Chapter Text
The air above ground was clean and quiet. Dean sighed, and took in a long, deep breath. When he turned his gaze towards Meg, she was looking at him strangely. She put a hand to his cheek.
“You’re bleeding.”
The tips of her fingers stung his face a little, and he winced. He placed his own to where hers had been and pressed gently. He looked at his finger, and a dark red drop of blood ran down it and into his palm. Those godless creatures… Dean’s stomach knotted at the thought of them beneath his feet, fearless and rabid and buried in darkness, aching to destroy him as he had their brother. He hadn’t even noticed the scratch until now, but now the sweet sting the creature’s fingernails had made left his cheek throbbing.
“What the hell were those things?”
Meg looked at him with a troubled expression. It was the first time Dean could see her clearly since their first meeting at the labyrinth’s door. Her clothes were stricken with dirt, matted and ripped at the seams. Her once straight hair was tangled. Her eyes were still their chocolate brown, but they glittered less than before. She seemed different; wary, younger. Not a demon; like a girl.
“Cleaners,” she answered uneasily.
Dean said nothing; Meg registered his confusion.
“Demons,” she translated. “Old. Very old. They live in the oubliette. They like the dark. They travel in packs, traversing the passages… Cleaning.”
“Cleaning?”
She sighed, but not unkindly.
“They’re very territorial,” she explained. “No one is allowed in their precious oubliette. They see something or someone blocking their path—” She made a noise resembling death and wrapped her hands around her neck. “Rip your head off, and put you in the stone.”
Dean contemplated her words, remembered the bodiless figures that lay within the walls, and how they had begged for him to turn back. What a horrifying fate, he realised.
“So that’s what those faces were.” He shuddered.
“Sure,” Meg nodded. “Like I said, we can’t die. Those faces; souls and demons still breathing. Trapped, but alive.”
He could barely process the depravity. Castiel’s labyrinth was becoming more and more sinister which each passing minute. How could one man create so much corruption? he thought. Disgust turned to anger. They had almost been torn apart down there, and they were barely prepared.
“And you didn’t think to mention,” he said, his tone cutting, “that during our little stroll we might just run into a pack of wall-climbing demons that like to decapitate people?”
His words were ridiculous. If he wasn’t so pent up, he might have found it funny. Meg put her hands up.
“I didn’t wanna worry you!” she said, her voice sincere. “And anyway, they live in the darkest crevices of the oubliette. Once we got to the stone, I thought we were safe.” She looked down. “I’m sorry.”
Immediately, Dean felt terrible. Why was he angry at her? Without Meg, he would still be in the oubliette, reaching blindly from one path to another, most probably walking straight into the Cleaner’s nest, unable to do nothing as he was ripped apart.
“No—no,” he began, “I’m sorry. You saved me, Meg.” He sighed. “I know you put on this front because you think you’re supposed to be this big, bad demon, but you’re not. You’re a good person.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, spare me.”
“No, listen,” he argued. “I wouldn’t have gotten out if it weren’t for you, and that’s the truth.”
The two stared at each other, and Meg blinked at him stiffly. It only took Dean a moment to realise he had perhaps been a little too honest with her. The silence bore into him, and he cleared his throat. He swiftly changed the subject.
“So why were they at the stone, then?”
Meg’s expression relaxed.
“As feral as they are, they’re still loyal to their master.”
There was only one person that could be.
“Castiel,” he said, his jaw tense.
“He must have summoned them.”
“God,” Dean said, almost chuckling. “I hate that guy more and more.”
“Yeah,” nodded Meg, “that’s the thing about our King of Demons. Always getting someone else to do his dirty work…”
At that, she looked strained, as if she had just said something she shouldn’t have. She didn’t let Dean ponder it; she pulled at his arm by the scruff off his sleeve and led him forward.
“Come on,” she marched ahead, “now you have even less time to find your brother.”
Dean followed her.
“Tess said the next thing I needed to do was find the Fiercest Demon,” he said after her, “and kill him with this arrow.”
He had not paid much attention to the half-soul’s token since he had left the courtroom. He took an arrow from the quiver on his back and studied it. It was made of dark wood, singed, as if it had been placed upon a fire just long enough for it to start burning. The tip was old, rusted iron. It seemed ancient, barely usable as a weapon, but then again, everything in this labyrinth seemed ruined. From the unpruned hedges, to the dusty, untrodden floors. He took out his dagger and twisted it in his hand. The entire thing was coloured red now, stained beyond recognition. It truly was a killer. The strange words on its side remained unclear, but in a way, he could understand them perfectly, because now he was a killer too—and by the time Dean reached the end of the labyrinth, he would have used this dagger to kill many more.
