"This is it?" Nadia asked, sitting at Chuck's cluttered table, her eyes fixed on his laptop screen. The latest document on display bore the title: Lucifer Rising.

Chuck, dressed casually in jeans, a t-shirt, and an army green button-up, and clutching a half-full glass of whiskey, shifted awkwardly beside her. The scent of stale liquor hung in the air, mingling with the faint mustiness of a writer's den long overdue for a deep clean. He hadn't expected company, much less an archangel in his space, especially when he'd been planning to spend his day wallowing in whiskey and regret, with the possibility of overpriced companionship in the cards.

Nadia leaned forward, propping her elbows on the desk as she began reading. Her brows knit together, absorbing the prophetic words.

"Whiskey?" Chuck offered, his tone casual but his eyes wary.

"Coffee would be better," she replied without looking up, her voice calm but distant.

As Nadia read, she opened her journal, flipping to a blank page. She began jotting down notes in quick, precise handwriting.

Chuck scratched the back of his neck, offering a faint, nervous smile. She looked so at home here. Her jacket was tossed over the arm of the couch in the living room, its pocket faintly blinking with the glow of her phone—a voicemail notification. He recognized her focus, that razor-sharp determination, and it tugged at something deep inside him, like a distant memory he wasn't ready to revisit.

"What's that?" Chuck asked, his curiosity piqued as he shuffled toward the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

"A diary of sorts," Nadia murmured, flipping back to cross-reference a previous note. "But lately, I've been using it to keep track of important details from my mom's books."

"So, you write?" Chuck's eyebrows lifted, genuine surprise in his tone.

"Not really. It's more about getting the words out of my head," she replied absently, still focused on the screen.

Chuck hesitated, leaning against the counter as the coffee machine gurgled to life. "That's what writing is," he said softly.

Nadia paused for a moment, her pen stalling mid-sentence. She looked up at him briefly, a flicker of curiosity crossing her face before fading. "I meant, I'm no storyteller. But I guess so. I've never thought of myself as a writer, honestly. But it's... helped me process everything these past few months."

Chuck's lips twitched into a small smile. "Maybe it's in your blood, you know? Writing."

She shrugged, her focus already returning to the screen. "My stepmother was a writer, but that's about it."

Chuck tilted his head, watching her with a wistful expression. "Yeah, but maybe there are different kinds of angels. Some who fight, some who write."

"Angels do talk in riddles," Nadia muttered, shaking her head. Her pen resumed its steady rhythm as she jotted another note.

The coffee machine beeped, snapping him back to the present. Chuck poured a mug and set it beside her on the desk. "Here," he said.

"Thanks," Nadia murmured, absently reaching for the cup as her eyes stayed glued to the screen.

Chuck joined her at the table, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he watched her. 

Dean was bored out of his mind, waiting for the angels to show up. The silence was oppressive, the room almost mocking in its sterile stillness. His gaze wandered to a shelf lined with porcelain angel figurines, each one unnervingly pristine. Without much thought, he reached out and deliberately knocked one off the edge. It shattered against the floor with a sharp crack, sending shards skittering across the hardwood.

Before he could even smirk at the small act of rebellion, Castiel appeared behind him in that unnervingly quiet way of his. Dean turned, caught red-handed like a kid scribbling on the walls, his eyes darting awkwardly to the mess at his feet.

"You asked to see me?" Castiel's voice was calm, but the weight of guilt hung in his expression like a storm cloud.

Dean cleared his throat, straightening up. "Yeah, uh, listen, I... I need something."

Dean hesitated for a moment, then said, "I need you to take me to see Sam."

The angel's head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing. "Why?"

Dean flailed a hand vaguely, sarcasm lacing his voice. "The B.M. I took this morning. What's it to you? Just make it snappy."

Castiel's gaze shifted, a small sigh escaping him as though someone unseen was eavesdropping. 

Dean's tone softened, less angry and more resolute.

Castiel's eyes sharpened, a rare intensity flashing in them. 

Dean didn't flinch, staring back with equal fire.

"Listen, I'm gonna do whatever you mooks want, okay? Just let me tie up one thing—two things. I need to see Nadia. Ten minutes, that's all I'm asking."

Castiel's face remained impassive, but his response was firm. "No."

Dean blinked, pulling his head back in disbelief. "What do you mean, no? Are you saying I'm trapped here?"

"You're free to go wherever you wish," Castiel replied evenly.

"Great," Dean said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Then I want to go see Sam and Nadia."

"Except there," Castiel said, unyielding.

Dean let out a sharp exhale, pacing a step. "Fine. I want to take a walk."

"That's permitted," Castiel said with the faintest hint of exasperation. "I'll go with you."

"Alone," Dean pressed.

"No," Castiel said again, resolute.

Dean clenched his fists at his sides, sucking in a breath to keep from exploding. "You know what? Screw this noise. I'm out of here." He strode toward the door, determination in every step.

"Through what door?" Castiel said quietly, watching him with an almost sorrowful gaze.

Dean froze mid-step, turning back toward where the door had been. His frown deepened as he found a solid wall in its place. A small table now stood there instead, topped with an ornate candelabra, its tiny flames flickering mockingly.

Even worse, Castiel was gone.

Dean clenched his jaw, muttering a low, frustrated, "Damn it."

If the angels really knew who their hero was, they would know that Dean Winchester was a man of unyielding determination. Even now, trapped in this surreal gilded cage, he refused to give up. Gritting his teeth, Dean grabbed the heavy bronze pedestal nearby and hurled himself at the wall with all the force he could muster.

The metal struck with a resounding clang, sending vibrations up his arms, but the wall remained unyielding. Not a scratch, not a dent—just pristine, unbroken plaster mocking his effort. Dean growled under his breath, taking another swing, the veins in his neck bulging with exertion. He hit it again. And again.

