Chapter Text
This was significantly closer to how Dean pictured a real witch's lair.
His eyes raked through the interior of Crowley’s place with practised efficiency. It was a large, oval space, all rough concrete, hazy with scented smoke, coming from an incense stick at the furthermost end of the room. Exposed pipes ran along the walls, some serving as makeshift racks, off of which bunches of herbs were hanging out to dry. Oriental rugs took away some of the brutality from what seemed to be the guest area towards the back of the room, but none were covering the space to the left of the entrance where a large, sturdy looking wooden table had been set up to serve as a laboratory space. Its surface was littered with alchemical paraphernalia.
To the side of it were shelves fixed to the wall which held all manner of glass cases and jars, some displaying odd objects and others… Others contained things floating in grey liquid inside. At first Dean though they were all preserved specimens, dead creatures that the witch, for some unfathomable reason, wanted to hold on to and, what was worse, display. But while most were definitely dead, on account of having been carefully dissected, a few of them twitched occasionally. Like one creature as big as Dean’s forearm that looked like the lovechild of a rabbit and a cockroach, covered in matted, patchy fur under which scaly skin throbbed, betraying a slow heartbeat.
Dean identified it as an Imp demon, which were mostly harmless, though they made up for their lack of power with extremely repulsive appearance. They were infamous for their skill in annoying the everliving crap out of whatever person they latched onto, slowly but surely driving them to madness. Judging by the sigils painted over its container, it was on a pretty tight lockdown. Still, Dean’s flesh prickled uncomfortably as he recalled the rumours of Crowley’s close friendships with demons. Keeping one alive, albeit in a jar, was cause for concern. He filed away this nugget of information for future reference.
On the right side of the door was an impressive floor-to-ceiling shelf, which reminded Dean of the one Castiel had at his house — polished dark wood, stuffed to the brim with books. That’s where the similarities ended. Where Castiel’s was neatly organised and its contents ranged from fiction one could find at any book store, to collections of vintage editions of his favourite stories, to light magic, here, the books looked tattered and old, and much more powerful. Yellowed pages hid behind worn-down, scratched up leather bindings. Beneath a few of the volumes were symbols Dean didn’t recognise, carved into the wood. Small animal skulls where positioned around the tomes as decorations, as if the books themselves weren’t creepy enough on their own.
Dean didn’t know much about what it took to create the magic Crowley practised, but the whole set-up looked like the lab of a madman on a TV show. He wondered if these were all things Crowley used, or if he had them set up as a sort of showroom to impress his clients and make them believe he was legit.
The witch directed them to the sitting area. It had more of a professional feel than the rest of the space, but it, too, hadn’t been spared the theatrics. There were two double-seat sofas, positioned in a wide V-shape. They looked to the windows, which the autumn night had made reflective. Facing the sofas was something Dean could only describe as a throne, in which Crowley sat, lazily reclining to the side. The only thing missing in this picture was a crown sitting askew on the man’s head. Definitely not gold or silver, Dean thought. Those would have looked out of place. Iron, maybe? Or steel.
Dean picked the couch to the left for himself, while Sam chose the one to the right. The brothers covertly exchanged similar looks of befuddled amusement. Dean could tell Sam wanted to roll his eyes just as much as he did, but knew better than to give into the temptation.
“Took you both long enough to stop by. I have to admit, I feel a little offended. It hurts a girl’s feelings being ignored,” Crowley pouted, looking at each brother in turn and rubbing the back of his hand along the short stubble on his chin.
“You know us?” Dean asked, surprised. Crowley's implication that he'd been expecting them sounded alarms in his mind.
“A mouse doesn’t squeak in this town without me knowing about it,” replied the witch simply. Dean didn’t appreciate the haughty arrogance in his voice.
Sam interrupted Dean before he could bite back. “How? We rarely enter town, and there are plenty of hunters passing though all the time. I doubt all of them come here to ‘hold court’ with you, regardless of how long they stay in the area.” Dean snorted and didn’t bother to try and cover it with a fake cough. It did feel like they were in a low-budget throne room.
Crowley narrowed his eyes at him, but turned to Sam when he spoke, unimpressed by the insult. “Maybe. But not all of them are John Winchester’s sons.”
