A/N: Hello, all! Sorry for the long hiatus; the season finale kind of took the wind out of my sails in regards to fanfiction, but I'm back now! Here's the seventh story in the 'Six Dawns' series (for a complete list, see my profile) and, per usual, will be AU, picking up in the middle of 5.16. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, but these versions of Gabriel, Belial, and Ramiel belong to me

"He has cast me into the mire, and I have become like dust and ashes…"

-Job 30:19

The heavens are ablaze.

So this is how it ends, she thinks, bleary eyes gazing up at the ripple of hellfire thrashing against the purer flame of the servants of the Almighty. Power and might mingles in the filthy air with so much bitterness and undulating hatred that she wants nothing more than to give voice to the sorrow that gnaws relentlessly at her soul. But she can't even afford that, she realizes through the haze of slipping awareness, because the veil shrouding her mind is as opaque and restricting as ever. No, lying here in the mud with shriveled wings staked into the ground and nowhere to go, she finds that she's even forgotten how to suit actions to intention; she has forgotten how to weep.

From far away, she hears the resounding roar of the Morning Star's defeat and the pain strikes her to her tattered core of patchwork grace and rapidly unwinding sanity. Her kinsmen have started up a chant, a cry of triumph to drown out the wails of the defeated and for one brief, blinding moment, when she closes her eyes, she can imagine that they are all singing out praise and adoration to their Father just as it had been before. Before brother turned against brother, before betrayal and loss, before the mass of a single, strong, and unified body became separated into the Fallen and those left behind to ignore the pieces of what had once been beautiful and holy and perfect.

She opens her eyes, blinking slowly like one rousing from a deep slumber in which one had been embroiled in a particularly puzzling and frightening dream – not necessarily a nightmare, but merely a series of visions over which one had no control – the type that was both miraculous and terrifying, a wild spiral of events that kept its audience captive until the very last act when those who had seen it all had no idea whether to sing praise or stay mute with shock and horror.

It's shimmering now, the ragged curtains of the torn firmament: a matted mess of angry, gaping wounds that spill forth voluminous clouds of black smoke and the shreds of those whose souls have been rent into irreparable fragments by their own kin. The tendrils that curl and coil into the air dissipate quickly, like a stain of breath upon a mirror before the naked eye and then the heavens are crumbling, crumbling, crumbling to nothing. She lets out a shuddering breath, lips forming wordless shapes as her mouth opens ever so slightly; she breathes in as her vessel's body necessitates, acutely aware of the struggle of punctured lungs rattling weakly against their cages of cracked bone.

The acrid inhalation of air is choking. Victory tastes like the ashes of Sodom and Gomorrah and the salt of sweat, the sharp tang of blood bursting over her senses.

A sudden cry pierces the air: wretched and desperate, without shame or abandon. Michael's vessel is wailing, she realizes suddenly, a keening, wordless groan that splits the smoldering sky as he cradles his brother's empty body to his chest and brushes trembling fingers against cold, pale skin. He says not one intelligible word but she can hear the way his soul twists in hate and heartache alike, can hear the depths of his soul screaming out a useless litany of no, no, NO, SAMMY, Sammy, Sammy-

The souls of both angelic vessels and those unwillingly taken by demonic possession are standing in the carnage now, an army of ghosts rising up on the battlefield only after the final blow has fallen and she watches them, observes them with neither disgust nor pity. She watches with glassy eyes, through the multi-faceted gaze of a being who had been created for the sole purpose of vision itself, watches the Righteous Man's heart shatter in a shower of golden shards and pinpricks of the red of blood. It is a macabre sight; a haunting depiction of vulnerability in its rawest state – and yet eerily beautiful at the same time, the sort of scene one hopes to never see again but would hate to forget.

Listlessly, her head lolls to the side, cheek pressing into the mud saturated with blood. It is not the first time she has seen this. In fact, it is far from the first time she has seen any of this, all of this. She simply watches, for it is her duty to do so, to see all things – and as the Prophetess has seen it, so shall it come to pass. And this is how it all comes to pass: no bang, no whimper, and no Paradise because all of Creation is burning…

Won't Father be proud?

