redefine happiness
I'm standing in the middle of the road, looking down at Dean Winchester's dead body and thinking thinky thoughts when something metallic clicks behind me. Having seen too many late twentieth-century movies, I know exactly what it is. Still, it’s a shock to turn around and see Dean pointing a heavy-looking handgun at me. The gun upsets me more than the dead guy: my life is so weird. Getting shot wouldn’t kill me (for obvious reasons-though it would still hurt like a bitch) but my hands come up automatically. Damn Hollywood.
“Hey, Dean. Look, why don’t you put that down and we can talk?” I know I’ve heard that in a movie somewhere, as a strategy to get the bad guy monologuing about his motives. I could take a good monologue right about now. Anything to kill…well, time. Souls can only interact with the physical world with significant concentration and effort. It took me thirty minutes and a blinding headache to spell out a five-letter word using those dinky magnetic letters when I was dead. I’m pretty impressed that Dean can manage a handgun. He’s either had a lot of practice in the five minutes it took me to drive over here, or he’s got amazing willpower. Either way, of course, he can’t last forever. Whereas I…well, I’m a little bit immortal.
“Who the hell are you?” Dean growls.
“George. I’m George, remember? I drove you here? Met you and Sam this morning?”
Dean spits every word. “Do not talk about Sam. Or I’ll send you right back where you came from, you son of a bitch.”
“Where? Seattle?” I joke. Dean doesn’t even crack a smile. Tough audience, I think, and then realize…of course. He doesn’t recognize me. Dean knows my undead persona, Millie; now that he’s dead, he can see the real me.
“I know I look different,” I babble, because the gun still makes me nervous, “but I really am the same person. I’m a reaper, I took your soul back there, so it wouldn’t…uh, get stuck, kind of.”
“The demon didn’t send you?” Dean still sounds wary, but the level of the gun barrel is dropping. He’s getting tired. “You’ve been following me all day-you’re not here to take me to hell?”
“What?! No! I’m…” Jesus, how to explain this? “I’m a third-party contractor. The middle-man. Middlewoman. I just get your soul out of your body: don’t know where it goes, don’t know why.”
“Prove it,” he insists. And I don’t know what to say: I haven’t got any insider information, I can’t tell him the name of his childhood pet or what his dying thought was or even how he died. All I ever had was his name on a post-it. Believe it or not, no one’s ever asked for proof before. Most dead people are actually pretty trusting. You think they’d freak out, or ask a lot of questions, or have a psychotic break when they see themselves separated from their bodies. But they’re fairly chill about the whole thing (Rube says it’s because, deep down, everyone knows it’s going to happen, that it’s kind of a relief when it finally does). Dean Winchester, though, is a fucking hard sell.
“How can I prove it?” I demand.
Dean shrugs. “You can’t,” he says, and then he shoots me.
§
Holy motherfucking shit, it hurts! Stumbling backwards, right over Dean’s dead body, I land hard on my ass. I put my hand over the gash in my shoulder and try to curl the rest of my body around it, compressing myself into a tiny little ball so the pain doesn’t tear me apart. Vaguely, I feel cool spots on my bare arms-Dean’s phantom hands, trying to coax me into relaxing. Shit, you’re really-shh, shh, ok, let me see, just move your hand He’s talking to me, not angry now, soothing words that I’m not really hearing. I can actually feel the torn skin closing up beneath my fingers, and when it finally does, I take both bloodstained hands and shove.
He ends up sprawled at the edge of the crossroads, and I was right: that trick with the gun took a lot out of him. His skin is kind of gray and he’s trembling with exhaustion like a fever, eyes huge and staring as I stalk over to him. I do not feel sorry for him. Not one little bit. “That hurt, you-you goddamn…jerk!” I’m jittery, my skin jumping with adrenaline, and all I can do is glare at him for a second before I have to move.
“Hey,” he calls after me. And again, just as I reach the car: “Hey!”
“What?!”
He’s struggling to his feet, shaky, nearly tips over once or twice. “Thanks.”
“What?” I say again, a little less viciously.
“I said, thanks. Thank you. I wouldn’t, uh…” he nods at the corpse, “want to be stuck in there. So. Thanks.”
I don’t know what to say: no problem? just doing my job? I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever been thanked before when Dean clears his throat. “Do me a favor?” he asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets and giving me a sheepish grin that I’m sure has gotten him many, many favors in the past.
“What?” Getting shot has really limited my vocabulary, but seriously, it seems like the only thing I’ve done since meeting the Family Winchester is ask questions.
“Dig that up?” he points to an area of turned earth in the center of the crossroads. It was concealed until I went and tripped over his corpse. “I don’t think I can manage it myself.”
“Well, you did pretty well with the gun, there, Buffy!”
Dean winces. “Yeah. Sorry about that. You…weren’t who I was expecting.”
I want to ask who he was expecting, and what kind of life he’s led that the first thing he did when he realized he was dead was take a gun off his own corpse. But I’m already moving toward the body. Goddamn curiosity and that stupid fucking cat. I get distracted by the dirt I’m digging: it’s loose and dry. The ground, the dusty crossroads, the body itself: all dry, like the summer storm never happened.
