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Castiel's room in the warehouse that served as the headquarters of the Resistance was in many ways the very definition of spartan.
There was a simple bed with a used and lumpy, utilitarian mattress, neatly made ip with military corners, and a small writing desk with a wooden chair pushed up snugly underneath it. On its surface were a few Tomes rescued from the ruins of Heaven, neatly closed with tabs sticking out at precise angles to mark some pages. There was a shabby throw rug covering the cold concrete floor, and a worn rocking chair facing a nightstand with a few clothes drawers. It had a small LCD television on it. There were no pictures hung, no plants, no decorations of any kind. It was a drab, cold, simple room, not unlike a prison cell.
The TV was on. Castiel sat half slumped in the chair, a two-week old growth on his chin, his hair disheveled, his trenchoat hanging over the edges of the chair.
He glanced down with red-rimmed, bleary eyes at the remote on his hand and pressed rewind. Again.
He barely noticed the knock on his room's door , and didn't turn to look when it opened.
"I can't believe you're still watching that," Crowley's voice said from behind him. Castiel grunted in acknowledgment, watching the images on the TV stream by in reverse.
"Are you actually looking for clues," Crowley continued, " or just adding more fuel to your downward spiral into unrecoverable melancholy?"
Castiel let go of the rewind button, a wave of anger and annoyance rushing over him. He half turned back towards Crowley in the entrance.
"I suppose that you have a better idea?" he grunted, the sarcasm evident in his voice.
He heard Crowley take a couple of steps further into the room, shutting the door behind him.
He saw him walk over to the bed and sit down on it, facing him, clasping his hands in front of him.
"How about...anything but this?" Crowley answered, flicking his gaze over to the screen, frowning. "I'm actually physically afraid to ask how many hours you've spent in the last ten months watching this."
Castiel stared at Crowley for a few seconds, anger still boiling up inside of him, then cast his gaze quickly down at the floor, feeling the knuckles in his left hand tightening around the arm of the chair.
"What do you care what I do with my free time?"
Crowley leaned a little closer. "Free time? Free time, Castiel?" he asked, incredulous. "In case you haven't noticed the turn of recent events, I don't recall anyone here being allotted 'free time', least of all you and I."
"Because we're the ones that caused all of this?" Castiel snorted. He looked back up at Crowley.
Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Is that what you think?" he asked, disbelief creeping into his tone. "Are you feeling guilty, Castiel? You're blaming yourself for this?"
Castiel smiled wryly. "Oh no you don't," he said. Crowley watched him, waiting. Castiel looked back down at the remote and then held it up to the television, hitting play.
"I blame you too," he whispered.
The screen flickered a bit as the images began moving forward.
It was a newscast running on the night that they confronted Michael and Lucifer in Kansas.
It didn't matter where the recording had come from. Since what was about to happen next had occurred simultaneously world-wide on every broadcast, in every language – even during bluray playbacks or movie theater screens. Every Smartphone, every electronic billboard. Even some smart refrigerators and microwaves. If it had a screen – this is what had happened. This is what it had showed.
Dean and Sam's face , with a field of streaming, flaming stars behind them flashed onto the screen.
No, Castiel reminded himself for seemingly the millionth time.Not Sam and Dean. Not Sam and Dean at all.
Michael and Lucifer.
Sam and Dean were dead.
Michael smiled. "Hello people of the world. We bring you...great tidings," his brother said gently, a smile spreading on his face.
"Hola, mi amigos!" Lucifer said next to him, grinning like a madman with Sam's face. He leaned towards the camera, frowning. "Is...is this thing on?" he said, tapping on the screen in front of him.
Michael smiled tightly. "For too many years, no, millenia now, the universal question of 'Is there a God?' has gone unanswered. And do you know why?" He leaned closer to the camera. Castiel scanned Dean's eyes, looking for anything. Once again – anything. A flicker of resistance. A flicker of light. A sign. A portent. Any evidence whatsoever that he...that he was still in there, still fighting. Still...alive.
But instead, he saw what he always saw as Michael continued.
He saw nothing but, cold, black, hatred and calculating, cool madness.
It was only Michael now.
Dean was gone. Just...
Castiel closed his eyes, familiar pain washing over him. The audio from the video continued, relentlessly.
