Chapter One: In the Beginning

Dean ripped open the iron door and tore across the panic room to his brother's side before the echoes of Sam's scream disappeared. He bent over his brother's prone – and now silent – form and reached out and grabbed the unconscious man's shoulder. "Sam!" No response. "Sammy!"

Not moving his eyes away from his brother's face Dean dared to ask "Is he..."

"All right?" Death finished. "Of course not. Reintegrating a mind, body, and soul is traumatic. He's sleeping it off. Now sit down and pay attention." Death set the empty desk chair in the center of the panic room, near the cot.

Dean looked over at Bobby, still standing outside the room, and eased down into the metal chair.

"Robert, if you'll give us a moment..." Death is nothing if not polite.

Bobby didn't need to be asked twice. With a silent "Don't be stupid, idjit" look at Dean, who quirked an eyebrow, Bobby turned and headed upstairs. He knows enough to know when things get too far above his pay grade.

Dean watched as the salt-coated iron door closed and locked itself. He took a deep breath, then looked up at Death, who loomed over both him and the still-comatose Sam.

"So... I'm working for you now, is that it? Paying this off?" Dean gestured at his brother.

"You think you weren't before?" Death asked, in a tone that reminded Dean of past teachers who'd treated him like the slowest particular student they'd ever had in class. "You've been operating under a false assumption of autonomy, I see," Death continued. "I was under the impression that Michael had explained to you the complexity of your very existence."

"Yeah, 'free will is an illusion.' I remember," Dean replied. "That's crap. Me and Sam proved that when we stopped the apocalypse."

"No," Death shook his head. "You merely switched the tracks... You're still utterly incapable of creating your own path."

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Death cut him off. "I don't have time for your ignorant insistence on free will, Dean. Now I'm going to tell you what I want you to do and you will not interrupt me again, understood?"

Dean swallowed, dropped his eyes, and nodded before looking back up at Death.

"Good. Now, I told you before, it's about the souls, Dean. I cannot look into the future as clearly as my brother but I can see a bit ahead of the curve. If I'm not very much mistaken, you're going to be offered an opportunity soon to find out just how important the power of human souls is to a great many beings. Take it. I want to know who wants them, and for what purpose."

"So you want me to spy on things that are buying people's souls?" Dean raised his eyebrows and (just barely) resisted rolling his eyes. "Go to the nearest crossroads. Demons have been buying up souls left and right for freaking ever."

"As is their prerogative." Death bent nearly in half to bring his face close to Dean's. "But you know they aren't the only ones, Dean. Angels have begun laying claims as well. They are the new players. I want to know why."

"Can't you just ask them yourself? I mean why the hell would you need my help?"

Death straightened and squeezed his eyes shut as if he could feel a migraine coming on. "I never said I needed anything from you. You have nothing that I cannot acquire for myself. However, you are the most convenient tool at this juncture. A perfectly sized wrench I can use to adjust things, just so."

He turned to stare Dean in the face, and Dean averted his eyes out of some long-suppressed self-preservation instinct. "I'd be foolish not to take advantage, and I am never foolish."

When Dean looked up again, he was alone.

And locked in the panic room. God damn it.

"BOBBY!"

Two hours later Sam still hadn't woken up, but Dean had recapped his conversation with Death (his life is so ridiculous) for Bobby about ten times.

"I still don't like not knowing why he's got you on a leash all of a sudden, boy," Bobby said gruffly. "Last time you did him a favor we at least knew what for."

"Yeah, yeah. He wanted the bullets out of the devil's gun, I remember." Dean shook his head. "I just don't think we can figure this one out over a beer, Bobby. He's Death, and that mother is so outta our league, it's not even funny."

Bobby huffed his agreement and took another swig of PBR.

"He did mention a brother, though," Dean continued. "Any idea who – or what – he was talking about?"

Bobby quirked an eyebrow. "Well, he did give you the whole 'chicken and egg' speech about him and the big man upstairs back in Chicago, so that's where I'd put my money."

Dean swallowed his beer and lifted his eyebrows, a sarcastic grin on his face. "God? As Death's brother? Yeah, that makes sense."

"Actually, it kinda does, Dean..." Sam's voice drifted in from the doorway.

Dean stood up so fast he knocked over the chair he'd been straddling. For a second, he couldn't make his voice work. Luckily, Bobby took care of the talking part.

"Sam. It's good to see yah, boy." And man, the callback from the last time he'd said that hit Dean like a punch to the gut.

The awkward déjà vu wasn't lost on Sam, either. "At least nobody sold their soul to get me back this time." His small grin slipped away when neither Bobby nor Dean said anything. "Nobody sold their soul this time, right?"

The spike of panic in Sam's voice jarred Dean's brain back into sync with his throat. "No, Sam," he said. "We may not be the brightest crayons in the box, but we're not that stupid." And then he and Sam were hugging. Dean never can figure out which of them instigates these, and they always seem to sneak up on him. In the background he heard Bobby's quiet "Speak for yourself, idjit."

