Fic: The Catch (Hard R, Supernatural, Reverse Big Bang)

[moragmacpherson]

Title: The Catch
Prompt: 1070
Artist: dollarformyname
Master Art Post: Link to Art
Author: moragmacpherson
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural, action/ adventure, horror, Hell!fic
Pairings: Gen, with one sexual act and background Dean/Lisa
Rating: Hard R
Beta: jjhunter
Word Count: ~ 25,000
Contents include: Language, graphic depictions of Hell including on-screen physical and mental torture, sexual menacing, & non-consensual sexual contact. Highlight spoiler-text for more specific descriptions of the contents: (skip) Contains graphic depiction of male/male rape that initially appears incestuous.
Disclaimer: All characters contained herein are the property of Eric Kripke, the CW, and their associated corporate identities.
Author's NotesThis story is truly the product of a collaboration. Not just thanks but full credit is due to the artist, dollarformyname, a fabulous cheerleader whose art is worth well more than a thousand words. Don't miss the art post - I wish I could include all of Dollar's spectacular hard work here, but it's getting crowded! Additional credit and thanks need to also be given to jjhunter, my partner in crime and meta, whose beta work identified themes before I even realized I had written them.
Written for spn_reversebang; thank you so much, mods, for putting this challenge together, but especially to bauble, for her help in labeling a problematic story. That being said, it bears repeating: this majority of this story takes place in Hell and contains disturbing subject material. Additional notes included at the end.

Soundtrack (including Dollar's gorgeous cover art) is available for download: Link to MegaUpload

 

The demon knew that names were powerful, especially in Hell. To name something was to know it; to know something was to have power over it. Now, with Azazel, Lilith, Alastair, and her brother all dead, only Lucifer himself could make that claim on her.

Over the centuries she'd been called many things - most of Hell knew her as Queen of the Spiders - but whenever she dealt with the Winchesters even she started thinking of herself as Meg. It hadn't been a particularly special meatsuit, though the owner had been wonderfully horrified throughout her possession. But there was something about how the Winchester brothers said the name, a mixed note of hatred and fear, that tickled Meg to her very core. She smiled at the thought of hearing that sound again.

Her smile widened when Dean Winchester pulled out his phone as he walked out of Tino's Bar and Grill and started walking down the dark, deserted main street of this insignificant small town. He was ahead of schedule and practically gift-wrapping himself. The Winchesters went through life so oblivious - that's why she had to move quickly now: couldn't trust the morons occupying the Vessels to survive much longer on their own. Eager as she was, she still raised her hand and two fingers to hold the minions back, waiting those key extra seconds to make certain the circumstances were just right.

"Hey, it's me... A couple of signs, here and there. But I don't think anything's going down tonight. You?" Meg resisted the urge to run up and throttle Dean during the long pause; there'd be plenty of chances to do that soon enough. Dean grunted then said the magic words, "Dammit, Sammy, I thought I told you to wait!" As soon as Dean uttered his brother's name, Meg brought her hand down and unleashed the band of loyal demons she'd brought along as her retrieval team. She'd chosen well: the demons appeared to form out of the shadows and to her delight, had Dean surrounded on all sides. "What the hell?" is all Dean managed to say before Choronzon knocked the phone out of his hand as he punched Winchester in the face.

The phone flew backwards and landed at Meg's feet and she bent down to retrieve it, a tinny imitation of Sam's voice shouting "Dean!" over and over on the other end of the line. When Meg looked up Choronzon and Kimaris were writhing on the ground but Decarabia had pinned Dean up against the wall, his hand around the man's neck. Decarabia checked over his shoulder and Meg nodded. He pulled a rag out of his pocket and used it to cover the man's mouth and nose, squeezed Dean's throat until his mouth opened and pushed the rag down and in. Dean's face had already gone red from holding his breath and it didn't take long for his eyes to roll back. Meg stepped forward, slipped her hand underneath her underling's, felt Dean's slowing pulse. His body had gone limp, head slumping forward, but still Meg kept up the pressure. This had to be just right. With her other hand she raised his phone to her ear.

"Dean? If you can hear me, I'm coming to get you. Just hold them off!"

"Too late, Sammy. Only place you'll see Dean ever again is in Hell."

"What-" but Meg snapped the phone shut and pulled the rag out of Dean's mouth. He was just on the cusp of death, only the thinnest of ties binding his soul to his meat: close enough to fool the Gates of Bone and Flesh. She pulled his body close and murmured an incantation not used for millenia.

A moment later Dean's phone vibrated on the ground, but there wasn't anyone there to notice.

Dean had a bad feeling in the darkness. His head felt muddled and his throat ached and he couldn't move his arms or legs: never a good sign. He figured out where he was before the blindfold came off. He knew the voice belonging to the hands lightly touching his face to remove it; not to mention the vague stench of char and sulfur lingering in the background.

"Hello, Dean," she said. Dean blinked at the light then squinted, trying to focus his eyes. He might have only met this body a couple of times before but there was no mistaking that smirk.

Dean swallowed, didn't bother to test the bonds tying him down to the chill metal rack, and arched his eyebrows as he drawled, "Hi, Meg." She continued to smirk as he looked around and scanned the room, mental clarity rapidly returning as he confirmed his suspicion: he was in Hell. A damp, mildewy corner of Hell where they didn't know how to mix concrete properly, from the looks of the cracks and crumbles on the walls. He decided to ignore the splatters of gore and the shining blades lined up neatly on the worm-eaten table next to him for now and returned his focus to Meg. His head was unrestrained, allowing him to control what he looked at and that was an amateur mistake. It was like figuring out a magic show: if he kept his eyes where the magician didn't want him to look, the effect was ruined. "Nice place you've got here. I see you've been concentrating on interior design since you didn't get your apocalypse. I've always suspected the Home and Garden Network was part of some demonic plot. Nothing human could be so cheerfully empty yet so addictive."

She shook her head with a chuckle and picked up a long, curved blade. "That might pass for funny topside, Dean, but you of all people should know that we have a different concept of funny down here." She waved the small scythe in the air, light glinting off the blade in the corner of his eye. "It involves less sarcasm, more showing you the balloon animals we can make out of your small intestine."

Dean tipped his head back, flicking his tongue out as he scraped it against his teeth, acrid chemical taste still clinging to it. "That's right. I seem to remember you were still having trouble with poodles last time." He leaned forward and looked her straight on. She was keeping her eyes brown and human rather than beetle black, an intriguing choice. "That why you brought me back? Wanted to show me that you finally got it down?"

She ran her fingers through his hair. "What makes you think I brought you back?" Now she shoved his head back, knocking it into the metal of the rack. The resulting dull metallic 'clunk' resonated in his bones. "You're hardly a saint, Dean. How do you know you aren't dead and damned?"

Dean laughed. "You forget, Meg, I've got friends in high places now, they got me a reservation at their place." She shrugged and set the scythe back down, making a show of picking a different knife. "Plus, and you probably don't remember this, there's nothing quite like the feeling of the meatsuit you grew up in. I'm still in mine." Meg grunted, all the confirmation he could expect, so he continued. "Getting my body into Hell, though: that's a new trick, which means it can't have been easy to pull off. I'm flattered."

She spun towards him, now holding a scalpel up to his cheek. "Don't be." Meg pulled away, slicing slowly down his chest, through his shirt as she did. "As per usual, it's not you that we want."

Dean bit back his yelp by turning it into a cough, waiting for her to lift the knife before saying, "And yet here I am." She'd barely broken the skin but it stung like a foot-long paper cut. Not a bad opening: as in so many arenas in life, the best torture came with a lot of foreplay. He plastered a condescending smile on his face and lowered his voice, keeping it even. "If you really like Sam so much more, you should have saved yourself the hassle and just nabbed him." She continued to methodically shred his shirt and jeans, slicing into his skin only in maddeningly unpredictable moments. "I mean-" and he gasped as she pushed just a bit deeper, concealed his tell with a shaky laugh, "I hate to admit it, he's my brother and all - but with him you could have just walked up and asked if your hankie smelled like chloroform. Kid falls for it every time."

Meg looked genuinely amused, setting her left hand on his shoulder as she cut, covering Castiel's handprint. "It's true that he's predictable: it's a charming family trait. Goes with that whole 'vigilante-martyr' complex you all seem to share." Warm fingers squeezed the clammy skin of his upper arm in what might be mistaken for a comforting gesture anywhere else. "You know how it is: if we kidnap and torture Sam, he'll just hunker down and take it, like your Dad." Meg straightened up and stared Dean down. "Or maybe he'll break after a couple of decades, like you," she said while stroking one side of his jaw with her fingers and scraping at the stubble on the other side with the razor-sharp blade. It felt intimate and he had to give her points for making his skin crawl, keeping up the contact just a little bit too long. She smiled and pulled back. "But Lucifer's got me on a tight schedule, and if there's one thing I've learned about your brother, it's that he'll do anything to save you." Meg turned from him to select a new instrument, giving him precious evil time to anticipate her choice. Dean kept his eyes straight forward, refusing to watch. "It's a win-win situation for me: I get to torture you and in return, Sam will put the Apocalypse back on track."

Dean put together the hints she'd allowed him. "Again: I'm flattered, but my brother's not going to bust Lucifer out just to spare me a couple of boo-boos." Meg snickered, the bitch fucking snickered, and Dean scowled. "He's got this crazy hang-up about ending the world."

And then she was in his face again and that Bowie knife was enormous. "Are you so sure about that?" she snapped in his ear, whispered as a temptation, body and breasts pressed against him, eyebrows arched.

Deans eyes darted over to look into hers and he had to keep his voice down or he'd push his Adam's apple right into the blade. "Yeah, this is one of those situations where 'no' really means 'no,' Meg."

Her teeth grazed the shell of his ear as she exhaled, gloating. "So he's not coming to save you?"

The Bowie knife hadn't moved but her other clever hand pressed insinuating fingers down hard against his collarbone and it took every ounce of will he had not to duck his head down, cut his own throat. He knew she could see the sweat on his forehead, hoped it made the trickle of moisture from the corners of his eyes less obvious. He let out his breath to lower his chest, away from the pain. "It does sound like the sort of stupid stunt he'd pull without me around to stop him," he hissed out.

"That's right." On his admission, Meg relented, stepped away and Dean took the opportunity to suck in several rounds of panic breaths. "And it just so happens, we're practically in the heart of Hell. It'll take him a good long while to get into this Citadel, plenty of time for Hell to wear off on him. This place, just being here, it changes people." For just a second her eyes flipped beetle-black, a reminder. "Changed you into a torture specialist. And little Sammy, he's already got a streak of demon in him." She returned to his side, knife pressed between his ribs just below his armpit. It sort of tickled as she murmured in a sing-song voice, "As short as his last stay was, you noticed the changes, didn't you?"

Of course he noticed the changes, he wanted to shout but didn't. The unspoken words twisted in his guts because those changes didn't mean a fucking thing, just part and parcel of spending time in Hell and no one could blame Sam for that, but - shit. He couldn't look at her any longer, screwed his eyes shut to block her out so he could focus again and that's when she pushed the knife in, between the ribs, straight into his left lung and his eyes shot open as he screamed.

"Mmm-hmm." Meg smiled and pulled the knife out so that only a fraction of an inch stayed in the wound. "If he isn't already over that silly little hang-up by the time he gets here, I'll still have you to push him the rest of the way. Once again, Dean, you're nothing more than leverage. A tool. Bait!" He didn't bother to spit the blood bubbling up in his throat at her, so she pouted and drew the knife down his side, so sharp he didn't feel the cut, just the blood spreading over his skin. "If you're lucky, maybe we'll let you stick around when we're done. Like a pet. A pet who gets flayed on a regular basis.

"You've convinced me, this place needs some sprucing up." The knife proceeded down his hips and thighs, cutting deeper as she knelt down, hitting the nerves now, giving him a red silhouette that burned. "I'm thinking hand-tooled leather wallpaper made out of your skin." She rose back up and pressed herself into him, cupped his chin again, tip of the knife hovering against his cheek. "With these adorable freckles of yours," and she pointed out a few with the blade, wild grin on her face, and she kept her eyes human but they weren't, there was no humanity in them, "why, the final pattern will be such a delightful surprise!"

Dean coughed, could feel his left lung crumpling in his chest. "Fuck off, Meg"

She tutted her tongue. "Aww, out of snappy comebacks, Dean? Having trouble finding your words? Let me take care of that problem for you." As she forced his jaw down and damn near surgically sliced his tongue away, Dean had to admit she'd learned a few tricks since he'd left. But now he had no tongue and he still had to scream.

Sam hadn't bothered to try Dean's phone again. If that voice was who he thought it was, there wasn't any point. Instead he called Castiel. And whatever Meg had done must have caught Heaven's attention because for once the angel picked up. "Cas!"

"Where's Dean?"

"Demons got him. Can you get Lisa and Ben, meet me at Bobby's?"

"Yes."

The line immediately went dead but that wasn't cause for panic, just Castiel's way, and it left Sam free to pick up the call that rang a second later. He answered without checking the I.D. "Hello?"

"Sam, do you have any idea what the hell is going on?"

Sam rubbed his eyes. "I think Hell's the right word, Crowley."

Crowley snorted. "When did you go and develop brains? Never mind - where are you?"

"Just outside of Beulah, Wyoming, on my way to Bobby's, meet us there." Then Sam stepped back because Crowley had appeared at the intersection outside the motel and was running towards Dean's car.

"If you're here, it means your brother's in Hell, Sam, we don't have time for that. Get out here, now." Sam snapped his phone shut, grabbed the bags, and ran.

Within a minute Crowley had the Impala rolling up Bobby's driveway. "King of the Crossroads," was all the explanation he provided.

"So you noticed whatever it was Meg did. That mean you were in on it?" asked Sam.

Crowley did a double take as they pulled up to Bobby's house. "Lucifer's errand girl and I don't get along, and there was no way for me not to notice, Sam. This kind of thing hasn't happened in thousands of years," he explained as they got out of the car and headed inside, not a moment or motion wasted.

Bobby opened the door for them. "I've got Castiel, Lisa, and Ben in my panic room, so what the hell kind of thing is it?" he asked.

"Do either of you have any idea how difficult it is to bring a human body physically into Hell-proper? I'll tell you: in most cases, you have to have the apocalypse first," shouted Crowley.

Castiel had appeared in the study. "The demon is telling the truth."

Sam held up a finger. "You said 'most cases'."

Crowley bobbed his head, pulled at his hair. "There's supposedly a way, if you've got enough power and you're desperate, legends and rumors of a spell you can use to fool the Gates of Bone and Flesh, get a barely-alive body through along with the soul," he said, shaking his head like he still couldn't believe anyone would be crazy enough to do it. "Meg, if that's what you're going to call her, she'd have had to sacrifice a lot of lesser demons to do it, which would explain why I haven't heard from a couple of my mates lately, but it can be done. But the Queen of Spiders had to know about the catch," he muttered.

