"What if Death could directly take Castiel's soul?" Dean turned his head, a nearly crazed light flashing in his eyes. "The moment he dies, pull out his soul and preserve it. Once Leviathan is driven out, put it back."
"That would require Death's consent," Sam said. "And how would you contact him?"
Dean grabbed the dagger and tore off the wrapping.
The chaotic-colored patterns on the blade shimmered faintly beneath the sunlight.
Dean stared at those patterns, drew a deep breath, then quickly pulled the car over on a secluded roadside.
He gripped the dagger again and began chanting under his breath. It was not any proper incantation, just something he had made up himself—a mixture of prayers, pleas, and... less-than-respectful forms of address.
"Old man, listen up. I know you can hear me. This knife has your power, so it's basically a back door. Now I'm demanding after-sales service."
"Come out and talk. It's about the ownership of an angel's soul and a monster's soul. Don't pretend you can't hear me. I know you're not that busy..."
He chanted for five minutes.
Nothing happened.
Sam sighed. "Dean, this isn't going to work."
But Dean still refused to give up and began cursing at the dagger. "If you don't show up, I'll go find Lohr. I'm sure he has a way to make you appear."
"You don't want that either."
Before he finished speaking, the temperature inside the car plummeted.
It was not the air conditioning, but a more fundamental cold, as though time had frozen—or as though everything had come to an end.
A layer of frost formed on the windows, spreading into intricate crystalline patterns.
A voice came from the back seat.
Old and dry, like wind blowing over withered bones in the desert.
"Young man," Death said.