Chapter Text
It had been a long and lonely mile; the world around Dean was silent, and the trees had parted to reveal a dusty, forgotten trail. A sick feeling had settled itself in the pit of Dean’s stomach. It was dull and constant, and it was a feeling that had become most familiar during his time in the labyrinth.
Dean no longer walked with the knife in his bag. He needed to hold it, tightly in his hand, so he could kill anyone—anything, at a moment’s notice. He could not trust the silence anymore. It deafened him: echoes of creatures that walked on walls, men with eyes as black as night, friends lost along the way, and a king with a beautiful face and a heart made of stone.
He kept walking. Eventually dirt turned to sand, and the air began to feel warm and breezy against his face. This place seemed different from the rest of the labyrinth, separate, as if it was not so vigilantly ruled by the man in the guarded castle. Dean walked up a hill, letting the sand seep into his shoes. He stopped when he reached the peak. Down below him was a structure of golden rock, grand and beautiful, but very old. Although it was only the size of Dean’s hand from where he stood, it made him feel very small. He did not want to go towards it, but his feet moved regardless.
The structure became bigger, until at last it towered over him, blocking out the sun and cloaking him in shadow. Dean approached it slowly, his boots sinking with every step. The doors to the fort were wide open, and Dean walked through them wearily. Inside was more stone, carved circularly to resemble a colosseum. He was now in the home of an enemy, and his dagger seemed to vibrate in his hand. It knew it would be seeing blood very soon.
Something made Dean look up. It was a man up above him, sitting regally against a stone seat.
“Welcome to my home, Dean,” the man said pleasantly. “It’s an honour to meet you in person at last.”
Dean stared up at him, his brows knitting together. Something about him seemed familiar.
“I understand you’re here to collect something,” the man continued, a smile on his face.
“If you want to put it that way.”
The demon chuckled, and got up from his seat. He pondered where he stood a moment, and then jumped down to Dean’s level. The thud of his landing shook the walls, and dust from the stone simmered like smoke around them.
The demon was close enough to touch now. He grinned at Dean with a face aged but handsome, and with eyes that shone a brilliant yellow. They were a curious sight to behold, and Dean couldn’t help but stare.
“My, my, my, you look like you have been through hell and back, my boy, a far cry different than the handsome devil I remember from topside.”
His words were strange, and his tone cruel and confusing. The demon only laughed.
“Children,” he addressed the fort loudly, “where are your manners? Come out from the shadows and give Azazel and our Righteous Prince the audience we deserve!”
Slowly, figures emerged from behind the golden stone and uncovered themselves above them. They were men and women of similar ages, sombre and battle-worn, hungry yet unified. They looked down at their master and the prince in tranquil stance, so calm and still they could have been statues carved from the walls.
“Who are they?” Dean asked, trying to study each of their faces.
“They are my children,” Azazel said lovingly, “and I am their father. They have been eager to meet you for many years, Dean. You see, they want to see you prove yourself, to see if you’re really the man the prophecy says you are.” He lowered his voice and edged his head closer. “I, however, know exactly the kind of man you are. You have that same look to you that I have seen in so few others.”
Dean swallowed nervously.
“And what look is that?”
“The look of a man who has tasted the kind of death that only the thick flames of fire can leave.”
His yellow eyes seemed to flicker as he said this, as if there was a fire burning behind his very skin.
“I love fire, you see,” he whispered intently. “Everything about it. The heat, the colours, the way it climbs and dances like it has a mind of its own. I love fire, and I know those that have been touched by fire. You are one of those people, Dean.
“Tell me,” he said, circling him, “did you think you were going to die in that house? Did you feel yourself burning from the inside out, your whole body consuming that hot, thick sweetness until you could no longer breathe?”
Dean’s grip on his dagger began to tighten.
“Can’t say I remember thinking all that clearly.”
“Yes,” Azazel nodded, “your biggest concern was saving your mother and brother, wasn’t it? You were very valiant that day, Dean.”
Dean looked at the demon strangely.
“How do you know so much about it?” he demanded. “Did Castiel tell you?”
The yellow-eyed man shook his head, and laughed loudly.
“No. I watched it happen with my own eyes.”
Dean shuddered.
“You were there?”
“Oh, I was everywhere, sunny boy!” Azazel grinned elatedly, his voice so loud it echoed throughout the fort.
“I… was the fire. I was the hand that set it.”
His yellow eyes gleamed as he spoke the next words slowly, a cruel sweetness, a dark tone of triumph:
“I burned down your house and killed your pretty mother, and every second of it filled me with joy.”
