#for a palette titled LUCIFER SAM of all things

[emkini]

@blu3berrydraws​ said: how about Zuko in Lucifer Sam?

Color Palettes Here 

[ladyofmaidensandwine]

Third Eye

Part Four of the All’s Not Fair in Love and War Series

Characters: Dean Winchester, Fem! Reader, Sam Winchester, Charlie, John Winchester, Fem! Reader, Rowena, Crowley

Wordcount: 2,029

A/N- I highly recommend listening to the song Third Eye by Florence + The Machine. It was a large part of my inspiration for this chapter, and a great song. Also, we finally get to learn what the reader’s mysterious mission is, and her real name, I’m excited to see what you think!

Summary: As the reader pursues her mission, she learns more than she bargained for, whilst Dean embarks on a quest of his own- to discover what, exactly, you’re hiding. Old loyalties clash with new bonds, but a deal is a deal, and the price must always be paid.

               It had to be there somewhere. You’d inspected every inch of the room with a critical eye, but had found nothing but cobwebs, dust, and a very frightened mouse. You began to doubt your information- perhaps the map you’d studied and committed to memory had been wrong. Perhaps there was no secret door. For a split second, you hoped that you could write off the entire mission, hoped you could be done with the espionage and the act, hoped you could be the person Dean thought you were. Ah, wishful thinking. A fool’s greatest enemy. You pressed on a loose brick, and the entire wall swung away, revealing a dimly lit passageway, and you frowned. 

                  There were countless chests and trunks and safes lining the walkway, the damp stone smelling of mildew and whispering echoed secrets and names long-dead into your bones. When had the living last walked there? There was a moment when you paused, certain you’d heard something, saw a flicker of movement in the corners of your vision, but as you turned to look, there was nothing but eerie shadows and thick layers of dust. You knew better than to keep looking- things that dwelled in darkness did not take kindly to strangers, and so long as you pretended to believe that the odd shapes in your peripheral were your imagination, you would be unharmed. 

                  You let your hands run over the thick tomes penned in tongues so archaic your ancestors couldn’t even remember. There was one book you needed, the words between its covers so much more than letters or prose. A book to doom or save the world, to complete your quest. If it truly existed, you knew it would be found somewhere in the unorganized mess. The map of the Bunker had proved accurate, and if it was right, there was a dungeon further back in the hidden passageway. What it held, you didn’t know, but if it was worse than the palace’s prisons, built for things stronger than Hell could contain, you didn’t particularly care to find out. 

                 Your time was ticking away every day you spent in the hidden area, combing through every shelf for the one book you needed desperately. You sat alone before an easel,  brush in one hand and palette of paints in the other. The deadline looming over you added to the stress you were under. How could one person be entrusted with the world’s future? Something in you was crumbling, internal barriers of steel and iron cracking. You dreamt of death in a thousand ways, dreamt of eternal darkness behind bars, and when the sunlight touched you, you daydreamed of eyes too green to paint and a child’s romanticized fantasy, of impossible futures. Assassin, Lady, Artist, Spy, Informant. It all simmered within you, threatening to boil over, and yet you could only stare blankly at the canvas. You stood from your stool, and with trembling hands, replaced your supplies. You did not look back at the gallery as you strode determinedly away.

                 Dean knew. He saw you vanish at odd hours, had watched you vanish in a dead-end hall. He knew. And every day, when the two of you sparred, when he listened with a fond smile as you described the technique or history of your favourite paintings, when you stole him away like his own personal saviour before some dignitary or lady could force him into conversation, he waited for you to tell him. Hoped for a sign, some kind of symbol that you weren’t betraying whatever existed between you. You never did. He watched you carefully, your eyes impossible to read, and every time he thought he saw some flicker of regret for the lies, you were distracting him again with a brush of your hand against his. Dean wondered what you were searching for. And when he couldn’t sleep because you haunted him in dreams, too, he asked himself how many lines he was willing to cross for you.

                “Y/N?” “Yes, Dean?” You replied, looking back at Dean from where you’d been admiring an especially lovely oil painting. “I- if there were ever any manner of trouble you were in, you would tell me, would you not? I understand my father has allies that have contributed to the deaths of your family, but you and I, we can put aside old feuds and conquests.” Dean asked, brows furrowed. Your heart stalled. “Be cautious how you speak, Prince. There is power in bloodshed, unbreakable power.” You said slowly, staring at him. “There is greater power than war, Y/N.” He argued. “Not greater than death.” You retorted. “Fate has bound my hands, Your Majesty. The cost of breaking one promise to pursue another is too steep for me to pay.” You stated curtly. Dean’s eyes flashed angrily. “You speak as if the reaper has already appeared before you. Are we not beings of free will? Can we not make our own decisions?” He snapped. You blinked, stepping away in surprise. “I am so weary of the way you make a shadow of yourself, always shutting out any light. You are more than an assassin, Y/N, and I am not my father.” Dean insisted, grabbing your hands in his. You couldn’t speak, shocked at the way he’d seen through you so easily. Had you always been so transparent, or was Dean the only one who could decode you? “There is so much more at stake, Dean. Free will is a luxury I cannot have. I wish I could explain, but the lives on the line are not mine to give away...” You trailed off, surprised when he wiped a tear from your cheek. You didn’t know you had been crying. “You are nothing like your father,” you said, squeezing his hands, “but you will be King, and I will be who I have always been.” “I beg of you, please let me help you.” Dean pleaded, face pained. “This is not your cross to bear.” You shook your head, stepping backwards. He looked angry again, refusing to let you hide the truth with excuses. “Do you think I don’t know that there’s more to you? Am I such a fool in your eyes, Y/N? You may pull away from me all you like, but I have already seen the emptiness in your heart. Are you so afraid of the truth I might find that you would keep nothing but pain to remind you to feel?” Dean demanded. “I am terrified of you, Dean Winchester, and if you were a wiser man, you would be terrified of what I will do. Is that truth enough, Your Majesty?” You whispered bitterly. Dean dropped your hands, blinking away the hurt in his eyes. You walked past him swiftly. “In three days, you will understand. I pray you are elsewhere then.” You said over your shoulder. Dean didn’t turn towards you, shoulders taut as he faced the same direction he had been. You nodded to yourself and left, the silence clinging to you.

