Castiel woke up alone. He blinked once, vaguely aware of an unpleasant smell. Wherever he was, someone was bleeding out fast.
When he realized that that someone was Dean, a crashing wave of sudden memories slammed into him, and his breath caught sharp in his throat.
"Oh...dear." was all he could muster however, before the panicked silence fell in once more.
It appeared he was in some sort of abandoned house, the walls dark with age, and the windows boarded up and dull. His wrists and ankles were tied to the rusted metal folding chair he sat in, and in one corner, Dean was slumped in his own chair, a slow but steady sliver of red leaking from his right shoulder. That young woman; she had shot him. What had Dean said her name was? Mae, Mary, Maria, Meg. Meg. That was it.
Castiel let out a sigh. Okay. He could handle this. He just needed to get out of the ropes and over to Dean. With a determined gritting of his teeth, he tried twisting his hands against the bars of the chair, his shoulder aching already. But all he got out of it was a dull burning of the chafed skin, and a boatload of frustrated feelings.
So obviously he wasn't getting out. Castiel leaned back his neck, craning for a sign of a door, an open window. But everything in his plain of view was either bleeding or boarded, and he found himself glaring at the same line of unintelligible graffiti as panic gnawed at him once more.
He found himself thinking of Balthazar. Where was he? He'd left only a month ago, his bags packed into the back of his old Chevy Chevelle. "Visiting family," he'd said. "Some wonky family crap came up, be back in a jiffy. Don't worry, Cassie."
He had neglected to mention the fact that Heaven was after him. That eventually, he would fade away into the same abyss that all the rebels fell into. A nameless grave dug quietly, by a soldier.
A fly passed by Castiel, and he watched it land curiously on the top of Dean's head. It stretched it's lazy legs, flitted, and zoomed off again, out of Castiel's range of vision.
Suddenly, Dean's head snapped up.
"Jesus–!" he barked, upon waking. A bit of blood sprayed from his mouth, and he coughed, confused.
Then he caught sight of Castiel.
"Cass...dude...why are you...why am I...?" he mumbled, an eyebrow raised. When Castiel shrugged and offered a weak apologetic smile, Dean jerked up once more with a venomous snarl. "Meg! That little black-eyed bitch!" He then noticed the chair he was secured to, and gave a frustrated groan. "Son of a..."
"Dean," Castiel interrupted, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice. It made him sound like a robot. "You've been shot."
Dean glanced down at the blood-soiled folds of his Metallica t-shirt. His gold amulet was askew, and he grunted nonchalantly. "Oh. Eh, I've had worse."
"You have got to be kidding."
"No, really," he flashed a grin, and wiggled his eyebrows. "Besides, scars are sexy, right?"
Castiel was getting increasingly angry. Dean, it seemed, had failed to recognize the weight of their situation, or at least didn't deem it worth worrying about. Castiel closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths. He had to be calm. He had to help himself, if this ridiculous man wouldn't.
But when he opened his eyes again, Dean's chair was empty. Th fly had returned, and it landed amongst the suddenly undone rope that was draped across the back.
"Dean?" Castiel strained to turn his neck, the blindness of fear returning all too fast. It made his head spin, made his stomach churn with acid. "Dean, where did you–"
"Behind you, Cass," came the unnervingly uninterested reply from somewhere to the back of Castiel's chair. "Jesus, calm down. It's not like I'm gonna just leave you here. You're annoying, but not that annoying."
Castiel scoffed.
"You seem to be underestimating the situation," he began through gritted teeth, as he felt Dean start to untie his ropes. There was a grunt of pain, and Dean muttered a choice word about his shoulder. "Those...barbarians, from the bar. They'll be back, won't they?"
He finished the knots, and Castiel twisted to glare at him. He was pale, flecks of his own scarlet blood staining his face. But he managed a smirk as he gripped his injured shoulder with a tightened hand.
