Chapter Text
Their group had gotten so big in such a short amount of time. Jo, Ash and Bobby were all swapping stories, laughing and reminiscing about old times. Their high spirits were catching, and Dean couldn’t help but grin along side them. For the first time in a while, he was hopeful. They were getting nearer and nearer to Castiel’s castle. He had allies, weapons—he even had armies in the form of Tessa’s Tainted and the Children. He looked at the face of the pocket-watch Meg had given him. By his calculations, he had a little over a day to reach the city and save his brother. All he needed to do now was go to the Tower and collect the last ingredient. He put the watch away and laughed along with Jo and the others—the rest of his journey was going to be a piece of cake.
Dean was in such a good mood, he’d failed to notice that Meg had not quite caught up to them since leaving the Pool.
“We’ve got in quite a few scrapes, haven’t we, Meg?” he said chuckling, turning around.
She was trudging ten steps behind them, her hair hanging in loose waves in front of her face as she stared at her feet. She looked up at the sound of her name, but did not reply.
Dean smiled at the others apologetically, his pace lagging until he was step-by-step with Meg.
“You okay?” he asked her.
She shrugged stiffly, her hands grasped together in awkward comfort.
“Guess I’m not so good with crowds.”
It was hardly surprising. Meg had been alone for a hundred years. Not only that; she was a demon amongst souls, a force of evil with a tainted heart—at least, that’s the way Jo had seen it. Dean’s ears pricked at the sound of their elated tones, still laughing and arguing with jest, but he hung back. He walked in silence with Meg a while, letting their footsteps lag slower until the voices of the others had mulled.
“Um, Dean?” her voice was low and timid, as if she hoped he would not hear her.
“Yeah, Meg?”
She bit her lip a moment and stopped, watching as the group disappeared from sight. She dug into her pocket, and pulled out a closed fist a moment later.
“I have something for you.”
She opened her palm. Dean found himself looking at a horned face, of hard wood and splintered gold. It stared back at him, oscillating with power, like it could see him, too.
“My amulet!” he cried. He took it quickly, revelling its coolness, its sharp, familiar edges. “How did you get it back? I thought I’d lost it forever!”
She bit her lip again.
“I ran into the two wise men on my way to find you. They’d…had a change of heart,” she said hesitantly, her eyes darting towards the trees. “They wanted you to have it back.”
Dean had no more questions, no more doubts. He had his allies, his weapons, he had his amulet and he had Meg.
“I can’t believe this…” he awed, putting it on over his head. “Thank you…”
His body electrified with the coldness of its horns, like the skin on his chest had disappeared and it was resting on bone. The chill ran through him, into his heart, down his legs. He blinked slowly, the frost draining itself behind his eyes.
“Are—are you okay?”
Dean had put an arm out to steady himself. Meg held on to him, staring at him fearfully.
“My head…” he began, the ice spreading, “it feels funny. I need to sit down.”
He fumbled for a place to rest, his steps clownish and heavy. He fell in a heap, landing on his back. He looked up, unfocused. The branches were weaving, like the bend of a river. They twisted and spun, until the trees were no longer anchored to the ground, but were spiralling into contorted shapes and walking on their own. Meg was on her feet, careening and swaying like the rest of the forest.
“Everything’s dancing...”
He heard Meg begin to cry, felt her soft hands as she tried to pull him up.
“Oh, God, Dean,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”
The trees were dying; their branches writhing into spider’s legs. The forest was getting darker, the trees closing in around him.
“Sorry?” he asked, his voice far away. “Meg, what have you done?”
The girl cried harder, but refused to answer him. Instead, she let him go.
“Damn you, Castiel,” she grieved, cursing the sky. “And damn me, too.”
Meg turned and ran, breaking her promise and abandoning Dean a second time.
“Wait,” he called after her lamely, his vision darkening, “don’t leave me…”
But she was gone. Dean was alone, and after one last panicked moment, everything went black.
Music.
Before he opened his eyes, there was music.
Dean was standing at the end of a hallway, the walls painted white, and the ceiling adorned with pale hangings that swung softly like glittering ice. The music was coming from behind a faded, oak-lined door that stood at the head of the corridor. Dean walked towards it, his steps feeling light and agile against the soft, wooden floor. He approached the door, desperate to touch it. He held out a hand to turn the handle, but the entry opened, swiftly, of its own accord.
