Chapter Text
Meg kicked a pebble with the end of her boot, watched as it rolled and thudded across the dirtied ground, and wondered how she was not yet completely insane. This was all she had to do in this godforsaken place; kick rocks. For years she had guarded the door to Castiel’s realm, for years she had waited, and waited, for someone to come through and demand entrance. For years she had watched the hill overlooking the labyrinth, walked up it herself, and realised there was nothing beyond it other than more rocks for her to kick.
Meg let her mind wander as she looked to the hill that no one walked down. Her mind settled on an eery thought—the Pool of the Lost. Years ago, she had almost been sent there. But here—this place—her guarded home, was the compromise Castiel had eventually settled on. For so long, she had been grateful, but now her mind was whispering things that both shamed and shocked her.
At least you wouldn’t be alone.
“No,” she said out loud. Nothing would be as bad as being sent there. She knew it to be fact as well; her father had played a significant role in the Pool’s creation. He had relished in telling his children of its depravity, its soulless essence, and Meg had vowed to know the Pool of the Lost only through her father’s terrible stories. She was never to see that place with her own eyes, for fear she would have to rip them out herself.
Meg shook her head then, willing her thoughts to disappear. She needed to focus on what was important.
Dean Winchester.
He had been in the labyrinth for not even a day, and already things were changing. A sense of unrest had settled in the air like stale wind, and even Meg, an exile of Castiel’s land, could feel it.
“Knock, knock.”
Meg gasped. Behind her, the puggish face of Castiel’s servant stood smiling at her, his fat little body leaning against the door. She recovered, and only looked over at Crowley with vague disinterest; she did not want to give him the satisfaction of startling her.
“I can see you want something in that ugly little smile of yours, Crowley,” she said, not even bothering to hide her contempt for the man.
“One hundred years and that’s all you can say?” asked Crowley in feigned disbelief. “My, my, we really need to work on your manners, young lady.”
Meg scoffed.
“It wasn’t good manners that turned me into a demon now, was it, old man?”
“True enough,” sighed Crowley, already growing bored of their misplaced banter.
“It’s your lucky day, you know,” he said then, smiling at her devilishly. “You’re being summoned.”
“Then why is it that I’m not feeling very lucky right now?”
“Who knows?” Crowley smiled. “I guess you’ll have to see.”
“Come now,” he said, opening the door to the labyrinth and offering Meg the palm of his chubby hand. “He’s waiting for you.”
When she had opened her eyes after blinking, Meg had already been transported to the gate to Castiel’s city. She had not been here for over a hundred years, but it was exactly how she’d remembered it: a greying squalor of filth and decay, a hub for the labyrinth’s most depraved inhabitants. Crowley opened the gate and allowed her entrance with a patronising bow. She scowled at him, but took the lead as she walked past the gate and into the city. A few steps in, and she hesitated. Meg had not seen this many demons in one place since before her exile, and she looked at her kin with a repugnance she did not even try to hide. What disgusting creatures demons were, with so many of them the very visual of death. Their skin was rotted away, their black eyes sunken—and the smell, the smell was almost debilitating. Meg covered her nose with her hand, and Crowley howled with amusement.
“Stop pretending like you’re any better than them, sweetheart,” was all he said, and Meg glared. She was a demon, yes; her soul was as black as her eyes, but Meg knew she was so much more than the scum before her. She was beautiful; she knew it. She saw the way the prince had looked at her that morning as he stood before the door. She knew her honeysuckle voice had captivated him, her chocolate-coloured eyes glittering like his equal. And even now, alone after one hundred years, Meg had still managed to grip on to the wavering veil of sanity. Not much could be said for the demons that lived in the city. They were all mad—animals. All instinct, no conscious thought.
So yes, Meg thought, she was better than them, and she was better than Crowley.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a face she had not seen since long before her banishment. Any declarations of superiority were quickly squandered by the beautiful and terrifying figure of the king’s most trusted guardsman. Her name was as lovely as her golden-coloured hair; she was Lilith, and she had lived in the Land of Lost Souls since even before Castiel had first stepped foot here, when the old demon king Lucifer ruled this realm. Lilith stood before Castiel’s kingdom, adorned with soft cloth and weapons of fierce beauty. When she caught sight of Meg, her white eyes glistened, and her unsettling smile shook Meg to the floor.
