Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Mortal Angel and the Meat Grinder
Mame didn't wait around for the Winchesters to finish their depressing family counseling session. He turned and walked out of the command headquarters, navigating the dim, concrete corridors until he found locker three.
He slid the heavy iron key Future Dean had given him into the rusted lock. It turned with a harsh screech, and Mame swung the metal door open.
Sitting on the shelves was his confiscated arsenal.
Mame worked with cold, mechanical efficiency. He strapped the drop-leg holsters back onto his thighs, the twin Glock 17s sliding perfectly into place with a satisfying clack. He grabbed the custom AR-15, chambering a round before slinging it securely across his back. Finally, he picked up the two massive, Devil's Trap-etched Desert Eagles, sliding them into his shoulder holsters beneath the heavy canvas duster.
He felt complete again.
Mame opened his digitized System interface, his eyes scanning the contents of his [1 BIG BOX: WEAPONS] and [1 BIG BOX: AMMUNITION]. He had looted several gun stores and a police precinct over the last month. He had dozens of standard assault rifles, shotguns, and basic 9mm handguns that he simply didn't need anymore. His current loadout was specialized, and carrying the extra digital weight was redundant.
If they're going to act as my meat shield, they need to actually be able to shoot back, Mame thought pragmatically.
He reached into the shimmering blue rift and began pulling out the surplus weapons and heavy crates of standard ammunition. He piled them into a rusted metal pushcart he found in the hallway.
A few minutes later, Mame rolled the heavily loaded cart out into the dark, ash-choked courtyard where the strike team was assembling near the vehicles. Risa and a dozen hardened camp fighters were checking their scavenged, pieced-together weapons.
Mame kicked the cart forward, sending it rolling directly into the center of the group. It hit a rock and tipped slightly, spilling a cascade of pristine M4 carbines, Remington shotguns, and thousands of rounds of boxed ammunition onto the dirt.
The camp fighters froze, staring at the impossible haul of military-grade hardware as if Mame had just dropped a crate of solid gold at their feet.
"Merry Christmas," Mame said flatly, adjusting the collar of his duster. "Ditch the pipe-guns. Load up on the heavy stuff and carry as much extra ammo as you can physically handle. Tomorrow morning, you don't stop shooting until the barrels melt. The longer you keep the horde busy, the better."
Risa looked from the pristine weapons up to Mame, her eyes wide. She didn't say a word, just gave a sharp, respectful nod before turning to her team. "You heard him! Grab a rifle and load up!"
Across the courtyard, Past Dean was watching the camp prepare for the suicide mission, his heart heavy.
"So, you're really from oh-nine?"
Dean turned to see Chuck Shurley standing behind him, clutching his ever-present clipboard and looking profoundly nervous.
"Yeah," Dean sighed, crossing his arms. "Afraid so."
Chuck nodded slowly, looking out over the bleak, ruined compound. He turned back to Dean, his expression turning deadly serious. "Some free advice? You ever get back there... you hoard toilet paper."
Dean blinked, completely caught off guard. "What?"
"You understand me?" Chuck pressed, leaning in close, his eyes wide and intense. "Hoard it. Hoard it like it's made of gold. 'Cause it is."
Dean couldn't help but crack a tiny, bewildered smile. In the face of a demonic apocalypse, the Prophet of the Lord was worried about two-ply. "Thank you, Chuck."
"Oh, you'll thank me, all right," Chuck muttered darkly, tapping his clipboard. "Mark my words."
"I'll see you around," Dean said, giving the eccentric author a final nod before turning and walking toward the idling convoy.
INT. OFF-ROAD VEHICLE - NIGHT
Dean climbed into the passenger seat of a battered, heavily reinforced Jeep. Castiel was sitting in the driver's seat, staring blankly through the cracked windshield while Mame sat in the back, checking the drum magazines of his Glocks in the dark.
As the convoy's engines roared to life, Castiel casually reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of colorful pills, and tossed them into his mouth, swallowing them dry.
