Most men Dean's age were already settled own, their life just barely falling into place and unfurling itself out. They knew what they wanted, knew what they had and had plans for the future. Dean was not most men. Dean Winchester knew two things for certain in his life: Firstly, Bert and Ernie were gay. Secondly, that the world was filled to the brim with monsters that most people could barely dream of and he would probably kill them until the day he died.

He had not experienced anything called a 'miracle', nothing especially magical that would constitute as both a good thing and wouldn't cost anything in exchange. Faith healers were always fraudulent, keeping a Reaper on a leash or using the Placebo effect to cure healthy people. Then there were those who wrapped themselves in the security blanket called 'religion'. Dean knew about demons, Hell too, but there was no Heaven. There was no place where the good people went, where the righteous rested their weary heads. When good men and women died they were just gone, plain and simple. Death brings no peace to the ones left behind.

Dean nursed his third beer for the evening, sitting in solitude on the hood of his precious Impala while he thought about the day. He and Jo had burst down the doors of a Vamp nest and torched the blood suckers after they had sent a week gorging themselves on the townsfolk – not half as easy as it sounds. With every sip he felt the dull throb in his skull from what was probably a concussion, the superficial lacerations all over him still stinging from Ellen's rather violent disinfectant session. She'd really cracked down on medical treatment after Sam nearly got gangrene last summer. Good thing too, it had saved everyone at least a couple hundred in hospital bills; regardless, that woman was terrifying when she had her mind set on something.

Finishing off the last of his alcohol he decided it was enough for the evening and headed into the house. Shuffling up the stairs to his room for the night, Dean toed off his boots before flopping onto the bed with an exaggerated sigh of relief. There really was nothing quite like a soft bed after a long day of killing monsters. The instant his head hit the pillow Dean's body was claimed by sleep.

Castiel watched as the morning of his day began with the slaughter of the Righteous Man's clan. The demons came in the night, having followed Dean using a tracking device carefully hidden underneath the body of his car during his hunt. The hunters had never anticipated demons to use such human methods, never would have dreamed them to become so crafty. Waiting for the clan to get comfortable, they made their move – systematically destroying the demon traps, hex bags and other wards with human puppets they had tricked into servitude. God wasn't the only one with a human army at his disposal.

He could not sit idly by as he watched Jo Harvelle fall, ripped to ribbons by hellhounds. As Ellen fought with a new found desperation she too perished, followed shortly thereafter by Bobby. As the flames from their battle threatened to completely engulf the house along with every sleeping hunter in to Castiel flew swiftly to the Heaven that Zachariah had declared his 'office' before forcing his way in and demanding to speak to the Angelic Authority.

"Castiel, you know this can be seen as insubordination. What is the meaning behind this?"

"The Righteous Man, he-"

"Is safe and sound, he will survive this."

"Wh-"

"We've known, Castiel. The Righteous Man must be broken before he can grow strong and become the weapon he must be."

"But-"

"This is God's Will, Castiel. We cannot intervene."

He felt his form shirt then, all of his mouths becoming dry as he stared in horror at the Angel before him. Trying to be the voice of reason, knowing inherently that something was wrong, he spoke once more.

"He is just a man, Zachariah. He could break beyond repair, he could turn if we do not offer him guidance and assistance in this."

"Castiel, stop this blasphemy immediately. The word of God is final – we will not intervene. Stand down."

"I-"

"Stand down or face the Wrath of God."

He knew that this was a fight he could not win – Zachariah was too set in his own ways that he would not be able to see his point. Zachariah could not feel the wrongness of his own orders, the bitter taste of questions that needed to be asked left unspoken. Bowing his heads in submission, Castiel allowed his wings to droop as he kneeled before his superior.

"I apologize for my behavior, brother. It was…a momentary lapse in judgment. I will not allow it to happen again."

"All is forgiven, little Castiel. I trust you to keep your word – I will hold you to it."

Leaving the 'office', Castiel knew what he had to do. Going to his preferred Heaven, he took a few deep, unnecessary breaths before reaching his Grace back in time to properly prepare his vessel for this moment.

"Father, forgive me."

Then he was gone.