(Notes: Dean must find a way to save Sam from the effects of the trials; While on his way to the bunker, Cas meets a highly unexpected stranger.)

1: Rise

Metatron sits on a strip of sand, his shoes kept just out of the lapping water. He can taste the ocean salt on his lips. Beside him hides a form constructed of shadow. Unrecognizable. Just lonely, faceless, curves of black.

"You know what I love?" Metatron's voice breaks through the beach's peaceful silence.

The shadow does not reply. It simply twitches with the wind.

"A good story." Metaron grins, his eyes narrowing. "The twists, the turns, the heartbreak. It was my favorite thing about living on earth. Shakespeare, Faulkner, Orwell, Rowling. Loved 'em all."

The tide rises, inching closer to Metatron, but he does not back away from the white-and-blue foam. He doesn't fear its depth, its power or its infiniteness. He fears nothing anymore. Heaven is his.

"But now it's my turn to tell a story. You see, it all started with an angel who pulled a hunter out of hell. If it wasn't for that one angel doing that one thing, none of this would have been possible. But this story isn't their story anymore. It's my story now. And it's going to be a good one."

###

Dean's knees are cracking into the concrete. He doesn't care. He only cares about Sam. Sam whose body is weak and broken from the trials. The trials that should have been Dean's burden to bear.

It's Dean that should be dead. Dean that should have died to close the gates of hell. Now, Sam is barely alive, and the gates are as open as ever.

"Sam, no. SAM!" Tears burn at Dean's eyes as he clutches his brother's face.

"Cas," he prays. "Cas, it's Sam. He's- Please."

No answer.

Dean has no time to wait. He drags Sam's limp body into the Impala. He speeds, he whips around corners, he blows through red lights until he gets Sam into the ER.

For hours, for two whole days, the hospital does everything it can for Sam, until a doctor comes to Dean and says, "It's time to accept the inevitable, and let your brother go peacefully."

Anguish wracks through Dean's body. He grips the wall just to keep on his feet, to keep the universe from splitting apart at the seams. He won't lose Sam. He won't.

Wild, mad, eyes bloodshot from 48 hours without sleep, Dean stumbles into the hospital chapel. He falls on a pew in the front row, hands gripping onto the wooden seat. He looks up at the pastel-colored stained glass and at the white winged angel formed into its colors. He holds onto that image as he begins to pray,

"Cas, I know you're listening. You have to be listening. I need you. Sam's in trouble, he's dying, man." Dean's voice breaks. He bites his lip, hard, hoping the pain will ground him. "Cas," he gasps for air, "Castiel." Dean pauses, a tear escaping his eye. "Anyone. Please."

He hears that familiar whip, that breath of air that heralds the arrival of angel. His heart jumps in his chest, but when he turns around, it's not Cas. Disappointment engulfs Dean.

"I know I'm not Castiel,"the angel says. He has short wavy brown hair, a small smile and a line of forehead freckles. He's wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. "But if you let me, I can try to help you, Dean."

Dean's mouth falls open, just a bit. Would this angel really help him? He needs the help, but he also needs to know.

"Where's Cas?"

###

Castiel's fingers carve into the dirt as he tries to pull himself to his feet. He blinks. Why can't he remember what happened? Well, he can remember some of it. He remembers the pain of falling, the scorch of his wings. He can still feel it, really. His skin is alive with pain.

But he has a feeling it's been awhile since he fell. His clothes are caked in dirt, his eyes are sticky and heavy.

Cas forces himself through a line of trees to the edge of a road. He stands on the side, cars fleeing past him, refusing to stop. Why would they stop for him? He's dirty and limping and smells.

Everything is so loud. So bright. Flashing and whining and whirring. It's like a thousands fists punching all across his body. But Cas keeps following the road, eventually he'll get somewhere he can call Dean, and then… well Cas didn't know what would happen then.

