Cas's feet pounded unevenly along the rubble-strewn hallway, the heavy sack swinging wildly in his clenched fist. His lungs ached for a full breath, the stitches in his sides pinching like pincers between his ribs. Exhaustion snapped at his heels and pulled at his coat, eager to drag him into the numbing caress of unconsciousness.

But sleep was not an option. Sleep, now, meant death. Castiel knew that if he stopped for a moment, if he allowed his mind or body to relax one iota, they would find him and kill him without a moment's hesitation.

He ran on.

Cas's weary mind was still struggling to comprehend how Heaven could have so easily, so abruptly, come apart.

Without daring to slow, he turned a corner, his momentum carrying him into the far wall, jarring his already aching shoulder. His breath was punched out of him by the force of the impact, but he didn't care. He pushed off against the cracked plaster and sprinted on, willing his leaden legs to hurry, wishing his wings were whole.

The corridors and halls of Heaven were a frightening mockery of their former splendour. Ornate pillars and carvings, timeless paintings and mirrors, doors as old as Heaven itself lay fractured and broken into countless, barely recognisable debris. Fine dust lay like a funeral shroud over the rubble, the air so thick with the pulverised marble and plastering that Cas was sure his hair must be white with it. It clung to his clothes as though latching on to their only means of escape from the destruction that still shook the ruined halls.

Another rumbling tremor shook the ground with such ferocity Cas lost his footing. He threw out his hands in a futile attempt to regain his balance, but only succeeded in landing hard on his free wrist and hearing a sickening crunch. His strangled groan was lost in the not-so-distant crashing and renewed screams.

Pulling his injured wrist close to his chest, he rolled over onto his side, desperate to relieve the pressure on his lungs. Dust coated his tongue. He could barely suck in the smallest of gasps.

They would find him. They would kill him.

Exhaustion crawled over him like darkness itself, dragging one spent muscle after another into the aching relief of rest. He had no strength left to fight its steady pull. He was sinking into a sleep he knew would be his last. He clutched the faded sack more tightly to his barely moving chest. Angels don't sleep. But the once-mighty Castiel's eyelids were slowly closing. Perhaps, this time, his journey through this incredible universe was truly ending ...

O*O*O*O

"Metatron?"

The former scribe of God looked up from his lap, the satisfied smile already creeping onto his lips. Sariel stood behind the now useless bars, his face alight with triumph.

"It's time."

Metatron's smile broadened. "And the others?"

"Waiting just outside. They thought I should be the one to 'free you'."

They both chuckled, their deep voices filling the space between them.

"What about the disloyals?" Metatron asked.

"Dead. Or about to be. Harut estimates no more than ten unbound angels still breathe."

"And Castiel?"

"One of them."

The old scribe did not hide his displeasure that a half-dead shadow of an angel could have evaded his followers so easily. Sariel looked suitably embarrassed.

"Well ..." he drawled, thinking it over. "That might actually be better. I can't say I wouldn't love to grind that pain in the ass into dust, once and for all." He perked up. "Actually, that'd be the perfect inaugural act, wouldn't it? Kind of symbolic, too. Dear old Cassie, the face of the rebellion, crushed under the boot of Heaven's true hero, in front of his adoring fans – I mean, disciples," he amended quickly.

Feeling his good mood inflate in his chest, Metatron stood up and gestured to Sariel to unlock the cell. It was a formality of course, but one Metatron wanted to observe. The fact that Heaven's prison was no more confining to him than a pair of human handcuffs just made the sight of the dark-skinned angel pulling the creaking door open all the more satisfying.

"It's time," Sariel said again. The fire Metatron had carefully fanned over the past year blazed in the angel's fierce eyes.

Metatron resisted the urge to snort. As useful as Sariel had been, he still had no concept of the scope of Metatron's powers. No inkling of how incredibly irrelevant he was. How expendable. They all were, of course. Angles were fickle. Their loyalty changed as easily as the winds.

Metatron stepped forward. His booted toes halted side by side centimetres from the cell's threshold.

This was it.

Months of planning had led to this moment.

The angels had made their choice. They had chosen their new god.

Stifling a gleeful grin, X stepped out of Heaven's prison to meet his waiting army.