He walked into a great room, it, too, white and garnished with crystal drapery. There were many people in the room, bodies clasped together in graceful movement. They were dressed in finery, of cloaks laced in beads and gemstones and dresses that trailed endlessly. On each of their faces were masks of varying shapes and colours. Dean could see beaks of differing lengths, veils of feather and lace, some masks so big they covered the whole face, others only big enough to cover the dancers’ eyes. Dean looked down at his arms, and saw that he was clothed in a costume of luminescent silver, the very material shimmering as if made of water.
Dean took a step forward. The music filled him, running through his body like beating blood. He wanted to dance like the others, but every one seemed to already have a partner. He walked through the waltzing crowd, unnoticed by those enamoured by their masked companions. He wanted to be a part of it; he wanted to catch somebody’s eye.
There was a man standing solitarily up ahead, draped in robes of deep, moonlit blue. To his face, he held up a mask, the visor horned and painted with gold that had long since begun to fade, and unveil the old wood that lay behind it. Even from so far away, Dean knew the man was watching him. He walked towards him, as desperate to near him as he had been to uncover the music obscured by the door. He pushed his way through the bodies, not daring to blink in case the man disappeared. The horned mask awaited him, its expression blank. Dean could see the outline of his lips peeking from underneath, turned at the sides in a muted smile.
He arrived before the man, the dancers clearing until there was no one Dean could see but the horned face staring back at him. He approached closer, without a plan, without an inkling as to what he would say. The man did not remove his mask, and instead watched Dean, wordlessly, for several moments. The boy suddenly felt very foolish, and the vacant expression of the horned face shrunk him until he felt as small as a child. He turned to leave, angry, until the man’s hand fell away and the mask was on the floor—powerless, irrelevent.
Dean could see his face, now, pale like the walls, smooth but lined with the creases of wisdom. He gave Dean a small smile, his chin dimpling, and his eyes—eyes that seemed so familiar—were gleaming a brilliant shade of blue, the colour of the sky after a storm has passed, the way an ocean glitters just below the surface. Desire sledgehammered Dean, rooting him to where he stood. He knew no words; could only worship the man in foolish, devoted silence.
The blue-eyed man stepped forward, the small smile still etched on his face. He stood next to Dean, surveying the crowd of elegant dancers. Dean turned around, watching the movement of their feet, their closeness and concentration, the enchantment and lure they found within each other.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” the man said, with a voice deep and refined. “Everybody’s so happy. They don’t have a care in the world.”
Dean had nothing to say, but would have gladly listened to the man speak until it drowned him.
“But you,” the man continued, “there’s such a sad look in your eyes. A kind of pale jewel. It’s the first thing I noticed when I looked at you.”
He smiled again, putting a hand to Dean.
“Come,” he said, the touch of him leaving an imprint on Dean’s shoulder like footsteps after rain, “have a drink with me.”
They walked together, the dancers parting a way through the middle of the white room. They came across a table laced with silken cloth. A silver goblet stood in the centre of it, filled to the top with deep red liquid. It watered Dean’s mouth just to look at it. The man grabbed two glasses and poured the drink in both. He handed it to Dean, who took it timidly. He raised it to his mouth, Dean following suit, and took a long draught, draining the glass in one. Dean swallowed the liquid in example, immediately noting the warm sweetness of it as it poured down his throat. It settled in his stomach, his whole body flushing with comfortable fullness.
“Do you like it?” the man asked him.
Dean smiled gratefully, nodding.
He took the goblet once more and refilled both their glasses. The two stood together, drinking slowly as they watched the crowd continue to dance.
“I have not been to this place in some time,” the man remarked, his voice sounding silkier the more he consumed. “You see, there’s no one here I’ve wanted to dance with, no one that’s quite caught my eye.”
Dean assessed the masked dancers, curious at his disregard.
“But everyone here’s so beautiful.”
“Only some,” the man replied, his tone even. He took Dean’s empty glass from him, setting it on the table. He stepped in front of Dean and held out a hand, his head arched with a bow. “Will you dance with me?”
Dean felt his cheeks burn.
“I don’t know how to dance,” he said, taking a hold of his hand anyway.
The man only smiled.
“I’ll teach you.”
He held Dean’s hand in gentle firmness, their fingers wrapped around each other. He led Dean to the middle of the ballroom; the music was its clearest here, the light soft and illuminating the man’s features until he was a reflection in a pool. Dean brought himself closer, his heart so loud it stifled the song. The two danced together, Dean’s feet moving in a way that was beyond his control. He didn’t know how long the man had had his arms around him. He looked up, studying the dark blue rings around the edge of his irises, the light draw of breath, soft and fresh-smelling. How long had he been dancing in this grand white ballroom, with this man who was looking at him like they had known each other for a thousand years?