                     You slipped into the passageway at midnight. You hadn’t been sleeping. When you weren’t waking up screaming from nightmares, you were dealing with a conflicted conscious about explaining your purpose to Dean. You knew he was hurt. He had offered you help, had offered to help shoulder the weight of this impossible task you were burdened with, but no matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t let anyone else risk their life for what you’d been working for. You pushed the guilt and the mental image of vibrant green eyes glittering with unshed tears aside and focused. You only had three more days. Three days to get the book, and make your escape. 

                  You almost walked right past it the first time. A plain looking book, average size with a simple red spine, but something about it called to you. The front cover was a familiar symbol. Devil’s Traps were old knowledge. Your heart thudded violently in your chest as you opened the book, flipping past acknowledgements and the foreword, breath catching at what was inside. The only remaining copy of what was written on the Demon Tablet. The only way to keep Crowley, Lucifer, and their followers trapped forever. The book... the book was your salvation. 

              Your head shot up as someone began opening the heavy door to the passageway. You shoved the book into the bodice of your dress and rushed to find a hiding place, skidding around corners and shelves, steps silent even in heels. There- a door in the far back. You didn’t have time to examine it, the footsteps were getting closer, their weight and spacing informing you whoever approached was taller than you and carrying weapons based on the metallic clink. You wrenched open the door, and slid inside the completely dark room, shutting and locking it behind you. You tried to control your breathing as the footsteps halted just outside the thick metal door, wishing you had a weapon of some kind with you. You didn’t dare make a sound until you heard the far door open and shut again, loosing a breath of relief. 

                    “Well, well. Hello there, Darling.” A familiar voice said, posh accent oozing with hostility as every muscle in your body went rigid. You turned slowly. “Fergus.”

               You looked wide-eyed at the red-haired woman before you. “It has to be you, Y/N.” Rowena said gently. There was no love between you, but you were allies against Crowley. “I know Fergus well enough to know he’s already schemin’ against the King. You arrivin’ will give him an opportunity. Yer the only one who knows him and his ways like I do. Yer the only one with enough trainin’ in espionage, and no one knows yer real name or title.” Rowena explained. “I’ll do it.” You said firmly. “Just tell me what you need.”

            Three months later, you’d been captured and thrown into The Cage with Lucifer, courtesy of Crowley. You were nineteen then, and when you finally escaped with Rowena’s aid, you were twenty-two. Your one task was to take out as many of your enemies as possible before letting yourself be captured by King John Winchester’s men, and once you were shipped to a labor camp, a spy awaiting you gave you your next set of commands. Infiltrate the palace, and find The Demon Tablet. You had a year. 

                 By the time you’d been given to Crown Prince Dean Winchester to command, you had but seven months left, and when you finally arrived at the Bunker, you only had two.

                It had been four long and painful years since that fateful day when you’d struck the bargain with Rowena. Four years since since your people had bent the knee and sworn to honor the deal. Four years since anyone had spoken your true name. 

              “This is interesting indeed, isn’t it? This little cat-and-mouse game has been just delightful. I don’t believe I ever learned your name, darling.” Crowley smirked. He was shackled to a chair in the middle of a stone and iron room. The dungeon, you realized. “Why are you here?” You asked breathlessly. The book hidden in your bodice seemed to be mocking you. “The Good King decided I was becoming too troublesome for his liking. I admit, I’m rather curious as to what you’re doing, sneaking about, and here of all places. Don’t tell me- hiding from our Golden Prince Dean?” Crowley asked sarcastically. “You truly don’t know who I am, do you?” You asked, laughing softly. He frowned. “Do they ever come to speak with you?” “Not since I was tossed in here so rudely. Your name, love, if you please.” Crowley growled. “You would find out in three days either way, I suppose. I am Queen of Innisfree, The Morrigan, and in three days time, I will be the one to finally reclaim my people, my lands, my title, and to take freedom back from those of your ilk.” “What is your name.” Crowley seethed, growing impatient quickly. You drew yourself to your full height, a triumphant smirk playing across your lips, a challenge in your eyes. 

                                          “Y/N. Y/N MacLeod.”

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