Prologue

Blackened singed feathers, some still bearing cherry hot red edges, rained down upon the earth. Like a flock of blackbirds descending down on a field of insects, they covered the land in a fluttering madness. The acrid air burned anything with lungs who was unfortunate enough to still be inhaling.

A singular figure stood alone. His features blurred and shifted in and out of focus. Head bowed, he seemed to gain more substinece, as a single tear rolled down his face. A diamond in a coal mine, the tear left a trail as it passed over the refined features of his visage. Cutting down and through the charcoal smudges passing through cracks and crevices of his worn face it traveled onward. Eventually it reached the pinnacle of his chiseled chin the tear made it's leap of sacrifice, as it fell down from flesh to ground.

His eyes, the color of dawn on the coldest day of winter, stared out across the decimated landscape. Odors of burning flesh and sulphur assaulted him as his gaze traveled all edges of the horizon. What may have been, was now completely undone. The world was crispy black, smoldering; lost. Not a single solitary tree or structure remained. The entire landscape was dead. The only promise that remained was the vast open sky. What once was diminished by the pollution of artificial man made light now shone clear and bright as on their first night of creation. The stars. Thousands of stars now illuminated this forsaken little sphere of earth. Their cool blue light, so quiet, so absolute, shimmered down creating a soft echo on his shoulders.

Cherried ashes carried on the wind swirled and danced in patterns around his bare feet. He looked down at his hands. Big strong hands. He should have been able to hold them, save them, keep them tight to his chest. He looked closely at the char, the dust, the blood caked into his palms, tightly tucked into the wrinkles and ridges of his knuckles. Oh how he tried. How he desperately clutched at their souls.

Souls so precious, so bright and brilliant. Many kingdoms had risen and fallen by the quest of the soul. The quest for power, control, spiritual conquest had claimed untold multitudes of human beings over eternity. Mere mortals were not alone in their greed and war for the human soul. Angels, demons, Gods and devils alike shared too their lust for control and power.

Of all the souls and all the battles, only two souls really mattered to him. It should have been simple to hold onto two souls. Why wasn't he able to keep them safe? Why did he screw up again? It did not matter how many times he went back and tried to fix it, the outcome was the same. It all ended there, with their ashes in his hands.

Chapter One

"Don't walk away from me dammit." Dean sputtered as he flung his arms out wide. Beer spilled down from the mouth of the bottle as he swung his hand back down towards his chest.

"I'm serious Cass! If you walk away now, don't bother fluttering your feathery ass back you son of a bitch!" He jeered, his speech slightly slurred and husky. Flinging the bottle up to his lips, he took a long pull, his adam's apple bobbed up and down in rhythm with his gulps.

"Dean you're drunk." Castiel eyes flared and crackled with blue electric glow.

Dean spun around, throwing the bottle hard. Shards of glass exploded onto the wall as the bottle shattered into a thousand pieces. Beer stained the garish hotel wallpaper when the bottle shattered, leaving a long streaking pattern like amber rain. "And what about it, Cass. Who cares? In the grand scheme of things, what the hell does it matter that I drunk right now?"

"Don't you think you owe it to your brother to be out there looking for him? He would look for you Dean. He did look for you when the situation was reversed." He spoke and placed his hand on Dean's shoulder.

Castiel should have expected it.

Deans fist came flying up at at his face and squarely caught him in his jaw. The force of the blow rocked him back on his heels. If he had been less angel and more human he was quite certain that a tooth would have been removed from his throbbing gum line. As it was, a thin trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth and slowly dripped down his chin. Dean may be just a man but the Mark of Cain had changed him, twisted him like a dark thorny vine. Mark aside, his conviction alone fueled that punch with enough force to knock an angel off balance.

Dean clenched and unclenched his fist. He shook hand like a dog shaking off water and tried to relieve the pain in his knuckles. Cursing under his breath. "Punching your face is like punching a God damn brick wall Cass."

Castiel looked wounded, "Let me," he reached out his hand and took Deans hand into his own.

Dean pulled his hand back, "No, dammit, I don't want your help! Don't you get that? My busted hand? Losing Sammy? My fault! My fault and my fault alone. You can't fix everything Cass with just a wave of your magic wand!" He staggered back and sat down on the bed. The mattress made a sound of protest as if the weight of the world had just been dropped on it's rusting springs. His hand swiped away at the annoying tears forming in the corner of his eyes.