“You know our father?” Dean exclaimed. The sound of his father's name coming from the mouth of this creature made his stomach turn.
“I’ve had the displeasure, yes. Many years ago,” Crowley confirmed, his colourless eyes piercing him like shards of ice. “Not many warm and fuzzies between us, regrettably.”
“And he let you live?” Sam wondered, taking the words right out of Dean’s mouth. There was no way Crowley was telling the truth.
“He had no reason to kill me,” the witch responded, a small smile playing on his lips. “In fact, he benefited from keeping me and my business alive.”
“No,” in no world, Dean knew, could this be true. His father would never let a witch who kept minor demons in jars get away scot-free. Dean had seen John kill creatures, witches included, that did no harm to anyone for the sole crime of being creatures. The slight chance that they might one day end up costing the life of an innocent was too great a risk to their father to take. It would end up being more blood on his hands and he already had enough without adding to it that of people who could have lived out the rest of their lives quietly and peacefully if he would have only finished the job. “You’re lying. And I suggest you start telling us the truth.” Dean rose to his feet, unable to sit still as hot blood pumped though his veins, urging him forward. His hand itched to reach towards his back and palm the gun that was tucked into his waistband.
“Or what? You’re going to shoot me with your witch bullets?” Crowley barely lifted his face up to look at him and even though Dean was towering over the man, he felt smaller than an ant. “Please. How else would you get the information you need?” He paused, amusement shining in his eyes. “You didn’t come here to kill me, at least not this time. Do feel free to sit down any time you like, Dean.”
Dean balled his hands into fists, digging hard into his palms with his nails. All he wanted was to strike out at Crowley, make him regret ever having uttered his father’s name. Instead, he plopped silently back on the sofa, defeated. Crowley was right. They couldn't kill him yet.
Sam spoke up. “We never mentioned our names.”
“Like I said,” the witch smiled sweetly, “not a squeak.” He sighed wearily, as if the brothers’ questions were weighing heavily on his soul. If he even had one. Dean doubted it. “As much as I enjoy your wit, however small its supply, we have more important matters to discuss,” he straightened up in his chair. “You’re here because you want to know about the talisman your father’s looking for.” He raised a hand to silence Sam who was in the middle of taking a breath, most likely to ask how Crowley knew about that. “I doubt Robert has been of much help, has he?”
It took a minute for Dean to realise who Crowley was referring to. “You mean Bobby? Bobby Singer?”
“How many Roberts do you think we have on our list of mutual friends?” Crowley looked at him as if he was beginning to doubt whether he was able to tie his own shoe laces without help.
“I’d go out on a limb here and say there aren’t any names on that list,” he grumbled in response.
“You’d be surprised. Although, you may be right. Me and Robert didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“You’re surprisingly alive for how many hunters we’ve established have met you and decided they didn’t like you,” Sam stated drily.
“Ah, yes, I keep forgetting about your Bobby’s alter ego," Crowley examined nails sulkily. "I’ve always found it unsavoury, but we’ve all had to betray our nature to survive, have we not?” He asked and looked up at Dean. “Some of us still have a long way to go down that road.” He paused, a pensive look on his face. “But all in due time.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked, which Dean was grateful for, as he himself couldn’t get the words past the lump that had formed in his throat. Crowley only smiled at him, like people would when kids asked if clouds were made of cotton-candy or the other way around.
“You’re a curious thing, aren’t you Samuel? I believed you would have been a better fit for this, as did your father, but you can’t force these things. Higher powers and that.” Neither brother asked what he meant. Crowley seemed perfectly content to spew bullshit at them. Dean started to calm down a little. He was getting increasingly more inclined to believe Crowley was only messing with them. A lying, scheming monster was familiar territory, and nothing to get worked up over.
“The pendant,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “Do you know what it does, or not? So far—“
“Ah, ah, ah,” Crowley wagged a finger at him and Dean leaned forward, ready to jump again, angered by the disrespect to his brother. Sam shot him a quick glance. Don’t. Dean narrowed his eyes but stilled, though he refused to lean back. “First we have to discuss the matter of payment,” the witch explained, all business.