Dean frowned, leaning over. "Let me see those."
Castiel held out his palm, revealing a few leftover capsules. "You want some?"
Dean inspected the pills, his eyes widening. "Amphetamines?"
"It's the perfect antidote to that absinthe," Castiel replied smoothly, putting the jeep into gear and following Future Dean's muscle car out of the main gates.
"Mmm," Dean hummed, thoroughly disturbed. He looked at the dreadlocked, unwashed man beside him. "Don't get me wrong, Cas. I, uh... I'm happy that the stick is out of your ass, but—what's going on with the drugs, and the orgies, and the love-guru crap?"
Castiel let out a sudden, raspy laugh.
"What's so funny?" Dean demanded.
Castiel shook his head, his eyes glued to the dark, ruined highway ahead. "Dean, I'm not an angel anymore."
Dean froze. "What?"
"Yeah," Castiel sighed, a bitter edge bleeding into his stoned voice. "I went mortal."
"What do you mean? How?"
"I think it had something to do with the other angels leaving," Castiel explained, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "But when they bailed, my mojo just kind of—psshhew!—drained away. And now, you know, I'm practically human. I mean, Dean, I'm all but useless. Last year, I broke my foot. Laid up for two months."
Dean stared at his best friend, the cosmic warrior who had literally pulled his soul out of Hell, now complaining about a broken bone. "Wow."
"Yeah."
"So, you're human," Dean said softly, a wave of sympathy hitting him. "Well, welcome to the club."
"Thanks," Castiel muttered. "Except I used to belong to a much better club. And now I'm powerless. I'm hapless. I'm hopeless. I mean, why the hell not bury myself in women and decadence, right? It's the end, baby. That's what decadence is for. Why not bang a few gongs before the lights go out? But then that's... that's just how I roll."
A comfortable, quiet beat passed over the rumbling jeep, before a dry, highly amused voice spoke up from the darkness of the backseat.
"Well, look on the bright side," Mame rasped, leaning forward between the two front seats. "Being mortal is not so bad, Cas."
Castiel looked at him through the rearview mirror. "How do you figure?"
Mame offered a wide, entirely unsympathetic grin. "You could have been stuck in Zachariah's angel vessel. Just a short, fat, bald guy in a cheap suit. Trust me, if you looked like him, no women in the camp would've wanted any part of your 'group activities'. Hahahaha!"
Dean let out a sudden, loud snort of laughter, completely unable to help himself. Even Castiel's drug-addled brain processed the terrifying image of the balding middle management angel trying to lead an orgy, and a slow, reluctant smirk spread across his face.
"You make a compelling point, anomaly," Castiel admitted, pressing his foot down on the gas pedal.
The jeep accelerated into the dark, ash-choked wasteland, carrying the human, the mortal angel, and the heavily armed anomaly straight toward the Devil's front door.
Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Decoy and the Departure
The hot zone was entirely, terrifyingly quiet.
The strike team moved through the ash-choked streets of downtown Kansas City with practiced, paranoid precision. Mame took the rearguard, the heavy canvas duster billowing slightly around his legs as his dark eyes scanned the dark, ruined alleyways. The camp fighters, newly equipped with Mame's pristine M4 carbines and shotguns, moved with a renewed sense of lethal confidence.
At the front of the formation, Future Dean held up a closed fist. The entire convoy halted instantly, dropping into low crouches behind the rusted husks of abandoned cars.
Looming at the end of the avenue was the Jackson County Sanitarium. It was a massive, gothic structure of dark brick and wrought iron, completely swallowed by the shadows of the apocalyptic dawn.
"There," Future Dean whispered, pointing toward a jagged opening on the side of the building. "Second-floor window. We go in there."
Risa crouched next to him, her eyes scanning the completely empty courtyard of the sanitarium. "You sure about this?"
