Author Note: Just a quick tag for 14X10. Shout out to Nova42 for the quick, IN-PERSON beta, which is just the best and coolest thing in the world.
Castle of Glass
Part I
He knows now how deeply he was buried in his own mind, and there won't be a quick or easy route back. Sam and Cas, wearing twin reassuring smiles, wink out of the dimly lit bar like someone flipped a switch. It's not as simple a task for Dean, with the muted shouting behind him, the relentless pounding on the cooler door where Michael is trapped and held back by nothing more than sheer willpower. He flinches as a fist collides dully with the stainless steel, with his mind, and clenches his jaw.
You're mine now, you son of a bitch.
Flashes of color and disembodied voices do their best to distract Dean as he works his way back through waves of memories. They crash over him, tugging and pulling, the ones he's repressed and the ones he's held tight all vying for his attention and threatening to pull him back down, to trap him here all over again.
The bar hadn't entirely been Michael's doing, but a dream Dean had once, years ago. They were still hunting, and the world was still crappy, but in smaller, manageable bites. A vamp nest here, a werewolf pack there, run-of-the-mill evil without the threat of an imminent apocalypse waiting around the corner, and they hadn't lost nearly as many friends to the life. Rocky's had felt like home in a way that was different from the bunker. The bar held a sense of consistency, and comfort, and it was his in a way that nothing has ever been. But it wasn't real, and he shouldn't have needed Sam to tell him that.
He wades through it all until his mind stumbles into a brief, unsettling freefall, and he knows he's made it back before he even tries to open his eyes or draw a breath. Only the real world feels this stark and cold.
Everything about himself feels sluggish and heavy and not quite his, and it takes some work to get his eyes open. He hears a muted commotion and numerous voices trading back and forth with some urgency, but it's all faraway-sounding. He thinks he recognizes Sam in the din, but has no idea what's being said.
Dean opens his eyes to a blurry, indistinct world, and he blinks hard, struggling to focus. An itch and pull along his temples and forehead demands his attention and he moves reflexively to investigate, but his hands stop short with a harsh jangle that rebounds in his woozy head. An answering frustrated pound echos against that closed door in his mind.
He turns his hands, stares down dumbly at the cuffs around his wrists, the chain connected to the table, and feels a flash of panic at being restrained and unable to move, to pull away. But there's pride, too. Because they got him, corralled the son of a bitch out here before Dean got him locked down inside.
"Dean?"
"Yeah," he replies automatically, but doesn't recognize his own voice. He blinks again, raises his impossibly heavy head and squints up at his brother. At Cas. At Jack, whose expression is a pale mix of relief and wariness. Dean recognizes the feel of the bunker, of home, before he can really make out the familiar details of the library around him. There's a yawning gap in his memory that could stand for lost hours, days, or weeks, but it feels like he just saw them all.
Tension hangs heavy in the air, as no one makes a move to remove the chain, to unlock the cuffs. He raises his hands toward his brother, and Sam flinches, doesn't step forward. Really, Dean can't blame him for his hesitance.
He'd been so stupid. There were signs, red flags. He should have said something to the others, about the brief, fiery headaches and blurry vision, the weightless, unbalanced feeling that had been randomly overtaking him for weeks. But he'd been so preoccupied with putting up that front, with being okay. He wasn't, and he shouldn't have walked right up to Michael assuming the son of a bitch hadn't willingly left without some sort of contingency plan, without a way to get back in.
Just like he shouldn't assume now that the archangel won't have a way to get out. Eventually.
The door rattles as Michael throws his full weight into it, and Dean closes his eyes, breathes. It's just you, he tells himself.
"Dean?"
His eyes snap open at the sound of his brother's voice, and his vision tunnels until he can't see the others in the room, until it's just him and Sam. "It's okay, Sammy. It's gonna be okay." Dean swallows roughly, nods. "I've got him."
It's just you.
Dean swallows roughly, nods. His eyes are a little bright, but his voice is sure. "I've got him."
A weary smile tugs at Sam's lips, and his shoulders slump in relief. He moves forward, but Jack reaches out, grips his arm with surprising force.
"Are you sure Michael's gone?" he asks, stiff and guarded and drawn, eyes shifting to Dean and back.
Dean blinks and lifts his chin, but Sam speaks first, because doesn't want his brother to feel like he owes any of them an explanation. Not for anything that's happened. "He's not gone," he answers softly.
Jack recoils, steps back. "What?"
