Chapter Text
He opened his eyes, and was met with darkness.
The air was bitter cold. The ground he lay upon was damp and rough against his back.
“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Dean scrunched his eyes, trying to familiarise them against this new haze. Barely, he could make out the small figure of his companion pacing ahead of him, her head in her hands.
“Meg?”
She stopped, lifting her head.
“Oh,” she said, sounding both panicked and relieved, “you’re awake, finally!”
Dean’s head pounded as he lifted himself up from the ground. The air smelled damp and spoiled, like something near them was putrefying.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Where are we?”
She looked at him hopelessly.
“Do you remember that prison I was telling you about, the one my father helped Castiel build?”
“The Pool of the Lost?” Dean’s stomach knotted at the memory of Meg’s description. “Is that where were are? But… how could this happen?”
Meg groaned at him exasperatedly, shoving him in his shoulder.
“You kissed me!” she scolded.
“What?”
“That’s why we’re here! Castiel told me that if you ever kissed me, he’d send me to the Pool. I don’t know if he counted on you coming with me, though.”
Dean frowned at her, though he doubted she could see his expression in the dark.
“Why would he say that?”
She sighed.
“You haven’t figured it out by now?”
There was a small noise that sounded from far away, like a mimicking of voices, all talking over each other. Meg grabbed on to Dean’s hand, dragging him into a crouch that made his knees click.
“Shit,” she whispered, her voice alert. “They felt the ground opening. They know we’re here.”
Dean followed her eyes. There was a small ray of light a few yards ahead, and it seemed that that was what was carrying the noise in.
“Who?” he asked her slowly.
Meg swallowed, and he could hear the gulp in her throat.
“The Lost,” she said after a moment, but before Dean had a chance to ask Meg who the Lost was, a hoarse shout could be heard, closer than before.
“Quick, get behind me,” Meg ordered.
They crept slowly towards the gap of light. Dean looked over Meg, and stared through it. It was still dark outside, and the smell seemed to be wafting even stronger here. A group of six men walked into view. All of them were partially dressed and walking barefoot, their skin the same grey colour as the mist that had settled around them. They were talking again in hushed voices. There was a man at the front of the line, bigger and more menacing than the rest of them, who was pointing at various places and ordering to each.
“They’re looking for us,” Meg whispered to Dean.
“Do they know who we are?”
“Doubtful,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. We’re fresh meat, and that’s good enough for them.”
The group of men continued searching, approaching ever slowly to the gap of light. Meg and Dean urged themselves away, and cowered together in the darkness.
“What will happen if they find us?” asked Dean, his voice barely audible.
Meg only sighed.
“Use your imagination,” she replied hotly.
The voices passed outside, becoming quieter. After a few minutes, Meg lifted herself up from her perch and peered outside the gap, scanning the area outside. Eventually she was satisfied.
“They’re gone,” she said, sitting back down and allowing herself a heavy breath.
Dean looked out of the hole. All that surrounded them was that thick greying mist, drifting like smoke across the flattened ground. Strewed across were the skeletons of trees, their branches black and spindly like the legs of giant spiders, and further into the distance were high, ash-coloured rock, some in the shape of screaming faces and others like crooked mouths, twisted into grins.
“Do you know how to get out of here?” Dean asked her, staring at the rock-face, which seemed to be staring back at him with a nefarious smirk.
“Have you not been listening?” came her irritable reply. “There is no way out.”
Dean scowled, looking away from the gap to the outside. He started scouring the interior, a passage opening itself up to him. He persued the errant path blindly, holding his hands out in front of him in case he fell.
“I don’t believe that,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am so close to finding my brother. This can’t be the end.”
Murky light began to shine in on him. He was reaching the opening. Just a couple steps further…
Meg put a hand on his shoulder. When he turned around, he could finally see her face; her eyes were brimming with tears.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” she said quietly, “this wasn’t the ending I wanted for you, either.”
He wanted to scream at her—to tell her she was wrong. How could he have gotten this far only to fail now? It wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to be trapped here, in this dark, foul-smelling place. Sammy needed him. He couldn’t let him down, not now, after everything he’d done to get to him.
“Hold back, boys,” a gruff voice said from beyond the cave. “I think I smell something...”
Meg grabbed at Dean, pulling him backwards into the safety of the darkness.
“Shit,” she breathed ravagely. “Move, move!”
They threw themselves under the hole they had used to spy out of, panting heavily. There was silence for a moment, as if the demons had moved on to other prey that were hiding in dark places. Dean and Meg allowed themselves a small look of relief—which quickly halted as the cover behind them was kicked away with a heavy blast. Dean covered his head as the rock bedded itself around them, a small explosion of noise and light.
When he looked up, six men were staring down at them hungrily from the shattered opening. The leader smiled at both of them, licking his lips with the tip of a blackened tongue.
“You’re new,” he rasped, and he clenched his fists.
Dean stood up, shielding Meg behind him.
“Get away from us,” he said, but his voice sounded small now that he was in the open, and faced with the challenge of six famished demons.
The leader took a long, gratifying inhale, closing his eyes and showing off his rotting teeth.
