Chapter Text
Dean had been crawling for what felt like hours. His jeans were dyed brown by the mud and his palms were bleeding from the sharp stones and splinters laced on the tunnel floor. The smell of soil and rot was overpowering and Dean couldn’t help but gag.
The screaming of his fallen friends had long ago faded within the tunnel walls, but he still could not get the piercing sound out of his head. The stillness of the tunnel only seemed to make the soundless screams louder, until they were so loud he had to hold his hands to his ears and shut his eyes while his body winced and cowered.
“Stop. Stop,” he begged, pleading to the voices inside his head.
Maybe he was going crazy.
No, you’re just guilty, came another voice from inside his head. It was his father’s.
Now he was definitely going crazy.
Dean shook his head. No, he couldn’t be, he just… he couldn’t believe Chuck and Becky had been willing to sacrifice themselves for him—someone they didn’t even know. He bit his lip. How could he have been so cocky as to believe completing this labyrinth was going to be easy? He’d been there for less than an hour and already people had been lost.
What would become of them, he wondered. Prison? Torture? Dean did not know Castiel’s favoured punishment for treason, but he could only bet it was something truly despicable. He felt sick again; his stomach tightened and he gagged once more. Maybe it wasn’t the smell, after all.
Dean continued to crawl, ignoring the pain in his hands and knees and the jeering whispers his father’s voice tormented him with. He continued in the dark for a long while until the air he breathed became thinner. The smell of rot and mud slowly dissipated until light began streaming into the tunnel and left a warm, dry heat on his face. Dean crawled further to where the light was thickest, and began tearing away at the gap in the soil. After some struggling, the boy managed to drag himself out of the hole and breathed in slowly, relishing in the odourless air.
Dean got to his feet and rubbed himself down; his clothes were filthy. He paused, fingering the contents of his bag to check everything was still there. Once he was satisfied, he peered around, taking in his surroundings.
He was in another part of the labyrinth, that much was certain. Gone were the dried, arenose walls that went on for miles, and the brown sky that seemed as murky as swamp water. The walls had been replaced by tall green hedges, meticulously pruned, and the ground was laid with dozens of black and white floor tiles. The sky was a bright blue and the air cool and fresh. It was like something straight out of a fairytale, Dean thought, only fairytales weren’t so rife with misery.
Dean’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices coming from behind a corner. The voices were muffled, so Dean walked slowly to one of the hedges and peered around.
There must have been about two dozen people stood in the clearing. They stood motionless in a single line behind each other with their heads bowed and their wrists and ankles shackled. Dean didn’t know how long the line of people went, because the last person he could see disappeared behind a corner. These people—no—prisoners were silent. It was their guards who were making the noise. Even from where Dean was standing, he knew the beings he was staring at, with their black garbs and leashed whips, were demons.
He tore his eyes away from the clearing to gaze at something so big and so magnificent he very nearly gasped at the sight. It was a huge, wide building with white pillars on all sides. They were so tall, they could have gone on for a lifetime. As beautiful as this place was, Dean knew it was dangerous. Demons had already caught his friends, imagine what they would do if they found him? Dean spotted another clearing to his left. It seemed deserted, and the hedge would serve as plenty of coverage. If only he could sneak past these demons and—
“What the hell you doin’ out of line, eh?” came a voice suddenly from behind him, grabbing his arm. He turned around frightfully, and found himself staring into a pair of vicious, black eyes.
Dean knew he was screwed. The demon would know who he was and he would be captured, or worse.
“G-get off me,” he stammered, trying to get a hand into his bag. “I just—“
“I don’t want no bleedin’ excuses,” the demon snarled, shoving him forwards. “I got no patience for deserters. Get back in line or it’s the Pool for you!”
Dean had no idea what the demon was talking about. He was so sure he had been caught, but it seemed like the demon didn’t even know who he was. The demon led him to the line of people and pushed him roughly behind a woman, a few spaces from the front. Dean kept a firm grasp on the fold of his knapsack where the point of his dagger stuck out furthest, but another demon grabbed his wrists and set them shut with metal cuffs. His ankles were also bound.
The demon from before began pacing down the line; his face painted a dirtied snarl as he looked toward the prisoners.
“Listen, you soon-to-be maggots!” he yelled, making his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Today’s the day you come face-to-face with Death.”
Death? questioned Dean. He looked towards the huge building in front of him and stifled a gulp. Had he reached the home of Death, only to be captured and bound in chains?