"He's…" Sam lifts a hand, gestures to Dean as a chill runs through him. He can't say it. Can't say he's still in there, and acknowledge that this is the plan. Because suddenly, this plan doesn't seem all that great, or reassuring, or secure, no matter how much he trusts his brother. No matter how strong Dean is. But there's no taking it back now. Not without risking Dean's life. Maybe all their lives.
"He's locked up," he assures Jack, voice louder than it needs to be. Then he turns to Dean. "And he's not getting out." He pins his gaze on his brother's as he says it, makes sure he's assuring Dean, too, instilling as much of that trust and confidence in the man as he can.
Dean narrows his eyes, jerks his chin in the slightest of nods before he again lifts his cuffed hands. "Then can you let me out of these damn things?" He drops his gaze, wrinkles his nose as he takes in the stiff, tailored wool ensemble Michael favored. "So I can get out of these clothes."
"Right. Sorry." Sam curses his hesitance as he now hurries forward to release his brother from Michael's chains, and Dean won't look him in the eyes as he does.
Free of the cuffs, Dean immediately drags the leads from his head with obvious irritation and moves to stand, eyes widening as he takes in the state room, the overturned chairs and books knocked to the floor, Maggie and the other hunters looking haggard and pale and wary. "What the hell happened here?"
"Monsters?" Maggie offers.
"Okay." Sam draws out the word, looking around the large room. "Where are they?"
She barks a small, crazed-sounding laugh that lifts her shoulders but she doesn't answer, just turns her gaze to Jack.
"You didn't." Castiel steps toward him, frowning. "Jack, tell me you didn't use your powers."
"I had to." The kid looks down at his outstretched palms. "To save everyone."
"It's okay, Jack," Sam interjects, earning a sharp glare from Cas. He gets it, but he needs to prioritize, to triage the situation. "What I mean is, let's just put a pin in this for now." He raises his eyebrows at the angel. "Okay?"
Cas nods tightly, and Jack follows suit.
"Okay." Sam runs his hands through his hair, turning back to his brother. Prioritizing. "You're good?"
"Yeah, I'm good." He rubs at his wrist, where the cuff was, and his gaze travels up his arm, following the sleeve of the wool jacket. He frowns, lays a palm against his chest and shifts his shoulders with discomfort. "Could use a shower, though."
Sam gets that instinct, understands completely what his brother wants to do. Dean reacted in much the same way when they got him back here from Duluth, wanting to shed all evidence of the possession like a snake sheds its skin. But Dean is still technically possessed, and Michael won't wash away, no matter how badly his brother might wish it so. He's in there now, trapped in one of the deepest corners of Dean's mind, and no shower spray will scour away that stain.
A long, awkward silence falls over the room, and Sam knows that they're all thinking the same thing: this is a temporary solution to a serious problem.
I'm the cage.
Dean's also a man, and he's going to have to sleep at some point, to relax, to laugh, and let his guard down. Sam, who knows a little something about arbitrary barriers within the mind, can't see how his brother is going to keep the door shut tight indefinitely. Michael won't tire, won't wear down. He'll just keep pummeling that door with all he's got, until he breaks through. Until he breaks Dean down.
Almost unconsciously, Sam follows his brother down the hall toward the showers until Dean stiffens and turns, raises a hand.
"This is sort of a one-man job, Sam."
He stops in his tracks, shifts his weight uneasily. "Right. Yeah. I know."
Dean raises his chin, clearly straddling the line of exhaustion, but defiant and stubborn and all of the things he's going to need to be for this plan to work for any amount of time. "I'm good, Sam. Really."
"I know," he says again, lamely.
His brother cocks his head and smiles, that easy grin that never fails to put Sam at ease. "Then can a guy shower in peace?"
Sam waves a hand. "It's all yours, man."
He hopes it's all in his mind, the falter in Dean's smile as he drops his gaze, as he turns and continues down the hall. But he knows better than that. Knows exactly how good his brother is at putting on a show when he needs to. Sam has to be aware of the falters, the cracks, has to know them when he sees them.
Exhaustion falls heavily over Sam, dragging on his shoulders, making his legs feel like stone as he moves back toward the library. The whole ordeal can't have taken more than eight hours. One night, but it feels like he hasn't slept in days. And he knows he can't sleep now, not just yet. There might not be monsters attacking, and Michael might not be in the driver's seat, but he is still in Dean.
Cas had it right. Dean is more than strong. But strong as he is, Dean can't keep an archangel locked away indefinitely in his mind. The door will open, and Michael will get out, and they need to start contingency-planning. Sooner rather than later.
To be continued...