A/N: Here's the awaited sequel to 'Deterioration of Reason'! It does not pick up directly where the previous story left off. I'll be incorporating scenes from the last episodes of the season into the plot. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke

The heavens spanned their length across the wide expanse of open space, canopying everything below in a soft glow that reflected off of the black and gold carpeting and upholstery, shining against polished china and reflecting against the panoramic windows that displayed the breathtaking view of the glittering city below. Soft strains of a harpist accompanied by the melodies of a piano floated throughout the upscale eatery, chords weaving in and out of the straight-backed, impeccably dressed staff and the elegantly dressed diners. Couples waltzed on the conveniently placed dance floor in the middle of the restaurant, black oxfords and heels gliding over white marble.

Decadent aromas filled the air, somehow mingling in with the scent of rosewater and lavender that permeated throughout the interior. Stark white canvases of plates were uncovered to reveal the masterpiece of foie gras atop mixed greens beneath; mussels sautéed in herb-white wine reduction simmered with tantalizing flavor. Silver cutlery slid into grilled swordfish topped with truffle shavings before the entire meal was finished off with the crème anglaise and dark chocolate ganache of a chocolate pecan torte or the delectable airiness of the glorious signature Grand Marnier soufflé.

More than several pairs of eyes were not fixed on their plates though, rather, they followed the leggy, slim-figured blonde that sauntered past the clientele and toward the table for two in the very back of the dining room, the one with the best view of the darkening night outside, the one that was always reserved for the most valuable of customers. The patrons glanced at each other and shrugged, they'd never seen this woman before but if she had the clout to secure a seat at the owner's private table, then she was obviously of great importance and was not to be gawked at.

"Evening, madam. Might I interest you-"

"I'll have a glass of the 1999 Château Pétrus," the woman interrupted, but in so smooth a manner that one would've thought it somehow wrong if she had not done so. She paid no attention to the waiter as he hurried away, passing a haughty glance over the entire interior of the restaurant before turning her head to gaze out of the window, mouth pinched shut in what seemed like a mixture of displeasure and uneasiness. Eight light chimes from above sounded out the hour and the blonde clicked her tongue in annoyance, running manicured fingers up and down the stem of the fluted glass, swirling the white wine around as she waited.

"Château Pétrus?" came a suave, tenor voice from behind and she started despite herself, turning to pin the man with an even stare as he walked around the table and took a seat opposite, smoothing out his well-cut, two-button closure Richard James pinstripe suit. "And here I was of the mind that you bore a far more refined palate."

"You know I have selective tastes," she replied as the man signaled the connoisseur over with a mere snap of his fingers.

"What shall it be this evening, Mr. St. James?"

"The 1972 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti."

"Right away, sir."

The woman waited until the monkey-suited portly man had more or less waddled away before turning back to her partner with a smirk. "Saint James? Really? You hated that son of a bitch." She gave the man who sat before her a silent and thorough appraisal, running her eyes critically over the high cheekbones and aristocratic nose, at the clean-shaven cheeks that spoke of youth and the sun-kissed hair styled with the bangs sliding across his forehead to overshadow cold, clear grey eyes. "You're looking well," she noted, "considering the…trip you just took."

"I'm sure you didn't come just to inquire as to my travels." The cold eyes surveyed her with just as much intensity over the rim of the wineglass and it took a bit of self-control for her not to squirm uncomfortably under the scrutinizing gaze.

"What if I just wanted to drop in for a visit? We haven't seen each other in a while and maybe I wanted to make sure you weren't getting lonely."

A chuckle rolled past the man's lips, but the grey orbs rolling back in his head offset the charming laugh and he leaned forward with an air of definite danger behind the lavender tie and two-hundred dollar Guy Rover striped broadcloth shirt. "What is it you want?" The words were polished, the accent debonair, but the tone held a warning.

Lilith leaned forth as well, all vain attempts at humor gone as urgency crossed the features of the woman she was wearing. Like a cornered animal, her eyes darted to the right and to the left as if checking for an unseen predator before the demon opened her mouth, voice dropping to a low whisper.

