mclachland

He pushes his way through the mess of bodies and blades until he can breathe again, free from the fight and left to the mercy of the great void around him. It takes him a moment to make his legs move, because his brain isn't fucking cooperating, but he finally gets into gear and takes off, running faster than he's ever run in his entire life. There's nothing chasing him now, no wendigo or ghoul or vampire or demon. Or even an angel. It's just him, running to beat the clock.

Everything's white, a blur that rushes past him as he keeps forcing himself forward. His muscles are screaming and someone napalmed his lungs, but he doesn't stop. There's no way he can stop now.

He dumps the blade he's been gripping since the gates opened; it weighs him down, throws him off balance. It doesn't do much to lighten his burden. He doesn't stop to think about it, just keeps going. Running, running, running, like he's never done. He hates running. It kills his knees and leaves him aching for days, and every time he swears he'll never do it again, but he's running like his life depends on it. Like life depends on it.

He's running so fast and hard that the sudden brick wall he slams into is a complete surprise.

The ground is like stone beneath him, but as far as he can tell it's just white nothingness. He slams into it with all the finesse of a train crash, body tensing and bruising and breaking, and for a second he's stunned beyond belief. Who the fuck would put a brick wall in a world full of nothing? That's Loony Toons shit, which must make him Wile E. Coyote.

Groaning, he gathers his wits about him and rolls onto his stomach, pushing himself up onto his knees. He looks up.

He's on a beach.

His hands are pushing against sand, giving between his fingers until his palms come away shiny and gritty. Grunting, he gets to his feet. It takes him a minute to gain his bearings, legs trembling from the strain of running and attempting to stay upright on sand, and he thinks he's going to throw up. But the air is cold and calms him right down, the sting of salt in his nostrils grounding him.

It's night, but the bajillion stars above provide plenty of light. He knows this place. Hell, he was standing right here not even a week ago.

Resolute Bay. The burial place of Jesus Christ.

Except… it looks different. Wild. Not as clean-cut as it had been when he first went and stood with Castiel at the shore. There are huge boulders jettisoning out of the water and the air smells way too pure, filled only with snow and clear of any kind of pollution.

He knows where he is, but he'd love to know when he is.

"I was not sure I would find you," Raguel says behind him, and Dean spins around in surprise, nearly falling backwards on his ass when the sand gives unexpectedly beneath his feet. "I looked for months."

Dean scoffs. "Kind of an exaggeration, don't you think?"

Raguel doesn't look amused. In fact, the guy's not even smiling, which is completely out of character as far as Dean's concerned. Raguel's vessel, whoever the man is, was made to smile at small children and puppies. Even as one of the most powerful angels, Raguel never seemed to be able to shake human emotion; it clings to him like a second skin, like it's a package deal and he can't suppress it like all the other angels. To see him so somber is really fucking creepy.

"I was around."

He lets out a yelp -- a manly yelp -- at the unexpected new voice. It's a man, but he doesn't look or feel like an angel. He doesn't carry himself the way an angel carries a vessel, like it belongs to them but they can't quite fit in it. Castiel's gotten better at it over the past few months, even more so since Jesus's death, but the other angels all look like living mannequins. This guy, though, is just that: a guy.

"My Lord --"

The man is dark, skin and hair, but he's still somehow bright against the backdrop of the night and the black ocean behind him. He stands comfortably in simple clothes and smiles at both Dean and Raguel, and somehow everything in Dean relaxes at that smile.

"None of that tonight, Raguel. Isn't it wonderful?" The man gestures to the sky, to the arm of the Milky Way that stretches across billions of stars, with great pride.

Raguel sighs and starts forward, coming right at Dean.

"Dude, I don't know how I ended up here, but you've gotta get me ba --"

Raguel doesn't pay any attention to Dean, probably because he's too busy walking through Dean to care about what he's saying. Dean stands dumbly as Raguel passes through and continues walking toward the man, confused as all fuck as to what's going on.

