FIC: Hell (And Binky) Follows With Him 1/1
'Kay, this piece got a far greater response over at spn_summergenthan I had dared hope for, so to everyone who read and commented there...holy crap, people. Wow. Thank you. I'll be getting to replies in the next day or two, but rl is gonna be a batshit-crazy logistical nightmare this week. So, bear with me. For any other interested parties... looky here! I wrote a Pratchett crossover. *ducks thrown tomatoes, squeals, runs*
Title: Hell (And Binky) Follows With Him. 1/1
Author: pdragon76
Recipient: yo_gert
Rating: PG-13 (Warning for language)
Author's Notes: SPN/Discworld crossover, for spn_summergen . Set between Time Is On My Side and No Rest For The Wicked. Beta’d by ultraviolet9aand kayto1, whose generosity and careful attention have shielded others from my first draft. Way to take one for the team, ladies. Also beta’d by kimonkey7. Where I would settle, you ask for stretch. Thank you.
Summary: If you’re gonna balls it up, go large.
Death is the surest calculation that can be made.
~Ludwig Büchner, Force and Matter
“Could you have dropped it?” Sam was bent at a yogic angle toward the sleet gray slab of the basement floor. He was moving at the speed of a glacier, methodically scouring the muted surface.
Dean looked up sharply, fingers exploring the depth of his jacket pockets. “What? No! I didn’t drop it.”
“Are you sure? Because--”
“What am I? An idiot?” Dean’s hand caught in his jacket, and he flapped frantically at the leather in frustration. “I didn’t drop it.”
“I didn’t necessarily mean in here. What about out on the street?”
“No.”
Sam straightened, sent his arms wide beseechingly. “Well, then, where is it?”
“I dunno! That’s why we’re looking, you dumbass.” Dean slapped both hands against the back pockets of his jeans, then ran them around his hips and dipped his fingers down the front pockets until they nudged the seam. “I had it,” he insisted softly.
“This thing with the light isn’t helping. Everything’s all…”
“Fucked up. Everything’s all colorless and weird and fucked up.”
They searched the soft shadows of the gray-scaled basement until Sam sighed loudly. “Dude?”
“What?”
“I think you might have dropped it.”
*****************************************************************
It wasn’t there, so they left the basement. Maybe Sam was right, and Dean’d dropped it on the way from the car.
He hadn’t. Dean knew he’d had it in the basement. Remembered the smooth cool of her corner against his fingers, right before Lilith had…
Well, whatever Lilith had done.
But Sam had a bee in his bonnet about it now, and it sure beat standing around staring at each other waiting for…
Well, whatever was going to happen now.
They shouted for Bobby some, just in case. All the way from the condemned building to where they’d left the Impala four blocks west in an alley. It had stunk like pee and vomit back there, but it smelled different now. Everything did; like old wood and camphor. Musty wardrobes. Dean wondered if the scent had been singed into their nasal cavities during that blinding blast in the basement, or if the whole world actually smelled like that now.
Bobby didn’t answer, but Dean had a feeling he was long gone, even before they found the alley empty. The only thing left down there was a taupe-colored dumpster, lid gaping open as though in horror.
“What the fuck is going on?” Sam wanted to know. He turned a slow circle, eyes on the gunmetal sky. “You think this is permanent?”
“I can’t believe we summoned her. I’m startin’ to think this was a really bad idea.”
“Three weeks, Dean.”
“Yeah, thank you. I know.” Dean couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice.
“Bobby really thought this could work.”
“Well, if he was goin’ for the post-apocalyptic industrial look, then…” Dean shot Sam a wide flash of teeth, gave him both thumbs up.
“Do we wait?” Sam scratched the back of his head, shrugged his shoulders a little helplessly. “Maybe it’ll wear off.”
Dean sank to his haunches beside the road, squinted up and down the street. “I dunno. I guess.”
They waited.
It could have been dusk or dawn. The buildings loomed ominously on either side of the street like lackluster monoliths. Square silver window-eyes that stared and saw nothing.
A pale curled leaf jagged across the sidewalk on a non-existent breeze. Dean watched its progress from where he sat cross-legged on the gutter’s edge. He frowned.
“Maybe it wasn’t Lilith. Maybe something went wrong with the spell.” Sam stood in the middle of the road, hands on his hips. He gazed down the alley, as though it were a pit into which he might tumble headfirst.
Dean shrugged. “Maybe.” He passed the flat of his thumb over his tongue, held the slicked digit up in front of his face. “Which way is that wind blowing?”
Sam half-turned toward him, eyes still fixed down the lane. “What wind?”
Dean arched an eyebrow at the traveling leaf. “Yeah.”
“We should go back. Retrace our steps. Maybe we missed something.”
Dean blinked, considered the option. He rose from the sidewalk, smacked the dirt from the back of his jeans. The clap of skin on denim echoed down the street. He gave Sam an indulgent smile.
“Why not? Let’s do that.”
*****************************************************************
“I was here, marking a sigil on this wall…” Sam’s recollection tapered off as his fingertips played on the dull peeling plaster. “Where’d the symbol go?” He turned his head slowly to look around the basement of the decrepit apartment building. “Was it here? Was I here?”
Dean’s eyes traveled from the shattered basement window, to Sam, and then back again. “Yeah. You were there,” he confirmed. He turned his attention to the concrete at the base of the wall, dragged the toe of his boot around in search of fallen glass. Got down on one knee and patted the rough cement with his hand to be sure.
“And you were in the middle, laying the gasoline.” Sam crossed the distance from the wall to the center of the room. He arced around, looked at the floor, then pointed stiffly. “Were those marks there before?”
