The King's Labyrinth

Chapter 10

New Friends, Old Problems

Alastair's followers had stopped dancing, and were now silent—panting and relishing the sight of Dean through wild, twisted grins. Their leader unveiled himself from behind the tortured soul.

Alastair stood a few yards in front of Dean, his grey shirt spattered in blood both fresh and old. Dean could get a better look at him then, see his waif-like frame amidst pale skin, and a face so gaunt it was like staring at bone. Alastair had a grey beard, short but ungroomed, covered in blood, and his eyes seemed to bulge against his rawboned cheeks. The soul had noticed Dean as well, and was staring at him with blank eyes. Were they pleading, or broken? The man no longer screamed, only hung.

"My friends and I," Alastair said, addressing Dean gently, "we were just playing a little game. Would you care to join us?"

Dean swallowed involuntarily.

"It doesn't look much fun."

Alastair's attention had shifted, instead focused on the knife that Dean gripped with a steady hand.

"Is that the dagger I've heard so much about?" he asked, studying it carefully. "What a beautiful blade, adorned with…" Alastair trailed off, his eyes squinting as he considered what lay within the iron. "Yes," he said, satisfied, "so many dead languages. So many dead things."

He looked back at Dean, and smiled at him darkly.

"You like killing with it, don't you?"

Dean didn't answer.

"You'd like to kill me with it," the demon finished, and he smiled again.

It was a provocation, a challenge. Meg had told Dean; if he tried to kill Alastair, the demon would win. That is why she had fled. Dean was not so stupid as to assume he was invincible. He had almost been torn apart by the creatures that lived in the tunnels of Castiel's forgotten oubliette. Talking with Alastair now, seeing him for all that he was, he knew now that he was wrong, and Meg was right.

"Let him go, and I'll spare you," he said. Alastair could see the knife clearly; see its stains of use. Perhaps the threat would be enough.

Alastair did not seem fazed by the prince's words, however. He looked at Dean disapprovingly, a childish frown enveloping his gaunt face.

"But I'm not through with him yet."

Dean grit his teeth; he tried to sound threatening.

"Too bad."

"Hmm." Alastair ran a skeletal hand through his beard, as if contemplating. "I see that we're in a little bit of a predicament. You see," he said, pointing at the hanging man, "this soul is my property. It's so hard to find pure, undamaged meat in this place. So when I find some, I take it."

He paused to look at Dean darkly.

"And now you want it for yourself? Hmm. I think there is only one way we can settle this." He smiled, and his teeth were black. "You take his place."

Dean shuddered, but he remained unwavering.

"No thanks," was his reply: blunt, almost bored sounding. Alastair pondered Dean's answer as he folded his arms.

"Are you sure?" he asked playfully. "I thought the Righteous Prince would be used to sacrifice by now. And is that not why you came here?" He ran a finger down the soul's bloodied body. "To save the things like him?"

"I came to kill the things like you," Dean answered. He held the dagger in front of him, and the blade beneath the blood shone brightly. Alastair could not hide his enthrallment; he stared at Dean like a lover would. Yearning, hungry, desirous with need.

"Because you like it."

Dean shook his head.

"Because I have to."

"You don't have to pretend with me, Dean," Alastair taunted. "It's not a sin to enjoy the things that shame you. It's not a sin to be tempted by the dark."

He began to walk a little closer, and Dean thrashed the dagger forwards. Alastair stopped, but his eyes did not falter.

"I know who you are," he said, "what your title is, what your destiny is. But you're not the first brother to come to this land, and you certainly won't be the last. Good, evil. You can't just be one of those things. Both sides call to you."

Alastair took one step closer.

"That is why you kill. That is why the labyrinth both loves and fears you."

Dean did not say anything for a moment. He wouldn't know what to say, even if he wanted to. In the silence, he too stepped forward.

"Release him," was all he said.

"I will let this soul go in a heartbeat," Alastair replied earnestly. "All that I ask is that you give yourself to me in return."

Dean glared at him.

"No."

