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Monotone grey shifts, swaying with the movements of the boat, elucidating the man’s unconscious body in pale light. The sickly hue highlights the red streaming from his wrists where they are bound above his head; Uriel barely resists a grunt of distaste.
“This is the pathetic scum that has been derailing our plans?”
He scuffs his boot in the body’s general direction. Zachariah also sighs in frustration, sharing his distain.
“Yes, it seems obsolete doesn’t it? That this,” he waves with his hand up and down his form, grimacing as the boat rocks and he swivels on his wrists, blood dripping from the gaping wound in his temple down his bare chest, “Man could hope to overcome Michael.”
Waiting in silence, they both take in the sight of him. His is chest painted and scarred, scarcely a piece of unmarred flesh in sight. Carnal. Some of Alastair’s best work, actually. The boat leans again, the tattered remains of his two shirts flitting in the stifling air. It smells of copper and iron.
“Have you removed the journal from his person?” Zachariah asks.
“No,” Uriel looks imploringly to Zachariah, hoping that he won’t order him to get any closer. He feels dirty just in his presence. “Do you wish me to now?”
“No no, we will wait. I want him conscious when we take it from him... And I’m expecting someone.” He says smugly, settling into a chair placed in the corner of the room. It is bare, save the chair and chains (and swinging man); the wooden walls ancient and saturated from years at sea. Despite its age, it is a considerable size given that it is one of the smallest rooms. The Enochian is a sight to behold. They are a force to be reckoned with. This naïve stain serves to show only an example of their might and their mercy. They will allow him death:
A slow, painful death.
“Castiel.”
“Indeed. We will be doing him a favour; he’s a very lost sheep.”
“Betrayal is a dish best served cold.” Uriel sneers, turning to leave.
He wants to see the look on the Hunter’s face when he realises who it was that sold him out. Wants to freeze time at the exact moment when the only man ever to have infiltrated his impeccable walls – other than the younger Winchester – was the one and the same who gave him up. Capture the facial expression he wears when he knows that the entirety of his and Castiel’s relationship was no more than childs play to break apart; for him to see how worthless he truly is, once and for all.
Zachariah laughs heartily in his throat. “And you know it better than most.” Deliberately ignoring Uriel’s strained face he continues, “Call Michael, won’t you? It’s time we introduced an old friend and had some fun.”
His head feels like there’s a knife trying to claw its way out. Or a bear is trying to tear its way in. Either way, he groans which is amplified when he attempts to move and the pressure on his split wrists intensifies. Blearily pulling his eyes open, he squints willing the haze to clear from his vision.
The first thing he sees is an arrogant smile.
Zacha-douchebag. Awesome.
He mentally runs through the motions that are engraved into his hollow bones at this point.
How badly are we injured?
Head, wrists, shoulder fucking aches.
We’ve had worse.
Initial assessments complete, he shoots Zachariah a warning glare. He’s watching, patiently. A vulture. The room seems to be caving in around that man, like he’s a focal point for a black hole. Light from outside doesn’t quite reach him, so he is further shrouded in darkness.
That additionally gives him a basis for how long he’s been out – judging by how alert Zach is and the brightness, he’d guess a couple of hours give or take.
He jiggles his hips cautiously, hoping to bring back the sensation in his lower body; pins and needles are one of the most annoying things about being tied up. But again, he’s used to it. In his movements, he feels a weight to his side. They haven’t taken the journal yet. Already he’s trying to anticipate and prepare for why it’s still on him. However, he fists his toes into the bottom of his foot, had they taken it he would more than probably have been dead right now.
A pungent laugh makes him stop his efforts. He can feel the echoes of it reverberate in his veins, cruelly thrumming with his increased heart rate.
“Dean, Dean, Dean. How long has it been?” It calls.
He knows that voice.
The dread in his heart hits a ten.
So the likelihood of getting out of this just plummeted, although it doesn’t change the outcome much.
S’not like we’re worth saving anyway right.
Yeah, you’re right.
Remember what Al used to say: you’re worthless, nothing. If you die, no one will miss you. Even your own brother will forget you ever existed. You think you can stop me? Stop us? Why fight the inevitable when you could join us Dean. You have so much potential, grasshopper.
Same rules apply.
The tale-tale scrape of a knife across his arm brings him out of his revere. It’s excruciatingly familiar. He’s falling back into old grooves, adding salt to the wound that is his life.