Dean had moved to the cupboard on the eastern wall, where both splintered doors teetered open on wrecked hinges. He bent forward to examine the broken mirror on the inside of the damaged wood. Dean breathed onto the spider-web cracks, studied his fractured reflection. “No,” he replied finally.
“What do you mean, no? How do you know?”
Dean didn’t respond. He turned on his heel, and caught the glimmer of something shiny and partially obscured near the foot of the stairs. He moved toward the banister, heart thumping in his throat.
The Zippo had slid beneath the fallen edge of a draped sheet covering the junk-pile beneath the stairs. Dean dropped onto his heels, gripped the corner of the fabric and tossed it back; plucked the Zippo from the floor and snapped it shut. He hooked a hand around a baluster to pull himself back up to his feet, saw the first hazard label as he rose. He froze for a moment, then swung in under the stairs off the balustrade and tugged the sheet back further. Took in the stacked drums and touched his chin to his chest.
He closed his eyes. Fuck.
Behind him, Sam said: “What the hell are these marks?”
Dean didn’t turn around. Knew Sam would be crouched, inquisitive nose bent to the gouged cement. Top lip curled in concentration.
He pushed the foul-tasting words out of his mouth. “Impact scarring.”
“What?” Sam sounded confused.
Dean pushed up off the rail, turned to face his brother. He rubbed a hand across his mouth as he deliberated the best method of delivery. In the end he held up the Zippo beside his tight, sheepish smile. “Uhm, yeah. I dropped it.”
Sam looked up from the floor to his brother in growing horror. “You what?”
“I think I blew us up.”
*****************************************************************
Sam said he needed to get some air, and Dean managed to stop himself short of saying he really probably didn’t. He followed his brother back out onto the street, and maintained a polite distance while Sam paced out the simmering boundaries of his own imminent explosion.
The barely contained subcutaneous rage was enough to make a dead guy nervous.
“I told you you dropped it,” Sam shot at him finally.
Dean hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, nodded vacantly. “Yep.”
“I can’t believe you dropped it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How the fuck did you drop it?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Gee, Sam. Let’s see. I got three weeks to live, and we were summoning an evil bitch-demon who happens to hold the contract for my immortal Hell-bound soul. ‘Scuse me for not bein’ King of the Steady-Hands.”
“You were nervous? So, you take a few deep breaths! Jesus. Don’t fumble the fucking incendiary device when we’re both standing in a lake of gasoline!” Sam was a pair of semaphore flags short of a maritime disaster.
“Yeah. Next to an assload of volatile chemicals,” Dean added. He spanned his temples with his thumb and forefinger, squeezed hard and shut his eyes. “Oh, man.”
Sam raked both hands down his face. “And how exactly did we miss that?”
“Uh, sheet,” Dean supplied meekly.
Sam’s hands dropped to his sides and his jaw twitched. “Oh, my God. We were foiled by a sheet.” He squinted incredulously, his mouth falling open in disgusted disbelief. “Twenty years of demon hunting, and then a sheet.”
“Yep.”
“You’re a fucking idiot, Dean.”
“I know.”
“No, really.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean, on the Idiot Scale, you are way off the chart. Way off. There’s, like, no oxygen where you are.”
“Not arguing.”
They were silent for a while, then Dean ventured: “You think Bobby’s alright?”
Sam waved a frantic finger back and forth between them. “Oh, no. Nononono. I’m not speaking to you.”
“Well, he wasn’t in the basement, and he’s not here, so… I’m guessin’ that probably means he’s okay.”
“I said,” Sam stated clearly, “I’m not speaking to you.”
“Okay, fine. I’m just sayin’. Maybe he finished it. The spell, I mean. Maybe Bobby got Lilith.”
It was a ridiculous suggestion. Whatever Bobby planned for the basement had no doubt gone out all four windows, along with a shower of glass and a pretty impressive fireball. But Dean was desperately reaching for any kind of silver lining.
Sam glared at him, arms folded. “Maybe you should shut the fuck up, Dean,” he suggested icily. “How about you try that?”
*****************************************************************
A good half an hour, and Sam still hadn’t cooled off enough to stalk his way back within earshot. Not that Dean’s watch was keeping track anymore, but he kept looking at it anyway. Time had been a pretty fluid construct for him this year. It had stalled and run and fled and puttered and slowed and sped. About the only thing it hadn’t done was the one thing he really wanted it to do, and that was stop.
Dean had spent an entire year coming to grips with - roughly - this eventuality, but Sam was more than entitled to a minor conniption. It had to be disappointing, becoming an unexpected casualty of your brother’s last ditch campaign for a Darwin Award; no matter how outstanding the nomination.
“Okay, get up.”
“What?” Dean angled his chin, squinted up. He wondered if it was possible that exploding had made Sam taller.
“Stand up,” Sam barked. “I wanna try something.”
Dean sighed, rolled onto his hip and got his boot under his ass, started to rise. “Sam, I don’t think this is one of those things you can--”
Sam’s fist caught him completely off guard. He took the right jab straight in the mouth, tripped backwards over the gutter and landed flat on his back on the sidewalk. His skull chocked soundly off the concrete.
“Huh.” Sam studied the knuckles of his still-closed fist, then gazed down at Dean. He seemed surprised. “I actually didn’t think that was gonna work.”
Dean sniffed back, laid subdued and quiet where he’d fallen. He felt his lip. “’S okay, I deserved it.”
“I should kick your goddamn ass,” Sam agreed, but he extended a helping hand instead.
Dean monkey-gripped his brother’s forearm, let Sam haul him back to his feet.
“So, here’s the big question. Why aren’t you in Hell?” Sam asked. He motioned between them. “I mean, I can see how this could be my Hell, but…”
“Very funny. And yeah, I dunno.” They’d both been exposed to twenty odd years of death in all its different guises, and Dean knew his brother was no chump. Knew that deep down, Sam had to know they were waiting because that’s what you did in a waiting room.
