Dean has always loved fire. The sounds of soft crackles and spits, the sight of glowing embers, the feeling of soft and enveloping warmth that surrounds him when close to an open flame. He loves it, loves the orange tongues and blue hues at the base of the flames; loves the dancing smoke of dying flames, loves the glowing, pulsing reds of embers still burning out. Beside an open flame, Dean is always reminded inexplicably of his mother. He has always loved the smell of burning, of smoke. It smells clean, pure; as though something once dirtied and sullied by the darkened world has been cleansed, scorched, and transformed into two of the purest things in the Earthly Kingdoms: heat and light.
He tries to let this thought soothe the knowledge of the nature of the mark embedded onto his forearm, burnt into his skin as if with the purest of flames or with white-hot metal. Tries to remember his kind, warm, enveloping mother when he fears that he is to become swallowed by the mark and the burning sensation it brings with it. It begins to work less and less.
He is starting to hate fire.
Dean gets word from the Angels that they wish to see him the day that he arrives back from his journey to Dione. Apparently the Angel messenger sent specially with the task of summoning Dean has been waiting at Hera for several days. Dean worries at the seam of his doublet as Ellen tells him all of this in the privacy of one of the castle chambers, thinking anxiously that it must be urgent if the Angels have been this persistent on the matter.
Benny stands a little way behind him. Dean tries to let the presence of the soldier be of the same comfort to him, a comfort the presence of Castiel would have once been. All this really does is remind him of the fact that the Angels have summoned Dean into meeting with them, that it is more likely than not going to be about the mark, and—
"Queen Anna has informed the other Kingdoms of the current circumstances, and has summoned them. High King Michael intends to speak with all the ruling families of the Earthly Kingdoms on the matter," the Angel messenger cuts into Dean's thoughts with his clipped, polite accent.
"And what are these 'current circumstances' you speak of?" Dean asks, frowning softly. He clenches and unclenches his fists out of nervous reflex. Lately, he's been feeling increasingly on edge, as though one false move might throw him off into an abyss of aching eternity—and he doesn't know what exactly is waiting for him at the bottom.
"I was never informed," the Angel replies, bowing his head slightly. He wears the crest of a golden phoenix across his tunic. What Kingdom does that mean he's from? Dean wracks his brain, attempting to recall all that Castiel told him of the Angels and their customs and ways.
Gabriel's Kingdom—was it Gabriel's Kingdom?—Theia? Is Castiel there, too?
"You come from Theia?" Dean finds himself asking. The impulse to ask had beaten the words out of him before he could think to bite his tongue. The Angel looks somewhat surprised at Dean's knowledge of his people, and he nods once in confirmation, a quiet frown pinching at his features.
"I do," he confirms slowly.
"Is Cas there?" Dean asks. Once again, the words are out in a heartbeat, thrust out of him by desperation and an oddly increased level of impulsiveness. "In Theia? With Gabriel? Did Cas send you?"
"Prince Castiel," the Angel bristles somewhat, "was present at the time of my leaving, yes. I cannot say as to whether he is still in the Kingdom, or when he plans to leave, if he indeed remains there. And as for who sent me, technically speaking, it was the High King Michael."
"Oh," Dean says in another beat. His gaze flickers down. He aches. "And—the Angels want to see me, and all the other ruling families of the four Kingdoms?"
"They do," the messenger confirms. Dean's eyes graze down his tunic of pale yellow. A thought snags in his mind and sends all others tumbling out of his head.
If the Angels want to see him—does that mean he'll finally—finally be able to see the Angel Kingdoms—or at least one of them? Which one? All of them sounded so beautiful in all of Castiel's and Mary's descriptions: all of them seemed so alive and bustling with life yet so still and calm and placid and beautiful and—
Dean has asked if he will be summoned to the Angel Kingdoms before his thoughts have managed to configure themselves into some kind of coherency. The Angel understands, nonetheless, and shakes his head softly.
"My apologies, your majesty—but no, you will not." Dean's heart sinks at the words. Hope only ever leads to hurt, especially where Angels are concerned. "In my understanding, my Kings and Queen will meet with your ruling Houses in the First Kingdom."
Eofor. Of course it would be Eofor—Castiel wouldn't be able to stand seeing Hera again; and in any case, Eofor was a Kingdom practically raised by Angels. They were coddled by the Angels. It's probably where the Angels would feel most comfortable out of anywhere in the Earthly Realms—especially now.
"I see," he nods shortly, looking down. Disappointment seeps into his gut. "When would this be?"
"In a fortnight."
"That soon?" Dean frowns. "We'll have to leave near immediately, if we have so little time."
"The matter really was quite urgent, to my understanding. My King apologises for any inconveniences caused, but begs you would attend—"
"Of course he fucking does," Dean mutters under his breath, his lip curling.
"I apologise, Sire, I come only as a messenger."
Dean looks up again. Remembers how kind and respectful Castiel always was to servants. His expression softens. He glances to Ellen.
"If we're to be in Eofor in a fortnight, perhaps we ought to set things in order, now."
Ellen, whose expression had been relatively unreadable during the entirety of the interaction between Dean and the messenger, now seems startled into life.
"You're going?"
"You think I shouldn't?"
Ellen glances over to the Angel uncomfortably before answering.
"I think you really ought to ask them what they want with you before complying."
Dean glances over to the Angel too, now.
"I guess you're right…" He mumbles awkwardly. "—Well?" He asks.
"I have already informed you that my knowledge on the matter is thoroughly limited," the messenger replies. "However—rest assured, King Dean, that King Michael's interest in you is purely for your own benefit and safety. If that is all, then I ought to return to Theia and inform the Archangels of your acquiescence with the request. You do acquiesce, don't you?" He raises his eyebrows at Dean expectantly. Dean shifts his weight uncomfortably.
"Yes," he nods. "I do."
Though he definitely dislikes the use of 'comply', here.
His gaze flickers nervously over to Ellen at this, but her expression is once again inscrutable.
"I'm sure my superiors would send their deepest thanks." The Angel bows. "I will intrude upon you no further—thank you for your hospitality."
Before Dean can reply, the sound of wings beating and feathers flashing through the air whirls around his ears, and the messenger is gone. He turns around to look at Ellen and Benny.
"I'm tired," e says softly. His voice sounds dull and flat in his ears. "I'm going to my chambers to get some rest, if that's everything. Please don't interrupt me unless it's…" He sighs emptily. "…Absolutely necessary."
Benny's hand grazes Dean's shoulder gently.
"I'll ensure that nobody wakes you, my King."
Dean's hand finds Benny's without him even realising it. He is about to pull away, his face a furious red, when the guard catches his fingers and squeezes them softly. Dean's heart relaxes so suddenly it feels as though it had been caged for years.