Sam ignored the epithet. "What's the catch?"

Crowley waved his hand in the air. "It triggers what we call the Orpheus Clause. Gets forgotten most of the time because there's plenty of bureaucracy in both Heaven and Hell to make sure it never comes into effect." Castiel nodded to confirm the story. "But if a mortal goes to Hell and there's evidence he doesn't belong there - and with a live body down in Hell, there's no denying that he doesn't belong there - the Orpheus Clause allows a single human entrance to Hell so that they can petition for the soul's release in person."

Bobby looked skeptical. "Petition?"

Crowley shrugged. "Petitioners can't be killed on their mission and they can turn back at any time, but they have to make the petition at Court, in the Citadel." He shook his head. "Seeing as Meg would have to be the effective ruler of Hell in order to even get this far, it's more likely that Sam will have to fight his way into the Citadel. And, once Sam's there, she can delay granting the petition as long as she likes, and Dean will be vulnerable the entire trip out."

No one questioned Crowley's assumption of who the petitioner would be. "So she knows I'm coming?" asked Sam, his voice soft and cold.

Castiel and Crowley shared a look. "Undoubtedly," said Castiel. "Unfortunately, the runes on Dean's ribs prevent me from locating him in Hell and extracting him neatly. Also, my presence will be a beacon if I accompany you, but I can go to Heaven and rally the loyal garrisons." He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Perhaps the garrisons alone would be sufficient."

Sam shook Castiel's hand off. "No, I'm leaving right now and Crowley's taking me." He cut off the others by raising his hand and voice. "Time passes faster in Hell! Dean doesn't have time for us to argue up here. Crowley, petitions always need a sponsor and you can rant at me once we're down there. Cas, Meg's probably expecting the angelic invasion too, be prepared and keep in touch. Bobby, you need to hold the fort on Earth, keep Lisa and Ben safe. I've got to grab a couple of things out of the car." Without another word, Sam turned and strode out the door.

"The daft fool does realize this is exactly what she wants? All three vessels are going to be in Hell!" said Crowley but Castiel was already gone.

Bobby simply grunted and headed to the stairs to go explain to Lisa and Ben what was going on. He paused at the door. "Try and keep him out of trouble, would ya?" he said, not waiting for an answer.

Crowley scowled. "That's right, give me the easy job!" he shouted at no one in particular before going after Sam.

Dean woke up in his cell on the seventh night to discover that he had a tongue again. After the first day, Meg had allowed a number of other demons to take their turns with him, and though none of them were quite as talented as her, Dean still had a couple of things to get off his chest now that he had the necessary equipment.

"Fuckshitpisssonovabitchfuckingbastardassholesonsofwhores..." and he continued without repetition save for variations of 'fuck' until he ran out of things to say and they must have fixed his lungs too because it only took three breaths to get it all out.

After he'd exhausted his extensive cursing vocabulary, Dean took a few minutes to check the rest of himself out. Under the threadbare clothes he kept waking up in and smears of caked-on blood that lingered, his body was a fresh canvas, carrying only the scars he'd brought with him. In addition to his tongue, he'd gotten his left eye and all of his toes back. He'd been curious whether they could restore his actual body like they did with souls - before today he'd woken up bandaged and patched up but not healed - and now he had an answer. On the plus side, he'd missed these body parts; on the negative side, this meant the demons could indulge their every vile whim without fear of losing their hostage.

Fuck.

Downtime in Hell took advantage of humanity's seemingly endless capacity for creative sadism. Left to anticipate the next day's torture, human souls would imagine torments beyond any demon's wildest dreams. These thoughts were harvested and implemented by the demonic bureaucracy. But Dean already knows the trick to this part: keep your mind in the present. He knows how to tamp his thoughts down so that the downtime becomes a test of his tolerance for tedium. It gives him time to do the math in his head. Figure out when the present is. Simple arithmetic: he's always been good at that, if he can keep track of the damn decimal point.

Forty years in the Pit had passed in one hundred thirty-nine days back on Earth. That translates into roughly ten years a month, or one year every three and a half days or so, maybe a little less. Now he's going to need that fucking decimal point, so he uses a link on his chains to scratch into the dirt. Divide that three and a half by three-hundred sixty-five and he gets... something really fucking small. Call it a hundredth. He checks the math again to make sure he hasn't messed up the decimal and gets the same ratio. At least that would make the last part easy. Sixty minutes in an hour times twenty-four of those in a day came out to one thousand four hundred forty minutes in a day. Now it's just a matter of bumping that stupid dot over two places but the final figure still makes Dean feel a little nauseous.

Every agonizing day here amounts to not quite fifteen minutes up there: on Earth he's been missing for a just over an hour and a half. At least Lisa hasn't had long to worry. He sighs and tries to get as comfortable as he can while sticky-slick with his own blood sitting on a damp wooden bench with heavy chains cuffed to his wrists, neck, and ankles. Despite the smell of char (and sulfur, always sulfur), the air feels humid and just a little too cold for comfort. His stomach gurgles, empty, though he doesn't feel particularly hungry or thirsty. Still: the cavalry had better show some hustle, get here quick.

Dean leaned back and watched the hellfire flicker through the high, illusory window. Every cell had one, none of them were real. He'd discovered the truth behind the 'windows' the hard way during his last stint. The windows gave souls the illusion of possible escape, created false hope that crumbled and set you on the path to true despair if you let it.

Dean had.

He wondered what it said about him that now he found the image comforting. It alleviated the boredom: the patterns had always reminded him of a lava lamp, random flares and licks endlessly fascinating. "Home, sweet home," he murmured with his restored tongue.

Meg had a point about this place changing people.

Dean adjusted his priorities accordingly. He could roll with the punches a little longer; better that Sam delay the cavalry hustle in favor of showing up in Hell more prepared. Dean's brother was one stubborn sonovabitch. Once he got down here, he'd get that bitchy look on his face and charge on in, no way to change his mind once he'd got it set, damn the consequences...

... Meg was right about that too.

Fuck.

Dean put those useless thoughts aside. Has to keep his mind in the present in Hell, he reminds himself. Don't anticipate the future; don't dwell on wounds that would disappear anyway. Stay in the present, the one point where he knows exactly what he needs to do:

Be Dean Winchester.

In the present, Dean grins. The demons have no idea what they've gotten themselves into.

Sam thought he'd suffered in the Cage. The torture had been indescribable, in part because the experience had overwhelmed Sam's mere mortal senses almost immediately. The Cage had been specifically engineered to both contain and torture Lucifer, one of God's most powerful and brilliant creations, for all of eternity. During Sam's brief tenure, judging by Lucifer's howls and rage, it had been making up for its temporary lapse in the first task by demonstrating its perfection in regards to the second.

Exactly how it did that, though, Sam couldn't say: his memories of it were impressions more than anything. The Cage meant perfect isolation - Sam still had no idea what had happened to Michael and Adam - the Cage trapped him, rendered him powerless and immobile. And he'd been in constant agony - or at least Lucifer had - but Sam didn't remember, perhaps had never known, the source of the pain, and so he'd been able to distance himself from it emotionally. He'd hurt, he'd wished it would end, it had ended. Dean kept giving him these odd looks, but all in all, Sam felt that he'd long since moved past the whole experience without any serious scars. A little extra caution wasn't a bad thing for a hunter.

Meanwhile, outside of the Cage, the rest of Hell had perfected one torture that the Cage could never provide: politics. After a mere two weeks of negotiations, Sam conceded to Sartre's point about hell and other people. The brimstone, the flames, the torture chambers: those were all just window-dressing for the demons' power struggles. His life made a lot more sense now: with time stretched out by two orders of magnitude so they could practice against each other, of course Azazel and Lilith and Ruby had all been able to play him and his family like virtuosos.

If he didn't have a mission, Sam might have been tempted to stick around for a while to learn a few things. But he did have a mission. Dean remained locked in the Citadel and Meg hadn't been shy about spreading the news that she had a Winchester waiting on the rack for any demon with a bone to pick. Sam tried not to think too hard about her choice of words.

Of course, almost every demon in Hell had a bone to pick with the Winchesters.

"... paid lip service to Lucifer, but why Azazel felt the need to break the bastard angel out, I never understood. Then again, you remember Azazel, always such a sure hand, a consummate professional. If he had a plan I had to go along with it, you understand. He'd ruled Hell for half a million years, it was hard to argue with him..."

Sam started to zone out again as their host continued praising the demon who'd destroyed Sam's family and ruined their lives. Crowley caught his eyes and glared, so Sam shook his head and tried to focus again. The speaker's name was Count Halphas, which Crowley had instructed Sam to use only once, in private, when they'd first arrived. Since then, Sam has called him Pelargo - 'him', of course, being a relative term, as demons could apparently appear as any meatsuit they'd worn on Earth, so long as that meatsuit's soul hadn't since moved on to heaven. Sam had asked about Crowley's original body when they'd first arrived and received a snort and a muttered reply about the relative quality of British dentistry over the last several hundred years. Against all evidence, Sam was left to conclude it had improved.

"... but I can't say that I've been unhappy with the recent turmoil..."

Something Crowley hadn't told Sam before they'd come charging down here: while averting the apocalypse, Sam and Dean had completely destroyed the existing hierarchy of power in Hell, plunging it into a civil war of such unprecedented violence that it reset the Pit's sliding scale. Pelargo, Hell's finest arms dealer, was one of very few demons who'd actually profited from Sam's swan dive. Which was why Sam was here, listening to the demon natter on into eternity. Sam needed his help. There weren't many other gates in Hell open to him: just the ones of Bone and Flesh, but those weren't an option until Sam got to the Citadel, where Dean was still on the rack, while these two insisted on rehashing the same information over and over. Beneath the table, Sam clenched his fists and hoped the leather squeak of his gloves hadn't given him away.

"... as surprised as anyone when the Queen of Spiders emerged as the victor. Of course, she had Lucifer's backing, but for obvious reasons that lacks the currency it once held. And then she stunned us all at the convocation and not even Lord Lepus could explain how she managed that..."

More double-speak: in order to work the spell that brought Dean here, Meg had needed an ocean of demon blood. After her initial victory twenty-five years ago, she'd invited every peer of the realm to send a delegation to a convocation at the Citadel. Many of the peers had arrived in person, every delegation had arrived with legions of lesser demons - it being Hell, some had been there to attack - but they'd all shown up. Meg then murdered them all in the matter of minutes - in Hell, Crowley had explained, demons were vulnerable to each other, especially to any demon with more power, and no one had realized up until that moment just how much power Meg already had. It had been a coup even for Hell.

Now Crowley was speaking. "... just proof that she's as mad as they've always said. She'd never have survived this long if Azazel hadn't found her useful. She won't be able to retain power long."

Pelargo sniffed and took a sip of wine. "I'm not so certain. Her stunt eliminated most of the obvious challengers, and now she can count Chaos and that winged scoundrel as her lackeys."

"But not you or the Grand Architect?" Sam didn't roll his eyes at the title. This time.

The Grand Architect, Pelargo's longtime lover and partner in an environment which encouraged neither, also known as Princess Malphas - and the fact that their true names rhymed was too precious for Sam to cope with down here - appeared the moment Crowley mentioned her, despite earlier protests about urgent business. "Lord Bocian and I have different priorities. Earth does not concern us, save for the occasional holiday. We had the loveliest time in Campuchea when we last visited; charming people, the Khmers, it was so terribly rustic but that just meant we had to be creative..."

Crowley's glares became more urgent and Sam tried to give him a reassuring look. Sam understood: there was no way they could get into the Citadel and get to Dean without these two as allies, and to gain their support, Sam had to play the game. Respect their grandiose titles, eat the dreadful imitation nouvelle cuisine and vinegary wine they offered him (after being guaranteed that there wasn't any such thing as a 'Persephone Clause'), and look past their genocidal hobbies, even when the Architect offered to go dig up their vacation slides. This is all he's done since arriving in Hell, hasn't made a single step towards the Citadel since the second day and it's driving him just a little insane. Dean's on the rack and all Sam has done is sit and watch and listen to these miserable self-important hellspawn wear fake smiles while playing their petty games, with no retreat but his own thoughts. The Cage had been an abstract agony where time held no meaning because the pain was constant, unyielding, and unchanging; but here Sam could act, could stop Dean's pain, if only he didn't have to deal with all of this futile feudal bullshit. This is personal. The Cage had been nothing: this is Hell.

And it was then, during his fourteenth day in Hell, that Sam Winchester had a new thought. It was a clever thought that took all of his observations into account and transformed them into a single, elegant conclusion. Like many epiphanies it struck suddenly, almost as if it wasn't even his own idea, but belonged to someone else who also had access to the contents of his head.

Sam Winchester, who had learned the hard way that he needed to be cautious when dealing with demons, took two more nights to act on the thought. He tested it in secret and discovered that the idea didn't merely explain the situation: it also presented a new and exciting solution. In his head, Sam thought things all the way through to the end. He nurtured the idea from a simple concept into a complete plan. This plan introduced some new risks but Sam felt confident that he could manage them and the old plan couldn't compete with this one's payoff. But Sam still had his doubts. He wished he could check it over with Dean; wished he could share it with anyone, but other than Dean there wasn't anyone in Hell that Sam could trust but himself. Sam prayed for Dean's understanding and forgiveness and took the time to make the right decision.

Alone in Hell, Sam Winchester decided to change plans. Now that he was here, with all of this new information, this one made more sense. He hadn't felt this confident in years.

On the seventeenth night, Sam sat at the table and listened to the same conversation he heard there every night. Once again, Malphas had been driven to distraction by work and wouldn't make it to dinner. But tonight Sam could read the demons as easily as he could scan the blurb on the back of a paperback. And that wasn't all he could do...

He shifted in his seat; saw Crowley's automatic glare; but this time he also saw Halphas. The black of his eyes flickered every time Sam moved. When Crowley brought Malphas into the conversation, the black flickered a different way, to the door where she appeared a moment later. Sam knew this would happen before it did and smiled to see his suspicions confirmed.

Halphas' fake smile changed from brittle to anxious and Sam realized how careful he'd have to be from now on. Especially the next step; this had to be done right. Delicately, to preserve their precious, fragile pride. Sam still needed these demons as his allies and he couldn't afford to alienate Crowley. Crowley knew everyone, and it didn't matter that most of them had offered standing rewards for proof of the Crossroad King's final death, because Crowley didn't just know demons, he knew their names. Malphas' strained smile said what her pride didn't allow her: she really was too busy to be here. Between the apocalypse, the civil war, Meg's spell, and defending the whole place against Castiel's heavenly onslaught, there were barely enough demons left in Hell to run the place.

But no one said anything. Demons couldn't admit weakness in front of each other: they might as well sign their own death warrant. Right now Malphas was saying so little that it felt like she was actively sucking conversation out of the room. But that was okay because the secret to understanding demons in Hell was to listen to the things they didn't say.

