A/N: I just wanted to say a huge thank you to whoever voted for this fic on Unforth's Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection on Tumblr. It honestly means the world to me to know that someone is enjoying this fic enough to want to rec it to other fans of the show/pairing. Thank you again!

The King's Labyrinth

Chapter 17

The Tower

Dean did not walk in step with the others. He was trailing behind, just as Meg had done in the forest. He knew how she felt, now; like he did not belong, like his secret was as fragile as a drop of rain—and if he got too close, it would fall.

"Hurry up, Dean," Jo called ahead of him impatiently. "We don't wanna lose you again."

She had been in bad spirits ever since their reunion at the junk yard. Angry at Meg, at her allowance for the demon to leave with them. But Dean also thought that she may be angry at him, too, because she knew he was keeping something from them. Not that he would ever tell.

"Sorry," he said after her, shuffling forwards.

They were in another forest, the trees lush sycamores. Dean tried to look through the leaves, hoping to see a sign of the tower. He could see nothing but light, and it was shining in through the bract and lacing the ground, make the dust in the air shine like glitter.

"How far to the tower?" he asked Jo, waving a hand through the particles and watching them dance.

"Not long," she replied tersely. "Just past these trees."

He nodded, hoping she would elaborate, but she didn't.

"It's so quiet," he said after a moment's silence. Jo breathed heavily through her nose.

"I'll imagine Castiel is summoning the remaining demons to the city about now."

Of course; Dean would have to get through Castiel's demons before he got anywhere near his brother. He wondered what the king was doing in that instant. Was he at the castle, barking away a battle plan to his followers? Was he counting down the hours till he would see Dean again? Even if he didn't speak it aloud, their time in the ballroom had changed everything. When he finally breached the city and was faced with the man with the beautiful blue eyes, what would he say to him? Dean's brows furrowed absentmindedly, his expression tangled. Would he kiss the king before he killed him?

"What are you thinking about?" Jo asked him. Dean blinked.

"Just…" he started, "how many demons are there all together?"

The girl let out a humourless laugh.

"If I could guess? Thousands."

He had managed to kill a crowd of demons, dozens—but thousands, all at once? Dean's stomach knotted at the thought.

"And they're all waiting for us?"

"Yup," Jo nodded curtly, but her eyes were softening. "You scared yet?"

He didn't reply. The last time he had seen the king, Castiel had offered him a chance to stay in the labyrinth forever—not as a captive, but a ruler. The creatures he was to fight would instead bend the knee and serve Dean for the rest of time. It was a strange thought, and Dean no longer noticed Jo, who was staring at him with a rallied look on her face.

"Hey," she said, mistaking his silence for dismay, "it's okay, Dean. You can win this—and you will."

He smiled quickly, not wanting to meet her eye in case his thoughts betrayed him.

"Thanks."

The moment ended when the trees parted and Dean could see what lay behind them: a tower, huge, black, and surrounded by a wall of spears. It seemed out of place against the lush green field it stood upon.

"That's the tower?" he asked, bewildered. "It's huge. How did we not see it until now?"

"The king's magic," Bobby said uneasily. "There's something in there he doesn't want people to find."

They stepped out of the forest and down the hill. Approaching the speared fence, Dean noticed a gate. He crept over to it and shook it softly. The gate loosened and began to open.

"The gate's unlocked," he said, stepping through.

"Wait!" Jo whispered tensely. "Dean, hold back a little."

Before he could ask why, Dean was met by the sight of two men, pacing in time with each other around the tower. They were dressed in finery that had turned to rags, stained with blood so old it had become part of the fabric. They did not appear to be demons; they wore their eyes like Dean and the rest of the souls. But they weren't just souls. Dean could tell that immediately.

"Who are they?"

He had fallen back, brought himself down into a crouch next to the others. He kept his voice quiet and did not take his eyes off the two men.

"Remember at the Pool," Jo began, "when Bobby asked me to leave with you?"

Dean nodded.

"You were scared to."

