Work Text:
Laughing as a Young Man Laughs
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Carl Sandburg: Chicago (1914)
1. Pizze at the Rinascita
It's not that much of a revelation, and then again it is. It's not as if Dean has given it much thought; he's been far too occupied with not dying to think about Death. Death with a capital D.
Only when he finds the cream-colored card, a piece of heavy high-quality stationary, a few words written in a fluent, confident handwriting, he can't really help it—thinking. With the card in front of him, the envelope neatly lined up next to it, Dean thinks.
Death.
Death still scares Dean. Oh, he's been driven to treat the man less than politely a few times, he has to admit that. Death has taken it rather nicely, all things considered. Dean looks at the card again, trying to make sense of it. No stamp, no delivery to a mailbox that doesn't exist. It just lies here, on the long table in the middle of the Batcave, appearing out of thin air sometimes between Dean's afternoon nap and dinner. There's a few grains of something white on the table. Salt. Maybe Sam wanted to make sure that nothing unpleasant came with the letter. At least he saved it a shower of holy water for the ink is still clear and the strokes sure and crisp.
Wednesday, Rinascita Pizzeria, Chicago. 6 p.m. Do not eat. Be punctual.
It is signed Death, and Dean supposes that someone who is the beginning and the end of everything doesn't have a name. It seems sort of... too small.
"If Death had a name, what would it be?" Dean asks casually, looking up at Sam. "I mean... not Bubba or Stan or anything. More like... Alexander or Thomas. Something dignified."
"Er, what?" Sam blinks and lowers the book he's been reading. "Death?"
"Yeah. I just wondered. But I suppose he doesn't have a mom, so nobody has ever, like, you know, needed to call his name and tell him that he has to get back in and wash his hands before lunch."
"You have a very, very strange mind, Dean. Are you sure you're okay?" Sam glances briefly into the book he's reading, maybe to remember the page number, before he closes it and puts it down on the desk. He looks searchingly at Dean, as if to discern whether he has lost his mind or if he's just being plain weird.
"No. I mean, yes. It's just that..." Dean holds up the card. "Death has summoned me." There is no other proper term. When Death calls, Dean obeys. Usually. He can't think of anyone who wouldn't obey, knowing who Death is. Lucifer perhaps, but the guy's an idiot.
Sam frowns. "I wondered where that letter came from."
"You salted it."
"Yeah. So... Death, huh? What does he want? It has been ages since, erm-"
"Since he helped us, yeah. I can't ignore him. I have to go. It's odd, though. Chicago... that's where I met him the first time. He's asked me to go to the same place... some pizzeria. Great food, by the way. If I hadn't been so fucking afraid of him that I could just as well have eaten cardboard, I might have enjoyed it. Ruins the experience of a good meal to eat it in the company of a horseman in a restaurant littered with dead bodies."
Holding out his hand for the card, Sam asks, "What does it say?"
"Meet him there, Wednesday. Guess I better buckle up and hit the road." Dean pushes the card in Sam's direction. "Wanna come? Don't have to. It's my name on the envelope." Dean's sure that Sam would much rather stay with his books. Luckily, hunting is slow this time of year; Hell and Heaven are all quiet for once. There isn't that much to do, and nothing that craves their immediate attention, nothing that Garth isn't handling already. "I mean, the more you read, the better prepared we'll be." They both know that the quiet is the kind that is always there just before the storm breaks loose. It's only a question of time before the tide rises and demons or monsters or some unpleasant being or another are going to flood their lives with evil again.
"You think it's dangerous, meeting him? You have no idea what he wants? You really wanna go?" Sam sounds worried. He turns the card over and reads it again.
"No idea whatsoever. And of course it's risky. You know what he is." Somehow Dean isn't truly worried, although Death is dangerous, almost omnipotent as he is. Sure, Dean is scared — that's his default setting for encounters with Death, but he really isn't that worried. If Death had a problem he wanted solved, he'd have showed up or sent one of his reapers. It surely isn't urgent. So no disasters, apocalypses or revenge-quests. Probably.
At no point does Dean consider staying at the Batcave. He is rarely grateful for long, but he pays what he owes. And his debt to Death? Sam's soul is worth anything Dean could possibly pay, so he'll be at Death's beck and call for eternity for that one. "I owe him," Dean finally says. "Of course I'll go." He pauses, pursing his mouth, realizing that he actually in some twisted way looks forward to it. Somehow the thing Dean remembers best about Death is his quiet kindness, the small favors, and the not so small. Death didn't have to help them and still he did.
As monsters and otherworldly beings come, Death isn't half bad. He's dignified and quiet, almost rigidly polite. There is this overwhelming sense of solitude that clings to him, a loneliness so deep that Dean prefers not to think of it. It's somehow reflected in himself, and Dean thinks he might understand how Death feels. It's the heaviness, being the beginning and the end of everything, Dean believes. The tiny taste that Dean had of Death's life still has a bitter aftertaste.
"I like him," Dean finally says, enduring Sam's surprising glance at him. "I do."
And that is where the revelation comes in, the moment of insight that makes Dean sit quietly for a while, contemplating until Sam coughs demonstratively and looks at him weird.
Death is lonely. He is the beginning and the end, and there is no one before him and no one after. Nothing can be more scary and lonely than that.
Dean thinks that Death has to be the loneliest being in the universe, in the entire creation. Death has seen the beginning and he will be the last man standing when it's all over, the one left to turn off the light and shut the door behind them all. 'Loneliness' doesn't cover it. Dean can imagine how Death must feel. Not fully, that's too much. But he remembers the moment he stood at the abyss, Sam falling into the cage with Lucifer, Castiel dead... how many times hasn't he been that last man standing, waiting for some miracle to bring his family back to him?
That is the destiny that awaits Death, only there will no miracles happening for him.
"Yeah, I'll go," Dean says again, realizing that he doesn't need to explain himself to Sam. He doesn't need Sam's validation of his actions. They are above that now. They're adults. Maybe. "How can I not?"
- 0 -
The long ride from Lebanon to Chicago is pleasant enough. Dean loves his time with Baby and he relaxes into the comfortable leather seat. He enjoys the roar of the engine, the soft hum of wind and the noise of wheels against the worn-down blacktop. Baby sings to him, all sweet and sound and his. Dean can't really muster too much anxiety, not when he's free, his baby hot and willing. Not with miles to go before the road ends. Dean turns on the cassette and sings along to So Damn Pretty, tapping the rhythm with two fingers on the wheel.
Darkness falls as he passes Des Moines. The river lies dark and quiet in the fading light as Dean drives past, his baby and him. Darkness creeps up on them like a hungry animal, swallowing up roads and cars and the lightless countryside. Around midnight Dean decides to find a place to sleep; he could drive on, but he has time enough. It takes yet another hour, however, before a blinking sign announces that a small inn has V cant Ro ms. Dean nods, that's his kind of place, and he slides Baby into the parking lot.
The room is surprisingly pleasant. Clean, simple and with a few good beers in the small fridge. Dean isn't complaining. There's an old film on TV, and Dean leans back in bed, cold beer next to him on the side table and a bag of chips to eat as well. He falls asleep before Ingrid tells Humphrey that he isn't getting any and he wakes up to the sound of white noise from the nothing that's on at four in the morning. Dean shuffles into the bathroom and brushes his teeth, content that he can just go back to bed and sleep in. He's got plenty of time, except he doesn't, because he has a date with Death in the afternoon.
He still can't be bothered to worry much.
His soul is where it is supposed to be and so is Sam's. No demons are hunting them at the moment; a bit difficult for the fuckers, Dean supposes—what with their king being a mess and no one to boss them around. Clearly demons are lazy asses when no one cares to put them to work, not that Dean's complaining.
And Dean lies there in the dark and tries to figure out what, exactly, could be the reason for Death's invitation. Death isn't really the type for social calls. And then again...
Dean thinks back on his day as Death's temp. It shouldn't have scared and awed him the way it did. It isn't as if Dean never inflicted death and suffering onto others; ten years as Alastair's torturer cannot easily be erased although he tries. Apart from that, killing monsters is sort of a prerequisite, being a hunter. Some of them were once people, too, Dean is willing to admit that. Killing monsters is different, though, from the calm, deliberate, constant taking of lives that is Death's destiny. Every day seeing loved ones and family mourn their children, their parents, their friends? One day of that had been enough for Dean to understand the horrible fate that Death suffers. Every friggin' day, from the beginning of time to the end of it.
Of course Death is no more a murderer than Dean is. Death is the keeper of the natural order. Having a God-given purpose doesn't make that kind of existence less painful, Dean is certain.
So what if the man wants Dean's company for an evening out on the town? Not that Dean thinks that he ranks much higher now than when Death told him he was little more than a bacterium. Maybe a pet rat or something. A toy poodle. "Woof," Dean says aloud, grinning as he turns and pulls the comforter over his head, clean sheets leaving a weak whiff of lavender as he does so. He sleeps until ten and wakes up to the scent of fall sunshine heating up the slightly night-damp room.
The morning rush is long over when Dean's ready to go on. It's a smooth ride all the way to Naperville. Then traffic picks up, and Baby growls angrily, slurping down an extra gallon or two, just out of spite. Just like Dean she doesn't like the crowded areas of the larger cities. No, the road, the empty stretch of mile upon mile that needs to be devoured... that they understand. Like a large predator out of her environment, she sneaks through the increasingly crowded streets of the Chicago suburbs, lurking like a black panther, superior to the eco-friendly little machines that scuttle along the streets slowly like beetles on a garden path.
Driving down a derelict street, Dean has to admit that he likes Chicago. It's nothing like Lawrence, what little he remembers of it, nor is it anything like the long, abandoned roads he usually prefers, but he has this odd feeling of it being his, like he owns Chicago just a little bit. It's here because he saved it, because he was confident enough asking Death to spare the city.
Or rude enough.
Yeah, Death would probably call him rude. But all Dean had been that day was desperate. The feeling is still there, fueled by the powerlessness that always goes with dealings with Death. Death is not invincible, but it's damned close. Had the horseman been other than he is, Dean would have been very, very afraid, but now that he knows Death, Dean is a bit more relaxed. He's only half scared. Death does compassion and he does it well. He knows mercy and pity and sympathy. That's a good thought. One or two angels could learn from it.
But Dean is afraid, still, for good measure. Respectfully afraid.
Parking the Impala right outside the Rinascita Pizzeria, Dean considers whether the street is safe. He doesn't want to step outside after dinner only to discover that some asshole has taken liberties with his girl. He waits a few minutes, watching people and cars pass by. The houses are gritty and the street dirty, but it's OK. He pats Baby on the roof, her shiny metal cool and smooth. He leaves her, walking the few steps to the small restaurant.
- 0 -
Dean opens the door and steps inside. A scent of cheese and basil hits him like a wall of greasy deliciousness. It makes his mouth water. Another impression comes unbidden, the olfactory memory of another day, another visit, when the narrow restaurant smelled of pizza and of whatever fluids that humans excrete when they die bloody. Not as pleasant. Somehow it's a wonder that the small business has survived being turned into a slaughterhouse for a day. Dean wrinkles his nose at the thought. It really hadn't been the most pleasant of meals, dining with Death in a room littered with dead people. Then again, the food had looked good, even though Dean had been too overwhelmed to see it as one of his more enjoyable culinary experiences as every bite had been forced down.
The pizzeria, no matter how cleaned up and refurbished and redecorated it is, appears to be a peculiar spot to choose for a meet-up, in Dean's opinion.
Death sits at the table he sat at last time, second table from the window. Maybe he's a returning customer, who knows. He barely moves as Dean approaches. Death's hands lie on the table, pale and slender. Relaxed. Dean breathes out, tension leaving him.
"It's the carburetor," Death says, no preamble. "A crack, perhaps."
"Muh?" Dean says, understanding absolutely nothing, all neatly-thought-out theories about why Death has summoned him shot dead. He can almost see them lying on the floor, flapping around as their last moment of life seeps out of them. So no apocalypses. That's reassuring. Amazing, in fact. Awesome.
"Eloquent. Sit." Death looks calmly at Dean. "You do like pineapple and ham?" Death looks exactly like he did last time Dean saw him: the same coat, the same black hair, the same sense of timelessness. Two bottles of some fancy microbrew are placed in the middle of the small table. Death raises a hand and pushes one bottle half an inch in Dean's direction. His finger leaves a dry spot on the chilled glass. Death studies Dean as if there is something to see that Dean is not aware of.
"Yes. Anything's fine." Dean, on the other hand, looks away, for a few seconds studying the interior of the restaurant. There are no traces of his dignity. He feels clueless and he probably looks it too. Oh, well. "The carburetor. Right." Dean turns, his eyes meet Death's. Dean says it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. He doesn't want to ask.
"Our pizze will be here in a moment," Death states. "I do take it that you still enjoy a well-made pizza?"
"Seeing that I ate the last one with relative pleasure, you know, a number thirteen: mozzarella, blood and human flesh with a sprinkle of death-threats, it'll be safe to say that I do."
Death looks at him, expressionless. Then his narrow mouth twitches at the corners, and Dean thinks that Death is keeping in a smile. If Death is able to smile.
"Lesser men would probably have lost their appetite," Death remarks, and Dean knows he's been praised.
Great. Callous and cold, happily switching lives for fast food, is that what people think of him now?
"So," Dean says and pulls out the empty chair. He hangs his coat over the back of it. "Why am I here? Apart from the carburetor." He has no idea whose carburetor Death is talking about and he certainly isn't sure what he's supposed to do with it. He slides down on the chair, the rickety legs scraping over the linoleum. Death waits until Dean is settled, the beer in front of him and an empty glass next to it.
"I understand that you appreciate that car of yours," Death says. "The Chev-"
Before he can think, Dean is in Death's face, his index finger pointing a limp threat at the powerful creature at the other side of the table. "You are not touching Baby. Nobody touches Baby! I don't care that you are Death, I'll kill you if-"
This time Death's mouth moves enough for Dean to recognize a smile. "Dean, I'm not the least interested in your car. Again, you overestimate your importance and in this case, the importance of your belongings. To a degree which is ridiculous. I wouldn't dream of touching your Impala." Death takes a deep breath, as if he's preparing to say something significant. "It's my car I need help with. She's... She makes this sound. I think it's the carburetor. And do remind me to talk to you about your lack of respect. It's frankly disturbing how incredibly self-absorbed and rude you appear at times."
"I thought we were over that one," Dean snaps. "Got it already. I'm a bacterium and you are so superior that even God has to bow to you. Fine. Just remember that you are the one who asked me to come here. Now, could we get on to why?"
Death's face turns very, very cold. "Are you done?" His eyebrows twitch almost invisibly, as if his annoyance has to have an outlet.
They are interrupted when a waitress serves their pizze. Dean grins up at her, winking, forgetting that he just offended the oldest and most powerful being in the universe. Priorities. The girl's pretty and Dean's pizza is a piece of art. If art was made of mozzarella and juicy pieces of ham. Hell, it'd be great to go to museums in that case. "Thanks, honey," he says, following the girl with his eyes as she walks away, a bit more sway in her hips than strictly necessary.
"Dean." It's not a question.
Directing his attention to the man who invited him in the first place, Dean nods. "What?" So now he can't even look at a girl without Death interfering? Grand. He shrugs. "It's a habit."
"Eat." Death is quiet as he takes a few bites of his pizza. Minutes pass by as they both dig in.
The pizza is better than Dean remembers it. He makes a positively obscene sound as he chews on the perfect blend of spices, cheese and meat, the sweet-sour taste of pineapple enhancing the experience. "Dude, this is good," he moans.
Death looks tired. He looks up, almost an eye-roll, not quite.
Dean considers that Death might be right—he probably should show him some respect, like not calling the dude dude. There are very few people, creatures, beings or living things who Dean finds worth respecting. Death, on the other hand? A day doing Death's job? Yeah, Dean will try. Can't be that hard. Respect. No guarantees, though.
Dean puts down the knife and fork. He takes a swig of the microbrew. It tastes like nuts and a little bit of bananas. It's good too. "The carburetor?"
"I had this mechanic," Death says. "His time ran out. I did him the courtesy to reap him myself. He was a very, very good mechanic." Death actually looks sad. Sadder. "You... your car. You know when she is not feeling well? When something isn't right?"