The demon continued.
“This is a momentous day for you all, the day o’ your Turnin’. You’ve lasted longer than most.”
He paused to laugh at his captives.
“Ain’t nothing to fear…” he patronised. “Just a simple trial, is all. You will wait your turn until my associate calls on you, and then you will answer for your crimes in Death’s courtroom. Once the Turnin’ has occurred, you will make your way to the city where you will join the king’s army.”
He finished, looking satisfied.
“Any questions?”
The crowd said nothing. Dean’s teeth were gritted together as he stared fixedly at the knapsack rested on his thigh. None of the demons had questioned it—yet. Dean cursed himself for not using the dagger when he’d had the chance, but it couldn’t be helped now. Instead he simply waited for the demon to bark more orders.
The guard began pacing back to the front of the line, and even though Dean’s eyes were lowered, he could feel the eyes of the demons on the back of his neck—sharp, maleficent eyes, taking him in and relishing in his cowering.
“Some o’ you…” the demon guard murmured, looking at the line of people with wanton fondness. “I see your faces. You think you don’t belong ‘ere, that you’re just a bunch of innocent little souls who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Well, you’re not!” he concluded harshly, spraying spit from his rotting gums. “You did somethin’ to prove you’re just like everythin’ else in this cuntin’ place: tainted and festerin’… rottin’ from the inside out…”
He paused beside the snivelling prisoner at the front of the line.
“Oh, don’t look so frightened!” He teased, grabbing at the man’s face roughly. “We were in your places once, too, ya know. All demons were! Me pal Dimitri here,” he said, nodding his head towards a demon stood on higher ground, “he was Turned for rapin’ the pretty little soul who’d been kind enough to shelter him from the nasty demons he’d been runnin’ from.”
Dimitri sneered.
“And me,” the guard continued, “well, let’s just say I got a hunger that can’t be sated by… traditional means…”
He looked over at Dimitri and the pair chuckled darkly. Dean did not even want to imagine what that had meant.
The guard began pacing again.
“Now, don’t be too put off by the shackles. We’ve had runaways before, and the results weren’t pretty. Stand single file and follow the person in front."
“And don’t worry…” he finished darkly, “you won’t have to wait too long for your turn… the screamin’ don’t last long.”
As another Tainted was beckoned through the door to Death’s courtroom, the line of souls shifted. Dean shuffled, struggling against the weight of the shackles around his ankles. Unable to lift his feet off the ground, his foot caught between a wilted plant that seemed to grab on to him with its bristles. Dean couldn’t balance himself, and so buckled, and fell, into the woman in front of him.
“Watch it!” she snapped, turning around angrily.
“Cool it, I tripped!” he said defensively, his hands raised. The woman’s green eyes immediately lightened, however, as she took in the boy’s form. She looked him up and down, eyeing him hungrily, as if she hadn’t had a good meal in weeks.
“Mm,” she said now, her anger forgotten. “Fresh meat.”
She looked to be only a few years older than Dean, but was a fair few inches taller. She had mousey brown hair and her pink lips shimmered as she wet them softly with the tip of her tongue. By her accent Dean assumed she was British, which was strange to think about, considering they were in a place so far away from where she must have once lived.
“My name’s Bela,” she said to Dean, smirking down at him. She lifted a shackled hand to stroke his cheek lazily.
“What’s a little angel like you doing in a place like this?”
Dean pushed her hand away and scowled.
“None of your business. And I ain’t no angel."
“Oh,” Bela said, chuckling darkly, “I like ‘em feisty.”
She looked as if she planned to say something else demeaning, but her cool façade suddenly eroded as they heard the beginnings of tortured screams coming from behind the iron door. Her smirk disappeared, and her brows tightened. Once the screaming started, it didn’t stop.
“What’s happening in there?” Dean asked, his stomach knotting.
Bela looked back at him now, and as quickly as her lips had trembled and her eyes had widened in fear, she was smirking again. If she had been frightened before, she made damn sure she didn’t seem it now.
“He’s been a bad, bad boy, and he’s gone to meet his maker.”
A new wave of screaming begun, and from behind the door, Dean could swear he could hear the man begging Death to take his life.
“Mm,” pondered Bela. “He must have done something really naughty to be screaming like that.”
“What do you think he did?”
Bela shrugged carelessly,
“It’s pointless trying to understand the motives of the evil and the insane.”