Sam’s spoke quickly, sensing that if he didn’t, Dean might blow his lid completely and say something counterproductive, like implying that hunters didn't do business with monsters and took freely whatever they wanted from them instead. “We don’t have much, but—“
“I don’t trade for money. I find it… dull.” Crowley waved his hand dismissively.
“What do you want, then?” Dean barked.
“From you, nothing. Only that you follow your instincts,” he flicked his tongue over his lips like a snake. Dean made no effort to hide the bewilderment on his face. “You’ll know soon enough. But you,” he turned to Sam. “You can do something for me. In fact, I’m doing you both a favour asking this.”
Dean began to protest but again, Sam was faster. “What is it?”
“It’s simple, really. I trust you’d find it… useful in the upcoming month.” Dean could feel Sam’s impatience as if it was a living thing, vibrating off him in tangible waves. This level of enthusiasm either led to something very good, or very, very bad. “I want you to look into Singer’s history with your father. How they met and under what circumstances. Why they parted ways.”
Sam’s thrill dimmed. “We've asked before. He—“
“Don’t ask, he’ll never tell you the truth. He believes that the less you know, the better. He is wrong.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll do it. But what’s in it for you” Sam asked.
“Like I said, Bobby Singer thinks it’s best you know as little as possible. But I know you have to learn the truth. Knowing what happened would change the course of what goes down on Samhain. You’d make different choices, which would lead to different outcomes.”
“And why should we trust you? How is your way better than our father’s? Better than Bobby’s?”
“Robert has been… convinced by John Winchester that his way is the right way. The only way. I suppose it is all a matter of perspective. But, as I'm sure you know, hunters can be a little rigid in their views. Shades of black and white, all that deeply boring stuff. Nothing is ever so simple. It is only their small minds that find comfort in it.”
“Thanks,” Sam sniffed.
“You’re welcome,” Crowley grinned. “In this regard, Robert is certainly a hunter to his core. Which is a shame, that's for sure.” He grew somber. “You’ll need the nuance, and you’ll need the colour. Whether you want to trust me or not, I’m sure you’ll come to find I’m right.”
Dean couldn’t help but picture Crowley as the serpent in the garden of Eden, whispering in Eve’s ear to take a bite of the apple growing from the Tree of Knowledge.
He was torn. He wanted to argue with Crowley. He wanted to say there wasn’t anything he could tell them that their father wouldn’t, but he knew that was a lie. Dean oscillated between wanting to know what the witch was talking about and his loyalty to their father's rules, the hard boundaries he’d set for them over the years. Dean knew John had his reasons for keeping things from them. Good reasons. Reasons that had kept him and his brother alive for long enough to reach adulthood. He knew his father was smart and just; that all he did, he did for a reason. He was a righteous man and a stellar hunter.
And yet. Dean was growing older and he did his best to live his life in a way that would prove to John that he was worthy of his complete trust. But despite all the effort Dean put into winning his father’s approval, John seemed to still see in him the teenage boy who would leave Sam alone for long stretches of time and fool around in the back of the Impala. Or the four-year-old boy who stood helplessly by on the lawn, clutching baby Sammy in his pudgy arms, watching with watery eyes as their house burned down with his mother still inside, the choking stench of her burning flesh wafting in the air.
But he was neither of those Deans anymore. He was a hunter now. He’d taken his oath. He’d received the Hunter’s mark, a five-pointed star in a circle of flames above his heart, the one every hunter received when they swore to live by the code. Which meant he knew that being a hunter didn’t mean being a mindless soldier, ready to receive orders and obey without question. A hunter was meant to lead, to think for himself. He wasn’t a child anymore, he hadn't been one for a very long time. And he was tired of living in his father’s long shadow and of accepting his unquestioned authority over his own. They were meant to be equals.
“Alright,” Sam agreed. Dean stayed quiet, but looked over at Sam, imploring him to be cautious. It was true that Dean was frustrated with their father, and although he knew he would have to confront their old man about the way he treated them some time, he knew this job was not the place to start anything. Especially not if it required playing by the rules of this demon lover.
Sam was focused entirely on Crowley and didn’t notice Dean’s silent warning. Maybe that was for the best. They needed Crowley to share what he knew with them. It didn’t mean Sam would go through with this agreement. Dean wasn’t sure he was completely sold on letting him. He hadn't decided yet.