Leaning back, Dean knows precisely what Death means. "Yeah. I do. She had this problem with one of the valves. Nothing broken, nothing really wrong, but in a year or three it'd have become a problem, maybe even ruining the motor. Sam would never have heard it. He wouldn't have done anything before it was too late. I just knew." Dean turns the beer bottle, studying the label before he looks up at Death. "I know every sound, the way she moves, everything." A bit belated, the question he wanted to ask pops up in his mind. "Why?"
Nodding, Death looks exactly as if he knows what Dean's talking about. "My car. The new mechanic... he doesn't understand her. He doesn't listen. He's good, but that is not enough. I am very, very fond of my car, Dean. Very. I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him."
"You're saying that your car was once a..." Dean's eyebrows shoot up.
"I am saying no such thing. Only that she has been with me for some time, and that I care very much about her. You of all humans should be able to appreciate that. I want you to take a look at her. I want someone who understands and respects the life of a vintage car, a classic car. If she needs spare parts, I want someone who understands, too, that it is like replacing an organ."
"What kind of car, anyway?" Dean expects some kind of limo, black and sinister and relatively unassuming, like Death himself. Maybe with a kick-ass V12 under the hood, just for good measure. "I know Baby like the... It's not a Chevy, is it?"
Death takes another bite, chews and wipes his mouth. A couple walks by them chatting loudly about a film they've just watched. "It's a Cadillac. 1959."
Dean's hands stop, fork and knife midair. "1959?"
"Yes."
"de Ville or Series 62?"
"62."
"Seriously? And here I thought you'd have something like the one Pininfarina designed. The Brougham. More... discreet. Anyway, I know the model. V8, Carter AFB four barrel carb." That isn't a question, either. Dean has worked on a few of that particular model. "It's a beauty." Somehow it's still baffling that Death owns something as mundane as a car. Although the mere sight of a 1959 62 Series is close to a religious experience, in Dean's opinion. It's not as pretty as Baby, but then again, nothing is. "62... really?"
"And the carburetor?" Death seems truly concerned. Dean has to admit he finds it somehow endearing that Death cares so much about his ride.
"My guess is that one out of two vintage muscle cars is equipped with a Carter AFB, so yeah. It's totally unreliable, but I'm sure you know that. Easy enough to adjust. It's the fine-tuning, though... it's a bitch."
"You can do it?" Death sounds as if he is actually a little bit impressed.
"So nigh-omnipotence doesn't come with an added bonus of perfecting the fine-tuning of the AFB? I'm disappointed," Dean laughs, satisfied that Death can't do everything. "Yeah, I can do it. You should listen to my baby purr. It's pure bliss."
"If I trust you with my car, Dean..."
"Hey, man, you trusted me with your, er, life. The ring. And to beat Lucifer."
"It's not the same." Death's expression is an exact copy of Dean's when somebody hints that the Impala isn't close to being the most important thing in the universe. Death and he... they are so on the same page here, in Dean's opinion.
"I do not think you understand, Dean, how dear that machine is to me. Do try," Death implores, "with your limited intellect to comprehend the bond I have with her."
"Yeah." Dean grins. Oh, he's afraid of Death, sort of, but this one he gets. Death's a damned car geek! "You live in your car, dude. I know how it is. It becomes home, am I right?"
"Do not attempt that kind of familiarity with me," Death retorts with little venom. "Of course I do not live in a car."
"Then where do you live? It's not like you go back to that coffin below ground every day after work, is it? Do you have a house, here, on Earth, topside?"
Death's reply is cold. "Eat. It is none of your business."
Reply enough. Then again, there is probably no house on Earth large enough to contain a being like Death. Dean forgets that he's just been snubbed. "What's your real form like? Are you wearing a vessel, or-"
Death sends Dean a glare that would have sent just about everybody else, including Lucifer, running for cover. "Dean Winchester, do you need me to repeat myself?"
"Quid pro quo, Clarice. You want me to tune your car, and I want to know what your real form is like and where you keep it at night. So, are you? Wearing a vessel?" Dean sends Death a wide grin. He knows he's stretching Death's patience a bit thin, but he's curious. And since Death is in need of a mechanic, Dean doesn't think that he's in immediate danger, despite Death's obvious annoyance.
"Never in my time, and that is a very, very long time, have I met anyone like you." Death sighs deeply. "Please, explain to me how a nonentity such as yourself delves into this kind of unacceptable behavior without considering the consequences."
"Oh, I considered them. I just don't care." Which is of course a lie. But Death doesn't seem truly angry with him, more like... giving up. "If I'm so useless as you say, maybe you shouldn't have called."
"I am not going to hear the end of this, am I?" Death asks, his nostrils flaring almost invisibly. He looks at his pizza and cuts off a piece. "There has to be other people on his quaint little planet who are able to treat my car as she needs to be treated," he tells the piece before he puts it in his mouth.
Dean takes it as a sign that he better eat some more pizza as well. He takes a large gulp of beer before he directs his attention to said pizza. They both eat in silence for a while, faint music and the sound of the other patrons chatting quietly the only sounds.
Finally Death is done and puts down the cutlery on the plate. "Like angels, my form is not visible to you without great risk. It is much like an angel's, however. Larger than most things on Earth. Wings, light. Darkness too."
"The Angel of Death? It really exists?" Dean asks, frowning, trying to fit the information in with what he knows about Cas's form. "So that is a vessel?"
"Yes." Death doesn't elaborate on the vessel. "You might think of me as a primitive angel, a primordial angel. The primordial angel. I suppose it is close enough for me to feel related to my younger brothers and sisters, more like a distant cousin, perhaps. I am the... prototype."
"Thanks," Dean says, only now realizing that Death has decided to share some rather delicate and intimate information with him. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
"Act first, think later. The way of the Winchesters." Death snorts. "No, you shouldn't. But I might be inclined to forgive you."
"So do you live in your car?"
Closing his eyes, looking extraordinarily tired, Death groans. "You never learn, do you? I am a primordial being. I live nowhere."
"In the car, then. Did you ever consider getting... you know... an apartment? Nice, cozy place, no Lucifer, no angels."
"Dean!"
"Sorry. Gonna stop now."
Death looks up, his eyes calm. Dean doesn't see it coming, Death's next question, hasn't counted on the words when Death ask the unsettling counter-question. "Do you ever consider getting one? A place to live. A home. One that is not the car you live in?"
Ouch, that hurts, having the tables turned. Not at first, because Dean is above shit like that, but after a few seconds he can feel where the dagger slid in under his ribs, into the heart. "I have a place. You sent the invitation there."
"You have a bedroom. In a library filled with outdated technology. That is not a home. For your brother, perhaps. Not for you. Not yet. If it will ever be."
It surprises Dean. Not just that Death knows, but that he seems to know precisely what the bunker is and what it contains."How the fuck do you know ab-"
Death merely raises an eyebrow, cutting Dean off with a glare. "You are the only being in the universe who talks back to me, Dean. The. Only. Don't stretch my patience."
"Do I get a medal or somethin'? Or a diploma?" He snorts angrily, still pissed with Death for being a bit too insightful. Dean knows he should shut up, but really, a leopard can't change its spots. If Death seeks his company, he better be prepared for Dean being Dean.
"Perhaps we should return to the topic of showing respect for your betters?" Death asks rhetorically. "And to begin with, we could discuss the fact that I asked you to come here because you of all humans might appreciate being allowed to look at my automobile. To fiddle with it, as some might say."
There is that. Dean would really like to see that car now, and he certainly wouldn't mind a look at the engine. He reaches for the bottle of beer, turning it in his hands for some time, studying Death. Strange how much they have in common, the two of them, the oldest being in the universe, and himself, a mere human whose lifespan is but a flicker of light to a creature such as Death.
It's not that Dean agrees that Death is better. He just is. And one has to respect what he does, how graciously he bears his fate.
"I'm sorry," he finally says. "I mean no disrespect; it's just the way I am."
"I know," Death nods. His narrow lips makes a small twitch. He's actually smiling, or at least Dean thinks so. "I will try to ignore your faux pas, innumerable as they are. But do me a favor and remember to pull your foot out of your mouth occasionally. You might discover that I do appreciate limbs in their proper places. Feet off the tables and outside mouths, if you please."
Dean looks at Death, surprised. Did he just make a joke? Hard to tell, Dean didn't think that Death was able. He barks out a short laugh, sending Death a wide grin. "So, are we going to look at that car or not?"
- 0 -
Wiping off the air filter with a rag, Dean puts it aside to bend over Death's car, examining the linkage and the mixture screws. Everything is in place, nothing is loose. The motor is well-kept, well-lubed, polished and looking almost brand new. He pulls out from under the hood. "Fire her up," he demands, waiting for Death to turn on the engine. The motor starts with a roar, the V8 sucking up gasoline like the Mojave would suck up the first spring rain.
It's a beautiful sound, a growl that shows exactly how happy this car will be to run free, mile after mile of road, until she's hungry again. Dean listens for a while to the deep rumble, his eyes closed. It's perfect, close to perfect. Close. "Off," he cries. He puts down the oily rag and walks around the car to the open window. "You're right. It's just a... variety in the tone, but it's there. Usually nothing I'd do anything about."
"Unless it was your Impala."
"Unless it was my Impala. For a customer... no. It'd be nitpicking. But it wouldn't be perfection. And since I am here and I've just had my fingers up your darling's carburetor, I'd say that we're going for perfection."
"Thank you for that bit of wonderfully put information, Dean. I'd prefer if you would refrain from thinking of my car as something that merely exists as a substitute for your lack of fulfilling human relations."
"Hey!" Dean is affronted. He doesn't lack human relations, he doesn't. There was... her, the girl with the cute kid at Lake Manitoc. Andrea, at least he remembers her name. And then there was Lydia, not that forgettable. And of course there had been Lisa, and he still misses her. Okay, so perhaps he is a bit bad at remembering more names, but there was that gorgeous one in... maybe it was Lincoln? He does human relations! And Lisa. There would always be Lisa, the only woman he'd come close to loving.
"Stop trying to count, and get back to the carburetor, if you don't mind. You're thinking too loud."
Dean isn't sure whether Death is making fun of him; if he really knows about his women, or rather the lack of them. "Yeah, right. And stay out of my life, man."
"You do realize that I will use that quote the next time you come to me for aid, don't you, my young Padawan?"
Dean looks at Death over his shoulder, a bit surprised at the Star Wars reference. Maybe Death uses his spare time in cinemas, who knows. Or maybe Death simply knows... everything. Despite it is nothing but a bit of good-natured teasing, the implication that Dean is an apprentice makes him ask a question that he's been wanting to ask from time to time. "I am the only human who's ever temped for you? I mean, now that you're going all Jedi Master on me. And you've not talked me into going here just to ask me to do it again, have you?" Dean is rather sure that Death isn't the type to run off for three millennia-long holiday at Bali, like God.
"Don't be daft. It didn't go too well the last time you tried. You are much better at disturbing the natural order than I expected. So no, Dean. I am not going to ask you to do my job. And I doubt that you would like another attempt."
There's that. Dean really doesn't. He'd rarely had a worse twenty-four hours, never felt more lonely and powerless, even in the middle of having borrowed a bit of Death's immense power for the day.
"You're right. It was horrible. I don't know how you manage to do it." Dean realizes too late that the respect he feels for Death is clear in his voice. He holds up the screwdriver. "I better stick to what I know."
"Thank you, Dean," Death says, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder for a brief moment. "I didn't think I would ever say this, but do not underestimate yourself. There is more to you than what meets the eye."
"I suppose you'd know," Dean retorts, returning to look at the Cadillac's impeccably kept motor. "The benefit of being omniscient."
"Nigh-omniscient," Death corrects. "Or I'd have made that carburetor behave myself if I'd known how to do it properly."
"And here I thought I was God's tool, and it turns out I'm nothing more than your human screwdriver. I'm so flattered," Dean teases, again cherishing the thought that there's actually something he can do that Death can't. He returns to the task at hand, carefully adjusting a cable. Death turns on the engine again, and this time it sounds better. There is still a grating sound hidden somewhere in the roar, and Dean isn't entirely satisfied. If Death wants perfect, this isn't it. It is very, very close, but seeing how particular Death is with his food, his clothes and his car, Dean knows it isn't enough.
They work on the Cadillac for some time, returning to the Impala so that Baby can teach Death how a properly tuned car sounds. Baby has had her admirers through the years, and Dean loves it when somebody compliments her. But with Death it's different. He looks at her as if he's comparing her to the Cadillac, actually considering whether Baby is the superior vehicle. Or maybe as a if he was buying a horse. Dean is almost jealous. If Death wants to ogle, he can go ogle his own car.
"Treat her with respect, dude!" Dean demands, caressing the Impala gently, running a hand down the roof to the trunk. "She's a lady."
"And a beautiful one," Death agrees. "You have taken good care of her. I mean, the mileage... and she's still in this condition. Big block or small?" He stands still, listening to the motor's steady sound. "327. Small-block V8."
"Had the 427 V8 as a replacement for a while. It was a total mess to fit it in. Put the old 327 back together. Got my hands on some pristine original spare parts. I... broke her a few times. But she's all but original '67, although not the parts she came with from the beginning. And some parts... they just don't last forty years. I'm good, but I don't do magic."
"But close. I don't think my car has ever sounded better, except for the carburetor." Death suddenly looks worried. "What do we do with it?"
"I can try to find a replacement if you want. But I doubt I can find an original part in remotely the shape yours is in. We could start with a new one, and I can try to work on the old, see if I can make it work better?" It would make Dean sad to put in a recent part, even an AFB. It would be like a wooden leg for an Olympic athlete. Death isn't elated either, it's easy to see. "It takes time, but it has to be out there. Let me try, yeah? No need for despair just yet. I'll do it."
Dean is rewarded with a smile, a real one. "Thank you, Dean. And thank you for coming. I'll appreciate it if you'll try. Perhaps you could return in a few weeks. Two?"
The smile touches something in Dean, making his heart beat a bit faster, making him consider how much he has enjoyed his day with Death. Cars, brilliant pizza and good beer. Dean laughs, his eyes squinting at the sun and at the thought, as if it is too shiny to think through, this little pocket of perfect happiness. "You know, if I'd actually died and gone to heaven, I don't think God could have come up with a better way to spend my time. Yeah, I'd love to do it again."
"I knew it." Death's small smile grows. "It's the pizza, right?"
Yeah, if Death wants to believe that. "Yeah right. Pure brilliance." The pineapple. And the ham and the beer and the cars and the company. And the relaxed smile on Death's face. But of course Dean doesn't say that. "I'll come back. I like working on your car."
"Thanks, Dean," Death repeats. This time he touches Dean's hand briefly.
Strangely enough it is that brief touch which Deans remembers best when he drives back to Lebanon. That, and Death's smile.
2. The Second Time Around
Dean is up before Sam—the only way to hog the laptop before Sam goes to work. Dean is not sure what, exactly, Sam is doing, but it is probably something that would make an uptight librarian proud. Sam is probably cataloging the entire Batcave, the part of it that hasn't already been tagged, numbered, registered and archived by previous Men of Letters. In itself it is really helpful, especially if they're on a hunt; no reason to waste time to return to the bunker if the book in question isn't available. Dean decides that he won't tease Sam with it. Maybe he should even suggest to Sam that they buy a scanner. Some of the tomes are huge, and some are extremely rare. Others are helpful in general, and having copies stored on a hard disk could come in handy. Easy to bring them on a hunt.
Maybe flashing the idea about buying the scanner could also divert Sam's attention from Dean's trip to Chicago and the subsequent interrogation. Not that Dean has anything to hide, it's just that he'd like to keep his day with Death to himself. It's a few hours that he'd like to think of again, enjoying the memory of a little piece of time where he didn't have to worry about anything, didn't have to look over his shoulder for the next monster or demon or angel deciding to fuck up his life one way or another in the most unpleasant manner.
Unfortunately Dean's day off has the small side effect that he feels a bit guilty for having left Sam alone with his books. It is as if the pleasure of being with Death in a strange way has opened a window, letting Dean see how it feels to be with someone, just enjoying their company, doing nothing in particular but enjoying life. It makes Dean think that he has had a tiny taste of what it is that Sam wants so badly: the white picket fence, the apple pie, the happiness of simple living.
Yeah, and that makes it so much better. Guilt.