“You smell good…” he said with craving. “Both of you.”
“I get the girl first.”
One of the smaller demons had edged his way forward, his eyes burning at the sight of Meg.
The leader smacked him with the back of his hand, throwing him to the ground and making him whine like an injured dog.
“I get first round,” he raged, “I found them!”
Dean stepped forward hastily.
“You won’t touch her,” he said, and in his anger he sounded louder, more like a man.
The leader only grinned.
“That’s sweet,” he taunted. “But you’re in our home now, new fish.”
He took a step forward. So did Dean. He was feeling reckless; his heart beating wildly with the vibrations of the dagger resonating from inside his bag. The demon could not know this, however. He thought he couldn’t die.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a woman,” he said, and Dean could hear the desire in his gravelled voice. “And you,” he said, looking at Dean, “you have a pretty face. I can make you moan like one if I need to.”
These were a particular kind of monster, Dean realised. The ones that exuded their power through another type of violence. Meg was shaking behind him. He looked at her, expecting her to peek back with fear, but a hardness had settled within the darkness of her eyes—eyes that were now completely black. She was not afraid—she was furious.
“No, you won’t,” Dean said, taking his dagger out of the bag and holding it in front of him.
The Lost laughed loudly.
“What are you going to do with that?” he asked blithely. “Kill me?”
“As a matter of fact, he is.”
All of them turned around at the sound of this new voice. A figure stood behind the group of demons; an older man, with grey hair covered by a dirtied Baseball cap.
“Bobby!” Dean shouted, relief washing over him at the sight of his friend.
Bobby winked at him.
“Good to see ya, Dean.”
The Lost looked from Bobby and back to Dean, studying his features, and then to the knife he was holding.
“Dean?” the leader asked, and his tone no longer mimicked with gall. “You’re the Winchester boy?”
“You’ve heard of him?” answered Bobby. “Good. Then you know what he can do.”
The leader of the band of Lost roared in anger, punching the rock of the cave with a hard-plated fist. The stone fell away as easily as water, and his followers cowered.
“He can do nothing for us!” he screamed, spit spraying from his rotting mouth. “Win or lose, we stay down here. So in my eyes,” he said, seething at the prince, “he might as well lose.”
The Lost were no longer afraid. One blade and three rivals were nothing. They had fought with lesser odds and still came out on top.
“Boys…” the leader said, and the desire had returned—though it was a different kind of hunger now. “Do with the others as you please. The prince is mine.”
At once, the three demons at the back of the group pounced at Bobby. He was ready, fighting them with a new-found purpose since his rescue from Alastair. The two at the front focused their attention on Meg, who held in her hand a bit of rock with a pointed edge. She threw it, a perfect shot—wedging itself into one of the demon’s eyes and popping it. They forced themselves on her, but she was stronger—she grabbed a hold of the one-eyed creature and bashed it into the side of the rock, caving in his skull until the top of his head was completely flat. Dean threw an arrow to her that immediately pricked with fire. She stabbed it into the chest of the other demon. His rags set aflame and he began to roar in agony. He ran out of the cave, screaming, lighting the darkness with orange and searing their noses with the stench of melting, bubbling flesh.
All that was left now was the leader. He looked around at his fallen brethren, who, although not yet dead, were moaning limply in broken heaps.
He looked at Dean, who was still holding the pulsating dagger with a clenched, unshaking fist. He knew he had lost.
Instead of fighting, the leader roared and turned around, throwing Bobby to the ground and speeding off past the skeletal trees and into the giant rocks, who seemed to have watched the massacre with shameless glee.
The bodies around them shook and quivered, moaning for release. Meg put a hand on Dean’s and took the knife from him. Slowly, she slit the throats of the five demons, who gurgled and drowned in their own blood. It seemed to take a long time for them all to finally die. As Dean took the knife back from Meg and put it back into his bag, her eyes were back to their chocolate brown, and she was smiling darkly.
He looked over at Bobby, who was quite obviously trying to hide his distaste for what Meg had just done. He rubbed his hands down his clothes, shaking off the dirt. He nodded at Dean when he was done, looking like he had aged ten years since they had last seen each other. He held out his arms.
“Come here,” he said.
They hugged quickly. The man smelt of sweat and dirt, the way his father used to after a day at the garage.
“I’ve got to say Bobby,” Dean said as he pulled away, “I really didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”
Bobby laughed, and smacked a hand to his shoulder boisterously.
“You and me both, boy.”
“What happened to you?” Dean asked. “One minute you were behind me, the next you were gone.”
Bobby shrugged, scratching a hand through his untrimmed beard.
“I barely know myself,” he began. “All I remember was walking in the forest, and then the ground opening up, so fast I didn’t even have time to work out what was going on. I fell, and then I blacked out. When I finally came to, I was here.”
Meg stepped forward, unveiling herself from the darkened cave.
“It’s a lucky break, you finding us,” she said. Her voice was strained in forced merriment, labouring a small smile.
“You had it under control,” answered Bobby, his own voice slightly tense. Dean had to remind himself that souls and demons didn’t usually engage in light conversation. “Meg, is it?”
“Yeah.”
“You keeping the prince in line?”