Castiel moved closer, braving and bracing himself for another physical outburst. "Dean… I uh, look, I understand." His voice echoed both sadness and frustration, "Can't you believe that by now? After all these years? I'm trying to help you Dean, can't you let me help you?"

Dean propped his elbows on his knees and lowered his head into his hands and let out a long shuddering exhale. His knuckles were bruised, his hair was a complete mess and there were wrinkles now on his careworn face. Castiel couldn't help but notice how aged his friend looked. How vulnerable he seemed. Dean would never let anyone know the depth of his troubles, of his secret despair but Castiel knew. He knew beyond the tough guy facade underneath the slumped broad shoulders of this aging man hid a small boy. A small boy who so desperately needed his father so many years ago and lacking such took up his mantle, his crusade. A boy who became a man much too early foregoing any childhood innocence and joy to raise his brother in place of his absentee father.

This was whom Castiel saw tonight on that dirty motel bed. Not the tough guy Dean Winchester proclaimed to be.

His voice was breaking "Cass…," he lifted his green water filled eyes, "It's impossible. I'm lost. I don't even know where to begin anymore." He lowered his gaze again, "What do I do?"

Castiel sat down on the bed next to him. "You are not lost, I am here with you."

"But I feel so used up Cass," he turned his head away from his friend, "I've given so much, what more can I do? What more do I have left?" His voice was barely a whisper, " I thought this was all over man. I mean I know that Sam, you and I could never have a normal life,"his voice broke, "I know that. But I never thought we'd be in this position again." He took a long pause…" I'm growing old Cass. I'm not the young man I used to be," his eyes darkened, "I am tired."

Dean stood and paced over to the window, using his rugged fingers, he carefully pushed the rough, thick curtains aside. A shaft of fading golden orange street light illuminated his face through the crack.

Castiel looked thoughtfully up at his friend, "Dean you know this isn't the end. We'll find him."

In the distance a car was pulling into the motels parking lot. The headlights momentarily brightened the room and Dean squinted his eyes against the sudden intrusive light.

"Where is God Castiel?" He breathed in deeply, "Did you know Sammy used to pray?" he questioned as continued to gaze out the dirty windowpane.

"He still does." The angel answered.

Dean let the curtain slip from his fingers and turned, allowing his eyes to readjust to the darkened room. "Is he praying now?"

Castiel looked sad. His blue eyes now much calmer looked up at him, "No, I wish that he was. It would be so much easier to locate him."

"What did I do wrong?" Dean spoke softly, childlike as he walked over to the table and poured himself a shot of bourbon. With practiced ease he lifted the glass to his lips and let the familiar burning liquid drain down his throat. "Why did he leave this time?"

Carefully he set the glass down and steadied himself against the table. It felt as if his entire world was shaking, falling down and his legs felt off balance. However it was immediately apparent that it wasn't just his legs trembling, it was the entire room. Cheap cardboard pictures on the wall shuttered and rattled from side to side. Empty beer bottles fell from the table and clattered down onto the floor while his shot glass vibrated and the whiskey sloshed wildly in the bottle.

He spun around to face Castiel "What is going on?" he shouted as a familiar high pitched, terrible sound began to fill the room drowning out his question. The TV turned itself on and the white noise flickering on the screen grew into a sicking cacophony of pain and Dean covered his ears in vain as he collapsed to the floor.

A brightness filled the room with a hot white light that Dean could not bear as he buried his face into the musty, filthy motel carpet. He could taste blood. The metallic thick liquid was filling his mouth and he couldn't breath.

Castiel leap up and covered Dean with his own body. He extended his ethereal wings and cocooned his friend, shielding him from the Archangel.

"Michael! You cannot have him! You could not have him then and you will not have him now!" Castiel roared as he hovered protecting his friend.

The sound and light intensified breaking every piece of glass in the room and shards upon shards of glass stormed down blasting into them as they huddled on the dirty floor.

Dean rattled out one last hitching, blood filled breath. His arms and body relaxed as warm darkness enveloped him.