"The answer is simple. There was a God," Michael snarled into the camera. "There was a God and He abandoned you. He abandoned us. All of us."
Castiel opened his eyes, forcing himself to keep watching.
"But you know what?" Lucifer continued as Michael stared into the camera, hatred burning in his eyes. "Doesn't matter." He shrugged. "Screw that deadbeat. And do you know why it doesn't matter?"
"Because we are here for you now," Michael answered, his voice tender, soothing, in stark contrast to the intense look on Dean's...no, Michael's face. "My brother and I have taken stewardship of all of His Creation, and we will supplant him."
"New management!" Lucifer gleefully chimed in in the background, clapping his hands together once and rubbing them together vigorously.
Michael nodded solemnly. "I am the Sword of God. His most trusted. I am known by many of you as the Archangel Michael. I was the beacon and the force of Light."
"And me...weeeeelllllll, you all know me..." Lucifer said leaning in. "I bet that you can guess my name."
Michael smiled tightly. "Lucifer was the First, and most beloved of our Father's creations. Of His Angels. And God cast him down. He was the very first...to be abandoned."
"Unjust. That's all I'm sayin'," Lucifer said, shaking his head. "But hey, I'm not here to plead my case. That's a moot point now."
"My brother is my equal," Michael picked up. "We are no longer Light and Darkness, Good and Evil. We are simply..."
"...in charge," Lucifer hissed. "And for those of you out there thinking – 'Hey! I am no subscriber to all of this Judeo-Christain nonsense!', hey, I feel ya'. But, I'm sorry to inform you, fact is this, we're the biggest and the baddest out there among the Celestial-Crew, so...it doesn't really matter anymore what you believe, or don't believe, we're a fact." He shrugged and feigned a pout. "Sorry about that."
"So, allow me to be the first to welcome you to the Faith," Michael said, spreading his arms out wide. "No more absentee landlords. No more unanswered prayers. We are your Gods now." He leveled a steady gaze at the screen. "But..."
"Always a catch..." Lucifer grinned, wagging a finger.
"Make no mistake. This is a mutual partnership, the human race and us," Michael continued.
"There are duties to fulfill in your faith. A price to be paid for our new paradise of earth." Lucifer held up his hand with his thumb and forefinger pinching together, indicating a very small amount. "You see, Father had a reason in creating you. He wanted you to 'create' as well." Michael shrugged. "The truth is that every human mind can create worlds upon worlds in and of itself. Every soul can imagine wonders that even God Himself cannot imagine. The art, books, plays, wars, loves that you live and breathe, that is the power of human soul, and believe me when I tell you this, it is vast..."
"Huuuuge," Lucifer mocked.
"And we are going to be needing to borrow from that power to maintain our new paradise. We are...eliminating the war between darkness and light by merging the two. Wielding the powers of both. A perfect balance. Unmatched power. And Peace. Finally, Eden. But for that, we are asking for a sacrifice. You see there are other things that a human can generate. Things just as powerful as love and dreams..."
"Nightmares and fear..." Lucifer whispered, his eyes going wide in a mockery of terror.
"Our faithful priests will be coming to your neighborhoods soon. They will be bringing the Word with them. They will be bringing the Law. I suggest that you listen...because, as generous as we are, we can also be..."
"Not. So. Generous," Lucifer finished, his tone changing from gleeful and playful to dangerous and warning.
"You see, we are as Father created us, in the end, " Michael said, shrugging. "There is no changing that, despite our current actions. And we are soldiers of Heaven. And if any of you are familiar with your Old testament, that makes us...rather volatile and dangerous if we are defied." Michael leaned to within inches of the camera, his green eyes filling the screen. "And make no mistake, we are no fools. We know with absolute certainty that some of you out there are contemplating resisting us even now. Fighting us. Exercising that damnable free will that Father infused into all of you." He leaned back. "You can't help it, it's in your nature. But what I've found about nature is this: It can be tamed."
Michael paced back to stand side by side with Lucifer. "I am...sorry for what we are about to do. But it is, truly, for your own good. A...preventative measure. A first lesson, if you will, in taming that rebellious nature of yours." He sighed. "For any group that seeks to resist us, and not obey our priests, that brings harm unto them or unto the faithful, that will not accept the new Eternal Paradise...know that our power is now absolute, and that your fate will be...swift." He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Brother...where shall we do this?"