Meg nudged Dean playfully, the tension lifting.
“Yes, sir.”
Bobby nodded, gratified.
“Glad to hear it. Now, what’s say we get the hell out of here?”
“That sounds great,” started Dean morosely, “but Meg says there’s no way out.”
Bobby raised a brow at them.
“‘Scuse me, miss,” he said artlessly, rearranging his cap so it sat higher on his head, “but that’s a crock of shit. See that river?”
All three of them looked in the direction Bobby was pointing. Dean couldn’t believe he hadn’t spotted it before. Past the dead black trees and fleeting through the rock-faces was a thinning line of water that lapped in quick succession, running for miles amidst the greying mist.
“I’ve been following it,” continued Bobby. “A ways down there’s a bridge that leads out to the exit of this place.”
Meg shook her head, unconvinced.
“My father never spoke of a bridge.
Bobby looked at her, unperturbed.
“That’s probably because he didn’t know about it.”
“But it makes no sense…” Meg began, but could not find another word to argue.
Bobby sighed, but not unkindly.
“Let me put it this way,” he said, “‘cause you’ve been out of the loop for a long time. Castiel is a temperamental man. After the Pool was finished, the king got a little… trigger happy, so to speak. Before long, every soul and his grandmother had been sent here for one reason or another. After a while, Castiel realised, the more he imprisoned, the less souls he had to rule his fickle little hands over. So, he built a bridge, and hired a guard. The souls who had wronged him the least were offered promises of freedom in exchange for smuggling jobs, mercenary work, that kinda thing.”
Meg blinked at him, looking more confused by the minute. Bobby cleared his throat gruffly.
“It’s not common knowledge,” he said, a little flustered. “If word got out that you can pretty much come and go as you please, then the fear the Pool instils would disappear, and Castiel would no longer be the formidable overlord he so likes to claim.”
The demon scrunched her eyes, trying to process this new information.
“How do you know all this?” she asked him impatiently.
“I’m not proud of it, but I was a contact for the Lost on the outside. I helped with certain jobs,” he looked at Dean quickly. “The non-violent ones, of course. It offered me certain benefits, kept the demons off my back.”
Meg simply stared off into the distance, a look of loss and hopelessness on her pale, delicate face.
“I can’t believe this…” she said after a while. “Azazel. This place is a part of him. The way he’d talk about it, I think he loved the Pool more than his own children. If he knew Castiel had turned it into such a mockery…” she shook her head and folded her arms, taking a few steps towards the veining river.
“I spent so long being afraid of this place,” she said quietly. “I mean, I was actually grateful to have been exiled!”
Bobby walked over to her.
“Trust me, Meg,” he said bluntly, “Castiel wouldn’t have let you leave. He hates you.”
She had to laugh at this.
“I know,” she agreed, her mood lightening, but then something in her changed again. Her face fell.
“There was another… sent in my place.” She looked over the river as far as she could. “She could still be here. I have to find her!”
Bobby frowned at her regrettably.
“A woman? You saw what almost happened back there; women who end up in the Pool don’t last long. Whoever she is, she won’t be how you remember. I’m sorry.”
Meg was not deterred. She shook her head and began to pace.
“No. I told her I’d come for her. I can’t just leave her! She won’t have forgotten me, I swear.”
Dean looked at Bobby worriedly.
“Meg,” he tried. “Have you forgotten your father’s stories?”
“But it’s different here,” she retaliated, “Bobby said so himself! I can find her, I know it!”
With that, she turned from the two of them and began to run towards the rocks.
“Meg,” Bobby called after her. “Meg!”
Dean started to walk.
“I’ll go after her.”
Bobby grabbed a hold of his arm, as if to stop him, but as he looked at Dean he could see the fierce look in his eyes, and Bobby knew he would not be able to change his mind. He squeezed his arm, but let go.
“You better get back here in one piece, boy.”
Dean turned back around. Meg had already disappeared.
He broke into a run. The further he went into the Pool, the worse the smell became. It was hard to tell where he was going; everything looked the same, the same trees, the same laughing, screaming rocks. The mist became thicker and thicker until it was all he could see.
“Meg!” he yelled into the fog. “Meg, where are you?”
“Dean!” he heard from before him. “Turn back, now!”
It was her voice. He wasn’t going to heed her warning; he was going to take her across the bridge with him.
The mist lessened. He was staring out at a clearing where a circle of Lost were settled. Meg was with them, her arms being held behind her by one of the demons. There was a bundle of rocks next to them. A man was stood at the top of them, looking down and grinning at the crowd. Dean’s heart quickened; it was the demon they had fought outside the cave. It had been a mistake letting him go, for allowing him to escape, Dean knew that what was waiting for him now was going to be much worse.
“Ah, more guests!” the leader said with sullied delight. “Come to see the show?”
“Actually,” said Dean nervously, “we were just leaving…”
“No, you weren’t,” he replied darkly. “Boys, I think I’ve found our contenders.”
The Lost grabbed him, pulling him forwards into the circle.
“Get off me!” he yelled.
The leader laughed, his voice echoing around them. He finally settled.
“Let’s bring out the competition.”