"Thank you" is all he manages to croak out—but Benny seems to understand. And then Dean makes his way steadily up the narrow steps out of the chamber, his fingers brushing lightly against the rough stone walls of his castle. He climbs the great winding staircase and doesn't let go of the wall; it grounds him and keeps him steady. His head is swelling and he is going to collapse under the weight of all that is happening around him.
Sleep comes intermittently for Dean, now. During the day, he finds himself plagued with fatigue: the dark circles under his eyes have been growing more and more predominant with each passing day—and yet at night he is ridden with nightmares when his eyes finally manage to close and his mind, at last, whirrs to a halt. His thoughts never really stop—and his bad dreams have been getting worse each time the sun sets.
Sammy's addiction is worse than Dean ever could have initially imagined. His brother is being weaned off Demon blood little by little; to cut him off completely would apparently be to kill him. Honestly, Dean can believe it, looking at his brother's tired and sunken eyes, his paling waxy skin, his depleted strength. To allow Sammy to continue drinking Demon blood as though it were water – well; Dean knows enough about Demon witchcraft to know what would happen. He would lose his brother, and not to death, but in the same way Dean thinks he is doomed to be lost. He loses more and more pieces of himself with every passing day. Whilst practicing in combat he grows more and more ferocious, more thoughtless and cruel and careless—he's losing control, losing himself. Several times now his vision has turned red and blurred and he has come moments away from slaughtering the knights he trains with, steel of his sword nicking the skin of their neck or dipping at their chest. He's terrified of himself, terrified of what he may do to his trainer or any of the other knights who practice with him, terrified of what he would do to an enemy who crossed his path.
Within two days day Dean and his party are to travel through the forests of Hera and into Eofor. The journey should last little more than a week itself; Dean will be travelling by horseback with a dozen men, along with Sammy, Bobby, and Benny—who Dean has been spending more and more time with, of late. Part of him wishes that Benny's grey eyes were piercing blue, that his hair was jet black and untameable, that his features were pointed and focussed in a way that could not possibly be described—and yet part of Dean is infinitely grateful that this is not how Benny looks, that Dean is now so far removed from those once beautifully familiar features.
He aches with the knowledge of Castiel's deception; he will never ever trust again and he will never be cured of this illness—not the ailment of the mark—but of the slow, gnawing sadness that bites and chews more and more pieces off him day by day. If not from the mark, then heartbreak will erase the last of Dean.
They ride day and night, only camping occasionally, through the great forest that stretches through both Hera and Eofor. Fresh, bright green leaves surround them, along with darker leaves of the older trees. When they reach the River Amnis, they know to follow it along until they reach the Great Citadel of Eofor. The river flows straight to the heart of the Kingdom. Dean watches it as he rides alongside it, eyes trained on its glistening surface. The river is so clear that you can see the stones resting at the bottom of it—Dean's mother had always told him that the river was believed to be magic and that if you drank its waters below the great waterfall of Castus, you would be cured of any ills you suffered.
He wonders anxiously if it would cure him of his illness.
"Do you know what it is the Angels want, Dean?" Bobby asks, dragging Dean out of his daydreaming rather unwelcomely.
"Uh—no, not really," Dean shakes his head, staring at the ground worriedly. "I mean, they said it was for all of our good, but…"
"But?"
"When have the Angel ever acted in our good?" Dean points out. A scowl winds its way across his features.
"Dean,"
"No, I don't want to hear it," Dean shakes his head, picking up his horses pace to pull himself away from Bobby. "It's… I don't—"
"It's been more than six months since you broke off your engagement with Castiel," Bobby sighs tiredly. Dean's eyes begin to sting. "And you still haven't heard him out. Why won't you?"
"Because there's nothing to hear out, Bobby!" Dean exclaims, still trying not to cry. "He betrayed me, he lied to me, the whole time he was lying to me! Do you have any idea how much that hurts? I thought I meant something to him—I thought I was special or worthy of him or just…" Dean trails off and realises that he finally is indeed crying softly. "When I found out none of it was true—when I found out it wasn't true…" He sighs, looking up at the sky. "You can't give all that to someone, if it's not real. You can't give it all then take it all away."
"But you know how you felt for him—"
"And he didn't feel the same way for me," Dean attempts to shrug carelessly, but his lip curls as he speaks with bitter resentment. "And nothing is the way that I thought it was. And I won't ever be able to feel the way I did for him, with anyo—"
He cuts himself off.
Benny is looking at the ground with heavy, sad eyes as he rides, silent. Dean's ears heat and guilt coils up, ugly, inside of him—the knight's face is red and embarrassed.
But it's not that he doesn't like Benny—Benny is warmth and comfort in a world void of the care Dean had grown so accustomed to when with Castiel—and it's strange that even though Dean and the Angel only admitted their affections aloud to one another on one occasion, and in a language only one of them spoke, at that—Dean doesn't think he'll ever be able to love another the way he loved Castiel.
He confessed his love for Castiel in a foreign tongue. He feels homesick for a place he knows doesn't exist. He thinks he is going mad.
But Benny… Benny is kind and selfless in a way that riddles Dean with guilt and unworthiness; his voice is low and sweet and if Dean closes his eyes while listening to the knight speak, he thinks he can taste sour-sweet tree sap at the back of his mouth.
The problem is, when Castiel spoke to Dean when his eyes had fluttered closed, it felt like honey was dripping through his system and spreading all over his frame with a kind of sweet-fullness that had Dean believing the universe was something fragile with beauty, despite all the pain and sadness within it.
Realising what it is he has said and how it must have upset Benny—because the two of them have been skirting around something with one another for quite some time now—has Dean's face heating more and further tears pressing at his eyes. He sighs and looks away from his three companions, feeling totally and utterly lost. The river flows smoothly beside their horses.
He doesn't know what he wants anymore.
Well, he wants Cas, he wants Cas to love him, for real—but none of that is possible, and it never was – it was just that Dean couldn't see that it was impossible and all a lie and never fated to happen. And now Dean doesn't know if he wants Benny or just someone to help him through all of this; he feels so alone and lost and he is losing more and more of himself every day.
He strokes Impala's flank gently. They ought to give their horses a break in just a moment, but for now Dean doesn't think he can face looking at Benny, Sam or Bobby, out of fear that he will burst into tears in front of them. His outburst just a moment ago was far too honest—and Dean doesn't like being honest about his feelings. Definitely now, more than ever. Until Bobby finally speaks Dean's thoughts aloud and suggests that they stop to give their horses food, drink and rest, the company don't exchange another word.
Even as they sit on the bright grass, damp and fresh with dew, they say very little. Dean stares distantly out into the forest, golden threads of sunlight filtering through the thinnest of mists resting at the foot of the trees and around the wildflowers.
