DCBB - Death Comes for Mr. Winchester - CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER TWO
It took several hours, a bit of screaming, a LOT of cursing and a smack or two from Bobby before Dean managed to make the two sets of wings de-materialize from his back. He was grouchy and sweated by the time they achieved success, and honestly a bit worried at his other two angel’s continued absence. Whenever they had popped up top previously, they never stayed long, just enough for reconnaissance. This time they had been gone for the entire ordeal of Dean tucking away his new appendages and still hadn’t returned.
“I don’t like it.”
Castiel sighed as he pulled out a new set of sheets from their closet.
“You are connected to them, Dean. If something had happened… you would feel it.”
Dean shifted out of the angel’s way so that he could make the bed with their thirteenth set of sheets. (They stocked a surplus of them at this point.) This set was a pale orange color, and Dean was pretty sure that was Cas punishing him for vaporizing the last set.
“Yeah, I got that … but I still don’t like it. Gabriel’s not even responding when I poke him, and he loves to poke me back. Viciously.”
Cas hummed softly under his breath as he retrieved the down comforter and spread it across the foot of the bed.
“He may just be concentrating on whatever has happened.”
Dean growled and kicked at the pillows stacked on the floor.
“Dammit. It just pisses me off that I can’t send you up there to sort it out.”
The angel froze in the middle of reaching for one of the pillows and Dean cursed under his breath. Castiel hated when he was reminded about his banishment from Heaven. Even if he was happy with his life on earth. Even if he was in love with Dean. He didn’t like to think about being shut out of his home. Dean quickly crossed the room to wrap his arms around the slighter man.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
Castiel sighed and pushed himself gently out of Dean’s embrace.
“You did not have to bring up what I was already thinking of.”
“Cas-,”
“I think I would like to go for a walk, Dean.”
“Yeah, sure, babe wherever you-,”
“Alone, please, Dean.”
The ex-hunter blinked, a little stunned at first, but nodded to show his angel that he understood. Cas turned abruptly and walked out the door, leaving his human to just stare at his retreating back. Dean flopped backwards onto the mattress and sighed at the ceiling. Great. Just great. What a fanfuckingtastic day he was having.
There was a soft knock at the door and a lift of his head revealed Sam leaning in the doorway.
“You okay, Dean?”
The elder brother snorted before allowing his head to drop back onto the bed.
“Just peachy, Sammy. You?”
Sam moved further into the room until he was standing close enough to cast Dean in his massive shadow. His arms were crossed over his chest and the look on his face was hitting bitch level.
“I’m worried about you.”
Dean snorted but Sam continued as if he hadn’t.
“You’ve got these power surges happening, you nearly had a breakdown over the wings this afternoon, and now Cas just walked out of here looking like he was sucking on a lemon.”
“Maybe he was.”
“Dean!”
The younger man sighed again before sitting on the edge of the bed near Dean’s knees.
“There’s a lot going on. And it’s scary and crazy and maybe… just a little too big for you to handle by yourself like you always do. Talk to us. Talk to me or Cas or Bobby. Stop bottling this shit all up inside. Jesus, Dean! You have wings! And the power to move things, change things … you’re going to be the replacement for God. God! Sometimes I just don’t know what to think about all this. Sometimes I just get lost inside my head with it. So I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”
Dean rolled over on his side facing away from his brother, hoping that would end the conversation. No such luck.
“It’s just … you’re so quiet lately. Not that you were ever particularly verbose, but this is different. You don’t talk to me anymore. You keep saying you’re fine, but I have a lifetime of experience telling me how empty that word is when it comes to your well-being. I don’t know what’s going on inside that stupid, thick skull of yours. Are you okay with all of this? Are you really, really okay with this?”
Dean grunted before he flipped back over to stare at his younger brother.
“Does it really matter, Sam? I don’t get a choice in this. Haven’t since the very beginning. So it’s more about figuring out how to work with the hand I’ve been dealt, rather than painting our fingernails and bonding over Hagen Daas.”
Sam snorted before twisting his body to lie down beside his brother.
“You always take too much onto yourself. You’re not alone here. Even if you didn’t have me and the others… you have Cas. I mean, he’s like your … life partner, or whatever, right? Do you even talk about this with him? How you’re changing? What the future holds for both of you?”
Dean pursed his lips and refused to meet his brother’s gaze.
“Or are you just focusing on your physical relationship and leaving Castiel just as in the dark as I am?”
