Chapter Text
Meg did not know exactly where she was. She had been banished a long time, and her memory of the labyrinth was not as sharp as she had hoped it would be. She walked past tall walls, crude structures of stone and marble, carved in effigies of kings long since perished. She placed a hand against the graven image, trying to remember the faces of the men who had once ruled the Land of Lost Souls. They were all carved vaguely similar: weak and ugly. Some were in chains, and others crucified. All of them had won the crown by defeating their brother, who had fought to free the world and the people who lived there. Castiel’s demons had built this wall under his command, and they depicted their old rulers the way their new king demanded: monstrous, backstabbers, imperfect beings. The Righteous Princes also had their figures chiselled amidst the walls. Some were shown as trophies, others maimed and paraded, but most were just hidden away. That was what had happened to the old king’s brother. He had loved him; he had told that to Meg once, a long time ago. The brother was never seen again after the battle was forged, and the demon could only wonder where he was now.
The world had been so different before Castiel. Meg’s eyes followed each picture until her face fell on to a familiar sight. His figure was carved within the stone—god-like and beautiful, and through all her hatred, Meg could not help but stare. The king’s gravelled face seemed to look back at her, and she shuddered. She broke her gaze, and kept walking.
Meg hated herself for leaving Dean. She played his face in her mind, remembering the way he had looked at her before she fled. He had been so kind before, and the way he smiled as she had given him her trinket… She sighed, and shook her head. All Meg could think about now was the coldness she felt as she recalled his last gaze. She had proved that she was everything Dean had feared about demons: a coward, selfish, that he could never trust her again.
Meg had truly left him there to lose. Alastair was old and very cunning; he could look inside someone and know everything they kept hidden. Who they were, what they were thinking. The deepest, darkest secrets within themselves. The demon had once shown interest in Meg, many years ago, when she had lived in the city with her family. She had been protected, for a time, but once Castiel had stolen the crown, he had used Alastair as punishment to all those who had fought against him. One of those people had been Meg. Underneath her clothes, her body was still racked with the scars left by Alastair’s tools.
But now, she had abandoned Dean to the same fate. She imagined him then; bound, naked, drenched in a cloak of his own blood. Alastair’s tools sticking out of him in odd angles—his eyes glazed over, drowned in defeat.
“Shit,” she scolded herself. “What am I doing?”
She could not allow that to happen. And if it had already, she was going to have to stop it. Dean had believed in her, and his part in this world was too important not to protect at all costs.
She prepared to turn back.
“I’m coming, Dean,” she promised, and as she turned around, she was met by the sickeningly familiar sight of her blue-eyed king, smirking at her as he leaned against a wall.
“Hello, Meg,” he greeted her darkly. “Where are you off to?”
“Oh,” the demon stammered, “y-your majesty.”
She collected herself, and stood confidently.
“I was just about to meet Dean and lead him back to the beginning of the labyrinth, like we agreed,” she said, as if she had rehearsed the sentence many times.
“Oh, really?” Castiel asked, his eyebrows raised. He stood straight and took a step towards her. “Because, through all your muttering, it sounded like you were going back to help the boy.”
“Of course not,” Meg rebuked. “I serve only one master, your highness. You know us demons…” she joked awkwardly, “we can’t help playing with our food.”
“Indeed,” the king said without humour.
“Hey, Meg?” he asked with a newfound lightness, as if he had just thought of something amusing. “As much as I would enjoy watching our Righteous Prince be led back to the labyrinth’s door, I have a much better idea.”
She looked at him wearily.
“You do?”
Castiel nodded, and put a hand in his pocket.
“Give him this,” he said, and threw it over for her to catch.
Meg grabbed it with her pretty, small hands. She looked down at it, realising she was holding the wooden amulet Dean had given away to the trickster brothers, only a few short hours ago. The face on the necklace made her uneasy, how it seemed both blank and knowing at the same time. She looked up at Castiel.
“His amulet?” she asked. “Why do you have his amulet?”
“I’m giving it back to him,” the king replied innocently. “More so, you are.”
He shrugged nonchalantly.
“I was getting pretty tired seeing that ridiculous pocket watch of yours dangling from his neck. This suits him better, no?”
She looked back down at the amulet. Something about it was different, but she could not place what. It made her anxious, knowing that the king had had it in his possession.
“What have you done to it?” she accused.