He blinked. He didn’t want to lose himself to his thoughts. He wasn’t alone anymore; he had questions for Meg he needed answering.
“You heard of him?” he called after her. “‘The Fiercest Demon?’”
“Oh yeah,” replied Meg sullenly, not turning around. “I’ve heard of him.”
“You know where I can find him?”
She slowed, bowed her head. Dean approached her side, but when she looked up her eyes remained forward.
“I… haven’t been there in some time,” she said quietly. “He lives to the East. A fort. He’s a General. Well, he was… He and Castiel aren’t on the best of terms.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, I don’t really,” she admitted. “He was disgraced before I was banished. But maybe things have changed. I mean, he’s not in the Pool—I know that for sure. And he’s not outside the labyrinth; I would have seen him.”
It was as if she was talking to herself now. Dean wondered what was going on in her head.
“You seem kinda invested in his whereabouts.”
“Do I? she asked, still in another world.
“You knew him or something? You guys were close?”
“Well,” she said, her mood focusing. “I mean he is m—”
Meg’s words halted as she looked ahead, noticing something amidst the hedges. Dean followed her gaze, settling on two figures that stood together closely, a little ways in front. They stared back at Meg and Dean in familiar astonishment.
“Would you look at that?” The taller one spoke first. “I truly think my eyes deceive me.”
His companion smiled.
“If they deceive you, they deceive me also, brother. I see him, too.”
Meg rolled her eyes, recognising them instantly.
“Oh, great,” she mumbled.
The two men stepped out from the clearing. They were dressed oddly, like famous figures from long ago. They stood together, posing regally. The taller man had his arms crossed, brooding and proud. He had blond hair, with patches of neat scruff on an ageing face; a rockstar after his prime. The shorter one seemed infinitely more mischievous. He had brown hair that went past his chin, and a never-faltering grin, making him appear a little goofier in comparison to his more traditionally handsome brother.
“Dean Winchester,” the brown-haired man said. “The saviour of our land, the prince of righteous blood. Brave, and good. You honour us.”
Dean stood his ground. By now, he was able to discern which of the creatures in Castiel’s labyrinth were souls or demons. These men definitely were not demons, but that didn’t mean he had to trust them. Meg obviously didn’t; she scowled, letting her tousled hair fall in front of her eyes like a sulking teenager.
“Can I help you?” Dean asked skeptically.
“The question is,” the blond man replied, “can we help you?”
Dean could hear Meg sighing impatiently beside him.
“They call us Gabriel,” the shorter man said, opening his arms like an actor preparing to bow. His companion followed suit.
“And Balthazar.” He spoke grandly.
“Brothers,” said Gabriel.
“Wise men,” continued the other.
They bowed in service. Meg tutted from Dean’s side.
“Yeah,” she said, seething at them. “More like tricksters and thieves.”
The brothers turned away their attention from Dean, and gazed disinterestedly at the demon.
“Uh,” Gabriel uttered in slight disgust. “Who is this creature who thinks she can interrupt our conversation?”
She clenched her fists.
“My name is Meg,” she answered bitingly, “you half-wit, half-souls.”
The wise men took her words in, looking at each other in amused realisation.
“Ah… Meg,” smiled Gabriel.
“The Meg,” his brother affirmed.
“We know all about you.”
“Loyalist,” they listed.
“Traitor.”
“Revolutionary.”
“Exile.”
At that, they chuckled.
“Apparently no longer,” noted Gabriel, and Balthazar nodded.
“What a strange coincidence that you’re our prince’s companion.”
Meg scowled, and shuffled at the ground with her boots.
“Whatever,” she mumbled.
Dean looked back and forth in childish confusion. Whatever it was they were talking about, he wasn’t in on it. He touched Meg on the shoulder and turned them both away from the grinning brothers.
“Uh,” he said, his voice hushed, “do you know these guys?”
“Know of,” Meg replied regretfully.
“Yes,” spoke Balthazar, who had heard every word. “Unfortunately we have not met in person.”
“Until now, of course,” his brother continued, and gave another mischievous smile.
