The elevator doors opened, and Sam stepped outside.
The Garden was particularly mundane in it's current incarnation - a rooftop sprawl, sloppy and incomplete, and somewhere deep inside that offended him. Granted, the Host hadn't put up much of a fight, but still - Sam was here, in the inner sanctum, uninvited, unwelcome and so very, very angry.
"I know you can hear me." Sam started, "I'm sure this has all been hilarious to you, watching me try everything to free Michael, and failing over and over. Do you know how many angels have died trying to help me free him? How many died trying to stop me? Do you have any idea? Do you even care?"
Sam walked over to a statue of a cherub and glared at it. He reached down to his hip sheath, pulled out the small scythe he'd brought along and brought the curved point of it straight down into the cherub's head. "Death says hi, by the way."
Sam sighed, "All I want is for you to free him! That's it! I...I can't be here, I can't do this, knowing he's still down there forever...all because he listened to you. I swear, I will get him out. If I have to tear down Heaven to-" and then Sam saw it.
The Throne, much like the Garden, was ever-changing, but he knew with certainty what he was looking at. It was a plain, wooden chair - oak, worn, and the hypocenter of all of Creation.
Sam Winchester, the Morningstar, closed his eyes, took a seat and felt reality heave and strain as it struggled to realign itself.