This chapter has a playlist! It's a little out of order I think? I'm having trouble linking it for some reason, but if you want to listen to it, the url is here: playlist/7vEfxQlcNBiIJdofpKLP6J?si=xjBl1hLmTQiVc5g5Yx_0Hg
Dean shut the door behind him and took a breath.
Find the mixtape and get out. Don't stay here longer than you have to.
He spent enough time around ghosts. He didn't need more. Even if— assuming everything went according to plan— Cas wouldn't be haunting him for much longer.
He was barely conscious of it when he started praying.
Hey, Cas. S'me. We, uh, we found something. We're gonna get you out. I'm coming, I promise. As soon as I can. I'm gonna bust in there and I don't care how much Empty ass I have to kick to get you out, but I'll do it. Just hang tight, okay? I'm coming. I— if this works… I'll see you soon.
That wasn't all he wanted to say, of course. There was so much more he wanted to say to Cas; apologies, questions, I love yous. That would all wait until he could say it to Cas' face.
Find the mixtape and get out, Dean reminded himself. The sooner you can do that, the sooner you can get Cas back.
Dean started with rifling through Cas' desk. There wasn't much in there; a few receipts from various Gas 'n' Sips, a copy of Lord of the Rings Dean had lent him who knows how long ago, a box of fake IDs. He thumbed through the cards.
Cas' aliases were ridiculous— Agent Beyoncé, seriously? — but they were so incredibly Cas. Every time they had hunted together, Dean had had to fight the urge to smile. Just thinking about Cas flashing his fake badge and introducing himself as "Agent Presley" made his mouth quirk up.
There wasn't anything inside the desk, which left Dean sorting through what Cas had sitting on it. There was the framed picture of the two of them at the Grand Canyon in one corner. In the other, one of Sam, Dean, Cas, and Jack, sitting at Jody's kitchen table. Jack's hand was halfway into a box of cereal. Sam was looking at the camera, an almost-there smile playing on his face. Cas was squinting in the direction of the camera as well. Dean had also caught sight of it, and was groggily sipping a mug of coffee with one hand, and flipping off the photographer with the other.
He remembered that picture being taken— they had been following a lead on a case near Jody's and had stopped to see her and the girls for a few days. Jody had insisted there was enough room for all four of them to stay there. Dean hadn't gotten any sleep, and Alex testing out the new camera she had gotten was not what he needed. She took a handful of pictures anyway. Dean never found out what she had done with them. Given one to Cas, he guessed. A picture of their little family.
It hit Dean that they didn't have a lot of pictures of them. Sure, he and Sam had a few from when they were little, before hunting. Nothing of their family, though. After all this was over, they were going to head back to Sioux Falls. Alex was going to take pictures of the four of them together. Hell, not just the four of them; Eileen, Jody, Donna, Claire, Kaia, Patience, Alex had to be in one of them herself. And Dean was going to print it out and frame it and hang it somewhere in the bunker.
You need Cas for that picture. Get in and out. The sooner you find the mixtape, the sooner you can fix your family.
Dean kept filing through the few items on top of the desk. A book on beekeeping. A long-dead plant. The rest seemed to be newspaper clippings, leads for hunts since gone cold. Hunts Cas never got to go on.
Before he could dwell on that, Dean moved to Cas' closet. He pulled open its door, ignoring how loudly its hinges creaked.
The closet was fairly bare. There was very little hanging up; Cas had strung a blue striped tie over one hanger, and an old Metallica t-shirt of Dean's had been pushed far back into the shadows.
Something warm flared in Dean's chest when he saw that. He moved his gaze from the shirt to the top shelf. A few pairs of folded socks were scattered across the shelf, collecting a layer of dust. A small, empty vial that had been left on its side, coated in more dust than the socks. An extra angel blade. And there, hidden away in the back like Dean's shirt, was a shoebox. Covered in less dust than the rest of the rest of the things occupying the closet, it was tucked into the back corner of the closet as far as it could be.
Dean grabbed it off the shelf and backed up to sit down on Cas' bed. Tentatively, he opened the box.
It was there; the tape he had put hours of work into, Dean's Top 13 Zepp TRAXX. Put away carefully with precision.
Yeah. This was it.
He pulled it out gingerly, examining the tape. The pen he had used to scribble the title onto was fading, but it was still in good condition. Its texture and weight was familiar in his hands, the same as every other time he had held it, putting it into the tape deck of the Impala as he and Cas drove across the country. If he closed his eyes and pretended the bed he was sitting on was firmer and covered in leather upholstery, he could almost believe he was in the Impala, Cas next to him, doing exactly that.
