Chapter Text
Balthazar waltzes into Castiel’s study and promptly flops down into a chair in front of his desk, putting his feet up and crossing his ankles.
“Well, as it turns out Lucifer’s reasons aren’t entirely pure,” he drawls.
They are in the middle of their preparations for the subsequent mission and Castiel would rather his associate concentrate on more important matters than Lucifer’s motivation.
Undeterred by Castiel’s lack of a response, Balthazar carries on. “As far as I could gather, he’s doing this to pay a lawyer back for representing a friend. A Death Eater, above all. Can you imagine?”
Castiel glances up but otherwise still refuses to react. The way he knows Balthazar, he will talk for as long as he deems necessary.
“Well, granted, he seems to be a reformed Death Eater and he’s accusing four evil sods of raping him, so perhaps we’re working for the greater good after all.”
Balthazar takes his feet off the table and leans forward, a contemplative expression ghosting across his features. “I imagine your stepbrother really wants to get on the lawyer’s good side if he goes to these lengths to rescue his brother. Sam and Dean Winchester… Not much I could find on them except that their father is a hunter, and a bloody notorious one at that.”
Castiel’s head snaps up. Hunters are rare yet dangerous if one crosses their paths on unfriendly terms. They aren’t mere wizards, more akin to trained soldiers, versed in the art of hunting demons and beasts. Much like Castiel himself. Hunters, however, mostly pursue it because they feel it is the right thing to do, not for monetary reasons.
“John Winchester has gone AWOL, I’m afraid. There is no word whatsoever on his whereabouts. I hope you’re listening, Castiel, because now it becomes interesting,” he says and doesn’t continue until Castiel has graced him with a glance.
“Winchester senior owes Azazel a debt. No one could tell me what exactly, but it seems to be substantial one if Azazel is willing to kidnap and torture Winchester’s son to have it acquitted.”
“Why do you care?” Castiel can’t resist wondering out loud. They have a task to fulfil, nothing more. Usually, Balthazar follows the same need-to-know rules Castiel does.
The man shrugs. “I was curious what made dear Lucifer pop in unannounced after he turned his back on America.”
“Well, I gather your curiosity has been sufficiently satisfied so now you can assist me in drafting a plan?”
Balthazar throws his arms up and laughs, adding a mocking “Yes, my Lord.”
Castiel ignores the remark and pushes a map across the desk.
*
Dean doesn’t dig the whole religious thing, but if he did, he’d be sure that this is hell.
When he’s not cooped up in a cold cell in some basement, they torture him, beat him, poke him with hot iron stakes, cut his skin until the blood loss makes him dizzy, then cocker him up with potions instead of food which means his body may be fine but he’s starving and thirsty.
His throat’s so dry he can’t even scream anymore. Not that he screams. Much. But screw it all, no one will ever know because he’ll die before he gets out of this shithole so he thinks he’s allowed to shout as loud as he wants when they burn his skin.
All because of dad and some debt he owed to Azazel. But John’s gone, Dean has been looking for him for months without success, and he ain’t coming back. Dean doesn’t share Azazel’s optimism.
Today it’s waterboarding.
This is why he prefers dealing with wizards; a little Cruciatus Curse and all’s said and done but demons get creative with torture and Dean hates it.
It would be easier if they just asked him something, anything. About John, perhaps or Sam. Sweet Sammy, the brother who left. No more family business, off to the greener pastures of college. But Azazel doesn’t care. Resisting interrogation would at least give Dean something to fight for, instead of just having to take whatever the thugs are giving to him.
He gulps down air in greedy breaths but his vision has already gone blurry and the room is spinning although the chains hanging from the ceiling – magic-proof, damn it – are holding him in position.
Suddenly the door opens and the last thing Dean sees is the silhouette of an unknown man before he passes out into dark oblivion.
*
Next thing Dean knows is he’s dreaming. Dreaming of soft pillows and blanket, a warm room and a nice smell. He knows it’s a lie because his home is a cell and his bed is the cold floor and it reeks.
Awareness dawns slowly but old habits die hard and he is focussed immediately, taking in his surroundings. The room is small, the typical cheap-and-no-questions-asked-motel look he knows so fucking well.
His eyes fall on a man – tall, dark hair, stubble - standing at the foot of his bed, clad in black protective gear fused with magic so powerful Dean can smell it from afar.
He’s on his feet immediately, grabbing the nearest thing he can find to use as a weapon – never underestimate a pen – though the guy seems unimpressed. His expression remains bland, void of any emotion.
“Who are you?” Dean asks and it comes out raspy after weeks (months?) of screaming.
“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition,” mystery-man replies and isn’t that just great, he’s been kidnapped by a nutter.
