SPN gen fic - Death Vs Dean Winchester: Grudge Match '07
In an attempt to kick-start the muse, I decided to paint my littlest's bedroom. yasminke had reminded me that the muse normally strikes when I'm busy, and I'm so glad I took her advice. The upshot of it is I've got a room ready to paint, and a fic written.
The idea for this fic came from a throwaway reply I made to a comment on another fic. It sparked an idea that just wouldn't leave me alone.
Beta duty undertaken by the ever-wonderful yasminke. She did a sterling job, and her beta comments had me giggling like a loon.
TITLE: Death Vs Dean Winchester: Grudge Match '07
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam and Death.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own the boys. Or Death.
SPOILERS: set post Season 2. Spoilers for AHBL part 2.
NOTES: 3000 words. This is crack. No angst, no schmoop. Pure indulgent crack.
He glares at the mountain of files teetering on the edge of his in-tray, as if staring at them’s going to get them filled out faster.
Bloody death certificates. Quite literally, in some cases. He pulls a particularly bloodstained one out of the stack, and the mountain wobbles precariously, threatening an avalanche. Where in hell did he put his rubber stamp?
And now there’s the bloody phone. He pokes through the stacks of paperwork with dejected weariness. It’s got to be here somewhere; he definitely saw it this morning. Or yesterday. Somewhere.
He should probably get one of those damned mobile, hand-held monstrosities that blast tinny rock music and are the work of the Devil. One of his more lucrative ideas, certainly, but still quite obviously satanic in origin.
He finds the phone under a cushion in the overstuffed armchair, has a vague memory of flinging it there in a fit of pique after he got a call yesterday telling him they’d lost another reaper. He’s short-staffed enough already, can’t really afford the time or effort to train up another one.
Honestly, how they expect a department to function under these conditions is beyond him. Barely enough personnel to cover, they’ve been working with a skeleton crew for the last fifty years. And it’s not like they’re slacking, business is brisker now than ever; it’s like 1665 all over again. Good times, though.
He sighs, lifts the receiver.
Great.
Head Office.
Fanbloodytastic.
He swallows back several curses, and listens to the disembodied voice floating out of the receiver. Not that the idiot on the other end of the line is possessed of an actual body. It would get terribly overcrowded up there if they were allowed to retain their physical form.
He makes polite noises at appropriate moments in the conversation, if you can call a command from on high a conversation. Seems there’s a new resident upstairs, a fairly important one, from the sound of things. Kicking up about a recent case.
“What’s the name again?” He tucks the receiver under his ear, and wanders over to the filing cabinet, narrowly avoiding tripping over the phone cord.
“No, that can’t possibly be-” he says, and pulls open the bottom drawer, “-oh come on, you’re winding me up. Someone’s playing silly buggers up there.”
The pompous windbag on the other end of the line assures him that he has never been more serious. Clearly this newest emigrant must be the Second bloody Coming. And here he thought that wasn’t scheduled until the next millennium.
“Are you sure? Are you absolutely one hundred and fifty percent bloody well convinced that’s the name?” he pleads, grinding his forehead against the filing cabinet, slowly and deliberately.
“Yes. Yes. Like the rifle, I know. I’ll get that sorted then, shall I?” He waits until the line goes dead, and then throws the receiver across the room, the rest of the apparatus trailing behind rather belatedly. It thuds against the wall with a solid clunk and remains annoyingly intact. At least a mobile phone would have broken.
It can’t be. Not again. That bloody family.
They’re going to be the death of him.
Let’s get things straight. He’s got nothing against them personally. They’ve even helped him out on occasion. But he’s getting rather tired of re-issuing death certificates.
He rifles through the files, pulls out three in the name of Winchester, Dean. Two dated within a week of each other a couple of years back - and yes - he remembers now, that was when that preacher’s wife was head-hunting his best and brightest. Although, to be honest, old Arthur wasn’t exactly sprightly, and he’d had to pension the poor fellow off after the Winchesters released him from her thrall.
The third one’s dated earlier this year - Sophie signed off on that one. He’s rather fond of Sophie - she’s what he likes to call the big guns - if Sophie can’t take them, no one can. Unless, of course, some stupid great yellow-eyed demon comes meddling, making deals he has no business whatsoever to be offering.