It was then, running his fingers over the label, that Dean noticed the other contents of the box.
There was another tape— one that had been behind the one he made Cas— facedown. Without thinking, Dean grabbed and flipped it over. His breath caught in his chest.
Cas' Top 13 Taylor Swift Tracks
Had- had Cas—?
Under it, there was a folded piece of paper. Hardly breathing, Dean pulled it out. He opened it slowly. It was written in Cas' careful scrawl, taking up about half the page.
Dean,
If you've found this, I suspect it's because I couldn't give it to you myself. Either I have died, the Empty has taken me, or I'm still here, but you've decided to snoop around in here (which seems unlikely— you never do that. You're very respectful of personal space).
If the Empty has taken me, I assume it's because I've confessed. If you know what I mean by that, then you should know I meant every word of it. -I'-m-so-rr-y- I wish I could have stayed.
After you gave me that mixtape with your favorite "Led Zeppelin" songs, Sam explained what that meant. I didn't want to get my hopes up. I didn't want to lose you. I made this in response. You don't have to accept it. But it's yours if you want it.
-L-o-v-e,-
Your friend,
Cas-t-ie-l-
Dean reread it. Again and again.
The Empty has taken me
I meant every word of it
I'm sorry crossed out.
Didn't want to lose you
It's yours
Love, scribbled on almost to the point of unrecognition.
Castiel, the tiel gone.
I love you, the letter screamed. I love you and I left you and I wish I hadn't but I'm not sorry.
Cas had left him, just like everyone else, but unlike the rest of them, he had left something behind for him besides a gaping hole in his life.
Dean was clutching Cas' mixtape like a lifeline in one hand. He ran his fingers over Cas' scrawl lightly using the other, almost like it would disappear, torn from him like Cas had been, enclosed in a shell of black goo, dragged away from him while he was helpless to do anything.
Almost quickly enough to give him vertigo, he stood. Dean's Top 13 Zepp TRAXXX was left on the bed as he abandoned the room.
Cas' mixtape still in hand, he practically ran through the halls of the bunker, nothing but his destination clear.
He skidded to a stop as he came to the garage, pausing only long enough to throw open the door. It slammed behind him, but Dean hardly noticed, he only had eyes for the Impala.
He was lucky enough that the keys had already been in his pocket. He fumbled with them for a moment, before unlocking the car and ducking hurriedly inside, not bothering to close the door behind him.
His hands were shaking as he turned the Impala on, and they didn't stop when he inserted the cassette into the tape deck. He barely noticed, all he could think about was Cas, and Cas had left this for him and Cas loved him, even if he deserved better, and Dean was going to tell Cas he had found this when they got him back.
Dean forced himself to sit back in the driver's seat as the first track started.
He wanted to break down, break something, but the first track—
I stay out too late
Got nothing in my brain
That's what people say
That's what people say
Cas smiling as Dean hummed along, scrubbing Baby with a sponge, a fond expression on his face.
I go on too many dates
But I can't make 'em stay
At least that's what people say
That's what people say
He remembered chucking a sponge at Cas when he asked if Dean would actually sing along. Cas had rolled his eyes at his childish antics and Dean had grinned, triumphant. He would trade anything to go back to that moment; water splattered on Cas' trench coat, Cas ready to remind him that he was a grown adult, Dean expectant, the two of them, together, living on stolen time.
A small smile came to his face.
When Cas got back, he'd sing along to whatever he asked for.
The next song brought the urge to give into the tears waiting to be released.
Honey, when I'm above the trees…
He listened.
Cas had left Dean with more than just a mixtape and a hole that couldn't be filled. Cas had left his own heartbreak behind.
There'll be happiness after you
But there was happiness because of you
Both of these things can be true
There is happiness
Past the blood and bruise
Past the curses and cries
Beyond the terror in the nightfall
Haunted by the look in my eyes
That would've loved you for a lifetime
Dean almost shut it off. He squeezed his eyes shut, but all he could see was Cas, smiling wetly, opening his mouth to say, "I love you." He could hear Billie's fist banging against the dungeon door, a steady, pulsing, patient rhythm. He could still see the fading sigil and the moment Cas had realized what he was going to do. He could hear the silence that followed Cas' truth, his silence. If he turned it off, maybe it would all go away—
It didn't help that the song was called happiness.
Maybe it did help, a little, that there was some hope in the song. It was a melancholy, final kind of hope, but hope nonetheless.
