Song Remains the Same

Chapter 145 / Devil to Pay

"Living off borrowed time, the clock tick faster."
– MF Doom

A Few Hours Later

Under broad daylight, three hunters moved through the Kansas cemetary furtively with grim expressions. Leading the way to the mausoleum she'd trapped Dean in just hours prior, Jamie came up short when they rounded a series of large headstones that had obscured the structure in question from sight. A veritable battlefield of smashed gravestones and their crumbled remains led up to the mouth of the entombment—and the metal doors that had been shut tight by hexwork when she fled the scene now hung wide open. "No, no—!" she breathed then darted forward, aghast, even as Sam and Bobby quickly realized what she had: Dean was long gone. "How did he get out?!" Jamie asked in alarm to no one specific, a hand on her head in confused dismay before she turned to her companions, staggered. "There's no way he could've have broken the hexes I put on this thing!"

Sam's mouth was in a thin line as he drifted forward carefully, studying the scene. His eyes found the hexwork she'd chalked across the structure—it had been put far out of reach from anyone who would have been trapped inside. Some of it had been smudged. "Yeah, he didn't break them. Someone must've let him out," he concluded darkly, cursing this situation anew.

"Question is, who?" Bobby muttered, casting suspicious glances around.

They'd caravanned over here immediately after Jamie had returned to the bunker, bruised and bleeding after her encounter with Dean. With the demon warded handcuffs, holy water, devil's trap bags, and high hopes for capture, this outcome was crushing.

James abruptly stood a little straighter, her battered features stiffening with fear as she had a sudden realization. "He might be going to the bunker," she said urgently.

Immediately, Sam understood and pulled his car keys out. Baby Rose was there. And Dean had threatened her specifically. "Take the Land Cruiser. Go. I'll call Alex and let her know what's up." He tossed the keys across the distance between them.

Jamie caught the keys smoothly. "What about you two?"

Bobby glanced at Sam, obviously wondering what the game plan was. Sam wasn't optimistic, but they had to at least try: "We'll see if he's still around here, and head back in the RV if not."

Jamie nodded stiffly and without anything else, she quickly headed back to the parking area.

"We can't get any daggum breaks around here can we," Bobby muttered, crouching at the mausoleum steps to hunt for any clues that might have been left behind.

Sam was already on the phone, casting cagey glances around at the damage Dean and Jamie's encounter had created last night. It looked like a war zone. Alex picked up after two rings. "Hey, Dean got out," Sam relayed heavily. "Keep an extra close watch on the door, and use the manual locks. Have Kevin monitor the cameras real close."

"Damn." There was a defeated sigh at the other end. "Yeah. Okay."

Sam cast another haggard glance around the bleak graveyard scenery. "Jamie's on her way back, should be there in a couple hours. Be careful."

"You too," Alex said, voice tinged by heaviness that Sam knew all to well. He ended the call and heaved an exhale, trying to get himself ready for another wild goose chase, wishing he felt more confident. But all he felt was an impending sense of doom. Like the walls were closing in. Like everything was getting way too big to handle or face—especially without Dean there to guide them. Sam wanted to cry. He still couldn't believe this was happening…

His phone suddenly rang, jarring him from his anxious thoughts. 'Unknown Caller' was displayed. His first thought was what now? Sam hesitated, considering not answering. Then he answered after a hard exhale. "Hello?"

"Hello Sam," said a man's voice on the other end that he didn't recognize.

Immediately, something about the two words made Sam feel mistrustful. "…Who is this?"

There was a pause. "You know me by the name Ezekiel."

All the hairs on Sam's body immediately stood on end, his pulse began to race, and his stomach somersaulted with dread. He was so caught off guard that he could do nothing but work his mouth in silence for a couple seconds. "What do you want?" he finally asked brusquely.

"Well, before the rest, I desire to be truthful with you," said the voice on the other end of the line. "My name isn't Ezekiel. It's Gadreel."

Sam wasn't sure how to respond. "…Why do I care what your name is or isn't?" he asked, then realized he did know what to say. His tone became decidedly hostile. "Why'd you possess me? Why'd you try to kill my sister?"

Another short pause. "There's much more at work than I think you understand at this point, Sam." He sounded apologetic, but more than that, resigned. "All you need to know is that I am sorry for the turn this has all taken, and for the things I'm being made to do. But clearing my name is the only thing that matters anymore, and I've had to accept the more regrettable aspects of accomplishing that."

More perplexed and angry by the second—because he didn't care about some angel's personal issues, especially one who'd threatened his family members—Sam forced patience. "What do you want?" he asked sharply, seconds from hanging up the call.

"I have a little something of yours here with me," Gadreel said, then addressed some unknown person. "Speak."

A terrified, breathy voice came onto the line. "Sam."

Thunderstruck, Sam's breath caught and heart stopped when he recognized the voice immediately. "Molly?!" Oh no, no no—

"Come here immediately, and perhaps I will let the girl live," Gadreel said quietly, and the line went dead with a beep.