Alastair is close.
Closer than he thought.
He had slunk forward from the murky depths where he belongs. He wants to take Dean with him. This time... This time Dean will welcome death as an old friend. Scraping his cheek past Dean’s own, he feels the rough scruff against his face, recoiling instinctively, then the words creeping into his ears, sly and undermining.
“Did you miss me, Dean? You and me,” Standing back, he uses the tip of his knife to move the remnants of his shirt from his chest. A wicked smirk overtakes his face, thin fingers grasping Dean’s chin to force them to hold each other’s gaze, “Had sooo much fun.” He draws out the syllable, mocking him.
“Bite me, asshole.” Dean quips, ripping his head back from his hand. Hell yeah it hurt, but it’s about sending a message. Alastair has always been about actions rather than words; he could taunt you for hours with a salted solution and a needle. His face scrunches up at the prospect.
He takes it as encouragement.
One of Dean’s finest traits is the ability to piss people off. It’s a gift and a curse, really. He holds in every cry of pain, stops the tears from streaming down his face as the knife cuts, precisely in just the right place, so that he won’t die, but he’ll suffer. Though with each act of defiance, Alastair gets madder. So much pent up hate that he loses that meticulousness, loses the blade, and chooses instead to pummel him with angry fists.
It goes on for what feels like hours.
His body is numb, barely registering that Alastair has stooped.
Alastair doesn’t like being interrupted during a session.
He turns livid, cold eyes bulging with emotion and then his whole body drops, almost to the floor. Dean would laugh at his completely out of character submissive display if he could. As it is, his ribs ache to breathe and his insides feel putty in his frame. Dean manages to get his neck muscles to cooperate so that he isn’t drooling blood with his head hanging. He is instantly aware of two new bodies in the room.
Dull, basic outlines move and, he supposes, they are talking to one another. The cowering figure leaves, along with Zachariah from the corner of the room. He tracks the movement, the slumped shape becoming stretched out, clearing to become lithe arms hanging over the body’s head... Cas’ head.
Struggling futilely, another bout of blood trickles down his arm; it runs over the dried crimson splashed down his forearm. The figure tying Cas up notices, he steps closer.
“So you’re Dean Winchester.”
It’s not a question and the man doesn’t wait for an answer. Maybe he doesn’t expect one.
Michael. The big brother.
“You must appreciate,” He sighs, refocusing on Cas, patting his cheek in an almost friendly gesture, “What it means for you and I to engage in a face to face.” Hard grey eyes are suddenly in his view. “I’m a very busy man.”
“S’that why y’u had Cas doin’ your dirty work.” Dean slurs out. He can see more clearly now, at least Cas doesn’t look too badly injured.
“I did try.” Michael smirks, “But it would appear he got corrupted by a certain pirate.”
Dean chokes on a laugh, “Hey, you’re the one who ditched your brother on an island.”
The man blinks, moving away from them both.
“Yes, I did.”
The sensation slaps him round the face, icy rivulets dripping down his chest, mingling with the blood. Michael repeats the action of sloshing water over Cas, waking him in a less than gentle way.
Cas’ blue eyes open, wide as ever, his breathing laboured as he takes in his surroundings. He tugs at the binds on his hands, before seeing Dean’s minute head shake and letting himself be held up by his wrists.
“Cassie, how’ve you been?” Michael smiles, faux compassion given their circumstances.
“Dean, are you-“ He cringes, not finishing the sentence. Dean knows he must look a sight now, bruises forming under his tattoos, dried blood crusting his skin. Also, Cas knows he’s hurt and isn’t alright, ultimately leaving his line of questioning pointless.
A fist lands in Cas’ face. Michael exhales.
“I asked you a question, Castiel. You will not be so discourteous in the future.”
“Hey asshat,” Dean barks, “Why are you wasting your energy on him? The party’s over here.”
Cas glares at him, blue eyes bright and brow furrowed in question.
It genuinely does spike Michael’s attention though, so as far as a divergence goes, Dean is considering it a win. The floorboards creak with Michael’s purposeful steps, too caught up in delirium, Dean carries on oblivious.
“I mean, what is your endgame here? You kill me, someone else will carry on. You think Hunters are the only ones trying to stop-“
He grabs Dean’s chin to stop him from speaking. Spitting out a glob of blood (that landed on Michael’s shoe Dean notes proudly) he smirks cockily between his fingers.
