Archive of Our Own ^beta

Fasting in Fire

I am thy father’s spirit,

Doomed for a certain term to walk the night,

And for the day confined to fast in fires,

Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature

Are burnt and purged away.

- Hamlet I.v

“Wake up.”

Dean opened his eyes in a damp forest– his ears still ringing from the Leviathan’s death throes. He sat up. The sky was overcast– there was no moon and not a single star to be found. Trees loomed above him, shrouded in a fine mist that seeped into his canvas jacket and sent a shiver through his body.

“Good. We need to get out of here.”

Cas’s voice broke through the ringing and Dean slowly got to his feet. The angel stood behind him, blue eyes the only speck of color in the desaturated world around them. “Where are we?” Dean asked.

The angel’s head tilted to the side. “You don’t know?”

Should he? Dean wracked his brain. “Last I remember we ganked Dick,” he said.

“And where would he go in the death?” Cas asked. 

Another shiver wracked through him. “Wait, are you telling me-”

“Every soul here is a monster,” Cas told him in a low tone and Dean became suddenly aware of how the trees clicked and creaked as though they were alive. “This is where they come to prey upon each other for all eternity.”

All the moisture in Dean’s mouth evaporated. “We’re in purgatory? How do we get out?” 

“I’m afraid we’re much more likely to be ripped to shreds.”

The chittering grew too loud to ignore and Dean could not stop himself from looking over his shoulder. From within the veil of trees he caught glimpses of red eyes peering out at him. His spine stiffened. “Cas, I think we better-” Dean broke off when he turned around and found the angel had vanished. “Cas?” he whispered into the darkness.

He received no response.

-D-

Dean had survived a childhood with John Winchester as his father – he'd been dropped in the middle of the woods and told to find his way back to civilization with nothing but his wits and a pocket knife. He’d been made to spar until he was too exhausted to lift his arms, and then had to dig into his guts and make it through one more fight. He’d been forced to run behind the Impala on a dusty road in 103 degree heat with no water for miles, not even as punishment but as training.

Purgatory was a different beast entirely.

The sky never cleared. The day/night cycle consisted of a dizzying blackness followed by a hazy gray that Dean could only assume was daytime. Occasionally Dean could almost pick out a patch of light in the sky, but no sun ever emerged from it. With that lack of light came a cool humidity that stole away any warmth he was able to generate. He was always just south of a comfortable temperature. 

Dean moved constantly. His first day, after escaping those gorilla-wolves in a footrace, he’d whittled a branch to a point and killed a vampire for its superior weapon. It hadn’t been a pretty fight. Far from a clean decapitation, Dean and the vampire had wrestled on the forest floor before he’d finally stabbed it enough times in the neck to sever its head off. His reward had been a rudimentary blade made of some kind of bone. With a better way to defend himself, Dean knew what he had to do.

He had to find Cas. He had to find Cas and– well, Dean didn’t actually know what he’d do when he found the angel, but he had to tell him something important. 

Dean forgave him. 

For months, there had been an insurmountable weight on his shoulders. He’d had every right to hate Cas, who had betrayed his trust in the worst way possible, but he hadn’t had the stamina to. It took too much energy to stay mad, and with all the crap they'd been dealing with, he hadn’t exactly had the calories to spare. He’d stopped being actively angry with the angel the second he’d pulled that water-logged trench coat from the river. The hurt, on the other hand, had been harder to shake.

It had clung to him. Cas’s deception and betrayal had come out of nowhere– at least it had felt like nowhere to him. Then Cas had died and Dean had wanted to scream and yell, but Cas hadn’t been there to scream and yell at. He’d gone and left Dean with nothing but a dirty trench coat. Until suddenly he wasn’t gone. He’d washed up in the most unexpected of places and Dean had felt the pain he’d buried in alcohol and hunting and worry for his brother and sister sweep the ground out from under his feet. It had been followed by an anger that seemed to bubble up at random times, but always fizzled out and left him feeling hollow. Because this was Castiel. This was the man he’d fought the devil with, who had died for him, gone to hell for him. So, no, the anger did not last, but Dean hadn’t been able to find it within himself to forgive Castiel as Mercy had done so easily. 

At least, not until SucroCorp.

It was when ‘I don’t participate in aggressive activity’, ‘I don’t want to fight’, ‘I watch the bees’ Castiel jumped in front of him the second Dick took an aggressive step. It was then that Dean forgave him, because it was then that Dean had realized what Cas would give up for him, which was and always had been everything. Cas had thrown away his faith, his home, his sanity, and in that moment, his pacifism, and he’d done it for Dean. Because Dean asked him to, because it was what Dean believed, because he wanted to protect Dean. And maybe Cas had made mistakes– very, large, world-ending mistakes, albeit– but Dean would rather have him than not have him, and that was a fact. 

He’d take Cas fresh out of Heaven with a stick lodged up his ass. He’d take Cas in apocalypse land high on amphetamines. He’d take Cas with his head unscrewed and harboring a weird obsession with bees. He’d take Cas unlucky and cursed. He’d take Cas any way he could have him. 

Dean leaned against a tree, the bark unyielding and rough against his back, and took a rare moment to breathe. It was night, he thought. The passage of time was almost indiscernible, but in this time of darkness, he always prayed.

“Cas,” he whispered. “It’s me, buddy. I’m coming for you. I’m not giving up. Just, stay alive, okay? I’ll be there soon.”

Wherever ‘there’ was. 

-M-

Mercy waited patiently, though she wasn’t sure exactly what she was waiting for. To be questioned? Threatened? Tortured? For Sam to burst through the door and save her? As far she could tell Crowley had taken her from SucroCorp only to promptly forget she existed. 

Aside from the demon standing guard at her door, she saw no one. Every day, twice a day she was brought a meal. Always at the same time, always with a little vase and a single rose on the tray, like she really was a guest in a nice hotel ordering room service. She’d expect being taken by the King of Hell would mean he wanted something from her. What that was exactly, she wasn’t sure. Mercy didn’t amount to much herself, but there was a way Crowley looked at her sometimes that made her nervous. 

Mercy had never been held against her will before, and honestly, she wasn’t sure what to do about it. Her life and health were not being actively threatened, but she wasn’t sure that would hold true if she attempted to escape and failed. Was this like being lost in the woods? Did she hug a tree, and wait for rescue? Sam was out there, surely looking for her. Dean was- well, Mercy had an idea of where Dean and Cas could be, but she was praying she was wrong. 

Prayers weren’t worth anything though. As nothing continued to happen, Mercy began quietly squirreling away the roses that accompanied her meals. The room came equipped with a little kitchenette. Nothing fancy– a minifridge stocked with a few snacks and drinks, a microwave, a sink, a one-burner stovetop, and a spartan assortment of common cookware. A plan began percolating in her mind. 

Finally, though, something did happen. There was a knock at the door. Mercy startled. Her guards had never once announced their entrance. Before she could decide whether or not to answer, the door clicked and swung open. Crowley entered the room wearing a pressed suit and a placid smile. “Hello, Miss Winchester. Are you enjoying my hospitality?”

“Why am I here, Crowley?” she asked. 

His eyebrows rose. “Is the room not to your liking?”

“Oh, yeah, it's great,” she said sarcastically. “Lovely view, comfortable bed, spacious shower. There is one teensy little problem though. The door is locked from the outside.”

“Yes, well, if it wasn’t you would be able to leave, now wouldn’t you, darling?”

“Crowley,” she growled out. 

He sighed. “There’s an art to these sorts of conversations. It seems to escape you Winchesters, though.”

“I’m not interested in the artistry of dancing around that point,” Mercy said.

The demon merely smiled. “To your question then. I’m in the market for gifts from God,” he said. “You happen to have one. Nothing personal.”

That’s what this kidnapping was about? Her useless gift? Mercy narrowed her eyes. “I’m no more impressive than google translate,” she said. “And I’m fairly certain you can speak Enochian. What do you really want with me?”

“I can understand Enochian. You, my dear, can hear Enochian. An important distinction,” he said. “But that’s not the end of it. Do you really not understand the implications of the Gift of Tongues?”

Implications? Mercy barely understood the gift itself, or why she had it, or what she’d been meant to do with it. There had been a time – when she was naive and trusted in heaven – that she’d believed it all served some greater purpose. Then she’d discovered that God was gone, angels were self-serving, radicalized dicks who knew no more about her purpose than she did, and she’d ceased caring about the supposed role she was meant to play in the apocalypse that never happened anyway. That didn’t mean she wasn’t curious about the gift itself, but information on it was murky as best. Scripture was vague and the various Christian denominations each had their own interpretations. 

Sam had once told her he’d thought the Gift of Tongues meant she shouldn’t have to learn a language, that she should just suddenly be able to speak it, but that wasn’t Mercy’s experience. It wasn’t sudden, but it was certainly hyperfast compared to a normal. The easiest way to add a new language to her repertoire was to immerse herself in people speaking it– audio books, music, television shows. Even without properly studying the language she could pick it up within a matter of days. Just being exposed to it was enough to trigger understanding and if the language happened to be in a family of languages she already knew, the process was even faster. Enochian was the only language she heard as English as if by magic like Sam had assumed. ‘Dead’ languages took effort and time, but even those she took to with ease compared to most. 