"They'll never see us coming," Future Dean replied smoothly, not a single ounce of doubt in his gravelly voice. "Trust me. Now, weapons check. We're on the move in five."
While the soldiers began checking their chambers and adjusting their slings, Past Dean stepped closer to his older counterpart. His green eyes were narrow with suspicion.
"Hey, uh, me," Past Dean muttered, grabbing Future Dean's sleeve. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"
Future Dean let out a short, irritated breath, but stepped away from the main group, leading his younger self into the shadowed alcove of a collapsed storefront.
A few yards away, Mame paused his weapons check. He tapped into the absolute silence of his peak-human baseline, his footfalls making zero sound against the pavement as he slipped into the shadows right behind them, listening intently.
"Tell me what's going on," Past Dean demanded in a low, tight whisper.
"What?" Future Dean asked, feigning ignorance.
"I know you," Past Dean said, his voice hard. "You're lying to these people, and to me."
"Is that so," Future Dean retorted flatly.
"Yeah. See, I know your lying expressions," Past Dean pressed, stepping into his older self's personal space. "I've seen them in the mirror. Now, there's something you're not telling us."
Future Dean stared at him, his face an unreadable mask of stone. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, really?" Past Dean scoffed, gesturing back toward the strike team. "Well, I don't seem to be the only member of your posse with some questions. So, uh, maybe I'll just take my doubts over to them."
Past Dean turned to walk away, but Future Dean immediately grabbed his arm.
"Okay, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait," Future Dean hissed.
"What?"
Future Dean looked around the empty, silent street, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Take a look around you, man. This place should be white-hot with Croats. Where are they?"
Past Dean looked out at the empty sanitarium courtyard, the horrifying realization finally clicking into place. "They cleared a path for us. Which means that this is—"
"A trap. Exactly," Future Dean confirmed coldly.
"Well, then we can't go through the front," Past Dean argued desperately.
"Oh, we're not," Future Dean corrected, his green eyes completely devoid of mercy. "They are. They're the decoys. You and me, we're going in through the back."
Past Dean stared at the man in the leather duster, utterly sickened. The argument from the bunker the day before came rushing back. "You mean you're gonna feed your friends into a meat grinder? Cas, too? You want to use their deaths as a diversion?"
Future Dean looked away, unable to hold his younger self's gaze. He checked the action on his Colt 1911 instead.
"Oh, man," Past Dean breathed out, a profound, heartbreaking disgust breaking his voice. "Something is broken in you. You're making decisions that I would never make. I wouldn't sacrifice my friends."
"You're right. You wouldn't," Future Dean snapped, his head whipping back around, fueled by years of bitter resentment. "It's one of the main reasons we're in this mess, actually."
"These people count on you," Past Dean pleaded. "They trust you."
"They trust me to kill the Devil and to save the world," Future Dean growled, pointing a finger at his own chest. "And that's exactly what I'm gonna do."
"No," Past Dean said, setting his stance, his fists clenching at his sides. "Not like this, you're not. I'm not gonna let you."
Future Dean's eyes narrowed into dark, violent slits. "Oh, really?"
"Yeah."
Without a fraction of a second's hesitation, Future Dean swung a brutal, practiced right hook. The heavy blow caught Past Dean perfectly on the jaw. His younger self's eyes rolled back, and he crumpled into the ash-covered debris of the storefront, out cold.
Future Dean let out a harsh breath, rubbing his knuckles. He reached down to grab his younger self by the collar to drag him to the flanking route, but a sudden, metallic clack stopped him in his tracks.
"Go."
Future Dean spun around. Mame was standing at the edge of the shadows, his custom AR-15 resting casually in his hands, his dark eyes locked onto the apocalyptic commander.
"We will take care of this side," Mame said, his voice a smooth, gravelly calm amidst the ruins.
Future Dean looked at the heavily armored teenager. He had seen the way Mame handled himself, and he knew the boy was carrying enough localized firepower to level a city block. Mame wasn't just a survivor; he was a living weapon.
