Chapter 7

"And you're sure you can manage this? You know how to do all the mumbo-jumbo and everything?" Dean asked. He, Crowley, and Cas were gathered in the dungeon of the Men of Letters bunker.

Crowley gave Dean an affronted look.

"Listen, pet, I'm perfectly capable of managing a spell. It's a very simple incantation really." He paused and gave Dean a sardonic smile. "It's only the ingredients that are bloody difficult."

Dean returned a withering look. Working with Crowley never got any easier. In fact, working with Crowley was why he was in the position he was in now. Dean looked down at his arm, at the Mark that tainted his skin. Having Dean take on the Mark of Cain had been Crowley's idea in the first place. Even Crowley had not foreseen the disastrous results of that decision. Unable to be killed while he possessed the Mark, Dean was both immortal and increasingly uncontrollable. But removing the Mark would set free an ancient force, known as the Darkness, which would destroy all of creation. Dean, and Sam, had instead chosen to make a last ditch effort at containment.

Cas had collected the majority of the ingredients for the spell they were using. Crowley's connections had been required for a few items. Favors from both heaven and hell had been called in to get everything they needed. The spell had come from the Book of the Damned. How Crowley had managed to get the translated spell from the book without Rowena's knowledge was anybody's guess, but he was highly motivated to find a solution to the problem of the Mark.

At one time, Crowley, King of Hell, had reveled in the notion that Dean Winchester might serve as his protégé. Demons for the most part were dull, plodding, and difficult to work with. They just didn't make up-and-comers like himself anymore, Crowley thought. But his attempt at harnessing Dean's potential as a demon had proven just how bad the Mark really was. So if Dean had instead chosen to lock himself away for all eternity, Crowley was more than willing to make that happen. And unlike Rowena, he required no deals and no payment. He would happily perform the binding spell guaranteed to last for eternity and beyond.

"Anyway, love, since you've already done the most difficult part, this does seem like a strange time to be having second thoughts," Crowley continued. "Figuratively speaking, your skirts are up around your waist, and your lacy little knickers are down around your ankles. Do you really think it's appropriate now to decide you just wanted to hold hands?"

"Crowley," Cas' voice held a warning tone.

"I'm not having second thoughts," Dean snapped. "But we've only got one shot at this, and if you screw this up we've got no options left."

"You think I don't know that, mate? You think I want you running amok again as a demon?"

"I don't really give a rat's ass what you want, Crowley! And me as a demon is the least of your…"

"You as a demon was the worst bloody thing that ever happened to my kingdom!"

"Enough!" Cas interjected. "Dean and Sam chose this path. We just want to make sure that you are capable of fulfilling your role. We do have other options."

"If you are referring to that ginger bitch who calls herself my mother, I assure you that her involvement will not be necessary. I am entirely certain of both the spell's efficacy and of my ability to execute it correctly," Crowley said in a haughty tone. "Don't get your sooty little feathers ruffled, darling."

"Fine," Cas said in as even a tone as he could manage. "What needs to be done now?"

"Now, we need to begin preparing the throne with the blood of the intended." Crowley nodded at Dean. "Take a seat, love."

The wooden structure which stood in the center of the dungeon was known as the Dark Throne. Its exact age was undeterminable, but it had clearly been built at a time when a man over five-and-a-half feet tall would have been considered a commanding presence – six feet, practically a giant. Dean remembered how ridiculous Sam had looked sitting in it – slouched so that his head would lay back in the head cradle, elbows pulled back so that his wrists would fit into the cupped areas of the armrests. Radiating from the head cradle and armrests, designs had been carved over the entirety of the throne, narrow channels that crisscrossed and connected in intricate patterns. The darkly discolored wood indicated just how many times the throne had been used. The blood of its victims had filled and overfilled the channels carved into it - streaking and staining it most heavily where the neck and wrists were slit, but also where water and oils, mixed with spell ingredients, had been applied to wash the blood over the throne's entirety.

For hundreds of years, the Dark Throne had taken its victims and fulfilled the desires of the blackest hearts. But Dean would be making a request which had never been made before. Dean would be asking to be held in a sort of suspended state. Neither dead nor alive, he would exist in nothingness – a place where he would forever hold the Darkness at bay and forever be unable to harm anyone. It was the solution he and Sam had chosen, even knowing what was required to prepare the Throne.

By the hand of supplicant, the blood until death of family dear,

By friend and foe, the blood of supplicant 'til death be near.

And so, unlike every previous bound and damned victim of the chair, Sam had sat willingly on the macabre throne, willingly contorted his body to allow his blood to run through its channels. And Dean – in a moment which even now, hardly a day since it had taken place, had already been blocked completely from his memory – had held the knife which made the fatal wounds.

"This next part has to be done over several days, you understand." Crowley said. "Essentially, your friend" – he waved a hand to indicate Cas – "and your foe" – he gestured to himself with a snarky smile – "cut you and bleed you out bit by bit until you're only just alive."

"Got it." Dean said. He felt a momentary pang of guilt at what he was asking of Cas, but it couldn't be helped. He sat, bending his body only slightly less than Sam had. Crowley picked up his knife, and after a moment's hesitation, Cas did, too.