“Maybe Bobby did get Lilith. Maybe he found a way to--”
Dean blinked and found the perfect distraction to shut the conversation down. His eyes pivoted up over Sam’s shoulder and he tapped a clumsy finger against his brother’s arm. “Sam?”
Sam slapped at his hand, mistook the warning for dismissal. “No, Dean. Just listen. This could be--”
Dean tapped harder. “Sam!”
Sam turned directly into Death’s impassive stare. He recoiled instinctively, made a primal noise that wavered back and forth between Yikes and Meow. Dean’s fingers closed around Sam’s sleeve and he pulled his gaping brother behind the relative safety of his shoulder.
Dean didn’t know how many yards constituted minimum safe distance when you were face-to-face with a seven-foot-tall skeleton, but he was fairly certain he wanted more than none. He surveyed the reaper from the base of his inky black robe to the pinholes of cerulean light that served as eyes inside his hooded skull. Kept finding his attention pulled back to the yawning lack of the dark vestment.
GOOD AFTERNOON.
Dean wasn’t sure the figure before them had spoken, but he was aware of the words, nonetheless. He pivoted on the stiff hinges of his alarm until he faced Sam. “Did he just say ‘Good afternoon’?”
Sam’s mouth opened and shut twice. “Yes. I think he just said ‘Good afternoon’.”
Dean paused, leaned towards the confidentiality of his brother’s ear. “Do I say hello back?”
Sam shook his head wordlessly.
Dean straightened, cleared his throat, tried on a grimace of a smile. “Uh, hey?”
THERE WAS A DELAY.
Death’s scythe swung forward in a vague, apologetic arc, and Dean’s eyes tracked the whisper-thin transparent blade as he stepped backward out of its path. “Whoa.”
THURSDAYS ARE SOMEWHAT HECTIC.
Dean exchanged a look with Sam, frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Sam tugged viciously at his elbow. “You’re sorry to hear that?” he whispered incredulously.
Dean made a helpless gesture to indicate the situation had spiraled beyond his skill-set, and Sam fairly shoved him aside.
“Okay, hey. Listen. So, you’re…” Sam cranked a hand in front of him, as though it might drive the word up out of his mouth, but it wouldn’t come.
YES.
“Right. And there’s been a big mistake here.” Sam approximated the size of the mistake with two outstretched arms. “Like, massive mistake.” He pointed at Dean. “He dropped his Zippo.”
YES. HE DID.
“See, we were summoning this demon, and I know that sounds bad, but we’re not actually evil. We were just trying to undo something that happened when my brother summoned this other demon, and…” Sam paused, chewed his lip. “Look, the point is, we’re not supposed to be here. And I’m sure you’re really good at your… job, or whatever, but is there maybe someone else we can speak to?”
Death’s eyebrows arched up, in so far as nonexistent follicles could give the appearance of movement.
NO. THERE IS NO MISTAKE.
Sam fidgeted. “Okay, fine. It’s just that in our experience, when something like this happens, there’s generally some wiggle room. I’m just trying to ascertain where it is in this… situation.”
WIGGLE ROOM?
“See, my brother’s an idiot, and he dropped his Zippo, and there was some unexpected flammable material. This wasn’t supposed to happen. And in the past, my brother and I have negotiated a more…” Sam paused, searched for the words, “favorable outcome. In circumstances like these.”
INTERFERENCE OF THIS NATURE IS UNCOMMON.
“Yeah. I understand that.”
IT WOULD APPEAR THAT YOUR EXPERIENCE HAS BEEN HIGHLY UNUSUAL.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, head bobbing. “No shit.”
I BELIEVE THE TERM IS… SPOILED?
Sam froze. When he turned back to Dean he appeared to be approaching a nuclear reaction of some kind, his features an alarming composite of amusement and rage.
“Did that reaper just call me ‘spoiled’?”
Dean braced for a secondary fatal detonation.
Sam took a step forward. He jabbed a finger in Dean’s direction, addressed Death directly. “I spent a hundred odd Tuesdays watching my brother die in Broward-fucking-County, Florida. Explain to me exactly how that’s spoiled.”
AH, YES. BROWARD COUNTY. AN INTRIGUING COSMIC WRINKLE.
Death’s eyes flashed with interest - a firecracker flare of azure - and the blade of his scythe dipped again, swung more expansively. Almost giddily.
THE AUDITORS WERE EXTREMELY VEXED. THE REQUIRED INJUNCTIONS ALONE RESULTED IN UNIVERSAL DELAYS.
Sam was far from similarly impressed. “I’m sorry, what?”
I HEAR THE PAPERWORK WAS EXTENSIVE.
“The paperwork?” Sam repeated, and Dean saw the moment of ignition just in time.
He almost didn’t catch him, had only a fraction of a second to throw an arm out across Sam’s chest.
Death held his ground, watched with patient interest as Sam scrabbled frantically against Dean’s efforts to restrain him.
“Ho! Easy there, Sugar Ray.” Dean marched his fuming brother back, kept him going until there was an appreciable distance between Sam and the object of his wrath. “I don’t think we punch Death, okay? I don’t think that’s something we do. Why don’t you stand back here and chill for a second?”
Sam was trembling beneath his hands. Dean slapped at his brother’s chest. “’S okay. It’s alright. You alright?”
Sam shook his head. He took some deep, shuddering breaths. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Yeah, benchtime, buddy. You need to sit down, stick your head between your knees or something. Lemme talk to this dude, see what’s what.”
Dean left him there, headed back towards the looming robed figure. Swallowed down the butterfly twinge of anticipation that fluttered in his throat. He rubbed his hands together as he approached Death. “Okay, so Sam’s gonna hang back there for a while and…deal.”
