Chapter Text
May 2nd 2008. New Harmony, Indiana, USA. 23:52pm, CDT.
Two figures moved through the dark like shadows dancing across the walls of family homes and into pathways bathed in the cold mist of night. Five street lamps illuminated the concrete in dim orange pools of light, casting sharp lines of blackness across the quiet town. The thick silence was broken for a brief second as a door was kicked down and the heavy wood crashed to the floor, but only the gentle padding of footsteps was heard after. Nobody stirred.
The two men entered the kitchen, guns raised and knees bent low; they paced the sticky linoleum carefully in the darkness, avoiding the spreading puddle of blood that slowly inched closer to their booted feet. Two bodies were strewn out across the floor and against the stained cabinets- a woman and a man, both bearing no significance to the case, but who were dragged into it and to their deaths nonetheless. A couple, apparently, if their entwined fingers were anything to go by. Two point-blank shots to the head, quick and quiet. The vacant expressions, the wide and unseeing eyes- the agents were used to these things. Unaffected.
They continued on, through a pair of sickly cream coloured doors to the living room. Beyond the doorway to the hall they could see the body of an old woman, lying on her side- the grandmother. The grandfather was slumped over the kitchen table, neck snapped cleanly to the side, cheek down in his plate of food. Small noises could be heard from upstairs, the sound of gentle sobbing from a young voice- a girl. The girl they’d come here to save, the girl whose family they’d come here to save. Another failure to add to the list.
One man pulled off his hood, green eyes glinting in the lowlight, the other clenching his jaw at his brother. A grandfather clock stood proud in the centre of the room- it had been dragged there, the scuff marks on the wood betraying that much information. Dean Winchester laughed through his nose, listening to the tick of the hands as they moved and the smooth swing of the pendulum. He pointed at it with a gloved finger, smiling humourlessly.
23:55pm.
They checked and surveyed the house- from top to bottom- and found the small girl sobbing and trembling in her room, knees hugged tight to her chest. Sam Winchester quickly handed her over to a bearded man guarding the door for them, who took her away and to safety. Otherwise, the place was empty. No people, no evidence- apart from the bodies- that anybody had been here.
23:58pm.
“There has to be something. Something!” Sam said loudly, rubbing his face with his whole palm. Dean tossed his gun onto the couch. “Dean, this place is empty. They’ve been and gone. There’s nobody in this house.”
Dean silently removed his black gloves, dropping them to the floor.
“Dean,” Sam pressed, holding up his hands in frustration. “Listen to me! They can’t get you if nobody’s here!”
“You know they can,” Dean looked up, finally meeting his brother’s stare. “They can do almost anything. You know that.”
“So you’re just gonna lay down and let them maul you?” Sam was almost shouting now, arms lifted by his side and a tear slipping from his left eye.
23:59pm.
“Dean, if we get out of here now, we might just have some kind of chance to save you! They’re not here, they’re not here!”
“Sam, enough,” Dean’s voice was low, controlling, but empathetic. Sam knew he had to shut up. “We’ve been through this crap a thousand times. Just- just shit, Sam. Shit.”
“Dean, I can-“
“No, Sam. Just shut up. Just shut up!” Dean bellowed, lifting his hands to his face and pressing the balls of his palms against his eyes. He drew in a shaking breath before continuing, quietly this time. “I’m sorry- I mean, this is all my fault. But this is it. This is it, Sam, I gave myself for you, and this is fucking it.”
Sam inhaled sharply, blinking away the threatening tears. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Keep fightin’. Do that for me, Sammy. Keep fighting all this bullshit,” Dean’s voice wavered, a painful, tight-lipped smile finding its way to his face.
Sam nodded silently, stiffly, as if his neck was rigid.
The second hand came in line with the first hand on the clock, and it started chiming.
00:00am.
The sound echoed through the house.
Sam fought down his tears, and Dean smiled.
“Turn off your ear piece, Sam,” he instructed quietly.
Sam blinked before doing as told, cutting off the painful apologies that were being made through his communication device. Neither turned towards the strained sound of their guard outside groaning quietly and slumping to the floor, nor the shuffle of feet in another room.
“Nice to have some silence, huh?” Dean’s bottom lip juddered as he spoke.
00:01am.
When the hands grabbed him from behind, pulling him back, Sam tried to resist. All he could do was watch- stare at his brother’s face, at the tears that streamed down his flushed cheeks, at the sparkle in his eyes. He barely noticed the needle being jammed silently into his older brother’s arm, nor the one that found its way into his own veins, instead focusing solely on the way Dean refused to stop smiling until his eyes slipped closed and he hung limp in the enemy’s arms.
00:02am.
Sam watched as his brother was carried away from him, his limbs flopping uselessly towards the ground, and then there was silence- just like Dean had said. Although it wasn’t nice silence, and it wasn’t some silence. It was suffocating, and Sam blearily thought it might be able to kill him, if the liquid in his bloodstream wasn’t going to first.
The room was suddenly, and horrendously, unoccupied.
And Sam embraced the dark, emptiness of unconsciousness like an old friend.
May 4th 2008. Unknown location, somewhere between Lipetsk (Липецк) and Moscow (Москва), Russia (Россия). 03:24am, MSD.
An enclosed meeting space had been cordoned off and assessed for any possible wires, the workers of the section of the agency tapping away at their computers, taking calls and filing confidential information as usual. Seeing as it was so early, the building was much quieter, and tiny lights in the empty offices flickered in the absence of people.
The entire meeting had been kept entirely classified. Only the barest number of people had been informed it was even happening, let alone what it was to be concerning. Two flip clocks ticked on the wall in perfect precision with each other, one showing the local time and the other displaying 18:24pm, New Harmony, Indiana time the previous day.
At exactly 3:25am, five people entered the room swiftly and silently. Several men and women in bland suits speedily made their way to their assigned seats, leaving the flawless closed files in front of them untouched while everyone gathered in the small space. Blinds were shut, and glasses of water were quickly downed in the muteness that fell over the room, the air crisp and clear in the conditioned environment.
“Dobroye utro (Good morning),” the man seated at the head of the table offered with the barest of nods and a smarmy, false smile.
