Chapter Text
It had been thirty-three minutes since Meg had opened the door and allowed Dean passage into the Labyrinth. The minutes ticked away so slowly Dean could have easily thought he had been walking for well over an hour, if it weren’t for the blue digital watch he wore on his left wrist that he found himself checking obsessively. No matter how many steps he took, the narrow passageway still remained one long, straight line, with not a single twist or corner in sight.
Come on, Dean thought to himself. There’s gotta be something I can work with, here.
He attempted to jump, or climb up the brown coloured wall, but his attempts proved futile against its looming height and slippery texture. The same ugly foliage as outside grew in thick, rough tufts on the ground, spreading its way up the squalid brick like a weed.
“You better not be playing games with me, Castiel,” Dean said through gritted teeth.
He walked a few steps further, letting his left hand stroke lazily against the wall. It left a brown wetness on his fingertips.
“Castiel,” he said, a little louder. “Don’t you be playing games with me.”
And then he stopped.
Of course he’s playing games, he realised. He wants me to get mad. He wants me to get so mad I give up.
He smiled darkly. Well, not today, you smug prick.
Dean broke into a sprint. Of course there was a way through this labyrinth. He just had to be smart, use his head—remember not to take anything for granted.
He ran for ten minutes, jumping over upturned branches, dodging nettles, running his hands between the two walls beside him for signs of a crack, an opening—anything.
After another minute or so, however, Dean was out of breath. He stopped—abruptly—and put both hands on his legs. He panted loudly and heavily, his chest tight and his shoulders aching.
There was absolutely nothing in this labyrinth, except for this never-ending walkway. The distant fog taunted him; the still wind jeered. This place was tight and cold and damp, and Dean was very much alone.
He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, let himself feel hopeless. At this point, Dean felt nothing other than pure lividness.
“That BITCH!” he roared, bringing a hard boot against the crack in the wall.
She had known there was nothing down here, and yet she’d let him through with nothing more than a cheery fucking goodbye anyway. God, did Dean feel like an idiot. He’d known Meg was a demon; she had made no attempt at hiding it. He’d known she was no better than those stinking, festering animals that had held him down in the nursery. Yet because of those red lips of hers, her small button nose, that naughty little smile and the curve of her hips, Dean had chosen to ignore any qualms regarding the blackened venality that riled within her. He had been so trusting, so grateful. He’d even asked her to come with him…
Dean bashed a fist against the wall in frustration. He would not make that same mistake again. From now on, he had to assume that every single being he came across in this godforsaken maze was an enemy—if he even met anyone else, he realised dolefully. The rate he was going, he’d be lucky to run into another demon. Although he supposed Meg had been right about one thing: there would be creatures in here that would do anything to stop him from reaching Sammy.
“I won’t let that happen…” Dean found himself saying aloud, his mood changing from anger to one of determination.
“I’ll find you, Sammy. I don’t quite know how I’ll do it yet…” he faltered for a moment, looking at the endless path before him, “but I’ll find a way.”
But this sudden upsurge of willpower was tersely interrupted by a small voice from behind him.
“Uh… hello?”
Dean sprung around.
“Who said that?” He demanded. There was no one there.
“It’s… me…” He heard the voice again. It sounded strained, as if it were pushing against something.
The wall in front of him began to open, and a small, palish man with a beard appeared behind it. The pair looked at each other for a short moment. The shorter man stepped into the light and smiled up at him anxiously.
“Hey…” he said, his voice timid, offering Dean a hand. “I’m—“
But Dean was not interested in what he had to say, as he punched the man straight in the jaw; leaving him a dazed heap on the ground. Cupping the part of his face that had been hit, the man looked up shakily at Dean.
“Ow,” he said, attempting to get up. “That really hurt.”
Dean brought up his fists again.
“Stay back, demon!”
“Chuck?” came another voice from behind the wall. “What’s all this nois—“ and as the second figure appeared from behind it, a woman this time,she looked up from the crumpled figure of the man on the floor, only to gaze upon Dean as if she had just witnessed the Second Coming. She stopped where she stood.
“Oh,” she said, realising—taking a huge gulp from her now dry throat.
No one said anything for what felt like a long while. Dean’s fists were still clenched, ready for another strike, but something about these two made him falter. They seemed fearful of him, sure, but there was a familiarity in their eyes that made it seem like they were somehow glad to see him. It was strange. He could only assume these people were demons like Meg, but even so, something about them was undeniably pure. Their eyes lacked the deviousness that Meg’s had, and their faces, the ugliness of the creatures in the nursery. These people appeared to be something new entirely, but that just made Dean feel even more guarded.