She paused, now, gazing at Dean as if she were trying to hypnotise him. If he had been on the surface, Dean would have fallen under her spell in the blink of an eye. But not here. There was too much at stake to lose his head over a pretty girl.
“So which one are you, then?” asked Dean, breaking the silence. “Evil or insane?”
Bela replied with a humourless laugh.
“Oh. I’m neither.” Then, with mock contrition: “I’m just a lowly thief… stealing and manipulating to get what I want.”
“It’s been a fun ride,” she shrugged, “but judging from these shackles around my wrists and ankles, I think it’s safe to say that crime really doesn’t pay.”
She laughed again, though it was not a pleasant sound to hear. It pained him, as if each guffaw was a knife to his gut.
“So why’d you do it?” he found himself asking. “You knew you were gonna get caught, and now you’ve thrown away your entire freedom. And for what?”
With that, Bela’s dark smile faded into a purse line, and the mischievous glitter in her eyes dulled to grey. She wasn’t laughing anymore. Edging herself closer to Dean, she spoke to him through gritted teeth.
“You’re either in denial or stupid to think I had any freedom to throw away in the first place.”
“No one’s free here,” she taunted. “I may be a soul, but what freedom have I ever had compared to them?” She pointed her head towards the demon guards at the door. Dean looked at them quickly, half expecting them to have heard her. Regardless, they stood motionless and looked ahead; their black eyes bottomless and unblinking.
“They serve Castiel,” Dean said slowly, looking back at Bela.
“We all serve the king. Demon or not.” Bela growled. “At least the demons in the city have a bit of fun now and again. What do us souls have? We live in secret, fear… spending our days running and hiding from the things that wish to tear our pure little bodies to shreds. Tell me, what kind of freedom is that?”
She crossed her arms, as best she could, considering her wrists were bound.
“I’m tired of being prey,” she sulked. “At this point, I’m glad to finally become the hunter.”
The unapologetic honesty of her words shook Dean, and he began to understand the motives of the people standing in line with him. He didn’t think any of them were evil or insane, like Bela had said. They were just people who had grown so damn weary of their prison that their only hope of escape was to become the very things that had locked them in their cells in the first place. These people weren’t evil, or insane, he realised: they were just tired.
Even so, Dean couldn’t help but feel angry at Bela and the others for giving up. He scoffed. Whether or not she was a coward, she had still run away.
“You’re lying,” he said coldly. “You’re scared, and you know it. And you know that if Castiel were to be defeated you’ve damned your chances of ever going home.”
“Bah,” huffed Bela, waving a shackled hand dismissively. “You don’t honestly believe in that rubbish, do you?”
Her words were cold, and thick with contempt.
“No great prince is coming for us,” she continued. “No one will ever defeat the king, and for your sake I’d suggest you stopped thinking like that. You’re about to become a demon, same as I, same as everyone else in this bloody line. It doesn’t matter what happens to him, none of us are getting out now.”
Dean so badly wanted to tell her how wrong she was. That she was talking to the Righteous Prince himself, the prince that would put a blade through the Demon King’s heart and save every soul who had held on. He so badly wanted to tell her, but even after telling himself, her words were still harrowing.
Before he could think of a reply, the guard in front of Bela stood to attention.
“Next Tainted!” he barked, the mighty doors beckoning her as they opened.
Bela looked at Dean. Her eyes weren’t cold, or leering, evil, or insane. They were wide and terrified—and unmistakably human. He knew at once the petty speech she had just heckled left her no comfort now.
“Looks like I’m up,” she whispered. She gave him a sad smile and looked away.
“I’ll see you in the city, dreamer.”
The demons undid her shackles. She turned away from Dean and walked confidently through the door. As it began to close behind her, Dean secretly hoped she would turn around one last time, if only so he could smile back, but she didn’t.
After the doors had closed, he tried to picture Bela’s fate, and what would become of her. But his thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sounds of screaming.
“Next Tainted!” the demon named Dimitri called, waving his hand toward the mighty iron door. Dean swallowed, though he found his throat was dry. The sound of Bela’s agonised screams were still fresh in his mind, playing in his head over and over like a broken record. He didn’t even want to imagine what had happened to her in there… or, worse still: what she had become. As he passed the two guards, he let himself gaze upon the features of the demon who had called on him.
