FIC: Pulling Out The Nails, Chapter 16: Dismissal [17/20]
Back to 15. Impact, or go to the Masterpost.
Dean hated being knocked out.
True, it had sort of been part of the plan-an unavoidable one, in fact-but the grogginess that came after wasn't really good for survival. There were always a few minutes of struggling to remember where he'd been, what he'd been doing, why was he flat on his back in a cold cell with non-iron bars as though whoever had built it wanted to make it easier for demons to move around-
Right. Crowley's, black powder, capture. All going according to plan. The crick in his neck was unfortunate, and the bruises tenderly pulling around his knee and hip sucked, too, but that was peanuts compared to the overall situation.
They were in. He was in. Unarmed, and all that, but Phase 1 was done and Henriksen undoubtedly knew he was here, so-
There was a muffled scream in the distance. Dean sat up, listening hard, and tried not to admit how uneasy that made him. Come to think of it, this wasn't how he'd imagined the capitol being at all; the anxiety in the air seemed wrong and misplaced, somehow, as though there was more here that shouldn't be than just him. And why the hell as no one even watching him? He was a very important political prisoner-their most important, in fact, and not so much as a jabbering imp was keeping tabs on him.
There was another problem, of course. Cas was nowhere in sight. Obviously, they'd separated the pair of them for holding.
"Not a great time to make a stand, Dean."
Victor Henriksen, bald and bearded, stepped into the room. Despite the situation, Dean felt a grin sweep over his features. Reluctantly, Henriksen grinned back. He looked more disheveled than the last time Dean had seen him, his dress shirt coming untucked from his slacks, and one of his holsters was empty; the gun was firmly in hand instead.
"No time like the present," Dean shot back, getting to his feet and moving forward to the bars. "You gonna let me out of here, or what?"
"Stand back," Henriksen warned, lowering his gun to point at the lock.
Dean leapt backward again, covering his ears just in time; the shot went off, the lock smoked, and Dean rubbed furiously at the ringing in his eardrums. "Little obvious," he pointed out.
"Yeah, and I don't have time to be subtle," Henriksen said, pushing the bars open. "Like I said, Dean, this is bad timing."
There were more screams in the distance. "I'm getting that," Dean said slowly. "What the hell is going on?"
"I'm not totally sure yet," Henriksen admitted. "All I know is that a lot of high-level magicians have been in the summoning chambers for a few hours now, and by the sound of it, they're not coming out again. I don't know if it's a pissing match or what, but the sounds..."
It'll be hard to ignore us when we're running the show.
"Christ," Dean muttered, holding out a hand for his gun. Henriksen handed it over. "It's a lot worse than that."
The lines around the magician's eyes tightened. "What do you know?"
"Lilith's been Azazel's favorite pet for a long time now, right?" Dean asked. "How friendly have they been lately?"
"You think this is London again?" Henriksen said, frowning. "I have a hard time believing Azazel would be that stupid."
"I have a hard time believing Azazel wouldn't be that greedy," Dean returned. "Any chance you know where my partner is?"
"Now I really don't believe my ears," Henriksen said flatly. "You're working with that djinni?"
"Desperate times," Dean muttered.
"Azazel himself took the demon. Into the summoning chambers. Like I said, they haven't come back out. He didn't look possessed, Dean."
"What does possessed look like?" Dean said, exasperated.
"You saw the Jones report," Henriksen replied. "They take a while to get used to their bodies. Unless he's been possessed for a while, I'd have a hard time believing he is now. Totally smooth movements. Same mannerisms. It's Azazel in there, or it was a few hours ago."
"Yeah, well, it might not be anymore," Dean said. "Are my people in the building yet?"
Henriksen nodded. "They came through quietly-one of the tunnels I marked. No one noticed. You're lucky I'm a smart man, Dean."
"Luck has nothing to do with it," Dean returned. "We've gotta get in that room."
"No," Henriksen corrected, "you have to get in that room. I have to evacuate the rest of the building until we figure out what's going on. There are innocent people in here, Dean."
"Fine," Dean agreed reluctantly. "Do that. Meet up with me when you can. Which way to the summoning chamber?"
"Follow the screams," Henriksen said dryly, but pointed right down the hallway. They split off, and within sixty seconds, Dean heard the magician's booming voice, shouting for people to evacuate in an orderly fashion. Dean couldn't help his sudden smirk. That was Henriksen: fucking unshakable, even as his capitol came down around him.