“Castiel may be proud, but his home is modest.” Gabriel spoke matter-of-factly, edging closer to Dean and Meg. “It’s a small place. Everybody knows everybody.”
Balthazar nodded, walking at his brother’s side until they were only a few metres away.
“People don’t have secrets here,” he said, his voice cocky as he stared directly into the demon’s eyes. A threat, perhaps, or just coincidence.
Her body tensed, confirming the former, but she quickly recovered. She grabbed Dean’s arm and marched past them.
“If you’re done,” she said, not looking back, “we have to go.”
The brothers held out a hand to stop them.
“Now, wait a minute,” Balthazar called hurriedly. “Dean needs to hear our proposition first.”
“That’s right,” continued his brother. “We have been so excited to meet you, Prince.”
“We want to help.”
“We want to guide you.”
“Share our wisdom with you.”
“Ignore them,” said Meg, picking up the pace. “They’re even bigger frauds than Castiel.”
“We know the future,” called Gabriel, ignoring her insult.
“Every possible variation.”
The shorter brother hurried in front of them, blocking their path.
“Would you like us to tell you yours?”
Dean side-stepped past him, trying not to laugh.
“Uh, I’m good.”
Gabriel huffed like a child.
“Oh, come on, Dean,” he urged. Balthazar stood next to him and gave the prince a million-dollar smile.
“Who wouldn’t give to know their own destiny?” he asked temptingly.
Dean rolled his eyes. These men did not seem ‘wise,’ they seemed like idiots, crooks, complete low-lifes. They were nothing like Chuck. He had been wise, and he had told Dean everything he needed to know about this place and his role in it.
“I already know mine, thanks,” he said, urging past them.
“Not all of it,” retorted Balthazar.
The brothers followed them through the labyrinth, calling after Dean without a pause for breath.
“You can’t even comprehend what this labyrinth has in store for you.”
“You need our help.”
“Think I can manage!” called back Dean, not turning around.
“We can tell you about Castiel!” Gabriel called, changing tactics.
“You don’t know the way he thinks,” intrigued Balthazar. “What goes on in that pretty head of his.”
“We can tell you about that so-called friend of yours,” continued Gabriel.
“We know all her dirty little secrets,” said Balthazar enticingly, “and we can tell them to you.”
Dean could sense Meg stiffen beside him, but she did not say a word. Dean felt bad for her.
“Not interested,” he dismissed, walking faster.
“Wait!”
The wise men knew they were losing. There was only one thing they could do now.
“We can tell you about your mother!” they shouted at Dean in perfect unison.
He stopped in his tracks.
“My mother?”
He turned to face them, and the brothers grinned. They had won.
“Oh,” said Gabriel, squeezing Balthazar’s arm, “now that got his attention.”
Meg sighed audibly.
“Dean,” she tried, “we really don’t have the time.”
“No, wait,” he said, turning away from her so the two men had his full attention. His face was completely serious, suddenly desperate. “You can tell me about my mom?”
The wise men nodded.
“You ask, we answer.”
Balthazar held up a finger.
“For a fee, of course.”
“Of course,” reiterated Gabriel.
“We are of course not liars,” he said now, his voice in playful rhythm. “We answer your desires.”
“But knowledge is not free,” continued Balthazar, “a fee we must decree.”
The brothers laughed, but Dean did not join in.
“A fee?” he asked dumbly. “What kind of fee? I don’t have any money.”
The wise men stared at him, trying not to laugh.
“Money?” Balthazar repeated, and he fell into a fit of giggles. “Word,” he said, catching his breath, “he is clueless.”
“You mortals and your money,” mocked Gabriel.
Balthazar put his mouth to his brother’s ear.
“Capitalist pig,” he said into it, not concerned in the slightest that Dean could very easily hear him.
Once the brothers had recovered from their laughing fit, they looked back at Dean with a new-found seriousness.
“No, no,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “Money is worthless in this context.”
“We desire something a hell of a lot more valuable.”
“Something you treasure.”
“Something you keep close to you.”
Dean was worried. What did he have on him that they would want? Not his dagger, surely.
“That amulet you wear around your neck,” Gabriel spoke slowly, answering Dean’s question in a heartbeat. “We sense it is special to you.”
“You would not part with it willingly,” said Balthazar, and, as if in instinct, Dean’s fist closed around it in protection, in child-like stubbornness.
The brother’s sensed his trepidation, speaking carefully.