"But I want to hear the way you scream," Alastair said longingly. "I want to taste the iron in your blood."

The boy recoiled.

"You're a sick fuck."

"I prefer to call myself an artist."

Dean had had enough of the demon's perversion. He raised the dagger once more, slowly. It had been his truest friend in his quest so far. The clothed handle was already succumbing to wear; the thickness of it starting to harden the skin around Dean's palm.

"I'm going to count down from three," he said calmly, "and by the time I reach zero, I want you and your creatures gone."

Alastair brooded at him.

"Dean," he pleaded teasingly, "that's not much fun."

He ignored him.

"Three…"

"Dean," Alastair played, "as my subject, we can accomplish great things."

"Two…"

"My followers ache for you, Prince," the demon said, his voice willowy and longful. "They need to see the way you bleed."

"One..."

Alastair no longer spoke now, only watched Dean carefully as he uttered the final count.

"Zero."

Alastair and his followers had not moved an inch. The two looked at each other for a moment, until, with a nod of his head, Alastair's demons had leapt from their spot and sprung towards Dean, teeth bared and flailing. He struck at them with the knife edge as they screamed around him. The dagger took on a life of its own, plunging and slicing. The fight had become all too familiar to Dean, now. His body moved of its own accord, free from fear and adrenaline, like a dance well practised.

After a few seconds, Alastair's demons lay dead and bloodied, surrounding Dean in a circle of carnage. Alastair had not moved at all, only watched Dean with a brutal fascination. He stared at the prince with his wide black eyes, hungry and awake, whetted with incitement.

"You're so beautiful when you kill," he said softly after a moment. "I can see why he likes you."

Dean frowned in repulsion, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He gripped his dagger once more.

"You," Alastair continued, enraptured in his own fantasy. "You will be my masterpiece."

Alastair did not spare a moment to allow Dean to ponder his strange, threatening words. He bowed slightly, never taking his eyes off the prince.

"We'll see each other again, Dean Winchester."

"Yeah, don't hold your brea—", Dean started, but Alastair had already disappeared.

Dean blinked. He looked around him wildly, but the demon was nowhere to be seen. The hanging soul realised this as well. He stared at Dean, and screamed at him through his gag, trying to get his hands free from behind his back. Dean rushed over to him.

With two quick slashes, he had cut the ropes loose from the man's wrists and ankles. The soul fell in a heavy heap on the ground, groaning loudly in pain and indignance. Dean pulled the dirtied rag from his mouth, and the soul huffed with rage.

"About goddamn time!" he roared, getting up with difficulty.

Dean blinked at him.

"What?" he asked, dumbfounded.

The soul stood up, patted himself down, and began to look over his wounds. He looked at Dean grudgingly, his face sagging with age and his eyes tired and bloodshot.

"I have been stabbed, picked at, and hung upside down for what feels like half a century," the soul gruffed, and the slightest twang of a Southern accent began to seep through, reminding Dean of home. "I mean," the man continued, "I knew you were comin' and all, but you took your damn time getting here!"

Dean could not help but laugh, despite the extraordinary lecture.

"If that's your way of saying thank you," he said, with a hint of arrogance, "then you're welcome."

The man looked at him resentfully, seething at Dean through course pants. After a moment, however, his anger seemed to fade.

"Name's Bobby," he said, and his voice was calm. "Sorry for snapping, I guess I'm not in a very good mood. Getting tortured does that to a person."

"Well, Bobby," said Dean, warming to him immediately. "I'm Dean."

He held out an open hand, but the soul merely looked at it.

"I know who you are," he said.

Dean dropped his hand, but laughed regardless.

"Wow," he chuckled, "we really need to work on your people skills, Bobby."

The soul sighed again.

"Thanks for getting that creep out of my hair," he said, finally settling. He leaned against the tree he had just been hanging from, trying to get his bearings. "But you didn't kill him," he reminded, and looked at Dean like one would an unruly child. "You'd think through all of his monologuing you would'a found a moment."

Bobby sighed again, and rubbed his eyes.