“What do you expect me to say, Sam? I don’t do share and care. That’s just not in my makeup. I can’t tell you how I’m feeling about everything if I haven’t even sorted it out in my own head, now can I? I’m just trying to do the best that I can, day by day, for everyone that depends on me. And for everything that will depend on me in the future.”
The younger Winchester sighed softly before he slowly lifted himself off the mattress.
“That’s just my point, Dean. You’re always talking about doing right for everyone else … but who do you depend on? Who do you lean on when you need a break?”
Before Dean could even formulate a response to the question, Sam had already left the room.
~*~
Cas didn’t come back that night. Neither did Gabriel or Balthazar. Dean spent a restless evening tossing and turning in the fucking orange sheets before he gave up at four a.m. and trudged his way down towards the kitchen. The cabin was silent and dark as he grabbed himself a beer from the fridge and popped off the cap without even touching it. He took two deep pulls of the drink before he settled himself on a barstool and rubbed a hand down his face in exhaustion.
“These fried pickle chips really are divine.”
“FUCK!”
Dean sprang backwards off the stool, sending his beer bottle spinning across the kitchen island to die a miserable, explosive death on the floor. Almost as an unconscious instinct, his wings had instantly manifested themselves to fling wide and help keep his balance. When he finally stumbled to a stop a couple feet away (heart beating like a maniac inside his chest), he could only glare at the figure calmly seated at the barstool that had been next to his.
Death. Fucking Death was sitting at his kitchen counter. Impeccably dressed as always and picking little bits of fried food out of a grease-stained paper bag. The (frankly) intimidating manifestation of the heebie-jeebies just arched a critical eyebrow at Dean’s flailing before picking up a take away cup and sucking down what appeared to be a vanilla milkshake.
“I do so love the new accessories, Dean. Very becoming.”
That damn voice, like silk over gravel, always with the condescendingly creepy tone that was somehow both sweet librarian and uncle bad touch. Dean could feel his wings quivering with nerves but he couldn’t still them.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing here?”
The slender horseman plopped another fried pickle into his mouth and chewed almost delicately for a moment before he responded.
“Given your current situation, you might wish to refrain from certain urbane uses of the language. After all… he is family now, isn’t he?”
Dean could only blink a couple times in response. He willed his brain not to go off on a tangent with the topic. Seriously… would Jesus be his family now? Whoa. Heady shit. Instead, he concentrated on slowly maneuvering himself back onto a barstool on the other end of the island. His wings were still arched out in tense lines behind him, but he knew that trying to find the concentration to will them away at this point would be … well … pointless. He flicked his wrist and the mess on the floor disappeared, and a new beer sprung to life in his empty hand. Death smirked at him.
“Impressive. Enjoying our parlor tricks I see.”
The hunter could only shrug as he gulped down several pulls of his drink. When he was finished, Dean wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and licked his lips.
“So… early morning visit from Death. Always a rejuvenating way to start your day. To what do I owe the pleasure? Social visit? Shall we play some bridge?”
The horseman heaved a very put-upon sigh before he discarded his bag of fried food on the counter.
“As delightful as that suggestion may seem, I’m afraid that I am here on a matter of business.”
Dean snorted as he placed his bottle back on the island.
“Business? With me? Not looking to take a little vacay, are you? Not sure I’m up to playing Death this week.”
The older man shifted on the barstool to face him fully, normal deadpan expression still eerily present.
“Again, lovely suggestion, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible anymore even if you were being sincere.”
“Oh, really? Why’s that? I figured I’d be even more qualified at this point.”
He gestured vaguely to the four massive wings sprouting from his back. Death made a deep grunting noise of annoyance in the back of his throat that probably meant something along the lines of ‘stupid monkeys why can I not smite you all, woe is me’ … but Dean may have been projecting. Possibly.
“Hardly. Considering your recent promotion lays more in the realm of Giver of Life, rather than Angel of Death.”
Dean hummed under his breath as he scratched at his stubbly chin.
“Huh. Guess that makes sense.”
The horseman almost rolled his eyes, Dean could tell, but instead chose to stand and walk idly towards the living room of the cabin. A little hesitant, Dean stood to follow, commanding his wings to tuck in close to his back. They miraculously agreed.
“Something has been taken from me. Something that I have only recently had returned. The resulting mess that this action will no doubt set in motion has me a bit … put out.”
The human snorted.
“Who would be stupid enough to piss off Death?”
Slowly cutting his eyes towards Dean, the older man raised a single skeptical eyebrow. Oh… right. Dean smirked and shrugged a shoulder.