Castiel laughed.
“You ask that with such conviction!”
Meg remained sombre.
“Oh, come now, Meg,” said the king, laughing again. “It won’t hurt him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried!” the demon argued. “I just—“
“You just what?” Castiel looked at her pityingly.
“You know, Meg,” he said after a moment, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’d grown to care for this boy.”
Meg folded her arms.
“Don’t be foolish.”
“Foolish…” repeated Castiel amusedly, “yes… We all know demons don’t have it in them to care about anyone. But even if they did,” he said, stepping closer, “do you really think the Righteous Prince could ever like a repulsive, dirty little thing like you?”
Meg shifted in her boots.
“Well, he said I was…” her voice drifted off, too embarrassed to finish.
“What?” Castiel demanded.
The stubborn, sanctimonious voice in her head spoke for her:
A good person.
But she was never going to say that out loud, not to the king. Meg sighed.
“Forget it.”
“You’ll give him back that amulet,” Castiel ordered, his voice stern, “if it’s the last thing you ever do.”
Meg sighed again.
“Yes, your Highness.”
Castiel looked at her disapprovingly; he was not enjoying Meg’s flippancy. There were only few in the labyrinth that did not treat him with an almost sickly reverence, and for the most part it did not bother him. But Meg’s attitude, it was not abiding with Castiel. Not today.
“Don’t underestimate me, childe,” he said threateningly. “I own this world; I see everything.”
He smiled, then, a smirk without kindness. He walked closer to Meg and lifted up her chin with a ringed finger.
“Do you remember Lucifer?” he asked tauntingly, enjoying the look in her eyes. “He was our king, and I trapped him in a cage under the ground to rot.”
Castiel removed his hand, and looked down at her grandly.
“I am more powerful than anything you’ve ever known.”
Meg stared back at him without blinking, her eyes a sweet, twinkling brown—her own silent rebellion. Of course she remembered Lucifer. He was a true king. Her king. The only memories she had of him were ones that filled her with joy, the only thing that stopped her succumbing to complete, reckless insanity. She had not been the outcast she was now when Lucifer had ruled the world. She and her family had served him with as much honour as a demon had possible, and in return, they had been rewarded. She had loved the old king—more than the usurper Castiel could ever know.
That was why she needed Dean. That was why she so badly needed him to win.
“Dean’s powerful, too,” she said, and Castiel’s eyes flared with rage.
“What did you say?”
Meg answered with passivity,
“Nothing, Lord.”
Castiel had had enough. He grabbed Meg by the cuff of her jacket and pulled her towards him roughly, their foreheads almost touching.
“Listen closely, demon,” he spat, “you make one mistake, and I will make sure you are punished for it for the rest of eternity. Do I make myself clear?”
He let her go, and Meg smiled unkindly.
“Crystal.”
“Good,” he said; dissatisfied, but remaining calm. “Now go.”
“Your Grace.” Meg nodded her head simply, a patronising attempt at a bow.
As she turned to leave, a thought struck Castiel, and he smiled.
“Oh, and Meg?” he called.
She turned around.
“Yes?”
He took a step towards her, the smile still on his face. It made Meg shudder.
“If you ever use those… feminine charms of yours on the boy,” he said cruelly, looking her up and down with distaste. “I will know about it. If he ever touches you, or kisses you, or sticks a finger up your cunt, I will know about it.”
He walked closer.
“If anything happens between you two, I will trap your worthless soul in the Pool forever. With nothing but your fear, and your misery, and your… feminine charms,” he repeated mockingly, “for company…”
Meg did not meet his gaze; she looked down at her black boots and cursed him silently.
“And the souls of the Pool do not take kindly to strangers,” the king continued, his voice full of malice. “They will hunt you, and hurt you, and take out all their anger, and their loneliness on you… again, and again.”
Castiel laughed, and Meg willed herself to remain indifferent. She would never let him know that he got to her, even though he had always known exactly how to do it.
“Often,” he went on, enjoying himself, “you will beg for death, but it will not come, and then you will have regretted—ever—disobeying the orders of your king, who had offered you clemency, even though you had always been a defiant little whore.”
Castiel looked at her with pure, unadulterated hatred. After a moment, his composure recovered.
“I am a just king,” he said, and his voice was calmer, “and I have given you a chance to earn my forgiveness. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Meg finally looked at him.