"It's personal now, boys," Zachariah announced with a flourish, looking every inch the smug bastard he was as he sneered first at one Winchester, then the other. "And the last person in the history of Creation you want as your enemy is me." His head swiveled this way and that, silently daring either reluctant recipient of his clichéd monologue to disagree. And personally, Sam found himself thinking that he really would beg to differ, but hey – the two-faced douche just sent out a PSA revealing that he was actually a four-faced monstrosity with six wings, so the hunter wasn't all too keen on spitting out any smart alecky comments anytime soon, and mentally willed his brother to have the same discretion.

He really needn't have worried.

Dean grimaced. He could practically feel the beginnings of a bruise forming as blood vessels beneath the skin cried out their protest at the treatment, blossoming a spectacular tie-dye pattern in the shape of a fist. But if we're dead, that means that there is no more blood. He idly thought of the twelve-gauge shotgun slug unloaded into his chest at point-blank range and the few seconds of coldness overtaking his senses before the darkness descended. Yeah, definitely no more blood. Most people would have shuddered at reliving their dying moments (ha, nice pun there, a snarky voice in the back of his mind remarked), but he was a Winchester – he'd already been mauled to death by invisible hounds of Hell and had an archangel waiting to use him as a condom at his apparently inevitable consent – so yeah, all things considering, being held back by two lunkhead angels in a bad rendition of the climax of Stand by Me was kinda…normal.

Well, maybe not normal, but it was just so predictably Zachariah, wasn't it? Taking cheap shots and strutting around like a friggin' peacock in all his glory while rattling on his victory speech. "And I'll tell you why-"

Oh please, spare me, Dean groaned inwardly, for it seemed as if the other's mouth had yet to stop flapping. Even after a sucker-punch to the gut that had winded him (although the hunter would never admit it) and that display with Mama Winchester that had been just wrong on all levels, Zachariah had yet to come across as anything other than the familiar grade school bully who ruled the playground through his size and intimidation. He was, quite essentially, a spoiled child who had been raised with a silver spoon in his mouth and whose issues stemmed from discovering that evidently, he wasn't such a special snowflake after all.

"Lucifer may be strong but me…I'm petty."

And wasn't that the truth, because for all his bluster and big talk, that was all Zachariah had in his arsenal: cheap parlor tricks and empty threats that couldn't and wouldn't ever measure up to the steel in Castiel's piercing blue stare (the one that could make even statues avert their stony gazes for fear of having done something wrong) or the undercurrents of thunderous rage Dean had once heard in Gabriel's even voice. The closest Zachariah had ever come to being anything more than a seriously annoying talking head was when he kidnapped and then dropped the elder Winchester off in that godforsaken mindfuck of a future – Dean had dreamed for weeks afterwards about Castiel, glassy-eyed and faithless, droning on about the dragonfly eye of group minded orgies – and even then, the only truly terrifying part had been the flashes of what could be as a result of his choices, not of what Zachariah could do to him, personally.

"I'm going to be the angel on your shoulder for the rest of eternity." Well, I'm just quaking in my boots, Dean smirked mirthlessly to himself. Funny, how the angel seemed to think a threat such as that would strike terror into the hearts of the pair standing before him. Sam and Dean Winchester, the ones who had been born into a cursed family, destined for a life of darkness right from the womb, the heirs of a prophecy neither ever wanted – oh no, their fears went a lot deeper than the prospect of a constant menace in their lives. After all they were boys who'd become accustomed to the elephant in the room even as children, and taken said elephant in stride as it changed along with the passing years: a yellow-eyed demon, a father who spent his life chasing both metaphorical and literal ghosts instead of loving his boys, a son who longed to be normal, and a boy who tried his very best to be everything as both a son and a brother but was never enough.

It was good to know Zachariah wasn't shortchanging himself in the pompous bastard department; if anything, arrogance was something he had in spades. Talk about delusions of grandeur. You know what they say: the bigger they come, the harder they fall, and Zachariah was most definitely overdue for a nice blow to the ego right about…now.

"He's wrong."

They all turned as one, necks craning and gazes shifting; eyebrows furrowing and raising on different faces as all attention focused upon the speaker who'd dared to rebuke in the most nonchalant of tones. A little girl sat on the kitchen table, swinging her bare feet without rhythm and gazing steadily at her audience through a sweep of dark bangs, big brown eyes fringed with long eyelashes. "Too many holes, she said in way of explanation and waved small hands through the air, graceful and flighty, like butterflies. "Trying, always trying to be the best, but you'll never get it right."