"I need your help."

Small but measured steps moved over the slime-slick gravel of the alleyway as the petite figure walked slowly along under the shadowed moon which threw silver beams over the tall buildings, cutting off into shafts of misting light that dimly lit the path. A chilly breeze swept through the backstreet, catching up debris strewn about and swirling pieces of rubbish up into the air but it seemed to have no effect upon the individual at all.

She halted suddenly, slim silhouette standing still against the ground. Calmly, without the slightest indication of alarm or apprehension, Marie lifted a hand and gave a small flick of her wrist- sending the two unpleasantly leering muggers approaching from behind smashing into the brick walls on either side. Without looking back or missing a beat the young woman resumed walking, heading on out of the shadows of the looming buildings; light footfalls scuffed noiselessly against the rough, eroded wood of the pier extending out into the water.

Anyone could have been able to deduce, and quite effortlessly at that, that there was something wrong. Whether it was because of the slumped shoulders and defeated posture or overall sense of resignation, it was clear that the dark brown eyes had once glimmered with a brighter light and more happiness than the morose gaze they now focused so intently on the ground. What was invisible to any mere human eye though, was the power the lay behind the seemingly perishable frame, the abounding power vested by the exalted Almighty that now seemed somewhat diminished now as well.

Gabriel strained his ears against the murmurs of the wind blowing in from the east, trying to discern what could have been whispers from Heaven, what could have been news of his brother. The archangel inhaled the spray of sea salt and waited with the night air caressing his face, waited with an unflappable composure because patience was a virtue of righteousness-

There was nothing.

Leaning against the paint-chipped, rickety railing of the gently rocking pier, Gabriel screwed his jaw shut in an effort to chase away the sharp pain that sent its fiery tendrils shooting across his vessel's chest and down into the pit of the stomach. There was no apparent physical cause for the discomfort and so yet once again the archangel clenched his eyes tightly, repeating over and over in his mind that it was the right thing to do.

Yes, it was the right thing to do because he was not his own master; he was Gabriel, a soldier of the Lord and messenger of God's Word. Since he'd made the decision to descend from Heaven down onto the Earth, he was to stay until called back by the Almighty Himself. Gabriel knew that his duty was to follow all commands from Heaven no matter how he felt about them, no matter as to the black guilt that now clawed at his soul in constant torment. It had been an order from above and the archangel had been compelled to obey.

"Heaven, Hell, my ass! I don't give a flying fuck where the order comes from!" The hazel green-turned emerald that stared furiously at him held more than a shred of desperation, panic and angry fear. "Does Cas mean so much less to you than some divine command? Oh yeah, hell of a brother you are-"

Marie's features twisted in what looked like a cross between frustration and shame; she turned in a whirl of abrupt movement and slammed her both hands against the railing, hard. Once, twice, and again until the palms and knuckles were red and raw, until Gabriel finally curled fingers around the rusted handrail, clenching it tight with a long, vain attempt at a controlled exhale of breath.

Bloodshot brown eyes overshadowed with silver gazed morosely into the rippling surface of the water that not a moment ago had been funneling and crashing in upon itself like a whirlpool as the archangel tried to regain a sense of bearing. Maintaining a neutral composure had become an increasingly difficult task lately, but Gabriel reminded himself that the nurse he was inhabiting was a righteous woman and she most certainly did not deserve to undergo what happened to his previous vessel. But then again, neither had young Alexander Marlow who'd been an unfortunate victim of the good fight.

If it really was the good fight though, did the struggle really warrant any casualties at all?

The fields of the Lord were stirring with disquietude; anxious whispers traveled throughout the hallowed halls of Paradise as the word was spread from the Earth up even to the highest of the Seraphim. It was slightly ironic that the messenger who stood at the Lord's left hand was the last to hear of the news, although it was probably very likely because none of the other members of the heavenly host wished to be the one harboring the disturbing information. No one wanted to face the archangel when he was told that the younger brother for whom he'd always shown more compassionate of a sense of overbearing protectiveness than any other had been captured for sacrifice.

