Consciousness felt like swimming through treacle. His sense of space twisted in his stomach, so Dean locked the nausea swelling in his throat with harsh gulps. The smell of lavender and chamomile floated through to his brain, and before he could feel repulsed, he felt safe.

''Cas?''

Dean blinked his eyes open, the light stabbing into the back of his skull. Dean felt the weight of the mattress shift, then the room became darker, until it was bearable to open his eyes fully. He saw Castiel return to his side, but he did not sit on the bed again. Standing, instead, where Dean could see him.

''Hello Dean.''

He looked almost the same as the last time he had seen him; except this time his clothes were clean and well pressed, his face showed signs of tiredness but his hair wasn't tufted in uncontrollable strands. Dean could only guess the expression as one of anxiety, and he felt the flare of anger in his gut.

He pulled his eyes away from the man, finally checking his own body. He was clothed, unarmoured in bed, his limbs seemed heavy and unresponsive. He recalled the brown powder, how it had pulled him under darkness. Chaos used against him, a flash of betrayal going through his chest.

''What the fuck is this, you son of a bitch?'' He levelled his best glare toward Castiel, trying not to let his bodies sluggish refusal to move bother him. Castiel for what it was worth had the decency to hide his eyes, looking down to the rooms cobbled floor, shoulders pulled into his lithe frame.

''I am truly sorry, Dean. Zachariah thought my efforts were unsatisfactory, he thought it best-'' His voice was even, but the timber was flat and rehearsed. And Dean didn't care to hear for it.

''Yeah, and what did you think in all this?''

Just as he asked the question the door swung open; a new man entered the room. Castiel fought to avoid Dean's gaze, seemingly pleading with the floor to fall out from underneath him. It only served to make the fire build, he pushed himself up off the mattress, trying to pretend the world didn't lurch violently as he did so. Dean pushed his feet to the floor, hoping to feel less ambushed.

Meanwhile, Castiel swallowed, the sound echoing in Dean's head.

''It is not my place- my superiors, they are right of course. They did what I could not do.''

Dean snapped his eyes to the man who had entered. He was tall, dark-skinned and dressed immaculately. The Witcher could hear him clicking his tongue in humoured approval at Castiel's answers. He sneered at the man before turning his piercing gaze back to Castiel, hoping he could feel the weight of his anger as acutely as he did.

''You coward! You're an absolute coward, Cas-''

''Enough. We do not have time for your foolish Witcher aggression.'' The man's tone spoke of authority and wealth, a man used to barking orders and getting results. A man, perchance, unused to the roughness of an angered Witcher.

''And who are you?'' Dean levelled him with a look of resolute fury, making a mental note when the man did less than flinch.

''Uriel. And it will do you well not to speak to me in such a tone, Castiel may accept your insolence but I certainly will not.'' His vice was clipped, and he moved further into the room, Castiel moving consciously aside as if the men were two magnetic poles meeting.

Dean had never been smart enough to stand down a fight he couldn't win.

''Oh, fuck off!''

The air stood still, the guards in the hallway stopped breathing, their armoured chests no longer tinkling quietly at the movement. Castiel, now behind Uriel, looked up to assess the men. His fingers twitched at his side, blue eyes darting assessing.

An invisible hand wove around Dean's throat, he felt the familiar sensation of pressure, the uncomfortable ingrained panic flare from the base of his spine. He grunted trying his best to move unresponsive limbs toward his throat as if he could throw off the incorporeal attacker. Dean schooled his breath to try no sputter or choke, wanting to give Uriel no such satisfaction, but harsh gasping breaths still rang out against the stone walls. Uriel watched him suffer for a full two minutes, Dean counting the seconds in his mind. Then a moment later, the pressure was gone.

''You will bathe and change. You are our guest, witcher, you will do as told.'' Uriel's voice held no flexibility, it was hard and rigid.

Dean's hand had finally found his throat, the fingers rubbing the abused skin. And his reply was more of an incomprehensible grunt than actual words.

''I feel really welcome-''

Uriel, thankfully, paid no mind to the grumble, turning on his heel. His eyes met those of Castiel, who was stood with an arm caught undecided between reaching out and sitting against his chest. The blue eyes blinked and lowered, the outstretched arm going back to his side.