Dean watched with full eyes as Sam stepped back and made his way over to the older hunter for his chick-flick moment. Sam looks good, Dean thought. Healthy and whole, for the first time since Dean can't remember when. He can't help but grin.

"So," Sam said as he turned back toward Dean, "how am I back?"

Dean glanced over at Bobby. "What do you remember?"

"Pretty much a blank slate up here right now," Sam tapped a finger to his temple. "I remember the graveyard in Lawrence, but it's kind of patchy. The last thing that's really clear is you by the Impala and then Michael showing up. Then..."

"Yeah," Dean cut him off. He really didn't need to hear that again. "Well, you've got a pretty big gap then, Sammy. It's been over a year."

"What?"

"Been a year and four months since Lawrence, Sam," Bobby pitched in. "But Dean's been out of the game longer than you have."

Sam rounded on his brother. "What'd you do, Dean? How'd you bring me back?"

"Jeez, Sam. Chill." Dean tossed a glare at Bobby. "I went to Lisa's, like you made me promise to. I was there until about four months ago." He stopped, not sure how much to tell Sam. Death hadn't made it sound like that wall was all that sturdy, and if Dean knows his brother (and he does), knowing that he'd been up and kicking will just tempt the kid.

"Then what happened?"

"Then I got back into hunting."

"Just like that."

"Yep."

"Bullshit."

"Can't we just start over, Sam? Don't look the gift horse in the mouth for once, huh?"

Bobby's hand fell on his shoulder. "Dean, he's got a right to know."

"Know what?" Sam's puppy dog eyes were out in full force, now. "Guys, tell me!"

Son of a bitch. "I got back into hunting because you came and got me, Sam. You showed up at Lisa's, saved my ass from a couple of djinn, and pulled me back into the life because you wanted my help hunting. You couldn't keep a decent partner because you were a complete asshole the whole time and kept getting them killed, and you didn't give two shits about collateral damage, or me, because you didn't have your soul. There, happy now?"

Sam backed away and sank down onto the couch, gaping. "I didn't have my soul? How does that even happen?"

"I don't know, and we're not gonna find out."

"Why not, Dean? I think this is pretty important!"

"Because Death's the one who put you back together. He put up a wall in your skull to keep all the Hell stuff locked away. Remembering that'd kill you, Sam. Kill you. So just leave it be."

Sam stayed quiet for several seconds. Dean didn't really have anything to do but stare, and he was never that good at awkward silences. Bobby had to elbow him three times to keep him from interrupting Sam's thought process with random sarcasm. Finally, Sam looked up at them. "So that's why you two were talking about Death and God, huh? I wondered why you two'd gotten so philosophical all of a sudden."

Dean grinned again. "Shut up, nerd."

"If you two are gonna keep bickering like an old married couple, I'm gonna need something stronger than beer." Bobby headed toward the liquor cabinet. "Nothing says 'we're celebrating yet another Winchester resurrection' like some Jim Beam."

Dean full-on laughed at that one. "Amen!"

"Amen!" Raphael's true voice thundered across the desert, rearranging dunes and raising clouds of sand to blot out the sun.

The invocation he'd used against Castiel's forces was ancient and powerful, made even more so by his status as an archangel. After Lucifer destroyed him in Stull Cemetery, Castiel had been raised (the second time) with more power than he'd ever had before, but he was still little more than a nuisance to Raphael's unbridled true form.

Castiel dodged some of the blast of energy that hurtled toward him from the weapon Raphael held, but the glancing blow still sent him tumbling through the aether. He heard the dying screams of his brothers as Raphael's weapon crushed their grace, punishment for rebelling at Castiel's behest. He felt a mortal wound in his own grace, spilling his life across space and time as he careened over the earth.

When the blast wave carrying him finally faded, Castiel called his vessel to himself and let gravity take hold. As he plummeted downward, he thought, at least now I know which way is up.

He spread his wings to slow his fall, but they would not support his weight (metaphysical or not). He was close enough to the earth now to see plots of cultivated land. Farms and homes sprawled beneath him. I'm dying.

Castiel didn't want to die alone. He searched for the one human soul he could always find. Despite it being hidden by sigils he himself had carved, Castiel could always sense Dean Winchester's soul. They were connected by more than just friendship or camaraderie. He had touched that soul directly with his grace, in Hell. That kind of mark did not fade.

Castiel wrenched his aching wings, painfully - but successfully - directing his fall toward that bright pulse-point. It wasn't far now. Father, help me. For only the fourth time in his long existence, Castiel lost consciousness.

Seventeen seconds later, the insensate angel crashed into one of the scrapped cars languishing in Singer Salvage Yard, scaring the pants off of three spectacularly drunk hunters.