"But I'm not judging," he continued, and he gave Dean the very slightest of smiles. "You saved me, and I'm grateful."

He got up from his resting place and rubbed at his wounds gingerly, wincing with discomfort.

"All I'm gonna say is," he said, not looking at Dean as he studied himself, "watch your back from now on. You've got Alastair's attention; it's only a matter of time before he comes back for you."

The soul's words trickled through Dean like poison. He was right. Alastair was far from done with him. What he had planned though, Dean could only dare to imagine.

"What the hell was that guy's problem, anyway?" he asked.

"The less you know about him, the better," Bobby dismissed. "All I'm sayin' is, next time you see Alastair, don't let him spout any more of his pretty speeches and just stick him, would you?"

Dean stood up straight.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"Now…" started Bobby, rubbing a hand through his thinning grey hair. He seemed wary, and he perched himself against the tree as he looked around him. "Seen my hat?"

Dean turned around, scanning their surroundings. For a moment, he saw nothing but wilting hedges and the corpses of Alastair's followers. As he looked harder, he noticed a few yards ahead, by the dip in the corner, a dirtied blue hat laid down amidst mud and stone.

"You mean this?" he asked, walking towards it and picking it up.

He handed it to Bobby, who looked at it disgustedly.

"Goddamn demons," he said, patting the dirt off. "Don't have respect for nothing."

He placed it on his head, playing with it to get the right angle. Dean studied the hat; it was a dark blue, worn with age, with the white logo of the New York Yankees on it.

"Now," said Bobby, settled that his hat was on right. "I guess I owe you. And I'm on your side since you're the prince from the prophecy n' all. You want something of me?" he asked. "If I can help you, I will."

"All right," Dean nodded. "Before this little diversion, I was being lead somewhere. And now that my guide is gone, I don't really know where I'm going."

"Who was guiding you?"

"A demon," admitted Dean, "funnily enough. Her name's Meg."

Bobby's brows tightened.

"Meg," he repeated. "I've heard of her. All kinds of trouble, that one."

Dean did not like his tone of voice. When he had first met Meg, right at the beginning of the labyrinth, she had told him he was famous. But it seemed that many people in this land knew Meg as well. Not in person, necessarily, but they all knew her name. What was she famous for? Dean wondered. He realised, with a pang of regret, that he may never get the chance to ask her.

"Well," he spoke, purging his thoughts, "once she saw Alastair, she bolted the other way. Trouble is—" he pointed past Bobby. "I'm heading in that direction." He lowered his hand, and sighed. "I know to look for two doors, and not much else."

"Where you headin'?"

"The Fiercest Demon's fort?" Dean hoped he had heard of it.

Bobby's face crumpled with dismay, confirming he did.

"Ugh," he groaned. "You sure know how to pick 'em, don't you?"

He sighed, seemingly regretting his promise to help Dean however he could.

"I can take you there," he said after some deliberation. "I owe you that much."

Dean smiled gratefully, but Bobby raised a finger in caution.

"But the minute we get there," he said sharply, "I'm leaving. Alastair's a woodland creature compared to that damned General."

They walked a while, walked through more of the same yellow walls, the same mud and moss and hedges. It was hard to believe that they were moving closer to Castiel's city, for nothing seemed to change. Still, Dean was glad he had someone to guide him. Perhaps it was better now that Meg had gone, for he had met too many demons to feel it appropriate in calling one a friend.

He looked at Bobby, limping by his side. His clothes were soaked in blood, and his face had a hardness to it. A semblance of pride; a refusal to reveal the pain he must have been feeling. He studied the man's hat once more. It felt strange, that in a place so far away there could be things that reminded Dean so closely of home. He already liked that about Bobby, how familiar he seemed.

"You a Yankees fan?" he asked casually, breaking their silence.

"What gave it away?" replied Bobby sarcastically.

Dean breathed loudly through his nose, deciding not to try and make small talk again. Bobby's face changed after a moment however, softened.

"Man," he said, relaxing. "I must'a missed a lot of games."