Jo sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

"When Castiel made me a half-soul," she explained, "he bound me to my duty of guarding the bridge. He told me, if I ever abandoned it, I would be transformed into something else."

"What?"

She pointed to the two men pacing the tower.

"Those things right there."

He looked.

"But what are they?"

Jo's voice fell even quieter, and Dean had to hold his breath just to hear her.

"When Castiel became king and attempted to create half-souls for the first time, the magic of this place backfired on him, and he created something else." She faltered, her expression nervous. "Something that could be trapped, but never controlled."

He studied the man nearest to them. He was taller than the other, with wide, deep-set eyes. His skin was dark and his face handsome and proud, but also menacing, and Dean felt cold just to look at him.

"Those are quarter-souls," Jo continued. "Powerful, but wrong. Impossible to tame. They guard the tower because they can't leave it. I doubt they feel any loyalty towards Castiel, but they will still try to slaughter us if we come near."

Dean clutched the outline of his ancient dagger.

"I have weapons," he said resolutely. "I can kill them."

Bobby huffed from beside him.

"Not on your own, you won't."

"But I can't die."

Ash sniffed from beside him.

"Quarter-souls are creative."

He knew they would not let him in that tower alone. Jo had risked transformation in order to help him; she would not stop now, and neither would Ash or Bobby.

"Here," he said, unleashing his weapons. "Take these."

He handed Jo the bow; Bobby the bottle of Fire Breath.

"Ash," he started apologetically. "I don't have enough."

"Ash is smart," Jo spoke for him. "He'll hide. Run if he has to."

Dean nodded. He stood up, and opened the gate.

"TRESPASSERS!"

A screech, so loud it echoed the ground and disturbed the tiny rocks that settled there. Dean's heart shuddered in his chest. The man that had spoken was staring at them savagely; heavily-built and bald-headed. The man Dean had noted before put a hand on the other's shoulder.

"Quiet, Uriel," he said, and his voice resounded around the tower, echoing as if they were stood at the edge of a precipice.

He turned from the other and stared down at Dean, his dark eyes sawing into him like a fresh blade.

"My brother is right," he continued, "you are trespassing on this land."

Dean clutched at the dagger.

"I need to get into the tower," he said, his tone hard and unwavering. The man simply looked at him, while his brother seethed and panted.

"We cannot allow that," he said plainly. Dean squeezed his knife again in reassurance.

"And I can't allow you to stand in my way."

Uriel roared.

"Let me kill him, Raphael!" he begged, his voice as loud as thunder. "He underestimates our authority!"

"Settle, brother," Raphael soothed. "Do you know who we are speaking to?"

"I know who he is!" bellowed Uriel. "The Righteous Prince, Chosen One, son of the Burned Woman!"

"Those are monikers created by people unwilling to accept their saviour is just a human," replied Raphael indifferently. He looked at Dean, then, pierced him with his deep, brown eyes.

"You are not special," he told him. "You are not chosen. Your name is Dean Winchester, and you are trespassing. We will kill you for that—and your friends."

"You don't owe the king anything," tried Dean. "Look at what he's done to you. Trapped you here forever! If you let us pass, I promise we will spare you."

Raphael studied him a while, as if to contemplate his offer. After a moment, however, he shook his head once, slowly.

"You are trespassing," he said finally.

"Dean…" Jo twitched from beside him, her finger begging towards the string of her bow.

"It's okay," Dean whispered, but he, too, was clutching his dagger fiercely.

"Tear them apart," he heard Raphael say, and within an instant, Uriel had leapt from his spot and pounced at him like an animal at its food.

Dean threw himself out of the way, Uriel's nails digging into him as he caught his side. The quarter-soul roared in frustration, settling his body towards the boy, preparing to lunge once more.

"Hey!"

Uriel looked as Jo called him, her bow ready. Within an instant, the arrow was unleashed, the tip blazed in orange light. It plunged itself straight into Uriel's chest, and the man fell backwards, screaming in pain. Raphael rose, then, bigger than he had ever been before. He set towards Jo, but not before his brother rose, teeth grit and panting with fury.