Dean stared. His body halted. His thoughts disappeared. He felt the dagger begin to vibrate, begging to kill again.
He swung wildly at the demon, his body possessed once more with the instinct to destroy. Azazel dodged the tip barely, throwing his body backwards and recovering on bended knees. He stood up and laughed again.
“I’ll kill you!” Dean screamed, ready to lunge with the dagger once more. He groaned in pain and surprise as he felt a punch to the back of his head. He fell heavily to the ground and dropped the knife. The demon that had struck him picked it up and threw it towards Azazel, who caught it with a swift hand.
“Oh, but you still haven’t heard the best of it!” Azazel said, standing over him with a grin on his face. “After I set that fire, I never left! In fact, I made myself quite comfortable among that little family of yours. ‘Guilty men don’t cry,’ Dean, do you remember?”
Dean’s eyes widened, his pain suddenly forgotten. Of course he remembered; those were the words his father had said to him the day of Mary’s funeral.
“Oh, what a sorry man your father was,” Azazel continued, grabbing a hand at Dean and pulling him up roughly. “So easy to break, how quick it took to climb inside his head. John was in there all along, forced to watch the abandonment of his second-born and the abuse of his first. Oh, what a sweet, sweet torture. He never stopped loving you, and you forsaked him. If only you’d been a little more forgiving… the poor man had just lost his wife, his home! You should have been there for him. Then perhaps the real John might have been able to break through...”
Azazel’s voice trailed off, and instead he began to laugh at Dean, slowly and quietly as the realisation set on the boy’s tired face. His head began to hurt as his vision became dark and cloudy. He could barely stand.
All those months… all those months he’d spent hating his father for the pain he had put him through. All those months he’d spent hating him because he blamed himself for the monster John had become. And now, to be told that it wasn’t true, that John hadn’t changed at all, but had spent all that time trapped in his own body as the demon Azazel wore his face… it was too much.
Azazel’s laugh got louder, and the sounds of his Children becoming more agitated filled the fort until it was all Dean could hear.
“You’ve come to collect from me, but I will not deliver,” Azazel said, his laughter subsiding. “No, my plans for Sam are too important.”
“Sam?” Dean was brought back to reality by the sound of his brother’s name.
“Sammy’s special. I’m sure you would have realised that if you hadn’t spent so long resenting him. I’ve been watching your brother since the day he was born. He’s everything the prophecy says; the Damned Prince, the true leader of demons. He is my king, and I will do anything to make that happen.”
Dean willed his head to stop spinning. He had to be strong in the face of this man. He hated him. He hated him more than he hated Castiel.
“You will not have my brother.”
Azazel only shrugged wickedly.
“Don’t you see? I’ve already got him. He’s here, isn’t he? The only thing standing in my way is you.
“Shall I wear John’s face once more?” he asked, and at that moment, Azazel’s features changed to that of the dark, disheveled appearance of his father. “You should see something familiar before I destroy you.”
Dean stumbled backwards. It had only been a short while since he had last seen John Winchester, but looking at him now, it was like staring at a ghost.
“You let your mother die.” his father said, walking slowly towards him. “You were too weak to save her!”
Dean closed his eyes and shook his head wildly.
“You’re not real!”
When he opened his eyes again, John was still there, approaching him slowly, his eyes brimmed with hatred.
“I am real,” he said darkly. “I’m the only thing you’ve got left.”
John raised his hand and smacked Dean across the face—hard—throwing him to the ground.
He picked Dean up again, only to hit him again and again—in the face, in the stomach, punching, kicking, tearing.
He let go of Dean eventually; his body slumping to the floor in a lifeless heap.
“Fight back, boy,” he heard John say, though it was muted by the sound of his heartbeat banging in his ears. “Fight back!”
He couldn’t. This hadn’t been the first time John had hit him. As he lay on the ground, the taste of blood filling in his mouth, all he could do was stare up at his father blindly. For a moment, he forgot where he was.
John sunk to the floor and raised the dagger to Dean’s throat.
“Would it kill its own master if I willed it to?” he questioned. “It has tasted so much death I fear it would betray you to taste some more. Righteous blood… oh, it would be sweet enough, I’m sure of it. Let’s try it, shall we?”
“Father!”
A voice from behind Dean halted Azazel a moment. He looked past the boy’s broken form and glared.
“Meg.”
Dean struggled to look behind him. The demon was standing there, looking disheveled yet fierce in the doorway of the fort.
“Get away from him,” she said slowly.
