Deal Aren't Made To Be Upheld, Part 1
The first thing Dean sees when he opens his eyes is Alastair’s sneering face. It isn’t exactly the world’s greatest sight, but Dean is used to it. After all, this was only the… what? 25th day Dean’s been here. There. Where ever this place is. Dean likes to call it hell.
Alastair grins at Dean when he sees that Dean is awake. He greets Dean as if they were mere co-workers in an office, not as a torturer and his hostage. Dean closes his eyes and pretends that he’s just dreaming, and then Alastair cuts off his eyelids (again) and Dean obviously can’t do that anymore. Can’t pretend anymore.
Alastair smiles at him and asks him if he really wanted to start the torture that early. Dean doesn’t speak, knows that all of his answers will be taken the same way anyways. And so Dean lies down and watches as Alastair carefully carves him into tiny little pieces. First, his fingernails, which are pulled. Then his hands, his forearms, his biceps are carefully sliced. Dean gazes at his various body parts scattering the dirty floor in horror, blood pouring out from multiple arteries and pooling on the ground. Then Alastair gets on to his legs.
Fortunately, and what a horrible life Dean has now that now he sees what’s classified as fortunate, Alastair carefully, surgically, cuts into Dean’s chest, cracks open the ribs, and gently takes out Dean’s heart with a wet squelching noise. Dean watches in disbelief at his faintly pulsing heart with dark crimson blood dripping from the organ, because even though he’s already seen this for what seems like hundreds of times, he never really gets used to the sight of his heart separated from his chest. And then his vision starts to fuzz at the edges, and then Dean supposes he dies.
When he wakes up again, he’s fresh and new like the day he was born. No scars. No mutilated body parts or anything: just normal, smooth skin. His eyelids have grown back, his heart is beating in his chest, and he’s breathing like any alive and normal human being. With, of course, the exception being that he was dead a day ago.
Alastair was fascinated by Dean’s ‘talent’. Actually, Alastair is still fascinated by Dean’s talent, although now it’s beginning to be less fascination and more ‘this is so amazing I can do everything imaginable to that Winchester boy and he’ll come right back up again’, all and any sexual innuendo intended.
Truly, Alastair lives up to his thoughts, and Dean thinks-hopes-wishes that Alastair had, indeed, used everything so far. But right now it seems like he still has more up his sleeve for Dean, and really, if Dean had the strength for sarcasm right now he’d probably be saying something like “oh, great”, except Alastair had pretty much carved that and so much more right out of him, and Dean doesn’t really feel like doing anything right now. It’s getting harder and harder to resist it.
See, Alastair wants something. He likes Dean’s talent, and he thinks that it would be an amazing addition to his team.
What team? Only the biggest team of super villains on the great green Earth, called the Supervillain Alliance, although it’s a lie - super villains will ally with and trust each other truly when the skies fall, hell freezes over, pigs rise to the sky in great big flocks, and all grass turns into candy. The thing is that Alastair’s really got a point in thinking that a guy who can, and always will, resurrect after death, would be incredible addition to the team. With Dean there, the Supervillain Alliance will be invincible. One of the bigger problems with that is that Dean would never, ever join the Supervillain Alliance in his right mind because one of the leader’s most trusted lieutenants killed Dean’s mother.
The sad thing is that Alastair didn’t even know Dean had a superpower until now. He had just thought that Dean was simply the weakest link of the world’s biggest team of superheroes (the League of Heroes, and it’s pretty damn small now), and wanted to take Dean to lure the others in to a trap.
What stung the most is that it had been 26 days, almost a freaking month, and no one had even bothered to try and save him. Not his friends, not his surrogate father, nor his surrogate mother, not his boss, nor his goddamn boyfriend.
Not even his brother.
Yeah. That hurt. And Alastair is sensitive to that kind of shit, so Dean goes day after day after day hearing Alastair say that he is worthless, and that no one in their right mind would ever try to save him. And after a while, he just begins to believe it.
His incredible low sense of self-worth might have helped with that.
And all that time Dean had been reminiscing, Alastair was still carving- no, this time he was slicing-into him, seemingly oblivious to Dean’s train of thought. Dean grits his teeth and mentally tells himself to suck it up, because he is not breaking. He is not. He isn’t. He’s never going to.
The scalpel cut right through his arm, and Dean feel the rusty tip of it scrape the bone. Fire races up his arm and his nerves cry out. He lets up a keening, wailing scream and feels a bit of his resolve shatter.
He doesn’t know how long he can keep this going.
***
Dean opens his eyes to a blur, colors melding together in a confusing mess. He blinks, amazed, and this time he can make out a door. Light, soft and thin, is streaming through the cracks, and although it hurts his eyes he can’t stop looking at it. Dean wiggles weakly, trying to escape the manacles, but his hands are stuck and he doesn’t have enough energy.
That was weird. When Dean comes back, he’s supposed to come back completely normal. He doesn’t know if he’s been wearing out his power or something, but after the first twenty days it’s been taking longer to resurrect him, and after every resurrection Dean has been more and more tired. Once, Dean even saw a long scar. Dean has never scarred before, and even though it was gone the next time he came back, it was still horribly unnerving. It’s weird, because Dean has died hundreds of times in a goddamn row thanks to some asshat almost-kind of-supervillain with a seriously messed up sense of humor before he decided that the Dark Side was for losers and turned teams. He’s come back 100% every time. Dean’s really not sure why he’s having trouble resurrecting now.
