When Dean had first pitched the idea of sneaking to Crowley's office, he wasn't counting on the sheer size and scope of the place. And, as he surveyed the area from the curtained alcove, it became painstakingly obvious that this was not going to be easy.
Empty now but for a few employees cleaning the floor, dusting the curtains and restocking the bar, its size was even more apparent. Dean scowled as he looked from the front entrance to the back near where the stage was set up. Near as he could tell, he was on the third floor. Cas had said Crowley's office was on the top level, but as to how many floors were between him and his goal, he had no idea. But he needed to find it. Cas needed his Grace back. It wasn't just so he could stand a chance against Michael, or break away from this crazy place. Cas simply wasn't Cas without it.
Left with no choice but to start from this floor, Dean peered through the curtains to make sure no one was around and carefully stepped out. There was a lot of open space between the other curtained alcoves arranged around the floor; Dean could only hope that distance would prevent his being detected from across the way. Still he kept low, swiveling his head this way and that to check, and double check, he wasn't in anyone's line of vision.
As he continued on he found his thoughts going back to Cas, and the reasons that brought him to Crowley. His statement about Dean doing no less if their roles were reversed. Granted, Dean had done a lot of crazy shit in regards to those he cared about most, and never once did he regret it. In fact, he preferred it if he was the one taking all the hits. He knew his own limits, what he could withstand. Even Hell hadn't been able to break him quickly- though he despaired at knowing it had broken him. Introduced him to a part of himself he never wanted to know.
Maybe that was what happened to Cas. Events had pushed him to the brink, forcing him into choices he'd never otherwise consider. In this, Dean could relate. The decision to trade his soul for Sammy's life had been desperate, yes, but also necessary. Anything to prevent his brother from dying. Cas had effectively sold his soul for the same reason: love for another.
At this Dean felt himself smile slightly. It seemed he and this world's Castiel had a lot more in common than he realized. Of course, he had to wonder: what would this world's Dean think about what Cas had done? Would it be the same mix of astonishment, hurt, betrayal and disappointment he experienced at learning Cas willingly sided with Crowley to get the souls from Purgatory? Or would it be worse?
The sudden shortness of breath took him by surprise, and Dean had to pause. All his speculation brought those memories back, leaving him momentarily paralyzed by the power they held over him. Over his heart. And with it all was that terrible ache of missing Castiel, of needing to know he was safe. Alive.
Dammit, Cas, he thought, gritting his teeth and pressing on. You better be alive when I get the hell out of here. Just...be alive.
Turning his thoughts to the mission, Dean used it to help ground himself in the present. He had neared the other side of the club, just past the stage and within sight of the cage where he saw Benny. From this vantage point Dean could see the posh seating area where Crowley had watched the play. If there were any entrances, they weren't out in the open. Dean kept moving along, glancing at the few alcoves he passed until he found a stairwell. It was just in time, too: a pair of demons manifested a short distance away. Just as they approached his position, Dean slipped through the doorway, unseen.
As he ascended the stairwell, he passed doors marking the fourth and fifth floor until coming upon the sixth. He smirked at Crowley's obvious pun on the demonic number, tested the door. When the knob turned he poked his head out. The exterior hall was empty. He could see Crowley's VIP box directly across the way. Satisfied he was nearing his goal, Dean emerged from the doorway. He hadn't gone more than a few paces when he heard someone whisper, 'Psst!'
Turning round, Dean glimpsed a hand frantically waving him over. Cautiously, he approached the doorway, his hand stealing for the pocketknife he had swiped off Bobby's table the other night. Casting a wary glance around, he slowly peered around the edge of the curtained doorway. The moment he saw who it was he relaxed.
"What the hell, Gabriel?" he demanded in a harsh whisper. "I thought you weren't going to be-"
Gabriel made a sharp gesture. Dean's words were choked off, and he grabbed at his throat.
"Oh, don't give me that surly look," Gabriel chided at Dean's glare. "Even when you whisper you're loud."
Dean shook a finger at him; Gabriel smiled, snapped his fingers. Their surroundings melted away, instantly replaced by what looked like a cluttered area backstage. The pressure on Dean's throat eased, and he exhaled loudly.
"There. That's better," Gabriel remarked casually. He took his ease on a wooden treasure chest, leaning back on his hands and letting his feet dangle.
"Why'd you take me here?" Dean asked, taking in the props, hanging scenery and sandbags suspended on ropes. "Are we backstage?"
"Yes to the second question, and it should be obvious for the first. You were getting a little too close to the sanctuary," he explained to Dean's scowl. "Crowley has the place locked down tight. Anyone gets within inches of the stairwell sets off all kinds of hexes. I just saved you from being turned inside out. You should be thanking me."
