Sam swallowed hard, trying to control his nerves. "Um, hi," he said, rather lamely.

Death regarded him with those unnervingly discerning eyes, eyes that had seen more grief and joy than Sam could ever fathom. He stood tall in his old fashioned black suit, one hand curled over the pommel of his cane. He looked exactly the same as the last time Sam had seen him, right down to the high forehead, sharp cheekbones and sharper gaze. Sam hoped the fondness he remembered was still there, too.

"Hello," Death greeted, the shadow of a smile touching his lips.

Sam gulped once more, then gestured with his unslung arm to the chair beside the paper bag of takeout. "Would you like seat? I got you some zucchini fries. They're good."

Death watched Sam for another moment before his expression abruptly changed to polite interest and he pulled the chair out and settled himself upon it. "Thank you."

Sam sat down opposite, waiting for Death to eat a few of the fries before starting.

"You know, during my entire existence," Death said in between bites, "I believe I have only ever been summoned six times. Three of them have been in the last decade." His hawk-like gaze turned up from the bag to bore into Sam. "The last two have been by Winchesters."

Sam shifted uncomfortably, not knowing how to respond. Luckily, Death spoke again.

"You've proven to be a very daring young man, Sam."

"... Thank you," Sam said uncertainly, trying not to make it sound like a question.

Death's eyebrows rose. "I'm not entirely sure I meant that as a compliment."

He resumed his snack, allowing silence to fill the room. When he had eaten the last sliver of zucchini and licked his fingers clean, Death shifted in his seat, crossing his legs and looked up at Sam expectantly.

"Now then, Mr. Winchester. I trust you've summoned me for good reason. I take it things haven't been easy for you since last we met." Death glanced to Sam's cut face and slung arm.

"No, they, uh, haven't." Sam wondered if he should apologise for refusing Death's offer in that cottage. He opened his mouth to say something, but Death's upraised hand stopped him.

"You needn't apologise, Sam. Few people are granted a choice in death, and those who are rarely make the right one. Your reasons, however, were noble, and I harbour no ill will towards you as a result."

"Thank you."

"Your brother is a determined fellow, especially when it comes to your wellbeing."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"I assume he's the reason you've summoned me."

Sam watched Death's expression carefully before answering, but the Horseman gave nothing away. "Yes."

"You want me to stop him."

"... Yes," Sam said warily.

"But not to kill him."

"No! No, not to kill him. I just ... I wanted to ask you some things. I can stop him, I just need to know ho –"

"Can you?" Death cut across him. Sam frowned. "Can you stop him?"

Sam's frown deepened. "Yes."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes," Sam repeated, more firmly.

"And how do you propose to do that? Dean has the same affliction as Cain, and I'm sure you know of his long history."

"You know Cain?"

"I do. Answer the question, Sam."

"I ... That's what I need your help with. We found a demon cure, and I tried it on Dean, but it didn't work. I don't know why. I just ... I just need to know how to cure him."

Death leaned back slightly. "What makes you think there is a cure?"

Sam blinked. "Well ... There must be one."

"Why must there be one?"

"Because Dean ... Dean's a demon, and if you can cure a demon then why couldn't you cure him?"

"Don't you think that same thought occurred to Cain?"

That gave Sam pause.

"Maybe he didn't want to be cured."

Death laughed, his wide smile splitting his face as his laughter echoed around the hall. "I can assure you, Sam, Cain wanted to be cured. If he hadn't, then he would never have been cursed as he was, now, would he?"

"I suppose not."

As the echoes of Death's laughter faded into silence, Death leaned forward, leaning his forearms on the smooth table. "You want my help in curing your brother, but what makes you think that I would, firstly, have any idea how to accomplish that, or, secondly, would want to help you?"

Sam shifted his weight carefully so as not to aggravate his sore ribs. "I don't know if you know the cure: I hope you do. And I've got notes written in Elamite that might help, but I can't read them. I assume you can." Death inclined his head slightly. "As to why you should help me, well, it's the right thing to do."

"Is it now? Why? Because you want it done? Because you want your brother back? You think that is an important enough reason to bother Death himself? I am rather busy, you know."

"I know you are. And no, it's not right just because I want it done. And it's not right just because Dean would hate himself right now if he could think straight. It's the right thing to do because Dean has killed hundreds of people, created new demons and Knights of Hell, and because he's planning to take over Heaven and the Veil. And he has to be stopped."

"So why not just kill him?"

