Chapter Text
He did not let go. He couldn’t. Mary was holding him, the way she had done when he was a child just woken from a nightmare. He breathed in her scent, let her blonde hair tickle his nose. If this was a trick, then it was the sweetest deception he had ever known.
Mary pulled away slowly. She smiled at him, and wiped away his tears. Her touch was so soft he barely felt it. He grabbed on to her hand, just to prove its solidity. He did not know if he was staring at an angel or a semblance of one.
“Are you real?”
His mother laughed sadly, and kept a hold of his hand.
“Yes. No,” she said. “I don’t know what I am. But I can feel you.” She put the same hand to his face, and brought him close again. “I can hold you like this. That’s all that matters.”
“Mom,” he whispered into her neck, the tears falling again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve made so many mistakes since the fire. You must be so ashamed.”
“Ashamed?”
Mary clasped his face, her blue eyes searing into his.
“No, Dean,” she said firmly, kindly, so full of love. “I’m proud of you.”
“But, Sammy… he’s in this place because of me.”
“Not you,” she shook her head. “Do you really think that you came here by accident, because you wished it? Dean, surely you must realise now that this was all inevitable.”
He stood there dumbly.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“You’re special,” Mary declared, her voice echoing throughout the cavern walls. “Both of you. You always were, since before you were even born.”
Had he known that before, before this place, before the fire? Did he really think he was going to grow up and become a mechanic like his father? Would he have been happy with a subtle life, a mere whimper in the universe? No, he suppose he wouldn’t.
“You knew, didn’t you,” Dean said, “about this place? The Tale of Two Brothers; you used to tell me that story before I went to sleep. You used to call me and Sam princes.”
Mary smiled wistfully.
“Yes. I knew.”
“Did you know… did you know about—”
He couldn’t get the words out. His mother stroked his hair and finished his sentence for him.
“About the fire?”
He nodded. Seeing Michael burn had rebounded Dean back to that moment. The smell clogging and thick, the smoke heavy, as solid as concrete. And Mary, in her white nightgown, pleading with him to leave her as she disappeared behind a blaze.
“I did not know I was going to die. You see, Castiel changed the design of fate when he became king. He corrupted it, and so corrupted our family. You and Sam, together you make the Righteous and the Damned. But what is Castiel? He’s neither. He’s both. He’s a mutation, an anomaly. By him trapping Lucifer he could vary the will of the universe.”
Her words terrified him, sent a shudder through his very core.
“Mom,” he pleaded, as clueless as a child. “I still don’t understand.”
Mary smiled, bringing herself closer.
“When I was a girl,” she started, “a man would visit me in my dreams. His name was Michael. He told me I would have two sons, and in my second born's fifteenth year, a world eons away but just beneath the surface would call to you both to fight for it. It took me years to finally accept the truth, but when you were born, I knew I had to prepare you some how. If you knew, even if a semblance of you knew, then maybe you could save each other.”
Dean took a deep breath.
“But when Castiel became king it all changed.”
Mary nodded.
“Michael stopped visiting me, and instead I saw a different man. By the time I knew what he had planned for you it was too late.” Her voice cracked a little, but she did not stop.
“He killed me. His servant, Azazel, willed the fire, and then climbed himself into the body of your father.”
Azazel. The demon with the yellow eyes. He had taunted Dean, tortured him, came to him in the flesh of John Winchester, and spoke to him in his voice.
“I killed him. I killed Azazel.”
Mary nodded, tears forming in her eyes.
“The worst thing Castiel ever did was make you think that John didn’t love you,” she said softly, “for making him hurt you the way he did.”
“The bruises didn’t hurt,” said Dean. “It was the look in his eyes when he saw me. The blame of me not being able save you.”
“That was not John.” Mary’s voice was firm, absolute, the first flash of anger in her soft blue eyes. He looked down at her, and her fists were clenched.
“I know that now,” he said, taking her closed hands in his. “Castiel wanted me to hate him. To hate everything, including Sammy.”
“Yes,” Mary affirmed, nodding. The anger had subsided and she held back on to Dean fiercely. “If both of you were to enter the labyrinth fifteen years from now, Castiel would be doomed. But forcing you here now, an angry teenage boy and a baby, the king could use you to his own advantage, and shape the world further than he could ever do alone. But Castiel made one mistake.”
“What?”
His mother smiled.
