Epilogue

In the dark between time and space, somewhere that has no actual place, but exists as the Gate to Purgatory, something stirred. Something massive, stirred.

It gathered itself, all at once a surge of dark energy with no form began to coalesce, focusing on...something...something that had changed.

Ah yes, it thought, that is what has changed...what is it that God had called it? Time...he had called it time. It shuddered in rage, remembering. That was one of the weapons that God had used to trap it. Time. Order. Balance. And now...now something had changed...

It focused, moving in closer, bringing this manifestation of Time and Space into view, and flinched back in pain.

Light.

The weaves of Time and Destiny and Fate shone brighter than a million-billion suns, threads glowing golden with Order and Light. The Dark howled as if it had a voice. This Order, this Light caused it such pain.

It remembered. He had sent(is sending?, will send? - time was so confusing to it ) a part of itself- a formless part, a part nonetheless with form, and a Name. It had a Name..and it's name had been Hastur...it had sent Hastur to examine this Time. To find (will find? Is finding?) a weakness. A hole. A flaw that could be exploited.

God had appointed his guardians to watch over this creation of His, guardians that helped balance Time. Fate. The darkness focused. Yes. Fate. She was (Is? Will be?) there.

She had released a Golden Thread of Fate. Time and Creation formed around it. It looked deep into this thread, this Creation. She had chosen it, this Thread. She had chosen it, with the help of two Scions of God – Lucifer, Michael – how ironic – they had chosen this Thread. Engineered it's choosing. To usurp power. From their Father...

Where was Hastur?

It felt...confused.

The formless, nameless one - Hastur – he was...gone.

Fate had done that. She had destroyed Hastur.

The being felt a surge of...hope? Triumph? Expectation? Victory? The Guardian Fate, Atropos, had created an imbalance. A Paradox. The mirror was shattered. It could (will?) use that. Use that and be free.

It focused closer, now looking at all of this new Creation. This new Time.

And it understood.

The massive Darkness shook with malevolent laughter – or as close to laughter as such a force could express.

It had had help.

The pieces were (are, had) moving. The last Archangel was exposed, the last Key to the Gate. The Ones that had helped the Darkness, they sought to control the power themselves. To become as their Creator, to become Gods themselves and as He had done, strike down the Darkness and use it for their own means.

How...foolish.

And how deliciously ironic, that is was those two that had done this.

It waited. It could wait. Knowing that it would soon enjoy devouring all of Creation in an unending wave of Chaos and Destruction.

And them along with it.

The old man felt a sting on his arm and glanced down at it, frowning.

A bee...? Surely not. He hadn't been stung by one of his bees in decades...and even if it were, he was too powerful to even feel it...

His eyes widened.

He rotated his gnarled forearm around slowly, the knotted muscle and tan skin new, pink in the sun.

Unmarked.

He felt sweat bead on his forehead.

There was only was thing that could have repaired the Mark...

He ripped off his veiled Bee-Keepers helmet and rushed towards the house...there were things to check...things to see.

The door to his small house was ajar.

He skidded to a halt on the dirt path, glancing up at the open door, sending out his conscience to attempt to feel what had dared to invade his home...

He felt his blood go cold. Perhaps for the first time in hundreds of years...he felt...fear. Pure, cold, unspoiled fear.

He slowly, warily made his way up the steps to his house. He put his hand against the open door, pushing it open further to accommodate his large frame. He swallowed hard as he spotted the figure lounging carelessly on his sofa, feet propped up on the end table, a glass of wine in his hand, examining it in the twilight beams of sunshine that still managed to illuminate the small room.

"An excellent vintage," the man said, his voice a refined mixture of European aristocracy. "I didn't realize that you were a connoisseur, Cain." The man turned his dark eyes slowly towards him, a small smile on his lips. "It is still Cain, isn't it? You are, if I recall, never one for hiding. I, on the other hand, have collected so many identities over the endless years, that I no longer know what to call myself anymore...what is one to do?" He crooked an eyebrow, leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air.

