Chapter Text
Zachariah had watched as the flaming arrow tore into Azazel’s flesh, turning him to ashes; watched as a handful of his remains were placed into a glass vial, its contents already brimming with blood. He watched as an army of demons had bent to their knees, and bowed.
Zachariah’s teeth grit together as Dean and the demon bitch he kept so close walked out of the General’s fortress and back into the maze. He did not know where they were going, or the reason for the vial of blood and ashes. All he knew was that they weren’t going to get much further, and that it was all for nothing.
He turned back, walked a few paces. He drew a line with the tip of his shoe, and watched as the sand began to pour downwards like the inside of an hourglass. Zachariah braced himself, and jumped in.
The drop was short and the ground hard. He blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging with grit. Zachariah shook the last of the sand from atop his bald head and dusted off his torn suit fervently.
He was standing at a dead-end, surrounded by a thick, tall thorn-bush that looked to last for miles. A strange compulsion overcame him, and Zachariah found himself placing a finger to the thorn to touch it. The tip broke the skin instantly, and a thick drop of blood bubbled and ran down his palm.
“It’s sharper than it looks,” came a voice from behind him.
He turned around. The demon Alastair stood a ways back from him in matted clothes that hung heavily against his brittle frame. He smiled at the half-soul, stretching the skin on his face. Their eyes followed each other as both gazes fell to the creature beside him.
A follower hung from the bush, the thorns impaling every inch of his skin. He was completely naked, apart from the spikes lacing his body like embroidery. Blood ran from the punctures and dripped on the ground. Alastair bent towards the demon, and licked his chest, letting his tongue be caught and torn by the thorns.
“Now that’s in poor taste,” said Zachariah repulsively. “Even for you, Alastair.”
Alastair ignored him. He began to walk towards him slowly, his followers ensuing behind on all fours, like a pack of dogs.
“Come to play?” he asked fondly. “My tools have always wanted to see what the inside of a half-soul looks like.”
Zachariah cleared his throat. He tried to look forbidding, but the bead of sweat that ran down his temple betrayed him.
“Tempting though that offer is,” he said, chuckling nervously. “I’ll pass, thank you.”
Alastair tilted his head playfully, but showed no sign of halting.
“Then why have you come here? My followers are hungry, and I could not deprive them such a sweet meal.”
Zachariah held out a hand.
“I was coming to parley with you,” he countered amiably. “Natural enemies though we are, I believe that if we work together, it could be beneficial for both of us.”
Alastair stopped, and so did his panting creatures.
“Is that so?” he questioned, his interest peaking. “What is it you want?”
“A private meeting with the king,” replied Zachariah sternly. “I have some things I’d like to discuss with the man, but I can’t get past that pretty little pet he has guarding the city gate. Give me your word you’ll get me through, and I’ll give you what you want.”
Alastair raised an eyebrow, his grey eyes glinting blithely.
“And what is that?”
“Two words: Dean Winchester.”
They had passed the third hill. The sun was becoming darker, and the sky was turning back into the same dirt-coloured brown as before. They were eventually met by two twists in the path, one leading right and the other leading left. Tom had told him to follow the latter; that was the one that would lead them to the Tower, where the third and last ingredient was waiting.
“Who’s the Forgotten Sister?” he asked suddenly, and Meg jumped.
“What?” she asked, clearly lost in her own thoughts.
“Chuck mentioned the Forgotten Sister,” he explained, “the one who lives in this Tower we’re going to. Not another one of your relatives, I hope.”
It was in poor taste; he knew it as soon as it had left his mouth. Meg glared at him.
“I don’t know,” she replied after a moment, and Dean thought it best not to delve any more into the issue.
They continued down the path in silence, Dean looking around him in bland interest. It was very much the same yellow-stone walls the labyrinth had been made up of before the forest, and the sandy desert of Azazel’s fort. It was not very much to look at, and each step seemed to take a lifetime.
After a while of more trodding, Meg’s mood must have lightened, because she quickened her step until her and Dean were walking in line, their footsteps matching.
“What happened to that soul,” she questioned, “the one that Alastair was torturing? Did you save him?”
“Yeah, and then I…” Dean’s voice trailed off. He felt stupid to say he lost him, like Bobby was a worn-out slipper he had just casually misplaced.
“We got separated,” he recovered, “somewhere in the woods. I have no idea where he is.”
“I’m sure he’s okay,” Meg assured from beside him. It was surprisingly kind of her to say, even though both of them know that in all likeliness, Bobby was not okay at all.