“Point. So barring yours truly… who was it this time?”
“A mutual acquaintance we unfortunately share. One that fancies himself the King of Hell at the moment.”
Dean groaned.
“Crowley? Son of a bitch. What did he do now?”
The horseman ran his thin, spindly fingers along the back of the leather couch as he wandered over towards the massive stone fireplace in the corner. With a tap of his ever-present cane, a fire roared to life even though there weren’t actually any logs inside the pit at the moment. A satisfied smirk appeared on the horseman’s face before he elegantly settled himself into one of the large seats just before the fireplace. He gestured to the matching chair facing him with his cane and Dean shuffled over to plop down inside it.
“The annoyingly bombastic imbecile has stolen my scythe.”
“The one I gave you back in Chicago?”
Death pursed his lips.
“Indeed. I had left it in what I had considered a safe place, but apparently the sticky-fingered pilferer managed to snatch it up whilst I wasn’t aware. I sent my reapers out to find him and retrieve it for me, but the braggart must have used it to influence them in some way. They are no longer responding to my command.”
Dean’s spine shot ram-rod straight. His wings attempted to flare out wide in shock, but they were trapped in the confines of the chair and just beat against his back instead.
“Wait. The reapers aren’t obeying … Death. All of them?”
The horseman reached over with his cane to rap the tip of it against Dean’s knee.
“Yes, all of them. Even your little friend Tessa. Do try to pay attention, Dean. I’m not here conversing with you merely to listen to the sound of my own voice.”
Dean barely managed to stop himself from sticking his tongue out at the Angel of Death. Barely.
“Why would Crowley want the reapers? What can he gain from controlling them?”
Death sighed and settled back further in his chair.
“Admittedly, this is the question I am currently asking myself as well. The only theory I could possibly come up with… was that he plans to use them against you somehow.”
This time his wings startled so much that they popped out from behind him and shot forward towards the other man. All they managed to accomplish was nearly smothering Dean in feathers. He had to physically push them out of the way with his hands in order to stare at Death through them.
“Me? What the hell? Why?”
The horseman was twirling his cane with disinterest in his hands as he answered.
“I assume because you would not back down to him as he demanded of you.”
“You … you know about that?”
Never in a million years had the eldest Winchester could have imagined he would have the horrific pleasure of witnessing the Grand Grim Reaper … scoff. It was, dare he say, almost enough to qualify as a giggle.
“Dean, the entirety of Heaven and Hell know what you did. The Heavenly Host and their supporters speak of you in hushed whispers as if you were a superhero in some sort of graphic novel-,”
“Awesome!”
“-those that err on the side of Crowley are after your pretty little head. They believe, reasonably so, that bringing your skull on a spike to him would ingratiate and embolden themselves to the current ruler of Hell.”
“Well damn. That kind of puts a damper on the hero worship bit.”
Death scoffed. Again. Surreal.
“Indeed.”
“So he’s going to try and sick your reapers on me? What’s he after?”
“I’m assuming that he is trying to kill you, of course. Or perhaps take out enough of your precious family to weaken your resolve. Anything is possible with his contemptible little mind.”
Dean shifted in his seat and pushed one of the black wings down into his lap to pick at the feathers absently.
“Is he strong enough to sway them to his side? Is it going to work?”
The horseman twitched just a little in his chair.
“I am unsure. I highly doubt that the leech is strong enough to control them outright. At most I believe they may be out there, wandering aimlessly, with no intent or purpose. There is a possibility that some of the younger of my flock may be weak enough to be persuaded. This is why I’m here.”
The human could only nod in response as he tugged on a slightly bent errant feather. After a final pull, the feather was plucked out of the wing and Dean studied the blue sheen of it in the firelight.
“What will they do if he manages to persuade them? Try to reap us? Kill us?”
Death hummed thoughtfully at the question, but his eyes were tracking the feather clasped between Dean’s fingers.
“Reapers cannot kill those not already scheduled for death. They are, however, a formidable force to be reckoned with. They never tire nor feel pain. You cannot catch them or exorcise them from a body, as you can with demons. If I were to guess… I believe Crowley may use them as a front line of attack, as it were. To wear you down enough that his horde can slip in behind and finish the job. I believe you’ve angered him. Crowley thought he knew you, from the time when you worked together. He thought he understood you enough to be able to play your fears. Force you to dance to his tune. Clearly you have risen above his expectations of you, and are forcing his hand. I would tread very lightly.”