"Because he's my brother!" Sam said, more angrily than he had intended. "Look," he said, calming his tone, "you know what Dean went through to convince you to save my soul from the Pit. You know what he did to bring me back from the brink last time you saw me. Well, that's nothing compared to what I will do to bring him back from the brink."

"I've noticed: you've sent a lot of souls my way, Sam Winchester."

Sam bristled, not liking the reminder. "I did what I had to do."

"You know Adolf Hitler said the same thing?"

"What?"

"Well, not to me," Death elaborated, "I didn't meet the man myself, but to his Reaper."

"Are you saying I'm as bad as Hitler?"

"No, Sam," he said, his tone suddenly serious and solemn. "You share very little with that man. But," he continued, "believing actions are justified because you had to do them is one of few traits shared by such men as Adolf."

Sam looked down at his hands, picking distractedly at a scab.

"Even if I knew how to kill him," he said at last, choosing each word carefully, "I could never do it." His gaze rose to meet Death's. "No matter what he's done, no matter how many people he's killed, he's still my brother. My family. And I would rather die than see him dead."

The corner of Death's mouth twitched slightly. He held Sam's gaze for a long moment, and Sam was sure Death was looking into his very soul.

"Good answer, my boy."

Sam's shoulders relaxed. "You'll help me then?" he asked hopefully.

Death bowed his head in a solemn nod. "I will. But for a price."

Sam's heart sank. "What price?"

Death leant back in his chair again, flicking a piece of fluff off his trouser leg. "Heaven has been sealed for two years now," he began, idly inspecting his cane. "Every soul that has died in that time is currently trapped in the Veil."

"Yeah," Sam whispered, thinking of Kevin. "I know."

"But you do not know the gravity of it, Sam," Death returned sternly. "Billions of souls are trapped in a plane that was only ever intended to house a few million at most, and it has only ever approached that limit three times in human history. The Veil is utterly packed, and yet every second, more die and are forced into it. With Heaven sealed, there is nothing I, nor my Reapers, can do to help them, and despite my reputation among the humans, I do not revel in the pain of others, particularly those in my charge. Several of my Reapers have been unable to bear the souls' pain. Many of them have taken their own lives. Many more have been slaughtered by your brother and his followers."

Death leant forward, fixing Sam with his rapture gaze.

"I need you, Sam Winchester, to vow to me, on your brother's soul, that you will reopen Heaven and restore the souls to their eternal homes."

Sam's eyes widened of their own accord. Reopen Heaven? How in the hell was he supposed to manage that? They'd been trying to unseal it for a year and the closest they'd come was discovering the portal! He could hardly smuggle billions of souls through what must be like the eye of a needle. Not to mention the fact that he had no idea how to reach the Veil. Apart from taking out vengeful spirits and guide a séance, he didn't even know how to communicate with transient souls.

"I ... have no idea how to even attempt to accomplish that."

"Well," Death said, his tone perfectly polite but carrying the finality of, well, death. "Then you must either find a way, or save your brother without my aid."

Knowing he would spend a lot of time wishing he hadn't said what he was about to voice, Sam replied. "I swear. I will do everything in my power to free Heaven."

"On your brother's soul," Death corrected firmly. "You must swear to me on your brother's soul."

Sam gulped. "I swear."

"Knowing that if you have not freed Heaven within, let's say, eighteen months, I will personally come and take your brother myself?"

"What! That's not fair – I don't even know if you can help me save Dean!"

Death's eyebrows raised warningly. "I assure you, Mr. Winchester. I can."

"Well – then –"

"Do I have your word, Sam Winchester?"

Sam heaved a sigh big enough to send a shooting pain through his chest. Was he a magnet for impossible jobs, or was it just a coincidence? If he couldn't figure out how to restore Heaven – which was sealed with an irreversible spell if Crowley was to be believed – in just a year and a half, then Dean was dead. For good.

Yet if he didn't agree to this bargain, Dean would spend the rest of his life – his immortal life, Sam suddenly realised – alone and living as his worst nightmare. Not to mention Sam could never live with himself if he failed Dean in this. His brother had never needed him more.

Reluctantly, Sam nodded. "I vow on Dean's soul, I will get the lost souls into Heaven."

Death smiled and opened his mouth to respond. Sam cut him off.

"But. In exchange, you need to tell me exactly how to cure Dean of being a demon – and the Mark of Cain. And," he added, "I need you to make a new Grace for Castiel. And if you want Heaven opened anytime soon, you'd better heal me. I can't exactly save Dean when I can barely walk straight, and there's no way I'm fixing Heaven before my brother."