Dimitri had all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair, but where a person’s skin might flush red with colour, Dimitri’s was greyed like a corpse, and the area beneath his eyes were veined and purpled. Most of all, though, Dean could not help but stare at the blackness of his eyes. Meg had told him that demons could change the colour whenever they pleased, but it seemed that most, if not all the demons he had met so far had been resolute in keeping theirs black, as if they wanted to appear as far from human as possible. Their blackened eyes were like a brand; a symbol of their servitude to the king. Dean couldn’t help but think of Bela when he looked at them. He wondered, if he ever saw her again, if she would choose to have her eyes black, too.
The demon guards opened the iron doors, and Dean held his breath, staring at his feet intently as they undid the binds around his wrists and ankles. He was terrified that if they were to catch his eye they would see right through him and know he was an impostor. There were four demons, maybe more, outside the courtroom. But even with his dagger, Dean doubted he could best a fight against them.
Despite his concern, the demons did not even look at him. After removing his shackles they simply returned to their posts and stared ahead. They closed the door behind him without a word, and Dean faltered as he heard the solid bang of meeting iron. He had done it, he thought. He had made his way to the home of Death.
But that was the easy part, he regarded bitterly. Now the real work begins.
He began to walk down a wide corridor, his brown boots tapping rhythmically against the marble floor. The walls were black and decorated with dozens of paintings on each side. There were beautiful women painted like the early renaissance and the pre-raphaelites, their lips red and their hair long and thick and golden. But in these paintings these women were drawn in anguish; their skin flayed and their red lips wide in pain and terror. In other paintings, winged beasts as tall as trees dangled matted body parts from their phantom mouths. Each painting was a depiction of war and savagery, rape and pillage, evil and insanity. And everywhere, there were eyes; thousands of eyes as black as night. Dean tore his own eyes away and stared hard at his shoes as he walked. Dean had never prayed to a God before, but even he knew these paintings were unholy. He stroked the outline of his dagger, letting the point dig lightly into his fingertip.
You’re okay, he told himself, his heart beating so loud and so fast it was difficult to breathe.
You’re okay, he said again, as he found himself facing another door with a lone demon stood in front of it.
“Go in, Tainted,” the demon said, giving way.
Dean walked in, and found himself stood in a wide circular arena: he had made it to Death’s courtroom. Like the corridor, the walls were also painted black, but the ceiling was so high it was as if it had no roof at all, and he was just staring up at a starless night. The black and yellow marble floor was laid out in an intricate geometric design, and in the middle of the floor was a small circled platform, where, Dean presumed, he was to stand upon and await judgement.
Directly in front of him was the black bench. It was at least ten feet tall and at the very top sat his judge and executioner: Death. Dean dared himself to look up.
The man who sat above him was thin, and his face gaunt. His long, needle-like arms were rested delicately on the bench face, and his pale complexion clashed against the darkness of the room. Dean wondered if Death’s eyes were black, too, but looking upon them now he saw that the man’s eyes were closed, as if he were sleeping. Dean looked elsewhere. Far below Death, sat to his left, was a girl Dean instantly recognised and yet had never seen before. Her hair was the same colour as Death’s, and her skin just as pale, but in her face was a kindness and a purity so transient it changed the atmosphere of the entire room. Dean’s heartbeat lessened and he immediately didn’t feel so afraid.
Death began to speak now. His voice shook the room with its grandeur, and yet it still held an air of delicacy and quiet.
“My name is Death,” he addressed Dean slowly, his eyes still closed. ‘You are here, not to die, but to be reborn… transformed into something more than what you are.”
He continued ominously.
“Your king welcomes you, but the question still remains: what have you done to taint your soul forever?”
He ushered Dean with a single finger.
“Step on to the circle, Tainted. Let us see you for what you have become.”
Dean wearily made his way to the stand, his hand clutching the outline of the dagger head. As soon as he stood on the circle, Death opened his eyes, and Dean had to stop himself from gasping—the man’s eyes were completely white.
“You see, Tainted,” Death started conversationally. “I am blind, but I still see better than most.” He paused to lean forward over the desk, the neutrality in his expression beginning to lessen.
“Well, are you stood on the circle?” He asked the boy.
“Y-yes,” Dean answered reluctantly.
“I—my eyes,” Death said, blinking. “They do not—I cannot,” He looked down towards the woman. “Tessa? What do you see?”
“I see a boy who is not of this place, Father,” she said, looking at Dean intently. Her expression was unreadable.
“Is that so?” Death challenged. He leant back in his chair. “Well, today just got a lot more interesting.”