"Spring is on her way…" Benny mumbles thoughtfully, filling the gasping silence that has fallen between each member of the group. The others make considered, awkward sounds of agreement as they feign pensiveness and nod introspectively.
"The forest is very quiet," Sammy says, his words falling in an uncomfortable stumble, trying desperately to diffuse the unspoken tension in the company. "It's very nice."
The trees whisper around them with the softest of breezes imaginable. It's as though they are laughing at the group for their awkward, forced attempts at conversation.
"Very nice," Bobby nods, feigning a kind of absentness in his voice. "It's…" He grasps for an appropriately descriptive word. Uncomfortable? Mortifying? Painful? "…Very peaceful, isn't it?"
Benny and Sam remark all too loudly that Bobby is quite right; Dean wants to laugh. People are so stupid. He really wants to be alone—or at least for the three to stop with their pained small talk and sit in silence—or at least come up with some decent topics of conversation.
The three are all looking over to Dean now, as though expecting him to make a superfluous comment on the niceness or quietness or peacefulness of their forest surroundings—but Dean refuses to participate in any of this bullshit—he wishes that they would just confront him about what he said earlier; tell him that it was too honest and too open and unkind to say in front of Benny, who has already done so much for Dean and cared so much for the young King when he is so unsure if he can bring himself to care back.
But no, instead the three simply peer awkwardly at Dean, expecting him to continue their banal observations on their—admittedly scenic—location.
"If I wanted to, how could I abdicate?" Dean asks, blurting out the next most insensitive thing he could think of. This question definitely has the desired effect—Benny appears so pissed off that he actually gets up and leaves, expression frustrated and exhausted; Bobby glares at Dean and immediately instructs him to stop being so stupid and to apologise immediately for treating his position as such a commodity, asking why-the-fuck-would-you-want-to-abdicate-anyway-Dean?—while Sammy looks at his older brother as though he has just revealed that his hobbies include eating the dead and making ragdolls out of their hair.
"You know," Dean continues, as if to clarify his question, because really, who gives a shit now, anyway? "Would I just say that I abdicated, and that would be it? I'd just throw the rag in there? Or would it be more of a process? Like, I'd sign a couple of treaties, I'd have to declare it all officially and what-not—"
"Dean," Bobby's voice is unusually harsh, and it cuts through Dean's words and makes the King jump in surprise. "Either you stop talking this damn nonsense, or I beat some sense into you."
"You'd really hit me, Bobby?" Dean snarls, his lips curling. "You really would?! After so many years of pulling your father-figure crap; you'd hit me? Beat me?! You know, Bobby, I knew it was crap, but—"
"You know what I mean, Dean!"
"Oh, but clearly I don't!" Dean roars. "Please elaborate, Sir Robert!"
"Just because you're in a piss-poor mood doesn't mean—"
"How dare you! Do you know what I've been through?!"
"We've all been through it with you, Dean—"
Dean stands up with fury blurring his vision and for a moment he is terrified that he has struck Bobby—but the whiteness interrupting his vision dissipates like mist, and he realises that he has only grasped a log the width of his thigh and length of his body and thrown it into the stream with alarming strength and force that he never quite realised he possessed—it lands with an ugly, disruptive splash that interrupts the flowing stillness and bubbling quiet of the river; the horses whinny and rear up in panic. Dean looks away from Sam and Bobby's alarmed expressions because he doesn't want to admit to them that he is losing control over himself and everything he does.
"It's—" He feels mortified, terrified. He steps towards Impala and attempts to calm her, but she breaks his heart when she shies away from him, deep-dark eyes fearful. "—We should be on our way again," he shakes his head. He feels as though he has committed some terrible crime in interrupting the tranquil waters of the ever-flowing river, especially with an action so angry and impure. What is Dean being replaced with, he wonders, if he is losing more and more pieces every day?
His face burns with the shame of his crime, but he doesn't turn back to look at his brother or Bobby, even when they call Benny back and tell him that they are about to return to their journey.
Dean watches the forest flit softly by them. The air is fresh and light. He thinks with a painful stab to his heart that this must be like the air up in the mountains. Castiel always described the air down in Hera as heavier and more humid than anything he was used to. Even thinking about this has Dean's breathing growing more laboured and painful.
…
When they arrive in Eofor, the sun is setting low behind the citadel. The castle itself has become a shadowy dome, black in wake of the setting sun, with spires and minarets rising from every point around it. It is so subtle and elegant in its form that while gigantic inside and undeniably pretty; it manages to mould into its surroundings—or rather its surroundings mould around it so naturally that the natural form of the forest seems entirely uninterrupted.
All that the giant castle does interrupt, in fact, is the steady, red beam of the sun, only the outline of which can be seen due to the rounded blot of Eofor's palace. As it is, the sun has a glowing red-gold creeping round the edges of the white stone of the oldest of the Great Earthly Castles; fading slowly into the blackness of shadow as the outline of the great dome that composes the vast majority of the palace glows with a warm—albeit eerie—orange light. The effect is quite staggering; Dean really isn't used to any kind of beautiful architecture, local or otherwise, and so observing the sun drip lower and lower over the curve of the horizon; setting the castle of Eofor on fire with the softest of flames imaginable, while the trees around it grow long shadows that match the castle's rising turrets—well—it's a little too much. The last time Dean was here, he was only a child—the last time Dean was here, his mother had just died, and Dean was still a broken little boy who spoke only to his younger brother, if at all. The thought has Dean's heart trembling with regret.
King Victor greets them at the gates—Dean notes this difference in customs between Eofor and Hera—with kind politeness and friendliness yet a quiet sobriety that has Dean feeling nervous.
"Dean Winchester," the King bows. "You arrived precisely when you said you would."
Dean forces a smile and thinks he asks something about the King's health.
"Yes, I'm well, thank you," Henriksen's expression turns solemn for a moment. "Though I hear that you and your brother cannot say the same?"
"How did you—"
"The Angels have assured me that it is not the plague that has been worming through Corinna these past years—though they do say they fear it's something similar—"
"It's hardly—" Dean shakes his head. "I mean, we're not—we're fine. I don't know what they—"
"We have no need to dwell on it now, at least," Henriksen shakes his head. "It does not do to tempt the fates, so late in the day—in any case, I'm sure that to discuss personal matters outside of castle gates would be considered poor luck—if you believe in such things. I'll have my men tend to your horses. For now, follow me—I'll show you to your quarters." He bows his head. Dean and his party murmur a vague thanks, all exhausted from the day and still frustrated with one another. "King Dean—I understand you've visited our Kingdom only once before?" King Henriksen asks as he leads them through the gates, past the white walls and into the citadel.
Dean confirms that this is the case.
