Chapter Text
Dean has no idea what time it is.
He’s buttering a piece of toast at the island counter, and the only thing he knows is that it’s been too long since he last felt like eating. So he scrapes his knife slowly over the bread, trying to make sure every bit of the surface is coated, because maybe a methodical approach to food preparation will make him want to eat the end result.
As he works, Dean realizes with utter detachment that his toast days are numbered. The people who make butter are all gone. Hell, the cows are all gone. And once all the bread in the world goes bad, Dean’s not going to bother with baking his own. They won’t have electricity or running water for much longer, anyway.
So that’s that.
Because everyone is gone.
They have been gone for three days, and the only ones left on Earth are him, and Sam, and Jack.
When he’s done with the butter, Dean sets the knife down and regards the toast.
It cooled as he was working, so most of the bread is glazed with bright yellow butter, softened but not melted. It glistens in an unappealing way, and all Dean can do is stare.
Everyone is gone.
Everyone including—
Dean picks up the cold, stiff toast and bites into it, and it tastes like nothing, but he chews and swallows and is determined to swallow everything else down, too—everything—the way he has for the past three days.
He forces himself to take another bite, and imagines that he and Sam and Jack will wander the Earth eating food out of cans until they die. Dean’s lips twitch into a ghost of a smile at this, thinking how infuriatingly boring that will be for Chuck to watch.
“Fuck you, man,” Dean mutters, stuffing the rest of the toast into his mouth. He dumps his empty plate in the sink and dusts crumbs off his hands.
When he turns around, Sam and Jack are just entering the kitchen, but they stop short in the doorway when they see Dean. Jack has Chuck’s death book under one arm.
Dean swallows his toast and takes in Sam’s cautious expression, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint frown pulling his brows together. Sam’s been looking at him with that frown ever since he and Jack had gotten back to the bunker, and Sam had asked, What happened, and Dean hadn’t provided an answer beyond, The Entity—that thing from the Empty… It took Billie and it took Cas. He’s gone.
Dean clenches his jaw and his hands curl into fists.
Sam says, “Jack has an idea.” Once, he would have sounded tentatively hopeful about this, but now he just sounds exhausted. It’s not like Dean can blame him, after he’s lost Eileen and then watched everyone he was trying to protect disappear in front of his eyes.
Dean glances at Jack. They still don’t know how he’d survived detonating in the Empty—or how his grace and soul had remained intact. He still has his wings, but they’d been damaged by the detonation, and his powers are gone. The kid looks like a kicked dog. He’s wearing the same frown as Sam, only sadder somehow, the corners of his mouth turned down.
Dean rubs his face and a sigh escapes him, but he nods once. “Okay.”
Jack leads them through the halls, and for a moment Dean thinks he’s taking them to the dungeon. He balks until Jack strides past the door and goes into one of the other archive rooms clustered nearby.
Inside, Jack goes directly to the table at the back. It’s strewn with documents, books, and stacks of folders—abandoned research efforts. The book Dean had hurled at the wall is still lying on the floor where it had fallen, open and with its spine nearly split in two.
Dean looks away from it, focusing instead on Jack, who sets Chuck’s book down on top of the mess on the table. After a brief search under some papers he finds the box with the grinning red skull on the lid. Dean’s fingernails bite into his palm.
Jack withdraws the key to Death’s Library and holds it up. “There might be something in there—some way we can open and read this,” he says, resting his fingertips on the book’s cover.
Dean exchanges a look with Sam, and they both nod.
“Worth a try,” Sam says.
So Sam recites the Latin inscription on the box’s lid, and the outline of the door burns itself into the brick wall. They get it open and step cautiously over the threshold, Jack cradling the book in his arms.
The lights are on, but the library is enveloped in an unearthly quiet.
Dean’s skin is just beginning to crawl when a calm voice says, “I wondered when you would find your way here.”
They turn to see a familiar figure seated at the reading table, hands folded, white ring gleaming on his finger.