"SHE IS MINE!" he roared, and threw himself on Jo.

"Jo!"

Ash had appeared from his hiding place, shock and fear striking his pale face as he ran towards the battle and surged himself on top of the quarter-soul. Without a weapon, he had nothing but his fists to fight with, and he beat them pathetically against Uriel's shoulders. The man arose, picking Ash up by the scruff of his shirt. Within an instant, he had thrown Ash into the wall of the tower, so hard that the brick crumbled and fell with him. His body landed loudly on to the ground below, and lay there, broken and unmoving.

"Ash!"

Jo had stood up, her face covered in blood. Dean watched Ash, desperate for a sign that he still breathed—but his chest remained as still as stone.

"You killed him!" Jo screamed, her voice echoing with pain and hatred, shattering the land of its existence, the rules now broken.

"Uriel!"

Before his brother could warn him, Jo had thrown herself on top of him, stabbing him in the neck with the blazing arrow. He fell to the ground, and Raphael grabbed on to her.

"You have brought death to my tower," he breathed slowly, wrapping his long fingers around Jo's neck.

"Get your hands off her!" Dean boomed, and he lunged his knife at Raphael's chest.

The quarter-soul appeared not to feel it, and instead wrapped his fingers tighter.

"If I use this stuff I'll set them both alight!" cried Bobby, the Fire Breath waving menacingly in its bottle.

"Brother…"

Uriel was still alive, breathing heavily through gurgled breaths. Blood pooled from his wounds, out of his mouth and nose. Immediately, Raphael faltered, and before he could say a word, Jo had unsheathed another arrow and fired it directly between the dying brother's eyes. He died instantly, his gaze on Raphael as if still begging for him to save him.

Dean's heart stopped beating. Raphael still had his hands on Jo, ready to kill at a moment's notice. But instead, he set her down.

"Wait." Raphael commanded. "Put down your weapons."

Jo struggled to her feet, tears and blood streaming down her face.

"I'll kill you!"

"Dean Winchester," Raphael said, pointing a finger at Jo, "control her."

Dean rushed towards her, grabbing at the arrow. She struggled in his arms, hitting him roughly.

"Jo," he said urgently. "Please. Give it to me."

She began to sob, her body heaving and heavy against him.

"They killed Ash…"

Her arms limped, and she dropped the arrow. Dean held her, burying herself in her neck.

"I know," he whispered.

"Both sides have losses," began Raphael, staring at the two bodies that littered the tower. "My brother is dead. Your friend is dead. The king's magic is broken. I have no choice but to believe you are as the prophecy says. I will let you into the tower, but only you."

His shoulders fel, the hardness in his eyes softening just a little.

"I feel something inside me loosen," he said then, the tone of his voice conflicted, dazed. "Like a shackle finally opening. I no longer feel constrained to this place. If you'll allow it, the quarter-souls will fight with you in the closing battle, for there are more of us who guard the things that make the king ashamed. I feel… hatred towards the king. He was not strong enough to make us right, so he abandoned us like he did the girl in the tower. Will you accept us with you at the end?"

"Dean," Jo cried from beside him. "No. They killed Ash."

She went over to him, setting herself down and lifting him to her like a child to its mother. Dean stared down at the man's broken form in her arms. Jo was sobbing, clutching at him pathetically. She would not forgive him for this, but it was something he had to do.

"We killed Uriel," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Jo. I can't say no to him."

He turned to the quarter-soul, and nodded at him gravely.

"Raphael," he said, "I accept you with us. I will call you when we reach the city."

Raphael bowed, and Jo sobbed louder from beside them.

"Yes, Prince," the quarter-soul said.

Dean turned to look back at what remained of his group. Bobby was shaken and exhausted, and Jo was crying softly into the tuft of Ash's neck.

"I'm going up," he said. Jo sniffed, but refused to look at him.

He faltered, tried to find the words to apologise, to make things right, but nothing came. Bobby patted his shoulder and tried to give him a smile.

"We'll wait for you down here," he said. "Go on, boy, no need to waste any more time."