When the song was over and its final notes had faded, Dean took a breath.
It hurt, it felt like he was being torn apart, shattered into pieces that he'd only just managed to shakily reassemble. It made the gaping hole, the emptiness in his chest throb painfully.
Once again, he almost turned it off. Dean stopped himself.
He was going to finish this. For Cas.
The next songs were harder.
And when I felt like, I was an old cardigan
Under someone's bed
You put me on and said I was your favorite
Even on my worst day, did I deserve, babe
All the hell you gave me?
'Cause I loved you, I swear I loved you
'Til my dying day
I didn't have it in myself to go with grace
And you're the hero flying around, saving face
And if I'm dead to you, why are you at the wake?
Cursing my name, wishing I stayed
They tore through him, breaking him apart and fusing him back together.
I'd live and die for moments that we stole
On begged and borrowed time
So tell me to run
Or dare to sit and watch what we'll become
The more that you say
The less I know
Wherever you stray
I follow
I'm begging for you to take my hand
Wreck my plans
That's my man
Dean was about halfway through when he broke.
Small talk, he drives
Coffee at midnight, the light reflects
The chain on your neck
He says look up
And your shoulders brush
No proof, one touch
You felt enough
Dean could remember every one of those moments. Driving to and from a case; waking up in the middle of the night to find Cas making him coffee, somehow already aware that he was awake; the way the streetlights shone upon Cas' face; their eyes meeting, time and time again; sitting on the couch during movie nights, close enough that they were just barely touching; the way Dean's heart seemed to stop for a beat every time he saw Cas looking at him.
One night he wakes, strange look on his face
There had been so many sleepless nights where Dean had wished he could say something other than—
Pauses, then says, you're my best friend
Because Cas was, but he was more than that. He was everything. And Dean—
And you knew what it was, he is in love
Dean didn't hear the rest of the song. His eyes were blurring. He scrubbed at them furiously, but it did nothing to stop the tears.
It all came pouring out; all of it. Nothing was held back.
He loved Cas. He loved Cas to the point that it physically ached to be away from him. He loved Cas like he'd never loved anyone before— not Cassie, not Lisa, not anyone— and he'd never love anyone like that again. He loved the way Cas smiled and the way he talked about bees and his ridiculously adorable head tilt and how he almost always seemed to know the right thing to say.
Dean loved all of him.
In turn, Cas had loved all of him.
And that was what got him killed.
And Dean hadn't even been able to tell him he loved him.
Dean had been a coward, he hadn't been able to open his fucking mouth and say three damn words. And Cas— Cas—
None of this was anything that he hadn't already told himself, but it all came crashing down.
He had fallen fast and hard for his angel. By the time he realized it was more than just physical attraction, more than just platonic feelings, he'd already been head-over-heels for Cas. He'd fallen hard and fast and there was no chance of regaining his altitude. All he could hope for was a soft landing. He should have known not to fall. Landings were never soft. Dean pretended he wasn't falling. Pretended he wasn't about to hit the ground. And then Cas caught him. Cas caught him and hope had blossomed somewhere inside him, and then Cas was gone and Dean hit the ground. Shattered into a thousand pieces without him. Nothing but broken edges and sharp points without him.
Dean had thought he'd picked up the pieces, but they were still scattered across the floor.
The tears kept coming, gouging lines down his cheeks. He shook, head in his hands, stifling sobs.
Long after the mixtape had finished and the last notes of the last song had faded away, Sam found him.
Dean was slumped against the back of the seat, head buried in his hands.
"Dean? You okay?" Sam ducked down to look at him.
Dean raised his face, revealing puffy, red eyes, and a lip that hadn't quite stopped trembling.
Sam stopped. He took in Dean's face for a minute before asking quietly, "What happened?"
Without a word, Dean ejected the mixtape and held it out to Sam.
Sam took it carefully.
Dean could pinpoint the exact moment he connected the dots.
"Dean," he started, but didn't get any farther than that.
Something about Cas' mixtape had loosened something inside Dean. His voice was hoarse when he let the words out.
"Cas' deal… he did it to save the kid. When he was happy, the Empty would come for him to collect." He swallowed. "When— when I got us stuck in the dungeon, he cashed it in so the Empty would take him and Billie, and let me live. His happiness— he told me… he told me he loved me. And I couldn't say it back, Sammy. He was so fucking happy to kill himself for me, and I couldn't say it back. He didn't know—" Dean took a shuddering breath. "I love him."