It should be an object of concern, but Dean’s brain is not working too well after thirty something days of pure torture.
The door creaks and a shaft of light hits Dean right in the eye, and Dean winces. He struggles in his bonds, turning his head away from the light.
“Dean?”
Dean’s head snaps up at its own accord. It sounds like… but it couldn’t be. It can’t be.
However, a part of Dean wants to know. Needs to know, and so Dean opens his mouth and says in a hoarse, soft voice that he hardly recognizes, “Sammy?”
A black shadow blocks the light. Dean squints, and, yeah, that looks like Sammy: same tall stature, same stupid, floppy hair.
“Dean!” Sam gasps, and he rushes over to where Dean is locked up.
“It’s okay,” Sam says to Dean’s muffled Sammy, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Dean smiles weakly and leans his head against his brother’s chest, listening to Sam’s heart and his breathing. God, it feels so good to have Sammy back.
“Sammy,” he murmurs, filled with relief. A thought strikes him, “where’s Cas?”
Sam doesn’t reply, and Dean frowns. The chains above him rattle and rattle, but Dean hardly moves. That is, until he feels the cold iron bite down hard on his wrist.
“Sammy?” Dean slurs, feeling exhaustion take over, “What‘re you doing?”
Sam doesn’t reply, instead preferring to mess around with the chains. Dean feels his face twisting into a grimace after it felt as if the cold metal was somehow getting smaller, but that couldn’t be possible.
Finally, he feels the pressure on his wrists snap, and Dean’s arms fell onto his lap. Sam put his hands under Dean’s armpits, slowing heaving Dean up to his feet, and leads Dean to a cold, metal chair.
“Just stay here, okay?” Sam asks, sounding incredibly nervous. He sets Dean’s arms onto the armrests. Then Sam bends down and starts going through his bag. “Um, you must be wondering where Cas is. He’s…” Sam makes an appropriately sympathetic face, one of deep sorrowful and apologetic. “Sorry.” He goes back to the bag.
Dean’s world falls apart. Cas, his boyfriend, his best friend, is dead. Sure, Sam’s fine, but what’s the point anymore?
Cas is dead. That doesn’t even make sense. Why would Cas die? What happened? Had he been in pain? Just why? The thoughts race around in Dean’s head in a constant loop and it traveled down to constrict his throat and squeeze his heart until he felt like it is going to explode in the shower of blood and tissue. Maybe that’s how Cas died.
Then Sam stops for no particular reason, stands up tall, which redirects Dean’s attention to him. He looks up and smirks. A evil, horribly familiar smirk appears and his eyes flash yellow. He presses a button on Dean’s chair.
And all of the sudden, a thousand, a million, no, billions of spikes pierce through Dean’s skin. What feels like gallons of blood comes pouring out from the various puncture wounds. There are spikes protruding out of every single available surface in the chair. Dean gags, feeling blood well up in his lungs. He coughs, body thrown forward as even more blood splatters the ground. Then his body slams right back onto the spikes, and oh shit it hurts so, so much. He can see pink tissue poking out of the holes, stuck at the top of the spikes.
Dean sees a blurry figure rising in front of him, and for a second he can’t remember who it is until suddenly it just smacks into him and oh, yeah, Sammy. Sammy, who threw him onto this chair and impaled him on what feel like billions of horrible, sharp spikes. Why would he do that? Did Cas stop him? Oh god, did Cas try to stop him and then get killed for his troubles? He can’t have, that can’t happen Dean can’t just get his boyfriend killed his brother couldn’t have killed Cas.
Sam smiles pleasantly at Dean, and takes out a length of rope. He ties Dean’s wrists, fastening them to the spike covered armrests. Then, he binds his legs, finally securing the rope around his torso. Dean can feel the barbs pressing extra hard against his bound body. “Is that okay?” Sam asks, “Too tight? No?” He smiles, eyes twinkling, “Good.”
“Sam?” Dean asks, or tries to. Blood froths out of the hole in his throat, but he’s still alive. He’s trying to understand why his kid brother is doing this to him. He thought Sam was supposed to save him. Why isn’t he saving Dean? Where’s Cas? Is he really dead or was Sam lying?
“Yeah Dean?” Sam bends down so to be eye-level with Dean, feign a concerned look. “What’s wrong?” He’s smirking.
The thought that came to next chilled Dean to his very core the same time as it sends beautiful, rushing relief through his body.
“Alastair,” Dean breathes.
And Sam- Alastair - grins, pulls a knife from his pocket and twirls it in his hands, and he remains silent.
Then he begins to cut what the spikes have left unscratched.
***
The next day, when he wakes up, he’s out of the chair, thank… someone. He’s tired, so, so tired, but he’s not on a rack, or chained up, or anything. He’s just lying on the ground.
So, weakly, Dean gets into sitting position and places his hands on the dirty, grimy floor, and then he pushes, heaves himself up with as much strength as he can muster.
Dean takes one step before his legs give out and he crashes to the ground in a heap. Somehow, Dean’s pretty sure that he hasn’t recovered fully from the spikes possibly piercing his spine yesterday.
