Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, in a far-off sector of a very old galaxy, there lived a king. 

He was a good king, a wise one even; the type of king people wrote epics and songs about. They spoke of his goodness, of his merriment, of his diplomacy with smiles on their faces and voices light and airy. King Chuck was beloved by the people of New Lawrence, and he loved his people in turn for during his fifty years on the throne, never once did they know hunger or war. He forged alliances between neighbouring kingdoms and towns, ensuring peace for both his own kingdom and support for those close by. Never would one go hungry under his watch, and never would one be afraid. Thus it was understood that as long as the king sat on his gleaming ivory throne, the people of New Lawrence would know only prosperity. 

King Chuck though knew he could not live forever, and as such, ensured his four sons were raised to be just as good and wise as he was. Through the years he had seen how power could be dangerous, how some rulers were callous and cruel, and he wanted none of that for his sons. So he taught them humility, mercy, strength, and kindness. He made sure that each one knew just as easily how to heal and care for an injury as they did to fight and inflict one. Thus, when it came for the king to step down, weary in his old age, Michael stepped seamlessly into his place. 

The people of New Lawrence rejoiced in Michael’s ascendency, celebrating his coronation with great vigour and joy. For he had a heart that was kind like his father’s, and a head just as wise, and was even, at times, merry (despite what his stony expression might suggest). Michael wore his father’s crown with pride and worked hard to not only maintain the peace and prosperity his father had created, but to further it ever outwards. With Michael seated on his father’s throne and his brothers at his side, New Lawrence earned the nickname of Heaven Incarnate. Blossoming in wealth, never once did the people know fear or know pain. Instead, the air was filled with laughter and joy, with celebrations held often for occasions both big and small. 

In short, there was no doubt that Michael was every bit the king his father once was, and more. 

But time can be a cruel mistress, and Michael, for all his strength and wisdom, was no god. 

See, even the bravest of men fear something, and Michael was no different. He sat upon his father’s throne and wore his crown for twenty years, and during that time, watched as his father grew older, grow weaker. No longer did he look so strong and neigh invincible as he had when Michael was younger, and he began to panic. That panic grew, larger and larger as his father grew weaker and weaker, and by the time his father passed it was so monumentally large it threatened to crush him. While aware of death and aging prior to his father’s passing, it had never struck as deep with Michael as it did now. From something passive in the back of his mind, it now stood at the forefront in glaring clarity. And Michael, in his grief, became obsessive with it. 

He scrutinized every sign of aging in his reflection and mirrored surface. He would sit for hours and stare, picking out every new wrinkle, every new line. When he voiced his concerns and such to his brothers and advisors, they humoured and reassured him in the beginning. They all believed it to be part of his grieving process, but it did not go away with time. Michael’s fear of aging, of death, grew and grew each year like a swollen tick engorging itself on blood. It worsened with each passing year, and soon others became less willing to humour Michael’s actions and responses. After all, aging was normal and to be expected, and they told him as such. But Michael, for all he tried to ignore it, could still feel how it nipped at his heels like a hungry hound. Fear and paranoia dogged his every step, and Michael realized he could not ignore such changes, could not let himself be so passive about them as everyone else was. 

So he looked at ways to outrun death. 

After all, he told himself, death’s hands could not catch him if he could not die. 

Michael spoke first with the doctors and healers in his kingdom. He asked and pled and then demanded a solution, seeking a method in which he could flee death’s clever fingers. He became short-tempered when they were unable to meet his needs, believing they were simply choosing not to help him. So he turned outwards to neighbouring kingdoms of Kaz, those that had helped him and his father and who had helped them in return. They too though could not satisfy King Michael. 

The immortality he craved so dearly was not an easy feat they explained, not something that money could easily purchase. But Michael still tried -- he offered them riches, offered them land, offered them just about anything, and when it became clear they would (could) not help, he glared at them, throwing bitter words and accusations back. His brothers tried to help, to soothe King Michael’s fury, but they did not have the ability to get through to him. Michael wanted one thing and one thing only -- to live forever -- and so, in one last effort to extend his lifespan beyond that of a mortal, Michael turned to technology. He turned his back on healers and doctors, seeking out engineers and those less strict with their morals, and found his solution. 

He had started small at first, a few years here, a few years there. And it had helped to soothe his fear and paranoia. But eventually, that fear would come creeping back in, lingering always in the corner of his vision, and it wasn’t long before Michael added more. Years became decades which in quick succession became centuries, and as his citizens grew old and died, Michael, king of New Lawrence, did not. He sat on that throne, seemingly untouched by time, and for a while, all was good. 

But there is something to be said about the consequences of great power, and the kindness that he was once known for soon became as twisted as his mind. For you see, as his life span increased, his temper shorted even further, and his heart faltered, sending the joy and laughter that once filled the streets stumbling in its tune. The changes had started small, barely noticeable when only a scant few years had been added to his lifespan, but as it soon leapt in decades, those in New Lawrence were greatly worried for their king. After all, death cannot be easily beaten, inevitable as it is, and King Michael’s desperation had led him to be careless, pushed towards infernal devices that had left his mind warped and ragged. 

No longer did he gaze over his people with kindness, but instead with a haze of hunger, seeing allied cities now as goals for conquest. Gone was the once cheerful image of New Lawrence. The king’s castle, once so beloved and welcoming, now towered, casting thick, choking shadows over the people below. Its halls became cavernous and gaping, branching outwards and even downwards into the earth. They twisted in their sprawling, labyrinthine structure, reaching like a hungry spider’s web. And, at the very top of the castle, was Michael. He still wore his father’s crown atop his brow, though the gemstones on it had long since fallen out and the metal had warped with age and lack of care. Sat atop his looming throne the colour of bleached bone, his cold eyes could both gaze down upon the land he currently owned and that of which he still desired. and he sat atop his looming bleach-bone throne. Neighbouring kingdoms fell beneath the king’s hand as the land bled scarlet, and soon scarce a person would ever remember the days in which the king might’ve once been considered merry or kind. 

Michael’s hunger and greed pushed him further and further, never once satisfied with what he acquired. Every kingdom and town felled was never enough, and every inch of land he possessed was too small. There was always more for him to have, to conquer, and it was believed that not even the wealth of a thousand suns could be enough for him. 

People tried to fight back. They cried out in fear, turning to their own rulers for safety and protection. But the king was too stubborn, too strong, and so they turned to the king’s three younger brothers. They reasoned that since they too had been raised by their father to be good heart, then perhaps they could stop the king in his madness. 

Gabriel had been the first to speak with his brother. While the youngest and often regarded as more of a jokester, he approached Michael without a single joke or smile. At the foot of his brother’s throne, he spoke of mercy, of kindness that he had learned from their father. They are afraid, he explained to his brother, desperate, and I am too. He hoped he could make his brother see the error of his ways and have a change of heart, but Michael did not waver. He had long since traded away his mercy and kindness, and as such, was unmoved by Gabriel’s pleas. 

When Gabriel did not return, Raphael sought out Michael next. Regarded for his gentle and stern hands in healing, he spoke to his brother about Michael’s violence and the pain he created. Where is your compassion, brother? Raphael asked. Do you not remember what Father told us? Where Gabriel had hoped to change his brother’s heart, Raphael had wished to change his mind, to prove that his actions were wrong. But Michael, again, did not waver. 

The third brother, Lucifer, sought out Michael when neither of his younger brothers returned. He did not have the beloved humour and joy Gabriel had, nor did he have the healing abilities of Raphael. That mattered little -- he had his strength, had his words coated in silver, and that would be enough for him. Stood before his brother, Lucifer glared at Michael. At his feet, the blood of Gabriel and Raphael threatened to stain his shoes. He did not speak of mercy or compassion, seeing firsthand how that did not get through to their brother. Instead, he pointed out Michael’s cruelty, his selfishness. You are no king, he spat. You care only for yourself and are willing to kill anyone to get what you want. Father would be ashamed of you . He hoped that his brother would falter and would feel guilt for disappointing their father. Lucifer knew how much Michael had looked up to him, and he had seen firsthand how his death had affected Michael greatly. But Michael did not care what his father would think. He did not care what Gabriel had said or what Raphael had said, and he certainly didn’t care what Lucifer had said. 

And so he killed Lucifer too. 

Their bodies, still warm at his feet, were not left to rot though. Unlike the others he had killed, Michael saw use in his brothers’ skills, and so he called upon his finest engineers to bring the back. And thus, the creatures known later as the Archangels were born. 

Minds piloted by the same life-extending technology the king possessed and bodies by machinery, the three became the most prized generals in the king’s army. Their strength and cruelty were limitless, and there was nary a human that didn’t fear them. Decked in armour black as ebony and swords sharper than razors, they were fearsome foes in battle. They aided the king’s growing control, slaughtering any at his command and snuffing out rebel groups that tried to fight back. With the Archangels at his side, Michael continued his mad quest, gore-stained fingers reaching ever outwards, toppling cities and kingdoms with ease. 

Years turned to decades which turned to centuries as King Michael continued his bloody reign. People cowered beneath his feet, with the braver few whispering of rebellion. In the lower sectors of the kingdom, it traveled in hushed tones, with some traveling between kingdoms to rally supporters. After all, they all knew the king would not stop once he had all of Kaz under his control. There were other planets for him to possess if he so chose, and so it was decided that he should be stopped before such came about. Rebel hideouts were formed, clever phrases and meetings to distinguish the loyalists from the rebels, and for a moment it was hopeful.

Such hope was suffocated the moment the Archangels stormed the first rebel hideout with the king’s forces behind them. It became clear quickly what the king thought of such notions of rebellion. Soon anyone who even breathed a suggestion of rebellion was seized by one of the Archangels and brought before the king’s throne. Regardless of their status, both in New Lawrence or not, all were treated as equals in the king’s eyes. What became of them though, no one knew. Those brought before the king were never seen again, although all could figure out their fate. Smaller rebellions tried, cropping up here and there, but they were snuffed out quickly before they could gather much footing as each member met the same gruesome fate. 

And so the king remained on this throne, unshaken. 

Once upon a time, under the power-hungry grip of the king, a pair of twins were born to one of New Lawrence’s noblest families. Named Sam and Dean by their parents, the two boys were so drastically different nobles often didn’t believe them to be twins. 

Sam, the youngest by a mere minute, had been born with dark brown hair and a curiosity that burned within him like a wildfire. As a child, he would ask every question possible, always eager to learn, and such mannerisms followed him into adulthood, shaping him into a gifted politician. With his noble standing, he found himself within the king’s court, much to his father’s disappointment. Quick with words and in possession of a tongue laced with silver, he was often found fighting for peace against hungry warmongers of the court. With his talents also came with a stubbornness stronger than stone -- something that had gained him little friends and respect amongst King Michael’s men, but plenty amongst his fellow citizens. They believed Sam might be a solution to the king’s reign, a spark of necessary rebellion that wouldn’t be smothered

The other twin, Dean, had been born with blond hair, and freckles that looked as if the stars themselves had been painted upon his skin. Where his brother was burning curiosity and an endless thirst for knowledge, Dean had found his own enjoyment in physical work and activities. He was praised by his father for his strength and brute force, and when he came of age, joined the king’s forces at his father’s request. There Dean climbed the ranks with ease, eventually surpassing even his father in abilities, and earning the esteemed title of the Righteous Man. Stood at the helm of the king’s forces, he became an unstoppable force. Marching from kingdom to kingdom, he left a trail of blood and death in his wake. Whatever the king wanted, the Righteous Man acquired: further wealth, more land, more power. 

It was believed that Dean had sold his human heart for his abilities -- trading humanity for machinery. After all, they reasoned, no such human could be capable of the carnage he left behind if in possession of a human heart. But, despite the rumours, Dean had not sold his heart for his strength, nor had he turned to technology similar to that beloved by the king. He was, completely, woefully, one hundred percent human. And, because of this, on a planet whose name will eventually be forgotten by time, he faltered. 

Chapter Text

Castiel misses the stars. 

He remembers watching them from the window of his room as a child, eyes focused not on the sprawling city below but upwards, towards the stars. Small pinpricks of light seemingly fighting against the vast dark of the night sky, they wink and blink at him, and he is enraptured by them. He knows the city below will be his one day when his father eventually passes, but at the moment, Castiel finds he cannot care much about it. Instead, he looks up, eyes wide. He traces their patterns -- first with fingers guided by another, larger one of his mother, and then later with his eyes -- and doesn’t mind how small he feels when he looks up at them. An older version of him thinks he should, but for now, at least, he finds he is comforted by their light, by the twinkling gaze. His mother spoke of how light could protect against monsters, against the things in the shadows, and he thinks that is what these ever-watching pinpricks are. It brings a sense of comfort, always there for him to turn to when he was scared or alone. Up until now. 

Now he can’t see the stars. Castiel wonders if they miss him. He misses them. 

He doesn’t know how long its been since he last saw them, since he was comforted by their lights. He can’t see them here, trapped in the cold depths of the castle he once called home. There are no windows for him to gaze out of, no cracks for their light to slip through. Initially, he used to close his eyes and with a hand on the stone wall, draw out their patterns and constellations. He would trace them out from memory, fingers skipping over the grooves and dips of the stone and pretending they are part of the sprawling galaxy above him. But then he would open his eyes and it would be just him. 

At times, when he misses the stars too much, he thinks of the people in the city and wonders if maybe they miss him. 

Does the old seamstress who he always helped organize her shop after a large shipment wonder where he is as she sorts through the heavy boxes herself? Does the librarian miss the conversations they would have whenever he dropped by to donate more books? Do the children in the town miss the stories he would tell them? He wishes he knew, but he doesn’t. Still, he figures someone must. 

There must be someone out there, beyond the castle walls wondering where he is, asking around if they have seen their beloved prince. Maybe they would ask about him at the market or in the shops when exchanging goods and coins. After all, he has spent so much of his time in the city helping them. He would listen to their worries and problems, going to his father often to ease their strife. He would offer coins or a hand when they needed it. And, when the news of the Mad King’s actions grew too heavy, he would do his best to soothe their fears. Because these were his people, he would do anything for them. 

So surely someone must miss him. Even one person. 

He remembers their concern after his mother’s death, after his father remarried and Castiel’s own visits became sporadic. He remembers how they frowned when he explained his stepmother had him busy in the castle more often than not. He remembers their worried gazes and cautious tones, each time he managed to slip away to offer his kindness. But now, with time to think, he wonders if it is the same as missing him. He has spent so long waiting for someone to come, waiting for someone to realize he is missing. He has begged and pleaded himself hoarse, asking the damp stones around him, the guards who deliver meager kitchen scraps by his stepmother’s orders, the spiders, even the rats to help him. But none do. No one comes to free him.  

And, as days turn to weeks of waiting, the forgotten prince accepts that no one will hear him. That no one will come. For it seems neither the stars nor the people he has helped care for missing him. 

And that hurts -- more than the damp, than the biting cold that clings to his bones, than the hunger. 

He is alone, buried so far under the earth he may as well be in his own casket alongside his father’s.  It would be a kinder fate, he thinks, than this stasis. Left to rot in this cell is not mercy, no matter what his stepmother croons and promises with sickly-sweet words. Any fate would be kinder than this. Even death.

Time passes differently when all you know is loneliness and darkness. Very few candles were lit here, and what light they did offer was weak and casted long shadows. Castiel is not sure at this point how long he has been here, months at least, he thinks. But he is uncertain. All he knows is he has run out of tears long ago, and the ache of his broken heart has settled to a numb acceptance. He does not pace his cell anymore, he does not badger the guards with questions about his fate. 

Instead, he sits, and he remains, and he lets his mind wander. 

He thinks first of his mother, of her smile and kind words. Though she had died when he was still fairly young, he can remember bits and pieces of her, and he holds them close to his chest, like the stars. He knows she was kind, that she loved him, and that she was not like his stepmother. 

He thinks then of his father, who was gentle but firm, filled to the brim with unwavering pride. He would always listen whenever Castiel had something to say, and encouraged his visits to the city beyond the castle walls. His father was not perfect, but he did his best, and Castiel still feels the ache when he remembers his father’s body at the feet of his stepmother, unmoving. Her eyes were bright and her smile was triumphant, even as she called out to the guards. 

Castiel is sure she did not love his father, ever. Not like his mother did. No one that cruel and heartless could ever love.  

Standing before the Archangels, the Righteous Man does not flinch or cower. He has stood before them numerous times before to receive his missions in the past, and this time is no different. 

“Do you understand what you are to do?” 

It is Lucifer that asks this, eyes like polished rubies staring down at him. He stands unnaturally still, almost stiff in his armour with the other two Archangels flanking him on either side. Their chests do not rise and fall with breath, and they do not blink. Even worse, they show no visible blemishes or scars on their synthetic skin, bearing no marks of the violence they have caused. They are too utterly, uncannily, perfect. It is not difficult to see why so many people are uncomfortable in their presence. Even those that rank quite high in the king’s forces avoid them as much as possible. 

“I do,” Dean responds.

He holds his chin high, forcing himself to make eye contact. A hand rests casually on the hilt of his blade that sits at his hip -- a gift from the king supposedly from his latest victory. He remembers when it was handed to him, the weight of the blade, and how it gleamed. Standing so close to the Archangels, Dean knows it is not unlike their own weapons. Designed to kill, to be dangerous. Just as the Righteous Man is. 

“Good,” one of the other Archangels says, unnaturally sharp teeth gleaming. “Glory to the King.”

“Glory to the King,” Dean echoes without any of the fiery passion before dipping his head. He knows he is now dismissed, and takes his leave. He leaves their chambers without any fanfare, head high, posture sure, as he goes to find the rest of the generals and troops to deliver their words. On the inside, he shudders. 

Meeting with the Archangels is never pleasant, even on a good day (though is there ever a good day?). Truthfully they leave him beyond unsettled, the way they move and talk is so utterly inhuman it takes everything in him not to flee. They treat everyone they approach like they are prey, like you are something they have only just decided for the moment they will not kill purely because. He wishes he didn’t need to interact with them so frequently -- every interaction leaves his skin crawling. But Dean is the Righteous Man. His rank comes with many so-called perks, one of which is to interact with the Archangels directly to receive orders. If he could somehow pawn it off to some other poor bastard he would in a heartbeat. Standing in the same room as them, stuck under their ceaseless gaze as these human mimics speak and move so wrongly… but Dean has no choice. 

So he puts on a cool facade, pretends he is not bothered by them, and receives his orders. 

(He wonders absent-mindedly if this is why so many people assume he is similar to them. Dean is seemingly the only person able to tolerate their presence -- it makes sense that the only way to do so is to be as cold and inhuman himself.)

Walking down the winding halls of the king’s castle, Dean allows himself to zone out, to slip into the persona of the Righteous Man. It is easier that way, to tuck the bits of Dean away. The Righteous Man does not care if this mission is the same as hundreds of others, if he must stand before the people of whatever village, city, or kingdom the king has suddenly got his eye on and offer its citizens the choice of surrendering or death. The Righteous Man does not mind bloodshed. It is familiar to him, a heartbeat, a siren’s call. After all these years, Dean knows the weight of his weapon in his hand, and knows the movements of battle without the pulling hand of doubt. He could do it with his eyes shut. 

(Sometimes he wishes he did that. If only to not see the tear-stricken faces of the innocent people he has killed. Might lessen the nightmares he experiences.)

Turning the corner, Dean briefly makes eye contact with one of the lower-ranking soldiers. He’s young, barely over sixteen if Dean is to guess correctly, unmarked by the violence of war. The soldier, a boy really, flinches, eyes dropping to the floor. He knows who Dean is, and what he has done. So young, and yet it makes no difference. There is hardly a person alive that does not know of the Righteous Man. They know his title, his face, his actions. 

A title of irony -- wrapped around his neck like a noose, hung over his head like a guillotine’s blade. There is nothing Righteous about what Dean does, of who he kills and hurts. He has killed mothers and fathers, siblings and lovers. He has painted streets scarlet with gore, and stained his own hands right to the bone red. Dean has stared at the lifeless eyes of people he has killed, has ignored their pleading cries, has turned away from sobbing family members. All for the king. All in the name of the king. 

He keeps walking, leaving the kid behind. With each step he pushes Dean down further and further, trying to crush any and all of that part of him. That part of him is too soft, too human . It is the part that wants so desperately to leave, to not lift the blade. The Righteous Man knows he cannot leave, cannot walk away. He has lived this life for over a decade and has known nothing else beyond this life. It has traded the heavy beat of war drums for its own heartbeat; let the sound of gunfire become a lullaby; let the heat of it all wrap around its shoulders like a warm blanket. Even his armour sits like a second skin, and his fingers instinctively curl around the handle of a weapon, itching for a gun’s trigger. The last ten years have crafted him into the perfect living machine, a weapon so skilled and feared even people Dean once called friends cannot look him in the eyes. 

(He hates it.)

(Oh gods does he hate it.)

Dean cannot leave this life behind. The Righteous Man knows this. It does not want to leave this life behind. It feels like it was carved into his bones, sown into his muscles. It is what he is meant to be, and so he will accept it, welcome it. 

The Righteous Man enters the war room where the rest of the generals are seated, talking amicably amongst themselves. As he enters, their eyes snap towards him, a many-eyed spotlight. “Ready your troops,” the Righteous Man tells them. “We have orders for our next mission.”

They go silent and listen attentively as the Righteous Man stands before them, repeating the orders it has been given. They listen to his words, and he ignores how their eyes light up, how their postures grow loose, hungry. His words are like the smell of meat to starving animals, and they are so hungry for battle, for war. These are men and women who have pledged their lives to the king, who are eager to serve him in his mission, and the Righteous Man watches their responses with cool indifference. Once it has finished relaying it’s words, he will join them to rally their troops and begin boarding their ships.

As much as he might hate it, it is what Dean has been made for. And he will do it. For the king. 

From his cell, Castiel cannot hear anything of the people above him. Their lives and going-ons are but a mystery to him, muffed by countless miles of dirt and stone. Even when the guards visit he cannot hear them until they get quite close, regardless of whether they walk quietly or their usual thunderous racket. He theorized once that if someone were to stand at the top of the stairs and yell, not even their echo wouldn’t reach him. 

Either that theory is flawed, or his eldest step-sister can yell much louder than most other people. 

Regardless of what it is, he hears his step-sister’s shrill shriek long before he sees her, and it leaves him with a feeling of complete and utter wrongness. Castiel scrambles to the bars of his cell, and he can just hear two pairs of frantic, panicked footsteps as they echo off the stone walls. His step-sisters’ panting and cut-off sobs ricochet off the stone, and eventually, half visible in the dim lighting, he can see Rachel and Anna appear. The light from the candles on the walls illuminate the tears on their cheeks, as well as their overall appearances. Their dresses and faces are flecked with blood, and their hair, normally kept in neat braids or intricate hairstyles are a riotous mess of fly-aways and loose strands. They lack the picture-perfect neatness he has always associated with them, and as they run past him, he almost considers calling out to them. 

He doesn’t though, too stunned by their appearances. 

So he watches them run back in the gloom of his own cell, and eventually, they disappear out of his sight as they duck into an empty cell. He can hear their whimpering and heavy breathing and backs away from the bars into the shadowy corners of his own cell. Castiel isn’t sure what has caused his step-sisters to act like this, but he’s not sure he wants to know, and so he keeps quiet.

A wise choice, he’ll later realize, as not long after, a third pair of footsteps can be heard coming down to the dungeon. They are solid and steady, lacking the franticness of his step-sisters’ ones. A soft clink of metal accompanies them, and with utmost certainty, Castiel knows that this is not one of his stepmother’s guards. His step-sisters’ reactions aside, he has been here long enough to recognize their footsteps. With eyes closed, he could name any and all of his stepmother’s guards. This is not one of them. Overcome with a sudden chill, he tucks himself closer into the shadows, not wanting to be spotted. Something tells him his survival is not guaranteed. 

Slowly but surely, the soldier comes into view. Figure still swathed mostly in shadows, what little Castiel can make out is rough, faint. The low light from the candles on the wall illuminates the emblem emblazoned upon the soldier’s chest, and instantly he recognizes it. Despite being covered partially with gore and blood, he can see the sword and wing splashed across the soldier’s front -- and a sense of dread washes over him. He knows this emblem, there is scarce an individual in this sector of space that does not know it, even if not personally. 

The sword in the soldier’s hand is unlike anything Castiel has ever seen before. Like polished obsidian, it seems to swallow the light from the candles around them. Blood coats the blade already, and Castiel does not let himself think of whose it might be. Knowing the Mad King’s orders, it could be anyone above’s. With his heart pounding in his chest, Castiel hopes the soldier cannot see him from his spot. 

(He will be dead if he is spotted, this much he knows.)

Lady luck for once is on his side as the soldier moves right on past him. The soldier moves towards where his step-sisters are hiding, the latter of whom have become deathly silent. Silence does not deter the soldier though, as the soldier continues moving towards them in a slow but certain pace. If Castiel were to be honest, he might almost think that the soldier is purposely moving at such a pace to toy with them as a cat does to a mouse that it knows cannot escape. Between the blood and wicked weapon, it’s not unlikely that that’s the case. 

Castiel screws his eyes shut tight and places his hands over his ears.  He knows what will come next, even though he himself has not seen it firsthand. No such person can play ignorant to what the Mad King has done in his desire for power, for wealth. His step-sisters will not survive, cannot, for to live is to run the risk of their disobedience, a fight back to reclaim the throne their mother once stole from his father. Perhaps, if they were less proud, they might voice their surrenders. Others have done so before the feet of the king’s forces and some have even been victorious in keeping their lives -- but that’s unlikely in this case. Castiel knows his stepmother, her arrogance, and her pride. She would have not stepped down and abdicated the throne to the Mad King, and has likely met a gruesome fate. His step-sisters at this case, no matter what happens, will receive the same fate, no matter the pleading and begging. 

So he closes his eyes and hopes his hands will muffle the noises. 

It helps, but there is still much that he hears: their cries, sharp. Short. The pierce of metal and the following wet, tearing noise. The dull thump of heads and then subsequent bodies hitting stone. 

The soldier, thankfully, is efficient and quick in killing them. 

Counting slowly to ten, Castiel eventually opens his eyes. When he uncovers his ears, he can hear the soft breathing and the steady dripdrip of blood falling onto the stone floor over his own thundering heartbeat. In that moment, he wonders if he is next, or if he will instead face a slow death of starvation. Both fates are not kind, and he cannot choose which he would prefer. To die by the soldier’s hand is certainly quicker. Perhaps even less painful. 

(Likely not, but that is what he tells himself.)

Castiel, truthfully, does not want to die. Not by sword, not by starvation, not by anything. But life has not been kind, and he knows he will not have much choice in the end. 

With this bitter understanding, he counts silently the seconds that pass, waiting for the soldier to come back towards him. Holding his breath, Castiel watches as the soldier comes down the hall, moving back into view. Any moment now, he thinks, eyes following the soldier. It does not happen though, and as the soldier vanishes from his line of sight, Castiel slumps against the wall. The tension drains from his posture as he accepts that starvation, it seems, will be his fate. Before he can completely resign himself to that though, the footsteps slow and then stop.

They stop.