Gabriel's silver eyes flashed with a driving force but his commanding voice was flat, countenance stoic. "Whatis this thou speakest of?"

The angels exchanged wordless glances because Heaven's exalted messenger's tone was deadly calm and wonders of wonders, he'd more or less demanded clarification although it was obviously clear that such repetition was not necessary. The archangel was not satisfied with the uncomfortable silence though and his wings expanded to their full span, casting an enormous shadow in the light of Heaven to match his frighteningly darkening features.

"Peace, brother," came a much less noble voice, one that aimed to command as much authority as the archangel, but failing. Zachariah did have a certain presence however; something that made the others part for him to step forth. "The seal will not be broken."

The archangel was not appeased, and it showed all too clearly. "Sex Diluculo ac Hora calls for the removal of the grace one of our own. You are Castiel's direct overseer and whom I charge for his safety." His voice, instead of augmenting in volume, dropped an octave lower. "What have you to say for your oversight?"

The other's features immediately soured, but his face was passive. "Uriel-"

"I spoke not of Uriel. What have you to say?" Gabriel took a step forward; the forbidding gesture was not lost on the other angels who murmured amongst themselves uneasily. The last time God's messenger showed such expressive disappointment- and dare it be labeled as vexation? - had been in the Great Battle for Heaven. While few had actually witnessed it when Michael cast the rebellious one of wickedness from the halls of the Holy Father, being too occupied with attempting to strike down the forces of evil, there was no doubt that all remembered when Gabriel struck down Lucifer's second in command with stunning brutality. Whereas the others lost their angelic appendages in the Fall from Heaven, the archangel had violently ripped Belial's wings from his back, shaming the fallen one forevermore. Crossing the Lord's messenger was not a wise idea. "You do not speak the entire truth."

Zachariah chose his words carefully, not wishing to provoke the other any further. "The servants of evil have captured Castiel and taken him down into the Pit." He stood motionless as a swift gust of air moved past, indicating the archangel's swift movement, rather choosing to speak again. "The matter has already been taken care of Gabriel; you cannot leave your post-"

"Thou hast yet to answer for thy ineptitude." This time, the voice rung out in the far corners of Heaven and all took notice, turning to witness the archangel bearing down upon Zachariah, power and might made all the more intimidating by the subtle evidence of antagonism between the two. "Do not attempt to impose orders concerning my duties or what I can or cannot do for my brother." Gabriel's voice once again dipped low with menacing implications. "I answer to no one but Almighty God."

As Gabriel moved away with an air of definite urgency, Zachariah's eyes narrowed threateningly at the archangel's back…

Alexander Marlow nervously adjusted the gold tie looped around his neck as he stared at his reflection, inspecting the spotless white suit he wore. When his sister had seen him at the fitting, she'd immediately changed the entire color scheme of the wedding because she thought that he looked like he was going to a funeral in the black, penguin-like attire. Of course whatever the bride wanted was the way things turned out to be and so here he was, paranoid that if he took one wrong step, something would sully the pristine ensemble.

Flicking a glance at his watch, the young man swore quietly under his breath. Karen was going to kill him if he was late for her rehearsal dinner. Crossing over to the bed, a smile crossed his features as he leaned over and pressed a loving kiss to his wife's forehead, rousing her from sleep in the process.

"Alex?" she yawned, blinking blearily up at her husband. "Don't you look handsome," she teased. "Are you going out now?"

"Yeah. Are you sure you're going to be alright alone?"

"Oh, just go; I'll be fine." Nina gently touched her husband's cheek. "Tell Karen I'm sorry I couldn't make it, okay? Hopefully a little rest will persuade this one to settle down too." She patted her swollen belly and Alex laid a hand over hers, feeling the kick of his unborn child, prompting an affectionate grin from the father-to-be.

"You be good for your mother now," he said with mock sternness, then kissed his wife again. "I'll be back in a few hours. Don't wait up."