Hair was absent on half of his head, only a ring of greying strands around the back and over his ears still there. He seemed to be around his middle fifties, but his eyes shone with a glimmer that was younger than his years, something like malice breaking through his expression no matter what. He was dressed in a black striped suit and white shirt, with a silver patterned tie that was immaculately knotted despite the early hour- much the same as all the other people in the room. Although seated, he appeared to fill space with false importance, but the effect of his tall stature was ruined by his plump figure.
The other three people at the table nodded to return the greeting, but one single man did not. He sat in the corner and didn’t move an inch from his position, only staring stonily at the wall in front of him as the meeting began.
On the same side of the desk, two women were seated close to each other. One was young- no more than twenty five years old- with brown hair tinted blonde nearer the ends. She sat timidly, as if uncomfortable with what was happening around her, but impeccably upright nonetheless.
The other was older, probably in her early forties, with deep auburn hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She wore a navy blazer and skirt, and a cream blouse with several of the top buttons undone underneath. A small smile seemed to be permanently etched onto her face, matching her collected and knowing demeanour as she rolled a metal fountain pen in both hands.
Facing the two women was a stout man, his creasing features tight with weariness and twisted into a show of his uneasiness- apparently caused by his suit, if the shifting in the seat was anything to go by. He didn’t seem able to stay still, but eventually slumped back in his chair with a scowl and a sigh. He had dark, tight curls of hair that were tinged grey in several places, and green eyes dulled with his fifty or so years of life. A couple of tiny flecks of blood dotted his right cheek where he’d cut himself shaving not long before, and a few angry lines of red ran where he’d scratched the sensitive skin recently.
“Gotovy li my? (Are we ready?)” The head man asked, placing his hands over his swollen belly.
The young woman leaned over and whispered quietly in the blue-eyed woman’s ear. “Ne segodnya (Not today), Praskoviya,” she replied calmly and pointed to the blank beige cover of the documents in front of her.
Praskoviya’s eyes widened, alarmed, and she opened her mouth to protest but was cut off by the mysterious man sat away from them.
“Mozhem li my nychet (Can we begin), Zachariah?” he said, exasperated and forceful. His voice was smooth like velvet, slow and controlled and so low it emitted danger and- above all else- power.
He had dark, ebony skin and deep brown eyes to match, a small nose set high on his face, and flawlessly clipped hair. He donned a black suit and crisp white shirt; every item of clothing was immaculately done up, from his perfectly aligned shoelaces to the identical lengths of his sleeves. He didn’t move other than to clasp his hands in front of his chest or tap a long, silver-ringed finger against the arm of his chair where it rested next to his crossed legs. Just glancing upon the scene, it was easy to tell he was above all others in the room in status- he practically radiated his authority.
Zachariah breathed in deeply and quickly. “Da, konechno (Yes, of course).” He pointedly pulled up his jacket sleeve to glance upon the silver watch that lay flush against his wrist rather than looking to the clocks on the wall, and raised his eyebrows expectantly at Praskoviya. “Zasekat vremya (Note the time),” he instructed impatiently, still with that smarmy smile on his face.
The young woman hurriedly fumbled for her pen and wrote down the exact time from the clock on an empty form in front of her, alongside some other details. The orange light on the earpiece she wore flickered a couple of times, and she pressed a button on it and focused on the voice coming through her Bluetooth.
“Agenty snaruzhi i zhdut, vy by khoteli Galina otpravit ikh v? (The agents are outside and waiting, would you like Galina to send them in?)” She asked, looking to the man in the corner.
He waved his hand irritably towards the balding man. Zachariah thought for a few seconds, then looked inside the file in front of him and wordlessly signalled for the others to do so too. After a few minutes of reading, only the flipping of the clock and the drumming of the head man’s fingers breaking the silence, they had all been reminded of the situation at hand- except Praskoviya, who was only there to record the minutes.
“Da, otpravit v Uriel (Yes, send in Uriel),” Zachariah said.
“Prosto on? (Just him?)” Praskoviya furrowed her eyebrows. “Ne yego nachal'nik? (Not his superior?)”
“Tol'ko on (Just him),” Zachariah said smoothly.
The young brunette swallowed, nodded and spoke low into her Bluetooth.
As the clock turned to 3:35am, the only door opened with a soft beep and click as the lock system released, and a man entered and stood to the side of the table. He, too, had dark skin, but was completely devoid of hair; he stood tall and wide, although his clothes appeared a little dishevelled and disorderly. He wore a suit that fitted well to his older frame nonetheless. To any outsiders, the age difference between him and the people above him would be unusual, but the organisation had no qualms about age if you were a good agent.
“V chem delo? (What’s the matter?)” he glared unenthusiastically at Zachariah, his tone bordering on irritated. “Pochemu ya byl prizvan v tri chasa utra? (Why was I called at three o’clock in the morning?)”
“Prosto syad'te (Just sit down).” The man in the corner ordered steadily.
Uriel’s head spun in his direction, his eyes widening a little as he stared at the figure of authority he hadn’t noticed until then. “Da, Raphael, ser (Yes, Raphael, sir),” he said quietly, pulling up a seat and never taking his eyes off his leader.
“Vy, konechno, khochu pogovorit s moim nachal'nikom? (Surely you want to speak to my superior?)” Uriel offered after a minute of silence, glancing meekly towards the door.
“Nyet (No),” Zachariah said, opening his file again and skimming through some bits of paper, flicking his gaze up to look at the man sat opposite him every so often, as if comparing the two. “Ne seychas, tak ili inache (Not yet, anyway).”
“Аgent Uriel,” the older woman interrupted, clasping her hands on the worktop in front of her, “vy dolzhny ponimat chto eta vstrecha tak i ne proizoshlo (you need to understand that this meeting did not take place). Vy ponimayete? (Do you understand?)”
“Da, ya delayu (Yes, I do),” Uriel agreed slowly, looking around the room at each occupant. “No ya do sikh por ne ponimayu, pochemu ya zdes (But I still don’t understand why I’m here).”
“Terpeniye (Patience), Uriel,” the woman spoke calmly, lifting her chin. “Menya zovut (My name is) Naomi, i segodnya my poluchili nekotoryye novosti (and today we received some news).”
“Vash garnizon budet imet delo s problemoy (Your garrison will deal with the problem),” the curly-haired man said while eyeing up the agent.
