Chapter Text
The king sat on his throne, weary-eyed. The great room was deserted save for his servant Crowley and a couple of guards stood solemnly by the door.
The baby had cried for hours. None of the demons had had a fathom of sense as to what to do with him. Castiel supposed at least some of these creatures must have been parents when they were mortal, and to a lesser degree, parents who had loved and nurtured their children. But now, after a millennia of savagery, these demons had gladly abandoned whatever humanity they had once had. Sam was an oddity; something all together alien and unknown, but he also acted as a painful reminder to the vile creatures of Castiel’s world. His chubby fingers, his big green eyes, his beating heart… all were glimpses into the demons’ own pasts. He was something they had all been once, something they had had of their own, something they had loved and nurtured… something they had lost, and something they would never have again. Sam had reminded the demons of their own forsaken humanity, and they had hated him for it.
Castiel, his head pounding, had sent them away once realising this, and the baby had finally settled once the king had picked him up and begun rocking him back and forth. It was a perverse act, completely undignified, but now the child had quietened and was blinking up at Castiel with its big green eyes.
“You’re an annoying little creature, aren’t you?” Castiel said in a cooing voice, still rocking the baby gently. “Why humans choose to have you is beyond me.” He stuck his tongue out at Sam and the baby giggled.
“But it doesn’t really matter,” he continued, a smile on his face. “You won’t be a baby for much longer. You’ll be a demon, and you’ll be mine.”
The child gurgled and grabbed a hold of Castiel’s finger. He grimaced.
“Crowley,” he said, looking up. “Get my crystal.”
His servant stood to attention, walking briskly to the side of the room where the ball was rested upon a delicate glass stand.
“Right away, sire,” he said, picking it up with ease. “Do you wish to watch the boy?”
“No,” dismissed Castiel, “the boy can wait. Instead,” he started to smile darkly, “I wish to check on our guests.”
Crowley grinned too, handing the crystal over to the king, who took it with his free hand.
“Alastair has arrived at the castle too, I presume?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” nodded Crowley avidly. “Early, in fact.”
The king chuckled. “No surprise there. We all know how dedicated he is to his duties…”
The king and his servant shared a short laugh, but stopped abruptly when Sam let out a whine.
“Shh, shh,” murmured Castiel, swaying the baby tenderly. Sam settled and closed his eyes.
“I never took you as the paternal type, sire,” griped Crowley, an edge of mocking to his voice.
Castiel ignored him.
“Show me Alastair,” he instead directed to the crystal, cupping it in his palm.
Immediately, the glass inside the ball began to fog. Smoke rallied itself within the confines; its ashy waves circling like a whirlpool. It cleared after a few moments, and in the remnants behind the glass, like a curtain unveiling, there revealed the tortured faces of Chuck and Becky.
They were both tied down to wooden stretchers, their mouths gagged and their eyes pried open by metal speculums. The demon Alastair stood over them. He was looking down fondly at the contraption in which his victims lay. He had built it himself, many years ago, and like a carpenter, Alastair had built this contraption to last.
Castiel watched the demon intently. Alastair had worked for the king as his torturer for a millennia. You see, Alastair loved pain. To him, torture was an art; something only the gifted few could ever hope to perfect. There was a certain temperament needed, a particular slight of hand. Alastair had spent many decades ameliorating his techniques, but it was known across the realm that Alastair had still not created his masterpiece. He had tortured countless souls and demons throughout the ages; their broken yet breathing bodies discarded across the realm like forgotten dolls. To Alastair, they were all failures. He was forever searching for that perfect being to stick his tools in to, to watch as the blood poured from their wounds like rainwater… to let their beautiful screams pierce his eardrums until they rang eternally.
Yes. Torture was an art, and Alastair was close to becoming a master.