“Meg,” the demoness beckoned. “It’s been a long time. How fares the land before the door?”
Meg’s voice caught in her throat, faltering: she refused to appear weak in front of Lilith, and she did not want to give Crowley another excuse to mock her.
“Quiet,” she said after a moment’s pause, and she was glad her voice hadn’t wavered.
The two demons stared into each other then, as if waiting for the weaker one to look away first. But it was Crowley who broke their gaze as he stepped in between them, his fat little body feigning authority.
“As much as we’d love to stay and chat, Lilith,” Crowley said, and even his voice had a hint of fear to it, “we really must be going. The King is waiting.”
Lilith nodded her strange, unsettling smile, and stepped aside.
“Who am I to keep you from our beloved?” she said. Crowley nodded awkwardly as he walked past her towards Castiel’s castle. As Meg followed behind him, Lilith took a hold of her arm; her grip was cold, and despair washed over Meg like rain.
“I will see you again,” Lilith said, and her voice was quiet: she was speaking only to Meg now. “You know what you have to do.”
She let go of Meg and closed the door behind her. Meg followed Crowley to the fortress; her disgust and apprehension in reuniting with her enemy king was far outweighed by the words of Lilith, which she found were repeating themselves again and again in her head with every step.
I know what I have to do.
She could feel the stares, hear the whispers, as she entered the doors to Castiel’s castle. The demons drunk in her presence with gleeful frenzy. They knew who she was, what she had done. Her crimes—her courage and her treason—were infamous, and the demons both adored and despised her. Meg ignored them all. She walked through the hordes with her head held high, and forsaked the sinking feeling in her stomach as she approached the door to the throne room. Crowley opened it, and stepped aside to allow her entrance. He grinned unkindly at Meg, whispered “good luck,” though she was too nervous to react to his priggish nature. She walked past the servant towards the throne.
She saw him, then, smiling softly from heightened ground. He did not say a word, only watched her with vivid interest. As she got closer, she took in the king for all that he was: beautiful, sensual, proud, petty. A fraud. He stared at her, unblinking, with eyes that were always blue—never black. Looking at him now, taking him in, letting him stare deeply into her, Meg remembered just how much she hated the king of the Land of Lost Souls.
“My King,” she said. Meg lowered her head as if in servitude, but she would not kneel—she would never kneel.
“How does it feel to be back, Meg?” her asked her jeeringly.
“Unnerving,” came her reply, and Castiel laughed.
“Well,” he said, settling, “I can’t say I’m surprised at that. But you’re a smart girl. I think you know why I’ve sent for you.”
Meg shifted awkwardly.
“I have an inkling,” was all she said.
Castiel nodded, but the way his jaw tensed showed Meg her attitude was already grating on him, just as it always had.
“Yes, I’d assume you would have,” spoke the king candidly. “I mean, you did let the inkling through my doors just a few short hours ago.”
Meg’s calmness disappeared. She was done with this façade, these careful words. She was to answer the king the way he deserved.
“What did you expect me to do?” Her voice was raised, and Meg could hear the shocked, excited laughter exuding from their audience. The demons loved a show.
She expected Castiel to scream back, to answer her with cruel, mocking words, but he surprised her.
“Oh, Meg, you misunderstand me.” Castiel smiled. “I’m not angry. You did exactly what you were supposed to.”
The demon blinked. She questioned the kindness of his words, for surely he would not have summoned her if she had pleased him.
She riddled the king bluntly.
“Then why am I here?” she asked.
“You know,” Castiel began, as if he had not heard the question. “The thing I hate most about this place, about my job as its ruler…” He paused. “My punishments have no finality.”
Meg blinked at him, but he continued.
“I can maim, I can torture, I can banish, but I cannot… kill.” He looked at her. “And now, there is someone in my labyrinth who can.”
“Dean Winchester.” Meg said the name slowly, enjoying the look on Castiel’s face as she did.
“He wants the baby, and he’ll kill me to get him.”
“And if he gets through these doors, he will.”
The two looked at each other in quiet, co-dependent acceptance.
“Do you understand, now, why I’ve summoned you?”
The demons in the throne room were silent with captivation, waiting on Castiel’s every word like he was unveiling the next prophecy.