It was the first time he'd said it out loud. Those three words that he so desperately wanted to be able to tell Cas.
It was as though a dam had broken.
"I love him, and I don't know what to do without him. He thought— he thought it was all one sided, but it wasn't. It never was. I don't know when I started loving him," Dean said desperately. "But I do, I love him so fucking much and I didn't tell him, and he died without hearing— Sam, he deserved better. So much better than a dumbass hunter with more issues than anyone can count and who's the reason he's dead. Cas—" He broke off.
They were silent for a moment.
"I love him," Dean said, almost whispering.
"I know," Sam said reassuringly. "We're gonna get him back, Dean, and then you can tell him. By the end of the month." He hesitated, then awkwardly maneuvered himself halfway into the car and slowly wrapped Dean in a tentative hug.
Dean sagged against him.
"It's going to work out," Sam said.
"How do you know that?" Dean mumbled.
"Because I fully plan on being the best man at your guys' wedding," Sam informed him.
Dean huffed a weak laugh. "Nope. That's gonna be Garth's job."
"What?"
"Yeah."
"You're picking him over me?"
This time, he smiled ever so slightly. "Only if you make us have wedding cake instead of pie."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Jerk."
"Bitch."
Dean didn't know how long they just sat there. He wanted to get up. Rather, he should get up. He was supposed to take care of Sam, not the other way around. Dean should get up, put on a brave face, tell Sam he was fine, and keep moving.
He didn't.
When he did move, it was only to pull away and catch Sam's eyes.
"Are— are you okay? With—" Dean gestured helplessly. "—all this?" Are you okay with me?
Dean was okay with himself. Hell, at times he was almost proud. It had taken time, and even now, he still heard John Winchester's voice in his head sometimes, but it was easier to ignore it. Easier to tell himself that if he was broken, it wasn't because he was into guys, too. That had taken years though. If Sam couldn't accept him, if he agreed with John…. Dean didn't know if he could take it.
Sam was his little brother. Cas was the guy he was in love with. They were the two most important people in his life. If he had to choose between the two of them….
Sam gave him a confused look. "You mean am I okay that you didn't tell me what happened in the first place? Or am I okay that you're gay for Cas?" He took Dean's silence for an answer. "Dean, you two are… you're actually really good for each other. And it definitely explains all the eye sex."
"We didn't have eye sex," Dean grumbled, "and I'm not gay for Cas."
"Bi for Cas, then? Pan for Cas? And, yeah. You two definitely had eye sex all the time." His tone grew more serious. "Honestly, Dean, I'm happy for you. I'm glad you told me. Really."
Dean nodded, eyes pricking again. "Thanks, Sammy," he managed.
"I'm your brother, that's my job," Sam said, then added more lightly, "Now come on. We've gotta find the bone of a lesser saint. Then we'll rescue your boyfriend."
"He's not my boyfriend," Dean protested without conviction.
"Husband, then," Sam shrugged. "You two have practically been married since you guys got out of Purgatory the first time."
"No, we haven't," Dean argued, but there was the ghost of a smile forming on his face. "Only one of us was ever married, and it sure as hell wasn't me."
Sam groaned. "I was trying to forget that!"
"Maybe if Cas and I do get married, Becky can be the maid of honor."
The look of horror on Sam's face was priceless.
Albeit weakly, Dean grinned at him.
Sam leveled him with bitchface seventeen. "Okay. You know what? I'm going to start figuring out where we can get that bone." He ducked out of the Impala.
Dean followed behind him.
Before that, he grabbed Cas' mixtape off the passenger seat, where Sam had set it down at some point.
He held it tightly.
Cas was tired.
He was so tired of the endless cycle of not-Deans and illusions.
At some point, he'd lost track of how many Deans he had seen. He was pretty sure he was somewhere in the low hundreds.
There was a faint calling of his name somewhere in the distance.
Cas turned away from it.
How long had it been? Time moved differently in the Empty, he was sure, but how much so? If someone had been coming for him, wouldn't they have already come?
What was the point in enduring this torture, based on nothing but the hope that someone might come for him? Who was he kidding? All these Deans felt off, not quite right. Maybe it was because somewhere, Cas knew Dean wouldn't come for him. Maybe that was what the Empty was getting wrong.
He hated doubting Dean like this, and part of him was screaming that Dean cared, of course he cared enough to come for him, whether he cared about Cas the way Cas did him or not. But the rest of him had been suffering through fake Dean after fake Dean, and the real Dean, his Dean, hadn't come. The rest of him kept replaying the look of Dean's face when Cas had told him he loved him, and the dozens of emotions that had flashed across it. Kept hearing "Don't do this, Cas." Don't love me.