The shorter man finally got up now, and stood next to the woman.
“Dean,” he said, smiling up at him again. “We’ve waited a long time to meet you. This truly is an honour—“ he paused to rub his jaw, “even if you did just punch me in the face.”
Dean didn’t trust this warm welcoming.
“Yeah, well, you’re a demon,” he said defensively, despite the fact he had no idea what was going on or who these people were.
Chuck smiled kindly at him a third time. “I’m not a demon,” he said, “and neither is my wife.”
Dean found himself wanting to back away. If they weren’t demons, if they weren’t like those rotting creatures that had sunk their nails into him and cackled in his ear, then what were they? Was this a trick? Were they something worse?
“What are you, then?” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.
“We are souls,” Chuck answered, “trapped in this land against our will, but free from the shackles that bind so many to Castiel’s control.”
Dean raised his eyebrow.
“Souls?” he said slowly. “So… you’re not demons?”
“No,” the couple smiled.
“And just to make sure: you don’t wanna eat me, or peel off my skin, or touch me inappropriately, or anything like that?”
“No, Dean,” they chuckled. “We don’t.”
“You keep saying my name,” he said now, allowing his voice to sound a little less hostile. “How do you know it?”
“You’re famous.”
Dean smirked,
“Yeah, that’s what Meg said…”
“Meg?” the woman asked.
“Yeah, uh…” Dean faltered, unsure of how much he should tell them. “The girl that guards the door.”
The two souls looked at each other quickly, for half a second, but it was long enough. Something in that look made him uncomfortable. Did they know her? Before he could ask, the man, Chuck, started talking again.
“Well. She is correct. We can tell you why, if you come with us.” He lowered his voice and edged closer to Dean. “It’s not safe to talk here.”
Dean felt himself wanting to back away. He looked at the man suspiciously.
“What do you mean, it’s not safe? You two are the first people I’ve met since coming through here. This place is just one straight line, there ain’t nothing else.”
Chuck held out his hand, as if sensing the boy’s trepidation.
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Just because you cant see something doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
Dean hesitated.
“Are we talking about other people or the labyrinth?”
“Both.”
The boy frowned.
“Okay, you lost me.”
Chuck put his hand on the crack in the wall.
“We’ll explain all if you come with us.”
Dean hesitated. He didn’t know if this was a trap or not, but he saw no other option but to go along with them. This was the first bit of change in the labyrinth that wasn’t even a labyrinth at all. Safe or not—change was good. At least he was heading in a direction other than forwards.
“Fine,” he agreed at last. “Lead the way. But if you try anything funny, I’ll do a lot more than just knock you on your ass, understood?”
Dean found himself stood inside what could only be described as a rounded burrow. The walls and ground looked to be made up of dried mud and soil, yet despite this animalistic simplicity, there was a warm fire crackling pleasantly in the far wall of the room, and shadows danced across the brown mud walls by the candlelight on the mantle. The room was furnished modestly: a table, some chairs, a couple of shelves, a cooking pot, and next to the fire, a wooden bed; its frame worn and rickety. The wall behind Dean began closing slowly once his feet had touched upon this new, soiled ground.
The boy’s green eyes looked around the hidden room with bewilderment.
“What the hell is this place?” he breathed.
“This,” Chuck said proudly, “is our little home in the wall.” He put an arm around his wife. “It’s not much, but it’s a hell of a lot safer than what’s out there.” He paused, and looked at Becky apologetically. “Well, it was, at least.”
He went over to a shelf and picked something up. Whatever it was, it was large, and its contents was covered by a brown rag. Returning to place it on the table, Chuck took off the cloth to reveal an ancient looking hourglass; the sand inside it glittering against the light of the candles. He turned the timer on its head and let the sand seep down through the middle.
“What are you doing?” asked Dean.
“This hourglass will tell us how long we have until the demons come for us,” Chuck replied bluntly. “There is no doubt in my mind the king’s spies have already informed Castiel of our meeting, so it is vital we tell you all you need to know before the sand reaches the bottom.”
Dean puffed out his cheeks. Invisible spies. Homes inside walls. Magical hourglasses... Was anything as it seemed in this place?
“Okay,” he said, nodding towards the couple. “I’m sure this day can’t get any weirder, so whatever you got, lay it on me.”
Chuck breathed out slowly, and pulled a chair out from under the table.