Dean smiled.

"You know," he larked, "they won the World Series, just a few months back."

Bobby looked at him warily.

"A few months back?" he asked. "What year is it?"

"1996."

Bobby looked away, staring at the ground.

"Christ," he said under his breath.

"What?"

He looked back at Dean, and the hardness had returned.

"It's my fiftieth year in this goddamn hellhole."

Dean's eyes widened.

"You came here in 1946?"

"Yeah," nodded Bobby, with a surly expression.

Dean's curiosity got the better of him. He was full of questions that nobody could seem to answer, so he tried his luck again.

"Tell me," asked Dean, moving closer. "How is it that people end up here? What happened to you?"

"What happened is…" Bobby started uneasily. "I signed a deal with Castiel so he would save my wife's life."

Dean's eyes widened.

"You signed a deal?"

"That's how people end up down here," he said. "You sign a deal so the king can do you a solid. Give you money, give you youth, give you what you want most in the world… Catch is, you sell your soul to him in the process."

"Jesus," said Dean. "Did you know that's what you were doing?"

"Yes," Bobby replied simply. "He came to me when I was at my most desperate. My wife was dying… Lung cancer. Inoperable." Bobby's voice faltered, but he kept going. "I sold my soul so she would live."

He looked ahead of him, refusing to meet Dean's eye.

"And for ten years…" he spoke wistfully, cherishing the memory, "we were happy."

Dean deliberated his words.

"Ten years?"

Bobby looked at him then, briefly. He looked like he pitied Dean, lamented his naivety.

"That's how long he gives ya'," he said quietly. "Ten years. And then you're dragged down here, screaming for your life and begging for mercy."

"That doesn't seem like a fair deal to me," decided Dean. "Did he tell you that would happen?"

"Yes, Dean," Bobby replied impatiently. "Castiel never lied to me. 'You can love your wife for ten more years,' he said, 'and then you're mine.'"

His paces slowed, perhaps from the pain, or perhaps because Dean was starting to annoy him less. They walked together closely.

"He told me," Bobby continued, "'What I'm doing now, it won't make her invincible. She could die forty years from now an old lady in her sleep, or she could get run over by a truck tomorrow. Whatever happens, though,'" he quoted, "'she will not die of cancer. Not now, not ever.'"

Bobby sniffed.

"I couldn't watch her hurt anymore," he said, ignoring the tears that welled in his eyes. "I signed my name," he continued, not letting them fall, "and I waited."

Dean did not say anything for a moment. He was grateful for the conversation, for Bobby's willingness to answer his questions, but he saw how the memory was affecting him. They fell to silence for a few yards, the stillness in the air seeping through them like wind. After a while, Dean opened his mouth.

"Do you remember being taken?"

Bobby did not react at first. Dean looked over, saw the tenseness of the man's jaw, how hard he grit his teeth. Bobby's eyes fell to the ground.

"I knew it was coming," he said stiffly, his teeth still clenched. "A few weeks before it happened, the whole world seemed different. Darker. Everywhere I went felt like it was shrouded in something terrible. And the voices…" he remembered, almost shuddering, "the footsteps… I knew I was being followed. I could hear them. But whenever I turned around, there was nobody there."

He laughed then, without humour.

"I wasn't a nice person," he said, his voice darkening again, "the days leading up to it. Ten years is a long time, Dean. I'd almost forgotten about the deal in the first place."

He sighed loudly.

"But knowing my time was almost up… I couldn't stand it. I should have done things differently, I know that now, but I was scared."

The pain hit him again. Bobby winced, grabbing at his side, but recovered quickly.

"The night before I was taken," he said, settling, "my wife and I got into this huge fight. Worst yelling match we ever had. I said things I regretted the minute they came out of my mouth, but, I couldn't tell her what was really happening," he justified, "she would have thought I was crazy! So," he went on, "I did the only thing I could think of: I left. The next day, his demons came for me. All I could hear was their laughing as they ripped the skin from my body." Bobby shuddered, trembling at the memory.