There is a clink of metal as the soldier turns, and the footsteps become louder, closer. 

Shit. Shit!

Castiel flinches, and with terror, watches as the soldier comes back into view. It stops in front of the bars of his cell, and for the first time, he gets a better look at the soldier. And his heart stops. Crouched in the long and dark shadow of the king’s most fearsome weapon, Castiel cannot breathe, cannot blink. He has never seen the Righteous Man up close, but he understands what they say when it is like looking into the face of death himself when you glance upon the Righteous Man. This close he can see the blood and gore more clearly, how it is splattered across his face and neck, climbing upwards to his short, sandy-blond hair. The flecks and splatter sit on his face like crimson freckles, blending into his existing ones, and a pair of cold, calculating green eyes stare down at Castiel. 

He still holds the sword he used to kill Castiel’s step-sisters in his hand, and Castiel wonders how many others he has killed with it. Likely hundreds, if the stories are even slightly accurate. Castiel swallows. He tells himself not to look away, to break eye contact as if convinced that not doing so will help him live longer. 

Looking at the Righteous Man, Castiel feels so utterly small and helpless. He remembers the advice some of his father’s guards had given a new recruit, and how they had gone silent when asked about the Righteous Man. You don’t, one had said. Your best bet is to lay down your sword and close your eyes and hope it kills you swiftly. Only a fool would think it can beat that monster. He knows he will die -- it’s foolish to think otherwise -- he just hopes it is quick. 

After seconds, minutes, hours of silence, the Righteous Man speaks. “What did you do?” 

The words are blunt and to the point, and the fear steals any thought of a reply from Castiel. His silence does not deter the Righteous Man, who remains as imposing as ever. He repeats his questions, louder this time. “What did you do?” At Castiel's lack of response, he adds, "Why are you here?"

Those eyes travel from his dirty face to his ragged clothes and Castiel shudders, feeling exposed suddenly. Stuck at a metaphorical crossroads, he isn’t sure if he should answer or lie. Confessing he is of royal blood is an instant death sentence, and no such sob story, even cleverly spun, can pull pity and sway the Righteous Man. Lying that he is a civilian may buy him some time, but still no guarantee.  

Watching the soldier shift with thinning patience, Castiel makes up his mind. “My stepmother locked me away here after having killed my father. She didn’t want me to take the throne from her or my step-sisters.” His voice is soft and raspy, and it hurts to speak after having gone without speaking much for so long.

“How long have you been here?” 

“I don’t know,” he confesses, not once looking away. “However long she’s sat on that throne is however long I’ve been kept down here.”

The strangest thing happens next: the Righteous Man gives him an odd look at that, and Castiel tries to put a name to it. All he can come up with is pity, but even that feels wrong. Whatever it is, it seems to soften the harsh features of the Righteous Man, turning him from a killing machine to something almost human. Rumours and tales have spoken at great lengths of his associations with the Archangels, speculating he himself is mechanized and without a heart. More machine than flesh , the people around him would mutter. But looking past the blood and armour, he thinks they might be wrong. At least partially. 

Strangely, he notices how the Righteous Man has not moved his hand once to lift his sword after Castiel’s confession. He had thought almost instantly the sword would be drawn and would pierce through his heart despite the bars separating them, but nothing. His step-sisters died faster than this, he thinks. So, probably damning himself, Castiel asks, “Are you going to kill me?” 

Call him stupid for saying such a thing but Castiel doesn’t want to play games. He doesn’t want to die, but he knows he will, and as such would prefer to do so sooner than later. It’s a tired resignation that pushes him to ask, to remind the Righteous Man of his eventual fate. 

But that does not happen.

“No. You have done nothing to deserve such a fate.”

“Wait, what?” The words slip from Castiel’s mouth in disbelief as the Righteous Man then sheathed his sword. He doesn’t understand. Very few have ever walked away alive from the Righteous Man, but none of them have been of royal blood, especially immediately to the throne. To make it even more confusing is the fact he is not the one who decided he should live -- no that is all the Righteous Man’s decision. Cautiously, as if afraid to change the soldier’s mind, Castiel then asks, “Are you going to leave me here then?”

For it’s the only other option. Die by his sword or die of starvation; there is no third option. Freedom is so far out of Castiel’s reach it would be easier to pluck the very stars from the sky. He decides the Righteous Man must have deemed killing Castiel too easy, too much of a mercy. 

But the Righteous Man, full of surprises it seems, turns its head and looks down the hall where the stairs are, and shakes its head. 

“No.” It looks back at Castiel with eyes no longer so cold and calculating. “I’ll come back. To help you,” it adds like it’s making a promise. 

Blinking, Castiel can only watch as the soldier spins and vanishes. He collapses against the wall, feeling out of sorts about the whole interaction, and tells himself he imaged that the Righteous Man looked anything but deadly. 

Hours stretch by and Castiel’s confusion has since bled into acceptance that he did in fact imagine the whole conversation earlier. The Righteous Man is not coming back -- after all,  why should it? He should not be alive according to the Mad King’s commands. By now, he knows the battle has long since died down, and Castiel leans against the wall, staring at the opposite wall. He’s decidedly not looking at the bars, choosing not to humour the idea of waiting for the Righteous Man to return when he is likely long gone and has forgotten him. 

Hunger has become to creep forward like a dull ache, and he slumps further, trying to ignore it. He knows he will have to accept it -- there will be no more food coming, and he will not try to catch rats or whatever is in this stone prison to try and appease it. As his stomach rumbles, he closes his eyes. Perhaps sleep might temporarily help, he thinks, knowing it will not. 

Before he can drift off, he hears the sound of footsteps from the stairs. They are soft and careful, lacking the certainty that he heard earlier. Castiel opens one eye but doesn’t move, telling himself that if he stays here, he has no reason to be disappointed if it turns out to be someone else. So he sits and listens, and is pleasantly surprised when it turns out the Righteous Man has returned. 

“You came back,” he rasps, unable to hide the shock in his voice. To add to it all, the Righteous Man gives him something that Castiel believes might actually be a smile before sitting on the floor by his cell door.  

“I did promise I would, didn’t I?” the Righteous Man teases, voice light. He talks with Castiel as if they are friends, almost. He then reaches into a small satchel and pulls out a wrapped parcel before holding it out to Castiel through the bars. He looks different, without all the blood. Softer. “I brought food. I figured you might be hungry.”

Castiel regards it with trepidation, even as his stomach rumbles. This soldier is still part of the Mad King’s forces, and kind or not, this was not someone he can easily trust. 

“It’s not poisoned,” the Righteous Man adds. “I promise. It’s the same stuff they normally feed us. It’s, not going to lie, it’s kinda shit, but it’s food.”

Eyes flicker from the food to the Righteous Man. Castiel doesn’t take it, doesn’t trust it. All the confusion from earlier is back in full force, and he feels like he is sitting before a puzzle with only half the pieces and no idea what the full picture is like. “Why are you helping me?” 

The Righteous Man places the food on the floor before shrugging. He seems uncharacteristically nervous with how he fidgets. “I’m not sure,” the Righteous Man admits, sounding as uncertain as Castiel feels. “I guess I just -- I just thought that what happened to you wasn’t fair, you know?”

Wasn’t fair? Castiel tilts his head, stunned. He cannot wrap his head around that, around any of this truthfully. He wonders if dehydration or starvation has been getting to him, causing hallucinations to come alive before his eyes. Here, sitting across from him, is the most infamous being on the king’s forces. Believed to have sold his heart for his skills, and yet, here he is, speaking so earnestly that Castiel didn’t think such words could come from anything inhuman. It makes his head hurt, trying to overlay two contrasting images of the man before him and Righteous Man he knows from stories. 

“You okay there, Cinders?”

Castiel shakes his head, biting back a laugh. Of course, he’s not okay, none of this makes any sense! “But why me ?” He stresses, shifting closer. Was everything he heard about this soldier wrong? Was there something he was missing? Or is it something special about him?

The Righteous Man leans back on one hand, seeming to think carefully about that question. “I guess,” it stops, as if uncertain of his answer. Then it continues, “I guess It just felt like the right thing to do for once.”

The honesty that bleeds from those words knocks the breath from Castiel’s lungs, and he’s not sure if he wants to laugh, cry, or scream. Maybe all of the above. Regardless, he believes him. For some absolutely insane reason. 

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I hate the damn bastard, actually, if you would believe it.”  

The Righteous Man is still talking, creating such a surreal scene before Castiel who watches as the corner of his mouth quirks upwards into an almost-smile once more. It's more and more reminiscent of when Castiel used to talk with friends, sharing stories and jokes over food. Except he does not know the Righteous Man. They are not friends, and these are not stories but confessions that would certainly earn them both swift deaths. 

At some point, he must notice the bewildered look on Castiel’s face, as he chuckles. “I know, it sounds impossible.” The humour dies and is replaced by grim resignation. “Doesn’t change the fact I still work for him, still kill for him.” He sighs. “Suppose that’s just how things are.”

Castiel nods, unsure how to respond or add to the conversation. How is one supposed to respond to any of the revelations he’s been experiencing in the last few hours? How do you make sense of it all? He doesn’t know. What he does know is this: the Righteous Man, now without all the blood, without all his armour and weapons, looks so much younger. It’s the laugh, the faint quirk of his mouth that almost leads to a smile that makes him somehow look human. The man before him does not seem like the machine he has heard about, and it’s jarring. 

The Righteous Man looks down at his wrist-comm, and frowns as he taps it. Whatever is on it sours his mood, and he tells Castiel he has to go. On his feet in an instant, he doesn’t miss how Castiel flinches at his urgency. “Sorry,” he apologizes, and another strike on Castiel’s mental board of reasons why this must be a dream or hallucination. “I didn’t realize how long I was gone. I need to get back before someone else notices I’m missing.”

“Ah.” 

Peculiarly, his heart sinks and a feeling of disappointment washes over him. Disappointment is immediately shoved to the side as he mentally chastises himself. He knows this soldier for an hour at best -- he surely can’t be this starved for interactions with another that he feels disappointed when the Righteous Man says he needs to leave. They barely know each other! He had literally killed Castiel’s step-sisters well within his hearing range and not once has even seemed slightly guilty for that (or for any deaths for that matter). So why does he feel the longing ache that he will be left alone again? It’s nothing new. 

The Righteous Man, unaware of the inner turmoil his companion is facing, adds, “I’ll come back though. Tomorrow. We don’t leave for a few more days, so I have some time to figure out how to free you and smuggle you aboard and…” He seems to almost be rambling now, shifting nervously from one foot to the next. 

“Smuggle me aboard?” Castiel echoes, struggling to keep up from the mental whiplash that just doesn’t seem to stop.

“I mean, well,” the Righteous Man shrugs, “I told you. Earlier. You don’t deserve to be here.”

Castiel is at a loss for words. “In this prison, sure,” he says, slowly. “But you don’t have to take me with you. ” 

“Look, Cinders, if you want to stay on this moon, you can. I won’t stop you. But our orders were clear about how many survivors the King wanted and there won’t be much but ash left once we leave.”

A thought occurs to him, and it sours the disappointment in his chest. “So I’m what then? A prize? A trophy of some sort?” Castiel’s eyes narrow, and he feels foolish for the disappointment he felt earlier -- though now for different reasons. He would not go from one prison to the next. If that is to be his fate, Castiel will sooner choose death, and he tells the Righteous Man just that. 

“What? Shit, no! No, just, damn it.” The communication device on his arm lights up, a faint noise is made as likely another message has been sent. “It’s not. Shit. You don’t have to leave, okay? If you want to stay, that’s fine with me. I’ll still find a way to free you. I just wanted to offer it to you because I thought…because it seems like the right thing to do,” he adds, speaking quickly, nearly stumbling over his words. Another message comes through. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You can think about it, okay? I have to go or Benny will have my ass,” He seems to want to say something else, but stops himself, again. “You won’t be some trophy or prize, I promise.” 

Castiel pauses, staring at the Righteous Man carefully, who no longer holds the poise he held earlier.  “I’ll think about it,” he says cautiously, and the soldier nods, satisfied with the answer. 

“Okay. I’ll see ya ‘round, Cinders!”

And with that, he’s gone. Castiel slumps against the wall, mind reeling. Everything he knows about the Righteous Man conflicts with both interactions he had with him. He rarely spares anyone but he did for Castiel. He’s heartless and cruel, but also brought him food and offered him freedom purely because Castiel doesn’t deserve to be left to rot here . 

The whole thing is dizzying and he rests his head against the cool stone wall, considering it all. Turns the thought of leaving and the thought of companionship over and over in his mind. He wants to be free, to not remain here in this cell, and if this soldier is offering to free him, he will take that offer wholeheartedly. But the idea of leaving is what holds him back. He does not want to live a miserable existence on New Lawrence hiding after having left everything familiar behind. 

He toys with the idea of leaving, going beyond New Lawrence, beyond Kaz. Castiel knows there are plenty of moons and planets out there in this sector of space, Am’rica is big. There are a number of which the Mad King hasn’t yet touched, all of which could be perfect for him to have a new life on. Free from the Mad King, from his stepmother’s cruelty. It’s a far pleasant idea, and he doesn’t mind it. Finds it appealing, actually. His mind, treacherous, offers the suggestion of mentioning this to the Righteous Man. Not just to let him know, no. To offer for him to visit, or, perhaps, even more wildly, to come along. 

Castiel shocks himself with that. 

(He tells himself it’s only fair if the man is offering him freedom without strings attached.)

(There is no other reason.)

He continues to think of it all, of freedom and of the last few hours and of the Righteous Man until the hunger is too strong that he caves and takes the food left behind. Then he will think about it all some more, confused, and not once put together the fact that the Righteous Man had called him Cinders of all names. 

Chapter Text

“So, Castiel,” Dean says, apropos to nothing, “What’s the first thing you want to do once you’re freed?” 

The two of them at sitting on the floor by Castiel’s cell door with an air of familiarity between them. Dean’s leaned up against the wall, legs splayed towards Castiel while the man in question sat cross-legged, carefully balancing the cloth-wrapped food Dean brought him on one knee. Despite the grim setting, one could almost picture them as two friends caught in casual conversation. 

“Bit of a weighty question. Especially since I’m still locked up,” Castiel points out, eyes traveling up to stare at the lock on his cell door. “Some more suspicious folks might even argue you’ve just jinxed this all by asking that.”

Dean scoffs playfully. “Are you one of them?” There’s a teasing lilt there, and he watches as Castiel shakes his head. “So then, tell me, Cas. What’s the first thing you want to do? You must have something thought of.”

He doesn’t know how long Castiel has been locked away down here, neither of them knows the specifics. What he does know is it has been quite a long time, and that’s more than ample time for one to start fantasizing and imagining what freedom might be like. Dean’s sure if their roles were reversed he’d have a whole list of things he’d want to do the moment he could walk out this prison cell. And Dean’s not even the imaginative type. Castiel though, Cas is. Between the stories he’s shared and the other bits of himself he let slip, it’s no doubt he’s spent some time conjuring up what he might do the moment that lock is broken. 

“I don’t know,” Castiel confesses, giving a small shrug. “I never actually thought about it, really.” 

“No way.” Dean’s eyes are wide with surprise, and he leans in closer. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing.” Castiel fiddles with the cloth on his knee. “I mean, I had always told myself I’d stop my stepmother, but with her gone…I don’t have anything else.” He sighs, “As much as I dreamed of someone freeing me, over time, I came to accept it probably won’t happen.”

Something in Dean aches at that. 

“Well then, we can think of something together.” 

The comment is out in the open before Dean can even realize it, and they both look surprised at it. Castiel’s mouth falls open slightly, and there is something almost hopeful in his expression. With anyone else, Dean might take the words back, might turn it into a joke or something. He’s never been one to be open about his feelings, about any of this “chick” stuff as he’s heard his father call it. But something stops him. Dean doesn’t want to take it back, to laugh it off and say “just kidding.” He wants to mean it, to double down with complete honesty. All because of the look Cas gives him. 

“Really?”

And so he does: “Really.” He smiles at Cas, toothy and bright. “And who says it has to be just one thing? We could do it all. So, Cas,” Dean says, inching closer like it’s a secret to be kept between the two of them, “What are you thinking?” 

Whatever Cas says next, he will make sure happens. No matter how ridiculous or bizarre it may be, he will do anything, everything, for him. As Cas leans in close, he can see how blue his eyes are, like twin oceans, and Dean lets himself get swept up in them. Heart thudding in his chest, he can't look away, even as he swallows the rising emotions that sit normally in his throat and chest. 

There is a reason why the Righteous Man is King Michael’s most favoured weapon, why it is his most prized possession. It is not for it’s strength, nor for it’s skill. Rather it is for one simple fact:

The Righteous Man does not hesitate. 

Every move it makes is so certain, so sure. Every kill is deliberate. It follows it’s orders, sticks to its missions, and does what is asked of it. It does not matter if it does not like it, it does not matter if it is wrong. The Righteous Man has killed so many people, has stained its hands red with their gore. It does not hesitate at the hot burn of blood on it’s cheek, on the screams it hears from lovers slain. The perfect living machine marching on hundreds of battlefields who will do all that has ever been asked of it. 

Oh the king has plenty of good soldiers, generals and commanders, and footmen all that know how to do their job. They will even do a good job of it. But too many of them have not been able to shed fully the softer parts of them, the fleshier bits that make them so human. And that is the distinction, the divider. The lengths of their cruelty have a limit, an endpoint. The Righteous Man does not. It will push forwards, keep going, even beyond it’s limit. It is an instrument of pain, fear, of unwavering loyalty, and cruelty. And that is why the king adores it so. 

Because it does not hesitate. 

Dean Winchester hesitates. 

Against all odds, against what he knows and what has been drilled deep into his mind and flesh, Dean hesitates. The softer fleshy bits still linger in him, not quite scooped out raw by that of the Righteous Man. He stares at the face of a man whose only crime is existing and does not go for the killing blow. He’s not sure why. The blood on his sword is still warm, and the soft whimpers of the princesses still linger in his ears… it should be easy. Trapped in a cell, this is the easiest prey one could obtain. No way to fight back, no way to flee, the perfect recipe. 

Dean cannot find it in himself to do it though. Instead, he takes a deep breath, ignores the screaming of his muscles, and asks, “ What did you do?”

And it’s only natural after that first meeting he returns. He tells himself it's because he made a promise, because he feels bad. 

(That’s all.)

It’s a flimsy excuse, falling apart almost immediately when Dean thinks about it too hard. Why did he bring food? Why did he stay so long, sitting and talk with this forgotten prince? Hell, why did he spend so much time reassuring him and bearing his deepest secrets and then offering to free him and bring him to New Lawrence? Dean doesn’t have the answers to any of these questions -- not ones he wants to admit at least. So he lies in his bed and he stares up at the ceiling and tells himself this will be it. He will not go back. No matter the promise he made. No matter what he said. Dean will be killed if he is found out, they both will. 

He goes back. Again and again and again. 

One visit becomes two, which eventually becomes three, and before he knows it, Dean’s visiting every night, every chance he can. It goes from a visit he can only justify is due to guilt or pity to a visit he anticipates at every waking moment. He looks forward to when he can slip away and visit Castiel. He saves portions of food purposely so that he could squirrel away and save for later to give him. No matter the disapproving looks he receives from Benny, Dean goes back to that dungeon, to Castiel, where they share stories and laughter while Dean tries his best to break the lock keeping him trapped there. 

Like there’s a magnet in his feet, a string wrapped around his chest, Dean always finds himself back there. Truthfully, he could probably walk the whole way there with his eyes closed if need be. 

It’s hard to explain it, why Dean keeps coming back. There’s just something about Cas that makes Dean smile, even when he’s just thinking of him. Without even trying, it feels like Dean’s chest has been replaced with cotton, warm and fuzzy, and he leaves each time with a deep aching. He thinks he should hate this feeling -- after all, he has never felt this before and it’s scary and wonderful and terrifying and so overwhelmingly glorious -- but he can’t bring himself to. It’s surprisingly nice, feeling this way. 

Sat across from Cas, laughing as he regales Dean with some story from his childhood, he can only feel human. Here, despite the darkness, despite the dampness, the world feels softer. Kinder. Dean feels that, and suddenly the whispers, the rumours, the cold glares, and the screams don’t hurt so much. They don’t cut so hard. 

(He thought he couldn’t feel that way. Not anymore. Not ever.)

His brother would surely call him dramatic, rash even for all of this, but Dean’s lived his whole life structured. Order and certainty have followed him like a shadow, leaving no room for spontaneity or hesitation. From as young as he can remember he has always been doing as he has been told. First by his father, then by the Archangels and king. He’s always followed one singular path, but with Cas, he doesn’t feel like he has to. From the moment he first laid eyes on him, Dean feels like he can vocally question his mission, turn his back on orders, and take risks. 

(It feels terrifying.)

It feels incredible.

Never once does Dean regret his hesitation or the promises he made. He has lived so long with regret for his actions, for what he has done that it is like a second skin to him. It has choked him while he slept and nipped at his heels when he was awake. It’s been a familiar friend, a familiar foe, for over a decade now, but with Cas it all goes away. He can shed it like a thread-bare coat, toss it away at the top of those steps and leave behind the Righteous Man. He can just be Dean, who does not regret that he keeps returning to Cas’ side, who does not regret every action he makes and word he says. 

He can just be Dean. Who hesitates. Who cares. 

(Who loves.)

Cas has done something that has felt so impossible: he has made Dean feel like, for once, he is a good person. 

(He hasn’t felt like that in so long.)

So he will help him. He will come back, again and again. With food, with stories, with flirty smiles and clever quips, and he will help him. He will take each failure as a challenge, will spend his waking hours when not with Cas thinking of him and breaking that lock, and he will imagine witnessing that smile turning dazzling in the sun. 

Trapped beneath the earth, Castiel waits and waits, and waits. 

He is not sure how long it has been, but he waits and he paces, and he waits. His cell is cramped on a good day, not designed for comfort or long-term residence, but today it feels claustrophobic. The walls seem to lean inwards, closer and closer with each lap, and Cas is convinced soon they will collapse overtop him and squish him. He bites his lip, casting worried glances out to the hall where Dean normally is. Dean is not there. 

He’s late. 

By seconds, by minutes, by hours -- he is late. It doesn’t matter that Cas cannot tell time while down here. He knows it in his heart, knows it with such certainty like an old ache knows incoming rain. Cas looks away from the hall, turning his eyes forward to the stone he knows with such familiarity. His stomach makes itself known, loud and insistent, and it only adds to his nerves. He’s been trying to ignore it for hours at this point it feels like, but if he tries to, his mind wanders, feeding on his nervous energy. Cas knows they have been meeting on borrowed time. Dean was meant to live the day before, though a clever lie had bought him another day on his moon, another day to try and break the lock on his cell door. 

(Cas does not think of all the people that might have died because the king’s troops remained here longer than planned. He doesn’t want to think of how guilty it makes him feel.)

But all-time runs out eventually.  Cas is aware of this. He is also aware that Dean is late. 

(He’s never been late before.)

His mind has conjured up so many different scenarios of what may be the result of Dean’s absence, and none of them hurt any less. In some Dean is caught, and questioned. Others, Dean is called back to New Lawrence earlier than anticipated and therefore cannot come back to free Cas. Each of those hurt, but the pain is pale in comparison to the most sinister of them all: that Dean just gave up. Despite their constant meetings, Dean had never once been successful in breaking the lock. Regardless of the abilities the Righteous Man held, they could not bend or snap it. Once Dean had even drawn his sword in an attempt to break it. 

“ Are you sure about this?” Cas called out, and stood with his back pressed against the far wall. 

Dean had grinned, cocky and sure-fire. It was one of the grins he always got before telling Cas his favourite stories, and it was Cas’ favourite type. “ Relax. They don’t just give these swords out to anyone. Just stand back, and close your eyes, just in case.”

Skeptical, Cas had done as such, and waited for Dean to swing. Once upon a time, Cas might’ve been afraid to stand before Dean with his sword drawn, certain it would be the last sight he would see before death. And now he does so, willingly, trusting Dean will harm him. 

Oh, how things have changed. 

A whistle of the wind as the sword came down before it met the lock with a heavy thunk. No celebratory exclamation followed though. Slowly Cas had opened his eyes and saw the lock, still intact. Dean had stared at it, first in disbelief then with narrowed eyes as he swung again. And again. Each swing was less precise, less certain until it looked more like he was simply hitting it just to do something. 

“ Dean…”

Another swing. Unsuccessful. 

He remembered the frustration and panic in Dean’s eyes, how he had muttered and cursed the lock. “ Dean! ” He rushed to the cell door, arms reaching through to stop Dean before he tried to swing again. 

“ Dean, it's no use. It won’t work.” He told him, and Cas felt helpless as he watched Dean panting from exertion. 

“ It has to,” he had growled, and it was only Cas’ quick thinking that had stopped him from swinging once more. “ It has to. ” He sounded frantic, desperate, and it had been different than his previous attempts. Each failure had led to Dean putting on a brave face, smiling or cracking a joke as he brushed the failure off. Dean would say something witty before suggesting a different idea he might try next. That hadn’t happened that time. No, that time Dean had slumped against the stone across from Cas, staring at the sword across from him, and didn’t say a word for a while. 

He can picture the despair in Dean’s expression, unmasked and visible for Cas to see, and he imagined being stabbed would’ve hurt less than this. So he understands that Dean might’ve given up. He might have looked at every attempt and found no more possibilities and decided that was it. He had tried and had been unsuccessful, and that was that. Even if Dean did think of something else that might work, it was too late. They are to leave tomorrow morning, and they will not wait for Cas’ lock to break itself. 

So this is it. 

He stops his pacing, sinking to the floor. Perhaps this is why Dean is late. He has given up and cannot bear to see the heartbreak and pain in Cas’ eyes when he confesses he cannot free him. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean will say, so soft that the shattering of Cas’ heart will be audible to both. His shoulders will slump, his feet will drag, and he will tell Cas that he cannot ever leave. 

And every promise he made, every stolen glance and flirty remark, and every bit of hope he ever placed in Cas’ heart will be gone, broken far beyond repair. 

And then Dean will leave, and Cas will be alone, left to rot. 

His stepmother would probably revel in the fact that even from her grave she has hurt him. Cas’ chest is tight, and he tells himself he will not cry. Not as he imagines her standing there, cold eyes alight with glee as he taunts him for his unrealistic dreams. Leaning his head against the damp stone wall, he can almost hear her shrill laughter, joined in by his stepsisters as they leer and smirk from beyond the bars. Cas does not look at the lock, at the door to his prison. He tells himself Dean will still come, that he has not given up yet. 

Cas feels like a fool.

As a child, he had pictured himself in the fairytales his mother would read to him. He liked the idea of being swept off his feet by someone with a dazzling smile and charming laugh. Drawing his knees in close, he remembers how sweetly his mother had spoken of love, and back then he had held it close, even when age threatened to smother such fantasies of grandeur. In all his stories there would be a knight in shining armour who would save the prince or princess by either slaying the monster or dragon that kept them imprisoned or whisking them away from their wicked families. Then they would live happily ever after, and all would be perfect. 