Death's eyebrows were raised dangerously high, and the smallest of smiles curved the edges of his mouth. He had never looked so terrifying. This expression, Sam suddenly realised, was probably the origin of the phrase "if looks could kill".

"Not many people have ever spoken to me in such a rude and expectant manner," Death said conversationally, but his voice was deadly underneath the calm surface. "And lived." he added.

Sam gulped, but held his gaze.

"I should warn you, Sam, just because I am somewhat fascinated by you and your brother, and just because I have been impressed by the good you have done, it would be most ... unwise to presume that apparent fondness protects you. I am a being as old as the universe itself; to me, you are a fleeting spark of, currently arrogant, dust. You would do well to remember that."

Swallowing hard, Sam looked down to his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He had crossed a line, and he knew it. Just because Death needed him didn't mean there wasn't someone else, a more polite someone else, he could employ.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly to the table.

"Apology accepted. As are your terms, although," he added, raising a long slender finger to underscore his next words, "to bind you to your word I shall hold your brother's soul as collateral. I will tell you how to bind the Mark's power only, not remove it. When you have fulfilled your end of the bargain, and the souls are returned, I shall come to your brother and free him of the brand." Death fixed Sam with serious eyes and his tone became one of utter finality. "That is my amendment; I shall hear no argument on the matter."

Sam's shoulders sagged, but he nodded. It would be foolish to push his luck much further.

"As for your angel friend's Grace, if you are certain you want the angel who released the Leviathans and wreaked havoc during his short time as god to be empowered once again, I can tell you how such a thing can be done. Though, again, I warn you the outcome is not guaranteed. No human has ever attempted to restore an angel's Grace."

Nodding, Sam looked back up to the old Horseman's face. "Thank you. But if you don't remove the Mark, is it even possible to cure Dean?"

"It is possible. And he is very fortunate; it is a cure that is forever lost to Cain himself."

"But you can help me cure him?"

"I can tell you how it is done, yes. But understand this, Sam Winchester." Death said, leaning closer over the table once more. "Even with the knowledge I will grant you, and even if the cure goes according to plan, there is no guarantee that Dean will survive the process, that who he is will endure it. It has never been done before, and the theory suggests a truly unpleasant experience. There is no way to know whether or not Dean is strong enough to –"

"He is," Sam interjected, his voice certain.

"There is no way to know whether or not Dean is strong enough," Death repeated pointedly, "to survive not only the cure itself, but its aftermath."

"What aftermath?"

"For the cure to be complete, for Dean to be truly human again, he must face himself. And from what I know of your brother, that will be as difficult a task as any he has faced."

Sam nodded, but inwardly ignored the warning. They would cross that bridge when they came to it. First they had to de-demonify Dean's soul. One problem at a time.

"I understand." He glanced to his left and reached out to pull Kevin's Elamite translations towards himself. "These," he continued, holding the pages as though they were made of precious glass, "are notes made from the Angel Tablet by the last prophet, Kevin –"

"Kevin Tran," Death finished. Sam glanced up to him. "He was a nice boy," Death said by way of an explanation.

"Well, uh," Sam continued, "if there is a way to reverse Metatron's spell, it'll be in here." He looked up to meet Death's gaze. "Can you read proto-Elamite kineaphorm?"

Death nodded once. "I can."

Sam held the pages out to him with his good arm, and Death took them gently. He ran his gaze over each of the pages in turn, his eyebrows rising slightly at what he read.

"Well now," he said at last. "That's the most interesting read I've had in centuries."

"Does it help us?"

Death let the pages fall onto the dark wood of the tabletop and looked up at Sam with the air of someone about to comment on the loveliness of the day. "As a matter of fact, they do."

"But first," Death said, getting to his feet with a hand on his cane. "We have work to do."

Death sauntered calmly around the table and gestured for Sam to stand. He hastened to obey, eliciting a ripple of sharp pain from his torso and shoulder as he did so. Once he was on his feet, Death raised one hand from the silver handle of his cane.

"You have work to do."

So gently Sam barely felt the pressure of it, Death touched two fingers of his right hand to Sam's forehead. For a split second, all Sam felt was the tiny pressure of the Horseman's fingertips. Then, suddenly, an explosion seemed to punch itself into Sam's brain from the gentle pressure, making his head jerk reflexively away and a shocked, pained gasp escape his lungs.

Then, just as abruptly, everything went black.