Specifically, Malphas wasn't mentioning that Crowley had summoned her to the conversation - and that because he knew her true name, she'd had no choice but to appear. Halphas had used many, many words in order not to say that this was the one of the tricks Meg used to set up her massacre, and both were utterly mum about how they'd only escaped because their names were among the few Meg didn't know. Before Crowley had shown up with Sam Winchester in tow, they'd had a pretty good chance at setting up an independent fiefdom, and now...

Ah, but that's why other demons hated Crowley, why they'd all been so happy to give the smug prick vast powers that conveniently kept him on Earth and out of their business. The power of names didn't make the demons he summoned loyal or even friendly - if Sam hadn't been here, Crowley would probably already be dead. But he'd brought Sam to Hell, and that changed everything. Meg had lured Sam here because she needed Lucifer's Vessel. But she hadn't thought about Sam's other name; the one her own Father had given him; the one he'd denied until now.

And with that mistake he'd make sure she'd pay for every other one of her sins.

Sam held up a single gloved hand and watched his hosts freeze in place. Perhaps it hadn't been a complete waste of time, all those days of sitting silent and bored, giving nothing away, letting Crowley do the talking. Now his actions came as a surprise, which made the demons nervous. Nervous was useful, but not what he wanted, not what he needed in order to get to Dean and the Citadel and bring this horrible cycle to a final end.

Sam could do it. Here. The Boy King had the power to do it here.

In Hell, every wrong Sam ever suffered turned to his advantage. He wasn't bound by his infamous name because as the Boy King he'd arrived in the flesh, Azazel's own blood flowing through his veins. His life was doubly protected by the provisions of the Orpheus Clause and by fear of Lucifer and Meg's wrath if anyone dared to harm the True Vessel. Here, whatever Sam wanted was his for the taking.

Even Crowley wasn't asking the next question, but no matter. Sam wouldn't have answered the demon even if he had the balls to ask. He'd figure it out eventually. Meanwhile, Sam knew exactly what he wanted, and it was time to start taking it.

Sam stood. This was a momentous occasion, worth standing for. The demons followed suit after a beat of silence. "Lordship, your Highness." The Boy King inclined his head. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but are you less than happy with the Queen of Spiders' leadership?"

The demons didn't say anything. Sam smiled. "Allow me to offer you an alternative. Please follow me." They followed without a word; even Crowley's everlasting gob stopped. Sam led them up to the battlements; Malphas was an excellent architect, if not terribly inspired, and Halphas' blood money bought them a fine vista of crater ridden mountains that rose above the sulfur flats to jagged icy peaks. In the distance you could even see demons flinging the miserable frostbitten acrophobic damned off the edge.

Sam could see them because he was concentrating, focusing his thoughts on the mountain. He had to remember that only two beings mattered in Hell - the only two things that had matter in Hell - were Dean and himself. Nothing else mattered; nothing else had matter; everything else was energy. Energy was power, and in the confines of Hell, the Boy King was all-powerful.

The Boy King unfurled his gloved fingers like the petals of a flower and behind him three peers of Hell watched as the mountains crumbled onto the plains. If there'd been anyone to say it to, Sam might have mentioned that he'd felt strangely removed from the experience, almost disembodied. But he couldn't say that to a demon, so instead he said, "I come to humble the exalted and exalt the humble," which he figured was the sort of pseudo-Biblical gibberish that impressed self-important demons. The Boy King finished his debut performance with a turn, a smile, and an excellent question. "Which would you rather be?"

The Queen of Spiders' web of spies stretched across the entirety of Hell and it never took long for their reports to reach the Citadel, even from the loneliest outskirts of the dimension. But even without knowing the details of what had occurred inside the Grand Architect's stronghold - which Meg did - she could have guessed at what had happened. Crushing a mountain wasn't exactly a subtle sign. Sammy had taken on his title as the Boy King of Hell.

It was about fucking time.

While formulating her original plan with Lucifer there'd been no guarantee that Sam would ever come around to embracing his powers - he was a stubborn soul if nothing else - and so until now Meg had been proceeding as if he never would. Now that he had, however, she would react accordingly and in such a way that to all observers it appeared that she'd had no idea this was coming. As such, she spent a week dispatching new orders and rearranging her pieces on the board.

During that week more information trickled in and Meg continued to adapt her plans. After his shocking entrance put the rest of Hell on notice that the Boy King would be a powerful new player in their games, Sam had stepped back into the shadows. It was a little disappointing that Sam hadn't simply come charging into the heart of Hell, drunk on his newfound powers; but then again, victory was so much sweeter when it came over a worthy opponent, and for his part, Sam was displaying an unprecedented degree of political savvy in Hell. She definitely hadn't anticipated that, he was still a Winchester after all; but her plan was, as ever, adaptable. Envoys had been dispatched from the Grand Architect's territory to a number of other lords and ladies. The list wasn't a surprise to Meg: she had no illusions about her own popularity and despite her best efforts, she knew that Crowley's network of informants persisted in rivaling her own. He would know which demons had been biding their time since the convocation, waiting for a chance to challenge her again. She'd keep her eyes on this new rebellion as it developed but as yet it wasn't anything she couldn't handle.

Meanwhile she had to decide how she could best use the advent of the Boy King to manipulate Dean. Unlike Sam, Dean's progress wasn't proceeding at all to her satisfaction. While Meg was having no trouble finding volunteers to torture the elder Winchester, Dean had proven remarkably resilient against their ministrations.

She poked her head into the chamber where Choronzon was busy with his branding irons. The room stank of cooked meat and the walls rang with Dean's shrieks as Choronzon completed a complex geometric pattern on Dean's upper thigh. The scene looked promising until Choronzon pulled the brand away from Dean's flesh and the shriek shifted, became deeper and throatier and then Dean was laughing. "Y'know," he coughed, his voice wrecked and raspy, "Alastair had a real gift for this. You, on the other hand..." and he trailed off, shaking his head and laughing again.

Choronzon swung the iron and lunged forward, pressing the bar up into Dean's throat. "Let's see you laugh like this," he hissed, but around his gagging Dean really was still laughing.

Meg was forced to step forward and pull her minion back. "That's quite enough, Dust Devil. I'll take over from here; you will go and speak to the Finder, she has a task for you."

Choronzon stomped out of the room with a final growl in Dean's direction, but Dean just smiled and waved. "Better luck with that, buddy!" he said with a sneer on his face, and the fact that half of his teeth were broken didn't lessen the effect. At least those wide eyes of his still narrowed slightly and flashed with fear when he remembered that Meg had said she'd take over. "Hello, Meg," he said, a moment too late to cover his slip.

While in principle Meg was delighted that Dean feared her alone among all the demons in Hell, in practice it was enormously inconvenient. When Sam finally arrived, Meg needed for Dean to be at least somewhat broken. And Meg needed to be able to delegate Dean's torture; she had too many other things to do. But Dean's uniquely carnal nature here in Hell had caused unforeseen complications. The flexible reality of the Pit that enabled demons to execute more intellectual torments simply didn't apply to Dean - in his meatsuit he could always sense the elaborate illusions. Any Hell-reproduction more complicated than recreating the effects of sulfuric acid would prompt him to start asking for popcorn and whether or not they could get Guillermo del Toro to direct the next one. 'Because this Eli Roth shit's getting old. Did Kubrick wind up down here? Maybe you could ask him for a couple of pointers.'

Meg stepped forward and knelt down to admire Choronzon's work. "It's nice to see you're enjoying your stay with us, Dean." She ran her thumb over the skin next to the welts, smooth, chill and soothing she knew; nonetheless Dean's whole leg convulsed with a shiver.

"Yeesh, woman, your hands are cold," he blustered. "At least your little minion boy warmed things up first."

"Yes, I can see down here that you must be feeling a bit cold," said Meg, not shying away from that expanse of skin either, cupping him in her hand to disappointingly little effect.

After a moment he coughed. "Afraid torture just doesn't put me in the mood, Meg, so if you wouldn't mind taking your mitts off that, all you're doing is reminding me that I need to use the bathroom."

Meg looked up and Dean was pointedly staring across the room as he said this, which gave her an idea. She gripped a little tighter and enjoyed his gasp. "Come on, I know you're the type that likes a little bit of pain mixed in with his pleasure, Alastair told us all about it."

Dean grunted. "Thanks for the reminder, Meg, now I don't just need to piss but also kind of want to puke a little before I scrub every inch of my body clean."

"Oh, that doesn't sound like a good idea at all." Meg released the flaccid appendage and scraped her nails over his thigh causing him to yelp. "I think you might want to hold off on that plan for a little while."

She rose to her feet as he did that panic breathing cycle of his a couple of times. "I'll bear that in mind," he said after the last cycle. "This how we're going to spend the rest of the afternoon? 'Course, if you want me to braid your hair, you're going to have to untie my arms first."

Meg leaned up against the mantel of the fireplace and crossed her arms. "As much fun as that sounds like, no. I'm just here to bring you some updates on what your would-be rescuers are up to."

Dean's face schooled itself into a blank mask. "Well, I'm still here, so I know what they're not doing."

"Rescuing you," Meg finished for him. "Alas, the angelic invasion forces have been completely stymied by the Gates of Fear and Blood. One or two have gotten through the Gates of Bone and Flesh, but they haven't gotten far. A little birdy friend of mine will be returning here with Raziel's wings as his trophy."

"Never met him. He was probably a dick. Most angels are," said Dean, his face still blank.

Meg clucked her tongue. "So ungrateful. He did give his eternal life for you, it's such poor taste to speak ill of the annihilated like that." Dean didn't reply but kept staring at a point just past her shoulder. "The Boy King-"

"Don't call him that," barked Dean.

Meg clasped her hand to her chest. "I'm so sorry, Dean, but the fact is, that's what Sam's calling himself these days." Dean swallowed, his throat working as his neck unconsciously twisted to shake his head 'no'. "I thought you'd get a kick out of that." She stepped forward again, this time trailing her fingers along the pulsing veins in his neck, the straining tendons in his shoulders, past the collar of brands that now decorated the deep red, blistered skin below his clavicle. "Half my dispatches lately are updates about the Boy King's rebellion. Would you like some excerpts? I've been committing them to memory."

Dean's jagged teeth were going to bite right through his pouty lips at this rate. Meg stood on her tip toes and leaned her clothed body flush against his naked front, rested her chin on his shoulder so she could whisper in his ear. "The Boy King can change the landscape of Hell without the power of any other soul to amplify his own. The Boy King has come to claim Hell as is his birthright. The Boy King will lay siege to the Citadel, slaughter me and my minions, and reclaim his brother." She stepped back to admire her own handiwork and was pleased to note that almost all of Dean had gone completely rigid. "So sweet that your codependence is strong enough to survive his turn to the darkside, isn't it?"

Dean looked down with half-hooded eyes. "Sam can't have gone too darkside if he's still coming here to slaughter you," he said under his breath. "And if he's set on being the Boy King, how exactly does that jive with your plan to let Lucifer ride him? I think you've got him wrong, Meg, I think this is all going wrong for you."

Meg shrugged. "Maybe." She smiled. "I doubt it." She turned away from Dean and walked towards the door. "I'll have to chat with the Boy King, see if he and I have more in common than I did with Sam Winchester." She turned back to Dean as she opened the door. "I'll be sure to let you know. In the meantime, I think you've had enough fun for today. Someone will be along shortly to take you back to your cell." Dean remained stoic, an observation that had Meg practically whistling as she headed down the corridor on the way to begin the next stage of her plan.


Dean woke up with his body restored more and more often. The demons weren't pulling their punches at all, but so long as he remembers the impermanence and unreality of his situation, Dean can roll with it. It isn't pleasant but none of it is any worse than what he'd gone through during his first tour of Hell and he'd survived that; he can survive this.

For all of the other demons' efforts, Dean dreads nothing else more than Meg walking into the room and announcing she has news. Over the next several months Castiel's forces, weakened by their own civil war, remained locked in holding position just outside the Gates of Fear and Blood and just inside of the Gates of Bone and Flesh. Meg gave him the details on the gorier sorties. He had to agree with her in wondering why the winged-idiots couldn't seem to stop dropping their special swords, which demons could, as it turned out, use while in Hell. Four angels - none of them Cas, she would have gloated about that for days - had given their lives. Dean took comfort in the fact that the tally of demon dead grew at a much faster rate, and that Meg's temper when he brought this up got shorter and shorter each time.

On a positive note, she never mentioned Lisa or Ben or Bobby. Dean knew that the first thing Sam would have done after he figured out what had happened to Dean would be to make sure that Lisa and Ben were safe; given that Castiel and Sam were down here, Sam obviously had taken them to Bobby's. Up there Dean had only been missing for around a day or so and it would take the demons far longer than that to get through all of the protections on the salvage yard. Bobby was a real bastard when it came to that sort of thing. For now, Dean didn't have to worry about them, which took a lot off of his mind, and the difference in the passing of time meant he didn't have to feel too guilty about how much they were worrying about him.

This left Dean plenty of time to worry about his brother. As Meg had said at the end of her last little update, "For someone who said he never wanted to be the General of Hell's armies, Sam's sure getting in a lot of practice." Dean knew he couldn't trust everything that Meg had to say, that she had no compunctions about lying or or telling him only those pieces of truth which would hurt Dean the most, but the other demons, even the hulking idiot ones, talked too, and the stories were terrifying in their consistency. The legend of the Boy King was growing along with the number of his legions. After four months or so, Sam was the apparent ruler of a quarter of the dimension, lesser-demons and even some prominent lords and ladies of the realm flocking to his banner or becoming his allies.

One night Anthony, a demon-flunky who'd painted Dean's skin with acid a few weeks before, appeared in his cell. "I'm leaving to join your brother's forces," he whispered.

"Huh?" Dean had been zoned out and tried to collect his thoughts as he sat up.

Anthony knelt in front of Dean, keeping his voice low. "The Boy King is going to win this war and I have no intention of being on the losing side." Anthony lowered his eyes. "I have no illusions about the Boy King's mercy, but you're still human. I can't get you out of here, I'm not powerful enough on my own, but if you agree not to demand revenge for what I did to you when this is all over, then I will pass along a message to your brother, sir." The title was added almost as an afterthought before the demon raised his gaze to look Dean in the face. Dean blinked. This was a trick, could be a trick, had to be a trick. Anthony's brow furrowed. "Please, you must be quick, sir - I must slip away soon, before the Queen of Spiders realizes my plan."

Dean shook his head. "No, no message: anything I have to say to Sam I'll say to him myself."

Anthony frowned as he rose. "Very well, sir."