“I can’t kill him,” Castiel continued. He spoke slowly, lapping up the silent attention his subjects gave him. “But I can do something almost as gratifying… almost as final.”
Meg scoffed; she found little time for the king’s much loved dramatics.
“Let me guess,” she asked, folding her arms impatiently, “have him fail your little test so he’s trapped here forever?”
Castiel smiled.
“Precisely.”
“And let me guess the other thing;” she played, “you need me to do it?”
Castiel laughed, and clapped his hands together.
“You are making this so easy.”
He settled, leaning forward in his throne as if preparing to share a secret.
“So, what do you say, Meg?”
Meg smirked at the king. She would never make it so simple for him.
“I say, what do I get out of this deal?”
Castiel’s smile faltered, and his cheery disposition was replaced with ice.
“This isn’t a deal, Meg,” he reminded her. “Have you forgotten what you did to me? What you almost made happen?”
The demons around them held in a collective breath. After a few moments, Meg answered.
“I think about it every day.” It was spoken quietly, wistfully. Castiel was displeased, but he remained calm—he even managed a smile.
“Then you should know that you have absolutely no say in this whatsoever.” He paused, building the tension he so loved to create. “And if you refuse, well—I think you can guess what will happen.”
She could, as did every other demon that was listening. Her father’s stories repeated themselves in Meg’s mind, as if she was remembering a place she had never even visited. But Meg refused to be threatened by her own insecurities. She refused to serve a king she did not love for free.
“But if I do this—if I get Dean to fail,” she spoke strongly. Courageously. Treasonously. “If I make him yours—you’ll have to reward me, you’ll just have to.”
Something in Castiel’s eyes changed—deliberating, weighing, scheming.
“I’ll tell you what, Meg,” he said after a pause. “You do this for me… and I’ll let her out.”
Meg’s cold heart thundered in her chest.
“I thought you said this wasn’t a deal,” was all she managed to say. The sheer magnitude of the king’s words left Meg quivering.
“I changed my mind.” Castiel smiled treacherously. “Don’t you want to see her again?”
Flashes of a past she had tried to forget blazed in Meg’s head until her ears rang. It was her fault. It had been all her fault. And now Castiel was offering her a chance at redemption, to save her, to free her.
“I’d do anything,” she told the king, and every word was meant with vehement honesty.
Castiel smiled, because he had known exactly what to say to earn Meg’s loyalty. He despised the pretty creature, but he knew that the only way to have Dean fail, for him to become a lost soul, to become Castiel’s and Castiel’s alone, was through Meg—and no one else. Castiel would watch Dean from the shadows, caress his face through the smoke of his crystal ball, and he would observe as Meg did exactly as was commanded.
“Do it, then.” Castiel said, getting up from his throne so he was looking at her from above. “Earn your place back in my kingdom. Make sure the boy fails, and she will be forgiven.”
Dean awoke to a strange feeling. He blinked twice, attempted to adjust himself to his surroundings, but there was nothing about this place he could familiarise. It was dark and very cold. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was, what had happened.
Zachariah…
The name taunted him from beyond the darkness, if not for a slither of light high above him. He looked up, and he remembered it—falling through the trap door that Zachariah had opened, shattering upon the unmarked ground, and hearing the half-soul’s chuckles as he had locked the door behind him.
“That… bastard,” Dean rasped through winded breath.
Dean willed himself to get up—tried, and failed. He groaned, and in his mouth was the copper-taste of blood. He spat and stayed on the cold floor a moment longer. He could not deliberate his injuries. His body felt cold and numb to the point where he could no longer feel the ground below him. As if he had left it and was floating through the air and through the earth, until he was at Castiel’s castle and his brother was in his arms. Dean groaned again. He could not deliberate his injuries, but his anger, his frustration—he let them engulf him whole. He thought of Zachariah, of Castiel, of the demons and of his little brother.
“Get up,” he told himself.
His winces echoed as he got to his knees; he grinded his teeth so hard he half expected them to shatter.
“Yeah, Dean,” came a voice from the darkness. “Don’t be such a wimp.”
A light appeared, illuminating a face. Her face. It was Meg; her pretty brown eyes glittering behind the candlelight.
“Why are you here, Meg?” Dean demanded, and the accusation in his tone made Meg raise her brow. He was not happy to see her, he refused to be, but a part of him was quietly glad to have companionship in this dark, lonely place.