Chuck and Becky had already been worked on by the demon for close to an hour. Their pale skin had been dyed red with blood, making it impossible for Castiel to work out which parts of their body hadn’t already been maimed. Becky convulsed and began choking on her own blood as Alastair slashed at her neck with a scalpel. Chuck was screaming over to his wife; her eyes had rolled to the back of her head and she was motionless. If the world had been kind, Becky would have died right then and there… But the world was not kind. Not Castiel’s.
The king held the crystal closer to his face, transfixed as he watched the demon pierce Chuck’s flesh and stick his finger deep into the wound.
“It’s strange…” Castiel began, unable to tear his eyes away. “We were friends for so long, but… looking at him now… I feel nothing.”
Chuck writhed and screamed as Alastair used a retractor to open up the wound even more, until at last it was gaping and the shiny white of bone was visible. The more Chuck struggled, the more the speculums around his eyes teared at the skin and made the tissue bulge, until at last hot thick blood began to form and fall from the man’s eyes like tears. Alastair stopped his cutting for a moment—mesmerised. He stared for a long while, and then, with the hands of an artist, he wiped the tears away. But then the moment passed. Alastair’s curiosity faded, and he continued cutting.
“I was good to him,” said Castiel, his voice stricken. “All those years ago… I could have turned my back and had him and Becky thrown to the Pool, but I didn’t. I was merciful. Yet when the prince came… that is how he repays me?”
Crowley shrugged. He seemed unsympathetic.
“That’s what you get for trusting a half-soul, I suppose. Plus, he thinks the prophecy will come true.”
“I know he does,” Castiel snapped, “that’s why I had him banished in the first place!”
Crowley bowed his head; he knew he had spoken out of turn. But the king was aware of the truth behind his apathy.
“It’s all right,” Castiel settled. “Dean came here because I allowed it. Nothing is beyond my control. I’ve changed the fate of this realm once, I can do it again.”
Crowley brightened. “And that’s why I serve you so loyally, sire.”
Castiel again looked into the crystal, the image of Alastair and his tools reflecting in his blue eyes.
“I will have Alastair work on them a while longer,” he declared, “see if he can get any information. But Chuck is a stubborn man—always has been. And Becky loves him. I doubt they’d ever talk.”
“Still, it doesn’t hurt in trying…” his voiced trailed off. “Well,” he pondered, “for Chuck and Becky it will, but…”
Crowley chuckled.
“Wonderful, sire. And what should we do with them after Alastair is finished?”
Castiel breathed out slowly, though he already knew what he was going to say.
“Something I should have done long ago,” he answered finally.
The servant’s black eyes darkened.
“I will make the arrangements.”
Dean raised his dagger hand so it was pointed directly at the space between Death’s eyes. The creature panted heavily, its breathing coarse and animalistic. Dean stared through it and wondered if the monstrosity could even recognise him. After a moment, Dean lunged at it, the dagger flailing wildly. Death screamed and flapped its wings, and the room shook as the beast leaped from the ground and used its claws to balance itself from the upper wall of the crumbling courtroom.
Dean circled it, never leaving Death’s white stare. Was there anything of the man he had talked to left in that feral gaze? Dean surely doubted it. Death screeched once more as it flapped its wings and readied itself to charge. Dean lunged to the left as the creature tore itself from its perch and made a dive towards him. He managed to avoid the brunt of the attack, but Death had still managed to catch the small of his back with its claw, leaving a deep cut that oozed hot blood. Dean swore but quickly regained his composure. Death was on ground level again, so he knew this would be one of the only chances he had to attack.
“Come here, I dare ya,” he taunted, waving the dagger in front of him in quick lashes.
And then he heard a woman’s voice.
“Go for the eyes!” Tessa screamed, and before he could even think about it, Dean lunged towards the beast, knocking its mighty form over as he grabbed its face and plunged the dagger right into one of its mighty white eyes. The creature screamed, threw the boy off, and began to claw at its face with nails so sharp the skin began to tear away. Dean tried to get up, his head banged and his eyes blurred, but Death no longer noticed him. The creature had gone insane; screaming and clawing and tearing off its own face, until at last it was nothing more than blood and bone. Death let out a final moan before it collapsed in a heap on the ground.