Dean groaned. "Listen- just, if Sam asks, he doesn't need to know any details about what's happening to me in here. They haven't broken me yet." The demon nodded before disappearing and Dean lay back down on the bench. He had no idea what had just happened, but he was pretty sure he'd handled it as best he could. If Anthony really was headed to join up with Sam, then Sam didn't need to hear the gory details of what was going on here and Dean hadn't exactly promised Anthony anything. If, however, it was a trick of Meg's, and Dean allowed himself a tiny moment of hope that it was, then Dean hadn't told her anything she didn't already know. Dean never saw Anthony again: whether that meant he'd escaped to Sam or that he'd been caught by Meg or that it had all been a trick, Dean didn't know, and Meg never brought the topic up. Then again, plenty of demons had disappeared from the Citadel since Dean had arrived as the multiple fronts of war continued to take their toll.

All Dean knew was that shortly after that night, Meg began changing her tactics with him. The first shift was one Dean had been expecting. Dusty, the branding-iron demon, led Dean to the doorway of a chamber with two racks and a soul already strapped to one of them: a pretty young blonde with enormous blue eyes and even bigger- well, maybe implants made it to Hell along with the soul. "You have two choices," said Dusty, his pointed teeth glinting in the torchlight. "Either you will torture this soul, or you'll be put on the rack next to her while I get to work and whatever I do to you, she will experience with three times the intensity."

Dean peered back into the chamber and shrugged. "Two things. One: she's in Hell, she must have done something to get here, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who'll be torturing her. Second: you know as well as I do that with one wave of your hand all the physical damage is going to be wiped away." He crossed his arms and smiled at Dusty, whose nose wrinkled in anger. "So, option number one it is." Dean strode into the chamber and cut her and burned her and ignored her screams and didn't for one moment allow himself to show any remorse for his actions, didn't shed a single tear even in private when Haley's pleas for mercy echoed in his head. Hell had been honing his acting skills, and they didn't make him do it again. Which was fine by him: wounds healed but memories remained and they would linger long after he left this place.

The next change, however, threw him for a loop. A couple of weeks after he tortured Haley, Dean woke up to find his cell had changed. He was no longer surprised to find his body restored, but it was a little alarming to wake up on a bed with an actual mattress, under some not horrible-feeling blankets, to find that his cell now included pea-soup green carpet and a small bathroom with no door. Also, his chains were absent, though the door to the hall remained magically-sealed shut and the false window still flickered with hellfire.

Dean took the opportunity to pace barefoot around the room several times before he tried the faucets in the bathroom shower. They didn't start pouring out human blood, just warm water that smelled slightly of sulfur. He let them run for a few minutes and when no gory change in condition occurred, he looked around the room, stripped, and took a quick shower. There wasn't any soap or towels but if he scrubbed hard enough he was able to get the blood off of his skin by the time the sulfur stink became too much for him.

He darted out of the shower - never knew who might be watching in Hell, where privacy and dignity weren't privileges accorded to the damned - and used one of the blankets from the bed to dry off. As he pulled his t-shirt and the loose sweatpants back on, he realized that though they were still only thin cotton, they were of better quality than the clothes he normally found himself dressed in here. For the first time since he'd arrived here he was neither too cold nor too hot. Dean eased back onto the bed, watched the window, and waited for the shoe to drop.

A few hours later, the door opened and a demon he'd never seen before walked through it with a tray of food in hand. "What's going on?" Dean asked but the demon paid him no mind, just put the tray on the floor and walked out. Dean grunted, hefted himself off of the bed, and walked over to the tray. Before this they'd always just shoved some kind of gruel down his throat while he was on the rack. He prodded the lumpy stew with his finger - no utensils had been provided - and inhaled cautiously. Thanks to the many occasions Dusty had used his irons to take out his frustration on Dean, Dean could have easily identified the distinctive aroma of cooked human flesh - this wasn't. He raised the wooden bowl to his face and touched the end of his tongue to the gravy. It didn't taste like much other than salt and warm, but after a few minutes he hadn't collapsed in convulsions and if it was going to turn his stomach, at least now he had a toilet to sit on. He picked up the tray and brought it over to the bed where he ate it all, not ashamed to lick the bowl clean. The cup of water smelled a bit of sulfur but he held his nose and drank it down. He laid back when he was done and waited.

For two days nothing else happened. The same demon brought meals at irregular intervals that made it easy to lose track of time. He didn't respond to the questions Dean tossed at him, and Dean didn't wake up in the torture chambers once. He didn't trust it, but it felt as real as anything could in Hell - some kind of frequent flier bonus. 'And on your second stay, after seven months you'll be treated to an upgrade for your loyal damnation'. He was still bored, nothing to do but exercise and pace and sleep and watch the window between meals and showers, but it wasn't like the couple of times they'd tried putting him through sensory deprivation either. He didn't let himself get comfortable, because that was the only reason he could think of for these new accommodations: Meg was softening him up for something and he couldn't let his guard down.

He actually jumped on the third day when the door swung open and Meg walked through. She snorted at his response as she waved her hand to slam the door shut behind her. Dean caught himself grabbing at the blankets while she leveled her brown eyes at him. "Hello, Dean."

"Hello, Meg." He wasn't squirming but he sure as hell wasn't going to stand up for her. Instead he straightened his back against the wall.

"I see you've settled in." Dean fought the urge to kick the covers off of his legs when she added, "Practically burrowed in, from the looks of it."

Dean shrugged. "I've stayed in worse joints than this. Of course, the vermin are bigger here."

Meg pursed her lips. "Why, Dean, did you just call me vermin?"

"Sorry about that. Come to think of it, you have more in common with cockroaches." She rolled her eyes and he continued. "Fine, fine. You win. I have no idea what you're up to with this. What gives? You decide you like me or something, because it's a little late for that."

Meg shook her head. "I don't like this any more than I like you, but I'm afraid I don't have too many choices left." She tilted her head and sighed, staring at the window for a few seconds. "I've had to come to an understanding with the Boy King."

A chill ran down Dean's spine, the way it always did when she used that name for Sam. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" he breathed out before he could stop himself.

Meg looked down at her hands, picking under her nails. "It means that I've had to give in to some of his demands. One of which dictated how you were to be treated from now on." She bit her lips together. "You'll tell him, right? That I did this." She started speaking faster, spitting the words out. "That you got food and it wasn't poisoned or anything and everything else was fine: no more torture? Hell really doesn't get any better than this, you of all people should be able to say that."

Dean leaned forward and held up his hands. "What the fuck are you talking about? You're not fooling me for one goddamn second, Meg, I know you're not scared."

Meg's eyes flashed black and she shrieked at him, "I am never scared, Winchester!" Her fingers had curled into claws and her nails had lengthened. Dean braced himself as it looked like she was about to jump on him and rip his eyes out but she caught herself at the last moment, drew her hands down and smoothed them over her clothes. She tipped her head forward, staring at the ground. "Your brother will be here soon. You'll tell him that I did as he asked. Others have seen. Don't you lie to him, Dean: he'll know." With that final warning she jerked her arm and the door swung open allowing her to stalk out.

The door slammed shut and Dean was left alone with his very confused thoughts. He didn't dare to hope that she was telling the truth; he didn't let himself dread it either. There was nothing he could do until Sam arrived. Dean did catch himself pacing more frequently. He jumped the next few times that the nameless demon came by with the trays.

A week or so after Meg's outburst, after the exhaustion of constantly watching the door had caught up to him, Dean woke up when the door to his cell creaked open. He blinked a little as he tried to let his eyes adjust to the additional light before shielding them with his hand and groaning, "Sammy, that you?"

The figure stopped a few paces past the door that shut without him making a gesture. "Yeah, Dean, it's me." In the dim light Dean could see a tight smile on his brother's face as he shrugged out of his sweatshirt and dropped it to the ground.

Dean shot up to his feet and stomped across the room, still a bit groggy, and shoved his finger into the broad chest. "What the hell, man? You the Boy King now, because that's all I've been hearing about lately. What the fuck-" but Dean was cut off as he was grabbed by the throat and slammed up against the wall.

"Shut up, Dean." Sam's chest rose and fell against his own several times. He smelled of smoke and char. "It wasn't exactly a picnic getting in here, and we're not out of the woods yet." Sam's gloved hand fell from Dean's throat but before Dean could get another word in he felt himself being flung across the room by an unseen force and all the breath was knocked out of him as his gut pressed up into the edge of the bed and this was all happening too fast for him to keep up with and he felt his brother's weight press up behind him, pushing his face harder into the mattress and his knees apart, deeper into the rough pile of the carpet. "Gotta keep you safe, get what I came for. Gotta get this out of the way, Dean." He didn't stop jabbering as strong hands ripped the thin cotton of Dean's clothes off of his body and seized his flailing arms to stop his struggles, the heat pouring off of Sam's body keeping the chill away.

Dean kept shouting 'stop' into the mattress but the words were muffled by fabric that stank and tasted of sweat and the sulfur water Dean had been bathing in since it appeared. "It's the demons, Dean. They don't understand brotherhood or love. Just possession and control." Over his own protests Dean could hear the zip of a metal fly coming down and warm flesh rather than denim brushed against the back of his thighs while his heels lamely kicked into solid calves. "Told them not to touch you again, told them you were mine. And down here, you are so very mine." Dean heard a wet pop and then felt something he hadn't felt in ages, the sensation of slick, blunt fingers pressing into him, forcing themselves past resistant muscle. He bucked his whole body at that violation but couldn't push his brother's weight off, in fact pushed the digits in deeper and he couldn't fucking breathe to scream- "Stop that, Dean, relax. Things are different down here, the rules are different. I'm gonna change things now that I'm in control, but we gotta do this at least once." Despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins, Dean made himself relax, knew from his experiences with Alastair the damage that could be done if he didn't. He heard Sam's chuckle. "Much better, Dean." The fingers withdrew and something larger, hotter, pulsing with blood and need, pressed up in their place. Dean whimpered at the feeling of being split wide open, invaded. "That's it. Only gotta do it this once." Sam's voice choked off as he seated himself fully. "Course, if it doesn't completely suck, we can do it again," he grunted before he pulled out and thrust back in.

Dean took advantage of the next withdrawal to turn his head to the side, yelped at the in-stroke, but managed to gasp, "Aren't you worried about that thing I caught from the waitress in Dayton?" as teeth bit into the flesh where his neck met his shoulder.

He could feel hot breath huff against the back of his neck. "One of the perks of being the Boy King of Hell is immunity to that kind of thing."

Dean winced but now he could concentrate on saying, in an even voice, "I'll let Sam know about that. By the way, Meg, the waitress was in Tampa. Tap my shoulder when you're done back there so that I can go wash your filth off of my skin."

She stuttered to a halt, but it was still Sam's voice that replied, "Oh, you're good, Dean." She rocked back into him and he let her, no longer worth it to struggle now that he'd figured out the game. "Maybe even as good as you think you are," she whispered into his ear, and those were the last words she said.

Meg took her time finishing, didn't even have the goddamn common courtesy to give him a reach-around, but he was long past caring by the time she tapped his shoulder, lay there limp until after he heard the door swing shut. His nose already full of the sulfur stink, he took his time in the shower, thankful that one of the few pleasures available in Hell was a seemingly endless supply of hot water. He wrapped himself in his towel-blanket and hobbled to the corner of the room furthest from the bed and the door where he slumped down and let sleep claim him.

When he woke up the bathroom, carpet, and bed were gone and his chains were back. At least they let him keep the blanket. Watching the flares of hellfire, he indulged himself briefly, let himself think about all the other things Meg had said about Sam that might be lies too, that maybe Sam really wasn't the Boy King at all. He didn't think about himself at any point; for now, he would remain nameless.

Crowley had managed to keep himself intact and relatively autonomous since the the Battle of Hastings - when his first taste of death had turned him off of the experience entirely - by cultivating an enormously complicated network of spies that allowed him to make informed decisions in almost any situation and, if the informed decision didn't work out, to deal his way out instead. He supplemented this one weapon by purging himself of all scruples, save for insisting that he survive every situation. Freed to maneuver, Crowley could then rely on his own clever, warped mind to find a way out any trap: physical, magical, or otherwise. Crowley didn't just inspire the Spanish Inquisition: he'd survived the bloody thing; Crowley could survive anything.

Even so, in his most private thoughts, Crowley had recently come to terms with the notion that he'd cocked this deal up royally.

"Evil. Fucking. Hell-bitch." The Boy King's skin had gone bone white. The courier swallowed and stepped back. Then the room fell into a moment of perfect still silence before the Boy King's head tipped back and he screamed "Fuck!"

It was a lovely, pitch-perfect note of wretched despair that rang through the room and Crowley took a moment to appreciate it before lunging across the table to grab any important papers and shove them safely into his case. Grand Vizier to the Boy King wasn't necessarily a bad position, unless your liege lord was in the mood to watch heads roll. And there one went. No great loss: a flunky who didn't wait until after breakfast to deliver the Citadel reports was obviously suicidal. Crowley didn't understand why Sam insisted on hearing every detail of Dean's torture even though the Boy King refused to press his petition to free Dean until he could do it at the head of Hell's Armies. If only Crowley could have laughed without being gutted - Sam's psychotic break was better than the Odd Couple: it was the greatest show in Hell.

His eyes flickered over to Sam, who'd managed to set his knife on the table without further casualties. Did he dare hope Sammy's masochist had beaten out the Boy King's sadist for once? Crowley was about to commend Sam's control when the Boy King's nostrils flared and the huff of air blew out every window in the room; shrieks from the courtyard marked each pane's razor-sharp landing. In this mood, the Boy King had no compunctions at all about playing ten-pins with a fresh head on every bowl.

The bastard kept rolling strikes, which was the only reason Crowley hadn't long since made himself scarce. Well, that and the fact that Sam had indicated that he found Crowley's head most useful right where it was - on his shoulders, in Sam's line of sight when possible. At the same time, the Boy King's explicit distrust and implicit threats counted among the highest marks of respect. Which was why Crowley didn't scramble for the door but grabbed the report away before Sam could read any more of it.

He perused the five page record - more detail than normal for this particular incident and Crowley really needed to send them new directives limiting this kind of thing - flipping past the point where Sam had cut off their late-courier. Oh. He'd have to burn this spy as soon as possible: with descriptions like this he was never going to be rid of that mental image. Nasty business. He coughed and shook his head, tucking the report away. Cruel, twisted, and simple, but still: he'd been expecting something a bit more from the Queen of Spiders after three weeks of nothing. The packet also included follow-up reports of the aftermath; so far as Crowley could tell, after the rape Dean remained essentially Dean, if a bit quieter. Which would be a nice change.

He looked up at the Boy King, and the dagger he kept flipping in the air. Then next demon to walk past the door wouldn't live to regret it. Crowley couldn't help but feel that he was missing something. "Pardon me if I sound a bit callous, but exactly how is this crossing the line? Three months ago she kept him conscious for two hours while she reassembled his digestive tract on the table next to him."