“He underestimated you.”
Mary kissed his hands, then, her face shifting to a somber, careful expression.
“Darling,” she whispered. “I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it. But you have to promise to listen.”
Uneasiness crept into the pit of his stomach, his chest tightening as if embalmed with smoke. But he could not be scared anymore. He had to be strong, for her.
“Okay,” he said.
Mary did not speak for several moments, she bit her lip, avoided his gaze. She sighed.
“Mom…” started Dean.
“Your brother would win,” said Mary suddenly, halting him in place. “If you came here when you were supposed to, Sam would turn against you and destroy everything.”
Dean stammered, blinking.
“How do you—”
“He’s a baby,” Mary interrupted, a sadness in her eyes he had never seen when she was alive. “Perfect and innocent. But he is the Damned prince for a reason, Dean. You are a descendent of Michael, as he is of Lucifer. There is a darkness inside of him, one that will grow and twist with age. Castiel knows that, that is why he brought you here when Sam was so defenceless. But as I said, he underestimated you. He has watched you, always, never even conceiving you as a threat. But after all these years have passed, seeing you become a man, a fighter, he has doomed himself in another way entirely.”
“In what way, Mom?”
Mary sighed.
“The Weapon… on its own, it could never kill Castiel.” She looked at him then, into him, through to his very core.
“It was always going to be you, no matter what you wielded.”
Her words were a riddle, a fantastical stream of complexity and knowing. He felt hopeless to hear them, dumbfounded. He was desperate to understand and frustrated that he didn’t.
“What do you mean?” He felt almost angry, frantic—but the sound of his mother’s soft chuckle and her hand on his cheek, immediately settled him into balance.
“Oh, baby,” she said, smiling. “I love you, but you really don’t catch on quickly, do you? It is his love for you that will kill him. Not the war. Not the Weapon—you.”
“I don’t…” started Dean slowly, “he doesn’t…”
“He tried to trap you inside a dream,” Mary said, “a dream where you could be together always. He wasn’t king in that dream, was he? He was a man. You were equals. He didn’t have to do that; he could have locked you away like he did Michael. And when he kissed you, you remembered. He wanted you to remember and to love him anyway. Can’t you see it now?”
There was no façade to hide behind now, no cloak of doubt. Mary had seen inside the amulet and uncovered a truth Dean had been aching to forget and relive both at once. She was right. Castiel had been different in the ballroom, different in the forest he had created for them, and them alone. It hadn’t just been a trick, a prison in which to make Dean suffer. Castiel had given himself to Dean because he loved him. He loved him.
He loved him.
“Yes,” said Dean finally.
He felt something in his hands, something cold, and heavy.
“You’re so close now, Dean,” his mother said. “Take it.”
He looked down. He was staring at a sword, ancient and grand, with red and gold jewels on the thick silver hilt. This was it, the Righteous Weapon, the weapon he would use to plunge into the heart of his enemy, of his lover, of the man he begged to save.
He looked back at his mother, then, and something about her was different. She had dulled, faded, like a ghost against glass. He grabbed a hold of her hand, but there was nothing there.
“After Castiel dies,” he spoke to her urgently, “will it reverse the fire? Will your soul come back?”
Mary smiled at him sadly, but even her happiness seemed shadowed now.
“I’m dead, Dean, not lost. You can’t save everyone. But you can save your brother.”
She was paling, dissapearing amongst the cavern rocks. He could not bear to see her go, not now that he had finally found her.
“Please,” he begged, his hand reaching out and touching nothing but air, “don’t leave me again.”
Her voice was distant, an imitation. He could no longer see her, but her whisper conquered the darkness, if only for a moment.
“I’ll never leave you, Dean. I’ll always be with you.”
By the time he emerged from the cave, he felt like a thousand years must have passed since first entering it. Jo was sat on the edge of the boat, looking numbly across the lake. With the sound of his footsteps, she looked towards him. The sword was sheathed through his belt, and the sight of it made her eyes widen.
“You have it,” she said, standing. “Let me see.”
He unsheathed it slowly, the sound of it, slicing, prolonged, rang through his body and made the hair on his arms rise up. Jo touched it, ran her finger down the brunt of the blade and caressed the jewels. There was something in her eyes, a look of awe, perhaps, or greed.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
He did not like the way she was looking at it. Anger niggled under his skin like tiny needles. He removed the sword from her hands and put it back through his belt quickly. Jo looked disappointed, but said nothing more.