"Love you," Nina mumbled sleepily, watching Alex walk out of the room and clatter down the stairs before falling back into a slumber so deep she didn't hear the static of the television turning itself on, didn't see the bright light flooding the interior of the downstairs area, didn't realize when her husband was taken away for Heaven's use.

The man that opened the front door of the Marlow residence was not a man on his way to his younger sister's wedding rehearsal; there was absolutely nothing written in his suddenly blank face and silver in his green eyes.

He blinked and unclenched his fists, releasing the railing with a deep breath. Heaven's sons of fire were fierce warriors; they had to be, harboring the ability to fight past the point of exhaustion. For some unknown reason though, Gabriel was… weary. Taking a deep breath, the archangel hung his head. This Earth, although good because it was one of God's creations, was nothing compared to being in the Father's presence and he found himself longing to be back in Heaven- but a frown creased Gabriel's brow. He'd been away from home for quite some time now, several months, if he remembered correctly. In his absence, there was something that had changed in the nature of the words that came from Heaven, something unsettling-

Gabriel.

As he listened, the frown grew deeper and the archangel raised his head, eyes hard. The water below swelled in a huge crest, coating everything with its fine spray and before the tsunami-like wave fell onto the pier, an angry whisper sounded out into the silence: "Belial." The wall of water crashed against the wood, where not a moment earlier there'd been a solitary form standing against the darkness of the night.

The man sat back and arched an eyebrow. "You pose an interesting request." He brought the wineglass to his lips and sipped slowly, eyes wandering off out the window and into the distance. Silence hung in the air about the duo then; the sounds of silverware clinking against plates and the dull chatter of the other diners seemed far away. Still, the man did not speak.

Lilith hissed in impatience, displeasure, and perhaps just a hint of desperation. She had known the other for far too long to not know what his silences meant. "I said I would make it worth your while!"

"I highly doubt it, my dear. And now that you have thoroughly wasted my time, I believe the hour now permits you to say good night."

"Don't pretend like you haven't enjoyed being out of his shadow!" The demon cut in, voice rising with her mounting frustration. "I saw you Belial; you were the first one out when the gate in Wyoming was cracked open. We both know that if he rises, everyone loses."

Belial sighed in mock pity, rolling his eyes in a decidedly dignified manner. "Poor young lass, you really knew nothing of the end game, did you?" Turning his head slightly, he caught the eye of the maitre d' and nodded once for the check. "And now here you are, grasping at straws; trying to tempt the lord of lies himself." The demon chortled derisively and stood, straightening the lapels of his suit.

She was on him in an instant, fingers clenched around his arm and digging into the rich cloth, staring up at him with an expression of half-anger, half-pleading. "Belial-"

He gazed coolly back down at her, unrelenting and unsympathetic. "The final seal must, and will be broken. It has always been that way, even when you were neck-deep in the Pit." She was shaking her head no, but Belial grasped the other's chin and moved her head up and down in a nodding motion with a smirk. "You must have thought you were going to score some major points with the man himself, didn't you? Freeing him from his cage and all. Well, now little Lilith don't want to die, but you are going to regardless, and for the sake of raising Lucifer himself."

Pushing the blonde backwards, the demon plucked her fingers away from his arm and sat her down at the table again. "You are due for a painful end at the hands of Sam Winchester my dear, and I've seen the boy's viciousness firsthand. So enjoy your last days before he catches up to you; sit, drink all you like and as your gracious host, Mr. St. James will gladly foot the bill for you. Farewell."

Lilith sat there, speechlessly staring at the other demon's retreating back. After a moment the shock melted away from her features and she sank back in her chair, laughing. "I know what this is," she called out just loud enough for Belial to hear, gleefully knocking back another glass of wine in half a minute in a most unladylike manner. "You, my friend, are a damn fool."

A black oxford halted mid-step, the heel pressing against the ground with the toe pointed up toward the ceiling. The shoulders visibly stiffened beneath the narrowly set and thinly padded shoulders of the suit; Belial turned with an air of extraordinary calm and strode back toward the table where the blonde lounged back lazily in the chair, smirking cattily up at him. "You would do well to watch that mouth of yours," the demon said in a deceptively pleasant voice. "No one said your tongue had to be attached to the rest of you when Winchester finished you off."