“A good soldier can always find a convenient war, Dean.”
Clicking his jaw out, he winces, blinking a few times to clear his vision and focus himself. “Is that what you are? Mikey? God’s convenient soldier.”
Michael’s face goes through several emotions - a first for the guy - both of which betrayed him as they fought for dominance. Hurt and anger. The look he settles on is far away, nostalgic if he hadn’t moved forward, lightning fast, to slam his fist into Dean’s ribcage. He looked irritated at his reaction, twisting sharply to face the corner of the room. His voice low, threatening in a way that it wasn’t before. The tension was palpable in the flickering candle lights. Dean was finding it hard to centre on Michael, in order to brace himself for another blow, or Cas, whose head was again lolling on his shoulders in the signs of near unconsciousness.
“Lucifer called me Mikey. I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from also doing so.”
Dean says nothing to that. Lucifer. The Lucifer. I mean, you get your asshats like Crowley and Abaddon (who he still needs to track down once he’s dealt with all this shit) but the real problem is Satan himself. He’s the one who controls all the slavery routes, gives orders for mayhem and destruction. Murder, thievery, piracy; he’s instigated it all.
And the whole lot is because of some dumb family spat.
Awesome.
Michael’s still talking.
“I know for a fact that your father’s journal contains prominent information about everything to do with the Hunters and your little underground network. I hear we even made a page.”
Dean breathes out a long, strained breath, “Oh yeah? And how’d you know...?”
Conceitedly flicking his gaze to Castiel, Michael stands back; he looks perfectly proud of himself.
“No.” Dean states, shaking his head between the small gap amid his arms.
“Dean I-“
“You know who spies on people Cas...?! Spies!”
Ok, so his logic was more than flawed. It didn’t matter. He could trust Cas. Right?
“If it makes any difference, I tried to stop them. I am a Hunter, no longer a part of the Enochian.” Cas tries, voice growling thunder in the silence.
“Well that’s just super. ‘Hey Dean I sold you out, but I tried’.”
“I am hung up in here like you, you... Assbutt! I’ve lost everything! You should show me more respect.”
Dean glances at Michael, breaking his and Cas’ stare match. Michael looks pleased; he stands back, holding up his hands in lieu of telling them to continue.
“You’re right.” Finally conceding, Dean exhales into the quiet of the room.
This is delving far too close to an open and frayed nerve, far too personal for the ears of Michael. Cas had, as he pointed out, lost everything he had ever known or owned and he did it for him. He snorts to himself. Only someone like Cas could make the mistake of giving their lives up for Dean.
He is nothing more than a crack in the woodwork.
Michael tuts. “I thought you had more fight in you Winchester. Your Daddy undoubtedly did.”
He’s attempting to push Dean’s buttons again. Trouble is Dean’s got this throbbing in his ribs which isn’t helping him to focus on the guy. Or what he’s saying... Or anything really, except Cas’ minutely struggling form to his left. Chin resting on his chest, he hardly pays attention to Michael moving close to him.
“Let’s see what Daddy had to say, shall we?”
In one swift motion, Michael’s whipping the journal from his pocket and Dean’s shouting in protest. Cas drowsily enters his protest in the form of a groan.
Following Michael’s thin fingers, he watches as he flips open the first page.
“What-?”
He begins to flick through faster, anger building in his jerky movements. Snarling Dean’s name, he throws the book to the floor.
The blank pages splay out of the spine, fluttering down, one by one.
“Where is it?!” He hisses in Dean’s face.
He grins in reply, doing as best he can to shrug.
“Winchestered.”
A smile tugs at the corner of Cas’ lips.
“You!” Michael turns on Cas, hands fisting in the fabric of his trenchcoat. “You set me up? Your own brother?”
Cas bores into Michael’s eyes until he is forced to look away, if not for the uncomfortable way that look can see into the depths of your soul.
“You have not been my brother in decades, Michael.”
Michael is seething rage into the room. Slowly, he strides towards Dean.
“I may not have the Journal, but I have the next best thing.”
Dean raises his eye brows sceptically. This guy is more delusional than he thought if he plans on using him to bargain for it, or Cas for that matter.
“I will break you Dean Winchester. You have no idea how resourceful I can be.”