Uriel sighed impatiently. “Togda vam sleduyet pogovorit s moyey lidera (Then you should talk to my leader)-“
“Muy budem (We will),” Zachariah continued, taking back his reins on the conversation, “no prezhde, vy dolzhny znat, chto-chtoby ni sluchilos v etoy missii-chto vam nuzhno sdelat, kak on zakazyvayet (but first, you should know that- whatever happens in this mission- you have to do as he orders).” He crossed his hands in his lap, leaning back further. “Kak skazal Metatron, vash garnizon prokhodit ispytaniya (As Metatron said, your garrison is being tested). Vash lider, tozhe (Your leader, too).”
Uriel nodded unsurely at them all, carefully acting around the man- Raphael- who he’d never met in person before. It was easy for him to understand that this was an important mission; one of the leaders of their organisation had attended during the early hours of the morning, and that was enough of a signal to him to be careful with his words.
“Praskoviya?” Zachariah turned to the young woman, who promptly spoke into her earpiece again and wrote down a few more notes.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the cool room as they waited for Uriel’s garrison leader to join them. The clocks continued to make muffled and precise clicking noises; Praskoviya’s pen scratched over her paper as she recorded the time once more in block capitals, and Metatron took up the opportunity to fidget even more in his seat.
At 3:42am, the secure door beeped and opened once more, and another man walked in. He stopped at the head of the table next to Uriel, bright blue eyes scanning the room carefully, and Naomi smiled as she realised he was assessing the meeting for his own safety. Just as a good agent should- an excellent one, they were all hoping. He’d need to be. He had messy dark brown hair that flew out in tufts in every direction, a spattering of five o’clock shadow across his jaw, and sharp but weary eyes.
“Castiel,” Raphael finally broke his gaze from the wall, blinking slowly to stare intently at the new man with his dark and shaded eyes. “Pravil'no? (Correct?)”
“Da, ser,” Castiel confirmed, stood perfectly still.
Raphael squinted at him coldly, silently, then turned back to the wall.
Castiel wore a quickly put together suit- one of his sleeves was missing a cufflink and his coal black tie was messily done up, but it was no surprise to them. He had never been a man of faultlessness in his everyday dress, but when it was required he was perfectly capable of making himself more than presentable. This meeting would have been one of those occasions, but he hadn’t been informed it was going to be such a serious event. He coolly adjusted his tie so that it was tighter around his neck, then continued to stare around himself, completely nonplussed.
As Castiel sat in his assigned seat, Zachariah smirked while looking over the document in front of him. Neatly paper-clipped to several sheets of information were pictures of the man sat in front of him, alongside all the materials and data they had on him.
“Vy proshli obucheniye v amerikanskom divizione? (You’ve trained in the American division?)” Zachariah asked, and Castiel nodded. “Kak dolgo? (For how long?)”
“Pochti dvadtsat let v agentstve v tselom, i ya byl v amerikanskom divizione v techeniye pyati let, ser (Nearly twenty years in the agency overall, and I was in the American division for five years, sir).” Castiel answered firmly, his gristly voice mostly monotonous. He didn’t reposition himself at all- he barely even moved.
“Togda vy beglo govorit na angliyskom? (Then you speak fluent English?)” He knew the answer, of course, but wanted to make sure his chosen agent was capable.
Castiel nodded stiffly once. Metatron reached forward for his sheets and flicked carelessly through them. “Yes, he trained in several sections of my department.” His American accent was practiced to perfection, the instant switch between Russian and English absolutely seamless.
“Then he must be well versed in the language.” Zachariah agreed, also swapping to English. His smile grew for a second, directed towards Metatron, but it was evidently faked. He cared not for the man he sat across from- nor for the language department that robbed them of much more resources than he deemed necessary.
“Am I here for a mission?” Castiel asked after a beat of silence.
“Yes,” Naomi confirmed, jotting down some notes, “some urgent news came through and we called you as soon as we had chosen your garrison for the task.”
Zachariah stood suddenly- file in hand- and walked to the other side of the room, until he was under the clocks that hung on the spotless white walls.
“Just over eighteen hours ago- at exactly 9:01am Moscow time- the renowned CIA agent Dean Winchester was captured in New Harmony, Indiana, USA,” he said as he rounded the table. “Hell, of course, was responsible. His deal was-“
The round man paused, then shook his head as if disregarding the matter. “All of the details we know are in your case file.” He nonchalantly handed over said document, but Castiel didn’t open it. He was intent on listening to the information he was given, and decided to read the minutiae in private. “We currently have no idea of Winchester’s whereabouts, and only a very small amount of materials have been passed over by our men in America.”
“I don’t understand,” Castiel looked down at the folder. His eyebrows were pinched tightly together, his mind working furiously to make the links he could manage with the vague information he’d been given. “Why is this man important to us?”
Zachariah sighed lengthily and leant against the backrest of his chair. “Dean Winchester and his brother, Samuel, have been on our watch lists for a very long time now, Castiel. Having experience in US relations, you surely understand that we must keep a close eye on CIA workers?”
The furrow in Castiel’s forehead didn’t fade. “Yes, of course, but when a deal is made and a defecting agent is captured, they are left to the hands of Hell- are they not?”
“Ordinarily, that would be the case,” Naomi placated, putting her hands palms up. “But Dean Winchester is important to us- and evidence shows he’s an excellent agent. Since a young age he has been significant, not simply because of his skills, but also for…” she looked across quickly at Raphael, almost unnoticeably flicking her blue eyes at his figure, “…unnamed reasons, which will stay unnamed for both yours and our organisation’s safety.”
The fact that they were keeping secrets from him didn’t seem to affect the dark-haired agent at all.
Metatron breathed in deeply and sat himself forward a little. “Infiltrating Hell is a taboo subject all over the world- the CIA has never managed to break in and is unaware of the flaws in the dealing system.” He waited a few seconds. “We, however, are not.”
“I’m still not following,” Castiel admitted, gently placing the file on the table. “What would you have me do?”
Zachariah smiled broadly, standing up again so that he towered above them all.
“You’re going to save Dean Winchester.”
It wasn't supposed to end this way.
Dean was supposed to fight Hell, fight his deal and destroy the whole fucked up plan.
He wasn't supposed to fail.