Dean blew out a breath. Of course. Angel wards wouldn't be enough to keep the curious at bay. "All right then," he grumbled, leaning against the wall, his arms folded. "Since you know so much about Crowley's traps why didn't you say anything to me last night?"
"I didn't know about them until this morning. That brother of yours could sweet talk a saint into sin," he remarked with a slow smile.
Dean could feel the want to throttle the archangel rising within him, fought it off. Instead he managed a grim smile. "Good ol' Sam," he said through clenched teeth. "What did he find out? And where is he?"
"I left him with the demons. Don't you worry, they won't hurt him. They think he's one of them. Anyway, there's a special key that unlocks the stairwell. One of Crowley's bodyguards carries it."
"Okay, great. Just tell me who the bodyguard is and I'll lift it off him."
"Ah ah ah, not so fast," Gabriel said, wagging his finger. "Crowley's bodyguards are different every day. I couldn't tell you who it was by name, but the key he has gives off a certain...aura if you will."
Dean nodded. "Like what? EMF?"
"More like a sound. Too low for normal humans to hear. Hey, not even the angels can hear it. But there are two types who can: those who serve Hell, or-" He paused for effect.
Dean saw where this was going, and his brows lowered. "Anyone's who been in Hell," he murmured. The moment he acknowledged this the flashbacks began to creep up on him. Brief glimpses of red haze, the sharp sting of pain, the iron taste of blood, the shrill scream of the tormented. He pushed back the discomfort, nodded. "Does Sam know where the bodyguard will be?"
"I was just about to show you," Gabriel replied with a smile. He slid off the treasure chest and started down the cluttered hall. "And something else, too. Something real important."
"Yeah? What?"
"No, no." Gabriel lifted a hand. "It'll spoil the surprise."
As he walked off Dean reached for the back of his head, as if he wanted to crush it between his hands, before clenching his fists and following suit.
"Now," Gabriel went on, weaving his way through props and other items in their path. "Remember Balthazar mentioning the angels coming to visit?"
Dean ducked beneath a section of scenery Gabriel had simply stepped under. "What about it?"
Gabriel stopped at the end of the corridor. "So," he said, drawing back the heavy curtain. "I thought you'd like to see this."
Dean smirked at the archangel. He jerked his chin toward the opening, and, with a sigh, Dean peered through. The instant he spotted none other than Raphael sitting in the audience, he quickly ducked out of sight.
"Son of a bitch," he swore. "When did he get here?"
"This morning."
"What the hell is he doing then? Waiting for the show to start?" Dean demanded irritably.
"He wants to make sure the play is good enough for Michael." Gabriel snorted. "Which means I'm probably going to have to spend all day performing for them."
Dean shot him a glance. "If the Teenage Mutant Ninja Angel is here checking out the play, then that means Michael's gonna be here soon," he said in a rapid undertone.
"Tonight, maybe tomorrow. So if I were you, I'd sniff out that key and be quick about it."
Dean peeked through the curtain again. Raphael was leaning over to speak to one of the suited men beside him- most likely an angel- as a woman approached him with a drink. Some other employees were milling about, but it was the three demons standing guard near the back that drew his eye. He glanced back at Gabriel, nodded curtly. Gabriel vanished with a snap of the fingers.
He spent a few moments surveying the seating area as he tried to determine the best route to take. There was a lot of open space to cover. It was then he heard a pair of doors open. Looking to the right, Dean watched a group of musicians gradually make their way to the orchestra pit. As he watched their trek take them past one of the guards, an idea came to mind. He double checked to make sure Raphael's gaze was still on the stage before he made a break for it.
After clearing the edge of the stage he dropped to his haunches behind a line of seats. From here he saw Gabriel- or, to be more precise, 'Sam'- appear on stage. He clapped his hands, calling loudly for the stage hands to get to work. Whether it was meant to be a diversion or not, Dean didn't care; the fuss Gabriel made was enough for him to clear the far right of the orchestra pit just as the musicians filed in. It was sheer luck none glanced in his direction.
Now hidden among the aisle seats, Dean peeked over the nearest one in search of one of the demons. Part of him wished he had the demon knife; it'd make taking the key that much easier. Of course, if any of the other demons caught him in the act he'd be screwed. With nothing to rely on but stealth- an admittedly rusty talent- Dean started up the aisle. Keeping low to the ground was starting to make his thighs ache, and he ignored the pain as readily as he had everything else while fighting in Purgatory. There was only the goal to this mission. It was all that mattered.
But when some inexplicable sense drew his attention back toward the stage, he found his pace slowing, then stopping, at seeing Castiel emerge from the side door. The sight of that beige trench coat shook him to the core. Given the way he tensed at seeing who sat in the audience, Dean knew this meeting was not going to be a pleasant one. Though he knew time was of the essence, he was compelled to watch events play out.