"And then the world turned black," he said, finishing, his voice hard and regretful. "And then I woke up here."

Dean stared at him.

"That's quite a story," he said, and immediately he felt foolish. Dean had never been very good with words, never knew the right thing to say to comfort someone. Bobby did not reply. Despite his better judgement, Dean spoke once more.

"What was left of you, up there?" he asked. "A body?"

Bobby shrugged.

"I think I just disappeared."

"Your wife must have thought you abandoned her."

Bobby looked at him then—quickly; his irritation returning.

"No shit."

Dean broke their gaze. Bobby walked ahead, and the boy faltered behind. How many people were in the labyrinth because Castiel had promised to save the one they loved? How many of them had walked into the deal blind, careless and desperate and promising to anything? Would they have, if they had known what would become of them? Many of the labyrinth's inhabitants, even the demons, must have been good people once. Good, but desperate. Dean thought about Mary. If Castiel had come to him six months ago, and promised to save her in exchange for Dean's soul, would he have said yes? They would have had ten more years together. Their family would have been together. Mary could have watched Sammy grow up. John would never have become the monster he was now. Dean shook his head sadly; of course he would have said yes.

But then Dean thought about what would happen after, what happened once his time was up. He would have just disappeared, like Bobby had said. They would have never known where he had gone, and they would always blame themselves.

"Selfish," Dean said out loud, and Bobby looked at him.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Selfish," Dean repeated. "Don't you think that was selfish of you? Signing the deal in the first place? You couldn't bear to live without your wife, but you didn't stop to think about how she was going to have to live without you when you were gone?"

Bobby seethed, but did not raise his voice.

"Don't lecture me, boy," he said sternly, and John's voice came through.

They stopped walking, and for one sickening moment, Dean thought Bobby might hit him. After a moment, however, the man's anger faded. He sighed despondently, looking at Dean with drained, empty eyes.

"Anything you say to me is nothing I haven't said to myself already."

Immediately, Dean felt terrible. He had no idea what Bobby had gone through, and he was an idiot to try and even imagine it.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I didn't mean to judge." He shrugged his shoulders comically. "I wished my own brother away."

With that, they both laughed. Not because they found it funny, but through their choices—their selfish, unavoidable choices—they were bonded. And Dean was happy to have found someone like Bobby, even in a place as wretched as the king's labyrinth.

"Well," Bobby said at last, "least you're honest. Now," he said, becoming serious again. "Pick up the pace. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

Dean stomped at the floor, giving the older man the soldier's salute.

"Sir, yes, sir!" he joked.

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Just don't fall behind."

Dean sped up, not yet satisfied that their conversation was over.

"Fifty years in this place," he said earnestly. "You must know all of the labyrinth's little secrets by now."

"There ain't enough demons in this place to know that much," Bobby replied.

"Still," weighed Dean, "fifty years is a long time."

"Pfft," dismissed Bobby. "That's nothing. There are people here, sold their souls so they wouldn't die from the plague. Sold their souls so they could become disciples of Jesus Christ Himself." Bobby sighed. "It's best not to think about time when you're down here, it'll only drive you mad."

"And turn you into a demon," added Dean.

"Which is what I'll turn into if you don't pick up your goddamn feet," scolded Bobby. "Hurry up."

Dean smirked, but quickened his pace regardless. Bobby was already a ways ahead, marching with purpose despite the slight limp that hindered his side. He reminded Dean so much of his father, he realised, but not how John was now. For the last six months, he had been a stranger who passed by Dean like a ghost without sentience. Even when he would hit Dean, again and again, marking him with fists clenched and bloodied, it had never felt real. The glaze of John's eyes would look right through him like he was a figure made of glass. John's face hardly aware, but still searching. No, Dean considered, Bobby did not remind him of the John he knew now, but the way he was before, when Mary had still been with them. They had similar mannerisms, the same way of speaking. Bobby even reprimanded Dean the way John used to. It was bizarre. It truly felt like he had been transported through time, and this was just another day with the father he had loved so much.