Dean grunted in agreement as he slouched back into his chair. He moved to flick the loose feather into the fire, when the horseman abruptly raised a hand to stop him.
“Wait. My I have that?”
Frozen in place, Dean arched a single eyebrow at the other man.
“You want … the feather?”
Death merely nodded before turning his hand so the palm faced upward.
“Please. If I may?”
Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
The horseman pursed his lips in thought, but his gaze did not leave the feather.
“A piece of The Chosen, freely given, would be a powerful object to possess. A key that would open many doors, as it were. In the right company it would signify that the beholder was entrusted by The Chosen with something of his own and should be respected and obeyed as if the words were spoken by God himself. In the wrong company … it would signify my allegiance to you and very likely anger Crowley fiercely.”
Dean’s gaze flicked down to the blue-black feather held between his thumb and forefinger.
“You would give your allegiance … to me?”
Death sighed and wiggled his fingers with impatience.
“I do admit that often I find you to be an irritating mouth-breather, but for the most part you are a highly entertaining creature in the tedium that is my existence. I would not have come here to warn you of the impending attack by Crowley had I not already swayed myself further to your side of the fence. I know God, Dean … and you sir, are no God. But you have the potential to be.”
The ex-hunter was stunned for a moment by the horseman’s words before he slowly leaned forward to place the feather in Death’s outstretched hand. The older man’s eyes widened a fraction at the first touch against his skin and a tiny smile stretched across his thin lips.
“How enchanting.”
Dean coughed.
“Do you … want a white one, too? Matching set, or whatever?”
For a split second the Angel of Death had a look on his face that could have rivaled a pre-pubescent girl at a Justin Bieber concert, but it was gone in a flash. Dean could only chuckle in response, but made sure not to meet the horseman’s gaze after doing so. He pulled down one of his white wings and began to idly ruffle through them, trying to find one that was damaged enough to warrant plucking it out. Death leaned forward in his chair, supported by his cane, and helpfully (yeah, right) tried to point out feathers that might suffice.
This was how Dean’s three angels found them twenty minutes later.
“That one there would be lovely.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that one! You keep trying to find the best ones. I think you’re missing the point.”
“Ooh! What about this one? I like this one.”
“That one is completely perfect and healthy! The whole point of grooming out feathers is to find the ones that are damaged and need to be removed.”
Gabriel cleared his throat and mumbled a confused ‘um, boss?’ but Dean only swished his hand at him with irritation and continued his conversation with the horseman.
“This one is so pretty, though.”
Dean growled in exasperation before he reached down to grasp the feather and plucked it out.
“Oh my God, fine! Have the pretty one! Happy?”
The horseman actually grinned as he snatched the feather from Dean’s hand.
“Yes. Very much so.”
Castiel stepped forward cautiously.
“Dean?”
Death stopped twirling the white feather for a moment as he slowly turned to take in the three new additions to their fireside chat.
“Oh, do look … your three stooges have arrived at last.”
That seemed to smack a little reality back into Dean and he hopped instantly to his feet, fought off a tangle of wings, and then stomped a couple paces towards Castiel.
“Where the hell have you been? All of you!? I’ve been worried shitless!”
Balthazar snorted delicately as Gabriel crossed his arms tightly over his chest.
“Really? Seems more like you’ve been having a tea party with the Grim Reaper.”
Dean rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but said reaper slowly stood from his chair and tapped his cane on the floor once. The fire immediately went out in the fireplace.
“Do learn to hold your tongue, Gabriel. It was a favor to your Father that allowed you to return to life. I would have no issue reneging on the deal should you piss me off.”
The archangel blustered visibly, but remained quiet. Death turned once again to Dean as he gently tucked the two feathers in his hand into his suit pocket.
“As always, this has been lovely. I hope you take my warning to heart, and do let me know if you find out anything regarding my particular … predicament.”
Dean nodded, but before his head even stopped moving, the horseman was gone. Castiel instantly descended on him, grabbing him roughly by the shoulders and squeezing tightly.
“Are you alright? Why was he here?”
Balthazar tutted as he turned towards the kitchen to snag his ever present bottle of wine.
“More importantly, Cassie dear, what the hell was he talking about? What warning and what predicament?”
Gabriel nodded and shadowed Dean as he pushed away from Cas to head towards the fridge himself. Another beer would be in order for this.
“I’ll tell you everything he said, but first you need to tell me where you’ve been, and Cas … please help me put these damn wings away again.”