"Raguel!" Dean shouts, turning, but Raguel's standing next to the man and admiring the sky. "Raguel, I don't know if you forgot, but we're in the middle of waging war on Heaven, man! I get that you'd rather look at the sky -- dude, I'd rather be in a motel watching Blazing Saddles -- but we've got more pressing issues at hand. Like me getting to the Throne!"

No answer. Fucking great.

"I love it here," the man says, painfully content. "It's so… Sometimes I feel like eternity began right here, where we stand, Raguel."

"He used to say it began here, at Resolute Bay."

Dean stops dead in his tracks.

Oh, holy God.

Raguel tips his head down and regards Jesus thoughtfully. "Why are we here, my Lord?"

Jesus doesn't reply for a long moment, and in the silence that ensues Dean can hear his own heart pounding a tattoo against the soothing rumble of the ocean, the rush of blood to his head drowning out the peaceful whisper of the sea breeze.

Finally, Jesus bends down, grabs a rock, and skips it over the waves. "Do you know what today is, Raguel?"

"… I do not, my Lord, forgive me. What day is it?"

"It is nothing," Jesus says cheekily, skipping another stone. "Not yet. But in a way, it is. It is the beginning of the end, Raguel. My time as Ruler is coming to a close. I can taste him on the wind, Raguel, my successor. The very Earth is waiting for him."

"My Lord, you have centuries yet --"

"They will pass quickly, in the blink of an eye." Jesus waves his protest off with a light flick of his wrist. "He will have a great many hardships in his life. Too many for one man to handle. They will shape him into a new kind of leader. The kind that Heaven needs."

Dean swallows thickly. His eyes are burning like a motherfucker.

"My Lord --"

"You cannot be blind to the shadows that linger in his eyes," Jesus says, suddenly cold as stone, and Dean doesn't think they're talking about him anymore. "His hatred for Humanity is destroying him."

Raguel sighs and runs his fingers over the back of his neck, an entirely human gesture. "I have noticed."

"He will be the one to bring about the end to my reign."

It knocks Raguel for a loop. He actually staggers back as if struck, like it's the last thing in the world he ever expected to pass the lips of Christ. "He -- We must stop him! We will call together a Consultation and see that he is --"

Jesus laughs. "Punish him for a crime he has not yet committed? Oh, Raguel. No, I have seen my end and it will happen when it needs to happen. There is no stopping what is already in motion… but it can be changed."

Dean watches as Jesus reaches out to Raguel, something held between his fingers for the taking. Raguel looks down at it, confused and more than a little discombobulated.

"What is this?"

"The List." Jesus presses it into Raguel's hand. "It must be hidden. The Metatron can never find it. If he does, he will destroy it and the name after mine will be erased."

Raguel stares at Jesus for an eternity, lips parted around sorrow, but Jesus just waits like they have all the time in the world. Finally, Raguel's trembling fingers close around it, and he tucks it away somewhere, safe and sound. Jesus grins, crooked teeth glinting in the starlight, and steps back.

"Thank you, my friend."

Raguel looks down at their feet and nods.

Jesus places his hands on his hips and spins around in a slow circle, surveying the beach, the sky, the ocean. He drops his arms and smiles. "Do you know that in all my time on the Throne I have not created anything?"

"I… I did not."

Dropping to one knee, Jesus touches the wet sand at their feet with the tips of his fingers, then lifts them, bringing a curtain of sand that glistens like diamonds, glowing brighter and brighter until each grain of sand looks like the stars above them. He stands and takes his other hand, pointing it in the direction of the ocean and bringing a bubble of seawater to him. The curtain of sand, of stars, elongates and twists around the bubble, faster and faster until it's a swiftly-moving ring of light around it.

Jesus, lit up with creation, is beautiful.

"When it seemed as though there were no more wonders to be had, the halls of the Kingdom filled with all manners of splendor, He wished to bestow one last gift at the end of an era. He reached into the Earth and took a handful of sand and sea, breathing His own breath into it. And lo, the last angel was born. Glory be always to Castiel."

Dean sucks in a breath, but he's not on the beach anymore. He's back to being surrounded by white, alone.