“Yeah? Thanks for that.” A split-second later, Dean is on the guy, aiming to stab the pen in his jugular but the bastard’s faster and has him pressed face down on the mattress, bent over the side of the bed. The man’s elbow is digging into Dean’s shoulder like crazy and it hurts even more for the still raw burn mark located there.
“We need to talk, Dean.”
“How the fuck do you know my name,” he grinds out, struggling against the hold and shit, that man’s got some muscles. In any other situation Dean could have appreciated that realisation more.
Apparently the stranger has noticed that he’s hurting him and the hold slackens and is soon completely gone. Dean turns around; grimacing at the pain the movement cause him. He blinks up into electric blue eyes.
“My name is Castiel. I have been sent to rescue you.”
“By who?”
“Someone who has your best interest in mind.”
“What’s this guy called, then? If he’s so fond of me, I gotta know him, right?”
“I doubt that,” Castiel replies, and seriously, how can this guy not do inflections? His voice is monotonous, though if Dean’s being honest, he likes the gravelly quality of it. “His name is Lucifer.”
The hilarity of it sends Dean straight into the longest laughing fit he had in a very long time. Probably since John disappeared.
“Lucifer?” he gasps between laughing so hard his side start to hurt.
Castiel tilts his head. “Why does this information amuse you?”
“Amuse me? Holy crap, getting rescued by a guy who’s named after the devil, that’s just,” Dean takes a breath, “priceless.”
Castiel waits patiently until Dean has calmed down, his brows furrowed. “As I said. Lucifer has tasked me to release you from Azazel’s power and bring you to London.”
“Wait, London? Like, the British one?”
Castiel considers this. Well, Dean’s best guess is that he does anyway. It’s not like his expression changes that much.
“He did not specify but I sincerely doubt he was referring to London, Texas or London, Illinois since he himself is living in the United Kingdom.”
Dean manages to pass of his next laugh as a cough. “So what, some guy tells you to get me out and you do it; what are you, like some kind of mercenary?”
“I am. Yet I do not accept every mission. I do not hurt the innocent.”
That’s it, Dean decides. Some punk with a weird name and a hired wizard with ethics, he’s outta here.
“Look, pal, I’m not buying what you’re selling, so who are you really?”
“I am Castiel. My mission is to bring you to London as soon as possible.”
“But why? What would some dude over there want with me?”
“My associate reasons it has to do with your brother.”
Dean tenses in his spot on the bed. “Sammy?”
Castiel nods.
“What about Sam? Is he okay?”
“As far as we could gather, yes. My contractor intends to do him a favour.”
Something tugs at Dean’s memory, somewhere in the part reserved for happier times and he remembers a phone call one Christmas when John was out to fetch some beers and Dean just couldn’t resist the urge to phone his brother and wish him Merry Christmas. He’d talked about a Lucifer back then.
“Why’s Sam’s boss doing him a favour? How the hell does he know about me in the first place?”
“I am not privy to that information. I apologise.”
“Really, Cas, what’s with the stick up your ass?”
“Cas?”
“Sorry for not bothering with the syllables, buddy, but I’m fucking starving and my throat’s as dry as a dead Flobberworm.”
“Oh, yes. Balthazar thought you would require food. He will be back shortly.”
“Who’s Balthazar?”
“My associate. He helped free you.”
Dean nods and silence stretches between them. His back starts to hurt for real now so he decides that if Cas is secretly really plotting to kill him, he might as well die comfortable, and lies back down on the motel bed.
It doesn’t take long until Balthazar gets here. He’s lean with some shade of dirty blond hair and older than Dean expected but he’s bearing food so he really doesn’t care.
“Room service,” he announces cheerfully and sets the boxes of take-out down on the kitchen counter. “How’s our mark?”
“I have a name,” Dean snaps, stomach growling as the smell of burgers hits his nose.
“Oh, isn’t he ray of sunshine.”
“He requires food; I fathom his mood is susceptible to the feeling.”
“Damn right I’m bitchy! I’ve been Azazel’s punching bag for the past few weeks. Haven’t had much besides potions and some water so that food better be all for me.”
Balthazar rolls his eyes but nods. “Are you strong enough to eat at the table?”
“Yes,” Dean grinds out, already halfway out of bed. He regrets his proud posturing as soon as he takes a few steps, though he’ll be damned if he acts like a sissy now.
The food’s delicious and Dean gulps down the whole bottle of water. More than one burger, however, is not possible.
“I figured,” Balthazar drawls with a raised eyebrow. “After these wankers starved you for two months I’d have been surprised if you could have stomached more than that. Here, Castiel, I brought lasagne, too.”
Then Dean glimpses a small box in another bag. “Buddy, is that pie?”
Balthazar follows his glance and his eyes narrow when he sees the box. “Yes. Why?”
“Man, you’re the best rescue squad ever.”
The two men may have been thrown by the sudden change in his mood but Dean barely notices as he tears open the box.
Oh, sweet freedom.