Two Lost appeared, dragging another two demons with them. He recognised them as the men that had accosted him in Death’s Courtroom, the ones he’d spared in order to send Castiel a message. Castiel must have not appreciated the message, because they’d ended up here.
“Boys, you know what to do.”
Both demons were standing with the Lost holding their arms outstretched. One of them was terrified, screaming and flailing. The other was silent, his eyes drifting behind Dean to which there was a sharp, metallic sound, like dragging metal.
More Lost appeared, armed with a contraption not unlike those forged by Alastair’s tools. It appeared to be a man-sized catapult, with a large circular saw blade where the bucket would have been. They wheeled it over to the silent demon, who watched it with intensity, still not saying a word. His companion screamed beside him, begging for mercy as members of the Lost circled the mechanism.
The leader stood from his precipice and motioned to the Lost around him.
“This is the New World,” he said, “and in this New World we are warriors!”
The creatures around Dean roared and chanted, blaring their fists into the lightless sky.
One of the Lost pulled down a lever, and the blade on the contraption was pulled backwards, so it was rested on the ground.
“Don’t be afraid, now,” the leader said to the silent demon, whose eyes never left the circle. “I am going to turn you into a warrior.”
With a gesture of his hand, the saw was released from the catapult, and in one swift motion it had entered through the top of the demon’s head and cut down to the tip of his groin. It happened so quickly, Dean was not sure what he had seen—and then, slowly, the blackness of the silent man’s eyes arched to the top of his head, and his face began to fall away. Within a second, his body had split perfectly in two, and his blood and innards had spilled on to the floor in a steaming pile.
It was the most disgusting thing Dean had ever seen, and before he could stop it, the bile of his stomach emptied itself on to the already soiled ground around him.
The Lost only laughed. He felt a hard slap on his back as he wiped the sides of his mouth on the back of his sleeve. His eyes settled back on to the remains of the demon, and his stomach lurched once more as he realised that both halves of the man were twitching limply, with both fractions of his throat making small whines of agony. He was alive. Of course he was still alive. And he was begging for something.
It was the other demon’s turn. The Lost wheeled the catapult away from the twitching pile and focused it in front of his partner.
“Don’t do this,” the flailing demon pleaded, his sight blaring into the edges of the saw, which were dripping dark red.
The Lost gave him little time to continue begging; the order was given and the catapult was released again. The saw plummeted through the air and into the demon’s skull, tearing his body apart with the splice of its many wheeling blades. Dean watched as two perfect halves fell on to the ground. It was no easier watching it a second time. He bent over, retching, but nothing came out apart from a single droplet of spit.
The halves of the second demon did not twitch with the limpness of his partner. They were thrashing around like a fish on land, and a sharp, desperate noise was coming from his throat, piercing the stale air like a broken siren.
The Lost watched the four parts for a few moments, revelling in their macabre dance. Dean and Meg glanced at each other with one frantic look. Was that to be their fate in the Pool? He imagined himself split apart, the pieces of him left jerking on the ground, groaning savagely, still alive but no longer a person.
The leader peered down at the remnants, noting their movements studiously. Then, he motioned to the rest of the Lost, who looked upon him with reverence.
“Stitch ‘em back together,” he said.
The Lost sprang into action. The right half of the silent demon and the left half of the frantic one were lifted from the ground, and thrown nonchalantly into the passing river beside them. Within a moment they had washed away; all but remained of both halves were the thick blood that dyed the banks.
The remaining parts of both demons were dragged midway, until their faces were touching. The Lost held their heads together as another member appeared, armed with a very big needle in one hand, and thick black thread in the other. Dean’s stomach heaved again as the Lost fed the cord through the eye of the needle, and tied it in a knot. He held on to the right side of the face and stabbed the needle through. Very slowly, he began to feed it in and out. Before long the demons had been stitched down to their necks, then their torso, and then finally to the garbled remains of their groins.
The Lost backed away slowly, the sewist beaming down at his creation. No one spoke for a moment. Dean could not even tear his eyes away in order to look at Meg, or figure out a way of escaping. The monstrosity that lay before them was bewitching to them all. It did not move, and Dean was hypnotised, his gaze bearing down on it, watching for signs of life. The leader interrupted the creature’s mesmerism on the crowd as he motioned towards it with a flick of his hand, like a puppeteer ready for a show.
“Stand, warrior,” he commanded.
There was nothing—and then the creature cricked its neck, like it had reacted to the noise. Its fingers on both hands began to flex, grabbing at the soil. The sound of two throats joined into one wailed with the strength it needed to sit up straight. Its shoulders convulsed, and its fingers clawed its way further into the dirt, eventually pulling itself up into a sitting position.
Dean could see its face clearly now. The thread ran down in a crude line, and blood, both fresh and crusted, had settled itself around the cut like new skin. The iris of the silent demon had never emerged back from the top of his skull, and so the left eye was nothing but white and vein. The right eye had not been damaged. It was staring straight at Dean, and the boy shuddered.
