The first sign was subtle - a heaviness in the air that made wings feel leaden.
In the Fourth Heaven, where the youngest angels trained in flight formations, a seraph named Duma faltered mid-maneuver.
Her wings, normally effortless in their movement, suddenly required conscious effort to maintain altitude.
Around her, others experienced the same thing, exchanging confused glances as their synchronized patterns dissolved into disorder.
"Something's wrong," Duma whispered, her grace constricting within her form.
The heaviness spread upward like an invisible tide.
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In the Fifth Heaven, angels paused in their duties, hands instinctively reaching for weapons that hadn't been needed since Lucifer's rebellion.
No enemy presented itself, yet every warrior instinct warned of imminent danger.
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In the Sixth Heaven, where the libraries of celestial knowledge stretched beyond mortal knowledge the eternal light dimmed perceptibly.
Ancient scrolls trembled on their shelves. Vretil, the Record-Keeper, looked up from his work, stylus frozen mid-stroke.
"It comes from above," he murmured, eyes lifting toward the Seventh Heaven.
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And in that highest sphere, where the archangels dwelled, the pressure originated from a single tower of emerald and sapphire - Raphael's domain.
Inside, the Healer stood motionless before a viewing pool of liquid starlight.
The surface rippled with images from Earth: a dungeon carved from ancient stone, a boy crucified against a wall, blood dripping from nail wounds in hands and feet.
Raphael's fingers gripped the basin's edge, fractures spreading through the celestial material beneath his touch.
His form - which appeared as an adult version of Lucien Winchester, his true vessel - remained perfectly still save for the minute trembling of barely contained rage.
Blood began to seep from his palms, mirroring the wounds of his vessel below. It dripped into the viewing pool, causing the images to distort briefly before clearing again.
Raphael looked down at his bleeding hands with detached curiosity. He turned them slowly, examining the stigmata with clinical precision despite the fury building within him.
Blood seeped through his white thobe where identical wounds had formed on his feet and ankles.
The tower trembled around him, responding to its master's wrath.
"Why this?" he whispered to the empty room. "Why must he endure this?"
He knew the answer, of course.
Had known it since the Beginning.
The vessel must experience darkness to truly understand the light.
Just as Sam Winchester must rebel against his family to understand Lucifer's fall, Lucien must witness the depths of cruelty to comprehend Raphael's purpose as the Healer who would ultimately unmake all suffering.
"But must it be this way?" Raphael asked the silence.
No answer came.
None had come for centuries.
His hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically, blood dripping onto the immaculate floor with each movement. Each drop contained enough power to annihilate a lesser being, yet they fell harmlessly, forming a small crimson pool at his feet.
For a fraction of a moment, Raphael's control slipped.
All of Heaven quaked.
The viewing pool shattered, liquid starlight spilling across the floor. The walls of the tower groaned as reality itself bent under the pressure of his wrath.
Throughout the celestial spheres, angels froze in terror, sensing the disturbance rippling outward from the Seventh Heaven.
Then, as quickly as it began, the tremors ceased. Stillness fell once more as Raphael reasserted his iron discipline.
Without thinking, he suddenly began walking.
He burst from his tower, moving with purpose across the pristine grounds toward the Gates of Heaven.
Blood dripped from his hands and feet, marking his path with crimson footprints. Angels scattered before him, instinctively clearing a path for the archangel whose contained fury made the very air shimmer around him.
As he approached the Gates, a voice he hadn't heard in centuries called out behind him.
"Raphael."
He stopped but didn't turn.
Silence stretched him and the speaker, heavy. The lesser angels who had been nearby disappeared quickly, not wishing to witness what might follow.
"Have you finally grown tired of prostrating before an empty throne?" Raphael asked, his voice cold and precise.
Michael stood revealed in the form of Dean Winchester, also wearing a white thobe.
Michael didn't respond to the barb. "What are you doing?" he asked instead, his tone measured and controlled.
Another weighted silence fell between them. Raphael's shoulders tensed visibly, blood continuing to drip from his outstretched palms.
Finally, he turned slowly to face his brother. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
Michael approached until he stood an arm's length away. His gaze traveled from Raphael's bleeding palms to his blood-soaked thobe, finally meeting his eyes.
"You look compromised," Michael stated flatly.
"Compromised?" Raphael repeated, disbelief coloring his tone. "That's rich coming from you."
Silence fell once more, stretching for a long moment. Raphael's hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly, blood continuing to fall with each movement.
Finally, his hands stilled, palms open as he tilted his head back to look at Heaven's sky.
Above them shone the Morningstar - Lucifer's proudest creation, crafted with the combined power of all four archangels to illuminate Heaven for eternity. It remained as brilliant as the day of its making, untouched by its creator's fall.
"I'm tired," Raphael said simply, not looking at Michael.
He turned and began walking toward the Gates again.
Michael's hand shot out, gripping Raphael's shoulder firmly. "I won't allow you to help the boy," he said. "It isn't part of Father's plan."
Raphael looked over his shoulder, eyes beginning to glow with green-white angelic light. "Father is dead," he stated flatly, attempting to continue forward.
Michael's grip tightened. He spun Raphael around forcefully, their faces inches apart. "You-" he began, voice thick with rage, staring each other down for a moment, before he visibly regained control.
He stepped back, releasing Raphael's shoulder. "Father isn't dead," Michael said more calmly, "no matter how much you're trying to convince yourself it's true. We both know that. If Father were truly dead, all of this-" he gestured broadly at Creation around them, "-would be no more."
Raphael didn't deny this. His silence was acknowledgment enough.
"Have faith and endure," Michael continued. "The plan will come to fruition. Don't abandon Paradise for all in a moment of extreme emotion."
