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They've been dancing around the subject for an hour. Lilith, Lucifer, the seals—the master plan, all of it, all set in motion except for one little detail; the final word.
And Dean's not letting them in.
“This isn’t some shady crossroads demon deal, kiddo." Zachariah says, rolling his eyes. "A lifetime supply of beer? On your doorstep yesterday. You want virgins?” Zachariah snaps his fingers. “Done. Just like that.”
Dean shakes his head and licks his lips.
“I prefer the more experienced ladies myself.” He says with a grin.
The angel waves his hand. “Young, old, experienced, whatever. You’ve got the Host of Heaven behind you on this, Dean.”
The words feel familiar, like something Cas told him once, and all the sudden his smile falters. Zachariah’s eyes zero in on him.
“Unless…” The angel begins, expression growing more confident by the moment. “Unless there’s something else you wanted.”
Dean swallows and looks away, but the angel’s head follows his gaze, keeping centered right in his line of vision.
“There is, isn’t there? I haven't missed the mark?"
Dean’s heart skips a beat. His binder, as usual, clings to his skin with an awful stickiness where his sweat drops catch in the stretchy fiber, and the white cloth wraps around his ribs like a vice. The hollow spot above his groin feels emptier in his jeans. He doesn’t know if the sudden awareness is Zachariah’s doing, or if it’s all just on him.
"That's, well..." Dean starts. He clears his throat and forces out a laugh. It comes out hoarse. “Really? My kingdom for a dick, that it?" He says, trying to recompose himself. But his cocky grin quickly straightens to a grim, hard line.
“Your complex, kid, not mine.”
Dean scoffs.
"Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I don't fold that easy.”
The angel smiles and folds his hands behind his back, like a second set of wings.
“You know, when we first raised these,” He waves his hand again, searching for the words, “Upright apes, we didn’t think these differences would be such a big deal. A little hair here, a flap of extra skin somewhere else. An effective means of making more of you. Personally, I find it all revolting either way—" He scoffs, "—But then, you made the difference that much bigger all by yourselves. No heavenly assistance needed.”
"There any point to this story?"
"I know about your little rendezvous with the red-eyed demon. The one that happened months before your deal for Sam Winchester—and that you nearly pimped your soul out for a jawline and few extra inches under your belt; ironic, by the way, considering your choice of dealer."
Dean's breath hitches, and he hardens his stance.
"You don't know jack." He spits. He doesn't what else to say.
The angel's not exactly wrong.
Zachariah turns to face away from him, and lets his shoulders slump marginally from their tense position. He takes a deep breath.
“Humans." He says, "Completely predictable, the lot of you. Always grasping for something you don’t have, something that somebody else has—” He pauses, and spins to face Dean, “—You know, I think I'm starting to understand the sentiment.”
“Like hell you are.” Dean spits at him.
Zachariah laughs, completely unperturbed. "There's that firecracker wit of yours."
Dean's thinking now. His head is clear enough to remember the little knife stashed away in his pocket. While Zachariah is turned, he silently flicks it out and slices a thin line across his palm underneath his sleeve.
He keeps his eyes trained on the circling angel.
"What, you think you and your little God squad spend a few months down here and you get to run the place? That suddenly you're enlightened? That you know me—"
"How many times have you gotten hurt on a hunt over that little piece of fabric, Dean?” The angel asks, finally, pointing straight at Dean’s chest. “How many times have you gone without, and, hell, gotten hurt in less—let’s say, physical ways. How many times have you passed up a sweet piece of ass because you knew she would turn the other way running the second the clothes came off. The second she knew what you were.”
"And what would you know, junkless?" Dean nearly shouts. "You even got anything downstairs?"
“Struck a nerve there, didn’t I?” Zachariah says gleefully, and takes a step forward.
Dean steps back, pressing himself against the wall of the gilded prison. A moment later and he's tracing the sigil he’s memorized, his heartbeat pounding in his throat, and slick blood dripping onto the floor behind him.
“Sam’s the better hunter. Always has been; and not just on demon hunts. He has that other advantage working in his favor."
Dean grits his teeth.
“Go to hell.” He whispers.
Zachariah stops his pacing to face Dean again.
“Enough foreplay." The angel says, "We need the vessel, Dean—that part’s non-negotiable. But we don't need you in it. We can draw up the same deal as the demon, only none of that pesky soul business attached. Hell, we'll make it nearly free of charge—just ask for one thing, that magic little word. You're going to help us defeat Lucifer, Dean. You. You're our own little Russell Crowe, complete with surly attitude. And when it's over... and when you've won... your rewards will be... unimaginable. Peace, happiness...whatever your denim-clad heart desires." Zachariah says, stressing the last part. "So what d’ya say, Deano? How much is little Sammy worth to you?”
Dean steps to the side, revealing the finished banishing sigil behind him.
“Everything, you son of a bitch!” He says, and slams his palm against it as quick as he can.
A bright light causes him to cover his eyes, and then suddenly he’s alone, standing in the middle of a dark, empty room. The fanciful décor has vanished right along with the angel.
Zachariah’s promises still hang in the air though, as well as the faint taste of bile in Dean’s throat. He’s breathing hard, the palm of his left hand hurts like hell, and the pain from his binder is excruciating. After catching his breath, Dean looks up at the ceiling.
“Cas, damn it.” He calls. “Cas, you better be alive out there, ‘cause I need you right now. I know you heard all that, and I need to... I—I need to get to Sam, I don’t know if they’ve got him or where they’re keeping him.”
Dean stumbles out of the now-functioning door of the little room, spilling him out into a cold, Hollywood warehouse. There’s no one else around, and his shouts echo in the empty space.
It’s Sam that he’s concerned about, and whatever deal Lucifer is offering him. He knows that normally he’d say no, that he’d say no to almost anything—but there’s one deal the angel could make him that his brother might say yes to; the same deal they’d given Dean. Dean’s weak spot—his second Achille’s heel, right after Sam—and Zachariah had managed to exploit it. And now it could drag the both of them down, could kickstart the whole damn apocalypse.
Dean pushes past the doors of the warehouse, calling for Castiel again. He needs to find him—needs to find Sam, before it’s too late.