“Right,” he said, sitting down. “Where should I start? I mean, I’ve waited eons for this moment, and now you’re finally here I—“
“Chuck.” Becky put a hand on his shoulder, which immediately seemed to calm him.
“Sorry, Becky. I’m rambling. I do that when I’m nervous.”
He looked up at Dean.
“Well, Meg, the door guard from the beginning… she told you you’re famous, that everybody knows your name.”
Dean gave Becky one of his winning smiles. “I just figured it was because of my unnaturally good looks.”
Ignoring the look on his wife’s face, which had gone bright red, Chuck was looking at Dean with almost pained seriousness.
“It’s because you are Chosen, Dean. You and your brother both.”
This stopped Dean in his tracks. “You know Sammy?”
“Everybody knows the story of the baby and the older brother,” Becky said, sitting down on a chair next to Chuck.
Chuck nodded.
“You have a lot of names,” he began. “Dean Winchester is only one of them.”
“Like?”
The shorter man bit his lip in contemplation.
“Well,” he dithered, waving his hand to the seat across from him so Dean would sit too, “the prophecy varies. There’s the Chosen One, of course, and son of the Burned Woman, the good brother… et cetera et cetera.” He stopped, and looked at Dean knowingly. “Although our personal favourite has always been the Righteous Prince.”
The Righteous Prince.
Mary had often told him the story of the two princes; the Righteous and the Damned.
“The Righteous Prince,” said Dean, out loud. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Yes,” nodded Chuck. He looked grave. “Whether you are willing to accept it or not, you have been prepared for this your whole life.”
Dean couldn’t help but wonder.
“Mom…” he whispered. She had known all of it, and for reasons unclear to Dean at that moment, she had felt the only way to protect her children was to keep it all a secret from them, teaching them instead the grim reveal of their destiny through twisted fairytales and arcane nicknames.
“The Mother of Flames,” Chuck nodded absentmindedly, staring at the golden sand at the bottom of the hourglass—half full. He regained composure. “But now is not the time to talk of ghosts.”
He breathed out heavily.
“You are Chosen, Dean, and you need to know why.”
Dean straightened up.
“Then tell me.”
“Eons ago a prophecy was foretold of two brothers that would be born of both one world and another. Their names forged in the depths of the earth, they would be gifted with a power of such magnitude it could bring about the end of a dynasty.” Chuck paused for a moment. “Your brother is taken, yes, but you are the only thing in this wretched place that has the power of defeating Castiel once and for all. You have the power to save your brother, to free the lost souls of the King’s Labyrinth and return them to the mortal world.”
With this, Dean raised two hands to stop Chuck from saying another word.
“Wait a second, wait a second. Me and Sammy are part of a prophecy?”
“You are the prophecy.” Chuck said, almost aggressively.
Becky put a hand over her husband’s clenched one.
“You were always meant to come here, Dean,” she said, her calmness softening the tenseness in the room. “This is your home, after all.”
Chuck began to speak again.
“Although it was never meant to be this way.”
Dean frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“The prophecy… it has been changed. Castiel has your brother. If you fail, Sam will be transformed into a demon, and you…” he paused. “You will be trapped here forever.”
Becky squeezed her husband’s hand again.
“It wasn’t meant to happen this way,” she nodded, “but it still doesn’t mean you won’t be able to kill him.”
“Well,” said Dean, wide-eyed. “That’s reassuring… And killing him is the only way of getting Sam back?”
“Yes,” replied Chuck, “but doing so won’t be easy.”
“I figured as much.”
Becky uttered her husbands name, then—quiet, but panicked. He looked at her, and she edged her chin towards the hourglass. The sand was almost at the bottom.
With this, Chuck sprung out of his chair, half-running to the back of the room, emerging moments later with what could only be described as an aged canvas knapsack about the size of Dean’s boot.
“Time is running out,” Chuck said hurriedly, now back at the table. “Listen closely and listen well; in order to kill Castiel you need to complete four tasks.”
He handed the bag to Dean.
“Here, take this. Inside it are three things. Put them on the table.”
Dean did just that. Ordering the items in succession, he looked at them with confusion. The first item was a glass vial, a few centimetres bigger than his middle finger, and it was empty. He’d used vials like this in Science class, but something told him this vial was going to be filled with something a little more ominous than hydrochloric acid. The second item was a black whistle, ancient looking; the words of an unfamiliar language etched on its side. The third item, and by far the most sinister one, was a dagger. It was sheathed. However, that same, strange language was printed in thin lines down the sides of the worn fabric.