He'd fought so hard, for so long, for so much. He'd done everything he possibly could to get out of the agreement he'd made in the desperation of the moment, but nothing had worked, and nobody would deal.
He wasn't supposed to fail.
But then again, truthfully, he'd always known it would end this way.
Nobody got out of crossroads deals- nobody ever had, nobody ever would. Dean knew this, and wondered if he’d been fucking delusional when he’d been convincing himself he could avoid going to Hell. But it was worth it. It would always be worth it- dying here- because it was for Sam, and everything Dean did was for Sam. As long as his little brother was safe, Dean just didn’t care about anything else.
Of course he’d thought of all this a thousand times before, in the weeks or months or years- he honestly had no idea- that he’d been in Hell.
Dean had thought about every goddamn thing on the planet to try to keep his mind off the suffering he endured. He thought about Sam- his smiles and his frowns and his bitchfaces, his tolerance and forgiveness and endless kindness, and his stubbornness. God, he was so stubborn. Which always led him to thinking about his father- his stern words and flawed parenting. Then he thought of his mum- but he never lingered on that train of thought for long. Then he thought of Sam again- always back to Sam- and knew that he’d lost the only good thing he’d ever had in his life and that was just fucking bullshit. But Sam’s safe, he reminded himself, Sam’s safe and he can live his own life now. And that always made it worth it.
Sometimes Dean would catch himself wondering if, maybe, he didn’t deserve this- not even for Sammy- but he always jammed up a huge fuckin wall in front of that notion. The wall looked a lot like his father.
Dean suffered for a long time, but he didn’t ever stop defending himself somehow; be it through fighting away his tears and screams or throwing sarcastic remarks at his captors, he never stopped. Until that day.
Hell wasn’t what Dean expected it to be. There weren’t long lines of people screaming as blades were dug into their flesh, nor were taunts of harming family members or the outside world thrust upon their tortured minds. Hell was… complicated. There were different areas and different buildings, in hundreds of locations across the world- the CIA had managed to take down several of the facilities, but never enough to make a lasting impact. The people who worked for Hell- ingeniously named Demons- would simply gather what they could recover and set up camp somewhere else smack bang in the middle of Bumfuck, USA. Not that the agents ever stopped trying.
Hell was the single biggest threat to the CIA. Always had been, probably always would be. Where it started, nobody was completely certain; they were effectively a union of tradesmen who made deals with desperate people grasping at their last hopes. They tampered in more than just deals, though- they were involved with drug and prostitution rings, weapons dealers and they used covert agents to get into organisations across the globe, and generally gave support to any kind of business that brought them financial gain- no matter the method of income. Deals had been made within a small community of Demons since hundreds of years before, maybe even thousands, but with the desolation of war sweeping throughout the world in the early 20th century came a whole new wave of people looking for ways to get by. Hell had exploded into business, setting up bases all around the world as soon as they could. The number of connections they had then was completely unknown- they covered their tracks with expert efficiency- and so the idea of trying to take down the entire organisation? It was deemed impossible.
The CIA took it on anyway.
American agents began hunting down Demons and other people who dabbled in their business in the early 1950s, when ideas were fresh and the country was booming- hence the operative-coined nickname for workers of their division of the CIA: Hunters. Not long after, other secret services joined the fray, and by 1962, nearly 100 countries were involved in the network that took on Hell and its counterparts.
They’d been fighting ever since.
Dean had learnt that the fight wasn’t always worth it. He thought about that a lot while he was in Hell.
Endurance tests were one of Hell’s favourite methods of torture. They’d shove a bunch of people into a huge area of closed in woodland or mountains, keeping track of every single one, and watch as they struggled to survive. Dean often lasted long enough to see a fresh wave of prisoners be released into the wild with him, but the food and water was limited, and he could only go on so long. A few weeks would usually find him passing out in the dirt somewhere and waking up in a cell or their pathetic excuse for an infirmary- depending on his state.
That was one thing the Demons were meticulous about- they would try their damned fucking hardest to never cause irreversible damage. They’d barely ever even scar- they wanted to keep their detainees as unmarked as possible. That is, until the years dragged by, and the prisoners became so traumatised and exhausted they could barely function- and that’s when it got fun. Every single victim in the compounds were made to know what would happen to them if they gave up. Torture, mostly- months of it- and then they’d inevitably die. Knowing this made everyone try like mad people to fight their distress so they could, someday, have a hope of making it out. It never worked. As far as everyone knew, nobody had ever escaped. Hundreds had been rescued in the salvation of the camps, yes, but nobody had ever made it out by themselves.
They all ended up with marks to show their time, however, and everyone had their stories. Things they’d seen. Things they’d endured.
Isolation was another joyful process they all underwent. They’d be left alone, in a dark room, with barely enough food and water to keep them alive, for days at a time- often more. Dean spent a month in one, but he'd never managed to work that out- he’d thought it had been a year. Some people went insane in the dark boxes, others damaged their eyesight for good or even ended up harming themselves with any object they could get their hands on.
Dean found out after two months that the men and women who had been in Hell for years eventually yearned for pain. They wanted to be hit, to be cut and maimed- anything that would make them feel something beyond the terrible loneliness and fear they experienced.
Occasionally- as a special treat- they’d be moved to a 'different' facility. It was easy to wonder just how far away the buildings were when they drove for days at a time without falter, and every so often the prisoners honestly came to believe that they were being rescued when the vehicles came to a halt, but every single time they found themselves back in exactly the same place they were before.
The best method of torture was, surely, when a squad of men in police uniforms would come battering into the cells shouting orders, and madly rush to rescue every single person in there. Some captives cried with relief, others stayed silent and let it all happen- because they’d been through it before. They were led to cars and, once they’d travelled far enough, out to clean rooms with new clothes and bathrooms for washing and kitchens for drinking and eating. Dean almost found it funny that people genuinely believed they’d been saved. They were always thrown right back into their desolate existences only days later- if they were lucky enough to even have that long.
There were plenty more torments and punishments, of course, but when the CIA operative attempted to list them all and number them depending on severity, his breath always ended up failing dangerously in his throat.
Unfortunately, Dean Winchester was a well-known name in the Demon community.