He imagined himself in one of those stories, early in his imprisonment. Pretended that some knight-in-shining armour or charming stranger would find him locked away and free him. Then they would fall in love, as was aught to happen in these stories, and together, they would rid the kingdom of his stepmother and step sisters. In this story, they would be happy, and he would be able to save his people, and nothing would ever go wrong. 

It was the picture-perfect fairytale. 

But here’s the thing about fairytales: they aren’t real. They do not happen. 

Especially not to folks like Castiel. 

The first tear falls, but Cas barely notices. Everything hurts. He feels as if there is a whole carved into his chest, like someone has ripped out his heart, still beating, and crushed it. Each shuddering breath burns, each tear stings, and he wonders how Dean became so important to him so quickly.  Has it always been like this since the beginning? He doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter when that first smile had sent his heart fluttering, when he first blushed the moment their fingers had brushed, none of it matters anymore. 

Dean is late. He isn’t coming. 

Cas is alone, again. These four stone walls will become his tomb, and he will never escape, never see the stars again. The man he had thought of as his prince charming was simply that: charming. All smiles and bravado and broken promises. This is no fairytale and Cas curses himself for believing that, for thinking a knight-in-shining armour will come and sweep him off his feet. No prince charming will free him, for he has moved on, charming Cas’ heart and breaking it instead of the lock, and leaving when all became too much. 

It’s hard to tell what he will miss most: the stars, his people, or Dean. 

(He knows the answer and it stings)

Cas also curses Dean. 

(For everything else.)

When Dean pulls Gilda into his room, she can practically taste his worry. It catches her off-guard, not used to seeing Dean so lax and open, but before she can say anything about it, Dean quickly says, “I need your help.”

He nearly stumbles over his words, and it’s those four words in particular that kill whatever questions she had prepared immediately. Gilda, in all the time she’s known Dean, knows he doesn’t ask for help. Hasn’t done so even once. She had always chalked it up to some pride thing when she first started, but now she thinks it’s not pride. It’s something deeper, something he only revealed to her and Benny while they were all too drunk to really care. All of this is to say that Dean asking for her help is capital S Serious, with minimal questions asked.

She nods. “What do you need me to do?”

Dean’s eyes flicker to the closed door for a brief moment. “You remember the guy I mentioned to you and Benny?” He begins, voice low as if afraid someone else might be listening. 

“The guy you were telling us almost negative things about when we tried prying and got all blushing and mushy over?” She teases only slightly, knowing exactly the guy Dean’s talking about. He hasn’t breathed a word about his mystery man to either her or Benny -- not even when she tried so very hard for a fun gossip session -- but his face every time he returned said more than enough of the guy. Dean is so far gone for this guy it’s kind of sweet (and stupid if you ask Benny), so sure, she knows a bit about him. Just nothing big. 

“Y-- Hold up. I do not get all ‘blushy and mushy’,” he retorts. 

“Do too. You go all soft and gooey whenever you come back from seeing him,” Gilda shoots back, watching some of his tension disappear. “Pretty sure I’ve even seen you blush when I tried to ask what he looks like.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth. Pauses. Then he glares at her and says, “You’re making shit up. I don’t do any of that.” He must see the smirk she has as he then shakes his head. “Look, I need your help because you’re the only one I think could figure this out.”

She nods again, sobering up. Right, no more jokes.

“Cas -- Castiel has been locked in a prison cell under the castle. His stepmother put him in there and nothing I’ve tried has broken the lock. Even my sword was useless against it.” He frowns, hand inching downwards and resting hesitantly on the sword’s hilt. “I don’t know if I’m missing something, or I did something wrong but tonight’s my last chance, and I can’t leave him in there, Gilda,” Dean confesses, distraught. “I know you’ll probably think I’m not thinking clearly and getting attached to some guy I met not even a week ago but Gilda, I just…” He huffs before running a hand over his face. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Hey.” Gilda reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. “Yeah, maybe this is a bit fast, and probably kinda dumb too, but I'd be a hypocrite if I gave you crap for that. We all do dumb shit when we’re in love. So this mystery man of yours, Castiel. What’s the plan?”

He blinks, as if not expecting that to be her response.  “You’ll actually help?”

“Is it risky? Sure. but we’ve done worse. Plus, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy before and if this is because of this Castiel guy, then it’d be worth it.” Dean pulls her into a hug, holding her tight. 

“Thank you, Gilda. I owe you big time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She laughs, patting him once on the back before they pull away. “As long as he makes you happy that’s more than enough. Now, tell me what’s the plan.”

The castle is quiet as she makes her way towards the dungeon. While never having grown up in a castle, Gilda knows they aren’t quiet. Always a bustling flurry of noise and movement, with people walking the halls and the chatter of servants and nobles. Castles like these have people, have life. This castle did. Once. She can see the remnants of it while standing in the throne room, staring out at what was once the royal court, and it feels like she’s standing in the middle of a graveyard.  Here the metallic scent of blood and the sickly-sweet smell of rot are strongest, though it’s been following her long before she stepped through the gates. It barely masks the smell of ash and smoke, but she thinks she’d prefer that smell instead. Ash and smoke are familiar. They can be overwritten with kinder notions. Rot and decay can’t. 

She’s never seen the aftermath of their work, never had the chance to really. They’ve never stayed in a place this long before, always moving forwards to wherever the king needed them next. So to be standing here, to see the aftermath of it all… it somehow sits worse than the initial killings. Maybe it's because it all bleeds together (no pun intended). All their victims and faces eventually become the same once you’ve killed enough people, and it’s easy to shut off your brain. To become numb to it and pretend it’s not real. 

She can’t do that right now. 

Gilda swallows back the nausea and pulls the scarf tighter over her nose and mouth. She looks away from the carnage, from the remains of people who were innocent and keeps her eyes fixed solidly on the hallway in front of her. Just focus on getting to Castiel and getting out, she reminds herself. She can’t let herself think of who the dead are, what lives they once had. They’re dead now, and if she isn’t careful, she and Castiel will be too. So, she keeps moving forwards, like she always does, and does not let herself linger. 

Outside of the throne room, it’s better, but only slightly. There are fewer bodies, and the smell of rot is fainter. Still, it follows and she’s convinced the smell has been burned into her clothes. It takes her a few minutes to find the door Dean described to her, but eventually, she locates it and begins her descent. The winding stairs take her deep below the castle’s main area, and slowly it becomes harder and harder to see. What little light existed from the main level is swallowed up, leaving Gilda in near-darkness with only her wrist-comm as a source of light. With a hand against the wall to keep steady she keeps walking until she finally reaches the bottom where a long, dimly lit corridor stretches out before her. 

There are no other prisoners in the dungeon but it feels wrong to announce her presence. So she strains her ears and listens for a moment for any noise. Softly, down the corridor, she can hear crying. Immediately, she knows it's Dean’s mystery man, and quickly, she follows the noise. It gets louder the closer she gets, and before long, she’s standing before his prison cell. Her eyes take a moment to adjust before she can spot him but there, curled up in the corner and covered in dirt and grime, is Castiel. She stands there awkwardly for a moment, unsure how to interrupt, or just wait for him to notice her. He doesn’t so she decides to call out to him. 

 “Hello?” she eventually says. “Castiel?”

He gives no indication he’s heard her, and so, after a moment, she tries again, louder this time. 

At this, he startles, lifting his head to stare at her with wide, bloodshot eyes. 

“You’re Castiel, right?” she asks, wanting to make sure. “Dean sent me.”

Almost immediately she can see how he seems to perk up at Dean’s name, wiping the tears from his eyes. It wipes away some of the dirt and grime from his cheeks and if the circumstances were different, Gilda might almost find it amusing how quickly his posture changes. All because of one name. 

“Dean sent you?” Castiel rasps, unfurling from the corner of his cell. He doesn’t move towards her though, watching her warily. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. He’s just been swamped with work since we’re leaving soon so he couldn’t slip away to get you.” A look of relief brushes away the sorrow on his face. “Besides, from what he told me, he’s been having some issues with that lock of yours. Figured I might know a trick or two that he missed,” she adds with a slight smile. “I’m Gilda.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m Cas.” A faint blush turns his dusty cheeks a pale pink from embarrassment.

Gilda just laughs it off, turning her attention to the thin but sturdy lock pad that sits on the front of his prison door. 

Castiel, having recovered from his embarrassment, asks, “Do you really think you can break it?”

“Sometimes,” she tells him, tilting her head to get a better look at it before dropping the satchel she was carrying and rummaging through it. “Sometimes locks like these aren’t as tricky as they appear.” She pulls out a long thin rod that in the dim lighting gleams like glass. “Most times, all it takes is a bit of --” Here she inserts it into the opening of the lock pad, and with a clever twist, there’s a click. “ Ah-ha !” 

The lock pad is deactivated, and with more flourish than necessary, she opens the cell door. Castiel stares at her, mouth open in shock. His eyes dance from her to the lock pad and back. “...But how?” he mumbles, and she gives him a wink. 

“Magic. Just think of me as your fairy godmother, Cas.” She then pulls out an old uniform from her bag and hands it over to him. “Now, it’s nothing too special, unfortunately. But I think it’ll do just the trick. So, Castiel, ready to blow this hell-hole?”

The lock opens so effortlessly, Cas cannot believe his eyes. After every attempt he and Dean had made on it, he had been half-convinced the thing was impenetrable. But somehow Gilda had managed to open it. Staring at it hanging casually on the cell door, he nearly misses what she says next. 

“So Castiel, ready to blow this hell-hole?” Gilda asks with a grin, voice light with humour. She holds out a folded soldier’s uniform and maybe it’s nothing special to her, but to Cas it's monumental. 

Getting to his feet slowly, Cas takes the clothes with a nod. Gilda then turns to give him some privacy as he changes and the moment he strips and puts on these clean clothes, it nearly takes his breath away. His skin is still grimy and feels awful but the change of clothes feels glorious. Careful not to get distracted, he forces himself to change quickly. Once done, he clears his throat to let her know she can turn back around. 

Gilda, with a much softer smile than before, says, “Let’s go and find Dean, yeah?”

He walks towards the open door, hesitating briefly at the edge. Cas isn’t sure if there’s some secondary trap, something else his stepmother so cruelly set up to tease him with his freedom one last time. From her spot on the other side, Gilda doesn’t push or hurry him. Instead, she lets him take his time to build up the courage to cross over the threshold. Cas breathes in. You got this Cas. You’re free, he tells himself, before exhaling slowly. Then he walks out of the prison cell he has known for far too long and smiles. He feels lighter than he has in ages. Cas wants to bask in his newfound joy and freedom but refrains, knowing they’re on a tight schedule. “Lead the way,” he says to Gilda, and together the two run towards the stairs. 

Chapter Text

In all honesty, Cas had thought the whole “smuggling him onboard” thing would be more complicated. Dean had walked him through the whole plan as the two of them sat on the damp stone floor, explaining in great detail each and every bit so he was prepared regardless of what might happen. He made Cas repeat the names of officers likely stationed at any of the check-in points and at the entrance until he could recite them and their descriptions in his sleep, had made sure Cas’ lies could roll smoothly off his tongue, had made sure Cas knew the route in case he got separated. Could one think it was a bit much? Perhaps, especially since he knew Dean would be there at his side the whole time in case something were to go south, but at the same time, it’s a reassurance. It provides Cas a sense of confidence that they can do this, that they can somehow pull this all off and trick the Mad King without him even knowing. 

In the end, though, it hadn’t even mattered. 

He had spent the whole walk back with Gilda fretfully reciting it all in his head, making sure he remembered each and everything, and no one had cared. No one bats an eye as he walks in step with Gilda to the officers standing guard by the ship. Be it due to carelessness, or distraction with the flurry of movement and noise as troops disassemble weapons and camps to pack up, no one asks for identifications, no one raises any questions. With a single nod from Gilda, they walk right on board. Just like that. 

It all goes so smoothly Cas wonders if this is a dream. He toys with the idea that he has fallen asleep in his cell, miles away from here still, and is imagining all of this. If that is the case, if he is asleep and still alone in his prison cell, he hopes he doesn’t wake up. If this is a dream he wants to live in it forever. 

The inside of the ship is smaller than Cas expects, but he can’t let the surprise on his face show. There are soldiers of all ranks pushing past him, carrying weapons and cargo and talking in stern voices and if they know he is not one of them, then it will not end well. So he guards his expression, keeping it neutral, and follows Gilda as she moves seamlessly through the corridors of the hulking warship. They climb several levels, moving through what is likely less populated routes so as to not raise suspicion, and Cas does his best to not let his eyes wander, let his pace slow. No one seems to pay them much mind, and eventually, after what feels like hours of dizzying turns and climbs, they reach a small room on one of the upper levels. There is a pin pad on the wall beside it, but much like the lock to Castiel’s cell door, it does not stop Gilda. With ease, she opens it, before ushering Cas inside. 

Once both of them are inside, the door is locked behind them with a click. Finally, Cas allows himself a chance to take in his surroundings, pausing in the middle of the room to look around. The room is small and on the sparse side, appearing to be more for function if anything, and he wonders if this is Dean’s private room. It seems too clean, though he surmises that between Dean’s standing and the constant movement, it makes sense. Neither allows for much time for clutter to accumulate. Cas wanders over to the desk against the far wall, curious, but stops when Gilda speaks. 

“I sent Dean a message to let him know we’re in Benny’s room. With how busy he is, the last thing we need is for us to hide you in his room and have someone stumble in while trying to find Dean.”

Ah. Makes sense, he supposes. “The two of you mentioned this “Benny” before,” Cas begins, “Who is he?” 

Gilda leans against the door jam. “Benny is our friend. If we’re being technical, he’s sort of my boss, I guess?” She gives a half-hearted shrug at that. “I think he’s a Colonel or something, though I’ve never actually asked. Just know he’s got some fancy title, but not as fancy as Dean’s.”

“Is he okay with this? With you and Dean helping save me?” he asks her. “I know you said he’s your friend but --” 

It sounds harsh, and he winces. The last thing he wants is to offend Gilda, especially after everything she’s done for him, but he can’t figure out how to find better wording for it all. He has experience watching people you think you can trust betraying you, and while he might not know Gilda very well (or Dean for that matter if they are to be honest) he trusts her. This Benny character he knows nothing about. 

“He won’t rat us out, don’t worry,” Gilda reassures. “Is he okay with this? Eh.” At this she holds her hand out and makes a so-so gesture, see-sawing it left then right. “Depends on how you define okay. He thinks Dean’s being a bit stupid, risking all of this for a guy he barely knows, but he’s a good man at the end of the day. And he and Dean are thick as thieves.”

“Yeah?” It comes out soft, hopeful. 

“Oh absolutely. You and Dean are going to be okay. I promise.” Gilda pauses and spares her wrist-comm a glance before focusing back on him. “Hey Castiel, you think you could keep a secret?” 

“I can,” he says slowly, cautious. “...Why?” He’s not sure where this is going, but it’s not like Cas has anyone he talks to that he can share a secret with. Especially one that makes Gilda look like that, face pinched as she chews on the inside of her cheek. 

“Good.” The tension is still there, but it seems less at his words. “I don’t think he likes being here. He’s like Dean.”

Cas tilts his head, confused. “What do you mean?” 

“He’s, you know,” She gives a vague gesture, waving at the air, but Cas is lost. Gilda seems to sense it so instead she says, “Dean ever tell you about how much he hates it here?” 

He nods. He remembers that conversation, the sincere honesty of it all. It had been different than the first time they had met when Dean had confessed he hated the king. Dean had laughed then, had worn an expression of grim resignation when he told Cas that. But when he had confessed about how much he hated this choice, this life he had? He had sounded so defeated, so tired. 

“Benny’s similar. There are two types of folks that are here: ones that want to because they like the king, and the ones who don’t have any other options,” she continues. “Benny’s never said much about how he ended up here but if you spend enough time with someone you can piece it together.” Gilda’s eyes drift to the desk Cas stands by, and when Cas follows them, he finds a lone picture of a woman there, smiling. The woman looks happy, carefree, frozen in time. He has an inkling she isn’t alive anymore, or if she is, she’s somewhere far, far away from here. 

“Are you one of those “folks”?” he then asks, because she doesn’t strike him as a loyalist, and because the way she talks reminds him of what Dean had said about joining when you’re desperate when you feel like you have nothing left to lose. 

One day you realize you’re in too deep, he had confessed, and there’s no exit in sight. And that’s it. 

Gilda gives only a weary smile, one that is strained at the edges and speaks volumes despite not saying a single word. The conversation seems to die there, as Cas cannot find a response that feels even slightly adequate and Gilda isn’t offering any further explanations, so instead he strains his ears to try and hear what might be happening outside of Benny’s room. He can’t hear anything though, despite the movement he knows is occurring on the ship somewhere on the other side of the door as soldiers ready themselves for their departure. 

It hits him suddenly, just as he wonders what Dean might be doing in the silence. They’re leaving. Cas is leaving. This moon is the only place he’s ever known, and now he will be leaving it all behind for good, without even a proper goodbye. There are no windows in Benny’s room, so he isn’t able to get one last glance at the castle he called home for over twenty years. The halls he would run down as a young child, the kitchen where he would sit on a wooden stool and watch the kitchen staff work, and the rooms where he would spend his days with his mother or father. He is leaving it all behind, without even a single piece of it to take with him. Due to their deadline, Cas hadn’t been able to go back to his room in hopes that something might remain -- whether he’s grateful that he isn’t aware of how much his stepmother might have gotten rid of in attempts to rid him fully from existence, he’s not sure -- and it leaves an ache in his chest. 

Now certainly he’s happy to be free, one shouldn’t misunderstand this pang as regret, but it is not easy, this homesickness, this ache. On one hand, he achieves his freedom, but on the other hand, the appeal is marred by the fact he is leaving all that is familiar and comfortable. What comes next Cas doesn’t know, can’t even predict. He has no idea if he will stay in New Lawrence if he will depart soon afterward for elsewhere -- and it leaves him torn. He wants to leave, and yet, he wonders if it is too late to stay. If just to keep the familiarity close. He knows Dean offered to free him without the requirement of him leaving with, and while Gilda has gone through all of this, he knows she would be willing to help him sneak out if Cas so much as demands it, but does he want to? Or is he too afraid of the unknown that awaits him?

Even that begs the question of if he does choose to stay behind, will it be as he remembers? Between the brutality of the king’s forces and his own stepmother’s cruelty, can things ever be as they once were? She hardly cared much of the people of their kingdom when his father was alive, it is likely that indifference would have been altered when given full power. 

“Gilda?” he calls out. 

She looks up at him, fingers pausing from where they’ve been tapping on her wrist-comm. “Yeah?”

He isn’t sure what he wants to ask her. To take him back? To check and see when they will leave? To ask when Dean will arrive? So much seems to be buzzing around in his head, and eventually, Cas settles on: “Were there any other survivors?” Because he needs to know, needs to understand if he will be abandoning his people or not. 

He can’t do that, he just can’t. Not after everything that has happened to them. He wants to believe they were looking for him, asking for him while he was locked away, and even if not, he is their new king. It is his duty to help them, to protect them, he can’t abandon them like this, even if they might have done that to him. 

Gilda looks away and bites her lip. It is not a reassuring sight. She then drums her fingers against her arm, as if stalling, trying to string together a satisfactory response that will not hurt. 

Cas knows what she is going to say, and he doesn’t know if it hurts or helps cut the final tethers holding him here. “You don’t need to try to not upset me. I’m not a child. I know what the Mad King is capable of.” 

She exhales heavily, pushing off the wall and walking towards him. Then, rather than joining him at the desk, she sits on the edge of Benny’s bed and fiddles with the end of her ponytail. “No,” she admits, solemn and without meeting his gaze. “Our orders were to kill anyone who resisted.”

“And the people in the city? What about them?” Because he knows the nobles and staff are already dead, even without the stench of death greeting him when they got above ground. Cas is no fool, he knows the king’s opinion on mercy in relation to those who may threaten his power. He does mourn the servants and staff that are dead though, all innocents who had been pivotal figures for him while growing up. They had helped care for him when his mother was sick, when his father was weak from grief, and now they are gone. 

Gilda is quiet. She swallows, then says, “They tried to fight back.” A weak, flimsy smile is directed to Cas, all fragile around the edges like paper. His heart drops. “You know,” she continues, resolutely not tearing her eyes away from their spot focusing on the wall, “I’ve been doing this for ages. It feels like I’m bound to serve the king and his whims for life, and maybe I am, but never once have I seen something like this.” At this, she does look at him. “They were good people, Castiel. I’m so sorry.”

It’s Cas now that looks away, chest tight, heart leadened, and on the floor. He remembers the smell of smoke, the ash that carried on the breeze as he fled the castle, and hopes their deaths were swift, painless even. He hopes they didn’t suffer. 

In some morbid way, Cas supposes that is the answer to his dilemma from earlier. He doesn’t need to feel guilty about abandoning them, after all. He inhales shakily. “So it’s just me then.” He tries to say it lightly, but his tone falls flat.

He’s the last survivor of his kingdom, of likely his small moon. 

From the corner of his eye, he notes that Gilda looks ready to apologize again, but she swallows it. He appreciates it, he doesn’t know if he can stomach apologies right now.

“I wish I could offer you something more than useless words,” Gilda murmurs after a bit.

He looks over at her. “You helped free me,” he points out. “That should count for something, shouldn’t it?

"I guess so," she admits slowly. She doesn't seem too sure about that. 

"I never did say thank you for that, by the way. If it weren't for you I'd still be stuck down there."

"Oh it's nothing," she brushes off. "I was just helping Dean out."

Cas doesn’t think it’s ‘just nothing’. Just nothing is offering a helping hand, lending a jacket or a chance to duck inside one’s house when it rains. This is something monumentally more than that, and so he won’t let her brush it off like that. “You didn’t have to though,” he reminds Gilda. “You, Benny, Dean… you’re all out here risking your lives for me. If someone found out about this, we’d all be killed. That’s not nothing. Most people wouldn’t have gone through even half as much trouble as this to help a stranger, especially one that might end up with them dead.”

“I suppose.” A pause. “But it’s worth it. Dean, he’s crazy for you. Absolutely head over heels, and I’m not even exaggerating. I’m half convinced if he couldn’t get me to break that lock he would’ve marched right on down himself and stayed behind until he broke it or died trying.” Here her smile becomes more genuine, stronger. “And you make him happy, happier than I’ve seen him in a long time. All of this?”-- Gilda gestures around the room -- “It tears you apart eventually. Chews you up and spits you out until nothing’s left. Some folks last longer than others but eventually, it takes you. Had Dean for a while, truthfully. But the first time he came back? I could tell he was different -- a good different. So maybe this is stupid or risky, but I knew the moment he pulled me aside and asked for my help I was going to help him, consequences be damned.”

He lets her words roll over and over in his mind, unsure what to say. How do you respond back to someone who confessed they would risk their own life just for the sake of their friend’s own happiness? It’s so overwhelming that Cas, if he tries to fully wrap his head around it, thinks it might just swallow him whole. So instead he says, “So, uh, Dean. He really likes me?”

Cas knows his own feelings can cloud his judgment at times, allowing for misinterpretations of simple gestures and responses. Maybe Dean had been flirting with him, maybe those moments where he had leaned in close, eyes darting downwards to Cas’ lips had been a sign he was thinking of kissing him. Or maybe Dean had just been friendly, and Cas had been seeing things where he wanted them to be. 

“Likes?” Gilda barks out a laugh, and just like that, it makes the room feel less suffocating, chasing away the pain and grief. “Oh Castiel, he doesn’t just like you. He loves you, capital L. Pretty sure he’s been in love with you since he first laid eyes on you.”

“Really?” He wants to curse himself for sounding so hopeful as his heart springs upwards in his chest, no longer sunken at his feet. But he can’t, not as Gilda angles her body to face him fully, a look of such certainty on her face there is no question to what she says. 

“I’d bet my life on it. There’s no doubt about it. And,” her smile turns sharp at the edges, knowing, “You love him too.”

A flare of heat dances across his cheeks, turning his face and ear tips likely pink, and Cas, flustered, tries to shy away. He doesn’t know if he regrets changing the topic. 

“I, well…”

He trips over his words, and Gilda kindly swoops in and saves him. “You can’t lie to me, Castiel. Look, it’s not a bad thing. Dean, for all he tries to deny it, isn’t a bad guy. He’s just been in a bad situation -- we all are. But you make him happy, make him want to be a good person I’d even argue.” She places a hand on his knee, gentle. “You’re allowed to be happy and to love him, even if it feels too sudden. Especially after everything. With what you both have dealt with, it’s the least you deserve.”

“I…Thank you, Gilda. You deserve to have that as well.”

She bumps his shoulder, fond. “You’re too sweet, Castiel. I can see why Dean likes you.” Her wrist-comm pings, and then she laughs. “Speak of the devil, it’s your lover boy. Says we’re taking off soon and should be ‘round soon. In the meantime, tell me about yourself?”

Cas rolls his eyes. 

"Don't roll your eyes at me. Dean's told me absolutely nothing about you and it's been driving me mad. I want to know about the guy who swept my friend off his feet, so." She pats the bed beside her. "Spill."

He huffs, pretending to be annoyed by her prying. He knows it isn’t malicious though, and he could almost imagine, if circumstances were different, they might have the chance to be good friends.

"Fine, but only if you return the favour."

"Deal!" She exclaims enthusiastically as he moves to sit beside her. "I even have a few embarrassing stories about Dean as well."

(Maybe they still can be, he thinks fondly.)

Dean's pretty sure he deserves a medal at this point. Congrats to Dean Winchester, it will say, for not slaughtering almost everyone at this meeting out of sheer boredom. A bit mouthy, he must admit, but compared to the fact he's been sitting here for too fucking long, it can be forgiven. 

He's not even sure why there is a meeting in the first place. The Righteous Man had stood before the various generals of the King's troops and detailed the message he had received from the Archangels to return. It was short, simple. One could even call it sweet, in some twisted way. The Archangels were never a chatty bunch, to the point really, and Dean liked to follow in suit. 

So why was he still here? Because some bastard had to open his mouth. 

These types of meetings, recaps of their work and soldiers and what will happen next often start civilized (or as civilized as they can be) but each and every time, without a fail, become some sort of metaphorical dick-measuring contest. Everyone comparing what their troops did, comments of others they don’t like… and then if they’re extra lucky (read: fucked), they’ll get a lengthy speech from one of Dean’s favourite Lieutenant generals,  Lt. Gen. Roger. 

If someone’s handing out medals then Dean deserves a medal each and every time he manages to walk out of a room with that man without punching him. That man, if left to his own devices, could spend hours practically waxing poetry about the violence they caused the blood they had shed. Dean wasn’t sure if he even cared about the king, or if the pain and suffering they caused was more his style, and working for the king just made it easier. Whatever it was, Dean wasn’t going to ask Old Red (as he and Benny not-so kindly dubbed him behind his back due to his affinity for the colour) himself. Nor, his three brothers who helped egg him on at times. If he did end up taking the floor and talking, Dean will actually kill someone. Himself, Old Red, a different general… that was all up in the air. Either way, someone was getting hurt. Badly. He is not going to listen to that smug bastard if he doesn’t absolutely have to. 