He'd caused the angels to fall. It will not matter that it was an accident. His brothers and sisters, his hurting brothers and sisters, will need a scapegoat. Fear shudders through him like broken bones. Once again the hosts of heaven will hunt Castiel.

Memories flash across his mind, bringing with them jolts of pain.

. . .

"You don't have to do this," Castiel begged.

"Yes, I do."

"We can fix this. Fix our family. We're family, Metatron."

. . .

Those words had felt like glue on Castiel's tongue. Family isn't Metatron. Family is the Winchesters. Family is Dean.

. . .

"Please," Cas's voice shook as Metatron brought a blade to Cas's throat.

"I liked you, Castiel. I'm sorry. I'm sorry it has to be you."

. . .

Cas squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think about other things. The smell of a cheap hotel room. The feel of the Impala's seats. The sound of Dean's voice. Anything else.

Cas has probably walked for 12 hours straight. He can hardly feel his legs when he arrives a run-down gas station. Rust covers the pumps and the whole place smells like cigarettes and fuel.

His mouth burns, sticky yet dry. He knows it now. Something he's never understood before: thirst. It's so desperate, needy, real. He stumbles toward the whirring cold glass doors. He grabs a water bottle, tears off the cap and pours the water straight down his throat.

The water is cold, wet, perfect. He can feel it coating his throat and his stomach. This is even better, even stronger, than thirst. It's the quenching of thirst.

"You gonna pay for that?" asks the red-faced man working behind the counter.

Cas freezes. He never even though of that. Not for a second. He'd just needs water. "Umm."

"You have to pay for it," the worker snarls.

"I've got it," a smooth voice says.

Drinking the last bit of the water, Cas looks straight ahead where he sees a man with ash-blond hair and sharp, but nice, features. The man is wearing grey-thick rimmed glasses, expensive-looking jeans and a forest green sweater with the sleeves pushed up.

"You don't have to."

"I think he does." The worker's eyes narrow.

The man smiles. "See. I have to."

"Well, thanks."

The man lays a credit card on the counter then looks back at Cas, an almost sad smile on his face. "You should get something to eat, too."

"I couldn't."

"You're not hungry?"

Cas isn't quite sure, but he does feel a terrible, hollow ache just below his rib cage. He kind of remembers feeling like this once before, with the horseman of famine.

"I'll just get." He looks around. He's not quite sure what to eat. "Um." He sees something in small white paper packages, with the word pie printed on them. Cas picks up those.

The man laughs. "You don't want something more substantial than pie?"

"But pie's good, isn't it?"

"It tastes good, but I'm not even sure that is really pie."

Cas's brow furrows. What does he mean it isn't pie?

"But if that's what you want," the man continues.

"Thank you," says Cas. "You're very kind."

In his years on earth, he's seen a lot of good people, but he's also seen a lot of terrible ones and it's always hard to tell the difference. So Cas is smart enough to be leery of this man, despite how nice he seems.

The bathroom door squeaks open and a woman walks out. As soon as she does, the worker looks away from the cash register. The woman nods at the worker, and the "nice" man shoves Cas to the ground.

Cas sits up, trying to climb to his feet.

He looks right at the worker, and then at the woman. "You should get out of here."

"Leave them alone," Cas manages.

The man glares at Cas. "Be quiet."

"You have no idea who you're dealing with," the woman hisses. She pulls her hand out from behind her back. An angel blade?

Cas scrambles backwards.

"Just leave Castiel with us, and we won't be forced to kill you," the angel-girl says to the man.

"You're not forced to kill me. It's your choice," the man says.

So this man is trying to protect him? There's no way he knows what power he's dealing with. He'll get killed.

The worker angel rushes around the counter and zooms toward Cas. The man sticks out of his hand and the hilt of the girl's angel blade flies perfectly into his palm. Cas can't see what's happening now because the worker angel is bending over him, his hand reaching toward Cas's forehead. Cas slams his tired fists against the angel's chest, but it's no use.