That day, it’s Castiel doing the torture. The sting of betrayal that accompanies it, despite that Dean knows it’s not really Cas, is almost as bad as Sam’s betrayal. It’s made worse by the fact that Dean thought he was dead a day ago.
***
The days blur together, days of screams and pain and fire and finally, finally, Alastair puts down the knife. He promises that he will never torture Dean again, if Dean agrees to join the Team, and every day, Dean spits in his face, and says no. Thinking of Sam, Cas and his team - especially Sam and Cas - are the only things that help get him through this.
To add to that, his power is acting up; Dean’s felt paralyzed one day, and then felt good enough to run a marathon the next. He’d been in so much pain he considered ending it and then felt relatively painless the next day. That is, before Alastair came to torture him again. Then it was be pain either way.
He would have scars that disappear in seconds, and scars that he thinks would never disappear until it did. It’s exhausting, both mentally and physically. Not to mention painful. It is always painful.
It’s also been getting harder and harder to say no.
***
On the day Dean thinks is the somewhere around the 30th, or maybe it was already 40 days today, he wakes up to the exact same sight. He gets the exact same greeting, and Alastair begins to cut him up, exactly like the other days. The monotony alone is enough to drive him out of his mind. But still, he shouts and screams, for Sam, for Cas, for anyone to save him.
Then, some time later Alastair continues to still cut him up; deciding he can skip lunch again. Apparently, he’s having too much fun. Dean’s sure that, weeks (but it feels like years) ago, he would have some kind of snarky remark for that, but not anymore. He closes his eyes and tries to visualize Castiel saving him.
Alastair grins, and rips open a swath of dark cloth. There’s a window behind it, and sunlight begins pouring out. Shit. Fuck. That hurts. Alastair grins at Dean’s attempts to avoid the glare of the sun, and cheerfully carves into Dean again.
Dean notices that it’s getting suspiciously bright outside, brighter than what a sunny August afternoon should have any right to be. So bright it’s unreal, unless the Earth has suddenly and fatally moved a few thousand kilometers closer to the sun.
Then, of course, the window blows up into tiny little shards, and what feels like a good half of them embed themselves into Dean’s flesh.
It actually doesn’t hurt that much. Its low, a three on the pain scale, compared to all the rest, and Dean’s pretty sure Alastair rigged this just to cause Dean more pain. Then he looks, sees Alastair’s royally pissed off look, and the little shards of glass embedded in Alastair. He feels fear crawl up his spine.
Then light, pure and blinding, floods into the tiny room, washing the entire room white. And Dean knows what’s going to happen, even though the light is blinding and hot, he knows what it means and it feels like home and safety and Cas and finally.
The last thing Dean hears before he passes out is Alastair screaming in rage.
***
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Dean groans, and swats at the air ineffectively. The beeping continues, annoying and distracting and insistent. He doesn’t really know what it is. It sounds familiar.
A warm hand catches his, stopping the weak motion. It folds over his hands, and gently forces it back on the bed. Dean moans, but he remembers the hand, the calluses and the long, pianist’s fingers. It evokes a feeling he remembers vaguely, but one so bright and warm that he cannot even being to describe.
“Cas?” Dean asks, his voice slightly slurred. “I thought you were dead.”
“Dean.” Castiel replies in his gravelly voice. “Don’t try to get up. And I am not dead.”
“Believe me, I won’t.” Dean groans, and reluctantly opens his eyes. He wants to say that’s he’s glad that Cas isn’t dead, but is unable to conjure up the energy to do so.
He’s in the infirmary at League headquarters, and he’s forgotten how freaking bright it is here. Hissing, Dean hastily shut his eyes again. His head is pounding, it feels like something is slamming against his skull, kicking and punching his brain, shooting guns at grey matter.
He frowns, eyes still shut. “Where’s Sammy?” he asks. Dean hopes that he’s not doing anything stupid. Sam has a reputation for doing stupid things when he’s trying to look for family members, smart as he is and despite the fact that he’s a lawyer and rants a lot about people doing stupid things for the sake of his family and the consequences of doing said stupid things to and for Dean.
Castiel doesn’t reply. Dean frowns harder; his eyes pressing even closer together, and hears the click-clack of shoes against linoleum and the flick of something hard and plastic. Oh. Okay. He’s shutting off the light. Dean can get behind that. In fact, he encourages it.
“You can open your eyes now.”
Dean opens his eyes cautiously, and the blurry face of his lover swimming into view. The lights have, indeed, gone out, thankfully. It’s dark, and it takes Dean’s eyes a couple of seconds to adjust to the lack of light. However, it doesn’t hurt, and that’s what Dean cares about the most. Dean scans Castiel, searching for any visible cuts and bruises and broken limbs. He can’t see any, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.
“Hey,” he mutters, smiling softly.
“Dean,” Castiel says, cutting straight to the chase as always, “what happened?”
“I should be asking you that,” Dean retorts weakly. “Can’t remember the last time you were so pissed.”
Castiel doesn’t smile. “The light was Trickster. He was to create a diversion while I rescued you. And Sam is fine. He is in the building right now.”