Their conversation quietened once more. He did not want to lose Meg again, and especially not in the way he had lost Bobby. He kept his pace in time with hers, hoping that his stage in the woods was the last time he was to be alone until he reached Sammy. Killing Azazel, and travelling with Meg again, had both been welcome distractions from his dream about Castiel. The thought of the king’s hands through his hair crept inside Dean’s head, latching on to it and playing itself on a loop. A shiver went through him, and he felt himself stir. Dean looked down with a start, and, realising what was happening, nervously covered himself with his hands.
“Wonderful weather we’re having, huh?” he said, willing his thoughts to shift to anything other than the ones that were currently playing in his head.
“Yeah,” replied Meg sarcastically, though thankfully she was still looking ahead of her. “If you like stale air and the colour of shit.”
They continued walking, and eventually Dean felt it safe enough to remove his hands from in front of his jeans, and let them sway lazily at his sides. He had found all of the ingredients he needed to defeat Castiel; he just needed to find one more. This nightmare could all be over soon, he could be back in the real world, and Sam could finally be safe. He did not know how he could have hated his brother before. All he wanted now was to be with him again, squeeze Sam’s fat little cheeks and hold him close and never let go. Azazel had wanted Dean to lose, because he had wanted his brother to remain in this world, and be a king. It was a strange thought, but Sam was a prince as well. Only, he was not Righteous as Dean had been described. He was Damned. His purpose was not to free the souls, but to rule over them. Demons like Azazel worshipped Sam, like the souls who had a chance of escaping worshipped Dean.
Dean frowned. Sam was just a baby. He was not what Azazel said he was, he just couldn’t be…
Dean’s thoughts were rushed back into reality when he heard a metallic bang, followed by a yelp, from beside him. A trap had emerged from the stone ground and latched itself around Meg’s foot.
“Dean!” she screamed, holding her leg in pain. “Help me!”
He grabbed at the trap, prying it open with all his strength. The claws were so sharp they dug into his hands, and blood began to fall from them and on to his sleeves. Meg pulled her foot out. It was bleeding as well, though much quicker. She let out a small sob as she tried to put weight on it, but the pain was too much. Dean grabbed her as she collapsed into him, but a dark chuckle from ahead made him look up.
“Did you like that?” the familiar voice asked. “I made it myself, just in time for your arrival.”
Molten anger rose in him as he looked into the eyes of the man before him.
“Zachariah…” he breathed, barely getting the word out. He wanted to kill him.
“I’ve got to admit, Dean,” uttered the half-soul, strolling towards him. “I was more than a little offended after our little run-in before, and then to find out you escaped the oubliette unharmed? Well, I was positively outraged.” He stopped a little ways ahead, and clasped his hands together with eagerness. “But, now I realise, it was all just leading up to one glorious moment.”
“What moment?” Dean asked him, his hands creeping into the fold of his bag, the vibration of his dagger thirsting for blood once more.
Zachariah smiled.
“This one.”
Sharp, dirtied hands appeared around him, throwing both Dean and Meg to the ground. He looked up wildly, struggling under the creatures’ savage embrace. A man stood over him then, his figure blocking out the shape of the sun. Dean was plunged into darkness, but not before he looked into the demon’s eyes, and saw the face of Alastair, smiling down at him with a hunger that was strong enough to consume the world.
The demons in Castiel’s throne room had picked up the mantle and retrieved his crystal ball without a word. A sullen, hard-faced demon had taken Sam into her arms and carried him through the door, his wails still audible from down the hall. Castiel closed his eyes, his fingers to his temple. That same headache had returned, seizing him motionless to his cold, decorated throne.
Crowley’s words swam around in his head, becoming lost and fragmented until all he could think about was the pounding against his eye. He looked at his ball beside him, its interior a cool, glacial mist. A long crack had set against the glass the shape of a river. He ran a finger down it slowly, tracing the indent. As if awoken, the mist inside began to clear, and a broken image of the prince appeared amidst it. Castiel’s finger edged across the crack, until it fell upon the boy’s damaged image. He stroked the crystal so softly he barely even knew he was doing it. The last time he had seen that face, he had been close enough to touch him, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. His touch fell to Dean’s lips, and he outlined them, remembering how they had felt against his.
He stopped when he realised Dean was bleeding, that he was tied in shackles made of thorns. The image shifted, and revealed more faces in the mist—that of Meg, and Alastair, and his following of rabid animals.
His soft touch turned rigid, and another crack, as quick as lightening, marked its way across the surface.
“Alastair,” he summoned urgently, his voice low and paramount.