Dean pokes around on the Internet for a while, searching for the carburetor he needs for Death's car. There are enough of them, just not the right one, the brand new one that has never been used, one that spent the last fifty-three years, ignored or forgotten in a shop somewhere out there. So Dean takes notes on which dealers who carry new ones; he wants a local dealer so that he can go look at the spare. He wants to touch it, see if the finish is impeccable, the quality as high as it is supposed to be. After a while Dean gets tired of looking. He makes coffee and in a bout of brotherly mercy he even slices some fruit for Sam to go with the pancakes and the eggs and the bacon he makes for himself. Okay, so it all gets a little burned and maybe the pancakes aren't as nice and fluffy as they should be, but it's breakfast and Dean made an effort. Apple pie, indeed.
He puts Sam's portion under a towel to keep it warm and returns to the Internet, looking at what seems to be hundreds of spare part sites. He ends up on the website of a dealer who has provided him with parts for the Impala once or twice, and decides it's worth driving there. He can do that later. They have the part he's looking for, a new one, not the original 1959 carburetor, of course. It'll have to do while he takes the old one apart to see if he can fix it. Quickly he types up a mail, asking them to hold the Carter AFB for him to pick up.
When Sam comes down for breakfast at seven, he is genuinely surprised to see Dean up and about. "Do I actually smell breakfast?" he asks, taking in the scent of bacon and pancakes and coffee. "Is it edible?"
It earns Sam a glare. "The bacon and the eggs and the flapjacks are. The fruit on the other hand... Maybe if you're a fruit fly. Or a chimpanzee."
"Chimpanzees are meat-eaters, too, Dean. And you should eat some. Fruit. Not chimps. It has vitamins in it."
"Thanks, Dr. Smart-ass. And I eat fruit."
"No, you don't, Dean. When was the last time you had fruit that wasn't a part of some kind of pie filling?"
Dean grins, forgetting that he's keeping the lid on what he did on his day with Death. "I had pineapple the day before yesterday."
"Did not." Sam apparently finds it highly unlikely. "Do you actually want me to believe that you drove to Chicago to eat pineapple?"
"It was on a pizza. And there was like half a pineapple. And it was fresh, not crap from a can."
"Death talked you into eating it? By threatening you with death by clogged arteries, or what?"
"He'd ordered it. I couldn't very well ask him to give me something else. That'd have been rude."
"And you're never rude." Sam's mouth makes this prissy little bud that drives Dean insane with annoyance. "At least you survived, so you can't have been that irritating."
"Hey! Death, he... I think he likes me." Dean says it casually, but realizes the importance of it. "I think I made a friend."
"Good for you," Sam says, still bitch-faced and semi-grumpy. He reaches for the fruit bowl. "At least this one isn't a vampire."
True enough and there isn't much to say about it, although Dean would like to say something. Loudly and angrily. But then he recognizes the expression on Sam's face, hidden behind the bitchy attitude. Somehow Dean understands that the same kind of loneliness that takes him over from time to time also torments Sam, despite the splendid company of a bunker filled with books. Sam looks forlorn and lost and very much like the kid that Dean from time to time had to leave in a dingy, dirty motel room while he went to get them food. Two lost boys, abandoned over and over by the father who should have taken care of them. It leaves wounds, and Sam's are deeper than Dean's: he had less time to develop thick skin, he never had a mother to love him for a while, not like Dean had.
It's a life-long loneliness, Dean thinks. It's the same loneliness that stood out so clear when Sam tried to explain to Dean why he'd fallen into that Amelia-woman's trap. Sam doesn't have anyone left. No friends, no family, no one except Dean. And Dean took from Sam what he had wanted so badly. Amelia.
Only in the light of the wonderful day with Death does Dean begin to understand what he has done.
"I'm sorry," Dean finally tells Sam, not really sure why or for what, only that he's sorry for... everything. "I really am."
- 0 -
Sam is quiet and subdued for a few days, keeping mostly to himself, not blatant in his attempts to avoid Dean. Dean, however, is not in doubt: Sam wants to be alone, or rather he would like Dean to leave him alone. That's where the problem lies. Dean doesn't know what to do about it. First of all, he doesn't understand how Sam ended up shunned and alone, and secondly it forces him to admit that he is partly to blame for Sam's loneliness. Then again, he didn't get thrown into Purgatory for the entertainment value; he fucking didn't jump in on purpose. He owes Benny his life, and he hates himself for leaving a friend hanging like he did. Benny deserved better than that. Dean's part, the one he's willing to take full responsibility for, the one where he forced Sam to leave the woman he was with... Yeah. He still believes that the girl wasn't what Sam needed. Dean's to blame, and it is somehow difficult to ask forgiveness for something one doesn't truly regret. Any apologies do not concern the woman, they are solely Dean feeling sorry for hurting his little brother.
How Dean's budding friendship with Death has become the catalyst for their recent situation, Dean's not entirely sure. Sam's wounds are not as healed as he'd like Dean to think. Loneliness is a raw, open wound that only heals in the company of loved ones. Dean's not even sure, despite everything, that he belongs fully in that category. He's family. It's different.
It's difficult to blame Sam, not that Dean wants to. Sam didn't ask to be fed demon blood as a toddler, he didn't ask to be hunted by Azazel, befriended by undercover demons at Stanford and he most certainly didn't ask to be hooked on demon blood before Lucifer tried to try him on for size and wore him out. None of it has done much for Sam's ability to make friends, all seats on the front row taken up by demons, keeping everybody else away from their chosen one. It's hard to see what Sam could have done differently. He fought all the way against his destiny and looking back, he should have won at least something.
Only the prize he got sort of isn't worth it. Sam is sitting in the middle of Assbutt, Kansas, surrounded by books — he doesn't even have the dog he wanted so badly. It can't get much worse or more solitary. Sam had everything before Dean went to fetch him the first time: Jess, a brilliant future, a dog. Now he has a surly, alcoholic brother with commitment issues and a pile of books.
Win.
They can't have connections, friends, lovers, Dean tells himself. It's impossible. Liabilities. Danger. But it's a lie, Dean knows. They can. But the selection of friends is small: to stay safe, they have to choose between the powerful beings they know, that's the only option open to them these days. The Winchesters are infamous, and there will always be some monster hunting them. Anyone close to them has to be able to hold their own. Like Cas, like Meg, although it's a wide stretch to count her amongst their friends. Also, she's probably dead these days. Then there's Death. Charlie, Benny and even Kevin are resourceful and strong and need little saving, although Benny might need a hand to get back from yet another trip to Monsterland. But they are all Dean's friends, his to save. Not Sam's.
Their bunker is a safe haven, though. Maybe that's why Sam seems reluctant to leave. It still doesn't change the fact that Sam doesn't have anywhere to go, someone to visit, a secure place and good company outside the fortress they inherited. Dean sighs. He misses Bobby, Ellen, Jo. Friends. People who loved Sam too.
Dean could pray to Castiel and ask him to come. Only if Sam had wanted that he'd have done it himself. Sam doesn't need charity. He needs someone who wants him because he's Sam. Not because he's Dean Winchester's younger and demoniacally-challenged brother. Not because Dean asked someone to come take care of the kid.
Dean's head hurts. He's done more in-depth thinking about life and Sam and their relationship with other people in an hour than he has spent in years. It's damned annoying, but Sam's sadness wears him out. He's exhausted.
And what is even more exhausting: Dean doesn't know what to do about it.
- 0 -
When the second invitation from Death arrives, telling Dean where to go and when, he is reluctant. Sam has thawed enough to make it bearable to stay, and Dean doesn't want to make the situation worse by going to Chicago. Of course Sam picks up on it immediately.
"Dean, it's all right. Go. I saw the card."
"I don't want to."
"You're lying. You've looked at the letter ten times by now."
"I'm not going." Demonstratively Dean takes a book from one of the piles on the large table, opens it and begins to read. Unfortunately it's a book on sheep farming, about as useful as Mensa for Dummies, and Dean gives up pretending. "I want to."
"You want me to call Cas so he can babysit?" Sam, around four feet above size for being sat, smiles. The first smile in more than a week that isn't tainted by either being prissy or tense or both. "It's fine. I'll be fine."
Dean is torn. No matter what he does, it feels like cheating. Of course it isn't, for Death is merely his friend and Sam is his brother. It still feels like cheating. Instead of evading the problem as he'd usually do, Dean goes for honesty. "I'd like to go," he tells Sam. " I had a good time with Death. Really. It's just that you've been sitting here for a month, seeing no one... and I don't want you to think that I don't want to be here. With you. Maybe you could... dunno, go see Kevin?" Dean sends Sam his most pleading look. "Or you could go get laid. Not necessarily by Kevin."
"Urgh, Dean..." Sam laughs, the tension gone. "I'm not that desperate. I mean, Kev is a great guy, I'm just not... and neither is Kevin." Sam brushes back a lock of hair that has fallen over his eye. He smooths it back, looking like one of the fancy commercials for fancy shampoo. "I think like older men better. Like you do." Sam is usually forgiving, but the teasing is surprising. There is a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "But that'd be only if I wasn't into women so much."
"And I am not into sharing, thank you, and I'm so not into men, either, no matter how old," Dean begins before he understands that Sam really is teasing him, no ulterior motives. Dean's not sure he can handle them, for there's no doubt that Sam is referring to his new-found friendship with Death. Not that Death is old. At least not old-old. Time is relative. Death is... an adult. A gentleman. And Dean's so not interested. Just because he likes Death so damned much it doesn't have to mean a thing. And it doesn't. He could, on the other hand, ask Sam what the hell he means about being into older men. It might have been a part of the teasing, but it sounded a little bit too... honest? Dean knows it's not worth a try. He prefers Sam's good mood to stay like that. Good.
"Are you trying to come up with excuses?" Sam asks. "Because we're sort of used to angels and demons by now, age-wise. Ruby wasn't exactly born yesterday, either."
"No, you are the one going for the excuses, you dolt." Dean rolls his eyes at Sam. "And I'm not trying to come up with anything. I have nothing to be ashamed of."
"Okay, if you say so. And your blush is actually quite adorable, just so you know." Sam looks like a child, he has this mischievous expression that he always had as a kid when he was up to something.
Before he can stop himself, Dean raises a hand to touch his own cheek, revealing a bit too much about how much he likes Death. It comes as a surprise, even to himself. Sam's laughter is both sweet and annoying. It covers the raw hurt and the wounds and the anger between them. Dean knows they are gonna be all right for now and he can't stop himself from laughing, too. He's glad they're better, that things seem to be reverting to how they once were, when their relationship was less complicated, less tainted by betrayal.
The wounds are still there. They'll heal and scar, stop hurting one day; their longing for Amelia and Benny fading into memories of lost love and friendship. Dean swears to himself that moment that he won't make that mistake again, pulling Sam away from a person who might make him happy. Not that Dean for a second thinks Amelia would bring anything but heartache and pain and eventually a nasty break-up with a complimentary custody battle over the damned dog. Getting rid of her was a stroke of genius. But next time, Dean won't butt in. He'll suck it up. He'll try to.
"Dean?"
"M-hm?"
"Go away." Sam waves at him. "Say hi to Death from me. And thanks. For..."
"Yeah." Dean pats Sam on the shoulder and heads towards his car and the road to Chicago.
- 0 -
He smiles and sings along to the music most of the way, driving perhaps a little bit too fast. He really wants to get his hands on Death's car again. He looks in the rear view mirror and recognizes the lie in his eyes. It's not just for the car. Maybe he really likes older men a little. There is nothing wrong with having a pinch of a daddy-kink, except that he doesn't. It's just that Death feels so safe, like when Dad took care of them, before they started hunting. Dean can hardly remember how it was not to watch his back or Sam's all the time, but he knows that it is how it is when he's with Death. Relaxed. Safe. Cared for. Except Death is not his father, and Dean certainly doesn't want him to be.
He just wishes that Sam had someone like Death. Strange how Sam thought of Dean as the odd one out, having a vampire friend, especially since Sam was baring his neck to the bloodsucking mosquito who'd sucked all life and initiative out of his Sammy. Amelia. Dean snorts at the thought. Yeah, he'd overstepped any bounds of decency in the matter, but he still can't be bothered. It's just that now that he sees how easy it is to be with someone who fits... Dean wants Sam to have the same. Friend or lover or brother. Angel, even. Doesn't matter.
Dean never had it with Lisa, this smooth, silken way to be two. Cas is simply... Cas, and God, Dean loves the guy, they're like brothers, but easy he isn't. And as for brothers... No, they will never be at ease, Sam and he. Their bromance has never been and will never be, easy. They still need each other, though, like air. Family is forever, no matter what. Cas goes into that category too.
Death, on the other hand...
Turning up the music, Dean shrugs and decides to just enjoy the ride.
He sleeps in a decent motel, and he's in a brilliant mood when he parks the Impala right behind Death's Caddy in front of the Rinascita Pizzeria. The restaurant is full, Death waiting at the usual table. He hasn't ordered.
"You are old enough to decide for yourself," Death says and pushes the menu towards Dean. "I'll advise against the pasta, though. Too much garlic." Death isn't dressed in his usual black business attire, but instead he wears a pair of dark blue jeans and a pale blue cotton button down. He looks young-ish. Recent.
Dean grins. "And good day to you too. I like garlic."
"Of course you do. And if I had recommended the garlic bread and the Pasta Aglio et Olio, you'd have taken the pizza. Sometimes you are very predictable."
"Oh really?" Dean slides into the chair next to Death instead of the one across the table. "Like I've had the same job since the beginning of times."
"Haven't you? At least since your beginning of time." Death's thin lips move, as if he's trying to suppress a smile. "As I said, predictable."
"You're just trying to annoy me. Doesn't work." Dean leans back and opens the menu. He doesn't care for pasta with garlic and olive oil, that's for people who don't understand that a grown man needs meat. "Veil Parmi-- Wait, no. Osso Buco Milanese."
"You want beer with that?" Death looks decidedly appalled. "It requires a good wine."
"I am not entirely without taste," Dean growls, not at all angry. "You going to force some fancy Italian wine on me?"
"Only if you want to enjoy the exquisite flavour of lemon zest and thyme. If you'd rather drown it out with beer, go on."
"Pushy bastard," Dean murmurs and nods his acceptance. After all Death does have taste, and it's not as if Dean doesn't like wine, he merely lacks occasion to drink it.
"Heard that, you intolerable brat," Death says casually, no viciousness behind the words. He waves at the waiter, merely a small movement of a hand. "Osso Buco Milanese for both of us, and a Caparzo. Brunello di Montalcino. '98, I think."
"I got you a carburetor," Dean says. "New, but good quality. I'll take the old one with me, see what I can do. It's just... they don't last forever. Unlike some of us."
"I don't last forever, Dean. Even I have my sell-by date."
"Time's relative. If you had been a Tralfamadori-"
"You're quoting Vonnegut at me?" Death asks, his face expressionless. "And you could compare me to one," he accommodates. "A Tralfamadorian. Except I do not look like a toilet plunger much."
"No, you really don't." Death is thin and stake-like, all right, but comparing him to a cleaning tool is to step very, very far out of line. Dean likes how Death looks. The waiter returns with their wine. Dean waits until water and wine are put in front of them both. "You read Slaughterhouse Five?"
Death huffs, reaching for his wine. "Yes. And I could ask you the same; you don't really give off any... " Death stops himself. "I like the Tralfamadorians. I like Vonnegut. He didn't have all those preconceived opinions on who I am and what I should be, or, as it turns out, since he had no idea I exist as a being, what Death should be like. He had a rather sensible idea of how the universe works, though. He had sensible ideas in general. Except that he might be a bit too fatalistic for my taste. Too much and so it goes."
Dean shuts his mouth, then opens it again. "I get that; your idea... or Vonnegut's ideas on how the universe works. His... that'd be Billy Pilgrim... " Dean pauses, thinking of the main character in Vonnegut's novel, an optometrist, kidnapped by the alien Tralfamadorians. "He died and dies and is dying in Chicago. Billy Pilgrim." Dean wonders if that is how it is to be Death and able to move in time and dimensions, to be every-where and every-time in the same instant. "The fourth dimension," Dean begins, referring to Pilgrim again, but stops when Death looks a bit too amused.
"Isn't time, but fate," Death interjects, still with laughter in his eyes. "Not very exact, but very post-modern."
"Stephen Hawking operates with at least ten dimensions."