Dean was overcome with a strange feeling. The last time he had seen Meg, he had been angry at her, betrayed by her disloyalty. He had come to terms with the fact that she had fled forever and would never be coming back. But he had been wrong. There she stood, breathless and beautiful and more loyal than he could give credit for.
Azazel scowled at her, his eyes darkening to their true colour.
“You order me?”
Meg strode across the fort, her fists clenched.
“I won’t let you touch him!”
The Children poised themselves, ready to attack, but Azazel raised a finger.
“You’re a silly little girl, Meg, always have been. Stop this foolishness and do your father proud, for once in your life.”
“Dean, now!”
Dean grabbed the dagger from Azazel’s grasp. It sunk into him in sickening impact, the sound of blade going through flesh and hitting hard bone. Azazel looked down at the knife, and then back up at Dean. He smiled manically, placed a grip on the handle of the knife, and pulled it out very slowly. He got up, and the red of his blood ran from the wound until he was standing in a pool of his own insides. His Children laughed at the sight, and began shifting from their positions from the upper level. Some climbed, others jumped down into the arena, and walked slowly behind their father, their black eyes just as hungry as his yellow ones.
“No!” Meg screamed, and she lunged at Azazel, knocking him down and trying to pry the dagger out of his hands.
“Dean!” she managed through struggled breaths. “Use the arrow! The arrow, Dean!”
He had been so used to killing with the ancient dagger that he had almost forgotten the weapon that had been leant to him from Tessa, the daughter of Death.
He clumsily unveiled the bow from around his chest and pulled out an arrow from the quiver on his back. He placed the arrow against the string with a shaking hand. Immediately the tip burst into flame. The Children and Azazel stared at the fire in mesmerisation. He pushed his daughter away and stood up slowly.
He still wore John’s face. He looked away from the burning arrow and into Dean, the way he used to do, before the fire that Azazel had set.
“I’m so proud of you, son,” he said, his voice sounding kind and warm and full of tears. Dean’s breath caught in his throat.
“It wasn’t your fault, what happened,” John continued, his tone trembling. “You saved your brother, and I never thanked you.
“Please, put down the arrow. We can be a family again.”
Dean’s hands shook so violently he could barely keep the arrow in place. How long had he waited to hear those words? He knew it was a trick, he knew it wasn’t real—but he let himself fall for it anyway. He was so tired of waiting, so tired of hating his father for what they had lost, that it didn’t matter that this man was an imposter, and that they were in this strange, hostile place. He needed to be forgiven, and this version of John was willing to do that.
His fingers trembled, and the arrow fell from the string.
“Dean, no!” cried Meg. At that moment, the Children reached her, and began to surmount her as she struggled on the ground, screaming and tearing at them with her nails.
He watched as Meg and the demons fought, watched as her form was beaten and torn. She had come back to him even though she hadn’t had to. She was sacrificing herself, just like Chuck and Becky had done. He couldn’t let that happen again.
He looked into the eyes of his father, who was smiling at him softly. Dean only shook his head. He would prove to Azazel what kind of man he really was.
He raised the arrow once more, letting the tip blaze red with fire.
John looked at him, terrified.
“You wouldn’t kill your own dad, would you?”
Dean pulled his arm back.
“You’re not my father,” he said, and let go.
The arrow flew into Azazel’s chest, quicker than a heartbeat. John’s face disappeared and he was once again the demon with the bright yellow-eyes. Azazel made a noise; a strangled, rapturous sound that was somewhere between pain and elation. His body burst into flames, and for the last few moments, all anyone could hear was the sound of his laughter before he turned to dust.
The Children got off Meg, who was ravaged and bloody. They did nothing but stare at Dean from where they stood. Meg got up clumsily and ran to Dean’s side, staring at the little mountain of ash in the middle of the room.
She looked at Dean, and handed him the knife with an apologetic look on her face. Dean took it and looked back at her strangely. Her face was covered in dirt, and blood was dripping from the side of her mouth. He reached up a hand and brushed it away softly.
“You came back,” he said.
“I never should have left,” she replied.
He looked towards the ash, the only thing remaining of the demon Azazel. She had known all along that he was coming here to kill him, her own flesh and blood, but she had never said a word. He had no idea how she must have been feeling in that very moment.
He hugged her awkwardly. It was over almost as quickly as it had begun, but when they pulled apart she was smiling at him, in a sad, grateful kind of way.
“Now,” she said quietly, “collect his… Use your vial.”
Dean took out the glass vial from the knapsack that leant against his side. It was already filled a quarter of the way with the blood he had collected from inside Death’s courtroom. He walked slowly towards the ash, bent down, and grabbed a handful of it with a grubby fist. He poured the ash into it and placed the wooden cork back on the top. He placed the vial inside his bag and stood up slowly, realising Azazel’s army of demons were still stood watching him from around the fort.