"Gadreel!" Sam shouted uselessly. "Hello? Hello!" Panicking, he was already calculating how long it would take to race across the miles from here to Topeka. The Dean issue would have to wait. "Bobby, we gotta go, now."

Meanwhile
The Bunker

The control room long table was covered up in a veritable sea of books and notepads. On one side of the table, Alex leaned over her stack, jotting notes from a thick volume labelled 'Forbidden Rites of Olde.' Opposite, Kevin leaned over an anthology of demon summoning rituals called 'Grimorium Verum.' For now, his tablet work was indefinitely on hold in favor of helping research the Mark of Cain, the First Blade, and anything else related.

Nearby, one of the bunker's newest residents cooed: baby Rose laid on a blanket on the floor with a few blocks and toys surrounding her. Alex was keeping a close eye, glancing over a few times per minute, even though Linda was currently directly supervising by playing with the baby. Kevin had to smile at the way his mom was with the baby girl—Linda had been delighted about the newcomers, especially Rose. Kevin would never take his mother's presence for granted ever again, he knew that much, and he knew she felt the same. At that moment, she glanced up and caught his eye, and mother and son exchanged a quick, heartfelt little smile. Kevin returned to his task, searching the pages for anything that could be useful.

It had been pretty surprising to learn that Dean had fathered a child, but even more surprising to learn about his recent bad fortune of being killed and then resurrected as a demon. Kevin glanced across the table at Alex, who'd been in a very tense, gloomy mood since returning to the bunker that day or so ago. Kevin figured he'd look the same way if he'd had the past couple months that she had. He felt bad for her, noticing the stress she hid and quiet suffering she endured over all the endless crap she'd been dealt.

"Oof," she muttered abruptly, wincing and putting a hand to her stomach briefly as her face screwed up in discomfort. Just like every time she had those Braxton Hicks contraction things (which was a few times a day now), Kevin stiffened and got nervous, watching her with bated breath. He knew about the supposedly-fatal nature of the oncoming birth, so seeing her soldier through the signs of labor approaching, Kevin was very glad to know that Cas was on his way back. Until that moment came, he'd stress out whenever these contractions happened. At that moment, Kevin caught gazes with his mom, who had also noticed what was happening and was mildly concerned.

With a harsh exhale, Alex seemed to be out of the worst of it, and noticed the look on Kevin's face. "I'm fine," she insisted sort of irritably. Kevin returned his attention to the pages, telling himself he had to work on his poker face.

Yesterday he, Sam, and Alex had spent a few hours scrubbing all the angel wards off the walls in preparations for Cas's return—he was supposed to be arriving sometime today and Kevin knew Alex was more anxious for that than she was letting on. After Sam's call about Dean just a couple minutes ago, everyone's stress was up a few notches. Well, except for the baby, who was the happiest camper imaginable. Poor kid didn't even know how shitty reality was. Hopefully, things would improve and they'd get her dad back—but as someone who'd been raised without his father, Kevin currently saw himself in that infant. He didn't remember his dad—and only knew him from photographs and stories. It left a hollow, guilty sensation behind. Hopefully Rose didn't grow up to know this feeling.

Kevin glanced at the nearby CCTV display offhandedly, then straightened up as his breath caught and thoughts dropped away. "Movement," he said intently, getting up and going over to the monitor. Alex was right behind him. The new cameras Sam had put up showed about twenty live feeds from both inside the bunker and externally too. These monochrome visuals were gridded out on the display. Together, Alex and Kevin peered at the feed that covered the front area just outside of the bunker, where an old sedan of some kind was coming to a stop. "I don't recognize that car, do you?" Kevin asked lowly, worried that Dean was about to get out.

"Demon or not, Dean would never drive that," Alex muttered back, but she stayed tensed like a spring, watching with a fierce frown that melted when the car door opened and the driver got out. A huge smile broke over her face like sunshine through storm clouds, resulting in her face growing years younger. "It's Cas!"

Looking over her shoulder at where Rose gnawed and drooled contentedly on a bright orange block, Alex's silent dilemma was instantly understood by Linda, who shooed the other woman along with an encouraging smile. "Go, greet your husband," she said, and in elated spirits Kevin hadn't ever quite seen her in, Alex hurried up the stairs and out of the bunker. On CCTV, he saw how Cas's stern face broke into a dazzling smile the second Alex exited through the bunker doorway. He watched as the pair rushed into the warmest hug, visibly ecstatic—somehow wrapping each other in a close embrace despite Alex's growing size. When they started to kiss, Kevin made a face and looked away, scratching at his neck awkwardly. That's when he spotted something else on the CCTV footage at the side of the bunker. His heart leapt, and he squinted at the monitor, not believing his eyes—and then quickly told his mom he'd be right back before heading out.

"I've missed you so much," Alex said into Cas's neck, eyes closed to savor the incomparable feeling of being close to him again after weeks apart. His arms around her felt better than she could possibly remember—and relief was too small a word to accurately convey what she felt right then. Her anchor was back, the calm in the storm, the one who sheltered her.