He looks down at his wrist-comm, trying to maintain his carefully cultivated air of indifference. Gilda hasn’t sent him a message since she arrived at the ruins of the castle, and her silence is driving him almost as mad as the rest of the people in this room. He wants to message her, to ask for an update, but he holds himself back only just. Firstly because Dean knows this will be annoying, and possibly blow her cover, but also because he doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t trust her. He does. More than most of the people here, in fact. It’s one of the reasons why Dean chose her in the first place -- her skills were certainly an additional factor, but ultimately it was because Dean knew Gilda was one of the scarce few who would not immediately go running to anyone and shout of Dean’s treason. 

So Dean forces himself to wait and be patient until she messages. 

At this point, one of the other generals is talking, someone he’s pretty sure is named Dagon. Or Dragon, he didn’t catch the name and hasn’t been bothered to ask for it. He knows they are important, another Lieutenant General, this one under Lucifer’s command, but that’s about it. She’s talking, practically bragging, of her work on the two villages they took down the other day, and from across the table one of the other generals is giving her a warning glare. Lt. Gen. Dagon/Dragon doesn’t seem fazed by the glare, chin high as they smugly speak. 

 Dean sneaks another glance at his wrist-comm. Still no messages. 

He barely suppresses a groan when none other than Major General Abbadon speaks up.  Both a skilled fighter and ruthless with her words, it’s never a dull moment when she joins the dick-measuring contest. It doesn’t matter she’s sitting in on the meeting only as a guest, brought by her commanding officer Lilith after her work during their usurping of a large kingdom on Kaz. 

Dean clears his throat rather pointedly, giving her a look, and Abaddon stares back, almost challenging for a moment in the heat of getting interrupted mid-word, but soon backs down and goes silent. Taking her seat at Lt. Gen. Lilith’s side once more, Dean’s just thankful the fragile pride of several of the commanding officers in the room hasn’t been damaged enough for blood to be drawn. 

“Is there anything else that needs to be discussed?” Dean surveys the faces around the table, letting only some of his boredom show through. “Or have we had enough of wasting my time and are ready to prepare for our departure?” 

He waits for someone to challenge him, for a retort or glare but the others are silent. Good. He doesn’t really enjoy pulling rank, but there are some perks that come with the title of Righteous Man. Plus, when they get on his nerves enough, it’s almost enjoyable to take them down a peg or two. If just because he knows they are all a little wary of him and also several are envious of him. No one objects and he nods. 

His wrist-comm pings as he rises from his chair, and Dean keeps himself from looking down and reading the message. Instead, he addresses the Lieutenants and Majors. “Then we shall depart at five tomorrow morning. Ensure all your soldiers are accounted for, weapons in place, and we will return back to New Lawrence. You are all dismissed.” 

Dean refrains from checking until all of the Lieutenant and Major Generals have left, which is a torturously slow process as some still wish to talk with him while others decide now is apparently the best time to mingle and catch up. It takes far too long before Dean is finally able to leave, where he bumps into Benny. The Major is casually leaning against a pole by the temporary tent, likely waiting for Dean to have finished his meeting. 

“So,” he drawls, pushing off the pole and falling into step with Dean, “How was the meeting? Did Old Red get going again?”

Now Dean groans, letting himself slip out of the Righteous Man persona. “No. Thank god. I don’t know how anyone deals with him as their commander,” he says. “Is Sable as bad?”

“He’s one of the better ones, to be honest, brother," Benny admits with a shrug. 

At this, Dean winces. None of Old Red and his siblings were fun to be around so to hear Benny’s ringing endorsement of him… Dean feels like Benny deserves a drink, and maybe a medal too. 

“Any updates from Gilda?” Benny then asks, keeping his voice low even after they’ve made it a good distance from the tent. 

“Benny,” Dean hisses, the beginning of a warning on his tongue as he glances around. 

Benny reaches over and pats him on the shoulder. “Relax. They’ve all left back to their troops. Saw ‘em and everything.”

Skeptic and cautious, Dean still looks around before eventually checking his wrist-comm to find a single message from Gilda. It’s short and written in code just in case, but he understands the message. She’s managed to free Cas and the two are on their way back to base camp. Dean bites his cheek to hide the smile beginning to form and then looks up to see Benny’s face. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

He gives a glare in return. “You were thinking of it though.” 

Benny opens his mouth to respond before someone calls out for Dean. Turning, he finds himself faced with the Lieutenant General he’s only half certain is named Dagon. “Ah, Lieutenant. What seems to be the problem?”

Internally Dean screaming because he just wants to head back to his room and wait for Gilda to text and let him know they’ve arrived, but apparently, that’s too much to ask for as Lt. Gen. Dagon explains she needs his help with their garrison and some missing weaponry. 

“Of course, lead the way,” he says through gritted teeth, giving a nod to Benny who shoots him back a sympathetic look. Something tells Dean it’s going to be a long, long night. 

Dagon isn’t the only one who needs his help and Dean finds himself moving from one camp to the next, listening to commanders drone on and on about things that are trivial to Dean while an unread message sits on his wrist-comm from Gilda. He knows at this point she’s returned with Cas, and Dean hates that he can’t go and see them yet. Trying to be diplomatic, Dean listens and talks with the others all while cursing each and every one of them a slow and painful death. 

He doesn't understand why they all suddenly are helpless, as well as why they hadn't voiced these problems earlier at the meeting. Pride? Perhaps. Or maybe, an annoyed voice in his head chimes, because they just want to make him miserable. If it is the latter, then they are succeeding quite well.

Eventually, after what feels like years, he has a breather and a chance to read Gilda's message that informs him that they are in Benny’s room. Then he counts to fifteen in his head, challenging someone to come up and bother him. After getting to fifteen successfully without a single interruption, Dean marches to Benny’s quarters. No one stops him, and most of the lower-ranking soldiers all look down or away as Dean passes, too frightened to try and stop the Righteous Man in what they believe is important business.

(It is.)

He arrives at Benny’s door and knocks swiftly once, before pausing and giving three quick sharp raps to let them know it’s him and not someone else. He can faintly hear shuffling before Gilda opens the door a crack and peers out at him. 

“Hey, stranger.” She smiles, and opens the door fully, ushering him in quickly. 

Dean slips past and as the door shuts behind him, he looks over at the bed and oh . There, sat at the edge, is Cas. His face is no longer covered in dirt and grime, and he’s dressed in a uniform similar to Gilda’s. And he’s smiling. So wide, it should be painful. 

“Cas,” he breathes, feeling as if time itself has stopped. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

He’s on his feet in an instant while Dean crosses the room in three large strides, and it’s hard to tell who closes the gap between them. All Dean knows is suddenly he’s holding Cas in his arms, hands on shoulders, on arms, on cheeks. And he’s kissing him. 

It’s like nothing Dean imagined and also everything. He did not grow up on fairytales, on royalty in distress needing saving and charming princes', on imagining happily ever afters. But he remembers asking his mother once, after overhearing some of the other girls from noble families who were giggling and gushing over crushes and the like, what love was like. He had been ten, or perhaps eleven at the time, and his mother had paused her sewing at the question. 

"What is love like?" Mary Winchester had repeated back, and Dean had nodded. 

He had not understood what the girls had been going on and on about, and his mother had always been so smart and had always seemed to know the answer to any and all of the questions his brother would ask. So, he surmised, she must know this one too. After all, she loved his father, and she would always make sure to say how much she loved him and his brother. 

"Well," she began after a pause, picking words carefully, " love is warm. It feels small some days, and so large others that it seems to sweep you off your feet." She shifted on the bench and patted the now empty spot beside her for Dean to sit with her. Then confessed, " Love isn't always gentle and sweet though. Sometimes it hurts, sharp and fierce, and other times it may sting or burn, but when it is gentle? It's sweet, like syrup, like the breeze." 

" What if I can't find it?" 

She smiled and pulled Dean close. " You will, one day." His mother had uttered it with such certainty, the certainty all mothers have that makes you never once question their knowledge. " Love can be hard to find sometimes because it can come in so many forms. But you, my sunlight, will find it. And when you do, you will know, and no one will ever be able to take it away from you."

He thinks this is what his mother meant. Dean melts into the kiss, feeling everything sharp and harsh about him becoming soft. Holding Cas, he thinks he could stay here forever, happy to let the world continue moving without him. He has all he needs right here, held in his arms.

It all ends too soon. 

Mortal as they are, they still need to breathe, and it's with great reluctance he pulls away. 

They don't move far though. He has his forehead pressed to Cas', feeling his breath warm on his cheek. Dean's mind is reeling at it all, leaving him fuzzy and dizzy and vulnerable. He's never felt like this before, and before he can fully process it all, a joke slips out. 

"Missed me that much, huh?" 

He ignores the fact he instigated the kiss. Cas does too, as rolls his eyes and swats Dean’s shoulder. "Oh shut up." There is no heat to his words, just fondness. Dean can imagine him trying not to smile, eyes crinkling at the corners despite his best efforts. 

He wants to make Cas smile, to see it every day. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Gilda slips out of the room. He has a feeling she’s gone to find Benny, likely to gossip or something, but he hardly minds. He has Cas here, and at the moment that is all that matters. 

(He’ll thank her later, once they’re all settled as well.)

Dean basks in the fact that Cas is standing here before him, that he is no longer out of reach and behind bars. With his thumb, he rubs against Cas’ cheekbone, marvelling at the feel of his stubble. He likely shaved while with Gilda waiting for him, and he’s even more handsome somehow without the scraggly beard. Dean wants to stay like this forever, suspended in time, just the two of them. No king, no duties or demands, nothing. Just Cas. 

He leans down to kiss him again, this one slow and languid. Just because he can. Cas doesn’t seem to mind, returning the kiss, and it’s only when they pull away that time does Dean say, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come and get you.”

He wants to let Cas know he wants to. Badly. If given the chance, Dean would’ve ditched everything he had to do today and left the moment he woke to ensure he would free Cas. Without hesitation. Please know I didn’t want to leave you behind, he tries to convey. Please know I would’ve come. 

“It’s okay,” Cas reassures. “Gilda explained why you couldn’t. But you’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

If it were anyone else Dean might accuse them of being a sap, teasing and joking to make light of it all. With Cas though, the thought doesn’t even occur in his mind. 

“You’re stuck with me now, Cas. I’m not leaving.” He pauses, uncertain. “Unless, of course, you don’t want me to?” Dean hopes he isn’t reading this all wrong, that isn’t jumping to conclusions just because they kissed. Several times. Cas might not want him to go with him, might want to end things the moment they step foot on New Lawrence. 

“I want you to stay.” 

He is unwavering, sure, and it threatens to knock Dean off his feet. 

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Right, uh. Right, yeah.”

Cas laughs, and Dean thinks he falls in love a bit more at the sound of it. It should be ridiculous how easily he’s fallen for Cas, how quickly. Dean’s never once felt this way before for anyone, casual fleeting flings being only that, and his reputation offers little chance for those to want to get close to him. But Cas does, despite it all. In spite of it all. He wants Dean to stick by his side, possibly for forever (or however long they have) and the thrill of it all is addicting, possibly far more than the battlefield ever has. 

He can clearly picture the first time he held a weapon. He was eight and it was his father’s left on the table for just a moment. Dean had found it while he and Sam were playing, and despite how heavy it had been, had picked it up and swung it. Their mother and father had found the two of them giggling, Dean, weapon in hand, and his mother had gone pale, rushing to pull it from his hand. His father had just looked proud, even after being scolded hard by their mother for his carelessness and forced to sleep in one of the guest rooms, and Dean could remember how it felt to hold that sword. It had been heavy, odd, and unfamiliar as too-small fingers curled around the hilt. Age and time had made it more familiar, more of a comforting weight in his hand, but Dean thinks, if he is to compare it to how it feels to hold Cas’ cheek in his hand, to cup the back of his head, he thinks this is right. It is a comfort he welcomes more easily than any blade, a warmth he prefers over any blaster. 

“You’re doing okay, yeah?” He scans his face carefully, pulling away so that he can get a proper look. He hadn’t been able to come by earlier with food, and he knows time hasn’t been kind to Cas while down in the dungeons. 

“I am. Are you?” 

“I’m better you’re here now.” Instantly he cringes at how sappy that comment is, lacking the flirty tone Dean knows all too well. Cas, if as embarrassed by that as Dean is, doesn’t show it. His ears do go pink at the tips, and he counts that as a win. 

The two stay like that, held in each other’s embrace. Then Cas says, “We should talk.”

Like a bubble burst, Dean feels cold and he takes a step back in shock. 

“It’s not bad!” Cas quickly adds. “Just about what happens next. About us.”

Dean nods, relieved. For a moment there, he thought the worst, that this was all coming crashing down and he would lose this. Judging by the panic on Cas’ face, he supposes Cas might’ve thought similar. They sit on Benny’s bed, knees brushing, shoulders touching. While not small, there is plenty of room for them to sit without touching, but Dean can’t bring himself to even humour that idea. 

“So…” Cas begins, unsure. Whether he’s waiting for Dean to say something or he’s just not sure where to start, Dean doesn’t know but eventually, he continues with, “What happens now?”

“Well right now we head back to New Lawrence,” he tells Cas, unable to help himself and that earns him another smack. 

“Ass. I know that. I mean afterward. After we land in New Lawrence. Then what?”

Dean thinks carefully. “I guess it’s completely up to you. You can stay, if you want. I meant that when I said you could stay in New Lawrence, with me. It’s just me and my brother and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind another person.”

“But I’d never be able to leave.” Cas points it out matter-of-factly, and Dean shakes his head. 

“No. You won’t.” They’re too close to the king, and too many eyes are on Dean there. Cas would likely spend his days locked away, having traded one prison for the next, only this time with better company. Looking at Cas, Dean knows it isn’t fair. He doesn’t deserve that. “What about if you go elsewhere? Beyond New Lawrence?” 

They had talked about it once, days prior, when Dean had first asked Cas what he wanted to do the moment he was free. They had spent the time thinking of possibilities, some of which were possible, others utterly fantastical. “You could see the stars. And besides, there’s other planets or moons out there, ones the king probably isn’t even aware of.”

“I guess…” Cas trails off, thinking of the idea. “It does sound nice. But what about you?”

“Me?” Dean echoes. 

“I wasn’t lying when I wanted you to stay.” He sighed, shifting impossibly closer. “I know we don’t know each other very well, and I know this all feels so sudden, but what if we left, together? I don’t want to leave you behind.”

Dean swallows. “Oh. I, uh. You sure, Cas? I’m nasty work at times. Snore even.” He cracks a smile, but it falters when Cas reaches over and takes his hand.

“Can’t be that bad. I slept in a damn dungeon with spiders and rats. Snoring might be a bonus.”

“The king won’t be happy. He’ll likely try to find me,” Dean counters. 

"Then we keep moving. Travel the stars, find someplace so out of the King's grasp that no one knows who we are or where we are from."

"You really think that could work?"

Cas shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. But it's worth a try, isn't it?" 

He looks at Dean, hopeful, and fuck, Dean loves him. 

Dean nods, "Let's do it. You and me. We can lay low for a bit in New Lawrence, make sure the king isn't suspicious, and then grab a star jumper, pick a direction, and just go." 

He watches how Cas brightens at that, and Dean can't help but want to kiss him. He imagines the two of them elsewhere, far beyond the King's grasp, hopping from village to village, vagabonds without a care in the world. They'll do odd jobs, make friends all over, and when they get bored of a place, leave back to the stars to find someplace else. No need to stress of what life may bring. They'll just be two runaways: an ex-prince, and a deserter to the crown, and they'll be whoever they want to be. 

He can picture them, older, settling in a small house, maybe on one of the moons of Nova Yore or Maie. They won't run anymore, and maybe they'll have a garden and befriend neighbours, and fuck it, keep bees or something, he doesn't know. All he knows is that he wants to be with Cas, in any way, shape, or form, and he'll go wherever he wants. 

Dean never allowed himself to be impulsive. Impulse gets you killed. The Righteous Man plans everything, is calculated and knows what it's doing. But Dean doesn't mind this, the spontaneity of it all. He wants to tell Cas all of this -- that he'll travel the stars forever with him, or settle down in the first place they find, or that he'll bounce from place to place with no rhyme and reason. He wants to tell him how he pictures them growing old, after years of sharing beers and knowing looks during stories about inside jokes no one could ever understand but them, and he wants to tell him how he doesn't think he could ever grow sick of Cas. 

He doesn't say any of that though. What he tells Cas instead is: "Marry me."

Almost immediately he winces. Cas stares owlishly, eyes wide, and all Dean can think is great job idiot you definitely are going to send him running the moment you land on New Lawrence. Jumping from hesitation headfirst into a marriage proposal, if Dean was sending confused signals to Cas at any point it’d be now. He curses his big dumb mouth for saying probably one of the worst things possible in the moment, save just below insulting Cas’ (very much dead) family

He goes to take it all back, to try and shove the damning words back in his throat and hope that Cas didn't hear him (he did), that he won't say no (he might). Dean, however, doesn't expect Cas to say yes. 

"I -- wait, what?"

Cas repeats, "Yes. I'll marry you."

A laugh of disbelief and surprise slips past Dean's lips and with his free hand, he runs it through his hair. "You really mean it? I wouldn't be mad if you said no."

"I mean it. I love you, Dean. And if this all goes to hell and we die tomorrow or next week, then I want you to have been by my side. And even if we don't, that still doesn't change my answer."

"Okay. Okay," Dean can't believe it all, can't fully process it beyond the giddy glee he feels. Twenty four hours ago, he wasn't even married. Less than a week ago, he hadn't even known Cas. He knows what his brother might say, what Benny or anyone else might say. He doesn't care though. He wants this, more than he thinks he's ever wanted anything, and no one is going to stop him. 

He grins, wide and toothy, and Cas returns it, just as brilliant and bright. This feels right. 

Sat upon his throne, King Michael stares down at his people in boredom. He can feel their fear, their terror, and while he certainly revels in it, it's grown… stale. Old. Even the joy he's felt from all that he possesses and has conquered is lackluster. His troops have returned from their mission, albeit taking longer than expected, and while he does enjoy the fact he has possession of more land, more riches, it does not fill the need in his chest. He still feels it, gnawing and hungry, and he wants more. More riches, more land, more power. 

Gazing at the troops gathered below, he finds himself disappointed by them. They are so small, so fragile. Strong, yes, but it takes them far too long to accomplish their tasks. In the same time they do so, his Righteous Man has already done twice as much, and he is as mortal as they are. Michael remembers when the boy first joined, scrawny and insignificant as the rest. And yet, how quickly he did climb. He took to it so easily like breathing, blossoming before the king’s eyes. That was a soldier worthy of being part of Michael’s forces, worthy of fulfilling Michael’s needs. His Righteous Man did not dawdle like the others, did not bemoan or grumble at his tasks. No, his Righteous Man did as it was commanded, and did so well. 

Michael had kept his eye on his Righteous Man -- as well as his brother, but for different reasons -- for some time now, and it seemed that he may be the solution to the king’s dissatisfaction and boredom. His Righteous Man was a formidable force, unstoppable once given orders, and to have a whole troop comprised of soldiers like that… well, he’d be unstoppable himself. But training could not achieve that. No, they did not possess the skill, the strength, the cunningness of his Righteous Man, and to try and build that would be too time-consuming. And even then, it could not guarantee the results the king wanted. In short, it was too risky.

Rather, if he did want to possess an army of brilliant killing machines, he would need to create it. From scratch. If they were built with the necessary qualities and abilities there would be no need for worry or error. They could be exactly as he wished, an unholy hoard all of the caliber of his Righteous Man, with him at the helm of it all. 

He smiles, quite liking the mental image of it all. The power he would have -- oh if they didn’t fear him now they would soon. Michael calls for his three Archangels at once, and as they stand before his throne, he demands for Lucifer and Gabriel to bring him his Righteous Man. He cannot achieve his goals without it, as it is such a key part. Then, once they leave, he turns to Raphael and states that he needs him to fetch the best scientists and doctors in New Lawrence. 

“Engineers as well, if you must,” he adds, and Raphael nods once. 

After the Archangels are all gone, Michael returns his hungry gaze back down to his people, his forces, and does not feel bored. Instead, he feels glee.

Chapter Text

There is a monster in the mirror.

It is an ugly, twisted thing, all sharp and ragged edges. It is a monster that does not smile, cannot smile actually -- monsters don’t know how to. All it knows is how to bare its teeth like a savage, hungry beast. It snarls and snaps, a warning and a threat wrapped up in every movement, and it has only one goal: to take. The monster in the mirror knows only how to take, and take, and take. It is a greedy, hungry thing that takes until there is nothing left, and hurts all that come close. 

Dean stares at his reflection and does not recognize it. He wants to, wants to meet his reflection’s gaze and have a part of his brain say Oh, that’s me. But he can’t. Not when the thing that stares back is so unfamiliar and cold. 

He wonders if this is what everyone else sees when they look at him. Must be, if their stares and whispers are anything to go by. They glare at him in the streets when they think he isn’t looking, and shy away when he gets too close. To them, Dean is just as bad as the king, a walking plague just waiting to spread and infect the unsuspecting. Many don’t look him in the eyes -- perhaps they believe if they do he will steal their soul and eat them -- but those that do, the braver few, do so with malice. 

Regardless of whether or not they meet his gaze, they will not talk to him. They will move around him, or wait, modifying their routines and lives so that they do not have to interact with him. And if Dean tries to utter a word to them? It is as if they do not hear a thing. He is both visible and invisible in their eyes, depending on which is more convenient in the moment. 

It stings.  Each interaction is like a new wound, an additional knife that gets twisted deeper and deeper into Dean’s flesh, leaving him pockmarked and scarred. He’s not sure which hurts more: when they ignore him, or when they cower in fear. Maybe there is no difference in the pain, maybe they both hurt the same. He can’t tell though, it’s been so long that it has left him feeling like one large, festering wound, reopened so often it is impossible now for it to heal properly.

He tells himself it doesn’t bother him. They can judge all they want, have their own thoughts and opinions on what he does. Dean knows he has enough himself. Besides, he has friends, he has people who care about him. He doesn’t need to win their affection as well. His brother is enough, Cas is enough, his scarce few friends are enough. So he ignores their whispers in public, ignores their cowering, ignores the sharp barbs they occasionally throw. He becomes quite good at ignoring what they say about him, and if he does eventually let it all hit him in the privacy of his room, well, that is for Dean alone to know. 

(He will not let them see how it affects him, how true their words are.)

(He cannot let them know he agrees.)

Standing before the mirror, Dean wonders if Cas ever sees him like this. Has he ever seen Dean’s rotten, twisted core, seen his fingers soaked scarlet from the blood? What about his cruelty, his anger? He knows that is all everyone sees him as, he’s accepted that. Accepted that he will never be able to separate himself from that image or his actions. They are a second skin, sown so snug that cutting it away would skin him bare. But Dean wonders if Cas has seen it too. He knows Cas doesn’t ignore that part of him, cannot turn a blind eye to the horrors Dean’s hands have caused, and yet, somehow, somehow , he doesn’t react the way the others do. 

Unlike everyone else, Cas accepts that wickedness. He accepts that rotten part of Dean that he himself hates so fiercely, and loves him anyways. It stunned Dean in the beginning, and he had chalked it up to something fleeting, something conditional. He had spent the last week in conflict, torn between love and waiting for the metaphorical shoe to drop, for Cas to realize this is a mistake. But it does not happen, has not happened, and it leaves Dean winded, fumbling. He had never thought it possible for someone who even knowing who and what he is, to love him. Dean, despite liking the idea, had resigned himself to it never happening himself. His friends could have it, his brother could have it. Not Dean. 

And yet. 

And yet.

Cas loves him. Despite it all. It leaves Dean reeling. 

(He didn’t think he was allowed to have this.)

He stares at his reflection and wonders what it is that makes Cas want to stay, what it is that makes him choose to stay. 

He tries to smile.

His reflection snarls, mouth twisted and baring its teeth. 

Dean swallows and stares, trying to find some recognition. There must be something, he tells himself. He knows Cas isn’t an idiot, there must be a reason he likes Dean. There must be a reason he wants to marry him, even. Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then he opens them and tries again. 

He smiles. 

His reflection smiles back.

For a moment, the thing in the mirror does not look like the Righteous Man, the killing machine of the Mad King. For a moment, it looks like Dean, the man who in a few hours will stand before his friends and pledge his heart to the man he loves (to the man who somehow loves him back). His reflection looks like someone who can be kind. Soft, even. 

It terrifies him. 

Dean knows what he is, knows what he has done. Is this what Cas sees when he looks at Dean? Is it possible he has tricked Cas, made him believe the man in the mirror, the one who can smile without baring its teeth, can be kind? 

Because if so, if that is the case, then will Cas realize it? Will some time separated, away from the fear of permanent imprisonment and dying alone, make Cas finally see Dean the way the others all do? 

(The way he does?)

Dean can picture it, fears now running rampant: standing at the altar, all jittering nerves as the music plays to announce Cas’ entrance. Then comes Cas, smiling, looking stunning. He is smiling, bright, wide, all the way until he reaches the altar. Where Dean is. Then he sees what can only be a distorted parody of a smile on Dean’s face, all gnarled and sharp with too many teeth. He will flinch away when Dean reaches for his hands, fingers bloody and gore-stained, and the next moments will happen all too quickly. Cas fleeing, eyes wide in horror as he finally sees the monster before him that has been masquerading as something human. The guests in the pews who send Dean sad but knowing looks, pity, and relief stark on their faces. 

Pity, for Dean, thinking he could have a thing like this; Relief for Cas to not be wed to such a thing like him. 

In this scenario, Cas will shoulder past King Michael, who stands at the church doors, a knowing grin on his face, smug, proud. It is the type that says you always knew it would be like this. Whatever happened, whatever you did, you knew it would always end up the same. 

And Dean will only be able to agree, standing there at the altar, wishing he had, in fact, sold away his heart like they all say. 

Dean swallows thickly, trying to banish the scene from his mind. 

(It will come back again, he knows this. He sees it every time he goes to sleep, especially now.) 

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and he tries to tell himself that it will not happen. He tells himself that Cas loves him, despite all of it. Dean repeats this, over and over, because eventually, it has to stick. Eventually, it has to sink into his mind and be the truth. 

(It has to.)

( It has to.)

He turns away from the reflection that smiles sweetly and snarls, and looks out the window at the familiar landscape of New Lawrence.  Old stone buildings with gleaming bits of metal and glass stare back, and it is a comforting sight, one he’s known since he was a child. Dean knows this city’s layout like the back of his hand, and he was always convinced he would live here for forever, walking the same roads until he died. It made sense -- here is where the king is, where Dean has been useful. His life never left him with options to live elsewhere, to travel beyond the missions he receives. 

And yet, today is his last day here. 

By tomorrow he will be aboard a small star jumper, speeding away from all he’s known with Cas at his side. New Lawrence will be long gone from view, Kaz only a blip on their radar, and he doesn’t find himself regretting that. Despite living here his whole life, Dean holds only minimal fondness for this place, for this whole planet even. He will miss his brother, miss what is left of his family here, but that’s it. It is duty that has kept Dean here as long as he has, he thinks. New Lawrence’s presence has only choked him for years, pressing down upon him with the promise to crush, and he is certain if he stays, all that will remain is that monstrous thing in the mirror. 