About six inches down, I unearth a flimsy cardboard box that, according to the printed label, once held fifty Pyrodex shotgun pellets. I get it out of the hole it’s wedged in, slide the lid off, and hold it out so Dean can see the contents. Ash and sand, a single red thread and a twist of burnt metal.
Dean reaches for the box and his hand goes right through. He winces and pulls back quickly. His forehead creases in concentration; the second time, his fingers close around the box and he lifts it from my palm like it’s impossibly fragile. He turns it over-the contents stream away in a ribbon of white ash.
“Okay,” he says, when the last of it is borne away on the wind. “I’m done.” Then he turns to look at me. “What now?”
“Uhm. Nothing. You’ll know when you’re supposed to leave. To go on to…whatever. Until then, we just wait.”
“Oh.” Dean runs a hand through his hair. After a moment: “Do we have to wait here?”
“Not really.”
“Great!” Dean grins. “I could do with a milkshake.”
The grin is infectious and, reviewing everything Rube’s ever told me, I really can’t think of any reason not to. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? We’re both dead already. “Okay. Milkshake it is.”
§
Dean takes a deep breath and steps through the car door. I’m halfway to the car myself when I realize that we’ve forgotten something.
“Uh. What about-” I jerk my head toward the body, tumbled like a discarded toy on the side of the road, where I’d tripped over it. “I mean, we can’t just…”
“Leave it?” Dean said with a shrug. “Why not? I don’t need it anymore. Just-close my eyes, would you? I’m kind of freaking me out.”
Somehow just driving away feels wrong, but I figure-hey-it’s Dean’s body, and if he doesn’t care, why should I?
If you don’t mind my asking,” I begin, unsure of the protocol for this sort of thing, “why did you die? I mean-what killed you?”
Dean runs a hand up the back of his head, ruffling his hair. “I, uh, stopped breathing?” he says, like this should be obvious.
“Uh, yeah. But why?”
“It was time.”
“But-”
“I’m a cheap date,” Dean concedes. “Buy me a milkshake, let me take a look at that shoulder of yours, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
§
I drive back to the highway and stop at the first fast food place I find, my interest in the story outweighing the desire to find Roxy and preen (who finally convinced Dean Winchester to up and die already? Yes, that’s right. Girl's got skills.) I bring Dean’s milkshake-“and fries!” he yells after me-out to the car and watch, impressed, as he wolfs them down. It’s less the speed at which he makes the food vanish, mostly at the fact that he’s supposed to be incorporeal. He hasn’t made any of the rookie mistakes: no walking through people, no trying to open doors or expecting other people to see him. Nevertheless, when he concentrates, he seems to be able to interact with the physical world like he's not dead at all.
“You’re good at this,” I admit, unwrapping the straw for my own milkshake.
Around a mouthful of fries: “whafff?”
“Usually people who’ve been reaped aren’t quite so, uh. Solid?”
Dean swallows, shrugs. “I’ve had some practice,” he says modestly.
“Being dead?!”
He backtracks. “Not so much dead as…not entirely alive? There were a couple of months there I-see, there was this trickster…well, really, it all started with..” He doesn’t seem quite sure of how to tell the story, but I’m ok with the idea of death being a non-binary state, so that makes things seem a little easier. I don’t understand all of the backstory, but the upshot seems to be that the Family Winchester hunts supernatural beings-which is, not surprisingly, more dangerous than the fairytales make it seem. Dangerous enough that Sam had ended up dead, and Dean has summoned a demon and negotiated a deal: his own life, minus one year, in exchange for Sam’s.
“And my half of the payment came due…” he checks his wrist automatically, before realizing that he’s not wearing his watch, “about an hour ago.”
“Damn,” I say, because I didn’t know there was an installment plan for stuff like this: buy now, pay later. Of course, I don’t know much about demons, but I imagine they would be sticklers for paying your dues on time. “So you die and he lives? That was-” I can’t decide on an adjective (generous? Short-sighted? Fucking insane?) but Dean cuts me off, bristling, like he’s heard enough opinions about his actions.
“My decision, that’s what it was,” he snaps. “And it’s done now, anyway: no going back.”
I snort. “That’s for sure.”
Dean watches me, suspicious, but once he gets the idea that I’m not going to try and argue him out of his deal-what good would that do?-he settles back in his seat.
“Sammy’s the brains of this operation, anyway,” he explains. “He’ll figure out some way to get me back-couldn’t do that if he were dead, now could he?”
I hum noncommittally into my strawberry shake. As I’ve said…don’t know much about demons, but I do know a little about death: pretty sure it’s not reversible.
Dean looks at me like he can tell what I’m thinking. “Sam’ll come up with something,” he says firmly.
I look out over the hood: the restaurant lot is part of a larger travel plaza. Gas station, souvenir shop, lots of long-haul truckers. I watch a semi angle toward the on-ramp, back to the highway. I wonder where it’s going. “I follow my sister to the movies, sometimes, just to see her, make sure she’s OK,” I say, and I’m surprised. That wasn’t what I meant to say at all.