“I understand, my king,” she said resolutely, standing tall. “I understand perfectly.”
The steel faces of the door knockers looked at Dean with stunned amusement.
“You’re Dean Winchester,” the knocker on the left said, his voice in complete awe.
“And you’re a talking head…” said Dean, studying it wearily, “attached to a door… with a knocker through your ears.”
“What?” asked the knocker loudly.
“Thre’s no pont taling to Hrry,” mumbled the knocker on the right, his words garbled and unclear. “He’s as def as a pst.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” scolded the one on the left.
“I’m nt taking wth my muth ful!” argued the second one.
Dean chuckled at the sight.
“Man,” he said, “you two must have really pissed off Castiel to end up like that.”
The left door looked at him quizzically.
“What was that?”
“I said,” started Dean.
“Dean, please,” interrupted Bobby, “let’s not humour them. They give me the creeps.”
The right door knocker looked at them in offence.
“I herd tht!”
“Ed!” his partner scolded. He turned his eyes to address Dean. “Take his knocker out, would you?”
“Um,” deliberated Dean, turning towards the knocker named Ed. He tentatively put his hands toward the knocker’s mouth and began to pull at the ring.
“Come on,” he said, struggling to get it out. After a few tugs, it sprung loose from the steel mouth and fell on to the floor by Dean’s feet.
Immediately the knocker let out a sigh of relief. He began to open and close his mouth, spreading it widely into a strained smile.
“It is so good to get that thing out!” he said, his voice finally clear. “Thank you, Righteous Prince, saviour of souls.”
“You’re welcome,” Dean laughed.
The knockers looked at him a moment, no longer speaking. Silence filled the air, and Dean could not help but stare back at them uncomfortably.
“Skinnier than I imagined,” said Harry suddenly, breaking the silence.
Ed began to laugh.
“Exactly what I was thinking!”
Dean let their words register, and then stifled the urge to groan. He had already come across one infuriating double-act in the labyrinth; he had no time to meet another.
“Guys,” he said, unwilling to encourage them further, “I’m gonna stop you there. You,” he said, pointing to the right knocker. “Ed, is it? The place I’m going is through… er, you,” he finished awkwardly. “So, I’m going to need you to open.”
“Deal,” Ed nodded. “Knock, and the door will open.”
Dean shrugged. He closed his fist and knocked loudly three times. He waited, but the door remained shut.
“Why isn’t it doing anything?” he asked the doors.
Ed sighed.
“You have to use the knocker, genius.”
“Oh,” said Dean, bending down to pick it up from the floor.
“Wait,” Ed said, realising what he had just allowed to happen. “No. No. I don’t want that thing back in my mouth!”
Harry could sense his friend’s protests.
“He doesn’t want his ring back in his mouth, eh?” he said amusedly. “Can’t say I blame him.”
Dean shrugged, and looked up at Ed apologetically. He fitted the knocker back in the steel head’s mouth.
“Sorry,” Dean said.
“Tht’s all rght,” mumbled Ed, “I’m ued t it.”
He knocked again, using the knocker this time. After a moment, the door swung open slowly. Dean and Bobby stepped through.
Gone were the thin paths and dry walls. They were now in a forest, full of dense trees and mossed, soft ground.
“Well,” breathed Dean. “I think it’s safe to say we’re definitely in a different part of the labyrinth. It doesn’t even look like a labyrinth anymore.”
“Good,” sparked Bobby. “All those turnings were giving me vertigo.”
Dean chuckled and began to walk.
Just as the door was about to close, a foot wedged itself between it, leaving the door open ajar. The figure waited until the pair’s voices had become muffled by distance, and then he quietly let himself through.
“Zachariah,” he heard a whisper from behind him. “Zachariah. Whatever you’re planning on doing, I’d suggest you stop immediately.”
The half-soul smirked, and continued walking.
He had been following Dean since his regrettable escape from the oubliette. That demon bitch, he thought. If Meg had not snook in, the Righteous Prince would have surely been torn apart by the wretched monsters that lived in those dark, forgotten tunnels. Zachariah had counted on it—and Meg’s arrival had soured his plans momentarily.
The half-soul placed a hand to the gash in his throat the prince had left him. He winced. In order to quell the bleeding, Zachariah had had to rip the sleeve of his beloved suit to wrap around his neck. The blood had already begun to seep through, leaving streaks of drying blood on his chest, all the way down past his knees.