Dean got to his feet unsteadily. He picked up the dagger with a shaking hand and walked slowly towards the broken creature. He stared at it, but now even its eyes were no longer familiar—just two bloody holes against a greying skull. He looked to the small figure of Tessa, who bent down next to it. She stroked its mutilated face with careful tenderness.
“Is it over?” he asked her.
She ignored him, still stroking the face of the beast. It was a private moment, and even though he had not killed Death willingly, he still couldn’t help but feel guilty for taking Tessa’s father away.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Tessa,” he said quietly, looking down at his feet.
“Why are you sorry?” she replied then, smiling. “He isn’t.”
Before he could ask her what she meant, Tessa’s smile twisted into a grimace. She groaned in pain and doubled over, cupping at her stomach.
“Tessa—” Dean cried, falling to her side and grabbing her by her shoulders. Tessa’s eyes opened and stared through Dean like a void. The boy gasped and jumped to his feet, horrified at the sight: Tessa’s eyes had turned completely white.
“What’s happening to you?” he asked fearfully, readying his dagger again, but Tessa ignored him as she rose slowly to her feet, her head bowed. Dean tightened his grip on the knife, the blood of Tessa’s father still dripping from the tip.
She looked at him now, with her milk-coloured eyes. Dean backed away slowly, ready to rip them out if he had to. But instead of attacking, Tessa gave him a kind smile.
“Do not be afraid, Dean,” she said, her voice gentle but resolute.
“Can you see me?” he found himself asking, unable to tear his gaze away from hers.
Tessa smiled. “Yes,” she started cryptically. “I can see the most important part of you."
“And… what’s that now?” Dean asked dumbly.
Tessa laughed. “Your soul, of course.”
Dean blinked. Tessa sensed his bafflement.
“I have taken my father’s place,” she explained. “He has given me his eyes, so now I am to stand at the bench and judge the Tainted for their crimes, as he did.”
“He gave you his eyes?” Dean questioned. “How? How is that possible?”
“I am the first and last to have been born of this world—I am true purity. Death created me, and now that he is gone, I become him.”
She smiled, even though she knew her words were strange.
“Now,” she continued, unwilling to waste time. “Take out that vial and pierce my finger.”
Dean rummaged in his bag shakily and took out the flask. Holding it in his palm, he half expected it to be cracked, but throughout his fight with Death it had remained whole and unbroken. Slowly, he approached Tessa, who held out a soft white finger for him to prick. He did so, carefully. A drop of blood began to form out of the cut; Dean squeezed it a little and let the red liquid drip slowly down the inside of the tube.
The blood looked unremarkable as Dean placed the cork back on the vial. He couldn’t help but wonder how just one drop could be as powerful as Chuck had said it would be.
As Dean opened his mouth to thank Tessa, the door of the courtroom began to rumble as it was forced open. Dean gulped as he was met by the faces of the demon who had placed him in shackles, and his dead-faced friend. The two demons were speechless as they took in the sight of the winged beast dead and matted on the ground, and the boy with the bloodied dagger who was standing over it.
“You…” the demon began. “You killed Death!”
He dared himself to take a step closer, staring at Dean as if he recognised him but could not place from where. And then it dawned on him.
“It’s you. The boy from the prophecy.”
The fear and awe in the demon’s voice oozed right through him, proving that Dean no longer had to fear this world as much as he had done. At his feet was the tattered remains of a mighty beast, slain by his hand. Demons weren’t his foe, he realised; they were his prey.
“Yes,” Dean answered the guard with a dark confidence that resonated through the crumbling walls of the courtroom. “And if you cross me you will die; are you willing to take that chance?”
The demon bowed his head, shaking.
“No. No,” he stumbled. “Dimitri and me, w—we’re just leavin’, ain’t we…”
His companion nodded, refusing to look the prince in the eye.
