Dear Readers - I've been gone for a long while, and a lot has happened. I've married a beautiful woman, been promoted at work, hit by a car, healed from that, and have spent the year on an amazing personal journey (doesn't that sound hokey?), but I'm back once again. Please enjoy the next installment of Bad Penny Green.

Bad Penny Green

Day 1

Castiel awoke to the whisper of lit candlewicks and the clink of ingredients being stirred in a bowl. He shifted where he lay, feeling pillows under his body and the pull of crushed velvet against the small of his back. His eyes peeled open and blinked away the grit, squinting.

Everything hurt. Looking up at the ceiling, he tightened and relaxed different muscles in his vessel in a creaking parody of a stretch, trying to get relief. He could barely move. His limbs were wooden, his skin stiff and tight. He felt cold, and his head pounded. The demonic sigils written into his flesh prickled painfully just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at their conjurer's passing thought. More than anything, though, he was completely and utterly exhausted.

From across the room, he caught the sound of a spoon being tapped against the edge of a basin. Swallowing, he turned his head towards the noise and narrowed his eyes to make out the lithe figure standing among the room's sea of candles. The red hair was the give-away, as usual.

Castiel watched Rowena as she ladled a wine-colored liquid out of the cauldron and into a bowl, sprinkling it with a fine powder. Wiping her fingers on a cloth, she gathered up the bowl and a platter of steaming towels and drifted over to where he lay, which appeared to be on her four-poster bed. The mattress sank slightly as the witch sat down beside him.

"Hello, there, dear," she greeted him sweetly, "I didn't expect you to be awake so soon. Bit of a mixed blessing, I'm afraid."

"Where am I?" he asked. His voice was wrecked and breaking. He had to swallow after he spoke to hold down a cough.

Rowena placed her things on the side table and leaned in to look him over.

"You're in Hell," she said lightly, feeling his forehead and looking at his gums.

Cas frowned and tried to shift away.

"More specifically," he pressed.

The witch looked around.

"More specifically? You're in my chambers, in Hell. Which level of Hell, I'm not entirely sure. They all tend to look the same after a fashion." She smiled.

Cas grimaced.

With a shrug, Rowena turned to pick up the bowl of dark, steaming liquid off the bedside table, swirling in gently in her palm. Sniffing it, she made a satisfied sound and offered it to the angel.

"Drink," she told him.

Cas eyed the bowl suspiciously. His gaze moved slowly from its contents to the witch.

"Why would I do that?" he asked.

Rowena frowned. She lowered the bowl just a touch.

"You're going to drink this," she said, "because you look—and therefore must feel—absolutely atrocious, and this potion will make you feel—and therefore look—much better." She pushed the bowl towards him again. When Cal continued to stare at her with exhausted skepticism, she sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she snapped, resting the potion in her lap, "let me put it this way, then: it's not my job to make you miserable. My job to keep you alive and well enough so Fergus can have his fun. He would do unspeakable things to me, his own mother, if I did something to cheat him of that. This," she sloshed her bowl full of potion, "is only a healing tincture of the magical sort, nothing more. Now. Drink."

Feeling something adjacent to mollification, Cas struggled up onto his elbow and held out a reluctant hand. Rowena smiled and leaned in, helping him drink the contents of her potion bowl down to the dregs. The liquid was sweet and oddly smoky, tasting like herbs, wine, and honey, with a faint aftertaste of blood. Cas grimaced and sputtered on the last swallow, feeling the potion roil in his stomach. Its effects were instant and odd, though not unpleasant. His aches and pains faded to nothing, and the bones of his vessel hummed as they poured fresh blood into his veins. He shivered as he healed.

Rowena saw his reaction and wrinkled her nose in understanding.

"Bit strange, isn't it?"

Cas coughed into his hand again and cleared his throat. He nodded, "Yes, a bit."

He settled back into the pillows with a sigh.

Rowena made a soft, satisfied noise as she set the empty potion bowl aside. "Now," she said, "Let's get you cleaned up."