CHAPTER THREE
It took several hours, a bit of screaming, a LOT of cursing and a smack or two from Bobby before Dean managed to make the two sets of wings de-materialize from his back. He was grouchy and sweated by the time they achieved success, and honestly a bit worried at his other two angel’s continued absence. Whenever they had popped up top previously, they never stayed long, just enough for reconnaissance. This time they had been gone for the entire ordeal of Dean tucking away his new appendages and still hadn’t returned.
“I don’t like it.”
Castiel sighed as he pulled out a new set of sheets from their closet.
“You are connected to them, Dean. If something had happened… you would feel it.”
Dean shifted out of the angel’s way so that he could make the bed with their thirteenth set of sheets. (They stocked a surplus of them at this point.) This set was a pale orange color, and Dean was pretty sure that was Cas punishing him for vaporizing the last set.
“Yeah, I got that … but I still don’t like it. Gabriel’s not even responding when I poke him, and he loves to poke me back. Viciously.”
Cas hummed softly under his breath as he retrieved the down comforter and spread it across the foot of the bed.
“He may just be concentrating on whatever has happened.”
Dean growled and kicked at the pillows stacked on the floor.
“Dammit. It just pisses me off that I can’t send you up there to sort it out.”
The angel froze in the middle of reaching for one of the pillows and Dean cursed under his breath. Castiel hated when he was reminded about his banishment from Heaven. Even if he was happy with his life on earth. Even if he was in love with Dean. He didn’t like to think about being shut out of his home. Dean quickly crossed the room to wrap his arms around the slighter man.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
Castiel sighed and pushed himself gently out of Dean’s embrace.
“You did not have to bring up what I was already thinking of.”
“Cas-,”
“I think I would like to go for a walk, Dean.”
“Yeah, sure, babe wherever you-,”
“Alone, please, Dean.”
The ex-hunter blinked, a little stunned at first, but nodded to show his angel that he understood. Cas turned abruptly and walked out the door, leaving his human to just stare at his retreating back. Dean flopped backwards onto the mattress and sighed at the ceiling. Great. Just great. What a fanfuckingtastic day he was having.
There was a soft knock at the door and a lift of his head revealed Sam leaning in the doorway.
“You okay, Dean?”
The elder brother snorted before allowing his head to drop back onto the bed.
“Just peachy, Sammy. You?”
Sam moved further into the room until he was standing close enough to cast Dean in his massive shadow. His arms were crossed over his chest and the look on his face was hitting bitch level.
“I’m worried about you.”
Dean snorted but Sam continued as if he hadn’t.
“You’ve got these power surges happening, you nearly had a breakdown over the wings this afternoon, and now Cas just walked out of here looking like he was sucking on a lemon.”
“Maybe he was.”
“Dean!”
The younger man sighed again before sitting on the edge of the bed near Dean’s knees.
“There’s a lot going on. And it’s scary and crazy and maybe… just a little too big for you to handle by yourself like you always do. Talk to us. Talk to me or Cas or Bobby. Stop bottling this shit all up inside. Jesus, Dean! You have wings! And the power to move things, change things … you’re going to be the replacement for God. God! Sometimes I just don’t know what to think about all this. Sometimes I just get lost inside my head with it. So I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”
Dean rolled over on his side facing away from his brother, hoping that would end the conversation. No such luck.
“It’s just … you’re so quiet lately. Not that you were ever particularly verbose, but this is different. You don’t talk to me anymore. You keep saying you’re fine, but I have a lifetime of experience telling me how empty that word is when it comes to your well-being. I don’t know what’s going on inside that stupid, thick skull of yours. Are you okay with all of this? Are you really, really okay with this?”
Dean grunted before he flipped back over to stare at his younger brother.
“Does it really matter, Sam? I don’t get a choice in this. Haven’t since the very beginning. So it’s more about figuring out how to work with the hand I’ve been dealt, rather than painting our fingernails and bonding over Hagen Daas.”
Sam snorted before twisting his body to lie down beside his brother.
“You always take too much onto yourself. You’re not alone here. Even if you didn’t have me and the others… you have Cas. I mean, he’s like your … life partner, or whatever, right? Do you even talk about this with him? How you’re changing? What the future holds for both of you?”
Dean pursed his lips and refused to meet his brother’s gaze.
“Or are you just focusing on your physical relationship and leaving Castiel just as in the dark as I am?”