The Boy King's fist was halfway to Crowley's jaw when it abruptly changed course and slammed against the table, sending plates and flatware shaking into the air. Crowley bit his lips together. Okay, perhaps not the most tactful reply he'd ever thought of; tact had never been his strong suit and human attitudes about sex hadn't made sense to him since before Victoria's reign in England. Pillage, rape; rape, pillage: it was all a bit 'to-may-to, to-mah-to', wasn't it? Then again, this was why Crowley had signed on for deal-making rather than the torture chambers - his knack lay in manipulating people with their short-sighted dreams, not their equally short-sighted nightmares. Watching Sam crumple in on himself, Crowley reminded himself to give nightmares their due credit. And then he tried to figure out how the hell he'd gotten here in the first place.

Back on Earth it hadn't been a horrible plan to start: he would play Virgil to Sam's Dante, assess the damage caused by the Queen of Spiders, and check out the new pups at the kennel. Given the chance, he'd pit a few ancient rivals against each other so that they'd take out the last vestiges of Azazel's old cadre and Crowley wouldn't have to. If he was lucky, he'd build up a little more power down in the Pit and solidify his primary position on Earth, which Crowley much preferred to Hell. Hell was miserable.

Unfortunately, misery was the Winchesters' natural habitat. So while Crowley tried to arrange a quick, stealthy rescue plan simple enough to withstand Winchester luck and general idiocy, Sam took on a grandiose title and decided that Dean could just sit tight on the rack while Sam started the revolution without him. Foresight, recognition of a world outside of their tiny, dysfunctional circle, and hints of a subtle, well-reasoned long-term strategy from a Winchester? When his brother was in immediate and ongoing peril? Surely no one could blame Crowley for being blindsided by this turn of events.

But he adjusted to his role as Grand Vizier to Hell's new Boy King as best he could. While shifting his plans to include the Boy King's conquest of Hell, Crowley realized he'd been a little too free with sharing information with Sam early on; had let it slip he had connections and informants, anticipating that the customary Winchester-thickness would filter out ninety-nine percent of the most relevant information before it made it past his ear drums. The Boy King, however, didn't just hear, he listened - and the prick was too bloody clever by half. Dangled the carrot of power just right so that by the time Crowley realized the threat there was no exit left. The Boy King depended on Crowley's information to win this war; Crowley depended on the Boy King's mercy to not kill him on a whim. One of those conditions was finite and the other one didn't exist, which gave Crowley some tight time constraints, but he usually did well under deadlines.

Further research, however, only made the outlook worse: Azazel's gift to Sam - the title of 'Boy King' - was one of the few royal titles in Hell that wasn't just self-styled grandstanding, but an ancient mantle which granted the bearer extensive powers and abilities. The situation became unbearable when Crowley failed to uncover the exact extent or ultimate source of those powers. Once again Crowley was well and truly buggered by Azazel's schemes. He might have felt a brief pang of sympathy for the Winchesters- but no, that was just an extra strong frisson of 'fuck me, I'm still in Hell,' where the title of 'Boy King' had remained vacant since Azazel killed the last one way back in the ziggurat days, long before Crowley's time. This consigned it to demonic legend and oral memory, which was only slightly more reliable than demonic written lore (where the authors had time to think their lies all the way through), which was to say: not at all. Crowley could only speculate that Azazel had won the title as death right, but that begged the question of why Azazel never assumed it himself. Most likely Azazel had entrusted an heir or two with the secret. This would be more helpful if Azazel's scions weren't all (with the possible exception of Sam) actively engaged in trying to kill Crowley. Thwarted at every turn, Crowley only remaining source of information was surreptitious observation of his taciturn, increasingly cruel and capricious liege lord.

And that honorific was never going to sound natural.

Sam shot to his feet and broke Crowley out of his reverie. He waved his arms around in a circle, paced twice across the room, before settling down to stare at the Citadel. They were deep in the heartlands, in the highest tower of one of Beleth's keeps, but the Citadel wasn't much more a grey smudge on the horizon. Sam rocked back and forth on his heels and elbows. Crowley could wait. "It's different," Sam said finally, sounding like he was dry heaving the words out. "She's using me against him."

Crowley controlled the urge to ask what else was new and waited for Sam to provide an actual explanation but the Boy King said nothing else while he stared outside. Gloved hands clutched the window frame hard enough to warp the stone under his fingers. Crowley's twitched at the sight: ever since they'd arrived in Hell the bastard never went anywhere without wearing the bloody things. They made him nervous: the minor, visible change that heralded all the others.

"What's with the poncy gloves anyway? Decide the hair doesn't make you look enough of a fop?" he had asked Sam with the casual sarcasm he could sometimes use as late as seven months ago. That had started as a good day: the Boy King had just accepted Marquis Decarabia's unconditional surrender on the fringe of the Latini Desert.

Sam had shrugged, drowsy and a little drunk, then drawn a circle in the air with his finger and replied, "Everything down here feels slimy to me."

Back then, Crowley had taken the 'slimy' dig personally, had spat on the ground to call bullshit: in the Latini Desert, any free moisture magically evaporated in seconds. "Is that right?"

Sam had sobered at that and looked down at his reports instead of answering. "So what else have you discovered about this angel-slaying Marquis?" Eventually one of Decarabia's minions spilled his guts - and along with them the fact that Decarabia had also been the demon personally responsible for subduing Dean for Meg. Then the Boy King called a special assembly so that he could slice open Decarabia's veins and let the demon feel his own blood boil away as he died. Which was fair enough, but then the Boy King selected and slaughtered thirty of Decarabia's former vassals at random - one for every day Dean had suffered. It had been early days yet and Crowley had still been surprised by the Boy King's casual acts of cruelty then.

The Boy King always insisted on a soothing bath after a good massacre, and that night, slumped over a sofa in Sam's room in his semi-conscious drunken haze, Crowley discovered that Sam removed the gloves before he stepped in the bath. Crowley had made a point of spying on bare-handed Sam at least once every few weeks to make sure nothing had changed, but the gloves never hid a damn thing other than knuckles, which weren't even embarrassingly hairy or horrifically scarred. It had been a bit of a disappointment, but secrets and lies - and especially secret lies - had their own currency. Crowley personally guarded Sam's bath chambers thereafter.

Sam had been a bit concerned at first. "This new habit of yours is both intrusive and creepy."

"Don't care," replied Crowley with a shrug. "Sacrifices must be made," he said as he stretched out on the sofa. "Half of Hell already thinks we're fucking anyway," he added and that at least had gotten Sam to start dressing himself with the bloody doors shut, much to Crowley's relief. Now Crowley was certain he was the only one who ever had the opportunity to peek under those gloves.

Crowley's patience in both protecting and trying to understand the ruse had culminated during treaty negotiations last week. Princess Plata of the Poison Tongue, mistress of one hundred and ten legions, had pulled Crowley aside. "It appears the Boy King En-fleshed is more powerful than even we had anticipated."

Crowley waved a hand. "He's had a decent run of luck."

"And some good advice," said the Princess. "Which so often goes unappreciated."

Crowley flashed his teeth in almost a smile. "Cagey demon like you, only a fool wouldn't pay attention to your words. I bet even old Modo himself pays you mind," and her alone, according to very reliable informants.

Plata folded her hands together. "Sometimes. Of course, Modo has not roused since Azazel's coup."

The King of the Crossroads had very precise, mind-boggling figures on how quickly Modo converted souls to demons. It seemed five thousand centuries in semi-retirement had only made the King of the Nine Hells meaner and more powerful. Crowley tried to keep his slight case of hero worship under control. "If he wants vengeance on Azazel's house he's going to have to hurry along before my lord finishes them off." Azazel's last remaining scions hadn't left the Citadel in weeks, since the Boy King sent Meg a fine gift of twenty chalices, all matched skulls from demons Azazel brought over. He'd done it all despite Crowley's protests that some of them were deft hands in the torture chamber and demons didn't just grow on trees these days, you know. Unless, apparently, you were Modo.

"They have a number of shared interests. Modo commends your lord's youthful enthusiasm and views on Lucifer." Princess Plata slanted her eyes from side to side. "Should I be able to confirm to Modo that Winchester's touch alone can cause a greater demon's final death - had you not supplied the spelled-gloves - and also that Winchester will never again consent to Lucifer, then Modo could be persuaded to involve himself." Plata nodded, looking at a point past Crowley's shoulder and Crowley turned to see the Boy King reply by tipping his head to the side. He turned back as the Princess sighed with an unattractive grimace. "And you, Crossroads King, will remember how receptive we are to sound advice, should your liege grow deaf in his meatsuit's age."

That was the prize: the escape route that Crowley had lacked since the Boy King's arrival. Always had to think two wars ahead in Hell, and a bird in the bush was better than none at all when your boss was a quasi-schizophrenic, emotionally unstable demi-god. If nothing else, Modo's inevitable betrayal should distract the Boy King long enough for Crowley to make it back to Earth. Where he could nap for a decade or so while things settled out down here.

A few vague non-denials had been sufficient to make Poison Tongue grant every other concession that the Boy King requested and then gift Crowley personally with ten legions, five thousand souls, and the deed to a minor property in the Wastes. All this, and the grand old royalty of Hell had been enticed to offer it by a version of the gloves rumor that was restrained compared to most of the other stories circulating.

Crowley had been quite pleased with his maneuvering, right up until the moment Plata had leaned across the table to whisper her true name's pledge, Amaymom, into the Boy King's ear. Cupping his right hand over her eyes, Sam had caught Crowley's gaze, smirked, and slid the tip of his left index finger down the side of his nose. An unmistakable grifter sign indicating... well, that was the trick, wasn't it? Crowley still had no bloody clue what Sam had meant. But it hadn't taken him long after that to realize that Sam might have been pushing him in this very direction all along. And Crowley was now complicit in the scheme and still didn't have an exit plan and the realization that Sam had somehow manipulated him disturbed Crowley on more levels than he liked to admit. Falling for another one of the Boy King's schemes would have been one thing, but that gesture had been pure Sam Winchester.

Unless Crowley was the one hallucinating, cracked under the pressure. No one else ever noticed Sam any more, everyone else just saw the Boy King. No, Crowley was certain about this, could tell them apart from across the room even in dim light.

Grand Vizier Crowley would have been far happier if Sam Winchester were his liege lord. Crowley preferred his liege lords some combination of absent, impotent, indolent, or thick, and the Boy King was none of the above. Everything had gone wrong once he'd shown up, for Sam and Crowley both. After crushing the Mountains of Dis, Sam Winchester should have marched straight to the Citadel all on his own and without so much as a fare thee well. He would have discovered that the reality of Hell grew less malleable as it approached the Citadel, rendering his powers far weaker at the vital moment only when it was far too late. Sam Winchester should have gotten himself captured and more likely than not have guaranteed his brother's eternal damnation rather than reignite the apocalypse. It wasn't a Winchester plan if the victory wasn't Pyrrhic.

A Winchester would have never returned to Malphas' dining room for a glass of sherry and then spent the rest of the night drafting letters to potential allies while his brother remained their insane nemesis' captive. But that's what the Boy King had done - he'd called the peers of Hell to court, and the peers of Hell had listened. They pledged their names to the Boy King's banner. And that sort of power - well, it made vaporizing mountain ranges look like a cheap party trick. By the time the court had closed, two months later, Crowley was no closer to understanding the Boy King, but had developed a healthy fear of his power.

His charisma alone could destroy worlds. The very best demons were cynical, vindictive, violent, treacherous, avaricious, intractable, calculating bastards; Crowley happily included himself in their ranks. The bad were even more violent and more stubborn, but also cowardly, stupid, and superstitious, while the worst were simply stark raving loony like Meg. As a rule, demons didn't play well with others. Add extended life-spans to the mix and as a result, with the exception of Malphas and Halphas, every surviving lord and lady of Hell had allied with and subsequently betrayed every single other lord or lady at least twice. Uniting any significant number of them should have taken decades even with Hell's depleted population. But a mere eight months after his arrival, the Boy King controlled more than half of the territory and nearly half of the demonic population in Hell. For every minion he slaughtered at breakfast, two replacements would appear by the afternoon. Even six months ago, Crowley would have called this balancing act of persuasion by terror and charisma impossible - but he witnessed everything from his position of relative immunity at the Boy King's left hand.

That same hand now pointed at the Citadel, trembling with emotion. "She was warned," he growled, an eerie combination of Sam's words and the Boy King's intonation, referring to the idiotic compromise they'd reached two months back. Unable to either accelerate the Boy King's plan or convince their demonic allies to fight alongside angels, Sam had sent Meg that ridiculous message full of threats and demands for Dean's treatment. It had been a tactical error on every level and Crowley had known it. But he'd allowed it because Sam needed something and he'd take Sam Winchester as his boss over the Boy King every damn day for the rest of eternity.

"Told her not to touch him, not to hurt him. She's got no idea..."

Crowley blinked: they hardly ever spoke in concert more than a sentence at a time. He still didn't understand the line, but Meg had evidently crossed it. An odd light sparked in his eyes and Crowley held his breath until Sam shuddered, his shoulders racking up and down as he collapsed into sobs.

This definitely wasn't in Crowley's job description. He took a few steps backwards and leaned against the wall, folding his hands behind him and waiting for Sam to finish weeping. This was just plain uncomfortable is what it was. After a minute he returned to the table and pulled the papers out of his case. If Sam was going to keep carrying on then someone had to keep the wheels in motion, and there were a number of offers on the table from fence-straddling peers which needed prompt replies if they weren't going to flip to Meg's side.

Eventually Sam's snuffles petered off and Crowley looked up. Look on his snot bubbles, ye mighty, and despair. He looked back at the papers but offered Sam a napkin so that he could clean up before anyone else got a look at that mess. His eyes rolled at the cartoon-ish nose blowing behind him but managed to compose himself by the time that Sam rejoined him at the table. Best not to dwell on that last bit. "Right then, so I think we should meet with-"

The Boy King wiped his hand across his face. "No, no more meetings."

Crowley frowned. "But-"

"No. This needs to stop. I can't leave him there any longer," said the Boy King, that peculiar glimmer back in his eye.

Crowley cleared his throat. "You had just said that we needed-" and now that glove was wrapping around Crowley's throat.

"What,” and he shook Crowley's head for emphasis with every word, “I said before doesn’t matter." The Boy King dropped Crowley back into his seat but Crowley overbalanced and fell to the ground. His liege lord loomed over him. "Things are different now." The Boy King grabbed Crowley by the collar and pulled him to his feet with one hand, while grabbing a map from the other side of the table. "You will send word to our allies that they are to assemble their legions here," and here he shoved Crowley's head down so that his nose pressed into the rallying point, "on the shores of Lake Cocytus, within three days time. I will not tolerate any excuses or equivocations. The time for games has ended."

He released his grip and Crowley stumbled backwards. He steadied himself, tried to regain a semblance of control. "They'll want more time than that."