“There’s that sad look again,” the man drawled softly, his movements slowing. “You’re somewhere far away.”
Dean did not want the dance to end, but he could not escape a feeling of uncertainty that was burying itself in his every step.
“I was just…” he started, and he paused as he watched the dancers around them. Somehow their waltz had lessened in grace, their movements becoming sluggish as the notes of the music slurred. “I can’t remember how I got here. I was…” he scrunched his face, desperate to catch his fleeting thoughts before they disappeared, “looking for something…”
The man put a hand to Dean’s cheek and they looked at each other, their faces inches away.
“But, Dean,” he said urgently, “you’ve found it.”
“I have?”
The man pulled away, and immediately Dean felt colder. He held out a hand that Dean took instantly, and within a second the music had returned to normal and the dancers moved with fluid beauty once again.
“Will you come with me?” the blue-eyed man asked kindly. “I want to show you something.”
Dean nodded obligingly, and began to follow the man out of the room.
“Wait,” he said, his footsteps halting. “You know my name? What’s yours?”
The man pulled at Dean’s arm slightly, continuing down the way.
“Follow me and I’ll tell you.”
They left the dancers, the tranquil music, out another oak-lined door in the corner of the room. There was that same white hallway, an identical door at the end of the corridor. They walked swiftly towards it, the door opening by itself as they approached the handle.
Dean was staring at the edge of the world. They had come on to a grassy landscape, surrounded by thick, moss-covered trees that rose high beyond the deluge of clouds. Across the landscape lay a sun close to setting, the blaze of orange seeping above ground and masking them both in a dimming light. He stared out at it, letting the sun burn his eyes. Something about this place seemed so familiar, as if he had visited it many times before.
“Is this a dream?” he asked the man.
“Only if you want it to be,” came his reply.
He kissed Dean then, softly, on the edge of his open mouth. Dean tasted on him the sweet red drink, his lips warm and his breath quick and full of wanting as he brought himself closer.
Dean pulled away, if only to say one thing:
“I don’t.”
The kiss evolved quickly; no more patience, no more careful caution. The man wanted Dean, and Dean was going to give himself back ever so willingly. The man grabbed the back of his hair and breathed raggedly between the motions.
“Open your mouth,” he demanded.
Dean’s mind was transported to a wood he had once wandered in, alone and desperate and afraid. A man had found him, taunted him for his hopelessness, mocking him for a hatred he clung to despite knowing it was never really his. He, too, had taken Dean into his arms, held on to a handful of his hair, and commanded that same thing of him.
I’ve kissed him before.
Dean looked into the man’s eyes—Castiel’s eyes, and remembered everything. Sammy, his father, Meg. Meg had given him back his amulet, the one he’d given away in exchange for answers on a mother he had lost, but hoped to find again. He had put it on, ever grateful for her loyalty. It had felt strange… clouded his eyes. He had fallen asleep, and woken up in a beautiful place where his destiny no longer mattered. He was kissing Castiel on the edge of the world as his brother waited for him, trapped in a castle of men with coal-black eyes. He was being selfish. He was being selfish. He was…
“What’s wrong?” Castiel asked him, his brows furrowed as he studied the panicked expression on Dean’s face.
This was only a dream, he assured himself, and you couldn’t be selfish in a dream. He was only sleeping, and in reality, this would be over in a heartbeat. Sammy would not miss him for a second. He could do something selfish. Just this once…
He closed his eyes, and ran his hands down the nape of Castiel’s neck.
“Nothing…” he whispered, bringing the king closer to him, their lips a breath apart. “Don’t stop.”
He kissed Castiel fiercely, kissed him with the force of someone who knew he could not be this selfish ever again. They did not stop or pause for breath, but moaned into each other’s mouths, whispering inconceivably of promises and demands. Castiel sighed Dean’s name, thundered it like an animal. Dean whispered the king’s name as well, but never aloud. He repeated it in his head, again and again, forever reminding himself of what was happening, for he knew this could be the first and only time it ever did. Castiel’s touch set Dean aflame, as if each trace were leaving burns on his skin. But these were burns of pleasure, and the heat filled him with an ecstasy that left him clinging to the king, begging to be burned again and for the rest of time.