He takes a couple of pointless but calming deep breaths. Possessing a reaper? That’s strictly a no-no. He’d taken that one all the way to the top, but Head Office had fobbed him off, told him it was out of their jurisdiction, to take it up with the appropriate authorities. Right. He had better things to do than go traipse around every circle of Hell looking for that yellow-eyed idiot.
Sophie is still in rehab. He’s fairly sure she won’t work again.
That’s three, but there must be another one, if Head Office is to be believed. Must be recent, if it’s not filed yet. He checks his out-tray, and of course, there it is, in black and white; signed, sealed and dated a year from yesterday’s date.
Oh, great. The kid’s made a bloody deal.
If he’s told Head Office once, he’s told them a hundred times: those red-eyed bastards are making his job impossible. It’s hard enough to keep track of the actual dead, without them complicating things with lists of the not-actually-but-about-to-be-at-some-specified-point-in-the-future dead.
Doesn’t matter to him if they’re headed upstairs or down below, he still has to process the documentation.
And now they want him to revoke a damned, deal-protected death certificate.
It was tricky enough getting those other three rescinded, and they were just your run-of the-mill, standard-issue decedent notification. This is going to be a bureaucratic nightmare, and of course he’ll have the demon unions breathing down his neck, banging on about restrictive practices and threatening him with the monopolies commission.
The thought doesn’t piss him off as much as it probably should.
He supposes he ought to get one of the junior reapers to handle it, give them a taste of bureaucracy in action, but they’d probably just muck it up, and he can’t afford to lose another.
Besides, it seems like this one might require a little finesse. He smiles to himself and opens the cupboard next to the filing cabinet.
And really, it’s been too long since he put on the old cloak and scythe.
He hears them before he sees them.
That’s hardly surprising, he supposes. Considering the volume of their argument, there are most likely undiscovered tribes in the darkest reaches of the Amazon Basin that can hear them.
“Dude. I am never letting you drive again.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Right. Guess I must’ve missed the forty-foot semi that broadsided us this time.”
“Ha, ha. Let me go get a needle so I can sew up my side.”
“Yeah, why don’t you sew up your mouth while you’re at it?”
“Why don’t you make me?”
He rounds the corner and comes upon the wreck. It’s quite a nice car; what’s left of it, anyway. The boys have managed to extricate themselves from the wreckage and are currently standing in middle of the road, yelling at each other with what appears to be gleeful abandon.
“Excuse me,” he interjects, then gives a politely restrained cough.
Which is utterly ignored. The dispute rages unabated.
“Why the hell did you drive off the road?” This from Dean, who clearly feels himself the injured party here.
Colour rises in his brother’s - Sam’s - cheeks. Ah, yes, he remembers that name from the certificate he had to revoke only a couple of weeks ago. Honestly, this family.
Sam mumbles something indistinctly, which sounds a lot like “ther-mumble-wuzzacat-wurble-on-furble-road.”
Dean appears now to be having some sort of apoplectic fit, while simultaneously combining a variety of expletives in novel and highly interesting ways.
He feels that perhaps Sam might view his interruption as a welcome distraction. “Gentlemen.”
The swearing subsides, as the Winchester brothers turn to acknowledge his presence.
“Fuck, Sam.” The respite from swearing is, alas, brief. “You got us killed to save a fucking cat? I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
Rational thinking obviously isn’t Dean Winchester’s strong suit.
“In Sam’s defense, it was a rather adorable cat.” He’d made sure of that.
From the stricken look on Sam’s face, it’s clear his help isn’t appreciated.
“And technically, you’re not dead. Yet,” he adds as an afterthought.
“See?” Sam says, then stops, his eyebrows crinkling in confusion. “But you, we -” Here he gestures helplessly to the gently smoking wreckage of what was once a really rather nice Chevrolet Impala. Shame about the car.
“This is Limbo,” he explains, keeping it simple.
“Dude, we’re dead.” Dean eyes him menacingly. “I’ve seen enough beach party movies to know if this was Limbo there’d be way more semi-naked chicks in coconut bikinis and hula skirts.”
Sam beats him to it. “That’s the dance, not the theological construct, you dork.”
“Theological construct, my ass,” Dean retorts and slaps his brother across the back of his head.