“What do you expect me to say, Sam? I don’t do share and care. That’s just not in my makeup. I can’t tell you how I’m feeling about everything if I haven’t even sorted it out in my own head, now can I? I’m just trying to do the best that I can, day by day, for everyone that depends on me. And for everything that will depend on me in the future.”
The younger Winchester sighed softly before he slowly lifted himself off the mattress.
“That’s just my point, Dean. You’re always talking about doing right for everyone else … but who do you depend on? Who do you lean on when you need a break?”
Before Dean could even formulate a response to the question, Sam had already left the room.
~*~
Cas didn’t come back that night. Neither did Gabriel or Balthazar. Dean spent a restless evening tossing and turning in the fucking orange sheets before he gave up at four a.m. and trudged his way down towards the kitchen. The cabin was silent and dark as he grabbed himself a beer from the fridge and popped off the cap without even touching it. He took two deep pulls of the drink before he settled himself on a barstool and rubbed a hand down his face in exhaustion.
“These fried pickle chips really are divine.”
“FUCK!”
Dean sprang backwards off the stool, sending his beer bottle spinning across the kitchen island to die a miserable, explosive death on the floor. Almost as an unconscious instinct, his wings had instantly manifested themselves to fling wide and help keep his balance. When he finally stumbled to a stop a couple feet away (heart beating like a maniac inside his chest), he could only glare at the figure calmly seated at the barstool that had been next to his.
Death. Fucking Death was sitting at his kitchen counter. Impeccably dressed as always and picking little bits of fried food out of a grease-stained paper bag. The (frankly) intimidating manifestation of the heebie-jeebies just arched a critical eyebrow at Dean’s flailing before picking up a take away cup and sucking down what appeared to be a vanilla milkshake.
“I do so love the new accessories, Dean. Very becoming.”
That damn voice, like silk over gravel, always with the condescendingly creepy tone that was somehow both sweet librarian and uncle bad touch. Dean could feel his wings quivering with nerves but he couldn’t still them.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing here?”
The slender horseman plopped another fried pickle into his mouth and chewed almost delicately for a moment before he responded.
“Given your current situation, you might wish to refrain from certain urbane uses of the language. After all… he is family now, isn’t he?”
Dean could only blink a couple times in response. He willed his brain not to go off on a tangent with the topic. Seriously… would Jesus be his family now? Whoa. Heady shit. Instead, he concentrated on slowly maneuvering himself back onto a barstool on the other end of the island. His wings were still arched out in tense lines behind him, but he knew that trying to find the concentration to will them away at this point would be … well … pointless. He flicked his wrist and the mess on the floor disappeared, and a new beer sprung to life in his empty hand. Death smirked at him.
“Impressive. Enjoying our parlor tricks I see.”
The hunter could only shrug as he gulped down several pulls of his drink. When he was finished, Dean wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and licked his lips.
“So… early morning visit from Death. Always a rejuvenating way to start your day. To what do I owe the pleasure? Social visit? Shall we play some bridge?”
The horseman heaved a very put-upon sigh before he discarded his bag of fried food on the counter.
“As delightful as that suggestion may seem, I’m afraid that I am here on a matter of business.”
Dean snorted as he placed his bottle back on the island.
“Business? With me? Not looking to take a little vacay, are you? Not sure I’m up to playing Death this week.”
The older man shifted on the barstool to face him fully, normal deadpan expression still eerily present.
“Again, lovely suggestion, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible anymore even if you were being sincere.”
“Oh, really? Why’s that? I figured I’d be even more qualified at this point.”
He gestured vaguely to the four massive wings sprouting from his back. Death made a deep grunting noise of annoyance in the back of his throat that probably meant something along the lines of ‘stupid monkeys why can I not smite you all, woe is me’ … but Dean may have been projecting. Possibly.
“Hardly. Considering your recent promotion lays more in the realm of Giver of Life, rather than Angel of Death.”
Dean hummed under his breath as he scratched at his stubbly chin.
“Huh. Guess that makes sense.”
The horseman almost rolled his eyes, Dean could tell, but instead chose to stand and walk idly towards the living room of the cabin. A little hesitant, Dean stood to follow, commanding his wings to tuck in close to his back. They miraculously agreed.
“Something has been taken from me. Something that I have only recently had returned. The resulting mess that this action will no doubt set in motion has me a bit … put out.”
The human snorted.
“Who would be stupid enough to piss off Death?”
Slowly cutting his eyes towards Dean, the older man raised a single skeptical eyebrow. Oh… right. Dean smirked and shrugged a shoulder.
