* Prologue *
Sam Winchester sat at the edge of his bed, with his head in his hands. His body felt heavy, his chest felt tight, his eyes were swollen and burning. Just hours ago he had held his older brother in his arms and watched him take his last breath. Dean Winchester, the man who had saved humanity from annihilation so many times over the last decade, had died of a single stab wound to the chest. His killer, Metatron, was an unhinged angel of the Lord, who had struck Dean down for daring to stand up against his plans to become God. It wasn't supposed to have ended this way.
Over the last year, two civil wars had been raging simultaneously in Heaven and Hell. The two Winchester brothers, raised as demon hunters by their father, had set out to bring an end to both conflicts, with the assistance of their angel companion Castiel. In a bid to end the battle for dominance in Hell, Dean had acquired the legendary Mark of Cain, obtained the formidable First Blade that gave untold power to the wearer of the Mark, and become an unstoppable force against all supernatural beings. He eliminated Abaddon, a Knight of Hell, and ended the war in the underworld. But when he tried to take on the deranged angel that sought supremacy in Heaven, he had failed, and it cost him his life.
This wasn't the first time his brother had died – six years ago Dean was torn to pieces by a hellhound, and brought back to life by Castiel – but Sam knew it would be the last time. The angels had lost their wings, and most of their power, thanks to Metatron. He had tried to summon Crowley, the demon who got Dean into this mess, to see if there was anything he could do, but Crowley never came. There were no other avenues to take. No demon deals to make. No trumps cards to play.
Sam lifted his head and sighed, his breath quivering in his throat as he exhaled. He swallowed hard and realized that his throat was raw. Despite everything he had suffered over the years because of his duty as a hunter, Sam had never felt as broken as he did now. His muscles screamed at him as he stood, reminding him of how far he had walked carrying his brother's body. The body that now lay in its own bedroom on the other side of the concrete corridor. It had been just over a year since the brothers had moved into the reinforced bunker, and this place had felt more like home than anywhere else they had ever lived. Now Sam was unsure if he could even spend another night under its roof. He walked slowly out of his room, pausing outside his brother's closed door. A lump stuck in his throat, and he could feel his eyes welling. He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. The sooner he got used to the idea of his brother's death being a reality, the better. He shuffled down the corridor towards the bathroom, sniffing loudly.
If Sam had stayed outside Dean's bedroom for a few minutes longer, he would have heard the sounds of a heated conversation occurring on the other side of the door. But instead Sam stood under the hot stream of a shower, water and tears mingling down his cheeks.