“I’m fairly sure your ass is not a theological construct.” He fixes Dean with his sternest glare. “Now, if you don’t mind, there are a number of matters that require your immediate attention.”
“Now wait a minute.” Dean’s not happy. “I made a deal. One year, right? And he,” he smacks Sam’s head once again, this time for identification purposes, “is supposed to live happily ever after.”
“I’m afraid that particular deal has been rendered null and void.” He allows a soft breeze to ruffle the edges of his cloak, mostly for dramatic emphasis.
Neither of the Winchesters appears particularly impressed.
“Happily ever after? Seriously, Dean. You think this is some dumb-ass fairytale?” Sam scowls, shoving Dean lightly.
“If the shoe fits, Princess.” Dean shoves him in return, more out of obligation than any actual intent to harm, then looks up again. “How come? The deal, I mean.”
“Head Office called. Apparently you know people in high places, Dean Winchester.”
Sam and Dean look at each other, roll their eyes in tandem. “Dad.”
Of course. He should have guessed. Only John Winchester, a man who crawled out of Hell to protect his boys, would then have the gall to march right up to Head Office and demand amnesty for them.
He sighs deeply. “The upshot of it is, the deal’s off and your time’s up. You’re to come with me.” He raises his arm slowly, for maximum effect, and crooks his finger at Dean.
“Nuh-uh.” Dean just folds his arms and shakes his head.
“I’m sorry? Is there a problem?” There’s no reply. He taps his foot. “You do know who I am, right?”
“D’uh. A reaper.” Dean fakes a bored yawn.
“Not ‘A’. The.”
One of Dean’s eyebrows heads towards his hairline. “Huh?”
“The Reaper. As in Grim.” The other eyebrow joins its mate, Dean’s forehead wrinkling in consternation.
“Perhaps you’ve heard of me? The Pale Rider, The Great Leveller, Old Floorer, The Angel of Death.” He waves his hand dismissively. “I generally just go by Death.”
Dean feigns casual indifference. “Prove it.”
“I’m sorry?” He swirls his cloak around his feet and polishes the blade of his scythe on his sleeve. Carefully.
Dean folds his arms across his chest. “If you’re Death, then prove it.”
Sam’s eyebrows wander towards his hairline, although to be honest, it’s difficult to tell where they are under all that hair.
“Dude, don’t provoke Death,” he hisses sotto voce.
“I’m just saying, if he’s Death, then we should …” Dean’s brow crinkles, signifying deep thought processes at work. “… totally be able to challenge him!”
“Dean.” Sam shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know if this is such a great idea.”
“Are you kidding me? Come on, Sammy, you watched Bill and Ted, right? Let’s play Twister, let’s play Risk?”
“Dude, that’s REM. And anyway, it was Battleships.” Sam huffs an impatient sigh. “Though it should’ve been chess.”
“Right. In the director’s cut for nerds and college boy geeks.”
“Have you never heard of ‘The Seventh Seal’?”
“That one of those whale-hugging Disney craptaculars you made me sit through when Dad let you pick the movie? Snow White and the Seven Aquatic Mammals?” Dean scratches the back of his neck, and his grin becomes slightly chagrined. “Or maybe I’m thinking of Beauty and the Bestiality…”
Sam sighs, a deep, tragic, bone-weary sigh of infinite patience. “‘The Seventh Seal’, widely considered to be Ingmar Bergman’s best film, has a scene where the knight plays chess with Death.”
“She’s that German chick, right? The one who had the hots for Bogie in ‘Casablanca’?”
“That’s Ingrid Bergman. And she’s Swedish.” Sam cringes, turns to him and half-shrugs his shoulders in apologetic embarrassment.
“Dude, whatever. I’m going with Bill and Ted.” He tilts his chin, and issues the challenge. “You in, Death?”
Hells bloody bells. This was supposed to be a straightforward soul collection, plain and simple, a roadside pick-up and delivery to Head Office. But no, that would be too easy. Bloody Swedes and their obsession with him. Painting their bloody triptychs and inspiring their bloody filmmakers.
“Oh, for f…fine, then!”
Dean Winchester’s face splits into a smug, eminently slappable grin.
It’s then that he remembers why he hasn’t done this in a while. He takes a moment to wallow in maudlin nostalgia, thinking of happier times, when the mere glint of his scythe, the tiniest flap of his cloak would have had mortals trembling on their knees in awe and terror. And most definitely not smirking in his face and challenging him to parlour games.