"I know," Cas murmured with similar conviction, his fingers winding into the hair at the back of her head. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, her cheek, then let his hand hold the side of her face as his tender eyes met hers again, worlds of emotion on his careworn face. "I missed you too. Beyond words." His thumb smoothed against her cheek affectionately as they shared soft, fervent eye contact.

Beaming with pride for the work he'd accomplished with the angels and the separation they'd successfully endured, Alex grasped his wrist and leaned her forehead in to rest against his, overjoyed to be reunited. There was only one word her entire existence centered in on for that moment: finally. Cas bent in, brushing his nose against hers in quiet tenderness, then whispered he loved her. She answered back in kind immediately. One of his hands gently caressed against her pregnant belly and at the same moment they kissed each other, gentle at first, then more hungrily—taking a moment to before breaking apart in two sort of goofy grins before they got too carried away. Neither said anything, but their gazes said enough: they'd soon enough reunite in another much more primal way.

That's when the sound of the bunker door slamming caused them to both frown and turn. Kevin was quickly striding out, making his way down the length of the front of the bunker. He was visibly trying to look nonchalant. "Just gonna, uh, stretch the legs a bit!" he said at their curious looks, then disappeared around the corner.

"…He never stretches his legs," Alex murmured suspiciously, then glanced at Cas.

Thoughtful and shrewd, clearly also of the opinion that something was up, Cas merely gave her a look and took her hand, and then they followed discreetly.

Sitting in a little ball with his arms wrapping his knees and his hoodie up, Kyle occupied a little concrete retaining wall built along the side of the bunker. He was hot, dehydrated, starving, exhausted, and weary. His entire body throbbed in pain, and his mind was the same. A torture chamber of hurt, loneliness, and despair—and he supposed he deserved it all. He'd limped back here more or less, but was too ashamed and depressed to announce himself by doing the normal thing of knocking on a door or whatever. He wasn't wanted, after all. Which begged the question: why had he even come back here? As if on cue, his reason why walked up. He heard the approach in the grass to his right and looked sidelong guardedly, keeping the left side of his face hidden. He had to smother the rush of immediate, raw emotion he felt at the sight of Kevin.

"…Hey," he greeted softly, hearing how ragged his voice sounded.

The prophet came to a stop a few feet off. "What're you doing out here?" he asked, sounding a cross of concerned and frustrated. When Kyle didn't reply, he exhaled, softening. "I tried to call you a bunch of times." Worry threaded itself through his words.

That made Kyle feel another rush of emotion. The kind of emotion that made him weak… because someone had been thinking of him. The someone Kyle most wanted to think of him. "Phone got destroyed," he admitted quietly, then with reluctance turned his face—revealing the entirety of his left-hand cheek and the horrific gash that he'd received. His eye was swollen shut.

Kevin's eyes went wide in alarm. "…Oh my god, what happened to you?!"

Downcast and embarrassed, Kyle's jaw flexed and he stared out ahead of himself. "I waited at the motel room like they told me to," he said after a long pause, still hurt about being forgotten and or ditched there like trash, whichever one it was. "Crowley came back." Again, his jaw clenched and his despondent eyes flickered. "I really shouldn't have tried to fight him. Pathetic sack of shit or not at present, the bastard can still do some damage."

Pained on his behalf, Kevin contemplated for a second, then sat beside him gingerly and tried to examine the cut with a soft, "Lemme see." Kyle resisted at first, until Kevin gave him a sort of stern, lecturing look. Then Kyle allowed it, but his gaze remained downcast and ashamed. He tried to suffocate his reaction when Kevin touched fingers to his jawline to turn his head for better inspection. Kyle had to shut his uninjured eye and work his jaw at the touch and how idiotic he was to fall in love with someone who would never feel the same.

The prophet's hand fell away. "You need to be at an emergency room, not moping around here," Kevin said almost angrily.

"Who cares?" Kyle retorted bitterly. Tears were coming now.

Kevin went kind of quiet and hesitant. "I do." Kyle's gaze darted sidelong as he wondered if he'd misheard. Kevin repeated himself more intensely: "I care." The way the ex-Leviathan's heart squeezed up to hear that. Kyle managed a thin, sad smile through his quiet tears. Unrequited as it was, he treasured Kevin and always would.

It wasn't anything like how he'd felt about Alex once upon a time. When it came to her, it had been Castiel's feelings at work—inheritance, more or less. With Kevin, it had been a slowly growing thing that had taken Kyle by surprise. First it had been allyship between them in that year spent hunting and surviving. Then friendship. And somewhere along the way, for Kyle anyway, so much more. He'd always understood his feelings were one-sided, but that had never stopped him from hoping. From longing.

At the lengthy silence, Kevin sighed with some measure of both empathy and aggravation, his dark eyes filled with sadness. "You don't have to prove yourself to the Winchesters," he finally counseled, thinking he knew what Kyle was ruminating on. "You don't owe them anything. Just… just go live your life and be happy. Stop trying to prove yourself to people who you'll never be good enough for."

