"You know he could be lying," Sam pointed out, his voice quiet but jarring in the heavy stillness. "It's – sort of what he does."
"Yeah," Dean agreed, but there was a cold knot in the pit of his stomach. "That Ion dick, too."
"I guess it's… possible that they're both telling the same lie." Sam's tone made it clear how unlikely he actually found that idea. "They both want to get to Cas."
As much as Dean wanted to accept that explanation, he found it as difficult to believe as Sam seemed to. "Yeah," he sighed. "Except if Crowley gets him, then the angels don't – and if the angels get him, Crowley doesn't. There's no reason for them to come up with the same lie. And it can't be coincidence. They're getting this intel from somewhere."
"It – does look bad," Sam admitted.
"He's not gonna just admit it, though," Dean realized grimly. "That's the first thing. We need to get him to admit it before we can get him to stop it."
"I have an idea," Sam replied, heading toward his laptop across the room. "There's dozens of variations on your basic truth spell. Maybe I can find one that would work on an angel."
Dean felt a certain measure of relief at the idea of such an easy solution; and he didn't want to think too closely of why exactly that was… of what alternative means they might be forced into to get the truth out of Cas, if Sam's truth spell idea didn't pan out.
"Good plan," he said, turning away from Sam and heading back toward the basement stairs.
Sam's voice stopped him just as he reached the door. "What are you gonna do?"
Dean couldn't look at Sam, didn't want to see the expression on his face to go along with the concerned tone of his voice. Dean swallowed hard, his hand resting on the door handle as he quietly replied.
"I'm gonna go talk to our friend."
Castiel was awake when Dean reached the basement.
Dean had expected as much. Between the earthquake, and Cas's angelic constitution, he'd figured the knock-out touch Cas had taken at his own hand wouldn't last long.
Cas had pulled himself up onto his knees and was tugging experimentally at the cuffs on his wrists. He looked up as Dean approached, his expression strangely calm, his tone even and a little wary, but mostly unconcerned.
"Enochian," he observed, sounding vaguely impressed. "Where did you get them?"
"I've got all kinds of tricks you haven't seen." Dean smiled as he leaned against the wall and faced his friend, arms crossed casually over his chest. "But then, maybe you'd know that if you'd been around lately."
"Dean…" Cas sighed, looking away and shaking his head slightly. "You know I'd be here with you if I could, but – I have no choice…"
"Yeah, I've heard that before," Dean cut in, but he kept his tone mild, controlled. "It was right before the last time you went off all half-cocked with your big plans, and it all went to shit."
Cas flinched – just slightly, barely perceptible, but Dean knew him well enough to see that his words had hit their mark.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he said, his voice quiet and subdued, his eyes cast down to the floor in front of his knees. "I'll never stop being sorry for – for what I did. But…" His frown deepened suddenly, and he looked up at Dean, his tone sharp and abruptly worried, "The last time. What does that mean? What 'big plans' do you believe me to have?"
"I don't know." Dean shrugged slightly, not taking his eyes from Cas's face. "You tell me."
Cas shook his head. "I don't know what you mean. I assure you I'm not… 'going off… half-cocked'."
"What are you gonna do with the angel tablet, Cas?" Dean demanded, standing up straight, allowing an edge to creep into his voice.
"I'm – protecting it. From the angels, and the demons – and – well, everyone…"
"Including me."
Cas's voice took on that infuriatingly controlled note of sarcasm that usually made Dean feel like the world's biggest moron. "Yes, Dean. Everyone would in most cases include you."
"But not you, apparently," Dean pointed out. "Somehow, you're the only one who can safely have it – or touch it, or – anything."
Cas looked away, a slow swallow visible in his throat. "I'm – not sure."
"Then why do you think you can handle this any better than the last time?" Dean snapped, his frustration rising and getting the better of him. "What are you going to do with it?"
"I don't understand your question," Cas sighed, sounding a little frustrated himself. "I'm not doing anything with it..."
"Where is it?" Dean demanded, taking an instinctive step forward before he could stop himself.
Cas eyed him warily, and Dean's stomach turned at the way Cas's hands tightened into fists, tugging slightly against the chains in automatic response to Dean's advance. "I find it unsettling that you are so desperate to know," Cas replied slowly, his tone cautious, though not exactly fearful. "Just now, when the angels and Crowley are so actively seeking it."