If he knew his people, they would be following the screams, too. Hopefully they would meet up before he hit any serious obstacles.
By the time Dean burst in, Castiel had just started to believe-a little resentfully, if he was honest-that the man had actually left him to his fate. He was carrying a gun, for what little good it would do him, and the blood dripping from the bandage on his forehead had finally stopped long enough to turn to a path of rust, curving over his cheek. Castiel, conflicted between relief and anger, frowned vaguely in Dean's direction.
"Hey!" he shouted, and the assembled spirit-magician hybrids turned with varying degrees of success to look at him. Lilith was used to her borrowed body, but the rest, thankfully, were not so lucky. None of the magicians had been devoured by their possessors yet, but Castiel thought it was a close thing; Megaira in particular was a chaotic entity, and her host's facial expression frequently shifted from boredom to outright terror. Meg was undoubtedly whispering threats in the magician's mind at every opportunity.
"Dean," Azazel greeted. "Nice of you to join us."
"Yeah," Dean said, still walking, gun held at an angle toward the floor. He was quickly coming within range of Castiel, the djinni realized, and the instant Dean was beside him, just outside the pentacle, he came to a halt. Azazel was still a dozen feet away. Maybe Dean had realized that-
"Well," Dean said aggressively. "I'm here."
"I don't think anyone invited you," Castiel muttered under his breath.
"Yes," and now it was Lilith speaking. "Yes, you are. Shush," she said, her eyes flicking white. "I know you've waited a long time to get your greedy little hands on him, dear, but I need to play catch-up with Dean for a moment."
She came forward; the way she moved in Azazel's body was too fluid, too graceful, to be the man himself. "Dean, Dean, Dean," she sighed. "Always interrupting. We would have gotten to you in due time."
"What can I say," Dean replied with the hint of a smirk. His features were otherwise utterly expressionless; he didn't blink, his eyes full of her. "I'm an impatient man."
She came to a halt, a bare five feet from them. "I should really thank you," she said softly. "If it weren't for the little stunt you pulled with Castiel, I don't think I could ever have convinced him that my way was the only way."
"Dean," Castiel muttered, trying to put more urgency in his tone this time.
"No problem," Dean said, as smoothly as if he'd expected Lilith to offer him her gratitude. "Guess you owe me, huh."
"Indeed," she said. Her voice sounded alien, coming from Azazel's mouth. "And I always pay my debts. I am not ungrateful. So. What will it be?"
For a moment, Castiel thought Dean had frozen-that he was so surprised by her bizarre offer that he had nothing to come back with. A snappy refusal would have been a good start, Castiel thought, but in the next second Dean was wrenching apart his jaws and saying-
"Dismiss him."
Lilith laughed, a long, musical note. "I could give you so much, Dean. The thing you ask for is paltry in comparison to my power."
Dean's smile looked horribly forced. "I'm a simple guy," he said. "And this is not so easy. You happen to be in the only body that can let him go."
"Dean," Castiel said, louder this time. A numb chill was spreading through his essence. Lilith, caught by the sound of his voice, turned to look at him.
"He is suffering," she agreed softly. "I had no idea you were so fond of us demons, Dean."
"Thought the term was spirit," Dean said blandly.
"How very politically correct of you," she said, her eyes still on Castiel. "Why?"
"Why what?" Dean said.
"Why," Lilith said slowly, as though Dean was very stupid, "do you want to release him?"
"Look at him," Dean said flatly. "He's dying. He's been getting worse for weeks. He's done."
Castiel was vaguely aware that his entire essence was vibrating in protest. The conversation echoed shrilly in his ears; it seemed a dream, an imagining. No. He couldn't-he wouldn't. This was worse, a hundred times worse, than believing that Dean had abandoned him to his fellow hungry spirits. That Dean would send him away-would undoubtedly die alone, in this hollow, cold room, only seconds after he was enveloped in the safety of the Other Place-was unbearable. There was no sign of their backup. Were they even in the building? Did they stand even the smallest chance of reaching Dean in time? Of protecting him?
"No," he said, fiercer than he'd intended. "Use your favor on something else. I'm not going."
The pair of them ignored him, staring each other down now.
"Your kind comes too late," Lilith said, her voice almost soothing, placating. "If there had been more of you..."