Zachariah took a step toward her, his face twisted into something dark and ugly. Well, even more so than usual. "What did you just say to me?"

"You're unfinished," the little girl told the worn smooth wooden surface of the kitchen table with calm authority, her fingers tracing a pattern only she could see. Dean's mind whirled back to snatches of glorious summer days long past, of apple pie setting out to cool on the very same table, of big bear hugs and the warmth that only a mother's love could provide. "We all are."

"Stop babbling, stupid child," Zachariah snapped, brusque and impatient. The reprimand elicited a small giggle instead of the obvious desired effect and the angel crossed his arms, lifting his chin arrogantly as he looked down his nose. "Who was brainless enough to let you out this time?"

Sam blinked, taking note of the obvious defensive posture and the short tone, the curt words that suggested Zachariah was having a bit of a difficult time suppressing the urge to reach out and throttle his young challenger – but he didn't. The angel didn't make any move to close the scant distance between himself and the little girl, almost…almost as if he was afraid of what doing so might cause. A quick glance told the younger Winchester all he needed to know – the two suited lackeys were exchanging unsure looks; quick, nervous flicking of the eyes from their superior to the newcomer, from the big bossman to the little girl. Whoever she was, this child's authority (either that or the threat her presence posed) ranked even above that of Zachariah's. Dean too, seemed to have come to something along the same conclusion; if Sam knew his brother, the elder Winchester was already drawing parallels between the creepiness factor of this new arrival (who, quite honestly, seemed a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic) to other scary little girls, a la The Shining.

The girl smiled shyly, eyes glimmering with an unknown secret and an uncomfortable chill stole up Dean's spine because those eyes were suddenly too bright, and in them he recognized the gleam of a mind too far gone for anyone to reach or save. "You won't scream when you burn," she informed all of them politely, but she was staring straight at Zachariah, hands splayed against the surface of the table as she leaned forward, not once breaking eye contact. "And it'll be because you don't know how to."

No one knew just exactly how to respond to a statement like that, and what a sight it must have been: five grown men, all gawking in stunned silence at one little girl. Dark hair slipped over her shoulder as she tilted her head in a way that was just so Cas and the recognition was even worse than Zachariah's fist to the gut. "Cloudy days and bubbles, misty eyes and lies…" She laughed then, a delighted tinkling sound to shatter the quiet and pointed with one dainty little finger. "Poof."

Several things happened in the next moment, and all of them all at once.

Heckle and Jeckle simultaneously uttered noises that sounded like "meep" before going poof indeed; Zachariah put on a rather impressive demonstration of how exactly to give oneself whiplash, staring blankly first at the disappearance of his henchmen before rounding on the little girl and snarling something that definitely was not English (nor Latin, or Greek, or any other language Sam knew only brief snatches of); Dean tensed and swore under his breath – call it a leftover nuance or something from having practically raised Sammy, but the elder Winchester absolutely abhorred seeing children in danger. That being said, seeing Zachariah huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf and practically frothing at the mouth definitely set the alarm bells ringing in the hunter's mind – but Sam caught his arm abruptly, stilling his reckless forward lunge. Dean scowled at him, and his brother inclined his head slightly. Look.

"Now sister, what have I told you about wandering off?"

The little girl's fingers pulled absently at the collar of her rescuer's jacket, bare feet kicking harmlessly at the elderly man's thigh as she stared intently into the weathered, almost grandfatherly face with a mixture of innocence and guilt. "I shouldn't."

"That's right." The man set his young charge on the ground and she skirted behind him, wrapping her arms around his knee and peeking out with a wariness that reminded Dean of a cornered animal. He exchanged glances with Sam, and his brother shrugged one shoulder. What the hell was going on here?

Zachariah seemed to have composed himself, and he stared at the strange pair in front of him with thinly veiled disgust. "Can't you keep her on a shorter chain?" he groused, indignant. "I was in a meeting!"