Coughing wetly, he drags the back of his wrist across his cheeks, roughly wiping away the tears that linger there. He's tired, drained, and somehow filled with so much energy that he feels like a live wire, ready to explode at the first touch.

Suddenly Castiel's close friendship with Jesus makes sense. Fuck, he wonders if Castiel even knows.

A laugh claws its way out of his throat and he wraps a hand around his neck, just to feel how barbed it is when it morphs into a sob. He's so tired. He just wants to sit down for a bit, Sam and Castiel and Bobby with him, and just breathe. Just for a little bit.

"Not yet," he whispers hoarsely, like he's been gargling rocks. "Not yet."

Sniffing loudly and swallowing it down, he drops his hand and stares. Groans.

He's in a forest now. He hates forests. Nature sucks.

His ribs throb, reminding him that he's invisible to everyone except the one that counts, and he takes off running again, as hard as he can.

The air smells like the mountains, like the trip to Vermont he and Dad had taken after the debacle with Thierry, hunting a clan of cockatrice that were preying on campers in the Green Mountains. The trees are the same, a combination of tall pines and trees so old and tall that they probably don't have names. His boots crush dead leaves and needles, the thick soles helping him to jump fallen trunks and rocks.

He wasn't sure what to expect when he got to some kind of half-way point, but a fucking forest wasn't it. And it's endless, absolutely endless.

Fuck. His legs are burning with the strain, screaming for him to slow down, take a breather, but he pushes on through the thickening trees, trunks getting fatter with every step, the forest growing darker until he's running in almost pitch blackness.

Just like Vermont. This better not be a memory.

His foot catches on a root, or something equally obnoxious, and he crashes into the ground again, his jeans tearing at the knee. He gets a mouthful of wet, dead leaves. Better still, something's crawling around in the leaves, on his tongue, and he gags, spitting it all out until he can't gather enough saliva.

Then he takes note of the fact that it's light again. And that the forest is gone.

He's lying on a marble floor surrounded by great pillars that scream "STOLEN FROM THE NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM," and staring up at a series of crumbling steps. Coughing the last bits of dirt from his mouth, he gets to his feet and looks up the stairs to where there's a marble chair on a platform, alone and innocuous amid all the grandeur of the hall.

This must be it. The Throne.

Well, that was easy.

He steps forward to ascend the stairs, but his foot goes right through the marble. Another memory.

There's a loud crack, like a firework, and Dean spins around to see one of the pillars give way beneath the force of the Metatron. The marble splits and rides up until it hits the ceiling and is a veritable canyon, and then crumbles in great chunks, slamming into the floor, which cracks too. It's a fucking mess.

The Metatron wheezes something that Dean can't quite make out, then steps over the fallen pillar like it's nothing. Bastard's not even going to clean up his mess.

"There is nothing for it."

Dean starts in surprise as Jesus steps out from behind the staircase. He's not as jovial as he was when standing with Raguel at Resolute Bay. Now he's as cold as the marble around them, but there are shadows under his eyes and he looks gaunt. Exhausted.

The Metatron turns. "This was your doing."

"Castiel made his own decision," Jesus says quietly, small and vulnerable. "Commendable for an angel under your tutelage. He did what was just."

"It does not matter," the Metatron sneers. "Your Righteous Man broke, and thus dissolved the first seal. Lucifer will soon walk the Earth and do what should have been done a long time ago."

Jesus tilts his head. A family trait. "What bothers you more, Metatron? That he is base in your eyes or that he is next in line?"

"He is a beast. You are all beasts. Clawing, rutting, primordial vermin, all of you. Since the beginning when you crawled out of the mud, leaving your piss and shit behind you, you have proven time and again that you are unworthy of the paradise we bestowed upon you. We gave you utopia, and you squandered it, multiplying and killing all manors of the Father's splendor, and tainting the Throne wrongfully given to you." With every poisonous barb that he spits, the Metatron takes a step, until he is merely inches away from Jesus. "It does not matter. Lucifer will right the wrong and scratch you out, as effortlessly as one would a name on a list."

Heart pounding, Dean looks at Jesus and waits for the volley.

Jesus doesn't disappoint. "He would… if it were not too late."