“That is, unless,” Balthazar said, “you got something in return.”
There was a pause.
“Such as,” Gabriel perked, “valuable information on how to kill Castiel and find your mother.” He hit his head as if trying to stop himself.
“Oh!” he cried, in mock regret.
“Oh, you’re bad,” jibed Balthazar, trying not to laugh.
Gabriel shrugged.
“I just can’t help myself!”
Dean’s jaw tensed at the sound of their laughter. He held up a hand, and immediately the brothers were silent.
“Wait,” he said. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Tell me exactly what you can do for me.”
“Well,” started Balthazar. “Usually, we demand one item for every question.”
Gabriel nodded, but he was unfocused, deep in thought.
“But,” he said debatably, “considering you’re the Righteous Prince…”
His voice trailed off. Balthazar nodded as if Gabriel had finished. He too had that same look of unfocused concentration.
“Yes…” he started, nodding carefully. “Considering you’re the boy from a thousand-year-old prophecy…”
“An almost holy figure, if you will.”
“I guess we could do, uh…”
The brother’s gazed once more at nothing, until Gabriel put his finger up.
“A discount,” he said, as if the word had been on the tip of his tongue the entire time. Balthazar liked the idea. He nodded.
“Yeah,” he said, taking it in. “A discount.”
“For princes,” said Gabriel. Balthazar nodded his approval once more.
“A princely discount.”
Dean resisted the urge to groan. He held up his hands impatiently.
“Which is?” he asked with harshness.
The brothers looked at him disapprovingly,
“For one item,” Gabriel explained, after a pause.
“That amulet,” piped in Balthazar, pointing to his neck, as if Dean was not painfully aware of what he had been asked to give away.
“You get…” pondered Gabriel, weighing his options, “three questions.”
Balthazar looked settled.
“Yeah,” he said approvingly. “Three questions. I like that. It’s a good round number.”
“Well, not really,” said Gabriel.
“No.”
“But still,” he said, losing himself in his brother’s nonsense, “a good number nonetheless.”
“Oh, most definitely.”
Dean almost started screaming. He feared the idiots would never start making actual sense, and that they would just talk, and talk, forever, until Dean’s time was up and he and his brother were doomed to remain in Castiel’s land for eternity. Sam a demon, and Dean always a day away from falling to corruption himself.
Meg looked up at him warily.
“Dean…” she warned, her voice stern.
“Dean?” egged the brothers, excited beyond comprehension.
There was a long pause. Dean stared at the two men, two idiots that actually deemed themselves wise. Every part of him, including Meg, was telling him how bad of an idea it would be to trust them. Give away his amulet? He had worn it for as long as he could remember. It had been the one constant in his life since Mary had died and his whole world had turned to shit. But these men, they were promising to tell him about her. Ever since her death, life had become more and more unclear to Dean. And now that he was in the labyrinth, Mary had become something new to him entirely. She was no longer just his mother that had died, she was what tied this all together.
He already knew his answer. Dean grabbed at the amulet, and squeezed it.
“I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?” he said, and he could hear Meg’s groan of hopelessness.
“Oooh,” sang Gabriel mystically, “he’s prophecising.”
“The prophecy just made a prophecy!”
Dean sighed; if he was going to do this, he was going to do it now.
“Let’s see if it comes true, huh?”
He pulled the amulet over his head so it was resting in his hand. He stared at it like he hadn’t already memorised its every feature a million times before. Knowing this might be the last time he ever saw it, his fingers trembled. He felt like he would forget as soon as he gave it away. It’s just a thing, he said to himself. Just a shitty necklace Dad bought for a dollar at a car boot sale. If this was the price to find his mother, to save Sam—then so be it. He teared his eyes away and handed it over. Both the brothers grabbed for it eagerly, but Gabriel got there first. He shoved it in his pocket, ignoring Balthazar’s glaring eyes.
“Thanking you, Prince,” he said quickly.
“Now,” Balthazar said, recovering from his envy. “Ask away.”
“Remember,” Gabriel reminded. “Three questions.”
“No more, no less.”
The wise men stared at Dean expectantly. Now the time had actually come, Dean realised that he hadn’t actually had time to think about what he was going to ask. Millions of things were running through his head, but he only had three questions. He settled on one that he hoped would get the clearest answer.
“Where is my mother?” he asked, and dread filled up inside him like bile.