“Let’s go,” Dean said, leading the way.
He handed Jo an oar, waited for her to get inside, and then pushed it slowly back on to the water.
They rowed in silence, Dean staring fixatedly at the land ahead of him, where his destiny so smugly was waiting for him.
After a while, Jo spoke up, eyeing him anxiously.
“What happened in there? You seem different.”
What was he supposed to say? That he saw his mother? That Castiel loves him? That deep down, in a secret part inside of him, he loves Castiel back?
“I just…” he sighed. “I can’t believe we’re almost at the end. I’m gonna put this sword through Castiel’s heart.”
Jo looked at him strangely, or eagerly—Dean didn’t know. He did know that he did not want to speak of the cave, or the sword, ever again. Too much had happened. Too much had been taken away. It was torture, the memory of her face, the smell of her skin, her voice and her words, her warnings, her answers. His brother was… what, exactly? It was hard to imagine a future in which Sam would be willing to hurt others, to hurt him. He did not know if he could believe it, but then, if he didn’t, he would be forced to disregard everything else his mother had said. He cursed himself internally. Everything had been so simple when he had first entered the labyrinth. Find Sam. Kill Castiel. Go home. Now, what was he left with? When the time really came, what was he going to do?”
“Dean, stop rowing.”
It was Jo’s voice, pulling him from the thoughts he had been lost in. They were back on land. Bobby lend a hand to Jo as she got out, then extended it to Dean. Once he was out, Bobby huffed.
“You took your time,” he lectured. Then, he spotted the sword resting on Dean’s side. “Wow, that thing is…”
“It’s a king-killer, is what it is,” interjected Jo from beside him. “Come on,” she said then, taking the lead. “We can see the castle from here. It won’t take us long to reach the gates.”
She was right. Directly ahead of them he saw the outline of a kingdom, tall and beautiful and vulgar, as it lay amidst a wall so high it almost shrouded the highest spire.
They began walking. Bobby touched his arm.
“You okay, Dean?”
The feel of Bobby’s hand jolted him, and he almost backed away. The look of concern on his friend’s face forced a laugh out of Dean, and he playfully punched Bobby’s arm.
“I’m fine, Bobby. Thanks.”
His friend smiled warmly, which only served in feeding the new guilt that had formed inside him.
“You’ll see your brother soon,” Bobby said kindly.
For the first time, those words filled him with dread.
In a throne room, amidst a castle, inside a city, stood an empty glass screen mounted on a wall. Castiel had noticed its bareness almost immediately, but had said nothing. It was his servant, Crowley, who let its emptiness known, gasping and spluttering with great panic and agitation.
“The sword,” he said, rushing over to the king, “it’s gone!”
“Yes,” confirmed Castiel dully. “I presume Dean found Michael. He has it now.”
“My lord…” deliberated Crowley slowly, shaking his head, “if you die, what will become of us? Become of me?”
Castiel chuckled coldly. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the throne.
“I think you’ll be quite all right without me, Crowley,” he said laxly. “I don’t suppose I’ve been a very good king, have I? This world might be better off without me in it.”
“How can you say that?”
Castiel looked at his servant, his fat chest panting; irritation swelling in his piggish eyes. He felt nothing.
“I’ve wasted a lot of years preparing for this moment,” he said. “Now it’s here, I… I can no longer remember why I wanted to be king. Chuck was right; bringing the princes here before they were meant to was a mistake. I’ve made… so many mistakes, and now I have to pay for them.”
“You’re pathetic,” Crowley said, all carefulness forgotten. “You might as well open the gate and meet him with your hands up.”
Castiel stood.
“Will you watch over Sam for me, Crowley?” he asked casually, as if he hadn’t heard. “There’s somewhere I need to go.”
Crowley looked amusedly appalled as he watched his king walk away.
“You’re leaving?”
“Just for a while.” He stopped, approached his servant. He placed two hands around his face, and touched their foreheads together.
“Crowley,” he whispered. “I want to thank you for your service. You were loyal to Lucifer, I know, but you have been good to me since the war.”
He pulled away, and smiled.
“Are you saying goodbye?” his servant asked, as the king began to dissipate in a whirl of black smoke.
“I am forgiving you, Crowley,” the king corrected, “for what you are about to do.”