Dean blinked, feeling as if Cas had just slapped him. "You think I'm working with them?"
"I think – you might not be you…" Cas suggested, cautiously watching Dean, his posture tense and wary.
Dean rolled his eyes, reaching into his jacket for the flask of holy water he kept there. Instead, the first thing he found was the angel blade he'd relieved Cas of while he was unconscious. He frowned at it for a moment; he'd forgotten he'd put it there. Then he set it down on the small wooden table beside him.
When he glanced back in Cas's direction, he saw that the angel's eyes were passing suspiciously back and forth between the angel blade and Dean's face, and – yeah, that was actually fear, now… just a little. Dean sighed, running a hand down over his eyes before meeting Cas's wary gaze.
"Okay, so clearly that wasn't helpful. Sorry." Dean's voice was softened by the understanding he felt, the natural effect of the alarm he could see in Cas's eyes. He didn't like seeing it there. "I just took it because you were going all Rambo up there, trying to fight your way past us, when you can't anyway, Cas. Not with this Jacob's Call thing switched on. But I didn't take the angel blade to hurt you with it. Okay? I took it to keep you from hurting yourself. That's why I put it down. See?"
Cas didn't say anything, just watched Dean with a silent, solemn gaze.
Dean sighed again. "Okay, look." He took out his flask of holy water and held it up for Cas to see before taking a long gulp from it and putting it away again. Then he glanced around the dusty basement room until he spotted a cluttered pile of old rags and cleaning supplies in the corner. He searched through them until he found a bottle with the right ingredients on the label, then closed his eyes and sprayed himself with it generously. Finally, he took out his silver knife and made a thin, shallow cut in his own forearm, wincing only slightly at the by now familiar sting.
"See?" he said, lifting the tail of his shirt and pressing it against the wound to stem the bleeding. "Satisfied?"
When Dean looked up, Cas appeared to have relaxed only marginally, still watching Dean with a dubious gaze as he replied slowly, "I'm aware I should find it reassuring that you're… yourself, and neither possessed nor Leviathan. I don't. Not really."
"Because you still don't trust me." Dean bit off the words, hurt. "But you should. Just like last time."
"Last time." Suddenly, there was fire in Cas's voice, blazing accusation and anger. "You mean, when I asked you to try to understand, and you refused to listen to anything I had to say? When you trapped me in holy fire and surrounded me as if I was your enemy?" Cas looked pointedly down at the chains on his wrists, jerking them just enough to make them rattle before meeting Dean's gaze again, defiance smoldering in his eyes. "Then as now, Dean – trusting you seems difficult."
Dean bit back a sigh, then walked slowly to stand in front of Cas. Only when he saw Cas's gaze follow his movement, calm but warily expectant, his eyes locked somewhere around the level of Dean's waist, did Dean realize – he was still holding the silver-bladed knife in his right hand. Stifling his frustration, Dean held up his free hand in a non-threatening gesture, making a show of setting the weapon down on the table next to the spray bottle.
Then, slowly, he sat down facing his friend, cross-legged on the floor.
"Cas," he said softly. "All I want to do is help, okay? I just want to help."
"I don't need help," Cas replied, quietly stubborn. "Dean – I know I've made some… drastically regrettable mistakes. And I will not ever be able to undo those harmful acts. But – I promise you, Dean, I am not making another mistake now." Cas's eyes were pleading, earnest, as he pulled against the chains with one hand, as if momentarily forgetting they were there in his desire to reach out to his friend – then lowered his hand again, his shoulders falling. "And I cannot tell you where the tablet is. For – the safety of the tablet – and of you, and Sam. I can't."
"Sam and I can handle ourselves…"
"If you knew where it was, and the wrong people knew you knew..." Cas shook his head, looking away again.
"I can handle it," Dean repeated firmly. "Cas, you have to trust me. If I'm your friend, then – then tell me whatever the hell this big secret is, and then trust me to keep it. Hey." Dean reached out to touch Cas's shoulder, relieved when Cas did not flinch or pull away, but only looked up to sadly meet his eyes. "Can you do that?"
Cas studied him for a long moment, before shaking his head. "No," he replied quietly.