“Great.” And despite the dry tone, it really is great. It’s great that Sam’s okay and here- isn’t it always? Great that Cas is seemingly okay and here with him, which always seem to brighten Dean’s day.
An uncomfortable silence descends over them. Dean watches warily as Castiel fidgets nervously, biting his lips and pulling at his sleeves. “Are you okay?”
Castiel nods, “I have not come to harm.”
“Then what’s wrong?” He asks softly.
Castiel averts his gaze. Dean frowns. “What’s wrong?” He repeats it relentlessly.
“Nothing” Castiel mutters, still not looking at Dean. Dean’s frown deepens. “Cas,” he says warningly. Cas had always a really bad liar, no matter how hard he denies it. If anything, the denial affirms it because it is so weak.
“It’s nothing,” Castiel repeats. “I have to go. Rest.” He finally glances back at Dean, stares at him sternly but not unkindly.
Dean begins to order Castiel to stay, has already opened his mouth, when Castiel suddenly flashes out. He shuts his mouth with a snap.
Damn it. Dean freaking hates it when Cas just poofs out when he has questions!
Dean bangs his head against the pillow. It sends a jolt across his body, gives him a headache, which is new, and shouldn’t happen to anybody, because it was a freaking pillow.
Something was definitely up.
***
Dean opens his eyes and sees his brother.
“Oh thank god,” it rushes out of him, relived. “Sammy, what the hell is happening?”
Sam smiles wearily, and Dean wonders why the hell everyfuckingbody is so… well, weary and secretive. At least Cas doesn’t look uncomfortable just sitting next to Dean.
"Nothing, really,” he says, vaguely, confirming Dean’s wonder about everybody being so damn secretive, “just rest.’
“I’m not resting until you tell me what’s going on.” Dean says stubbornly.
Sam pushes a large hand through his hair and looks down.
“What?” Dean asks, even more suspicious than before. “What is going on? Am I dying?” He smiles, trying for a joke. With his power, it’ll take something huge to kill him. Like an explosion, and even then Dean suspects that his body parts will just fly back like magnets. It’s funny; the fact that he’s so reckless yet there’s almost no way to kill him.
It’s not funny when Sam flinches, when he looks down.
“I’m dying?” Dean whispers, dumbstruck, “I can’t be.”
“I’m sorry, Dean” Sam mumbles, looking ashamed of himself and very, very guilty, “We tried, we tried everything, and-”
“That’s not funny,” Dean snaps weakly, “I can’t die, Sam, you know I can’t. You know I’ve - I’ve.” He stops, bites his lips, “I can’t die.” He knew this forever. That’s the one thing in his life that’s always a constant, always, except it seems like it isn’t now.
Sammy hesitates and says “remember when we were kids? You had this, this incredible healing-”
“Like Claire Bennett,” Dean cuts in, smiling sadly.
“Yeah, but less hot.” Sam agrees, “And then you basically stopped healing and started resurrecting?”
Dean nods. It was very traumatizing, the first time it happened. The first time, there was some lab-made mutant with very sharp claws. He doesn’t like to talk about it.
“So, from what we’ve been able to get… your power’s gone. Or it’s failing. And I- we think that it’s… reversing all the effects.”
Dean stares blankly at his little brother. “I’ve died hundreds of times.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“In a lot of different ways. Painful ways.”
“I know,” Sam repeats. He looks sad, so sad, and so tired, that Dean wants to stand up and push his little brother onto a bed and have him checked over, starts to, in fact, except when he pushes himself up, a wave of vertigo slams into him and the room spins and his stomach rolls. He immediately drops back onto the bed. Sam frowns above him, disapproving, like I just told you that you are dying and now you try to sit up? Dean ignores that look in favor of scowling at his brother.
“I think it’s just… your body failing.”
Dean nods, averts his gaze. God, he’s dying. The thought of death hasn’t scared him since he was fourteen, but it terrifies him now. Before, he knew that he would come back, would always come back. Now the fact that he’s really, truly mortal brings both a sense of relief and of horrible, overwhelming fear. It is also tainted with sadness, because however much Dean hates his power, the implications of it, the fact that he’s going to outlive Sammy and Bobby and even Trickster, the douchebag, and Cas and, hell, maybe their kids if they ever decide to settle down and have a little dysfunctional family of their own. He’s also known it for so long, been through so much with it- thanks to it that it feels like just as much as a part of him as his eyes, or his hair, or Sammy. And fuck does that sound chick-flick-y.
He wonders how Cas is faring under the knowledge that Dean is truly mortal.
“You’re not gonna die, Dean” Sam says confidently, “I’m not gonna let you. And neither is Cas.”
***
A day after Dean's given the okay to get the hell outta the infirmary, Sam and Cas manhandle him into the Impala. While Dean appreciates the familiarity, and really, he's missed his baby so much over the months, it’s annoying. Dean doesn't need to be manhandled. Dean doesn't do manhandling. He glares at his captors and folds his arms sullenly over his chest. Ouch. Shit.
Dean winces, and it's like a siren. Sam and Cas' heads whip back at lightning speed, and Dean swears they both gave themselves whiplash, although they aren't showing it. He grimaces, but doesn't reply. Why's he in the back anyways? He can drive. Maybe.
Whatever; if Dean’s dying then he deserves to drive one last time.