Lucifer scratched his chin in thought, then nodded to himself and grinned.
"Toledo," he answered solemnly.
Michael opened his eyes and frowned. "Why Toledo?"
"Oh c'mon!" Lucifer exhaled suddenly animated, flinging his arms over his head. "Just listen to the sound of that city's name...'Toledo'" he said, pronouncing the word like it was disgusting. He shivered in mock disgust. " Oh, yeah, horrible. Believe me, they got it comin'."
Michael shook his head. "I suppose it hardly matters, the actual place..." he muttered. Castiel opened his eyes. He watched, the horror building as if it had just happened, not ten months ago, the despair, the helplessness striking him anew like a physical thing, not allowing him to breathe.
Michael and Lucifer's eyes began to glow. There was a whine of Angelic feedback and the stars around them began to shake for several seconds. The camera switched over to a live satellite feed over Toledo, Ohio's night sky.
A bright, impossibly wide beam of darkened, brimstone smoke and white light burst from the heavens and struck the ground with a earth shattering roar. The camera shook and vibrated for what seemed like an eternity, but, in actuality, was only a few seconds.
The light disappeared.
Where Toledo had once stood, there was...nothing. Not even smoke and ruin. Just an impossible, wide, scorched, blackened field extending to the shores of a calm Lake Eerie.
Castiel closed his eyes again.
Almost three-quarter of a million souls.
Gone.
On a whim.
In an instant.
Such was his failure.
The screen had switched back to Michael and Lucifer. Both of them stood staring at the camera stoically, seriously and deadly.
"Please, new members of our Eternal Paradise. Please maintain the New Faith. We need you as you need us. Look into your loved one's and children's eyes, and realize that working with us to craft a new paradise is the right choice. Please...don't force us to repeat this."
The video switched back to a silent and stunned newsroom. Castiel's thumb automatically moved back to the rewind button.
"Castiel."
The screen blurred by.
"Castiel!"
The angel opened his eyes and looked over wearily at Crowley.
"What?" he asked tonelessly.
Crowley leaned back. "So this is how it's going to be?"
Castiel didn't answer, just looked back down at the remote and the play button.
Crowley knocked it out of his hands. It clattered onto the concrete floor.
Castiel blinked in surprise, fury rising in him. He stood up, eyes blazing.
"Go on! Do it! Strike me down!" Crowley bellowed, thumping his palms against his chest. "Anything to get a bloody rise out of you, to get you out of this damned room!"
Castiel took a dangerous step forward, then tilted his head, considering. His eyes dimmed down, and his shoulders slumped. He shuffled back to his rocking chair and sunk into it.
"Get out of here, Crowley," he said quietly, scooping up the remote from the floor.
Crowley blinked at him, then nodded, his jaw clenching. He turned back towards the door and opened it, stepping outside.
Then, he raised his hand, eyes blazing red.
The television let out a groan of protest and belched out black smoke, it's screen cracking.
Castiel stood, jaw agape as he turned towards Crowley.
"You..."
"...am doing you a damned favor," Crowley snarled. "Yeah, I'll go. But so should you, Castiel." He leveled a venomous stare at the angel. "Look, I get it...you want to shoulder all of this on us. You want to say that we are responsible for all of this, for not being able to stop them, for not being the heroes like Sam and Dean were, for...losing them...I'm not completely obtuse, either, I know what they meant to you Castiel, and I am not ignoring that fact. I know what that means to you to have them taken away from you like this. Believe me, I am an expert in things that cause deep pain..."
Castiel watched him, that aforementioned pain building in his eyes. Crowley nodded.
"But that's horsecrap, Castiel!" Crowley spit. "This is Micheal and Lucifer's fault! No one else's! And if you can't see that and want to go on blaming us for their actions, that's your prerogative, and I can't stop you. But if you want to give up, if you truly think that there's no hope left and would rather wallow in here at all hours reliving your self-pity over and over, then, yes, please, get the hell out of here. Because I can't use you." He stopped, chest heaving in anger. He threw out his arm, pointing back towards the warehouse's main floor. "Because I've got a airplane hanger full to the brim of people out there that do believe that this isn't over. That Michael and Lucifer can still be stopped. And yes, maybe can save Sam and Dean as well. And if you aren't one of them, if you are honestly, truly beaten, Castiel, then I suggest that you take it somewhere else." He grunted and straightened his jacket. "Because I could use the bloody space," he snarled, then stalked away, leaving the door opened.
