A/N: To Guest—haha, that's awesome! I hope it was a good frappucino, and I'll happily take the review instead. ^_^ To answer your friend's question, I'd actually assumed that while Cas was cut off from Heaven, he couldn't hear prayers (b/c the boys were always calling him on the cell phone instead of praying), but then I remembered how he tracked Dean down in 5x18 by hearing the evangelist on the street "praying too loud." So, hm, another thing the show writers overlooked? 0_o But in this fic, no, Cas can't hear prayers while disconnected from Heaven's call center.

Chapter 4

Dawn bled blue and lavender into a sky by the time Dean stumbled onto the single-lane road that wound back into Carthage, now a ghost town since all its residents were occupying a mass grave in the fields he'd just come from. The Colt dangled loosely in his lax hand. He wasn't expecting to be attacked, not anymore. There was a profound emptiness in the air, not like the heavy augur of foreboding that'd hung over the place when they'd first arrived, hinting at something sinister lurking in the shadows. No, this sense of forsakenness was like the exhalation after a brutal storm that had left nothing but complete and utter destruction in its wake. Dean now traced its footprints of ruin, the only living soul around for miles that still drew breath.

He staggered through an intersection, trying to find his way back to the Impala. Why couldn't he remember where he'd parked her? Next to the movie theater, he grumbled to himself. How hard could it be to find one stupid building with a bright red marquee on top?

His boots fell like lead with each trudging step forward, the resulting vibrations sending spikes of pain through his lower back, which was sorely bruised from taking the brunt of impact with that tree Lucifer had thrown him into. Dean dropped his gaze to the gun in his hand. Why hadn't it worked? It was the goddamn Colt! It was supposed to kill any and every monster under the sun.

Dean arched his arm back and tossed the pistol as hard as he could. It clattered across asphalt on the other side of the street to slide under a delivery truck. Rage popped like a bubble inside him, and in the next second, Dean had scooped up a crowbar from a pile of trash and started tearing down the sidewalk, smashing storefront windows, whacking sideview mirrors off cars, and clubbing anything and everything that stood in his path. He cursed the Colt with the first strike, then the Devil on the next two, then angels, then Cas. Where the hell had their winged friend gone anyway? Back on his stupid search-for-God tour? Or maybe he'd realized this whole plan was crap, futile, and had run for the hills.

Dean swung with the force of a wrecking ball, denting someone's Lexus. Not that the poor bastard who owned it would ever drive again. "Screw you, Cas! You hear me!"

Pressure closed around his chest and squeezed, but Dean ignored the feeling, instead pouring every ounce of anger and grief into vandalizing the next window. It was easier to be furious with the missing angel, to blame him for abandoning them rather than consider the more likely scenario—Cas was dead. Just like Ellen and Jo. And now Sam was gone too…

Glass shattered and sprinkled the sidewalk like crystalline tears, crying in a way Dean couldn't allow himself to. It was over. They'd lost. The world would end, either because Lucifer was unstoppable or because Sam would eventually say yes. And that future Dean had seen when Zachariah sent him through a time warp…that would come true. But worse than knowing that he'd failed to save the planet was knowing he'd failed to protect his little brother.

Dean stormed around another corner and came to an abrupt stop as the air was punched from his lungs. His fingers went slack, and the crowbar clanked on the sidewalk. The minimart stood across the street, windows blown out, scorched veins spread across the walls like the shadow prints of burnt blood streaked across a windshield. Broken bits of glass and singed paper littered the sidewalk around the demolished building. The last of Dean's adrenaline evaporated at the sight, leaving in its wake only the piercing pang of Ellen and Jo's death. Two more people he couldn't save. He wondered with a strange detachment if he should worry about the bodies…vengeful spirits and all that. Except they'd been burned, so that was taken care of. They deserved a hunter's funeral, but Dean couldn't give them that. They'd died heroes though. That had to count for something.

But it didn't, because he'd failed to kill Lucifer. Sam was gone. All of this had been for nothing, their deaths in vain.

Dean clenched his fists as anger bubbled anew. He wanted to track down the nearest demon and demand to know where Lucifer was. He'd pull out the torture moves from Hell, no hesitation. And if that demon didn't know, he'd find the next one. And the next. If it took a trail of dead bodies across state lines to find that son-of-a-bitch, Dean would do it.

And then what? a small part of him scoffed. Waltz right in like you did here? 'Cause that worked out so well this time around.

But what other option was there? Crawl into a hole somewhere and wait out the end of the world? Yeah, that wasn't gonna happen. No, Dean needed a plan. He was about to turn on his heel and resume searching for the Impala, when a low growl raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Dean stiffened ramrod straight. No way…

The guttural rumble issued again, and he shifted slowly, gaze scanning the blackened shell of the minimart. He heard the crunch of broken glass and saw a puff of hot breath billow in the air just outside the door. Treacly black fluid dripped steadily onto the sidewalk from an invisible source, and though Dean couldn't see the hellhound, he could tell by the fast-paced huffs that the beast was panting. His hand went to the back of his waistband—and grasped emptiness. Dammit, why'd he have to throw the Colt away? The only other weapon he had on him was Ruby's knife, and he did not want to get that up close and personal with a hellhound in order to use it.