Besides, Cas cannot stay here, not if he wishes to live the rest of his life, fearful of each knock at the door in case it brings with it a death sentence. So they will leave. Together. Tomorrow. 

Dean wonders if he is doing the right thing. If any of this is the right thing. 

His eyes flint to where he knows the ruins of the old church is, located on the outskirts of the city, barely visible amidst the towering buildings. In a few hours, he will be standing there, and one of two things will happen. Either he will recite his vows to his soon-to-be husband, and they will be wed, or Cas will leave him heartbroken at the altar as he flees, having realized this was all a mistake and that Dean isn’t worthy of love. 

His mind, a wicked and cruel thing, conjures back up the image of the king’s haunting grin. Dean knows there is more at stake than a broken heart. From the moment he spared Cas’ life in that prison cell and then subsequently returned, he has signed a death wish he cannot walk away from. King Michael has killed others for less, and Dean, with his ranking and visibility defying the king? His death would be slow, a public execution for all to see as a warning, a promise of what is to come for traitors. 

And Cas? Cas will die too, likely painfully. 

Sighing, Dean rubs his face. He can’t do that to Cas, can’t mix him up in all of this more than he already is. Dean’s fine with dying, with suffering whatever gruesome fate the king has in mind for him if he gets caught. Hell, he’s okay with it even. Because Dean’s walked countless battlefields, has slaughtered hundreds, and he’s lived his whole life convinced the only thing he has coming for him is a moss-covered gravestone. 

But he would never forgive himself if something happened to Cas. 

Maybe I should call this off, save us both the grief, he decides, looking back at his reflection. Then Cas won’t have to wake up one day and realize he married a monster. Then Dean won’t have to live with maybe losing Cas. 

It’s funny, of all the things he’s afraid of, it’s losing one man. Not death, not pain, just one man. The same man who by midnight tonight might just leave anyway. 

A sudden but quick knock knock comes from the door, and within seconds, Dean is alert. Heart racing, he reaches for his hip where his sword normally sits. His hand grasps empty air, and so in a split second, he grabs the dagger from his desk drawer, all without taking his eyes off the door. He doesn’t let the fact that he doesn’t have a weapon immediately on him throw him off guard too much. The door opens, and Sam pokes his head. 

Dean exhales heavily, some of his tension draining. “Shit, Sammy, you couldn’t have given me a bit of a heads up?” 

Sam has the decency to look a bit chastised. “Oops,” he says, moving into the room and shutting the door behind. 

“You’re lucky I didn’t decide to kick down that door and stab you or something.” Dean huffs before dropping the blade on the desk. His fingers miss it almost immediately, but he ignores the comfort holding it brings. It’s just his brother, he can trust him. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam brushes it off with an eye roll and walks over to his brother. “So, nervous about tonight?” He asks, an easy smile on his face. When Dean doesn’t answer, Sam’s smile falters. “It’ll be fine, Dean.”

“And if it isn’t?” 

Sam frowns. “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet, now. Look, if it’s something someone said,” he begins, and Dean shakes his head. 

“No, it’s just. Sammy, what if this all goes wrong? I mean c’mon, we all know between the two of us, you’re the type to get married. I’m, well,” Dean gestured to himself, shoulders slumping. He looks away. “Maybe it’s better if we don’t do this.”

“You don’t have to marry Cas if you don’t want to Dean. I’m sure he’ll understand if you feel this is all happening too fast.” Sam moves closer to his brother, leaning against the desk. “But that’s not what this is about, is it?”

Dean shrugs, and Sam gives him a Look, one of the few Dean’s all too accustomed to that calls him out on his bullshit without saying a word. People think it’s a twin thing and that the two of them are able to read their minds, but really they’re just good at reading body language. Plus Sam is scarily good at conveying what he feels through a single expression or look. It’s won them a few games against a few folks in the court both young and old, but when it’s turned on Dean he’s not so fond of it. 

“Cas is a prince, Sammy. Doesn’t matter if his kingdom is gone or not, he’s important. And he’s a good person. One of the best, really,” Dean scoffs.

“And you’re not?”

He shoots his brother an unamused look that basically says are you fucking with me?   “Sam I’m literally the highest-ranking soldier on the King’s forces below the Archangels who are literally more machine than people,” he deadpans. “People speculate I’m part-machine myself. I’m the reason Cas’ people are dead, should I go on and list further why I’m not a good person?”

Dean’s words are laced with sarcasm, and he crosses his arms across his chest, as if daring Sam to argue against what he says. 

“You had no choice in that.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Everyone has a choice, Sammy. I could have walked away at any point.”

“Yeah, and you would’ve died!” Sam retorts, glaring at his brother as if Dean is the idiot between the two of them. 

“So what? I stay and hundreds of others die in my place?” Dean snaps back. “You realize how stupid that sounds?” 

“Fine. Fine, okay, maybe you did have a choice. But I still think you’re able to be a good person, Dean, no matter what others think. I know you say you don’t let all that get to you but I know it does and a good person, someone who cares wouldn’t be affected by that. A bad person doesn’t feel guilty by the harm they cause to others.” Sam sighs, reigning in his frustration and anger. “I don’t want to fight with you, especially not today. Because I know you, Dean. I know how you think. You’re nervous, and you’ve been running through all that crap you’ve heard people say about you while being alone with yourself, trying to convince yourself you’re not worthy of any of this. All because you think it’s easier to self-sabotage yourself than let yourself think you can be happy or have nice things for once.”

Ouch , Dean thinks with a wince. Way to sugarcoat it, Sammy.

“But you’re not a machine. You’re not heartless. You care and you hurt and you are more than just your actions. And Cas knows that too. Someone who was heartless or cruel would have killed him, or even would have left him to rot in that prison cell. You didn’t. So whether you believe it or not, you deserve to be happy Dean. And if that means marrying Cas and running away and being, I don’t know, farmers or lame then do it. Because Cas loves you, and you love him. So much,” Sam says, honesty coating each and every word. With anyone else, Dean would call bullshit, but he can’t with his brother. 

So instead the words linger, and Dean fiddles with his suit jacket. “I’m poison, Sam. I hurt everyone I touch,” he confesses. “What if Cas realizes that too? What if he looks at me and changes his mind?” The words are barely a whisper, Dean’s own anger gone too. 

“First off, I think he’s so far gone for you dude that that’s literally impossible,” Sam shoots back without hesitation. “I’m honestly impressed the two of you even managed to come back and not elope and run away sooner.”

At this, Dean chuckles despite himself and Sam gives a wry smile.

“But,” he continues, “If that does happen, and this is a big if , then that’s Cas’ fault and not yours. You still deserve to be happy, and to be in love, whether it’s with Cas or someone else. And if I have to keep reminding you about that every day, you bet your ass I will.”

“You practice that speech in the mirror or something?” Dean jokes, because he can only do so much talking about emotions before it becomes too much, and Sam shoves him hard. Still, Dean is grateful for his brother and his words. 

Sam, understanding the deflection, grins. “Someone’s got to. Consider it my pre-best man speech.”

“Bit bold of you to assume I haven’t already changed my mind on that and chose someone else.”

“As if you can try,” Sam says without any heat. “Now we only have a few hours to fix your ugly mug so Cas doesn’t run screaming the moment he sees it.”

The sun has long since set by the time they leave. The city is as quiet as it can be, and though they know the Archangels aren’t patrolling tonight, they still are cautious. After all, the last thing they need is someone finding out and alerting the king’s forces. So they move carefully, using only the stars and moonlight to guide them as they move first by foot out of the inner city circle. Their carriage awaits just beyond, small and unassuming, and as they make their way towards it, Dean moves with bated breath. His ears are strained to try and find even the faintest of noises, on edge. If a single of the nobles were to look out their windows and spot them, it’s all over. 

His stress does ease slightly as they arrive at the carriage. The driver, a man with dark hair who is neither tall nor too short, leans against the door. He flashes them a grin, and in the pale lighting, Dean can see how his metal eyes glint. A horse, a sleek creature of bronze, huffs, and the driver reaches over to give it a gentle pat on the snout. The driver then moves, opening the door with a flourish just a tad bit theatrical for Dean’s taste, and allows the two brothers to climb in. Before Dean can sit fully the door is closed with barely a whisper, and the driver ascends to his spot, clicking his tongue to alert the horse. 

Almost immediately they’re off, speeding through the winding, narrow streets of the outer city’s circle. The windows in the carriage are mostly covered but Dean can catch glimpses of buildings passing by, their dark empty windows glaring down at Dean with judgement. Before he can humour the idea of what their inhabitants might think of him, Sam reaches over and places a steady hand on his shoulder. 

“It’ll be okay,” his brother whispers and Dean nods. 

He repeats those words in his head as the city blurs past, and doesn’t stop until they reach the church. The driver stops the horse and gives a single knock to the carriage top. Sam climbs out first, glancing around cautiously before turning back to Dean and nodding once. Then Dean climbs out. 

He looks over at the driver, who winks, one mechanical eye shuttering closed then open like an old-fashioned camera. “Don’t worry, if anyone asks, I never saw either of you,” the driver reassures in a smooth voice with an accent Dean can’t quite place. “Congrats by the way.”

Truthfully, Dean wasn't expecting the driver to promise secrecy, but he appreciated it. “Thank you.”

The driver grins, and with a click of his tongue, the horse takes off, leaving Sam and Dean behind. 

“C’mon,” Sam then says, fiddling with the device on his wrist. “We don’t have much time until Cas and Gilda arrive, and the others are already inside waiting.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

Walking inside, Dean hadn’t expected much. The place had been abandoned for centuries -- probably since the early years of King Michael’s reign -- with half the roof missing and some of the windows broken. Whoever had been tasked with cleaning the place up had done such a good job Dean pauses for a moment to take it all in. The debris and bits of plant life that had crept in were long gone, and the pews were arranged in some semblance of order. Blue and white sheer fabric had been strung connecting the rows on each side to bring some colour, and lit candles cast a warm glow from their places on window ledges and flagstones. At the front behind the altar stood a large stained glass piece, with a few panes missing. The moon was peeking through, and for a second, Dean could pretend this was under a different circumstance. This looks like a wedding fit for a prince, not for a wedding thrown quickly together to be performed in secret. 

While a small affair, from where he stands Dean can recognize the faces of his friends in the pews. He smiles, and more of his worries slip away as they murmur amongst themselves. There is no pity, no anger here, and when the music starts -- a sweet violin -- he doesn’t flinch at their gazes. Instead, they settle warm, kindly, as he walks calmly towards the front of the room. For once, Dean does not feel as if he is marching off to battle. Rather, he has shed the title of the Righteous Man at the church’s doors. The violin music is soft, sweet, so unlike the harsh call of war. It wraps over him like an embrace, settling rather than choking, and there is no cloying smell of rot and decay in the air. Here he is just Dean, the man who is in love, not a weapon of the Mad King. 

When Dean reaches the front, he stops, giving a quick acknowledgment to the officiant. Then he turns, angling his body to look over at the doors, waiting for Cas to appear. Though separated for only a day at best, it has felt like much longer. His wait isn’t much longer, thankfully, as the music swells and changes. The doors then open and standing there, backlit by the night sky, is Cas. 

The sight of his soon-to-be husband takes his breath away. The church’s beauty now pales in comparison to him, as Cas begins walking down the aisle in his blue suit. The light from the candles hit the silvery accents on his suit and they glow as if moonlight itself is woven into the fabric. A silvery dusting is visible in his hair as he gets closer, and Dean feels utterly plain in his white suit. Cas, in this very moment, looks ethereal, and Dean can’t look away. Everything else around them is muted, and Dean smiles so wide he knows his cheeks will hurt later. 

It doesn’t matter though as Cas moves closer, regal as ever, practically floating down the aisle. Dean’s fingers itch to hold his, and for a moment, marvels at how wonderful it is, to have fingers longing to hold another hand, not a weapon. It is only through willpower alone that keeps Dean from meeting Cas and sweeping him up in his arms. The walk, though short, feels like years, and finally, finally, Cas is standing before him. 

Cas smiles, brilliant, wide, and takes his hands. The moment their hands meet, everything falls into place, slotting together so easily and so perfectly Dean curses himself for ever doubting this might be a mistake. 

“Hey Cinders,” he says softly, just for Cas alone to hear. He knows Cas finds the nickname foolish, he told Dean himself on his third visit, but Dean can’t help it. And he knows Cas doesn’t mind it as much as he pretends to if the playful eye roll is any indication. 

“Hello to you too.” 

Dean is tempted to lean forward and kiss him but stops only just. He knows he will have time to do so soon once they are officially married at midnight, and then at every moment afterwards. So he squeezes Cas’ hands instead and looks over at the officiant. Throughout the ceremony Dean’s eyes drift back to Cas, taking in every detail of his face, of his smile. He wants to remember this moment until the day he dies and confesses that to Cas during his vows moments afterwards. After comes the rings, and from afar they sit in their box like fresh fallen snow, pure and white. 

He hesitates only briefly when told to take one, afraid it will break with a single touch, but the ring is sturdy in his hand, strong despite its fragile appearance. He places it on Cas’ finger, and once placed, the white is replaced with a glowing dark red. Dean’s ring soon follows suit, and he stares at them with surprise. At first, the colour reminds Dean of blood, and it conjures up images of death and destruction. But, with Cas wearing a matching scarlet ring, Dean realizes it can be something softer, gentler.  It can be the colour of their love, of their dedication to each other. It can be the colour of happiness for once.  

I love you , Cas whispers, taking his hand once more, and with two minutes to midnight, Dean whispers it back. 

The officiant closes the ceremony with a few words before preparing to announce themselves married, and Dean finds himself utterly at peace. They will be okay, and the king cannot touch them. Not here. Not ever. 

And then the church doors burst open with a thunderous boom.

Chapter Text

To pinpoint exactly when it all dissolved into chaos is difficult, though Dean thinks it happens after the doors burst open and the soldiers open fire. Still, it happens so quickly, violin music abruptly silenced and replaced with the sharp cry of gunfire, and screams following soon after. All he knows is that within the blink of an eye, soldiers storm through wearing armour Dean is all too familiar with, with an Archangel just beyond the entrance. 

His heart drops. 

It is like time slows down around them, growing sluggish as the joyous crowd dissolves into panicked shrieks with wedding-goers fleeing and ducking behind pews in efforts to dodge the bullets that whiz by. Their fear is tangible, heavy in the air, and Dean wishes he could share their panic. But his mind hums at the noise, at the panic, and it feels almost… no.  

He banishes that train of thought. Dean reaches then for his own weapon upon instinct, level-headed despite the chaos around him, but again, comes up empty-handed. Fingers curl around the air, and he realizes all too quickly his sword is not at his hip, but instead left behind in his room miles away. One could almost compare it to earlier, though the big difference is this: there is no dagger close by to grab as a backup weapon. His dagger was left as well, as is the pistol he normally keeps close. 

For the first time in far too long, Dean has been caught empty-handed and completely, utterly, vulnerable. 

Horror washes over Dean, and he grabs Cas’ hand, tugging the two of them behind the altar. 

It’s a thick, sturdy stone, and it’s tall enough to offer some coverage and protection -- but not for long.

“ Fuck ,” he hisses. Over the gunfire, Dean can hear how their wedding guests are unsuccessful in their flights, bodies hitting the ground with familiar thuds. They are shown no mercy as the soldiers march down the aisle, weapons hot in their hands. 

(He can’t say he’s surprised by that one bit if he’s honest.)

Mixing and mingling with the fear is the heady spell of blood and gunpowder, a smell that’s followed Dean for years, permanently marring all of his uniforms. Crouched behind the altar with Cas at his side, Dean knows with utter clarity that the soldiers are here for him. How the king found out, he doesn’t know. They had been so careful, so cautious every step of the way, but apparently it mattered little. They are here -- with an Archangel! -- and he knows they will stop at nothing until Dean is in their possession. Be it that they have to kill one person or each and every person in the church, Cas included. They are here on a retrieval, and they will get what they are to retrieve. 

Cas clings to Dean, his smile replaced with stark terror. He flinches as the gunfire grows closer, hand tightening around Dean’s, and the sight of it all fills Dean with rage. They were supposed to be happy, supposed to be free of all of this, Cas especially. His husband deserved to not keep living in fear, and yet, here with the king, not satisfied with all the pain and terror he already caused. Dean grits his teeth, silently cursing the king. 

“Dean!” Cas calls out, voice nearly drowned out by the noise. “What do we do?”

He’s looking to Dean for answers, for a solution, eyes wide with fear and body curled up small. 

Dean, without lifting his head to peer over the altar, scans their surroundings. He knows they don’t have much time -- already the sounds of panic have grown softer as more and more have fallen dead -- as soon the king’s forces will be upon them, and Dean wants to give Cas some hope, some answer. They won’t die here, not if Dean has any opinion on all of this. 

(Cas won’t die here.)

His eyes find a door at the back, half hidden in the shadows cast by the candles and ivy. Perfect.

“There,” he says, pointing towards the door. “When they pause their gunfire, you run for that door. It should lead outside where the star jumper is.”

Cas follows his finger with his eyes until he sees the door. Then, he frowns, looking back at Dean. “You mean we will run for that door. Together,” he corrects. 

Dean pauses, and Cas’ eyes narrow.

 “...Right, Dean?” he pushes. 

Dean opens his mouth before swallowing and closing it, the words difficult to find. He knows there is no way for him to escape, not with Cas. Not if he wants him to live. Dean doesn’t want to leave him behind, it hurts to even think of doing it, but it’s the only option. The king knows Dean is here, and there is no escaping the king once he fixates on something. If the king wants something, he will get it, and that includes Dean, regardless of whether or not Dean is willing. He feels stupid for having thought they could both escape the king for good and be happy. 

Something must give away his inner turmoil as Cas’ face hardens. “No. No, I’m not leaving you behind.” He holds on tighter, as if able to keep Dean by his side through sheer stubbornness alone. 

If only that were possible. Dean wishes he could stay by his side, forever. He said he would, in their vows, promising he would never be more than a few steps away -- turns out Dean’s an idiot and a liar. Because he can’t. 

“Cas, they’re here for me,”  he explains, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. “If they find you, they’ll kill you. I can hold them off though, just enough for you to escape.” 

He watches as Cas wavers, torn between wanting to trust Dean and calling him out on what Dean refuses to say. Dean cups his cheek, taking a moment to remember every bit of his face. He wants to commit this all to memory, to have it etched into his eyelids so it can be replayed the moment he closes his eyes. Dean wishes they had more time together, that he could have experienced more of Cas’ smiles, more of his laughter. A week is too short. 

“I’ll meet you at the ship,” he lies. He hates this, all of this. He doesn’t want to lie to Cas, doesn’t want to break his heart, not like this. 

Never like this. 

But there are no other options.

Cas bites his lip, looking from the door to Dean. “Dean…” he begins, and Dean wonders if he knows he’s lying. 

Leaning in, Dean kisses him. It’s bittersweet, and he can taste for a moment tears. Whether they are Dean’s or Cas’ he doesn’t know, but this is their first kiss married. It is their last. 

“I’ll be right behind you.”

It is no easier lying the second time, but it is necessary. 

“I can’t lose you too.” Finally, a truth falls from his lips. 

Dean knows his brother is dead, people he and his brother knew too. Gilda, Benny and his wife… they’re all gone, and Dean knows their blood is on his hands. He shoulders that weight, that pain that comes with being the reason they are gone even if he didn’t pull the trigger himself. (It feels like he did.) If he loses Cas too, it might actually break him. Dean puts everything he can into the pleading look he gives Cas, hoping against hope that Cas will listen, and that he will leave. 

Cas glares at him for a moment, but he relents. “Fine.” A finger jabs him in the chest. “But I’m holding you to your words, Dean Winchester.” 

“I love you,” he says because if this is the last words they ever say to each other, he wants to make it count.

That glare softens, morphing into something gentle, something sad. Cas leans in and kisses him despite what little time they have left. “I love you too.”

Dean then stands, tall, sure, and faces the soldiers with cold calculation. The church, once beautiful, is ruined. The candles have been knocked over -- either by soldiers, frantic wedding guests, or both -- and the flames have reached the blue and white fabric on the pews, setting them ablaze. Greedily, the flames devour the fabric, and when there seems to be none more they can reach, they jump to the clothes of the dead with little remorse. 

Smoke begins to fill the air, thick enough it leaves the whole room in a grey haze. From where he stands, Dean cannot recognize the bodies of the dead. Between the smoke and the blood, it is hard to distinguish who is who. He thinks though, foolishly, hopes even, that maybe some have been lucky and escaped. 

(None have.)

(Only Cas will, he corrects.)

Staring at the massacre before him, Dean wants to feel sick. He wants his stomach to churn, wants to feel his throat become clogged with anguish and nausea. It would be easier, he thinks. If he were disgusted by all of this. But he isn’t. The part of Dean that has accepted the role of the Righteous Man finds that this is, in some twisted way, almost nostalgic. It almost feels like home. 

His fingers itch for a weapon, yearning to have something to hold. Standing strong, Dean listens to the sound of the soldiers’ weapons, how they sing a tune he knows by heart. The heat of the fire, creeping ever closer, tries to caress like a fond lover, and it conjures up hundreds of memories of previous battlefields Dean has stood on. 

He inhales, relishing in the burn of the smoke. 

(It is different though -- they are not with him. They do not want him to succeed.)

Then he exhales, and it is the Righteous Man who steps from behind the altar, called from where it has been slumbering, with eyes ablaze with fury. 

(Good. He does not want to be on their side. Not anymore.)

He lets that violence, that hot anger wash over him, and holds it tight. No longer does he succumb to the numb resignment that normally comes with this persona -- instead Dean is aware, his head clear. And he is pissed. 

Standing where they once gave their vows minutes earlier, Dean remembers his brother’s words, remembers Cas’ smile. It feeds the surge of hatred that washes over him in tides, and he glares at the soldiers and all they represent. 

Fuck the king.

Dean rounds the altar, taking measured steps. Glares at them all. How dare the king come here and think he could ruin the happiest day of Dean’s life by killing his friends, his brother, by trying to kill his lover. If the king wants to kill him, Dean will not go down easy. He will not kneel or surrender. 

The king has shown everyone here no mercy, and so Dean will do the same. 

“Hey!” he shouts, loud and clear. “Over here!”

Instantly the steady thrum of noise pauses, as heads all turn towards Dean. Even the Archangel at the doors -- Gabriel, he thinks -- looks over to him, and their empty, lifeless eyes bore into him. There is blood splattered on the faces and armour of the soldiers, blood of people he knew and cared about. 

Now most folks would be terrified at the empty gazes of the soldiers, of being in the direct line of sight of one of the Archangels will all their focus. It is a sign their death is imminent and unavoidable. Dean is not one of those folks. No, he stares back at them and challenges the neigh impossible odds of survival presented to him. And he grins . 

A lazy, cocky grin that taunts, dares even, for them to try and best him. Tells them that he’s dealt with worse odds and likes a good challenge (only one of those is true). Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees a flash of blue as Cas flees, accompanied by the thunderous toll of the clock chiming midnight’s arrival. 

The two had planned to have their first kiss as a married couple with the toll of the bell, seeing it as leaving the previous day and stepping the next into it as husbands. It was Cas’ idea, something both romantic and cheesy. From there they would leave, boarding a small star jumper and head to the stars to start their new life. 

It had all been perfect, the type that if this were a fairytale it would end with a and they lived happily ever after.  

(But it is not perfect, and it is not a fairytale.)

Cas pauses in the doorway only briefly, looking back for just a moment at Dean. It pains him, but Dean does not look back, no matter how it feels as if he has been stabbed a thousand times. This may be the last time he ever sees his lover, but he cannot move, cannot alert the soldiers of Cas’ escape. 

I love you , he thinks one last time, before taking a step towards the first soldier and, without an ounce of fear, swings. 

The clock strikes midnight and Cas runs. 

It’s far from elegant -- he stumbles to his feet and nearly trips in the process trying to get to the door. Hoping against hope that the soldiers do not see him, he moves quickly towards his escape route. He does not want to leave. No, Cas wants to stay with Dean and ensure either that they both make it out of this damn church together or that no one does. And yet he forces himself to move, despite how his heart tells him to stay. Because he wants to trust Dean’s words and believe him that all will be okay

( will it?)

 that he will be right behind him. 

( Please let him be behind me)

He pauses in the doorway, one foot on each side, as he looks over his shoulder. Dean’s back is to him, and through the haze of the smoke, Cas wishes he could turn around just one last time. 

Look at me, he wants to beg, but to do so will alert everyone else of Cas, and so he doesn’t. He holds his tongue, lets himself have one last look at Dean right now, and vows that this will not be the last time he sees his husband. 

( Please.)

And then Cas is gone. 

The cold night air is a shock from the heat of the church, stinging his cheeks. He keeps running though, nearly tripping again down the slight slope, shoes slipping on damn grass. At the last second though Cas catches himself, successfully making his way to the star jumper hidden below. A small spacecraft, hardly designed for more than two people, it was the perfect choice. Unsuspecting, generic and insignificant, it would have promised the two of them an easy escape without much notice. Cas reaches the spacecraft panting, side cramping, and clambers in swiftly. 

Then, once the door is shut and locked, Cas presses his back against one of the walls and waits. 

(And waits.)

(And waits.)

By the time he hazards a glance back, Cas is long gone, and it brings some relief to Dean. Now all he hopes is that Cas doesn’t wait too long before leaving. 

A bullet pierces his side, but Dean barely registers it beyond the initial sting. Adrenaline and anger are some powerful drugs, pushing him ever forward. “If the Mad King wants a piece of me, tell him he can go straight to hell,” he snarls, ducking one swing before punching another soldier squarely in the chest. 

The soldier falls with a wheeze before soon being replaced by another. They keep moving, keep advancing without break, and Dean keeps fighting tooth and nail, keeps hurling insults. He will not let this be easy for them, and as such is not easy to overpower. Especially when he gets his hands on a broken piece of wood from the pews. He manages to kill several soldiers easily despite the blood oozing sluggishly from Dean’s own wounds on his arms and legs. Hardly surprising if one considers the fact he didn’t earn his title and status from favouritism. Still, for all the skills he has, he is only human, and twelve against one is tough odds. So, when a bullet tears through his leg, Dean falls to his knees, breathing heavily. 

Looking up, Dean finds himself face-to-face with Gabriel. The Archangel holds his blade out, the point resting just below Dean’s chin. “Well, well, well,” Gabriel drawls. “What have you to say for your actions, Righteous Man?” 

There is no humour in those gold-spun eyes as they bore down upon him. 

Dean grins back, teeth bloody. “Fuck. You.” He then spits at Gabriel’s feet.

Instantly the sword is drawn from his neck. Gabriel then snaps his fingers and a swift kick comes from behind Dean, knocking him forward towards the floor. Unexpected, he doesn’t end up catching himself and thus his nose collides with the stones with a sharp crack.