“I’ll bite. What do you know about the Gift of Tongues that I don’t?” she asked.

“What I know is that the Gift of Tongues has always been a prophet-adjacent talent.”

Mercy stilled. “Sorry, what?”

“What exactly do you think prophets did in the Old Testament?” he asked.

She found herself suddenly in dangerous territory. Mercy did not like what Crowley was insinuating. Still, the answer leapt to her tongue like the dutiful student she’d always been. “They were God’s mouthpiece,” she said slowly. “The prophets brought the Word to people who needed to hear it. They gave warnings and insight, often acting as guides or teachers.”

Which was all true. Being a prophet did not always mean divulging the future. They were as much, if not more, in the business of forth-knowledge as they were foreknowledge. Prophets mostly used their gift to bring wayward sheep back into the flock. They warned people what would happen if they did not repent their sinful ways and turn back to God, but that was no more telling the future than advising a child to stop misbehaving lest their parent put them in a time out— or in God’s case, exile.

“And, what praytell, is the purpose of your gift?”

Mercy didn’t answer. She pressed her lips into a thin line, but not speaking didn’t prevent her mind from conjuring the answer anyway. She’d said it herself years ago: the Gift of Tongues was meant to proclaim God’s Word, even to those who spoke languages other than her native one. No doubt this gift would be invaluable to a prophet like Jonah— sent to preach to people outside his own nation where language could be a barrier. Maybe not every prophet had the gift, and maybe not every person who had the gift was a prophet, but maybe Crowley was right and the two often came as a pair. 

“I’m not a prophet,” she said firmly, which wasn’t even a denial. Even though what she’d said had at one point been accurate, things had changed from the New Testament onward. There was only ever one awakened prophet at a time now, and that was currently Kevin Tran. Mercy could not read the Word of God left on the tablet, she wasn’t divinely inspired, and she certainly did not have an archangel watching over her. Angels knew the name of every prophet born to date. Mercy-Elizabeth was not one of them.

“And yet, here you are. Gift of Tongues, sent by angels to the Winchesters' side to help guide them to the ‘right’ path during the apocalypse, meant to aid their understanding of scripture and Revelations, doing a prophet’s job without actually being on payroll as a prophet.” Crowley leaned forward. “You intrigue me, Mercy-Elizabeth.”

She scowled. “Don’t call me that.”

“Yes, you prefer to drop the Elizabeth. ‘God is my oath’... I’d drop it too.”

It felt as though the world had been swept out from under her feet. Crowley had not told her anything she did not already know about herself– he’d merely arranged the information in an earth-shattering way that left her with more questions than answers. “How long do you plan on keeping me?” she asked. “Because, I have to warn you. My brothers get twitchy when I go missing.”

“Is that right?” he said. “Well, I’ll make a note to start worrying about Dean Winchester’s twitches when he claws his way out of Purgatory. As for Sam– I have it on good authority that he’s no longer hunting.”

Mercy stayed silent. There was no point in taking the bait. 

Crowley smiled again. “Ciao, for now, Kitten.” 

He left, the door locking behind him, and Mercy’s mind whirled.

-D-

The vampire stumbled through the forest, tripping over roots and crashing through branches, fervently glancing behind itself at inopportune moments. Dean pursued it with lethal grace. He could smell the vampire's weakness a mile off. It was only a matter of time. 

Dean jumped down into a gully and paused. Snap!– a twig being crushed underfoot. He caught a glimpse of a starch-white shirt. The vampire had slowed down and Dean came up behind it. It caught Dean’s scent on the breeze. Dean saw its shoulders draw upward, and when it whirled around, wildly lashing out, Dean expertly disarmed it.

He pressed the snarling thing backward into a thick tree trunk, blade already notched at its throat. The vampire dropped its teeth and snapped viciously at him, but Dean did not care a whit. “Take a breath, calm down,” he drawled. Only when its teeth retracted did Dean continue. “Where’s the angel?”

The vampire laughed breathily. “You’re him,” it said. “The human.”

“Where’s the angel?” Dean repeated.

It stared at him defiantly. “I don’t know.”

Dean smirked. He withdrew his blade and the vampire relaxed minutely. In a flash, he drove it into the vamp’s arm, pinning it to the tree. It howled, and Dean stooped to pick up its weapon. It consisted of a dark obsidian blade strapped onto a long bone. There was some weight to it. Dean tested it in his hand and nodded. Not bad

He decapitated the vampire in a single, powerful stroke.

Something slammed into him. The air was forced out of his lungs when his back hit the forest floor and Dean barely recovered in time to get his arms between him and the feral vampire that had attacked him. Dean glanced to the side and saw the blade. He reached for it, but that small amount of give allowed the vampire’s snapping maw to get dangerously close to his jugular. It pinned his arm and Dean growled. It was no use– he needed better leverage.

Dean wedged his foot against the vamp’s hipbone. Just as he was about to kick with all his strength, a dark blur leapt on top of the vampire and tackled it away. Dean quickly got to his feet and retrieved his new weapon, watching as the two monsters grappled and unsure which he was rooting for. 

The one that saved him got the upper hand. It sliced the vampire's head clean from its neck and then stood. The first thing Dean noticed was its secondary teeth. Another vampire. Dean gripped his blade tight. 

“What? No thanks for saving your hide?” it asked, words coated in a honeyed southern accent. 

“Sure,” Dean replied. “I won’t shove this up your ass.”

“Awfully strange way to punch a meal ticket, friend.” It began circling Dean with a sly, almost smile and Dean followed in kind. “I got something you need,” it cooed.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“A way out.”

Dean laughed, the sound scraping out of his throat like sandpaper. “Even a dental apocalypse like you knows there’s no such thing.”

“There is if you’re human. God has made it so. At least, that’s the rumor.”

“Bull,” Dean said. He’d had just enough of God’s word stabbing him in the back to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

The vampire shrugged. “Suit yourself,” it said. “Maybe you’ve gone native. Maybe you like being manmeat for every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

Dean ground his teeth together. It was definitely bull– definitely. Probably. He shook his head. “Prove it.”

“Nah.” The vampire chuckled. “You’re either in or you’re out.”

“So you just want to guide me out of purgatory out of the goodness of your undead heart?” Dean probed.

“More or less.”

He scoffed. “What’s in it for you?”

“I’m hopping a ride.”

“What?”

“It's a human portal, jackass.” The vampire stopped circling him. “Only humans can pass through. I show you the door, you hump my soul to the other side.”

Dean’s brow rose. “So you’re looking for a soul train?”

“Sure.” It shrugged. “if that’s what you're into.”

“And how do I know this isn’t a set up?” Dean gestured to the two bodies cooling in the grass with his new blade. “How do I know I ain’t gonna end up like you’re friend over there?”

“He was my friend. Now you are,” it drawled. The vampire spread its hands like ‘what are you gonna do?’ “First rule of purgatory, kid. You can’t trust nobody.”

“You just asked me to trust you,” Dean snarled. 

“You see? You’re getting it now.”

Dean pointed his blade at the vamp’s neck. “First we find the angel,” he negotiated.

It looked away. “Three’s a crowd chief.”

“Well, hey.” Dean smiled cruelly. “Either you’re in, or you’re out.” 

-M-

Mercy was worried. She was worried about Dean. She was worried about Sam. She was worried about Cas. She was worried about Kevin. Hell, she was even worried about Meg. And she could do nothing of her worry under lock, key, and guard in Crowley’s custody.

She fingered the silken petals of a rose and wondered idly if she was under surveillance. Then she decided she didn’t care if a hundred demons burst into the room. The time for waiting was over. Whether or not Crowley was being honest about Sam, he had dangerous notions about her and would no doubt get around to poking and prodding her sometime soon to find out what made her tick. With a determined nod, Mercy stuck a pot of water on her single burner and turned it on. 

The exact instructions on how to do what she was about to attempt were not something she was privy to. All she had was three sentences of an anecdote from Eleanor Weiss to go on, but Mercy liked to think she was pretty clever. As her water came to a simmer, she plucked the rose petals and then ground them to a paste. When she was satisfied with the consistency, she added them to the pot and left the heat on low. 

No one came to question her about what she was doing, or why the scent of warm roses was suddenly so pervasive in the room. If Crowley was underestimating her, if he was looking at her and thinking he’d found the weak link, she’d make him regret it. She might not be a Winchester by blood, but she was made of the same stuff as her brothers.

It took several days for the rose petals to boil down to the texture Eleanor had described– a paste she could mold and form to her desires. She carefully counted and rolled out fifty-nine beads, then poked a hole through their center using a sewing needle she found in a kit for small repairs in the bathroom. They dried out in the course of another couple of days. She strung them together with thread and, suddenly, Mercy had a way to make holy water. 

