"Next!" Rowena called, as two demons who'd already fallen under her knife dragged out a third. His tongue — or what was left of it — was bleeding profusely, blood dribbling out of his mouth. And the Devil's Trap carved into his forehead dripped blood down into his eyes. The others who had been marked by her earlier on that afternoon had already gotten themselves cleaned up. The wounds were just starting to scab.

Of course, the demons didn't know what they were lining up outside the throne room for. Some would love the torture they were receiving, but others were hopelessly afraid of more pain. Half the demon population was more interested in doling out torture than receiving it. But that left the other half desperate and trembling to have their blood drawn.

The next demon was brought in. Rowena had him chained to the floor. The chains were attached to a hook she'd had mounted in before the throne, and the chains were her own work, wrought of magic to keep the demons from escaping.

She wasn't sitting in the throne, though she yearned to, but standing on the dais in front of it seemed to have an effect. They bowed before her, though she was not Sam.

The demon now getting chained was kicked so he was on his knees, and he eyed the blood on Rowena's hands.

Head bowing quickly when he noticed her eyes on him in a disapproving manner he said, "You sent for me, Your Highness?"

It didn't escape notice that he pulled slightly at the heavy cuffs on his wrists.

"Hold him," Rowena said to the two large demons helping her, ignoring that the one in chains had even spoken.

He wouldn't be able to say anything for much longer, so why would his words matter now?

Rowena descended the dais, smiling at him, knife drawn, hands and wrists bloodied.

With her victim held fast, Rowena opened his mouth, roughly delved her hand inside, and found what she needed. Gripping tightly, she sliced off his tongue. It fell as a thick, snakelike wad of pink flesh onto the floor, leaking blood. What was left in his mouth and throat was a bloodied stump, thrashing madly, as if searching for the missing piece she'd taken from him. Screams left him, wild tears, and he began to choke on his own blood.

Rowena rolled her eyes.

So dramatic.

Then she got to work on the Devil's Trap in his forehead.

The screams and pleas and begging were incoherent. Without his tongue, there wasn't much he could do.

And now, with the sigil, just like the rest, he would not be able to leave his body.

Ah, such perfect violence for creating perfect servants.

He was picked up and dragged off, the remains of his tongue kicked to the side to gather in a little, growing pile of them. Blood decorated gold.

"Next!" Rowena called again.

The next demon was brought in.

A man walked up from the shore of a lake, a fishing rod resting over one shoulder, and a tackle box with lures held in his hand. Hefted under his arm was a cooler containing two fish. They were both a decent size — more than a decent size. The trout probably weighed in at twenty-one pounds, and the herring was surely a decent seven-and-a-half pounds. Not a horrible catch, but the man had usually been able to catch more in less time. He'd been distracted lately.

Walking up the muddy path, his boots sinking into the earth, he began to whistle. "In the Hall of the Mountain King" was the song he chose, the tune coming to him without thought. The wind carried his tune back towards the lake, as it caught at his graying hair. His beard was graying too. But the man was okay with that. His looks hadn't changed for at least a century. And when it did change, well, that was his choice.

Back up to his house, cooler and tackle box thunk, thunk, thunking against each other every once in awhile, the afternoon sun beginning to appear through the wisp of clouds.

The first sign of trouble was that his door was unlocked.

The man set the cooler, rod, and tackle box down on the porch, door slightly ajar now that he'd tried the handle.

Damn it, he wished he had a knife.

But no, he didn't need one.

The man hadn't been a general for nothing.

He walked into his cabin, one hand held at the ready in case he needed to defend himself, or at least kill whoever had decided to disturb his peace.

"You have three seconds to show yourself!" he shouted, voice carrying throughout his living room and the rest of the small dwelling.

A man with wavy hair nearly down to his shoulders, and a medium-long grayish beard, dressed in a stark white suit entered from the hall that led to the sparse, but homey, kitchen.

The man lowered his hand, recognizing his brother.

Asmodeus smiled, and said in a southern drawl that the man wasn't sure he was a fan of, "Long time, no see, Ramiel."

Asmodeus sat at Ramiel's kitchen table, hands folded neatly before him. Ramiel could feel disdain washing off of him as he started making tea.

