Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, of course.

Rating: T, might change to M

Summary: Dean desperately searches a way to cure Sam, but this time, Castiel, still dealing with the aftermath of his decisions, is more a burden than a help. While Kevin tries to figure out the angel table, Abaddon takes over hell and Crowley, half-cured and half-mad, is set up on the idea to reopen purgatory and regain his strengths to defeat her. As the brothers find out there hope may last on the painter, a loyal servant of the lord, they race time to save Sam. But though the queen of Mondoor joins in for the chase, it seems as if the painter has fallen from the face of the earth...

Ars

"A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light."

(Leonardo Da Vinci)

Chapter One: Angels, demon, hunters, painter

Hunters

The 67 Chevrolet impala drove fast through the night. Dean's eyes travelled between the street and his brother, whose body was shaking terribly with pain. Crowley was still in the church, chained to the chair, but Dean didn't bother about him right now. Right now, he didn't bother about anything, not even about angels falling out of the sky. Why would he, after all? They had never been on their side. In fact, most of them had been worse than demons, playing them like puppets on the strings, using them for their intentions. And the one angel he trusted, despite all his failures, had never, not once, really trusted him. No, he had always put heaven first, though they had used him just the same, though they had hunted him, broken him just as they had pleased.

"Dean", Sam forced out and ripped him out of his thoughts.

"It's gonna be alright, Sammy", he replied, without looking at him. "We will fix this."

"Dean", his brother repeated. "How can angels fall out of heaven?"

Finally, Dean looked at him. "That's not important right now. We gotta get back to the bunker and find a way to help you."

"Is it because I stopped? Is this my fault?"

"Of course not!" Dean said sharply and added. "It was Metatron."

"Metatron?" Sam asked irritated.

"Yeah. The bitch never wanted to fix heaven. He shut it down. Closed the gates. Expelled all angels."

"But how…"

"I don't know! It had something to do with the trials he had Cas do for him, but…"

"Is he alive?" Sam asked.

"Who? Cas? Don't know. And I tell you what, right now, I don't give a damn if he is."

"We have to find him", Sam said.

Dean shook his head. "No."

"Dean…"

"I said no!" he shouted furiously. "If he had listened to Naomi, if he had listened to me, just for once, none of this would have happened!"

"He just wanted to do the right thing…"

"Yeah, he always just wants to do the right thing, but guess what? He always does exactly the opposite. No, I'm through with that. I'm through with cleaning up his messes", he replied sharply.

"You always clean up my messes", Sam said quietly.

"That's different."

Sam shook his head. "It's not."

Dean didn't reply. He hit the gas and the impala accelerated. It was different. Sam was his brother. No matter how often he had betrayed him, no matter how often he had let him down, he was family. Cas instead was just one arrogant angel, a douchebag, a pain in the ass…

"Damn it!" Dean swore and grabbed his phone.

Angels

Castiel watched his brothers and sisters fall from the sky in shock and disbelief. This was impossible. Metatron couldn't betray them. He was the scribe of God, he was destined to help them understand his commandments...

And yet, he found himself somewhere in the woods, without his wings, without his powers, without his grace. And with the blood of an innocent on his hands. With the blood of all his sisters and brothers on his hands who now probably stumbled over the earth, without a clue what had happened, why they suddenly fell so small, so weak.

His vessel capitulated under the sudden realization of what he had done and he fell down to the ground.

All he had wanted was to save heaven. Rebuild it. He would have done everything, he would have undergone every punishment, he would have died for the cause.

Now, it was all lost. The gates of heaven were closed. The demons were now the most powerful creatures in the universe and they would take the chance to burn the whole world down.

And it was all his fault. He had once again trusted the wrong person, he had once again rather believed in heaven's servant than in Sam and Dean.

Sam and Dean, who had always been there to help him out, who had fought his fight even after all he had done to them.

He had sent them all on a road to perdition and there was nothing left he could do. Nothing, but surrender.

All of a sudden, the phone in his coat pocket began to ring, but he did not even bother to look at it. His fight was over.

Demons

Minutes after the Winchesters had disappeared, Abaddon returned to the church. Crowley raised his head as she walked back in through the door, in a new vessel, still the old bitch.

She walked towards him slowly, teasing him with every step she made closer to him.

"Well, well, well", she snarled as she had reached him. "It appears none of your subjects came to your rescue, your highness. I guess they did not appreciate your… politics."

Crowley looked up at her and wanted to reply something equally sarcastic, but the words were stuck in his throat. Surprise ran over his face as he realized he was too afraid to speak. Fear was not an emotion he knew, fear did not exist in his system, fear was… human.

"Not very talkative now, are you?" Abaddon asked and leaned towards him.

Crowley felt how his nerves began to shake and tried everything to regain control, as Abaddon suddenly laughed out.

"What is it, Crowley? Are you afraid?" she asked amused and studied him closer.

"Piss off, you little bitch", he finally managed to force out, but it did not sound calm at all. In fact, his voice sounded high-pitched, even hysterical.

"Now, this is quite interesting", Abaddon said and walked around him. "The boy has gotten very far with the procedure, has he?"

Crowley remained silent. Sweat covered his forehead as Abaddon sat down on the wooden desk and eyed him closely.

He wanted to look at her, wanted to nail her down with his eyes, but his body refused his orders. Abaddon was right. Sam's blood had evoked the little bit of humanity he still remembered. That was bad. That was really, really bad.

"What a pity", she finally said. "Actually, I came here to smack you, rip you apart and use you as a warning. But well, it seems you are no danger to me anymore. In fact, you are no danger to anyone in your state."

She rose and once more, stepped in front of him, her expression thoughtful.

"You know what?" she continued. "I think I will let you continue this humble existence. I think I will let you watch how I take over your kingdom and make it all better, all new. Yes, I think I will do that."

And with a snap of her fingers, she vanished.

The painter

The starry, dark sky was illuminated by thousands of lights, flames dancing over the firmament for the blink of an eye, before they were swallowed by the darkness.

The unknowing people starred at in in awe, for they believed it was just a beautiful natural spectacle, a shower of falling stars. They pointed their fingers into the night, made wishes, took pictures and videos.

The news channels would surely report about it tomorrow and scientists would try to unravel the mystery, at least for a while, before they would return their concentration on something more important than dying stars.

The painter, however, stood motionless on the veranda and saw nothing but the violent contrast: the black night, the silver flames, the grey clouds.

The colors were exactly the same as on the painting in the basement of the house; the whole scenery was completely alike, as in so many paintings before.

The painter had drawn deaths and wrongs, sinners and believers, angels and demons, hunters and prophets, destruction and resurrection, but in all the years, had never actually seen one of the paintings come to life.

For all those years, the paintings had been a safe position, like the seat in the cinema. You just watched people die and love and live hundreds and hundreds of times and then, walked away, because it was not real to you, because you could do nothing to change the outcome of their stories.

And though the paintings were real, future drawn onto the canvas, the painter had never interfered. All the emotions, the shivers, the anger, the restlessness were simply ignored due to the Lord's commandment: draw, don't act. See, don't move.

The painter turned around and walked back in slowly, eyes resting for a while on the newest painting, finished only an hour ago, the paint not even dry. It captured the aftermath, the closed gates of heaven and the scribe wandering through paradise, just as alone and abandoned as he had been on earth.

He had set the world off balance, he had eliminated the already damaged counterpoise to hell, he had sent thousands of angels to an exile they never truly understood.

The world as the painter had known it had ceased to exist. And for the first time, the painter felt fear.

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