He really should have sent Arthur.
It’s ludicrous.
Absolutely preposterous.
Not to mention completely and utterly humiliating. Despite what that ridiculous ‘Bogus Journey’ film would have people believe, it’s been centuries since he’s lost a challenge.
Millennia, possibly.
There ought to be rules. Lists of permissible challenges. Banning the sort of sharp practice that Dean Winchester is currently indulging in.
“Done!”
The smug, if slightly unintelligible yell galvanizes him into action. Less ruminating, more masticating.
How do mortals do this? He glowers at the dish in front of him, but it remains less than intimidated by his death-ray glare.
Beside him, the sounds of sustained slobbering are becoming almost too much to bear.
“M’done!”
That’s Dean’s fourth. And he’s not even slowing. If anything, he seems to be picking up the pace, getting into his stride. It doesn’t help that he’s got his brother whispering encouragement from the sidelines, egging him on like some sort of overgrown and disturbingly hirsute cheerleader.
“Come on, dude, one more for the win!”
He looks down again at his own dish, at the jagged edge of crust that encroaches upon the purplish-blue gelatinous mass congealing in the center. His stomach clenches; groans and burbles in audible protest.
Never mind Arthur, he should have sent Famine. Poor chap could certainly do with the extra calories.
“Mmmph-done!”
Dean lifts his face out of the dish and raises his fist in unadulterated triumph, then shoves his chair back from the table, punctuating his victory with a deep and distinctly gurgling belch.
Sam is practically dancing with glee. “Dude,” he breathes, infusing the word with more admiration, appreciation and adoration than should be humanly possible.
Dean leans back in his chair and belches again. There’s blueberry pie filling dripping from every facial orifice, which lends him the slightly cataclysmic, if comfortingly familiar air of an Ebola virus victim in the later stages of hemorrhagic fever.
He pushes his own half-eaten pie away and burps discreetly. “Very well. I concede.” He’s determined to be gracious in defeat.
Dean Winchester possesses no such delicate sensibilities concerning his victory. He stands up rather unsteadily, swipes his arm across his face, then begins to stagger about erratically. It takes a moment to realize that this is some strange sort of victory dance, complete with wild finger jabbing and ape-faced grinning.
He catches a glimpse of his own refection in the blade of his scythe and dabs surreptitiously at an errant crust crumb with the sleeve of his cloak. Then turns to face the Winchester brothers with as much dignity as he can muster.
“You win, gentlemen.”
Sam’s left eyebrow revisits his hairline. “What about Dean’s deal?”
“As I said before, that ridiculous deal your brother made is null and void. My word is my bond. You’re both free to live a long and happy life, and die a natural death.” He pauses, leans forward conspiratorially. “Unless you decide to make another deal. Which I really wouldn’t advise, not with your father watching out for you upstairs.”
It’s quite disheartening to see the first flash of genuine fear on the Winchester boys’ faces. Oh, they’ll laugh in the face of death, quite literally in Dean’s case, but one mention of their father and they’re trembling in trepidation.
“One more thing.” Sam raises his index finger in a slightly diffident manner, but his voice is calm, composed. “My brother’s car? You did cause the crash, after all.”
“What?” Oh, for pity’s sake. “Right, fine, fine.” He waves his hand, restoring the Impala to its former glory. “Happy now?”
The unrestrained whooping confirms their elation.
“Dean, man, you totally beat Death.” Sam can barely contain his hero-worship.
Dean’s teeth flash white in his purple-stained face. “Man, I love me some pie.”
The office is quiet when he gets back, most of the reapers are out on assignment, and the nightshift doesn’t start for another hour. At least there’s no one around to witness his disgrace.
Maybe he is getting too old for this. Perhaps he should think about retiring, have a chat with Head Office about recruiting the great John Winchester to take over his post.
He hangs up his cloak and scythe and settles himself behind the Everest that is now his in-tray. He fishes out Dean Winchester’s most recent death certificate, the one he’d filled out this morning.
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But no one would condemn him. Not after today’s debacle. He removes today’s date, and crosses out Road Traffic Accident as cause of death.