"Really?" Asmodeus questioned once Ramiel set the kettle on to boil.

He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. "I've been focusing on keeping calm for centuries," Ramiel told him. "This is one of the ways I do it."

"You've gone soft."

"No, I just don't care for Hell's business anymore. I assume that's what you're here about?"

"Yes. We have a problem."

Ramiel sighed, and rolled his eyes, shifting on his feet. The kettle wasn't set exactly in the middle of the burner, so he grabbed the handle and shifted it.

"I've heard whispers," he began, "but I prefer to stay out of whatever it is that's going on downstairs."

"Even with a Winchester on the throne?"

Asmodeus had a smirk on his face, one eyebrow raised slightly.

Yes, Ramiel knew that Sam Winchester was on the throne. He had some claim to it, but that claim wasn't stronger than Ramiel's and his remaining brother and sister's, even if Azazel had tried to set this up years ago.

"Do you see me getting mad?"

"No, but you should."

"And why's that?" Ramiel set about getting his tea cup, and then going to the little pantry he had to choose his tea. He settled for a refreshing peppermint, grabbed the bag of tea leaves, an empty tea bag, and a spoon. As he set to filling the tea bag, he went on, "I wasn't bothered with Crowley on the throne. And I heard about that mess with Vadrach. Who knows, maybe the younger Winchester will provide some solid leadership."

"He's holed up in New York, and he's obsessing over his brother."

"How is that my business?"

Asmodeus got to his feet, and slammed his fists on the table. Ramiel didn't even flinch, he just turned to him.

"Don't you see? The throne has been taken from us. With our Dark Lord trapped in the Cage, Hell has grown soft and unstable. Anyone seems to think they can take the throne! Vadrach was just a stupid crossroads demon who got too full of himself, and Sam's a spoiled brat who's got the heart of a human! Are we really going to stand for this?"

By the time he was done yelling, Asmodeus was standing right in front of Ramiel. Too close.

"Are you going to let me finish with my tea?"

Asmodeus let out a growl, and shot his hand out. Without even touching the kettle, it crunched and squealed into a misshapen lump, water bursting from where the metal had ripped. It was flung across the room, and it smashed into the wall, sticking in the plywood. Not done with his tantrum yet, Asmodeus grabbed Ramiel's tea cup, and smashed it into the cabinet above his head. Shards went everywhere, and Ramiel just shook them out of his hair.

Deep breaths, he told himself. Just take deep breaths.

Because if he didn't, if he let himself get angry, he'd want to get involved, and he'd kill and rage and burn everything to the ground.

I don't care.

He didn't care. He wasn't supposed to. He'd forfeited the throne. Though, it was still his by right. He was the oldest.

"Enough with your tea!" Asmodeus yelled.

That did it. Ramiel flared the fire still burning on the stove, and took a step closer to his brother, a finger pointing at his chest.

"You come in here, and you whine, and for what? All because someone else has the throne? We gave it up! It's not ours. It's his."

"He's not even possessed by Lucifer, so what makes it his?"

"He is Lucifer's."

"Yes, his pet. Pets don't deserve thrones."

"Then who does? You? Me?"

"Yes!"

Ramiel shoved Asmodeus aside, and he bumped back against the table.

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get. Out. Of. My. House. Now."

Asmodeus straightened his suit, and brushed his hair back. He twisted his hand, turning the fire off. "We're not done here," he said. "Please," he said, tone softer now. "I need you. Hell needs you."

"Hell isn't for me anymore."

"Then would you at least support my claim?"

Ramiel stood, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip as he thought about it. Taking the throne back for the Princes would make sense, but… Ramiel had given that throne to Crowley instead of ascending. He just… didn't want. And even supporting Asmodeus' claim would have things get ugly. There would be a war. It was too soon after what he'd heard had happened with Crowley and Vadrach.

Yet, there was an anger simmering in him at the thought of Sam Winchester on the throne. His brother was right. While the Winchester had a claim, it wasn't as true as his own. Lucifer hadn't set him up as his successor. He'd created Ramiel for that, for ruling his armies, for possibly someday ruling Hell should anything happen.

He'd given it up.