Ever so slowly, it began to stand. The sickening sound of crunching bone could be heard, and the damaged wail of its two throats did not cease. Eventually, it had got to its feet. The left leg was taller than the other, so the creature stood at an angle, tilted. It remained motionless, only staring at Dean with a vacant expression from its one good eye.
The leader held out his hands above it to get the crowd’s attention.
“Boys,” he addressed, “bring forth the contenders.”
Strong arms grabbed them, pushing Dean and Meg forward.
“The rules of the game are simple,” he said to both of them. “There are no rules.
“He may not look like much,” the leader continued, bowing his head towards the stitched-up creature, “but don’t let that fool you. He is my warrior, and he is going to serve me fiercely.
“You will fight him, two-on-one. The winner is the one left standing.”
The Lost around them were beginning to howl lowly, a fighter’s chant.
“I like that knife of yours,” the leader said over the followers’ mantra. “It’s a shame I didn’t get to see you use it before.”
The creature began to fumble towards them, pathetically slow and blundering.
“I’ll admit,” the demon continued, “it’s not really a fair fight, is it? That’s why I lied about there being any winners. I will hurt you once this is over.”
The chant got louder. The creature stumbled nearer. He was going to have to kill all of them if they had any hope of escaping. There must have been thirty, perhaps even forty demons scattering the circle, and all of them were chanting the same aggressive bark.
The creature was at his grasp. It held out a desperate hand, like it was calling for him. He did not expect the hardness of its hit. It brought its hand down across his face, throwing him to the floor. The Lost roared with violent delight, clapping and hollering fiercely. Meg yelled and rushed towards Dean, bashing her fists against its back. The creature turned around, and picked Meg up by the scruff of her collar. He threw her—hard—into the edging rock-face. She landed against it heavily, unmoving, her eyes closed.
He had distracted himself with the sight of Meg. The creature kicked him once, twice, three times—in his stomach, his chin, the back of his head. His vision blurred, and he could feel blood running down his face and into his mouth. The creature was roaring like the rest of them now, enraged, shadowing its master’s movements from the perch of the low cliff he was stood upon.
“Yes, warrior!” he yelled. “Tear him apart!”
The creature lifted him up, until Dean’s face was levelled with its own. It roared again, and threw him across the ground. He landed next to the spectators, who dragged him up and lunged him back towards the monster, laughing manically.
The creature was stumbling towards him once more. He knew he wouldn’t be able to handle much more of this—he needed to grab the dagger and use it, like the crowd was begging to see. He fumbled with the close of his bag, and brought the knife out wildly. It appeared to be sparkling, even in the darkened mist. It thirsted for more blood, and immediately Dean’s pain and fear lessened and was replaced with something else.
Before the creature could grab him again, he lunged it through its neck and into its divided brain. It moaned in confusion, and pain, stumbling with its arms in front of it. Dean rolled to the side to avoid being crushed as it fell clumsily to the ground.
“No!” the leader yelled. “Boys—get him!”
He did not have time to pause. The crowd had cut short their chants and sprung towards him, teeth bared and arms outstretched.
He was one with his weapon once more. It killed for him; Dean only a vessel for its hunger. It did not take long for the demons to die, until the only one that was left was the raging figure of the Lost’s leader, who was panting heavily, despite have done no fighting. He called down to Dean.
“I’m not stupid enough to die upon your blade, little boy. Go. Leave this place, and never come back here again!”
With pleasure, Dean thought, as he watched the cowardly leader turn on his heels and escape once more.
With the demon gone, it was only Meg and Dean left. There were so many dead, and so many bodies that the ground was no longer flat: it was an ocean. Dean couldn’t see the end of it. He had lost count of how many he must have killed, and it was unnerving just how calm he felt, looking at this ocean of corpses.
Meg was still lying back against the rock’s edge. He rushed over to her, lifting up her face. She opened her eyes slowly, and looked at him as if he was a stranger. After a moment, however, she smiled.
A soft gurgle sounded across from him, making him look. He and Meg shared glances. He picked her up and both of them followed the noise.
The abomination lay staring up at them with its one black eye, begging him wordlessly. Now that the leader was dead, it no longer had a puppeteer to raise its mismatched arms, or tread its drudging feet. It just looked at Dean now, pleading for the pain to end. Despite its ugliness, the pain in its face looked so human… Dean could sparsely dare to look back.
“Kill… Us…” it sounded at last, two voices merged into one.
He slit its throat, destroying the stitches that held the head together. The eye paled to grey, and it let out one last struggled breath before the dark finally took it.
“There are worse fates than death, right?” Meg said from beside him.
It was unsettling, killing something that wasn’t trying to kill him. He stood up.
“At least they could be put out of their misery.”
Meg looked at the sea of bodies that surrounded them.
“I think that could be said for the rest of them,” she said. “These demons fight you because they are in pain. They want to die.”
“Really? ‘Cause I thought it was because they wanted me to lose.”
“Maybe some of them do,” Meg said bitterly. “But we’re not a hive-mind, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Dean did not have the energy for an argument. He turned away, back to where they had come from.
“Come on. Let’s go back to Bobby.”
“But my friend,” cried Meg from behind him.