“I’ve come to save your stupid human ass, that’s what.”
She held out a hand, and even though every part of him warned him not to trust her, he took it. He slowly got to his feet, and he was proud that he was able to stifle the groans of pain that stirred themselves within him.
“See?” Meg smirked. “That wasn’t so hard.”
She turned around.
“Come on.”
Dean did not want her to get too far, as without her tiny ray of candlelight to guide him, he would be alone in the darkness once more. He followed as fast as he could, though made sure he was still a ways behind; he liked the way Meg’s hips swayed.
“Wait,” she said, interrupting his daze.
She bent down; the light flickered against the walls in erratic dance. Dean watched as she picked something up and studied it.
“What’s this?”
Dean only needed a second to answer her question. It was his dagger; stained with the blood of Death and the traitor Zachariah. Dirtied by the soil to which it had landed on. Dean had dropped it as he had fallen, almost forgotten it through his will to escape this place, and now painfully aware that it was now in the hands of a creature it was designed to kill.
“What a pretty toy,” Meg said, daring herself to stroke the bloodied edge with the tip of her finger.
“It’s mine,” said Dean, and he sounded childish, like a little boy refusing to share. Meg noticed, and tore her eyes away from the knife to look up at him. He grit his teeth and hardened his glare, but Meg would not be intimidated. She gave the boy a playful smile.
“Are you sure you know how to use it?”
“Better than you.”
The two stared at each other, and all hint of Meg’s playfulness was gone. He deliberated his options. He could take the knife from her if he wanted to, but only Meg knew the way out.
“Oh, Dean,” Meg’s smile returned now, and her face appeared to light up even more by the candle. “I’m just teasing.”
“Here.” She passed it to him, and Dean at once felt foolish for his trepidation.
“Thanks,” he said awkwardly, putting it back in his bag.
They began walking once more. Neither spoke; an unwelcome silence that made Dean nervous.
“How’d you know I was down here, anyway?” he asked finally.
“The labyrinth…” Meg started in a dreamy tone, not looking back. “She’s got soul, you know? She talks to me. I understand her.” Meg paused to trace a hand lovingly against the dirt wall.
“I’ve lived here a lot of years, and I know parts of the labyrinth that most have forgotten about.”
Dean sniffed, grimaced.
“Okay,” he said, and it came out like a question.
Meg did not elaborate, and the two were left in silence once more. Dean grinded his teeth, searching desperately for something else to fill the void.
“Hey,” he started, remembering, “I thought you said you couldn’t actually enter the labyrinth. I mean, you were pretty adamant when I asked before.”
Meg stopped walking, then, and Dean almost went right into her. She turned around, and she looked at him with a seriousness that made him feel uneasy rather than quelled.
“You wanna know why I’m here?” she asked him bluntly, not expecting an answer. “Why I’m helping you?” Dean waited. “You are the Prince. The Prince from the stories. Stories that have been told to me for as long as I can remember. You are famous, Dean Winchester. And, yeah, I’m a demon, a liar, a good-for-nothing. But I’m not stupid. And when the battle is at my front door, I’m gonna do whatever I can to make it on top—and with Castiel dead, that’s exactly where I’ll be.”
It was everything she had ever needed to say, because even though she was a demon, a liar, a good-for-nothing, it was enough to finally make Dean satisfied.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay,” she said back, and they nodded at each other in mutual contentment.
Meg turned back around, and Dean followed. He was surprised at how big the oubliette was, how narrow its walls were, how often the path stopped, twisted, and turned; just another part of Castiel’s infinite maze.
“There’s so much more to the labyrinth than meets the eye,” Meg said after a while. “It’s what I love most about her.”
Dean scoffed.
“You act as if this place is a person.”
Meg was not fazed by Dean’s dismissal, in fact, she welcomed it.
“In a way, she is,” she replied honestly, almost sadly. “The labyrinth is my only friend.”
Dean snorted.
“Jesus, that’s depressing.”
Meg only laughed.
“Don’t mock what you don’t understand, Dean Winchester.”
“Alright, alright.” Dean did not care to delve anymore.
They continued on a ways, and Dean tried to keep himself from falling behind. The pain in his legs was now a dull one, but his back was tensing up with every step. Meg must have noticed somehow, because she stopped.