Swallowing, Cas’ eyes show the first hints of fear. Torture, on the vessel of God? The expression on Cas’ face is enough for Dean to file it away and ask him later. He actually looks afraid. Dean hasn’t seen that before.
He lets out a self depreciative chuckle. “It took hell 3 and a half years; something tells me you don’t have that kind of timescale buddy.”
Michael deflates. He’s got him. He tilts his head in a very Cas like gesture. It unnerves him massively.
“No... But eventually I will find someone you care about enough to save.”
His face stills.
You can do whatever you want to Dean Winchester – literally, he will probably end up helping you if he thinks it will benefit someone or the endgame they’re playing for – but you do not hurt anyone because of him. He does that just fine by himself.
“No.”
Michael ignores him. He’s back over with Cas. Since when did he have a knife in his hand? He teases the edge of the blade down Cas’ cheek; resting the point on Cas’ neck, right on the carotid artery.
“Maybe I’ll start with Cassie here.”
Dean thrashes in disapproval, grunting at the fresh sweep of pain.
He will not hurt Cas.
“Then, if that doesn’t work, your brothers. Adam is still so youthful.”
Dean stops. “I think you have me confused, I only have one brother. And you ain’t getting anywhere near Sammy.”
A light switches on in his eyes. Michael suddenly looks very, disturbingly, pleased.
“He never told you?”
He shifts uncomfortably.
“He never told you.” Michael confirms, wonder in his voice. He starts to wring his hands, clearly plotting with each twist of his fingers. “All this time I have been keeping that worm locked up, waiting for the perfect opportunity and he never even told you.”
Dean peeks at Cas over Michael’s shoulder.
Cas nods.
Pulling down with all his might, Cas crashes forward.
He’d been working at the ropes binding his wrists since he was brought in. Dean watches him in admiration as he disarms a very surprised Michael with agility and speed reserved for an assassin. Michael throws him off, Cas only allowing a moment before he’s on him again. He punches him in the face, a satisfied smirk at Michael’s recoil. Landing a few shots of his own, Cas lets Michael back him into the corner.
His lips press into a thin line.
Wrapping the rope from his own wrists around Michael’s poised ones; he hoists him into the air. Michael flails like a trapped bird. He’s about to scream at the same time as Cas impassively shoves the sock he just removed into his mouth.
Dean grimaces in sympathy for Michael. Who knows when the last occasion Cas got to put clean footwear on was.
Chest heaving, Cas helps Dean down.
They both take a minute, Dean doubled over in pain, Cas, silent, a presence by his side.
“That worked.” Cas says, finally breaking the peace, “I am very surprised.”
Bending down to search through the strewn papers on the floor, Dean finds the page with a map (of sorts) on it – it was a gamble as to whether whoever found the journal would in fact look through it. It was a gamble that paid off. He smiles at Cas as he straightens up.
He mocks the first time they met, “Hello? Pirate.”
Cas rolls his eyes.
Dean speculates who he learnt that from. Probably Sammy.
He turns serious. They don’t have much time. Who knows how much time has passed already. Holding the page out to Cas he gives him a stern look. This isn’t up for debate.
“You go get the maps and data from the hull and get out of here. I have to find Adam.”
A second of hesitation, Cas gives him a solemn nod.
They don’t tell each other to be careful, to stay safe. It’s unnecessary. A given. They must. Lives depend on them. On this. On their success.
Benny, Garth and Pam had permeated the Enochian the moment they docked. It was a necessary risk; he put his best on it. Their time here had been spent making blue prints of the deck and cargo hold to the hull. He hopes Cas can read it and find his way to Michael’s quarters quickly.
He again finds himself counting his blessings for bringing Benny in on this one. At least if he doesn’t make it out, the Impala will be in good hands. His crew will be safe. He breathes out, in relief, following Cas from the room. The last thing he sees as he shuts the door is Michael’s eyes widen, his resistance aborted.
With a nod, they part ways.
He keeps to the shadows of the corridor. It’s near silence, save the lapping of water. There are elaborate portraits on the walls, he absently wonders if the whole ship is decorated like a mobile mansion. Dean ignores the chill he gets as he transcends the stairs onto the deck, a few people milling around aimlessly, most below decks in the sleeping quarters.
The cargo hold is at the opposite end of the ship; that’s where his brother is.
We have another brother.