And Sam, Sam had been born, created to be Lucifer's. His brother Azazel had aided in that. Dripping demon blood in the mouths of infants — it'd been his little passion project. Some good it'd done him. He was dead because of it, because he'd interfered with the Winchesters.

Did having his brother's blood in him give him a claim? Yes, to some extent, and Azazel had been the next in line. Still, Sam Winchester wasn't a Prince. He was just someone's failed attempt at making a king. And he was a king. He'd become a demon, seized the throne.

"If I support your claim," Ramiel said, "then things get ugly. Then demons will come to me and ask why I'm not the one battling for the throne."

"You can be," Asmodeus insisted.

"So what would be the plan? Hmm? We meet with a select few demons higher up in the hierarchy of Hell, and we tell them what my plan is — oh, excuse me, your plan — and we start building an army? Do we really want a repeat of Kenesaw?"

"So you know?"

Ramiel snorted, and shook his head. He went over to take the kettle out of the wall. Shit, he'd had that for years. It'd been so reliable.

"How could I not know?" he questioned. "Word about it is everywhere. Even the monsters are talking about it. So, I'll ask again, do you really want another Kenesaw?"

"It won't be another Kenesaw. The angels don't have to get involved."

"I'm sorry, have you met them?"

"Actually, no."

Ramiel just rolled his eyes. The kettle came free with a loud crunch. He tossed it onto the counter, sighing. He should slit his brother's throat for ruining his tea.

"Well, I have. They will get involved. They think it's their holy prerogative, that God set us up as the adversary and them as the soldiers to be wielded against us. We did have a few angel free years, or so I've heard, but if we start building an army, they're going to do the same. Amass weapons, possess more vessels. We wouldn't just be fighting against those loyal to Sam Winchester, we'd be fighting Heaven too. It'd be a war on two fronts, and the whole world saw how ugly that is."

"We could do it swiftly, then," Asmodeus pointed out. "Forgo the army. We quietly turn those to our side, and we set a traitor in Sam's midst. He can work with us to take him down. When he's weak, we swoop in, and we seize control."

"We?"

"Yes, we. I want this, but you should want it too. With Azazel dead at Dean Winchester's hands, you're next in line. And doesn't that anger you? We lost a brother to those jumped up hunters! They deserve to pay. Dean took one of our brothers, I say we take his."

Ramiel went and took a seat at the head of the table, head in his hands.

"What does Dagon think of all of this?"

"She has her own pursuits."

What those pursuits could be, Ramiel had no idea. She'd always been so grossly devoted to Lucifer, so infatuated with him that she had many weak points. Planning outside of anything that had to do with their lord was somewhat of a challenge for her. She was blinded by wanting to be by his side, and after the failed Apocalypse, she had gone even deeper underground. So this, this news that she was finally starting to stir, it piqued some interest in him.

"And those are?" he asked.

"Does it matter? If she's stirring, then change is coming."

"It already came."

"And why should we just sit by and watch? We're more powerful than anything out there! We're more powerful than our Lord's sloppy seconds, more powerful than the witch holding his leash. Ramiel, please. You're telling me you can just sit here, knowing that Lucifer's property thinks he's allowed to rule?"

It was a good question.

Ramiel didn't like that Sam was on the throne, but he'd worked so hard for so long to not care, to stay out of this. Losing Azazel had already done too much damage to him.

"It's not easy staying out of it," Ramiel eventually told him truthfully, lifting his head up. "But it's my pursuit, and I find comfort in that. So yes, I will just sit here. Do I want to? Not entirely. You're right, Sam doesn't have a true claim to the throne. But neither do we anymore. We gave that up, and I've worked a long time on letting that go. I think you should too."

"You are weak," Asmodeus snarled at him.

"Get out of my house. We're done here."

Asmodeus sneered, and then turned on his heel. He left, and the outer door slammed so hard the wood around it splintered.

Ramiel was left sitting in his mess of a kitchen, an itch starting to form.

No, put it aside.

But even as he went to go collect his fish to start cleaning them, he couldn't put it aside.

Sam Winchester was on the throne. A deep, deep part of Ramiel that he'd kept buried under mortar and stone and adamant, was coming to life, whispering to him through the tiny cracks that had begun to form.

No, he told himself. No.

Yes, the voice whispered.