Dean had been so caught up with the Frankenstein-like creature and the dozens of demons who he had destroyed with his blade, that he had completely forgotten the reason they were out here in the first place. He sighed, and rubbed his eyes.
“You saw what happened to those demons,” he said tiredly,” and they were only sent here a day ago. We can’t go further into the Pool; it’s too dangerous.”
Meg wanted to argue, but even she knew it was pointless.
“I know,” she said at last, and her voice had cracked.
Dean hated to see her like this. If it had been Sammy in the Pool, he would have never listened to reason.
“You’re a good person, Meg,” he said kindly. “Your friend knows that.”
She sniffed, smiling.
“Thanks, Dean.”
They turned back, past the bodies, past the rocks and the trees. They kept close to the river, walking in silence.
Outside the abolished cave lay more of the same, only Bobby was no longer there waiting for them. Dean looked around worriedly.
“Where’s Bobby?” he asked. “This is where we left him.”
Meg sniffed loudly.
“He… must have gone to the bridge. I’m sure he’s all right.”
Dean’s jaw tensed. He couldn’t handle another rescue mission.
“Let’s keep moving, then.”
They followed the river for another mile, eventually it becoming wider and the stream more rapid. The Pool was such a dark, lonely place, and the mist threatened to overwhelm them the further they went. He could not imagine being lost here forever, a slave of violence, shelterless from the cold. He followed Meg with sly glances, studying the way her hips rounded as she walked. They were here because Dean had kissed her, something Castiel had told her he could never do. He had kissed Castiel, too—at least, he had in a dream, a dream that had felt so certain. He touched his lips absentmindedly, remembering the feel of them both. He was being selfish again. He was here to save his brother, to fulfil a quest that had been waiting so long to be completed. He couldn’t waste time dwelling on dreams, of kings with velvet voices and girls with chocolate-coloured eyes.
His thoughts were interrupted as Dean spotted a simple wooden bridge ahead of them, crudely built, looking close to collapsing. Meg gasped with relief and marvel.
“It’s unguarded,” she said, rushing forward. “Come on!”
“No,” said Dean, shaking his head. “Castiel wouldn’t make it this easy. It’s a trap.”
“Well, I’m willing to take that risk if you are.”
“We need to wait for Bobby,” he said firmly.
Meg scowled, preparing to say something, when all of a sudden there was a thud.
Settling itself on the tip of the bridge’s end was a giant creature, screeching at them with its open mouth. Like a spawn of Death, it had sharp claws and two skeletal wings, flapping menacingly, ready to soar.
“What is that thing?!” cried Dean.
“I’d take it that’s the guard!”
The creature screeched again. It lifted itself up, hovering so high the mist consumed it. They head the flapping of wings and the upsurge of wind as it plummeted towards them.
“Kill it, Dean!” shouted Meg from beside him.
He grabbed the bow and arrow from his back, preparing to shoot it right between its ugly black eyes.
“Jo?”
A voice came from behind them, and Dean whirled around. Bobby was standing there, staring up at the monster, seemingly oblivious to Dean and Meg’s presence.
Dean faced the winged creature once more, his weapon ready—but instead of challenging him, it sheltered its wings and yielded. Within a second, the monster had shrunk to the size of Dean himself. Its skin turned from black to milky-white, its wings disappeared, and, before long, Dean was staring into the face of a pretty girl with straight blonde hair. She looked straight past Dean and Meg, to the man behind them.
“Bobby?”
He walked past them, his arms outstretched. He brought her into a tight hug, laughing.
“It’s good to see you, girl,” he said as he pulled away.
“What are you doing here?”
He shrugged hesitantly.
“Long story.”
“Ash,” she called, turning away from them, “look who it is!”
A figure emerged from behind a rock at the far end of the bridge, as if it had been hiding. It was reluctant for a moment, and then after some deliberation, stood tall. The figure walked over to them, smiling goofily at the older man. He was a dopey-looking man, with kind eyes and a weak chin, sporting a mullet that seemed out of place next to his ragged outfit and unwashed face.
“Bobby.”
They hugged, and Bobby took a lock of the man’s hair and laughed loudly.
“Nice haircut, you scrawny little bastard.”
The man smiled unapologetically, running a hand through it.
“You know how it is; business up front. Party in the—”
“Shut up, Ash,” Jo said, though she was smiling. She really was very pretty.
“So,” she said, finally looking over at the two outcasts, “who’s this sorry lot you got with you, Bobby?”
He smiled.
“You’ve heard of Dean Winchester, haven’t you?”
Jo didn’t say anything for a moment. She looked at Dean, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow slightly.
“Well I’ll be damned.”
Dean tried to look brazen.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“Bobby,” she said, not moving her gaze from Dean, “how much have I missed?”
“Oh,” he said, chuckling, “a lot.”
Jo let out a heavy breath, sizing Dean up, comparing him to the legend she’d heard so much about.
“Come, step into the light, boy; I wanna look at you.”
Although they seemed round about the same age, Jo had an air of authority to her that he did not want to challenge—that, and she could turn into a giant monster.
He stepped forward, suddenly feeling that his boots were too small for his feet. Jo studied him once more.