It was a shock to see Raphael. Castiel could not deny that. Nor could he deny the anger rising within him. He never forgot it was Raphael who killed him that night. As the other angel's dark eyes raked over him slowly, and with something resembling disdain, Castiel prepared himself for battle.
"Castiel." His voice was a rich baritone edged with contempt. "I knew Crowley had taken in those fallen from Heaven, but I had no idea even he could bear to sully his hands on the likes of you."
He drew himself up despite the insult. "And so Michael asks you to mingle with filth, and here you are. I guess that makes us alike."
The two angels at his side leaned forward, as if to rise. Castiel ignored them.
At this Raphael's eyes narrowed. "You dare compare yourself to me? You're not even an angel anymore; you are less than a human, less than a demon," he snarled. "I should like to wipe you from the face of this world, if only to lend to its purification."
A tiny smile tugged at Castiel's lips. "You did it once before. It didn't work."
"A mistake I do not intend to make again," Raphael warned, rising to his feet. The two angels followed suit, producing angel blades.
There was a little clearing of a throat from the back of the room. Both angels looked to Crowley's approach. He strolled down the aisle, glass in hand, a little smile on his face. "Need I remind you, Raphael? I have a strict policy about mishandling my property. And that one, right there," he said, gesturing toward Cas with his drink. "Well, he's the most expensive piece in my collection. Irreplaceable in fact. Or do I tell Michael you disrespected his orders? I've got him on speed dial." He produced a phone for emphasis.
Raphael's displeasure was evident in the way his eyes narrowed. He gestured to the two angels, who relaxed. Angel blades vanished from their hands.
"I do not need a demon to remind me of my orders," he retorted. "For those orders are the only thing keeping me from leveling this den of iniquity."
Crowley had reached the center of the aisle by now. He hadn't lost his easy smile. "Oh, come now, there's no reason for name calling. Not after how well things have gone for us these past few years. Wouldn't you say?"
Raphael's eyes flashed. It was with an effort that he kept his temper. "What of this play you have arranged for Michael?" he asked, his tone rigid, business-like.
In response Crowley gestured to Cas. He acknowledged the command with a small nod, cast a final, angry glance Raphael's way before heading for the stage. As he ascended the stairs he caught Gabriel's eye. He winked at him as they passed one another. Castiel disappeared behind the curtain just as Gabriel, disguised as Sam, went into detail about what they were about to.
Alone now, he abruptly realized how much he was shaking. It was so violent he had to brace himself against the wall. Pressing a hand to his mouth, he squeezed his eyes shut, tried to command his body to be still. It wasn't facing off against Raphael that distressed him so, or the archangel's insults. It was the burning reminder that for the time being, he belonged to Crowley. And with it, the memory of how it all came to be.
Three years ago...
The flames had just receded into the bowl when a familiar voice drawled, "Well, now: this is a surprise. When I was promised a holy audience I didn't think it'd be with you."
Castiel stepped away from the table where the bowl sat to stand across from the newly appointed King of Hell. He was grateful for the return of his powers; it made assuming a neutral expression much simpler. It did little to suppress the riot of emotion writhing within him. This terrible aching was a wound that refused to heal no matter how much time passed. It haunted him as surely as the memories.
"I didn't summon you on anyone's behalf but my own."
To this Crowley lifted an intrigued brow. "Really? And why is that? Ah, yes," he said, the smile indicating he had seen right through Castiel. "Sentiment. For a certain, shall we say, person formerly of this plane and currently of a higher one?" He chuckled at his own joke.
Castiel's hands tightened into fists. Still he kept his face neutral.
Crowley gave a slight, amused smile. "Giving me the silent treatment only makes your intentions more obvious. It isDean Winchester that you're doing this for; at least pay me the courtesy of being honest. We can't conduct business otherwise."
The angel conceded Crowley's argument with a nod. There was no point in trying to hide it. Crowley had learned of things prior to their departure for Chicago. "I want you to bring Dean here."
The King of Hell seemed taken aback. "You must be desperate if you think my flight clearance is better than yours."
"Can you or can't you?" Castiel growled.
He received an impatient sigh and partial eye roll in response. "Really, Cas, if you're going to be rude about it I might have to turn you down. Now," he went on, taking a step toward him, slowly. Cas's head turned to follow his movements, his eyes narrowed, jaw set.
By now Crowley stood alongside him. A wry smile played upon his face. "The question you should be asking is why would I?"
"I don't understand."