"Seems like the boss has pulled a fast one on you too," Lilith purred. "Did you really think Lucifer meant it when he promised you that blue-eyed angel?" Bingo. She knew she would get him with that one.

A shadow crossed over Robert St. James's features, a hint of doubt flashed in his eyes. Slowly, slowly Belial pulled out a chair and sat down again, fixing the demon girl with a suspicious stare. "And what proposition would you offer?"

He cradled the broken body protectively, eyes shut tight against the reality of it all, wishing and hoping with all his might that this wasn't real, that none of it was happening. This was too familiar of a position, the situation too painful as he recalled holding his pain in the ass little brother's heavy body after a knife had been stuck in Sam's spine but there was something different about it all this time. Maybe it was the way he could feel the brittle edges of hard bone grinding under his blood-slick hands or how he could barely feel the other's heartbeat through his torn chest but whatever the reason, Dean Winchester was quite certain he'd never felt this desperate before.

Where was the ambulance, goddamn it?! He was pretty sure he'd been screaming his lungs out for the past hour or however long he'd been kneeling there in the pounding rain that drove crimson streams forcefully downwards into the rapidly growing pool of blood that signaled the life leaking away from the still form he held in his arms. There was nothing he could do to keep the weakening heart pounding, no words he could uplift to the invisible God above that could magically repair the other's tortured soul-

"Dean…"

A whisper of breath, but it was a mountain of hope. Dean's head jerked up and he blinked rapidly, hardly daring to believe the angel was still alive but the dulled blue eyes were open, filled with pain and clouded with disorientation but open nonetheless. "Cas?"

Trembling lips parted, issuing a dying rasp. "We need…to talk…" One heavy hand lifted and weakly grasped the hunter's arm, leaving a blood smear over the original handprint there and Castiel wheezed painfully, fingers tightening like the first time he'd laid a hand on the elder Winchester to drag him from the bowels of Hell. "You have to know-"

Dean almost gave a crazed, maniacal laugh of disbelief but it came out as a strangled sob because Castiel was dying here, and he was putting his energy into stating that they had to talk? The angel's eyes were rolling back in his head though; his hold fell slack and Dean's stomach bottomed out. Frantically, he shook the other with the strength of a man possessed because Castiel couldn't die, he couldn't be dead!

As he knelt there, something registered in his ears and he frowned for it sound vaguely familiar albeit irritating, a high, long tone that continued incessantly- the sound of a heart monitor going flat-

He jerked awake, breath catching in his throat, chords in his neck tight with the strain of holding back a shout. Exhaling hard, Dean let his head fall back against the pillow and tried to regulate his breathing. Inhale, exhale; one-two-three, breathe. Inhale, exhale- It wasn't working.

With a sigh he sat up and glanced down at his hands, half-expecting to see them bathed in red, as he'd been doing for the past three days after he'd hurtled himself up four flights of stairs and pushed his way past the gaggle of bewildered hospital staff with the whine of the heart monitor in his ears to see an empty hospital bed illuminated by the raging lightning storm outside the window.

Damn it. Dean shrugged away his leather jacket and swung his legs over the side of the bed, squinting at the cell phone that lay on the dresser drawer. Sam's trail had gone cold a couple of miles back and Bobby had yet to call regarding the potential whereabouts of the younger Winchester so until then, he was pretty much stuck here.

Scrubbing at his face wearily with the palm of his hand, he turned his head and glanced down at his arm and, after a moment's hesitation, reached down and pulled up the shirtsleeve to reveal the brand that by now had become as normal as any other scar he'd received in all his years of hunting. Dean felt a sense of overwhelming depression weighing down upon him as he stared at the mark. It lay there, red against tanned skin- but that was all it did. There was no sharp, shooting pain, no unbearable stinging or even the slightest flutter of anything, no twinge that gave the slightest indication of the condition of the angel to whom the handprint belonged, the angel who bore so much upon his shoulders for the charge he'd pulled out of Hell.