“You come to save us, Dean Winchester?” she asked him playfully. “‘Cause, you know you can’t get out of here without my permission, and I’ll only give it if I like your answer.”
Dean blushed. He could see Meg scowling from the corner of his eye, but he ignored her. He looked over to Jo, to Bobby, to Ash. All of them were looking at him with a waiting, hopeful expression. He was not one for speeches. Dean’s cheeks flushed once more, and the boy cleared his throat shyly.
“I came to this world because I did a selfish thing that I needed to set right, miss,” he started. “That was all it was in the beginning, just a mistake I needed to change. But then I met some people who were willing to sacrifice it all if it meant I could make a difference.”
He looked at Bobby then, who smiled, and nodded him on.
“So now,” he continued, looking back at Jo. “I’m not just doing it for my brother, I’m doing it because their sacrifices weren’t for nothing. If you let me through, I’m gonna go to Castiel’s castle. I’m gonna look him in the eyes, and I’m going to make him answer for what he’s done. And then I’m gonna kill him. And after he’s dead, the people who held on can finally be free. And those who can’t be,” he looked at Meg, “can live in a world that is no longer ruled by a man who hides inside a castle while his people live like animals. They can rebuild, and start again.”
He stopped, his heart beating wildly in his chest. It was the first time he’d said it out loud, the first time he actually sounded like he could be a hero—but it was true. All of it was true. Every word.
“That’s why I need your permission,” he finished, and he didn’t blink as he stared into Jo’s curious, debating eyes.
Her expression was unreadable, and for a moment Dean was worried he had said the wrong thing. She looked over at Bobby, then at Ash, who nodded at her avidly. She finally locked eyes with Dean again and smiled.
“That’s good enough for me,” she said, and pointed her chin behind her, to the end of the bridge. “Go.”
Relief washed over Dean. He picked up his feet and began walking. Meg followed him, but as she crossed by Jo, the soul put a hand up in hindrance.
“Not you, honey.”
Meg scowled.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s a demon doing helping the Righteous Prince?”
“You heard him,” she said defensively. “Rebuild and start again, right?”
Dean halted, and held a hand in front of Jo.
“Meg’s proven herself to me enough times,” he said firmly. “She doesn’t have to do it for anyone else. Wherever I go, she’s coming.”
Jo squinted her eyes at him, annoyed at his answer. She gave one last hard look at Meg, but stood aside.
“Who am I to refuse a prince?”
They walked across the bridge, the mood suddenly tense. Bobby stopped as he reached the end.
“Jo,” he said, turning round, “come with us. You and Ash.”
The girl shook her head, her face hardening.
“You know what will happen if I try, Bobby.”
Bobby placed his hands on her shoulders. She scowled, but did not pull away.
“Castiel isn’t as strong as he was,” he told her kindly. “You can thank Dean for that. One more day, Jo, and we’ll all be free; isn’t that worth a little faith?”
Ash stepped beside her, his face lighting up.
“Let’s do it, Jo,” he whispered excitedly. “Come on. You’ll be okay.”
She looked at him, her expression softening, as if she was considering it. After a moment, however, she shook her head once more and shrugged off Bobby’s hands.
“You don’t know that for certain,” she said, looking down.
“When Dean gets to the city,” Bobby said, “there’s gonna be a fight waitin’ for him. He’s gonna need all the help he can get.”
“We can definitely use those claws of yours,” Dean piped in, smiling.
To Dean’s relief, Jo smiled back.
“Okay,” she said finally.
“Okay!” Bobby said, smacking her shoulder and laughing along with Ash.
The five of them stepped over the bridge, on to the mossy ground of the exit where fur trees were waiting ahead of them in messy bunches. Jo’s steps were small and fearful, as if she was expecting the ground to open up before her. Dean heard Meg snigger from beside him. He was about to give her a look when Jo fell to the ground in front of them, screaming in pain.
“It’s happening!” she seethed through laboured breath. Her body was trembling, and her head sunk to the ground. All of a sudden, she arched her back, and two patches of blood appeared on each shoulder blade.
“Oh, God, no!” she cried, limply grabbing at the wounds.
Ash ran towards her, but was stopped by Bobby, who threw him back.
“What’s happening to her?”
Jo had gone silent. She lay on the ground, seemingly unconscious. The blood that was pouring down her back suddenly lessened, then slowly began to seep back up the seams of her top. Finally, it was as if she had never bled at all.
Bobby held up a hand to halt the others’ movements. He watched Jo’s stagnant form, as if expecting her to get up and attack them. After a few moments, however, he deemed it safe enough to touch her.
He turned her upwards, and she looked up at him, blinking madly.
“Jo?” Bobby asked worriedly. “Jo, are you all right, honey?”
“Am I…” she struggled. “Am I one of them?”
Bobby laughed, hugging her.
“No,” he cheered. “Din’t I tell ya?”
“I can’t believe it…” she said, feeling at the place of her shoulders where her wounds had appeared. “My wings are gone.”
Bobby held out a hand and lifted her to her feet.
“Looks like you’re just an average soul now,” he said.
Ash smiled at her, relieved.
“Guess we won’t be needing your claws after all.”