Chuck did not give Dean time to ask any questions. He picked up the vial.
“In this,” he told Dean, his voice hurried, “you will need to store three things: blood of the Purest Soul, ash of the Fiercest Demon, and tears of the Forgotten Sister. Only once these ingredients have been collected will you be able to retrieve the Righteous Weapon and use it to pierce a hole through Castiel’s heart. Only then will you be able to save your brother.”
Dean nodded dumbly.
“Now, the whistle: only blow on it once you have approached the kingdom’s door. Here’s hoping you even make it that far.”
He placed the whistle back into the bag and picked up the dagger, unsheathing it. The cold metal of the blade seemed to shimmer, as if it was awoken. The point curved and beckoned Dean like Sleeping Beauty to the pinprick. It rested delicately in Chuck’s hand; beautiful and deadly—a servant and master both.
“Treat this dagger well,” Chuck said, stroking the top edge fondly, “for if it has the power to do something even our precious king cannot accomplish—and that is to kill.”
“But Meg said you couldn’t die in the labyrinth,” Dean said slowly, eyeing up the blade with newfound anxiety.
“That was before the Righteous Prince signed a contract with the king himself and breached the door of his domain. He welcomes you, though you were not invited. You are playing his game, though you make your own rules. Where you can destroy, he can only maim.” Chuck looked up at Dean darkly. “In this regard, you are even more powerful than the king himself.
Dean gulped involuntarily. A few hours ago he was just a nowhere boy living in a nowhere town. Now, he was in a land of demons and lost souls, hidden walls and eyeless spies. He was looking his destiny straight in the face—a chance to do something great, something his mother had been preparing him for his whole life.
He had never been more afraid.
Chuck handed Dean the knapsack, and started to lead him across the room to where the orange fire crackled and waved.
“Now, not everyone you’ll meet will be an enemy,” he said. “Some will try and help you, like Becky and I, and you sure as Hell will need friends in this place if you even hope to see the door to Castiel’s kingdom.”
The three of them stopped before the fire. Chuck put a hand on Dean’s shoulder.
“But don’t let your instincts fail you,” he continued. “Some people will be on your side, yes, but others will fane sincerity in order to manipulate you. You alone can decipher who is friend and who is foe."
Chuck bent down to where the fire was roaring. He put a hand on the flame and Dean gasped, pulling the man’s hand away. Looking at it—it was unharmed.
“Enter through this crawlspace,” Chuck said. “Castiel thought he could con you into walking an endless highway, but, as shown, he underestimates the willfulness of those who do not bow before him.” He paused to give Dean a small smile.
“Your first task is to make your way to the home of Death and collect the blood of the Purest Soul.”
The man opened his mouth again as if to continue, but he was staring at something behind Dean that made the boy turn around. The hourglass on the table—the sand had reached the bottom. Their time had run out.
Chuck grasped Dean’s shoulders.
“You must go now, Dean. Don’t stop. Keep going and you will find your way. The king’s demons will be here any second.”
Dean nodded. He bent down and timidly placed a hand on the thick of the flame. He flinched, though he was not hurt. He looked up at the two souls.
“Thank you,” he said, placing the bag on his left shoulder and letting it rest on the small of his back.
“You’re welco—“ they started, but the wall on the other side of the room began to quiver and quake. The ground started to tremor, and rubble emerged from the cracks, falling heavily to the floor. The demons had found them. Dean began to move through the fire, but something stopped him.
“Wait, aren’t you guys coming with me?”
Becky shook her head.
“No, Dean.”
Dean was flabbergasted. Angry, even.
“Why?”
“Sacrifices have to be made for the greater good,” Chuck replied solemnly.
“No. No,” Dean argued. “I can’t let you guys sacrifice yourselves for me, come on!”
The wall on the other side began to open slowly. Frightful screams and moaning were emerging through the cracks. Dean knew that whatever was coming through there would not be able to kill Chuck and Becky, but like Meg had said, there are some fates far worse than death…
“Now, Dean!” The couple were shouting, breaking him from his trance. “Go! Now!”
Dean’s heart was racing. The orange flames blinded him and the sharpness of the ground beneath dug into his palms and knees. He crawled through the tunnel, his chest tight and his ears banging from the commotion behind him. Dean kept crawling until he could no longer see the flames or hear the sounds of screaming. He crawled through the darkened tunnel for a lifetime, until he was aware of nothing else but the sounds of his own, terrified breaths.