"Well, Stephen Hawking doesn't know what he's talking about, and still comes so very near to the truth. Have you ever seen his work on the Starship Enterprise?"
"His what?" Dean's eyes widen. There certainly is more to Death than what meets the eye.
"He participated in a long-running discussion on propulsion and top speed on the Starship Enterprise. How it moves through space and dimensions. It's a classic."
They discuss for a while. Billy Pilgrim, Stephen Hawking and whether Spock and Kirk really did it. Like together, together. Dean is against the thought whereas Death is undecided. Their discussion of Tralfamadorians and their ability to view time and events at the same time, all of it, takes half a bottle of brilliant Italian red to get through. Finally the Osso Buco arrives, and they both dig in, quiet for a while. It tastes obscenely good. Tender veal and vegetables in white wine make a trinity that Dean is willing to worship.
Finally Death puts down his knife and fork. "You surprise me, Dean. And that does not happen often that I am surprised."
No, Dean didn't think so. Having watched humanity being created and do what humanity has done since the beginning of time—copulate, make war and behave irrationally—Dean counts on Death being slightly jaded when it comes to surprises.
"I think I'm a little bit drunk," Dean says, ignoring what might be a compliment. "Not sure I should do anything with cars right away." It has been some time since he'd been drinking as heavily as he used to. The Batcave is a calm place, and beer runs are a bore. Too remote a place.
Death reverts to his usual expression of calm dignity. "I have time. As you know. Do you have a hunt you need to take care of?"
"No," Dean says, "It has been quite awhile. Sam is taking his new role as a Man of Letters seriously. No pending disasters. Slow summer." Dean could have gone hunting without Sam. It is as if they are created for each their part: Sam for studying and being the resident know-it-all, and Dean for action and reaction, the hand to carry out what the brain has decided. He is not entirely sure he likes it.
"You, too, are a Man of Letters, Dean, or you could be if you felt more at home there. Don't deny what you are." Death tilts his head, scrutinizing Dean. It's a bit disconcerting, being looked over like that, as if his worth is assessed thoroughly. "Don't belittle yourself. As I said, I may have underestimated you, I admit that. There is more to you, a side that you do not show." Death's brown eyes are oddly piercing. "Your father might have done you a great disservice, bringing you up like he did."
"Don't criticize my dad," Dean snaps. "What would you have done, your wife killed by demons and your youngest son-"
"I don't have a wife. It's not what I was made for."
"I get that." Dean feels a sudden stab of pain or pity for Death, one echoing inside himself as well, the echo of deep solitude and loneliness. "Believe me, I get that." After Lisa, Dean knows very well that he isn't made for wife and marriage, either.
Death is quiet for a few seconds, his deep brown eyes endless, as if he's looking into a time frame that is far too close to being an eternity. "I think you do. Get it. My apologies for the comment about your father. It was uncalled for. He was human and he did what he thought was right, although the urge for revenge tended to cloud his mind."
Yeah, right. Revenge is beautiful, in Dean's opinion. But the moment stays with him anyway; Death's contagious sadness evaporating only slowly. Dean glances at Death almost shyly, as if he's discovered something new about him. Mostly he has discovered yet another part of the enigma that is Death, but there are still so many questions he could ask: who created Death in the first place, and who will end him? Is Death supposed to kill himself at the end of the world? What a sacrifice, to see everything gone, only to be forced to end himself as well — is that was he was made for? Dean can hardly bear the thought. Even Sam's destiny seems easy in comparison.
Picking up on that note, Death pours some more wine for Dean. "I, like you, have learned to live with the fate destiny gave me. I am the destroyer of life, the Destructor, if you want the epic version. And," Death warns, "please, refrain from any kind of pop cultural reference, or I will never call you again. Although I'm afraid of no ghosts, so I won't have to."
Dean laughs, loud enough to make the patrons at the next table look at him funny, not that he cares. "I promise." He is serious for a moment. "In this case, it would be... insensitive. I know what you do and why. And it's not as if you destroy lives for fun. I mean..." Dean hesitates. He doesn't want to talk about Sam, yet he finds it easy to speak to Death. "Not comparing, I mean... you and me. It's more like when I try to save the world, it usually goes wrong and Sam gets hurt, and it's all my fault." Oh, yeah, he's becoming a real chatterbox. Christ.
"Hardly. Sam does have a mind of his own. I should know. I've been in it."
"There's that. You never get the feeling that no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, people die?"
Death doesn't answer; he merely raises his eyebrows.
"Sorry. Not what I meant." Dean is crap at this. "It's just that every time I try to do something for Sam, it-"
"For Sam or for you?"
"Shut up. I don't wanna talk-"
"Is that so? You are talking just fine. Let me ask again. For Sam or for you?"
Death is right, of course. It has been weighing on Dean's mind that Sam is alone. It's all Death's fault that Dean feels like crap because he made Dean think in the first place. "Amelia. His girl's name was Amelia. I made him..." It is as if the wine has made his brain relax and his tongue run wild, like an animal, finally free of a short leash. "I made him leave her. For the hunt."
Death snorts, clearly amused by Dean's detours, if not by the topic. "For the hunt? For you, you mean? And now you're feeling guilty because you're here, speaking to me, and he's not."
Dean is up from the chair almost before Death has finished the sentence. It's too easy to speak with Death, but this he doesn't want. He won't go there. There is too much guilt and blame and too little time to examine a tight relationship so important and temporarily poisonous that it's a miracle that Dean hasn't managed to get himself and Sam killed, both, or killed at the same time, rather.
"Sit, Dean." It's an order, or as close to one as can be. Death looks calmly at Dean, as if he expects Dean to roll over and do what he's told.
Dean sits down again, reluctantly, the chair scraping angrily against the floor. "You're not my therapist. Shut up."
"If you stopped fighting life so much, it would be easier for you to endure," Death says quietly. "How about you stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it, about Sam? Something that is not desperate and stupid, for a change."
"Oh, thank you!" Dean's expression turns into a mask of outrage. "Stay out of it, or-"
"You brought it up," Death points out. "You are not twelve any longer, and neither is your brother. He is a grown-up. He's able to take responsibility for his own life. So, what do you intend to do about it? When you think it through and act like an adult and don't act like an immature child?"
Dean groans. Leave it to Death to find the sore spot without as much as aiming properly. "Stay the fuck out of his life?"
"M-hm." The answer doesn't please Death. "And that would make Sam happy, how, again?"
"He seemed to get along with life fine when I was shoved into Purgatory with a fallen angel and a vampire, and he was running around with that dysfunctional bitch he picked up, and I don't mean the dog."
"Language, Dean. Sam's just jealous that you had all the fun," Death deadpans. "You tend to forget that your brother is not you. He's entitled to make his own mistakes. What is it that makes you so afraid, letting him loose?"
Lucifer. Azazel. Ruby. Brady. There are reasons enough. But the truth, the core of it, is even more scary. Dean looks at Death, knowing that lying isn't an option. He's not sure how he painted himself into a corner, but here he is. "I'm afraid of losing him. Forever. Of being alone. Afraid that he's going to end up with some demon again and that he'll turn into that... what he was." The truth is hard and cold and bitter, even if dulled with the warm taste of Italian red. Dean fiddles with the glass and takes another sip. It doesn't help. He wishes he had a shot of whiskey. Or a full bottle. "I don't know how to make up to him what I did."
"The girl?"
"Everything. I should have stopped, accepted that he didn't want to be a hunter. Stopped butting in every time he found someone he liked. It's just that he likes monsters so much."
"Jessica. She wasn't monster. And some would argue that I am one, and yet here you are."
"You're so not a monster," Dean says with conviction. "Are you insane?"
"I hope not," Death says. "Your brother, on the other hand... Even when his mind was broken, I could feel the longing in him. For being loved, for the life he cannot have."
"You mean... Lucifer?" Dean's eyes widen. That can't be. Sam had been mad, driven into insanity by Lucifer's presence in his mind. But... how could that compare to love?
"You'd be hard pressed to find a stronger love than Lucifer's, despite the apparent madness of it."
"Sam didn't go willingly!" Dean is outraged. "He fought all the way, and he hated it! You can't possibly think that he wanted-"
"But it doesn't change the fact that his mind held on to the memory of Lucifer for a very long time. I'm sorry, Dean, but I couldn't help seeing everything. Repairing your brother's soul was a difficult job, even for me. You. Jessica, Lucifer. Even my little archangel kin. Gabriel. You all made him hope in his own distorted way. That there was love for him somewhere, a place for him."
"You're saying that..." Dean thinks back to the conversation he had with Sam, joking about their preference for older men. Dean's mouth hangs there, half open. Sam couldn't have meant... Lucifer? And the friggin' Trickster? "Seriously?"
"There may be a grain of truth in it, that Sam could have loved Lucifer instead of fearing him," Death says, not caring to hide that he has read Dean's thoughts. "If Lucifer had been sane and not out to start the apocalypse. Your brother's mind is healed, and I doubt very much that he holds any positive feelings for Lucifer... Gabriel, on the other hand, were he alive-"
"Like Billy Pilgrim," Dean interrupts, not wanting to hear Death's conclusion to that line of thought, "who was caught and put in a cage at Tralfamadoria with his mistress, only to realize that he was happier there than in any other reality or dimension. Strange how post-modern reality at times looks a little bit too much like real life." Dean cringes at the idea of Sam caught up with Lucifer in the cage, seen in the light of his recent discovery.
"Except that Sam wasn't kept prisoner by an alien life form on another planet. And Billy Pilgrim's family didn't really want him back."
"I'll always want Sam back," Dean says, knowing it's the truth. Even with Lucifer inhabiting the top floor, Dean would have taken Sam in, trying to save him at any cost. "Always." He knows it makes no sense to others, the bond he has with Sam. It doesn't even make sense to Sam himself, judging from how he left Dean for dead in the first place. "I do wish he had someone as strong as Cas to take care of him," Dean says, not looking at Death, perhaps not even addressing him. "Or Gabriel, for that matter. Damned angels."
"Then give him his freedom, Dean. As I recall it, you and Sam and your angel were firm supporters of free will. If you don't, Sam will run off one day, away from you and your possessiveness." Death's face is neutral, no judgment. "And when that happens you will have turned into what Lucifer once was; the same kind of jealous and obsessive-."
"Never!" Dean says with conviction. He frowns, unable to say anything but that one word. He tries to brush off Death's words, like they were so easy to dismiss. Only he can't. Because Sam did run. He stopped searching, content with... Amelia. Even her name tastes bad. "And I don't want to talk about it."
"Of course you don't." Death looks at his plate, as if he considers the state of the dish. He pokes at the meat with his fork, cutting off a small bite. He eats it, quiet. He dabs his mouth with a napkin, finally putting it down on the table. "Just consider the possibility that I might be right," Death says and pours some more wine for Dean. The bottle seems to hold an unlimited ocean of wine. "I like your little brother. Difficult, but likable. I wouldn't mind helping him again, although I'd prefer it being a less severe cause. Your brother is a polite young man."
Death takes his time, folding the napkin into a sharp-edged rectangle before he speaks again. "He doesn't show up at the most inopportune moments," Death says. "He's not demanding rings and resurrections and rescue-missions. You could learn from that, Dean." Death's tone is more light-hearted now, as if he knows that he has stepped a bit too close, making Dean uncomfortable.
He probably does know. Death knows everything, from the beginning of life, to the end of it. Except how to make a carburetor run and where to get a new one. Dean chuckles at the thought, breaking the choking, serious mood. He really needs to introduce Death to Ebay and how to properly enjoy the anticipation and the delightful hunt for the perfect spare part. "Being nigh-omniscient somehow ruins most of the pleasures of life," Dean states, sort of staying on topic and changing at the same time. He picks up his glass, taking in the spicy scent of ripe grapes and earth.
"Life... it has its moments." Death smiles, letting Dean change the subject. "Like getting Dean Winchester tipsy and exposing himself as being in possession of an intellect by discussing Vonnegut and the metaphysics of being."
Dean, slightly fascinated with the ruby-red wine, looks up. "Another compliment?" He grins at the idea, getting drunk with Death. "You like me," he states, knowing with a sudden and deep certainty that his fondness for Death is reciprocated. "I like that."
There is a pause. Death looks at him again, looks behind the perky smile and the mask that Dean wears, Dean is sure. Something is happening. He just doesn't know what.
"Yes," Death says. "I do."
Dean feels like he's been handed something precious. Maybe he has. He'll leave that thought for later, for when he's driving back to Lebanon. For the open road. For now, he'll drink Death's wine, eat his food, and when he's a little bit less drunk (more wine's not going to remedy that one), he'll repair Death's car.
Life certainly does have its moments.
- 0 -
It's late before they make it to the car. She is in the street, under a streetlight, and apart from the Impala, Dean thinks she the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. She shines moon-light pale in the darkness, chrome and polish twinkling starlight as cars pass by her, unworthy Toyotas and Dodges and boring little wheels. God, 1959 was a good year for Cadillac.
"I think I'm developing a crush on your car," he tells Death. The car is just beautiful. She isn't Baby, she really isn't. She's too flashy, too big, too much Cadillac. She isn't Baby, but damn, Dean appreciates the long lines, the skirts, the softness of the leather, warm and subtle and silken when he slides his hand down the pale cream surface. "I really see why you love her so much."
Death smiles. Of course he does, for Dean knows that Death knows exactly how it feels, being so much in love with a car. And Death knows that Dean knows. It's comforting, being in sync with someone else in this way, no explanations needed, no apologies. Dean, however, glances at Baby, parked a few feet behind Death's darling, feeling a little guilty. "Sorry, Baby," he tells her, "You're still my number one." She is. Her night-black finish. The subtle way her body bends, all long, smooth lines, softly curving herself over the wheelbase and the road. Where Death's car is a princess of the light, clad in diamonds and silk, Baby is a queen of the night, dignified and regal. God, he loves his car!
They work for half an hour, disassembling and assembling, swapping the old carburetor with the new one that Dean bought. "It's sacrilege," Dean finally says, adjusting the air tube. "I need to find the original spare for her. I'll cry myself to sleep for a month if I have to leave her like this."
Death turns off the Maglite. "I could get-"
"I know. But that's not the way."
"Dean."
"Death."
"Seriously?"
"Now you sound like me. You cannot use omniscience. The last resort if anything else fails."
Death makes an annoyed sound; a sigh that ends up a borderline whine. Dean finds it... He doesn't know what he finds it, but Death appears so human that instant; all impatient and spoiled and a little bit childish, which in itself is remarkable feat, eliciting that. "It's cheating. Accept it. Do your job, and I'll do mine."
"I thought your job was to be a hunter," Death retorts, recovering rapidly from the letdown. "Isn't that what you argue all the time when someone tells you differently?"
"And I hunt the perfect carburetor. Questions? Concerns?" Dean sends Death his most cheeky grin. Perhaps he is still a little bit tipsy and Death had it coming. "Or would you rather not do it my way? I'm sure the local authorized Cadillac dealership would love to put their grabby hands on your ride. They'll do a good job ruining her."
Death looks positively appalled. "Not in my lifetime."
Which, of course, is as good as 'never'. "Then let me do it my way," Dean pleads. "And I can't even quote The Matrix, giving you the 'my way or the highway', because your darling would just enjoy that."
Death looks as if he understands little. "Your behavior is remarkably lacking today, Dean. I suggest you consider very thoroughly your insufficient level of politeness and respect for your elders."
"Oh, come off it," Dean huffs. "You're not that much older than me."
Death looks at Dean incredulously for seconds before he blinks, a few rapid movements of eyelids that say so much more than words could have done. Then Death laughs. Loudly.
Dean joins in. He didn't think it was possible to make Death laugh like that. Snigger, perhaps, or chuckle, but not laugh, and somehow it makes him glad that he just did. The thing is that Dean, without knowing it, actually means what he said. Death is eternal, but right there, he's just a little older than Dean, being there with him, in the now that belongs to Dean.
"Erm- I know that you are, but it doesn't feel that way," Dean admits. Seeing that he has met angels, gods, demons, ancient beings of all sorts, Death doesn't actually feel outdated. Maybe a little stuck in past, what with the car and the diners and the pizze, but that's where Dean prefers to be, classic car and classic rock, so that's fine with him.
"I suppose that is a compliment; it means so much to me," Death says in his usual snarky tone. He does look pleased, though. "The Matrix?"