"Come with me," Future Dean offered, his voice urgent. "You want targets? The Devil's inner circle is in that building. I could use the heavy artillery to cover my six when I take the shot."
Mame didn't move. He looked past Future Dean, toward the towering sanitarium where thousands of infected were waiting to spring the trap.
"No," Mame refused simply. He met Future Dean's cold eyes. "I need to kill the Croats. I need the numbers, or I may not get home. And if you go in there and actually manage to blow Lucifer's brains out... I don't know what will happen to this timeline, or if the System will pull me out before I hit my quota."
Future Dean frowned, the cosmic rules of the Anomaly entirely foreign to him, but the tactical reality was clear. Mame was volunteering to stay in the meat grinder.
"So go," Mame continued, stepping forward and looking down at the unconscious Past Dean. He looked back up at Future Dean, his expression softening just a fraction, revealing the older brother beneath the tactical armor.
"Dean," Mame said softly. "I don't know what happened in the last five years to make you this hopeless. But the past you... he still has hope. He won't let Sam die as the villain."
Future Dean's breath hitched, the mention of Sam cutting through his hardened exterior like a silver blade.
Mame stepped back into the street, racking the bolt of his AR-15, completely ready to face the horde. He gave the commander a dry, respectful smirk.
"It was nice knowing you, Winchester. Don't miss."
Future Dean stared at the anomaly for one long, heavy second. He gave a single, rigid nod, before grabbing his unconscious younger self by the canvas jacket and dragging him into the darkness of the flanking alleyway.
Mame watched him disappear. Then, he turned around, walking back out into the open street where Castiel and the heavily armed grunts were waiting.
"Alright, boys and girls," Mame announced, his voice carrying the cold, thrilling edge of absolute violence. "Safety's off. Let's make some noise."
The first thing Dean registered was the taste of copper and ash on his tongue.
The second thing he registered was the deafening, earth-shaking roar of a localized war.
Dean groaned, his hand flying to his bruised jaw as he pushed himself up from the debris of the collapsed storefront. His ears were ringing, but beneath the high-pitched whine, he could hear the sheer, apocalyptic violence erupting at the front of the sanitarium. The staccato crack-crack-crack of M4 carbines blended with the terrifying, continuous roar of Mame's heavy artillery. Every few seconds, the muffled, concussive boom of a .50 caliber Desert Eagle echoed through the concrete canyons, accompanied by the shrieks of thousands of dying Croatoans.
Mame and the decoys were holding the line. They had stepped right into the meat grinder.
Panic and adrenaline spiked in Dean's chest. He scrambled to his feet, drawing his Colt 1911. Future Dean had knocked him out to take the flanking route alone.
Dean sprinted down the dark, trash-filled alleyway, following the rusted iron fence that wrapped around the rear of the Jackson County Sanitarium. He tore through a broken gate, sliding into the overgrown, rotting courtyard of the garden.
Thunder crashed overhead, vibrating in Dean's chest, followed by a blinding flash of lightning that illuminated the bleak courtyard.
Dean froze.
About thirty yards away, lying completely immobilized in the dead grass, was Future Dean. He was struggling, his hands clawing uselessly at the dirt, but he couldn't rise. Standing directly over him, pinning Future Dean's neck to the ground, was someone wearing a pristine white dress shoe.
Future Dean gasped for air, his cold green eyes darting frantically until they locked onto his younger self standing in the shadows. For a fraction of a second, the hardened dictator vanished, and Dean just saw a terrified, broken man.
The figure in the white suit shifted his weight.
Crack.
The sound of Future Dean's neck breaking was sickeningly loud, cutting straight through the ambient noise of the gunfire out front. Future Dean's body went completely limp, his dead eyes staring blankly at the stormy sky.
Dean's breath caught in his throat. His blood turned to ice.
The figure slowly turned around.
It was Sam.