He glances around him at the stillness of the streets; not eerie but settled for the night. Candlelight flickers inside of windows and bathes the streets in puddles of sweetened oranges and yellows. The sounds of horses and mules and donkeys being led slowly, gently down the cobbled streets echo through alleyways and onto the path that Henriksen leads them down. Dean can hear a goat braying, and spots it tied to a post outside a small home with a thatched roof. The sun has all but completely set, now, and a gentle lulling fills the darkened streets of Eofor. Dean thinks of the chaos of the citadel at Hera; the shouting and dancing at the tavern, the dogs barking and whining at the thoughtful moon, the horses whinnying and stamping their hooves from inside the stables, the clang of soldiers patrolling corridors of the castle.
"What a strange thought," the King laughs. "Hera often seemed as a second home to me, I travelled to it so often in my youth."
Dean murmurs something about how he more often will frequent Corinna, if anything, and that in any case, his father disliked Dean travelling anywhere too far out of his sight when Dean was young.
"That being so, perhaps your maturity will bring with it many more chances to explore the world," King Victor shrugs calmly in response to Dean's frostiness. "It's a part of being nobility I've always enjoyed."
"I'm sure," Dean sighs internally, weary of all the events of the past few moons, and most certainly all the travelling. "Though merchants would get equal opportunities to travel, if far less prestige accommodation, wherever they wandered."
"Quite as contrary as your father," Victor chuckles. Dean doesn't enjoy the comparison.
"Although merchants can wonder freely;" Dean shrugs, looking away. "Which can't be said for us."
"A price we must pay for the gift and burden of leadership," Henriksen replies, lips twitching upwards.
The King's words remind Dean horribly of something Castiel once said.
"Yes, I suppose." Dean looks down. "Though that always seemed a very self-righteous way of putting it…" He murmurs grudgingly. "The burden of leadership sounds a bit… I don't know…"
"How like your mother you are, also," Henriksen's laughter tumbles from his lips. "I'm sure she once said something much the same to me."
Something catches inside Dean's throat.
"You knew my mother?"
The King's expression softens.
"I did," he confirms.
"You know she used to live here, then?"
"I did know that, yes. I also know that your father fell in love with her as a young prince visiting our Kingdom."
"She probably liked it better here than in Hera," Dean laughs self-deprecatingly. "It's so much prettier here."
"Oh, I'm not so sure," the King smiles softly. "I mean, Hera had your father."
"I guess…" Dean shrugs.
"She took a great disliking to him, when they first met."
Dean almost laughs.
"Really?" He asks.
"Yes," King Victor laughs. "On one occasion she started throwing rocks at him. He killed a deer she was—" Victor laughs affectionately. "—He was hunting with me," he clarifies, "and shot a deer she claimed to have befriended."
Dean's never heard that story before.
They have reached the gates of the palace, which swing gracefully open as Henriksen begins to climb the palace steps.
"I hope you enjoy your time here, Dean, whatever the subject of these discussions may be."
"Thank you," Dean bows his head. "But I fear that this place shall be forever associated with mourning, for me."
"Understandable." King Victor's expression grows more sombre. "Quite understandable," he repeats. "This is where I must leave you, I'm afraid," he bows, "my servants will show you to your quarters. I hope you find them suitable."
"I'm sure we will," Bobby nods from behind Dean—Dean had quite forgotten about the men with him. Bobby places a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, guiding him forward. Servants lead them through the great domed hall, decorated with winding vines and roses, in the traditional style of Eofor, and out of a doorway to their right, leading down a curved, downward sloping corridor. They pass several other doorways at regular intervals to their right, and irregular to their left, all the while sloping down, until Dean realises that they must be underground. Then, a doorway to their right is pointed to, which, as one of the servants informs Dean's party, is to be Sammy's quarters. Another doorway, this time, Bobby's rooms, and another, Benny's. All leave into their lodgings with a servant—presumably to ensure they are well settled in—and Dean is left feeling quite alone with the last of the servants. She has long dark hair and dark eyes—and is really very pretty, now that Dean comes to actually look at her. She wears dark blue; Dean can't help but think how much the colour suits her. She nods at him politely when she notices his staring.
"I'm Dean," Dean introduces himself awkwardly, attempting to fill the silence marked only by the sounds of their feet on the stone castle floor.
"I know," she replies, lips twitching upwards into what is probably a smirk.
"Right…" Dean looks away.
"Your quarters are just this way."
"Right," Dean nods again, horribly uncomfortably.
Silence.
Dean cringes.
"I'm Lisa," she turns to him and smiles, fully, this time, with a curtsey.
"Lisa," Dean returns the look, relieved.
"We're not supposed to talk so informally to the guests," she explains. "Sorry."
"Of course—" Dean looks away, heat creeping down his neck. "Sorry."
"It ought to be easier with the other guests," she starts, "because I can't imagine them being as friendly as you." Dean looks over to her, lips catching into a smile.
"Oh?"
"They're all rather rude," she laughs honestly, as though she shouldn't be saying any of this. "From what I've seen so far."
"Oh." Dean coughs into his hand. "That's no good."
"It's to be expected," she shrugs carelessly. "None of them even thought to introduce themselves as you did." She beams at him. Dean almost grins.
"Oh dear…"
"I thought so," she continues. "You're just through here." She opens a door to their right, opposite an opening to the left of them, which floods the corridor with daylight—daylight? Underground?—and insists that Dean walk through before her.
The room is sparsely decorated, which has the pleasant effect of making it feel airy. Almost everything is in a shade of green or rose. Candles burn softly in each of the corners, casting long shadows about the room that flicker and dance about them as they enter.
"To your left is a room for bathing—I'll have someone heat water for you tonight, if you would like—"
"Oh—thank you—"
"To your right is a room fitted with table and chairs—for meals where you wish to dine alone, or if you find yourself in need of examining papers and the like. The King said he doubted there were to be many treaties drawn up, these few days, though…" She trails off and turns to Dean. "Do you know what everyone is here for?" She asks.
"No idea…" Dean forces out a laugh with this half-lie. He very much suspects that it has to do with him, and Castiel, and possibly his brother—judging by what Henriksen let slip outside the palace, and the nature of the Angel messenger's words.
"And I suppose that you've met the Angels a great many times before?" She asks, then seems to realise what she's said; her eyes open wide, and her expression turns mortified. "—Sorry—I didn't mean—"
"It's fine," Dean shrugs. He can hardly bring himself to even think of chastising her for being disrespectful. "Yeah, I have."
"And what was that like?" She asks.
Dean laughs hollowly.
"I'm not a fan." He admits.
"I thought you wouldn't be…"—Lisa realises what she has said again, but Dean can only laugh, hollowly, once more.
"You thought right."
"I was rather excited…"
"Don't be."
"You would really speak so ill of them?"
"I really would," Dean confirms.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's better to know the truth about something, than live in ignorance."
"I suppose…"
"Have they arrived yet? The Angels, that is?"