He had been a fool to place his trust in that idiot demon, Alastair. Zachariah scratched his head as he studied the lifeless forms of the demon and his bone-headed followers. They had seemed so threatening before, but now, they looked pathetic, broken and bloody on the labyrinth's floor.

"Oh, Alastair," he said, bending down by the leader, whose eyes were staring at him like glazed mirrors. "At least you died doing what you loved."

He took a hold of Alastair's rigid hand, pulling out of it the sharp tool he clutched to him so desperately, even in death. It was an aged weapon, but well looked after. It was Zachariah's now, and, if he played his cards right, he could use it as his bargaining chip into Castiel's city. He had many things he wanted to say to the king, and though he had not the authority to summon Castiel to speak with him in the labyrinth, surely the man would have some respect for him now! The last time he had seen Dean, the boy was scrambling to breaking rock, falling through the quake, screaming and begging for dear life. It had reminded Zachariah of the trap door Dean had fallen through after their first meeting. It was a fond thought of his, one he imagined regularly, and the half-soul smiled relishingly at the memory.

It was a short journey to the city gates, for he had only had to mark the ground past the seventh eye-shaped stone, and the floor had opened up for him like the arms of a cherished friend. The gate was a huge contraption, meticulously structured, and marked with etches of their proud, beautiful king, carved in welcome to the demons who wished to enter the city. It truly was a sight to behold. Zachariah turned around, and, indeed, the entire length of the labyrinth was visible from the perch he stood upon, like the city was a mountain forged without tools, and existed simply because the world had willed it to.

The gate was unguarded, and Zachariah took a few steps forward, placing his chubby hands on the iron.

"Who goes?"

He jumped, almost falling backwards. The half-soul scrambled to his feet, rubbed down his ripped suit with fervour, and tried to stare confidently at the figure who had just spoken. The gash on his throat seemed to burn as he looked into her, and Zachariah cursed his appearance silently: dirty and bloody, no way to look when faced by a woman as beautiful as this one.

"My lady Lilith," he said, bowing low, "the stories do you no justice. You truly are divinity."

She looked back at him blankly, her long hair golden and her eyes a milky white—a stark contrast to the rest of her kin, who all wore their eyes as black as blindness.

"I am not a lady. I am a demon."

"And you are the most beautiful demon this half-soul has ever laid eyes on."

He was still talking to her with his head bowed, anxious to move too quickly. She really was a goddess: her face smooth and her features classic, like a sculpture carved into porcelain. Her garb was glittering white, long and fluttering. Her nipples were visible behind the silk. Zachariah had to stop himself from gawping, from staring at her form too salaciously. He dropped his eyes to the variety of weapons sheathed around a thick black belt that she wore on her waist, from mighty swords to delicate cutlasses, curved scythes and chain-blades.

"Which begs the question," she spoke then, her voice feminine but resonating in authority. "Why is a half-soul laying his eyes on me? Non-demons are not allowed entry into the city."

"I know that, Lilith," Zachariah replied, afraid to meet her gaze. "I know that very well. But, you see, I have served the king quite loyally since our little, uh, visitor arrived, and I have some things I'd like to discuss with him."

His answer was displeasing; he knew it immediately. Lilith crossed her arms and the whole labyrinth seemed to darken.

"Discuss?" she asked fiercely. "Discuss? You're not telling me you have come here, forced me from my leisure, because you want to bother the king with discussions of obedience?"

Zachariah held out his hands, shook his head, forced himself to bow even lower.

"It is not like that, I swear! I could be a great asset to his lordship—much more so than at my place as a door guard."

Lilith raised her thin, shapely brows. He had displeased her again.

"Not that a door guard is not important," he went on, flustered, "quite the contrary! I only mean, my talents lie else where..."

"And why do you think," Lilith asked slowly, "I will let you inside, when the king explicitly prohibits non-demons from entering?"

Zachariah smiled, then, putting a hand in his pocket.

"Well, I—and forgive my impudence—but I brought you a gift."