Picking up one of the steaming towels she'd brought to his nightstand, she unfurled it with a snap and leaned in to press it against his face. Castiel recoiled, suspicious.

"What are you—?"

"Sit still. You stink," Rowena snipped, and dabbed along his jaw with the towel. Again, Cas began to tilt his head away, but he stopped mid-protest when he realized how nice the heat and steam felt.

"Hm."

Rowena rolled her eyes.

"Yes, 'hm,'" she teased, mopping filth off his forehead, "Now, be a dear and quit fussing while I try to finish this up."

Grumbling, Cas obeyed. When she was finished cleaning him up, Rowena

"Feeling better?" she asked.

Cas massaged his brow with the heel of his hand before nodding. "Yes. Thank you."

"Well," Rowena dusted off her hands, "Enjoy it while you can. Fergus has really got his knickers in a twist over this First Blade business, among other things. I expect you're in for your fair share of trouble for the next long while."

Cas rolled onto his side and forced himself upright on the bed with a groan. Gritting his teeth, he held his ribs. His side was still tight and tender from his wounds, even with the worst of the damage healed. Curious, he slowly pulled his shirt aside and poked gingerly in the places where the bullet holes had once been. Rowena saw what he was doing and tsked, smacking his hand away.

"Don't touch it!" she scolded, "I don't want you undoing all my hard work."

Castiel let his shirt fall closed.

"What did you do to me, exactly?"

Rowena smiled over her shoulder at him as she stood up and returned to putting corks back into bottles, storing them away in her apothecary.

"I healed you," she flipped her hair over her shoulder, "Used some alchemy to transmute that bullet in your side into water. Drained it right out. Then I cast an old druid charm to knit your wounds back together. That potion I gave you to drink helped replace the blood you lost and take away a bit of your pain."

Cas frowned. Puzzlement wrote itself all over his face as he stared at the witch as she puttered about.

"That's awfully…benign of you," he said. When he saw Rowena smirk, he added a quick backhand: "I didn't know witches could actually be helpful."

Now it was Rowena's turn to frown. She paused, wiping her hands on a cloth before throwing it down.

"Wot?" she asked, putting a hand on her hip, "Did you think being a witch was all 'curse' this and 'hex' that? You know, we don't lay about plucking petals off of daisies to decide which person we'll next make piss acid or cough up razor blades. The first witches were healers, anyway, just herbalists."

Cas laid back with a groan, his arm wrapped around his tender ribs.

"Witches consort with demons," he grumbled, "They summon hell spawn into the world to siphon off their power for their own Earthly gains."

This, Rowena had to concede, and she did so with a tinkling laugh.

"Well, Black Witches do, sure," she relented, "They can be a nasty bunch, what with their sacrifices and their vengeful spells and whatnot. But every group has their baddies. Most witches are White Witches. Naturalist types, you know the like. They dance naked and listen to trees and leave cream out for fairies. They're harmless, and so is their magic. Getting their power from Nature like they do, it tends to be of a weaker sort, but there's nothing dark about it. I learned all that I know about healing from them."

She snapped debris off a runed tablecloth before folding it twice over and storing it in her linen cabinet. Castiel watched her closely.

"If White Witches are so harmless, why would they school someone like you in their arts?"

"Someone like me?" she closed the cabinet door, shooting him a sharp look, "What do you mean by that, exactly? Just who do you believe me to be, anyhow?"

"A Black Witch."

There was a hiss, and suddenly each candle flame in the room flared upwards as it was touched by Rowena's anger. The witch glared at the angel, her eyes dark and her hands fisted.

"I am not a Black Witch," she seethed, "I may have done some things—used some spells—that I'm not terribly proud of, but I'm by no means some black magic monster."

"Well, you're no White Witch, either."

There was silence for a long, tense moment while the pair stared at each other challengingly. Finally, Rowena deflated. "No," shook her head softly, "No, I supposed I'm not." The hissing in the room died down as the candles stopped raging and returned to their normal burn. "I know far too much about the dark arts for that."