''You have completed your job? Then leave.''

Uriel's bark seemed to unstuck any hesitation in the other sorcerer, ho startled, bowing his head before briskly walking away. Dean didn't have time to listen for receding footsteps, blood still rushing around his ears. His anger was still a hot pit, but his self-preservation had finally kicked in to hold himself back.

''Witcher, I would warn you to hold your tongue and stow your anger.''

Uriel was gone for all but an hour, in which time Dean reluctantly bathed, unable to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or, at least, unable to look a steaming, warm bathtub appearing in his room as if by (actually by) magic in the mouth. And once he had finished scrubbing his annoyance out on his own pinkened skin, he pulled on the airy cloth of the white undershirt he had woken up in. His movements were back to the speed of a normal man, but Dean frowned at the remaining lethargy in his reflexes. Then pulled on smart woollen trousers and a matching doublet he half-heartedly laced up.

Upon Uriel's return, Dean heard the vast number of armoured men long before he was advised it was in his best interest to follow politely and of his own volition. Uriel did not appreciate the sneer he got in return.

Dean's back felt too light without his swords on his back, his fingers itched to pull a non-existent dagger out of his boot and slice the men's throats. He considered the repercussions of using no weapons to snap one of the guard's necks as his hands were shackled loosely together behind his back.

He followed down a twist of hallways and stairs, making a metal note of the journey. They descended into what must have been the antechamber to a great hall, large double doors standing at the south of the room. He could hear music and chatter through the wood, which became ever louder as the guardsmen on either side of him stopped.

''Come along, and you will mind your manners with his majesty.''

Dean saved his witty retort, even if he managed to survive the wrath of a king, he wouldn't survive Sammy's reaction to finding out the why he had been scheduled for a beheading in the first place was due his incessant need to always have the last word.

The hall was large and for lack of a better term guilded. Rich cream and yellow material bunched over long glass windows, rows of wooden tables stretched each side of the room, covered in elaborate stacks of flaky pastries, roasted meats, exotic fruits and carafes of burgundy wine. At the top of the room, two large backed chairs sat against the golden lion banner, lounged a dark-haired man. The man laughed loudly, turning his head to look at Dean with the charm of a predator. His lips were stained wine red. A roaring fireplace and dozens of candelabras flickered golden light across the darkened space, casting dark shadows of snickering nobles.

The chattered died as he walked. Dean could feel the curious eyes weigh on him, and he once again rolled his shoulders hoping to feel the comforting weight of a sword against his shoulder blades.

''Master Witcher.''

''Your Grace-'' He did his best to incline his head politely, and bite back the attitude in his voice.

Michael must have been pleased with his effort, as he plucked himself from the throne. HE walked over languidly, taking a long circle around Dean. Deann bristled under the scrutiny, talking his anger back down.

''I told you he would yet be uncivil, Uriel. Untie his hands.''

Uriel's hands were cold as they brushed his, hastily undoing the shackles. Dean pulled his hands in front of him, circling his wrists uncomfortably.

''You are our most esteemed guest here, not a prisoner.'' Michael continued his slow circling, talking to the room as much as he was to Dean. He used his arms to talk, moving gracefully, but his eyes remained solid and fixed on the Witcher. ''Please, feel free to walk to gardens, ask the servants to bring you any wine or food you would like-anything you might want. Merely ask, and it is yours.''

''And if I want to walk past the gardens?'' Dean moved his head to the side to keep the king's gaze, watching a cruel smirk twitch at the corner of his mouth.

''Our gardens are vast- I cannot see what exists outside of them that we cannot precure for you. Hmm?''

The room chattered in agreement, murmuring between them sycophantic praises. And Dean understood he was balancing on the right side of the king's favour.

''Your grace is very kind.'' His teeth grated together as he spoke.

Michael tutted, circling in closer. His long-outstretched arm corralled Dean to the side of the room, in a familiar gesture, though it felt anything but. With their back to the room, Dean understood this was as private as court business was going to give.

''Dean, do you mind if I call you Dean?'' Michael plucked a pastry from the stack, biting into it. ''You have a talent, a certain-'' he paused licking jam and flakes of pastry of his smirk, before continuing, ''-a certain skill set is not easy to come by.''