He could see the demon lose concentration. Alastair’s tools quivered slightly in his masterful hands, and he looked directly at Castiel through the crystal ball—but only for a moment. After a second, he regained his grip, and continued his way towards the prince.
“Alastair,” Castiel said again, “come to the castle.”
The demon could ignore him, now. That time, he didn’t even blink.
“As your king, I command you. Come to the castle. Now.”
A dark shadow had been cast over the throne room; the demons inside it knew it, and they feared for their safety for whatever was about to happen.
“Don’t defy me,” the king said slowly, his tone colder than ice. “You lay one finger on that boy and you will regret it.”
But Alastair could not be swayed. He advanced on the prince, and all the broken crystal could show next was just how much his tools shone.
“Who will volunteer?” The king suddenly said, standing. “Who will volunteer to enter the labyrinth?”
His demons looked up at him, nervous, yet eager to serve.
“I want Alastair and his followers scattered. Understood?”
A scarred, short demon stepped forward, bowing.
“What of the prince?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“It’s not the prince I’m concerning you with!” shouted Castiel. “Now, will you do it?”
The demon bowed again, and edged a finger towards his friend, who stepped to his side.
“Aye, your lordship.”
Castiel watched them leave, barely blinking as the great door slammed behind them.
He will ruin you, a voice taunted him from somewhere far away.
Meg was crying silently from beside Dean, her body held down by the horde of Alastair’s demons. Dean himself did not cry, only stared Alastair down as if bravery enough could save him. Alastair liked that, the silence before the storm. But he would make him scream. He always did.
He had stripped Dean gradually, savouring every inch of skin. Once his chest was bare, Alastair had bent over, and licked Dean slowly, from the top of his naval to the tip of his chin. He tasted the dirt, the sweat, and the blood of both Dean and those he’d killed along the way. An animalistic groan erupted from deep inside Alastair. The taste of Dean had sent him into elation, the touch of his skin had awoken the creature inside him. Meg cried and begged for mercy, offered herself to him instead, but Alastair could barely hear her. Dean Winchester was more beautiful than anything he’d ever known. The kings of the past were meek in comparison, so ugly, indiscernible from the crowd of lost faces he’d destroyed with his tools.
“I can hear the king whispering in my ear,” he said, his voice so low only Dean could hear. “Calling. I know he’s going to be angry with me for ruining your pretty body, but I just can’t help myself.”
He stroked Dean’s face with the tip of his blade. A tiny slither of liquid appeared from the sheath, and dribbled down the boy’s face. He screamed at Alastair, made promises of his destruction, but to the demon, his words were barely louder than whimpers.
“My tools and I have been searching for our masterpiece for many years,” he told him. “I have grown so tired of the same, ugly faces, the same boorish cries for mercy. I have tainted my weapons with blood of the common-horde for far too long. I need to give them something real.”
Alastair put his tongue to Dean’s cheek and licked him once more, the blood of his cut filling up inside the demon’s mouth.
“I ache for you, Dean Winchester,” he breathed. “I want to drink every litre of blood. I want to birth you again, cut you into a thousand beautiful pieces. Only then will I have my masterpiece.”
Alastair drew a silent circle where Dean’s heart beat behind. That would be his reward, when all this was over.
Meg watched as the demon whispered into Dean’s ear. He had done that with her years ago, when she had been victim to the madman’s tools. The scars they had left suddenly stung under her clothes, as if the wounds had been reopened. She couldn’t let Dean be destroyed as he had almost done to her. Not now, not now they were so close. Everything was happening as it was supposed to, and this was not part of the plan.
Dean’s knapsack lay abandoned a few metres away. The dagger rested inside, waiting to be used. If she could only get it to the prince, and watch as Dean cut into the creatures as they had hoped to do to him.
The pain in her foot was abandoned. She could not be scared anymore. She kicked the creatures hard in their shins, surely breaking bone. They fell away from her, howling, and Meg dove towards the bag. She grabbed the knife, it feeling hot and heavy in her hand, and attempted to throw it to Dean. But Alastair’s creatures were upon her, and they would destroy her before she destroyed their master. Without hope, Meg thrashed wildly, until the dagger met flesh and she plunged it deep within. A noise of shock and ecstasy filled her ears. She pulled the knife out, and the demon it had welcomed fell down to the floor—lifeless. The demons looked at the fallen creature, and then back up at Meg, suddenly their purpose conflicted.
“Don’t just stand there!” called the voice of their master. “Get her!”