Pain blooms and travels upwards, causing Dean to hiss. There’s no doubt that it’s broken. Dean doesn’t let them feel like they’ve won though, as he pushes himself up slightly. “Feel chatty today?” He shoots back, not letting his grin fade despite the pain it causes. It’s a personal jab, designed to point out the fact that Archangels so rarely speak more than a few words at best.  

The Archangel’s face darkens. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me right. Let’s try again.”

The foot comes back down on Dean’s back, shoving him once more unceremoniously to the floor. This time he manages to catch himself, though his palms and elbows are scrapped and raw. Undeterred by that, the boot continues to press down upon Dean, trying to force him to the ground. 

He knows there’s likely a bootprint on his back, stark against the once snowy-white material, and it only serves to piss Dean off more. Not because of the disrespect but because he likes this suit. While not as elegant as Cas’, it had been something special. Never once had he worn white before, always so afraid he would stain it with the blood that seemed to always follow him. Plus white’s always felt like too…clean for him. But Sam had convinced him to wear it, and now it’s ruined. And so Dean’s pissed. 

“No.” The pressure increases. “Fuck…you,” he grits out. “And fuck the king.” 

Whatever they want to hear, he will not give them. 

Above him, Gabriel tuts, as if Dean is some troublesome child and he’s a disappointed parent. Dean waits for him to draw his sword and finish him, but the Archangel only nods to one of the soldiers behind him. Before Dean can wonder why, a blow comes, swift, and all goes dark. 

In his many centuries of ruling New Lawrence, the king has had very little reason to leave his throne. Sat upon gleaming ivory bone, he can see all that he owns and all that he wishes to. As such, he hardly has any reason to leave it. 

Still, every once in a while, he does. And, even more rarely, he will leave New Lawrence entirely.  

King Michael moves leisurely through the quiet and sterile halls of the building, flanked by one of his Archangels towards where he knows his prize is. Earlier he had gotten word from one of his other Archangels that his soldiers had been successful in capturing the Righteous Man and such news had brought a twisted smile to the king's face. 

Under normal circumstances, he might have been disappointed that so many soldiers had perished for such a mission, but instead, he is pleased, knowing he has made the right choice. Even without a weapon and caught off guard, his Righteous Man had put up quite the fight, thus proving he was the perfect specimen for the king’s needs. 

Michael opens the doors at the end of the hall, and steps into the lab. 

The lab itself is divided into two main parts, a smaller reception and observation area of some sort, and a large open area for treatments. Standing in the observation area, it’s relatively underwhelming. Small, a touch cramped, with desks lining the large wall of glass that faces the treatment area. At most of the desks sit individuals in white coats or similar attire, and they talk amongst themselves or shuffle through paperwork on their desks. A few look out into the treatment area, but don’t seem to be too focused on it currently. The king moves through the flurry of movement and noise, bypassing it to get to the sealed doors of the treatment area. Ordinarily, such access would be limited, requiring with an access card for entry, but with a single gesture of his head, his Archangel at his side steps forward to the panel. Within seconds, the doors slide open, and the two enter the treatment area. 

Similarly to the observation area, the treatment area is alive with movement and noise, both from humans and the machinery and technology on the walls. White-coated figures walk past with files in their hands, murmuring to their colleagues and paying the king little attention. This he hardly minds -- he’s not here for them. Rather, he is here for the body that lies on one of the metal tables in the middle of the treatment area. There, hooked up to tubes and wires is the still form of his greatest warrior, his Righteous Man.

The screens and tubes are connected to monitors and screens that display vital signs and other pieces of information likely important to the scientists monitoring him. Michael moves closer to the body and greets one of the scientists leaning over the body. 

“Dr. Naomi.”

Dr. Naomi startles, turning at the sound of her name. Her eyes widen as she spots him. “M-My liege,” she stutters, fretting with her lab coat. “I didn’t know you had arrived!”

Michael hums, peering down at Dean. His skin is free from blood and grime, likely scrubbed clean upon his arrival, but they have not dealt with all his injuries. Bruises mar Dean's face around his nose and stitches can be seen on his arm from where a bullet tore the skin. Still, the king imagines that the injuries are minimal in comparison to what they could have been, had this been any other soldier. 

One thing he notes, rather peculiarly, is the thick restraints that pin Dean to the examination table, and more importantly, the blood that is under Dean's nails. It appears that, even after his capture, his Righteous Man is hard to keep down. The king wonders if there were any casualties this time, or simply scientists nursing their wounds and embarrassment. 

He gestures to the restraints, and Dr. Naomi appears to pale. “I do hope there hasn’t been any…difficulties with starting.”

“No, no. Of course not,” she reassures hastily. “Merely extra precautions is all. It appeared that the subject was less responsive to the initial sedation levels than we had planned, and was still aware when we first began our procedures. But we’ve since used a much heavier dosage, and it has been far more successful in keeping him down.”

“Good. I do have high expectations of your team, and should the task prove to be too difficult, I can surely find someone else.” The threat causes Dr. Naomi to flinch and draws forth a second scientist close. 

“And we will not disappoint,” the second scientist, Dr. Alistair, interjects calmly. 

The king nods, pleased. 

“We have the finest staff for this project, and despite this minor hiccup, we will proceed as normal with the first Extraction,” Dr. Alistair continues, reaching for a file and handing it to the king to peruse. “You are more than welcome to sit in on the procedure if you wish.”

The offer is quite enticing, especially after a quick read of their current plans and ideas. Since the idea first sprung into his mind, Michael has been impatiently waiting for its fruition. It has not been easy, but here he is, staring down at the prone form of the soldier who will become the genetic base for his new, unholy hoard of soldiers, and it brings a giddy joy. 

“Once the extraction is done,” Dr. Naomi says, “We should have the first model done by the end of the month.” 

"Excellent, excellent." The king closes the folder and places it on the examination table. "I knew I could count on your team.” He then gestures for his Archangel to come closer. “I do believe I will take you up on your offer to watch.”

“A grand choice, my liege,” Dr. Naomi tells him, turning and calling for an assistant to fetch a chair for the king. Then, focusing back on him, she grins. “Soon you will have an unending supply of this exemplary warrior who will know no pain or fear.”

She says it with such pride, but the king does not share it. Rather, he looks almost disappointed as he shakes his head. “No. No, pain and fear are important wounds for survival,” he explains to her like she is a child, and Dr. Naomi shrinks back, chastised. She looks ready to apologize, but Michael continues. “While they can be hindrances, any good soldier, in order to succeed, must be able to overcome them. To remove such things…” His eyes drift to the prone form of Dean, focusing on the injuries that still linger. 

Any soldier would have surrendered if in his position, recognizing their fate. The odds had been so slim to escape simply alive were neigh impossible. But the marks on his Righteous Man say otherwise. He had fought back, tooth and nail, with such a vengeance that could have only been fueled by fear and pain. Anger as well -- Michael is no fool -- but how much of anger is from fear? From pain? 

A hand rests on Dean’s covered ankle, almost possessive, almost smug. 

“No.” Michael looks back at the two doctors. “Make sure he knows pain and make sure he knows fear.”

Chapter Text

The remains of the church are still smoldering by the time the sun has risen, with a faint acrid smell left lingering. Having long since run out of things to devour, the flames have died out, collapsing in on themselves, leaving behind an odd feel. Stood in the aisle, Jo could also mistake it as serene, peaceful perhaps, but it’s a deceiving sort, belying the tragedy that occurred here hours earlier. A gentle breeze drifts through the missing window panes, playfully pulling at some strands of hair, and everything the sun’s rays touch is bathed in a warm glow. 

She closes her eyes, and takes a step forward, pretending she is not in the remains of a massacre. Pretends she can hear music, laughter even. Something crunches underfoot, shattering any possibility of that. Jo doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t dare look down. Knowing what has happened here, it isn’t too hard to piece together what it might possibly be that she stepped on. Jo takes another step, hand reaching out and brushing up against the charred wood of the pew. She can feel how it flakes under her touch, turning her fingertips grey from soot and ash. 

In the distance, the others are moving, performing their own searches of what remains. It seems almost pointless -- from the moment they walked through the open doors of the church, they knew what they would likely find. Truthfully, there isn’t a single person alive anywhere in this sector of space who isn’t aware of what the Mad King can do -- What he will do. Jo’s seen the results far too often in the folks that have stumbled into her mother’s bar, faces worn and haunted. 

They weren’t likely to find anyone. Alive, that is. 

But they had come anyway. 

It was at Charlie’s request, Jo’s certain of it. She had been the one in contact with Sam during this whole thing, and when she hadn’t heard anything from Sam, she was the one who probably went to Bobby asking if he could send people to check for any survivors. Jo has an inkling Charlie knew no one at the wedding had survived and was instead hoping those dead would already receive a proper burial (as there’s no respect or dignity left to rot in an abandoned church), but Charlie’s always been a bit more…optimistic isn’t quite the right word. Maybe it’s just she’s not as jaded as Jo is, Jo doesn’t know. All she knows is she likely wouldn’t have been the one to voice this mission. 

(Though Jo won’t vocally complain about how risky this all is, many of these people were good people, and Jo agrees with Charlie that they deserve some dignity in death. It’s what she herself would want.)

Jo takes another step forward. 

Her foot hits something soft. 

Freezing, Jo opens her eyes involuntarily and takes a steadying breath. She doesn’t want to look down at the body at her feet, as the state of it likely isn’t pretty due to the flames and the soldiers. But a smaller, morbidly curious part of her does. Especially when she hears a soft groan. 

Nearly inaudible, but it’s there. 

“What the…” her voice trails off as she looks down. 

Half covered by a fallen pew is a man. He’s burned badly but, miraculously, incredibly, impossibly, he is breathing. Dumbfounded, Jo watches his chest rise and fall for nearly a minute before realizing she should say something to the others. 

“I…” she swallows, trying again louder when the rest of the words seem to die on her tongue. “I found someone. Alive.” Disbelief coats her words as they carry through the church. Those closest to her turn their heads, glancing over in surprise. She repeats herself, eyes never leaving the body. 

“I found someone.”

From the moment his brother first spoke of Cas, Sam knew his brother was in love. 

There is no other way to describe it -- the smile on Dean’s face he tried to hide, the light in his eyes, the way he moved so freely. He was so utterly in love. Some siblings might be jealous of the almost instant connection the two had, but not Sam. He’s happy for his twin brother. For years he’s seen how the world has reared its head against his brother, how people have regarded him with such disgust and hatred. They’ve spent ages, intentional or not, convincing Dean he is not worthy or capable of this. For too long Sam’s felt like he was the only one in his brother’s corner. 

He remembers arguing with their father on Dean’s behalf, willing to turn an already frayed relationship to practically non-existent without even needing to be asked. He remembers Dean’s early years in the king’s forces, the haunted look behind his eyes, the slump of his shoulders. Sam has seen firsthand how harsh everything has been for Dean. That’s why it makes him smile knowing there is someone else there at Dean’s side, someone softer. Dean deserves that, deserves to know the world is more than blood and snarling teeth, more than glares and cruel whispered remarks. Cas can be that for him, can remind Dean ie’s a good person and deserves more than what others have told him. 

So even if this may seem rushed and foolish, Sam will support Dean every step of the way. 

Because when the doors to the church open and Cas arrives to the swell of the violin, Sam swears his brother looks happier than he’s ever seen. Dean is relaxed, at ease with himself, and god , seeing him like this is bittersweet. How long has it been since Dean looked like this, looked so at peace with himself? Sam can’t remember, and he wants to curse everyone who caused that. He pushes those feelings to the side, focusing instead on the happier ones. There is time to be angry and now is not the time. So he watches how Dean smiles at Cas, how Cas smiles back, and prepares all the I told you so' s he will give Dean after the ceremony. 

Because they are perfect for each other, and because Dean, despite his skepticism, deserves to be happy, and looking at them is all the proof Sam needs. There isn't a single soul in this room who could argue they aren't meant to be together. If he's honest, he thinks they might even be soulmates, if such a thing exists, for how well they complement each other. 

Never once does he feel the need to glance over his shoulder at the doors, paranoid they might get caught. His paranoia has been left a the doors, and the joy in the air is infectious. It leaves him light, and at ease, and Sam smiles brightly. The ceremony is short but sweet, and he's not immune to feeling a bit emotional as their vows are exchanged. They're touching, full of love and emotion, with Dean confessing his love for Cas with utmost sincerity before everyone. Eventually, the vows draw to a close, leaving a few sniffles and damp eyes amongst the guests, and the rings are exchanged. 

All in all, it's the perfect wedding for his brother, and he can't help but think of how smoothly it has all gone, not a hiccup in sight. And that’s when the king’s soldiers burst in, pushing open the doors so hard they slam to the wall with a thunderous noise. 

Between blinks, the serene atmosphere is shattered. People are screaming -- their friends are screaming -- as bullets rain down from the soldiers’ weapons, and Sam, delayed due to shock, only just remembers to duck behind a pew. A bullet whizzes overhead, likely to have struck his heart had he been standing for even a second longer. Around him, others aren’t as lucky, falling to their knees or to the floor. Sam never saw any of the king’s troops up close, save interacting with his brother. He had always found something uncanny about them, their stiffness and blank expressions, and as such was grateful to never need to be close to them. But he has no choice now, heart in his throat, as they march past. 

They move in union, methodically, and so Sam, carefully, shifts away from the front of the church towards the edges. Briefly, he catches a glimpse of Dean and Cas, though they disappear from his line of sight far too quickly and Sam isn’t keen of turning his head to find them since it means no longer looking at the soldiers. He figures they will know what to do -- at least Dean will -- and so Sam focuses on trying to get himself out. Alive. 

Keeping low, Sam inches out of the row and towards one of the broken windows. As he crawls, he doesn’t look at the faces of the dead, knowing it will only add to the pain. Someone is crying, others are coughing and gasping, fighting for each and every breath, and Samm squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block it out. Halfway to one of the windows, Sam spots Gilda. 

She’s leaned with her back against an overturned pew, hair, and dress in shambles. Blood is splattered across her face, smearing as tears cut their way down her cheeks. In her lap, Sam sees a body -- Dorothy. One of Gilda’s oldest and closest friends, now gasping and struggling for breath. The side of her neck is a bloody red mess, the skin frayed having likely been caused by a passing bullet. Gilda brushes back some of the hair from her face, the gesture soft. 

At this point she glances up, meeting Sam’s eyes.

They linger there, and before Sam can say a thing, she shakes her head. Sam swallows and Gilda looks away. Tears continue to fall as she looks down at Dorothy, murmuring something softly to her. It feels all to personal for Sam, and he looks away as well, swallowing thickly. He doesn’t know when Dorothy takes her final breath, growing still in Gilda’s lap. But it comes eventually and when he glances back, Gilda is wiping away the tears, only succeeding in smearing the blood across her face further. 

He wishes he could say something, could comfort her. But he doesn’t know what to say. 

A soldier turns his head, and Sam ducks only just in time out of sight. 

Gilda doesn’t move, and for a moment, Sam thinks she almost is smiling. 

He screws his eyes shut tight, flinching at the shot and the noise that follows. 

Then, when the soldier is gone, Sam continues his mission. This time he does not look back. At this point, the air has become thick with smoke, the candles having been knocked over in the panic. Flames dance on the blue and white fabric as well as the ivy, and it grows hard to see. The stones are warm under his hands, and growing dizzy, Sam tries not to cough. He has to backtrack a bit, narrowly avoiding one of the soldiers patrolling near the edges, but he thinks he’s close. 

There is shouting, a voice he thinks is Dean’s, that can be heard at one point. Sam can’t make out the words, but he can tell whoever it is, is angry. Good , he thinks. Then it becomes harder to see, harder to think, harder to breathe. 

Then it all goes dark. 

When Sam wakes, it is not the ceiling of the church he’s staring up at, but instead metal paneling. From what he can’t discern, his vision still sort of blurry and spotty. He blinks a few times, listening to the soft whirls of machinery coming from his left side. Sam shifts, trying to sit up and get a better view of his surroundings, but regrets it instantly. Pain shoots across his abdomen and then upwards, and Sam hisses. 

He falls back with a dull thud on the cot, while body aching and screaming. 

“Careful. I ain’t gonna stitch you back up a second time, boy.”

With gritted teeth, Sam turns his head and follows the voice. There, sitting on an old chair is Bobby Singer, looking the same as he always has -- scruffy beard, battered ball cap, worn flannel, and jeans. Sam hasn’t seen him in ages, not since before Dean left and met Cas at least, though he still has some fondness for the older man. With all that Bobby’s done for the two of them, it’s hard not to. 

“Bobby. It’s good to see you.” Sam tries to smile, relieved, but it hurts too, tugging uncomfortably at the part of his face that feels tight and sore. 

“Well, that rules out brain damage,” Bobby huffs without heat, gruff as ever. “When I told you to come visit more, kid, I didn’t mean lookin’ like that.” He gestures to Sam, who in turn, lifts an arm to try and touch his face. “Don’t,” Bobby warns, stern. “Don’t need you poking it and managing to get it infected.”

Bobby reaches behind him to pull out an old battered piece of metal, reflective enough for Sam to use as a mirror. As Sam holds up the makeshift mirror, tilting it to get a better look, Bobby adds, “I did my best to try and fix you up. Still, was half convinced they brought me a corpse when you first got dragged here.”

Sam stares at what could pass for his reflection, allowing his blurry vision to focus on the person in the mirror. The shapes and general structure are still there, but the bandages are new. Covering the entirety of his left cheek and trailing downward, they disappear below his shirt collar. He wonders how far they travel downwards, though a quick flex of his left arm answers that. His neck and chest are just as tender and raw where the fire has left behind its mark. His left eye it seems is lucky, with only partial vision loss. 

He stares at his face, at the stitches and bandages and flecks of blood that were missed and realizes that if someone were to post a picture of his face prior to him having seen it, Sam would not have recognized it as his own. 

It is like there is a stranger wearing his face. 

Sam swallows, lowering the mirror. “Where are we?” His voice sounds rough, and it’s then that he wonders if it’s due to smoke inhalation or something else that he can scarcely remember. 

“Aboard a friend of mine’s ship, the Kripke,” Bobby explains. “We’re heading towards the Periphery in hopes we’ll be far enough out of the Mad King’s reach while we regroup. His response to that wedding hasn’t been the prettiest.”

The wedding. At once, it hits Sam. He wets his lips. “Bobby, how long have I been out?” 

“A week or so. You were in pretty rough shape, wasn’t sure you were going to wake up a few times there.”

Sam’s stomach drops, heavy as lead. A week at least . It feels like it was just moments ago. “Were… were there any others you found in the church?”

There were so many people there, there had to have been a few that survived. Even if the odds are astronomical -- Sam did. In a situation where usually no survivors are found, Sam was found. So, he thinks (foolishly, hopefully) that maybe he isn’t the only one. Maybe others slipped out, and have survived. 

There’s a pause. Bobby looks away, focusing on something on a bench nearby. 

Please there has to have been someone else who survived. 

“Bobby,” Sam presses, tense. 

The older man sighs, but he doesn’t turn around. “No,” eventually he says, sounding tired. “You never ended up messaging Charlie so we came looking once the soldiers left and found only you. Got lucky with that. If it weren’t for Charlie’s stubbornness, would’ve chalked you up as dead as well.” 

“And Dean…?”

Bobby shakes his head, grim. “Nothing. Didn’t find a body at all so we figured the Mad King got him, but that’s all we know.”

His brother could be dead, could be worse, but no one knows. No one except the Mad King himself, and it makes Sam want to punch something in frustration. He can’t though, and so, in the next best option, closes his eyes as grief washes over him. He knows the king isn’t happy with Dean pulling a stunt like this. It’s likely he is dead, if only to preserve the king’s image. But, then again, maybe not. Dean is the king’s best soldier, loyalty withstanding, and he doesn’t seem likely to give up on things unless they are too defective. After all, everyone knows the story of the king’s brothers and what happened to them. It isn’t too far-fetched to assume the king might repeat such actions, this time with Dean. 

Conflicted, Sam isn’t sure if he wishes his brother were dead. On one hand, it means Dean won’t be tangled up in the king’s mess anymore, that he won’t be suffering for him. On the other hand, Dean being dead means he is gone,  means he never once got the chance to have something good. Which fate is better -- alive or dead -- Sam doesn’t know. 

“Bobby,” he then says, opening his eyes and looking over at the other man. “Did you happen to find a spacecraft close by? An old space jumper maybe?”

Instantly Bobby’s eyes narrow. “Why? You think we might be followed?” Suspicion is evident in his tone, clear as day. 

“No. No, Cas -- Dean’s husband -- he and Dean were supposed to board Dean’s old starjumper after the ceremony. Their plan was to leave New Lawrence and head out to the Periphery or someplace far enough away from the king,” Sam explains. “I was hoping, maybe…” he sighs. “I guess I was hoping maybe he had escaped.”

If no one else, Sam thinks Cas deserved that. 

Bobby frowns. “Not that I remember. I can ask the others, but if he did escape, we didn’t bump into him at all.”

Sam nods distantly. He wants to believe that Cas did make it out because while he might not know much about the guy, he knows Dean loved him a lot. So much so he was willing to throw everything away for him. Dean would’ve wanted Cas to live if the choice was between the two of them. He would’ve thrown himself in front of any and every bullet and done everything he could to make sure Cas walked out of that church. So Sam leans into denial, into the belief that since Bobby and the others didn’t find any body that means Cas isn’t dead. Cas is just elsewhere. 

(Because the alternative is just too depressing otherwise.)

Bobby leans over, resting a hand on Sam’s good leg. He must be able to tell there’s more Sam wants to say because, not unkindly, he says, “Get some rest. We still got quite a ways to the Periphery and a few folks we need to pick up along the way. Can’t have you overexerting yourself too early on.”

Sam doesn’t want to sleep -- doesn’t think he can.

His mind is racing, and knowing now what he does, has left him feeling off-kilter. His and Dean’s friends are all dead, his brother is likely too. Hell, even Cas might be dead. This all sits uncomfortably with Sam, like a heavy weight on his chest. How do you even begin to process it all, to understand that you are the sole survivor of a great tragedy? How to continue to live with the fact you have lost nearly everyone you once knew?

It takes him a long time before his brain eventually quiets and he falls into a fitful sleep. 

When Sam wakes a second time, Bobby is absent. In his place is a woman cleaning a knife. She’s sitting on his right side -- something Sam’s grateful for -- humming to herself as she drags an old rag back and forth over the blade. It doesn’t appear that she’s noticed Sam’s awake yet, far too focused on her task at hand. Having momentarily forgotten, Sam tries to sit up and hisses, regretting it instantly. 

“Fuck,” he breathes and the woman glances over at him. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” is all she says, a bit too late mind you, pausing only briefly before returning to the blade. 

Normally Sam would listen. It can’t be good for him to be moving so much, pulling at his burned skin, but he doesn’t like the idea of just lying on his back the whole time, unable to fully see everything going on around him. Especially since his vision now isn’t what it once was. It leaves him feeling vulnerable, and confused. So Sam doesn’t listen and tries once more to get into a sitting position. 

“Hey. Hey! Did you not hear what I just said?” The woman’s attention is now completely on Sam as she puts away the knife and gets to her feet. 

His body is screaming, hands and arms trembling but Sam keeps pushing with gritted teeth. Will he regret this later? Probably. 

“You’re gonna --” she curses under her breath, immediately hurrying to his side. “Jesus, fine!” 

Sam pauses, looking over at her. 

“At least let me help you so you don’t make it worse. I don’t need Bobby on my ass as well.”

He takes the help, grateful, and it all goes far smoother. Before long, Sam’s sitting upright, panting slightly. “Thanks,” he says, getting a glare in return. 

“You better have not torn any stitches or fucked something up,” the woman shoots back with a huff, collapsing back into her chair. 

From where he sits, Sam doesn’t think he has -- it’s just the dull ache of everything everywhere. “Where’s Bobby?” Sam asks, and he’s pleased to note he sounds better than before. 

“Out.”

“Out where? ”

The woman tucks her knife away in a jacket pocket. “Getting supplies,” she simply says, and it feels like Sam’s trying to pull teeth to get her to talk. 

It’s hard to tell if it’s because she doesn’t trust him, or just isn’t chatty normally, but Sam swears he’s had better luck getting proper conversations from politicians and the loyalists that occupied the king’s court. 

“Jo, don’t antagonize him,” a voice then says from Sam’s left and he turns his head slowly to see who is standing there. 

“I’m not,” Jo grumbles, sounding defensive, and the other woman looks unimpressed. 

She shakes her head before looking at Sam. “I’m Pamela, and that’s Jo.” Pamela nods her head at Sam’s blade-cleaning companion. “Bobby had to dip out with Rufus and a few others, and he asked us to keep an eye on you. How’re you feeling?” 

“Sore,” he admits truthfully and Jo snorts, rolling her eyes. 

Under her breath, she mutters something that sounds suspiciously like I wonder why . Sam chooses to ignore her, and Pamela seems to as well. 

“Burns like yours will do that. I can get you some pain meds for that, you should be due for your next dose anyways,” Pamela tells him, moving towards a set of cupboards. “But everything else is okay?” 

“Yeah.”

From one of the cupboards, she pulls out a bottle of painkillers and hands two to Sam. Knocking them back quickly, Sam hopes they’ll kick in quickly -- even talking is starting to hurt.

“I have a feeling you got a lotta questions,” Pamela then says, taking a seat on a nearby stool. “Might not be able to answer all of them, but I can probably help with a few of them.”

Sam nods slowly, the movement causing him to wince. At least someone isn’t purposely trying to be difficult. “Thank you. And I do. I just… I don’t know where to start.”

Pamela hums, understanding. 

He has what feels like a million questions running through his head, all tripping and stumbling into each other, wanting to be the first asked to the point it’s all become jumbled in his mind. Sam tries to find one that isn’t so big and overwhelming, settling on: “Where are we?” 

“We’ve stopped at Nesk. Bobby’s got a few folks out here that can help us with supplies, and other rebels that can provide support against the Mad King.”

It’s a far more detailed response than Jo’s earlier one, but it leaves Sam confused. 

“Other rebels?” he echoes. “But I thought the king…”

Jo scoffs. “What? You thought he managed to kill all of us?”

“I…I guess?” 

“Nah, you can’t kill an idea.”

Pamela, catching Sam’s lost expression, elaborates. “The Mad King tried to smother as much of a rebellion as possible. One might even argue he did a pretty damn good job. But there’s always been folks out there who hate his guts and will do what they can to show it,” she tells Sam. “And over time, it started to regrow. A little bit here, a little bit there. It’s nothing like what it once was, mind you. Probably nothing close to what you might read about in history books, but it’s still there if you know where to look.”

He supposes that makes sense. One could almost argue he’s toed the line of being associated with rebels more than loyalists with all the comments he’s made in the court, pushing back against the king’s actions. Still, it’s strange to wrap his head around it all. “What happens afterward? After Nesk?”

“We keep going, keep spreading the word of fighting back against the king.”

She sounds so confident, sounds so certain. Jo, beside her, nods.  

“And if the king’s forces catch you?” 

Jo grins, leaning in close. “Then I won’t go down without a fight.” 

