Spring Fic Exchange: "Dean and the Deathly Hallows" for boysinperil
Title: Dean and the Deathly Hallows
Author: lolaann1
Artist: candygramme
Recipient: boysinperil
Summary: Thanks to Sam bringing a cat into the Bat Cave, Dean ends up dead before his time. Death agrees to bring him back, but insists he clean up the cat’s mess by himself. For the prompt: Anything with Dean, Death, and Tessa.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Death, Tessa, feline OC
Genre: Gen, Humor
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Warnings/Spoilers: This is S8, Bat Cave fic, but there are no real plot spoilers.
Wordcount: ~2,900
BIG thanks to mamapranayama for betaing and to cappy712 for agreeing to look over my final copy. I’m so full of stupid mistakes these days and a second (or third) pair of eyes is so helpful. Any remaining errors are my own.
Be sure to give love to candygramme for the wonderful art. I couldn’t decide which banner I liked best, so I used them all J
Dean and the Deathly Hallows
Justin Bieber was one rotten son of a bitch.
The past five days with the little pest had been one aggravating pain-in-the ass after another.
The Biebs had - in no particular order - pooped in Dean’s only pair of dress shoes, ripped a hole in his new bedspread, deliberately sat his little naked butt on every surface imaginable (including contaminating the remote control). And, as if that wasn’t enough, there was the highly disturbing headless mouse the little shit tried to disembowel on the kitchen counter.
Now THIS.
Dean had cashed in his chips for the last time. He was a freaking ghost! The Biebs had ripped his throat out… and it was all Sam’s fault.
All this crap started when his gigantor, Marlin Perkins wannabe of a brother, had found the cat prowling around in the road outside their secret bunker. The cat knew an easy mark when it saw one and proceeded to suck up to Sam shamelessly. And, of course, Sam had stubbornly insisted they take it in until they could find its owner.
Zero consideration was given to Dean’s cat allergy. And, apparently, Sam saw nothing shady about the cat’s nametag reading ‘Justin Bieber’, or the fact that the phone number on the tag was out of service. Seriously! What was he thinking? The cat was named Justin Bieber for God’s sake! It had to be bad luck. No wonder its owner’s phone was disconnected. The poor guy was probably dead or in the nut house.
But, no, Sammy was being bullheaded about it, just like he was about everything lately. Dean knew he didn’t feel well and he wanted to help, but damn. Did it have to be a cat? What was it with Sam and strays?
The rub was that he’d almost made it. The cat was supposed to be gone by tomorrow night. Thanks to a call to Garth, the Biebs had been hired as the official mouser on the houseboat. He was supposed to come pick him up tomorrow.
Not that it did him any good now.
No. Garth’s arrival wasn’t going to a damn thing for Dean. Not when his disembodied spirit was standing in the middle of the trashed cursed objects room, staring at himself lying in a giant pool of blood with his throat ripped out. And the stupid-ass ‘WTF’ expression on his dead face was the clincher - jeez!
Because, this time, the Biebs had done far worse than get himself locked in a bedroom for a few hours. This time, he’d managed to sneak into the cursed objects room behind Sam without his brother realizing it. Now, Sam was off buying organic, free-range, cruelty-free grapefruit or some crap, and Dean was ripped open like a piñata.
When he first realized it had gotten shut up in there, Dean had felt sorry for it. It sounded heartbroken and alone, mewling from behind the closed door. He had to admit that when it wasn’t pooping in his shoes, little Biebs was so stupid looking with its smushed-in face and oversized eyes that it was actually sort of cute. And it was a friendly little thing too, even though it had a bizarre fetish for sticking its butt in people’s faces.
Dean knew he was doomed before he even opened the thick steel door to the curse objects room. Best case scenario - he’d end up with a nasty case of magically induced syphilis or giant, pus-filled boils… or, then again, his face could melt off. The Men of Letters had compiled a serious collection of weird and dangerous hoodoo over the years. It wouldn’t be too shocking to find the lost Ark itself stowed away in there.
Instead of his face instantly melting, Dean had found the Biebs sitting quietly on top of an upended curse box with a mysterious, shiny new piece of bling hanging from its collar. Like that could ever be a good thing.
On closer inspection, he’d also realized that the cat didn’t look like its usual goofy, but harmless, self. Its oversized yellow eyes held an unnatural glow, while its fangs and claws had grown to twice their normal size. He also quickly learned that sweet little Justin had developed the temperament and speed of a mountain lion on crack.
He hadn’t stood a chance. Not that it made him feel any less like a giant dumbass. The great Dean Winchester, snuffed out by a housecat named after a tweenage heartthrob. It was the most embarrassing death he could imagine that didn’t involve porn. Dean’s only hope was to Swayze his way into communicating with Sam. He had to convince his brother to tell a much more badass version of his demise. So far, his favorite version featured himself dying heroically as he took down most of a giant horde of Nazi zombies. Alone. Armed only with the scimitar. It would explain away the bite marks and made a damn cool story.
“Really, Dean?” said a feminine voice from behind him.