The Metatron freezes. "What did you say?"

"Your champion does not walk the Earth. Stopped at the very last minute by those clawing, primordial vermin." A slow smile spreads across Jesus's face, erasing all that exhaustion. "It has always been your greatest failing. You underestimate them when our Maker only wanted you to see them as equal. Those beasts you loathe inherit the Earth and in moments, the Throne."

The Metatron looks stricken, and Jesus smiles.

"You have failed, Metatron, and soon all will know it."

It happens so fast that Dean doesn't actually see it; it's a blur of color and terrible, terrible sound, like ripping open the sky and pouring battery acid in.

With a snarl, the Metatron drops Jesus's head as if he finds it distasteful, blood spattering against the marble as it hits with a wet crack. Bone peaks out from where it had been severed from the spinal cord, winking in the light, surrounded by broken flesh and tissue. The body topples over, spilling blood and ichor out like someone kicked over a box of Christmas decorations.

Dean's seen way worse than this. Hell, he's done worse. It shouldn't bother him the way it does, but he stares at the head and feels like he's going to die.

For a minute, the Metatron does nothing, just stares down at the headless meat sack that used to be the ruler of Heaven like he can't quite figure out what it's doing there, ruining the décor.

"You fuck," Dean gasps, glaring up at the bastard, unseen and unheard, but now he knows. He knows everything. There's no way it's going to be covered up now. "I'm going to end you."

Finally, the Metatron walks away from the corpse and starts screaming for help, that Jesus Christ has been murdered. Angels immediately start popping in, Barachiel among them, all horrified and devastated and in a total uproar.

"I feel the presence of the Morning Star! Hurry! Spread out and search! This is an unforgivable sin and I will not stand for it to go unpunished!"

"Me either." Dean watches, the world dissolving around him to white, as the angels fly away in hopes of catching someone who's standing right before them. "Me either."

He looks up and finds himself lying on green grass, thousands of massive marble ruins stretched out before him like a graveyard, all leading up to the biggest construct he's ever seen. It looks like the Greek temple thing. The Parthenon. Well, there it is, bigger and better than Google Images could ever be.

Sucking in a breath, he pushes himself to his feet, swaying a little as his muscles protest. A quick scan of his surroundings tells him that he's still alone, just him and the giant broken marble pieces. It's too easy, too simple, but he has no time to be suspicious because his ass has places to be.

He jogs across the field this time, a little slower, a little better for his lungs, giving him time to recover from such a strenuous run. He's getting too old to do the marathon thing under pressure.

By the time he makes it through the sea of marble and reaches the crumbling steps of the Parthenon, he's wrung out and tired, and the absolute silence of the field is starting to get to him. Barring the unexpected memories, he hasn't heard anything from the moment he started to run. He hopes that Heaven's set up in some spatial-time thing and that he's somehow far enough away that he wouldn't be able to hear the epic battle. But it bothers him that he has no way of knowing how they're doing.

The inside of the temple is completely bare. Just crumbling pillars and a cracked floor, a long stretch of white leading to… well, what do you know. A marble chair on a platform. This all looks familiar, right down to the bloodstains in the floor.

"Finally," he mutters, lifting his foot to take the first step inside, when a fucking steam train hits him in the chest, throwing him backwards through the air. There's nothing worse than the feeling of total free-fall, except maybe the impact of hitting the ground hard. Which he does.

He's winded and his ribs hurt like a motherfucker, but nothing feels broken, which probably won't last long. The Metatron isn't going to let him inside, not without a little underhanded play. Dean can do underhanded.

He takes out his knife from where it's been strapped to his side and starts on his palms. Just quick, efficient strokes that sketch out a familiar design. When he's done, he sheathes his blade and gets to his knees without his hands touching the ground. Wouldn't do to get dirt all in it.

Dean looks to the temple. There's the man of the hour, sweater vest and all.

Dean smiles in greeting, wincing at the pull on his ribs, and starts walking back toward the temple. Ow. "Hey there, Mister Rogers! Didn't see you there! I hope we can be neighbors."