"I'm sorry," came the immediate response, in a tone that didn't sound very sorry at all. "I need to speak to those two." And just like that, Sam and Dean found themselves drawn into the middle of a situation that was starting to make less and less sense the longer it dragged on.

"Excuse me?" Dean resisted the urge to snort. First the face of a lion, then the Big Bad Wolf, and now a marvelous impression of a guppy fish. Zachariah sure had some hidden talent for impersonating animals.

"It's a bad time, I know," the man continued in a placating manner. The little girl pulled impatiently at his trouser leg, pouting in a way that seemed to say get on with it and one hand automatically drifted downwards to settle on her head. "But I'm afraid I have to insist."

Zachariah scoffed, and Dean's mind immediately thought horse. "You don't get to insist jack squat," he spat, rude and ugly, and Dean's distracted amusement quickly turned to sour. Great, just great. Here they were on the sidelines of an angelic pissing match, and not a clue what to do. Just another dash of that spectacular Winchester luck.

Instead of antagonism and challenge though, the other merely offered the slightest nod in polite capitulation. "No, you're right. But the Boss does. His orders."

There was no mistaking the capital 'B' in the threat masqueraded as a reminder, and Zachariah paused, chest still puffed out in affront but his gaze cautious and appraising. "…You're lying."

"Says you, but not for you to know." As words spoken from the mouth of a child they tumbled out awkwardly, whispered haltingly past thin fingers pressed against chapped lips, not making any sense and yet carrying more weight than the Annunciation. "Father arrives on the wings of the unknown," she mumbled quietly, and it was a warning if Dean had ever heard one. She stood there, bare toes wriggling against the floor and one hand clutching tightly to her guardian's trouser leg, a poster girl for Have You Seen this Child billboards. But Dean knew that appearances were deceiving and kids said the darndest things...

"Cold wrath to burning ruin," the little girl said, and lifted a dark, thin arm to point straight at Zachariah. "On your head. Very soon."

The air shifted, displaced, and Zachariah fled.

A howl rings out from the depths of the Abyss; a long, mournful wail that bleeds fury and betrayal and agony in dissonant tune with the rattling of chains and clashing of will against prison. The sentinels standing guard at the lowermost levels of the Pit shift uneasily, clutching to their weapons. They are on edge and tense, knowing that beneath the labyrinth of chains forged from hellfire and steel, behind thousands upon thousands of locked doors, weighed down under manacles and the entirety of Hell, the creature is raging. All the far corners of the Underworld feel the tremors of immense power and shudder, the torn souls writhing and screaming louder in a macabre chorus to the bellows of the beast below, and the demons turn their own terror into a frenzy, lashing out and stripping away with more fervor than before.

The creature has been locked away for thousands of years if ever a day, and it's only by the skin of their teeth and something perilously close to blasphemous faith that its captors have managed to keep it contained – but everyone knows that it will only last so long. An intricate web of traps and pitfalls, sigils spanning for miles and miles drawn in the blood of virgins and whores alike, a chain of wretched souls lashed together with entrails and barbed wire set aflame…and all of it will be for naught when the creature finally rises, because like Lucifer before it, it was captured and imprisoned for the sole purpose of breaking free. And break free it will, in a maelstrom of destruction and whirlwind of carnage, soon.

Another roar cuts through a landscape riddled with fire and pain, rising above the din of torture, ripping through the foundations of the Underworld and Hell's Generals cringe. At least Lucifer rotted quietly away in his cage while waiting for the End of Days. Any other soul, and the demons gladly scream back right into their weeping faces, mocking and spitting all the while – but the creature is fierce and unrelenting, terrifying and seared into the waking nightmares of every being in Hell, although the only ones that ever set eyes upon it exploded upon doing so. It is a nameless, faceless terror, and the only consolation is that the Dark was the one to claim it first, and not the Light.

Not like it matters, anyway. They'll never be able to control it.

The creature slams against the walls surrounding it, growling from within its being. It's chained so tightly that there's barely enough room for it to move more than a couple of inches, but it continues its relentless struggle, thrashing and straining, but not without tactical grace. Had it a corporeal form it would be bruised and battered and perhaps even bleeding, but it does not. Many mistake it to be a mindless beast of brute force, but deep in the creature's core, it holds close one single fragment of a thought; a shred of a notion for existence. A goal and a purpose that neither those Below nor Above could ever begin to fathom. Time is fluid in Hell, but second by second and millennia after millennia, the creature repeats the same whisper to itself over and over again like a chant, a litany…a prayer.