Silver light bursts through the angel's eyes and chest. He collapses almost on top of Cas. He barely rolls out of the way in time.

The girl-angel attacks the man, but he's fighting back well. Clearly trained. She's thrown against the wall, spools of unsold rope unroll and then twist around the girl's ankles and wrists, holding her in place.

The angel-blade flies back to the man's hands. "No," he says. "You have no idea who you're dealing with." He shoves the blade into the angel's chest, and that's it. She's dead.

Cas stands there, blinking. Questions tumble through his mind at speeds he can't understand. What just happened?

"Who are you?" Cas asks, his mouth and eyes wide.

The man turns around on his heel and says, "Oliver James. Garth sent me here to help you."

###

The first thing Dean did after talking to this angel, whose name was Ezekiel, almost half a day ago, was call Garth. Apparently, the angels had fallen. All of them. Just dropped out of the sky. Cas could be hurt or dead – or anything. Somebody needed to find him. Dean would go himself, but he had to deal with Sam.

Now he nervously waits to hear if Cas was found. He waits to see what Ezekiel can do to help Sam.

In the chilly hospital room, Ezekiel lays his hands on Sam's forehead, his chest, he touches Sam's wrists.

"So?" Dean asks.

Ezekiel looks up at Dean, his mouth set in a frown. "Oh, Dean."

"What is it?"

"He's very sick."

Dean bites down on the insides of his cheeks. "Do something about it!"

"I can't. I'm not that strong. Not right now." Ezekiel reaches toward Dean who jolts back. "I'm sorry."

Dean can't get air into his lungs fast enough. "You're telling me there's nothing you can do?"

Ezekiel sighed. "There's not nothing, but-"

"But what? Do it!" Dean shouted.

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because think about it." Ezekiel spoke through shut teeth.

Dean runs a hand through his hair and stumbles back. He remembers when Jimmy Novak was dying, how Cas had kept him alive.

Ezekiel continues, "You're Sam and Dean Winchester. Of the 'we told Michael and Lucifer' to shove it Winchesters. Think about what you're considering."

"I can't let my brother die."

Ezekiel's voice is almost a whisper. So quiet Dean has to move closer to hear it. "You know he's going to heaven, right? That everything would be okay for him?"

But, no. You don't just give up. You keep fighting. Always. Always. Always.

"No."

"Before you decide," Ezekiel says. "There's something I need to show you."

"What?"

Ezekiel's face hardens. "Exactly how much you're asking of your brother. You need to ask yourself how much you're willing to take from Sam so you don't have to feel alone."

###

Here, the earth is burnt, bright lines of hot orange finding its way through the cracks. The air is more sulfur than oxygen, more smoke than sky. Within the blinding heat, stands dozens, hundreds maybe, of demons gathered from around the world. Through the smoke, their eyes are fierce, black, gleaming.

"This is the perfect time," whispers Abaddon to the pale demon at her side.

"For what?" he asks, his voice low.

She breathes out, her red hair a flash of heat in the darkness of the cavern. "To rise."

The pale demon turns his head and asks, "When the earth is filled with angels?"

Abaddon's body draws tighter, her chin lifting. Chaos drips from her skin. She steps forward, away from the thickness of the smoke. Her voice turns all the demons attention to her.

"Broken angels. Scared angels. Lost angels," she says, nearly as whisper so the demons they'd gathered that day would be forced into silence. But the pale demon is not, not yet.

"They are still strong, Abaddon."

She does not acknowledge the pale demon alone, instead she directs her response to fearsome, waiting crowd, her voice steadily rising.

"Listen to me all of you. Angels are petty. They have been shielded from emotion, from hate. But now that they feel it, now that they feel it the way that Lucifer felt it when he fell. That hate will consume them, and they will tear themselves apart. And we shall help them do it. What do you say?"

A murmur rolls through the crowd. "Yes."

