Death mourned for the lost soul in his hands. It was broken, shredded in a way that not even he could heal. There wasn't enough of a soul left to fix, yet he knew beyond any doubt that he would try.

Not that he had much choice in the matter. Honestly, though he'd taken a definite interest in the young man, Death would have never willingly aided either Heaven or Hell in their petty feud. He would have left Dean Winchester to his devices, allowing him to torture souls until his own became a black cesspool of filth, too muddied with malice to even be called a soul anymore. He wouldn't have preferred it, but he would have allowed it had it not been for that so-called Host of Heaven, Zachariah.

Despite the popular phrase, death wasn't a certainty. It was true that the body decayed, but the soul would live on. Whether it was on Earth, Heaven, Hell, or any number of places that Death had come across that the spirit rested, was another matter entirely. Dean, like every other soul, had chosen his final resting place. He was doomed to an eternity in the lambence of Hell. Except, now he wasn't.

Death palmed the tattered shreds of a soul in his hands, peeling away the dark traces that had begun infecting him. It revealed the deepest of the wounds. Energy seeped from them now that the scabs were gone, but the soul was pure now, if a bit worse for the wear. The angels wanted it restored to its original body and Death had no choice in the matter. He pitied Dean. Restoring the man's soul would drive him mad. It had happened once before that he could remember and Death had vowed never to do it again. The consequences of placing a torn soul in a whole body was not worth the price. The souls of demons, at least, were filled in, if corrupted, by evil. They could exist as a whole, even with the infection living inside of them. But the soul in his hands wasn't even a soul. It was an array of pieces that were only held together by Death's hands. He did not want to think about how the soul would be held together once he was gone.

"Is he ready?"

"Do not rush me, angel," Death warned. Castiel was not of the same mold as his brethren, but that did not mean he was any better than them at this moment in time. And in the times to come, he would be much worse than even the lowliest angel.

"It is of the upmost importance that this soul be returned to its host," he continued. "You were ordered—"

"Despite the hold your Zachariah has on me, I do not take well to orders."

"But he does have a 'hold' on you and you were told—"

"I know what I was told, Castiel." Death looked at the angel then, removing his eyes from Dean for the first time since he had appeared before him, broken and trickling energy that couldn't be spared if he wanted to survive. "You have walked through the wasteland beyond the gates. You have felt the cold pulling away at your grace. You have witnessed the brightness of the Morningstar. Tell me, how would a mortal soul survive such an ordeal intact?"

The angel stayed silent, but Death continued, angry now at his ignorance.

"You are one of the few beings that can see through the shells that bind a soul. This," he gestured to his hands, "is not a soul, Castiel. This is the remains of a great man. Placing them in an Earthly vessel would only kill him before his time."

"Then fix it."

Death scoffed. "With what? I may transport energies between planes, but that does not mean I am able to create souls from thin air."

"Dean Winchester will be saved," Castiel growled. His outrage was surprising and the intensity of it had Death nearly staggering back in shock as the angel approached. "I have only those orders, no others. Tell me what you need and I will see that you have it."

Death turned pensive, looking back at Dean. Thoughts swarmed his mind of how to repair such a soul. Once he had a working plan, he turned back to the angel. "This is going to hurt," he said.

"Pain is of no consequence."

Death shook his head. "Oh, I guarantee that it will be of great consequence to you once I begin the reparations."

Castiel's confusion was apparent, but Death did not elaborate before plunging his arm inside the angel to extract his grace. He didn't spare Castiel any pain as he divided pieces of it. He pulled small chunks to fill in the missing bits of Dean's soul and used smaller strands to weave them together. It was a permanent fix, something that possibly couldn't be undone, but it was the only chance he had to save Dean Winchester, orders or no orders.

Then, it was done. The angel collapsed on the wooden floor, unconscious for the first time in his long existence. Death blinked out of the room—this was not the time to coddle meddling angels—and into a relatively unremarkable cemetery to finish his work. Despite not taking well to orders, he had to abide by them for now.

IN MEMORY OF

DEAN CLARK

LOVED AND MISSED IN OUR HEARTS

JANUARY 24, 1979 – MAY 2, 2008

Everything he'd ever accomplished in this world would be undone by this one simple action. He could no longer blame John Winchester for the souls that were reaped before their times. Compared to his actions now, six thousand twelve souls was nothing. This was the destruction of a planet and two entire dimensions. The boundless amounts of energy that were stored added up to just over one hundred trillion souls. Their very existence would cease. Their energy would be cut off from the rest of the worlds to keep the balance. They would more than disappear, they would implode on themselves.

The bundles of energy would not be able to sustain the quarrelling brothers, but Michael and Lucifer would try, consuming more and more until they mutated, becoming stronger, twisted versions of themselves. The destruction could not leak out to infect the other worlds. Death would see to that, but he could not stop what would happen here. He was as sure of that fact as he was of his very existence. No matter what happened this day, Death vowed that he would find a way to break the hold the angels had on him. He would ensure that the destruction was not mutual to those uninvolved in Heaven's affairs.

Death didn't spare much time planning. He could feel the pull of the chains that bound him to Heaven. He'd wasted too much time already with the soul in his possession. He couldn't linger any longer than necessary. Death pressed past the graveyard dirt and slid the soul into its vessel.

Dean blinked his eyes into the darkness and took his first breath. "Help," he wheezed.

Though his plea held no volume, Death could read the intent in his soul. Hello, Dean, he attempted to speak, but the chains pulled, yanking him from his perch above ground before a word could leave his lips. The Winchester stayed trapped beneath the dirt, forced to claw his way from the grave alone and Death was…

He looked around him, confused as to how he'd arrived here of all places. The light shone brightly and Death knew that only he and God could tolerate it without any form of discomfort. They both burned brighter, after all, and even the glow of the Morningstar could not outdo them.

"Death," Lucifer screamed inside his cage. It came out as little more than a whisper from between the insignificant cracks.

"Lucifer," Death greeted. It had indeed been a while since he'd spoken with the angel. God had been so proud when he'd created him that Death couldn't go a century without hearing about Lucifer or his brother, Michael. To be honest, they truly were some of God's best work—alongside food, of course. No other god before the current had ever thought of including taste in his creations. It was interesting, to say the least, and it seemed as if Death couldn't have enough of it.

"I have a deal," the angel offered.

"Not interested," Death said, internally damning the chains that surrounded him. Zachariah thought that he was clever, but it had been a while since Lucifer had reigned in Heaven and they'd forgotten how easily the eldest of the angels could manipulate the loopholes. Had they forgotten the Great Fall? The sacred Garden? The destruction of whole kingdoms at the hands of their brother? Of course they had. Death scoffed. Only those who thought themselves immortal could be so calloused as to also think themselves infallible. They hadn't counted on the fact that their spell would allow Lucifer to manipulate his bindings.

"I can release you," Lucifer bargained.

Against his better judgment, Death listened.

Yay! Dean's out of Hell! Happy? Let me know in your review (hint hint, nudge nudge, wink wink). Okay, not so subtle. Anyway, I've planned out the rest of the fic. There will be 29 chapters total. The next chapter will come this Thursday or Friday. We're getting closer to the end with every chapter. Soon it'll all be over :( Wanna turn that frown upside down? Follow! Fav! Review! Read on!