ANXIETY IS A PERFECTLY NATURAL RESPONSE.
Dean twisted through the hips, saw Sam leaning forward with his hands on his knees, chest heaving. He winced, turned back to Death. “He’s not really breathing back there, is he?”
NO.
“So, he’s not actually hyperventilating. He can’t pass out or anything, right?”
NO.
“Good. Good, good.”
OLD HABITS DO SEEM TO DIE HARDER WITH SOME THAN OTHERS.
“Speaking of which, that business with the Zippo and the gasoline… that really was my bad. There’s no chance you could slip my brother a hall pass, is there?”
NO.
“Yeah. Didn’t think so.” Dean clucked his cheek, nodded down at his boots. “And you’re here to take me There, right? I’m guessin’ that’s how this works?”
YES.
“Right, and I’m not tryna weasel out of anything here, but I made that deal so my brother could live. And now I’ve gone and…well, I’m sure you can see the irony.” Death stared at him blankly until the smile on Dean’s lips grew hesitant and the corners of his mouth jerked down. “Or not.”
HIS TIME HAS COME TO PASS.
“There’s nothing you can do about that.”
NO.
Dean swiped at his mouth, glanced back toward Sam again. He was laying on his back now, knees hiked up and both hands covering his face. “Well, it was worth a shot. Hey, listen, I don’t mean to get pushy here, but you think we can do this now, before he pulls it together? Otherwise, this is gonna get messy.”
Death was silent; smooth calcified jaw dipped beneath the midnight hood of his gown.
Dean waited for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Hey? Still with me?”
The blue shafts of light found Dean again.
THERE MAY BE A SMALL POSSIBLE CONCESSION.
“Sam?”
NO.
“But this concession, I couldn’t, say, trade it for Sam?”
NO. BUT AN ALTERATION MAY BE FEASIBLE. IT WILL ALMOST CERTAINLY DISPLEASE THE AUDITORS.
“And they are?”
THE AUDITORS. OF REALITY.
“Well, I don’t really know what that means, but you ask me? They sound like a bunch of asses.”
YES.
Death gripped the handle of his scythe with both clawed hands and dropped his eyes to the ground. He fell silent again.
Dean waited. He was on the verge of an idle whistle, one eye still trained on Sam, when Death spoke again.
IT IS DONE.
“What’s that?”
THE ALTERATION.
“Well, hell. That was pretty quick.”
TIME CAN BE…MISLEADING HERE.
Dean perused the impressively large, pale grey horse standing suddenly before him and was inclined to agree. “No shit. When did he get here?”
HE IS ALWAYS HERE. THE MECHANICS OF EXISTENCE ARE… COMPLICATED.
“I think I’ll take your word for that.” Dean pointed at the horse, huffed out a laugh. “This is my concession?”
BINKY WILL ASSIST YOU FROM HERE.
“Binky? Binky will assist me from here, huh?”
THAT IS CORRECT.
Dean shook his head, chuckled. Hell by horseback. It had a certain John Wayne charm about it. There was a little too much silver complimenting the leather of the tack, but Dean was hardly in a position to argue the fancy. And he wasn’t about to look his gift horse in the mouth. He got a boot in the stirrup, swung up into the saddle.
“Well, I gotta say, as far as concessions go, this is pretty craptastic. Thanks a bunch.”
YOU’RE WELCOME.
Dean motioned to Sam. “What happens to Sam now?”
HE IS EXPECTED ELSEWHERE.
“And by elsewhere, you mean, not in Hell.”
NO. NOT THERE.
“Okay. I think I can live with that. Or not. As the case may be.” Binky turned, huge hooves clopping against the pavement. Dean twisted in the saddle, gazed wistfully in Sam’s direction. “You’re gonna have to give him a minute. But he’ll come round.”
Death rapped a bony knuckle on the horse’s rump to send them off.
THEY ALL DO.
*****************************************************************
Sam’s waiting, arms folded and ass resting against the hood of the Impala. He pushes off from the sleek black enamel as Dean approaches.
“Where the hell have you been?” Sam demands, face thunderous.
Dean pivots on his heel as he walks, looks back down the deserted asphalt. It feels a little like Iowa, but it could be anywhere. And maybe that’s the point. He jerks a hesitant thumb toward the endless stretch of open road. The sun’s warm on his face as he says “I was just…was there a horse here a second ago?”
“What?” Sam’s busy fine-tuning the absolute version of his bitchface.
Huh.
He doesn’t think it’s Sam, because Sam’s expected elsewhere, and Dean can’t imagine why elsewhere would be in Iowa.
But it feels like Sam.
“Never mind. Long story.”
“Well, you can tell it on the way.” The back of Sam’s knee jiggles impatiently against the front fender. “We don’t haul ass, this demon’ll be dead of old age by the time we get to Washington.”
Dean pulls up beside the driver door. He jams his fists into the pockets of his leather jacket, rocks a little on his toes. “Okay,” he agrees uncertainly. There’s a smile wanting to tug at his mouth, but he won’t let it yet.
Sam slaps a hand off the top of the hood as he heads for the passenger door. “I tell you what, that son of a bitch gives us any crap about being late, I’m gonna hit him in the face. I swear to God.”
Dean brings his hand out of his pocket and up to his jaw, rubs the stubble beneath his chin as he nods. “Okay,” he says again, diplomatically.
“Next time Dad ropes you into a job, you’re leaving me out of it. You got that?” Sam’s pointing at him across the curved darkness of the Impala’s roof. “This is the last time, Dean. I mean it.”
Dean turns his palm out from his face as Sam throws the keys. He stops the jangle of their flight with the snap of his fist, fingers closing tight around the sharp familiar prongs.
He waits for a second. He might not be in Iowa. But he knows where he’s not.