She spent a week staring out her window, trying to get a sense of what time of day was the busiest– when she would be easily able to slip into a crowd and disappear— and rehearsed her plan in her head. The holy water would only buy her so much time. She could either use it to run, or use it to exorcise the demon. Mercy had weighed those options carefully. Exorcising the demon was risky. There was always a chance it would recover before she could finish, and even if she was successful, it would be sent back to hell where it would alert Crowley. If she began running immediately, it might underestimate her and not call for backup until she was well and truly gone. Demons tended to be prideful. She could use that to her advantage.  

Then, of course, there was the moral dimension of the problem. That demon was possessing someone. Not exorcising it when she had the chance would be cruel. Her brothers killed demons inside their hosts all the time— Mercy couldn’t call herself innocent in that regard anymore either, but in those cases exorcisms just hadn’t been feasible. If Mercy hadn’t killed Jackson, Guy’s ‘capable’ intern, then Sam would be dead. Here she at least had a chance. 

Mercy decided to take it. 

She slept fitfully the night before her escape. The next morning was a Monday and rush hour came right on time. Just before the foot traffic around the hotel hit its peak, Mercy put her plan into action. She pounded on the door until the annoyed demon guard flung it open and barked, “What?”

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus.”

The demon growled and took a step toward her, but only when its eyes flashed to black did Mercy finally spring her trap. Without pausing her exorcism, she flung an entire pot of holy water at the demon. 

Its annoyed growl turned into full-fledged screaming. Its skin began smoking and hissing. Mercy shouted Latin over its cries, “Ergo, draco maledicte, ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire. Te rogamus. Audi nos!”

Just as it seemed to be recovering from the holy water bath she’d given it, the demon suddenly lurched and black smoke poured from its mouth. The entire ordeal was over in minutes. Mercy didn’t even take a moment to breathe before digging into the man’s pockets, finding a cellphone, and ringing for the police. The operator had scarcely picked up before Mercy was rattling off the hotel name and her room number and demanding an ambulance. She didn’t give the poor woman a chance to respond and bolted, hoping the man she’d just exorcised was still alive and help could make it in time. 

She ran past the elevator and began booking it down the stairs. Next time she saw Dean she’d tell him how her stamina– built by years of competitive and recreational running– had served her well. Someone in the lobby yelled at her, but Mercy didn’t stop to listen. She burst out into rush hour traffic and began weaving her way through the crowd at a slightly more sedate pace. Going at the speed of ‘I’m running for my life’ would attract attention. She schooled her expression and pace into something more akin to ‘I’m late for work and one more minor inconvenience away from jumping off a bridge’.

The hotel shrank into the distance. 

Mercy turned a corner and was just beginning to feel at ease when a hand suddenly grabbed her wrist and yanked her into an alley. 

She caught her balance and came face to face with the King of Hell himself. “Kitten,” Crowley drawled with an amused smirk. “If you wanted face time with the King, all you had to do was ask.”

He brought her into a nearby restaurant and requested a private booth in the back. The hostess took them right through without question. He gestured for her to sit, and Mercy slid into the booth warily. A menu was set before her.

“You might have gotten away with it if you hadn’t hit the ‘return to sender’ button on my demon,” Crowley said as he sat down. 

He didn’t touch his menu, and Mercy didn’t either. She stared at him balefully. 

He held up a hand and opened his fist. Her rosary dropped out and dangled from his fingers over the table. “Very clever. I knew you had brains, but I underestimated your resourcefulness.”

Still, Mercy was silent. Their waitress came to the table, notepad at the ready. Crowley didn’t look away from Mercy, even as he ordered, “Veal, bloody. The lady will have the same. We’ll also have a bottle of red, whatever the chef recommends. Something that will be palatable for my young companion.”

“It’s 9:00 in the morning,” Mercy said dryly. 

The demon merely smiled. A moment later a pair of wine glasses was set in front of them, along with the requested bottle. Crowley plucked up her glass and poured her drink with a light hand. “No, thank you,” she said when he offered it to her.

He flicked his wrist and sent the ruby contents swirling. “Give it a try. Port is sweet– typically served with dessert, but I didn’t think you’d favor a dryer red.”

“I don’t enjoy alcohol,” she insisted.

“Whatever moonshine your brothers drink has no doubt scarred you. Allow me to introduce you to a higher class of alcohol. I insist you try a sip.” He tilted the glass in her direction. 

Sensing that he would not let this go, Mercy reluctantly accepted the glass. She’d had wine before, obviously, though she doubted communion wine would compare to whatever expensive vintage this was. He watched with keen eyes as she put her lips to the rim and took a sip. The wine hit her tongue and Mercy was instantly taken aback. It wasn’t sweet like ice cream, but it certainly was sweeter than whiskey and beer. She rolled it around in her mouth, enjoying the medley of flavors, and didn’t have to fight to swallow. Crowley did not ask how she liked it, but she suspected he knew the answer anyway given his smug look.

He tapped his fingers against the table “I have no doubt you could find another way of making a rosary– they’re devilishly simple things. If you attempt to make holy water again, I’ll cut off your water supply and you’ll have to relieve yourself in a bucket and take supervised showers. Do not make me remove the plumbing from your room.”

Heat flooded her cheeks quite against her will.

“That’s the stick, now let's talk carrot: your brothers. Dean is in purgatory and there is nothing you can do about that. You don’t have to take my word for it though. I will gladly give you all the research materials your angel and I had access to and you can come to that conclusion for yourself, if you wish.”

That felt strangely magnanimous of the demon and Mercy narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to be trying to keep me distracted so I don’t attempt to escape again would you?”

“Well, if it really makes you feel better about being a prisoner I can arrange daily torture for added authenticity,” he drawled. At Mercy’s unamused look, Crowley held out his hands and said, “As a good faith gesture, I’ll take you to Sam. He won’t see you, of course, but I think you seeing him will be… enlightening.”

She very much doubted the sincerity of him offering this in good faith, but Mercy was desperate enough to see her brother with her own eyes that she agreed without thought. “Fine.”

Crowley flagged down the waitress. “We’ll be taking our meal to go, actually. I’ll have someone collect it when it's ready. Come, Kitten.”

-M-

They appeared just outside a motel in some nameless town. It looked exactly like the thousands of other motels Sam and Dean had patronized over the course of their lifetime and of course this was where Sam would be. 

She wasn’t sure what to expect. Crowley had said Sam was fine and that he’d stopped hunting, but she didn’t really believe him. Dean and Cas were missing and she was missing to him too. Mercy knew that she wasn’t okay– that worry for her brothers had been keeping her up at night. She just hoped that Sam wasn’t planning anything stupid.

“Riot!” 

An Australian shepherd burst out of one of the motel rooms. On the dog's heels, Mercy finally spotted her brother. He was chasing the dog – apparently named Riot – with a leash in his hands. Mercy felt her breath catch. Sam looked well. She took a step in his direction automatically, and Crowley’s hand clamped down on her shoulder. “Ah, ah. We’re here as observers,” he reminded her in a silken tone. 

Riot had run to a woman in a yellow sundress and sat at her side. Was Riot her dog? She bent down and petted the dog’s head. “How good to see you again, Riot,” the woman said, and Mercy supposed that was her answer. 

“Hey, sorry, Amelia,” Sam said, jogging over to the mystery woman. “Whenever he smells you he just has to come say hi.”

“Almost like I saved his life or something,” the woman, Amelia, said in a coy tone. 

Sam chuckled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his head. “Right, how are you today?”

Mercy tilted her head to the side as the two began chatting– their words almost lost to her as she processed the scene. It was clear to her that Sam liked this Amelia. He was okay. He apparently had a dog. Her mind whirled. 

“See, Kitten. I told you, didn’t I?” Crowley suddenly spoke. 

“He’s happy,” Mercy said in amazement. 

Crowley’s eyes gleaned wickedly. “Not what you expected?”

Of course it wasn’t. Sam laughed loudly at something Amelia said, and Mercy drank in the noise. She hadn’t heard Sam laugh like that in a long time. 

“You’re… smiling?” Crowley observed in a confused tone. “Why are you smiling? You’re supposed to be angry.”

She raised her brow at him. “Supposed to be?” she repeated. 

“For all your brother knows I’ve been torturing you,” Crowley told her. “Yes, you’re supposed to be angry he’s not lifted a finger to come rescue you.”

Mercy looked back toward her brother, the shock of seeing him wearing off. Was she angry? Crowley was right. For all Sam knew the King of Hell had strung her up by her thumbs. She’d expected him to look for her – she’d waited for him – and here he was, with a girl and a dog. That did hurt. It stung, but… “I understand,” she finally said. 

Crowley blinked at her. “You… understand?”

“I’m not angry. Sam needs this right now. He needs a break and he deserves one,” she said. “It's okay. He can tag out. I’ve got Dean’s back. I always do.” The scene continued to play out in front of her, but Mercy turned away. “I’m done. I don’t need to see anymore. We can go.”