Kyle stared at the ground, the pain in his heart becoming even stronger. He often wished he'd chosen a female form to take, because maybe then… well. Maybe things would be different. But now he was stuck in this body, and very aware that Kevin didn't, to borrow the human jargon, 'swing that way.' He wanted to say everything plainly. But he was a coward. "I'm not here because of the Winchesters, AP," he finally murmured, then met Kevin's waiting eyes with intensity. Kevin's expression changed—faltering unreadably. His mouth opened to say something—but he couldn't seem to find any words to say out loud.

That was when two pairs of footsteps sounded. "Hello boys."

They stood up in tandem—Kevin immediately defensive of Kyle, and Kyle preparing himself for another beatdown when he saw who it was. "Castiel," he greeted stiffly, then acknowledged Alex with a brief glance and tiny, downcast nod. Obviously, the couple had eavesdropped, at least a little bit.

The angel eyed the ex-Leviathan's injuries before looking him directly in the eyes. "I hear your name is now Kyle."

Surprised, Kyle hesitated before nodding uncertainly. Last time he'd seen the angel, the situation had been high voltage to say the least. "…That's right." What was the angel's reason for bringing that up? Nervously, he looked at Alex, back to Cas, then wet his lips. He wasn't too proud to beg. His ego was mostly destroyed at this point. "Look, I don't mean any harm to you, your wife, your baby," he said earnestly. "I just… I don't have anywhere else to go." He indicated himself brokenly, knowing he didn't deserve mercy after his track record. "I'm starting from scratch, here."

Castiel considered, acknowledging with a thoughtful nod. "I certainly know about starting over," he shared with surprisingly heavy self-reflection. "And coming back from doing unforgivable things." He shocked both Kevin and Kyle with what he said next: "Why don't you come inside and we can all share a meal together."

Kyle faltered, his face showing absolute stunned disbelief. His eyes darted around from Kevin to Cas to Alex as he tried to figure out if this were a trap or trick. "…Really?" he breathed, afraid to get his hopes up. Kevin looked shocked, too.

Castiel came closer and held his hand out for a shake. Jaw dropping open, Kyle stared—until Kevin nudged him gently and muttered 'go!' under his breath. Swallowing, Kyle wet his lips and took a step forward on shaking limbs. His mouth was dry and pulse racing. He put his hand into the angel's, fully aware that the dude could reduce him to ashes if he wanted to. Cas grasped firmly in a handshake, and then a sudden feeling of warmth came over Kyle, who inhaled sharply with surprise—for the briefest of seconds thinking he was indeed being incinerated. And then he realized it was something else entirely: The pain searing his face and body was suddenly just… gone. When his shocked fingers touched to skin that had been torn, swollen, and bleeding a moment ago, he found miraculously healed, perfect skin.

Dumbstruck by the inexplicable act of kindness, Kyle looked at Alex with touched, disbelieving eyes—because he realized that she and Cas must have spoken about him at some point, and had mutually decided to give him some kind of second chance, or something like that. He had been shown mercy, and for all the mistakes he'd made, he understood the weight of this gesture. His throat clenched with overwhelming emotion. This must be how forgiveness… or something like forgiveness… felt. "T-thank you," he breathed, and a new kind of tears sprung to his eyes.

Alex watched with a soft, somewhat regretful look on her face. "I'm sorry Sam and I forgot you, Kyle," she said, then glanced at her spouse, gaze loaded and on the grim side. "Shit went sideways that night at the karaoke bar." She gave him a tiny, resigned smile that told him she was still on the fence about all this and him, but was also willing to give it another chance. "Maybe you'll understand a little better once we tell you what happened." She nodded toward the front of the bunker before throwing a tense glance around the surrounding landscape. "Come on. It's probably not safe out here."

She and Cas began to head back, leaving Kyle and Kevin to share a dumbstruck moment. The boys looked at each other as if to verify what had just happened. "…Guess I spoke too soon," Kevin murmured after a second, a slow smile growing.

Kyle suddenly had to pinch a hand to his face at the bursting emotions suddenly flooding his veins. "Sorry, I—" he apologized through a choked up throat as humiliated, hopeful, wretchedly grateful tears came.

Then he was cut off from any further words when Kevin hugged him with surprising conviction. "It's okay," he said with a quiet fierceness that transcended everything.

Kyle's arms hovered briefly, hesitating before he closed them gently around Kevin into the first embrace they'd ever shared. His eyes fell shut. "Thank you," he whispered.

Molly's Apartment
Topeka, Kansas

Sam cursed himself endlessly on the neck-breaking race across the miles—because he'd known all the risks and selfishly disregarded them. Now, Molly was in peril… and it was all his fault. Despite Bobby's attempts to get him to approach the situation with a level head, the instant Sam had heard Molly's voice on the other end of that phone, any sort of calm had evaporated completely… and the second the RV parked, Sam raced off into the apartment building with Bobby rushing after. Worst case scenarios plagued him the entire way.