The original Death gazes at them impassively, eyes flicking between the three of them. His scythe—the one Dean had used to supposedly kill him—is propped against the wall behind him. Traditional and simplistic, it’s out of place in the sleek, ultra-modern library. Dean wonders now if the library has always been like this, or if Billie’s notions of grandeur had resulted in a remodel.
Sam’s face twists in confusion. “How…”
“I cannot be killed, Sam,” Death says, measured and placid. “I merely stepped aside.” Before Dean can question this, Death cocks his head and fixes his gaze on Jack. “We haven’t been introduced. I am Death.”
In his peripheral vision, Dean sees Jack raise a hand in greeting. “I’m Jack.” There is a pause, and then he says, “Are you going to kill us?”
Dean, his eyes on Death, says, “That’s not usually his style.” Death focuses his attention on him and Dean says, “But we haven’t seen each other in a while, and he’s never been our biggest fan.”
Death smiles at him but doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to Jack and raises his eyebrows, indicating Chuck’s death book. “That’s a weighty thing to be carrying around.”
Jack glances at Dean and Sam in turn, uncertain. His fingers curl around the edges of the book as he draws it closer to his chest. He says to Death, “We need a way to read it.”
“Yes, we have quite the mess on our hands, haven’t we?” Death sits back in his chair. “Chuck has destroyed the other worlds, absorbed Amara and her power, and eliminated most of the earth’s living beings.” He looks at Sam and then Dean, unblinking. “I imagine it’s nice to have a day off from being the world’s primary source of chaos.”
“You can read this,” Sam says, pointing to the book. “Will you help us?”
Dean cuts in before Death can answer. “When we met in Chicago, you told me that one day you’d reap God. Well, I say: no time like the present.”
Death doesn’t reply to either of them, just holds out a hand. “May I have that, please?” he says to Jack.
Jack looks at both Dean and Sam and they nod at him, so he steps forward and hands the book to Death.
Death sets it down on the table and opens the cover. Without looking up at them he says, “You’re welcome to have a seat while you wait.”
Dean glances behind him and finds a chair. They settle in, and Death begins skimming Chuck’s book. From where Dean’s sitting, the pages appear blank, but Death’s eyes are moving back and forth.
They wait an interminable time, but it’s not as though they have anything else to do. Dean clasps his hands and rubs one thumb back and forth. Although he’s relieved there’s another heavy hitter in the game, Dean can’t let himself be hopeful. Even if the original Death was never anything like Billie, there’s no guarantee he’ll be on their side.
So, as pages turn in the background, Dean focuses on his hands, and relaxes his jaw when he realizes he’s tensing up again, and doesn’t think about anything but the present. From time to time, Sam clears his throat, and Jack fidgets.
Eventually, the sound of pages being flipped in rapid succession catches Dean’s attention. He looks up to find Death turning the final pages of the book, wearing a slight frown. He touches one of the pages lightly, drawing his fingertips over it, but his eyes aren’t moving.
“These pages are censored,” Death murmurs, gazing down at the book. “I don’t know how that could be possible.” He actually looks confused, and it unnerves Dean.
No one says anything, and after a few moments Death closes the book and sets it aside, a thoughtful expression on his face as he folds his hands atop the table.
Finally, he looks up at them. “I should be able to read every word in that book. The fact that I’m unable to is assuredly cause for concern. So I’ll help you.”
Dean’s mouth drops open in surprise, and he exchanges a glance with Sam and Jack.
“I warn you,” Death says, “I can only point you in a direction. If I were to leave this place, Chuck would become aware of my return, and I believe it’s in our best interests to keep that quiet for now.”
Death rests a hand on the cover of the book. “You should also know that what’s written here—what I can read of it—can change based on the actions you take. I can’t be certain of your success—this isn’t fate. But that shouldn’t bother you too much, should it, seeing as you’ve always carried the flag for free will.”