The look on Cas's face was soft, knowing, and sympathetic – and all at once Dean knew exactly what he meant. Something deep in Dean's chest went cold, and he withdrew his hand, straightening his shoulders and drawing back, swallowing slowly against the sick wave of defensive shame that swept over him. Suddenly, he was the one who couldn't hold the angel's gaze, as Cas spoke, his words careful and measured.
"You are my friend, Dean," he said softly. "And you are a… a remarkable man. You are a righteous man. But – even you have your breaking point. I've seen it. Even if – if it took thirty years to reach it." He hesitated, searching for words for a moment before continuing, "And – angels have – means at their disposal for – extracting the truth from someone that – well, demons can't even begin to fathom the sort of suffering…"
"So this is all for our own good. That's what you're saying." Dean allowed the disgust, the contempt he felt to show in his voice as he rose to his feet – and he let Cas believe it was directed at him, when he added, "Again."
Once again, Cas reacted to Dean's anger with a calm sort of tension that was not quite fear, but expectation – as if he expected Dean to lash out of him, but wasn't exactly afraid of it. He went very still, watching Dean closely with his shoulders tensed, his expression resigned but calm, as if waiting for a blow that he didn't believe could actually hurt him – and a deep-rooted anger bloomed hot in Dean's chest.
Dean was only aware of his fists clenched tight at his sides when they began to ache, and he looked down to see that they were shaking. He slowly made himself release them, drawing in a deep, shaky breath in an attempt to steady himself.
"I can't," Cas said softly at last, when Dean didn't do or say anything, looking up at Dean with sorrowful affection in his eyes. "Dean, I know you don't understand. But – I can't."
Dean couldn't do this anymore, not right now, not with the memories raised by Cas's words fresh in his mind, bringing with them an agonizing awareness of that part of him only Cas had seen when he'd rescued him from Hell. The gentleness, the knowing sympathy in Cas's eyes, was a silent accusation – a reminder that Cas had seen him at his weakest, right before he'd pulled him out; he'd seen what Dean's breaking had made of him.
He'd witnessed the last slice of Dean's razor into the final victim on his rack, in those last few moments before he'd raised Dean's soul from Hell. And the look on Cas's face told Dean that the angel believed him to be fully capable of carrying out those same actions now, if he didn't get the answers he wanted.
And still, there was no fear in Cas's eyes, but rather concern and compassion, as if Dean was the one that was in danger of being hurt, here. As if his being here, chained at Dean's mercy, was merely an inconvenience, and he still somehow held the upper hand – as if Dean couldn't take him apart the way he'd done to hundreds of others.
He's not scared of me at all, Dean realized, some dark part of himself that had once taken pride in the artistry Alistair had taught him feeling oddly insulted, though shame burned hot in his face at the very idea. He's scared for me…
Ironically, it was that very concern, that unbearable sympathy in Cas's eyes, that brought that long-buried part of Dean raging back to the surface in defensive pride and shame and fury all mingled into one dark, seething coil of confusion. He wanted to lash out, to wipe that look of worry and kindness from Cas's face… to show him just how misplaced his fear and concern really were… to prove to Cas that while he might not be afraid… he should be.
Dean's mind flashed to the discarded blade on the table beside him, and his fingers twitched with sense memory – the easy give of flesh parted by steel, the hot gush of blood over skillful fingers that twisted just right…
He knew, better than Cas could imagine, how to take that softness in Cas's voice and turn it to screaming, how to drive the pity from his eyes and replace it with dread, with hate… and for just an instant, Dean wanted to do just that.
Dean turned and headed for the stairs.
He had to be somewhere else. Now.
"How long do you intend to keep me here?" Cas called after him, and Dean heard the chains rattle again, heard the frustration in Cas's voice.
He gritted his teeth, held back the impulse he felt to meet that frustration with his own. His hand was white and shaking on the doorknob, something dark and frightening roiling hot in his stomach. Dean just stood there for what felt like an eternity, waiting until the rage had subsided and he could calmly answer to speak, grinding out the words in a low, determined voice.
"As long as it takes."
Sam turned away from his laptop, feeling sick.
He couldn't look at the search results on his screen anymore.
As he'd predicted, he'd found dozens of truth spells – some more effective, but more dangerous, than others. He hadn't found any that sounded as if they would work on an angel. But he had found a few… other means of compelling an angel to tell the truth.