Crowley shot Dean a suspicious glance, as if he suspected what went on inside his head, but then dismissed him and nodded at Sam. “Good. Now, the amulet,” he resumed his carefully curated picture of a king in exile. “Its story is very long and rather dull, as is with most things created for a single purpose,” he began. His voice sounded far away. “It was created by a witch about a hundred years ago at the request of a demon.”
“Why would a demon want a pendant?” Sam interrupted. Judging by Crowley’s expression, it was not a welcome intermission.
“You’d find out if you let me finish,” he snapped back, narrowing his eyes at him.
“Sorry,” Sam said quietly. Dean looked at him with reproach. Hunters didn’t apologise to creatures. Sam rolled his eyes, but gave a minute nod. He’d said it on reflex. Dean always found himself mystified at how polite Sam could be sometimes.
“This particular demon is very highly ranked in Hell, a Prince. They feed off war and bloodshed.” The boys nodded. This, they knew. “It commissioned an amulet from a witch that was willing to create one, for a price.”
“What price?” It was Dean’s turn to interrupt.
Crowley shot him the same displeased look. “The price, I believe, was something that concerned the witch personally. It was,” he waved a hand in the air, searching for the right words, “a family matter.”
“A family matter?” Scoffed Sam. “Why would a witch need a demon to help them with a family matter?”
“Perhaps the witch needed a certain family member gone, but was outmatched and couldn’t take them off the chessboard without a little outside help,” Crowley frowned. He sounded defensive. He didn’t let the brothers interrupt him again, and carried on. “The specifics of this do not concern us, the matter was concluded, and we are all better off for it.” His scowl relaxed. “Having received the payment in advance, the witch created the pendant. Of course, not many witches want to deal with demons, they bring destruction to nature, which is the very source of our powers, so this demon had to make do with what was available to it, which was our… less skilled witch. Due to their limited powers, the pendant they created had its quirks. For example, the demon itself couldn’t use it. To it, it's just a dead thing. So it had to wait. But this demon is old, as the earth itself, and it has nothing if not time on its hands.”
“What does it have to wait for?” Sam asked again. This time Crowley didn’t reprimand him for the interruption.
“For another witch to be born, one that would be able to use the amulet as intended.” He explained.
“Can we skip the history lesson and just get to the part where you tell us what it does?” Dean was losing patience. And he was staring to worry. He had held the pendant in his hands. He was no witch, but he didn’t like that it had reacted to him, and he didn’t like that Castiel had it stashed somewhere.
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Crowley chanted. “You especially would benefit from listening to the whole story,” he smirked and Dean had to wonder if he was able to read minds. “You see, because of the way the magic of the talisman works, no demon can use it, nor just any human or witch or any other regular creature. It was made for a blue witch to use.”
Sam and Dean shared a look of alarm.
“But not just any blue witch, either.”
“So the witch who created the amulet tricked the demon? It was unusable?” Sam wondered aloud, sounding tentatively hopeful.
“Not at all,” Crowley responded. “It may be used by a true celestial.”
“So, a blue witch,” Sam clarified, sounding exasperated.
“No, that’s not what a true celestial is,” Crowley shook his head.
“Then what is it?” Dean asked. Nervous energy coursed through him. Dean remembered the way Castiel’s magic had felt, the one time he’d allowed himself to feel out for it. Like cloudless summer skies and warm sun. Could that be what Crowley meant? But how could something that felt so joyful, so bright, so… wonderful, be something that would power a talisman made at the request of a vile, dark creature like а Prince of Hell?
“It is a blue witch that has… a human counterpart. Someone with no inherent magic of their own, but one that matches the make-up of the blue witch’s soul on a fundamental level. That’s what it is, really.”
This meant nothing to Dean, who continued to look at Crowley uncomprehendingly, but Sam made a choking sound and perched on the edge of his seat. He looked as though he was going to pounce on the white witch across the few feet that separated them. “Soul magic? Isn't that a fairytale? You’re joking, right?”
“Not at all,” Crowley continued sporting an aggravating smirk.