Binky, you son of a gun.
Dean breathes out, drops the reins on a soft upturning of his lips as the driver door creaks open beneath his practiced hand.
“Whatever you say, Sam.”
*****************************************************************
Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men.
~Herodotus
Title: Hell (And Binky) Follows With Him. 1/1
Author: pdragon76
Recipient: yo_gert
Rating: PG-13 (Warning for language)
Author's Notes: SPN/Discworld crossover, for spn_summergen . Set between Time Is On My Side and No Rest For The Wicked. Beta’d by ultraviolet9aand kayto1, whose generosity and careful attention have shielded others from my first draft. Way to take one for the team, ladies. Also beta’d by kimonkey7. Where I would settle, you ask for stretch. Thank you.
Summary: If you’re gonna balls it up, go large.
Death is the surest calculation that can be made.
~Ludwig Büchner, Force and Matter
“Could you have dropped it?” Sam was bent at a yogic angle toward the sleet gray slab of the basement floor. He was moving at the speed of a glacier, methodically scouring the muted surface.
Dean looked up sharply, fingers exploring the depth of his jacket pockets. “What? No! I didn’t drop it.”
“Are you sure? Because--”
“What am I? An idiot?” Dean’s hand caught in his jacket, and he flapped frantically at the leather in frustration. “I didn’t drop it.”
“I didn’t necessarily mean in here. What about out on the street?”
“No.”
Sam straightened, sent his arms wide beseechingly. “Well, then, where is it?”
“I dunno! That’s why we’re looking, you dumbass.” Dean slapped both hands against the back pockets of his jeans, then ran them around his hips and dipped his fingers down the front pockets until they nudged the seam. “I had it,” he insisted softly.
“This thing with the light isn’t helping. Everything’s all…”
“Fucked up. Everything’s all colorless and weird and fucked up.”
They searched the soft shadows of the gray-scaled basement until Sam sighed loudly. “Dude?”
“What?”
“I think you might have dropped it.”
*****************************************************************
It wasn’t there, so they left the basement. Maybe Sam was right, and Dean’d dropped it on the way from the car.
He hadn’t. Dean knew he’d had it in the basement. Remembered the smooth cool of her corner against his fingers, right before Lilith had…
Well, whatever Lilith had done.
But Sam had a bee in his bonnet about it now, and it sure beat standing around staring at each other waiting for…
Well, whatever was going to happen now.
They shouted for Bobby some, just in case. All the way from the condemned building to where they’d left the Impala four blocks west in an alley. It had stunk like pee and vomit back there, but it smelled different now. Everything did; like old wood and camphor. Musty wardrobes. Dean wondered if the scent had been singed into their nasal cavities during that blinding blast in the basement, or if the whole world actually smelled like that now.
Bobby didn’t answer, but Dean had a feeling he was long gone, even before they found the alley empty. The only thing left down there was a taupe-colored dumpster, lid gaping open as though in horror.
“What the fuck is going on?” Sam wanted to know. He turned a slow circle, eyes on the gunmetal sky. “You think this is permanent?”
“I can’t believe we summoned her. I’m startin’ to think this was a really bad idea.”
“Three weeks, Dean.”
“Yeah, thank you. I know.” Dean couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice.
“Bobby really thought this could work.”
“Well, if he was goin’ for the post-apocalyptic industrial look, then…” Dean shot Sam a wide flash of teeth, gave him both thumbs up.
“Do we wait?” Sam scratched the back of his head, shrugged his shoulders a little helplessly. “Maybe it’ll wear off.”
Dean sank to his haunches beside the road, squinted up and down the street. “I dunno. I guess.”
They waited.
It could have been dusk or dawn. The buildings loomed ominously on either side of the street like lackluster monoliths. Square silver window-eyes that stared and saw nothing.
A pale curled leaf jagged across the sidewalk on a non-existent breeze. Dean watched its progress from where he sat cross-legged on the gutter’s edge. He frowned.
“Maybe it wasn’t Lilith. Maybe something went wrong with the spell.” Sam stood in the middle of the road, hands on his hips. He gazed down the alley, as though it were a pit into which he might tumble headfirst.
Dean shrugged. “Maybe.” He passed the flat of his thumb over his tongue, held the slicked digit up in front of his face. “Which way is that wind blowing?”
Sam half-turned toward him, eyes still fixed down the lane. “What wind?”
Dean arched an eyebrow at the traveling leaf. “Yeah.”
“We should go back. Retrace our steps. Maybe we missed something.”
Dean blinked, considered the option. He rose from the sidewalk, smacked the dirt from the back of his jeans. The clap of skin on denim echoed down the street. He gave Sam an indulgent smile.
“Why not? Let’s do that.”
*****************************************************************
“I was here, marking a sigil on this wall…” Sam’s recollection tapered off as his fingertips played on the dull peeling plaster. “Where’d the symbol go?” He turned his head slowly to look around the basement of the decrepit apartment building. “Was it here? Was I here?”
Dean’s eyes traveled from the shattered basement window, to Sam, and then back again. “Yeah. You were there,” he confirmed. He turned his attention to the concrete at the base of the wall, dragged the toe of his boot around in search of fallen glass. Got down on one knee and patted the rough cement with his hand to be sure.
“And you were in the middle, laying the gasoline.” Sam crossed the distance from the wall to the center of the room. He arced around, looked at the floor, then pointed stiffly. “Were those marks there before?”
Dean had moved to the cupboard on the eastern wall, where both splintered doors teetered open on wrecked hinges. He bent forward to examine the broken mirror on the inside of the damaged wood. Dean breathed onto the spider-web cracks, studied his fractured reflection. “No,” he replied finally.
“What do you mean, no? How do you know?”
