PROLOGUE
The grimy motel room sat empty, its single occupant gone. Dimly flickering over the sparse kitchenette, an old lamp exposed the stains on the grey-blue walls. Suddenly, the world was plunged in darkness, a gust of wind tearing through the room.
Appearing in a golden glow, Castiel glanced around, a frown upon his, usually benign, face; this was truly one of the worst motel rooms he had ever set eyes on, and he had seen Gomorrah. Wandering, he searched for the man who had booked the room.
"Dean?" He called "Is this another one of those 'pranks'?" The strange man emphasised the last word with a exaggerated hand gesture. "Dean?"
Suddenly sensing that something was very wrong, he froze. Slowly, a concealed, seemingly silver, blade slid from his sleeve into his waiting hand. For a minute he waited. Then two, expecting an attack from his brothers at any moment. Closing his eyes, he sought answers from what the Winchesters had dubbed 'angel radio'. The whispered conversations were cryptic, as if they didn't want something to be known. Only one angel could command so many to hold 'radio silence'.
"Zachariah," He groaned. With another gust of wind, Castiel, angel of The Lord, vanished, the lamp fading back up.
Glaring, Dean looked upon the familiar face of his brother. It was definitely his body, yet, the one controlling it certainly wasn't his Sammy. It was unnerving to see somebody that had known almost his entire life, fought for and protected stare back at him like that. Smiling, Lucifer relished the despair that crossed Dean's features. But his quarrel wasn't with this Dean, the one he wanted already lay in a crumpled heap a few metres away. Sparing the mortal in front of him, with one last glance, he turned and walked away.
Dean felt sick. This was wrong; it wasn't meant to end this way. Glancing at the bodies littering the ground, he knew, or would know, all of them, and apparently he was the one who sacrificed them. Looking at his future self's broken body, he wished he had Ruby's knife. Desire for revenge filled him, even though he knew any attempts would be futile. Surveying the scene a few moments longer, the young man turned to confront the whistling of wings behind him. Reaching out a hand, Zachariah roughly tapped the boy on the forehead. Suddenly, the old factory, and landscape of corpses, was gone. Instead, they stood in a golden room, decorated with a single chair and an ancient writing desk. Sat upon it was the balding angel Zachariah, garbed in his usual, expensive, suit.
"So, now you know..." Drawled the old angel. "You can't win. You can take the deal or you can die."
"Okay," Dean began, watching Zachariah's face lift, "I get it: I say yes to Michael, allow him to fight Lucifer, or…" he pushed away the gruesome image of his friends dead on the ground. "That happens."
Almost tasting the promotion, Zachariah smiled. Closing this deal had been a task and a half, but soon it would be done. "But," Dean smiled, "I think I'd rather die on my own terms, not on the off chance that Michael loses." As he looked around the room for an exit, he wasn't surprised to find there wasn't one. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a motel to get back to."
Zachariah's face fell. The divine businessman was getting tired of this ape's procrastinating. Kneading the space between his eyebrows with two fingers, Zachariah grimaced, he would have to bring out the big guns to seal this deal. If seeing what would happen to his friends didn't work, then perhaps reading about their primitive, "feelings," would. Motioning for Dean to sit, the angel dropped a worn leather journal upon the desk in front of him.
"Read." He growled. Sighing, Dean knew it was useless to argue with an angel. As he opened the journal, he winced, recognising the angular handwriting of Prophet Chuck…