He was going to get Dean for marking him. Nobody wronged Zachariah and got away with it; it was just his way. The prince had wounded his pride, and Zachariah was going to do everything in his power to stop Dean from getting to Castiel’s kingdom. In a way, it made him Castiel’s most loyal servant; even more so than the king’s blithering, idiotic demons, who were sworn to Castiel by magic as ancient as the world itself. Yes, he thought. He would be rewarded for this. Zachariah smiled as he thought of the prizes the king would give him once Dean had failed. One prize in particular brought him the most excitement. He was sure that if he asked it of Castiel, the king would give it to him: Mary Winchester. The Mother of Fire. He had heard tales of her beauty, and what better way to torture the prince by parading his own mother as Zachariah’s devoted, obedient trophy?
He had almost caught up with Dean, now. He slunk behind a tree trunk and watched them carefully. Alastair had already done him a favour by getting rid of Meg, but now the prince had found another companion to show him the way—and Zachariah couldn’t have that.
He knew he had to get closer. He had to time it perfectly; there was no room for error. The half-soul lurked towards them, shrouding himself by the cover of branches.
Zachariah had acquired a particular skill set whilst being in the labyrinth. He realised, not long after he had arrived there, that he had a sharp eye for the things that others were too oblivious to notice. Once he had gotten over his hatred of Castiel for keeping him in his godless world, Zachariah had developed a twisted sort of respect for him. He appreciated Castiel’s imagination, his attention to detail when making the maze. The king had placed many doors, many short-cuts, puzzles and traps within his realm. To lesser beings, these things came across to them invisible, but Zachariah found that he was able to use them to his advantage. That’s what caught Castiel’s attention in the first place; the reason Zachariah was made into a half-soul.
With nothing but time on his hands, Zachariah had explored and overcome every one of Castiel’s traps and detours, until he felt he knew the labyrinth better than he knew himself. That’s why he was sure that the part of the labyrinth that Dean was in now, held many secrets that only he could decipher.
The half-soul settled behind the trunk of a thick tree that went high up into the murky clouds. He picked up a fallen branch that lay next to him and threw it forwards. It landed, loudly, against the trunk of another, and cracked in two. The noise made Dean turn around.
“What was that?” he asked.
With that, Zachariah pulled at a branch that hung limply from the tree he hid behind, and the ground opened up around Bobby’s feet. Within a second, the man had fallen through it, and the mossy floor had already grown back in on itself. Dean turned back around, and, in seeing that he was alone, began to call Bobby’s name.
After a few minutes, he could hear Dean becoming hysterical. He kept calling for the soul, screaming his name again and again. It was music to Zachariah’s ears.
Dean was searching wildly around the area, and the half-soul knew it would be a bad idea if he lingered any longer, no matter how much he enjoyed paying witness to the boy’s anguish.
He crept towards another tree, traced the oak with his pudgy fingers to check it was the right one. He pushed lightly, and the tree began to open, revealing to Zachariah another part of the labyrinth. He would see Dean again soon, and he knew exactly what he was going to do with him.
Zachariah walked through the door and closed it behind him, grinning at the sound of Dean’s hopeless cries.
Dean’s paranoia was overcoming him, crippling him into dust. He had searched everywhere for Bobby, screamed his name until his throat was raw. It had been to no avail; the man was nowhere to be found. The only choice Dean had was to go to the demon’s fort alone—continue his quest no matter what. But that was easier said than done. The labyrinth was a wretched place, and in it he heard voices, footsteps. Dean could feel eyes on him; watching him hungrily from behind the cloaks of shadow.
His paces quickened, until he was practically in a run. The trees surmounted him, their branches turning into arms that tried to grab him, tear him into a thousand pieces. He felt his eyes blurring as he ran through the forest. He didn’t even know if he was running straight anymore. He didn’t stop; he swore there was something with him, waiting to attack. He looked behind him, desperate for a sign. He needed to prove to himself that he wasn’t going crazy.
He landed into something—hard. Dean made a noise of shock and frustration, almost falling backwards. As he looked up, he saw him—smiling at him in robes as dark as death.
“Hello, Dean,” said Castiel.
Dean stared. The king looked beautiful. Beautiful and wicked. He could not look away.
“You,” Dean whispered, aghast.
“Surprised to see me?”