"I know." Dean's voice was raw now. He'd tucked the handgun, his only futile weapon, back into the belt of his jeans. Castiel wanted to shout at him, but couldn't seem to make the appropriate sounds. "Maybe it wouldn't have come to this."
"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "Well. I suppose we'll never know. This is your boon, then? Dismiss Castiel, so that he may live?"
"Make sure," Dean said, his mouth twisted down, "that he's never, ever summoned again."
Lilith nodded Azazel's head. "Castiel has been through enough. Your sympathy is almost moving."
"Will he be satisfied with just me?" Dean said. Despite how clear the words were, they seemed warped, twisted, as though Castiel was listening through mud.
"You sell yourself short, Dean," Lilith said, a little smugly. "You are no small wanted criminal to my partner."
"Good," Dean said shortly.
"Your Resistance may even be safe for a time," the spirit continued, "if they run far and fast enough. The common people, on the other hand...we are hungry, and our hosts are hungrier still."
For a moment, the lines around Dean's eyes tightened, and Castiel thought he might call it all off and open fire. Do it, Castiel urged silently. Don't deal with her, don't bargain for my life, don't send me away, don't send me away-
"I know," he said, through the pinched look around his mouth. "Do it."
"No," Castiel said, finding his voice at last. It was panicked, desperate; it didn't sound like him at all. "No, Dean-don't do this-"
Lilith turned her back, perhaps nauseated by the display, and Dean, finally, tipped his head to look at Castiel.
He was the last gasp of a desperate man. His green eyes burned through the bruising on his cheek. He was silent, screaming fury, powerless, doing the one thing left to him to do.
"I got you into this," he said without inflection. "I pay my debts, too."
"We're not done," Castiel said, and he was begging now; he knew it by the look of pain that crossed Dean's features.
"You did what you could," Dean said, almost gently, and crossed the line of the pentacle to grasp Castiel by the shoulder. "I'm not going to hold you to it until you die in the line of fire. I'm not a magician, Cas. You're dying, and I can't-" Dean swallowed; Castiel heard the gulp, the sudden stifling of whatever was supposed to come next. "I can't have that on my conscience, man," he finished, his smile crooked.
"You're not going to have a conscience much longer if you don't let me help you," Castiel snapped, lifting a hand to grasp Dean's arm. Dean's palm moved to his cheek; through the pain, his green eyes were strangely wistful. "Don't send me away, Dean. Don't-"
He faltered, unable to repeat it; Dean's thumb swept over his cheekbone, and he tried to look, to see what Dean had to be trying to tell him, but in those eyes there was only warmth and regret and something like a desperate plea.
"Trust me," he said, his crushingly gentle. "Castiel, come on. It's me."
He couldn't seem to deny Dean that. He nodded, without giving his essence express permission to do so. Dean's touch lifted; as he stepped back, Castiel's fingers fell, numb, from his elbow. The space between them yawned, cavernous, open and empty and cold.
"Lilith," Dean said, his voice too thick, his eyes still fixed on Castiel's face. "Do it."
Lilith, still grimacing with Azazel's lips, strode back to them. Castiel tried to straighten up within his pentacle, to stare down the adversary who would do him this last great injustice, and she didn't know the half of it. She had no idea how deep this wound would go, even though she sneered in pleasure as she spoke the words. But he couldn't look at her, not properly, anyway, when Dean held his gaze fast, unblinking, deliberate.
Just before the last, Dean's green eyes strayed from his to look over Castiel's shoulder. His lip twitched up, knee-jerk, into a triumphant smirk, just before he caught Castiel's gaze again-and winked.
Before Castiel could shout, before he could call an end to the Dismissal, he felt his essence being pulled softly from the Earth, and he was powerless to resist. What could I have done? he thought, giving up sight and sound as he drained away, Dean's features frozen in his mind's eye. He would have died, slaughtered, cut down at Dean's side, had he stayed. Maybe Dean had something planned, or maybe he didn't; it wasn't his problem, not now.
But it would never be that simple, he thought. When it came to Dean, it could never be that easy, and if he just had a way to claw his way back from the Other Place, to appear miraculously at Dean's side-but he didn't.
He was alone with his grief, and perhaps he'd never forgotten how that felt, but the pain was sharper than it had a right to be.
Forward to 17. Unbound.