"Get a TV, dude. And a DVD player, why don't you?"
"Because it would be very wrong to have such implements attached to my car. You of all people should understand that."
"Then get an apartment. You can attach those to an apartment."
"You are incredibly persistent today." Death sighs.
"And how about coffee? Get me some coffee. If you had an apartment, you could make me coffee too."
"There are times," Death says, "where I wish I was better suited to sleep. Because right now I feel very tired."
"Coffee helps," Dean informs him, as if Death didn't know.
"All the coffee in the universe wouldn't help when you are here, Dean. Except if I decided to drown you in it." Death rolls his eyes, clearly not inclined to do any drowning at all. He seems to enjoy chiding Dean far too much to dispose of him with inordinate amounts of java.
If Dean's grin was cheeky before, it becomes positively wicked now. Maybe it's because it strikes him right that instant, that this human pastime is so very similar to what Death is doing. It slips out of his mouth, five little words, vastly more significant than he thought they'd be. "You are flirting with me," he teases, wanting to rattle Death a little. Dean likes the constant banter, Death's razor-sharp mind. He likes Death.
"Perhaps," Death says coolly and returns to sit in his car. Dean stands, one foot on the curb, one on the road, frozen in movement.
That's was not the reply Dean had expected.
- 0 -
It is way past midnight when Dean drives towards Lebanon. He's tired and full of food and thoughts and food for thoughts. He loves driving; it is as if the dark, open road that disappears into the night and the rain is freedom. No demands, no attachments, no guilt. But Dean knows, too, that he should slide over, take a nap, let food and thoughts settle. He forces himself awake, aiming for the motel he stayed at last time. He liked the small island of peace and quiet in the middle of nowhere—a different middle of nowhere than that of the Batcave.
He gets the same room. He flops down on the bed, boots half off his feet, too lazy to care do anything but to toe them off. They hit the carpet with dull thumps and fall to rest. Dean turns over, burying his face in a pillow that smells of lavender. He sniffs it and turns over again, sliding his jeans over his hips, leaving them in a heap on the corner of the bed. He takes off his shirt but leaves the t-shirt on. He crabs around, getting under the comforter. It's warm and heavy and sleep is lurking around the corner, making Dean's mind fuzzy and less alert than usual.
Hovering between being awake and asleep, he can't stop himself from recalling the conversation he had with Death. Too deep, too personal. What the hell is a man gotta do, discussing with a being who knows everything?
Okay, so Dean's rather sure that Death hasn't read his mind; he is not the type to go behind people's backs. Death is honest. Maybe because he's the personification of the one thing in the universe that is a certainty, the one idea which will never become a lie: everybody dies. Some more times than others, Dean is sure. Death had treated him like an equal, not as the stupid hunter, prone to shoot first and forego the asking, seemingly appreciated Dean's opinion on Vonnegut and, well, everything else.
Therein lies the problem. Death had been honest; he'd taken him seriously. Like an unholy trinity, honesty and equality shack up with Dean's respect for the man, leaving Dean with no choice but to consider what Death said. About Sam. And about... other things. Flirting. He tries to ignore the spark of surprised interest that flickers inside him once more. Anyway, Dean is unable to ignore Death's arguments because he knows they are true. He needs to get over himself and let Sam choose the kind of life he wants. Dean could meet him halfway, take the middle road, maybe cutting down on the hunting, just take the serious cases, like open gates to Hell, apocalypses, stray Leviathan and loose Lucifers. Shit like that. When humankind in general needs saving. Let lesser hunters take the easy cases. Call Sam in when it's necessary.
Yeah, right.
And then again...
Dean knows he needs to stop deciding for Sam, but leaving him vulnerable and alone is not an option. There can be no more chinks in their armor for assholes like Lucifer and Azazel, none. If only Cas wasn't so busy elsewhere it would be easier. Dean misses Cas and not just because he takes care of them and watches out for them. Cas has a life too, Dean tends to forget that as well.
"If Sammy had been a girl, I'd been watching over him with a shotgun," Dean tells the ceiling. Dean knows that he's worse than a father fussing over his daughter. Dean' relationship with Cas is easy in comparison: Cas does what Cas wants and sometimes what Dean wants. It's not that complicated. Not like with Sam.
Dean doesn't know how to love Sam and let him go, too. It's damned difficult. Hunting is the easy part. Simple. Relations... with people... not so much. Baby, the hunt... those Dean understands. If only Dean didn't like Death so much, thus having to consider the things he said, everything would be easier to deal with, easier to dismiss. He's not sure he understands himself. Death is right, though. Dean has to let Sam go where he wants. One cannot deny the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes. There mere idea that he should chase Sam away, trying to possess him, turning himself into this distorted copy of Lucifer is enough to question his own motives. As Death said: is he doing what he's doing for Sam or for himself?
Sam's not twelve. Neither is Dean. They are both grown men, entitled to their own lives, their own decisions. They are not conjoined twins. Dean swears that he will try to behave as if he isn't.
With that decision taken care of, Dean turns on his side, fluffs the pillow and falls asleep almost before he once more has his nose buried in the calming scent of lavender.
3. Third's the Charm
The third time Dean is about to leave for Chicago, Sam asks the question. "What is it you're doing with Death, exactly?" Sam is cradling a cup of coffee as if he's reluctant to let it go; they have just finished breakfast and the leftovers, half an oatmeal bun and something that would have made a rabbit happy, still lie on Sam's plate. Dean's plate, half an hour ago filled with eggs and pancakes and bacon and three pieces of buttered toast, is empty and cleaned.
"Nothing," Dean says, feeling strangely protective of his relationship with Death. "He buys me dinner and I fine-tune his car." He is not saying anything about how at ease he feels with Death or about how they have fallen into this twosome-ness that makes Dean less lonely and Death more alive. It's not that Sam doesn't count as company, it's not that. Dean loves Sam more than anyone else in the entire universe. It's just that Death seems to patch up some of the empty holes inside him, making the world a little bit less grim when they talk about motors and what kind of rims they'd prefer and the perfect tire to use next summer. Even their talk about personal matters are healing in that rip-wounds-open-and-patch-them-properly-back-up kind of way. It hurts, but it makes Dean think that he's less wounded when it stops hurting.
"Nothing? You didn't come back with reports of impending catastrophes, you walk around looking damned pleased when you get one of those little love letters he sends you, and you look even more pleased when you return. What's going on, Dean?"
"As I said, nothing. Is that so hard to believe? We meet, I look at his car and he takes me out to dinner in return."
"You are driving like hundred and fifty miles every other week to get that pizza. It better be a good one."
"It is. The best in Chicago. Didn't have pizza last time, though." Dean smiles in loving memory of the sublime osso buco he'd had. Tasty sauce with enough butter in it to make a cardiologist have a heart attack just by seeing the recipe. "And I don't wanna talk about it, so stop the interrogation, man. Can't I have a personal life without anybody butting in?"
"Look, I'm not trying to... I'm worried. Is this some kind of daddy-kink or what? Or are you keeping something from me? No new apocalypses, right?"
"Aside from the daddy-kink?" Glaring at Sam, Dean frowns, shaking his head. "Sam, I thought we talked about this. I am having fun. You do know the term, right? I am allowed to do some work on a close-to-perfect classic car. He has a '59 62-series, dammit! I have fun discussing cars and fast food with Death. Okay, so he's the friggin' oldest being in the universe, but he still loves his car and he pays for a damned good pizza." Dean both wants and doesn't want Sam to understand.
"Dunno," Sam says, looking as if he understands nothing. Which is probably true. Dean's talking to a guy who found it proper to desecrate Baby by violating her with the pointy end of an iPod jack. Sam squints at Dean, almost hostile. "Last time I had fun with someone else, you asked me to leave her so that I could go back to hunting with you. Maybe I should do the same, demand that you don't meet with a horseman."
"Except you didn't have fun with that uptight vet. She made you miserable, dude." Yeah, right, things were getting better between him and Sam. Or not. Dean wonders what has elicited this change in Sam. He can't point out something in particular, but then again, Sam is good at keeping his secrets. Which sorta worries Dean a lot. Confrontation lingers, sizzling, waiting for the fuse to blow. He knows he should stay out, let Sam do his thing; he did promise Death that he would. He promised himself that he would. He used time to get to the point where he could almost see the light. Now it's flickering again, unsteady as a candle in the wind.
"Not really up to you to decide," Sam says in that prissy way that makes Dean want to choke him. 'And yet you decided that she wasn't for me. Why shouldn't I say the same? Leave Death alone. Hunting is more important, that is the life we have, being hunters. That's what you told me."
"Because Death is not my lover, is he? I am making a friend, Sam. I am allowed to have a friend, ain't I?"
Poking at the remains of the fruit salad with his fork, Sam doesn't budge. "Yeah, last time you had a friend he was a vampire. I've said it before: good choice. And what about hunting? With you going back and forth from Chicago like a pendulum? How is it that there are different rules for you when you find someone you care about? Same thing with Cas. You can have your own personal angel, but I can't?"
Desperate, Dean gets up, leaning on the table, both hands on it. "If you're thinking of Lucifer as your angel, then no. And Cas is my friend, our friend, Sammy. And so is Death. I don't care if he's Death. I care that he likes his car and knows all the decent fast food places in Chicago and likes to talk about the Impala and torque and tires and that he knows what kind of microbrew I'd like to have with my pizza. I bloody like him, so let me have this, dammit, because you are so deep into books and being a Man of Letters that I could just as well not exist! If you got up from that chair and outside, you might be able to find a friend too. Just... no Lucifer."
Dean doesn't like the flicker of pain that graces Sam's face for an instant only to disappear again. "What in the world would I do with Lucifer, providing he wasn't sitting in the cage downstairs? And if it came to that, I tolerated Benny, didn't I?"
"No, you didn't. You wanted him gone. Payback for killing Amy, I suppose." That's a low blow, Dean knows. But Sam is making him feel angry and all sorts of annoyed.
"I am not trying to pick a fight, Dean. But this is Death. The Fourth Horseman. The being that let Alastair borrow his scythe so that they could start the apocalypse. Alastair's old friend."
"No, Sam. It really isn't like that." Dean doesn't want to talk about the loneliness and the immense solitude he senses in Death — the same solitude and loneliness he feels in some of his more introspect moments. The same solitude that led to this argument. And as for Sam's accusation, Dean knows it's a lie. "And Alastair was never anybody's friend. The scythe... that was Lucifer's doing, casting a spell over Death. And you should be damned grateful for what Death did for you, and not start accusing him of being in league with demons."
"It's not that I'm not grateful." Sam is backtracking. "I'm worried. He doesn't have a hold on you or anything? I mean, if he has, we'll deal with it; there has to be something we can do..."
Dean sighs. How ruined they both are, how broken. He wonders how it would be, to be able to fully trust and believe in the good in other people again. To trust and believe in Sam. Not that Dean really remembers how it was before life had beat it out of him — trust and love and care. Love and care for anyone but Sam, that is. "You're like Dad now," Dean says, knowing how unfair he is. Sam will never be like Dad. "I'm not going to let you take Death from me."
"Stop, please, Dean. That's not what I meant." Sam looks down, his head hanging. It takes seconds before he looks up at Dean again, eyes barely visible through his hair, the floppy mess covering his face. "I'm sorry," he offers. "Maybe I miss you a little. Or miss to have someone to be with. I just wanna be sure you're okay. Death is not exactly your garden variety date."
"Are you givin' me the talk, Sammy? Because I tell you I'm too old for that." Enough. Dean doesn't want to talk about why he goes to Chicago. It means that he had to look at his motives more thoroughly, other than that he likes the pizza and the company. "You know, just, let's not go there."
"Do I need to give you one? A talk?" Sam grimaces as if Death is a particularly unpleasant insect that Dean has developed a fascination with.
"Perhaps." There they go. It's by far admission enough. Dean knows Sam well enough to know they need to get it over with now, or he won't hear the last of it. "I'm a big boy."
"Not that big, Dean. You're messing around with Death, dammit."
"I am not messing around. We tune cars, Sam. It's not like I'm his boyfriend or anything." The words are out before Dean can think. Unfortunately it makes Dean wonder how it would be, if... Dean can't suppress the idea, but he tries. He is not going to consider anything in that direction, because— No, he's going to Chicago so that he can hang out with Death, have fun and enjoy time with someone who both understands him and is strong enough not to need him. Death makes Dean feel safe and comfortable and wanted and he understands Dean's love for the Impala. That's all there is to it. Dean pulls out the chair and slides down on it. His body feels heavy with the knowledge that he might have come to like Death a little bit too much.
Dean doesn't want to ask, but he does anyway. Looking at Sam, he wonders, "Do you ever think that we're going to be happy with anyone but each other?"
"I don't know, Dean. We're not happy together, just less miserable. Maybe we're so messed up now, that nothing else is good enough — or bad enough." Sam shrugs. "Twice I had women I loved and once I had an—" Sam, too, makes a perfect imitation of a clam.
"Once you had a... what?"
"Nothing. But... Jess. She was everything I ever wanted. Amelia... I might have loved her, only if I could leave her like I did — for you — then I couldn't have. I don't think I loved her enough."
"What are you trying to say? I mean, it'd be great if we could get to the core, because I am not living this girlie moment much longer."
"I don't know. Maybe I'm trying to say that love should feel like you'd want give up everything for that person if necessary."
"I'm not giving you up, Sam. Ever. You're my brother."
"And we're stuck, like forever? With each other? Alone?"
Dean looks up, into Sam's eyes. "You're my brother. I love you, man. Despite everything we fucked up. I just don't think that I'm ever going to have a normal life. And I don't think you are going to, either."
Sam looks as if somebody just hit him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. And how does Death fit into that equation, you think?"
Having had enough of the heart-to-heart, Dean does what he tried to do before certain truths about Death hit him hard enough to make him sit down. He gets up, grabs his leather coat and walks towards the door. Half way across the floor he turns around. If Sam wants honesty, he can have it. Right in the face. "I don't know. All I know is that he makes it worth going. He does. And I'd go, even if the pizza was crap and he was driving a damned Prius."
Dean hurries out the door before he has to listen to Sam bitch. They'll get back to that soon enough. They'll have to, so they can sort things out, get out of this swamp of unsaid words and ignored issues.
- 0 -
Dean spends the drive to Chicago in deep thought. Again. For once, the radio is quiet and not even his favorite tape stays on for long.
The road stretches out in front of him, hours and hours of empty space. The road leaves room for contemplation; it becomes a place of transition; a slow wormhole for space travel between Lebanon and Chicago; between Sam and Death; between brother and... whatever it is Death has become. Friend, confidante, advisor... something else, yet nameless.
Dean needs the quiet to be able to think through properly the things he said to Sam. And he owes it to himself to think through, too, what Sam said to him. Okay, so they were bickering and half of the shit they sprouted was just that, crap. Only Dean knows that some of it is true. He really likes Death, for one. Dean would like to have a life, and that Sam could have one, too, so that neither of them had to endure the loneliness they both harbor.
Yeah, he's deep. Dean looks at himself in the rear-view mirror. He doesn't look more grown up or more serious. It's the same eyes, the same freckles, the same sadness as last week and the week before. The exact same loneliness.
But something has changed. Usually Dean would have surfed the Internet until he'd found them a hunt, and they'd both jumped into the Impala, riding towards the sunset to kill a monster and by monster-y proxy killing their all-encompassing emptiness and loneliness. Poke it with a pointy stick until it goes away, for an hour or a day or a week. Oh, they are masters of evading the pain.
Not this time.
The rides to and from Chicago, Dean knows, have become cherished breaks for him. He didn't use to think so much and now he finds that he needs it. More than he needs to kill a monster to drive away any doubts and regrets about the life he lives with Sam. Dean knows it isn't going to last. There is going to be a new evil, one that Sam cannot stand against, or one that he can't. Unless they find friends, back-up, who are as strong as their opponents, they are never going to live in peace. Sometimes Dean wishes that the love he has for Cas was different. As it is, he misses his friend and brother, but he has no hold on him, not that kind of hold. There are times when Dean thought that they could become more, but those times are over now. If only Cas had those kind of feelings for Sam, Dean would wholeheartedly support them, and not only because Sam would be safe with Cas. Little, defenseless humans are not for Sam. For now the doors to Hell are closed, but Dean knows it's only a question of time before some demon or another find their way out. And Crowley... Crowley isn't without resources.