"They can't have it. Tardy parties will be summoned by name and put on the front lines without their legions to protect them." The Boy King gave a mirthless laugh that made Crowley's stomach turn over. "And afterwards they'd better hope I'm feeling merciful." The Boy King arched his eyebrows, daring Crowley to challenge him.

Crowley still had some spine. "If we do this now-" but cut himself off as the Boy King's dagger levitated off of the table and flew into his face, stopping millimeters away from his eye. Crowley swallowed and watched the blade rotate in space.

"This is happening now." His voice lowered. "And before you say another word, understand that after this battle, you'll be the last demon left in Hell whose name I don't know. Which means you're about to be a lot more expendable. Don't you want to be on my good side?" Crowley didn't trust himself to say anything, just gave a tiny nod of assent. "Good. Make it happen. I'll go inform our host that we'll be leaving immediately." And with that, the Boy King strode out of the room.

Crowley stared after him for a short while afterwards, then straightened and went to go file the dispatches. Time, it seemed, had caught up to him. But that was no matter. There would be hundreds of them going out and plenty of confusion as the entire castle prepared to head to war. No one but the Boy King would question his decision to deliver the orders to Plata and Modo personally - and he wouldn't know Crowley had gone until it was too late.


He loses track of a lot of things after that night, including his self. He floats in and out of awareness, catches glimpses of his body back on the rack, shadows of hellfire, snatches of conversation with no context. He knows he's waiting for something, looking for something, but until then, he might as well float on.

He drifts through a haze of mixed up sensations. He remembers the smell of sunshine and the taste of green. Kirk Hammet's guitar solos feel like leather and tin and the wildflower petals he trailed through Cassie's hair. Blood sounds like a siren that chases him away. Back off. Don't need to be here. The secret ingredient isn't available, still on back-order, call back next Tuesday.

All these months in Hell he had ignored his memories and refused to contemplate the future. Banned from the present now, he takes leisurely tours of both. Just the stuff on Earth though, he's had enough of Hell. But his life is complicated; he remembers imaginary pasts and futures that never happened with such clarity - he knows he was never a logger in Washington, that his brother didn't disappear forever the Christmas before his deal came due, though killing a velociraptor with a laser beam one day could be kind of cool - but the false memories feel so real, he remembers them just as well as he remembers his brother's high school graduation. His brother hadn't told him about it, didn't think he would care about some stupid ceremony. But he had been so proud to see his little brother (always little, no matter how many more growth spurts he had) walk across that plywood stage, flip that stupid gold tassel (not red like most of those idiots, but honors gold) to the left side of his mortarboard. He didn't need a bunch of polyester thread to tell him Sam is a genius.

Sam.

That's what he was waiting for. He needs to find Sam. But his body isn't going anywhere on its own, so Dean has to wait for Sam to come to him and then...

His mind floats on.

He doesn't have any idea how many days have passed when he finally wakes up, but there is one thing he knows for sure: today he'll see Sam again. And there's something he forgot, something important he'd shoved back in the furthest reaches of his brain for safekeeping before he'd taken that little walkabout. But it's okay. He is serene. He'll remember when the time comes.

By the time that Dusty shows up at his door and orders him to "Shut up and follow me," he's settled back into himself a little better. He's a little troubled by the fact that his soul - mind - whatever that was - is also some kind of hippie space-cadet. He still can't remember what he decided to forget and he's starting to get really worried.

Or maybe he's just reaching for anything else to worry about other than that other question, the one he can't forget. He gets a little aftertaste of that serene feeling at the thought. He walks on, his posture improving with every step. Once he knows that answer, he knows that everything else will fall into place. Until then he just has to be Dean Winchester. He knows how to do that; just needs to add a little swagger to his step as he mounts these stairs and Dean's smooth, so smooth, to pull that off while wearing leg irons.

So it was that after many (nine? ten? how the fuck should he know?) months of captivity, Dean Winchester emerged from the depths of the Citadel with a smirk on his face. His eyes widened slightly as two minions grabbed his upper arms and dragged him forward to the parapets. It was a good view up here: he could see for miles but among the things he couldn't see was an end to the armed hordes of demons that circled the keep. The innermost ring faced outwards, defenders, but after a few hundred yards there was a thin break of no man's land between them and the sea of attacking forces beyond. Dean centered himself, checking for any sign of illusion, found none and couldn't help but whistle in quiet awe at the sheer number of demons assembled. Sam better have a damn good explanation...

Dean was so caught up in searching through the faces of the crowd that he didn't flinch at all when Meg called out from her position just to his right, "Boy King, is this the soul whose release you seek?" There weren't any microphones or anything but the laws of physics didn't apply in Hell and Dean suspected even the unseen edges of the crowd heard her every word as clear as he did. The field of troops shimmered with motion as millions of demons shifted in response, the attackers all craning their necks in order to - oh. Dean shifted a little under the weight of so many stares but managed to raise his hand in a sheepish wave. He still couldn't-

"That is the man whom you will now release to me, Queen of Spiders," and Dean could track that voice to its source, drink in every detail of the sight: a tall figure standing alone, a few paces ahead of the rest of the attackers in an idiotically exposed position and, as ever, in desperate need of a haircut.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean called out and the figure flexed his shoulders - peeved and indignant, if Dean wasn't mistaken. It occurred to him that the Boy King might dislike that nickname even more than Sam did. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. His body wasn't the one on the rack that whole time, though he must have been pretty busy from the looks of things. The demonic hordes are still staring and Dean wishes he could scale this all down, wasn't expecting such a grand finale. What had he been expecting? Something. But he needs to focus, wouldn't mind a pair of binoculars. He needs to get a closer look and it's so hard to tell from up here.

Is he looking at Sam or the Boy King? That's the question. Dean squints, leans forward, and finds the answer. Takes him about three seconds. After twenty years of practice anyway.

Dean couldn't tell you how he did it. It was simply something he'd always done, checking for something wrong every time he lost track of Sam for even a moment or two. Separation meant Dean hadn't been there to look out for Sam. Take his eye off the kid for a second and he'd fall out of a tree or pet a rattlesnake or rally the legions of Hell: he was creative like that. Over the years, Dean's mind had streamlined the process so that it required little to no energy, conscious thought, or time. By the time Sam left for Stanford, it wasn't something Dean did so much as something Dean was: a function of being him. Dean looked, saw, and understood.

And oh, wow, did Sam look pissed. Dean followed the glare down and to the right and discovered the Meg had unsheathed a long, curved sword and was raising it in an arc over her head. Dean figured he should be scared, but he was snorting out a laugh. How many times had she carved him open? Bring it, bitch.

The blade swung down on Dean. Chains bound his legs to each other, chains bound his hands together, but Meg's blade descended once again and this time Dean wasn't on the rack. Wasn't tied to anything but himself. So Dean was able to raise his arms, spread them as far as he could, and instead of cutting into his flesh, Meg's sword caught the the links of his chain. For a moment their eyes met: human green bore down on demonic black. And oh, wow, did Meg look pissed. It was only a second before the minions grabbed him, slugged him, pulled him back, but that gave Dean just enough time to wink and say, "Not today."

His brother wasn't getting pummeled, so he could say a lot more and if this was any indication then Dean was going to have a really tough time following the rest of the conversation. "I told you his soul is not yours to torment and you react by attempting to strike him in my sight? Queen of Spiders, are you so flippant with the conditions of all your contracts, or only the ones beholden to your office and standing?" Dean grinned; he didn't have a clue what Sam was going on about, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Meg lowered the blade slowly, resting the flat of it along Dean's bicep, the tip of it touching just behind his ear. "I was merely going to test your contention that this is a piece of flesh rather than a soul. Meat feels so different when you cut."

Dean held still, didn't flinch. "Oh, I'm plenty real," he said.

Meg ignored him. "But I do wonder, to what contract are you referring? I've no recollection of brokering any deals with the Boy King. There was one letter, an infantile pastiche of demands with no regard for the protocols required in begging a favor of the Citadel's mistress." Dean still didn't flinch but really hoped his brother couldn't see her other hand running down the side of his back. "For it is my right to do as I will with all souls in my keeping. Surely that must have been a prank submitted by one of your more fanatical followers? I bore it no regard, I would never insult the Boy King by believing him capable of such a childish tantrum."

Sam's voice ran cold. "Remove your hands from my brother's flesh."

Meg laughed, her hand grasping the back of Dean's thigh. "Jealous, Boy King?"

"I will not say it again, Phthirus," hissed Sam. A few laughs echoed across the plains and the pendulum shifted. Dean shifted with it, didn't get the joke, stuck in the center of a universe where everyone else spoke a different language, but happier now that Meg did remove her hands to point her sword at Sam.

"That is not my name, boy!"

Sam smiled broadly. "It isn't? You have so many, I must have been confused. As you seem to be: your contract is not with the Boy King but with the entire realm. As mistress of the Citadel, you are bound by the terms of the Orpheus Clause to release any soul from Hell if a petitioner presents compelling evidence is presented that it is here in error. As Hell is a domain of damned souls in the afterlife and my brother's soul remains safely invested in its living flesh, why, only an incompetent or a lunatic would contest that Dean Winchester's soul has been brought to Hell in error." Sam held his arms up, palms open and turned around to address the whole crowd. "Queen of Spiders, you have no choice but to grant my petition." A roar arose from the horde behind him.

Sam would have been a helluva lawyer with all of that jargon but Dean was ready for them to get a move on already. Meg, however, had other plans. "Very prettily said, Boy King, but I'm afraid you're presenting your case to the wrong venue. The terms of the Clause are very clear: petitions must be submitted at Court, which can only be held within the Citadel." She tilted her head and the minions at his sides yanked down on Dean's chains so that he crashed down hard on his knees. "So long as you remain out there, Boy King, Dean's soul, flesh and all, remains mine to do with as I wish," she said as she ran her fingers through his hair and down the side of his face, "and your behavior in Hell thus far makes me hesitant to open my doors. Appearing at the head of an army like that, one might get the impression you'd really come here to take my throne."

Dean couldn't see his brother from this angle but tried to keep his head high in case Sam could see him. "I am here to reclaim my brother and I will enter the Citadel whether you want to open the doors or not."

"How? Have you assembled your allies here to force your way in? Then I ask you, assembled peers, are you really willing to fight and die in the name of rescuing Dean Winchester?"

The pendulum had swung back hard to slam into Dean's gut but he had to feel a twinge of pride at the number of murmurs that rose from the crowd. Eventually a new voice announced, "The Boy King needs no army to open the Citadel's gates."

Meg continued to card her fingers through his hair. "Is that so, Grand Architect? If that's true, show your faith in him and lay down your arms. You all remember what I can do here, what I've done here. But you all came anyway. If his powers are truly so great as you say, then surely the Boy King can protect you." Dean yelped as her fingers twisted in his hair and Meg pulled him up to his feet. "Ah, but if that were true, why would he need such an army in the first place?" Meg wrenched his head back and held her sword against his neck. "But I could be wrong. Go ahead, Boy King, dazzle us with your powers. Make the gates of the Citadel open at your will."

Dean couldn't see anything but Hell's ruddy grey sky but after several long seconds of silence the snickers from the demons on the battlements told him all he needed to know. "Shall I arrange for entertainment while we all wait? Dust Devil, fetch me my knives, I'm certain the crowd would be most amused by a selection of Dean's screams." Her hand released Dean's hair to slide down his chest and curl over his groin. He suppressed the urge to vomit: with his neck at this angle he'd just choke. "He's so responsive, you just twist here and it changes pitch."

"Any time now, Sam," Dean gasped after she demonstrated her technique.

"Don't you fucking touch my brother again!" shouted Sam.

Meg laughed. "Or you'll do what? Wave your hand and look constipated again?" She did release her grip on Dean then, lowered her sword and stepped forward to lean over the parapets. "You keep forgetting your place, boy. You stand before the Citadel in the heart of Hell, where Lucifer's will alone shapes reality. Lucifer could have chosen to let you open the gates. But he didn't. He chose me. So if you want me to stop touching my property, you're going to have to beg me a lot prettier than that." Dean tilted his head down and saw that Meg's words had found some marks: behind his flushed and glowering brother, an army began to grow restless.

Sam jutted his chin out. "You say Lucifer's power stops me from pulling down the Citadel's walls with my will. Fine. I still have half of Hell's legions at my back, bound to my command by contracts signed with true names. If Lucifer's will and the Citadel's walls can protect you from them, then why bother assembling your own supporters outside?"

"It appears to me your allies are starting to wriggle under their bonds." She raised her hand and the minions pushed Dean forward so that she could hold his chin in her hand. "Lords and Ladies of Hell, you arrived here so certain of the Boy King's powers: now you see him impotent. My assembled legions are equal to your own. There's a chance your side might win, but not without heavy casualties." She twisted Dean's neck from left to right and back again, displaying him for the crowd. "I ask you once again: are you truly willing to die on the behalf of Dean Winchester?"

Dean didn't have to ask the answer to that one. Behind Sam the sea of troops no longer moved as one force, sections pushing up against each other, murmurs of dissent became raised voices. Before Sam could respond, Meg raised her hand. "But unlike the Boy King, I do not wish you to die in the name of his insignificant human attachments. So, boy, I have an offer for you. If your allies will lay down their arms, then I will grant you and your sponsor alone entrance to the Citadel so you can submit your petition properly." She cocked her head. "Where is your little bitch anyway? Not by your side? Had a lover's spat, did you?" Dean watched his brother's face turn red and there was no way, no chance Sam would sleep with a demon again. Right?

Meg made a show of scanning the crowd. "I can't see him anywhere!" More and more demons were snickering on both sides. "Oh, did you leave him locked away in your bedchamber? If so, I'm afraid you'll have to go retrieve him before you can come inside."

And then Dean did have a little bit of vomit rise up in his throat because of all the demons in Hell it was Crowley that had emerged from the crowd, pushed forward by a large demon who actually had both horns and a tail. "I'm here, right here," Crowley announced and, dear God, please don't let it be true. "And he's not my lover!" he snapped as the hoots and howls arose, but the horned demon continued to push him towards Sam. Dean's brother almost looked like he was in pain, his eyes shut and jaw locked tight, silent. But Sam wasn't embarrassed; this was something else.

Meg tensed. "King Modo, you honor us with your presence," she said and Dean could tell she hadn't expected this guy; this cartoon demon made her nervous.

Modo smiled, his hand clamped firmly on Crowley's shoulder and his tail swishing back and forth. "You must know how I've longed to see the Citadel again, Spider Queen," and that was a threat if Dean ever heard one. "But I will not allow the Boy King to enter your web with Crowley alone for company."

"The protections of the Orph-"

"Apply only until the petition is granted," Modo growled. "You have no intention of letting the Vessel leave."