The playfulness in his voice disappeared however, as he looked down over the bench at the boy who must have seemed so small in comparison.
“Who are you?” Death asked slowly.
“My name is Dean Winchester,” the boy answered, sounding braver than he felt. He willed his hands not to start shaking.
Death smiled at himself, realising.
“Dean… Winchester…” he said back to him slowly, letting the name drawl out on his tongue. “The Righteous Prince… here, in my courtroom. Imagine my surprise.”
The secret was out. This man, creature, whatever he was, must undoubtedly have been well versed in the Tale of the Two Brothers. There was no point in being scared, Dean thought. He had made it this far; there was no backing out now.
“You know who I am, Death,” Dean said loudly, his voice carrying to the corners of the great room. The words echoed back to him and he sounded older, stronger. “And you know why I’m here.”
“Yes,” Death nodded. “You’re here for my daughter.”
With this, the woman looked up.
“Father?” She sounded unnerved.
“Yes, sweet Tessa,” Death said garrulously, ignoring her tone of voice. “You’ve heard the prophecy, haven’t you? He needs your blood to kill the king.”
Dean didn’t want to scare her. That was the last thing he wanted. He shook his head avidly, waving his hands in protest.
“It’s just a bit of blood, Death,” he assured. “A little prick of your daughter’s finger and I’ll be on my way. No one else needs to bleed for this.”
Death chuckled, as if Dean had just told an amusing joke.
“Alas, if only that were true.”
He stared, now, into Dean’s eyes with such intensity, the boy had to stop himself from recoiling.
“No, Dean,” continued Death, shaking his head firmly. “You need a lot more blood than that.”
Dean bit his lip.
“He has my brother,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I have to do this, surely you can understand that?”
Death said nothing to this, so Dean continued.
“Look, I know you serve Castiel, but—”
With this, Death held up a hand to stop him. His fingers were long and thin and almost skeletal-looking.
“Serve Castiel?” He sounded insulted. “He is but a child. I was here long before he bound Lucifer and fashioned himself a little toy crown.”
Death leaned closer over the black bench.
“I’ve been here since the humble beginning, you see. I may have demons outside my door, and I may send my creations to the king’s city, but I assure you: I am my own master. I serve no one."
“Then you have no reason to protect him,” Dean tried, looking up at him pleadingly. “I won’t hurt your daughter.” He turned to look at the girl. “Tessa, I won’t hurt you. I just need one drop of blood, that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
Death laughed incredulously; the harsh guffaws shaking the floor. Dean regained his balance, and stared, wide-eyed, at Death, who was smiling down at him coldly.
“Why are you being like this?” Dean asked tiredly, “I’m trying to save people.”
“Person,” Death corrected. “Not people.”
Dean blinked.
“By your own selfishness,” Death persisted, “you wished your own brother away, and now you’ve come to this labyrinth to save him and him alone. You say you are going to save these souls, but that is just out of convenience. The truth is, you could not give less of a damn about any of them. If you did, you would have saved Chuck and Becky, and you would have killed the demons outside my door before I took Bela’s purity and turned her into something to stick your knife in.”
He paused, but only to give the boy another condescending smile.
“Don’t play yourself off as a hero, Dean. I see better than most, remember?”
Dean was livid.
How dare he talk about Chuck and Becky. How dare he even mention their names. And Bela. How could he possibly have saved her?
“Don’t talk to me about Chuck and Becky,” Dean said, almost threateningly. “You have no idea what happened. And Bela. What was I supposed to do? I was outnumbered five-to-one!”
Death did not say anything to this, and only peered over at Dean with an agonising smugness. It was pointless trying to defend himself against him, because a niggliing voice inside Dean’s head was telling him that Death was right. He could have saved Chuck and Becky, and he could have saved Bela. He was the Righteous fucking Prince, wasn’t he? He had the dagger. He had the power… so why hadn’t he used it yet?
Dean sighed, and shook his head.
“I’ve made mistakes,” he confessed, “I know. But your daughter’s blood can help me fix everything I screwed up.”
He looked into the white eyes of Death.
“I didn’t know about the other souls when I got here, but now I do—and I want to help them. I’m going to. Look at me and say I’m lying about this.”
Death looked into him a short while.
“Oh, I believe you, Dean,” He said with cheer, the atmosphere immediately changed. “You are the Righteous Prince, after all.”
Dean started to smile in gratitude.