Jo smiled back, though perhaps a little regretfully.
“Let’s go,” she said, and led the way.
Dean started walking, half expecting Meg to be traipsing along side him, but she wasn’t.
He turned around. She had his back to him, and was staring out across the river, to the dark, cold plains that had tried to swallow them.
“Meg,” he shouted, “Meg, are you coming?”
She jumped slightly, as if lost in thought. She turned and looked back at him, a forced smile on her face.
“I’ll be right behind you,” she said, “I just…”
She turned back around again, and Dean nodded. They hadn’t been able to save her friend. She was still stuck there, and Dean could only wonder the horrors she had had to endure in Meg’s place—horrors she would never escape from now.
“I get it.”
He eyed her sadly and began to follow the others. Meg watched him disappear behind the trees and turned her head back towards the Pool.
She wasn’t thinking about her friend, not really.
Her mission was going to be harder, now that Dean had kissed her. Meg could only imagine the rage and jealousy Castiel must have felt when witnessing his precious prince putting his affections toward another. She put a hand in her pocket, and pulled out the amulet. She hadn’t mentioned it to Dean since their reunion, and a part of her had no intention to.
She held it out over the side of the river. She could do it, she thought, right now—drop it in and let it sink to the bottom. No one would ever have to know.
I wouldn’t do that if I were you, a voice called from the distance.
Meg jumped, almost dropping the amulet in the process. She grabbed a tighter hold of it and shoved the amulet back in her pocket.
Castiel was not going to let her betray him twice.
“Interesting…”
The king had watched his broken crystal with profound diligence, an excessive closeness. It had been an interesting turn of events and Castiel barely had time to process them.
His prince had kissed the demon, and so the ground they stood upon had punished them both for it. It was something the king had not expected. But the labyrinth was loyal to its master, and sometimes it would do things without his admission. He could not be angry: the labyrinth was changing. The bridge guard had left her post, and instead of being punished, she broke free. It was unsettling, but the king knew that the maze was a complicated thing, and that he should not fear its growth. That was the most wondrous thing about his creation; it was transforming in front of his very eyes.
“My lord,” came a voice.
It was his servant, Crowley, standing timidly from across the room. He had not seen him for a few hours, not since their disagreement.
“I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour before,” he said, walking over to the throne and bowing slightly. “I had no right to speak so bluntly.”
He was a loyal subject, Castiel thought, and he had known it would not take long for him to come crawling back.
“Oh, Crowley,” he said smiling, “that’s quite all right. In fact, I’m rather touched at how much you care about my wellbeing.”
“Of course,” the servant answered, relieved. “You are my king. All that matters to me is your safety.”
The king chuckled.
“Oh, Crowley. You really needn’t worry about me. Have you forgotten how I did it the last time?”
“His brother was a—”
“A self-righteous, self-loathing know-it-all with a hero complex,” Castiel interrupted cockily. “Remind you of anyone? I mean, the similarities are uncanny, and I’m sure if Samuel were a little older the likenesses between him and Lucifer would be there, too.”
Crowley looked up at him, uncertainty in his now black eyes.
“This is just the past repeating itself, Crowley,” he reassured him. “And at the end of the story, I am still on my throne, and two more brothers are doomed.”
Crowley frowned, unconvinced.
“Did you not see him kill Azazel?”
“I was hoping someone would take care of him,” the king replied nonchalantly.
“He escaped the Pool of the Lost!”
“Oh, lighten up, Crowley. It’s all going as it’s supposed to.”
His servant scowled, ever so slightly, fighting away the urge to answer back. He recovered—bowed—and turned to leave.
“Oh, Crowley,” the king called after him, “before you go. Pass me that sword, would you?”
A decorated weapon with red and gold jewels on the hilt hung on the wall behind an exposed screen. It was a grand-looking thing, an antique, more beautiful than it was foreboding.
Crowley lifted it from its handles and offered it to the king, who stood from his throne to take it.
It felt good in his hands, heavy. It had been a long time since he had used it.
He beckoned to his servant with the brunt of the steel. Crowley took a step forwards, his eyes never leaving the silver glimmer.
Castiel faltered a moment, pondering—then he lunged with the sword, penetrating it through Crowley’s stomach and out the other end. His servant yelped in surprise and pain, and a river of blood fell from his open mouth, down his front and staining the innards between the stone bricks he stood upon.
Castiel pulled the sword out, slowly. Crowley held on to the wound and looked up at him in disbelief.
“My Lord!”
“Interesting…”
“You stabbed me!” he yelled in indignation, still clutching at his bloodied wound. “I can’t believe you just stabbed me!”
Castiel appeared not to have heard him. He simply stared at the sword, and then to his crystal ball.
“For now, it’s just the knife…” he noted to himself, watching the prince’s fragmented image. “Or perhaps you need to be close to Dean in order to do it. Very interesting…”
Crowley stared up at him, horrified at the flippancy of his words. He would have killed his most loyal servant, just to test out a theory.
“Is that everything, your Majesty?” he asked him, and his voice was laced with the thick edge of malice.
“Yes, Crowley,” the king replied cheerfully, not looking at him. “You may go.”