Castiel watched the empty doorway for a long time.
He finally looked down at his hand, which was still loosely holding the remote.
He pointed it at the TV and hit 'play'. It crackled and let out another belch of smoke. He let the control fall out of his hand to the floor.
Castiel closed his eyes, standing in the middle of his room. After a while, his shoulders began to shake.
With a roar of pure rage, he sprung at the TV, sweeping it off the stand, sending it crashing violently into the wall. It broke into pieces that scattered all over the room.
Castiel, breathing hard, turned around the room slowly, regarding the simple surroundings.
He flipped the bed over, then, spinning, brought his fist down and through the writing table, scattering the books. He blinked.
He had hit it so hard, his fist had literally gone through the table and cracked the concrete.
He growled and slammed his fist into the brick wall nearest to him, over and over again, large chunks of masonry flying out from around his fist, the impact of his fists rining out like wrecking balls all around him. He continued until his arm burned in exhaustion and his chest heaved.
He stepped back, regarding the truck-sized hole and blinked down at the bloody mess of his fist.
He stumbled over to where the remote control lay in the middle of the floor and picked it up, holding it front of his face, Crowley's words echoing in his head.
"….if you are honestly, truly beaten, Castiel, then I suggest that you take it somewhere else..."
He closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath.
His fist tightened around the controller, crushing it.
He let it drop to the floor and opened his eyes, staring out into the hallway leading to the Resistance's headquarters.
He straightened the collar of his trenchcoat, and strode out of the small room.
Chuck woke with a groan of pain, sweat beading on his forehead. He groaned again and rubbed his forehead, the migraine making him grit his teeth against the pain.
He heard the plink of a glass being set down on the table in front of the couch where he had been sleeping and opened one eye.
Charlie smiled tightly at him and glanced down at the glass.
"Whiskey and aspirin is the prescription, big guy," she smiled.
Chuck groaned and grabbed the glass and pills.
"Thanks, you're so good to me," he muttered, gulping down the alcohol and tablets in one motion. He grimaced and shook his head slowly, instantly regretting it as pain flashed across his face.
"Ow," he said simply, putting the glass back down and swinging his legs over to a sitting position, lowering his head into his hands.
"Wanna talk about it?" Charlie asked, walking back over to her desk where she had a laptop open. She clicked a few keys and shook her head. "Darn. Still crappy WiFi...you'd think Michael and Lucifer would concentrate on the essentials at some point..."
"How is it that you never get the visions?" Chuck complained. "Aren't we technically both the same person?"
Charlie shrugged. "Technically. Sure. I never thought too much about that manifestation of our physical form...or forms, plural, in this particular case, thing..." she frowned, turning back towards him. "Oh oh..."
Chuck looked back at her and smiled back tightly.
"So...physical manifestations...that's what the vision was about..." Charlie half-whispered. She shook her head after a few seconds. "Is it really that time?"
"'Fraid so," Chuck answered.
"Wow."
"Uh-huh," Chuck answered, getting up off of the coach and tightening his robe. He walked around behind it and began pulling on some jeans. "I guess I'll go get him now..."
Charlie looked back at him, a sad look on her face.
"Um...can you...tell him something for me?"
Chuck paused and looked at her, then smiled gently, nodding, continuing to get dressed. "Sure, shoot."
Charlie sighed, wiping a tear out of the corner of her eye. "Tell him...yeah, what I always tell him, I guess. That...I'm sorry. So sorry."
Chuck hesitated , then nodded again. "Will do. Anything else?"
Charlie bit her lip. "That I miss him?"
Chuck sighed and finished tucking in his shirt. "Do you really think he'll care this time?"
With a flash of white light, Chuck disappeared, leaving Charlie alone in the empty living room.
She turned back to the laptop screen and sighed, typing in a few lines.
"Man, I hope so. For everyone's sake..." she mumbled.
Michael and Lucifer had made it clear to the faithful of humanity in their 'New Paradise' that they were allowed to continue their day-to-day existence and activities as they pleased. Watch TV. Create. Read. Write. Go on vacations. Work. Pray. Eat. Love. They had insisted on it, in fact.