“She is…” started Gabriel, choosing his words carefully, “with another,” he settled. “Deep in the dark.”
“Bound, shackled,” continued Balthazar. “Waiting for you.”
He waited for them to elaborate, but they didn’t.
“But where?”
Second question down—and he immediately regretted it. But his heart was racing; he just needed to know.
“In a place where people go to be forgotten,” came their reply.
“A place he reserves for those who make him feel the most ashamed.”
“Guarded, far away. Surrounded by many dangers, many obstacles.”
Dean blinked at them, repeating their words inside his head, trying to figure out what they meant.
“You need to find her in order to save your brother,” said Gabriel, interrupting his thoughts.
“In order to kill the king.”
Dean contemplated their answer. She was alive, and she was there, somewhere, waiting to be found. His journey through the labyrinth suddenly became a lot more complicated.
Dean had only one question left. He needed it to matter.
“Fine,” he said, his voice hopeful, but afraid. “So tell me. After all of this. After everything I’ve done to get this far. Am I going to save Sam?”
He felt sick. This was a yes or no question. If they were who they said they were, Dean’s entire destiny was about to be laid out in front of him.
The wise men stared at him, at each other, at Meg.
Gabriel spoke, his voice resolute.
“That depends,” he answered.
“What are you willing to do?”
“Who are you willing to trust?”
“Decisions…” spoke Balthazar.
“…and consequences,” finished Gabriel.
Dean thought it was over, but Balthazar opened his mouth a final time.
“The future isn’t written in stone,” he said.
Gabriel grinned.
“It’s written in a kiss.”
He finished, and the way he looked in that moment, it was as if Gabriel had just spoken the most awe-striking words ever uttered.
Dean waited, expecting them to continue. That couldn’t be it—it just couldn’t. Moments passed, and he feared that it was.
“Okay,” he said, his voice as calm as he could make it. “I’m just gonna say it. Absolutely none of that made sense.”
“The truth often doesn’t,” nodded Balthazar, his words visionary.
“No,” said Dean, “seriously, that was bullshit. I want my amulet back.”
He held out his hand, shaking it after a moment. The brothers folded their arms.
“No can do, compadre,” explained Gabriel.
Balthazar looked at him bluntly.
“We made a deal.”
Meg’s anger rose in her like fire. She had been quiet for the past few minutes, but now she could not contain herself.
“You conned him into making that deal!” she spat.
Balthazar looked at Meg disappointedly, a little bored.
“No, Meg,” he said, like he was disciplining a small child. “Because a con implies that there was deception involved.”
Gabriel nodded.
“And we didn’t deceive him.”
“In fact,” Balthazar mocked, “we were very straight about what would happen.”
“It’s his fault if he didn’t like what we gave him,” Gabriel finished, annoyed at the lack of gratitude they were receiving.
Dean knew it was no use trying to bargain. These men were crooks, plain and simple. They had played him and he had lost. It was his own damn fault for being so desperate for answers.
“Fine,” he said, relenting. “Whatever.” He turned to Meg.
“This was a waste of time.”
She folded her arms.
“I told you.”
He did not need her to remind him of his idiocy.
“Let’s just go, all right?”
The two began to walk away, their strides wide and their jaws tensed and regretful.
“Remember,” Gabriel called after them in a sing-song voice, “treasure taints!”
Balthazar burst into laughter.
“You get that one for free!”
With that, the brothers laughed and laughed until their voices were as faint as whispers.
The young prince and his companion had been gone a while; all that was left of their visit was the strange little amulet that now rested around Gabriel’s neck.
“You know,” started Balthazar, “I really don’t see why you get to wear it.”
Gabriel began to smirk, but he felt his lips falter. The air around them had begun to shift, settling around the brothers like mist. It shrouded them until they were ice cold and shaking. The clouds overlapped each other, the sky above changing into a deep, bottomless black. From that blackness, came a smoke—a dark whirlwind that carried itself downwards until it was caressing the ground. At last, it disappeared, and out of the smoke came a figure, dressed as darkly as the night sky. He stood in the clearing, looking at the brothers as a hunter would its prey. The air finally cleared, and he smiled.
Balthazar stood tall, bowing to the king with a flick of his hand.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, “if it isn’t our good and handsome King of Demons, come to grace us with his presence.”
Gabriel followed suit. He lowered his head.
“It’s good to see you, Castiel.” He glanced over the king appreciatively. “Say, have you done something different with your hair? It makes you look taller.”