After three months, they gave in to their temptations and finally put him on the rack, years before his time. Still not wanting to harm his body more than necessary, they chose to use drugs and all sorts of other vile contraptions and methods to cause the agent pain. It was in those times that Dean ended up retreating into himself, blocking out the screams of other bargained souls and the suffering he experienced, in order to think of his family and the few friends he had.
Sometimes- through his screams- he imagined beaches bathed in dusk, or streams set against looming, snowy mountains, or even just motel rooms with vomit-worthy wallpaper and suspiciously stained upholstery. He often pictured a long black car gleaming in the sunlight, with a man sat in the seat next to him, rock music blaring out of the tiring speakers. He dreamt of endless stretches of dusty highways that ran out into the distance, and miles and miles of scenery that rushed past him in blurs of greens and golds. After a while, the colours started to fade, and the faces dimmed, and he never allowed himself to remember the lyrics to the songs he held so dear. His memories began to shatter into shards of thin glass, and then they started being swept away. He found his resolve cracking apart until valleys of hopelessness gaped wide and bottomless beneath him, and he stopped making jokes and laughing. His soul stretched until it snapped.
Many of his days were spent frantically clutching onto his consciousness as if gripping a wet bar of soap.
That day was the day he said yes. For months, he’d been offered a place beside the torturers in order to end his suffering. And after all that time fighting the notion, screaming until he was hoarse that he would never work for them and watching Alastair’s unnerving face twist into a knowing and malicious grin, he gave in.
He just couldn’t do it anymore.
And what was the fucking point of being brave for the limited years he had left until his inevitable death? Nobody he knew would ever see him broken and brutal. Nobody he knew would ever see him again. So why not? Why not give in?
At first, there’d been guilt and disgust. He’d hated himself and often ducked out of the torture before he was supposed to, and ended up being beaten more for it. But he learnt to get over it- to relish in inflicting injury and agony, and even enjoy some of the screams he tore from people’s beaten throats. Dean blocked out what he was and he shut away the thoughts that reminded him that he was torturing people and loving it, so that he could simply avoid his own pain.
Not that they stopped.
He was still put on the rack most days- not for nearly as long as before- but they still beat him and drugged him and did all sorts of other crap. Dean considered it lucky that, as a rule, Hell didn’t try anything sexual. The thought itself was worse than being cut and burnt and bruised for days at a time.
He started forgetting things. He couldn’t picture the sky at sunset, nor conjure up the smell of apple pie, or recollect the sound of a guitar. And there was one thing he tried to recall more than anything else, that left him begging for the knives and the tools to dig in deeper, harder, crueller, because he deserved every damn throb and sting and ache. He deserved all of it.
By the end of August 2008, Dean Winchester could barely remember his brother’s face.
Samuel Winchester- the younger sibling. Dean was four years his elder.
On the 29th April 2007, Sam was kidnapped by a Demon known only as Azazel, and taken to a secret facility in Cold Oak, South Dakota. He was set up by Hell to join an elitist training program there, where four other agents from the CIA had also been taken at various points in time- God only knew how many others had been there beforehand. Azazel called them ‘the special children’. The supposed ‘training’ method was ruthless and wholly fucked up- they had to kill, or be killed. They were told that only one would be left standing at the end of however long it took them to whittle their numbers down, and that that chosen child would be the one to free the Demons that had been captured and locked up by the CIA- after all, they all had access to it. The arrangement was perfect.
All except for one thing they didn’t count on- Dean Winchester.
On the 30th April 2007 at 9:12pm, Sam was poisoned via injection to his spine by a man named Jake Talley, another of the special children. Dean arrived at Cold Oak to see it all happen, and to hold his brother as he slipped into unconsciousness. Sam was admitted to hospital immediately, already in a coma by the time they reached the ER. Doctors, drugs specialists, poison experts- all sorts were brought in to the unique case, but none could work out what had been given to Sam.
It was a poison the likes of which nobody had ever seen, a new hybrid of the chemical warfare that raged between Hell and the CIA- Sam’s whole body went into a state of shut down, every part of his body, every cell, slowly dismantling and breaking. The best scientists in the whole of the USA couldn’t even identify some of the major compounds used to make the injection, let alone work out any kind of cure. That would’ve taken months, if not years.
Dean had sat with his brother for two days. He watched as his condition deteriorated, having been told Sam had only days to live, at most. He knew Hell needed Sam, they wanted him, and wouldn’t let him go this easy. Dean knew that there was an antidote out there, and he knew what he had to do to get it.
So, on May 2nd- in a moment of pure desperation for his brother’s survival- Dean left the hospital and made his way to the nearest crossroads- where he found exactly what he was looking for. A Demon was waiting for him there, her deep chestnut hair tightly curled and a fitted black dress skin-tight around her figure, smiling as he stepped towards her.
“I know what you want, Dean,” the Demon said, smirking cruelly as she eyed up his broken and exhausted expression.
“And what do I have to give for it?” Dean asked, his fists clenching by his sides and his lips twitching into a snarl. “My soul?”
She laughed bitterly. “I’m not a real Demon, Dean, I’m still human.”
“Then what?” he ground his teeth together, jaw firmly set, eyelids flickering.
The Demon stepped closer, mapping Dean’s face with malicious attention. “We come to you in a year, and we take you. You will turn yourself over to us in one year.”
“You give me a year?” Dean growled and leaned away from her slightly. “Isn’t ten the usual for Hell-spawn deals?”
The Demon smiled. “Funny. And yes, but you’re not usual, Dean,” she paused, tipping up into his face. “A year, and I give you the antidote.”
Dean glared at her, his jaw shifting as he considered it- everything he’d lose, everything he’d win back, and he knew he could never say no. “Fine.”
The Demon grinned wide, her gleaming teeth shining from behind her glossed lips, and hummed smugly in her throat. “Oh, and one more thing,” she leaned up, pushing their noses together, teasing his lips. “If you try and welch or weasel your way out then the deal is off. It’s easier to find you than you realise, and I won’t hesitate to send a hundred more of those deadly needles shooting right into little Sammy’s back if you try anything. Are we clear?”
Dean smirked humourlessly. “Crystal.”
“Good.” The Demon pushed her lips against his, an emotionless kiss, filled with icy bitterness that cracked through every bone in Dean’s body. “Wilson and Smith’s storage unit, I know you’ve seen it. Use this,” she tossed him a small silver key, tarnished with rust, and turned away with a smirk on her face. “Pleasure doing business.”