"A few," Lisa confirms. "I didn't get to speak with them, though—or show them around—or even look at them. I was helping in the kitchens."
"Oh."
"Are they pretty?"
Dean wants to lie, with how much he hates the Angels. But he doesn't.
"Excluding the content of their hearts; I haven't met creatures more beautiful."
Lisa sighs wistfully.
"I know it's silly," she laughs, her tone self-conscious, "but I've always wanted to meet one. Ever since I was a little girl."
"It doesn't sound silly," Dean shakes his head. He catches his reflection in a looking-glass on the bed and sees the gentle smile flitting across his features. Something tender coils in his heart. "I was just the same."
"And disappointed, by the sound of it?"
"Not by their appearance," Dean admits. "No amount of dreaming could ever do them justice. Wait 'til you see them."
Lisa beams, then seems to remember herself.
"Thank you, King Dean," she curtsies suddenly, "for being so kind—I really ought to return to my duties, now…"
"Right—of course—sorry to have kept you—"
"Oh, that's fine," she shakes her head as he opens the door for her. "It was a pleasure meeting you. You're really—" she cuts herself off as she walks through the open door.
"Really…?" Dean raises his eyebrows at her, and she flushes.
"Just… more respectful than I imagined the King of Hera would be."
"Are we really rumoured to be such a brutish kingdom?"
She laughs self-consciously.
"Sorry, you know—"
"I get it. It was a pleasure meeting you… Perhaps I'll see you again, during my stay?"
"I certainly hope so," she beams. "Just—ask for Lisa Braeden—if you want anything."
"Lisa Braeden." Dean smiles. "Pretty name," he remarks. "I'll be sure to."
She curtsies again and leaves quickly. Dean watches her turn down the corridor. She glances back only once, but it sends something smug coursing through Dean's system.
…
Servants arrive to set any further affairs in order and unpack Dean's belongings into his rooms—he brought little with him so it takes very little time—before bringing a meal through for him, and asking if he would request his brother's company. Dean does, as he does with Bobby and Benny. Benny does not attend, something which causes a raw wound to form in Dean's heart, but Bobby and Sam both enter Dean's room, after servants enter with their dinners.
"It's pretty, isn't it, here?"
"Yeah, I guess it is," Dean shrugs as they sit down. "It's not much like Hera."
"No," Sam shakes his head. "Hera was built for defence… This place?" He gestures around them. "Definitely not."
"They say it was built by the Angels," Bobby comments. "That's why it's so impressive."
"I can believe it," Dean rolls his eyes. "It's kind of pompous, too."
"Dean," Bobby groans, but Dean interrupts him.
"Don't bitch at me for being tired of their shit—"
"What shit?!" Bobby asks incredulously.
"You don't understand—"
"No, you're right, I don't," Bobby grumbles. "Apparently, I don't understand fucking anything—and all the world is against you, and I could never be the person you'd turn to—"
"Fuck off," Dean growls.
"What's gotten into you, lately, Dean?"
"What do you mean?"
"We're all worried about you…" Sammy admits, voice hardly above a murmur.
"And you need to stop sabotaging relations with the Angels," Bobby shakes his head. "Your quarrel is with Castiel—no one else—"
"Don't pretend to understand," Dean's jaw clenches.
"Dean—"
"No, I don't wanna hear it," Dean shakes his head, raising his palm to motion silence. Servants carry in more wine for them. Dean waits until they exit before continuing. "Stop challenging me. Both of you. I'm sick of it—"
"We're not challenging you, we're looking out for you—"
"Sure you are."
"Stop making out like you're all alone in the world! And stop wallowing in all this self-pity!"
"We're saying this because we love you—"
"No, you're not," Dean growls.
"Dean—"
"And actually, Bobby, I think you'll find that it is me against the world."
"I know you've had a hard time of things lately, Dean, but—"
"A 'hard time'?!" Dean repeats incredulously. "Can you fucking hear yourself?!"
"—But remember that the losses that you've faced are losses we've faced as well—"
"Fuck both of you."
"—And that you still have so much! Look at me and Bobby! Look at Benny! He—Dean, you must have noticed—Benny—"
"Is a friend," Dean says through gritted teeth.
"—Thinks the world of you," Sam finishes.
"And if you only consider him a friend—"
"I didn't say only."
"Then stop treating him like shit!"
"I'm not treating him—"
"Dean," Sammy replies, stubbornly. "Don't try."
"You're leading him on."
"No, I'm not!"
"He clearly—"
"Yes, I can tell, thank you, Bobby," Dean states through gritted teeth. "I'm not fucking blind. But don't assume that I can dive into that kind of shit straight after…" He trails off and glares at the table. "I'm not doing it to spite him. I like him. A lot. But not the way I did Castiel. Or—thought I did, Castiel. Benny is kind and good and I know he is—but I can't be like I was, not anymore. And even if I could…" He sighs again. "Not so soon. It hurts too much. Neither of you understand. Everything was mapped out for me. Everything. And then suddenly everything was perfect—and I thought Castiel was perfect—and then it was a lie, and everything crumbled, and I felt as though I'd fallen off the face of the earth—miles away from the path that I had always been forced down… and it wasn't liberating. I just felt lost. And I still do."
Silence has fallen. Sam pulls a sorry expression. Bobby no longer looks angry.
"Sorry."
"Don't."
"Dean—"
"I can hardly care any more, that's all," Dean shakes his head. "It's better when you stop caring."
Another silence.
"Have you been speaking to Ruby?" Dean asks, looking up across the table at his brother. Sammy ducks his head.
"Not… lately."
"Good," Dean's jaw clenches again. "Good," he repeats.
"Dean—"
"And what of the Demon blood?"
"I'm—they're giving me less and less—"
"Good."
"Dean—"
Dean raises his hand again.
"You screwed up, Sammy. If I wasn't your brother…" He looks away. "Fuck, I don't know what I'd think of you. But you know what they were trying to do to you, right?"
"No," Sam shakes his head, confused.
"No?" Dean raises his eyebrows incredulously. "C'mon, Sam, you're a smart kid—"
"Not a kid, Dean."
Dean only snorts in response.
"You've been a dick ever since you came back from the Demons, the second time," Sam accuses, glaring at Dean from across the table.
"Oh, you think?"
"Yes, I do," Sam continues to glare, jaw clenching. "I wish you'd tell me—"
"I saved your life, Sammy," Dean spits. "That's all you need to know—and I get that I'm your brother, and everything—but it'd be nice if you were a bit more fucking grateful for it."
"Benny will know, won't he? I could just ask him what it is you did to yourself."
"Don't you dare," Dean spits.
"Why not? Who's going to stop me?"
"Me," Dean states, voice venomous.
"And what right do you have?"
"I'm your King."
"You're hardly acting like it!"
"Enough!" Dean shouts, slamming his open palm on the table. Sam falls silent.