“What is soul magic?” Dean asked, turning to his brother, confused. How come Sam knew something that he didn’t?
“I read something about it at the library today, but it sounded like nonsense, so I didn’t even consider it. And I figured, if Bobby never thought it important enough to have books on the subject at his house, then it wasn’t something worth wasting time on. As far as I understood it,” he said, looking to Crowley for confirmation, “it’s where the Familiar myth really originated from, not that crap about animals liking witches. A witch establishes a bond between itself and a human in a way that helps it draw on their life source, or their soul, to conjure big quantities of magic in a safer way. It grants them a level of power that makes it possible for them to bend,” he chocked on his excitement, “reality,” he concluded, his eyes sparkling feverishly.
“To what end?” Dean didn’t want the answer, but he had to ask.
It was Crowley who answered him. “A bond like this take years to fully form. The pendant is meant to expedite its development, but that’s not all it's for. It anchors and expands it, increasing the power that the celestial can draw from its bondmate. According to the story, it can grant enough magic to the celestial to rip through the fabric of space and open a doorway.”
“A doorway to where?” Sam asked, his voice weak, as if he expected what the answer would be.
“To Hell, of course,” Crowley explained.
Bee was nowhere to be found when Cas finally made it home, feeling more weary than he would have if he would have just stayed until the end of the workday. He phoned Kevin at the shop to ask if everything was okay and was assured, with palpable annoyance in the boy’s voice, that everything was just fine, he was managing, and the building hadn’t burst into flames without Cas’s presence.
Since he felt too wired-up to do anything, Cas just sat on the couch, dreading his cat’s return, and stared at a spot on the wall, one of the many flecks of blood that were now an integral part of his home decor, when his phone rang, almost giving him a heart attack. The shrill sound of the music and the insistent vibrations made him nearly jump out of his skin as they sliced through the still air.
“Hello?” He asked into the receiver. He’d been too startled to check the caller ID.
There weren’t many people who sought him out, so he wasn’t surprised when Anna’s voice sounded over the speaker. “Hey, Cassie, I’m just calling to check in,” she said, her voice soft and probing. “How are you? How’s… how’s things?”
Cas held back a frustrated huff. There had been lots of strain between the two of them in the past month, some of which had been his own doing, and some of it had not. He’d been upset with her for the way she’d repeatedly ditched him to hang out with Jo, which was bad enough on its own, be he would have been more lenient with her if she wasn’t doing it while his cat had decided to become a cute forest animal mass-murderer. He’d needed his friend and her support, but she’d been scarce over the past couple of weeks, only sending a text once in a while, saying she was very sorry she couldn’t be there for him because she was with Jo.
It was all she ever talked about these days. Jo this, Jo that. He was sick of it. And he’d stopped calling. It had taken Anna a some time before she noticed he’d pulled back and tried to reach out herself. She’d come over to the Buzzing Bee a few times, where she’d been frostily received by him. She had ended up talking to Kevin most of the time, whenever he happened to be there as well.
To Anna’s credit, she hadn’t been deterred by Cas’s hostility and had continued to try and make up for her absence by calling every now and again to check in on him and how he was doing, not that there had been much change.
“Same as the last time you called,” he bit out, flinching a little at his own tone. He hated being cross with her, but he hated the way she’d treated him more. That’s not what friends did for each other.
“Cas,” she sighed, “I’m trying, okay? I’m sorry. You know I’m sorry for the way I’ve been lately.”
“So you’ve said,” Cas said, his voice cold and lifeless.
“And I mean it. Cas, please. I know you’ve been going through it… I just… Wanted to make sure things with me and Jo were okay, you know? That we’ve established a firm foundation. You of all people should be able to understand that, right?”
There it was again. The way she kicked sand in his face every time relationships were the topic of discussion.
“Goodbye, Anna,” he grumbled and hung up, the lid on his phone smacking loudly as he shut it. He leaned back and rubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes. His phone rang again on the couch next to him, but he ignored it and soon it quieted.
Anna had no right to bring up Michael every time he chastised her for the way she abandoned everything when she got into a relationship. Did she? Old guilt resurfaced and he groaned. He wasn’t sure. It had been years and he still didn’t know how much of what had happened had been his fault and how much hadn’t. And despite all her assurances that she had forgiven him, he knew better. She would never let what happened go and he couldn’t blame her for it.