“Point. So barring yours truly… who was it this time?”
“A mutual acquaintance we unfortunately share. One that fancies himself the King of Hell at the moment.”
Dean groaned.
“Crowley? Son of a bitch. What did he do now?”
The horseman ran his thin, spindly fingers along the back of the leather couch as he wandered over towards the massive stone fireplace in the corner. With a tap of his ever-present cane, a fire roared to life even though there weren’t actually any logs inside the pit at the moment. A satisfied smirk appeared on the horseman’s face before he elegantly settled himself into one of the large seats just before the fireplace. He gestured to the matching chair facing him with his cane and Dean shuffled over to plop down inside it.
“The annoyingly bombastic imbecile has stolen my scythe.”
“The one I gave you back in Chicago?”
Death pursed his lips.
“Indeed. I had left it in what I had considered a safe place, but apparently the sticky-fingered pilferer managed to snatch it up whilst I wasn’t aware. I sent my reapers out to find him and retrieve it for me, but the braggart must have used it to influence them in some way. They are no longer responding to my command.”
Dean’s spine shot ram-rod straight. His wings attempted to flare out wide in shock, but they were trapped in the confines of the chair and just beat against his back instead.
“Wait. The reapers aren’t obeying … Death. All of them?”
The horseman reached over with his cane to rap the tip of it against Dean’s knee.
“Yes, all of them. Even your little friend Tessa. Do try to pay attention, Dean. I’m not here conversing with you merely to listen to the sound of my own voice.”
Dean barely managed to stop himself from sticking his tongue out at the Angel of Death. Barely.
“Why would Crowley want the reapers? What can he gain from controlling them?”
Death sighed and settled back further in his chair.
“Admittedly, this is the question I am currently asking myself as well. The only theory I could possibly come up with… was that he plans to use them against you somehow.”
This time his wings startled so much that they popped out from behind him and shot forward towards the other man. All they managed to accomplish was nearly smothering Dean in feathers. He had to physically push them out of the way with his hands in order to stare at Death through them.
“Me? What the hell? Why?”
The horseman was twirling his cane with disinterest in his hands as he answered.
“I assume because you would not back down to him as he demanded of you.”
“You … you know about that?”
Never in a million years had the eldest Winchester could have imagined he would have the horrific pleasure of witnessing the Grand Grim Reaper … scoff. It was, dare he say, almost enough to qualify as a giggle.
“Dean, the entirety of Heaven and Hell know what you did. The Heavenly Host and their supporters speak of you in hushed whispers as if you were a superhero in some sort of graphic novel-,”
“Awesome!”
“-those that err on the side of Crowley are after your pretty little head. They believe, reasonably so, that bringing your skull on a spike to him would ingratiate and embolden themselves to the current ruler of Hell.”
“Well damn. That kind of puts a damper on the hero worship bit.”
Death scoffed. Again. Surreal.
“Indeed.”
“So he’s going to try and sick your reapers on me? What’s he after?”
“I’m assuming that he is trying to kill you, of course. Or perhaps take out enough of your precious family to weaken your resolve. Anything is possible with his contemptible little mind.”
Dean shifted in his seat and pushed one of the black wings down into his lap to pick at the feathers absently.
“Is he strong enough to sway them to his side? Is it going to work?”
The horseman twitched just a little in his chair.
“I am unsure. I highly doubt that the leech is strong enough to control them outright. At most I believe they may be out there, wandering aimlessly, with no intent or purpose. There is a possibility that some of the younger of my flock may be weak enough to be persuaded. This is why I’m here.”
The human could only nod in response as he tugged on a slightly bent errant feather. After a final pull, the feather was plucked out of the wing and Dean studied the blue sheen of it in the firelight.
“What will they do if he manages to persuade them? Try to reap us? Kill us?”
Death hummed thoughtfully at the question, but his eyes were tracking the feather clasped between Dean’s fingers.
“Reapers cannot kill those not already scheduled for death. They are, however, a formidable force to be reckoned with. They never tire nor feel pain. You cannot catch them or exorcise them from a body, as you can with demons. If I were to guess… I believe Crowley may use them as a front line of attack, as it were. To wear you down enough that his horde can slip in behind and finish the job. I believe you’ve angered him. Crowley thought he knew you, from the time when you worked together. He thought he understood you enough to be able to play your fears. Force you to dance to his tune. Clearly you have risen above his expectations of you, and are forcing his hand. I would tread very lightly.”