Dean didn’t respond. He turned on his heel, and caught the glimmer of something shiny and partially obscured near the foot of the stairs. He moved toward the banister, heart thumping in his throat.
The Zippo had slid beneath the fallen edge of a draped sheet covering the junk-pile beneath the stairs. Dean dropped onto his heels, gripped the corner of the fabric and tossed it back; plucked the Zippo from the floor and snapped it shut. He hooked a hand around a baluster to pull himself back up to his feet, saw the first hazard label as he rose. He froze for a moment, then swung in under the stairs off the balustrade and tugged the sheet back further. Took in the stacked drums and touched his chin to his chest.
He closed his eyes. Fuck.
Behind him, Sam said: “What the hell are these marks?”
Dean didn’t turn around. Knew Sam would be crouched, inquisitive nose bent to the gouged cement. Top lip curled in concentration.
He pushed the foul-tasting words out of his mouth. “Impact scarring.”
“What?” Sam sounded confused.
Dean pushed up off the rail, turned to face his brother. He rubbed a hand across his mouth as he deliberated the best method of delivery. In the end he held up the Zippo beside his tight, sheepish smile. “Uhm, yeah. I dropped it.”
Sam looked up from the floor to his brother in growing horror. “You what?”
“I think I blew us up.”
*****************************************************************
Sam said he needed to get some air, and Dean managed to stop himself short of saying he really probably didn’t. He followed his brother back out onto the street, and maintained a polite distance while Sam paced out the simmering boundaries of his own imminent explosion.
The barely contained subcutaneous rage was enough to make a dead guy nervous.
“I told you you dropped it,” Sam shot at him finally.
Dean hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, nodded vacantly. “Yep.”
“I can’t believe you dropped it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How the fuck did you drop it?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Gee, Sam. Let’s see. I got three weeks to live, and we were summoning an evil bitch-demon who happens to hold the contract for my immortal Hell-bound soul. ‘Scuse me for not bein’ King of the Steady-Hands.”
“You were nervous? So, you take a few deep breaths! Jesus. Don’t fumble the fucking incendiary device when we’re both standing in a lake of gasoline!” Sam was a pair of semaphore flags short of a maritime disaster.
“Yeah. Next to an assload of volatile chemicals,” Dean added. He spanned his temples with his thumb and forefinger, squeezed hard and shut his eyes. “Oh, man.”
Sam raked both hands down his face. “And how exactly did we miss that?”
“Uh, sheet,” Dean supplied meekly.
Sam’s hands dropped to his sides and his jaw twitched. “Oh, my God. We were foiled by a sheet.” He squinted incredulously, his mouth falling open in disgusted disbelief. “Twenty years of demon hunting, and then a sheet.”
“Yep.”
“You’re a fucking idiot, Dean.”
“I know.”
“No, really.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean, on the Idiot Scale, you are way off the chart. Way off. There’s, like, no oxygen where you are.”
“Not arguing.”
They were silent for a while, then Dean ventured: “You think Bobby’s alright?”
Sam waved a frantic finger back and forth between them. “Oh, no. Nononono. I’m not speaking to you.”
“Well, he wasn’t in the basement, and he’s not here, so… I’m guessin’ that probably means he’s okay.”
“I said,” Sam stated clearly, “I’m not speaking to you.”
“Okay, fine. I’m just sayin’. Maybe he finished it. The spell, I mean. Maybe Bobby got Lilith.”
It was a ridiculous suggestion. Whatever Bobby planned for the basement had no doubt gone out all four windows, along with a shower of glass and a pretty impressive fireball. But Dean was desperately reaching for any kind of silver lining.
Sam glared at him, arms folded. “Maybe you should shut the fuck up, Dean,” he suggested icily. “How about you try that?”
*****************************************************************
A good half an hour, and Sam still hadn’t cooled off enough to stalk his way back within earshot. Not that Dean’s watch was keeping track anymore, but he kept looking at it anyway. Time had been a pretty fluid construct for him this year. It had stalled and run and fled and puttered and slowed and sped. About the only thing it hadn’t done was the one thing he really wanted it to do, and that was stop.
Dean had spent an entire year coming to grips with - roughly - this eventuality, but Sam was more than entitled to a minor conniption. It had to be disappointing, becoming an unexpected casualty of your brother’s last ditch campaign for a Darwin Award; no matter how outstanding the nomination.
“Okay, get up.”
“What?” Dean angled his chin, squinted up. He wondered if it was possible that exploding had made Sam taller.
“Stand up,” Sam barked. “I wanna try something.”
Dean sighed, rolled onto his hip and got his boot under his ass, started to rise. “Sam, I don’t think this is one of those things you can--”
Sam’s fist caught him completely off guard. He took the right jab straight in the mouth, tripped backwards over the gutter and landed flat on his back on the sidewalk. His skull chocked soundly off the concrete.
“Huh.” Sam studied the knuckles of his still-closed fist, then gazed down at Dean. He seemed surprised. “I actually didn’t think that was gonna work.”
Dean sniffed back, laid subdued and quiet where he’d fallen. He felt his lip. “’S okay, I deserved it.”
“I should kick your goddamn ass,” Sam agreed, but he extended a helping hand instead.
Dean monkey-gripped his brother’s forearm, let Sam haul him back to his feet.
“So, here’s the big question. Why aren’t you in Hell?” Sam asked. He motioned between them. “I mean, I can see how this could be my Hell, but…”
“Very funny. And yeah, I dunno.” They’d both been exposed to twenty odd years of death in all its different guises, and Dean knew his brother was no chump. Knew that deep down, Sam had to know they were waiting because that’s what you did in a waiting room.
“Maybe Bobby did get Lilith. Maybe he found a way to--”
Dean blinked and found the perfect distraction to shut the conversation down. His eyes pivoted up over Sam’s shoulder and he tapped a clumsy finger against his brother’s arm. “Sam?”