Castiel decides that Dean shouldn’t be alone and poofs into the backseat next to Dean, seatbelt strapped in and all. Sam presses the gas, and the Impala lurches (lurches?!?!) to a start. Dean presses his cheek against Cas’ chest, revels in the pounding of his heart, and the safety of his arms, the vibrations of the car, the purring of her engine. He closes his eyes, and drifts off into unconsciousness.
***
He wakes up to a bright, sharp light stabbing at his eyes. Swearing, he jolts awake and throws his hands out, ready to defend himself. The light's too bright, and he feels something soft under him. What is that? Is it another one of Alastair's tricks? Well, he's not going to fall for it this time. He clenches his hands into fists and strikes the first thing the reaches. His hands connect with soft leather, and he frowns. What the fuck is going on? Blindly, he hits it again and again and again until he feels hands, large and warm, encircle his wrist. Dean struggles against them uselessly and hears a repetitive sound, but he can't make it out over the pounding of his heart.
It hurts, his heart, and every part of his body. Thrashing around trying to escape his bonds exhausts him. He looks up.
Sam.
The beating of his heart stops, or at least he can't hear it anymore. Sammy. Dean looks around wildly, sees the inside of the Impala and Cas. Cas. He's here, too.
This. This is new. Normally, it's only Sam, or only Cas. It's the first time Sam and Cas have both been there. And the Impala- that's a nice touch.
Dean's not going to fall for it. He snarls and kicks frantically. He gets about five kicks in before it becomes too hard to try, and he wonders what going on to make him so weak.
The world disappears. It slides from underneath him, leaving only blackness. He can’t see anything, can’t hear anything.
It’s gone as quickly as it came, and he surfaces again. His vision is blurry, and there’s someone saying something, something repetitive, but he hears it as if he were underwater.
The person repeats it again, and Dean squints. It looks like he’s underwater too. Maybe he is.
A vague pink spot on the person moves, and Dean figures that it must be the mouth. It- he? - looks like a he, says something, but Dean can’t figure what.
He repeats it urgently, and Dean frowns, because it makes no sense.
“Dean.”
Dean’s eyes pop, and his ears follow. Light, color, sound, everything - it comes back in a rush, like a river finally pushing through a dam. It floods his mind, overloads him with sensation. And it hurts.
When it finally calms down, he sees Sam and Castiel’s concerned faces staring down at him.
“Hey.”
Sam’s eyes narrows into slits, and he looks a second away from screaming at Dean when Castiel puts his hand on Sam’s bicep, sends him a warning look. The younger Winchester lets out an angry puff of air, and turns back to the steering wheel. Dean can see that he was is gripping it too tightly from the whiteness of his knuckles. He wants to apologize, apologize for being such a fuck-up. He doesn’t know what the hell happened back there, but he doesn’t want it to happen again.
Cas pulls Dean into his arms. On any other day, Dean would have squirmed and bitched at being treated like some girl, but this isn’t any other day. So Dean snuggles up against Cas’ dress shirt and constantly askew tie, feels the buttons of Cas’ trench-coat (technically it’s an overcoat, the mental voice that always sounds like Cas reminds him), and he falls asleep right there in his lover’s arms, with his brother driving the car that was always his home.
***
“Risen,” Dean hears Sam say, the next time he wakes up.
“What?” he mumbles, and something occurs to him, “you never told me how you two were supposed to save me.”
He hears Sam sigh heavily, but he still doesn’t open his eyes. “Risen,” Sam says again, “You remember that myth?” he asks.
Dean nods. He does - the myth of Risen was that of a girl, who had incredible abilities. She could activate the powers of anyone who has the potential of being a Super, and she enhanced the powers of any Super. Taking Dean to Risen would be a great idea, because maybe she could jump-start his powers. The flaw in the plan was that the myth of Risen was, after all, a myth.
Dean says as much, and can practically hear Sam’s bitchiness directed at him.
“We have information that Risen is in fact alive, and real.” Castiel informs Dean in his gravelly (and kind of robotic, if Dean wants to be real and kind of bitchy about it) voice.
“And we’re not gonna let you die without trying, Dean. She’s our only hope.” Sam adds firmly yet sadly, and Dean wonders when Sam and Cas became the same entity. And isn’t that gross, his brother and his lover being the same person. He shudders at the thought.
“Do you have any idea where she is?”
“No,” Sam admits reluctantly, “but we know someone who does.”
“Yeah, and that always work out.”
Dean opens his eyes just in time to see Sam’s bitchface disappear, and its night. The moon is full and shining, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, what’s out there. Maybe there really are things like werewolves and aliens and vampires. Man, Dean would love to see a werewolf.
Sam pulls into a ramshackle motel, the name is in red neon and Dean doesn’t even attempt to read it, because he knows it’ll just give him a bitch of a headache.
He tells Dean and Cas to stay put with a stern glare, and checks them in. Then check-in dude (Dean can’t remember the proper name) who is a pimply male teen who stares at Sam with a smirk, a slightly judgmental one, probably because he asked for two queen beds and were are three guys, as far as he knows knew.
“Room 305,” Sam says after he jogs over to the Impala, dangles the keys in front of Dean. He opens Dean’s door and gently helps Dean out. Cas is looking slightly disgruntled, and Dean wonders if they really got over their little rivalry thing they had about who gets most of Dean’s time in those few months after Dean introduced Cas to Sam. They weren’t even dating back then.