Dean grunted in agreement as he slouched back into his chair. He moved to flick the loose feather into the fire, when the horseman abruptly raised a hand to stop him.
“Wait. My I have that?”
Frozen in place, Dean arched a single eyebrow at the other man.
“You want … the feather?”
Death merely nodded before turning his hand so the palm faced upward.
“Please. If I may?”
Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
The horseman pursed his lips in thought, but his gaze did not leave the feather.
“A piece of The Chosen, freely given, would be a powerful object to possess. A key that would open many doors, as it were. In the right company it would signify that the beholder was entrusted by The Chosen with something of his own and should be respected and obeyed as if the words were spoken by God himself. In the wrong company … it would signify my allegiance to you and very likely anger Crowley fiercely.”
Dean’s gaze flicked down to the blue-black feather held between his thumb and forefinger.
“You would give your allegiance … to me?”
Death sighed and wiggled his fingers with impatience.
“I do admit that often I find you to be an irritating mouth-breather, but for the most part you are a highly entertaining creature in the tedium that is my existence. I would not have come here to warn you of the impending attack by Crowley had I not already swayed myself further to your side of the fence. I know God, Dean … and you sir, are no God. But you have the potential to be.”
The ex-hunter was stunned for a moment by the horseman’s words before he slowly leaned forward to place the feather in Death’s outstretched hand. The older man’s eyes widened a fraction at the first touch against his skin and a tiny smile stretched across his thin lips.
“How enchanting.”
Dean coughed.
“Do you … want a white one, too? Matching set, or whatever?”
For a split second the Angel of Death had a look on his face that could have rivaled a pre-pubescent girl at a Justin Bieber concert, but it was gone in a flash. Dean could only chuckle in response, but made sure not to meet the horseman’s gaze after doing so. He pulled down one of his white wings and began to idly ruffle through them, trying to find one that was damaged enough to warrant plucking it out. Death leaned forward in his chair, supported by his cane, and helpfully (yeah, right) tried to point out feathers that might suffice.
This was how Dean’s three angels found them twenty minutes later.
“That one there would be lovely.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that one! You keep trying to find the best ones. I think you’re missing the point.”
“Ooh! What about this one? I like this one.”
“That one is completely perfect and healthy! The whole point of grooming out feathers is to find the ones that are damaged and need to be removed.”
Gabriel cleared his throat and mumbled a confused ‘um, boss?’ but Dean only swished his hand at him with irritation and continued his conversation with the horseman.
“This one is so pretty, though.”
Dean growled in exasperation before he reached down to grasp the feather and plucked it out.
“Oh my God, fine! Have the pretty one! Happy?”
The horseman actually grinned as he snatched the feather from Dean’s hand.
“Yes. Very much so.”
Castiel stepped forward cautiously.
“Dean?”
Death stopped twirling the white feather for a moment as he slowly turned to take in the three new additions to their fireside chat.
“Oh, do look … your three stooges have arrived at last.”
That seemed to smack a little reality back into Dean and he hopped instantly to his feet, fought off a tangle of wings, and then stomped a couple paces towards Castiel.
“Where the hell have you been? All of you!? I’ve been worried shitless!”
Balthazar snorted delicately as Gabriel crossed his arms tightly over his chest.
“Really? Seems more like you’ve been having a tea party with the Grim Reaper.”
Dean rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but said reaper slowly stood from his chair and tapped his cane on the floor once. The fire immediately went out in the fireplace.
“Do learn to hold your tongue, Gabriel. It was a favor to your Father that allowed you to return to life. I would have no issue reneging on the deal should you piss me off.”
The archangel blustered visibly, but remained quiet. Death turned once again to Dean as he gently tucked the two feathers in his hand into his suit pocket.
“As always, this has been lovely. I hope you take my warning to heart, and do let me know if you find out anything regarding my particular … predicament.”
Dean nodded, but before his head even stopped moving, the horseman was gone. Castiel instantly descended on him, grabbing him roughly by the shoulders and squeezing tightly.
“Are you alright? Why was he here?”
Balthazar tutted as he turned towards the kitchen to snag his ever present bottle of wine.
“More importantly, Cassie dear, what the hell was he talking about? What warning and what predicament?”
Gabriel nodded and shadowed Dean as he pushed away from Cas to head towards the fridge himself. Another beer would be in order for this.
“I’ll tell you everything he said, but first you need to tell me where you’ve been, and Cas … please help me put these damn wings away again.”
CHAPTER THREE