"What, the demons? Yeah, they'll be back. The stupid assholes will bring friends, too."
Castiel's heart nearly stopped. Had Dean said...demons? The whole damned soul in Hell demons? The ones Castiel had grown up in dutiful fear of, as the church told of sin?
If so, how did Dean know of them?
But it seemed Dean was no longer watching him, instead pacing the room with a low mutter in his throat. Castiel stood abruptly, fists clenched by his side.
"You knew them. You knew the woman with the knife. Who is she? She stole my–"
"Shut up, Cass," Dean hissed.
"And for the millionth time, Dean, my name is not 'Cass'. My name is Castiel Novak and I am getting tired of your constant–"
"Castiel. Shut. The fuck. Up."
Dean was staring at something over Castiel's shoulder. His face had settled back into a grim line, the evidence of hardship clearly defined under the sweat and blood.
Castiel sighed.
"They're behind me, aren't they."
...
It had been years since Dean had seen Meg. He vaguely remembered a party, a barbecue, something quiet and familial and peaceful until she showed up and clung to Sam like slime on the sewer wall. Ten months, they had dated, before she dumped Sam violently and left to join the rebellion.
Hell's Demons, they called themselves. All leather jackets and dirty weapons and spiteful, mindless rage against the machine that was Heaven. Their leader Lucifer wasn't stupid though. He was careful. He didn't let loose ends dangle unattended; rather, he acted as the scissors themselves. One cut (a single gunshot) and all was well.
Castiel wasn't getting out of the empty house alive.
"Clarence. Dean. I see you've managed to free yourselves," Meg didn't look to happy about it. She tapped a heeled toes irritably on the dusty boards of the floor, and raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Your shoulder should be nearly drained about now. I give you twenty, thirty minutes tops."
She bit her lip. She'd gotten a bit chubbier since he last saw her, her eyes darker, her hair rattier. The tatters of a band shirt–covered by her smudged leather jacket–reeked of sweat. The demons were more interested in frag grenades and graffiti than showers, apparently.
"Oh, but then you'll miss the show!" she pouted. "Luci's coming, and he's not too happy about what Clarence was carryin' around in his pocket," she paused to look over at Cass, who matched her gaze with a stony glare. "You have a terrible sense of fashion, by the way," Meg sneered. "You look like a–"
"Holy tax accountant, yeah we get it." Dean snapped impatiently. He was getting tired of this, and the dull ache in his shoulder had escalated into a stabbing throb. He could feel the bullet tug nauseously against his muscle and bone. "C'mon, Meg. This guy couldn't hit the side of a barn with a tractor. He's no deadly agent."
Cass shot Dean a sharp glare, and Dean couldn't help but smirk. He honestly didn't know how good a shot the guy was, but if his social skills were any sign, he wasn't that much of threat. At least not physically. Hell, maybe he had some crazy superpowers or something.
"I don't see why you want to save him, Dean," Meg giggled. She had the crumpled file in her hand again, whipped from her pocket with a terrible glee. "He's got orders to kill you lyin' around, after all."
(Kill Winchester, Dean thought. Kill Winchester.)
He'd told Cass his name was Dean Lee.
...
Lucifer walked with the leisure of a cat sidling up to a mousetrap, the rodent caught comfortably within. He didn't bother with weopons; Tom and Ruby flanked him with semi-automatics and knives packed tightly onto them. And this was his turf, his graveyard, his prison. He had baited the trap, and so the mice caught within were his to destroy.
This Dean Winchester was important, he knew. Not as important as his younger brother, and apparently a lot sassier, but important enough to warrant a personal visit from Hell's Demons very own Devil.
No, it was the other one he was smiling about as Lucifer pushed through the meager front gate, his sunglasses biting into the bridge of his nose. It had been ten, fifteen years, but he was sure Castiel would recognize him.
"It's been awhile," he chuckled to himself as he entered the front hall. "My brother."
...