The creature snarled again, and a piece of loose poster board skidded forward, an inky paw print smeared across some band's headshot. Dean pivoted and ran back around the corner. A bloodcurdling howl sounded on his heels, followed by the heavy chuffs of a hound in pursuit. The thing was wounded though, and slagging a bit. Dean knew it would hunt him to the ends of the earth unless he finished it first.

He barreled down the street, head frantically whipping around in search of that delivery truck. There were three parked in front of various storefronts. Brown, it'd been brown.

Gnashing teeth echoed behind him, too close for comfort, and Dean spurred himself faster. His lungs burned with exertion and his back screamed, but he couldn't stop. Slow down and he was dead.

He spotted the truck a few yards away, and gave one last burst of energy. Leaping over a dolly, Dean twisted midair to half-fall on the ground, arms scraping across gravel as he scrambled underneath the truck's chassis. A split moment later, the entire vehicle jolted when something large and heavy plowed into it. Hot, putrid breath billowed in Dean's face as the dog stuck its muzzle in the gap between ground and frame, jaws snapping viciously.

Dean shimmied toward the other end where he spotted a silver glint in the gutter. Yes! Snatching up the Colt, he rolled over and took aim at the spot that was spewing spit and black ichor. The gun cracked, and a high-pitched yelp responded. The truck settled as the hellhound jerked away, but Dean could still see drops of blood flinging around as the wounded animal flailed. Heart jackhammering in his chest, Dean scooted forward until he had better line of sight. He fired again. This time the hellhound squealed and thumped on the ground.

Dean edged his way out from under the truck, gun still aimed. Hot puffs of breath continued to waft from a mouth resting near the ground, and two thicker streams of black fluid were oozing from a few inches higher. The hellhound whimpered, but apparently wasn't in any shape to get up. Dean stepped forward cautiously, fear making him angry, and anger making him see red. He lifted the Colt and shot again, then again. Three successive pops rattled his ears like thunder, and when the ringing finally stopped, he was plunged into deafening silence once more. Oily puddles exuded from multiple points now, quickly pooling into one mess beneath the hound's corpse.

"At least you were good for something," he muttered, glancing at the smoking Colt. Though he was still angry, he wasn't going to throw it away again.

Taking a deep breath, Dean lifted his gaze to scan the street, and found himself standing in front of a bar, of all places. He knew he should get out of town, but after that adrenaline rush, he definitely needed something to take the edge off. He tucked the Colt into his jacket and strode inside. The door squeaked, like the swinging doors of a saloon, and the musty smell of beer and corn chips greeted him like an old friend. God knew he didn't have many of those left.

Dean went around behind the counter and pulled out one of the good whiskey bottles. It wasn't like anyone was gonna mind. Popping the top off, he poured a generous helping into a glass and quickly knocked it back. Then he poured a second. The world was going to hell in a hand basket, and Dean Winchester was doing what he did best: drowning his woes in alcohol.

He was not accepting defeat though. He just needed a minute to clear his head, think of his next move. But who was he kidding? How was he supposed to stop the Apocalypse? His future self hadn't been able to. Dean had thought maybe, just maybe, if he and Sam stayed together, they'd find a way to beat this. But that had gone down the crapshoot, just like everything else in their lives. The Colt was their last shot.

Unless… what if there was still a way Dean could stop it? Maybe not save the world, but he could save Sam. And after all, wasn't that really what his life had always been about? Protecting Sammy.

His gut twisted into knots, and he gulped down that second glass of whiskey to help settle it. It didn't, but his nerves steeled a fraction. It was a harebrained, stupid, reckless move, but then, so was most of the plans out of the Winchester playbook. And when it came down to it, sometimes you just had to choose between the lesser of two really shitty options.

Squaring his jaw, Dean reached under the counter for the cordless phone attached to a landline. He nearly slumped in relief when he got a dial tone, and punched in a number.

"Hello?" a gruff voice answered after the first ring, tone simultaneously suspicious and desperately hopeful.

"Bobby," he said around a sandpaper throat, and took another sip of liquor.

"Dean. What the hell happened, boy? I've been worried sick over here. The news is reporting a state of emergency for that whole county from a massive storm system that dropped over a dozen tornados on people's heads. Where are you?"

Dean ran a hand down his face. "Still in Carthage. No tornados here." He glanced out the window to make sure, but the sky was deceptively clear. "So, uh, guess Death isn't wasting any time."

There was a pregnant pause on the other end. "So he was released?"

"Yeah." Dean let out a half-delirious snort. "I failed, Bobby. Ellen and Jo are dead, and it's the end of the world." His voice sounded hollow, belying the heart-wrenching emotions tearing him up on the inside, but he couldn't let them get to him. He still had a job to do.