The followers threw themselves at her, willing to die. And they did. Meg suddenly understood what she saw when Dean would kill with the knife; the abandonment of sanity, of the logical. She was now the dagger and the dagger was her. It did not take long for the rest of the demons to die, and even Alastair, who had been so close to completing his masterpiece, had turned away from Dean to face her.
“You can slice that thing into me as many times as you like, little bird,” he said, as she approached him. “Only the prince can kill me.”
Meg took one last step forward.
“I think the rules have changed.”
Alastair could not even react, because Meg had thrown out her arm and slit a large cut across the demon’s throat. Thick, dark blood spurted out of him and showered his followers. He gurgled, tried to speak, but he was dead before he hit the ground.
Dean stared at Alastair’s body, who lay at the top of his men. Meg had killed him with Dean’s own weapon, something Chuck had not foreseen.
Before he could speak, Meg had already put up a hand to shush him.
“Someone’s coming,” she said.
He did not move fast enough, so Meg shoved him.
“Quick,” she whispered, “behind that hedge!”
Dean crouched behind the shrubbery, pulling off the thorned shackles from his wrists, as Meg faced down their second lot of assailants. There were two of them, one short and ugly, the other tall, with a faraway look to his shallow face. They weren’t dressed in rags as Alastair’s demons had been, their clothes were of leather, fur, and dark cotton; they even wore shoes.
Meg stared them down, and she could sense the demons’ trepidation in approaching her. She must have looked truly menacing—her face and body dripped with blood that wasn’t her own, and all around her lay the corpses of Alastair and his loyal, mindless slaves.
“You’re city dwellers, aren’t you?” she asked them. “What are you doing outside the gate?”
The shorter one stood upright, an attempt at cowing.
“A little birdy told us the Righteous Prince was here,” he snarled, “strapped in leather and bleedin’ out ev’ry hole.”
Meg’s fists clenched.
“The little birdy told you a lie,” she replied quietly, her tone in warning. “Now, get out of here.”
The demon let out a quick, dismissive laugh.
“Don’t tell us you killed them?”
“Would you believe it if I said I did?” she asked, looking down at the faces of the dead around her. Even now, the followers did not look at peace, for each of their expressions was one of surprise and anguish. Some of them even looked gleeful; perhaps honoured to have finally died. Alastair, however, held no such display. He still had his eyes open, and he seemed to be looking right back at Meg as she stood over him. It was harrowing.
“Tell the king his magic is dying,” she said, her attention back on the two demons. “The closer the prince gets to the city the weaker he becomes. The rules are changing in this place, can’t you feel it? Now, look into Alastair’s eyes. Do you want the same fate?”
They looked, the fear evident on their faces as the dead demon looked back at them.
“Go, then,” she warned.
The short demon snarled, but turned to leave regardless.
“We’ll be sure to give the king your friendly regards,” he said, calling back, his dimwitted friend in pursuit.
“If by that you mean a kick in the groin,” she shouted back at him, “then go for it!”
Meg did not look back at Dean straight away, but stood still for a few moments. Once she was satisfied they had gone, she ducked down past the hedge and pulled Dean up with a clenched palm.
“They’ve gone back to the city,” she said tensely. “Castiel must have sent them.”
“How did you know they were from the city?”
Meg shrugged.
“Their clothes, mostly. Those that live by the castle can enjoy certain… amenities anyone outside the city can only dream of.”
Dean deliberated for a moment.
“Why did Castiel send them?” he finally asked, unsure if he wanted the answer.
Meg only looked at him, delaying her gaze, as if she was pondering the carefulness of her response. But in the end, she only shook her head.
“Come on. You may not be bleeding out of every hole, but you still look like shit. You should rest.”
“But my brother—”
“A five minute breather isn’t going to change anything.”
She handed him his shirt and he took it gratefully, putting it back on over his aching shoulders.
“Come on.”
They walked together a moment until they came across two rocks, forming out of the ground like solid cushions. They sat down, and both of them let out a long, tired sigh.
“How many times is it I’ve saved your ass now?” Meg asked, a hint of laughter to her words.
Dean shoved her lightly.
“Pfft,” he said, then smiled. “I know why you do it.”
He put a hand to his cut cheek and stroked it mockingly. “This irresistible face.”
They both laughed. Meg had a nice-sounding giggle, feminine and natural. It made Dean warm to hear it.
“You killed them,” he said, suddenly serious. “I thought I was the only one who could do that.”
“So did I,” Meg shrugged. “But it’s like I said. Castiel’s magic is weakening with every step you take. Eventually, anyone can be killed.”
“Like Castiel?”
“He could always be killed,” she countered. “But only by you. By only one way.”