Castiel chuckled softly.
“Gabriel. Balthazar. Your compliments never tire.”
Balthazar bowed once more.
“And we never tire giving them.”
Castiel smiled, savouring the wise man’s flattery. Gabriel grimaced; his brother was always such a groveler.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Gabriel said, and Castiel glared at him. “Are you here because of our little rendezvous with the Righteous Prince?”
Castiel’s expression recovered, and he smiled at the older brother.
“Not at all,” he said sweetly. “I just thought it was due time I payed my favourite wise men a visit.”
Gabriel resisted the urge to scowl. The only thing that stopped him was Castiel, and how intently he was staring at his neck.
“I like that amulet,” Castiel said after a moment, tearing his eyes away to look the wise man in the face. “Is it new?”
Gabriel wanted to cover the amulet with his hand, as Dean had done. He suddenly came to realise Dean’s reluctance in giving it away. There was great power in the amulet, he knew that before even putting it on. But now, with it around his neck, resting against his chest, he found he had become quite possessive of it. It was his, he thought. He had earned it, and now his good and gracious king wanted to take it away.
“Very,” Gabriel said after a pause, his tone thick with resentment.
The king smiled. He knew how much this was torturing; it only made him more hungry.
“May I see it?”
Gabriel opened his mouth to speak, but his brother spoke for him.
“Perhaps,” Balthazar said carefully, “if we know of your intentions.”
Castiel shrugged innocently.
“I only wish to study it a moment, admire its intricacies.”
The brothers spared themselves a dreary look. They knew Castiel would not leave until he got what he came for. Gabriel sighed softly, but obediently took a hand to his neck and pulled the amulet over his head.
“If you insist, your Majesty,” he said tensely, passing it over.
Castiel held it in his hand, and brought the amulet close to him. He pondered the face, of wood painted gold. It seemed wise, discerning; a figure neither man nor woman. Its metallic horns pointed upwards, horns long and dull. Mighty, yet unrefined. It looked back at Castiel with its eyes unopened, a peacefulness so penetrating it could be sleeping, praying—perhaps even dead. He stared at it for a long while, revering its every feature. The paint was chipping, and the edges had dulled. It was cheap, worn, insignificant in every way—and yet it wasn’t. The more he held it, the more he could feel himself uncover. This amulet had been many places, seen many things, and it had been loved—loyally, fiercely—by the boy who wore it. Castiel’s gaze was unwavering. He could not tear his eyes away. He held in his hand the most prized possession of the greatest enemy he’d ever known.
Castiel was overcome with a need to possess it, to possess it as his own, to possess the boy to which it had been taken from. This amulet was more important than Dean had ever realised. He would never have given it away if he had known what this amulet could do. It was a means to victory, for Castiel to rule everyone, everything—even the boy who swore to kill him. He clenched his grasp, and forced his gaze back on the two brothers, who watched him with a knowing, pitiful suspicion.
“I think I’ll take this back to my castle,” he said, his voice as steady as possible. “Study it a bit more.”
Balthazar gave him a discerning look.
“Is that really wise, your Majesty?”
“It belongs to us, now,” perked Gabriel. “We’d hate to lose it.”
“Of course,” Castiel nodded, “but you would not be so stupid as to deny the request of your king, would you?”
The brothers looked at each other for a fallen moment, their faces already knowing defeat.
“No,” Balthazar said finally.
“Obviously not,” finished Gabriel.
“Good.”
The king smiled. It was always so easy; a tone of darkness, an unspoken threat. He would always get what he wanted. Whether he took it by force, or it was offered to him like a gift. Castiel placed the amulet around his neck. The golden face felt cold against his chest, and filled him with an energy he had never felt before. He felt he could barely endure it, but he remained somber, steady. He felt so close to Dean, now, as he if he was walking in the boy’s very skin.
“Till next time, gentlemen.”
He turned to go, but a question that bore on his lips made him pause.
“One more thing before I go,” he said, turning back around. “The Righteous Prince. What did you think of him? Did he surprise you?”
The wise men laughed softly, but without humour.
“Oh, no,” Gabriel said. “He is exactly how we expected him to be.”
Balthazar nodded.
“He is his mother’s son, after all.”
“Do you think he has it in him?” Castiel asked cooly, ignoring the feeling of overwhelming dread. “Do you really think he can kill me?”