He pulled out his hand, his fingers wrapped around an ancient weapon, smaller than his palm, but clinquant with the artistry of its design.

"You see, on my travels I came across this queer little tool, and it struck my interest."

Lilith's white eyes seemed to glow in the half-light, her pride forgotten—her expression hungry.

"Alastair's tool…"

"Yes," acknowledged Zachariah, his lips still curved in smugness. "He is dead, now. Not by my hand, regrettably, but I came across this weapon, and, even in death, he seemed rather fond of it. I figured it must be valuable."

Lilith took a step forward, her hands out in eagerness. She faltered, remembering her place, but she did not remove her eyes away from the tool.

"Do you know the amount of people he used this on?" she asked the half-soul longingly. "How much blood it has tasted in its life time? This was, indeed, Alastair's favourite tool. I have long admired it, but the madman never did let me get too close."

"Then I think it only right I give it to you," said Zachariah, handing it to her. "A beautiful woman deserves beautiful things."

He knew he had won. Zachariah did not do things without ardently planning them first, and although he had originally thought Alastair more use to him alive than dead, he realised now, just how perfectly his plan had fallen together—and he had barely had to lift a finger. Lilith was holding the weapon close to her, stroking it with a marbled hand. For a moment, it seemed she had forgotten Zachariah was still there, but a slight huff of his throat tore her eyes away and on to his smirking form. She despised him for bribing her, but Alastair's tool was far too valuable an offering to refuse. She grit her teeth.

"Make your business quick, half-soul."

The mighty gate opened. She stepped aside, allowing the man passage. He bowed once more before passing through.

"Oh, it will be. Thank you, your divinity."

The city was even more spectacular than he'd imagined. The tall walls that guarded it had truly hidden the beauty of the inside formation. Rows of rickety-built houses seamed the entrance, small and mismatched. The demons who lived in them seemed to be the poorer, more depraved inhabitants of Castiel's city. To his left, Zachariah saw two demons sparring in a hand-made pit, surrounded by a roaring, betting crowd. Demon women in loose, torn dresses straddled their companions, kissing them thirstily, running their hands down their dirtied waists and cupping their groins. Zachariah loved the carnality of it, the filthy desperation. But he knew, once Castiel granted him a home here, he would not consort with this type of commonality.

Zachariah continued walking, leaving behind the decrepit houses and approaching structures of grander arrangement. The buildings were high and wide, framed with dark wood and smooth stone, windows reflecting the shrouded sun like water. The demons here were better dressed, hooded in cloaks of fur, walking in shoes with heels and golden buckles. Zachariah's own suit was brown instead of black, covered in a layer of dust and grime. The arms were ripped, and his shirt was stained in the blood from his neck wound. The demons followed his form with apathetic repugnance, but none approached him. Once the king granted his prize, these demons would never bear to look at him, for he would be something to fear, not deride. He'd show them.

Finally, the row of estates dispersed behind Zachariah, leaving only the castle to stand before him. It was even bigger than he had imagined, for he had often watched the castle from a perch far away, pondering the life he could yet live inside it. The stone was sand-coloured, flawlessly placed, with hundreds of carvings inscribed within them. He approached the castle steps, where two guards were standing holding long swords and dressed in armour. Placing a foot on the stairs, the demons turned to look at him, pointing their swords inches from his face.

"Who are you?" the first one asked.

Zachariah despised the discourtesy in the guard's voice. After he was finished speaking with Castiel, he would have this demon sent to the Pool.

"I am Zachariah," he answered hotly, "and quite your superior, so I'd appreciate it if you moved aside. I have to see the king."

The second demon laughed—he too would be sent to the Pool for his audacity.

"Have to see the king, do ya? What makes you so important?"

The half-soul was about to argue when he heard a voice from behind him.

"Zachariah?"

The short, pudgy figure of the king's servant stood staring at him, suspicion needing in his black, piggish eyes.

"Crowley!" Zachariah said, swallowing his distaste as he pulled the servant into an embrace. "My old friend! How long has it been, now?"

Crowley shrugged him off.