Dean didn't want him. Especially not after what he had done.
"Cas! Castiel?"
The not-Dean was getting closer.
With a defeated slump to his shoulders, Cas took a breath and waited. He was tired- so tired— but he wouldn't sleep.
If you're coming, Cas thought, come soon.
Bone of a lesser saint was obnoxiously hard to find. At least, obnoxiously hard to find for both a reasonable price and somewhere they could get to easily. Sure, credit card scams would work, but Sam insisted on them at least trying to be somewhat honest. They had started looking not long after they left the Impala. That had been about eight hours ago. Currently, their best option was the finger of a low class, unheard-of saint, just recently ordained. It was selling for three and a half thousand, and they'd have to pick it up in Georgia.
Sam was still fishing around online, trying to find something cheaper and closer.
Every minute he spent typing was a minute longer Cas was stuck in the Empty. Every minute he spent hunched over his laptop was a minute longer Dean had to wait to see Cas.
Dean reached across the library table to snatch the laptop from in front of Sam, and, ignoring his protests, bought the finger.
Surprisingly, Sam didn't argue with him other than to mutter, "We could have saved so much money for gas."
"Fuck gas," Dean said. He grabbed Sam's phone from where it was sitting on the table.
Sam gave him a pointed look as he reclaimed his laptop. "Dean."
Dean rolled his eyes. "What? It's not like he hasn't heard worse."
Jack nodded from where he was sitting. He had gotten back a few hours ago, eager to help. "Dean has said a lot worse."
Dean shook his head sharply. "Not helping, kid."
"Cas is going to kill you if he finds out," Sam said.
Dean pushed away the painful twinge that came with Sam's words. Sam hadn't meant "if he finds out" as "if he comes back." He'd meant "after he comes back, if he finds out." Cas was coming back. There was no if. Not like that.
"Maybe," Dean said. "Least that means he'll be alive."
No one had any response to that.
Dean scrolled through Sam's list of contacts, then determinedly found Rowena's number. He dialed.
The dial tone rang.
For five seconds.
Ten.
Twenty.
The line went dead.
Dean swore and tried again.
Five.
Fifteen.
Thirty, then—
"I'm going to have to call you back, Samuel," Rowena said tersely. "I'm dealing with some… complications in— ego te iacere!" There was a brief pause in which there was a splitting crack, like a bone shattering. "Talk to you later!"
"Dammit," Dean muttered as she hung up. Of all the times Rowena had to be tied up, it was now?
Sam glanced at him. "So?"
"She's busy," Dean bit out. "She said she'd call back later."
Sam nodded. "Alright. Well, by then, hopefully we'll have everything we need, so as soon as she's ready, we can do the spell."
"Uh, Sam?" Despite being the smart brother, he was forgetting something. "We've gotta pick up the bone in Georgia. Way on the other side of the country. It's a longass drive. Unless it takes half a week for Rowena to call, we're not going to have everything in time."
"I can fly," Jack piped up.
Dean blinked at him. "Huh?"
"If I fly, it'll only take a few hours. Maybe less." Jack seemed pleased with himself. "It's faster than driving."
Sam was scanning his laptop screen. "Dean set the pickup for tomorrow afternoon.
"I'll get it then," Jack said brightly.
"Thanks, Jack." Dean offered him a faint smile.
Jack grinned back at him.
Tomorrow afternoon, they'd have the bone. Then, so long as Rowena would answer her goddamn phone and help them, they could enact the spell… how soon after that? Later that night? The next day? Dean wasn't sure, but he knew it was soon.
Cas could be home by the end of the week.
By the end of the week, he could be holding Cas tightly in his arms. They could be watching a movie together, curled up against each other on the couch. Maybe they'd be in the kitchen, Dean hovering around the stove while he made Cas something to eat. Or in the Impala, on the open road, just the two of them and the sky. By the end of the week, they could be pressed up against each other, and Dean could kiss Cas softly and whisper, "I love you," in his ear.
It was a knee jerk reaction to tell himself that wouldn't happen. He was Dean fucking Winchester, and Dean didn't get happy endings. Good things just didn't happen.
But…
Chuck wasn't running the show anymore; he was the one calling the shots. There wasn't a cosmic plan with an agenda focused on screwing him over. There was just him.
"Good things do happen, Dean."