He was wearing an immaculate white suit that practically glowed in the dreary apocalypse. His hair was slicked back, but his face—his posture, his presence—was entirely wrong. There was no warmth, no familiar brotherly exasperation. His eyes were ancient, cold, and filled with a terrifying, absolute calm.
It wasn't Sam. It was Lucifer.
"Oh," Lucifer said, his voice smooth, echoing with a quiet, devastating power. "Hello, Dean."
Dean stared at the Devil wearing his brother's face, his hands shaking slightly around the grip of his 1911. The gun felt entirely useless.
"Aren't you a surprise," Lucifer mused gently.
Thunder crashed again, and in the span of a single lightning flash, Lucifer vanished from the corpse and reappeared standing directly behind Dean.
"You've come a long way to see this, haven't you?" Lucifer whispered over his shoulder.
Dean didn't flinch. He didn't run. He turned slowly, facing the Archangel with a lifetime of hunter's defiance masking his absolute terror.
"Well, go ahead," Dean spat, his voice rough. "Kill me."
Lucifer tilted his head, looking genuinely amused. "Kill you?"
He stepped past Dean, walking casually toward the broken corpse of Future Dean lying in the grass. He gestured to the dead body with a graceful sweep of his hand.
"Don't you think that would be a little... redundant?" Lucifer asked, letting out a soft, sympathetic sigh. He turned his eyes back to Dean, feigning a look of deep sorrow. "I'm sorry. It must be painful, speaking to me in this—shape. But it had to be your brother. It had to be."
Lucifer took a step closer, reaching a hand out toward Dean's shoulder.
Dean violently jerked back, stepping away from the touch.
"You don't have to be afraid of me, Dean," Lucifer said, his tone incredibly soft, like a parent speaking to a frightened child. "What do you think I'm going to do?"
"I don't know," Dean shot back, gripping his pistol tighter. "Maybe deep-fry the planet?"
Lucifer paused. He looked away, his ancient eyes settling on a single, withered white rose clinging to a rusted trellis nearby. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing the dead petals.
"Why?" Lucifer asked, genuine confusion coloring his voice. "Why would I want to destroy this stunning thing? Beautiful in a trillion different ways. The last perfect handiwork of God."
Dean didn't answer. He just stared at the monster wearing Sam's skin.
Lucifer turned his back on the rose, focusing entirely on Dean. "You ever hear the story of how I fell from grace?"
"Oh, good God," Dean groaned, his stomach twisting into knots. "You're not gonna tell me a bedtime story, are you? My stomach's almost out of bile."
Lucifer ignored the insult, his expression turning distant, lost in the eons of his own memory.
"You know why God cast me down?" Lucifer asked softly. "Because I loved him. More than anything. And then God created..." A dark, bitter smirk touched his lips. "...You. The little... hairless apes. And then he asked all of us to bow down before you—to love you, more than him. And I said, 'Father, I can't.' I said, 'These human beings are flawed, murderous.' And for that, God had Michael cast me into Hell."
Lucifer took a step closer, the temperature in the garden seemingly dropping ten degrees.
"Now, tell me," Lucifer demanded quietly, his eyes piercing straight through Dean's soul. "Does the punishment fit the crime? Especially, when I was right? Look at what six billion of you have done to this thing, and how many of you blame me for it."
Dean stared at the Devil. He heard the gunfire still raging out front—humans fighting tooth and nail just to survive another day in the wasteland Lucifer had created. The fear in Dean's chest hardened into pure, unadulterated hatred.
"You're not fooling me, you know that?" Dean said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly snarl. "With this sympathy-for-the-devil crap. I know what you are."
"What am I?" Lucifer asked, tilting his head.
"You're the same thing, only bigger," Dean spat. "The same brand of cockroach I've been squashing my whole life. An ugly, evil, belly-to-the-ground, supernatural piece of crap. The only difference between them and you is the size of your ego."