-D-

The vampire’s name was Benny. They talked– there was little else to do besides fight for their life, and it turned out that Benny wasn’t a bad conversationalist. He told Dean how he’d been drinking donated human blood by the time of his unliving death. He’d lived in Louisiana, which explained his accent, and had been killed fifty years ago– probably. It was hard to keep track of time in purgatory, but when Dean told him it was 2012 topside they’d confirmed it. 

That had led to Dean giving the vampire a brief rundown on Earth’s greatest hits since Benny had bit the big one. It had taken all of Dean’s will not to quote ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’. Dean told him a little about his brother and sister, but talking about Sam and Mercy caused an ache in his chest, so he avoided them for the most part. 

And still, every night Dean prayed. 

Between the two of them they covered more ground. Benny would help track down monsters for Dean to interrogate, but Dean noticed he often averted his eyes while Dean worked over the targets. Odd for a vamp to be squeamish over a little torture, but finally, they struck gold. 

“Cas, you better stay where you are, because I’m coming,” Dean muttered in prayer the night he wheedled the angel’s location out of a mutt.

“You sure your angel is even listening, chief?” Benny asked quietly.

Dean glared. “If he can, he is.” 

Benny let the subject drop, as he always did. The southern man seemed to understand what Dean wasn’t entirely certain he did himself. “Let’s get a move on, brotha.”

They followed a nearby stream for two days. At the clearing the monster described there was a crouched figure. It was, without a doubt, his angel. Cas was washing his hands in the water. He hadn’t seen Dean yet because his eyes were fixed on some point in the distance.

“Cas!” Dean called.

He watched Cas rise to his full height and turn to face him as if in slow motion. Dean walked towards him, Benny on his heels, barely restraining himself from breaking into a run because the angel looked like he was a flight risk. “Cas,” he repeated, pulling him into a tight embrace the second he was close enough. When Dean drew back he saw blue sky for the first time since they got separated. Okay, so that was cheesy. Sue him, but Cas’ eyes were undoubtedly the bluest things in Purgatory.

Dean’s smile could not be turned off or dimmed, even by the fact that Cas had stood like a post when Dean had hugged him. “Oh, it’s good to see you.” Dean laughed, taking in all of Cas’ appearance. He reached out and brushed his knuckles against Cas’ jawline, fascinated by the scratchy beard the other man had grown. “Nice peach fuzz.”

“Thanks,” Cas replied automatically, still looking stunned and harrowed. His hair was flattened to his head and darkened by grease. There was dirt smeared across his face. His knuckles were bloodied and bruised. The hospital clothes he’d escaped in were torn and caked in a month’s worth of filth. And that trench coat– his dumb, endearing trench coat– was beyond a recognizable color. It hung off his hunched shoulders, ratty and sad. 

“Want you to meet someone. This is Benny. Benny, Cas,” he introduced, not that Cas acknowledged the third party, who was hovering tensely just a few feet away, head on a swivel, keen eyes searching the trees for predators.

“Hola,” Benny greeted tersely. 

“How did you find me?”

The hunter shrugged– feeling no guilt for the monsters he’d slaughtered in his mission to find an angel. “The bloody way… you feeling okay?”

Cas was looking around nervously too, even as he answered. “You mean am I still-?” he twirled his right pointer finger around, gesturing at his head in a human colloquialism so mundane, Dean was surprised he’d used it correctly. 

“Yeah,” Dean chuckled, still feeling high from finding him. “If you want to be on the nose about it, sure.”

“No,” he replied. His eyes darted left to right quickly before focusing once more on Dean. “I’m perfectly sane. But then, ninety-four percent of psychotics think they’re perfectly sane. So, I guess we’d have to ask ourselves what is sane.”

After a beat, Dean said, “Good question.” 

“Why’d you bail on Dean?” Benny spoke up. Dean sent him an annoyed look. “The way I hear it, you two hit monster land and hot wings here took off. I figure he owes you some backstory.”

Though Dean was touched by Benny’s concern, an even greater part of him felt the ardent need to defend Cas. “Hey,” he protested. “We were surrounded. Some freak jumped Cas, and obviously, he kicked its ass, right?”

It was the only explanation that made sense. 

“No.”

Dean’s heart stuttered in his chest. “What?” he asked, even though he knew he hadn’t misheard. Even if he wasn’t sure, Cas staring at him pityingly, those wide eyes brimming with apology, would have been his answer.

“I ran away,” the angel admitted. 

The hurt, which had been lurking behind his excitement and joy, latched on and a pit opened in Dean’s stomach. “You ran away?” he repeated, attempting to mask the sting with indifferent anger.

“I had to.”

“That’s your excuse for leaving me with those gorilla-wolves?” Dean demanded. 

“Dean…”

“You bailed out and, what? Went camping?” he bit out, lip curling into a sneer. “I prayed to you, Cas. Every night.”

The angel’s gaze slid to the ground. “I know.

“You know!” Dean cried out. “You know and you didn’t-!” he swallowed the end of that sentence. This wasn’t the reunion he’d pictured. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m an angel in a land of abomination. There have been things hunting me from the moment we arrived!”

“Join the club!” Dean shouted. 

“These are not just monsters, Dean, they’re leviathan!” Cas snapped. And those blue eyes were suddenly boring into him, annoyed and desperate for understanding. “I have a price on my head. And I’ve been trying to stay one step ahead of them to- to keep them away from you.”

Dean softened. Cas looked away again, out towards the river, his hands curled loosely at his sides. That stupid, self-sacrificing angel. His world righted itself once again, and Dean understood. He wasn’t happy, but the thought of Cas abandoning him for his own safety was much easier to swallow than Cas running to get away from him. 

“That’s why I ran. Just, leave me, please.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Benny said coolly. “Let’s go.”

“Woah, hold on,” Dean cut in. “Cas… We’re getting out of here. We’re going home.” 

His angel wouldn’t look at him. “I can’t-”

“You can,” he stressed. “Benny, tell him.”

The vampire sighed heavily. “Purgatory has an escape hatch. But I got no idea if it's angel friendly,” he couldn’t help but tag on at the end.

“Hey, we’ll figure it out!” Dean growled at him. “Cas, buddy. I need you.”

The lines of worry on the angel’s forehead smoothed. He tilted his head to the side as he gauged the sincerity of Dean’s declaration. “Dean…”

“And if the leviathan want to take a shot at us… let ‘em. We ganked those bitches once before, we can do it again.”

But Cas was nothing if not stubborn. “It’s too dangerous,” he insisted. 

“Let me bottom line it for you,” Dean said, tone gruff because nothing else would get through the angel’s thick skull. “I’m not leaving here without you. Understand?”

Cas narrowed his eyes like he was seeing Dean for the first time. He carefully assessed his options– considered that Dean had a stubborn streak a mile long too, and it was matched by Winchester blood, which teemed with untimely luck, iron will, and a colorful arsenal of words. His tongue swept over his chapped bottom lip. Finally, he said, “I understand.”

-M-

The roses disappeared from Mercy’s tray, and another guard had replaced the one she’d exorcised. As promised, Crowley delivered all the purgatory research he’d had access to. It came in boxes and boxes— books, papers, parchment, papyrus, what she hoped was vellum and not human skin to match the loose assortment of engraved human bones. 

She began tentatively poking her nose into it. As far as she could tell, it wasn’t organized in any way, which was just as well. Mercy was quite particular. A week passed and Mercy was in heaven. She was elbow deep in a gnarly manuscript written in blood when Crowley entered unannounced.  

He had a mildly constipated expression. He looked around searchingly, but apparently did not find what he wanted. Then, he turned to her and said, “You know anything about Kevin escaping?” At her blank look, he sighed, “No? That figures. You’ve been a model prisoner since your first and only attempt at breaking out. Really I wish they were all like you. One and done. Don’t look so pleased,” he scolded.

Mercy covered her smile. “Sorry,” she said, sounding anything but.

“I’m sure. How is your research going?”

“I’ve only just started,” Mercy replied. “I’m feeling good about this manuscript written by a coven that turned to cannibalism in the 12th century though.”

Crowley hummed like he didn’t quite believe her but wasn’t going to press the matter. After all, as long as she had hope she’d find something to save her brother, she’d be quiet and stay put. Hopeful was how he probably wanted her. Knowing that didn’t change her feelings. 

“Well, I wish you luck.”

He was gone as quickly as he’d come. It was later that evening and Mercy had forced herself to take a break. There were only so many graphic descriptions of eating human flesh she could take before her stomach turned. The door was thrown open and she looked up in shock to find two demons.

“Can I help you?” she asked tartly.

“I told you,” the first demon said to the second. “I told you Crowley had the Winchester bitch locked up like Rapunzel.”

The second one spit like he'd heard a curse. “We should do him a favor. Warm her up for him.”