“Meg...?” he asked quietly, backing away to where she stood. “Why are they staring at me?”
“Because you’re their new father,” she said, without a hint of irony.
“Father,” they said in unison, and sunk to their knees, bowing their heads in servitude.
“They’re yours to command,” came Meg’s voice beside him. “They’ll do anything you ask of them.”
“Like help me kill Castiel?”
At that moment, one of the Children stood up. He was tall, and struck a surprising resemblance to the demon Dean had just killed. He walked over to Dean, and bowed again, though his eyes did not leave Meg’s face.
“Tom,” she said through stricken breath.
“Sister,” he replied solemnly, neither with love or resentment.
Dean raised his brow, trying to count the demons in the room.
“How many kids does this guy have…?”
“We are the originals,” Tom interrupted. “Azazel’s true children. The rest are merely tools to make up his army.”
Dean shifted awkwardly.
“Sorry about, breaking up the family and all…”
Tom ignored him, and put a hand in his coat pocket.
“This weapon belonged to Azazel,” he said, pulling out a small, sphere shaped bottle and handing it to Dean. “It’s yours now.”
“Fire Breath,” he read, the label almost faded.
“One sip is enough,” was all Tom replied.
“Your next destination is the Tower,” he continued, his voice deep and unfeeling. “Walk past the fort and travel over three hills. Once you’ve passed the third, walk right until you reach two entrances. The one on the left will take you where you want to go.”
“Okay,” Dean nodded. “What will you do once I leave?”
“Nothing,” said Tom. “Not unless our Father has a command for us?”
Meg poked Dean softly in his side.
“Dean,” she whispered, “we need them.”
He did not have to be told twice.
He looked over at Tom and the rest of the Children, who were watching him intently.
“Wait for me to call you,” he ordered, “I’ll need you with me when I reach Castiel’s city.”
The demons bowed their head, and Tom nodded.
“As you wish.”
Dean and Meg began to walk away, before they heard a voice from behind them call out.
“Azazel told us he would never die.”
Meg looked back at her brother, an unreadable expression on her pretty, bruised face.
“Demons lie, Tom.”
Sam was bored and teary-eyed, having awoken from his nap. Castiel tried bouncing the child on his knee, but the boy was not relenting. He bashed his little fists against Castiel’s chest and wailed indignantly.
“My Lord?” a voice interrupted Sam’s winging. It was his servant.
“Yes, Crowley?” Castiel asked, struggling to keep a grasp on the fidgeting child.
His servant approached him carefully, a look on his face the king had not seen before.
“May I speak to you for a moment? As your friend, and not your servant?”
“Of course,” frowned Castiel. “What is it you’d like to say?”
Crowley sighed, bowing his head.
“I know what you’re planning to do.”
The king smirked.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, Crowley.”
“That amulet,” spoke the servant, his tone blunt. “If Meg gives it to him—”
“She will,” Castiel finished, his jaw tensing with irritability.
Crowley noticed his master’s darkening mood, but continued despite himself.
“I came to tell you that I think you’re making a mistake.”
“A mistake?” the king questioned.
“If you go there,” Crowley said with troubled warning, “he will ruin you.”
Castiel looked at him with hardened eyes.
“Choose your next words carefully, Crowley.”
“My Lord,” the servant argued, forgetting his place. “I can’t just sit here and watch you destroy everything you’ve worked for!”
Castiel stood up quickly, making Crowley jump and Sam wail.
“Who’s to say that I’m destroying anything? Am I not your king, Crowley? Am I not the soul that rose to greatness in this fucking squalor?”
Crowley sighed, and shook his head.
“You put me in this position for a reason, Castiel,” he said, sounding tired. “Because you respect my council, because I am life-or-death devoted to you. So for that reason, you deserve the truth.”
He looked into his ruler’s eyes, and for the first time in a millennia, his irises were the colour of the earth, the way they had been before Castiel had damned him to live inside his world, inside this grand, empty castle.
“My Lord, if you let it happen… he will undo you completely.”
Castiel roared in anger, pushing over the mantle that held his crystal ball. Both landed loudly on the stone ground, and the orb rolled quickly along the floor. It stopped with a thud against the wall ahead.
“Then I will relish every second of it!” the king screamed at his servant. Sam’s cries echoed and rang across the hall, so loud that even the demons outside the castle could hear them.
“Get out of my sight,” Castiel said, and Crowley walked out of the room without bowing.