Tessa had joined him in the cursed object room and was staring at him with her mouth hanging open. ‘Gobsmacked’ was definitely the right word for her expression, which was good, because Dean was right there with her. This situation called for buckets full of ‘gobsmacked’.
She stood there silently for a moment, crossing her arms in front of her. She was pissed.
“I can’t believe you’d do this again. You’re unbelievable,” she said as she shook her head slowly. “Really, Dean? You know he’s going to kill you this time. Kill you, kill you. He’ll put you someplace where you’ll never come back. I can’t believe you actually had the nerve to try something like this again.”
Was she blaming him for this? Did she think this was all part of some master plan?
“Try something like what?” he asked in disbelief as he gestured toward the gaping, raw, bloody hole that used to be his throat. “Seriously? You think I did that? What did I use, a rusty spoon? Come on! I’ve been ripped to pieces here!”
He decided to leave out the details of exactly what had ripped him to pieces. He may be dead, but he still had a shred of pride left. The stupid, slack jawed expression on his corpse was bad enough.
Tessa huffed a sigh and stepped closer to stand beside him as they both stared down at his body.
This was bizarre. So far beyond bizarre.
She pursed her lips tightly together as she pondered his obviously not self-inflicted injuries.
“Well, what was I supposed to think?” she defended with a shrug. “You’re not supposed to be dead and I wouldn’t put this past you. I just assumed that your younger brother must be in trouble again, so you decided to take the obvious route.”
Seeing Dean’s deer-in-headlights expression, she added, “You know, off yourself temporarily and try to bargain with my boss to get Sam out of his latest mess? Force me to be your babysitter while you make an even bigger mess of things? It is your go-to plan,” she added dryly.
“Hey! I did that once. Once! And what do you mean I’m not supposed to be dead? ‘cause I hate to break it to you, sister, but that’s dead.”
Tessa gazed back down on the other, bloodier, stupider-looking version of him for a moment before shaking her head again. “Leave it to you to get yourself killed without an appointment.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dean,” she began patiently, smiling a bit. “I know who I’m supposed to reap each day. It’s my job. I have a list. You weren’t on it.”
“So? Maybe they gave the gig to someone else. Did you think of that?” he taunted, seeing as how she was treating him like he was five.
“No, I didn’t,” she replied slowly with a raised brow in the same patronizing tone. “I’m your reaper, Dean, no one else. That’s how this works. Usually, it’s just a onetime ‘gig’ as you call it, but you just keep coming back for more.”
Yeah, she had a point, but Dean still resented it. Did the universe seriously believe he wanted to get mixed up in every single shit storm that blew by? This one wasn’t even his fault. He wasn’t the one who locked the furry fleabag in the cursed objects room to begin with.
“I hate to break it to you, lady, but this ain’t exactly my idea of a good time. So, how about you cut me a little slack? I just had my throat ripped out by… by…”
“That?” she asked, her eyes widening as she pointed to the cat that had just reappeared from behind a pile of fallen curse boxes.
Dean wanted to deny it. He really did. But it was kind of hard when The Biebs had blood dripping from his goofy, flat face and sticking to his giant claws.
It didn’t seem aware of the presence of himself and Tessa - so much for cats being sensitive to the presence of the dead - or maybe it did see them and just didn’t care, because it threw a bored look in their direction before giving dead-Dean a disdainful sniff. Then it prissed around for a few seconds before sitting back on its haunches to lick its front paws clean.
At least Dean’s reaper was no longer pissed at him. Nope, now she was just amused as hell.
“I’m sorry, but you did surprise me. I’m honestly not even sure what I’m supposed to do with you,” Tessa remarked through a full-on grin, something he couldn’t remember seeing on her before. She looked really cute when she smiled.
“I will handle this, Tessa. Thank you.”
And there he stood, looking as cheerful as usual, the Grim Reaper himself. Tall, thin, gaunt, and wearing his standard black suit. Awesome.
“Dean.” Death greeted him with a nod, still wearing a deadpan expression.
Dean swallowed hard and tried his best to smile. The last time they spoke, he had bound the guy. He probably still wasn’t on his Christmas list. “This wasn’t my idea, just so you know,” he assured Death. “All I wanted to do was chill out for a few hours, watch some TV, eat my pie...”
Dean trailed off. What the hell? Death was standing there holding a small plate and a fork. On that plate was the slice of apple crumb pie he’d been looking forward to gorging himself on, along with a big scoop of his brand name, vanilla bean ice cream!
“Dude!” Dean exclaimed. But a glare and a quirked brow quickly reminded him that it was probably not a good idea to ‘dude’ death.
“Don’t be a poor host, Dean,” Death scolded. “I believe it is customary for you to offer me refreshments after you’ve dragged me halfway across the world,” he said right before spooning a bite full of Dean’s dessert into his mouth.
This sucked.
First, he died, and now he had to watch someone else eat his pie? And he wasn’t allowed to bitch about it? Yep, the universe still hated him. It had just been reaffirmed. Dean opened his mouth to say he-wasn’t-sure-what, but Death cut him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist.