There was a pause that made the sky go dark. Castiel awaited their reply feverishly, his teeth grinding in apprehension.
“That depends,” Gabriel answered him finally.
“You have the amulet, now,” Balthazar said, nodding towards the painted face.
“What happens next,” Gabriel said stiffly, “is up to you.”
The king was satisfied. He smiled at the wise men.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, and within a moment he had disappeared amidst a shroud of black.
The two wise men stared at the empty space the king had just stood. Balthazar looked towards his older brother with a troubled expression.
“That was a mistake, wasn’t it?”
Gabriel continued to stare at the clearing.
“Yes,” he affirmed, not looking at him. “But we weren’t exactly going to tell him that, were we?”
Although he was reeling the loss of his amulet, Dean could not help but enjoy the walk with Meg. The part of the labyrinth they had reached was quiet, uninterrupted. They made short conversation, but mostly he was content with the silence. He looked up at the sky. It remained a dim half-light, the same dull brown it had been when Dean had first arrived. Castiel had given Dean three days to reach the end of the labyrinth. He had already been there a while, and in the tunnel, the king had taken another nine hours away, just because he could. Dean realised he actually had now idea how long he’d been in Castiel’s world, and how much time he had left.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Meg, breaking the silence.
“I was just wondering how long I’d been here,” Dean said. “The light never changes. I’m never gonna know when one day ends and the other begins.”
Meg didn’t say anything for a moment. Dean watched her. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Meg put a hand in her pocket and brought out a pocket watch, small enough it rested delicately in the middle of her palm. Then, she yanked off the silver chain she wore around her neck and hooked the watch through it.
“Here,” she said. “Turn around.”
He did, and Meg stepped behind him, holding the chain by its ends.
“I feel bad those jerks took your amulet,” she said, putting it around Dean’s neck and fiddling with the clasp.
“There,” she said, attaching it. She moved to face him, and nodded. “Bet your neck doesn’t feel so naked now.”
Dean couldn’t help but grin at her. They locked eyes, and the deep brown of her irises twinkled. Meg smiled back—almost.
“See here,” she said, ignoring the way he was looking at her. “The time says four minutes past nine. It’s night now. You’ve got three more hours of today, and then you’re on to your second.”
He grasped at the watch, just so he could see how it felt. It was cold and smooth against his palm. It wasn’t the same. His amulet had always felt rough and sharp when he had gripped it. Its horns a tiny weapon, cutting into him when he wanted to feel a pain separate from John’s. Of course it wasn’t the same, but it felt good anyway. Meg was right; he liked the weight on his neck, how it felt against his skin. In that moment, the gesture was enough for Dean to reach out and kiss her—but he would never be so stupid as to try.
The silence of that instant had lost him completely, until his ears pricked at the sounds of a terrifying scream. It was loud, and close, and Dean’s heartbeat quickened in his ears. Meg grabbed at him, and pulled Dean behind a hedge. She peered over, and when she had looked back around, her face was stricken with a fear he had never seen before. The screaming continued until the voice was hoarse, and could only manage erratic groans of pain and helpless fight.
“What the hell is going on?” Dean whispered tensely. He looked past Meg’s tight expression and around the hedge. In a clearing, a few yards over, was the source of the screaming. A man, his belly soft with age and his hair thinned and greying, was suspended upside down from the branch of a dying, leafless tree. Around his ankles was a ring of rope, tied in the way of a noose. Around the man were six demons, circling him, screeching and chanting as if in rabid worship. Their voices drowned out his cries like they had consumed his pain and were celebrating it. Dean had not seen demons like this before, so brutally and unapologetically insane. The demons at the courthouse had at least been organised. Careful, rigid with responsibility. This group, however, seemed in no way restrained. Their clothes were ragged, barely enough to cover any part of them. Their hair was long and wild, and their bodies covered in blood. They screamed gleefully, dancing with reckless abandonment around the hanging man. Wretched, and free. But Dean wasn’t looking at them anymore. Behind the man, was a figure dressed in grey. He did not seem like the others. He was calm, and still, but not like the ones guarding Death’s home. He did not look like he served anyone. He was his own master; Dean could tell. In his hands were instruments of iron and silver, long and jagged, slick, precise. He held them in thin, unshaking hands—hands that were covered in a dark red stain. As Dean watched, the figure held up an object that glittered, ready to be used, and dug it deeply into the back of the hanging soul. The figure's expression did not change, except for his eyes. They were alive. Electrified. Blood splattered on the floor, and the tortured man convulsed in agony.