And again.

Finally, the pedestal slipped from his sweaty hands, clattering loudly to the floor. Breathing hard, Dean stepped back, staring at the wall with a mix of disbelief and fury. His chest heaved as he reached out a hand, touching the surface with cautious fingers, as if expecting it to be a hologram.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, his voice tight with frustration.

"Quit hurling feces like a howler monkey, would you?"

Dean froze, his body snapping to attention. The voice behind him dripped with patronizing amusement. Turning sharply, he found himself face-to-face with Zachariah, who stood there impeccably dressed, his expression smug.

"It's unbecoming," Zachariah added, his tone as light and condescending as ever.

Dean didn't miss a beat, storming toward him, his jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth might crack. "Let me out of here."

Zachariah met Dean's fury with a bemused smirk. "Like I told you: too dangerous out there. Demons on the prowl."

"I've been getting my ass kicked all year," Dean barked, his voice raw with rage. "Now you're sweating my safety? You're lying."

Zachariah tilted his head, his expression remaining infuriatingly calm.

"I want to see my brother. And I want to see Nadia," Dean demanded, his tone like a blade slicing through the air.

"That's..." Zachariah paused as if pretending to consider the request. "Ill-advised."

Dean scoffed, his patience completely gone. "You know, I am so sick of your crap riddles and your smug, fat face," he spat, the words practically burning his tongue. "What the hell is going on, huh? Why can't I see Sam and Nadia? And how am I gonna ice Lilith?!"

Zachariah sighed, his shoulders sagging as though he were the one who'd been put through hell. "You're not..." he began slowly, deliberately, "going to ice Lilith."

Dean's brows knit together. "What?" he asked, the word barely audible.

Zachariah shrugged nonchalantly, strolling toward the couch. "Lilith's going to break the final seal," he said, as if discussing the weather. "Fait accompli at this point. Train's left the station." He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down, crossing one leg over the other with a flourish.

"But we – we can stop..." Dean's words faltered as the realization began to sink in. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "You don't want to stop it, do you?"

"Nope," Zachariah said with a pointed grin. "Never did. The end is nigh. The apocalypse is coming, kiddo, to a theater near you."

Dean felt his stomach lurch. His breaths grew shallow, panic clawing at his insides. He braced himself against the table, his knuckles white as he leaned on it for support.

"What was all that crap about saving seals?" he managed to choke out.

"Ah, yes," Zachariah said, his voice oozing false sympathy. "Our grunts on the ground – we couldn't just tell them the whole truth. We'd have a full-scale rebellion on our hands."

Dean's grip on the table tightened. He thought he might vomit, but he forced himself to keep standing.

"I mean, think about it," Zachariah continued, his tone casual. "Would we let sixty-five seals get broken unless senior management wanted it that way?"

"But why?" Dean demanded, his voice cracking.

"Why not?" Zachariah shrugged, throwing up his hands. "The apocalypse?" He gestured dramatically, as if unveiling a marquee. "Poor name, bad marketing – puts people off. When all it is is Ali/Foreman. On a... slightly larger scale. And we like our chances."

Dean's gaze wandered to the paintings on the walls, suddenly noticing their themes. Angels clashing with demons, holy warriors locked in eternal battle—it all felt painfully on the nose.

"When our side wins—and we will—it's paradise on earth. Now, what's not to like about that?"

Dean turned to Zachariah, his throat tight and eyes burning with unshed tears. "What happens to all the people during your little pissing contest?"

Zachariah sighed, as if the question were tedious. "Well," he said, rising from the couch, "you can't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs. In this case... truckloads of eggs, but you get the picture." He smoothed his jacket and stepped closer to Dean. "Look... it happens. This isn't the first planetary enema we've delivered."

Dean's eyes flicked to a nearby statue of an angel with a trumpet, calculating.

"Uh, no, Dean," Zachariah said sharply, noticing the glance. "Probably shouldn't try to bash my skull in with that thing. Wouldn't end up too pleasant for you."

Dean let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into fists. "What about Sam? He won't go quietly. He'll stop Lilith."

Zachariah clicked his tongue. "Sam... has a part to play. A very important part. He may need a little nudging in the right direction, but I'll make sure he plays it."

Dean stepped forward, panic replaced by defiance. "What does that mean? What are you gonna do to him?"

"Sam, Sam, Sam," Zachariah replied with a mocking grin. "Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. Forget about him, would you?"

He clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder, his tone turning almost fatherly. "You have larger concerns. Why do you think I'm confiding in you? You're still vital, Dean. We weren't lying about your destiny. Just... omitted a few pertinent details. But nothing's changed. You are chosen. You will stop it. Just... not Lilith, or the apocalypse. That's all."

Dean's voice dropped to a whisper. "Which means?"

Zachariah gestured toward a painting of Saint Michael vanquishing the dragon. "Lucifer."

Dean stared at the painting, his brow furrowed as the weight of his supposed destiny settled heavily on his shoulders.

"You're going to stop Lucifer," Zachariah said, his tone almost reverent. "You're our own little Russell Crowe, complete with surly attitude. And when it's over... and when you've won... your rewards will be unimaginable. Peace, happiness... two virgins and seventy sluts." He chuckled, slapping Dean's arm. "Trust me—one day, we'll look back on this and laugh."

Dean's jaw clenched, his voice low and cold. "Tell me something. Where's God in all this?"

"God?" Zachariah repeated, feigning surprise. His eyes twinkled with mirth. "God has left the building."

With that, Zachariah vanished, leaving Dean alone in the gilded prison, his mind reeling from the horrifying truth.