It was then that Mercy realized she was in trouble. However safe she’d felt, she was still in enemy territory. However comfortable the hotel room was, it was still a place she was not allowed to leave. She narrowed her eyes when the first one took a step forward. “Listen-“ she started to say, but she was suddenly thrown into a wall with a mere gesture. The air was forced out of her lungs and she could only cough and glare at the two demons looming over her.

“You sure she’s a Winchester? She’s got no bite. Or maybe she wants it.”

Mercy spat at the demon's feet. The last thing she saw before being knocked unconscious was a fist swinging toward her head.

-M-

When she opened her eyes she was strapped to a table in what could only be described as a torture chamber. Mercy’s stomach lurched. She’d endure if she had to, but God she really didn’t want to have to. At least, she hoped she could endure. Mercy had once, as a thought exercise, contemplated what it would be like to be tortured. One would hope they’d be sauve and cool – laugh in the face of danger, stoically tolerate the pain – but after ruminating over various torture methods for awhile she concluded that one could not possibly know how they would react to being tortured until it happened. 

Already her back ached and her vision was blurred. She’d be tough like a Winchester if she had to, she would, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t blinking back tears as one of the demons sharpened a knife with crisp, confident strokes right in front of her. 

“Nervous?” he asked in a condescending tone. 

“I’m not nervous, you moron, I’m terrified,” she shot back, wiggling in the cuffs and testing for give. Of course, there was none. 

“Not as tough as your brothers, are you? I bet you’ll scream nice and pretty for me.”

“Probably,” she admitted freely. “What are you? A cliche dispenser? Just get on with it. I’m already resigned to wetting myself, nothing you could possibly think to say will make me any more scared than I already am.” 

An unexpected blow came from the left and Mercy gasped as copper flooded her mouth. She’d forgotten about the second demon. He must have been lurking out of her sight. Static filled her vision. More blows rained down in unpredictable places. Her ribs, her stomach, her face. She wanted to curl up in a protective ball, but the chains prevented her from moving. They stopped abruptly but before she could recover her wits, the demon with the knife grabbed her chin and squeezed painfully tight. The blade hovered in her vision. “Where to start?” he asked.

He touched the point of the knife lightly to her cheek, then pressed it in achingly slow until she felt it pierce her flesh. He drew a hot line from the corner of her brow down, down, down and Mercy felt blood and tears slip down her cheek.

“Just what do you think you are doing? This is not how we treat our guests!” a familiar voice suddenly thundered. It was Crowley, and he was as angry as Mercy had ever heard him.

“Sir, she’s a Winchester,” one of them said, almost whining like a child. 

“Yes and you should be so lucky that I personally deal with you instead of gift wrapping you for her older brothers,” Crowley retorted. “Release her immediately and go. I’ll deal with you later.”

The cuffs binding her to the table gave way but Mercy’s world was still spinning and she didn’t dare move. Next she was properly aware, she was lying in her hotel bed and Crowley was wiping the blood from her face. 

“Crowley?” she whispered. 

“Yes, Kitten?” 

She blinked several times, but he did not disappear. The King of Hell really was tending to her wounds with hands far gentler than she would have imagined. “I didn’t like the authentic hell experience,” she slurred.

“Can I offer you a local anesthetic before I stitch you up or would you prefer a finger of bottom shelf whiskey and a dirty rag to bite down on like your brothers?” 

Inappropriate laughter bubbled up on her tongue and Mercy lacked the ability to fight it. She giggled in an almost hysterical way. Every peel of laughter only made the pain hotter, but even that couldn’t stop her. Crowley had no way of knowing he’d reminded her of something she’d said out of turn to Bobby years back about her brothers stitching up knife wounds with floss. He looked at her like she was crazy. Maybe she was. 

“I’ll be taking that as a yes. Be still.”

She managed to tamp down on her laughter long enough for Crowley to inject her. It stung, but not nearly as much as being cut into. A couple minutes later, she was numb and Crowley began his work. He started with the cut on her cheek, and it was strange she felt comfortable having him so close in her peripheral vision, metal instruments glinting in the light, touching her when she should be shying away from all contact. 

“I’ll torture those idiotic demons for laying a hand on you,” he said.

Mercy flinched and then hissed as the stitches tugged. Crowley sent her a quelling look. “Don’t,” she murmured. “I mean, I can’t stop you. Put them in line however you see fit, but please don’t torture them on my behalf.”

“Why ever not?” he asked. “They tortured you. They would have killed you without a second thought.”

“Well, yeah. They’re demons. It’s not necessarily their fault.” His hands paused, and she took that as a sign to elaborate. “Most people who give up their souls to make a deal with a demon are desperate, or are hurting terribly from one thing or another, or simply don’t fully understand what they are doing. And when they arrive in hell, they’re tortured until their souls break. I wouldn’t expect a man with a broken leg to run a marathon and I certainly don’t expect a man with a broken soul to show me kindness.”

Crowley hummed in interest and resumed his work. “You’re conveniently forgetting all those who are in hell because they deserve it.”

“Would you say you receive more souls who are damned by their own misdeeds or more souls through demon deals?” When he didn’t respond right away, Mercy pressed her point. “I’m deliberately putting those cases to the side and focusing on people like my brother and you.”

“And me?” 

“Did you or did you not sell your soul for a larger penis?”

Crowley snipped the thread and took her chin between his pointer and thumb. He tilted her head up and examined his work. Apparently satisfied, he let go. “I did,” he finally answered. “Raise your shirt. I want to examine your ribs and stomach.”

Mercy did as he asked. “And the man who sold his soul for a few extra inches, do you think that man, Fergus, was capable of killing and torturing in cold blood and enjoying it to the degree you do now?”

His hands were cool as he probed her bruised and tender skin. The pain was unfortunately familiar. “You’re adorable, Kitten. I wasn’t a good man when I was alive.” 

“We all do bad things, but most of us aren’t evil,” she said with conviction. “And none of us are so perfect that our soul would hold out indefinitely in hell. When it does eventually break, it’s possible for any of us to do horrible, horrible things. So, yes, I understand why demons are the way they are and I understand that I could, under the right circumstances, become a demon too. If there was some way to heal a soul that was broken in hell I would do it, but instead we’re forced to fight and kill your kind in an unending cycle. I find that terribly sad sometimes.”

Crowley dropped her shirt. He looked at her, brow furrowed, mouth slanted downward. Was it possible she’d made him uncomfortable? How amusing. “I have to tell you, as a demon, that for the duration of this conversation I’ve wanted to vomit in my mouth.”

“Then I have to tell you, as a little sister, that you’re being dramatic. Suck it up.”

“I never had any siblings,” he said absently.

She tilted her head to the side. “Would it make you feel better if I made a quip like my brothers?”

“Yes, actually it would.”

“Okay.” She nodded sagely. “Well, then the reason you don’t have any siblings is because your mother took one look at your ugly mug and said that’s enough for the world. Any better?”

“Much, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“They’re broken, by the way— your ribs. You certainly have a concussion and a fracture in your cheekbone, and the bruising will be vibrant for weeks to come, but nothing’s punctured or so severely out of place it needs to be set.”

Mercy sighed, and then winced. “I’ve broken ribs and have had a concussion before. I sort of figured. They would have done worse if you hadn’t shown up so quickly. Thank you, too.”

Crowley’s lip quirked upward in amusement. “You’re welcome, too. Think nothing of it. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”

She assumed being released wasn’t an option, and anyway, aside from this one incident, Mercy wasn’t inclined to escape right now. Not when there was still a chance she could find something to help Dean. What did she want, then? She thought for a moment and then asked, “How difficult would it be to install an espresso machine in my room?”

-D-

Purgatory had three rules. They were as followed: keep moving or be killed, keep one eye open at all times or be killed, kill or be killed. There was a brutal efficiency to this way of life. Dean’s blood sang with adrenaline, because he was a predator. And Dean’s blood thrummed with awareness, because he was also the prey.

There were few things to worry him aside from surviving, and a weight had disappeared from his shoulders. For the first time in a damn long time, his needs and wants were first. Since his childhood there had been a constant voice in his head. It shouted the same thing over and over: watch out for Sammy, keep Sammy safe. Even when his brother was in college, it hadn’t shut up. In recent years it had started shouting something else too: watch out for Mercy, keep Mercy safe. 

Now his brother and sister were a dimension away and the voice was gone. 

But it was more than just that one voice. There had been another. This one hadn’t shouted commands– it had whispered reprimands, putting a full stop to Dean’s thoughts anytime they had wandered in the direction of his angel. It said things like, there’s no time for that. And you can’t say that. Or, you can’t have that. 

That voice was quiet too.

When he looked at Cas, there was nothing but silence, and a warm, fluttering feeling in his stomach. Dean didn’t scold himself when his eyes lingered on Cas’ for an amount of time no sane human would deem appropriate. He did not flinch away when Cas stepped inside his personal space. Words he’d been choking down bubbled up on his tongue and knocked at his teeth desperate for escape. 