He leaves the date blank, because honestly, he’s secretly quite impressed by Dean’s pie-eating skills, then fills out the Cause of Death section as Type 2 Diabetes.
Revenge is indeed sweet.
The idea for this fic came from a throwaway reply I made to a comment on another fic. It sparked an idea that just wouldn't leave me alone.
Beta duty undertaken by the ever-wonderful yasminke. She did a sterling job, and her beta comments had me giggling like a loon.
TITLE: Death Vs Dean Winchester: Grudge Match '07
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam and Death.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own the boys. Or Death.
SPOILERS: set post Season 2. Spoilers for AHBL part 2.
NOTES: 3000 words. This is crack. No angst, no schmoop. Pure indulgent crack.
He glares at the mountain of files teetering on the edge of his in-tray, as if staring at them’s going to get them filled out faster.
Bloody death certificates. Quite literally, in some cases. He pulls a particularly bloodstained one out of the stack, and the mountain wobbles precariously, threatening an avalanche. Where in hell did he put his rubber stamp?
And now there’s the bloody phone. He pokes through the stacks of paperwork with dejected weariness. It’s got to be here somewhere; he definitely saw it this morning. Or yesterday. Somewhere.
He should probably get one of those damned mobile, hand-held monstrosities that blast tinny rock music and are the work of the Devil. One of his more lucrative ideas, certainly, but still quite obviously satanic in origin.
He finds the phone under a cushion in the overstuffed armchair, has a vague memory of flinging it there in a fit of pique after he got a call yesterday telling him they’d lost another reaper. He’s short-staffed enough already, can’t really afford the time or effort to train up another one.
Honestly, how they expect a department to function under these conditions is beyond him. Barely enough personnel to cover, they’ve been working with a skeleton crew for the last fifty years. And it’s not like they’re slacking, business is brisker now than ever; it’s like 1665 all over again. Good times, though.
He sighs, lifts the receiver.
Great.
Head Office.
Fanbloodytastic.
He swallows back several curses, and listens to the disembodied voice floating out of the receiver. Not that the idiot on the other end of the line is possessed of an actual body. It would get terribly overcrowded up there if they were allowed to retain their physical form.
He makes polite noises at appropriate moments in the conversation, if you can call a command from on high a conversation. Seems there’s a new resident upstairs, a fairly important one, from the sound of things. Kicking up about a recent case.
“What’s the name again?” He tucks the receiver under his ear, and wanders over to the filing cabinet, narrowly avoiding tripping over the phone cord.
“No, that can’t possibly be-” he says, and pulls open the bottom drawer, “-oh come on, you’re winding me up. Someone’s playing silly buggers up there.”
The pompous windbag on the other end of the line assures him that he has never been more serious. Clearly this newest emigrant must be the Second bloody Coming. And here he thought that wasn’t scheduled until the next millennium.
“Are you sure? Are you absolutely one hundred and fifty percent bloody well convinced that’s the name?” he pleads, grinding his forehead against the filing cabinet, slowly and deliberately.
“Yes. Yes. Like the rifle, I know. I’ll get that sorted then, shall I?” He waits until the line goes dead, and then throws the receiver across the room, the rest of the apparatus trailing behind rather belatedly. It thuds against the wall with a solid clunk and remains annoyingly intact. At least a mobile phone would have broken.
It can’t be. Not again. That bloody family.
They’re going to be the death of him.
Let’s get things straight. He’s got nothing against them personally. They’ve even helped him out on occasion. But he’s getting rather tired of re-issuing death certificates.
He rifles through the files, pulls out three in the name of Winchester, Dean. Two dated within a week of each other a couple of years back - and yes - he remembers now, that was when that preacher’s wife was head-hunting his best and brightest. Although, to be honest, old Arthur wasn’t exactly sprightly, and he’d had to pension the poor fellow off after the Winchesters released him from her thrall.
The third one’s dated earlier this year - Sophie signed off on that one. He’s rather fond of Sophie - she’s what he likes to call the big guns - if Sophie can’t take them, no one can. Unless, of course, some stupid great yellow-eyed demon comes meddling, making deals he has no business whatsoever to be offering.