"I said: WHAT DO YOU SAY?"

Even the pale demon twitches at the force of her voice.

"These weak humans will no longer have their faith to hide behind. The best of creations, the angels, have come nothing but pathetic, squabbling children. It is time now. Time to stop hiding. We will RISE up and do what we are meant to do."

"Yes, Abaddon!" The crowd of demons shout. The pale demon lets the words whisper out on his lips.

"The days of peace on earth are done. We will take what is rightfully ours. We will steal, and we will destroy and we will devour. Are you with me?"

"YES, ABADDON!" They all shout. All of them.

Her arms are up in the air, the crowd is wild and restless before her. A fresh explosion of hate and greed in all of them.

"Then, rise. RISE," she commands.

Like a rush of boiling ocean, the word ' rise' roars through the black cavern. Over and over until they are a chorus loud enough to shake the earth for miles.

Rise. Rise. Rise. RISE!

###

As he ate the small packaged pies, Castiel sat in the passenger seat of Oliver James's car, which was very different than Dean's. It was shiny and silver and, instead of hamburgers, the inside smelled like new leather.

"I'm sorry. I need to know. What are you?" Castiel asks. "A witch?"

"A wizard," Oliver responds calmly.

Cas narrows his eyes. "There's no such thing as wizards."

"A wizard is just." Oliver sighs, looking a bit frustrated. "Witch has a certain connotation to it."

"Like what?"

"Like bad. Like black magic."

"But you're not into black magic."

He shakes his head, looks out the window. "No."

"You're like… I don't understand?"

Oliver chuckles quietly, almost so Cas can't hear it. "Gandalf, but with an expensive haircut and better shoes."

Hours later, they stop at a hotel. Oliver is too tired to keep driving, and keeps veering slightly off the road. So they stop when they get into the city, Denver, and they rent a room in one of the high-rise hotels downtown. It's nothing like the cheap motels Cas stayed in with the Winchesters. The room smells like cedar, the carpet is royal blue and the bedding pure white. But despite the elegant trappings, Cas suddenly remembers what he should have done in the car, but was too tired to even think about.

"I want to call Dean," Cas says as firmly as he can.

Oliver drops his luggage on a chair. "You should take a shower first."

Cas isn't about to back down. He needs to know it's all right. "No. I really need to talk to him."

Oliver shrugs and pulls his phone out of his pocket. "Well, sure, Castiel if you insist."

"I do."

He hands the phone to Cas and walks back into the hall. Cas looks down at the phone's home screen. It's Oliver, his arm around a brown-haired girl with a high ponytail. A little sister, a girlfriend, maybe? Though she's a bit young for a girlfriend, the girl doesn't look much like Oliver, except her smile. It doesn't matter. Cas is just trying to get a handle on who he's with right now.

With shaky fingers, Cas dials Dean's number. It's not something he'll ever forget.

When Dean picks up before he can say a word Cas says, "Hello, Dean."

"Cas, you're okay." His words are rushed, and Cas's come out without a thought:

"I'm not an angel anymore. I lost my grace." He sounds so broken because he's breaking.

"How do you feel?" Dean asks.

Cas can't think of a lie so he just tells the truth. "It hurts."

"Cas." He says his name like an apology, and that is all Castiel ever needs.

"Don't worry about me, Dean. Just tell me about Sam." Oliver had brought him up to speed on that in the car. "Will he be okay?"

There is a pause where Cas wonders if he lost the call, but the Dean speaks again:

"Do you know an angel named Ezekiel?"

"I do. He's one of the good guys."

"You're sure?"

"I am."

"I need his help, but I'm not sure. I'm not sure what the right thing to do is, Cas. Tell me the right thing to do." Dean's voice is distant, but full pain. What Cas would give to wipe that pain away!

"I wish I could, but you know my track record." And Cas isn't even sure what Dean means. "The bad decisions I've made."

