But now, it seems like he is, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop. It’s against everything Sam’s ever wanted for his brother, a normal, domestic life with Castiel and maybe a kid, although Dean will never agree. Not when Lawrence needs protecting.
Dean, a voice breaks through the silence, roaring in their minds. All three boys jump and look around without really thinking about it, because if they think about it then they’ll realize that the man speaking to them is currently in Souix Falls, South Dakota. Get your boyfriend to zap over here. I need to speak to you guys face-to-face.
Castiel wonders why Bobby never directly asks Castiel. He thinks it’s because his negative alien image, understandable as an alien directly contributed to the death of his wife. Still, it has been two years. Despite all that, Castiel zaps over to Robert Singer’s house and teleports him to the house they currently inhabit in Lawrence.
Dean blinks when his boyfriend and his kind of father figure lands with a clunk on the living room floor. “Um,” he says hesitantly, “I was actually going to say that we should go to HQ.” Castiel and Sam chose to stare blankly at him while Bobby sighed, the sound of an exasperated father’. Dean smiles weakly.
“Fine,” Bobby huffs, “But first I have to tell you something.” The alien and Winchesters stare at Bobby expectantly, and he says, “I saw a little something in a book, and it explains how Crowley’s power works,” he directs a hard glare at Dean, “Just in case any of ya’ need to know. An’ it says that when he sucks out someone’s power, he sucks out someone’s life force. So, basically, he sucks out the power and leaves a dry and shriveled corpse lying on the ground.”
Dean pales quite dramatically. He’s pretty sure one can’t resurrect after one gets power sucked out of oneself. Out of all of the possible death scenarios he has thought of for himself (including decapitation, dismemberment, being eaten alive, blown up, decapitated then dismembered then eaten and burned to death) this isn’t one of them. And yes, he does realize that thinking of how he might die is pretty morbid, but a serial resurrecter needs to do something in his free time.
Castiel clears his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I think we should all put on our hero garb,” he says, “I am going to transport all of us to headquarters soon.” They nod, and they all scatter to get dressed, because anonymity is key when you’re with your fellow superheroes. Dean thinks he and his little team are breaking a few laws because they know what they really look like and their history and real names and loads more, but that’s never stopped them before.
In their room, Castiel slams Dean to the wall and presses his lips on Dean’s fiercely. He licks at Dean’s lips until he yields and opens them to let Castiel’s tongue pass, and Dean wonders if his tonsils are still there, because he thinks they’ve been smashed into pancakes, and he doesn’t care. Castiel is claiming Dean, saying without words that no way in hell will Crowley get Dean - that’s’ obvious from the urgency of the kiss and the ferociousness of it. It feels amazing, Cas’ warmth pressed hard against Dean, and Dean responds just as enthusiastically.
Part One Part Three