"How did you get into the city?" he asked, patting off the dried blood and mud that now stained his robes.

"Charm and tribute," grinned Zachariah, trying his upmost to ignore the contempt in Crowley's voice. "The demoness really is a fickle woman."

The servant's eyes widened, horrified.

"How dare you! She is—"

"Quite out of earshot, Crowley, so calm down," interrupted Zachariah. He had grown weary of his false civility. He spoke now, unsmiling.

"I have come to speak to the king. I have made it this far; I will not be turned away now."

Crowley scowled, opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it.

"Fine," he said sorely. Zachariah's smug grin returned. "Boys, open the door."

The demons looked hesitant, but moved away from the door regardless.

"As you wish, sir."

The demon and the half-soul walked together through the grand hallway. Beautiful paintings of Castiel adorned the walls, and Zachariah stared into them, imagining how his own portrait would look.

Crowley shuffled from beside him.

"I'll warn you now," he said tensely, "the king isn't in the best of moods."

"Oh," breathed Zachariah, "I'm sure I'll cheer him up somehow."

They had reached the door of the throne room. Crowley opened it, and Zachariah felt his heart stop in his chest as he stared at the form of the king, who was sitting sluggishly against his thorned seat. They walked towards him, Zachariah noting the king's handsome features, the soft wrinkles around his eyes, his sharp, pointed nose, and his lips; pale, slightly swollen, downturned in a frown.

"Your Majesty," bowed Crowley, "may I introduce—"

"Oh, there is no need of that, Crowley," interrupted Zachariah with a wave of his hand. "The king knows very well who I am."

He smiled confidently at the king, his hands rested against his hips. Castiel simply stared at him, saying nothing.

"Zachariah," the half-soul said slowly, his smile wavering. Still, the king did not react.

"You made me a half-soul," he went on, his mouth now aching. When the king's expression remained blank, Zachariah could hear Crowley snigger from beside him. It took every ounce of self control not to tear him apart right there, but with one last painful smile, he said with desperation: "I know how to get places."

With that, Castiel rolled his eyes.

"Oh, yes, yes, fine," he said quickly, "I remember. What do you want?"

Zachariah cleared his throat gruffly. The demons around him were laughing from behind closed hands, but he refused to acknowledge them.

"Could we speak in private?"

Castiel looked riled.

"Is that a demand?"

The half-soul shuddered slightly, and raised his hands in rebuttal.

"Oh, my Lord," he said wildly, "of course not! Only, what I have to tell you is quite paramount, and your ears are the only ones deserving of it!"

Castiel scowled at him, breathing out bitterly.

"Fine," he said, boredom lacing his voice into monotone. "Demons, clear out! And you, Crowley."

Zachariah fought a smile as the servant glowered from beside him. He was the last to leave, made known by the slam of the throne room door as he disappeared behind it.

"So," said Castiel after a moment's silence, "what is it you want to tell me?"

Zachariah bowed low.

"My Lord," he said, his face close to the ground, "I know I am not a demon. The magic that compels them to you does not affect me, but, it has not stopped the loyalty I feel for you." He raised his head once more, saw Castiel staring at him with a sullen, bothered expression. "I have done many things since Dean Winchester tainted your land with his… delusions of grandeur," Zachariah went on, and his heartbeat quickened at the change in the king's eyes as he heard the prince's name. "I trapped him in the oubliette. I fed him to the torturer. I followed him, changed his course, watched him fail, again and again. And I did something else for you, Master…" he bowed again, couldn't stop himself from grinning. "I found his mother."

"Mary?"

Castiel was now sitting up-right in his seat, his attention fully on Zachariah. The half-soul nodded slowly, revelling the king's new-found fascination.

"Yes," he said. "There were rumours of her existence in the labyrinth, but no one knew for certain, until I found her, your Majesty, and I can take you to her. She is your weapon to use!" Zachariah was frenzied now, drunk on the power he had over Castiel. "If we rally her against the prince, he will surely fail, and you will be king for ever more!"

The king was processing his words, the silence deafening.