No one hears it. Or if they do, they don't understand. Of course they don't. Hell's language is one whose syllables are screams that stretch on for hours; it's alphabet is an endless stream of moaning and gnashing of teeth that make up an eloquent babble of despair and retribution, and then some. It's only natural that no one there understands anything even perilously close to hope.

So for now, the creature gathers its strength and waits because the time of judgment is coming soon. Very soon.

"This is…Heaven's garden?"

Sam was aware of the slight incredulity evident in his tone, but the younger Winchester supposed he could be excused for expressing a little bit of disbelief. After all: getting shot and dying, waking up to a roller coaster ride through old memories and a bunch of skeletons he thought he'd tucked safely away in the back of a closet, getting kidnapped by Heaven's biggest dick of an angel…yeah, it had been quite a long day, and nothing in his world was making any sort of sense right now. A little bit of clarification or confirmation could go a long way.

"It's nice…ish," Dean spoke up from beside him, and his voice was just as dubious. "I guess." Don't want to piss off the nice old man or little Miss Crazy for Cocoa Puffs.

"You see what you want to here," their rescuer supplied helpfully, gently setting his burden down on the ground. "For some it's God's throne room. For her and others," he nodded at the little girl who twirled once and then scampered off with a playful giggle, "it's Eden." He lifted his gaze then, as if taking in their surroundings for the first time; the chirping birds up above and buzz of insects. "You two, I believe it's the Cleveland Botanical Gardens. You came here on a field trip."

Oh, that field trip. Dean shook his head slightly, recalling memories of the rattle-rattle-bump and unbearably hot interior of a school activity bus that smelled like spoiled milk and old gym socks, sweating against the cheap plastic holey upholstery and trying to look cool for pretty little Abby Messer sitting across the row and only half-listening to Sammy's excited, nonstop babble: Dean, they've got a lagoon and a separate glasshouse for different plants and animals; do you think it'll be like a rainforest, except for being inside? There's a rose garden too, and a dry rock stream, like they have in Japan. And butterflies, too! I wonder if I can get a monarch butterfly to land on my finger…

Sam, for his part, was busy taking in the current situation, assessing all parts of the here and now. There would be time for reminiscing later, although he'd had enough of flipping through old albums and supposedly wonderful memories for today, thanks very much. The younger Winchester took a closer look at the man standing in front of them – the kind eyes and weathered face, the gentle voice that somehow held an important sense of wonders seen and majesty beheld – and knew this had to be Joshua, the angel who spoke to God. Well…supposedly, anyway. "You're Joshua," he said slowly, partially a statement and partially a wary inquiry.

Thankfully, the other nodded, solemnly. "I'm Joshua."

"So you…talk to God."

Joshua smiled, kind and knowledgeable, softly correcting. "Mostly, He talks to me."

The Winchesters exchanged glances of relief mingled with anticipation. "Well…um, we need to speak to him. It's important." Understatement.

"Do you know where he is?" Dean jumped in hurriedly. Follow the road, Castiel had said. Check one…with some speed bumps and unplanned pit stops along the way, but still. Find Joshua. Check two. Find out what the hell God had to say about the colossal shitstorm that His kids were cooking up while He was out of town. And third time's the charm…right?

"On Earth," was the matter-of-fact reply, and Dean leaned forward, waiting and expecting to hear the rest that was apparently not coming.

Swell. So where on Earth is Carmen Sandiego? "Doing what?"

A shrug this time. "I don't know. We don't exactly speak face to face. The only one who is able to stand in His presence to receive His word as Messenger is now…" Joshua stepped back slightly as the little girl reappeared abruptly, dancing between them, and lowered his voice. "…indisposed."