He thought he heard the creak of Bobby's wheelchair in the background before the older man spoke again, his own voice hoarse with emotion. "So you didn't find Lucifer?"

"Oh, we did. The Colt didn't work on the son-of-a-bitch. I shot him, Bobby, I did, right between the eyes. He popped right back up like a damn daisy!"

There was another moment of silence and slight squeak again. "Okay, okay, just calm down. We'll figure something out; we always do. You boys just get back here to regroup, before the National Guard shows up to find an entire town massacred."

Dean figured if the surrounding area was dealing with twisters, it might take the feds a while, not that he planned on sticking around much longer anyway. "Bobby…" his voice cracked. "Sam…Sam's gone. Lucifer got him."

A sharp inhale crackled over the line. For several long moments, neither spoke, and Dean sipped at his drink, trying to work up the nerve to do what needed to be done. He was crappy at goodbyes though.

Bobby finally cleared his throat. "Sam's a tough kid. What about Cas? He might have some ideas."

"Don't know." He didn't want to say it, but the weight in his tone conveyed what he really thought.

"Alright, well, you just get back here then, ya hear?"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, but there's something I gotta do."

"Don't be doing anything stupid now," Bobby warned.

Can't promise that. "I got one shot left at fixing this," he replied, begging for Bobby to understand. "It…it won't save the world like we were hoping, but…but it'll be better than the future that's in store if I don't."

"Dean, stop and think about this!"

"Take cover, Bobby. Maybe you'll survive this." Don't know if you'd want to.

Dean hung up before the older man's pleas could further tear his heart apart. A centimeter of amber liquid sloshed in the bottom of his glass, and he quickly drained it. Then he poured one more shot, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth as the liquor burned going down. He had to do this. For Sam.

Lifting his head toward the ceiling, Dean raised his voice and barked out, "I pray to thee Zachariah douche-bag to get your feathery ass down here. You hear me, you son-of-a-bitch? I'm ready!"

A flutter of wings sent a puff of air against Dean's cheek, and suddenly Zachariah was standing on the other side of the counter, suit and tie pressed like a used car salesman.

"Dean, Dean, Dean. It's about time. You really know how to play hard-to-get, you know that?"

Dean had to fight the urge to wipe that smarmy look off the bastard's face. "Did you know what Lucifer had planned here?" he demanded.

"You mean that Death was sealed under William Jasper's farm?" Zachariah shrugged. "Yes."

Dean felt his ire begin to bubble over again. "You son-of-a-bitch. How many people did you sacrifice this time? Why weren't you winged bastards guarding the place? All this talk about defeating Lucifer, and you're just letting him run wild!" For a minute, Dean's fingers twitched toward his jacket to draw the Colt. It would probably work on this douchebag.

"You're letting him run wild." Zachariah jabbed a finger at his face. "If you had said yes from the beginning, Death wouldn't have needed to been released."

Dean swallowed hard. He had a lot of regrets, but saying no to dick angels who'd jumpstarted the Apocalypse wasn't yet one of them. Really, he was only doing this now because of his brother.

Zachariah glanced around the empty bar with mild detachment. "But I take it you've seen enough death and destruction. I admit, I'm surprised this little blip even fazed you, considering the future I sent you to didn't."

Dean flexed his fingers into fists. "Lucifer has Sam."

Zachariah arched an unimpressed brow. "Ah, so that's what it took. Typical," he snorted in disgust. "That's all you care about, your poor little, demon-mongrel brother."

"You want me to say yes or not?" Dean snapped. "Shut your mouth about Sam."

"You called me, didn't you?" With a smug grin, the angel clapped his hands together. "So let's get this show on the road."

Dean shot a hand up. "Wait. If I do this, if I say yes, Michael goes after Lucifer right now, right this friggin' minute. We gank his ass in the vessel he's currently wearing…so Sam doesn't have a chance to say yes."

Zachariah rolled his eyes. "Fine by us. Lucifer will be easier to defeat in his weaker vessel anyway." He reached across the counter for the whiskey bottle and refilled Dean's empty glass. "So, what's the magic word?"

Dean's heart lurched and his stomach quivered, much like when he'd first sold his soul in exchange for Sam's life. But overlaying that fear was the staunch resoluteness that had driven him then as much as it did now. He had no idea what would happen to Sam, if his brother would even survive the Armageddon angels were about to rain down on humanity. But at least he'd have a chance. And at least he wouldn't become the thing he feared, the thing they all feared.

Dean drew his shoulders back, told the last of his doubts to shove it, and lifted his chin. "Yes."

A/N: For those who are familiar with my fics, I ask you to trust me! And for those who don't know me, remember that dead authors don't post updates!

Also, if you guys have not yet seen The Hillywood Show's parody of Supernatural, you must go watch it! It is awesome. SPN cast members even got involved, and two of them actually had roles in the script! One I recognized, but the second I missed until I watched the Behind the Scenes.