Room 305 is Betty Boop themed, and Dean would deny that he knew about Betty Boop until his dying day. (Which, come to think of it, could be in a week.) Other than that, it’s like any other motel room, atrociously decorated and furnished, although - and Dean’s day brightens a little at the revelation - there are Magic Fingers. Shit, Dean loves Magic Fingers.
Dean drops heavily on his bed (the closest to the door), crawling under the comforter and snuggling into it. Cas follows, and Dean presumes Sam does too, but in his own bed. Cas crawls in with him, and Dean loves Cas’ body heat and his stubble scratching him and how soft he is. Cas kisses him with those soft, chapped lips, first on the forehead and then on the nose and then on the lips. He trails down, leaving a streak of sparks in his wake, until those lips touch Dean’s collarbone. It sends thrills racing down Dean’s spine, through his body, although he’s too tired to get aroused. Dean falls asleep to Castiel’s light caresses, and at first, his sleep is dreamless.
***
He wakes up in a cot. It’s lumpy and uncomfortable, and Dean can feel the metal springs digging into his back. He shifts, and is rewarded by a broke piece of the metal piercing his leg. It hurts, and he feels hot blood run down his leg. Dean looks around wildly, and realizes that he is in a small, lightless room. He panics, because didn’t Cas rescue him?
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” he hears Alastair’s raspy voice sing, “did you really think it would be that easy?”
Dean tries to get out of the cot, only to realize he is bound to the bed. Alastair smiles, revealing rotten yellow teeth, and stabs a thin knife right into Dean’s gut.
Dean wakes up with a gasp. Cas shifts from beside him, grumbling incoherently.
“What’s wrong?” Cas finally manages.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” Cas nods slowly, flips over, draping an arm over Dean. Within a minute, light snores are filling the room and he sinks into the mattress. It’s comforting, or at least it should be.
Dean stays awake the rest of the night.
***
Sam throws knives and guns and tasers into his duffle. Then he pauses and adds more weapons.
“What are you doing?” Dean asks wearily. It has come to his attention that sometimes, he really doesn’t want to know what his kid brother is doing. Right now, he’s trying to focus on where Cas is. The guy just walked away and Dean didn’t have the energy to ask what he was doing. He wishes that he had asked Cas now.
“Crowley, the guy we’re seeing, he’s not exactly… trustworthy.”
Dean raises his eyebrow. Of course. “Not exactly trustworthy as in murderous psycho maniac or not trustworthy as in sneaky and unreliable son of a bitch?”
“Uh, the second one.”
Dean nods sagely, “Well, that’s one hell of guy you’ve found, Sammy.” He says, a healthy amount of sarcasm dripping from the words. Heavy, viscous, acid-green sarcasm. Maybe not so healthy.
“Shut up.” Sam retorts, shoving his elbow into Dean’s side.
White-hot pain shoots through his abdomen, and Dean rears forward, clutching his stomach.
“Shit! Dean! Dean! You okay?” Sam swears, looking way too guilty than Dean wants him to. His hands are flutter all over Dean’s body, trying to soothe him.
With a grunt, Dean pushes his little brother away. “Jesus, Sammy,” he grunts. “I’m not a fucking porcelain doll.”
“No,” Sam agrees, “but you’re sick and dying and I might lose-”
“No chick-flick moments.” Dean snaps, and Sam shoots him an exasperated look that has been perfected over the twenty-four years of the exact same shit from Dean.
“Let’s go. Cas is already outside with him, so we have-” Sam checks his watch, “an hour to meet Crowley.” Cas is with Crowley? That’s stupid, what if Cas gets hurt or kills Crowley or something?
Dean pushes himself from the bed, noting that it was far harder for him to stand now than it was, oh, a week ago. Unsteadily, he stumbles to the door, ignoring Sam’s attempt at chivalry. He’s fine, damn it.
He stops at the door of the Impala, and pulls it open, sliding into the driver’s seat.
Sam stops, “You’re not driving, Dean.”
“Why not?” Dean asks defiantly, and Sam gives Dean that look. You know, that look like why are you such an idiot and how are we even related. Yeah, that one.
“Because you’re dying.”
“Yeah, but see, it’s because I’m dying that I’m driving. I won’t die happy without driving my baby one last time.”
Sam stares at his brother in disbelief, shakes his head. “Fine. But the moment you get tired, I’m driving.”
“Fine,” Dean smiles easily. Like hell that was happening.
Right, like Sam would ever believe Dean in this situation. He’s hijacking the wheel the moment Dean yawns.
***
“Stop here.”
“What?” Dean glances over at his brother, stifling yet another yawn. “You said it’ll take an hour.”
“No, I said we had an hour to get to Crowley,” Sam explains. Smug little bastard, look at the way he’s smiling. Dean wonders where Castiel is right now.
Dean glares, “Whatever, you said an hour, it’s barely been twenty minutes."
"Too bad," Sam retorts, and smiles larger as he watches his brother reluctantly pull over.
***
Castiel is waiting for them. He thrusts their outfits at them.
“Get dressed.” He orders. “You’re meeting him over there,” he points to a place vaguely to the right, a crossroads.
