Prolog:

"God is dying, Dean Winchester," said Death slowly as he ran one boney finger around the rim of his teacup.

Dean Winchester started, looking around the pizza shop in confusion, disoriented and unsure of how he had arrived there. His brow furrowed as his eyes darted quickly up and down the rows of tables, taking in the red checkered table mats, the amber colored candles flickering in the dim restaurant light, and letting his glance fall to the glass windows behind him and the misty Chicago sunlight filtering in. Then finally, his eyes crept to Death, never quite meeting the man's gaze.

"Death," Dean said with some hesitation, remembering their last meeting and how badly it had nearly ended. Dean began an apology, feeling as though words alone could never appease Granddaddy Reaper, though he had to at least try,

"Look, I just wanted to apologize about-"

"Don't act so surprised, Dean," Death interrupted, taking a sugar packet and tipping its contents his cup. "I'm not here to talk about that. Although it was a little rude of you to bind me," But Death waved his hand dismissively

Dean stopped his apology, mouth slightly open, waiting. He still looked stricken, unable to hide the unease knitting his brow. He kept a respectful distance between himself and the man sitting across from him, his eyes watchful, guarded, and hard, cheeks drawn in against bone as he felt his tension mounting. Death had threatened to kill him upon their last meeting, after all. Distance was healthy and most likely encouraged.

"I see you have tea there," Dean cleared his throat, hoping to divert some of Death's attention away from himself, and attempted a smile, an uneven, sloppy thing that hid nothing of his churning nerves and unease. "And what do you mean God is dying?" A tick began to pulse in Dean's cheek.

"Well, this is your dream," Death pointed out, "I suppose I could drink whatever you wanted me to," Death made a slight face, as if Dean's preferred drink wasn't really his cup of tea at all.

"This is a dream?" Dean looked around the pizza shop again, not remembering having fallen asleep.

"Correct," Death sipped his drink. "Now, I presume your next question will be something along the lines of 'why here'." The dark haired man's voice was presumptuous, but Dean had learned to accept that about Death.

"I'll bite," Dean put his elbows on the table, letting himself come a little closer to the horseman, "Why here then?"

"Because, Dean, as you will recall, we once sat in this pizza shop and discussed God. And when we discussed God, I told you very plainly that God would die. Now, God is dying. It is only fitting that I tell you here."

"Cas? You mean Cas?" Dean said, adjusting himself on his rickety wooden seat.

"I don't mean Castiel, Dean. Castiel was never a god," Death's dark eyes widened pointedly, "I believe I've already made that clear. No, Dean, I mean the real God."

"The real God?" Dean smirked, a dark snort issuing from his nostrils. Then slowly, a grimace formed across his face, bitterness creeping up over him, and he shook his head, "You mean the God that couldn't give a crap about us?"

"You assume you know all the cards in play," Death raised his eye brows, "Typical." Death leaned away from the table and then, with two long white fingers, he slowly pushed a second cup of tea toward the Winchester boy, a cup which had not been there previously.

"Drink," His voice, no matter what he said, was always a touch imperious, and Dean picked up the cup, gave a forced smile, drank, and then set it back down.

"This is no joke, Dean," Death continued on, "In fact, God has been dying for a very long time."

"And…what would be a long time, exactly?"

"Well, even for human standards, He doesn't have long left to live, and it's been like that for longer than you could hope to comprehend. Centuries and more." Dean let this information sink in for a moment, unsure about how he felt, then asked,

"H-how long we talkin'?"

"Not long. And when he does die, you can't imagine the mess that will ensue."

"What kind of mess? The Apocalypse?" Lines creased Dean's face, and for a moment he looked older, too old, in fact, the hells he'd seen flashing across his eyes for that mere second.

That's when Death smirked, even laughed a little, but it was a cold gesture that sent a ripple up Dean's spine. He didn't like it when Death laughed, Dean decided.

"You will see in time, Dean Winchester."

"And… what exactly is that supposed to mean?" A dark shadow passed over Dean's face, his heart starting to beat quickly, unease filling his belly. But Death stood up from his chair, brushing a bit of sugar from the sleeve of his black jacket.

"I am afraid this is where we part ways for the moment," Death inclined his head a little.

"Now?" Dean felt caught, his sense of duty mingling with the reserve and trepidation he felt about Death. But he sat in his seat, not quite making eye-contact with the horseman, knowing that protesting was pointless.

Death nodded, watching Dean from down the bridge of his long nose, almost as if expecting him to say something more.

"I will return later," Death said abruptly, touching his long fingers together, staring beyond Dean into the foggy light issuing from the windows, "But I have other duties, more important duties, at present. Goodbye, Dean Winchester. Until later." Then with that, Death was gone.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, and pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking and shaking his head as he sat by the dull candlelight of the pizza shop. He looked back up as if hoping to see Death still standing there, waiting to give an answer. But there was nobody. The tightness he had felt at the sight of Death did not release at his departure, and he knew it would be a while before all the answers came to him.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.