The Metatron smiles and tilts his head. It's adorable when Castiel does it, but on the Metatron it just looks stupid. "Why, Dean. I expected you twenty minutes ago. Tardiness does not reflect well upon a supposed leader."

He tries to quell the rage that boils inside of him at that, but from the pleased grin on the Metatron's face he doesn't succeed in hiding it. "Not that you'd know, though, right?"

The Metatron ignores him and begins ticking off on his fingers. "Do you honestly think yourself a worthy candidate, Dean? Consorting with demons? Corrupting and lying with an angel of Heaven? Is there anything you won't defile?"

"Trust me," Dean spits, slowly taking the stairs. "You're definitely safe."

He's a little faster this time. Before the Metatron can kick him in the chest again, Dean claps his hands together and watches through the blinding light as the Metatron is shot to the ends of the universe. The angel banishing sigils carved into his palms burn, the magic gone, and he takes off running down the long hall, the chair in his sights.

He's barely reached the first step of the platform when his legs are swept out from underneath him. He crashes into the stairs with a pained cry, fingers gripping his hair and slamming his head down once. Hard. OW.

"So resilient," the Metatron coos, bringing Dean's head down again.

"Stop!" Dean grits out, trying to work his hand up between his temple and the marble to lessen the blows. "That's such a shitty move!"

The Metatron hums. "And yet so effective."

The fingers in Dean's hair release him, his head reflexively thunking against the marble, and the Metatron steps back with a soft, awful laugh. Dean rolls onto his back to keep an eye on him.

"I will not hesitate to admit that you can be clever, Dean. The sigils on your palms were inspired, if crude, but I cannot be so easily stopped." He smiles down at Dean, eyes blazing with hatred, unimaginable power, and the promise of a slow death. "I cannot be stopped at all."

Dean coughs painfully. "So, let me ask you. If you kill me, what happens? Am I going to be the only schmuck walking around in Hell?"

"Oh, no!" Like the very idea is horrifyingly low-brow. "Oh, Dean, do you honestly think I would allow your soul to live? I am going to rip you apart and scatter you across the universe, so far and in so many pieces that you will never be whole. In every black hole, in every dying star, in every shadowed corner in the dregs of the most distant galaxy, there you will be: the great Dean Winchester. Every bit the soldier's burial you deserve."

A laugh bubbles out of his chest, tinged with blood. He can't help it. The guy's genuinely funny. "Dude, if the evil villain thing doesn't work out for you, you definitely have a bright future in human politics. Do you ever shut up?"

It wins him a hard kick to the gut. Not enough to rupture anything or kill him, but enough to hurt like he's being stabbed. Dean curls into himself with a groan and tastes blood on his tongue. Maybe it was enough to rupture something. Probably something useless, like his spleen.

"You've got the usurper thing down, and you definitely know how to play The Blame Game, so you'll fit right in. Do your precious angels know what you've done? Do they know that they serve a murderer? You killed God," he continues with a laugh, bracing himself for another blow to the stomach. Except the Metatron is all about being unique.

Hands grip the back of his shirt and fling him through the air at what feels like a million miles an hour, right into a pillar. Dean feels it crack and give against his back, much like his shoulder bone as it shatters inside of him.

He hits the floor hard, cracking a couple of ribs. Now they're in business.

"I killed God?" The Metatron's suddenly right there, gripping Dean by the throat and getting up in his face. "I did not kill God. I would never kill God. I killed an imposter, Dean. A hoax. God does not bleed, Dean, not now, not ever. God creates, and none of you apes have ever done!"

"Castiel." From soil and sea, the only angel of two worlds.

The Metatron scoffs. "A disobedient little cooz who is even less worthy to step foot into the Kingdom than you."

Dean lashes out with his angel-ganking sword, stabbing the Metatron right in the shoulder. The Metatron stumbles back with a cry, clutching his vessel's shoulder tightly, like it's on fire. Dean props himself up against the pillar and can't help the smirk that spreads across his face.

"That hurt? My bad. You know how it is with us apes, all those unexpected muscle spasms."