After tearing down a couple hallways, Sam practically broke down the door to Molly's apartment and burst inside, then came up short. Bobby skidded to a stop beside him as Sam took in the tiny apartment he was familiar with. It was inexplicably half-packed up into brown moving boxes. Wearing jeans and sneakers, Molly sat near the kitchen cabinets on a large moving box, fearfully clutching her cat Neville. She rose to her feet by instinct with wide eyes at his arrival, hope and terror equal measure in the blue depths. Visibly unharmed, at least physically, seeing her in person immediately had effect on Sam.

Standing between them was a tall, waiting man in a zip-up jacket. Gadreel. Sam whipped his angel blade out, trembling with rage and sick determination.

"Hello, Sam," Gadreel greeted in a voice that was formal, his calm eyes looking Bobby over with a shimmer of distaste. "I suppose I should have known you would bring an army, after all, I did kill your brother. It's only fitting you'd want revenge."

Sam's face drained of color as this news, surely meant to taunt, punched him in his gut. "That was you?" he asked, appalled and shocked. "Why?!" Face twisting, Sam grew even more enraged, his grip on the blade tightening. "He helped you! At my expense!"

Gadreel remained unaffected by the rising passions in the room. "Certain regrettable things are required of me, Sam Winchester." He raised a hand and a high pitched zinging sound suddenly rang out, so intense that everyone fell to their knees, clapping hands over their ears as they screamed protest. Sam's angel blade clattered away and rolled off as everything made of glass burst and the cat scampered unnoticed out of the apartment and down the hall. Finally, the sound stopped, but Sam's ears still rang and the world pitched around in front of him.

On the ground mere feet away, Molly blinked saucer-wide, unfocused eyes as her hands still clutched at her ears.

Similarly fucked up from the noise, Sam noticed his uncle wasn't moving and shook at him valiantly as his vision continued to spin and head clanged with the aftereffects of the ear-piercing noise. "Bobby!" He felt a strong pulse as his hand groped around—reassurance that he was merely unconscious.

Gadreel dragged a woozy Sam to his feet by the jacket like he weighed nothing, then shoved him against the nearby wall, knocking several family photographs down in the process. Sam struggled against the hold, a futile effort. "This is nothing personal, Sam," the angel assured, as if he took pity on the struggling man. "I apologize for the pain I've caused. But you cannot imagine the torment that thousands of years in captivity put me through. Or the freedom I shall achieve through these… more unsavory means." He smiled in what was maybe supposed to be a comforting way as Sam reeled, blinking against doubling vision and the ringing in his head. "I was supposed to kill you next. But, I think I'd much prefer a homecoming." Sam's stomach dropped as he realized the angel was going to attempt to repossess him. He struggled even harder. "Together, we'll accomplish much, old friend." Gadreel's eyes glowed white as he began the process—then the light and smile faded into a perplexed frown. He yanked Sam's shirt to the side, where the angel ward tattoo prevented his endeavor. "Ah… I see," he chuckled, almost smirking—like he thought it was a cute try. "Nothing a cut or two won't change, my boy," he chastised patiently. He dug his fingernails into Sam's skin, his hold a vice that Sam couldn't escape.

"No!" Sam bellowed, fighting valiantly, but he knew it was as good as over and he screamed as Gadreel slowly dragged his nails mercilessly across the tattoo. And then it all came to a sudden stop when Gadreel inexplicably gasped in shocked pain and looked down at his chest—where the silver tip of an angel blade suddenly protruded. Confused, Sam watched the tip yank back out and Gadreel's stunned expression turn to one of pain, even as blinding white light screamed out of his mouth, nose, and eyes. Left to sag against the wall blinking in confusion, Sam watched the angel fall over dead, revealing the who had saved Sam's life.

Clutching the blade with both hands to herself with a traumatized look on her bloodless face, Molly gaped at the body, then at Sam. "A-are you okay!?" she asked in an urgent, wild whisper, appearing close to passing out.

Overcome with shocked amazement at what his gentle, timid, quiet Molly had just done, Sam swept over to her, nodding repeatedly as he grasped her by both arms—both to hold her upright, and because he needed to know the same thing about her: "Are you?!"

She cast around for what to say, absolutely shocked beyond words, then looked at the weapon in her hands and dropped the blade like it were poisonous. "I… I just killed someone!" she whispered, face breaking with horror as the full extent of what had just happened sank in. She began to hyperventilate as she looked at Gadreel's body.

Wordless, Sam pulled her to his chest, hugging her tightly. Her arms clutched him back. "Don't look," he whispered, feeling her heart racing against his torso. She turned her head away from Gadreel, shaking like a leaf, eyes shutting hard. Hand protective against the back of her head, Sam shuddered too. This was the exact kind of thing he'd hoped to keep her safe from. Filled with self-loathing and despair—he'd ruined this girl's life—he shut his eyes, thinking maybe he was about to cry too. Sam's fingers clenched gently into her hair as he thanked whatever god did or didn't exist for sparing Molly's life today. "Hey, hey, it's okay now," he said, still absolutely blindsided by what she'd done. It made his heart well up, it made him feel proud. "…You saved my life."