Dean wishes he dared man up and ask Death to find someone for Sam the way Death himself is there for Dean, but it defies Dean's vow to stop interfering with Sam's life in so many ways that he doesn't even want to begin to count them. Also the field of useful candidates — beings that aren't easily thrown up into ceilings and set afire — has been narrowed down considerably, what with Gabriel, Balthazar and Anna dead. There's Cas. A few of the other angels, like Inias. At the bottom floor there's Crowley. Dean laughs at the thought. But the new King of Hell is better than the old one; Crowley would rather die than to let Lucifer loose. Not that Crowley is interested in Sam, although he does tease him a lot, it is nothing but a mix of annoyance and an obvious appreciation of Sam's manliness. But Sam killing Crowley's beloved hellhound is surely a deal-breaker. Not that Dean believes that Sam ever used as much as a second of his life thinking of Crowley that way — as a potential partner — thank God. And Sam would probably rather stab himself to death with the blunt end of a fork than to touch Crowley. Dean is quite with him on that one. Dean laughs, and the laughter tastes of brimstone, bitterly. Of course no one would be interested in seeing Sam with the King of Hell. But an angel... Dean would even support it, as long as it's neither Zachariah, nor Lucifer. Zachariah is supposed to be dead, and Lucifer... is unavailable for the foreseeable eternity.
Staying out of Sam's business isn't really going so well. Dean gives up and cranks up the stereo. It's so tempting to meddle, but Sam has to decide for himself. There is nothing Dean won't do to make Sam stay with him, and if it requires dealing with whiny girlfriends, so be it. Dean can handle it. He really doesn't want to explain to Death that Sam has run off because he fucked it up again. Death's jab was hurtful, but it was also sound advice.
Maybe Death really is rubbing off, so that Dean has soaked up some of his calm stoicism?
Dean can think of few people he respects and none more than Death. He never really had that many role models. Bobby and Ellen of course. Dad. Maybe. Cas doesn't count. He's not as big a dick as his other brothers and sisters, but Cas is like a brother, and brothers don't do respect. Brothers do 'I love you, but I'm going to kick your ass until you beg for mercy'.
Respect has to be earned, family doesn't need to earn anything. They just need to be there.
And then there's Death. Dean still can't decide what Death is to him, what he's become. Dean's admires Death. He doesn't think it can be described in other terms. Admiration is just about right. Keeping the natural order of things is no small endeavor. It's a bloody, damned big one. And on top of it, Death is a being whose destiny is unbearably hard, in Dean's opinion. He was born alone and he will die alone. Dean hates it, hates that it has to be like that. As Death pointed out, Dean has been fighting destiny forever, and if need be, he'll help Death fight his as well. Only Death isn't going to. At least Dean doesn't think so and it makes him sad.
Only when Dean reaches Chicago, he realizes that he's been wrong. Death is most certainly not doing what destiny demands of him.
- 0 -
Death is waiting at their usual spot outside the Rinascita Pizzeria. Not inside this time, but leaning against his car. The sun is hot, and Death isn't wearing his sinister black coat as if the warm fall sun actually matters to him. As Dean eases Baby into an empty spot along the curb, he takes his time looking Death over. A nice pair of pants and a casual shirt makes him look so normal. Not ordinary; Death could never look ordinary. With the gaunt face and the large nose, he is if nothing else interesting, as if there is always something new, another detail to look at. Yeah, interesting. Which is good, since Death has no boobs to speak of, which is what Dean prefers when it comes to interests. Suddenly discontent, Dean huffs. He is not checking Death out. He isn't. Death's a guy, for Christ's sake! But the pants fit smoothly over Death's hips and Dean allows himself to look once more.
Dean grabs the box from the back seat and gets out of the Impala. He's met with a nod and the twitching of thin lips that goes for a smile when it comes to Death.
"Do you want to get drunk first or can it wait?" Death says, his eyes sparkling. Dean's sure that he's being teased.
"And who was it who told me I had to drink that Italian shit as not to appear a total Neanderthal?"
"I'm not sure I mentioned Neanderthal," Death says. "Although it isn't as if the difference is that big. Seen from my point of view."
"Wow, flattery this early? I suppose it's better than being compared to a blob of Salmonella." Dean sends Death his most confident grin, the one that has won over girls all over the country. "If you continue like that, I might come to think that you actually like me."
Death sighs. "I didn't think you were this slow, Dean." He nods in the direction of the box Dean's carrying. "My carburetor?"
"Do you run on gasoline?"
Death looks at Dean as if he understands nothing.
"I doubt that you'd feel comfortable if I tried to attached the carburetor to you. So, no, it's your darling's carburetor, not yours." Death isn't as bad as Cas, but there are times, Dean swears, when Death is totally clueless when it comes to good-natured joking. Dean doesn't care to explain his attempt at a joke any further. "I took it apart," he says instead, pulling at the lid to the box with the carburetor in it. "I did a bit of work on it, but it won't last you a lifetime. Not even my idea of a lifetime. We need to find you another. An old, new original. Or new old. Whatever. I've been looking, but no luck. A few old ones, worse condition than the one we've got."
"The new one... it works, but it's not good enough," Death says, sighing, clearly not satisfied with the brand new spare part. "Your Internet didn't provide anything useful, I take it."
"Nothing just yet, but I've asked around at the forums. It's going to be a problem, you know, if the part is like in... California."
"Not for me," Death says. "I'm not exactly using public transportation."
"And how do you think it'll look, having Death showing up at someone's doorstep, demanding said part? It's not how Ebay works, Death. Trust me. And I've my reputation-" Dean holds up a hand, as if to prevent Death from arguing, "-on stake here. And I do have a reputation. You know, as the nice dude who knows his Chevy-fu."
"So you insist that it is my way or the highway, as you so eloquently put it?"
"Yeah." Dean finds it amusing how Death fluctuates between being the guy who fights to understand pop cultural references and the guy who's an omniscient being who easily comprehends the meaning of life and Vonnegut. "And while we're at it, do you..." He stops, realizing how ridiculous the mere idea is.
Death raises an eyebrow, as if to allow Dean the question.
"Do you have a credit card?" Dean asks. "I mean, if you don't, we can just... arrange something." It feels a bit like sacrilege, encouraging Death to participate in credit card scams, but that's how Dean does it.
"You do realize that I could just summon the item in question?" Death asks. "No waiting, no-"
"That's cheating, I told you that two minutes ago. And last time. It defies the pleasure of owning a classic car. I will not allow it," he chides. Dean states it like it's not up for debate. It isn't.
"See, one of the pleasures with cars such as my baby and your ride is the anticipation, the days that pass, waiting for the spare part. Waiting for perfection. It puts time into perspective."
Death laughs. He is laughing as a young man laughs, suddenly free and cheerful and less weighed down. He even looks younger, or less timeless. "And now I have Dean Winchester teaching me about the perspective of time. Oh Lord, how has it come to this?"
"You asked me to fix your car?" Dean suggests, smiling widely in return for the unexpected sight of Death, enjoying himself. Dean likes it. He likes how Death suddenly comes alive, more human and more present than Dean has ever seen. "And I am trying to keep you out of trouble. I am not sure that the Angel of Death should be stealing off Ebay, to be honest. Ebay is ordinary people, dudes like you and me. Credit card fraud hits the right businesses. Banks."
"Oh, a champion of the people, how sweet." Death throws his hands up. "And how do you suggest I purchase anything off the Internet, then, Dean? Please forward to Death, 1959 Cadillac, Chicago? I am sure that one will go well." Death raises an eyebrow. "Or perhaps to you? At Dean's Place, c/o Men of no Letterboxes, Point of Nowhere, Kansas?"
Death is right, of course, but Dean gasps, choking at the laughter he can't stop. He likes Death being snarky. He does that so well. "The last and definitely not preferable solution could be Death, c/o Lucifer, The Box in Hell Next to the Cage, 666 Feet Below. That'll definitely work. Especially since the door to the place is stuck and the only one able to open it is Crowley. If he had the key." Dean makes a smirk. "Which he doesn't."
"Technically," Death interjects, "the coffin is not in Hell. It just feels like it." He suddenly looks very sad, the smile gone like the sun behind a heavy rain cloud.
Dean doesn't like a sad Death. He likes Death's sudden smiles, the way the brown eyes light up when he laughs, the millennia disappearing in an instant. Dean licks his lips; they're dry, like his throat. There's a question stuck there, one he probably shouldn't ask. "It'd be much easier if you actually lived somewhere. You know, with a garage and an actual address. A fridge. With beer in it. Don't you ever miss having a place of your own?"
The smile is back. "Of course. Beer. Exactly what I was missing when I was confined to the coffin." Death uses the edge of his sleeve to wipe off an invisible spot from the car. "I have existed for a very long time, Dean. Sometimes I forget that humans with their short lifespans are better at living. I tend to forget that one day it will be too late for me as well. Time loses its meaning when it stretches out as it does for me. I'm a wanderer, a traveler in time and space. Sometimes I forget that my road, too, has an end."
A group of students walks by, laughing and chatting. Dean follows them with his eyes until they turn around a corner. "But you still enjoy small pleasures. Good food. Beer. Pizze at Rinascita." Dean nods, indicating the Cadillac. "Her. Doesn't that bind you to Earth? To the now, to this moment in time?" Dying, going to heaven, being resurrected, Dean sees what Death means. Nothing is static; time is odd, and space... never really turns out the way it is supposed to be. Once Dean regarded time and space as sturdy and constant. Which they aren't. "Sam... he... I think he's happy in the bunker, although he's lonely," Dean says. "He seems to have found a place in time and space that suits him. That is what he should have been from the beginning, all brains and nerdiness. A Man of Letters. It's like home for him. A home for his brain. It is as if he's found the place where he belongs. Women never really worked for him since Jess, but books, they do."
"You are still underestimating yourself." Death says it with conviction, as if he sees through Dean's thinly veiled cover-up. Dean, too, likes the bunker; it's the closest thing to a home he's had for decades, the Impala not included. "You are not out of place, Dean," Death argues. "Sam would not have been the only Man of Letters, had your father not brought you up like he did. I have little patience for stupidity. You would not be here if I found you lacking. For a human."
Dean snorts. "Another compliment? Well, thank you, good sir. And here I thought I was here because my magic fingers might turn your baby's carburetor into a purring kitten. Which-" Dean raises a hand, rudely stopping Death from replying, "-which leads us back to my question. An actual address. To send spare parts. Anything. A P. O. box, even."
"Ask me nicely, and I will give it some thought." As if he truly is mulling it over, Death looks around, assessing the street and the houses on it, people passing by. "It might be worth it. It pains me that you might be right. It is convenient. The concept of living in a now instead of merely being present at all times holds an allure I have not truly considered. That is not a luxury one is allowed, when one is kept like a dog on a leash."
"So you really spent eons in that coffin?"
Again Death looks so terribly sad. "I was let out a few times. Glacial ages. The Flood. I do not appreciate being imprisoned, Dean, and I will do what is necessary to stay out of that litter box I was in. I am willing to go to great lengths, to be honest."
Dean can't argue against that. Being a prisoner in Hell wasn't all that amusing, either, especially not with thirty years of added torture and a bit of icing on top, working for Alastair. "But you're not a danger... not like the other horsemen." Dean knows the moment that the words are past his lips that he should not have said anything.
"I am not?" Death says quietly in a way that suddenly makes Dean feel cold and very, very afraid. "Don't lie to yourself. I am not your average household cat. I am death." As quiet as the words fall, almost whispered like summer rain, everything changes.
Suddenly the air is filled with wings and shadows and light, with a being so large that it fills the space between the houses, stretching towards the sky, before everything turns dark, the sky imploding, as if a black hole had appeared in the middle of the busy street. Nobody else seems to notice the darkness that spreads, greyhound-fast. Then it's over as quickly as it began; a flash of darkness and the sun is back, the sky blue-gray from fall and the impending threat of evening.
"Fuck," Dean says when he can breathe again. "Thanks for the reminder, dude!" He puts a hand on the Cadillac, supporting himself. His knees aren't really working. Death truly is the Angel of Death, no doubt about that. Maybe Death is right: Dean might have forgotten how powerful Death is. He should have remembered. Now that God has left the building or gone to Bali for an extended holiday, Death is not only powerful. He is the most powerful being in the universe, and Dean has just asked him to get himself a place to live. Maybe he should ask him to get a decent job and a haircut, now that he's at it. Then again, no. Dean likes Death's hair.
Not that he cares. Of course not.
Entirely unaffected Death opens the Cadillac's front door. "Make no mistake, Dean Winchester. I like you, but I will not tolerate any cheekiness from you. Now, get in." Dean hears a click from the door he's holding on to. Keys aren't necessary and neither is a central lock. Not for Death, at least.
Still clinging to the car, Dean frowns. "Where are we going? No pizza?"
"No pizze. We're going to Kuma's Corner. Burgers, Dean."
Somehow Dean finds it disturbing that... well, there are more things that Dean finds disturbing, but burgers he can handle. First of all, Death's intimate knowledge of Chicago's geography seems to be assembled by the distances and routes to and from fast food restaurants. Secondly, the pace with which Death goes from zero to full throttle and back? If he'd been a car, he'd been a Bugatti Veyron, the world's fastest accelerating supercar. There's a potential customer for an anger management course, although Death's usual calm demeanor would prove Dean wrong. It's still disconcerting, though.
Dean's mind decides it's wise to return to the most important task at hand. Food. "What's Kuma's Corner? Yeah, a burger joint, that much I get." Okay, so he's got his priorities right. Burgers before angels.
Death doesn't reply, he merely slides into the car, obviously waiting for Dean to do the same. Dean doesn't hesitate. He might have his reservations, but Death has promised him a burger. Yes, his virtue is for sale for a meatball.
"Sacrilege, Dean," Death remarks as Dean sits next to him, " to use that particular term in connection with Kuma's. Blasphemy, almost. You will understand when we get there."
Dean gives up. Death is in a mood. Only Dean had eaten great burgers before. The best. He doubts that anything Death's fast food friends can come up with can compare. No reason to become grumpy, just because Dean knows better.
- 0 -
Dean leans back in the seat of the Cadillac, the leather of the seat silken under his fingers. She sounds great as she snaps at a traffic light threatening to stop her. The motor roars, her teeth showing, as Death lets her attack the street, her claws digging into the asphalt as she accelerates. If Dean hadn't had his baby, he'd been impressed. The Caddy is a bit like a classy lady in Chanel or some other fancy foreign brand, stripping out of her clothes, only to let her lover see that she's wearing red lace and a g-string and a tattoo on one boob. Death's car looks so... civilized, and she's all roar and muscle underneath the hood. The big-block V8 churns out enough torque to rotate the globe. It truly is a thing of beauty.
They drive down a quiet street, low three- and four-story buildings. A few derelict stores make the area look slightly shady. Death pulls up at the corner of Francisco and Belmont. "Over there."
Dean looks at an unassuming corner store of a red brick house. Doesn't look like a proper place to get a burger. "Doesn't look like a decent burger joint to me."
A few minutes later Dean understands how wrong he'd been. Kuma's is not only a proper burger joint, it is the burger joint, the epitome of all great burger joints which have ever existed.
"Dude, they're playing AC/DC!" Death politely holds the door for Dean as he steps inside. The small place is almost full, only a few tables are free. They grab a table, the second from the window. Maybe Death prefers this particular place; nice to know that even Death has his perks. Sitting down, Dean has time to see what the other patrons are having on their plates. "AC/DC and those burgers," Dean sighs, knowing how his spot in Heaven is going to look. Even more brilliant if his celestial burger joint could have direct access to Ash's heavenly roadhouse.
Death sends him a look that looks like 'I told you so.' "I told you so," he says.
"Yeah, good for you." Dean grabs the menu, ignoring Death as he discovers that half the burgers are named after his favorite bands. There's a Led Zeppelin, a Black Sabbath and an Iron Maiden. Some have fancy names and they are too fancy to be real burgers. "Plague Bringer? Seriously? They named it after your brother?"
"No. And it's a bit heavy on the garlic. And everything else that smells. Wouldn't recommend it. I prefer a Lair of the Minotaur. The one with Bourbon-poached pear, Brie and caramelized onions."