Dean could not bear to look anymore. He turned back to Meg, who had sunk to the floor, and was holding her knees close against her chest. Dean crouched next to her.
“Alastair…” was all she said after a moment, her gaze unfocused. She seemed far away.
“Who?” Dean asked desperately, trying to ignore the sound of splattering blood.
“We shouldn’t be here,” she said suddenly, her mood sharpening. She looked at him, almost hysteric. “We need to go. Now.”
She got up, and held out her hand impatiently. Dean stood, but did not take it.
“They’re torturing that guy!” he cried. “We can’t just leave him.”
“Oh, yes we can,” said Meg. Her words were harsh. It reminded Dean why Meg was a demon and not a soul.
“Who is he?” he tried to understand, pleading. “Why are you so afraid of him?”
“That demon…” she whispered, pulling at Dean’s sleeve so they were crouching again. “Alastair. He’s Castiel’s greatest weapon. He’s insane.” She shook her head wildly, her words not enough to convey the depravity of the demon in grey. “What he’s doing to that soul, is nothing to what he would do to us if we stay.”
Dean shook his head, unsheathing his dagger.
“I can kill him.”
Meg grabbed his wrist in frustration.
“He won’t let you,” she said, and shook him. “He’s stronger than both of us. He would win.”
Dean pushed her hand away, and tightened his grasp on the knife.
“I have to try.”
Meg put her head in her hands, seemingly despaired—but when the tortured man began to scream again she was overcome with anger.
“For fuck’s sake, Dean!” she seethed, her voice low but jarring. “Just because you’re the Righteous Prince, doesn’t mean you have to be the hero every goddamn time!”
She stood up and held out her hand again. Her anger had disappeared, but she remained stern.
“Come with me,” she pleaded. “I’ll take you to the fort.”
Dean’s silence was agitating.
“Do you want to find your brother or not?”
She was right. Of course she was. Everything she said made perfect sense. Dean had been in this labyrinth for already a day, and he did not feel one step closer to finding Sam. If he was to follow his destiny, be the hero the prophecy said he would be, then he would have to be smart. Pick his battles instead of always rushing in blind. That’s what the Righteous Prince would do. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. A sudden memory played itself in his head, of him and his dad watching the Star Trek films at two in the morning, over and over again until he had memorised every word. That line held truth. If he was to save the souls of this labyrinth, he had to come to terms with the fact that not everyone was going to make it.
He deliberated a moment, almost nodded—but something made him stop. His conversation with Death crept inside his head and played itself like a film:
“You say you are going to save these souls, but that is just out of convenience. The truth is, you could not give less of a damn about any of them.”
Chuck, Becky, even Death: they had sacrificed themselves so he could be one step closer to killing Castiel. He needed that to matter. He hadn’t saved them, but he could save the rest, couldn't he? The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Fuck that. If he went with Meg, left this soul to be tortured until he was as broken as the faces in the oubliette, then he might as well just take Alastair’s place, and carve the blade into the soul’s flesh himself.
“My brother will have to wait,” he decided, standing. “I’m going.”
Meg stared at him disbelievingly. Desperate and ashamed.
“You’re a goddamn fool,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m not going to follow you.”
Dean refused to look at her. A few minutes ago, he had almost kissed her. Now, he couldn’t even stand the sight of her.
“Fine,” he said bluntly. “Go.”
She began to back away. Regretful, but resolute.
“If you prove me wrong…” she said, trying not to sound hopeless. “Keep going straight. You’ll find two doors. Go through the one on the right.”
Dean did not answer. He simply readied his dagger.
“I really hope you prove me wrong,” she said, giving him one final pleading stare. He looked at her quickly, apathetically, then turned away. He could hear her footsteps as she fled, until all that was left was the soul’s tortured screams in front of him. A pang of fear and regret rang in him, making his stomach churn. She was gone again—perhaps forever this time. He bit his lip, and turned back to the demon Alastair. He stood tall, revealing himself to the creatures and the soul they tortured.
Alastair’s gaze fell away from the bleeding man. He looked up slowly, locked eyes with Dean’s and smiled pleasantly, as if he had been expecting him.
“Hello, Dean,” he said, and his voice was thin and quiet and full of wanting. “Thank you for joining us.”