He takes a couple of pointless but calming deep breaths. Possessing a reaper? That’s strictly a no-no. He’d taken that one all the way to the top, but Head Office had fobbed him off, told him it was out of their jurisdiction, to take it up with the appropriate authorities. Right. He had better things to do than go traipse around every circle of Hell looking for that yellow-eyed idiot.
Sophie is still in rehab. He’s fairly sure she won’t work again.
That’s three, but there must be another one, if Head Office is to be believed. Must be recent, if it’s not filed yet. He checks his out-tray, and of course, there it is, in black and white; signed, sealed and dated a year from yesterday’s date.
Oh, great. The kid’s made a bloody deal.
If he’s told Head Office once, he’s told them a hundred times: those red-eyed bastards are making his job impossible. It’s hard enough to keep track of the actual dead, without them complicating things with lists of the not-actually-but-about-to-be-at-some-specified-point-in-the-future dead.
Doesn’t matter to him if they’re headed upstairs or down below, he still has to process the documentation.
And now they want him to revoke a damned, deal-protected death certificate.
It was tricky enough getting those other three rescinded, and they were just your run-of the-mill, standard-issue decedent notification. This is going to be a bureaucratic nightmare, and of course he’ll have the demon unions breathing down his neck, banging on about restrictive practices and threatening him with the monopolies commission.
The thought doesn’t piss him off as much as it probably should.
He supposes he ought to get one of the junior reapers to handle it, give them a taste of bureaucracy in action, but they’d probably just muck it up, and he can’t afford to lose another.
Besides, it seems like this one might require a little finesse. He smiles to himself and opens the cupboard next to the filing cabinet.
And really, it’s been too long since he put on the old cloak and scythe.
He hears them before he sees them.
That’s hardly surprising, he supposes. Considering the volume of their argument, there are most likely undiscovered tribes in the darkest reaches of the Amazon Basin that can hear them.
“Dude. I am never letting you drive again.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Right. Guess I must’ve missed the forty-foot semi that broadsided us this time.”
“Ha, ha. Let me go get a needle so I can sew up my side.”
“Yeah, why don’t you sew up your mouth while you’re at it?”
“Why don’t you make me?”
He rounds the corner and comes upon the wreck. It’s quite a nice car; what’s left of it, anyway. The boys have managed to extricate themselves from the wreckage and are currently standing in middle of the road, yelling at each other with what appears to be gleeful abandon.
“Excuse me,” he interjects, then gives a politely restrained cough.
Which is utterly ignored. The dispute rages unabated.
“Why the hell did you drive off the road?” This from Dean, who clearly feels himself the injured party here.
Colour rises in his brother’s - Sam’s - cheeks. Ah, yes, he remembers that name from the certificate he had to revoke only a couple of weeks ago. Honestly, this family.
Sam mumbles something indistinctly, which sounds a lot like “ther-mumble-wuzzacat-wurble-on-furble-road.”
Dean appears now to be having some sort of apoplectic fit, while simultaneously combining a variety of expletives in novel and highly interesting ways.
He feels that perhaps Sam might view his interruption as a welcome distraction. “Gentlemen.”
The swearing subsides, as the Winchester brothers turn to acknowledge his presence.
“Fuck, Sam.” The respite from swearing is, alas, brief. “You got us killed to save a fucking cat? I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
Rational thinking obviously isn’t Dean Winchester’s strong suit.
“In Sam’s defense, it was a rather adorable cat.” He’d made sure of that.
From the stricken look on Sam’s face, it’s clear his help isn’t appreciated.
“And technically, you’re not dead. Yet,” he adds as an afterthought.
“See?” Sam says, then stops, his eyebrows crinkling in confusion. “But you, we -” Here he gestures helplessly to the gently smoking wreckage of what was once a really rather nice Chevrolet Impala. Shame about the car.
“This is Limbo,” he explains, keeping it simple.
“Dude, we’re dead.” Dean eyes him menacingly. “I’ve seen enough beach party movies to know if this was Limbo there’d be way more semi-naked chicks in coconut bikinis and hula skirts.”
Sam beats him to it. “That’s the dance, not the theological construct, you dork.”
“Theological construct, my ass,” Dean retorts and slaps his brother across the back of his head.
“I’m fairly sure your ass is not a theological construct.” He fixes Dean with his sternest glare. “Now, if you don’t mind, there are a number of matters that require your immediate attention.”