It was like he was seeing Cas for the first time too. There was a lot to appreciate about the angel’s vessel. The strong line of his jaw, his dark, tousled hair, and, of course, those blue eyes, but Dean was acutely aware that those things were superficial to an angel. What Dean liked more was the way Cas moved in his body. All those mannerisms that belonged solely to him were more riveting to Dean than his appearance. Cas wrinkled his nose when he was really trying to puzzle something out. He tilted his head in an endearing way for all sorts of reasons. Dean even enjoyed the loose, awkward way he held his arms at his sides, fists only half curled like he wasn’t sure what to do with the limbs when they weren’t in use.

Dean daydreamed of shadowy wings and he wanted so fiercely it almost scared him.

They fell into a rythm– him, Cas, and Benny. It was uneasy, but it existed.

“You’re carrying a torch something fierce for feathers over there, chief,” Benny observed one day.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

“You really ought to pluck up the courage and plant one on him,” he advised after a long draw of silence. “The tension is becoming insufferable.”

“I suppose you’re talking from experience, right?” Dean scoffed. Getting love advice from a vampire was just a little too much like a dumpy teen romance novel for Dean’s tastes.

Benny let Dean’s cynicism roll right off his back, all too used to the hunter’s deflection tactics. “Maybe,” was all he said, before taking a long walk off into the woods. 

Dean watched him go. It was one of those rare peaceful moments, the first reprieve they’d gotten since finding Cas. The angel had been right about one thing; he was pulling in monsters like a heat lamp pulled in moths. Speaking of Cas, he was resting with his back to a large oak, eyes carefully tracking the vampire’s retreat. After he lost Benny, his blue gaze snapped back to meet Dean’s.

“Where is Benny going?” Cas asked.

“I dunno. We don’t always share and care, Cas.”

The angel tilted his head to the side. He peered at Dean questioningly before shaking his head and looking away, like he had come to the conclusion that he would never understand some of Dean’s actions. 

Dean sighed, and walked over. He pressed his back to the tree and slid down until his legs were stretched out in front of him and his left shoulder knocked against Cas’ right. 

“Do you need something, Dean?” he asked, angling his head so their eyes met.

First, Dean was startled by how close they were. Then, he was struck by Cas’ words. His whole life Dean had been concerned with everyone else's needs and wants. It was bizarre to have someone so focused on him. Mercy similarly caught him off guard, but whereas his sister’s maternal tendencies were familiar in some long forgotten way, Cas’s attention felt different. It was almost uncomfortable, but refreshing at the same time. Like being on a mountain where the air was thinner, but the view was spectacular– all colorful banded mountains dotted green and blue with sparse desert brush and blooming blue bonnets— like he was at the center of the universe. 

The corner of Dean’s mouth lifted. “I have to tell you something.”

“What is it, Dean?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He’d half expected the words to be easy– Mercy made it seem so easy. Forgiveness had leapt readily off her tongue and he wanted to follow in her example. “Everything that you did…” Dean started to say and Cas tensed automatically. “I forgive you.”

Shock overcame the angel’s features, then shame. He looked away. “Dean…”

“Cas… I…” he swallowed and couldn’t stop himself from looking away too. He wasn’t good at this feelings shit. “I still want to fix this.”

“How can we?” Cas asked. “I betrayed you. I nearly destroyed the world. I could have killed your brother. Look where we are! I-

“Cas, do you want to fix it? You said that you did. Is that still true?” Dean pressed.

The angel raised his eyes to meet Dean’s. “…yes.”

Dean breathed out a sigh of relief through his nose. He licked his lips, considering his next words carefully. “When he was teaching me to fix cars, Bobby used to say that anything built by the hands of man can be fixed by the hands of man,” Dean said slowly. “You can’t break anything between us that we can’t fix together. I forgive you. You’re family. Here me? That’s gotta be the foundation.”

Cas’s face scrunched and he stared at Dean in awe. “I hear you.”

Dean reached over and clasped Cas’s shoulder. Cas reciprocated, his hand falling into place over Dean’s old scar. It didn’t quite match up with Cas in front of him and it struck Dean. The angel had been behind him, holding him to his chest as they ascended out of hell. A memory that Dean hadn’t realised he’d forgotten floated to the surface of his mind. None of it was clear— in fact most of the details were lost in a fugue of pain and shame and misery and despair and then the smallest fragment of hope flickered into existence, bright like an ember. It caught. Fire raged through him but it didn’t burn. It was warm and safe and so achingly tender. It surrounded him, like being cradled within a forge, making malleable all the jagged edges of his tormented soul and fusing him back together. His whole being yearned to the angel and Dean suddenly knew why.  

Dean Winchester is saved. 

For the briefest moment, Dean saw a flash of inky feathers surrounding him. Then he blinked. Cas was staring at him with those disarmingly blue eyes, head tilted to the side. “Dean…?”

Without thinking, without giving himself a chance to second guess, Dean leaned in. Their lips met softly, barely a press. Cas’ lips were soft and warm, pliant under his own. Their noses bumped, and Dean felt Cas’ beard scratch against his cheek pleasantly. The angel was frozen. Dean reached out to tenderly cup his chin, tilting his head up slightly.

After a moment, he pulled back, and his eyes fluttered open. Cas was gaping at him. Hesitantly, the angel reached up and touched the tips of his fingers to his spit-slick lips.

“Oh,” he repeated, stunned and lost. “Dean…”

Dean chuckled, and this time when he leaned down Cas eagerly met him halfway. They came together with more force. After a couple seconds of Dean moving his lips, applying a steady pressure, Cas got the idea and responded in kind.

“Close your eyes, Angel,” Dean murmured, drawing back just enough so he spoke the words directly into Cas’ mouth. 

Cas followed the instructions and sighed – just a tiny puff of breath – before attacking Dean with vigor. His hands pressed against Dean’s chest, pushing him back into the tree, and Dean’s landed on Cas’ hips, guiding him to turn and climb into his lap. The angel did, settling on the tops of his thighs, trenchcoat pooling around them. Cas tasted a little like sweat and salt, but underneath that, there was something stronger. It wasn’t sweet– when Dean kissed girls he picked up at bars, they usually tasted like artificial fruit flavors and cheap liquor. This wasn’t like that. It was better.

Mutually, they pulled back.

A twig snapped in the distance. Possibly Benny returning. Equally as likely some monster that had picked up their scent and was coming to kill them. Both of them glanced to the woods at Dean’s back, and then back at one another.

The angel smiled hesitantly. “That was… pleasant.”

“Yeah.”

Cas sat back on his haunches. A strange look crossed his features, and he pressed his lips into a thin line. 

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked.

He didn’t answer right away. A moment passed, and it was too late. “Not interrupting something, am I?” came Benny’s voice from somewhere to Dean’s left.

“No,” Dean growled.

“Whatever you say, Chief. C’mon. We’ve been in one spot too long,” the vampire said in amusement.

Gracefully, Cas stood and extended a hand to help Dean. The angel hauled him up effortlessly, and Dean uselessly smoothed down his shirt, and wiped the spit from his still tingling lips, watching in amusement as Cas mimicked his actions. 

-M-

Reading about Purgatory was like walking deeper and deeper into a dark forest. The path beneath her feet, the way back to safety and warmth, thinned and then disappeared altogether as she tread onward. Between the trees, shadows stretched out their crooked fingers. They seeped into her own shadow, drawing her further into their embrace with cool whispers in her ear.

She began spending longer tracts of time reading and the breaks she’d initially enforced for herself between research sessions dwindled to almost nothing. Her eyes were as dry as the parchment beneath her fingertips, and Mercy did not care. If she spent long enough in the clutch of Purgatory’s grim prose her flesh and bones would no longer ache, the stitches holding her together would stop burning, the memories would release her. If she spent long enough cocooned in the dark, twisted words that painted Purgatory behind her eyelids so vividly she could see it every time she closed her eyes, she’d find a way to get Dean out and it would all be worth it. Dean made things better. No matter how far from the path she strayed, how deep into the woods she descended, if she could find him it would be better. 

Last she’d been this entrenched in research, someone had always been there to pull her back. Mostly, it had been Bobby. Bobby, who would take the damned journal from her, pat her on the head, and send her to sleep. Mercy didn’t sleep now– not really. Food was ash on her tongue, but espresso was mana from heaven. What little rest she got was haunted. She dreamt of being lost at sea, of tumultuous waves breaking over her head, of a thrashing serpent crowned in sea foam, its lustrous scales each like a fragment of the night sky fashioned into armor.

Then she stumbled across it. An obscure passage that described a door, or a seam, or a rip. The translation wasn’t exact, or Mercy wasn’t on her game, but that didn’t matter because there was a way out of Purgatory for humans. Purgatory wasn’t meant to house intact human souls and she wanted to spit out any stuck within her maw. That was the trouble, though. One had to already be within purgatory to use this door. Mercy, on the other side as she was, could not access it.