"I just don't want to make this choice alone."

Cas searches, but can't find what to say. "Whatever it is, Dean, I know you. You'll do the right thing."

"You overestimate me."

Again, what is there, what is there to say, but his name and hope that says everything. "Dean."

"I'm sorry about your wings. I'll take care of this. Just come home. Cas, come home." Dean's breath shatters on the other end of the phone, but the sound still hits Cas hard.

"I will," Cas says then listens as Dean hangs up the phone.

His stomach is aching, hollow and empty, but this time he knows he isn't hungry. It's something else, something other, and he can't figure out where that emotion belongs.

Oliver walks back in the room, concern mapped out on his light-skinned face. "Is everything all right?"

Cas just shakes his head no, but doesn't offer more. Thankfully, Oliver doesn't ask.

"I'll take that shower now," he says.

Oliver smiles and nods. "I'll bring clothes in for you. I'm taller, but they should still fit."

Once he's in the bathroom, Cas slowly pulls his dirtied clothes off, turns on the hot water and steps in the shower. He loves the way the water slips and slides off his skin. He's been in the rain, but it's never felt like this. So hot it's a bit suffocating, breathing in mist, but he likes it.

During his shower, he hears the door squeak open.

"Your clothes," Oliver whispers and then walks back out the door.

Exhausted, Cas drags himself out of the shower and climbs into the clothes Oliver gave him, black sleep pants and a soft, light grey hoodie. They were significantly more comfortable than his coat and tie. He glances over at his trench coat; for some reason, it makes him feel sick.

Cas leaves his old clothes in a pile on the floor and heads back into the room. The lights are dim and Oliver has changed into other clothes himself. Light from the TV flickers around the room.

"What are you watching?" Cas yawns.

Oliver is sitting cross legged on one of the beds. "White Christmas."

Cas's head turns slightly. "It's July."

Slowly, he climbs into the bed. Exhaustion weights heavy on his limbs. It's a sensation he's just not used to.

"Christmas in July." Oliver flicks off the light and slides under the covers. "I've always loved this movie. You have a favorite movie?"

Cas tests out the way the pillow feel against his cheek and the bed against his sore back. "I watched Rocky with Sam and Dean once. I didn't like it that much."

Oliver chuckles softly. "I think you'll like this one."

Cas props up his pillow so he can watch the movie. It's soft and gentle. Different from a lot of what Dean would watch on TV. He didn't mind those shows, but right now he likes how this is simpler. The two leads in the movie, a man and a woman, are in an empty train car, standing near a piano. As the man starts to sing, so does Oliver, his voice low and soft:

"When I'm worried and I can't sleep
I count my blessings instead of sheep.
I fall asleep counting my blessings."

A small smile creeps its way onto Cas's face, though he has no explanation for it. He imagines it would be like drinking water if it were warm.

Oliver keeps singing, "When my bankroll is getting small,
I think of when I had none at all
I fall asleep counting my blessings."

A new sensation drifts over Cas, a bit like floating and sinking at the same time. As he falls asleep those words play in his mind… those somehow familiar words.

When you're worried and you can't sleep
Count your blessings instead of sheep
I fall asleep counting my blessings.

. . .

When he's certain Castiel is asleep, Oliver slips out of bed and into the bathroom. He pulls out his phone and dials.

"Hey," Oliver says.

"How is he?" the other person replies.

Oliver scratches his head, jumping up to sit on the bathroom counter. "Okay. Disoriented."

"I can imagine. Well, I can't really, but-"

Oliver lets out a long breath. How long has he been holding it in? "Yeah."

A pause.

"Does he remember you?"

Oliver shuts his eyes. If he opens his mouth, if he says the words, they're true. But they are true anyway. "No."

"Are you all right with that?"

"I'll have to be." What else is there?

"Thank you for doing this. You didn't have to."

Oliver's stomach churns. "I always have to."