"I appreciate it, the non-garlic policy. If you count on me getting into the car with you after we've eaten, that is." Dean is not sure if he wants to leave at all. Maybe he can just stay here for the rest of his natural life and let Death pick him up when it's over? He skims the menu again and is lured in by the idea of bacon, BBQ pulled pork, Cheddar and pickle. "Led Zeppelin for me." God, he loves this place! Metallica is in the speakers now, and the smell of grilled meat makes Dean's mouth water. A look at what the patrons at the surrounding tables are eating makes it torture that they'll have to wait for the food.
One of the waiters puts two bottles of local beer on the table, as if he knows Death, knows what Death usually orders. "Minotaur, yeah?" He looks at Dean. "And for you?"
"Zeppelin, and don't hold back on the Cheddar."
"We don't hold back on anything here, dude. You want an extra plate for your extra cheese, or what?"
Dean leans back in his chair and laughs. "My friend here told me I'd like this place. He was right. One plate should do it, thanks. I like your t-shirt, too, by the way." The guy is wearing a faded Aerosmith t-shirt with the classic A-wing logo. The waiter disappears, and Dean reaches for the microbrew. "You can say 'I told you so' again if you want, but I doubt it's necessary. You knew I'd love this place, because it's more or less made for me."
Death merely looks smug and pours beer into his glass. Dean takes a swig of the bottle, groaning as what appears to be a dark, spicy ale hits his palate. He makes a small moan at the taste lingers, reminding Dean of nuts and licorice. "Are you a mind reader or..."
"No, Dean. I take you to places I like, that's all. It has been a long time since I found it interesting to examine the human mind from the inside for amusement. And I would find it remarkably intrusive to do that to you without your consent."
"Not that it kept you from poking around in Sam's soul. And you did read my mind last time, or sent it an inquiring look, at least."
"You were thinking very loudly at the time," Death explains, looking slightly guilty. "Hard not to listen in on someone who's shouting. As for Sam, you begged me to do so, yes. Blackmailed me, some would say."
"There's that." Dean grins. Death is right. He had been somewhat persuasive about that. "But you wouldn't take me here if you hadn't forgiven me, would you? Not that I'm not grateful. You saved Sam's life."
"A sanity he might not have wanted at the time." Death takes a sip of his glass. "I assume that you did consider that Lucifer, had he not been so set on starting the apocalypse and torturing his vessel into insanity, would have been good for Sam? That Sam, even in the midst of his suffering, felt a deep connection to Lucifer?"
"No! I haven't considered that." A lie, of course. He'd done nothing but to consider that Sam would rather have been with Lucifer than being alone. "How could Sam possi-"
"Because Lucifer loves strongly, Dean. And insanely, yes. We talked about this. Lucifer is able to love; that is the problem with him, that he loves so deeply. I am not fond of my little fallen brother, you of all people know why. But I wonder what would have become of him, had he allowed himself to let that love loose and actually admit his love for his vessels. He cared strongly for Nick and even more so for Sam. In his exaggerated way."
"Do you mean..." Dean's eyebrows form two curled, worried bows. "You think Sam could have made him regret that he was cast out from Heaven? I'm no theologian; I never really cared for religion, but wouldn't Lucifer be forgiven if he asked for it? If he truly regretted what he'd done? Or is it only us... I mean... humans?"
"I don't know. God is not here. Only I think that if Lucifer truly wanted to redeem himself, he could. God wouldn't have to be involved. Lucifer had already fallen; he could let himself become human as a part of that redemption. I doubt that anyone, angel or demon, would deny that it would be the ultimate sacrifice for Satan, to willingly become one with the beings he despises most."
"Even if he would, he couldn't. He has no vessel. He's in the cage. He can never go near Sam again, not as long as I am alive."
"If you ceased being so protective of Sam, he'd find it easier to take his own decisions," Death tells him quietly as if it's a truth that cannot be contradicted. "You'll have to let him go one day."
"You know what, man? We're not talking about this. Again. At all. Ever." Dean crosses his arms in front of him, as if it'd help him ward off the offending suggestions. He lets Sam do what he likes. Sam is an adult.
"As much as I am a supporter of the natural order and accepting the implication that our destinies might not be as free as they seem, I do appreciate free will, Dean. Which means I can talk about whatever I like, and you can stay or go as you like."
Dean narrows his eyes. "And what do you mean by that? That I'm manipulating Sam into staying with me?"
"I mean that we should leave it up to people to take their own decisions. Like I said. If Lucifer wants redemption, it is as easy as that to reach out and take it. If Sam wants another life, he should go for it. If you think you aren't cut out to sit idly in a bunker, you should stop."
"And if you find your job boring you should quit," Dean says surly. "Or did you run out of free will, too?" He knows it's a low blow, but he's angry now and he doesn't care.
"No, I considered the consequences of my actions and chose to stay where God asked me to be. I suggest you do the same: consider the consequences of what you do and of what it does to Sam. It doesn't mean that you shouldn't talk to him about it, though. Not if you do not want to."
"Why am I discussing this with you at all?" Dean snarls. "It's fucking none of your business. And all this blah, blah, blah." Dean makes a rude gesture that shows exactly what he thinks about talking about anything that isn't cars or hunting. "Can't stand it!"
"Because," Death says, his eyes dark with emotion, "Every time you mention your brother, the sadness you exude is so deep that even I can hardly bear it. I would like you to be happy, Dean."
Dean is about to say something, but the barb cuts him open, leaving him gasping in pain. That someone else has seen his worries and his guilt is unbearable; it is something private, something he has to deal with on his own. Alone. Like he always does.
They finish the meal in silence. Dean can't decide whether to be angry or not. He's used to making up his mind by himself, and he doesn't take kindly to being taught what to do. There is a small snag, though: Death is still the oldest being in existence. He knows shit.
Finally, when there is no food left, no coffee, no anything to divert Dean from what Death has said, he finally caves in. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Dean," Death says, making nothing out of it. "You mean well, and you love deeply. Just don't let it turn you into something like Lucifer."
"I won't." Dean swallows. "I know you're right." Urgh, defeat really tastes bitter. "Sammy... I would be more relaxed if I knew he had someone..."
"Someone?"
"Yeah. You know." Dean shrugs. "Someone powerful, like Cas, but they're not... like that. Someone who loves him and is strong enough to stand with him against the powers of darkness and shit. Someone who's good and can kick some demon ass. Strong. Angel. Not too dead, now that I think of it. Someone who can pull him outta Hell if necessary. And preferably someone who can convince Lucifer, should he ever look for a new place to live, that Sam's body is no longer available to him."
"And with someone you don't mean Castiel? You mean someone who loves him like a lover."
"Yeah. It's what he wants, isn't it? A family of his own. Better be someone who can hold her own. Or his." Dean suddenly smiles. He didn't think of it, but he just described Death, all powerful and eternal and strong. Only Sam can't have Death. He can't.
It is as if Death has read Dean's mind again, despite that he has said that he's above lurking. "There are few beings who have that kind of power," Death says. "And some are dead. There's Lucifer himself, of course. Michael, and that is not an option. Besides, we'd like him to keep up his cohabitation with Lucifer. Then there's Gabriel, and he's gone and so is Zachariah. That leaves Castiel. Me. There's Crowley and perhaps a few of his demon generals. My three brothers. Maybe. War could do it, he's strong enough, but having a relationship with him... you wouldn't want that for anyone and definitely not for Sam." Death's face is neutral as he looks at Dean. "It's quite the limited pick."
"And I'll cut it down even more," Dean says without thinking it through. But it's important. "He can't have you."
"He can't?" Death asks, clearly amused. "And why is that, Dean?"
Dean's cheeks heat up and he's not sure whether he's blushing. For a few seconds he doesn't know what to say. He uses a diversion because he truly doesn't want to answer. "If only Gabriel was alive. Sam liked the guy, although he bitched about him all the time."
Luckily the tactics work. "He killed you. Gabriel."
"Yeah, but he didn't mean anything by it. Wasn't personal." Dean really can't be bothered about that. It really wasn't personal, and Gabriel was trying to help. Not that he likes the archangel, but he'd been good for Sam. "I sorta liked the Trickster. The only angel with a modicum of humor. And family was important to him as well."
Death is quiet for some time; he looks like he's deep in thoughts.
"When angels die, what happens to them?" Dean thinks he can just as well ask. Not that Death is going to tell him any manufacturing secrets.
Death straightens up. "They become energy. Or, rather, they are energy already, but they lose their physical form. It takes substantial power to put that energy back together. It is like fighting particle superposition with a ladle."
Wrinkling his brow, Dean says, "I didn't ask you to put anything together. I just wanted to know where angels go when they die."
One side of his mouth twitches. "If you say so."
"I just wish I could... make it up to Sam. Even if it meant that I had to assemble an angel for him with my own bare hands. Or a ladle. I don't want him to be alone. I don't want to lose him if I-" If I choose you, Dean thinks, for the first time allowing himself to think the thought that has been lurking around in the dark corners of his consciousness. If I choose you.
- 0 -
It is raining outside when they leave Kuma's. Heavy drops ra-ta-ta against car hoods and house roofs. The only positive thing to say about the rain is that the humidity isn't as high as before the rain. A bit too full, Dean runs around Death's darling and almost dives into the safety of her cream-white interior. He burps slightly and sinks into the soft seat, content and disturbed at the same time. He's just had the burger of his life, and if that is not an experience to cherish, nothing is. "Can we come back?" Dean asks as Death slinks into his seat. His shirt is wet and a few drops trickle down a lock of Death's hair, falling over his face.
Death brushes the lock back and laughs. "We're in the middle of a minor flood, and all you can think of is more food?"
"As long as it isn't your doing, the flood. Then again, I suppose I should feel safe enough, even if it was."
"And what makes you believe that, Dean? That you matter? Again with the megalomania." The torrential rain almost drowns out Death's words.
"Now you're teasing me." Dean fights a childish urge to stick his tongue out at Death. "You'd miss me if I disappeared. You can stop pretending that I'm below you."
"I can?" Death asks sarcastically and manages to make it sound as if there should have been some kind of innuendo hidden somewhere in between those two words. "I suppose the fact that I keep asking you to come dine with me is an indication of that. That I'd be sorry if you weren't here. Ah," he exclaims sharply and points at Dean. "That doesn't mean that you are allowed more liberties than those you have already taken."
It makes Dean strangely happy to hear Death admit it. "I like it here. You know... the city and everything." 'Everything' mostly meaning Death and the time they spend together. "So, where's the coffee?" Dean could really use a cup. The air is becoming colder and it feels so nice sitting in Death's beautiful car. Cozy. A cup of really good coffee is possibly the only thing that could make it better. Unless Death had a place of his own to go with it. Dean is content enough to let Death know.
"Man, on a day like this, it'd be great if you had a place. Coffee, a good movie and a nice blanket."
"Some might say that being persistent is a virtue. In you, Dean, it is not." Death huffs and shakes his head. "Coffee it is, then. I am at your beck and call. Of course."
Dean chuckles and cuddles up under his leather jacket. Death starts the car and turns up the heat as if he senses that Dean needs it. It takes Dean less than three minutes to fall asleep.
Dean wakes up when he hear voices. His head is resting on Death's shoulder. Underneath his cheek, Death's shoulder bone is a small, hard hill. Dean doesn't open his eyes. There's a small, wet spot where he's drooled on Death's shirt. Charming. The scent of freshly made coffee reaches him, and Death moves slightly to put down something on the bench seat. Dean sighs softly. He should have flailed, moved away, expressed mild panic and apologized to Death, but he can't be bothered.
Then Death puts his hand over his, his index finger sliding almost intimately over the inside of Dean's wrist.
"Dean?" Death says quietly. "Coffee."
Dean wants to bite his lip, but it's too late for him to stop the sigh that betrays him. He wants to turn his hand, wants Death to keep his thin fingers around his wrist. Dean opens his eyes and moves a little, enough to be able to look up at Death. His eyes are very brown and very warm. "Thanks," Dean manages. "Sorry about..."
Death isn't in any way rattled or bothered. "You were tired." He takes one of the cups and hands it to Dean. "No sugar, no anything but the coffee."
"The way I like it." Dean takes the cup, reluctant to move away. "You need to get a couch and a place to put it," he says. Death will know what he means. It's a place to cuddle up. Like in classic cars with nice bench seats and heating and drive-through coffee.
"And if I had a place? Would you-" Death pauses, oddly insecure.
"Yes," Dean says. "Of course I would."
In the dim light from the street, Dean can see Death smile. He can't hide his own smile, either. Of course he'd visit Death, he'd love to. Like he told Sam earlier, it's not just about the cars any longer. They sit there in the warm car, drinking coffee, silent. All that needed to be said has been said. It's enough. There is time; Death has enough of it, and Dean takes the time he needs to sort out the whys and wherefores of his visits. There is no rush. Not now. Dean shoulder rests comfortably against Death's bony frame, warm skin against warm skin.
It takes some time before they're done. A drop of coffee anywhere would ruin the pristine interior, and Dean is very careful. Death's car is not like the Impala; she's baptized in blood and gore. Death collect their cups and disposes of them in the garbage can at the exit. "If the rain doesn't stop we are not going to get very far with the carburetor," Death finally says. "It really would be nice to have a garage for her. Can't work outside in this weather."
To Dean it sounds as if Death is saying something else. As if he, too, recognizes that it isn't about their girls any longer. It is, but not solely. "No. I suppose I could sleep in the car, stay until tomorrow. Unless you're powerful enough to change that." He looks out at the rain. Dean hopes it isn't the case, because he is split. He knows he should get back to Sam, and still he'd like to stay with Death.
"I could. Easily." Death makes a smile that looks a bit too self-satisfied. As they stop at a traffic light, he turns and looks at Dean, all gaunt cheekbones and eternal eyes. "But that'd be cheating." There's a teasing glint in his eyes. "I suppose you'll have to stay."
Dean doesn't complain. "I have a toothbrush in my car." He leans back into the creaking leather seat, sighing. It's cold and he doesn't want to sleep in the car. He's become addicted to his beloved memory foam bed. The only thing Baby doesn't do better. "You know of a motel or B&B somewhere? I think I'm too tired to sleep in the car."
Of course Death does. Dean suspects that Death has taken a liking to Chicago and only leaves the city if he has to. "Hotel Cass, down at North Wabash. Nice place."
"Hotel Cass? You're kidding me."
Looking hurt, Death says, "Would I do that?"
The more Dean gets to know Death, the more he's inclined to think the answer is yes. Pulled out of his solitude, Death is fun and interesting, and his humor is exactly as sharp as Dean likes it, sharp enough to sting a bit. "Yeah, you would."
"Perhaps," Death says. Brevity is a virtue, but there are times when Death takes it to extremes. They drive for a while, the silence between them comfortable as a warm blanket.
He turns down the street where Dean parked the Impala. Death pulls up the car behind her, in front of one of the run-down houses next to the Rinascita Pizzeria. A sign outside one of the shops advertises Italian silk ties. It swings rhythmically in the wind. It is still raining. The wind throws yet another bucket-load of water against the car's windows. Dean looks out at the sodden houses and pavement. Water is pooling on the ground, leaving the surface black and shiny.
A man leaves the pawn shop behind them. The wind pulls at his umbrella and it flies a few feet before he catches it again. Dean smiles, glad he isn't outside. The man huddles up with the broken umbrella, taking shelter in one of two door openings between the pawn shop and the supper club, shoulders raised against the wind. One of the doors has an Apts to Let painted on it; peeling golden paint on dark green. The house is dark, too, and it looks empty. "Tomorrow," Dean says, "we're going back here, and maybe... " He sends Death a questioning glance, nodding in the direction of the door. "You like Chicago, right?"
"If I say no, you are going to be difficult, aren't you?"
Dean attempts a neutral expression. It is ruined entirely by the smile he can't suppress. "Perhaps."
He winks at Death before he runs the short distance to the Impala, hurrying to get inside before he's entirely soaked. The smile, however, doesn't disappear until Dean is alone in his far too expensive and very luxurious hotel room at the Hotel Cass.