“But I still can’t let you take my daughter’s blood,” Death finished.
That was it. The boy couldn’t hide his anger or frustration anymore. He grabbed the dagger from his bag and raised it threateningly at the creature.
“I’m done trying to reason with you. I’m done trying to play nice. Don’t you see how much bigger this is than your fucking feelings? Be reasonable!”
Death laughed.
“Be… reasonable…” he repeated slowly. “Hm.”
Then, Death stood up from the bench and his body was so tall he almost disappeared through the ceiling. His voice darkened and shook the floor.
“You come into my home,” he bellowed, his clawed hands digging into the surface of the bench, “demand the blood of my daughter, and you think I’d just let you?”
He cleared his throat, running a hand through his dark hair. He sat down again, immediately calmed.
“This isn’t about fixing wrongs or fulfilling destinies, or my “feelings””, the man added, making quotation marks with his fingers. “No. This is about manners, and how you have none.”
“Manners.” Dean said back to him, his tone devoid of emotion. “You’re gonna damn the existence of my brother and every soul here because I don’t have fucking manners?”
“Language, Dean. It isn’t polite.”
“Oh, fuck you and your politeness!” screamed Dean. He had lost it. “Here I was thinking Castiel was the biggest dick around here when you’re ten times worse!”
Death was not fazed by this outbreak.
“Ten times worse, am I?” he challenged. “If you think that, you obviously have not been to the place Castiel sends the people he wishes to… forget about. The Pool of the Lost, they call it. Go there and tell me I’m worse, won’t you?”
Dean shook his head,
“I don’t have time for this.”
“You do,” Death argued. “You just have no patience.”
It was no use trying to argue with Death. He was too stubborn to listen to reason. But the girl—she had remained quiet throughout their confrontation. Dean turned to her now.
“Tessa. You understand why I gotta do this, right? I’m not here to hurt you. If you help me, I promise, I’ll kill Castiel and you’ll be free. You’ll all be free. Isn’t that what you want?”
Tessa looked like she was about to speak, but her voice was silenced by her father’s.
“Don’t talk of things you don’t understand,” Death said simply.
Dean ignored him.
“You’re not a demon,” he addressed Tessa again. “You can still go home.”
Tessa was silent.
“Don’t talk of things she doesn’t understand,” said Death quietly after a few moments. His voice… it sounded almost sad.
But Dean did not have time to question him.
“Listen, Tessa,” he said, approaching the side bench slowly where the steps began. “We can help each other.”
“Put one foot on that step and I will rip your body into a thousand pieces,” came Death’s calm voice. The boy ignored him.
“Dean,” came Death once more. “This is your last chance. Stay away from my daughter.
“I’m sorry, Death,” replied Dean, placing a hard boot on the wooden step. “I just can’t do that.”
And with that, the mighty room was shook by a terrifying shriek that immobilised Dean to where he stood. His ears rang so painfully Dean could do nothing except claw at them pathetically and groan as his body was thrown to the floor.
A second passed, and Dean willed himself to get up. The black bench was splitting before him, its wooden splinters cracking and loosening as its pillars began to tumble to the ground, like bodies crashing into rocks.
Dean backed himself into a corner. The bench lay in ruin upon the marble floor, the wood and dust resembling Dean’s house after it had burnt to a crisp and taken his mother with it. Dean stared at the clearing; Death and Tessa were nowhere to be found. Had he failed his task already?
But then the wood began to move.
It was merely a ripple at first, like a pebble landing in water. Then the debris began to shake and submerge in on itself, giving way to what was trapped beneath. Then Dean saw it.
Death rose from the ruin; reborn, transformed. Two black wings, torn and ugly, spread themselves from behind Death’s back. His body was distorted, his neck disjointed. The bones in his hands cracked and rippled, and his nails gave way to claws that seemed to tear themselves through the skin. Death screamed as blood and teeth sprayed from his mouth, and inch-long incisors grew in their place. Dean could do nothing but watch as the man rebirthed himself into the creature Dean had seen in the paintings outside the courtroom; their bodies as tall as trees, their mouths stained, and their claws dripping in the blood of their prey.
“YOU—WILL—NOT—HAVE—MY—DAUGHTER!” came Death’s hallowed shriek, though it was not the same voice he’d had before. It was so deep, so loud... its very echo tremoured the room, and the walls began to crack.
Dean stared into the white eyes of the abomination, the only thing he could familiarise, and readied his dagger.