Instead of flying into a rage, Lucifer simply smiled. It was a terrifying, genuine smile.
"I like you, Dean," Lucifer said warmly. "I get what the other angels see in you." He gave a small, polite nod. "Goodbye. We'll meet again soon."
Lucifer turned to walk away, his white suit pristine amidst the ash and mud.
"You better kill me now!" Dean yelled after him, the desperation finally leaking out.
Lucifer stopped. He slowly turned back around. "Pardon?"
"You better kill me now," Dean promised, his green eyes burning with absolute, uncompromising resolve. "Or I swear, I will find a way to kill you. And I won't stop."
Lucifer looked at Dean. Then, very slowly, his eyes shifted toward the front of the sanitarium, listening to the impossible volume of gunfire and the muffled roar of Mame's heavy Desert Eagles. The Devil offered a knowing, completely unthreatened smile.
"I know you won't," Lucifer said smoothly. "I know you won't say yes to Michael, either. And I know you won't kill Sam."
Lucifer stepped closer, his voice carrying the inescapable gravity of fate.
"Whatever you do," Lucifer promised, his voice echoing in Dean's mind. "You will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter... we will always end up—here. I win. So, I win."
Dean stood his ground. "You're wrong."
"See you in five years, Dean," Lucifer smiled.
Thunder crashed violently, rattling the teeth in Dean's skull, accompanied by a blinding flash of white lightning.
When Dean opened his eyes, the garden was empty. The white suit was gone. Only the broken body of Future Dean remained in the grass.
Dean let out a ragged, trembling breath, slowly lowering his gun. He was alone.
"Dean."
Dean jumped, spinning around.
Standing right behind him, wearing his cheap, middle-management suit and a smug, victorious smile, was the angel Zachariah. Before Dean could raise his gun or say a word, Zachariah reached out, pressing two fingers firmly against the center of Dean's forehead.
The apocalyptic wasteland of 2014 vanished in a blinding flash of holy light.
The front avenue of the Jackson County Sanitarium was no longer a street. It was a slaughterhouse.
Mame stood dead center in the apocalyptic intersection, an unmovable anchor in the middle of a swirling, shrieking ocean of infected flesh. The heavy, rhythmic roar of his customized AR-15 was deafening, drowning out the terrified screams of the camp fighters dying around him.
To his left, Castiel stood with his feet planted wide. The mortal angel was firing one of Mame's scavenged M4 carbines with a lazy, almost detached rhythm, his drug-addled brain somehow still retaining the muscle memory of a cosmic holy warrior.
To Mame's right, Chuck Shurley was entirely fueled by pure, unadulterated panic. The Prophet had his eyes squeezed half-shut, screaming at the top of his lungs as he held the trigger of his rifle down, spraying 5.56mm rounds blindly into the oncoming horde. Through sheer, divine plot armor, he wasn't dead yet.
But the horde was endless.
Mame's digital interface was a blinding cascade of blue notifications flashing in the corner of his eye.
[CROATOAN INFECTED ELIMINATED: +15] [CROATOAN INFECTED ELIMINATED: +22] [CURRENT FATE POINTS: 14,850]
Mame's heavy tactical armor was painted completely black with viscous Croatoan blood. His arms burned, but the System's Temporary Restoration Draught kept him operating at peak, machine-like efficiency. He fired in controlled, devastating bursts. Every trigger pull shattered a skull. Every step he took left a pile of bodies in his wake.
Suddenly, a figure burst through the front line of the rabid infected. It didn't move with the frantic, uncoordinated thrashing of the Croatoan virus. It moved with fluid, supernatural speed, charging straight for Mame.
The man looked up, and his eyes were completely, solid black.
A demon.
Mame didn't hesitate. He let the AR-15 drop, the heavy tactical sling catching it against his chest. His hand blurred beneath the heavy canvas duster, his fingers wrapping around the grip of the right-side Desert Eagle.