''Witchers kill monsters, not men.''

''Then we are on the same page.'' Dean did not appreciate the one lost chuckle Michael allowed himself, nor the glint of emotion in the king's eyes. His voice held strong and uncompromising as steel as he spoke.

''I see you want to speak plainly, and so I shall. I have a monster I need to slay. Have you heard of a beast called Lucifer?''

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Dean couldn't say he was surprised at the king's request. He was surprised the king thought a witcher would be a better assassin than one of his own men, but apparently more willing men had tried, and failed at this particular endeavour.

Dean knew the rumour mill well enough, having been around for long enough to pick up idle gossip between one tavern and the next.

Lucifer and Michael. All but brothers in their lineage. The branches of the ancestral tree twisting this way and back between the members of its inclusive royal fruit. Brought up together, educated together, everything together as was the way of young princes. Not a week would pass between one's accomplishments, that the other had not mastered it also; hunting, writing, shooting riding. And the competition only continued to grow as they did. The rivalry fuelled by attention and favour. The cousins parted ways as their schooling ended, each with fists clenched and a promise to destroy one another.

It seemed each law, each treaty, each governance was made to stoke the fires of their rivalry. And with their ascension to the respective northern and southern thrones, there was naught left to do but begin an all-out war.

Dean contemplated the ridiculousness that humans bring about for a moment before huffing to himself, winding himself further into the gardens.

The sun was high in the afternoon sky, sun beating down, bathing the paving stones in bright white light. The lazy hum of insects filled the air, interrupted only by the occasional chirping song of the birds. Dean had spent most of the morning outside, at the far end of the grounds away from the castle. He still felt like a caged bird, but it was infinitely better than the cold stone confines of his chambers.

He walked the herb gardens and flower beds in long winding circles, naming the leaves he knew and picking out the location of useful herbs for future security. He marked the ones that could make effective poison if he came desperate enough to defend himself. He had asked the guards for a sword, even a wooden one so that he could keep his training, they didn't have the balls to answer him. Dean took their frantic scurrying away as a 'no'.

Pissed at the infinity of his capture, and bored of the hot sun beating down, Dean headed back toward the cool confines of his room. Maybe he could make a bludgeoning tool out of a bedpost. As he rounded the final corner to his room, quicklight footsteps came up beside him. Dean turned to look at Castiel.

His face was impassive, but he kept walking as Dean slowed, jerking his head to continue walking past the door of his chambers. Dean followed him quietly past the first corner and the next, as they reached the foot of a winding staircase, Dean finally coughed out a querying:

''Cas?''

Castiel turned and looked at him instantly. Shaking his head minutely.

''Where are we-?''

''Walls have ears, Dean.'' Castiel's voice was less than a whisper, merely words on breath. He looked sideways to see if Dean's witcher hearing had caught it.

Dean snapped his mouth closed with an audible click, nodding ever so slightly in assent.

The wound up the steep staircase, the afternoon sun beating through long windows, making the temperature spike as they walked through the beams and drop suddenly as they left them. The landing was carpeted with plush rugs, muffling the sound of their shoes, as was the winding hallway Castiel directed him through.

When they at last entered the room, Dean could clearly see this was the sorcerer's chambers. The room was large and comfortable, bracketed by shelves of books and equipment. A large bed took up the left side, canopied by silvered blue material, plush and neatly made. The rest of the room was less organised; papers and knickknacks strewn on the surfaces. Cushions lined the floor under the window, a stack of books working as a table for a still steaming cup of tea.

Castiel closed the door behind them with a gentle pull, Dean heard the snick of a lock falling in place.

''Don't be alarmed, these are just to give us some privacy.'' Castiel's voice was soft, and before Dean could ask what he was mean to not be alarmed about, the room glowed unearthly blue. Dean felt his breath catch, the spike of adrenaline, as the source of the light dimmed back to invisibility.

''I usually ask a man to buy me dinner first.'' Dean's voice was tight, but he hoped to alleviate some of the tightness in his chest with his usual humour.

''I bought your dinner two weeks ago.'' Castiel gave him a small fond smile.

Dean looked at the man, seeing more of what he had seen on their past interactions in him in one sentence, than he had seen in the shell yesterday. The witcher let out a comfortable breath. He realised after a moment, that he was feeling relief.