Dean’s fists clenched. He was right; he had been followed, watched by the imposter who coined himself a king. Castiel had something to do with Bobby’s disappearance; he just knew it.
“Where’s Bobby?” he asked forcibly. His voice strained from shouting.
Castiel merely smiled.
“I don’t know,” he said sweetly, looking through Dean to his very core. “You really shouldn’t lose things so easily.”
Dean took a step forward, his fists still clenched.
“You’re a son-of-a-bitch, did you know that?”
“Actually,” Castiel pondered, “my mother was a lovely woman. Quite like yours.”
Dean looked at him fiercely. Mary’s face flickered in his mind, and he was stilled.
“Don’t talk about her.” He spoke in a threatening whisper. “I know she’s here. You’ve taken her from me, just like you took Sammy.”
Castiel rolled his eyes. He took a step towards the prince; started to circle him like a vulture would its prey.
“I didn’t take your mother, Dean,” the king said amusedly.
“Don’t you remember what happened?” he asked, circling closer, his voice barely a whisper. “The heat on your skin? The smoke…” he breathed, putting a finger to Dean and letting it fall lazily down his chest. “How it caressed your lungs and choked you?”
Dean grabbed his knife.
“I’m gonna kill you!” he said, thrashing the dagger at the king.
Castiel took a hold of his arm, and as easily, shook the knife from Dean’s grasp so it fell to the floor in a loud, piercing shatter.
“Are you sure?” he asked, smiling.
The king had stopped circling him, and their eyes were levelled.
“Every time we meet, you’re captivated,” Castiel said, and he still had his hand on him. “You can’t take your eyes off me, even now.”
Dean swallowed.
“You are so full of shit.”
Castiel let go of him, and edged his head closer.
“I can hear your heart beating,” he said softly. “It’s so loud.”
He was right. Dean’s heart was banging in his chest—thunderous, incapacitating.
“Dean,” Castiel purred. “Don’t you wonder why? You should hate me.”
Dean willed himself to speak.
“I do,” he said weakly.
“No.” Castiel shook his head. “You want to, but you don’t.”
He smiled.
“You cling so desperately to a hatred you feel like you should have, but you just can’t quite grasp it.”
He broke Dean’s gaze, and began to circle him again. Dean felt so small, like he could disappear at any moment.
“Hate is a powerful thing, Dean,” Castiel continued. “I have felt it. It is what feeds my labyrinth.”
He stopped abruptly, and Dean’s breath caught in his throat. Castiel stared him down, shrinking Dean into nothing.
“You come here, to my home,” he said, and his voice was like velvet. “You try to be engulfed by it, but you can’t. Don’t you wonder why?”
The king stepped closer.
“I can show you why.”
Castiel stared at Dean’s lips for a moment, and licked his own gently. He began to close the space between them, ever so slowly. Every part of Dean’s body told him to run, to hit him—anything, but he remained as solid as stone. Castiel was so close now, he could feel his breath on him. The king’s eyes were piercing and familiar, as if he had stared into them a thousand times. Dean could feel himself disappearing. He was so still, and so ready. He closed his eyes.
Finally, Castiel kissed him.
The touch of his lips made Dean’s world stop turning. The warmth, the lightness of it, Dean felt like he had waited for this moment for years. He abandoned everything then, his body sinking against Castiel as he kissed him back. After a moment, Castiel faltered. He brushed his lips against Dean’s cheek and against his ear.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, almost teasingly. Dean felt Castiel’s arms around him, brushing through his hair and making him shiver in a thousand different places. His instincts had all but disappeared. For that moment, they were not enemies. Dean was entranced, captivated, and he realised: so very willing.
“No,” he whispered in a sigh, and Castiel put his lips back on his. They remained like that for a second, soft and delicate, almost shy. The king cupped his hands around Dean’s face and pressed his lips harder; the kiss becoming faster, hungrier.
“Open your mouth,” Castiel groaned, his voice low and breathless. The sweetness of Castiel’s tongue met Dean’s until both their lips were wet. Dean held on to Castiel’s hair, their legs entwined as the king pushed him roughly against a tree. Dean moaned into Castiel’s mouth, his whole body hardening at the closeness of their touch. Dean had kissed a lot of people in his life, but never like this. Whenever he had been physical with someone, he had never been able to escape a dreading sense of detachment, like it wasn’t really him—as if he was watching it happen to someone else entirely. Even with Lisa, who he had secretly imagined he might have a future with, had never filled him the way Castiel was doing now. Dean was awake, he was truly there, and he craved Castiel—kissed him like it was his lifeline. Everything he had done, everyone he had killed, it was all meaningless. The only thing that mattered now was Castiel, his hardness pushing into him, his hands on him, his force, and his warmth.