Sam slapped at his hand, mistook the warning for dismissal. “No, Dean. Just listen. This could be--”
Dean tapped harder. “Sam!”
Sam turned directly into Death’s impassive stare. He recoiled instinctively, made a primal noise that wavered back and forth between Yikes and Meow. Dean’s fingers closed around Sam’s sleeve and he pulled his gaping brother behind the relative safety of his shoulder.
Dean didn’t know how many yards constituted minimum safe distance when you were face-to-face with a seven-foot-tall skeleton, but he was fairly certain he wanted more than none. He surveyed the reaper from the base of his inky black robe to the pinholes of cerulean light that served as eyes inside his hooded skull. Kept finding his attention pulled back to the yawning lack of the dark vestment.
GOOD AFTERNOON.
Dean wasn’t sure the figure before them had spoken, but he was aware of the words, nonetheless. He pivoted on the stiff hinges of his alarm until he faced Sam. “Did he just say ‘Good afternoon’?”
Sam’s mouth opened and shut twice. “Yes. I think he just said ‘Good afternoon’.”
Dean paused, leaned towards the confidentiality of his brother’s ear. “Do I say hello back?”
Sam shook his head wordlessly.
Dean straightened, cleared his throat, tried on a grimace of a smile. “Uh, hey?”
THERE WAS A DELAY.
Death’s scythe swung forward in a vague, apologetic arc, and Dean’s eyes tracked the whisper-thin transparent blade as he stepped backward out of its path. “Whoa.”
THURSDAYS ARE SOMEWHAT HECTIC.
Dean exchanged a look with Sam, frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Sam tugged viciously at his elbow. “You’re sorry to hear that?” he whispered incredulously.
Dean made a helpless gesture to indicate the situation had spiraled beyond his skill-set, and Sam fairly shoved him aside.
“Okay, hey. Listen. So, you’re…” Sam cranked a hand in front of him, as though it might drive the word up out of his mouth, but it wouldn’t come.
YES.
“Right. And there’s been a big mistake here.” Sam approximated the size of the mistake with two outstretched arms. “Like, massive mistake.” He pointed at Dean. “He dropped his Zippo.”
YES. HE DID.
“See, we were summoning this demon, and I know that sounds bad, but we’re not actually evil. We were just trying to undo something that happened when my brother summoned this other demon, and…” Sam paused, chewed his lip. “Look, the point is, we’re not supposed to be here. And I’m sure you’re really good at your… job, or whatever, but is there maybe someone else we can speak to?”
Death’s eyebrows arched up, in so far as nonexistent follicles could give the appearance of movement.
NO. THERE IS NO MISTAKE.
Sam fidgeted. “Okay, fine. It’s just that in our experience, when something like this happens, there’s generally some wiggle room. I’m just trying to ascertain where it is in this… situation.”
WIGGLE ROOM?
“See, my brother’s an idiot, and he dropped his Zippo, and there was some unexpected flammable material. This wasn’t supposed to happen. And in the past, my brother and I have negotiated a more…” Sam paused, searched for the words, “favorable outcome. In circumstances like these.”
INTERFERENCE OF THIS NATURE IS UNCOMMON.
“Yeah. I understand that.”
IT WOULD APPEAR THAT YOUR EXPERIENCE HAS BEEN HIGHLY UNUSUAL.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, head bobbing. “No shit.”
I BELIEVE THE TERM IS… SPOILED?
Sam froze. When he turned back to Dean he appeared to be approaching a nuclear reaction of some kind, his features an alarming composite of amusement and rage.
“Did that reaper just call me ‘spoiled’?”
Dean braced for a secondary fatal detonation.
Sam took a step forward. He jabbed a finger in Dean’s direction, addressed Death directly. “I spent a hundred odd Tuesdays watching my brother die in Broward-fucking-County, Florida. Explain to me exactly how that’s spoiled.”
AH, YES. BROWARD COUNTY. AN INTRIGUING COSMIC WRINKLE.
Death’s eyes flashed with interest - a firecracker flare of azure - and the blade of his scythe dipped again, swung more expansively. Almost giddily.
THE AUDITORS WERE EXTREMELY VEXED. THE REQUIRED INJUNCTIONS ALONE RESULTED IN UNIVERSAL DELAYS.
Sam was far from similarly impressed. “I’m sorry, what?”
I HEAR THE PAPERWORK WAS EXTENSIVE.
“The paperwork?” Sam repeated, and Dean saw the moment of ignition just in time.
He almost didn’t catch him, had only a fraction of a second to throw an arm out across Sam’s chest.
Death held his ground, watched with patient interest as Sam scrabbled frantically against Dean’s efforts to restrain him.
“Ho! Easy there, Sugar Ray.” Dean marched his fuming brother back, kept him going until there was an appreciable distance between Sam and the object of his wrath. “I don’t think we punch Death, okay? I don’t think that’s something we do. Why don’t you stand back here and chill for a second?”
Sam was trembling beneath his hands. Dean slapped at his brother’s chest. “’S okay. It’s alright. You alright?”
Sam shook his head. He took some deep, shuddering breaths. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Yeah, benchtime, buddy. You need to sit down, stick your head between your knees or something. Lemme talk to this dude, see what’s what.”
Dean left him there, headed back towards the looming robed figure. Swallowed down the butterfly twinge of anticipation that fluttered in his throat. He rubbed his hands together as he approached Death. “Okay, so Sam’s gonna hang back there for a while and…deal.”
ANXIETY IS A PERFECTLY NATURAL RESPONSE.
Dean twisted through the hips, saw Sam leaning forward with his hands on his knees, chest heaving. He winced, turned back to Death. “He’s not really breathing back there, is he?”