He drew the massive hand-cannon in a fraction of a second, aiming squarely at the charging demon's face.
BOOM.
The concussive blast of the .50 Action Express round was so loud it momentarily deafened Chuck.
The heavy, thumb-thick hollow-point—meticulously carved with a five-pointed Devil's Trap—punched directly into the center of the demon's forehead. It didn't exit the skull. It lodged deep inside the brain tissue.
The effect was instantaneous. The mystical ward etched into the copper jacket activated, trapping the demonic smoke completely inside the ruined meat-suit. The demon froze mid-stride, its black eyes wide with sudden, absolute paralysis as it crashed into the asphalt like a rigid statue.
It couldn't move. It couldn't smoke out. It was a prisoner in its own host.
But Mame took zero chances. In a world of magic, a trapped demon was still a liability.
In one fluid motion, Mame holstered the Desert Eagle, grabbed his AR-15, and fired a localized, brutal burst of rounds directly into the paralyzed demon's kneecaps and elbows. The heavy 77-grain bullets shattered the joints completely, severing the limbs and reducing the trapped entity to a harmless, violently maimed torso on the ground.
"Reloading!" Mame barked, his thumb hitting the mag-release. The empty 100-round drum hit the dirt, and he seamlessly slammed a fresh one from his System inventory into the rifle.
But the line was breaking.
Future Dean's ruthless tactical meat grinder was working exactly as intended. The sheer volume of the swarm was overwhelming the human element.
Twenty yards to their left, Risa ran dry. Before she could transition to her sidearm, a dozen Croatoans leaped over a rusted car, tackling her to the ground. Her terrified scream was abruptly cut short beneath a pile of tearing, feral teeth.
"Keep firing!" Mame roared, sweeping his barrel left to cover the collapsing flank.
But it wasn't enough. One by one, the hardened fighters of Camp Chitaqua were dragged down into the bloody ash. Their screams joined the shrieks of the infected, leaving nothing but the deafening roar of Mame's rifle to hold back the tide.
Within ten minutes, the entire strike team had been completely wiped out.
Only three remained. Mame, Castiel, and Chuck stood back-to-back in the center of the intersection, surrounded by a literal mountain of corpses.
Mame's breath came in heavy, ragged gasps. The barrel of his AR-15 was glowing cherry-red, radiating intense heat into the freezing apocalyptic air. He reached down to his drop-leg holster, drawing one of his Glocks to supplement the rifle. He had thousands of Fate Points to his name, but the swarm was tightening like a noose.
And then... everything stopped.
The blood-curdling shrieks of the Croatoans died in their throats. The frantic, rabid thrashing ceased entirely.
An eerie, suffocating silence fell over the avenue, broken only by the sound of Mame's heavy breathing and the clack of Castiel lowering his empty rifle.
Mame kept his weapons raised, his dark eyes sweeping the horde.
The infected were stepping back. Thousands of rabid, mindless monsters were suddenly moving with synchronized, terrified precision, parting down the middle of the avenue like the Red Sea.
Footsteps echoed against the bloody pavement. Slow. Calm. Pristine.
A figure walked out of the sanitarium courtyard, strolling casually down the center of the parted horde. He wore an immaculate, perfectly tailored white suit that somehow repelled the ash and blood of the wasteland.
It was Sam Winchester's body, but the ancient, overwhelming grace rolling off him made the air feel like it was turning into solid lead.
Lucifer stopped about twenty yards away from the final three survivors. The Archangel's cold, ancient eyes skipped entirely over the terrified Prophet and the burned-out mortal Angel. His gaze locked instantly onto the heavily armored teenager standing in the center.
Lucifer tilted his head, a look of genuine, predatory curiosity crossing his stolen face. He felt the static of Mame's soul—the absolute impossibility of his existence in this universe.
A slow, chilling smile spread across the Devil's lips.
"Well," Lucifer said, his smooth, echoing voice cutting through the dead silence of the apocalypse. "You are new."