Dean drove his glossy black 1967 Chevrolet Impala well over the speed limit to the storage centre, where he found a single vial of clear liquid on the damp floor, next to a crumpled note that simply read:
Use it all.
See you soon, Dean.
He rushed back to the hospital, and within five hours of the CIA clearing the antidote for use, Sam was awake. Dean wished him happy birthday. It took several more days for him to regain his strength and be permitted to leave, but both brothers had never experienced such a close call.
Sam found out on the 3rd of May that Dean had made a deal to save him.
Dean told Sam he had one year, and Sam scolded him, crying that he shouldn’t have done it. Dean told Sam not to be angry, and Sam didn’t listen.
Only days after he’d been discharged, they’d had to launch themselves back into the heart of the action. Jake Talley was very much still alive, and still doing Azazel’s bidding - he’d already completed several assassinations.
Thanks to a young tech genius named Ash, they’d tracked Jake’s phone to find out he was set to kill a superior CIA agent, and Ash tracked his location with nothing more than a nodded “y’welcome” to acknowledge his help.
Sam and Dean had burst in with a squadron of police officers, but Jake Talley was already dead- by Azazel’s hands, no doubt, considering he was stood over the young man’s body. The brothers left them both there, bloodied up on the floor of the apartment, never looking back. Overall, the CIA called the entire thing a reasonable success- considering how catastrophically badly it could have gone, that is.
Dean's deal had been kept secret from the rest of the CIA. When they asked where Dean had gotten his hands on the antidote, he’d shrugged them off onto a close friend.
The only other person who knew what Dean had done was Bobby Singer- the head knowledge guru of the division the boys were in, though everyone knew he was truly above anyone else in any other department for contacts, info and all round helpfulness. Legends, bona fides, fronts, comms, covers, doppelgängers, anything you needed- he was the cobbler, ghoul, and all round agent with years of practical skills under his belt.
That didn’t stop the majority of the department hating his guts.
Bobby had a certain… charm to him that most people found abrasive. Not that he cared one bit.
Thankfully, the Winchester brothers had known the man since they were just kids. Bobby was practically their father- had always done a damn good job of looking after them better than John Winchester ever had.
But that’s not to say he wasn’t pissed as all hell when he found out about the deal- not only for what Dean had done and sacrificed, but also for the fact that he’d had seven agents come into his office asking him questions about the solution used to cure Sam. He’d eventually gotten them out with a lot of huffing and puffing, and the matter was dropped.
Until eleven months later.
The CIA had, in fact, never stopped wondering where Dean had acquired the antidote. And, inevitably, they found out he’d made a deal. While he’d been certain that they’d kick him out of his job immediately- along with Sam and Bobby- they’d actually taken the hopeless situation and turned it around into something good. They hoped that, with Dean’s help, they could infiltrate particular sections of Hell and get him out of being captured.
But, of course, they failed.
A year after he’d signed his own death warrant, he was supposed to be locked somewhere deep inside a secret American government bunker for his own protection, but he and Sam had done their research on where the holder of his contract was. Her name was Lilith, and they tracked her down to New Harmony, Indiana, where she was holding a family hostage in order to lure Dean to her the easy way. Unable to allow a family to die because he had chosen to stay his hand, the elder Winchester persuaded his brother to bust him out of CIA control.
On the night of May 2nd, Bobby Singer and Dean and Sam Winchester saved one little girl from Lilith. But at a price.
A nameless woman heard the news of his abduction and sent a single, coded message to a secret location in Russia that simply read:
DEAN WINCHESTER IS DEAD.
September 18th 2008. Pontiac, Illinois, USA. Time: unknown.
Dean was thrown back into his cell- with little care for his wellbeing- by a burly man with a bald head and a detailed tattoo of a knife across the back of his skull. He grunted as he hit the ground hard, shaking his vision clear while his guard locked the chains around his wrists to the metal loop screwed into the concrete. He repositioned himself with his back against the grimy wall as he watched the man walk powerfully away.
“Fuck you,” the prisoner hissed out as he caught his breath, then spat on the ground at his feet.
The guard turned back to him, a snarl twitching in his features, and stepped a pace towards Dean.
“You bore me, Dean Winchester,” he said, uninterested. “And you will not swear at me.”
Dean leaned forward, his expression completely blank. “Fuck you.”
The man launched a fist at Dean’s face, who recoiled back into the wall with the hit, a new cut opening and bleeding on his jaw where the blow had landed. He snorted out a breath and allowed another punch to meet his ribs, then a kick to follow, and slumped tiredly against the filthy ground.
The guard stormed towards the door and slammed it shut behind him so hard the walls trembled, looked through the sliding peephole with a ferocious glare before banging it shut too, and then there was quiet. Dean hated the silence almost more than anything else- it meant his thoughts were loud in his mind like heavy drums. That was an instrument he sure could remember. The American quickly assessed himself, but barely bothered to take inventory of his injuries when there was nothing he could do about them, as usual. Some of his bruises were weeks old, but they’d been refreshed again and again on the rack. Dried blood was stuck to his skin from days ago, and he was fairly certain he smelt just as bad as he looked. It had been a week since they’d last let him wash- or so he thought- and his clothes were really starting to get uncomfortable. At least they let him clean himself. They’d give him medical equipment every once in a while, but mostly expected him to deal with any afflictions by himself- he’d had a couple of infected wounds over his time there, but was always treated in the shitty infirmary and rammed back in his cage.
He liked calling it a cage. Sounded more severe than “cell” or “room”.
Dean tried to sleep, but ended up just staring listlessly around the cage for several hours. It wasn’t one of the dark rooms- this one had a small amount of light pouring from a couple of bare tube bulbs on opposite walls, but they flickered sometimes and were so old they’d yellowed and faded to half their capacity. It wasn’t much brighter than being in a pitch black room, if Dean was honest, but it was something at least. This was how he spent much of his days- idly ogling the walls that would keep him confined for the rest of his life (until his death, that is). It stopped him from thinking about Sam, at least.
Because he was concentrating so fully on an old splash of blood that had turned the colour of rust on the peeling white paint adjacent to him, Dean didn’t notice the shouts of people outside his room. Even if he had, he would’ve passed them off as some kind of struggle being made by a new prisoner. It wasn’t exactly unusual.