"Dean—we know that you're not well—we care about you—"
"Enough," Dean repeats, shaking Bobby's hand off his arm. He glares at his plate. Silence falls once again. He looks up. "When you've finished your meals, leave for your own rooms. I'm weary from travel—and from both of you—and would like to sleep."
Sam's face is red and upset. Bobby's is unreadable.
After finishing, Dean rises and enters his bedroom, dragging his hands mindlessly across the surface of his sheets.
The wood of the bed is a dark, almost black colour. Dean doesn't recognise it. He runs a hand over one of its posters and sighs deeply, pressing his forehead to it. He locks the door and disrobes, rubbing his eyes and wishing his mother were there to sing him any of the lullabies she used to.
He sits on the bed and begins to cry. The golden threads on his doublet—now discarded on the floor—remind him of his mother's hair. He pulls the covers over himself and wishes he could have hugged his mother one last time, and memorised the feeling of being small and safe in her arms.
…
He wakes the next morning and dresses himself aimlessly, having no idea of what it is he has in store for him in the upcoming day, nor when and where it is he will be needed.
He had hoped to take a walk through the forest surrounding Eofor—or a ride, perhaps, on Impala—before the day began, hoping the wind whistling around his ears would wake him and soothe him enough to face seeing the Angels again. But a knock at his door interrupts this particular fantasy.
"Your Majesty," the servant bows. "May we bring your breakfast through?"
Dean shrugs and states that he isn't all that hungry, but that they may do so. After laying out his food, the servant informs him the King Henriksen has requested he enter the main hall when he is finished.
"Right," Dean nods, sat at the corner of his four-poster bed with a book he found on the table in the other room open in his right hand. He has only been flitting mindlessly through it these past few minutes. "And where is that?"
"The doorway opposite this room leads you straight into it."
"Thank you…" Dean nods, bowing his head. He places the book on his bed—not bothering to mark the page; either it wasn't very interesting—or, more likely—since the time of Castiel's betrayal, it, like every other book Dean has attempted to read, hurts too much to grow attached to. After the servant leaves he lies back on the bed and rubs distractedly at the mark on his forearm. It hurts to touch; he doesn't know why he insists on continuing to do so when it causes him so much pain. It's the searing kind of pain after being burnt by hot water, the kind that leaves skin feeling tight and irritable and as though it is spread far too thinly across the bone.
Dean stares up at the ceiling, the dark wooden boards stretched across it, the ivy painted onto it, winding its way across each plank. He feels closer to his mother here, though not as close as he had hoped he would—it was silly to suppose, really, but… Dean had expected that being in the city in which she spent her childhood would lead to some terrific realisation as to what it was he's meant to do, now, or some great acceptance of the way things had panned out for him. But he finds himself having no such luck.
Only a sense of melancholic nostalgia that permeates all his thoughts.
He hums another of his mother's lullabies to himself. Half of it was always in a language he didn't understand—but the other half of it, pretty and wistful and sad, was in the dialect of Eofor, and Mary taught Dean to sing this part in an accompaniment to the part he couldn't understand, so that the two layered over each other beautifully, like two halves of a dance, weaving around each other until the song ended in a glowing sense of longing.
He isn't hungry. Only sad and lost—increasingly so. All this time Dean had believed that heartbreak worked in the opposite way, that time healed even these wounds.
He stands and exits, glances up and down the curved corridor before stepping through the arch that apparently leads into the main hall: the one that somehow floods the corridor he stands in with white daylight despite being far, far underground.
Once he has stepped through and into the main hall, he understands why.
Above him, what seems like miles and miles above, is a glass domed ceiling, which seems to made of cut crystal. Dean doesn't think he's seen anything so beautiful—the Angels must have helped in the building of this: no Human hands could ever create something so intricate and magnificent. Leaves and vines wind and tangle their way down, ivy winding across the curved walls with occasional blossoming flowers hanging from windows and balconies overlooking the hall. Dean imagines his mother here, imagines her looking up at the brilliant sky through the clearest, brightest glass he thinks he's ever seen; he imagines her golden hair catching alight in the hall, imagines her eyes and her smile as she regarded the flowers and vines, just as he is doing now. He wonders what would have come to be if Dean's father had fled the life of a king to be with Mary in Eofor; if Dean would have grown into an innocent, happy little boy whose father was in the Kingsguard and mother was a tutor, daughter of two of the most learned people in all the Earthly Realms.
He has stepped onto a small balcony that overlooks the enormous circular hall—around him, above him, below him, are more of these such balconies, peaking out of the walls like entrances to a beehive. To his left is a staircase leading down to the floor of the hall, hugging the curved surface of the wall. He steps down it, amazed at his surroundings.
When he descends, he sees a great, round, stone table placed in the centre of the room, around which sit a number of familiar faces. The table is white marble with veins of grey and black winding their way across it, covered in large black letters engraved in a language Dean doesn't recognise, all which spiral in towards the centre of the stone.
Bobby, Benny and Sam are already there, a space next to them left empty for Dean. Bela and two of her advisers, Henriksen and those that came with him to Dione those few weeks past, and the King of Corinna, Campbell and his family, also sit around the table.
Opposite Dean sits Gabriel—Dean refuses to look at the Angel—who is soon joined by Anna. All the groups gathered round the table talk quietly amongst themselves, but silence has fallen between the two Angel siblings. Joining them a few moments later comes an Angel whom Dean doesn't find himself recognising, with grey hair and a mean face. The Angel regards him for several long moments, but Dean doesn't acknowledge him.
And then silence falls among everyone gathered in the room, because Michael has just entered the hall and stands atop one of the balconies; roughly the one opposite the balcony Dean found himself on. The Angel is followed by his youngest brother, whose eyes look oddly red. As Michael descends everyone around the table stands—perhaps a mark of respect. Dean refuses to do so. Everyone's awkward gaze flutters between him and the Angel King, but he doesn't move—even when Bobby attempts to heave him up. Dean simply turns to glare at the man and refuses to be coerced into showing respect for the creatures who broke him.
"Sit, please," Michael's voice is quiet yet oddly dangerous as he reaches the throng, as the servants dart forward to pull out a decorated chair for him to sit in, in the centre of his family and advisors. Castiel sits inbetween him and the greying Angel, eyes flitting up to Dean's every now and then.
Dean glares at the Angel, hard, before looking away—hoping that this will indicate clearly enough that he doesn't want to have to interact with Castiel. Michael glances round the gathering a moment before beginning with what must be some pre-prepared speech.
"I thank all of you for obliging me by gathering here today. The journey may have been long and wearying for many of you, yet you made it on my account. For that I offer my apologies and gratitude. Since the birth of your people, our kind vowed to protect and serve yours—and while our role of guiding Humanity may have grown increasingly less prevalent, we Angels always held your race and the customs of it dear. Even when, what may have seemed abruptly, we ceased visiting your Kingdoms and withdrew to our own."