“Now wait a minute.” Dean’s not happy. “I made a deal. One year, right? And he,” he smacks Sam’s head once again, this time for identification purposes, “is supposed to live happily ever after.”
“I’m afraid that particular deal has been rendered null and void.” He allows a soft breeze to ruffle the edges of his cloak, mostly for dramatic emphasis.
Neither of the Winchesters appears particularly impressed.
“Happily ever after? Seriously, Dean. You think this is some dumb-ass fairytale?” Sam scowls, shoving Dean lightly.
“If the shoe fits, Princess.” Dean shoves him in return, more out of obligation than any actual intent to harm, then looks up again. “How come? The deal, I mean.”
“Head Office called. Apparently you know people in high places, Dean Winchester.”
Sam and Dean look at each other, roll their eyes in tandem. “Dad.”
Of course. He should have guessed. Only John Winchester, a man who crawled out of Hell to protect his boys, would then have the gall to march right up to Head Office and demand amnesty for them.
He sighs deeply. “The upshot of it is, the deal’s off and your time’s up. You’re to come with me.” He raises his arm slowly, for maximum effect, and crooks his finger at Dean.
“Nuh-uh.” Dean just folds his arms and shakes his head.
“I’m sorry? Is there a problem?” There’s no reply. He taps his foot. “You do know who I am, right?”
“D’uh. A reaper.” Dean fakes a bored yawn.
“Not ‘A’. The.”
One of Dean’s eyebrows heads towards his hairline. “Huh?”
“The Reaper. As in Grim.” The other eyebrow joins its mate, Dean’s forehead wrinkling in consternation.
“Perhaps you’ve heard of me? The Pale Rider, The Great Leveller, Old Floorer, The Angel of Death.” He waves his hand dismissively. “I generally just go by Death.”
Dean feigns casual indifference. “Prove it.”
“I’m sorry?” He swirls his cloak around his feet and polishes the blade of his scythe on his sleeve. Carefully.
Dean folds his arms across his chest. “If you’re Death, then prove it.”
Sam’s eyebrows wander towards his hairline, although to be honest, it’s difficult to tell where they are under all that hair.
“Dude, don’t provoke Death,” he hisses sotto voce.
“I’m just saying, if he’s Death, then we should …” Dean’s brow crinkles, signifying deep thought processes at work. “… totally be able to challenge him!”
“Dean.” Sam shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know if this is such a great idea.”
“Are you kidding me? Come on, Sammy, you watched Bill and Ted, right? Let’s play Twister, let’s play Risk?”
“Dude, that’s REM. And anyway, it was Battleships.” Sam huffs an impatient sigh. “Though it should’ve been chess.”
“Right. In the director’s cut for nerds and college boy geeks.”
“Have you never heard of ‘The Seventh Seal’?”
“That one of those whale-hugging Disney craptaculars you made me sit through when Dad let you pick the movie? Snow White and the Seven Aquatic Mammals?” Dean scratches the back of his neck, and his grin becomes slightly chagrined. “Or maybe I’m thinking of Beauty and the Bestiality…”
Sam sighs, a deep, tragic, bone-weary sigh of infinite patience. “‘The Seventh Seal’, widely considered to be Ingmar Bergman’s best film, has a scene where the knight plays chess with Death.”
“She’s that German chick, right? The one who had the hots for Bogie in ‘Casablanca’?”
“That’s Ingrid Bergman. And she’s Swedish.” Sam cringes, turns to him and half-shrugs his shoulders in apologetic embarrassment.
“Dude, whatever. I’m going with Bill and Ted.” He tilts his chin, and issues the challenge. “You in, Death?”
Hells bloody bells. This was supposed to be a straightforward soul collection, plain and simple, a roadside pick-up and delivery to Head Office. But no, that would be too easy. Bloody Swedes and their obsession with him. Painting their bloody triptychs and inspiring their bloody filmmakers.
“Oh, for f…fine, then!”
Dean Winchester’s face splits into a smug, eminently slappable grin.
It’s then that he remembers why he hasn’t done this in a while. He takes a moment to wallow in maudlin nostalgia, thinking of happier times, when the mere glint of his scythe, the tiniest flap of his cloak would have had mortals trembling on their knees in awe and terror. And most definitely not smirking in his face and challenging him to parlour games.