She drew back to look at him, face tear-stained and breaths hard and shaky. Without being able to help himself, Sam brushed some hair tenderly away, letting his hand hold her face afterward. Molly's fingers traced gently at the blood soaking his shirt from where Gadreel had scratched Sam open. Her worried eyes searched his.

"You did the right thing," he murmured to her, sensing that she needed reassurance. Her tender, vulnerable heart would have a hard time with this.

And then everything changed.

"Hello, my sweet, summer children."

The new voice made them both jump and their heads whirl—in the doorway to the apartment stood a short man with unkept curly hair and a salacious grin on his face as he watched the couple. "This story just got a lot more interesting, didn't it?" he prompted wolfishly.

In a flash, Sam grabbed the angel blade up off the floor and charged—but Metatron disappeared into thin air. Sam heard a squeak of surprise behind him. He whirled just in time to see that Metatron had Molly hard by the arm and was grinning maniacally at the alarm on Sam's face. "Bye!"

"No!" Sam shouted, rushing toward them. But they were already gone, leaving nothing but empty space behind.

Elsewhere

Her sunlit apartment disappeared in a terrifying instant, and Molly gasped and stumbled back as she found herself and the strange, short man in a dim, formally appointed office—each of the four walls was lined floor to ceiling with countless hardback books.

The man who'd taken her was already striding off toward the grand polished desk, cackling to himself. "Did you see his face?!" he asked, throwing his head back and declaring it to be, "Hilarious!" Rosy-cheeked and quite pleased, he sat down at the typewriter on the desk and there he laced his fingers, pressed his hands away from himself, and cracked his fingers leisurely. "I mean, Gadreel was really getting stale, that whole arc was really starting to bore me to tears." He gave her quite the knowing, playful smirk and wagged his finger at her. "Did not peg you to be the one to kill him though." Again, he let loose a delighted, raucous laugh. "Plot twist!"

Shaking and stiff, trying to catch her breath, Molly had no idea what to do—or what was even happening. "W-why did you bring me here?" she asked, throwing frantic glances around. "Where even is this?!"

He didn't answer her question. "At first it was fun, having the whole upstairs to myself, you know? Then I got bored," he said with a dramatic wince then gave a chortle and wink. "We needed something to spice this all up—I figure a kidnapped girlfriend arc always moves things along quite nicely."

Molly swallowed hard and wet her lips. "Who are you?" she asked, voice shaking.

"The name's Metatron, but my friends call me Marv," he said graciously, acting humble while giving off the impression that he was quite taken with himself. "Scribe of Heaven, at your service." Molly's face fell and mouth dropped open as she began to piece things together. "That's right, I'm an angel," Metatron said with grandiosity, then began shuffling through papers in a very performative, businesslike way. "With very important things to do!"

Ever since that Gadreel guy had appeared in her apartment earlier that day, Molly had immediately known she was living the fears Sam had broken up with her over. The treacherous world of hunting he'd always avoided talking to her fully about. It was the most terrifying thing imaginable—but Molly knew one thing. She couldn't let herself be a victim. A particularly thick volume sat on the desk near her kidnapper, and a wild idea came into her frazzled mind. Convinced that it was fight or die, she approached meekly… then grabbed the book with a flash of speed and bashed him over the head with it as many times as she could and as hard as she could. "Let me out of here, you maniac!" she shrieked as he bumblingly put hands above his head in an effort to stop her attack.

Suddenly, the book was no longer a book at all, but a gigantic snake, and Molly screamed and dropped it, jumping back as Metatron laughed easily and enjoyed her alarm. "You are endearingly plucky," he said, snapping his fingers once. The snake, which had been slithering across the floor, disappeared. The goofball attitude abruptly disappeared. "And sadly, I'm probably going to end up killing you in front of your boyfriend at some point or another." Eyes bugging at the casual death threat, Molly watched as his grinning, spirited personality returned. "But hey, in the meantime, I know how much you like books! Have at 'em!" He stood and seemed to think of something, raising a finger in thought. "Would you pardon me, please?"

He disappeared into thin air without a word, leaving Molly to breathe hard, heavy, and fast in the new dead silence. She wasn't going to wait around to be killed. Turning a full circle, she then frantically ran over to the double wood doors and tugged, pushed, and rattled for all she was worth. The doors wouldn't budge at all, it's like they were for show only, and she gave a shriek of frustration, then she remembered her phone in her pocket and snatched it out—but any quick spike of hope was dashed when she saw 'No Service' displayed. She rushed to the one dark window and peered out, seeing nothing outside of it—just inky black nothingness. She grabbed a heavy book and threw it at the glass—but like both were made of rubber, the book bounced harmlessly off the window surface. She tried again several times, with several different objects to break the doors open or the window—she tried the typewriter, a paperweight, she even used the chair at the desk. After nearly an hour of tugging at, banging on, and jostling everything she could think of (down to the walls and the floorboards), Molly collapsed onto a chaise lounge, exhausted. She wasn't getting out of here.