Meg raised her arms. "Modo, every demon in Hell knows the Boy King's hands can kill a greater demon with a single touch." Dean blinked; he wasn't a demon and he didn't know that. "How could I keep him?"

Sam just stood there while they argued about him, his eyes screwed shut, not saying a word even when Crowley grabbed his right arm. "The Boy King's hands can barely wipe his own arse!" shouted Crowley, ripping the glove off Sam's hand before pressing his face into Sam's palm. "See!" He dropped Sam's arm, stepped away and took a bow. "I'm still not dead!"

Then things started to explode.

Dean, like everyone else, had been watching Sam and Crowley, so he only saw a flash of light; the explosion had been so far back that he didn't hear the blast until almost a second later. Dean looked up and saw the crater nearly a mile back. A few moments later, demon bits began to shower down.

Meg looked stunned. Sam looked stunned. Everyone looked stunned. Meg pointed at Sam and shrieked, "What did you just do?"

"What did I do?" screamed Sam, holding his hand to his chest. "What did you do? My powers don't work here! She's doing it again!" Sam shouted, turning back towards his troops.

"That's not-" Meg was cut off when Modo, and the ground beneath him, exploded. Dean saw the force of the blast send his brother and Crowley flying off in opposite directions. He lunged forward as he tracked Sam's body, watched it crash to the ground miraculously whole and unharmed.

"Get him back to his cell, now!" shouted Meg.

Dean caught just a glimpse of Sam getting up on shaky legs before the demons grabbed him. "No!" Dean dug in his heels, pushed and fought back for the first time since he'd arrived in Hell, and despite his chains it took six demons to subdue him.

Face slammed to the floor, Dean heard his brother's voice rise over the battlefield. "It's Lucifer! Lucifer's attacking us!" Sam was alive and rallying the troops. Dean stopped struggling then, let the demons drag him back inside. Sam's first rescue attempt had been kind of a disaster and now his little brother was stuck in the middle of an enormous demon war but that was okay because apparently Sam was invincible here.

Sam was invincible and he was stubborn. Sam wouldn't quit. Sam would find another way.

Dean knew it wouldn't take long.

Six hours later, Sam stumbled through the door of Dean's cell.

Meg had the Winchesters right where she wanted them all along.

After she pushed Sam into the cell she raised her hands, used her powers to hold Sam up against one wall and pin Dean against the other. She'd been waiting for this reunion for a long time, she would savor it. With a tilt of her head the door slammed shut and her victory was sealed.

Meg didn't care about the battle still raging outside of Dean's cell, didn't care how many demons continued to die with every passing second. Nothing outside of this room mattered; though the Boy King's forces had broken through the gates, the Citadel was enormous: a maze of passages, rooms and corridors. It was easy to get lost even if you knew where you were going. And while Meg had never really expected Sam to get so far on his own, her plan had anticipated it. When her minions captured Sam, hours after she'd lost track of him during the breach, he'd been almost a quarter mile away from his brother, wandering aimlessly on the fourth floor in a completely different wing. Really, Sam had almost looked relieved when they caught him, and rightfully so: it might have taken him weeks to get here on his own. Here, in an obscure corner of the second basement, far from any of the fighting, Meg's moment of triumph would not be interrupted.

Meg stood in front of her prize. All of those beautiful lean muscles strained futilely against her powers. Meg pressed herself against them, rubbed her face against his chest like a cat and he stopped struggling, held himself deathly still. She'd possessed him before but even then she'd known that she didn't belong inside this body. No, her destiny was to stand alongside this body while Lucifer used it to conquer Heaven and Earth. Sam was so careless with his flesh; she'd been terrified he'd figured it out: if he'd died, the Vessel would have been lost forever. It would have been centuries on Earth - untold millenia in Hell - before another Vessel would be born. Meg had needed to act quickly, had to get the Vessel here where she could keep it safe for its true owner. And now, despite her limited time and resources, she'd succeeded.

She pulled away, not because of Dean's shouted protests and insults, but because she had one last task to attend to before she could get the true embrace she longed for. A formality, really, but still regrettably necessary. The events of the last day had shown that Sam wasn't quite as stupid as she'd always thought, though, so maybe it wouldn't take too long to make him understand that Meg had already won.

She decided to appeal to Sam's vanity. "You've turned out to be quite the devious little planner, Sam. That was very clever of you, using your powers against your own troops at the end and claiming it was me."

Sam's jaw worked for a moment before he broke the silence he'd held since his capture with a snort. "You had a point. None of them were going to die for Dean." He smiled down at her. "But all of them knew better than to trust you after that convocation of yours."

"I walked right into it," Meg admitted. "I really ought to be ashamed, but then again, you even managed to kill old Modo, and he'd been plotting to take over Hell ever since Dad exiled him to the Wastes half a million years ago. You lured out all of my greatest rivals, Sam, and then you got them all killed. Well done, really."

Sam huffed out a breath. "Wasn't just your rivals dying out there last I saw, Meg. You don't have many allies left either."

Meg smirked. "You think I care about other demons? Good riddance. Any one of them would have betrayed me in an instant if they thought they could get away with it. They were never more than tools to me, the means to get what I really want. And everything I really want is right here." She rubbed a lock of his hair between her fingers.

Behind them, Dean laughed. "I'm touched, but you're gonna have to forgive me for not sharing the sentiment. We're ready to go."

Meg spared a moment to glare at Dean. When she looked back, Sam had that stubborn set to his jaw. "Dean's right. We're leaving."

"No, you're not."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "The Orpheus Clause says I can leave Hell at any time. Now that I have my brother, I'm leaving."

Meg tutted her tongue. "You don't have your brother. He's all the way over there and, whoops, you didn't bring your sponsor, so you don't have a petition either. Sorry."

"Fine," spat Sam. "I'm fucking sick of dancing around. What do you want, Meg?"

"Lucifer."

"I left him in the Cage."

Meg sighed, ran her finger along that stubborn jaw. "Oh, Sam. Do you know what Hell is?"

He rolled his eyes. "I don't know. Other people?" he snarked, but the reply filled Meg with glee.

"Ooh, so close. Sartre was so very close. Hell isn't other people, Sam: it's another person. A particular person, one you've been pretty close to before, and you're oh so close to him now." Meg stepped back, chuckling. "It's so funny how you talk about the Cage like it's separate from Hell. Such literal little brains. Did you really think that God just put Lucifer in a big box? The Cage is Hell. And Hell is Lucifer. Everything you see? That's him too." Sam blinked and she grinned, could tell she was finally starting to make headway. "If he was in true isolation, how did you think he tempted Lilith? Lucifer's so powerful, the other angels had to use him as the power source for his own bindings. Have you figured it out yet? Do I have to draw in the last dot? Or have you figured out why in the heart of Hell, Lucifer's powers are infinite? No, got that on your own? Good, you have been paying attention." She was so close, she could taste it. "Lucifer might as well be standing right next to you, Sam. Doesn't matter how many seals the angels put up when I've got your body in the heart of Hell. All you have to do is say yes to him, let him in, and he'll walk right out of Hell in your meatsuit." With her, and Meg could hear the words in her mind, heard Lucifer renewing his promise in Sam's voice.

"No," said the same voice as Sam shook his head. "The answer will always be no."

And there was that Winchester stubbornness. But it didn't matter, Meg still held all the cards. She walked over to the other wall, held Dean's chin in her hand and faced Sam. "Willing to bet Dean's soul on that? Because, and I'm not going to lie and say I'm not thrilled to say this, but the boy's been dead for a long time now. Killed him myself a week in, but he passed out in a puddle of his own piss a full half hour before his heart gave out, so it seems to have escaped his notice."

Dean's shocked expression was better than any of the other times Meg had shoved her knives into him. Sam couldn't ignore the truth of what she said when it was written all over his brother's face. Meg ruffled Dean's hair, reward for a well-trained pet who performed on demand. "Now, Lucifer's been kind enough to keep putting him together for us to play with, but he doesn't have to keep it up. Even if you had managed to present your petition it wouldn't matter. If Dean takes one step outside of the Citadel, Lucifer will cut off life support, and, oh, whoops, those angelic get-out-of-jail-free cards the angels gave you don't work if your soul's already in Hell."

This was it. "Now, Sam, Lucifer doesn't want you to suffer." And he didn't. Meg didn't much approve of this part, but she had to concede that Lucifer had a point. "You've done a fine job of clearing a path to power here in Hell. If you say yes, your soul will stay here, and you'll keep all the powers you had before, Boy King. Hell's yours, free and clear. You know how to mold the reality of Hell as well as anyone: no demon would ever be able to threaten you or your brother again."

Meg stepped away, stood back to let her words do their work. For several long moments the Winchesters stared at each other, mirroring each other's trembling jaws and dewy eyes. Dean broke first, his eyes darting down right before he inclined his head a fraction of a degree. That was enough to set Sam off into a full body shudder. When it was done he looked her in the eye and said, "Fine. It's over."

She let her eyes glint black. "Say it, then."

Sam swallowed, staring at his brother who had shut his eyes and was shaking his head. "I- uh- I just - I just want to hug my brother, in the flesh, one last time."

Meg laughed. "You would." She flicked her wrist, dropped the force binding them to the walls. His powers wouldn't work here, her guards had taken all of his weapons, and he looked so hopeless, so broken that Meg couldn't resist. Let them have their hug. Meg had won.

Dean slumped against the wall while Sam crossed the room. Sam offered his left hand to his brother and Dean took it, used it to pull himself to his feet. Their hands stayed linked as Sam said, "Meg?" with an odd note in his voice.

"Yes?"

"Thanks." With his right hand, Sam had pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. Dean was pulling the remaining glove off of his brother's hand. "For everything." Meg didn't have time to react to the sight of the Horsemen's Rings on Sam's left hand because Sam had pressed the 'call' button on the cell phone.

"And fuck you," added Dean in the split second between Castiel's appearance and when the angel touched his fingers to their foreheads.

All three of them disappeared, leaving Meg alone in the heart of Hell with nothing but her own screams for company.

Dean arrived at the steps outside of Bobby's house and knew Meg had been telling the truth. "Shit," he gasped before collapsing, his heart still in his chest, the memory of a million injuries ripping into his nerves.

"Dean!" his brother shouted, and then there were strong arms beneath him, Castiel's soft touch on his forehead, and then the blissful sensation of nothing. When Dean opened his eyes, he saw Sam and Castiel looking down on him. They weren't alone.

"I really hope you're not here to collect me," said Dean.

"Not this time, Dean, your friend Castiel has seen to that," said Death, bowing his head. "I am here, however, to collect my ring. Samuel, if you would please?"

Sam nodded and with Castiel's help got Dean to his feet before pulling Death's ring off of his own index finger and dropping it into the Horseman's waiting palm. "She had them all locked in a cabinet in what looked like her office. The phone led me straight to them," Sam said.

"Yeah, locating rings and angel homing beacons - who knew that Death had an app for that?" Death fitted the ring back onto his finger with a small smile and Dean grunted. "I hope it was all worth it."

Death arched his brows. "Worth keeping Lucifer in his Cage? You tell me, Dean."

Sam grimaced. "I still don't understand why she didn't use them right away."

"Opening the Cage with the rings would have also released Michael," said Castiel.

"And Lucifer would have still lacked a proper Vessel," added Death.

Castiel inclined his head. "Still, she would have done it, if she hadn't stumbled across what appeared to be, in every respect, a superior plan."

"Yes, I really must be more careful about where I leave my old books from now on," finished Death.

Dean snorted at the look that Death and Castiel exchanged. "Yeah, go ahead and pat yourselves on the back. Just as long as this is the last one of your superior plans that involves me, I don't give a shit."

Castiel looked pained and Death sighed. "You need not be so short with me, Dean," said Death. "With the rings out of Hell, the angels will be able to rebuild the seals on the Cage properly. Combined with the chaos of the war your brother started in Hell, Lucifer will not have another chance to escape his prison for thousands of years - and that's if any demon in Hell cares to have dealings with him ever again." Death glanced at Sam and Dean saw his brother straighten his shoulders out of the corner of his eyes. "You have done well, and sacrificed much. I understand that. You have my word, both of you: you've seen the last of Hell and the next time you see me, it will be when I deliver your souls to Heaven myself." Death nodded and Dean had no choice but to believe him. "With that said, gentlemen, I take my leave. Until we meet again."

And then there were three. Sam coughed. "What should we do with the other rings?" he asked, stripping them off of his fingers.

Castiel extended his hand. "I'll take them to Heaven for safe-keeping, at least until we finish rebuilding the seals-" and Dean didn't care. He was too fucking tired to deal with this shit. Let them deal with the aftermath: Dean had suffered enough.

He turned around and walked into Bobby's house, headed down the stairs. "Bobby! Lisa? It's me! Don't shoot," he said, turning the handle on the panic room door. He opened it and found Bobby still had a shotgun leveled at him, shut his eyes before the spray of holy water hit him in the face, and grinned. He stepped over the salt line and gave Bobby a quick hug. "Hold off on the silver knife until Ben's out of the room, okay?"

Bobby pulled Dean in tight. "Sure thing, kid."

Bobby stepped away so that Lisa could take his place and this was good, Lisa felt so damn good in his arms and he couldn't wait to kiss her, but he'd have to wait for her to stop talking first. "... all they'd tell me was that you'd been taken and that we had to stay here until it was safe and are you okay?"

"Sorry," he murmured, kissing the crown of her head and holding her tighter. "Never wanted to scare you like that." He looked up and caught Ben's gaze. "You too, Ben." Dean pulled away just a bit so that he could tell them both, "I won't let anything like this happen again." And then he pulled Lisa back against him because he wanted to and because he could.

Bobby snorted. "Come on, Ben, I'm sure you're ready to eat something other than MREs and beef jerky." Ben took the cue; like any eleven year old he had a limited tolerance for watching his mom cuddle with her boyfriend. Bobby gave Dean a wink before following Ben out.

"You're not going to tell me what happened either, are you?" said Lisa a few minutes later, after he'd given her the kiss he hadn't let himself dream about for months.

"No," Dean admitted. "It's over now, that's all that matters. How long were you stuck here waiting?"

"About three days," said Lisa and that was about right. "Why?"

He nuzzled her neck. "Oh, no reason. Just seemed longer to me, that's all."

She shifted a little in his arms. "Yeah, I can tell."

Dean knew Lisa was trying to pull away, knew that he should let her go, but he didn't want to. "Love you," he whispered and she stopped pulling away, her eyes wide. Dean cleared his throat. "I, uh - where I was, I had a lot of time to think. And I couldn't say - I spent the whole time not being able to say what I really wanted to. It was Hell," and that was all the closest to a confession he could ever give her, so he'd make it count, "and I knew, I knew that when I got back that I had to tell you. Had to say what was on my mind."

Lisa was still watching him and Dean swallowed. "So yeah, I said it. And uh-"

"Dean, shut up." Lisa held her finger up to his lips. "I love you too. Just don't think that's a free pass out of anything, okay?"