Murmurs of agreement go up around the table. Dean's lips are pressed together tightly.
"And when relations began, again, two centuries later, when Hera's war with the Demons had been raging for thirteen brutish years."
Eyes round the table flicker over to Dean, at this.
"It may have seemed a strange decision to make, so late—but I believed it was the wise one to make. All of that will be explained in a moment," Michael comments, waving his hand vaguely in the air. "But in the meantime—and as all of you must already know—I will explain the circumstances of my brother's engagement to the now-King, then-Prince of Hera—and the circumstances by which it was fractured."
"You won't," Dean glares. "I don't give you my permission to just—"
"I'm afraid, Dean, at this point it's hardly a matter that merits needing your permission," Michael replies coolly. Dean's jaw clenches.
"What the hell do you mean by that?" He asks, voice hard.
"You'll see," Michael shrugs again. He turns back to the others around the table. "As you know, Dean's father and I organised the engagement of my youngest brother and his oldest son," Michael starts again. "Well—perhaps I oughtn't say that John organised it—it was, primarily, Sir Robert and myself who planned the betrothal. But in any case; the uniting of our two races was planned—to strengthen relations with your Earthly Realms, after so many generations of silence."
Castiel mumbles something inaudible.
"So, nearly three years ago, now," Michael continues, "when we first returned to the Earthly Realms to discuss our entry into the Demon war, King Dean and my youngest sibling met for the first time, knowing that they were to be promised to each other. And—well, what happened then, Castiel?" Michael turns expectantly to his younger brother—as if an act of revenge for Castiel's earlier interruption. Castiel gazes at his brother, in seeming disbelief, his face slowly heating.
"Michael…"
"What happened?" The High King asks again.
"Well, we met a few times after that—"
"No, Castiel," Michael shakes his head. "What happened?"
Castiel looks away from his brother and stares at the table—and maybe Dean can't see right, in the oddly bright, white lighting of the enormous hall. But it looks as though his eyes are prickling with tears.
"Castiel?" Michael asks, persistently. "Since you seemed so intent on having your input heard, earlier?"
Castiel mumbles something again.
"I didn't quite catch that," Michael's voice begins to lose its patient façade. "Would you care to repeat, louder?" Castiel squirms in his seat. "So that everyone can hear?"
"You're clearly making the boy uncomfortable—" an adviser from Corinna frowns sympathetically, but falls silent when Michael turns to glare at them.
"…I fell in love," Castiel continues to stare at the table. Tears continue to visibly press at his eyes, but they have yet to fall onto his cheeks. "I fell in love."
"With who?" Michael asks, tone returning to the light, innocent one it had been before.
"With Dean," Castiel deflates. He refuses to look up at the human he speaks of.
"Bullshit," Dean spits, before he can stop himself. "Bullshit," he repeats, venom dripping off his words. "You never—"
"And then, Castiel—what happened?"
"Well—we visited Hera—"
"What happened to make us cancel the betrothal?" Michael presses.
"I cancelled the betrothal—" Dean glares, but Michael appears unaffected.
"What happened to make Dean cancel the betrothal?"
"Dean's father died—" Castiel looks up, looks at Dean; it's like being stabbed by a white-hot blade. Dean tears his gaze away, tempted to cry too, heart breaking. "—And our brother, Lucifer, killed him—"
A murmur goes up at Lucifer's name.
"—Lucifer, who betrayed our kind and now rules over the Demon Kingdoms—"
Another murmur, this one more restless than the first.
Michael appears agitated and close to stopping Castiel's words.
"—Or, rather, Lucifer had Dean's father killed—we think that a Demon actually…" Castiel bites his lip.
"And what did Lucifer tell Dean?" Michael asks. "When they ran into each other?"
"The truth," Dean growls.
"The truth about the Demon war—" Castiel starts.
"—Which we'll explain in due course—"
"—But he lied when he told Dean that I never loved him—"
Dean has slammed his hand onto the table. A stunned silence falls; everyone except Castiel looks at Dean with either shocked or angry eyes. Castiel's eyes are the only sad ones.
Michael is the first to break the silence.
"Do you have anything to say, Dean?" He asks. Something is dangerous about his tone, but Dean can hardly bring himself to care now that his blood is being brought to a scalding boil.
"Yes, actually," Dean glares. "I want to tell Castiel to stop lying."
"Lying?"
"Yes, lying," Dean bites. "In all of this, Lucifer was the only Angel who was ever honest—"
"You can't truly believe that, can you?" Anna speaks for the first time in the proceedings. A fire dances behind her eyes and in her voice that makes something thick with a foggy anger flare up inside of Dean.
"Apparently, I can," Dean glares back at her.
"Then you're a fool—" she shakes her head, the way one would do a child. Dean is about to stand, not knowing what he's going to do to her—just something—but Michael interrupts again.
"So, naturally, Dean did the most spiteful thing he could think of after being fed misinformation from the last person of all the Nine Kingdoms anyone ought to find themselves trusting—"
"Shut up!" Dean shouts, "He's your brother, you did this, you caused all of this! How dare you call me a fool, when—" everyone turns to him again, aghast, but Michael ignores him and continues.
"—And he cancelled the engagement that would have brought peace—"
"You liar!"
"—And dropped out of the war with the Demons, forcing the Angels to remain a part of it to ensure the Earthly Realms were not overcome by Demon invasions after over a decade of warfare—from which the Demons would naturally have been made intent on revenge, and of a bloody and murderous kind after the deaths of so many of their own—"
"The war was between you and your brother!" Dean exclaims. "No one else!"
"It is true that my brother was involved in the war—"
"—And he invaded Hera, fifteen years ago, trying to attack the Angel kingdoms!"
"Not particularly true," Michael shakes his head. "Well—I mean, he certainly wanted to be restored to the throne—but he had plans for Hera, also. Plans for your brother."
"What plans?" Someone asks, one of Queen Bela's advisers.
"Oh yes—I'd nearly forgotten to explain the purpose of this meeting of our kinds." Michael's lips twitch upwards. The motion has Dean wanting to be sick. "Well, my brother had intentions of turning the youngest of the Winchester boys into some kind of weapon; a hybrid creature—part Human, part Demon—" the gathering's eyes widen as Michael speaks. "—By feeding the boy Demon blood as he slept, ever since he was an infant. One night—the night he had intended to steal the boy away, kill the brother who was unnecessary to his plans—" Michael gestures to Dean, "the brother who was actually rather more of a hindrance to Lucifer and his affairs, than anything else; their mother got in the way. That was the night he attacked the Angel Kingdoms. Both plans were unsuccessful; Dean survived the attack, Samuel was not taken away, Queen Mary passed into the next world, and though my beloved father died, Lucifer did not succeed in taking the throne."