“How are you feeling?” she asked him.
“You know, I’m a little stiff,” Dean joked. “I could do with a massage.”
She only rolled her eyes.
“Ask one of the other demons. They do have the fingernails for it.”
Dean would have laughed, but the pain in his back was getting harder to ignore. All he wanted now was to see daylight.
“I’m… loving the bonding here, Meg, really,” he said through strained breath. “But, are we getting out of here any time soon?”
“Easy, Dean,” Meg defended. “All in good time.”
The pathway kept going, but Meg was no longer interested in a way ahead. Instead she began to finger the walls next to her, putting her ear to it and knocking at random parts.
“Okay,” she said to herself. “Okay, baby, where are you? I know you’re somewhere. Come on, baby.”
She continued fingering the wall for a few more seconds, whispering, knocking, stroking.
“You’re insane,” Dean said, almost wanting to back away.
“Ah!” she said in reply, grabbing a hold of the soil and attempting to tear it apart. Before Dean could offer another disparaging remark, the wall had begun to open and brightness was seeping through.
“There we go,” Meg said proudly. Dean smiled, despite himself.
“And then there was light.”
They weren’t out of the oubliette yet, but they were out of the darkness, at least, and Dean could not help but feel a little grateful for that. In this new part, there were no longer shadows and soil, but stone walls and floors, much like the labyrinth above ground. Though it still smelled of the earth—undisturbed and dirty.
The two continued through these new passageways a while longer, and though Dean had felt stilled by the light, something about the stone beside him felt wrong, like it was not meant to be touched, like he should make himself as small as possible as to not accidentally brush past it. Meg did not seem to share his apprehensions, as she had lazily placed a hand against the stone and was letting it brush each part as she walked. The longer she did this, the stronger Dean’s sensation became. He could not escape it. He thought he heard whispering, but he knew it was just his mind playing tricks on him; feeding his anxiety. The voices got louder and Dean’s pained steps quickened until he could put a hand on Meg’s shoulder. She turned around.
“You’re going to die in here,” she said—only it was not Meg, Dean realised. It was a voice from behind her. He looked beyond Meg’s shoulder to the wall ahead, finding the cause of the voice: there were faces. Faces in the stone. And they were speaking to Dean.
“Turn back,” one whispered, and its voice was gravelled with dust.
“This is not the way,” another said, yet this one’s boomed within the narrow passage, echoing amidst the grain.
Dean felt sick, disgusted. Who were these faces? Why were they here? Why were they saying these things?
Meg continued to walk past them, her hand brushing across their pebbled grey faces.
“Don’t listen to ‘em,” Meg laughed, dismissing Dean’s paranoia. “They’re only saying that ‘cause they don’t want us to leave. They’ve been lonely.”
“Let’s just keep moving,” said Dean, willing they came across the exit soon. The sooner they got out of this path of talking faces, the better.
They walked until the voices became quieter and the walls had turned back into smooth stone. Dean had almost calmed down, until up ahead, before a turning, he spotted a willowy creature hunched against the wall. It was hooded, and it did not appear to be moving.
“Meg?” Dean started.
“I see it,” was all her reply.
Meg slowed her pace, watching the figure as she approached closer. It was bound to be one of the forgotten; years spent in the dark, half-dead, too tired to attack.
“I don’t think it knows we’re here,” whispered Dean, edging closer to her.
“Just walk past it,” she said. Dean took another glance. The creature was so faded, it might as well have been another face in the stone.
They began down the next passage, until they heard a faint noise come from behind.
“Where do you think you’re going?” it said, and as soon as Dean had turned around, the hood had gone, and the creature was standing tall. Dean’s heart stopped as he realised who it was—the blue-eyed bastard king.
“What are you doing here?” came Meg, who was now next to him. It was the same question Dean had asked her when she had appeared to him in the darkness, but somehow it seemed an odd thing for her to ask now.
“Is that the greeting I get after all this time?” Castiel said, a brow raised at her impertinence. “Meg, I thought your anger would have perhaps subsided by now.”
Meg did not say anything more, only scowled, but Castiel ignored her. He instead turned his attentions to the boy, who was ever so slowly putting his hands inside his canvas bag.