''Someone's feeling better.'' He offered a half smile to Cas.

The smile faulted on Castiel's face, as if remembering the current situation.

''We need to talk'' His voice was gruff and low as always. Castiel moved over to the corner of the room where a circle table and two armchairs sat. He bundled up the scrolled papers off of one chair and indicated Dean to take a seat.

''Alright. '' Dean sat, leaning back against the comfortable fabric, eyes trained warily at the door in habit. Castiel placed the scrolls on the desk, before moving back to pick a box off of the other chair, placing it on his lap as he sat.

Silence stretched between the two men. Dean watched Castiel's fingers fidget with the lip of the box, his nails running in the groove and lifting it momentarily, only to drop it gently a moment later. The sorcerer's eyebrows were furrowed, but he made no move to speak. After an uncomfortable couple of moments, Dean spoke.

''You brought me here... But... you don't actually want to say anything?''

Castiel stood up, pausing as if deciding what to do. He eventually placed the box back where it had sat a moment before, instead moving toward the desk. Dean heard the man sigh several times. Dean just waited.

''It's my fault you are here. I am truly sorry, Dean.'' said Castiel. His eyes were locked onto Dean's, making him uncomfortable under their weight as he always was. The man was bleeding sincerity, or he was the best actor Dean had come across in a long time. Dean took a moment to listen to the beat of his heart, the strength of his gaze but found no physiological signs of deceit.

''No offence Cas, I think your boss is right. You did a shit job recruiting me. I'm not here because of you.'' Dean wasn't sure why he was reassuring the an, he told himself it was because the nervousness of Cas was rubbing off on him.

''I thought I had more time, I thought maybe I could warn you, help you block the tracking-tell you and Sam to get as far away-'' Castiel was talking with his hands, walking the same five paces back and forth in front of his desk, pausing only when Dean interrupted him.

''Wouldn't they have just killed you if you had done that?''

''If only.'' Cas muttered it more to himself, but Dean caught the gruff words, snapping his head up to glare at the other man. Castiel looked sheepish for a moment, shrugging his shoulders.

Dean walked over to Cas, he looked at the expanse of the man's wooden desk. He half wanted to say something reassuring but he couldn't think of anything appropriate. It was a mess of papers and books; equipment Dean couldn't even fathom the use for. At the end of the desk there were two glass vials filled with layered powder. Castiel resumed his quiet pacing.

Dean stared at the bottles, looking at the looped writing of the labels. He had made out 'griffin', his hand pulling out to hold the vial despite himself. He looked at it. Then picked up the other, 'basilisk' it read. Castiel tilted his head at Dean's curiosity, seemingly unperturbed by his organised mess ebbing played with.

''Take them, you might get a chance to test my theory yet. Just add a bit of water and it should be potent enough.''

The conversation of hypothetical baits resurged in Dean's mind, setting the Witcher's mind turning.

Dean nodded, holding the vials in one hand, his fingers curling across the glass noting how it was no longer cold in his grip. Something about the gesture, let his stomach unfurl. He had evidenced their conversations were not entirely baseless. He let out a deep breath, studying Cas, who was still shuffling through the number of tomes on his bookshelf.

''So aside from an apology'' Dean let his voice trail off, watching Castiel pull a thick book off the shelf and putting it on the desk. He patted the cover and turned back to Dean.

''I'm sorry, it isn't a good enough reason to endanger you, I know. I just, I couldn't stand the idea of thinking I betrayed you-''

''We aren't friends. How could you betray me?'' Dean felt how harsh the words were as they came out, but there wasn't anything he could think to say to backpedal. Castiel merely gave him a tight smile, moving toward the door.

''It's okay, Dean. You need to be careful here.'' The voice was earnest and uncomfortable again.

''I'm always careful.'' Dean gave an attempt at his signature grin.

''You need to be very careful, Dean.'' Castiel said, his fingers curling around the door handle. ''Michael is not asking what you might think. Keep your wits about you. Now, I will walk you back to your chambers. That dust you inhaled was no half-measure I made it myself for subduing lesser vampires, you should rest.''

Dean paused before walking over, ''If I am asked, did this conversation take place, Cas?

''What conversation?''