Unfortunately, those things had seemed to take on a darker tone in the time of their rule.
Violence and crime were beyond record highs. The vices of the world had become the norm, and the place that Chuck found himself in now was all too typical as a form of 'entertainment and recreation' in the new world.
The banner written in red paint over the caged-in ring read: "Ultimate Fighting Arena". Chuck glanced down from it at the sea of humanity cheering and watching and betting and clapping at the 'sport' in the ring and felt himself go cold.
It was a bloodsport. The worst of humanity revealed. The Colosseum reborn.
Oh Michael, what have you done to yourself...
Chuck broke out of his reverie and looked into the ring. The announcer was in there, introducing a new match.
"And in this corner..." he belted out into the microphone, waving his arm dramatically at the monster in the corner, a man weighing at least 350 lbs. and wearing several razor sharp knives on his massive arms held tightly there by thick leather straps. "The Butcher!" The crowd erupted in screams of approval. The Butcher raised his arms, and Chuck saw the red stains of dried blood on the vicious blades. "And in the other corner – new to the squared circle, all the way from the Middle East..." the crowd hissed and jeered and spat. "Juuuudah!" the announcer shouted, ducking out of the ring and slamming the steel cage's door shut.
Judah stood stock still in the corner and took off his simple white robe, letting it fall to the ring apron, showing his golden brown skin and lean muscles. The bell rung. The two men regarded each other from their respective corners, the Butcher's chest heaving, Judah still as a statue, icy brown eyes not blinking. Chuck looked at the golden, embossed stenciled letters written along the side of Judah's white tights.
They read 'Rev. 5:5'.
Judah finally moved, tilting his head slightly to side, and smiling at the Butcher.
The Butcher blinked, a bit in surprise, then in a bellow of rage, charged at Judah, knives held out in front of him, his mass and momentum like a deadly, runaway freight train.
The crowd practically held it's breath in anticipation of the impact, then went silent, shocked as Judah simply leapt into the air over the back of the charging behemoth, planting a hand on his head as he flew over, and landed, agile as a panther in a crouch behind him.
The Butcher slammed into the empty corner, not able to stop. His sheer momentum drove one of the blades on his arms into his own shoulder, and he let out a scream of pain. He then snarled and ripped the blade out, re-focusing on Judah, who watched him intently.
The Butcher, slower this time, advanced on him, blocking off the ring, feighting with his arms in case Judah decided to jump again. Judah was slowly, inevitably, being herded against the side of the cage.
The Butcher began swinging his massive arms, and Judah, unbelievably, ducked and swerved out of the way of each lightning quick blow. The Butcher roared in frustration as he couldn't land a thing.
Suddenly, Judah straightened up and caught the Butcher's right arm at the elbow and wrenched the gigantic limb at a horrible angle. There was sickening cracking sound and a spurt of blood sprayed from a white bone that appeared from the Butcher's arm.
With a gasp, the behemoth stepped rapidly back from Judah, fear showing in his eyes.
Judah lowered his chin and walked forward.
The Butcher took a few more swings of pure desperation, but Judah slapped them away with his bare hands with a snarl of contempt. He then threw a thrust kick into the Butcher's throat and the big man fell backwards, landing in a heap on the ground, making a horrific gurgling sound.
The crowd held it's breath as Judah, quick as a cat, leapt into the air, and brought his full weight down with his knee into the exposed neck of the larger man.
There was a much duller, but equally as loud sound of bones snapping as Judah landed. The Butcher's body jerked violently for a second and then he lay still, his head turned at an unnatural angle.
Chuck felt queasy. Well, this is what I expected he'd be like this time around, I guess...he thought with a sigh of acceptance.
Judah stepped back and went back to his corner, sweeping up his robe and, seemingly oblivious to the roar of the crowd and the announcer declaring him the victor, left the cage and grabbed a towel and in a swift motion, wiped the blood, all of it the Butcher's, and sweat off of him.
He suddenly stopped in the crowd on his way back to the dressing room, turning his gaze slowly up and finding himself face to face with Chuck.
Judah smiled, and flung the bloody towel over on shoulder.
"Well...hey there, Dad," he said simply, eyes like steel. "Come to see the show?"