Dean says, “Tell us what we need to do.”
“The only thing I’m able to tell you,” Death says, “is that you’re going to need an archangel.”
Sam shakes his head. “We don’t have too many of those handy right now,” he says tightly. “We don’t know where Michael is… or if he’s even still out there.”
Death raises his eyebrows. “I suppose you’d better start looking, then.”
An idea is taking hold in Dean’s mind, and a sudden restless energy pushes him to his feet; his chair scrapes the floor, the sound of it loud and grating in the quiet library. He begins to pace, and Sam and Jack half-turn to watch him.
After a few moments he grips the back of his chair, leaning over it. “Like you said, Sam, we have no idea where Michael is, or if he’s even still here. He could be out on the other side of the universe, for all we know.” Dean straightens and starts pacing again. “But we do know for sure there are three archangels in the Empty. And Billie was able to stick Jack in there, so you could get us in, right?” Dean says, turning to Death.
“I could,” Death says. “But your exit is something you would need to negotiate with the Entity. The Empty is not my domain, and sending you into it is a trespass.”
“Hold up,” Sam says, frowning as though Dean has lost his mind, and hell, maybe he has. “We don’t know ‘for sure’ there are three archangels in the Empty.” He stands as Dean continues pacing. “Jack detonated in there—it probably wiped everyone out.”
Dean gestures insistently at Jack. “Well then tell me how he survived! The Entity, too. Something must have gone wrong. The ‘God bomb’ was Billie’s idea but we know Chuck had control of the board the entire time, so maybe the whole thing was a load of crap.”
“Assuming whoever’s in there did make it,” Sam says, “we don’t know that Gabriel’s there. He died in another universe; what’s to say there aren’t multiple Empties, and he went to the one that belonged to that other world? He would’ve been our best option. Raphael and Lucifer—you really want to bank on them helping us?” Sam shakes his head. “Even if Lucifer were willing to, if he were resurrected he’d wreak havoc. We know this! And what about Billie?”
Dean is flooded with clarity and purpose, and, whether it’s right or wrong, he can’t seem to make himself feel any concern over Sam’s words. Sam can tell he’s not reaching Dean; he makes a frustrated sound and takes Dean’s arm, pulling him over to one of the stacks. Death and Jack watch them from where they sit on opposite sides of the table.
“Dean—”
“Sam.” Dean is calm—serene, even. “I need you with me on this. If you don’t want to go, that’s fine—you and Jack can look for Michael. But you need to let me do this.”
Sam is shaking his head. “Michael’s our best chance, and it’s a lot safer.” He gives Dean an imploring look.
“We’re a little past playing it safe, Sammy,” Dean says, not unkindly.
Sam sighs through his nose and turns away, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.
“I think Dean is right,” Jack says. Dean and Sam look over at him. “I don’t want us to separate, but if we can’t find Michael, then we still need an archangel. If we do find him, and we can get an archangel out of the Empty, then we’ll have two of them.” There’s a long pause as Dean watches Sam evaluate this.
“He’s right,” Sam says softly. “We need all the help we can get.”
Dean nods. “Then we’ll split up. You two look for Michael,” Dean says, pointing between Sam and Jack, “and I’ll head into the Empty. If I don’t make it out then the two of you still got good odds.”
Sam frowns down at the floor for a moment before lifting his head. “Alright,” Sam says. Dean is gratified to see the acceptance in his eyes, even if it’s mingled with reserve.
“Make whatever preparations you need to,” Death says, “and return when you’re ready. In the meantime I have some reading to do.” Death pulls Chuck’s book toward him, and Dean, Sam, and Jack head for the exit. “Oh, and—do refrain from mentioning me outside of this room.” They all nod their understanding.
Stepping over the threshold into the bunker, Dean absently brushes a hand over his chest; there’s something stirring between his ribs, cautious but alive. He crosses the room and retrieves the damaged book from the floor, then sets it gently on the table.