“Dean,” nodded Castiel. “It’s good to see you.” He walked closer, and Dean’s fingers trembled. It had felt like years since he had last seen the king’s face; for it already seemed weathered, slightly wrinkled—not as perfect, but still beautiful.
“How fares my labyrinth?” he asked Dean conversationally. “You’re not having too much of a hard time, are you?”
Dean laughed harshly.
“Are you kidding? It’s a piece of cake.”
Castiel looked at him oddly, but not unkindly. He took a moment, but laughed like they were old friends.
“Piece of cake,” he repeated fondly. “You humans love your little expressions, don’t you?”
Castiel laughed again, and Dean was so conscious of his own hands, the way they moved so slowly towards his dagger, that he had trouble concentrating on anything the king had to say. He had been so sure that he would not see the king again until his castle, as Dean dug his weapon slowly into him—watching as the life left Castiel’s eyes. Not now, not in this oubliette, not with this pain in his back and legs, not with his knife wedged so deep into the bottom of his bag. Dean’s heart beat so fast, he could barely breathe.
“But I am not so stupid,” Castiel continued then, “as to assume you mean you’re finding my labyrinth easy? In which case, I grow weary of the word. Where’s the fun in “easy”? Without a challenge, there just is no point—wouldn’t you agree?"
Dean could end it now. He was a prince. He did not need a Righteous Weapon to kill the king. He could do it now as he had done before—it would be possible. If the dagger could kill Death Himself, then surely it could kill a king. Dean could grab his dagger right that second, and plunge it into the king’s soft flesh; watch him die, watch him become just another victim of the prince’s war. He just needed to get a little closer.
“Sure,” humoured Dean, barely processing what he was saying.
“I’m so glad you think so,” agreed Castiel, looking satisfied. “Well, I guess it only makes sense I take away—hm—nine hours of your allotted time? Now you only have two days and… three hours to find your brother. That should make it slightly more challenging.”
Dean’s concentration faltered.
“Bullshit!” He registered. “That’s not fair!”
Castiel only smiled.
“I really hope you enjoy the rest of my labyrinth,” he said, getting closer to Dean until he was only a breath away. He put his mouth to the boy’s ear.
“This was only the beginning,” he whispered into it. Dean ignored the goosebumps that ran through his entire body, almost binding him breathless. He took a firm grasp of his dagger, swung it wildly beside him, ready to sear itself through kingly flesh. But his flailing proved futile. The dagger met nothing but air, and as Dean turned around, Castiel had already disappeared.
Anger, disappointment, futility, all corralled themselves into one word:
“Dick!”
Meg stared at Dean, seething with rage.
“Idiot!” she said, pushing him roughly. “He was right there, and you let him go!”
“You think I don’t know that, Meg?” Dean shouted back.
Meg was not satisfied; she was relentless, unyielding.
“He was talking to you for what, a full two minutes? And you just stood there, lapping up his every word like a love-sick fucking puppy!”
“Oh, shut up, Meg!” Dean relented. “You don’t think he wouldn’t have noticed me just rooting through my bag, like, ‘oh, what could Dean possibly want from in there?’” he imitated in a shrill voice. “You’re the one who said we just needed to walk right past him—la-de-da—as if he wasn’t the king of the fucking land!”
Dean expected to be met with more protests, more declarations of his ineptitude, but something in Meg’s expression had changed. She had stopped listening to him—her eyes were glazed and she was quiet, concentrating.
“What?” Dean asked her, still angry.
“I thought I heard—” Meg started, but there was no point in finishing. There, far down the left of the pathway, was a distant sound, a sound that was getting louder. Dean watched slowly, until out of the darkness, four shapes appeared. He could not make out what, but they hung from the walls like spiders, and snarled like starving wolves.
“What is tha—?” Dean started, but he was answered by four single, screeching roars. Meg grabbed a hold of Dean’s shoulder.
“The Cleaners!” she shouted.
“What?”
“Just run!”
Dean sprinted, faster than he had ever done in his life. He could hear them behind him, screaming and hideous. Their very roars echoed within the tunnels and made the walls tremble. They ran together, never stopping, never pausing for breath. He wondered just how far the tunnel went before it ended, and they were torn apart by whatever it was that was chasing them.
Meg called out suddenly, pointing a finger past him.
“Dean!” she shouted through winded breath. “A gate!”