“I’m sorry about before,” he said, his voice grave. “I didn’t want you to go. You were afraid, and I was too caught up in my heroics to get it.” He paused, looking at her chocolate-coloured eyes. “But now I do.”
Meg furrowed her brows slightly, and looked away. She set her gaze downwards as she nervously played with her hands.
“It’s okay,” she finally said, but Dean shook his head.
“No,” he argued kindly. “I cast you out, and then I killed your father right in front of you.”
He stopped talking, his stomach suddenly tight with nerves.
“I have no idea how you must be feeling,” he said then, trying to figure out the look in her eyes.
Meg did not reply straight away. She continued playing with her hands, looping her fingers back and forth and stroking the tips of her nails.
“Honestly?” she said after a while, finally looking at him. “I don’t know either. How did you feel when your mother died?”
Dean let out a quick breath. He had never been asked that before.
“Sad… Angry,” he reflected gawkily. “But guilty, most of all.”
“I feel none of those things,” replied Meg. “I don’t think I feel anything, except, maybe relief.”
“That he’s gone?”
She shook her head, frowning.
“That I’m not in his debt anymore.”
It was a strange answer, but Dean wanted to understand.
“Does this have something to do with your brother, about the army he had?”
Meg looked ahead of her. They were at a high-point of the labyrinth, and they could see for miles. The top of Castiel’s kingdom peaked over the trees, beckoning them—taunting them.
“We are an… old family,” she began, her voice quiet. “We have lived in this place longer than I can even calculate, even before Castiel decided to grace us with his presence. We were privileged before the uprising, so when our almighty lord trapped the old king and proclaimed himself true leader of the Lost, my father decided to use it to his advantage. We weren’t going to become one of the ‘rabble,’ as he liked to call them, we were going to live exactly the way we did before, with some… added benefits…” Her voice trailed off, and she scowled regretfully.
“My father was very pleased,” she recovered, with hardness, “when the Prophet told the king about you and your brother. He persuaded Castiel to make him General of a new army. An army that would destroy anything that tried to threaten the new king’s rule.
“The initiation process was… merciless. I watched as the mindless came forward, so desperate to be a part of this new great order, that they were willing to do anything. My brother was one of those people.”
The demon closed her eyes, haunted by the memory.
“I can’t even describe the things Azazel made them do. What he did to them. After training was over they were… different. I didn’t even recognise Tom anymore.
"You know,” she said, chuckling humourlessly, “I always knew the kind of man my father was… but seeing him like that, the things he was willing to let happen to his own son… I knew I couldn’t be a part of it.
“It wasn’t long before he asked me to join as well, but I’d made up my mind. I refused, and I ran. Castiel was… furious, to put it lightly. To disobey my father was to disobey him, and he couldn’t have that. He and Azazel had just finished a little project they’d been working on. A prison, so to speak. They called it the Pool of the Lost, and he wanted me to be the first demon to be sent there. I’d heard the stories. I didn’t want to go there, but I didn’t want to be a soldier, either.”
She paused her story, her lungs tightening in her chest. Dean sensed it, and squeezed her leg gently. They looked at each other and smiled.
“My father must have felt pity for me,” she continued, “his laughable excuse for a daughter. He told Castiel, ‘Why send her to the Pool? It will only fill up in time, and my daughter enjoys company, no matter how sour.’ So, he opted for a different kind of punishment. I was to guard the Labyrinth’s Door instead, a door that never opened, because no one ever came through. ‘Loneliness…' he said, ‘that is the true torture. Let her be an outcast to both Souls and Demons a like.’”
Dean blinked at her, his thoughts returning to their first meeting.
“So that’s what were you were doing when I arrived here…” he breathed with astonishment. “After all that time, you were still guarding the door.”
“My father knew how to punish me…” Meg affirmed sorrowfully, “but despite it all, I think he loved me in a strange kind of way. He did me a kindness by exiling me.”
“But you were alone. I must have been—”
“The first person I spoke to in a hundred years,” she interrupted, her voice cracking. “By law, you were my enemy, but… my God, I was glad to see you.”
She smiled at him, and tears ran down her muddy cheeks as fast as drops of rain. She looked so beautiful in that moment he could barely breathe.
Before either of them could stop him, he kissed Meg on her pink, bowlike mouth. When he pulled away, Meg was looking at him with widened eyes. But it wasn’t from shyness, it wasn’t from surprise—it was from pure, unadulterated fear.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she cried in a desperate whisper. Dean was about to ask why, but the ground beneath them had already begun to crumble.