"Okay, okay, think, Molly," she whispered to herself in dwindling energy, a hand on her head as she tried to keep her spinning mind calm. Her thoughts yet again went to Sam, and her worries only intensified. Her heart tugged. Crying felt like the next thing she should do, but stubborn and unwilling to give this Metatron jerk the satisfaction, she got back up, selected a book, and cracked it open, thinking maybe she could learn something useful. Quickly, her hopes were dashed. Every book she opened was written in a rune-like language she'd never seen before. His stack of typed papers on the desk were all in that language too. Defeated all over again, Molly wasn't sure what to do with herself. She waited, alternating between pacing and sitting in restless hyper-vigilance for what felt like hours. Metatron did not return.

Time dragged on, and Molly experienced the full gambit of emotion: she cried, she raged, she got depressed, she became bored. She fretted over her cat, over Sam, her family, her few friends—and she relived the moment where she'd killed Gadreel over and over again. It was a feeling like nothing else to know she'd taken a life—bad guy or not. Sam had told her she did the right thing. So she clung to that.

While it was impossible to keep track of time in whatever realm this was—Molly began to notice several things. She did not get hungry or thirsty or tired. Her human functions no longer seemed to exist. Time dragged on and on. It felt like weeks passed, but her hair stayed clean, her clothes fresh. She never needed the bathroom or sleep. She wondered every moment if she was going to just be kept in this miserable, solitary stasis forever. Many more times, she tried to break out of the study. She tore all the books off the shelves, only for them to return themselves—she broke half the furniture as she tried to beat through the walls, only for the furniture to repair itself.

Eventually she wrote goodbye letters to everyone in her life, as futile of an action as that might have been, and resigned herself to laying around and reliving every moment she wished she could redo. One of those moments was when Sam broke up with her. Despite everything… she wished she'd run after him and refused to let him go.

He was out there looking for her and trying to get to her, she was sure of that much. But where even was here?

Metatron suddenly re-appeared out of the blue one day, materializing into thin air without any fanfare. When Molly shot to her feet and dropped the book she'd been half-heartedly studying some odd illustrations in, the angel was visibly surprised. "Oh—I forgot you were here."

Immediately angry, Molly didn't bother to hide it. "I've been here for weeks."

Disinterested, Metatron brushed her off. "Only a couple earth-days, so don't get your stockings in a twist." He put on some reading glasses, sitting down at his typewriter. "Now be quiet, will you? I have some writing to do."

The audacity and apathy made her bristle. The time alone here, stewing and examining her life and thinking about how she was now a killer had made her intensely… something. She wasn't sure what. But the mousy girl who hated confrontation was currently nowhere to be found. And with her fists at her side, she marched over to stand directly in front of the desk.

Over his spectacles, he looked up at her expectantly. And then the two heavy wooden doors to the study burst open with such force that Molly stumbled a couple steps to the side—then quickly shrunk back into a far corner.

A man about six feet tall stood in the doorway, entering into the space with ominous command. He had blondish hair and handsome, youthful features—but his eyes were lifeless and foreboding. Red sores crept up his neck. Instantly and without any context, Molly felt afraid of him. And apparently, so did Metatron, who jumped to his feet in terror. "No—! Impossible! You're supposed to be in Hell!"

Mildly, the man came to a stop a few paces away from Metatron. "And you're supposed to be a two-bit writer low on the pay scale, but things change, don't they, Scribe?" He swept the office in a disdainful quick glance, his eyes only pausing briefly on Molly with disinterest before he fixed Metatron with a chilling stare. "Word on the street is that you fancy yourself the new God." He shook his head softly, his voice dangerous. "What would our father think?"

Sniveling, Metatron grinned breathily, abruptly trying to act like everything was okay. "No one seems to have seen the guy in awhile, brother, I wouldn't know."

No smile returned to him from the man in black. "Do not call me brother, underling." Metatron's front fell, lapsing into fear. "You know why I'm here."

Metatron swallowed, fear rigid on his face. "I can_I can be useful," he blurted simperingly. And that's when Molly realized he was trying to bargain for his life. "I, I can be a team player!"

The stranger became darkly amused and began to leisurely walk the length of the office. "And just why, exactly, would I want you on my 'team'?" He turned partly and appraised the Scribe with amused doubt. "You've always been such a useless pencil pushing dolt, Metatron."

Shrinking against the bookcase behind him, Metatron shook his head, eyes darting around at high speed. He was obviously about to make a run for it—apparently he wasn't able to just pop away like he'd done before. With a burst of motion, he dashed past the desk and toward the doors—but the man in black simply let his arm shoot out and hand crush into a fist. Metatron stopped in place, gagging on nothing. The stranger turned and sauntered up to him, languidly pulling out a blade just like the one Molly had used on the angel who attacked Sam. He approached the terrified Scribe, took hold of him, and with a flick of the wrist delicately slit his throat open. Molly clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a gasp as bright white light poured out in a ribbon from the wound—the man in black collected that light into a waiting small glass vial. Eyeing the satisfactory sample, the man pocketed it gracefully in his jacket, then gave a visibly terrified Metatron a soft smile, a fond pat on the face, then snapped his finger. Instantly, Metatron exploded into a hundred thousand meaty chunks, causing Molly to cry out and brace uselessly as she was doused.