Mercy awoke one night with an idea whizzing between her ears, nearly too fast to catch, but she latched onto it with both hands and held on tight as it carried her off in a whirlwind. She tumbled out of bed, the rumpled sheets tripping her up, and fell into the door. Her open palm slammed against the door over and over until an irate demon opened it.

“I need to see Crowley,” she said. 

The demon sneered. “Crowley’s busy.”

Mercy hissed like some kind of sibilant creature and bared her teeth. “Bring Crowley to me or so help me I will slit your throat and use your blood to call him myself!”

There must have been something in her eyes. To Mercy, it felt like Purgatory had spit its bitter blood into them. She was seeing red. Her heart was pounding. The idea was slipping away, away, away.

The door closed in her face and Mercy felt something within her snap. She howled and pounded the wood with her fists, spitting curses in every language she knew. She cursed the demon, cursed its life, cursed its death, cursed its very existence. And then, miraculously, the door opened again and Crowley was on the other side, his typically placid expression ruffled like a gale wind sweeping across a pond. 

“Kitten,” he said in a placating tone. He came in and shut the door. “I haven’t the faintest idea what language that is, and I’m not certain it’s human in origin.”

Mercy struggled to focus. Her tongue was a writhing amalgamation of worms in her mouth. “I have an idea to get Dean out of purgatory,” she said, wrestling it under control. “There’s a seam within purgatory that an intact human soul can slip through.”

Crowley’s eyes searched her face. Was it her imagination, or did he seem concerned? There was nothing to be concerned about. Hadn’t he heard her? She had an idea. “Yes, Kitten. I know of it,” he said in a slow, controlled tone. Far too slow for Mercy, whose thoughts were fast, so fast they were taking flight around her head, and she swatted at them waspishly as she waited for Crowley to finish speaking. “I also know it can’t be accessed from this side.”

“That’s my idea,” Mercy said. The worms had migrated from her mouth to under her skin. She began pacing, fearing if she didn’t move her bones in some way, her flesh would crawl off her skeleton in protest. “I can tell Dean about the seam if I’m in Purgatory too.”

His eyebrows rose. “And how do you propose you break into purgatory?”

“I let a vampire turn me. Then you behead me,” she said instantly. 

For a long moment, Crowley could only stare at her with his lips pressed into a thin line. “I think I’ll be taking away your espresso machine. When was the last time you properly slept?”

“What? Who cares about sleep. Listen, we have a cure for vampires. If I don’t drink any blood before you kill me, I can take the cure on the other side and then I can bring Dean back,” she explained insistently. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I’m genuinely concerned for you right now.” He seemed to have come to some sort of decision, because his shoulders straightened. “We’ll talk when you wake up and are, I can only hope, lucid.”

“Huh?”

“Sleep well, poppet.”

Then Crowley snapped his fingers, and Mercy fell into darkness. 

-M-

When she woke it was light outside. Crowley was at her bedside in a comfortable chair doing paperwork. He noticed she was awake immediately and tucked an expensive looking fountain pen in his jacket, setting aside the papers.

“Now then, how are you feeling, Kitten? Not still suicidal are we?” 

“‘M not suicidal,” Mercy mumbled, sitting up and rubbing the sleep dust out of her eyes. “Are you my nursemaid now?”

He tapped his fingers on the armrest. “I felt some degree of responsibility for your psychotic episode. I shouldn’t have assumed not sharing blood with your brothers excluded you from their self-sacraficing tendencies.”

“Psychotic episode?” she repeated, wrinkling her nose. “Let’s not be dramatic.”

“You asked me to decapitate you,” Crowley said in a dry tone. 

It took a long moment of sorting through her memories for Mercy to recall exactly what he was talking about. Her cheeks warmed. “Okay, so it wasn’t my finest moment. But I had a plan.”

It would have worked too she’d bet… up until her arrival in purgatory when Dean killed her himself for doing something so stupid. However many consecutive nights she’d gone with only an hour or two of sleep might have been one too many. The plague of thoughts and worms had halted, but there was still an itch in her blood. 

“I would not go so far as to call the ramblings of a mad woman a plan. Here, eat.”

There was a bowl of steaming soup on the nightstand and Mercy’s stomach grumbled. She accepted it with a murmured thanks. It was delicious and she was hungry, but Mercy found herself swirling the spoon around the noodles absently. “Crowley,” she said in a soft voice, getting the demon’s attention— he’d returned to his stack of paperwork. “Do you really think Dean will make it out of purgatory?”

How odd it was to be turning to the King of Hell for reassurance, but she was certain he’d tell her the truth. 

“Yes, I do. Dean Winchester is rather like a cockroach in that regard. And when he does claw his flannel wrapped arse out of purgatory and comes looking for his precious baby sister I don’t wish to paint an even larger target on my back than I have simply by keeping you. I’m taking your research. You clearly cannot be trusted with it.”

A protest welled up in her throat, but he gave her a stern look and Mercy’s shoulders sagged. “And Sam’s still okay?” she ended up asking. 

“Moose is fine last I heard tell. Poppet… I’ve realised it might have been an error on my part, isolating you from all human contact. If you want to write to anyone besides your brother, I’ll see that the letters are delivered.”

She looked at him dubiously, “Really?”

“I’m a King of my word.”

Feeling hopeful for the first time in a long time, Mercy ate her soup and began composing a letter in her head.

-D-

The days passed quickly in a way that made time feel like it was icing being applied to hot cake. Dean remembered one time when they were still with the Braeden’s; Ben had forgotten about a school bake sale until the morning of and Mercy had been forced to frantically make and assemble a cake at ass o’clock in the morning. She hadn’t had enough time to let the cakes cool down before icing them and the buttercream had slid right off her double chocolate cake while she cursed and hissed. That’s how Dean felt. Like every minute was melting away in a sticky mess and pulling crumbs of his sanity with it. He was barely keeping it together.

The odd trio slogged through the woods, bickering, chipping away at the other’s limited patience. And yet, they made a surprisingly good team. At first Dean thought Benny and Cas might kill each other before they even made it to the seam, but a week or so ago they seemed to have come to a mutual understanding. It was right about the time that Benny had saved Cas from being leviathan chow. That had been a turning point for his relationship with Benny too. They were a team now, not merely three people (or people adjacent beings) with a common goal.

But sometimes, their three became two. Benny would, when he had the chance, slip away with a wink in Dean’s direction (winking in Cas’s direction would produce nothing but confusion), lending him and Cas some much wanted privacy. He never went far, just out of sight, but the illusion was enough. 

He and Cas lay on their backs side by side one evening right before what little light there was in the sky drained away. Dean asked in a low tone, “Cas, what color are your wings?

“Black,” he answered swiftly. 

Dean thought for a moment and then said, “But not plain black. Black like an oil spill. They’re iridescent in light.”

Cas glanced at him in surprise, “Yes. How did you know that?”

“I’ve seen them before, haven’t I? When you pulled me from the pit. I remember.”

Now the angel looked alarmed. “You remember that?” He pushed himself up on his arms and leaned over Dean, resting his palm against his forehead. “You don’t feel hot, do you? You shouldn’t be able to recall anything of that.”

“I don’t remember it clearly,” Dean said defensively, swatting Cas’s hand away. “Just a couple little things. Like the color of your wings, and what you said.”

“Dean Winchester is saved,” Cas recited quietly.

“Yeah.” 

Cas lay back down, somehow closer than before. Their shoulders were pressed together now. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re a remarkable human.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, feeling heat flare in his cheeks. 

“Very few people can hear the voice of an angel– your sister being one of them.”

Dean frowned, staring up at Purgatory's dark sky. “But I can’t. I mean, you used your real voice to speak to me once and almost blew out my eardrums,” he reminded the angel.

“But you heard it then, and you remember it now.” Things between them fell silent for a moment. “Dean… what- what is this? What is it that we’re doing?”

The question came as a surprise to Dean, but maybe it shouldn’t have. He considered briefly how to respond. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “And I don’t care that I don’t know. Can knowing whatever it is, that it’s right, be enough?”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas said. “I’d go to harrow hell for you again– of course, I’d prefer if you stopped ending up there and in other hell adjacent dimensions altogether.”

Dean snorted with laughter. God, he was in love with a hopelessly romantic idiot. He kept laughing until it hit him. Oh. He was in love. Dean swallowed hard and glanced over at the angel again. Cas was staring at him with round eyes. Dean smiled reflexively. Okay, so he was in love. 

It wasn’t a big deal, right?

-M-

After the ‘incident’, Crowley began checking in on her because quote “holding her as prisoner was not unlike owning a hamster” unquote. Mercy had been sleeping though, and intervention was not necessary. She tried to tell him she didn’t need a nursemaid, but Crowley continued to diligently show up at least once a week. He usually brought with him an eye-popping amount of paperwork. Even a kingdom in hell was still a kingdom and therefore subject to the banal bureaucracies of government, she supposed. As far as she could tell, Crowley ran a tight ship. 