He expects to be thrown at something for that and he's not disappointed. This time it's only the floor, somewhere in the middle of the hall. He stares blankly at the ceiling, at the play of stars and planets in the tribute to outer space. It actually might just be a window and space is right outside. A galaxy in the shape of a pinwheel spins dreamily across the ceiling, from one edge to the other.

The claw of doom is back in his hair, lifting his head up and slamming it down. His cheekbone caves in. He burbles in agony.

"Do you honestly think I would allow another one of you to assume power again? Did you think I would allow you to sit on the Throne? Logos at least had some integrity and morals, but you… filthy, coarse whore. I would rather see all of creation unravel than call you Lord in Heaven." The Metatron growls the last bit right into his ear, forcing Dean's head into the floor, splitting the skin where he cheek used to be. His skull is going to cave under the pressure. He's going to die here, six steps away from the endgame.

Sam -- Cas!

And suddenly the weight's gone.

Dean grunts and helplessly rolls onto his side, spying the hem of a familiar tan trench coat.

"Cas!" Only it comes out more like "Krhagh!"

Where the fuck is Raguel? If anyone can give the Metatron a run for his money, it'd be him.

Castiel doesn't look over his shoulder at him, just keeps his gaze locked on the Metatron, who looks amused at the whole situation. Until Castiel bends down and picks up Dean's discarded blade. "Raguel is currently fighting off four archangels, Dean. I will deal with this. Get to the Throne."

A swell of sheer adoration for Castiel hits him like a tidal wave, but he tamps it down and tries to get to his knees. The pain is incredible; he's not sure the human body is supposed to endure anything like it, but he can't be a regular human being. He's never been. He's a hunter, a warrior, a candidate for the best position in the company, and he needs to get to the Throne.

But he collapses onto his belly. He's too tired, in too much pain. Clenching his teeth around the sob that wants to escape his throat, Dean kicks out his legs and uses his arm -- his left one dead -- to drag himself forward. Inch by painful inch, bones in his chest rubbing together, sigil against sigil. He stops and vomits up blood and bile, his throat burning with it, but he digs his elbow into the marble and drags himself through it.

"Impressive, Castiel!" Dean hears the Metatron shout, but he can't make himself turn around to see what's going on. "So violent in your quest to protect your animal! Your father would be so proud!"

Dean collapses again, chin smacking hard off of a marble edge. He thinks a tooth's chipped and wonders for a psychotic moment if Castiel will still love him if he has a chipped tooth. With a whimper that he will deny forever that he made, he opens his eyes and stares at… stairs. Oh god, he made it. The marble chair is so close, just seven steps away; he can see the individual cracks in the base. A little bit of spackle would fix that right up. No one would even notice.

There's a sudden scream, a high-pitched sound that brings to mind shattering glass and appliances turning on without warning, and Dean turns his head just in time to see the Metatron withdraw his own blade from Castiel's throat.

"CAS!!"

Castiel claps his hands over the hole in his throat, dropping to his knees, Grace seeping through his fingers. The Metatron pats his head, like a grandfather would a favored child, and leaves him there, walking calmly toward Dean and the Throne. He's smiling. His blade has Castiel's blood on it.

Dean tries to scramble up the stairs and just barely manages to reach the top step before the Metatron's in his face, smile twice as large this close, forcing him to stand.

"It brings me great joy to see you before me." It's what he'd said at Jesus's funeral, pretending for the sake of his audience to give a shit. Laying the blame at Lucifer's feet while he smiled and waved and got away with it. "It was always going to end here, Dean. Only one born of the Kingdom should be allowed to take this seat. I do not care if it is law; you do not belong here. This is not yours to have. Not after we have been sentenced to eons of servitude -- even before you walked the Earth, we were enslaved to you. No more, Dean. I will not have it anymore."

His last thought before the Metatron brings the blade down on him is, I should've brought my own knife and buried it in his ugly mug.

But.

The blade never makes contact.

One hand clasped over his own throat, the other against Dean's chest, held between him and the Metatron, Castiel smiles around a mouthful of blood and light, around the blade sticking out of his chest, and pushes.

Pushes him right onto the Throne.

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