202: Everybody Loves a Clown
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Rope's easy enough. He tosses one end into the barley, snakes the other end so that it forms a sigil, or at least vaguely resembles one. Definitely easier than making a damn crop circle. When the rain blows in, he sits again, back against the fence post once more. His arm streaks a watery red that's not quite pink, and Dean finds his jacket, tries to stop the bleed with that.
There's a little battery-controlled helicopter in the pocket--Ben's. It had been a birthday present from Lisa, but Lisa's sister--what was her name? Barb? The Canadian--had one-upped the ill-fated copter and bought him one with gyroscopes, when the first one broke. Dean fixed it, but in Bens’ mind it was permanently retired from active duty. The end. Still, Dean feels like Ben's douchey older brother, ‘borrowing’ his helicopter, bleeding all over it, and then launching it into a lightning storm. Then he remembers that he's Sam's douchey older brother. And this is for Sam.
It's hours later, 36 AAA batteries later, when he sees the lightning bend, arch down the fishing line from the little toasted copter, slam toward him through dark space. Then it's over.
It's still dark when he wakes, so he can't have been out for long. More importantly, it's still raining, and he is not alone.
"You have an interesting way of courting Death."
Exactly who he wanted to hear.
I didn't make up the damn spell, says Dean. Next time make it so you can summon Death with a headshot; probably woulda made it here a lot sooner.
Death ignores the retort and picks up the scorched helicopter; it's just a heap of plastic and naked metal gears. It smells faintly of chemical fire. "You are lucky that it worked at all. Don't cut corners when it comes to matters of gravity, Dean."
Dean grapples at a mass at the back of his throat with this tongue. The mass feels uncomfortably like clotted blood and bone fragment. That doesn't feel like he remembers it from Hell, either.
"Need I remind you that you've just been struck by lightning," says Death. "And shattered quite a few of your teeth."
Dean coughs.
"Lightning strikes don't always kill you. I reiterate: You are lucky that I came at all. Now, do you remember why you came all this way for me? Memory loss tends to come with...this particular extracurricular."
Make you fix Sam, says Dean. For good.
"The hubris is, as always, quite your own."
I want to see the wall. Take me there.
"Always so literal. What makes you think Sam's wall is a fixture that can be seen?" Death is sitting above Dean, cradled by the barbed wire. Storm's still coming strong, but he doesn't look wet. Fucking figures. Dean opens his mouth in an effort to breathe and gets a mouthful of rain.
I've been wandering around in Sam's head all day. I've been trampling through his barley and buying his booze and getting struck by his lightning. Hell, I brought some damn rope and a damn toy and worked a damn spell. Don't try to sell me that intangibility bullshit.
Death runs a bony finger along the length of the barbed wire. He is bright white, even in the pitch night. "How did you get here, Dean? It's not every day a human is possessed by his brother."
I phoned a friend.
"Ah, her. I see her queenship in Hell becomes her. You are fraternizing with every marginally celestial being in this galaxy--should it make me jealous?"
Only if you don't show me the wall. 'Cause otherwise this date's not going to make it past second.
Death stares down at Dean, impassive. He taps this finger on the barbed wire fence. "This is the wall, Dean."
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C'mon, give me more credit than that.
"Believe what you will. This is the wall. And yes, it is the same on both sides. I wonder what that could mean," he says, in his condescendingly smooth storyteller's timbre. Dean knows Death doesn't wonder at all.
Fuck you.
And Dean must look exceedingly pathetic, lying there on the ground, choking on his own teeth and breathing what tastes like battery acid, because Death allows him his verbal indiscretions and continues, unprovoked.
"I leave you to puzzle that out on your own. Please focus your attentions elsewhere for the nonce. Surely you remember that bit of cotton you found hung on the scutt arrow." Death plucks another boll from the fence. It shines ghost white just like his hands. "Where do you suppose it came from? There are barley fields, not cotton. Did you even stop to think?"
When Dean does not reply: "Some of your cultures, your American ones in particular, believe that cotton bolls house the soul."
Death pulls, and the boll comes undone, long and wispy. It melts like cotton candy in the rain.
"I admit, I don't know how you got here, but I wouldn't touch things that don't belong to you. You never know what your sticky little fingers might be destroying." He smears the last of the cotton across Dean's cheek and stands erect, as though preparing to leave. "And I'd get out of my brother's head. I trust you'll be able to move eventually. Though, of course, it's difficult to say. Life is a difficult, complicated mechanism.
"Unfortunately for the both of us, Dean, you are not dead."
Dean watches the sagging bob of the cotton boll, hanged on the scutt arrow above him.
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*goes to read again*
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This whole idea about Dean, and Death, and Sam, and Sam's wall horrifies me on principle. I'm glad that this was able to capture a bit of that, answer very few questions though it does. I'm glad you enjoyed! Thank you for reading~
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This is *stifles a moan* GODS, I loved this!! This...I am saving - just...WOW!!
*Faints from the Awesome*
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I was admiring the gorgeous countryside, when somthing horrible jumped out and ripped my guts out. Well done!
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