“I don’t have a lot of time, Dean. Why don’t we skip your childish tantrum and deal with your situation,” he said with a smirk that was probably the closest the guy ever came to laughing his ass off. “Death by the common feline is rather mortifying for one such as yourself, isn’t it?” he observed. “If it’s any consolation, I find this passing to be quite memorable… and I’ve seen my share of deaths.”
“I’m glad I’m here to entertain you.”
Death just gave him another quasi-grin before continuing. “Entertaining or not, this particular death should not have occurred. As much as I’d like to have the matter of your permanent death settled once and for all, I’m afraid I will have to remedy the situation. An unplanned demise tends to setoff quite a few ripples… and you’ve already caused more than your share of those. Unfortunately, I must bring you back.”
Dean gaped. He wasn’t expecting that. “Uh… thanks?”
A bony hand - holding a forkful of his pie - stopped Dean from saying anything else.
“Not so fast. Before I resurrect you, you must realize that it is up to you to safely retrieve the locket from the neck of your feline friend. And if you die again, I’ll be forced to consider it fate,” he warned with a smirk.
No do-overs. That wasn’t surprising.
“Don’t suppose you care to tell me what the hell kind of mojo is on that locket?” Dean asked.
The Chief Reaper’s face was now more pinched than usual. Clearly, the guy didn’t like being questioned, but he did provide Dean with somewhat of an explanation.
“A portion of the soul of a particularly nasty witch is contained within the locket. It was part of his bid for immortality. Fortunately, the Men of Letters were able to keep the locket secured and, therefore, harmless… until now,” Death added with a meaningful glare. “The new generation leaves a lot to be desired.”
“Hey,” Dean snapped, but forced himself to swallow his tirade and remember who he was dealing with. He settled for a grumbled, “This wasn’t my fault.”
The thin, hard line of Death’s lips told him he wasn’t impressed by his excuse. And Tessa, damn her, was biting her lip to keep from laughing.
Then the impact of Death’s words sunk in.
“Hold on a minute,” Dean said with a half-laugh. “You’re seriously trying to tell me there’s a piece of a dark wizard’s soul trapped inside that locket? Is this your idea of a practical joke? I know that was the plot to pretty much all the Harry Potter movies.” He frowned, trying to recall the word the movies used. “The locket was called a ‘whorecrust’ or some stupid crap like that. Whatever. I know my movies.”
Death gave him another of his bone-chilling glares. “No, Dean, this is not a joke. Regardless of what you may choose to believe, you and your brother do not rate highly enough on the cosmic scale to warrant such a prank. Don’t flatter yourself. And the proper term is ‘horcrux’. There are things called books. I suggest you look into them. You may learn something.”
Before he thought better of it, Dean rolled his eyes. Death was, once again, telling him how useless, insignificant, and stupid he was, yet he’d personally shown up at his murder scene. This song and dance was getting old.
“Let’s just do this,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Bieber’s fifteen minutes of fame are up. I’m shuttin’ his show down.”
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sam would show up the very second it was all said and done. It was the big fat scoop of ice cream on Dean’s perfect day and the only one he was likely to get, thanks to Death and his appetite.
His brother was treated to the sight of a pissed off cat, soaked in holy water, with Dean standing over it looking like a lunatic - every bit of visible skin covered in dozens of scratches, wearing a welding shield (that he’d put on far too late), an oven mitt on each hand, and his thickest winter coat.
It was hard to imagine what Sam was thinking right now. Death and Tessa sure hadn’t bothered to stick around to give him an alibi. They had enjoyed the show, but once the locket was safely locked in its charmed box once again, he was on his own.
“Dean?” Sam prompted. He had paused at the threshold to the main room and stood staring at him in disbelief.
Then that traitor, Bieber, butted in. It went straight to Sam’s side, where it rubbed its wet fur up against his leg and meowed innocently, looking up at him with big round eyes. The thing was actually telling on Dean and, odds were, Sam would take its side.
Dean probably should have blown the little bastard away. But, no, he’d been a nice guy and gotten himself torn to pieces again, just so he didn’t have to consider himself a kitty killer. Plus, he knew Sam was attached to the ungrateful, pooping, ball of fur.
As he predicted, Sam was completely taken in by The Biebs’ innocent act. He knelt down and gently scratched the cat under the chin while he shot Dean his trademark glare of righteous indignation.
“Dean, what happened here?” he demanded. “What the hell did you do to the cat? Look at him! The poor thing’s soaking wet. Dude! What’s wrong with you?”
Later, his brother was going to get his precious explanation. He was going to get an earful of it, in fact. But, for now, Sammy would have to settle for the Cliff’s Notes version. Dean’s first priority was getting his ass in a hot shower. He needed to wash away whatever bacterial vermin were in those cat scratches, before the germs multiplied and he suddenly started speaking snake, or mutated into a bouncing ferret, or some other ridiculous Hogwarts’ crap.
“I’m the boy that lived,” Dean barked over his shoulder as he left Sam and a purring Biebs to their bonding. “Thanks to you, I did the Deathly Hallows with Justin-Friggin-Bieber and Death ate my pie! You got it, Sammy? Happy now?”