“Go to the city,” Dean commanded as their feet shuffled. “Tell Castiel I’m coming for him.”
The guard bowed.
“Yes, my Prince…” he promised, backing away slowly. “Whatever you say…”
And with that, the demons disappeared behind the door and fled. Tessa looked at him, her eyebrow raised.
“You didn’t kill them.” She sounded surprised.
“I didn’t have to,” he replied, and Tessa smiled.
“I always knew you would come.”
Then her face lit up.
“I have a gift for you,” she announced, disappearing from sight as she rushed towards the wreckage of the black bench and rummaged beneath it. A moment later she emerged with his token.
“My father crafted this weapon,” she said, placing the bow delicately around Dean’s shoulder, and placing the single arrow in its holster.
“He knew you were coming,” she said, patting him down. “He knew you would need help to kill your next target.”
“’The Fiercest Demon?’” Dean recited incredulously. Tessa nodded. “But why would he want to help me?”
“Oh, Dean,” Tessa said sadly. “The prophecy said my father had to die for Castiel to be defeated.”
“So, then, he…” Dean started, but Tessa nodded before he could finish.
Dean blinked, unable to form the words. Death had always intended to help him, and in doing so had sacrificed himself so Dean would have a chance; just like Chuck and Becky had done. Dean stared at the ravaged corpse of Death’s true form with the realisation that nothing in Castiel’s labyrinth was as it seemed.
Tessa took his hand.
“Come,” she said, leading him through the doorway. Outside the courtroom, Castiel’s demons were nowhere to be found—halfway to the kingdom, no doubt, and all that stood were the frightened, bound bodies of the Tainted. When they looked into the white eyes of Death, they cowered and bowed their heads, embracing themselves for their reckoning.
“Listen, Tainted,” Tessa bellowed, and though her voice was loud, she spoke with a kindness that allowed the Tainted the courage to raise their eyes.
“You are living between two states,” she said. “Your souls have almost left you, but you aren’t demons—not yet. Castiel still does not rule you, and if someone were to defeat him you would be free of this place forever."
The Tainted looked at each other, a few murmured to their neighbours, asking if her words held truth.
“This boy,” Tessa pointed, “this ‘Dean Winchester’ has killed Death himself, and now he’s going to kill the king. Swear fealty to him and I promise, you will not be Turned.”
One of the Tainted walked slowly towards Dean, staring at him like he was a mirage; unsure if he was actually there.
“The prince from the stories?” he asked Dean shakily, wary of his words.
Dean looked at Tessa, unsure of how to reply, but all she did was smile.
“You can already feel this place changing,” she addressed the crowd, “feel Castiel’s strength beginning to waver.” She paused. “With our help, we can breach the heart of his realm, and the prince can plunge his dagger in it!”
And with that, she grabbed the hand that Dean held the knife, and raised it into the air. The Tainted stared at it a second, and then as quickly as they were fearful, their tired faces lit up as they began to cheer and chant the prince’s name.
Dean looked at Tessa, and she was smiling.
“Are you sure they’ll help me?” he asked, though the cheering already answered that question.
“Free will is a more powerful thing than servitude, Dean,” she said, her voice almost drowned out by the joyous racket. “These people don’t have to fight for you, they want to fight for you. And they will.”
Dean sighed, and smiled: his first victory in this godforsaken place.
“Thank you, Tessa.” And he meant it. She knew.
“Go, Dean. The Tainted and I will meet you at the city gates.”
“Good luck,” she said, before releasing the lost souls from their bindings.
One of the demons had fashioned a cot for Castiel out of dry wood and tumbleweed. It was a crude structure, but Sam had adapted to it just fine. He had been sleeping soundlessly for many hours now, and Castiel’s headache had finally gone. The few demons stood around the throne room were talking amongst themselves, and were not a bother to him. After watching the torturing he had rested the crystal ball on a small mantle near his throne. The glass was clear now, for Alastair had long departed the castle. Chuck and Becky hadn’t said a word the entire time, but even with their throats half-slit, they had managed a desperate, “I love you,” to one another before their limp bodies were thrown into a place there was no getting out from.