For a moment, he was back— standing apprehensively in a barn covered in sigils, Cas standing before him, fixing Dean with a piercing, earnest stare.
Just as quickly as it had come, the moment was gone, and he was back in the bunker library, Cas nowhere in sight.
The world had always been pitted against him. Chuck had wanted him to break; a life full of sunshine and rainbows wouldn't do that. The dice was weighted, the cards dealt ahead of time. Until now. God had left the building, for good. So if the only game he was playing was one without divine interference….
Fuck, Dean hoped Cas was right.
Dean was restless.
There was nothing more he could do. Not until Rowena called back.
He hated it.
Yesterday afternoon, Jack had picked up the bone. Since then, they'd just been killing time. Sam was out running. Jack was occupying himself with watching a series on Netflix.
Dean had tried to watch with him, just to give himself something to do, but he couldn't focus on it.
They were close, they were so close. How was he supposed to pay attention to some show when Cas was almost within reach?
Dean paced from one wall to the other in his room.
How long he'd been pacing, he didn't know. Just that it was an attempt to do something. It was painful to not be able to do anything. It physically hurt, knowing Cas was out there, and Dean was so close to getting him home, but there was nothing to be done. In any other situation, Dean would have long since gone for the alcohol to drown out the constantly throbbing ache in his chest. If Rowena called, though, he wouldn't have time to sober up or deal with a hangover. If Rowena called, he had to be ready. For Cas.
Dean paused in his circuit and glanced at his bed. He'd set Cas' Top 13 Swift Tracks at the foot of it, label down. Despite that, his gaze kept being drawn to it.
Cas had made that for him. At some point, he'd sat down and made Dean a mixtape. It was so— Dean struggled to find the right word— intimate, so human. And he'd known what it meant. When Cas made it, when he had thought about giving it to Dean, he'd known what that would mean.
Even though he'd known for months, it hit him.
Cas really loved him.
Castiel, who had seen everything; the rises and falls of empires, the first fish crawling from the sea. He was centuries old. A multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent. And he'd just made Dean a mixtape.
And not just any mixtape— one where the "no homo" card couldn't be played. Every song on it was a love song, about dreams and heartbreak and longing and romance.
One one hand, it made Dean weak in the knees thinking that Cas had just done something like that for him. Realizing Cas loved him like that. On the other hand….
He'd hurt Cas in so many ways. Too many ways. The mixtape was proof of that. There had been so much raw pain in some of those songs. Cas wouldn't have just chosen a bunch of random songs. That wasn't like him. More likely than not, those songs were a last way for him to communicate with Dean.
He'd hurt Cas so much, but Cas' happiness had still been him. Cas had still died for him. Dean didn't know how to feel about that.
What he did know was that once Cas was back, which would be any day now, he was going to finish listening to the tape, but he was going to finish it with Cas, so Cas would tell him what everything meant. How much he really meant. And more than that, Dean was going to try to make it up to him.
He had resumed his pacing by the time his phone went off.
Dean scrambled over to where he had set it on his desk, reading the caller ID Rowena.
"Rowena? What the hell was going on when I called you yesterday?" he snapped. "Because we have everything now, and we— I can't just leave Cas in there any longer, he's got to be our first priority—"
Dean broke off as he heard a deep laugh from the other end of the line, that was definitely not Rowena.
"Dean Winchester," it said. "It's a pleasure to finally talk to you. I've heard things. Your reputation precedes you."
"Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded.
"A lowly demon. Someone who has something you need," the voice said.
"I mean a name, asshat."
"That won't be necessary." He waited for Dean to argue. When it became clear he wasn't, he continued, "You need Rowena. Am I correct? She's the Queen of Hell, the only thing keeping all the demons under control. Without her, chaos would be unleashed upon your pretty little earth. And it sounds like you need her for something besides upholding the natural order. I'm curious. What would that be?"
"Look, buddy, I don't have time for this. If you think you can lure me out there by pretending to have kidnapped Rowena—"
There was some scuffling on the other end of the line.
"Hello, Dean," Rowena said, sounding disgruntled. "A little help here would be nice."
"Rowena?" Dean said dumbly. "How— are you kidding me?"
"There were over a dozen. Cheaters, the lot of them," she said scathingly. "I'd greatly appreciate it if you would spare one of your get out of jail free cards on me."
There was more shuffling, and the demon was back on the phone. "I'll send you an address. Tomorrow night, no later than midnight. Bring the key to Death's Library with you."
The line went dead.
"Son of a bitch."