It wasn't supposed to end like this.
But, I guess we never really get a choice on how it ends.
Crowley reclined in the plush, leather chair drumming nonchalantly on the wood of the arm. The age old rhythm echoed around the room, keeping the silence from asphyxiating the air around them while the two men basked in the void. Crowley's eyes stayed glued to the figure laying in the bed, the figure that had once been Dean Winchester. He looked so peaceful compared to the turmoil that had surrounded him, eyes closed, the first blade clutched close to his chest.
"Time to wake up, Dean" Crowley cooed, momentarily ceasing his drumming. Dean opened his eyes, what had been once bright green irises had now been consumed by blackness. "That's it, Squirrel" Dean threw his legs over the side of the bed, resting the blade on his thigh as he pushed himself to his feet. Blinking twice, his eyes faded back to their usual green-ish hue. "I think it's time we took another trip downstairs, don't you?"
Sam was bent double on the sofa, his head resting in his hands and his elbows digging into the fleshy parts of his thighs. Smoke still billowed gently from the bowl of mixed herbs and bones, the smell infesting Sam's nose; still he didn't move. Blood dripped gently down his forearm, starting a slow moving river that cascaded across his skin and began forming a puddle on his jeans. He didn't care too much, as a matter of fact he didn't care at all; the only thing plaguing his mind was the fact that his brother was lying dead in the next room. He wrapped his long fingers around a glass of whiskey, swirling it around in the glass a few times before knocking it back. The liquid burnt his throat as he swallowed hard and resumed his former position. After another whiskey and a fair amount of battling with his inner demons, he pushed himself from the sofa and strode toward the door that hid his brothers corpse. Taking a moment before gently turning the handle.
It had all happened so fast. Seeing Dean slumped against the concrete wall, his face bloodied and bruised. Watching as Medatron plunged the angel blade into his chest, turning it clockwise before pulling it out again, Dean's blood covering the metal. All Sam could do was watch, his lungs burning as his scream ricocheted off the buildings walls, his footfalls sounding like bullets as he pounded toward his brother. The room had shook after that, just before Medatron disappeared, the entire building has shaken and right there Dean had accepted his death. Welcomed it. He spoke of the mark changing him, turning him into someone he didn't want to be but still all Sam could think about was saving him; it was his brother after all. He had died then, in his arms, talking of pride while Sam pleaded with him to stay a while longer. It was all so fast, too fast. Now he was gone.
Sam stepped into the room. The bed his brothers corpse had occupied empty and the demon he had summoned gone.
Castiel wondered freely over the well kept grass, flowers in full bloom surrounded large hedges that encompassed the garden. A large rock, surrounded by tulips, roses and other various small shrubs lay encompassed by a circular area of greenery. Cas strolled toward it, the sun lingering on his beaten features; wrinkles becoming visible in his never aging skin. This may be the last time he was able to roam free across the heavens, bask among the various wonders the individuals created for themselves. The stolen grace inside him was weakening and quickly. He perched against the rock, using a hand to rub easing circles into his temple temporarily soothing the growing headache. Angels don't get headaches, Cas laughed to himself, well, dying ones do. The red colours of a kite caught his eye as he forced his aching head to the back of his mind to look toward the sky. It ducked and dived on the wind, the string securing it to the ground taut. The eternal Tuesday afternoon drew on and Cas stood silently. He really did like this one the best. Its strange out of all the beautiful minds on Earth, the mind of an autistic man who drown in a bath tub in 1953 would create the most beautiful heaven.
Everything was slowly getting back on track and Cas was determined to have nothing to do with it. He wasn't cut out to be a leader, he knew that now. He had screwed up too many times, killed too many innocent creatures to ever trust himself with that power again. The reapers had started bringing the screaming souls to their resting places, Heaven was back in business. He thought about Tessa, how she had died because she couldn't take the screaming; she died in vain, died because of him. Just another reason he shouldn't be making the decisions around here.
The eternal Tuesday wore on, immortal and perfect. Cas' headache worsened. Although, this place was flawless, it wasn't getting him any closer to finding his grace and he didn't have time to waste. He was going to burn out soon. He needed to find Sam and Dean, surely they would help him, after all that he had done for them, surely they would try and help him. Cas thought a second longer. May be one final stop here in Heaven was needed before his trip to Earth.