Castiel pondered his old friend’s fate.
The Pool of the Lost had not existed before Castiel’s reign, and for a while, it was not needed—but the realm is home to fickle creatures; wayward and restless. A mere Soul of this dimension managed to bind Lucifer and trap him under the ground, placing the thorned crown upon his own head. If Castiel could declare himself ruler, surely, so could they. And Castiel could not have that—so he manipulated the land further, and created a mighty labyrinth around his castle; a labyrinth of riddles, and danger, and never-ending pathways. Still, as the years went by, even the labyrinth proved not enough, so Castiel created something even he feared: the Pool of the Lost. Souls and demons who threatened the new king’s reign were sent there to rot in squalor and filth and excruciation for the rest of eternity. The Pool was bottomless and dark and never quiet; it was a place where you were barely living, but could never die.
Talks of rebellion dulled to whispers. Whispers turned to silence. And finally silence was replaced with blissful surrender.
The Pool of the Lost was a fate worse than death, and everyone knew it.
The knock at the door startled Castiel’s thoughts. Before he could answer, the hatchway opened and in walked Crowley, followed by two demons the king did not recognise.
“What is this, Crowley?” demanded Castiel, straightening up.
“Your Grace,” he bowed. “These two were found snivelling outside the city gates. Said they have a message for you.”
“Bring them over.”
Crowley beckoned to them, and immediately the demons fell to the floor in front of Castiel, their foreheads inches away from the stone tiles.
“M—m’lord,” the first demon stammered, not looking him in the eye. “It is an honour to be in your presence.”
Castiel had heard this acclamation many times since becoming king, though it did not have quite the same effect it used to.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Marcus,” said the first demon, “and this is Dimitri.” He motioned towards the second. “We were workin’ guard duty down at the courtroom, rallying Tainted n’ other undesirables.”
Castiel nodded judiciously, though he was barely listening.
“Crowley said you have a message for me.”
The two demons nodded, but Castiel could see in their eyes how terrified they were of what they were about to say.
“The boy…” Marcus started, “the-the prince… he got in.”
“Got in where?” the king questioned.
“The courtroom,” answered Marcus uneasily. “And… and he killed him. Killed Death. I saw it with me own eyes, so did Dimitri!”
Dimitri confirmed with a single nod.
“He could have killed us, too,” Marcus continued, “but he di’nt. Instead, he told us to come to you to… to warn ya.”
Castiel raised an eyebrow.
“To warn me of what?”
The king watched as Marcus raised his head from the ground. The two locked eyes for the first time, but Marcus didn’t falter.
“That you’re goin’ to die,” he said, their eyes on each other, unblinking.
The other demons in the room gasped. Even Crowley looked surprised. It was a mere second before Marcus teared his eyes away and fell back to the floor in surrender.
Castiel rose from his throne, slowly. The crowd around him held in a collective breath; the room so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The demons watched as Castiel sank to his knees before the quivering guard; the man embracing himself for annihilation.
Then Castiel did something his subjects did not expect: he smiled.
“Thank you,” said the king, putting a hand on Marcus’s hollowed cheek. “Thank you for telling me. I know how much courage it must have taken to come here.”
Marcus looked up at him now, tears falling from his black eyes.
“Thank you.” He could barely get the words out. “Thank you, m’lord.” He kissed the ground before Castiel’s feet. “I knew you would be merciful.”
Castiel stood, revelling in his worship.
“Merciful,” he said back to him. “Yes.”
The king began to turn back to his throne, but something stopped him. He held up a finger; his face stricken with curiosity.
“Tell me, Marcus,” he questioned, staring down at the still-bowed figure. “How many guards were on duty when the prince arrived?”
Marcus looked confused, but paused a moment to count silently on his fingers.