She never said it outright, but Cas knew it was his doing, the way she obsessed over making sure she knew all there was to know about her partners, ignoring everything else in her life until she was sure they were safe and they weren’t hiding anything. It turned a lot of people away from her, which only seemed to increase her fervour to find someone who would fit all her criteria. Who would finally be safe.
And Cas… he avoided relationships altogether, preferring to stay on his own and bury the past deep into his heart. It was simpler that way. The less he thought about it, the better.
Conditioned to hide away from the memories after years of practise, his mind wandered back to his time at Crowley’s instead. He had more questions now than he had answers. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his old mentor calling him an angel so pointedly and he was even more unsure about whether he was trying to be sarcastic or meant something more by it. Knowing Crowley, it could have been either option. It also meant it could have been both.
He felt so tired of it all. His squabbles with Anna, Bee’s thirst for blood… His inconsistent sleep schedule wasn’t helping matters. And neither had the changes he’d been noticing in his magic, which had acquired some new habits of its own. Like reaching out to Dean whenever he was close.
A shiver ran down his spine when he recalled Crowley’s words, the way he had guessed, or felt, as he claimed, the shift in him, and the things he’d implied. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed obvious that his magic only escaped his carefully honed control when Dean was around. Yet he couldn’t imagine Crowley had had the hunter in mind during their conversation, even if there was no one else he could have been referring to. Dean was… he’d become more tolerant of Cas’s powers but he still eyed him with suspicion whenever he thought Cas wasn’t looking at him. Cas was rarely not looking at him.
He wanted to believe it was because he was wary, on his toes around the hunter, but that was not all it was. He simply enjoyed looking at Dean. He was handsome and bright, like midsummer. His skin had the warm glow of someone who spent their time under the caresses of the sun, which although harsh on some, were gentle on him. He was full of energy, of life, in a way Cas had never seen in anyone else before. He radiated with it. It was like a thing Cas could reach out and touch, draw within himself if he wished, if Dean would let him.
He shook his head. He still meant what he’d thought at the Roadhouse when Anna had told him Jo was a legacy hunter. Hunters and witches did not, had never and would never belong together. Dean was just beautiful. Beautiful things were to be admired. There was nothing wrong with recognising and appreciating nature’s creations, of which he was one. Cas had no intension or interest towards him and he told himself as much all the time. Like when he couldn’t stop himself from staring. Or from stepping too close to him. Or even when he only noticed he did these things when Dean would shoot him cautious glance that told him, in no uncertain terms, to back off. And so Cas did. Reluctantly, but he did.
Thinking that Dean was the one responsible for the changes in his magic was absurd. It was a theory with more holes in it than Swiss cheese. But Cas had no other theories.
He recalled the phantom prickle at the back of his neck when he’d left Crowley's, the one that usually signalled to him that Dean was close by. He hadn’t been. Cas had used a little of his magic to scan his immediate surrounding for Dean's presence, but he hadn’t found him. Cas had had a whole month to get used to recognising the signature energy Dean emitted, and he hadn’t felt it. It made him wonder whether the tingling had ever really been tied to Dean in the first place. Maybe it was something entirely different. It was, Castiel considered bitterly, something he would have to think his way to answering on his own since Crowley refused to give him a single crumb of useful information.
A fierce knock at the door pulled him out of the whirlpool of confusion in his head. He stood up, wondering whether Anna would have gone through all the trouble of coming by to see him, and dragged his slippered feet over the bare flooring. He neared the short corridor that led to his front door when the familiar warm tickle at the back of his neck descended on him like earlier this evening, catching him off-guard.
He held his breath tight in the cage of his ribs. Either his magic was going haywire, or Dean was on the other side of this door. All thoughts about the possibility of the sensation not being tied to the hunter was forgotten in an instant. His chest ached with the giddy hope that Dean would be standing on his front porch again.
Cas unlocked the door with nimble fingers and swung it open. It revealed a pair of stormy green eyes, which observed him coldly.
“We need to talk,” rumbled Dean, his soft lips set in a hard, unforgiving line.