"You've done terrible, horrible things."

Rowena nodded again, eyebrows raised as she remembered.

"Aye, that I have," she said, "I've just admitted as much." She looked up. "But so have you, if I recall correctly. That makes us both a special shade of grey, doesn't it?"

It was Castiel's turn to be chagrined. He, too, looked down and away.

"Alright," he muttered, "What are you, then? A Grey Witch?"

"No, dear. I'm a survivalist."

Cas grimaced. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Rowena sighed. Finally finished cleaning, she strolled slowly back to Cas' beside, her bejeweled fingers knitted together.

"It means," she said, voice stern, "that I do what I must to protect what I care about. I feel like you, of all creatures, should be able to relate to that impetus."

Again, Castiel had to look away. Shame crawled up his spine like an insect.

"I know what you've done in the name of the 'greater good,'" the witch went on, "I know what you're going to do. The only difference between you and me is that you have the Winchesters to protect. I only have myself."

That rebuke was too well-targeted, and Castiel's shame suddenly erupted into bald anger. He lashed out, his voice venomous.

"Well, then, none of what you've done has really been worth it, has it?" he snapped.

Rowena went rigid, looking like she'd been slapped. Cas regretted his words instantly, opening his mouth to apologize. White-faced, the witch raised a hand sharply to cut him off. She spoke to him, but when she did, both her eyes and voice were hard.

"Button your shirt, angel," she bit out, "I think it's about time we got you back to Fergus."

"Wait—," Castiel tried again, but Rowena had already turned on heel and stalked from the room, snapping her fingers at the door. Several demon guards entered, their glowering eyes turned towards the angel. Cas sighed, fear rising, as he realized that his brief reprieve was already over.

He was on his way to see the King of Hell.

In the darkness of the pit, Dean pitched himself to the ground and rolled sideways, throwing up a cloud of dust as he tucked his shoulder and twisted back onto his feet. Massive blue-black teeth gnashed the air just inches from his ear as Bundy lead a violent lunge with his crushing jaws. Dean could feel the hellhound's hot breath bloom across the side of his face, stinking of rotting flesh. Gulping, he sprang back another step, sweating at the near miss. Above the pit, demons were on their feet and flailing, cheering or moaning depending on where they had placed their bets. Dean did his best to ignore them.

Beside him, Bundy shifted his weight and whipped around, his red eyes sighting Dan like a laser. His wolfish, undead face was alive with rabid frustration. Unlike demons, hellhounds played no games. Bundy was ready to kill and was obviously unused to working so hard for his taste of blood. Gaze fixed on the hunter, the hound snarled and coiled its muscles to attack.

With his own teeth bared and his heart hammering, Dean grunted and swung his clasped hands like a cudgel, striking Bundy just below the eye. The chain around Dean's wrists followed the blow and tore up the side of the hound's face and into his ear, splitting the flesh against his skull. Bundy reared and howled at the sting of the open wound, twisting away from Dean and shaking out his head in a spray of black blood.

Some of the fluid caught the hunter in the mouth. Dean quickly dragged a hand across his lips and spat viciously into the dirt, trying to rid himself of a taste that was something like motor oil and a lot like burnt rubber. The smell was horrendous. It coated his throat, making him retch.

For a moment, he and Bundy just faltered there, both of them hunched, panting and miserable. Dean stood bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing through his mouth and trying not to gag, Bundy whining in pain and dragging his torn ear against the ground. It was in that moment that Dean realized how tired the pair of them were.

The hunter had no concept of how long the fight had been carrying on, but the ache in his limbs told him it had been ages. Everything lasted for an age and a day in Hell, though. It could have been minutes since he'd been thrown in with Bundy—it could have been hours, or even days. There was really no way of knowing. He looked up through the bars of the pit's cage into a sea of thirsty black eyes. A flash of exhausted fury flickered in Dean's chest. Straightening up, he spat once more into the dirt and took a few steps towards the wounded Bundy.