“Er, five, includin’ me, your Grace,” he finally managed.
Castiel nodded.
“Five… hm.”
Castiel caught a glimpse at Crowley. He was staring up at the king, his lips curled slightly, like he was waiting for something amusing to happen.
Castiel focused back on the demon.
“Five is a big number when you compare it to a single child,” he began, his eyes searing through the man’s pathetic form. “Such a pity you didn’t even try to fight him.”
The demons shuddered, unable to find the words to defend themselves. Castiel shook his head.
“You see, boys,” he sighed. “I’ve tried to be merciful in the past, but it never did me much good. And you have disappointed me.”
He paused.
“I don’t like to be disappointed.”
“M—m’lord,” Marcus started to beg. “Please forgive us. We were scared for our lives!”
Castiel nodded sympathetically.
“I know. I know you were. But do not worry, Marcus, Dimitri: you’re going to live forever.”
Marcus dared himself to look up.
“We are?”
Castiel nodded, and smiled.
“In the Pool.”
Every demon in the room trembled.
“No,” pleaded Marcus, his voice cracking, “not the Pool. Anything but that!” He placed his forehead on the stone ground and clasped his hands together in servility. “M’lord,” he howled. “Please show mercy, please—please be merciful!”
Castiel was disgusted by the sight.
“Guards,” he called to the others indifferently, already turning his back on the two desirous creatures. “Take them away.”
Dimitri had not uttered a single word during this confrontation, but now, he began to scream. The screaming continued as the writhing demons were dragged across the floor and through the archway of the throne room. Crowley closed the door behind them and the room was met with silence.
“No. More. Mercy,” Castiel said quietly, but everyone heard.
Dean had been walking near twenty minutes since departing the courtroom, and it had been quiet. He supposed all of the demons in the immediate area had fled to the castle with news of the prince’s first victory, and this made Dean grin. God, what he would have done to see Castiel’s face when he found out.
“I bet that bastard’s pissed,” he said to himself, chuckling.
The neat green hedges and checkered floor tiles surrounding the courtroom had gone, and instead had been replaced with a yellowish brown stone wall and floor. It wasn’t long, though, before the single wall opened up into a clearing and separated itself into three; all pathways seemingly identical.
Dean scratched his head. Should he go left, right, or straight ahead? If he went through one path and got lost, how was he to find his way back to the clearing? He tried to remember the fairytale his mother had read to him as a child… the one where the two children had left a trail of something behind them so they could follow it back home...
Hansel and Gretal! He remembered. And it was breadcrumbs they’d used. But Dean didn’t have anything like that. He was momentarily disheartened until he gazed at the dagger he held in his hand. The blade was stained with Death’s blood, but it was still sharp. Dean bent to his knees and crudely etched an arrow into the stone ground. If he reached a dead end or took a wrong turn somewhere, he could just turn around and follow the arrows back to the clearing.
Dean smirked. This plan was fool-proof.
He continued on a ways, at first choosing the middle path, but turning back once he realised it led to nowhere. After trying the path to the left, he eventually found himself back at the clearing, confused and more than a bit frustrated.
He looked towards the right path. It was the only possible way forward.
Dean began to walk through it until the entrance disappeared behind him, never forgetting to add another arrow when the pathway changed directions. He felt as if he had been walking for hours, but he was confident in his plan. He bent down by the yellow wall and etched another arrow facing forward into the dusty ground before turning left, only to be met by the familiar sight of a dead end. Dean sighed and turned around, taking a quick glance at the arrow he had just carved—only it wasn’t facing forward now, it was pointed to where he had just come from. Dean could feel his heart sinking, though he wanted nothing more than to tear the throat out of whoever had been playing him.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” he cried. “Who’s been changing my marks?”
“Whoever they are, they’re long gone now,” came a voice from behind him.
“Shit!” he said, whirling round.
A man was stood in the clearing, a huge wooden door behind him. He was smirking.