###

Dean paces the hospital room floor, trying to calm himself by counting the squeak of his shoes on the floor. Ezekiel leans against the wall, just watching him. Dean's been going back and forth on his decision of what to do for a long time, and Cas hadn't been any help. Sam fought so hard against Lucifer, letting another angel in now – he would hate it. But Dean can't lose Sam.

"You'll have to make a decision, Dean." Ezekiel's voice is calm and even.

Nothing about Dean is calm and even. He is tearing apart. "I know that. Don't you think I know that?"

Ezekiel reaches out, puts a hand on Dean's arm. "I do, but maybe you need to think about why your making the decision you make, rather than just making a decision."

"Why? Sam could die."

"So," he says quickly.

Dean's fist twitches. He's about to deck this guy so hard in the face. Angel-trying-to-help-him or not. "What 'so'?"

"Sam's done more in his life than most people will do in twelve. Maybe it's time to give him some peace."

Dean could scarcely imagine a world without Sam. When Sam was in the cage, Dean had played a role with Lisa. That's all it was, despite the fact that he'd cared for Lisa and Ben. It was role, and he can't go back to that place, back to pretending.

"You need to show it to me now. Whatever you were going to show me earlier. I want to see it now."

Ezekiel nods. "Okay."

He reaches out and touches Dean, something strong and hot grips beneath his ribcage and pulls him somewhere else, somewhere he can immediately feel he does not belong.

It's Bobby's. Sam and Death, who looked just as Dean remembered the horseman, sit facing each other on a couch.

"Can you promise me, promise me, this will be the last time? No bringing me back. This is it?" Sam asks.

Death says, "I can, if you come with me."

Dean can't watch this. Can't let this happen. Can't just stand by.

"Stop. Sam, stop. Listen to me," Dean blurts, alerting both Death an Sam to his presence.

Sam's eyes widen as he looks at Dean. "Dean?"

Dean realizes he hadn't even discussed this with Ezekiel, not fully. "You'll do this? You'll help Sam?"

Ezekiel looks disappointed. "This isn't helping you but," he pauses. "Yes."

"Do it," Dean says harshly.

"I need Sam to decide, though," Ezekiel reminds him. Dean hasn't even thought of that, but now he has to figure out what to say.

"Sam, please. I need you to come back. I can't do this alone."

Sam says okay. Sam lets Ezekiel in, and Dean knows, somewhere in the back of his head or his heart, that this doesn't end well.

###

The house has been torn apart, broken windows and giant holes in the walls. Blood and the dead bodies of five angels litter the floor, mangled and destroyed.

"That's a hell of a rush," says the Pale Demon, leaning his head against the wall. Blood drizzles from his mouth down his neck; it coats his hands too.

"Incredible, isn't it?" Abaddon licks her lips.

"I'm just happy to be out from under Crowley," he says through gritted teeth.

Abaddon smirks, her eyes that deep coal black. "Didn't know you and Crowley were that close?"

The Pale Demon scoffs. "Not like that. I can do better than Crowley."

Abaddon slams him against the wall; her vessel slightly is taller than his when she wears heels. "Yes."

She attacks his lips with hers. They're somehow hot and cold at the same time. His hand pulls on her hair, tugs her closer. It's all fire and lust and falling. Falling, like he's heading somewhere, but can never find the bottom.

"They'll stop you," someone groans behind them. Abaddon and the Pale Demon separate to each side of the angel, making sure they had it cornered.

It was one of the angels they just slaughtered. Or meant to…

"We left one alive. Whoops." Abaddon shrugs, pulling an angel blade out of her leather jacket.

"They'll kill you. All of you," the angel forces the words out, though the angel blade torture has done most of its work on her.

The Pale Demon laughs. "Your weak angel brother and sisters? I highly doubt it."

"No. Not them." The angel's lips curl into a bloody smile. "The Winchesters."