Something about the way she says that reminds Sam of his brother. 

“You gonna snitch on us?”

“No, no! I’m not on the king’s side, never have been. And with what he did to Dean…No,” Sam explains quickly, trying to reassure her he isn’t an enemy. 

Jo nods, satisfied, though something about her still reads as slightly wary of him. Sam’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 

Harvelle’s Roadhouse sits in the shadows of one of Nesk’s many mountains, small and unassuming in nature. It looks like any other bar, slightly run-down and weathered against the elements after remaining upright for so long. The Roadhouse has charm though, despite its age, and one glance at it shows just how loved it is by both locals and those passing through. The sun is low in the sky, and already there are several racers and vehicles parked out front, owners all inside drinking and eating. 

Bobby doesn’t spot their man’s racer in those that linger outside, though he knows with this type of business and what’s at stake, some folks like to be more cautious. On a good day, Bobby himself is a bit of a paranoid bastard, and that’s without the whole “rebelling against the Mad King” thing going on. Others are likely similar. 

Bobby and Rufus make their way inside to look for their target. Under any other circumstance, Bobby would’ve taken Jo with him for this, and she likely knew that as well. She knows Nesk and the area around the Roadhouse like the back of her hand it seems, having grown up here, but he also knows she and her mom still haven’t quite patched things up with a nasty argument a couple of weeks back when they last stopped here, and coming to the Roadhouse to meet their target and possibly bumping into her mother Ellen in the process? It was easier to go with Rufus, as much as it pained Bobby to admit. 

He had tried Jesse, but the poor guy’s poker face is shit, and so: Rufus. 

(Bobby just hopes this whole thing doesn’t end up with shit hitting the fan or Bobby getting banned from the Roadhouse. Rufus, while smart, was just as much of a grumpy cantankerous bastard as Bobby was and it didn’t always work in their favour depending on the situation.)

“You see your man?” Rufus asks Bobby as he scans the room.

 There are a few people at the tables and bar, though most seem to be keeping to the small groups they’ve made or come with. No one stands out enough to be their possible target and so Bobby shakes his head. 

“I’m grabbing a drink then. Same as usual for you?” 

Bobby groans. “We aren’t here to drink you idjit.” Rufus raises a brow, unimpressed. “Fine. Yes.”

“Good. You find our man, I’ll get us the liquor.” He then turns away, heading to the bar where thankfully Ellen isn’t working. Bobby shakes his head, before scanning the room once more. 

He doesn't want it to seem suspicious that he's scanning the room, but the description they have of their man is vague at best. It gets to the point that Bobby's half convinced the man hasn't arrived yet when someone brushes past him. 

"'scuse me," the man says, giving a friendly and unassuming smile. "Been itching for a drink since Poughkeepsie."

Bobby's eyes narrow as his ears pick up on the word Poughkeepsie. A coincidence, sure, but he has to try. 

"Just stay clear of Niveus, ain't worth the headache after," Bobby says back, using the response word. The whole sentence is illogical -- anyone who knows their drinks would know Niveus isn't a brand of any time for alcohol, so worse come worse the guy chalks Bobby up to being a bit too drunk. 

The man pauses, smile turning to a smirk. "Meet me by the corner booth near the back. It's always empty there." Then the man continues his way to the bar to grab himself a drink. 

Bobby, in turn, catches Rufus' eye and nods before tilting his head towards the booth near the back. He gets a nod in return. 

When they're finally seated across from their man, Bobby has to admit he didn't expect the guy to be so young. He looks still fresh around the gills, and it makes him wonder if this is all a waste of time. The kid can't be older than mid-twenties, and while there are certainly some younger folks getting involved with the rebellion, in Bobby's experience, they barely know a thing. And to offer up crates of supplies too? He wants to scoff. 

"So you're the one I've been talking with," the man says, directing this statement to Bobby. 

"I am."

The man laughs and takes a sip of his drink. "Chatty, aren't you?" Both Rufus and Bobby give him an unamused look back. They aren't here for chit-chatter and small talk, and Rufus points that out. "Of course, of course," the man soothes. "Don't wanna stay too long, raise any suspicion. Especially after that wedding mess on New Lawrence…" he trails off and tuts. "Nasty business that."

From his jacket pocket, he pulls out a sheet of paper. It looks official, with the banner above bearing the name Niveus Pharmaceuticals with a symbol of a snake entwining a rod. The man slides it over for Bobby and Rufus to read. 

"Has all the supplies Niveus has ordered and purchased the last few months, as well as their distribution of weaponry. Wasn't easy getting a hold of this, but figured it'd be useful to have alongside the supplies so you could track better what the Mad King's men have been purchasing and where they're pushing their energy. 

"It seems that anywhere they've had a big jump in attention, the forces hit later that month. Though," here he paused, reaching over to point at one location in particular. It's a small moon off New Lawrence, nothing special. "They had a lot of orders and shipments there without a single word of what the goal was. Then, poof, silence."

Bobby hums. He looks over at Rufus, and the two share a look. This could be promising, a way of finally having some upper hand after the recent attack on some of the rebel hideouts. 

"And the supplies?"

"Oh, they're in my cruiser outback. Didn't want to raise too many eyebrows, you know?" The man jokes easily, taking another sip. "I know it ain't much right now, but figured starting small makes it easier for it to go unnoticed, especially with how many loyalists they got involved. Last thing anyone needs is someone to get a whiff of something and go blabbering to someone else."

Truthfully, Bobby can't say he's thrilled with everything they received -- he expected a bit more based on the initial messaged he had gotten -- but it's a start. And the man's got a point. 

"If it ain't to your satisfaction, I understand. No hard feelings," the man, ever the smooth-talking businessman reassures. 

"How do we know we can trust you?" Rufus asks.

The man sighs. "I want the king dead as much as anyone, believe it or not. Used that Leviathan of his to wipe out half my family when I was younger. And then to make it worse, the moment I try to help people by joining Niveus to spite the king, I learn it's just as corrupt as anything else," he confesses. "Look, I understand if you don't trust me. Trust isn't an easy thing for me to come by either, but I want to do something good for once. And if this is how I do it, then it's better than sitting around doing nothing."

Bobby and Rufus glance over at each other.

You trust him? Bobby's look seems to suggest. 

Not at all. But this stuffs good. Far better than anything we've got so far, Rufus' look shot back. 

Bobby nods. He looks back at the man. "Okay, consider us interested. You think you could get more of these invoices and receipts for us?"

"Oh, absolutely," the man nearly-purrs, leaning in close. "I'm one of the few in charge of these records, I could let you know the instant something ain't right if you really wanted."

Sounds enticing, he can't lie. "Okay. Then we got a deal."

"Perfect, I look forward to doing business with you both. And if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to send me a message and I’ll see what I can do. Now, shall we?" 

Chapter Text

The shipment is transported to the Kripke with little trouble. Their man offers to come with and transport the three wooden crates, all stamped with the name Niveus Pharmaceuticals on their exterior in a stark black, but Bobby and Rufus had pushed against it. Just because he was helpful to them now didn’t mean they could one-hundred percent trust the guy, and even then, trustworthy or not, from Bobby’s experience, young folks usually have the bad habit of not watching their mouth. Seem to think they’re a bit invincible or something, too eager for “espionage” or whatever they called it, and loved to toe the line of their subtle involvement. Kid could mean well in the end, but Bobby doesn’t need one wrong word putting the ship he’s on suddenly under the scrutinizing gaze of the Mad King’s men. 

So he and Rufus take the boxes back to the Kripke in their borrowed cruiser, an old, rusted thing. It’s a far cry from the cruiser the boxes arrived at the Roadhouse on, but he’s found the junkers get overlooked far more than the flashier stuff. Plus, it does the job. 

At the Kripke, the rest of the crew help with unloading the crates and moving them inside. They’re bulky, but not quite as heavy as Bobby figured they might be. Likely due to one being filled completely with medical supplies and food, they dismiss. Once the crates find a home on the ship, they leave Nesk towards their next location, Missouris. The whole day the crewmates of the Kripke glance over at the crates, wondering amongst themselves what might be in them. Neither Bobby nor Rufus have said much about their mission and what information they received, and a few crew members speculate about what the boxes might hold. Most figure at least one is filled with food, but the other two are complete wild cards. It isn’t until they’re a day or two out from Missouris that Bobby finally calls a meeting. 

The crew all file into the meeting room, a small room that becomes cramped with all ten members and Sam in it. While the dining area would be far more suitable for their size, this room was the only one with a screen that displayed the face of Charlie Bradbury. 

“Heya Sam,” she says the moment she spots in, as the rest of the crew are all still filing in. 

“Hey, Charlie.” He leans heavily against the wall, giving her a weak wave.

Sam knows he should still be on the cot resting, but after a week unable to do much to entertain himself, he felt like he was going crazy. So, while his body still aches at every movement, Sam prefers it over lying on the cot and being kept in the dark about everything. 

“How’re you doing?” Charlie asks.

“I’ve been better. I’m glad you’re okay.”

Charlie smiles. “Oh, you know me. The Mad King can’t get me, even if he tries.” She then gives a wink, and Sam, now knowing Charlie is more involved in all this than he expected, wonders if there’s more to that wink. Charlie sobers up. “I’m sorry about your brother, and everyone else.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too. Thanks, Charlie.”

Bobby clears his throat as the last crew member slips in, directing the attention of the room. He places a piece of paper on the table and begins to outline what he and Rufus have learned from Niveus Pharmaceuticals’ invoices and paperwork. “Seems they’ve been using this company and a few others to ferry weaponry and information to various locations in the sector, to communicate between the king’s loyalists and his troops.”

The paper makes its way around the table, passed from one hand to the next as the crewmates each scan it. 

“We don’t know everything that they’re transporting but we know from what our source told us that wherever they send a shipment to, an attack follows not long after, as if the supplies are sent ahead of time to meet the troops at their location,” Bobby continues. “We might be able to use this information to predict where they’re planning to hit next, or better yet, strongholds we can try and take down.”

Hums and murmurs come from the others. 

“Do we know where they’re planning to hit next?” Claire asks as she takes the sheet from her sister, Alex. 

“Looks like it’s Prosperity, in Idana,” Rufus replies. “Bit out of the way from the last shipment that hit Azonia’s moon, but it almost looks like --”

“Like the king’s branching out and hitting planets and moons he doesn’t have full control over,” Sam finishes, and more than a few eyes look over at him. 

Under their attention, Sam tries to shrink in a bit. Bobby though, nods. 

“Exactly. And if he keeps this up, there’s no telling how long he’ll wait before going outwards further towards either Calis or even up towards Nova Yor and the planets in that part of Am’rica,” he says to the group at large. 

The sheet keeps moving. 

“I can trace the shipments if you want, Bobby,” Charlie chimes in, quiet up until now. “See if there are any patterns with who or where they keep coming from and if we could even try intersecting some of them on route.”

“Works for me. We don’t know all the companies, but we know Niveus is a big one. Roman Enterprises appears to be another. ”

Charlie nods along and soon a flurry of clicking can be heard as she types on her keyboard, likely searching both of those companies and trying to dig deeper to find more connections. “Could whoever has the sheet read me out the ID for the user, should be just above the topmost order number,” she says, focused on scanning a monitor she had offscreen. 

Sam, who was handed it by Jesse, one of the other crewmates, scans the paper and locates it. He reads it off to Charlie clearly, who nods along, mumbling the letters and numbers under her breath as she types. Charlie frowns. 

“Hey, Sam?” She looks at him. “Could you read me ID again? Nothing’s coming up.”

“Uh. Sure. It’s BE3X5220PSLC .” He makes sure to say it clearly, in case he accidentally mixed up any of the letters or numbers previously, but as Charlie types it again, her frown doesn’t let up. 

“That ID doesn’t exist in Niveus’ system.”

The room goes quiet, and Sam stares down at the paper in his hand, stomach sinking.

“Charlie,” Bobby begins, slowly. “What do you mean, it doesn’t exist?” 

She huffs. “I mean, I’ve managed to pull up everyone’s IDs from the whole company from the highest you could possibly get to the lowest of the low. Whoever gave you that info, they either faked the ID, or they don’t actually work for Niveus,” Charlie explains. “Do you remember what he looks like? I could try and search employee records for photos and see who matches it.”

“Maybe he gave you the wrong info to not get it traced back to him?” Jesse suggests optimistically, and Charlie shrugs.

“Maybe, but that’s not easy to change quickly when pulling up the records. Someone would’ve had to go through a helluva lot of work to do that and not raise any eyebrows in the system.”

Around Sam, the room grows uneasy, a few eyes darting to the paper still in his hand. Bobby describes the man he and Rufus met with to Charlie, who is feverishly typing. It takes a minute, maybe less, before she pulls up a photo on her screen of a man who looks to be about Sam’s age. 

“This him?” She asks Bobby. 

“Yeah, that was our man.”

“Appears his name is Tyson Brady, employee ID is TB0429DYK10.” Her eyes scan the page, and something about the name sounds oddly familiar to Sam. 

Where has he heard it before?

“Looks like he’s been at Niveus for the last year or so, but before that, he worked for…” she trails off, eyes widening. “Lieutenant General Green. He worked closely with the Lieutenant General on mission Croatoan, and looks like whatever he did was good enough to earn him the title of General. From what I can see, it looks like he had a career change, was put into position in Niveus Pharmaceuticals which is unsurprisingly owned by Lt. Gen. Green.” 

Now that Charlie’s said it, Sam remembers Dean bemoaning about that whole mission and some guy named Brady who kept getting in his way. “God the guy could talk, always had something to say whenever he saw me,” Dean had told him over beer. “ I swear he was like a lost puppy following Green at times.”

“Fuck,” someone hisses, overlapped by Bobby’s own, “ Balls.”

Suddenly all the promising information they hold doesn’t seem so grand, and Sam wonders if any of this is even correct or if it’s all been forged and created purposely to throw them off. If Brady is as involved as Charlie says, then there’s no way he would just willingly be offering classified information to the rebels. 

“So if this is all fake,” Jo speaks up, rising from her chair, “what about the crates?”

The crates.  

Bobby curses again and Sam turns his head to look at the door to the rest of the ship where the crates innocently wait. 

And if things hadn’t already been going bad, fast, that’s when shit hits the fan.

The whole ship shakes, and lights flicker before shutting off completely. Charlie opens her mouth to ask what’s happening before her screen dissolves in static and goes dark. Everything is quiet for a moment, and the crew all hold their breath. Then the second explosion goes off. 

Sam, thankfully, is relatively unharmed from the bombs due to where he is standing in the room. The others aren’t all as lucky, some bloody and injured from the back wall getting blown inwards. The alarms blare through the smoke, flashing an angry red, and for a moment, Sam thinks he’s back in the church. His ears ring from the gunfire explosion, and his body aches from where he landed on his left side. Someone’s calling his name, he thinks, but he can’t hear it over the noise, eyes darting left and right, dancing from soldier to soldier crewmate to crewmate. 

A rough hand eventually lands on Sam’s shoulder and he jumps, wide eyes meeting Bobby’s eyes. 

“We need to keep all of our heads steady,” Bobby warns. “You okay?” 

“I, uh. Yeah.” Sam swallows and nods. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He gives Sam a final pat before focusing on the others. 

Jo unsteadily pushes herself to her feet, using one of the fallen chairs and then the table. Sam can see how she’s favouring her left leg while standing. “Guess it’s safe to say Brady’s not on our side,” she rasps, and Sam snorts. 

“Yeah, you can say that alright.”

Around them, the rest of the Kripke’s crew slowly get to their feet, supporting those that got the worst of the damage. Most of them have varying levels of injuries, from scrapes and cuts to more battered appearances like Jo. 

For a moment they all stand in the meeting room, bathed in red flashing lights as the alarm sounds. Then, Claire says, “Shit. That’s the oxygen alarm, isn’t it?” 

Alex nods. “It is. The explosion likely blew a hole through the side, and probably knocked out at least one of our oxygen pumps too.” 

While he’s no expert, even Sam can tell that doesn’t sound good. “What about the engines?” he asks her, who looks over to Rufus, imploringly. 

“Shit. Ain’t no way they didn’t get damaged in the blast,” he says before coughing. “At this rate, it’ll take us days to get to Missouris, and even then, we don’t have enough oxygen for all of that.” 

Sam looks at those who are standing, bloodied and then at the others that are too injured to do so. He has an idea, a brilliant, insane idea, that just might work. “What if we overrode the system, couldn’t we try and pump the air manually?” 

“What are you suggesting, boy?” Bobby asks. 

“If we could go down to the oxygen pumps and pump the air manually we should be able to have enough to make our way to at least the nearest moon,” he explains to Bobby, who looks at Sam as if he’s grown a second head. 

“We’ve got three folks down, two more that are likely unable to help. Even if this were possible, I don’t think we got the manpower.”

“But we could try,” Jo suggests, limping over to them. “If we’re going to die anyways, at least we should try. Rufus, was the medical bay hit?” 

Rufus pulls up a map of the ship on his old, battered wrist-comm, and shakes his head. “Just missed it.”

“Okay, so then we send those that need to be seen immediately to the med bay. Everyone else who can stand and pump heads down to the pumps,” Sam explains, receiving a skeptical look from Bobby. 

“I’m in,” Jo says. “Just get me some drugs, and I’ll be good as new.”

She bumps Sam’s shoulder cheerfully, despite the somber atmosphere. They both watch as Bobby and Rufus share a look before eventually, Rufus shrugs. 

“Might as well try.” 

The others aren’t quite as enthusiastic about the idea of pumping oxygen manually, especially with their current state, but they all take to the task with resigned weariness. Jo watches from her spot at one of the pumps as the others trudge along, their energy show and motivation low. It’s been hours they’ve been going at this, and between the group pumping the oxygen and the other group trying to work the engine, it doesn’t appear like much progress has been made. Probably because it’s slow, and probably because the progress isn’t very noticeable in the first place. Already it’s been a long day, and it’s only going to be longer as they move in shifts, taking turns at the pumps when the others grow too tired. 

Jo’s one of the luckier ones she thinks, despite how her muscles ache at every movement. She’s sat on a stool unlike some of the others who have been standing for hours, but her right leg from the knee down is also swathed in a thick cast that protests with every moment so maybe not. Even sitting it hurts something fierce, and she’s spent the last hour or so while pumping having her teeth gritted. 

The repetitive motion is slowly driving her mad -- or it will, she thinks. Might have already done so, if not to her, then to the others around her. Those who aren’t pumping are on the engine or vice versa, and the only noise beyond the machinery is the panting and wheezing of the crew who sound as miserable as the ship’s mechanics. Jo can’t stand the quiet, can’t stand having nothing to focus on to try and ignore the pain, so she starts humming. 

The first thing she can think of is an old shanty, one she vaguely remembers her father singing to her when she was younger. As she hums, she glances around, but none of the other crew mates notice, either too out of it from exhaustion or just lost in their own worlds.

So Jo keeps going. 

And, when humming too grows dull, Jo adds some words to the tune. She can’t remember all the original lines her father once sang, the memory too fuzzy from age, so she makes up her own. Anything to keep her from wanting to give up. 

(After all of this she’s gonna find her back to Nesk and tell her mom she’s sorry.)

Plucking words from her head, Jo weaves them into the tune, moving her arms up and down to her song. 

“ Pump, me boys, let her fly ,” she begins softly. “ Down to hell and up to the sky. Bend your backs and break your bones, we’re just a million miles from home.” Jo repeats those lines again and again, growing louder and more confident, and still, the others pay no notice. 

Feeling daring, she adds more lines, allowing the noise of the pumps and machinery to become part of her song, and slowly, she begins to garner attention. 

“ A wiser man than I once spoke that life at heart is all a joke.” Bits and pieces that her father once sang to her come back, and what she does, she alters to fit the situation at hand better. “ But he was not embroiled in smoke. So it’s pump, me boys, before we choke,” Jo sings over the smoke and fumes. 

The words that follow next aren’t her's though as one of the others chimes in with: “ The image of my sweetheart’s face, it fires the heart and sets the pace.”

Jo startles, looking over to find Jesse, who gives her a wry, tired smile. His arms are wrapped in several spots with bandages, and he’s just as sweaty and tired as she is. 

“Catchy tune you got there, Harvelle. Hope you don’t mind me hopping on.”

She laughs, letting it carry over the sound of the wheezing machinery. “Take it away, Jesse.”

He nods, and repeats his line before adding, “ Whate’er the time, whate’er the place, I’ll find him through the depths of space.”

Jo then joins in with him and together they both sing, “ Pump, me boys , let her fly. Down to hell and up to the sky. Bend your backs and break your bones. We’re just a million miles from home.”

They keep their pumping steady, and as they continue to sing, swapping verses, the others begin to join in. Rufus, who laments about how he misses his bed and wishes he could rest his aching muscles, Claire, who is full of anger and pain, and even Bobby, once ensuring those in the med bay are stable enough for him to leave, joins in. Soon what started as humming becomes a full shanty as the seven crewmates of the Kripke bring to life their own frustrations and stories as they pump. 

The thuds of the pumps set the pace, the machines and the engine adds the harmony, and it makes the grueling task a bit easier. Their muscles still ache badly, and their arms certainly feel as if they’ve become jelly, but they do not stop, not when it is a matter of life or death. 

Sam watches quietly from his spot at by the engine, too injured still to participate in the labourous movements of pumping oxygen. Jo raises a sweaty brow, questioning his silence. He’s the only one who hasn’t yet joined in, instead choosing, curiously, to be silent. She thinks he looks almost lost, eyes following the up-and-down movement of the others, as he tries to help Alex and Rufus tinker with the engines. 

She’s almost convinced he won’t join at all, but when Garth finishes singing about how he misses his wife’s smile, Sam slots himself in, albeit less smoothly than the others. He practically spits the words as he speaks ill of the king and his forces, stating aloud how they will not die because of the king today. 

“ Fuck the king and you as well, ” he snarls, directing it to who, she doesn’t know, but it makes Jo laugh and repeat his words with just as much vigour and passion. 

It does not make the pain go away, but the shanty helps with morale more than anything. As each crew member adds their own verse, they can ignore the blaring of the alarms, the groaning of the ship, and the impending doom that hangs over their heads. Each and every moment is one more bitter fuck you to the king and his loyalists as they continue to pump, spite-fueled. They will not give any of them the satisfaction of their deaths. 

If the king wants to kill me, he’ll have to do it himself, Jo thinks before joining the others in their chorus. 

They continue pumping through the night, shifting and swapping when they can with others, and hours stretch on and the shanty gets a new tune, new words, and when Missouris’ nearest moon finally comes into view of the ship’s radar, Jo laughs. It’s a crazed, maniacal thing, laced with too much energy and exhaustion, but she doesn’t care. 

She laughs and laughs, and the others join in. They’ll feel the pain later, the exhaustion too. For now, though, they feel only victorious. 

Chapter Text

The silence is suffocating.

Sat on the cold metal floor of the Impala, Cas’ ears are still ringing with the echoes of gunfire. When he closes his eyes, back pressed against one of the walls, he can still feel how the phantom bullets whiz past, missing their mark of flesh only just, just as he can feel how the flames lick at his skin. 

But it is just him, and the silence. 

It feels as if someone has turned down the volume of the entire world, doing it so quickly as to leave him reeling in the emptiness left behind. The absence of it all is jarring and too jagged, and he hates it. 

With a shaky breath, Cas opens his eyes and stares out at the stars he has missed for so long, hoping they might offer him some comfort. He has found it in them once before, and so, with desperate eyes, he scans the darkness for it again. 

Please let this not be another thing stolen from him , he frantically thinks, eyes darting from one start to the next, searching for some familiarity or warmth. 

He doesn’t find it. 

The stars, once so comforting, are gone, snuffed out, and replaced by icy pinpricks of light that watch coldly from the vast, encompassing black. They observe Cas with detached indifference, and he shivers, curling in on himself tighter. He feels so small, now that the adrenaline has worn off. His body is no longer in flight mode, focused only on its survival, hours after he has left New Lawrence and Kaz behind. He has survived and made it out of the bloodshed, and his body knows this. And that is when the reality of everything crashes down upon him. 

And it aches.

Scraping at his chest, scoring against his ribs, carving at his flesh -- it does not settle gently over him. Instead, it aims to smother and bury him alive as grief and sorrow and anger and pain all crash into him like an ungodly ocean tide. They beat against him in time with the ringing, hitting where the ghastly bullets do not, and Cas cannot find the strength in him to move. It keeps him pressed there, against the wall, for hours. 

He thinks he should move.

(He doesn’t.)

He stares out at the stars. Help me, he pleads.

(He wants to cry.)

They do not listen. 

(He doesn’t think they ever did.)

How long are you supposed to wait before it’s time to call it? 

Cas sits in the Impala and waits, and wonders, and waits. His hands tremble in his lap as he counts the seconds and minutes that pass, waiting for Dean to come. 

Is it after ten minutes? 

That seems too short. Should he call it after ten hours? 

He swallows shakily, eyes fixed on the door. Is there even a correct number?

(When Cas’ mother died, his father held her hand for hours afterwards. He waited by her bedside, even after forcing the doctor to delay the announcement of her death, just in case she would wake. He sat at her side, unmoving, hands clasping her still ones, just in case she had simply fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber and would soon wake, remembering she had a family to return to. 

He waited for her for hours before finally letting go. Years later, Cas, sat waiting for his own lover, and wondered if his father stayed as long as he did because he didn’t believe it, or because he didn’t want to accept what he already knew.)

How long are you supposed to wait when you already know they aren’t coming back to you? 

Cas expects it to be awkward, sharing a bed with Dean as they make their way back to New Lawrence. It feels like something far more serious from where they are in their relationship (though granted, they’ve spent through one in less than a week, so perhaps it’s a flimsy thing to worry about), and beyond that, it’s small, clearly designed for only one person. The bed has only one pillow, and one blanket too, but to Cas it’s heavenly. He’s spent ages in that stone dungeon, laying on a thin, thread-bare blanket on a floor without even a pillow. In comparison, this bed is a luxury. It’s softer than a bed, the blanket like spun silk… Dean probably thinks he’s being ridiculous. Part of Cas thinks he is. But Dean doesn’t seem to mind, not making any comments or giving Cas odd looks, and it warms his heart. 

“I can find another pillow,” Dean reminds him as they lie together, partially squished as to avoidDean from falling off the edge. He’s made this comment twice already, as well as mentioning about going to find another blanket so that way they can both be fully covered. “Or, if you want, I can take the floor.” He’s said this five time now. 

“I don’t mind,” Cas repeats. “Really,” he adds when Dean lifts his head and gives him a skeptical look. Cas shuffles closer, resting his head against Dean’s chest. 

Dean doesn’t look fully convinced. “You say this now, but you’ll wake up tomorrow and --”

“And I’ll have had the best sleep I’ve had in ages,” Cas finishes. “Dean, I’ve spent years in a damp prison cell without even a cot to lie on. I’ve woken up to rats .” He shudders, and even Dean winces. “So unless you somehow like to sleep with rocks under the mattress, I guarantee I won’t regret our sleeping arrangement.”