And then Dean opened his eyes.
He was alone, his body slumped against the trunk of a dying tree. His heart was beating manically, his breaths coming quick and shallow. A moment ago, he had had his arms around Castiel’s neck, kissing him like one breath apart would have killed them both. He looked around him then, desperate for the sight of something, someone for it all to make sense. He placed a finger to his lips; they were dry and throbbing, as if they had been bit into. He looked down, and realised his jeans were resting tightly against his crotch.
Dean closed his eyes; a mix of both shame and nausea rising in him. He hadn’t even remembered falling asleep. Even so, in all his life, he had never had a dream be so vivid before. He was ashamed. For the first time since being in the labyrinth, he was truly alone, and it had only taken him a second to fall so blindly. Castiel was his enemy. He was going to kill him. Kill him… or kiss him.
Dear God, he wanted so badly to kiss him.
“Stop it!” he screamed, and banged his head back against the tree. Dean stood up and looked around him wildly. There was no one there. He wished Bobby was with him; he missed Meg. He just needed someone, anyone to distract him from the thoughts that had been creeping in his head the minute he had first laid eyes on the king.
The silver glitter of his knife caught his eye. He saw it, lying there on the ground a few yards from where he had been sleeping. Dean walked over to it slowly, picking it up and running a finger down the blunt edge. He looked around him.
“Castiel?” he said out loud, his voice echoing through the trees. “Castiel, are you there?”
He half expected the king to appear, his blue eyes gleaming as he came and took him again, but there was only silence. Dean picked his bag up from the floor and put it over his shoulder. He looked behind him falteringly, waiting. He wanted to say the king’s name again, but he stopped himself. Dean sighed, and began to walk through the dim-lit forest, through the dead trees that seemed to whisper to him, whisper things that shamed him to hear.
Castiel sat on the edge of his bed, breathing quickly. He could still feel Dean’s skin beneath his fingertips. His lips were still wet from the kiss.
It had been so hard for him to stop. For a second—only a second, Castiel had allowed himself to become lost completely.
He had never expected the spell to work so strongly. Not at the beginning, not from their first meeting since uttering those strange, beautiful words. He’d anticipated tension, a stolen look. Goosebumps, perhaps. It hadn’t even been his plan to kiss the boy. No, that would have come later. But seeing him, standing there; Dean’s heartbeat fluttering and the boy close to breathless, Castiel could not stop himself.
It had been years since he had kissed someone. It had never bothered him before, for there was no one in his vile cesspool of a kingdom that was even close to deserving. He had spent the last centuries preparing for the brothers’ arrival, planning and articulating his plan to overcome them. Castiel had had no time for anything else.
But now the brothers were here. Dean was here, and he was better than Castiel’s crystal had ever prepared him for. He was so beautiful, so perfect, and even with the spell just starting to take hold, he had already given himself to Castiel ever so deliciously... The king had allowed himself to forget the plan, only for a moment, so he could enjoy Dean’s taste, the sounds he made when Castiel kissed him harder. It made him realise just how much he had missed it; the touch of another person. The hot purr of their breath on him, their body surrendering as they gave in.
Castiel wasn’t thinking about just anyone now. The king shivered as he recalled the feel of Dean’s hands on him, refusing to let go.
That couldn’t have just been the spell, Castiel thought.
The king shook his head.
“Get a fucking grip,” he said to himself, throwing his thoughts away. He stood up.
Dean was nothing, nothing but a game to be played. His plan was going exactly how it was supposed to, so Castiel needed to follow it exactly—rigidly, meticulously—or his rule would be over. He would not allow himself any more spontaneity. The kiss had been a reckless thing to do.
He refused to lose himself again. He just couldn’t.
As Castiel walked back to the throne room, he could feel a sinking feeling in his soul. It told him that things were different. That his grip on the world was beginning to loosen. That something in him was changing, breaking apart—that he was no longer the same.
And you never will be again, a voice said, and Castiel had to stop himself from trembling.