Castiel’s kisses brought themselves down Dean’s neck and to his chest. He unveiled the ties of Dean’s robes, pulling the sleeves off his shoulders to bare a torso that was no longer dirty and blood-stained, but smooth, and glistening with sweat that settled itself in small beads. Castiel kissed every inch of skin he could get to. They both collapsed on the soft ground, the grass a pillow against Dean’s back. The king’s kisses brought themselves to the fringe of Dean’s breeches, the material tight against his groin as he throbbed from behind it. Castiel unbuckled the fabric, pulling the silver cloth down his legs. The reality of the boy surpassed every fantasy the king had ever had. He was perfection, lying there against the grass, begging for Castiel to touch him. He put his mouth on him, and Dean shuddered, his pleasure surpassing anything that could be formed into words. Castiel stayed like that a while, his hands on the boy’s stomach, stroking themselves across his chest and up to his neck. The king’s own robes were stiff against him, craving a release from the tight fabric. He undressed himself hurriedly; every moment that wasn’t spent kissing Dean a wasted one. Once he had finished, he moved himself on top of him. They kissed again; Dean so grateful the dream had not yet ended. He would die if it did, not now after he had waited so long for it.
They did not break apart for a long while, their mouths swollen yet endlessly hungry for more. At last, Dean could no longer stand it. He begged for it, commanded it of Castiel, pleaded it through hot, panted breaths. Finally, Castiel pushed himself inside him. Dean wrapped his legs around him, holding them together tightly. Castiel moved slowly, adapting to the tightness, until Dean released a moan of permission and the king allowed himself to go faster, abandoning his senses with every motion. In that moment, there was no plan, there was no spell, Dean had given himself to Castiel and they both knew what they were doing, what they had let themselves in for. Dean did not let go of him, not until the king’s hot, frenzied moan bore itself into the boy’s neck as he released himself inside him, and Dean grasping ever tighter until his warmth had smothered them both whole, undoing the king completely, like he always knew Dean would.
Dean woke up, feeling warm and uncommonly relaxed. He had slept on soft grass, and had dreamt a beautiful dream. He rolled over; the naked form of Castiel sleeping soundly beside him. He blinked, watching as the king’s chest rose high and low with each deep breath. He had dreamt he had awoken in a ballroom, where people were dancing in strange, exotic masks, to a wonderful, placid song. He had danced with Castiel in that room, then he had followed him to this green, sun-setting place, and he had allowed himself to be selfish enough to fuck the man who had kidnapped his brother, and held him prisoner in a castle guarded by high walls and creatures with rotting hearts.
He had been with the king in a dream, and he was to wake up again in the forest of fur trees where Meg and the others were waiting for him. Why had he not awoken? Why was he still here?
He dressed quickly, the silver robes feeling itchy and tight-fitting as he put them back on. The pale wooden door was standing by the entrance of the forest. He rushed over to it, grasping at the handle, but it remained shut. Castiel had opened his eyes at the sound of the doorknob, and watched Dean struggle against the wooden frame. He put on his robes and approached him slowly.
“Dean?”
He turned around. The sun had finally set, basking them in a grey darkness. He moved away from the door, making sure Castiel could not get too close.
“Why am I here?” he asked the king slowly.
“Why? Because this is where you belong.”
Dean shook his head, his hands shaking.
“I don’t belong here.”
The king edged closer.
“Dean…” he pleaded.
“My brother needs me.”
“No,” Castiel said, his voice wavering. This was not how it was meant to go. The plan had worked. Meg had given him the amulet. He had arrived at this place and given himself to the king. He had used ancient magic to take Dean to this place. It couldn’t have faded. Castiel was too powerful to let that happen, but Dean only shook his head once more.
“You stole him away,” he said, “and then you took me. You trapped me here. You won’t let me leave.”
Castiel put his head in his hands, that same headache returning, pounding behind his eyes.
“You weren’t supposed to remember.”
Dean guffawed, growing angry.
“Weren’t supposed to?” he repeated. “So you’d be happy fucking a zombie?”
“No,” Castiel said at once. “No. The way you were with me just then… You were alive, Dean.”
“Well, that’s because—”
“Because what?” And then he realised. “Because you’d already remembered.”
He did not even have to ask.
“Stop.”
Castiel ignored him, walking forwards, but this time Dean did not move away.
“I knew it,” the king said, his voice full of yearning. “The moment I kissed you, it all came back, didn’t it? But you didn’t care. You let me have you.”
It was cruel, him saying these things, because it was true, and it shamed Dean to hear it. He had risked the freedom of his brother, of every soul in the labyrinth, so he could have a night of selfishness.
“Fuck you!”
Dean ran at the king, flooring him to the ground, on to grass that was now long and jagged. He wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s neck and began to squeeze.