The hellhound saw Dean coming and righted himself, half of his face now plastered in a wet mix of blood and filth. Once again, he wound his limbs tight, ready to spring. Once again, Dean didn't give him the chance.

Without warning, the hunter struck out with his leg, swinging his hips to deliver a crushing roundhouse kick to the side of Bundy's head. Dean's boot connected with a crunch. The hellhound yelped and staggered back on its massive paws, tonguing broken teeth out of his shattered mouth. Blood welled out of his jaws. Blinking rapidly, the demon dog tried to make for Dean once more, but he could only manage to wobble and list sideways, obviously concussed. It was just a moment's opening, but Dean took it.

Rallying his strength, the hunter bellowed and threw himself on top of the demon dog, straddling him like a bull and looping his chains around the creature's neck. Grabbing with both hands, he leaned back and pulled tight.

Bucking and snarling, the hellhound threw its weight left and right, doing its best to toss Dean off his back. The animal was frantic, wheezing against the pressure of the chain around his neck. He sprang forward and sprinted around the edge of the pit, dragging Dean up against the wall, but the hunter held fast.

At last, the hound could run no longer and collapsed, suffocating, to the floor, taking the hunter with him.

Falling on his side, Bundy's enormous weight slammed down on Dean's leg and the hunter winced as he felt the sickening creak of a near-break shoot up into his hip. Still, he did not let go. Grinding his teeth, Dean pulled harder. Bundy's paws flailed, claws dragging furrows in the walls and floor. Blood arched from his face and mouth as he thrashed, splattering Dean and the walls of the pit. Congested sounds of agony and panic began to gurgle inside the hellhound's throat and snout and the hunter realized it was nearly over. Dean thrashed when the animal spasmed and managed to free his trapped leg. Locking his heels under Bundy's jowls, the hunter arched backwards as far and hard as he could, grimacing as the demon dog's death throws jolted the chains around his wrists.

The final struggle lasted less than a minute. With Bundy doomed and fading, the last moments of the fight were anticlimactic. The hellhound slumped against Dean's garrote, slavering and stiff, eyes rolling wildly, until he finally expired and folded into a heavy, twitching heap of deadweight. Dean let out a massive held breath and let go of his white-knuckle grip on the chain.

It was over. Silence fell.

Untangling himself from the animal's corpse, Dean stumbled a few steps away and then collapsed onto his back, breathing hard. He closed his eyes. A warm, slack sensation fell over his body, feeling something like a sexual afterglow but without any of the pleasure. He ached, tingling with fatigue. Above him, the gallery of demons was briefly quiet, stunned by the results of the fight. Then, they erupted. There were applause and cheers. Losers tossed their betting chits to the floor and crushed them underfoot.

Dean caught himself nearly smiling. He quickly quashed the sick sliver of him that relished his victory, but it wasn't easy. Opening his eyes again, he looked across the floor of the pit at Bundy's black, hulking remains. Already, the hellhound's flesh was dissolving into foul-smelling smoke, leaving an onyx skeleton behind. Rolling onto his knees, Dean got carefully to his feet and shuffled over to Bundy's body. Looking down, he toed open the dead hellhounds jaws and nudged a loose canine with his boot. Reaching down, he yanked the tooth from the demon dog's jaws. The canine glistened in his hand, translucent and occluded, like blue amber. It was heavy, and more than half the length of Dean's palm. The hunter dropped it into his pocket.

The mark on his arm was quiet, but he felt an eerie pressure building behind Rowena's seal. With one of the runes blown off by his anger and a second now withering away, the hunter could feel the sparest tendrils of evil picking their way along the arcane dam that held them back, looking for weaknesses. A vision of empty eye sockets and a wide, jester's smile swam in the back of his mind.

Above him, the huge metal pit grate swung back with a scream. Dean looked up. Several hulking demons that the hunter recognized as Crowley's bodyguards had appeared at the pit's edge. They unrolled a rope ladder and threw it down to him.

"Get up here," one ordered him gruffly.

"The King wants to see you."

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~DWC