"And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break…"

Alastair's twisted, demonic Donald Duck-sounding voice pounded in his brain and bile suddenly rose up in the back of his throat; Dean got to his feet and lurched in the direction of the bathroom, grasping and turning the sink faucet handle until the cold water came rushing out into the porcelain bowl. As the hunter splashed his face with the soothing coolness, he lifted his head and stared at his reflection.

He wasn't focusing on his reflection, because he knew full well what would be gazing back at him- the deep bags under haunted, bloodshot eyes, the pinched mouth and tight jaw, the overall haggard countenance. No, when Dean looked at himself, all he could see was the neon sign across his forehead proclaiming him to be the guilty one who'd set this entire mess into motion, he who hadn't the strength nor the will to hold out against the demon's offer while being ripped to pieces in the Pit.

Could I have prevented all this from happening? He gritted his teeth and stared down at the water spiraling down the drain; he didn't want to see the face of failure anymore than he wanted to see the face of Castiel's tormentor. But the question plagued his thoughts. If I was still in Hell…would Sammy have even needed to start guzzling demon blood? Would Castiel still be up on a cloud somewhere, with all his ribs and grace intact, strumming a harp and being none the wiser?

"You made an exception for me!" His own voice echoed loudly into the night, insistent and calling for an answer, demanding to know why none of the other good people in the town were granted a second chance and why Tessa had to go around and start collecting again as soon she could.

The angel's head turned slightly to face him and Dean found himself pierced by a sapphire gaze that wasn't forcefully commanding, imposing, or resolute as they'd been on every other occasion; instead, the gaze was compassionate and honest, gentle, even. "You're different."

Dean shook his head hard. No, Castiel. You're wrong; I'm not different. He was no different from anyone else because he wasn't like his father, he wasn't made of the stuff of heroes, and he simply wasn't strong enough. He didn't even have the power to kill Alastair; Sam had to carry out that task and in the process had become someone, become something that Dean didn't recognize. I can't do it, Cas. It's too big. The hunter felt hot tears welling up in his eyes and hurriedly splashed more water onto his face. It's not me Heaven wants; I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be.

"For what it's worth… I would give anything not to have you do this."

Castiel wasn't here though. The angel wasn't here to hear his protests and Dean slammed his fist into the wall, remembering the other's tone of sincere regret and deep-rooted weariness. Castiel had more than the weight of the world upon his shoulders, having to fight the demons while getting slapped on the wrist by his bastard superiors, whoever they were, and putting up with one very reluctant hunter. In the end, the angel gave his very life- and still Dean had failed. Does that mean everything he did for the sake of the fight, for my neck…was worthless?

Bzzz. Bzzzzzz.

His hand was still wet and the faucet was still running but Dean didn't care as he grabbed the phone and flipped it open. "Yeah."

"Coldspring, North Dakota. It's lighting up with demon signs and I'm betting that's where Sam's headed."

"It's a good place to look." He was already jamming his feet into his boots and shrugging on his jacket as he mumbled into the phone. "I'm on my way."

"Hey, listen." Bobby's gruff voice crackled over the line and Dean paused with a mental groan because he knew that tone, the 'I'm about to say something you don't want to hear' tone that he knew all too well because John used to use it too. Don't start, Bobby.

"What?"

"Us finding Sam…that's got to be about getting him back, not pushing him away." Dean closed his eyes.

"Right."

"I know you're mad Dean, and you've got a right to be but…I'm just saying." The older hunter admonished. "Be good to him anyway. You gotta get through to him."

He was pulling the other sleeve of his jacket over his arm when his fingers brushed against the raised ridges of the handprint and Dean's jaw tightened. Pulling the phone away from his ear he ended the call, grabbed his keys and left the room, banging the door hard on his way out.

A/N: I know, I know that all everyone cares about is what happened to Castiel. Don't worry, that's coming up in the next chapter. I've introduced a significant part of this story's plot from the start and I'd like to know your thoughts. Please review!