“I could drain the life out of you,” he said through gritted teeth, choking the king harder, “right now.”
Castiel struggled beneath him, his arms on Dean’s.
“Have you forgotten your quest, Dean?” he fought in a strangled voice. “No matter how badly you wish to kill me, you can only do it with one weapon.”
He was right; of course he was. Dean could keep his hands around Castiel’s neck for the rest of eternity, and still, the king would not die.
Dean let go, shaking with anger. He got up, and ran for the door. When it did not open, he punched it, breaking the skin on his knuckles, but unable to feel anything other than the rage he felt towards Castiel in that moment.
The king stood up slowly, nursing his bruised neck. He looked at Dean, who was panting by the door.
“I know you must hate me,” he said tenderly, never taking his eyes off the boy’s face. “I deceived you, and I’m sorry. But I know the real reason you’re angry. The way you feel about me, it contradicts every reason that you’re here. I have your brother, and I must die in order for you to save him. Look at you,” he said, urging closer. “The whole world is bearing down on your shoulders, screaming at you, demanding that you save it.
“It must be exhausting being a hero…” he continued, “It’s why I’ve never been one. For some reason, Dean, we are drawn to each other even though every single part of us tells us it’s wrong. But I don’t care,” he said resolutely, the pain in his head and neck forgotten, “and I don’t think you do, either.”
He walked forwards until he was close enough to kiss him.
“Look at you,” he said lovingly; running a hand down Dean’s cheek, “you’re so beautiful.”
“Stop it,” Dean whispered, but he did not pull away.
“Don’t tell me my touch doesn’t fill you with something,” the king said, his hunger returning. “Just let it fill you.”
His hand fell to Dean’s chest, and the boy threw it off disgustedly.
“Get off me!” he shouted, walking to the middle of the clearing. Castiel only sighed.
“You can keep fighting, or you can accept the inevitable,” he said, his heart racing. “You don’t want to go back there, Dean, to that cold place, to a father that doesn’t love you. Once you save your brother, what then? Your old life is nothing to you anymore. Stay here. Live as a king by my side. We could rule together.”
Dean scowled.
“What makes you think I would even want that?” he spat, but Castiel could see the fight in his eyes dying, just a little.
“Because of the way you look at me,” he said. “You had that same look when I saw you in the nursery the first time. You’re looking at me that same way now.”
They continued to look at each other, blue eyes on green. Castiel marched to where Dean stood, and he took him in his arms once more.
“Let me have you again,” he whispered between desperate kisses. “Just once; I beg you.”
Dean kissed him back, pulled away, moaned as their lips met again.
“No,” he tried, though he did not fight anymore. “Stop. Stop,” he repeated lamely, losing himself in the king’s embrace.
“Tell me you love me,” panted Castiel, running his hands down to Dean’s crotch. “Say it, Dean.”
They got lost in each other again, their bodies hardening. It could be so easy, Dean thought as Castiel nibbled against his ear, to be selfish again. So easy…
But in that moment he saw his brother’s face, saw his mother, who had died because of this place. If he did this now, he was worse than her killer. He was the Righteous Prince. He was in the labyrinth for one reason only: to save his brother, to save the souls, to save himself. He was here to save people, and he couldn’t lose. Not now.
“No!”
He pushed Castiel hard to the ground. He rushed to the door, this time, it opened at his touch, and he sped down the corridor. It was no longer white and glittering, but grey and old, gathering dust and spider’s webs.
He slammed through the second door and into the ballroom. The music was excruciatingly loud, its melody a mash of broken, clashing notes. The masked people no longer danced, and were no longer beautiful. They were demons; every last one of them, and they were killing each other, ripping their partners apart, staining the white floor with blood and masks.
Dean rushed through them towards the door he had first arrived through. Once he reached the other side, there was no door to be seen. He looked around him wildly, across every inch of wall, but now, the other door had disappeared, too. He ran towards the barrier, bashing it violently with his fists.
“Get me out of here!” he screamed. “Get me out! Sammy!”
But Sammy was not here. There was no one here apart from Castiel’s animals. He was never to leave this place; his punishment for giving himself to the bastard king.
In the centre of the room he noticed something, gleaming crudely amongst the mass of bodies that littered the ground. He rushed over to it, grabbing it without really knowing what he was doing. He was holding Castiel’s horned mask, the face of his amulet. Without thinking, he rushed to the edge of the room, throwing the mask at the wall and letting it shatter through it. At once, the room began to crumble. The ceiling caved, the ground collapsed, and Dean was shrouded in darkness once more.