A few minutes later, everything fell quiet- deathly quiet. That was what caught Dean’s attention.
Some shuffling noises came from outside his door, and he tried to listen to the hushed voices but couldn’t make out a word being said. Heart rate picking up, Dean stayed as silent as he could and concentrated on the door with all the energy he had left. A water droplet fell to the ground next to the entrance and made a tiny plink noise and the American’s blood pounded in his ears.
The peephole slid open and hidden eyes watched him for long seconds- Dean curled his legs up to his chest under the scrutiny, but then the sliver of light that fell through the hatch and onto the grimy wall disappeared. He puffed out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and allowed himself to relax a little more.
Then, there was chaos. Alarms started blaring through the hallways, people began screaming, and lights flashed through the cracks around the doorframe. There was something distinctly different about this that Dean couldn’t put his finger on- it was nothing like all the times they’d been fake rescued, and those alarms sounded real. Something akin to hope began to unfurl like a flower in the dawn inside his chest, but he didn’t let it grow. Someone was shouting just outside his door, and he rattled his chained wrists to try to get an inch or two closer. He heard feet pounding against the floor and away into the distance, and thought that he’d been left behind.
The door creaked and the lock clunked as it came loose. Then the heavy iron was swinging open, and Dean blinked rapidly at the sudden influx of searing light. He shuddered at the fresher air that raced across his skin but it was still stifling and dank in his room, and he waited for a couple of seconds for his eyes to adjust before looking up, agent instincts on high alert.
Stood in the doorway was a dark figure, covered almost from head to toe. He wore tight black trousers (what Dean might even hesitate to call leggings) with several holsters around his thighs, a black jacket that zipped to an inch up his neck which lay flush with the contours of his body, and a compact utility belt around his waist. His right hand was gloved where his left was not, and he seemed completely entranced by Dean for all of a second or two, before springing into action.
The Winchester shoved himself against the wall, wary of the new man and firmly keeping his lips sealed. He approached with purpose and crouched low, body lithe and fluid, and that’s when Dean saw his face.
He had dark hair (that Dean would’ve called black if he hadn’t seen the brown tinges in the lowlight), tanned skin and a straight nose; but none of that mattered.
His eyes.
His fucking eyes.
Holy shit. They were so blue- even in the semi-darkness- that Dean could see them glittering in a shade beyond powder. Images that he hadn’t managed to think of in a long time- of the ocean and glistening lakes- sprung into his head, and they really were like pools of water.
He wasn’t allowed to focus on them for long.
Before he knew it, Dean was being unchained and pulled to his unsteady feet by nimble fingers and strong arms, the man holding his silence despite the deafening sirens leaking through the open door. He didn’t speak. At all. Not as he yanked Dean by his arm out of the room, not as he led him down corridor after corridor, and not even when they came to another group of people dressed exactly the same as him.
Who the fuck were these people? Covert agents, evidently, but who did they work for? Dean’s exhausted brain tried to catch up, but he was buzzing with adrenaline and the hallways of friggin Hell were whizzing by him. Holy shit, he might actually be being saved. They passed the other black-clad men and women just as quickly as they’d been walking already, and then they were alone.
After a couple of minutes, Dean found his strength waning and had to stop. He leant against the wall, vision spinning and head jackhammering, and breathed deep and long. He’d lost so much strength during his stint, he could barely walk straight. Christ. The mysterious man turned back to him, crowding into his space so he could look him in the face and assess his body, then he looked down to his watch and pulled Dean onwards again.
One second they’d been shuffling along a clean floor, the next they’d been surrounded by Demons. Demons with guns. And one with a machete (what the fuck). The blue-eyed man didn’t look even slightly concerned. Stuck in stalemate for a couple of seconds, the Demons broke it when they launched forwards and lunged at the silent agent. Dean punched one of them in the nose and rammed their head against the concrete floor, but another was onto him already- they didn’t wait for him to finish them off one at a time. He slammed down into the ground and felt the air get knocked out of his lungs, and someone’s hand was fisted tight into his short hair. Just as he was sure he was going to get a face full of dirt, the hand lost its grip and he rolled over, panting, to see the stony-faced agent letting the now-dead Demon fall from between his thighs, neck snapped cleanly. Okay, things just got interesting.
Dean gasped as he was pulled to his feet, and the Demons who had somehow made it to the floor were on the attack again, but those blue eyes just kept boring into his skull. The man turned nonchalantly at the last second and pressed two of his un-gloved fingers to the closest Demon’s forehead, who collapsed into a shuddering heap on the floor.
Things just got really fucking interesting.
He kicked out a leg in a swooping arc and took out two Demons in the process, pushing Dean further against the wall in order to protect him. He removed something from his fingers and tossed it to the floor, and Dean could only imagine what the hell could knock someone out like that. A gunshot went off very close by and the noise slammed through Dean’s head like a semi had just hit him. The man continued, unconcerned. He pulled his own gun from his thigh and shot one red-headed woman straight through the head, turning his sight to one of the three Demons left. Dean couldn’t do anything- he was cramped up to a mouldy wall and wouldn’t be able to do anything to help anyway, what with the injuries he’d compiled over the months forcing him into sloppy motions.
Another crack sounded and a boom followed it somewhere in the distance, and Dean was dimly aware of falling to the floor as fire spread hot through his leg. He looked down at it, thanking someone out there that the bullet had only really grazed the edge of his thigh- leg wounds were more deadly than most people saw in movies.
The other man was on a rampage now. He shot another Demon right between the eyes and suddenly jumped up, grabbing onto a rail that ran along his head and pulling himself off the floor so that he could smash his boots into the man’s chest. As he was momentarily winded, the blue-eyed agent shot the other man in the foot when he had an opening, then spun back around, breathing hard. He reached for his belt and fiddled with something in his gloved hand, then threw it to the ground and bolted away from it, dragging Dean with him. They ran and ran, the ground vibrating beneath their feet as explosions went off in the distance until they were in a wide hall that was half on fire. The heat was searing and stifling, and smoke was rapidly filling the space.