Dean smiled. "Yes, ma'am." And then there was more kissing and other things and all of it was good, all of it was right, all of it what just what Dean wanted.

By the next morning, Dean had developed some perspective. He was a lucky man: he'd found a beautiful, understanding woman who loved him. Not everybody had that. And Dean had to be there for them, too.

He still dreaded the conversations to come enough to lean heavily on Lisa the whole way up the stairs. Lisa left his side to go check on Ben and Dean headed to the kitchen. Bobby took one look at him and grunted. "Good to be home, huh?"

"You'd better believe it."

"I'll take your word for it." Bobby shoveled something fried out of a skillet and onto a plate. "Sit down." Dean obediently sat and dug into a mess of eggs, potatoes, onions and peppers that satisfied the soul. "Castiel and Sam filled me in on your little adventure. Next time you pull something like that, I'd appreciate a heads up," said Bobby, tossing the empty skillet into the sink with a homey but firm 'clang' before joining Dean at the table and setting down two mugs of coffee.

"Won't be a next time," Dean replied around a mouthful of food.

"Mmm-hmm."

Dean looked around. "Where is Sam, anyway?" he asked.

"Out back. Got off to an early start, said he had to take care of some things." Bobby waited until after Dean had finished eating to cock an eyebrow at him. "Pretty sure you left a change of clothes and your old boots in my spare room. Those jammies you're wearing now ain't fit for nothing but grease rags."

Dean looked down at himself. "Think you're right, Bobby. Thanks." And Dean did feel a lot better putting on his own clothes after a quick shower in water that smelled of rusty pipes rather than sulfur, getting the last traces of Hell off his skin. He tossed the rags in the trash with the intention of burning them first chance he got.

But first things first. Dean headed out to go find his brother, but Castiel was waiting for him, standing on the stairs in the late morning sunshine. "You walked away," he said.

"Yeah," Dean replied. "Needed to check on Lisa and Ben."

Castiel's expression didn't change. "Sam told me not to interrupt you, so I have been waiting out here."

Dean laughed once. "Hope you didn't wait around all night. Don't you have a civil war going on?"

"I'm monitoring the situation and have learned to... multi-task while I awaited Sam's signal by the Gates of Bone and Flesh." Castiel glanced heavenwards. "Raphael had been colluding with Lucifer and Meg in order to restart the apocalypse; it will take his cause some time to recover from the setbacks he suffered this week." Castiel looked back at Dean. "But I wanted to make sure that you were okay."

Dean shrugged. "I've been through Hell, Cas, what do you think?" Castiel was still looking at him. "Thanks for pulling me out again," he said.

"It was the least I could do," said Castiel and Dean had to give him a break.

"No hard feelings, Cas. It was a good plan, it worked, and it's over now. The less said about it, the better."

Castiel inclined his head. "If that's what you want."

"It is." Dean looked around. "So, do you know where my brother is?" Castiel nodded and pointed. Dean turned his head to look and the angel had disappeared before Dean had the chance to thank him. Dean grinned; he had to envy Castiel's talent for quick exits from awkward conversations.

Some awkward conversations, however, needed to be had. Dean headed off through the wrecks, towards the barn that served as Bobby's tool shed. He stopped short, however, when he heard a voice other than his brother's coming from that direction. Dean shook his head: he shouldn't be surprised that Crowley had somehow survived the battle Sam had started.

Dean still couldn't see them yet but he could hear Sam now, his voice comparatively muffled. "... I'm telling you, Crowley, we didn't kill her."

"Well then, where is she?" Dean caught sight of Crowley bent over a few feet away from the Impala. The hood of the Impala was open and Dean could hear a socket wrench turning. "She's nowhere to be found in Hell, and believe me, we've been looking," said Crowley.

"You're trying to tell me there's not a demon in Hell who knows her true name?" muttered Sam, his long legs poking out from underneath the front of the car.

"Yes, Sam, that's exactly what I'm telling you. Of the few thousand demons left in Hell after the mess you started, not a one of them knows the Queen of Spiders' real name. It's like she never even existed." Dean smirked at this news. It seemed a fitting destiny.

His brother apparently found it just as amusing. "That's a damn shame, Crowley. Better make sure you keep a tight grip on things down there, in case she ever tries to come back."

"I dare the bitch to try," huffed Crowley. "In fact, neither of you should show your faces in Hell ever again. I don't need you meddling about down there - I've got things under control."

Sam was apparently holding something between his teeth but Dean could still understand his reply. "Wasn't planning on it."

"But you should keep your eyes open, in case she's up here. Can't imagine she's going to let something like this go. She'll be looking for revenge," and was Dean hallucinating or was that concern he heard in Crowley's voice?

Sam stood up, his hair matted down with sweat and smears of grease covering his undershirt. "I appreciate the warning," he said, wiping his hands off on his jeans. "Especially given that the last time I saw you, you'd just betrayed me and declared to an entire dimension that I couldn't wipe my own ass." He had a smile on his face that couldn't get past the dark circles under his eyes.

Crowley shrugged. "When I woke up after the explosion in one piece three miles from the battle, I figured you'd decided to be the bigger man about the whole thing. No harm, no foul, right?"

"Yeah, Crowley, that's right." Sam looked just as tired as Dean felt and his smile fell when he caught sight of Dean. "We'll be on the lookout for her," he said, nodding at Dean.

Crowley spun around and scowled, so Dean made sure to grin extra wide. "We beat her in Hell, we're not about to let her get the drop on us here," he said, going to lean against the door of his car.

"Yes, well, I don't give a damn either way," announced Crowley, his eyes darting between them. "Hell is well rid of all three of you." The demon held up his hands. "Speaking of which, I have to be off. Busy time to be a demon these days. Can't hardly keep an eye on all the damned, much less keep the floggers on them."

Sam crossed his arms. "I'm sure you'll manage."

Crowley's eyes darted between Dean and Sam. "It's just I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I'm not going soft or anything, but I just won't have the demons to spare up here for a couple of years. Have to get my house in order, understand, after the mess you two made."

Sam's lips quirked to the side. "Better get to it, then."

Crowley sniffed. "Right. So I'm going to go." And then he was gone.

Dean rubbed his freshly-shaved chin. "What the hell was that all about?"

Sam shook his head, rubbing his hand down the side of his face and leaving a trail of grease behind. "I honestly don't know. Wanted to warn us about Meg, because he thinks I'm an idiot and couldn't think of that on my own. And I think he might actually miss me."

Dean looked down. "Well, it sounded like you spent a lot of time together."

"We did," agreed Sam before he blanched. "I mean - there were a lot of rumors in Hell, but Crowley and I never-" and Sam shuddered, "It was never like that," he finished lamely, slapping the socket wrench against his hand.

"Relax, Sammy, I believe you. He ain't your type: I know you're a leg man." Dean pushed off of the door and walked around Sam to lean under the hood. "But I do have to ask: what the hell are you doing to my baby?"

Sam flinched. "Oh. Um, I think there's a belt loose. Last couple of times I started her, she made a whining noise."

Dean looked up at Sam, who was chewing on his lower lip. Kid had a point - Dean had heard the squeal the last time he drove her, but that had been many months ago. "And so you decided to add tension to the belts?" Sam bobbed his head, holding his hands both down by his sides, unsure and looking for answers and it's six months before Dean's deal comes due, the day Dean teaches Sam which belt is which in the first place and it's the summer of 1998 and Sam wants Dean to figure out why his sawed-off isn't cocking right since he cleaned it last time and Sam is twelve years old and it's the last time Dean will ever be able to help him with his math homework- sorry, Sammy, I quit paying attention after algebra-

Dean grabbed the hot black metal of the side panel and he was back in himself in the present. His eyes flickered up at Sam, who hadn't noticed the whole bungee jump down memory lane: must not have taken too long. Dean turned his palm over and motioned for Sam to hand him the socket wrench. "If we're lucky, you might be right. Chances are you're wrong, but give her a start." Sam jogged over. "Only leave her on for a second - need to keep her cold if this ain't it."

"Yeah, I know," said Sam and he didn't sound half as annoyed as he should have. But it was easier to tell the kid what he was doing wrong with the Impala. Dean knew what Sam was doing wrong with the Impala.

The engine turned over and sure enough, there was an acrid smell and a loud shriek, damn thing sounded just like Dean did at the start of a session with Dusty and godfuckingdammit, no it didn't. "That's enough!" Dean shouted so that Sam would kill the engine before it got too hot.

When Sam got back out Dean had sat back against the bumper. "Power steering fluid," was all he said. Sam bent over to check the level, no hesitation at all; Dean had managed to teach him something over the years. "And you'd damn well better hope it's that, otherwise I'm sending you hunting through the yard for a new water pump."

"Right," said Sam, gingerly lifting the up the cap. Dean tossed him a rag to wipe off the dipstick. "Whoa, way too much in there."

Dean headed off into the barn. "Lemme guess, you put some in while we were stopped in Aberdeen?" Safer to use geographic coordinates when Dean still didn't know how long it had been.

"How'd you know?" asked Sam while Dean picked up a drip pan, a turkey baster, and a pair of beers out of the mini-fridge. It was past noon by now, probably.

"Because that's when I topped it off too. Next time, ask first. Ass." Dean smiled and handed Sam the drip pan and turkey baster. "These are for you." He raised the beers in his other fist. "And when you're done, you can have one of these. So start sucking, Sammy, and don't be shy about it," he finished with a quick arch of his eyebrows and there was that bitchy little face he'd been waiting for. He sat down on the sunbleached hood of a GTO. "I must be a special guy, I've got the Boy King doing light maintenance on my car."

Sam's shoulders went all brooding and pensive. "Don't listen to Crowley. There never was a Boy King. It was just an act. Had to keep him on edge, had to get the demons in line, lure Modo out of hiding - it was just an act."

"Wasn't here for that part of the conversation, but I saw enough yesterday to know that's at least a little bit bullshit." Dean took a sip of beer while his brother siphoned. "You had power down there, dude. Scary, scary fucking power."

Sam turned around. "Were you scared of me?"

"No." Dean looked up at the sky. "No. Was I confused as all hell? Sure, especially after three months or so when I figured out that you'd changed plans and weren't going to show up anytime soon. Didn't figure out the new one until about five minutes before we busted out, but it sounds like your plan worked out all right. Not enough demons left in Hell to run the place? That's more than Castiel and Death had ever hoped to get us."

Sam shook his head. "I shouldn't have left you there so long-"

"Why not? I knew what I was getting into when I said yes to the plan. And who knows how many lives you saved because the demons aren't gonna be able to mess around up here for a couple decades? Nah, you made the smart choice. There's nothing that happened to me down there that hadn't happened before." Sam was about to barge in and Dean raised up his hand to stop him. "Nothing I hadn't survived before, you understand?" Dean could tell that Sam didn't really agree but Dean wasn't above using Sam's guilt to get him to concede this one thing so he kept staring until Sam ducked his head. Dean softened his expression. "Maybe I was scared for you, down there, Sam. But never scared of you." Sam had set the drip pan aside and sat down next to Dean, their shoulders brushing together and Sam snagged the other beer while pushing his hair out of his face. "Couldn't bring myself to tremble in terror of Cousin It," Dean added.

Sam groaned. "Dean..."

Dean gave him a sober look. "Yeah, all right, but this is it, man. You don't get to ask again after this. Some shit's private, okay?"

Sam nodded, taking a pull from his beer. "Yeah, sure. Won't ask again, but you can- I'm always here, y'know."

Dean looked at his brother in the eye. "You are, right? Because that's what I was scared of. Scared you were gone. Scared Hell had gotten to you, your powers had gotten to you, that you'd changed so much that the Boy King was all that was left. You and I both know there's not a lot of lines that we won't cross to protect each other. The stories I heard - what little I saw - you were like a god or something down there - a pissy-ass, wrathful god." Dean looked back at the Impala and took another drink. "And then there's your life up here, which is, well, it ain't exactly glamorous." Dean shrugged. "I was just - there's not a lot of folks who'd be able to say no to that kind of power."

Sam's throat worked for a second before he found his words. "Yeah, I had a lot of power. But Meg at least had one point: all of that power? It didn't mean anything, because at the end of the day, I still would have been in Hell. And sure, I'll put up with Crowley, but I could never trust him - would never have been able to trust anyone again. Not to mention..."

"What?" Dean asked after Sam left him hanging for a few seconds too long.

"Not to mention that you would have never forgiven me," Sam said, wiping his face with the back of his hand, smearing the grease around and he didn't look like the Boy King, though he did look like an overgrown boy. "And I couldn't have lived with that. I didn't - I don't want to be the Boy King. That whole idea of it being better to reign in Hell? Fuck that," and Sam laughed, really laughed, and his shoulders finally loosened up and Dean knew his little brother had figured it out, almost all on his own. "I never want to see the Pit again. Where I want to be is on Earth, having a beer, with my brother," Sam finished, raising his bottle, the question left unsaid.

Never had to be asked to be answered. Not with them. Not with the Winchester brothers.

Dean smiled, lifted his bottle, and knocked it against Sam's. "Yeah. Me too."
^{THE END}

Author's Notes: Thank you so much for reading to the end - I hope it was worth it. I'll try to keep these short. Once again - I have to say that this project was a collaboration in the truest sense of the word and simply would not exist without the contributions of both dollarformyname and jjhunter. Both of them put untold hours worth of work into this and were both the greatest cheerleaders and the finest critics that an author could wish for - they're both extremely talented, insightful authors in their own rights. It was truly a privilege working with them and JJ even learned an entire new canon just to beta this fic for me, so hopefully one day our fandom will get her take on the Brothers Winchester. Dollar - well, her art just takes my breath away every time I look at it. Not to mention how wonderful they were about holding my hand while I dealt with subject matter that didn't come easily to me - but all in the name of doing Dollar's art justice, of telling the story I set out to tell without cheating, no matter how long or brutal it got. They are the courage of my convictions: ladies, this story is for you.

An additional note about the pairings/genre listing on this story. I put a lot of thought into how to label this story - I haven't written a story with an R-rating in over ten years, and the decision to include sexual torture in this story wasn't one I came to lightly. After all was said and done, I came to the conclusion, with the help of my contributors and advice from trusty comm-mod bauble (thanks again!) that the story remained a gen-fic. Though there is sex between Meg and Dean there is no romance; the act is entirely based on power and it's presented as yet another, particularly cruel form of torture: there's not even much lust in the act. Furthermore, even contemplating the question of whether 'sex between a self-identified-female-demon-temporarily-wearing-a-male-body and a man' would count as slash or het was enough to give me a headache. Anyway, I hope the current labeling suffices - if you have any strong opinions on how to improve the labeling without spoiling the story, please feel free to contact me.

moragmacpherson 
November 6, 2010
An spn_reversebang story