"Why was Dean unnecessary?" Bela asks casually.
"There was a prophecy," Michael shrugs. "Where it was foretold that the younger of two brothers of Hera would inherit the throne and begin the war that would lead to great kingdoms perishing in fire and ice."
"And why would Lucifer want that war?"
"Well, half the prophesies of this are lost," Michael sighs. "Lucifer took them with him the first night he fled Evadne. But we suspect they have led him to believe that if he succeeds in turning Samuel into a weapon, a prodigy of his own choosing, he will rise again to the throne of the Heavenly Realms."
"And what do the other half of these scrolls say?"
"They speak of his brother," Michael shrugs. "Of my brother. Two creatures, different in kind, united by—"
"You suspect that they speak of Castiel and Dean.," Gabriel rolls his eyes. Thunder sounds outside. Dean frowns—it had been a cloudless day. Castiel shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Need I remind you, you've been wrong on this matter before."
"And of a Tenth Kingdom," Michael continues, temple flickering. "Which these two will rule over; a Kingdom to unite all the lands and—"
"But where does King Dean fit into all of this?" Bela asks.
"He discovered his brother was being fed Demon blood," Michael turns to stare, hard, at Dean. "After visiting the Demon Kingdom of Heolster; Samuel grew rather addicted to it—no longer needing—or wanting—Demon blood to be fed to him in his sleep. Now he was choosing it consciously. This blood—well, it has the power to change a Human. Or to kill them—as those suffering the 'plague' in Corinna discovered."
"The plague was actually Demons?"
"Of course," Michael shrugs carelessly in answer to Campbell's question. "Some, like Samuel, have bodies and souls strong enough—if strong is the appropriate word for it—to survive being mutilated so by the Demon blood, to harness its powerful nature. Others—like all those that died in Corinna—do not. Those victims? They were all experiments, if you will—tests to see what would happen if a Human was force-fed Demon blood in vast quantities. Needless to say, the results were rather horrifying."
"Thousands died—"
"And thousands more will, if we do not act."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because, upon discovering that his brother was addicted to Demon blood, and planned to leave him and Hera for the kingdom of Heolster, Dean struck up a bargain with Crowley, the ruler of that Kingdom—"
All eyes turn on Dean, at this.
"He told me Sammy was going to die!"
"And he would have, to be sure—the Demons planned this: they knew that Dean would discover his brother's addiction, and that when they told him what it would do to him, Dean would be desperate to stop it. As it was, they threatened to cut off all his brother's supply of Demon blood altogether—which would kill the boy, all of him had become so reliant upon it—and Dean was more than desperate. So he agreed to carve a violation against all that is good and sacred into his soul, to invite darkness into his being and become—"
Dean has stood up.
"Stop it!"
"Sit down, Dean," Michael bites.
"You don't know what you're meddling with!"
"No, you don't," Michael replies. He stands, too. Dean had forgotten how enormous and imposing the Angel could make himself. "Sit down, or both you and your brother will die. And that's not a threat—it's a fact."
Veins ready to explode, Dean sits down, glaring at the Angel king.
"What do you mean?"
"Show them the mark, Dean," Michael ignores the Human. Dean doesn't respond. Michael's gaze flickers over to him. Fire and ice penetrate Dean's soul. Again, he does as he is told, grudgingly and roughly pulling up the sleeve of his shirt up to reveal the angry red mark, burnt into his flesh. Everyone gathered around the table winces.
"What is that?" King Henriksen asks.
"A good question," Michael sits back into his chair. "It is—so it is fabled—The Mark of Cain."
"The what?"
"The Mark of Cain," Michael repeats, "the mark of the first Demon. In becoming its host, Dean has accepted all the fury and evil in the world into his soul; he has become a far greater monster than his brother ever would have become on the Demon blood he had been consuming. All the dark magic of the earth has been poured into that mark; and it is turning Dean into something more terrible than any Demon the worst of your nightmares could conjure up."
"Dean isn't a monster—" Sammy shakes his head, but Michael merely laughs.
"Noble, but certainly not true, as statements go," he replies. "Have you not noticed that Dean's temper grows shorter and shorter, that he loses himself for whole minutes of fury, that he forgets what he was with each passing day, that by the hour more and more of his old self is lost in ether?"
Sammy is silent.
"He is becoming a monster," Michael continues. "The mark is turning him into a creature of infinite power and terror. One day it will overcome him completely."
"And what then?" Campbell asks.
"He will destroy all that you hold dear," Michael shrugs. "And will fall under Lucifer's control."
"Then we should kill him," the King of Corinna replies.
"Over my dead body," Bobby growls beside him.
"If necessary," King Campbell shrugs.
"Killing him won't do the trick," Michael states, matter-of-factly.
"Then what will?"
"Containing him."
"I'm not some beast—" Dean protests, but Michael interrupts him.
"Dean, I'm afraid to say that you are, actually."
"Don't talk to him that way—" Benny frowns, and Michael seems to notice him for the first time in the proceedings.
"I see that Dean has found himself a new plaything, to occupy his time," he inclines his head curiously. "Be careful," he says to Benny, "that he does not cast you aside as thoughtlessly as he did my brother."
Dean is beginning to see red.
"And look, now," Michael points over to Dean again. "He's already beginning to lose himself to the mark."
"No, you're provoking me—"
"Soon, he will be a shell of what he used to be," Michael continues. "A creature beyond our comprehension, beyond what we can defeat. The darkness—"
"Stop this!"
"How can we contain him?" Campbell asks.
"You coward—" Bobby turns to Campbell and spits.
"I'm merely protecting my Kingdom!"
"The Kingdom that Dean's father fought so that you could retain; the Kingdom that your family only came to rule over because of Dean's father—"
"We are thankful for what his father did when he was alive—but John is gone now; and all of that is irrelevant now that—"
"Dean is your kin!" Bobby exclaims. "His mother was the daughter your—"
"And he is a threat, now! Look at him!"
"I see a boy!"
"Then you are blind!"
"He was only ever trying to protect his brother!"
"And I am only trying to protect my people!"
"Enough," Michael states, rising. He looks very disenchanted by the gathering. "We shall return to discuss what action ought to be carried out… But in the meantime, I would like to retire to my quarters. It matters not what the boy's intentions were, nor does it matter how Corinna came into the hands of the Campbell family." Campbell looks victorious at this, but Michael's gaze turns, condemningly, upon him. "Your Kingdom is hardly the largest of our concerns; all of the Earthly and Heavenly Realms are at risk, now."
He turns and leaves. Castiel stares at the table, not following him. Anna and Gabriel remain with their youngest brother, while the mean-faced adviser rises and leaves after Michael.
Dean gets up and paces away, livid.