The skepticism is still there, and Cas can’t blame him. If one of them moves too much, the other will get at best a knee to the skin and, worst an elbow to the gut. Cas will probably have to sleep half on top of Dean just to make sure the two of them actually make it through the night on the same bed. But, despite its imperfections, Cas can’t hate it. He’s in his lover’s arms, he’s free, and what’s more perfect than that? He can sail the stars, travel wherever he wants without the pain his stepmother inflicted upon him, all with Dean at his side. It’s a deal sweeter than honey. 

He can feel the vibrations as Dean grumbles, just as he can feel the arm tightening around his waist ever so slightly.

“There goes my plan for the rocks I collected, I guess,” Dean jokes, and Cas rolls his eyes before yawning. 

“Haha, very funny. Now go to sleep.

“Good night Cinders,” Dean murmurs, tilting his head to place a kiss on the top of Cas’ head. 

“Good night, Dean.”

(Cas feels like the happiest person in the galaxy as he falls asleep. He wants to feel like this forever.)

There is a bed close by. 

It’s technically more of a cot, not designed for permanent comfort, but traveling in the Impala was never meant to be permanent anyway. It was only temporary until Dean and Cas reached the Periphery, well beyond the reach of the Mad King. The bed is made: two pillows, enough sheets, and blankets for two. 

It’s been made for days now. 

It’s sat untouched for days now. 

Cas can’t bring himself to sleep in it, to move from his spot on the floor. He knows it will be too big for one person, too empty. Sure, the floor will bring aches and its own pains but that’s fine. Everything aches anyway. To Cas, they all bleed together at this point. And besides, he’s used to it. Not like he hasn’t slept on the hard floor before. Alone. 

So he doesn’t move. 

The star jumper is Dean’s. Not legally, at least, he explains, as they sit in the spare room in Gilda and Dorothy’s apartment. But it had been an old piece of junk, scrapped probably years earlier and he had been restless, bored. So Dean had got some old parts from a family friend of his and made it a challenge to put the thing back together and make it look as good as new. 

“She’s my baby,” he tells Cas proudly, a fond smile on his face. “Took years of hard work and almost quit a few times, but once I finally fixed her…” He whistles. “Better than any star jumper you can find on the market, I’ll tell you that. Runs like a dream.”

“Yeah?” Cas says, leaning against his shoulder. 

Dean’s been telling him about his star jumper, an 11-04CHEVY he fondly calls the Impala , to Cas in great detail, explaining all the work he’s put into it, and Cas, though he doesn’t understand much of it, listens dutifully. He likes seeing Dean smile. It makes him look softer. 

Dean nods eagerly. “The base is an old 67 jumper, and while she doesn’t have all the fancy tech the newer jumpers got, she makes for it up in power,” he elaborates. “I’ve been working on her a bit, since getting back. Things have been quieter, and I figured, we’ll be traveling for a while in her, after the wedding. Need to give her a bit of an upgrade,” Dean then says, apropos to nothing. 

“An upgrade?”

He shrugs. “Sure. I’ve only ever used her for short distances, and that was just me. No way are we sharing a small bed again, no offense Cas but that was a nightmare.” Cas laughs, and doesn’t disagree. It was quaint and charming, but also both of them were sore from trying to not move too much at the fear of hurting the other. “So I got a bigger bed -- nothing fancy, mind you -- and cleaned the insides up a bit. After all, if it’s going to be our little mobile home for a bit, it’s gotta feel, well, homey.” 

Dean rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, cheeks and ear tips pink. 

“I love you,” Cas blurts out, because it's such a small thing but it’s so, so much more for Cas. Dean took this thing that he poured so much of his time and effort into, something made just for himself because he wanted to see if he could do it, and he turned it into something for him and Cas to share. He turned it into a home for them, even if temporary only. Dean didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to put so much consideration in making sure Cas would fit so smoothly and seamlessly into his life, and yet he did. 

“I, well,” Dean flounders for a moment before coughing. “You haven’t seen it yet. Probably not as grand as you think it all is,” he says, trying to downplay it all as if not moments earlier he was so proud of his work. 

“If it’s something you made, I’m sure I’ll love it regardless of how it looks.”

Days drift, sluggish. Slow.

Cas’ ears don’t ring anymore. 

The phantom bullets don’t whiz past him anymore. 

Even the constant lick of phantom flames has died out. 

Now all there is, is the quiet, the great emptiness of space. Cas stares out at the stars and wills himself to feel something. Anything. He does not cry, does not yell, does not plead. He has tried all of that, has tried so much -- but none of it has helped. So he will sit here, in the place that was supposed to be his and Dean’s home, staring at the stars and allowing himself to grow numb to it all. 

(He misses when his ears rang, when the bullets whizzed, when the flames warmed his skin. At least he felt alive then.)

Cas welcomes the grief, the silence, and lets it hollow him out. 

He doesn’t want to think of how this star jumper was supposed to be theirs, doesn’t want to think of how Dean is likely dead (the others too). Because if he thinks of that, if he thinks of everything and everyone he has lost, then he will spiral further, thinking back to his own people, all dead. Suddenly it will become a game of connect the dots, only the prize is a heavy dose of guilt and blame. His brain will point out the common denominator in all of it (Cas), and it will remind him how it’s all his fault (none of it is). Cas swallows, trying to ignore it. 

(He can’t.)

“No peeking!” Gilda has her hands over his eyes, and Cas, confused, plays along. “Hold your arms out,” she then says. 

Cas does as such, and he can hear someone else come close. He stiffens, expecting the worst ( oh god she sold him out everyone will know ) but all they do is drape something over his arms.

“Don’t peek yet,” Gilda warns, even as she moves her hands and steps away. “When I say so, you can open them. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“One, two, th ree … open them!”

And Cas does. 

He looks down and finds draped over his arms is the most gorgeous suit he’s ever seen. The fabric is soft, a buttery velvet dark blue like the night sky. Running his fingers over the fabric, he marvels at how well-crafted it is, taking in every gleaming silvery button. As he shifts the fabric, he catches silvery threads winking out from inky blue, like bits of woven starlight, and he’s speechless. 

“ Soooo , what do you think?” 

Cas lifts his head, and struggles to find the words to express how much he adores the suit. Beside a beaming Gilda is Dorothy, her roommate and close friend he’s only recently begun to get to know. 

“It’s incredible,” he breathes eventually, awe lacing his words. “I, just…I’m speechless.”

Gilda nudges Dorothy, “See Dor! Told you he’d love it!” 

“You made this?” He looks over at Dorothy, eyes wide, and she nods casually. 

“Figured you probably didn’t have a suit or anything to wear and Gilda asked me if I would be able to make you something. Things around the shop have been quiet, so I figured why not?” Dorothy explains as if it isn’t a big deal. (When Gilda pulls him aside later, she’ll explain that Dorothy’s just not one for expressing her emotions as much but that she had been happy that he liked it so much.) “Let me know if it doesn’t fit. I can hem it a bit before the big day.”

Choked up, Cas just nods. He swallows. “I, I will. Thank you.” He hugs the suit carefully to his chest so as not to crush it, feeling like he will burst from all the emotions. 

“You wanna try it on?” Gilda asks kindly and he can’t think of anything else he would want to do more. 

In the end, it takes days for him to actually move fully from his spot on the floor, and when Cas finally does, the headrush causes him to sway. Lack of proper nutrition and dehydration doesn’t help either, and his legs are now bursts of pinpricks, waking up from their state of numbness. He hisses, grabbing onto the cot to steady himself, and waits for it to pass. It takes some time, and as he waits, he stares out the window. The stars are cold and impersonal as always, but what catches him off guard is his reflection, which looks so utterly alien Cas almost doesn’t recognize it. 

The face looking back is hollow, cheeks sunken, shadows dark under his eyes -- it’s a face marked heavily by grief, and he swallows thickly, unable to look away. 

Cas remembers the last time he looked at his reflection. 

He had been in Gilda’s room, standing before the mirror as Dorothy helped slip his suit jacket on. Gilda had just finished fixing his hair and was now dusting his cheeks lightly with silvery dust. “ That way Dean can’t miss you,” she had said with a wink, smiling wide. 

“ Doubt he would, even without it,” Dorothy had retorted, teasing, and once they had both been satisfied with how he looked, stepped away from the mirror. 

Cas had gasped when he saw his reflection, unobstructed. That Cas in the mirror was happy. Gone were the marks of his time in prison, washed away or hidden, both by Gilda’s clever hand and Dorothy’s skill, and he felt like he had stepped out of his mother’s fairytales. 

That Cas is gone. 

Oh, he is still wearing his suit, even after all this time, but it’s now torn and ragged. The jacket is crumpled on the floor, having served as a pillow more than once (he hopes Dorothy, if still alive, would forgive him for that), and the silver dust once on his cheeks is long gone. His reflection looks like a ghost, or more accurately, a corpse. Skin pale, cheeks scruffy with stubble, hair, and clothes a mess, Cas is nothing like the man Dean had married. Lifting a hand, he places two fingers at the pulse point on his neck, feeling for a heartbeat as if to prove he isn’t actually dead. 

It takes a moment but it’s there, steady and constant. 

Cas isn’t sure if he’s happy or not to find it.

He just wants to curl up on the cot and never move again. He wants to curse the king until his throat is raw, wants to mourn Dean until the stars burn out around him. His hand drops, as he sits heavily on the cot, and Cas focuses on it instead. He does not want to see his reflection anymore. Not because it will hurt less, no. The ring that looks up innocently at him digs like a dagger, a reminder of what he has lost at the hand of the king once more. He fiddles with the ring, twisting it ‘round and round, as if maybe turning the right way will return the scarlet colour he saw so briefly. 

Cas is not a fool though -- he knows that it will never turn that colour again, not unless he finds Dean. 

(He doesn’t want to consider Dean is dead, that his ring will never change again.)

At that, that awful, aching feeling returns with vengeance, settling heavily over his shoulders. 

It sings sweetly of how he is alone, of how his love is dead and gone. His grief promises comfort, and numbness to replace and soothe the ache in his chest. The offer is so utterly appealing he nearly gives in. Nearly falls back into the too-big cot and hides under the covers, letting grief bury him. He does not want this hurt anymore, does not want this ache in his chest. He hates the silence, hates the loneliness, hates the pain. 

But Cas, for all he wants to, won’t give in. No matter how tempting it is. He stares at his wedding band and knows Dean wouldn’t want him to succumb to waste away slowly like this. 

So he has to keep going, for his husband, if not for himself. It’s hard, and he doesn’t want to, but for Dean’s sake he will try. 

Things don’t get easier. The grief and ache still linger, still cling like a bad blanket, and everywhere he goes it follows. When Cas lands at a small port on a nearby moon, out of food and sick of only himself for company, he hopes maybe it will be chased away by others. So he picks the loudest, rowdiest bar he can find. It’s a bit of a dump, if he's being honest, but he won’t complain. He’s not here for the scenery anyway. Cas, feet dragging slightly, shuffles towards the entrance. There’s a small crowd near the door who laugh a bit too loud as they smoke. The snippets of their conversation he can catch are coated by alcohol and tobacco, and the bits of metal they wear glint in the neon sign. They don’t seem to notice or care as he passes them, lost in their smoky haze, and he appreciates it. He doesn’t think he has the energy to talk much at all. 

The inside of the bar is roughly what he expected, matching the outward appearance. Weathered tables and booths are scattered about, most half-filled with people and automatons, with a bar at the back. The bartenders flint to and fro, serving those seated or leaned up against the bar top, and Cas scans the room for somewhere a bit more secluded, and quiet. Nearly impossible, he knows. Finding a quiet place in a bar like this is like asking the Mad King to smile, but he tries still. 

It takes some time but eventually, at the end of the bar, tucked slightly in the corner, is a stool he can grab. That side isn’t busy in comparison, and so he hurries over lest someone else beat him to the spot. 

The cracked vinyl groans as he sits down, and he worries if it was abandoned for a reason. But the stool seems to hold thankfully. The bartender comes by and Cas orders the first thing he sees, not really planning to drink much. He’s only here for a change of scenery, and to try and get rid of the ache in his chest. While drinking might help others with that, he doesn’t necessarily fancy the idea of collapsing on his cot drunk and waking up tomorrow hungover. 

Nursing his drink, Cas hunches his shoulders. The noise, the people… this was a mistake, he tells himself. Should’ve tried something else, something less this. He moves to get out of the stool but stops as someone brushes up by him. They smell of smoke (though Cas it’s less of cigarette smoke and more of what reminds Cas of a bonfire) and gasoline, and order two drinks he doesn’t catch the name of. That’s not what piques Cas’ curiosity though. Rather, it’s when they head off, drinks in hand, to the booth just behind them, where a few other people are seated. Their conversation is interrupted, and instead, they talk about… dead bodies?

Cas frowns, and without making it obvious, strains his ears to listen in over the noise of the bar. 

“...Whole town dead, you say?” One of the people at the table asks, sounding intrigued. 

“More or less. Killed right in the middle of the street,” bonfire-smoke confirms, voice low and smooth. 

A third person speaks now. “What’d they use?” This person sounds interested, and Cas can imagine them leaning across the table, eyes alight. 

“Blade, I think.” The others at the table grumble, and if Cas imagines it correctly, sound almost…disappointed. 

“Hardly much style in that,” the third mutters before downing half their glass. The group then begins to bicker amongst themselves at the comment, and it seems they are critiquing the weapon choice of all things. Cas can’t tell though, half convinced he’s hallucinating the whole thing.

It sounds so ridiculous, like something only a brain isolated for so long could conjure up. So Cas focuses back on his drink, ignoring the comments they make about the merits and ‘style’ of a good old-fashioned gunfight, and wonders who he’s decided to eavesdrop on. 

Still, he sits for a bit, not disturbed enough to leave. As much as he had wanted to earlier, it just seemed like too much. It’s easy to just sit here. So he does, and eventually, the bickering dies down as the group seems to refocus. 

“The few survivors I did find described the same guy though,” bonfire-smoke says. 

“Ah, tall and handsome?” 

A hum. “He’s one of the king’s.”

The table is quiet. Then, “Didn’t think Old Mike had any lone soldiers. Not after that whole thing with his Riotous Man or whatever it was.”

“It’s the Righteous Man, you idiot,” a voice from earlier corrects. There’s a thump, as if they kicked, or maybe hit the other person, and said person mutters something under their breath Cas can’t catch. “And he didn’t. No one’s supposedly seen the Righteous Man since those rebels killed his husband.”

Cas stills. 

Around him, the bar seems to go quiet. Since the rebels killed the Righteous Man’s husband?

He didn’t think anyone knew of the failed wedding, and here it appears not only are some people aware, but they have the whole thing wrong. The idea that people think it was the rebels that ruined it and not the king makes Cas’ blood boil. His hands curl into fists as Cas glares at his half-empty glass. This whole thing reeks of the king’s interference -- not only had he killed nearly everyone and stolen Dean, but it seems he also spread the notion that the rebels were the ones at fault. Also, if what he hears next is correct, Dean had volunteered to help with the king’s latest project - a series of genetically created soldiers. 

“Got a fancy name and everything. Calls them Angels. No one’s quite sure where they came from but from what I’ve heard, the Righteous Man is the one in control of them.”

“So then what’s this lone soldier? One of these Angels?”

A pause. There’s a rustling of fabrics and he thinks one of them is shrugging. “Fuck if I know.” A click and swoosh as a lighter is lit. Cas smells smoke faintly.  “Unless the Angels look like the Righteous Man, then it’s probably not them. Can’t see the king having Angels dumped on Missuris anyways. Too much of a shithole, really.” 

The conversation keeps going but Cas tunes it out completely now, trying to process everything he just heard. Dean’s alive. Dean’s alive. The thought leaves him giddy, a smile of disbelief forming. While he hadn’t fully come to accept that Dean could be dead, there were times when it all became too much and he was lying on the floor, where he thought of the possibility that Dean was gone. For good. It hurt awfully, worse than anything.

But here is proof he’s alive, and more importantly, okay. 

For a second he wants to be upset Dean hasn’t tried to find him, but if what these strangers have said is correct, then it is likely his husband doesn’t even know that Cas isn’t dead. It saddens him, and Cas decides right then and there he will go and find Dean. He’ll break whatever control the king has over him, and the two of them will be able to escape as planned. 

Cas knocks back his drink, wincing at the burn and coughing slightly. He then places the glass down, rough enough that it makes a faint clink, before throwing some cash onto the bartop. Quickly, Cas makes his way through the tables and people towards the exit. He still has to grab food and supplies, but after that, he’s heading straight to Missuris. If that’s the last place Dean was spotted then that’s where he’ll start.

Chapter Text

He lands the Impala in Missuris with purpose: to find Dean. Cas isn't sure where to start, he doesn't have much to go on, so he heads to the nearest town and asks for…information he supposes. If what the strangers at the bar are correct then there is a trail of bodies that will lead him to Dean. 

So with more energy than he's had in ages, Cas starts walking. 

Missuris turns out to be a bust. 

Dean’s not there, and he’s not on any of it’s moons either. It seems he’s moved on, and when Cas asks about him vaguely to the locals, they aren’t much help. They offer food, and bed, but they have no information on Dean or the strange man wandering town to town. Not giving in to frustration and defeat, Cas heads to Missuris’ neighbouring planet, Nesk. Nesk isn’t much help either, though it does appear that Dean has been here, if the trail of bloody bodies is anything to go off of. The locals here aren’t as open as the folks in Missuris when he talks with them, and it takes Cas twice as long to search the planet before finding no trace of Dean. 

So off he goes. 

To Wyno’mia. 

(Another town. All dead.)

To Utaleon.

(And another.)

He checks moons and planets both large and small, following both rumours and his own gut feeling, chasing after Dean. He keeps moving outwards towards the Periphery, eventually reaching Azonia. Compared to the others, it’s a smaller, dusty planet just on the edges of the King's grasp, filled mostly with small, rundown towns. He knows people are staring at him as he marches through, asking about Dean. He sticks out like a sore thumb, not rough enough by the harsh environment, but he doesn't care. He isn't here for their approval. He's here for Dean. So he asks around about the rumours, and spends weeks walking and travelling by LC racers, hoping he will find Dean before he moves on again. 

Cas can’t seem to find a pattern in all of this and some nights, wonders if there even is one. 

Dean apparently pops up somewhere, blood is shed, and then, like a ghost, he's gone again. It’s so utterly random the cities and kingdoms he does and does not appear in, the bloody trail he leaves behind.  

If he's following orders by the king, it isn't logical. All the rumours say of him as a lone soldier, but Dean, as the Righteous Man, had always travelled with the rest of the King's forces. To send one soldier to cause destruction or panic or fear or whatever the goal was -- it was strange. 

A hundred questions run through his mind as Cas clears dunes of sand, speeding across the arid landscape. He squints behind his goggles, scanning his surroundings as they blur past. The wind whips the scarves around his neck, though it's a welcoming relief from the overbearing heat. The sun has been relentless in the sky, high and overbearing at nearly all hours of the day. He wants to stop but doing so is a death sentence. He's heard the warnings from locals of both wildlife and people who roam the desert dunes -- they're vicious, though not as much as the sun itself. So he moves forward, telling himself when he reaches the next town he'll find shelter, cool shade underground from the scorching heat. 

When Cas finally arrives at the next town, he doesn't expect to see many people out. It's typically fairly quiet, what with the heat and all. But when he stops his LC-V racer at one of the old ragged, sun-bleached buildings, he expects to see some form of movement inside. But it's empty. A check to the next one receives similar results. He checks each and every building on the strip on the main section of the town, regardless of how dilapidated it looks, and finds not a single soul. 

What the hell ? He thinks, confused. He had been told there would be people here who could help him. But it's like the whole town just vanished. Cas makes his way down the street, cautiously, before stopping at the final building. He can't tell what it says, the wooden sign weathered from sun and sand, but he thinks it might be the main town hall. Reaching for the sword he keeps on his hip, Cas gently nudges open the door and slips inside. 

The ground level is basic, small, and designed more for simplicity as folks on this planet tended to live underground to escape the stifling heat. There are no people here, and with care to avoid creaking floorboards, Cas moves towards the obvious staircase at the back. Perhaps everyone is downstairs, for a meeting? He thinks, trying to remain optimistic. With the climate, it's impossible to tell if the town is just all in hiding, freshly abandoned, or has been for some time now. 

He finds his answer at the bottom of the stairs. 

And everyone. 

They're all dead, some with throats slit, others stabbed Their blood has pooled on the weather stone floors, turning grey stone scarlet. A sick part of Cas thinks of how it will leave a stain, and he chastises himself for that as he puts away his weapon. Women, men, and children are all dead, bodies left haphazardly strewn across the floor. The air smells of blood, and just the faintest stench of death, meaning they have died relatively recently. 

Cas swallows thickly before pulling the scarf over his mouth higher. Seeing dead bodies doesn't get easier, even if they are strangers. Cas stands at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the dead, and wonders what might’ve happened if he got here earlier. Could he have been able to help them? Or would he have been here with them, his lifeless body bleeding out on the stone floors? 

He doesn’t know. 

Not allowing himself to dwell on what-ifs, Cas turns and heads back up the stairs. He sees no point in lingering. It feels wrong, to leave the bodies, but he does not know them, does not know who he could even mourn. They are all strangers to him, and as wrong as it feels, he pushes forward. He’s told himself planets ago that it’s best if he leaves as soon as possible, not letting it all sit too long with him. He carries enough guilt and ghosts already, if he takes these too, he thinks he might break. 

So Cas leaves. He adjusts his pack, notes it’s empty, and mechanically decides that he will need to fill it. He doesn’t want to steal their food, taking what isn’t given freely, but a tiny voice reminds Cas the dead won’t complain. Their food will all rot alongside them if not consumed, and so, at least it will not go to waste if Cas takes it. Making up his mind, he heads toward the small general store he passed earlier. 

Stocking up is a quick and relatively easy thing, and afterwards, Cas steps out into the heat. 

That’s when he finds he’s not alone. 

There, at the end of the street, is another person. They stand just a bit taller than Cas, dressed in sturdy body armour. The bits of metal on the armour glint in the sunlight and Cas ducks back into the general store in a panic. Now, normally he might be happy to see another person and know that he isn’t the only one in this now-ghost town. But there’s something about the figure that doesn’t sit right with Cas. 

For a moment, he considers the possibility it might be Dean. Then he banishes the thought as he watches the figure slowly move down the street through the worn glass window. It moves slowly and methodically, walking stiffly. It does not move like the Righteous Man did the first time Cas saw him, fluid and confident like a predator. This figure moves wrong like it is not quite certain how to. For a moment, it almost reminds him of the other soldiers of the king’s forces with their stiff movements and blank eyes. 

The figure’s head swivels from left to right, searching likely for any survivors. In it’s hand, Cas spots a sword, still dripping with blood. 

Cas looks away, crouching and closing his eyes. Holding his own weapon close, he pleads for the soldier to not check in here.  Despite everything, Cas isn’t a good fighter, and he knows if the soldier finds him, he will be dead. So he crouches and hopes and by some luck, the soldier does not come in and check. Instead, it moves past where Cas is hidden, dipping into a different building. Cas exhales, grateful. Then, he grabs his pack and checking to ensure the man is not still visible, darts out of the general store and down the dusty road to his LC-V. 

Dean obviously isn’t here and Cas needs to get out of here now . Whatever is happening, it’s something far bigger than Cas expected. 

But, just as he sits down on the racer’s seat, the man steps out of the building and they lock eyes and --

The breath is stolen from Cas’ lungs. 

“Dean?” 

The name falls from Cas’ lips as he stares, impossibly, at the man who is his husband with wide eyes. It can’t be, he thinks, blinking and even going as far as pinching himself. But the man gets closer, and there’s no denying it. That’s Dean. 

There’s blood splattered on his face, and his armour is stained black in some parts, rust red in others from the blood. The sight of him causes Cas’ stomach to churn as his heart leaps in his chest. He’s torn between getting closer and trying to get further away, though he can’t explain why. It’s like there’s something in his brain that’s sending warning signals as Dean gets closer. 

Cas tries to ignore them and tries to remind his body and mind that it’s Dean. It is his husband . “Dean?” he calls out, dismounting his racer. He doesn’t inch any closer, but he does pull down his scarf and lift his goggles so that they don’t obstruct his face so much. “ Dean,” he says again. “It’s me, it’s Cas.”

There’s no recognition at first, as Dean moves closer, but Cas keeps talking. “I’m alive, I’m alive!” He adds, thinking back to what he remembers overhearing at that one bar, years ago. “It’s me.”

He smiles. 

Dean’s eyes meet Cas’, lifeless and blank.

A sudden chill washes over Cas. Gone is the heat of the sun, and Cas’ smile drops like a stone. Those warning signals flare up, screaming loudly and he takes a step back. 

Cas doesn’t know what is standing before him, but that is not Dean.  

It may wear his husband's face, and may look like him, but that is where the similarities end. Staring at this uncanny version of Dean, Cas feels sick. What did they do to you, Dean? He wonders in horror. 

He knew the king had used Dean’s genetics to create some form of super soldiers, but he had thought it was only the skills that transferred over. Seeing it up close, Cas knows that’s not the case. 

The soldier raises its sword, and despite the blood on the armour, he can make out the insignia on the thing’s shoulder: a pair of wings attached to a single circle. “You’re one of them, the Angels,” he can’t keep the horror and disgust out of his tone. 

The Angel, if it hears him, doesn’t answer. 

Cas has heard stories of their cruelty and abilities, designed to help further feed the king’s greed while also destroying any bits of rebellion that have begun to spring up. He hasn’t ever seen one in person before. When he had heard they were created from the genetics of the Righteous Man, he hadn’t been surprised, only angry. But Cas hadn’t thought they’d bear the same face.  

He unsheaths his sword and holds it high, glaring at the Angel. It makes sense now: the King stealing away Dean on their wedding night, the rumours and appearance of Dean in various places across the galaxy. Fuck the king , he curses. He doesn't know if Dean is alive (he hopes he is) but he knows he has suffered more than enough at the King's hand. And he will pay for it. 

The soldier doesn't fight back when Cas first swings. He doesn't find it strange until much, much later, how this thing doesn't even heft up it's sword to fight back as Cas attacks it. In the moment, consumed by anger, he figures that maybe it has been damaged previously and as such is weak. 

(It is not)

(Despite its age as one of the older models, it has not previously been damaged. Not physically at least.)

The Angel falls, dropping to it's knees and Cas, easily, drives his sword through it's chest. He wants to feel guilty about it, driving a blade through something that looks like Dean, but he tells himself it's not Dean. Especially since, not once, has his ring turned scarlet red. This Angel is not Dean, he reminds himself, over and over as it stares up at him, a flickering of something in its gaze before it dies. 

It is not Dean , he repeats as he pulls the sword from its chest and wipes the blood off on the Angel. 

It's not Dean . 

He climbs onto his LC-V, goggles and scarf affixed once more. 

It is not Dean. 

But that doesn't matter because Cas will find him. He knows Dean is out there, if only alive so that the King can ensure he can keep the production of these Angels steady. So Cas will keep looking, will check every damn moon and planet out there if he needs to in order to find him. And, once he does, he will make the king pay. For everything.