Somehow, the man in black was clean as a whistle, even though he'd been standing right beside the now dead Scribe. "I seem to have created quite the mess," he commented blandly. He approached a quaking Molly, who didn't know anything to do but stand her ground as he got terrifying close—she'd seen what running would result in. "I don't know you yet, do I?" he asked softly, eyes studying her deeply. "Friend of the Winchesters, right?" At her confounded, quaking silence, his tone became a bit more dangerous. "Answer me."

She nodded stiffly, multiple times, having a hard time finding her tongue. "Y-yes, I know them."

"Good." He was terrifyingly serene. "And would you like to live, little girl?" Petrified—Molly nodded again, wondering what sort of sick game this was. He smiled obligingly. "Well then, don't be afraid. I wouldn't hurt my messenger." He drew in a deep breath, and something about his attitude struck Molly as triumphant. "Tell them I'm back in town, and can't wait to catch up."

Stammering, wondering if he even realized this, Molly shook her head. "B-but I don't know who you are."

His eyes bored into hers. "The name's Lucifer," he said, and at the immediate dismayed look on her face, he chuckled, soft and low. "I see you've heard of me." He smiled, pleased. "Now run along, kiddo… chop chop." He raised his hand to snap his fingers, and even as Molly's eyes popped wide—the snapping finger thing was how he'd killed Metatron—she felt herself falling and crashing and spinning, then colliding into a hot, stinky, moist mass of garbage.

Shrieking and scrambling to get out of whatever she'd just landed on, Molly fell a few feet onto hard concrete and stared up at what she'd just fallen out of: a filthy dumpster. City noise surrounded her—honking cars, traffic, people yelling—even in whatever seedy, piss-smelling alley she'd found herself in, it was shockingly loud, especially to ears that had been left in silence for weeks. As she gaped upward, her heart sank when she saw a building sign nearby that declared New York City Deli. With no money, a dead phone in her pocket, covered in blood and garbage, her first instinct was to dissolve into a helpless panic attack.

But instead, she shut her eyes hard, breathed hard and deep, and told herself the girl who panicked would have to wait and panic later. Or maybe not at all. Opening her eyes and gritting her teeth in determination, Molly Ziegler got up on shaking legs, told herself she could do this, then began to figure out how to get back to Kansas and how to warn the Winchesters about what she'd just learned.

Back in the study, Lucifer stood over the mess left by Metatron's puny vessel. With a slight sneer and wave of his hand, the remains disappeared. That was better. Rolling his neck side to side, the sores there smarted with the movement. The amount of demon blood he'd been drinking to keep Adam Milligan's hollow, Hell-scalded vessel from imploding was tiresome, but Lucifer was patient. Timing and care was everything in this situation. Soon, he would reveal himself to everyone. Soon, he would have his true vessel once more. And then, he would move forward with his destiny: creation of the new Earth.

Pleased with himself, he thought about how easy it had all been:

Turning the scattered, divided angels stuck on earth even further against each other—adding fuel to the fire and effectively letting them kill each other so that he didn't have to.

Locating his loyal few—those on Earth, and of Heaven, and of Hell—and swearing them to secrecy and preparation until the moment came for the reveal.

And now this: he took Metatron's Grace and dumped a bowl of paperclips out, then poured the glowing matter in with the other two things he'd collected: a feather from Cupid's bow, and a drop of fallen angel's blood—his own. "Za va zod, zo ra vey," he murmured, then watched as the glowing mixture flared and died away completely, evaporating completely.

As simple as that, the spell that had cast angels out of Heaven and closed the realm off was reversed. Lucifer turned partially to acknowledge the two angels waiting silently just outside of the study—Rissah and Zenas. "Gather the others to Heaven," he commanded softly to Rissah. "Prepare to slaughter the sheep as they return to their pasture." She nodded briskly and Lucifer turned his gaze onto Zenas. "Send word to Hell. The time has come." Zenas nodded as well. And both angels disappeared.

Left to himself, Lucifer smiled with a deep sense of satisfaction. In Heaven and Hell alike, the massacre would begin at the same moment—his loyal but small legion angels would ascend to Heaven and call for all those who had fallen to earth to return home. When they did, they would be obliterated. And in Hell, demons who hailed Lucifer would turn against all others, wiping out all those who would stand in the way. Both Heaven and Hell would become Lucifer's—and earth, of course, was the final step.

As chaos broke out across the dimensions, Lucifer leisurely paged through the drafts Metatron had been writing, picking up one to read a few lines. He scoffed. Dime store quality drivel. He walked out of the office, and fire leapt up in his wake. He turned just outside of the doorway, watching the blaze grow, creeping over the entirety of the study to eat away every last trace of Metatron's useless nonsense. A steady, satisfied smile lingered on his face. "I tried to tell them," he murmured to no one. "Twenty fourteen will always be my year."