His expression softened marginally. "This is exactly why I warned all of us those many eons ago to be careful about becoming attached to our true vessels."
Raphael let out a bitter chuckle, a slow humorless smile spreading across his face. "What is the point of Paradise?" he asked. "What has anyone done to deserve it?"
His voice hardened. "No. You won't stop me. My vessel is MINE - my other half. Innocent. Pure. Good."
The words came faster now, intensity building with each one. "For what reason should my vessel suffer for the peace and good of the undeserving, when it is he who embodies all the traits our Father favored humanity for? The barest fraction of humanity could even hold a candle to the goodness of his soul."
As he spoke, Raphael's wings unfurled - massive appendages of emerald light shot through with electric blue. With a powerful downstroke, he launched himself skyward, flying toward the Gates.
Michael blurred from his position, his own wings - gold and bronze and impossibly vast - spreading wide as he intercepted Raphael mid-flight. They hovered face to face, wings beating rhythmically to maintain their positions.
"I won't let you interfere," Michael stated firmly. "You've always been selfish in your love, Raphael. A trait your vessel clearly shares. Your claim that he represents the best of humanity is a delusion, and I won't allow Paradise to be lost to the deserving because of it."
Raphael's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
For a long moment they remained so.
"You can't fight me," Michael said, his tone softening slightly.
Raphael crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Are you truly so full of yourself that you think you can beat me so easily?"
Michael didn't respond immediately, his expression solemn. "I know precisely how strong we both are," he finally said. "But don't forget, I am the Sword of God, Father's greatest warrior, the Defender of Heaven, 'He Who is Like God,' the destined Slayer of the Dragon, the-"
Raphael blurred forward until they were inches apart, though Michael tracked the movement easily and didn't flinch.
"And I am the Destroyer of Worlds," Raphael interrupted, "the Healer of God, the Bringer of The End to all ends, he who will end even Death itself." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Don't think you can scare me with titles."
"My intent isn't to scare you with titles," Michael replied calmly. "But to remind you."
He paused, gathering his thoughts. "As you should know, when Lucifer was among us and bore the burden of Darkness, he was the mightiest of us all - the mightiest in Creation.
When he rebelled and needed to be subdued and caged, I gained Father's grand blessing and was able to defeat Lucifer and his entire army with a mere gesture."
Michael's wings beat steadily as he continued. "When the Word was being brought down by Gabriel, until the final true prophet of God, Muhammad, Gabriel as the protector of the Word was the strongest of us all, having gained Father's blessing.
Before Gabriel, our dear brother, died in darkness from sorrow, and Father left."
His voice softened slightly. "When the Day of Judgment arrives, you will be the strongest, Raphael. Stronger than we all ever were. You will destroy all of Creation with a blast of your Horn and reform it into Eternal Paradise.
You will remove all pain, sorrow, evil, and Death itself, granting immortality to the believers in our Father, sending the undeserving to Hell for eternal torment - erasing Death itself in Creation."
Michael's expression hardened once more. "But it isn't that day yet. And in the times before that day, I, the Commander of the Host, the General in the coming War against evil, Leader of Father's armies, am the strongest. You cannot beat me. And I will not let you pass."
Raphael's fists clenched tighter, his jaw rigid with tension.
Everything Michael said was true, and they both knew it.
But Raphael wasn't willing to accept defeat. With sudden determination, he attempted to blur past Michael toward the Gates.
Michael moved faster than Raphael could react, catching the younger archangel by the throat.
In an instant, he flew downward, slamming Raphael against Heaven's ground with such force that the surface cracked beneath them, causing the Healer to let out a gasp at the crash, but nothing more.
Leaning close, he whispered in Raphael's ear.
"Again, little brother, you can't beat me. Not as things are now."
Without waiting for a response, Michael lifted Raphael by the neck. With a gesture, he hurled him back toward his tower. Instead of crashing through the structure, Raphael phased through its walls, drawn inside by Michael's power.
"You will remain there until you cool off," Michael commanded, his voice resonating with divine authority. The tower sealed itself in response to his will.
"HAAAAAHHHHH!"
From within, Raphael's roar of rage echoed - a sound Michael contained with his power, preventing it from reaching the rest of Heaven.
The lesser angels would not witness an archangel's loss of control.
Michael stood motionless, listening to his brother's fury. After a long moment, he shook his head sorrowfully and began walking back toward the Palace of God.
He pushed open the ornate gates gently and entered the vast chamber where the Throne stood empty. Without hesitation, Michael prostrated himself before it, his forehead touching the immaculate floor.
"Father," he prayed, "grant me strength for what I must do."
The vast chamber remained silent, the Throne still vacant.
Yet Michael continued his devotion, as he had for six hundred years since God's departure - since God's "death," as Raphael insisted on calling it.
Outside, Heaven gradually returned to its normal state as the pressure dissipated. Angels resumed their duties, though whispers spread through the celestial spheres of the disturbance felt in the highest realm.
In his tower, Raphael stood at the window, watching Michael's distant form enter the Palace. Blood continued to drip from his stigmata, forming a growing pool at his feet.
Through his connection to his vessel, he felt every moment of Lucien's suffering in Dracula's dungeon.
And he could do nothing to stop it.
Not until his elder brother released his hold.
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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter.
Do tell me how you found it.
Also, the thing about what Michael said, Raphael ending Death - yes, Raphael will be able to do that.
In season 15 we saw Lucifer enhanced by Chuck, kill Death - a new Death, but still Death, it having never been stated in the show that Death is weaker than the previous ones.
Well, I hope you all are excited for the coming chapters.
See you all hopefully later,
Bye!)