His gaze followed hers. A few metres ahead, to their right, was an ironclad gate. Dean sped towards it, and shook at its mighty frame. It was chained, padlocked shut. He ran at it, bounded it with his shoulder. The creatures were getting closer.
“Your dagger, Dean!”
Meg grabbed his hand as if he was stupid, and brought it towards the gate. He pushed away her grasp, and began to hack at the padlock with the brunt of his bloodstained knife. He belted it twice, the sounds of the creatures getting closer. As he was about to give up, the padlock broke free and the gate opened. They rushed through it, pushed it shut behind them, just as the creatures had leapt from their holdings with their teeth bared.
The creatures thrashed wildly through the gaps in the iron. Dean used his entire body to keep it shut, but he felt his grasp wavering.
“A bolt!” Meg noticed, grabbing at it from the side and pulling it down across the gate. The gate shuddered violently, the four snarling bodies of the creatures grabbing at it fiercely, but remained closed.
They turned around. They were in a small circular room that went on as high as the stars.
“A ladder, look!” Meg pointed upwards. “It’ll take us outside!”
The ladder looked ancient; decayed and rusted. Some of the steps were damaged, almost split in half, and others were missing completely. Dean did not have time to consider its safety. He rushed towards it.
But something emerged from the shadows. It grabbed on to the ladder, and looked down at them with its black orbs. Dean finally saw the creature clearly, saw its decayed, greying skin, how taut it lay against its body and stretched over its face. Its skeletal limbs bent hellishly as it pondered Dean from the ladder. It truly was the silhouette of a monster; twisted and sickly, its form curved like the end of a sickle. Dean stared into its face, and realised with repulsion that it must have been human once, a long time ago. Its eyes were scarred and sunken, its nose hooked and leathered. It no longer had lips, instead were a row of sharp, war-seen teeth that covered its face like a smile. At last the creature opened its mouth, and screeched louder than its brothers, who so desperately fumbled at them from behind the iron bars. The creature jumped straight for Dean; its long arms opened in embrace. It fell into him clumsily, and the two rolled across the brick floor into the opposite wall. It regained composure, snarling at Dean like an angered dog. Before it could strike, Dean had gripped his dagger, and slashed at the creature’s gaunt face—hacked and stabbed, until it pierced its black, sphered eye. It cut into it so easily, like a fork to a grape. Dark, thick puss splattered from the remains, soaking Dean’s face and mouth. His gags were masked by the creature’s anguished screams. Before Dean could even blink, it had wrapped its hands around Dean’s neck, and begun to pull. He wore its fingers like a necklace. They tightened, strained so firmly that Dean could not even think. He felt his eyes bulging out of his skull, and his heartbeat quicken and drop like a broken metronome. Before he could lose consciousness, he tightened his grip on the dagger, brought it down madly on one of the creature’s arms, and began to hack manically. It screamed, and its grasp loosened. Dean cleaved, stabbing and slashing. He was possessed now. No longer human, only an extension of his weapon. He hacked until the arm tore free. The creature yelped, as a dog would, and disappeared into the shadows.
“You’ve hurt it!” Meg cried, shaking Dean from his frenzy as she pulled him roughly from the ground. “We’ve got to get out of here, now!”
Meg took in front, climbing rapidly, carelessly, up the iron ladder. Dean followed her. His heart was beating in his ears so loudly he could barely hear the roars below him. He did not know what had overcome him—the way he had attacked so gleefully, expertly. Free from all emotion. Pure.
Something grabbed Dean’s boot, pulling him back into reality. He was pulled from the ladder, and landed on the ground in a heap. Dean groaned; his body a rag-doll. The creature loomed over him. Blood poured from its stump and the space where its eye had been, streamed down its body and on to Dean’s clothes. It panted at him, wheezed like a wounded animal. It looked upon him with a carnal hatred, so foreign from the looks of Castiel and the other demons. It brought down a hand towards his neck once more, slowly, relishing in what it was about to do.
“Get away from him!” he heard a voice from above say. Before the creature could look up, Meg had jumped from her spot on the ladder, and straight on to the creature’s back. It wailed, flailing its one arm wildly as she held on. Dean forced himself up. The creature threw her off, wrapped its hand around her neck and tugged. Dean ran towards it, he screamed, and held the dagger high above his head. He swung, and cut off its arm with a single chop. The detached limb remained around Meg’s neck, and she tore it off violently, screaming in disgust and anger. The creature sunk to its knees, blood spurting from its other stump, landing on Dean’s face, in his mouth. There was so much he surely felt he would drown in it. Its lacerated body writhed on the ground, its huge mouth wailing in anguish. The creatures behind the gate seemed to scream more, and the iron rattled and shook.