A knot settled in Dean's stomach, then. A twinge of sickness, a longing for days past. He teared his eyes from Bobby and stared at the ground as he walked. What was he yearning for, Dean wondered? The John he loved had been dead a long time, so wishing to go back there was futile. Dean's father was a piece of shit, he accepted. Saving Sammy and getting out of the labyrinth would not change that.

"We've found your doors," Bobby said after a while, and Dean jumped—lost in his own world. Looking up, they were faced with two large doors, crafted by dark wood and rusted metal. On top of each door was a knocker: two faces, old and hard and lifeless.

As Dean stared, something in the air shifted, and the faces opened their eyes.

Castiel had returned to his throne room in a whiff of smoke. For a moment, no one noticed his presence. The few demons that presided there were talking amongst themselves, cackling sporadically and speaking in fast whispers.

"Get out," Castiel said, and the demons were hit with a collective startle, scattering immediately. After a moment, his throne room was empty. Only his servant remained.

The king looked at Crowley with strained patience. He needed to do it now, away from prying eyes—and he was only too wary of his servant's tendency to prattle.

"Even you, Crowley," he said. The man looked at him oddly, but did not speak. He bowed, and left: suspicious, but unaware.

Once the hall was empty, Castiel walked over to his throne and collapsed into it. It only took him a few moments to realise just how breathless he was, how fast his heart was thundering against his chest. He felt stifled, sickly. Castiel pulled the amulet off over his head and grasped it tightly in his palm, turning his knuckles white. After a moment, his breathing had returned to normal. He studied the wooden face with both awe and apprehension; the amulet refused to be worn by anyone but Dean. The power inside it overwhelmed him.

Castiel wrapped his fingers around the string, careful not to touch the sleeping face. He turned his attention to his crystal ball, which remained clear on its stand. He placed a finger to it, and immediately the glass fogged over to show the face of the prince. He was walking with someone that was not Meg, the king realised. He began to ponder it, until he noticed the space around the boy's neck. Instead of being bare, what remained was a small watch face that rested loosely against his skin. Castiel's jaw tightened: a gift from Meg, no doubt.

"You were quick to replace this… weren't you, Dean?" Castiel held the amulet close to his face, swinging it gently.

After a moment, his envy vanished. Instead, he stared deeply at the face, and held it before his lips. He whispered, barely, into the horned figure of the amulet: soft, tender words of a language long forgotten. He spoke them carefully, with affection, like a poem memorised. His whispers carried the stirrings of a secret divulged, a promise lastly told. Castiel felt himself wilting, his fingers grasping desperately at the string. He spoke until he became lost, until he was whispering into the ear of the Righteous Prince himself. His body hardened as he became breathless, cast under his own spell.

Castiel opened his eyes after the last word was spoken. His face was hot. A bead of sweat ran down his neck and converged itself into his robe. He looked at his crystal once more, and into the boy. Dean was still walking aimlessly with his new companion. Castiel studied him now, how the murky light of the labyrinth changed his hair from brown to blond. How his eyes shone big and green, and shrouded between thick, gold-coloured lashes. Castiel stared, until he found his eyes had drifted to Dean's mouth, lips soft and pink and pillowy—aching for something. It did not do him justice; a picture amidst smoke and glass.

The king no longer wished to watch him like a voyeur from the shadows. Castiel needed to see, speak to the boy in person. He loosened his grip on the amulet and put it around the crystal. The face hung from the stand, swaying back and forth rhythmically. The horned guise was discernible, godlike, but empty without its prince to wear it. He looked at Dean a moment longer, and then waved at the crystal with a flick of his hand. The vision changed to the pretty demon who never wore her eyes black. She was alone, walking in quick paces in another part of the labyrinth. Castiel's jaw tightened at the sight, but he found himself smiling regardless. He knew she would not have stayed once faced with the threat of Alastair, just like he knew the boy would be too righteous not to leave with her.

Meg's work was far from done, even if she thought so. Castiel removed the amulet from the stand, and disappeared.