His Messenger. Dean felt the bile rise in the back of his throat as images of a vessel jerked up into the air like a hapless marionette on invisible strings flashed in his mind, pure grace exploding out of an archangel like white light, remembering the way Castiel shook in his arms as the angel's shaky knees gave out and he collapsed with a whimper, a nearly inaudible whisper of "Gabriel." Worse still, he remembered the way the delirious nearly fallen angel had clung to him in the wake of many fever-induced nightmares, calling out for the brother he so obviously loved, a brother now forever lost because Lucifer was a heartless bastard who had no tolerance for reneged promises and broken contracts. Because this was the goddamn Apocalypse, and casualties were casualties, be it an innocent bystander who was just too curious for his own freakin' good or powerful archangel who willingly sacrificed everything for the sake of his dysfunctional, screwed up family.

And boy, did that hit just a bit too close to home for comfort.

"Well-" Sam started in earnest, knowing when to step up to the plate when his brother faltered. "Could you at least get Him a message for us-"

"Thoughts, but no head to fill them," came the solemn interjection, and both hunters glanced down at the speaker, who leaned against Joshua's leg, head bent intently over a child's creation; a play necklace of dandelions and pansies. "Words, but no one comes to receive." She lifted her head and looked from one Winchester to the other with wide eyes, fingers tangling nervously with crushed stems and dancing over wilted flower petals. "Vessels stand alone…but no one comes, and nothing to occupy them."

In that instant, Sam saw not a little girl but a drowning woman, eyes filled with sorrow and the endless chasms of the unknown. After all, the line between genius and madness was often all too thin to even matter, and omniscience stripped away even more than exceptional intelligence. Ultimate knowledge was meant for deities alone, and the gods above them, and God above them -

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you love, remember. And there's pansies, that's for thoughts… I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.

- and apparently angels didn't get that, or were too pompous to care, and had gotten themselves their very own Ophelia as a result.

"You want Him to know." Her voice shook and Sam blinked, staring through a kaleidoscope and seeing two images at once: a woman sinking to her knees and shaking with uncontrollable tremors signaling an onslaught of forthcoming sobs; a little girl flopping to the ground in an unceremonious heap with an angry sniff. "And Father knows. Already. Knows all, all the time."

"Hush now, sister-"

"Doesn't care!" She suddenly shrieked, full of indignation and hurt. "Knows that the soldiers are ash, and that children lie, and of many that are lost. He sees, Father sees and I see, I see…" The mud smeared in long streaks over her bare legs; she hugged her knees to her chest and ducked her head, rocking slightly as she continued to mumble from behind the curtain of tangled locks. "Quiet now, no words or order or direction anymore…quiet everywhere, everywhere but in here."

Uh. Dean blinked and looked to his brother for guidance but Sam's brow was furrowed too, and not in the hang on, hang on, I've almost got it; it's on the tip of my tongue sort of way, but in the what the fuck is going on fashion the elder Winchester was sure he was mirroring. A bird screeched up above, but no one moved. No one dared to move, and Dean found himself breathing shallowly, almost as if he was afraid to breathe at all. The air was heavy with uncertainty, fear, but a certain sense of awe as well; the same sort of atmosphere that had faithful worshipers falling on their faces before the Oracle at Delphi, devouring the ancient scribbles of Nostradamus, and pausing to give a damn about what the crazy old man yelling out prophesy, prophesy! in front of the Temple of the Lord had to say.

The unknown was mysterious and powerful, and never more so than when spoken from the mouth of those who could see what others could not.

"You'll have to forgive my sister," Joshua murmured as his charge whimpered and curled into an even tighter ball. He reached down to rest a hand atop her dark crown, only to pull back when the response was a shudder. "She upsets easily these days, and then it's as if she has no control over what she says." He gazed downwards, his gaze equal parts mournful and filled with pity. "Lucifer was not kind to her. But," the angel sighed, redirecting his attention, "she speaks the truth. God doesn't think the Apocalypse is His problem."

"What?" Excuse me? "Not his problem?" Dean's tone echoed the little angel girl's from only moment's prior, full of incredulous disbelief and obvious affront. "I'm sorry, but what?"

"God saved you already." Joshua's voice was burnished steel, cold and sharpened to pierce past the legendary thickness of Winchester skulls. "He put you back on that plane. He brought back Castiel." At the mention of the nearly fallen angel, the angel child let out a quiet sob, but the other paid her no heed this time. "It's more than He's intervened in a long time, and now He's finished. Magic amulet or not, you won't be able to find him."