They began to climb again. Dean held the dagger in his mouth now, ignoring the taste of rot and blood. He skipped two steps at a time. They were getting closer to the door above, and though the screams of the creatures pierced and echoed, he could not hear the one he had maimed so thoroughly. He looked down, could see it no longer. By now it was either dead or dying, bleeding out in a corner of the circular room. Meg reached the top, took a hand out, and attempted to pull open the manhole.
“Is it opening?” Dean shouted.
“It’s stuck!” Meg replied.
Dean stifled a groan of impatience. Below him, the rattling of the gate was getting louder. He looked. Something on it sprung loose, ricocheting off the wall like a stray bullet. Something in the mechanism came loose, and the gate shifted.
“Oh, God,” Dean clamoured. “They’re opening the gate. Hurry, Meg!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!”
Meg continued to struggle with the opening. Dean immediately regretted not having gone in front, but there was nothing he could do now but wait—and hope that the gate held long enough for them to escape.
Something made Dean look down, then. A clink, like metal against metal. He looked down. The armless creature had appeared again, dragging itself along like its entire body was deadweight. It was climbing the ladder—instead now it was pulling itself up with its teeth. It ate the iron, tore into it—it’s sharp teeth shattering like wood chip, its mouth spraying blood and bile with every gnaw.
“Oh—Jesus!” Dean could barely stand to look at it. This thing was far uglier than Death’s matted form had ever been.
“What?” Meg asked, looking down. She caught sight of the creature, and her voice shook.
“Fuck me, that thing just won’t give up!”
“Don’t worry about it!” Dean bellowed. “Just get that hole open!”
Dean readied the dagger. He had mutilated this creature too much, it was time to end it.
The cover began to shift. Dean heard a gasp.
“It’s opening!” Meg cried, panting. “Fucking shit, it’s heavy!”
Light began blaring in, so bright, as if the very heavens were opening. Dean looked down again. The creature was so close, now, only a few steps below him. Its one eye pierced into him, its face twisted into a squinted snarl as the light from the outside blazed in on it. The creature got close enough, used the last of its strength to leap from the ladder. Its huge, decimated mouth opened wide. Dean swung. The dagger crunched as it met bone, wedging itself deeply into the creature’s head. Its eye widened, as if surprised at the fate it had met. It stared at him a second longer, until its eye dulled and its gaze became distant, and faint. The creature let out a final sigh, and began to fall backwards. The knife pulled out of its skull easily, and Dean watched as the creature glided through the air and fell loudly on to the ground below. Its broken figure gleamed as more light from the outside began pouring through.
“It’s open!” Meg called proudly. “Come on!”
Dean followed her out of the hole. The light poured over him, so bright it hurt. Clean, fresh air immediately filled his lungs, and he breathed it in, consuming it whole. He settled, looking down over the hole into the oubliette. The creature seemed so small now that it was dead.
His thoughts were interrupted by the unshackling of chains. The gate broke free of its hinges and flew open. The remaining creatures huddled together at the bottom of the ladder, where their kin lay dead and bloody. They looked up at the two, and screamed.
“Close it, Dean!” shouted Meg, grabbing a hold of the cover and shifting it back over the hole.
The creatures began to climb, and unlike their armless brother, they were fast. Dean and Meg scrambled at the opening, wedging it closed. They were so close to the top. Dean saw the sunken faces, the taut, skeletal hands, grabbing for him furiously. He saw them until they were covered again in darkness, and the manhole slotted back into place.
Neither said anything for a moment. Amidst their panting, Dean cocked his head and listened. Wailing and scrambling could be heard, the clattering of nails against iron—and then, silence.
“Do you hear that?” Dean asked.
Meg placed her head against the cover for a second. She looked up at Dean.
“They’re gone.”
The creatures had given up, and had retreated back into the darkest crevices of the oubliette—hunting others, but no longer hunting them. The two looked at each other, in sheer amazement, and began to laugh.