NO.
“So, he’s not actually hyperventilating. He can’t pass out or anything, right?”
NO.
“Good. Good, good.”
OLD HABITS DO SEEM TO DIE HARDER WITH SOME THAN OTHERS.
“Speaking of which, that business with the Zippo and the gasoline… that really was my bad. There’s no chance you could slip my brother a hall pass, is there?”
NO.
“Yeah. Didn’t think so.” Dean clucked his cheek, nodded down at his boots. “And you’re here to take me There, right? I’m guessin’ that’s how this works?”
YES.
“Right, and I’m not tryna weasel out of anything here, but I made that deal so my brother could live. And now I’ve gone and…well, I’m sure you can see the irony.” Death stared at him blankly until the smile on Dean’s lips grew hesitant and the corners of his mouth jerked down. “Or not.”
HIS TIME HAS COME TO PASS.
“There’s nothing you can do about that.”
NO.
Dean swiped at his mouth, glanced back toward Sam again. He was laying on his back now, knees hiked up and both hands covering his face. “Well, it was worth a shot. Hey, listen, I don’t mean to get pushy here, but you think we can do this now, before he pulls it together? Otherwise, this is gonna get messy.”
Death was silent; smooth calcified jaw dipped beneath the midnight hood of his gown.
Dean waited for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Hey? Still with me?”
The blue shafts of light found Dean again.
THERE MAY BE A SMALL POSSIBLE CONCESSION.
“Sam?”
NO.
“But this concession, I couldn’t, say, trade it for Sam?”
NO. BUT AN ALTERATION MAY BE FEASIBLE. IT WILL ALMOST CERTAINLY DISPLEASE THE AUDITORS.
“And they are?”
THE AUDITORS. OF REALITY.
“Well, I don’t really know what that means, but you ask me? They sound like a bunch of asses.”
YES.
Death gripped the handle of his scythe with both clawed hands and dropped his eyes to the ground. He fell silent again.
Dean waited. He was on the verge of an idle whistle, one eye still trained on Sam, when Death spoke again.
IT IS DONE.
“What’s that?”
THE ALTERATION.
“Well, hell. That was pretty quick.”
TIME CAN BE…MISLEADING HERE.
Dean perused the impressively large, pale grey horse standing suddenly before him and was inclined to agree. “No shit. When did he get here?”
HE IS ALWAYS HERE. THE MECHANICS OF EXISTENCE ARE… COMPLICATED.
“I think I’ll take your word for that.” Dean pointed at the horse, huffed out a laugh. “This is my concession?”
BINKY WILL ASSIST YOU FROM HERE.
“Binky? Binky will assist me from here, huh?”
THAT IS CORRECT.
Dean shook his head, chuckled. Hell by horseback. It had a certain John Wayne charm about it. There was a little too much silver complimenting the leather of the tack, but Dean was hardly in a position to argue the fancy. And he wasn’t about to look his gift horse in the mouth. He got a boot in the stirrup, swung up into the saddle.
“Well, I gotta say, as far as concessions go, this is pretty craptastic. Thanks a bunch.”
YOU’RE WELCOME.
Dean motioned to Sam. “What happens to Sam now?”
HE IS EXPECTED ELSEWHERE.
“And by elsewhere, you mean, not in Hell.”
NO. NOT THERE.
“Okay. I think I can live with that. Or not. As the case may be.” Binky turned, huge hooves clopping against the pavement. Dean twisted in the saddle, gazed wistfully in Sam’s direction. “You’re gonna have to give him a minute. But he’ll come round.”
Death rapped a bony knuckle on the horse’s rump to send them off.
THEY ALL DO.
*****************************************************************
Sam’s waiting, arms folded and ass resting against the hood of the Impala. He pushes off from the sleek black enamel as Dean approaches.
“Where the hell have you been?” Sam demands, face thunderous.
Dean pivots on his heel as he walks, looks back down the deserted asphalt. It feels a little like Iowa, but it could be anywhere. And maybe that’s the point. He jerks a hesitant thumb toward the endless stretch of open road. The sun’s warm on his face as he says “I was just…was there a horse here a second ago?”
“What?” Sam’s busy fine-tuning the absolute version of his bitchface.
Huh.
He doesn’t think it’s Sam, because Sam’s expected elsewhere, and Dean can’t imagine why elsewhere would be in Iowa.
But it feels like Sam.
“Never mind. Long story.”
“Well, you can tell it on the way.” The back of Sam’s knee jiggles impatiently against the front fender. “We don’t haul ass, this demon’ll be dead of old age by the time we get to Washington.”
Dean pulls up beside the driver door. He jams his fists into the pockets of his leather jacket, rocks a little on his toes. “Okay,” he agrees uncertainly. There’s a smile wanting to tug at his mouth, but he won’t let it yet.
Sam slaps a hand off the top of the hood as he heads for the passenger door. “I tell you what, that son of a bitch gives us any crap about being late, I’m gonna hit him in the face. I swear to God.”
Dean brings his hand out of his pocket and up to his jaw, rubs the stubble beneath his chin as he nods. “Okay,” he says again, diplomatically.
“Next time Dad ropes you into a job, you’re leaving me out of it. You got that?” Sam’s pointing at him across the curved darkness of the Impala’s roof. “This is the last time, Dean. I mean it.”
Dean turns his palm out from his face as Sam throws the keys. He stops the jangle of their flight with the snap of his fist, fingers closing tight around the sharp familiar prongs.
He waits for a second. He might not be in Iowa. But he knows where he’s not.
Binky, you son of a gun.
Dean breathes out, drops the reins on a soft upturning of his lips as the driver door creaks open beneath his practiced hand.
“Whatever you say, Sam.”
*****************************************************************
Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men.
~Herodotus