"Cartaphilus..." Cain whispered, images of an ancient Roman prison flashing through his head...a cruel, blind Centurion stabbing the Son through the side with a spear...taunting...cursed by the Son Himself to wander the earth, to never taste death until...

The man smiled at Cain. "Oh, I do love the traditional names..." He set the glass down and stood up. He looked Cain up and down, his eyes lingering on his arm. "Seems like you're missing something there, Cain."

Cain nodded numbly. "And you're here as well..." he said dryly. "Is it...is it time?

Cartaphilus tilted his head. "Oh, I do hope so. This planet has become completely intolerable recently." He walked over to Cain and stared at the taller man directly in the eyes. "It was a near thing, oh those eight years ago. Before the Winchesters screwed it up. Such a near thing. But this time..." his hand balled into a trembling fist, his eyes flared suddenly with an insane passion. "...this time I think they've got it right."

Cain shook his head. "I...I understand Cartaphilus, believe me, I do, but dying...it isn't..." he stopped, breathing out heavily. "Cartaphilus, have you considered what awaits you on the other side if there is no Heaven and Hell anymore? What will be there for the souls in Michael and Lucifer's new Kingdom? I'm asking you...please..."

Cartaphilus's eyes danced with barely contained madness. "Considered it...considered it?!" he spat in disbelief. "I have considered it with every single stinking wasted second on this garbage-heap of a planet for the last two-thousand plus years, Cain!" He took a dangerous step forward. Cain imagined that he could feel the fury coming off of the cursed Roman in waves. "With every unearned breath that I've taken since I sent that Jew to the Crucifix, then watched that...that cult of His grow to rule this earth have I considered it, Second-Son!" The veins in his arm stood out on taut muscles, and his face had gone beet-red in fury. "I will not be longer denied my final reward, Cain! Nothing upon this earth or the ones beyond will stop me!" He stopped, trembling, then took a deep, steady breath. "I...assume that you can guess the reason for my little visit, then?"

"It's not here, Cartaphilus, the Mark is gone...I know it sounds impossible, but someone has removed it from me without my knowledge...literally minutes ago..."

The Roman nodded, turning away. "It appears so...perhaps the Seal is truly exposed, then... then again...I cannot allow the missing Mark to exist...or even risk it being returned...to it's original owner..."

"Cartaphilus, please...!"

The Roman spun with a speed almost invisible to the naked eye, a golden gladius appearing in his hand from under his coat, and he swung it down at Cain's arm, scoring against the forearm. Cain leapt stealthily away and, grasping his arm in pain, immediately sent every bit of Hellfire that he could summon, sending it directly towards the centurion, engulfing him in flame.

The Roman didn't even attempt to dodge, instead standing stock still in the flames, his skin blackening. The flames died down, leaving a hideous, charred lump of bone and muscle in the vague shape of a human being behind. It took a slow, shambling step forward...

….and the charred flesh sloughed off of him and blew away on a small breeze like a whisper, showing him completely unmarked underneath it, renewed and living. Cain's eyes widened in disbelief.

Cartaphilus smiled.

"...please..." Cain whispered, turning to run.

The sword took him in the back and Cain dropped to his knees, grasping in vain at the sword's tip that was protruding through his ribcage. He turned his head slowly, helplessly, back towards the centurion, his mouth agape and dripping blood.

With a vicious tug and a boot on his back, Cartaphilus pulled the sword free.

"Good-by old friend..." he whispered.

The sword whistled through the air at Cain's neck, barely slowing as it went through it, sending Cain's head rolling to the wooden porch with several thickening, dull thuds before finally coming to a rest.

The Roman stood over Cain's corpse for a long time, breathing heavily at the effort. He bent down once more and examined the area on Cain's arm where the Mark should have been, and frowned, looking up at the horizon.

"Where did you get off to now, I wonder...? he asked rhetorically, standing up. He scanned the sky and, sighing, walked off of the porch and towards the road, where his car was parked at the turn-off.

"You cannot hide from me, Death. You have avoided my path for far too long..." he whispered to himself as he replaced his sword and re-buckled his long coat. "All things must end. And it is time for this world to pay it's due."