“I will be watching you from there. If anything happens, I will be right there, by your side.”
They nod, and Castiel smiles that tiny half-smile of his. He disappears with a slight displacement of air.
***
“So, Liberty,” Crowley sneers, “What brings you over to my neck of the woods?”
Sam, decked out in full Superhero gear, answers. “You know why.”
“Ah, yes. The Righteous Man.” He stares at Dean, who is also wearing his costume. Only his costume is leather, not spandex. “Is it true you’re dying?”
“Shut up,” Dean growls. His voice is weaker now. It sucks. He glances nervously at the ledge he knows Castiel is standing on, which comforts him a bit.
“You are, aren’t you?” Crowley sounds absolutely delighted, “Mr. Immortality, dying. How ironic.”
“Shut up,” Dean repeats.
“We need to know where Risen is.” Sam demands of Crowley.
“Risen is a myth,” Crowley says, “A bedtime story for frightened Supers. Which I suppose you two now are.”
“Myth or not, you know where she is,” Sam retorts. “Tell us.”
“And why should I?”
“So you can live.” Dean’s eyes flash, and he pulls himself up.
Crowley laughs, a slimy, smug sound, and he flicks his fingers in the general direction of Dean. Immediately, Dean bends over, coughing up a red substance that he realizes, with a sense of horror, is blood. What’s left of his balance is stolen, and he crumbles to the ground.
Sam roars, and his arm shoots up. His face scrunches in concentration, and Crowley convulses just a teensy bit.
“Stop!” Dean orders, and Sam stops. Both he and Crowley turns to glare at him in disbelief. Sam because apparently Dean’s siding with the asshole and Crowley because he doesn’t need anyone to stick up for him, thank you very much.
“Let’s discuss this… like civilized people” Dean stands up gingerly, testing his balance. Huh, seems like he’s getting weaker. He glances at the ledge again.
Sam snorts, Crowley arches his eyebrow in disbelief. However, they abide.
“Say I do tell you where Risen is. What do I get out of it?” Crowley challenges. Sam and Dean share a look.
“We can help you with something,” Dean’s head snaps to his brother, mouthing “what?”
“Your brother doesn’t seem too keen on it.”
Sam glowers at his brother, “I don’t care. He’s dying - I’ll do anything.”
“Except killing!” Dean bursts, and he can’t believe he has to say that to his own little brother, the boy he practically raised since he was six months old and Dean four, “No murder!”
Crowley smiles, one of those big, smug grins that inhabit corrupt business men’s faces when they make a deal that will surely screw the other party right down to the core of the Earth.
“Risen is in Maumee, Ohio. She’s living a normal life - studying Journalism at the University of Toledo.”
The Winchesters nod.
“Once you get what you want from her, I want you to give her to me.”
“Why?”
“None of your business. Just get her.”
Dean shoots Sam a nasty look, one that says, you fucking suck, idiot.
“Deal.” Sam nods at Crowley.
“Deal.”
Then he disappears.
***
“I can’t believe you made that deal!”
“I had to make that deal, Dean; it’s the only way to save you.”
“No, finding Risen is the only way to save me. Or so you say.”
“Yeah, well, now we know where she is. And if we know where she is, then we can find her!”
“And what if she doesn’t want to heal me?”
“She will!”
“How do you know that?”
“If I may interrupt,” Castiel pokes his head in-between the driver’s seat and shotgun. “But Dean has a point. We are not, nor will be ever be, sure that Risen will cure Dean.”
“Thank you, Cas,” Dean says gratefully. Sam glares at both of them.
“Look, I don’t care if Risen says no - I’ll find a way to get her to save you.”
Dean sighs. Shit, that headache he’s been having is being a bitch.
Castiel reaches over and places his hand over Dean’s. He smiles. Sam looks away, whether he’s embarrassed or just wanting to give his brother and his boyfriend space or something else.
“Look,” he says, defeated, “You two look for Risen, and I’ll find different ways.”
Dean and Cas nod and Cas grips Dean’s shoulders. There’s swooshing sound and they disappear.
They land in a park, which is green and peaceful. Dean frowns. “This doesn’t look like a university.”
Cas smiles softly. “It isn’t. I figured we should get some time alone.”
“Oh,” Dean blinks. He rubs the back of his neck, “Okay.”
Castiel nods, and takes Dean’s hands in his. He frowns at Dean’s weak grip.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asks Dean, as they head down a path.
“I’m fine.” Dean says quickly, “Just a little weak.”
Cas nods thoughtfully.
“What?” Dean asks suspiciously.
His lover shakes his head, instead turning to press his lips against Dean’s.
Dean gasps, but sinks into the kiss. His body warms, spine tingles. He twists his fingers in Castiel’s wild hair, feels his warmth on his skin. The heat in his body grows hotter and hotter and hotter, until it’s almost unbearable. With a gasp, Dean pushes his lover away, panting for breath.
“Dean? What’s wrong?”
“Hot,” Dean pants. “Burning.”
“Shit.” There’s a bright flash of white light, one that sears Dean’s eyes and makes him flinch.
Then the light starts to dim, and Dean frowns, because it was slight a second ago, and the light is grows steadily dimmer and dimmer, until it fades entirely.
