Another day, another dollar.
That would've been an appropriate cliche to use, had there been money to be made at all. Not in the Roadhouse. Or Heaven's mock-up of it. No sir, this was not a working day, nor was any day a working day. Not in the domain of Doctor Badass.
Ash flung open the door of his private quarters, and strutted out to "Highway To Hell", fingering an air guitar like a rock star he could never have been.
"Living easy, living free
Season ticket on a one-way ride
Asking nothing, leave me be
Taking everything in my stride
Don't need reason, don't need rhyme
Ain't nothing I would rather do
Going down, party time
My friends are gonna be there too
I'm on the highway to hell-"
He soon gave up his guitar, and combed his fingers through his long locks, bobbing his head to the beat and he slipped behind the bar counter. He grabbed a cold Pabst from a never-emptying fridge, popped the tap back and bottoms up—
Ash downed the whole can in one go. Sighing in satisfaction from the taste (which he surprisingly never got tired of), he crushed the can in a fist and aimed for the trash bin, a receptacle that never filled. He let out a whoop, springing up on impulse, and he fidgeted, taking his air guitar back up and twining the strings with the bridge.
"I'm on the Highway to Hell-!"
A sudden chirp from beneath the counter broke his focus, and he looked to the old "Holy-Rollin' Police Scanner". The chirp was followed by a sharp keen, and Ash stooped to dig up his shabby computer. He reached for the remote, and turned off the stereo system, hunching over the counter as his clicked keys at a professional pace.
"What-?" he asked no one, face crinkling in confusion. After years of practice and study, Ash had become fluent in Enochian, yet he didn't know how to decipher this. His fingers scraped over his stubbed skin and he got to work dissecting the problem. However, said problem was much, much bigger than he imagined.
The keen was constant, a single bandwidth of sound. There weren't any words though. It was only sound. Seconds later, more whines revved up on his scanner. Goose bumps prickled on Ash's skin.
Screams.
Angels were screaming.
"What the hell-"
Ash searched the wavelengths. Some of the screams procured words. Things like:
Help us!
What's happening?!
Father!
Help!
Anyone! Help!
The scanner was beginning to overheat. Ash grasped the monitor in terror. He looked around wildly. Seeing that nothing seemed to be disturbing his Heaven, his pried eyes returned to the scanner.
What the hell was happening to the angels?
The screams and cries continued for several minutes. Ash almost shut down the computer. It was overwhelming to listen to, but he ground through it. The scanner seemed like it was about to quit on him, however, and he realized his mistake when it began to smoke. He quickly commenced emergency shutdown.
"Abort–" he said, "Abort— ABORT!"
Ash sprang back and the computer combusted, unfurling white flames.
How it happened was beyond him, but the room suddenly jolted, and Ash was felled. He covered his ears when the air was pierced with unraveling voices of angels in agony. It should have been enough to kill him, but... you can't kill what's already dead.
When the clamor faded, the Roadhouse was left in disarray. Windows were shattered, chairs were tipped, tables shifted– the pool table was shoved up against the wall. The neon Coors light was smashed on its surface. Racks of shots, mugs, cocktails, flutes, pints and snifters were cracked and left in states of total disuse.
Ash was left with only one small ring, a flickering wisp of energy. He grasped at it desperately, crawling from behind the counter and staggering to his feet. His eyes searched the air vainly. He couldn't pull anything from the tiny noise, except one thing. It vanished instantly and the Roadhouse was deathly quiet. Ash's eyes wandered over his broken realm. A word on his tongue rolled off in question and breathlessness.
"Metatron."