It was a month or so into these visits that Mercy realised he kept showing up because he wanted to and not because he felt he had to. He muttered something about Mercy being a mildly better conversationalist than his idiotic demon underlings— which she chose to take as a compliment. Often he brought wine in addition to paperwork, and he would pour her a glass even when she said she did not want one. She’d drink it anyway. On occasion, he came bearing gifts– small things, like books he claimed she might find interesting. The night he visited with several skeins of high quality yarn and some crochet tools, Mercy made an undignified sound in her excitement. 

A mailcall was added to her routine. Crowley was as good as his word and had let her write to her friends. She first wrote to Jody, not mentioning any specific details about where she was but simply letting the older woman know she was okay. Then she spent three days composing a letter to Kelsey and the response that came back made her hopeful about salvaging their friendship. Her last correspondent was Marcus. She hadn’t known what to say at first, but after a bit of initial awkwardness, she discovered he was just as easy to talk to in writing as in person. Mercy most looked forward to the letters stamped from overseas. 

One evening – while Crowley was drowning a legal document in red ink and she was kicking her legs, writing a response to Marcus – a thought occurred to her. 

“I want to know the second Dean gets back,” she declared. 

Crowley raised his brow. “I know that face. You’re scheming. The next sentence out of your mouth better not involve self-harm.”

“It doesn’t,” she said defensively. A frown crossed her features. “Well, maybe it does a little.”

The demon made an exasperated noise but still gestured like ‘go on’. 

“I know a tracking spell won’t work while he’s in purgatory, but it would begin working the second he’s back on earth. If I kept the spell going continuously or refreshed it every so often, I would know the moment he returns,” she explained. 

“And the self-harm aspect?”

She shrugged. “The best tracking spell I know requires human blood.”

Crowley leaned his chin in his hand, looking reluctantly intrigued by her proposal. “Counter argument: you don’t need such a high level tracking spell since your only requirement of it is simply that it works, not that it works accurately.”

“Fair point,” she conceded. “So… may I have the supplies necessary for a basic tracking spell? Please?”

“I’ll see to it that the ingredients are delivered routinely. But they best be only used for a tracking spell,” he warned her. “I’ve been betrayed by a guest of mine misusing spell ingredients to create demon bombs before.”

Mercy could only assume he was referring to Kevin. What other tricks did the prophet have up his sleeve? She almost asked if they had a deal, and then bit her tongue at the last second. Probably not the best turn of phrase to use when negotiating with the former King of the Crossroads and current ruler of Hell. “Thank you,” she said instead. It never hurt to be polite after all. 

Crowley waved her off, picking up his pen once more. Mercy smiled and ducked her head. She had a letter to finish writing. 

-D-

Everything was beginning to look the same. Dean would have been convinced they’d passed the same boulder that looked like a hamburger for a third time (it was possible Dean was just experiencing a craving), but Benny assured him they were heading in the right direction.

“We’re getting close,” Benny said after hours of marching single file through the forest. The vampire had taken point, with Cas bringing up the rear. 

“Really?” Dean asked, pushing a branch out of his face. Damn, he was tired of looking at trees. First thing he’d do when he got topside was find the nearest city and drown himself in concrete and metal. “Because I don’t see crap. I mean, what the hell is this escape hatch supposed to look like?” 

“He doesn’t know,” Cas muttered from behind him. 

Dean looked between his two bickering companions, hoping Cas was just busting Benny’s balls again. But Benny didn’t rise to the bait, and kept his gaze resolutely ahead. “Hey, you just drug me through the fire. Please tell me you know,” Dean said heatedly. 

“It’s here,” Benny replied a little too quickly. “They promised.”

“Oh, ‘they’?” Dean mimicked. “That’s comforting.”

The angel, the vampire, and the hunter – which really sounded like the beginning of a bad joke – were striding quickly downhill, heads on the swivel, alert for anything resembling a door.  “Even if it does exist,” Cas started to say, but Benny cut him off.

“Broken record, Cas.”

Dean rolled his eyes at the angel’s attempt at reigniting an old argument. His martyrdom was getting on Dean’s very last, very frayed nerve. Benny forged ahead, but Cas refused to let it die.

“It’s a human portal,” Cas tried again. “There’s still no proof an angel can pass.”

“Button it, Cas,” Dean said gruffly. “You’re coming. That’s final.” 

A warm hand grabbed his shoulder. Dean looked at the blood smeared, dirt encrusted knuckles and then to Cas’ sincere face. “I’m just saying, if it doesn’t work… Thank you. For everything.” Unconsciously, or maybe purposefully, his gaze slid to Dean’s mouth.

Dean glanced towards Benny and found him a suitable distance away. Any other time, Dean would have taken the opportunity to briefly kiss the clearly wanting angel. “Save the hallmark,” he growled instead. “Okay? It’s gonna work. Nobody gets left behind.”

Cas’s finger slid from his shoulder, tenderly stroking down his arm before taking his hand. “Dean…” he implored, blue eyes begging.

But Dean really did not want to hear whatever excuse Cas had on the tip of his tongue. He slotted his lips against the angel’s. It was brief. Really more of Dean smashing his face into Cas’s in an attempt to get him to shut the hell up than a proper kiss. Dean pressed down hard, their noses bumping, until he felt Cas tremble, felt the fight leave him. Only when a strangled whimper escaped Cas’s mouth did he draw back. 

The angel’s eyes remained closed. When they fluttered open again, Dean didn’t like the sadness in their depths. Cas licked his lips and hesitated on his feet for a moment. Then he seemed to come to a decision. He set his shoulders and the angel walked ahead of Dean with resolve in every step. 

Dean hurried to catch up. 

“Maybe you were lied to,” Cas was saying to Benny. “Maybe there is no seam.”

The vampire looked offended. “I lie. I don’t get lied to. Aren’t you guys all about faith?”

“Not particularly.”

They stopped at the edge of a small clearing. In front of them, a little across the way, was the rocky side of a hill. Purgatory stretched out before them in every direction, vast and endless. There was no door, no portal, no seam. Dean felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs.

An odd wind picked up. Odd, because Dean hadn’t felt a warm breeze on his skin since landing on his ass in Monster Land. Odd, because it pulled at his hair and at the loose fabric of his clothes with increasing ferocity. A leaf was picked up in front of them and it hovered in the current indecisively, but only for a moment. The next, it was blown – no, pulled was the more appropriate phrase – up the side of the hill. At the crest the seam appeared.

“Oh ye of friggin little faith,” Benny said, breathless. 

Dean watched the maw of it widen, like a slit-pupiled animal blinking in the dark. “What the hell,” he muttered. 

“There it is.” Cas cut his eyes to Dean, then back. “It’s reacting to you.”

The hunter snapped out of his shock, and turned hopeful eyes to Benny. The vampire nodded, a small smile on his face. “Alright,” Dean said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his knife. “You ready? Just like we talked about.” He pulled his sleeve up, and dragged the tip of the blade across his skin, leaving a line of red in its wake. 

Benny held out his arm. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you, brotha,” the southern man drawled. And Dean saw Benny’s faith shining in his eyes. They were blue, like Cas’s, though a more translucent shade, and older than they had any right to be in the same way. 

“You earned it,” Dean said seriously.

Benny’s hand curled into a fist when Dean sliced through his skin. They clasped forearms. “I’ll see you on the other side,” Benny said.

Dean began the incantation, the foreign words rolling smoothly off his tongue. The vampire jerked his head back when he’d finished, and his skin began to glow a hot yellow, before dissolving into red and being drawn into the cut on Dean’s arm as easily as water flowing down a drain. 

There was pain, but Dean had been expecting as much. He took a moment to adjust, before nodding at Cas, who’d been watching with worried eyes. “Let’s go.”

-M-

Mercy rolled out of bed. 

Outside her window the sparse trees were just beginning to turn. There were already a few over eager leaves littering the sidewalk and she found it hard to believe Fall was here again. September 14th lurked just around the corner. Mercy’s 19th birthday. Her last year as a teenager. Just thinking about it made her dizzy. 

Her 18th birthday had passed by without her notice. She’d officially become an adult while being held against her will and an entire year had slipped away in the interim. She’d been tortured by demons (briefly), crocheted four whole blankets, become a bit of a wine snob, had a moment that some people biasedly referred to as a psychotic episode but she just called a few suboptimal weeks of mental health, and accidentally become the King of Hell’s… friend? At least, a person he enjoyed talking to and drinking wine with. Weird.

Maybe her 19th loop around the sun would be less of an event. Maybe. Hopefully.

Her first stop after the bathroom was her espresso machine (which she’d successfully negotiated back from Crowley a few months ago). Only once the smell of coffee had successfully revived her, even before her first sip, she tended to her tracking spell. Mercy went through the familiar motions of preparing the ingredients and then muttering the spell as if on autopilot. 

She began walking away, intent on breakfast, when the most remarkable thing happened. Mercy rubbed her eyes and looked again, but the results did not change. There were results. The spell was working. It was working. She grinned. 

Dean was back.