***
He wakes up on a bed, the worried faces of his brother and boyfriend hovering above him.
“Whuzzgoingon?” Dean slurs.
“You fainted,” his giant brother says grimly. “And I think you broke your ribs.”
Dean frowns - it’s true. Breathing hurts, now. He was a little weak, he thinks, before it was just his head, and his stomach, to an extent.
“You should have told us sooner,” Castiel adds scolding. Dean frowns - did he say that out loud?
“Told you what?” Was his voice really like that? Was it really that weak, that hoarse?
“That you were in pain!” Sammy snarls.
“It wasn’t that bad.” Dean protests weakly.
“Is that it?” Sam says sarcastically.
“We think your muscles are atrophying.” Cas says in his low, comforting rasp. His words aren’t very reassuring at all, though. “And all of your … internal organs and bones are… dissolving.”
“We need to find Risen.” Sam says grimly, “Now.”
“Wait!” Dean raises his voice. It hurts, like a shard of glass is scraping the sides of his throat. “We can’t give her to Crowley.”
“I know.” Sam says comfortingly, “We’ll help her hide from Crowley’s forces, okay? I promise. Now stay.” He sends his brother a stern look. “Cas and I will look for her. Just… stay and rest. And call us if something else happens, alright? Anything.”
Dean nods, grits his teeth and rides out the wave of pain that accompanies the gesture. “Okay,” he chokes out.
Castiel frowns, “Perhaps I should stay here.”
“No,” Dean protests, “It’s okay.” He gasps as another wave of pain hits him, and he’s pretty sure from the sickening crack that another one of his ribs have cracked.
Sam frowns, “Maybe I should. Cas is a teleporter, remember?”
Dean tries to suck in shallow breaths so his ribs won’t hurt more. Castiel growls at Sam, “I’m staying. You look for her.” He snaps him away, presumably to the campus.
“That had better be the campus,” Dean gasps out.
“It is.”
Dean nods slowly. “So how long do you think I have?”
Cas frowns, “You’re not going to die. Besides, it makes no logical sense for the symptoms to progress so slowly and then just slam into you.”
“When has my powers ever made sense?” Dean asks, and Castiel has to reluctantly admit it never really did.
Cas’ frown deepens, and one of his hands clasping Dean’s. Dean looks down, a soft smile gracing his full lips.
“Tell you what,” Dean whispers, “I get out of this alive, and I’ll take you to dinner.”
Cas snorts, “If you get out of this alive, I’m giving you something huger than dinner.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“A promise,” Castiel says solemnly, and swoops down to capture Dean in a long, hungry kiss.
They pull apart, panting, in what seems like seconds and years at the same time. Dean reaches out a thin hand, traces Castiel’s frown with a displeased look.
Cas closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling of Dean’s calloused fingers ghosting over his face. It feels wonderful, warm, loving… and kind of ticklish, actually.
Cas sneezes. Dean jerks back his hand.
“Sorry.”
“You ruined the moment, Cas!” Dean scolds lightly, “We were having a moment. Do you know how many moments we have? Not a lot!”
“I’m sorry,” Cas pulls out his puppy eyes.
“It’s too late. Moment’s over.” Dean pushes the pillow over his own eyes to block the puppy eyes.
There’s another sickening crack, and Dean’s mouth snaps open in a silent scream. His back arches, and it looks like there’s an invisible rope pulling him up by the stomach. A giant, invisible hand reaches in and pulls his breath from his throat; searing white-hot pain melts his brain, and spots color his vision. Vaguely, he can hear Castiel saying something, but he can’t make it out. The pain reaches horrible new heights, his ears ringing, eyes clouding over, muscles breaking into spasms and his heart thudding to a terrifying, irregular rhythm.
Snap.
Everything goes dark. The pain fades. Everything fades.
***
There’s a gentle voice talking to him, but he can’t open his eyes. Can’t really make out what the person’s saying, either. Everything hurts: his bones, his muscles, his head, his limbs, even his skin and fingernails.
A soft hand brushes sweaty hair from his brow, but Dean doesn’t know who it is. He attempts to grunt; only it seems more like a pitiful moan. Or a whimper. The fingers of said hand twist in his hair, and it doesn’t hurt. It feels comforting.
His hand flails around, groping blindly for the person attached to the hand, red-hot pain shooting up his arm. It’s stopped by another hand, bigger and rougher than Dean’s. Sam, his brain informs him.
“Dean,” he hears again, the voice echoing and indistinct. “Dean, I brought someone.”
He groans, attempting to open his eyes. They feel like they’re glued together, and dry as the Sahara Desert.
“Hey Dean,” a soft, melodic voice says, one that is obviously female. “You’re gonna be okay.”
She places a small hand on his chest, and holy shit. His chest burns, but not a bad fire burn. Instead, it’s more of a holy burn, one that spreads and spreads through his body. It knits his body together, soothing the nerves and warming his flesh. The pain is familiar, one that accompanies every single healing and resurrection.
So his powers are back, then.
The burn spreads to his head, his eyes. To the tips of his fingers and toes to the centre of his belly. It feels warm and comforting, even though Dean’s never really liked it before. Guess you really don’t know what you have until you lose it, Dean thinks.
Masterpost Part Two