Without warning he is filled with anger. His Dad cheated on Mom. Even if she was dead, he always based a definition of love on what his Dad felt for his Mom. He can’t even envisage him being with another woman, having another kid. And on top of that not telling him and Sammy that they have a brother? Cowardice.
Waiting for the patrol to pass him by, he slinks from the stairway to hide behind a bunch of barrels. The next person walks on, whistling softly under their breath. It’s a shame, because surely not all of the ‘angels’ are dicks.
Well, they are in his experience but still.
He steps lightly, working with the shadows cast by the night sky. Protecting him from the harsh rays of sun, he welcomes the ability to cross the deck, for the most part, with ease.
Cautiously, he goes down the next set of steps. He ties the scraps of his shirt together, hoping to reduce his exposure. Too many people have seen his scars and tattoos today. That’s something he will have to deal with later.
This part of the hull has been converted into what must be extra cells. Slivers of light illuminate the dirty faces and withered bodies chained to the walls. He should save all of them.
He should.
Blocking the jab from his side, he twists the person’s arm around his back, pressing the nearly unnoticed guard into the steel bars.
“Hey, hey man. Don’t kill me.”
Dean leans away slightly. The guard is barely more than a kid. Scrawny and thin, shaggy hair falling over the side of his face.
“What’s your name kid?”
“Adam. Adam Milligan.”
He lets go of him entirely.
The kid draws his sword. It’s obvious this is the first time he’s had to deal with a real situation. Dean removes the weapon in roughly 3 seconds.
“I’m here to get you out, Adam.”
Adam, though visibly shaken, stands straight. “W-who are you?”
Checking left and right, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps, he puts the blade down the back of his trousers, grabs Adam’s arm and yanks him up the steps. Though Adam fights and tries to get away, Dean’s got 20 years of combat muscle on his side.
“My name’s Dean Winchester.” He pauses, “And I’m your brother.”
Momentarily stunned by this, he pushes Adam behind the row boats. Adam seems really put out by the news. Dean doesn’t actually believe it himself.
He hears a scuffling noise.
He carefully removes the sword, trying not to make a sound, raising it to the open space, awaiting an attack.
Scruffy brown hair and piercing blue eyes greet him. He lowers the blade and sighs, pleased. Cas has a satchel over his shoulder and is giving him one of his rare smiles. Squinting, Cas peers past him. Dean turns.
Adam is gone.
He brushes past Cas, going onto the open deck. Adam is on the other side of the ship, talking to 3 sentries. Mentally chastising himself for letting him out of his sight, Dean shouts out to him, Cas’ hand on his arm stops him from going to his brother.
“Adam, come on, I can get you out of here, but you have to come now.”
“You’re not my brother! My brother’s are dead.”
The 3 figures are advancing on them, Cas shuffling back, closer to the sea.
“Don’t you want more than this? I can give you freedom, you don’t ever have to step foot on a ship again if you don’t want to.”
Adam seems to consider this. “Really?”
Nearly crying out in emphasis on how little time they have for this, he nods enthusiastically. “But you have to come now.”
He steps forward.
The tip of a sword pierces through Adam’s chest.
It holds him there. Jaggedly tearing up his stomach, into his diaphragm, resting below his sternum; Zachariah moves from behind him, letting go of the hilt in a nonchalant fashion, like he didn’t just kill a boy in cold blood.
“Adam no!”
A strangled sound falls from Adam’s mouth, blood pooling on his dirty white dress shirt.
He tries to rip himself from Cas’ grip. Cas is a lot stronger than he gives him credit for. Drawing him back, Cas tugs him to the edge of the boat. They have to jump, in order to reach the Impala which is advancing behind them. She’s faster than most vessels, though if under canon fire from the Enochian (as he already found out) she doesn’t stand a chance.
“ADAM.” He manages to choke out again.
Zachariah smirks.
Adam’s body staggers back, his knees buckling at the side of the ship, toppling over to be consumed by the raging waves. His body won’t be found. How can he mourn a man, a brother, he didn’t know?
Hauling both himself and Dean into the ocean as well with a strong arm around Dean’s waist, altering the waterproof satchel containing the gathered information higher on his shoulder, they too are swallowed by the pulsing blue.
Dean tries not to cling to Castiel. To hold onto him, a boat lost at sea where Cas is his lighthouse.
He breaks away.
They tread water in silence, the moon shimmering in the sky...
Waiting for the Impala to drag them home.