"You would do that for me?" he asked finally. "Surely, you will want something in return for such devotion?"

Zachariah grinned. If he had his way, he would throw Castiel from his throne and seat himself upon it that instant, but patience was a virtue, and he knew his time would come eventually.

"Well, yes, my Lord, I admit it," he spoke, his voice hungry. "Mary is… a very beautiful woman, and in return, I would wish her for my own, to marry her, and for us to live here in the city."

The king raised his eyebrows at Zachariah's request.

"You want to marry her?"

The half-soul bowed slightly.

"Yes, your Majesty."

"Do you love her?"

It was an odd question, and Zachariah's smile faltered on his cheeks.

"Love her?" he asked uncertainly. "No, I—"

"Then why do you want her as your wife?"

He dared himself to look at the king, whose own smile was now unwavering.

"Well, I—"

"Have you asked her if she wants to marry you?"

"No," Zachariah said in a small voice, "I haven't."

"It seems you have not thought this through, Zachariah," said Castiel, and he stood up from his throne and walked the stone steps down to him. He was looking at the half-soul with a dark expression, and Zachariah felt his knees begin to shake. Images of Mary, his painted face mounted on the castle walls, began to disappear into a sea of blackness.

"My Lord," he begged, "I am offering you a sure-fire way of winning this battle! I have done nothing but serve you! My king… I did it—" Zachariah pleaded desperately, getting to his knees, "all of it—for you!"

"But I never asked you to," Castiel said wickedly, and with a twist of his hands, he had broken Zachariah's neck.

The stairs were long and winding, and Dean soon lost count. A strange sense of uneasiness had settled itself in his stomach, deepening with every stride. He knew there was a girl waiting for him at the top of the tower, and, whoever she was, Castiel had not wanted her found.

He continued to climb, a dull pain kneading itself in the boy's legs. It was quiet; all that filled Dean's ears were the sounds of his own footsteps against the stone.

At long last, he reached the landing. In front of him was a door, unlocked, waiting to be opened by a worn brass handle. He reached for it, his fingers trembling. The door swung open slowly, and stood before him in a room dusty and cold, was a girl with fiery red hair, and eyes that were blue and sad, and very familiar. She smiled, like she had been expecting him.

"Hello, Dean," she said kindly. She spoke with a softness, barely a whimper. "I thought it was you outside my window. You killed Uriel."

Dean blinked. He did not know if this saddened or pleased her. She spoke so evenly, Dean had no idea what she could be thinking.

"Yes," he answered simply.

"But he killed your friend," went on the girl. "Ash, was it? I'm sorry."

"It's… it's okay."

The girl did not say anything for a while. She watched him, studying his features, his awkward way of standing.

"You've come a long way to find me, haven't you?" she said finally. "You've killed a lot of people."

"Did all the blood give it away?"

She laughed sadly, her blue eyes glinting in a way he had seen before and adored intensely. He forced his gaze away and looked at the floor.

"I'm Anna," she said after a moment. "Castiel is my brother."

He looked back at her, and the familiarity of her eyes suddenly made sense.

"Your… your brother?"

"Yes," she said, surprised by his reaction. "Didn't you know that already?"

"No."

Dean had been so intent on reaching the tower, that he had not thought to ask who would be waiting for him inside it. No one had told him Castiel had a sister—perhaps they had not known… or that he was not ready to hear it.

"I am in this tower because of him," Anna went on wistfully. "I am… the last piece of the puzzle, the final ingredient to be collected before the Righteous Weapon can be called to you."

He stared into her blue eyes, falling into them. How much did he not know? How much had been kept from him? He saw so much of Castiel in Anna's face that it hurt him just to look at her.

"Oh, Dean," Anna said after a moment, her smile doleful but full of heart, "you look so lost.

"You deserve to know the man you're destined to murder," she said. "Let me tell you about my brother, the path he was led upon to make him the man he is today—but I fear words alone will not do his story justice. If you trust me, close your eyes."

Dean closed them. He felt a shift, a closing of space, and then soft lips on his.

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in Anna's tower.