Sam shuddered, not looking at his laptop as he closed it, a little harder than was necessary.
We're not doing any of that shit to Cas… no way…
At the sound of the basement door slamming against the wall, then slamming shut again, Sam looked up. Dean's expression was dark, taut – a little frightening – as he approached and braced his hands against the table, facing his brother across its surface.
"Tell me you've got something."
"Nothing workable," Sam sighed. He frowned, studying the tense lines of Dean's face, the exhaustion in his eyes. "You okay?"
"Fine." Dean was guarded, his smile cold and tight and utterly unconvincing. "No truth spells?"
"None for angels." Sam hesitated. "And – anything else I've found, well – we're not doing to Cas. No way."
Dean frowned. "Like what?"
Before Sam could answer, behind Dean, Ion appeared, sudden and silent; before Sam could warn Dean, the angel spoke up.
"There is a way to be sure."
Dean jumped and spun around to face Ion. "Damn it, why do you guys keep doing that?"
Ion did not offer an answer. "We have discovered more about the Gatekeeper's spell," he informed them. "And there is a way to know with certainty whether or not Castiel has begun the ritual."
Relief mingled with apprehension in Sam's mind, and he leaned back in his chair, appraising the angel in front of him. "Good. How?"
"The ritual involves an angel chosen by the Gatekeeper to bear the word in his flesh. This means that he must literally rend his own body and bury the tablet inside – near to his heart. If Castiel has hidden the angel tablet in his own body, then we will know that the ritual has been started. If he has not, and you can keep him here until the tablet can be found, then we can prevent…"
"Wait a second," Dean protested, holding up a hand to stop Ion's urgent speech. "You're saying the angel tablet is in Cas's body?" He hesitated, casting a nervous, guilty look in Sam's direction before amending, "You know – if he's doing this? 'Cause we don't know that. Maybe he's not."
"Yes." Ion's tone was calm, matter-of-fact. He seemed to see no problem with his statement.
"How are we supposed to find out if it's – inside him, or not?" Dean demanded, suspicious. "Some kind of – heavenly x-ray? 'Cause if that's your game, dude – if you're still just trying to get us to let you near him…"
"No," Ion replied. "We cannot touch Castiel as long as he is under your power… and your protection. You must open his vessel and discover for yourself whether or not the tablet is there…"
"No," Sam cut him off, immediate and certain, everything in him rebelling at the thought of hurting Cas so badly. "We're not doing that."
Dean agreed immediately, his words firm and certain. "We won't hurt him like that."
"He is an angel, not a mortal man…"
"But his grace is diminished by the Call," Sam pointed out. "He won't heal like he usually does."
"But he will heal," Ion countered. "It will happen more slowly than is normal for him – but he is still an angel. As long as you do not use the blade of an angel to perform this, then he will recover. In time."
That wasn't terribly comforting. Sam was feeling sick again. The look on Dean's face made it clear that he felt the same.
"I realize that this is a difficult circumstance for you," Ion went on when neither brother spoke. "But you must realize – time is short. If the ritual has begun, and the tablet has been buried in the flesh of the chosen angel – then we have less than three of your days in which to compel Castiel to stop the ritual, before the walls between worlds crumble, and there will be no putting them back again. Consider this if you must – but consider quickly."
And with those words, Ion vanished once more, leaving the brothers standing there in horrified silence.
Sam looked at Dean, studying his face for a long, tense moment. Dean was not looking at him, his eyes focused on the closed basement door. His jaw was set and rigid – the only indication that the calm on his face was less than genuine. Sam recognized this look; Dean was not taking this well, was not simply calmly considering Ion's suggestion. His eyes were shuttered, his expression set – steeled for something he really did not want to do, but felt he had to.
"Dean…" Sam finally ventured to speak, cautious and gentle. "… we don't have to…"
His voice trailed off when Dean took out his phone, already dialing. "I'm calling Garth," he said in answer to Sam's unspoken question. "It took a liquor store to get him drunk, right? That's what he said?"
Sam frowned, confused by the seemingly irrelevant question. "Cas? Yeah. Dean…"
"Garth?" Dean spoke into the phone, turning away from Sam. "Yeah, it's Dean. We need your help. We're gonna need to get our hands on some morphine – and lots of it."