The man halted, placing his hand on Dean’s chest to stop him, but he ended up heaving on the ground anyway, throwing up whatever food he’d managed to get into his stomach over the past week. Grinding his jaw, the blue-eyed agent stomped his foot in frustration and gripped at his hair. The flames started licking around them, and they could feel the full force of the red heat that seeped into their sweaty skin.
And then he spoke.
“My v lovushke! (We’re trapped!)” he shouted, fisting his hand in his messy hair.
Russian, then, Dean thought. Unfortunately, one of the languages he didn’t understand.
“Da, dazhe yesli eto ub'yet menya! (Yes, even if it kills me!)” he screamed, sounding angry. Dean focused on his voice to stop himself from passing out, listening to the gruff-like-gravel tone and accented inflection. Shit it was deeper than he’d thought it would be.
“Shto? (What?)” the Russian asked, eyebrows furrowing tight. Dean stared at the flames that flickered yellow and bright off his watery eyes, and memorised the sharp lines of his face that were bathed in a bright red flush. “SHTO?” he yelled louder, then wrenched an earpiece from his head and dropped it to the floor, crushing it into hundreds of fragments beneath his soles.
Dean tried to stand, but just couldn’t find the energy. The Russian slung his arm over his shoulder on his injured side and helped him hobble towards the flames.
“No, no, no!” Dean bellowed, voice cracking from disuse, trying to stunt their movement.
“Da!” The other man called, pressing on, but Dean wouldn’t budge.
The flames were getting unbearable and the smoke crept lower and closer to their heads, and they both coughed as a gust of wind blew through the room. Something exploded ahead of them, and the fire crackled and hissed with its destruction. The Russian looked pensive for a second, then another explosion went off, and he effortlessly slid Dean over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.
They were running, both hacking out breaths, and then there was cool wind and light so bright Dean thought he’d never see again, and it took him the entire run over to the road that lay ahead of him for him to realise he was outside. Outside. For the first time in months. God fucking damn it felt good.
There were other people there, speaking, but he didn’t pay any attention to them as they heaved his weight from his saviour’s shoulders. He felt hands on him, carrying him, but was barely conscious enough to register it. When they were away from the heat of the fire, Dean noticed that it certainly wasn’t cold out here, so it must’ve been summer somewhere warm. That was a nice thought.
He blacked out for a little while, but was still in just the same position, and could hear the growl of an engine nearby, but nothing else. The people moved silently and the crashes from the building faded away, and Dean never looked back at Hell to see the destruction.
The dirt ground was hot and unforgiving, and Dean felt the heat rise through his skin as he was hauled onto the pale and dusty earth. The sun above was so blindingly white that he screwed his eyes shut tight and groaned long and deep, listening intently as the booted feet shuffled heavily around him, shifting gravel under solid soles. The black clad mystery agents worked in absolute silence, finally letting go of him and leaving him lying in the dust. Dean's shaking breaths brought the grimy air into his lungs- he coughed and felt his insides pulse in pain. He would have fought, would have found some way to protect himself if he even had the smallest ounce of energy or desire to do so, but instead gave in to the crushing realisation that he was probably being hauled off to some other organisation that would torture and kill him for information- or maybe he was being executed right then and there in the middle of the long stretch of barren road that reached out beyond the scalding, shimmering horizon. Though, he absently thought to himself, nothing could be worse than Hell. Nothing.
Only one agent was left in his sight.
“Wh-who are you...?” Dean managed to get out beyond his swollen and bloody lips.
The man turned, bright blue eyes glimmering like the ocean in the daylight, the sun beating down on his soot-stained skin and stealth clothes that just didn't fit with the environment, too dark and covering too much. And despite all of what Dean had heard from the stranger who may or may not have just saved his life, all of the long and flowing syllables of the Russian dialect, what he heard come from the dark haired spy's mouth made his breath catch tightly in his chest.
The Russian sighed, running a calm hand through his ruffled, dark, feathery hair. Dean watched him with what was supposed to be vicious conviction, but probably looked more like a dying stare. The man quickly leaned down to the agent's level, grabbing his drifting chin and forcing him to look into those electric blue eyes.
“I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition,” the husky voice seemed to lower even further, no emotion breaking his words. The Russian's accent simply disappeared- all that was left was a crisp and deep American, clear and expertly refined. Dean's heart jumped a few beats ahead in part fear and part apprehension. He was never sure of the difference.
“Who are you?!” Dean managed to raise his voice higher, though the Russian's expression barely even twitched.
“Castiel.” He looked straight into Dean's eyes, studying them, and the American could map all of the Russian's features- the way his eyebrows always seemed to force a little frown line between them, the slight sprinkling of stubble across his jaw, and the constant movement of his chapped lips while he was thinking.
“What are you?” Dean coughed.
Castiel pulled away, and Dean fell back to the ground unceremoniously. The tiredness that ached throughout his body was taking over, his vision blurring further and his desire to sleep becoming almost unbearable. Castiel's face was solemn once again, emotionless and stiff. He met Dean's eyes, watched them drift in and out of focus, then licked the inside of his lips and stood up straight and still.
“I'm an Angel of the Lord.” Castiel nodded slightly when he said the words, every syllable that rolled off his tongue slow and soft. But there was always a warning in his voice, a danger, the way he spoke sending alarm bells ringing through Dean's head- his was a voice that radiated dominance and control. He was not a man to be messed with.
“Why?” Dean asked simply, coughing and groaning in pain. His injuries were taking over, he could feel the adrenaline rush running out by the second.
Castiel signalled with his hands to his men quickly, and Dean listened as the side door of the van slid back and shut with a loud click, the sound jarring in his head. Only the two of them were left outside, the engine of the vehicle already rumbling steadily. Castiel sighed heavily, clicking something that was attached to his belt next to his hip. The Russian once again pulled his eyes into contact and stared, and holy shit they bored deep into him.
“Because God commanded it.” The sunlight shone around his figure and illuminated his head as if a halo surrounded it, and Dean couldn’t help the stutter in his breath from escaping while being held by his saviour’s gaze. “Because we have work for you.”
The next second, he was gone. Dean squinted in the bright glare of the sun and groaned, listening as the final growls of the engine disappeared into the distance, and fell into darkness.
A man named only Castiel, with bright blue eyes and dark feathery hair, sent a single, coded message to a secret location in Russia that simply read:
DEAN WINCHESTER IS SAVED.