He really should have sent Arthur.
It’s ludicrous.
Absolutely preposterous.
Not to mention completely and utterly humiliating. Despite what that ridiculous ‘Bogus Journey’ film would have people believe, it’s been centuries since he’s lost a challenge.
Millennia, possibly.
There ought to be rules. Lists of permissible challenges. Banning the sort of sharp practice that Dean Winchester is currently indulging in.
“Done!”
The smug, if slightly unintelligible yell galvanizes him into action. Less ruminating, more masticating.
How do mortals do this? He glowers at the dish in front of him, but it remains less than intimidated by his death-ray glare.
Beside him, the sounds of sustained slobbering are becoming almost too much to bear.
“M’done!”
That’s Dean’s fourth. And he’s not even slowing. If anything, he seems to be picking up the pace, getting into his stride. It doesn’t help that he’s got his brother whispering encouragement from the sidelines, egging him on like some sort of overgrown and disturbingly hirsute cheerleader.
“Come on, dude, one more for the win!”
He looks down again at his own dish, at the jagged edge of crust that encroaches upon the purplish-blue gelatinous mass congealing in the center. His stomach clenches; groans and burbles in audible protest.
Never mind Arthur, he should have sent Famine. Poor chap could certainly do with the extra calories.
“Mmmph-done!”
Dean lifts his face out of the dish and raises his fist in unadulterated triumph, then shoves his chair back from the table, punctuating his victory with a deep and distinctly gurgling belch.
Sam is practically dancing with glee. “Dude,” he breathes, infusing the word with more admiration, appreciation and adoration than should be humanly possible.
Dean leans back in his chair and belches again. There’s blueberry pie filling dripping from every facial orifice, which lends him the slightly cataclysmic, if comfortingly familiar air of an Ebola virus victim in the later stages of hemorrhagic fever.
He pushes his own half-eaten pie away and burps discreetly. “Very well. I concede.” He’s determined to be gracious in defeat.
Dean Winchester possesses no such delicate sensibilities concerning his victory. He stands up rather unsteadily, swipes his arm across his face, then begins to stagger about erratically. It takes a moment to realize that this is some strange sort of victory dance, complete with wild finger jabbing and ape-faced grinning.
He catches a glimpse of his own refection in the blade of his scythe and dabs surreptitiously at an errant crust crumb with the sleeve of his cloak. Then turns to face the Winchester brothers with as much dignity as he can muster.
“You win, gentlemen.”
Sam’s left eyebrow revisits his hairline. “What about Dean’s deal?”
“As I said before, that ridiculous deal your brother made is null and void. My word is my bond. You’re both free to live a long and happy life, and die a natural death.” He pauses, leans forward conspiratorially. “Unless you decide to make another deal. Which I really wouldn’t advise, not with your father watching out for you upstairs.”
It’s quite disheartening to see the first flash of genuine fear on the Winchester boys’ faces. Oh, they’ll laugh in the face of death, quite literally in Dean’s case, but one mention of their father and they’re trembling in trepidation.
“One more thing.” Sam raises his index finger in a slightly diffident manner, but his voice is calm, composed. “My brother’s car? You did cause the crash, after all.”
“What?” Oh, for pity’s sake. “Right, fine, fine.” He waves his hand, restoring the Impala to its former glory. “Happy now?”
The unrestrained whooping confirms their elation.
“Dean, man, you totally beat Death.” Sam can barely contain his hero-worship.
Dean’s teeth flash white in his purple-stained face. “Man, I love me some pie.”
The office is quiet when he gets back, most of the reapers are out on assignment, and the nightshift doesn’t start for another hour. At least there’s no one around to witness his disgrace.
Maybe he is getting too old for this. Perhaps he should think about retiring, have a chat with Head Office about recruiting the great John Winchester to take over his post.
He hangs up his cloak and scythe and settles himself behind the Everest that is now his in-tray. He fishes out Dean Winchester’s most recent death certificate, the one he’d filled out this morning.
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But no one would condemn him. Not after today’s debacle. He removes today’s date, and crosses out Road Traffic Accident as cause of death.
He leaves the date blank, because honestly, he’s secretly quite impressed by Dean’s pie-eating skills, then fills out the Cause of Death section as Type 2 Diabetes.
Revenge is indeed sweet.