“Wait,” Dean said, bewildered. “This was a dead end a minute ago!”
“No,” replied the man knowingly. “That’s the dead end behind you.”
Dean followed his gaze. Turning around, the path he had just arrived from had disappeared, and instead had been cornered off by four huge walls. Dean wanted to scream.
“It keeps changing!” he yelled at the man. “What am I supposed to do?”
“The only way out is through this door,” he answered, pointing a thumb behind him. “And it just so happens, I’m the man who guards it.”
He smiled cockily at Dean, his balding head glistening in the half-light.
“Name’s Zachariah,” he said, holding out his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
Dean crossed his arms, making sure the dagger was in full view.
“Let me guess,” he glared. “Another demon?”
Zachariah’s hand dropped, and he looked disgusted.
“Don’t you dare compare me to one of those things.”
He scowled.
“I’m a half-soul,” he said imperiously after a few moments. “And a powerful one at that.”
Dean’s eyebrows knitted. “What the hell is a half-soul?”
Zachariah sighed theatrically.
“Half-souls: few in number, but we’re the most powerful things in this place, scattered and roaming the swile crevices of this labyrinth. We have a job to do, and the running of this place depends on us. While the king sits his rump on that thorny throne of his, it’s the half-souls who get things done.”
Dean raised his eyebrow.
“Pretty speech,” he mocked.
“Jibe all you want,” snarked Zachariah. “The only way you’re getting to Castiel is if I let you.”
The two stared at each other for a moment, tensions rising, but then Zachariah chuckled.
“Smart of you,” he said, “passing yourself off as a Tainted so you could get into the courtroom unchallenged.”
Dean scratched his head.
“Actually,” he admitted. “I didn’t pretend. The demon’s caught me before I had a chance to do anything.”
“Better keep that to yourself,” the man advised, though he was smirking. “The vermin are scared of you now. They think you’re clever. You wouldn’t want for them to learn the truth.”
“What does it matter if they think I’m smart? I’ve already killed Death. It’s this dagger they should be scared of.”
“Oh, they are, Dean,” agreed Zachariah, “just more so of the boy who wields it.”
“All right,” Dean propositioned. “You going to let me through or not?”
“That depends,” Zachariah replied.
“Depends on what?” exasperated Dean.
“If you make it worth my while,” the half-soul answered provocatively.
Dean sighed. He was in no mood for games.
“What do I have to do to make it worth your while?”
“Straight to the point,” Zachariah grinned, “I like it.”
The suited man took a step forward, lowering his voice as he addressed the young prince.
“If you kill the king, and I use ‘if’ lightly, I want you to promise to have me elevated from this position.” He paused. “I want… more than this. I want to live in the castle. I want wine, and girls, and—”
Dean raised up a hand.
“All right, buddy, let’s not get too crazy here. Wine, I can get you, but girls? I’m sorry, not with that hairline.”
“Do you want to get through this door or not?” The half-soul cautioned.
Dean sniggered.
“Anything else?”
And then Zachariah smiled at him darkly.
“Your mother.”
Dean’s heart stopped. His legs turned to jelly, and the grip on his dagger wavered. He had to stop his hand from dropping it as he looked into the taunting eyes of the half-soul.
“How do you know my mother?” he asked him slowly. He had so many questions now; he could barely fathom his own thoughts.
“Everyone knows your mother, Dean,” answered Zachariah. “The Mother of Fire.”
The young boy faltered, daring himself to speak.
“Is she here?” He didn’t know which answer he was more afraid of.
Zachariah smiled, and began to nod slowly. Dean gasped. He could barely breathe. He could barely stand. Until a moment ago, Mary Winchester was a dead woman, alive only in the nightmares his mind tortured him with. Now this man was telling him that that was not the case, that she was alive, and somewhere in this labyrinth. The boy steadied himself. He tightened his grip on the knife and pointed it threateningly at the half-soul.