Abaddon rolls her eyes. "Thought you feathered morons hated the Winchesters?"

The angel sits up, staring directly at both the demons. "We do. But, right now, I just wish I could be alive to watch them tear you apart."

Abaddon grips the angel's hair, yanks her up, her neck craning painfully backwards. She slams the blade into the angel's chest, and hot blue light explodes from the bloodied girl's body.

They'd killed another angel.

Hell is winning.

###

Dean stands by Sam's hospital bed, his lips reciting silent pleas that his brother wake up. Finally, Sam's dark lashes start to flutter and his sleep eyes open. Relief washes over Dean.

"Hey, Sam," says Dean. "How are you?"

"Dean, it's Ezekiel."

That relief is ripped away. "Where's Sam?"

"He was basically dead." Ezekiel sat up. "It will take time. What do you expect?"

"You said-"

"He'll wake up. You just have to give it time."

"How much time?"

"Not long."

"And then you'll be able to leave."

"And then I'll work on healing him."

Dean nods, his heart pounding. He's unsure if he made the right decision, but still it felt, it feels, like the only decision.

He looks out the window to see the sun is high. They've been up all night and part of the day. Dean is just starting to feel the effects of exhaustion. A few moments later his phone rings. Kevin.

"Hey man," he answers. "What's up?"

"Cas is here. He says there's something wrong with Sam, and I was just checking."

"He's sick, but he's, uh, fine now."

"How's Cas?"

"Human, it's strange, but Dean-"

"What?"

"He's not alone. Garth sent someone to find him, and now he's refusing to leave."

"Who is he?"

"Name's Oliver. Don't know much about him though. I did call Garth, and he vouched for him though."

Dean sighs. The last thing he wants or needs is more people around the bunker than are already there. But whoever this guy is, Dean can take care of him when he gets home.

"It's fine. Let him stay for now."

"Good," Kevin says. "Cas really seems to like him."

Something clenches in Dean's jaw, but he ignores it as best he can. "Uh, oh. Well, we'll be home today. Later." He hangs up the phone before Kevin can say anything else.

Ezekiel in Sam's body changes in to normal clothes. They plan to sneak out of the hospital without any of the nurses or doctors noticing. Dean doesn't need to explain Sam's miraculous recovery.

"Ready?" Dean asks.

"Yes, I think it's time," says Ezekiel. But he's using Sam's mouth to say it, Sam's voice, his body. Something hard and heavy drops in Dean's stomach.

He swallows. Has he made a terrible mistake? No. He made the only choice he could. He saved Sam.

He saved Sam, right?

###

Alone, Metatron walks the streets of heaven. He's alone here, besides the humans, and besides that shadow. There was a time when heaven was crowded. When angels walked freely in the presence of their father.

Heaven had once been glorious. Metatron knows his story now. Knows his purpose. He shall restore heaven – no matter the cost.

No matter the cost.

Excerpts from 2: Pretty Soldiers

"The girl on the phone. Is that your girlfriend?" Dean asks, his eyes narrowed. "She's kind of young."

Oliver laughs through his nose, taking a coke bottle out of the fridge like he owns the place. Dean curls his fingers against his palms.

"She should be. She's my daughter."

The girl's young, but not that young.

###

"Oh." Kevin curses and stands up from the table, moving away from the tablet. "Sam!" he shouts. His heart is pounding. He can't believe it.

Sam comes into the main room of the bunker, his face scrunched in confusion. "What?"

"It's about the spell that made the angels fall."

"You found a way to reverse it."

Kevin shakes his head. "No. It's not that. It's… it's about Castiel."

###

"Listen to me, Cas. If we want to get out of his alive, you need to listen to me." Dean grips Cas's shoulders, his eyes wild. He can smell it. Sulfur.

"Is this a part of my training?" asks Cas.

"Unfortunately. No." Dean starts to back up; Cas instinctively follows him.

"What do we do?"

"Run."