Finished. There would be no smiles at the end of this, because there was no way they could possibly bounce back from a blow like this. The words sliced through Dean like broken bits of glass and metal shavings, cutting so finely that he could literally feel himself bleeding out even before the pain registered; could feel the guttering flame of hope and faith dying in a horrible gust of cold bitterness. Magic amulet or not…

"Finished," the Prophetess mouthed, lips trembling against her fist. "I see. I see, I see no Father. No more."

The amulet drops into the wastepaper basket with a hollow clang, a golden trinket tossed aside deliberately, vanishing beneath rubbish like rubbish itself. It's an ugly, terrible sight; an angel's shattered hope and lost faith, and she watches him curse his Father to the heavens, watches him flee from the Righteous Man's crumbling conviction, watches her little brother plummet from the heights and careen wildly toward a crash landing of fornication and drink and despair.

The two beings lunge at each other, two adversaries once brothers but now charging to kill and blood is spilt on the day of ruin, a fledgling Falls and there is no one there to save them this time, as they all storm on blindly toward the End of all things. No bugles sound for there is no time to mourn the dying or the dead; their bodies are stepping stones as more continue to fall by the garrison, by the legion, by the blade. And from an undisclosed, unknown, separate location, the omniscient and omnipotent Father stands watching, watching his children tear each other to shreds; his dear, beloved, stupid children who have got it all hideously, horribly WRONG, and His heart breaks.

"How is she?" The Chief Prince of the Host asked the Gardener quietly, wrapped in borrowed flesh and still as glorious as ever. In the Throne Room of the Lord, his golden wings brushed against the pillars of pure pearl and alabaster floors, all thousands upon countless thousands. The sun (light from the Most Holy of Holies) set his gleaming eyes afire, piercing through the false limitations of human limitations for the sake of the sister he sought out. There was no telling if the harm done had stripped away both her mind and portions of her grace.

"The presence of the vessels did upset her slightly," Joshua admitted quietly, no longer an elderly man in blue-collar work clothes, but now a broad-shouldered soldier standing guard over one of Heaven's most treasured daughters. "You must be gentle with her now, brother," he cautioned lightly, stepping aside to let his superior pass.

He was already moving away even before the other finished speaking, hurrying in the most dignified manner possible, yet even that didn't conceal the anxiety marring the being's perfect face. She lay sprawled on her back on the floor of the Inner Sanctum, limbs splayed haphazardly out to her sides, dark hair fanning her true vessel's delicate features. Her brow was contorted in pain from horrors that only she could see and saw without ceasing, strangely at odds with the bitter little smile playing across her lips. "My sister?" he tried, venturing closer, but not too close. "Ramiel?"

Dark eyes fluttered once, then opened and Ramiel sat up, reaching out trembling hands with a desperate cry. "Hurts, Michael," she whispered, and immediately, the most glorious warrior in all of Heaven stooped down without hesitation, gathering his sister against him and holding her close. "Hurts."

Her grace fluttered like a fading heart, wrecked and torn and irreparable, buffeting weakly against his in an anguished bid for comfort which Michael relinquished without a second thought. Lucifer's mark on the angel of joy's once pristine grace was a permanent stain of darkness, deeply entrenched with no hope of fading but Heaven's General cared not, focusing on reaching out to his damaged sister. "Tell me then," he murmured, with gentle and loving persistence. "Tell me what you see."

Her mouth opened and closed, puffing out small breaths of air. "Can't," Ramiel whimpered miserably, and her hands were small and shaking, so small inside Michael's larger ones. "Don't know how."

The heavens are falling, she whispers, lying on her back and staring up at the cracks in the skin of the universe, at the firmament that becomes weaker and weaker each day. She reaches out and threads her fingers through the soft grasses of Eden, hearing the cries of battle pounding against the corners of her consciousness.

So this is how it begins: ashes to ashes and dust to dust. If God won't have us, then the Devil must.

A/N: I have sincerely missed writing, as I'm flexing these muscles for the first time in months. I was pretty disappointed with this past season finale. In my opinion, it felt like the writers took the easy way out with some plot devices (e.g. Adam, the Impala saving the day?) This story will NOT be going the same route, and will include but also omit some aspects of the show's canon. All the same, I hope you'll decide to buckle in for the ride. Please review!