“Where is she?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Zachariah still gave him his taunting smile, but the sight of the dagger inches away from his face made his lips quiver slightly.
“Now, Dean,” he started, “you can’t expect a man to answer your questions with a knife so close to his throat, do you?”
Dean’s hand did not lower.
“I want you to tell me where my mother is, right now, you son-of-a-bitch.”
Zachariah faltered.
“I’m afraid I don’t know the exact whereabouts of your mother, Dean.”
Dean waved the dagger closer.
“Don’t test me you f—”
The man raised his hands.
“I promise you, I am not! I don’t know where she is. Truly. Only there have been whispers since you arrived here that she is somewhere in this labyrinth.”
Dean’s anger slowly began to subside, and he lowered the dagger slightly.
“How am I supposed to find her?” he asked, though he was not hopeful for much of an answer.
“I wish I could say,” came the expected reply. “Just keep going forward, I guess.”
Dean glowered at Zachariah, though he knew there was no more getting out of him.
“You better not be lying to me,” he said finally, lowering the knife and sheathing it in his belt buckle.
“I swear,” was all the man replied with.
Dean swallowed, running a hand through his hair and breathing out slowly. He had spoken with Zachariah too long, and he needed to go through the door.
“Are you going to let me through now?” he asked pointedly.
Zachariah wavered.
“Do you promise to do as I ask if I let you through?”
Dean’s anger rose in him again like bile.
“You want me to give you my mother, you sick piece of shit? No way in hell.”
“Then I’m afraid,” shrugged the half-soul, “our deal comes to an end.”
Dean could not contain himself. He screamed as he lunged towards Zachariah, pushing him violently towards the door and holding the knife to his throat until a bead of blood appeared on the knife and slicked its way slowly down the dagger edge. The two panted heavily, not saying a word, until Zachariah broke the silence.
“You can’t do it, can you Dean?” he tormented. “And I don’t mean just killing me. Do you actually think you can kill Castiel, you simpering wad of insecurity and self-loathing? No. You’re just a human, Dean. And not much of one at that.”
Dean had had enough.
“Get out of my way,” he said, before striking the side of Zachariah’s throat with the point of his dagger.
The man yelled in shock and pain, falling to the floor and clutching his throat with leathered hands, blood falling through the gaps in his fingers and dripping loosely on the ground beneath.
Dean readied his dagger again, until Zachariah raised his bloodied hand before him in surrender.
“Wait!” he gurgled. “All right. I’ll let you through, just—just don’t kill me.”
“Deal,” Dean agreed finally, lowering the dagger.
Zachariah winced as he picked himself up, clutching at the gash on his neck. He waved a hand towards the door and it opened slowly. Zachariah kept his eyes on the floor as Dean marched past him.
“Appreciate the help, buster,” he thanked Zachariah smugly, patting the half-soul roughly on the shoulder.
Dean walked briskly through the door and took a few steps, but before he could even realise it the ground had opened up and he was falling—falling deep and fast through the earth. Dean yelled in surprise and fear and dropped the knife, though he didn’t hear it clatter.
His yells were cut short as he landed—hard—on the ground. Dean groaned in pain and curled into a ball. It felt like his whole body was broken. Then he heard a voice from above.
“I lied to you,” called Zachariah, peering at him over the hole. “Sorry. I guess I’m just not big enough to forgive you, buster.”
Dean could hear the man laughing as he grabbed the trap door and pulled it closed. It sealed with a bang, and Dean was shrouded in darkness.
Castiel stared at the crystal.
“He’s in the oubliette,” he said stiffly.
The demons around him laughed.
“Shut up,” the king snapped in annoyance. “He shouldn’t have even got this far."
The demons stiffened. After what had happened to Marcus and Dimitri, they did not want to risk angering the king. After a moment, however, Castiel’s face lightened, and he smirked.
“Crowley,” he said, ushering to his servant with a wave of his hand. “Have our dear friend Meg summoned. I have a… proposition for her.”