"A common problem with you," Crowley riposted smoothly. He brushed past Cas, spread his hands before him. "Things have changed since Michael put the stop to Lucifer. The angels went back to Heaven, the humans are left with questions and the demons- with my help, of course- are poised to really make a difference. I'm looking at a boom in business, you see," he said, turning to face Castiel. "I'm not about to muck it up because an angel is pining for the human he lost."
During his recital Castiel's heartbeat had nearly tripled in pace. Echoes of the feelings and sensations he had experienced while in his near-human state enabled him to define it as anxiety, fear. Desperation.
"Then send me to Heaven. You can exorcise me from this vessel."
Crowley's answering smile was pitiable. "You poor, unfortunate- well, I can't say soul now can I?" he said with a slight chuckle. "Can't do that either. I want to establish communication with Michael. Civilized communication. Sending you packing is counterproductive to my interests. You're not exactly Heaven's most favored son."
Cas's breathing escalated now, matching his rapid pulse. His thoughts raced. "Then- then I will help you," he blurted out.
Crowley peered at him. "Come again?"
"I'll help you," Cas repeated. He nodded, feeling more sure of himself now. "Whatever it is you're planning to do. No questions asked."
For a moment Crowley's expression was one of genuine curiosity. "Won't helping a demon- me, specifically- put you at odds with everyone else?"
There was a brief pang of regret for where this course of action would take him. Castiel shook it off and nodded again. "This isn't about them. This is between you and I," he stated. "They don't have to know."
A moment passed, two, as Crowley considered Castiel's words. "You're serious," he said with a touch of surprise. "And all this for Dean Winchester?"
When Castiel averted his gaze Crowley heaved a sigh.
"He did a number on you, mate. Rather poor reflection on your taste and preferences, if you must know."
Castiel lifted his head. He wouldn't, couldn't, let Crowley see how his insults were affecting him. "Do we have a deal?"
Crowley chuckled lightly. "No deals will be made until we discuss payment. Speaking of which, you do realize the currency I deal in."
Cas briefly looked away. "...yes," he murmured.
"So what can an angel offer that's as valuable to me as a human soul? Hmm? Tick, tock, Castiel," he added with a little flourish. "I don't have all day to wait while you search for the answer."
But Castiel wasn't searching for the answer. He had retreated, briefly, to that painful memory of Dean lying on the ground. Again saw his ashen face, the stubborn set of his jaw. Even through the pain of having his abdomen sliced open, there was still that defiant spark in Dean's eyes. But when Michael leaned in close to whisper to him, and that defiance gradually gave way for resignation, Cas knew it was not the answer he sought, but the reason. And he was willing to do anything to get it.
"Angels don't possess souls," he began, quietly. He lifted his gaze to Crowley's just as he produced the angel blade. He lifted it, slowly. The overhead light shone along its length. "But we have something that is just as valuable."
Crowley looked truly interested for the first time since this meeting began. "And is Dean Winchester equal to what you're about to trade, angel?"
In response Castiel drew up his left sleeve and dragged the blade across his forearm. A red seam appeared on his skin, illuminated by the glow of his Grace. He then extended his arm toward Crowley.
There was a pause before Crowley smiled, shook his head at some private thought. "So the angel trades his wings for legs. One for the story books." He gestured, and a small vial appeared in hand. Cas's Grace streamed from his wound into the bottle like smoke, its bright, white glow concealed when Crowley palmed it.
Weakened now, Cas braced himself against the table, head bowed, chest heaving. The blade trembled, very slightly in his hand. He heard Crowley's footsteps as he approached him. At feeling a pair of fingers at his chin, he turned his head at the prompt. When the King of Hell sealed the deal with the traditional kiss, it took all his restraint not to push him away.
Once the kiss concluded Crowley drew back to smile at Castiel. "Let's get started then, shall we? Partner?"
"Feeling a bit of stage fright, are we?"
Castiel gave a start and turned.
Crowley leaned against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, hands in his pockets. He smiled as he took in Castiel's distress. "Much more than that? Oh, no, don't favor me with an answer," he said, waving off Cas's words. "But all that was very interesting."
"What do you mean?"
"You, standing up to Raphael. If I didn't know any better, I'd say something has inspired you."
Cas's heart skipped a beat, but he managed to keep his face neutral. "Like what? You heard him. I've fallen so far I'm lower than a demon to him. I've got nothing."
"No," Crowley said, leaning away from the wall. He closed the distance between the two, smiled up at him. "You found something. Dare I call it, hope? Well, whatever it is use it," he went on, as if this were nothing more than a pleasant chat between friends. "The show's been wretchedly boring of late."
Before Castiel could respond Crowley was gone. Now that he was alone again, Cas couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, some way, Crowley knew about Dean, and what they had planned. With no way to confirm the suspicion or get word to Dean, all Cas could do was hope that, this time, everything would happen the way it was meant to.