“That’s nothing," Dean scoffs, "I used to drive to California just to sit outside Sam’s apartment. I mean, not like Sam can’t take care of himself,” he hurries to assure me. “Hell, he’d probably do a better job of it than I would. It’s just…”
“Yeah. I know,” I say. And I do.
He holds out his packet of fries. “Younger sister?”
“Yeah.”
He nods like I’ve confirmed something he already knew and we return to watching the trucks in the travel plaza.
“So, what about you?” he says at last.
“What about me?”
“You know my story. I wanna know yours. What brings you to a certain crossroads outside Seattle?”
I give him a quick recap-how I’d grown up not far from here, died even closer, and now had a part-time gig reaping souls. By appointment only. I tell him about the post-it notes.
Dean shakes his head, disbelieving. “Must be so weird.”
“The reaping? Takes some getting used to, I guess.”
“No, living in the same town your whole life.”
“It was OK,” I shrug, and it’s not until I’ve said it that I realize it’s true.
§
“So, Daisy’s not really your sister?” he asks next
“She’s not.”
Dean shrugs equably. “That’s OK; she’s still hot.”
I cannot believe I am having this conversation. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate hearing that.”
My straw makes a sharp sucking sound as it reaches the end of my milkshake. Dean’s already finished his. He gathers up the empty cups along with the straw wrappers, paper napkins, cold French fries.
It’s too much for one person to carry-especially someone who has a touch-and-go relationship with corporeality-and the wind keeps tugging things out of his hands as he walks across the parking lot to the trashcan. I follow along, picking up what he drops, and I think he’s hamming up the clutziness just to make me laugh.
He turns suddenly, walking backwards so he can face me. “Hey, George. Do me a favor?”
“Sure.” I agree without even wondering what he wants, and I haven’t done that in a while.
“When this is over…I mean, whenever it is that I go-where I’m going?”
“Yeah?” The trashcan, at the edge of the lot, near a picnic table, is the kind with a squirrel proof lid, so I jog ahead to open it for him.
“Would you go check on Sam? I mean, you don’t have to talk to him or anything-you could, though, if you want to. You’re…well, he has this thing for blondes…but, anyway, I could give you some phone numbers. Friends of ours…Guy outside Sioux Falls. A girl I used to know in Nebraska. Maybe you could just check in on him and, if things aren’t…uh, if he’s not doing all right, you could just call one of them. Just so someone’s looking after him?”
We’re not supposed to talk to about reaps before they happen for obvious reasons…but fuck Rube’s stupid rules: it seems like the least I can do. Dean’s dead-who is he gonna tell? I wait by the picnic table until he gets close, so I don’t have to yell. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. I never have any good news to tell anyone and, not to play favorites, but it seems like Dean could use a little after the day he’s had.
“We can check up on him right now. My friend Roxy has an appointment with Sam in about an hour,” I tell him, thinking that there may be advantages to reaping families. Undead Older Siblings United. Maybe we’ll get t-shirts made up. “So I know exactly where he’ll be.”
Dean doesn’t smile back. In fact, his face twists like someone just punched him in the stomach. Hard. He blinks, confused, and sinks down onto the bench of the picnic table like he’s lost his balance. He actually flickers, cutting in and out like a TV with bad horizontal hold. The trash in his arms blows right through him, cup lids and paper napkins fluttering across the parking lot like miniature flags of surrender.
“Oh, Jesus,” he whispers hoarsely, staring at me like that will make me take it back. “Oh, God, Sammy.”
I don’t understand. This is good news. This is my good news. It’s even better than just getting to see Sam. Here I’ve risked my ass telling Dean something he shouldn’t even know and he’s sitting there with his head in his hands like it’s the end of his fucking world and-oh.
Oh. Shit. Rube says that it’s important for us to remember what it’s like to be alive-when I complain about having to go to work at Happy Times or paying rent or whatever, he says it’s good for me, helps me maintain perspective. I’ve always thought it sounded like bullcrap. Like I could ever forget what it was like to be a real, living person. Like being undead gives you a new set of values or whatever. Today, for the first time, I realize that I have forgotten. The living are a different culture, now: they live in a different country, and I cannot remember how people do things there.
“I didn’t mean it that way! I mean, I…Sam doesn’t kill himself,” I say clumsily. Dean flinches and I try to come up with a better way to say it. “We don’t…uh, there’s another group in charge of suicides. Or you know,” I rush ahead, “maybe it’s some kind of mistake. A post-it meant for somebody else. That’s been happening a lot lately,” I ramble desperately.
Dean’s stopped flickering, although he still looks strangely insubstantial. “Really?” he asks, and the suspicion is back. It’s like our little bonding session never happened. Damn. I am such a moron.
“Really!” I try to sound as encouraging as possible, but the truth is that things have been so screwed up lately that I can’t guarantee anything. All I know is that Sam Winchester has an appointment this evening. Maybe it’s an error, maybe it’s a suicide. Who the hell knows anymore?
{Part 8}