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Summary
Dean is dead. Allegedly. The angel Castiel is supposed to take his soul to Heaven before taking over his body, but his soul is being remarkably stubborn about going, clinging to the moment of his death and refusing to move on. Something's wrong, and they both know it. Either the vessel donation office made a mistake, or something far more sinister is going on.
The more Dean thought about it, the more he wished he’d never signed up for this damned program. A hundred grand had seemed like the answer to every problem he had, and the idea that someone would puppet his body around had been entirely abstract. It had been easy to sign on the dotted line, at the time.
It wasn’t abstract anymore. Not now that he sat here with the thing who was going to do the puppeting.