4. And Two and Two Make Four
The fourth time Dean returns to the dilapidated one-way street of their favorite pizzeria, he's in a good mood — even though Chicago lives up to its rather unfair nickname, for the weather is windy and rainy. Dean is slightly bleary-eyed after spending the morning, surfing the Internet on the hotel's computers for a carburetor. He has found one that might be what they're looking for. It looks promising, and Dean has made an inquiry about the state of the carburetor. It seems to have spent the main share of its life in a barn, safely resting under the hood of a rusty 1960. The car itself, judging from the pictures, is inhabited by chickens and mice. Dean almost cried at the state of the formerly so beautiful Cadillac; it is beyond repair. Buying the entire 62 Series as a fixer-upper is probably not an option. Whatever can be salvaged from the body... that's another story. There are a few other spare parts to go with it, and Dean prays that there might be yet another carburetor amongst them.
A few cars pass by as Dean eases Baby into the narrow space between a Chevrolet Volt and a dated Nissan. He scoffs at the Volt and discards the idea of letting Baby at the LED tail lights. The hybrid's an abomination. Dean gets out, stretching. People are on their way to work, and the narrow street is pleasantly busy. The shop-owners are opening doors and putting up signs. The street is coming alive as Dean watches. He likes it here. It is as if the street with its ruddy exterior is still friendly and welcoming. Very far from fancy, but it has its charm. A little like Dean himself. It may be that Dean likes this part of Chicago because he somehow sees it as a reflection of himself, of what he is and likes. Across the street, a freight train rattles by, filling the air with the screech of rusty rails and the smell of diesel.
Dean doesn't know where Death has been while he was sleeping; it might be like with Cas, that he just hangs around somewhere in the universe until Dean's done with whatever it is that his human body needs. It's still early morning, and Dean wishes he'd had a second helping of the hotel's delicious brunch buffet. Or at least more coffee. As he leans against the Impala he laughs. That's what started the apartment hunt: that Dean wanted a place to drink his coffee. Well, not entirely true. The carburetor is what started everything.
It isn't really Dean's fault that Death is a push-over who lets Dean indulge in whims like apartments for coffee and carburetors. It makes Dean laugh again, mostly because it makes him feel good that his relationship with Death has progressed into this relaxed two-someness. To the point where Dean actually is able to amuse himself with the idea of Death being unable to stand his immense charm.
"I assure you if I am the target of that catty smirk, young Winchester, I will do my best to wipe it off your face immediately." Death approaches, leaning heavily onto his cane. He looks tired and older than usual.
Yeah, that wipes Dean's smile off of his face, all right. "Are you feeling okay?" he asks, suddenly worried and filled with a need to care for Death in the same way he cares for Sam when he's hurt. It should scare him because it's a sign that Dean's becoming invested, but strangely enough it doesn't. Also, Death usually isn't looking this close to his sell-by date, very far from it, and it worries Dean to see dark shadows under his eyes and tired lines marring his face.
"Yes. I had a small task that needed my full attention. Nothing to worry about." Death's face lights up in a smile that takes a few centuries off his age. "You care."
"Pretend I didn't ask," Dean growls, glad that Death seems to be well enough, if tired.
"Right." Death taps the head of his cane impatiently. "Shall we?"
They walk the few steps to the front door of the house in question. The brass handle is unpolished and the paint could have done with a bit of brushing up already ten years ago or so. Promising.
The apartment, however, is surprisingly nice. It is dry and warm and has that slightly dry smell of paper and fabric that Dean knows from the Batcave. It, too, could do with some paint. The living room, furnished with plywood chairs and a couch that probably predates both their cars, is very... livable. There's a threadbare rug on the floor, but it looks like something that once had real value. A few old leather suitcases double as storage and coffee table, and a bookcase that might have come from a post office's sorting room offers a selection of dog-eared paperbacks.
"Cat's Cradle!" Dean pulls out one of his favorite Vonneguts. "Oh, and Mr Rosewater!" He wants to flop down in the comfy chair underneath one of the tall windows and read. He wants to sit in the light that filters through the bamboo blinds, feet on the largest of the suitcases, a cold beer at hand. The tiny apartment is homely.
"You look like you're about to move in," says the landlord, an elderly tailor from the shop a bit down the street, his Italian accent barely audible. "It hasn't been let for some time. It's a bit dusty. If you'll put in some work and paint the kitchen yourself, I'll give you a good price. He looks from Dean to Death and back again. "The bedroom... it's a queen. Is that, erm- You can change it if you want."
"It's fine," Death says in a tone that cuts of further comments from anyone, Dean included.
Dean closes his mouth, managing to catch the 'I'm not going to stay here' before it tumbles over his lips. He wants to say something, but no matter what it is, it'll come out a lie. Except for the truth that he has only just begun to comprehend.
"We'll take it," Death states firmly. "From today, long term lease."
Dean cannot help but notice the plural. He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "Long term?"
"Oh, stop it," Death hisses. "If I needed someone to blame for this, I wouldn't have to look far."
There is that. Dean feels oddly satisfied, and he doesn't mind taking the blame at all. "Is there a garage?" he asks, just because he can, since they have taken the apartment.
"In the courtyard. There's a gate between my shop and the supper club. It needs a bit of cleaning too, the garage," Death's landlord explains. Something dawns. "Oh, it's your cars? The classics? Beautiful. Should be room enough for both. I remember the Impala from when I was younger. I wanted one of those, but they were too expensive. I ended up with a Chevette. A '73."
Both Death and Dean beam as if the man was commenting on their kids. As there is nothing nice to say about the Chevette in Dean's opinion, he cleverly keeps his mouth shut, nodding sympathetically. Money and a key change hands and the landlord leaves them alone in the new apartment. Their new apartment.
"Satisfied?" Death asks. "I have an apartment. Maybe we can go put that carburetor back now? If there isn't anything else you want."
"Coffee would be great. And a vacuum cleaner." He slides his finger along the makeshift bookcase. It comes out gray with dust. "The place could do with a bit of-"
Death snaps his fingers and the scent of something that smells like spring rain and freshly mowed grass spreads in the room. Any signs of dust and cobwebs are gone. Even the old mahogany rack shines as if it has been waxed and polished with the best car polish money can buy. "Enough, you ungrateful brat," Death says almost lovingly. "Go get us some coffee."
"Wow. Please, teach me to do that," Dean grins as he admires the pristine surfaces. "Sam will be so happy." He sends Death his best puppy-eyes. "Could we get a coffee maker?" Death doesn't reply, but Dean is sure he hears him mutter something about spoiled children. "Okay, just because it'd be nice to have freshly made coffee at hand I'm spoiled? I'll buy one for you," Dean says. "A housewarming gift."
"Go fix my car," Death demands, ignoring Dean's coffee-monologue.
"What? Now I'm your servant? And what are you gonna do? If you're summoning coffee without getting me any, I'll-"
"I don't know why I put up with you," Death interrupts. "I really must be getting old." He looks at Dean as if he's going to explain something to a kid. "What do I usually do when you work on my darling?"
"And here I thought I was your darling." Dean can't stop himself. Okay, so he is flirting a little. At the look on Death's face, he hurries to add, "You annoy me about being careful with your girl and then you talk shit about something you clearly don't know anything about?"
"Dean."
"Okay, so you usually help me doing maintenance on your Cadillac?"
Death reaches into his pocket and throws something at Dean. He catches it without thinking. Keys. For Death's darling. "You're letting me..."
"She's around the corner. I'll see if the garage is in a decent state. I don't want my car to get wet. Better get the Impala inside too."
Seeing that Death's car currently is outside in the torrential rain, Dean doesn't think it can get any wetter. The car is as wet as cars get without being in a car wash or on the bottom of an ocean. It's a little bit sweet, because Death is really saying something else entirely. Dean shakes his head as if to clear it. Did he just think of Death as adorable?
God, he's in trouble.
- 0 -
Dean takes care of Baby first, of course he does. Safely parked in the garage, Dean leaves her and runs back to get Death's car.
Back out in the street, Dean pauses in front of the Cadillac, key in hand. Then he turns on his heel and runs the few steps to the pawn shop. It takes him five minutes and a considerable bit of cash to purchase a brand new Moccamaster, still in its box.
"The color," the man behind the counter tells him. "The people who pawned it clearly didn't like it either."
Dean looks into the box and at the Ferrari-red coffeemaker. State of the art, red or otherwise. As long as it brews a proper cup of coffee. "Not complaining," he says, parting with the hundred-dollar bill without further ado. The machine is worth three times that; Dean has seen it in an electronics store once, appreciating the craftsmanship of the hand-assembled wonder.
He puts it in the backseat before he carefully takes the driver's seat. He is more careful with the Caddy than with Baby; Baby he knows, and frankly, Dean is a bit nervous, thinking of what Death will do to him if he in any way scratches or stains his darling. Just as carefully he eases the large car into the courtyard; the small passage between the tailors and the supper club almost too narrow for the huge 62, letting out a relieved sigh as he edges her into what might once have been a workshop or a storage room back in the days when backyard industries were more common. It's a nice garage, though, wide and light and with a high ceiling. Dean ponders for a few seconds exactly how much Death has planned beforehand, whether he's known about this place all the time. He probably has. Nigh-omniscience and all that. Dean doesn't care to ask.
They work for a while; although it's cold and windy, the garage is nice and dry. Dean detaches the carburetor, the new one, and puts the old, renovated one back into place. Working on the Cadillac makes Dean calm. This is what he knows. Repairing cars and killing monsters. He likes car repair better. He is making stuff work. Better and more relaxing than killing things. Dean hums as he works, content for once.
He finally resurfaces from underneath the hood. "Let's hear her." Dean smiles, satisfied with his work. "Don't think it's gonna be any better than this, not until we have a replacement."
Death leans against a battered worktop, his arms crossed over his chest. He nods. "I appreciate it, Dean." He gets in and starts the car, her roar even louder now that motor is confined to such a small room. Dean closes his eyes, listening for that grating sound that threatens to destroy the perfection that is the sound of the large V8. Damn, its' a great sound. He let it wash over him, the deep growl and the smell of oil and gasoline. The motor falls into a steady rr-rr-rr, and the faulty carburetor is as good as new. Almost.
"Can you feel it?" Dean asks, raising his voice. He puts a hand on the roof of the car, as if he can sense the slight irregularity by touch.
Death turns the engine off. "Yes."
There is no reason to discuss it. The hunt is still on, no matter what, Dean has to find that carburetor. He hopes his last find turns out to be as good as it sounds. He needs to get to a laptop with an Internet connection.
"You did a very good job." Getting out of the car, Death looks appreciatively at Dean. "So..."
"Burgers and beer." Funny how they don't really need to say much. They understand each other so well.
"Call Sam?" Death squints at him, head tilted.
"He'd be worried so I better. Pizze, maybe?" Rinascita is like thirty steps away and it's still raining. Dean imagines them in the small apartment, cuddling up on the couch, pizza and beer perching on one of the old suitcases. He likes the idea. "I should find a computer somewhere. To see if I've got a reply from a guy in Oklahoma. He's got... half a 62." Dean still gets sad by the thought of the rusty old car. She'd deserved better.
"I'll have a mushroom with extra cheese. I'll get you the laptop."
"We don't steal from people. No snapping of fingers and shit," Dean chides. "You have cash, right? The pawnshop."
Death sighs deeply. "Humans."
"Yeah, I know. We're awesome."
Leaving Death to his sudden coughing fit, Dean hurries through the rain to Rinascita's back entrance. As he gets inside, he pulls out his cell phone, pressing speed dial. It doesn't take long before Sam picks up the phone.
"I'm staying in Chicago. It's raining like Noah's waiting to get another ride in that boat of his," Dean says, no preamble.
Sam reciprocates. "Cas was here. Didn't have time to wait. Clearly they are cleaning up upstairs, what with Hell closed and everything. He was busy. Ranting about some disturbance in the fabric. Didn't think he was talking about some random bit of cotton. It's not Death who's..."
"Don't be stupid. Of course he's not. Anything we need to take care of?" Dean asks, hoping that he doesn't have to drive for ten hours in the pouring rain. He'd much rather stay and have pizza and drinks in the tiny apartment that belongs to Death and a little bit to him.
"I'm not stupid. Then again, my stupid older brother has run off with the one guy who controls floods and plagues and whatnot and that sorta makes me a bit suspicious, Dean. I don't see how that comes off as stupid."
"We're tending to our cars, Sammy. Death doesn't have time to flood Earth." Dean laughs, then frowns. Sam's mistrust is contagious. "He did look rather tired this morning. Maybe he's doing it inadver-"
"He looked rather tired this morning?" Sam sounds as if he's holding his breath. "Sure he isn't- Did he- Did you- No. Forget it."
Dean has no problem extracting the meaning. "When I got back to his place. From the hotel. And he is not flooding anything. He was complaining about his car getting wet."
"Oh. Sorry. About the... hotel. I didn't mean to imply..." There's yet another pause. "Death has a place?"
Sam doesn't manage to say more because there's a loud crash, as if half of the Men of Letters bookcases and the stuff that's on them is tumbling over. "Sam? Sam!" Dean holds out the phone, staring at it. "Sam? What happened?" There are voices and clattering in the background. Dean waits with bated breath, hoping that it isn't something serious. How can it be? The place is warded like there's no tomorrow—only angels can pass into the building, and only because the Men of Letters had no proper knowledge of those exact sigils.
Sam's back on the phone. "Call you back later."
"What? Sam? Is something wrong?"
"No. Later. Don't worry. It was just-" there's a slight pause. "-a cat." Sam sounds dismissive, as if there is something he doesn't want Dean to know about. He doesn't, however, sound afraid.
"A cat? Did Cas bring a cat? The one from the-"
"Later. I'm fine. I'll call you back later."
Before Dean decides to let it go and let Sam have his secrets, the phone goes dead. Dean stares at it, dumbfounded. "The hell?" He wonders for a few seconds whether he needs to bother Death and force him to zap them both to the bunker. Except, Sam wouldn't do that, lie, not if he was in actual danger. And since the building is warded, there is actually little to fear. Dean supposes that Sam will call later and tell him what it was all about.
- 0 -
When Dean returns to the apartment, dripping wet, carrying the coffeemaker and two boxes of pizze balancing precariously on top of it, he almost stumbles over a pile of various household implements, comforters, pillows and what seems to be a case of brand new linen. "Honey, I'm home," he shouts, staring at the pile. "Did you buy the entire shop?"
"Hush," Death replies from the living room. "I found this Ebay you were talking about."
"We are not lifting stuff off of Ebay," Dean says and manages to edge himself around the pile. "I told you. You can't do that. Most sellers are just ordinary people, Death."
"Sometimes your limited imagination is truly stunning. It is merely my version of what these humans call 'expedited shipping'. I warped time for the sellers." Death turns around in the plywood chair. "And I pay. Or... something called Credit Suisse pays." Ebay is blinking on the screen of the nice Mac. It's used, so Death probably got it from the pawn shop. "Like you said. Banks, not people. You do know I could do this without all the," Death waves his hand at the laptop, "machinery."
"Yes. But... when in Rome, man. You pay, you don't get into trouble." Dean looks at the browser. "And how come there's wi-fi?"
Death looks away. "I might have used my powers to pick up a password to the pawn shop's connection."
Obviously Death picks up on everything in the 21st century pretty quick when he wants to. The perks of being a know-it-all. Literally. "I suppose that's... all right. But no actual stealing. Leave that to me. Oh, and no fetching of car parts!" Dean realizes that he's still holding on to the coffeemaker. He puts the box down on the coffee table and unloads the pizze. Walking into the narrow kitchen that is little but a desk, a stove and an ancient fridge, he looks for a place to plug in the coffee maker.
"Let's get some food. Before it gets cold. Are there any blankets? And could you maybe get some beer and clean up the mess in the hallway?" Dean laughs. He sounds like a fussy parent. "And wash your hands," he adds for good measure. Even Death sees the irony in it, because Dean can hear a low chuckle from the adjacent room. He's probably not meant to hear, but it makes him feel good anyway. "Oh, and coffee!" Death has returned to the computer and Internet-shopping, because a bag of expensive looking beans appear on the table next to him. It makes Dean jump. "Hey! Don't do that!"
"Did you want coffee or not?" Death asks snarkily. "Phrase your requests more precisely, and stop complaining."
"Dude," Dean barks, laughing, just because. Because the rain is pouring and the coffee is coming up and the pizza smells delicious. Because he for a few minutes feel completely at ease and safe and happy.
All because of Death.
- 0 -
They eat sitting on the couch, watching the rain. Dean picks at the traditional Chicago deep-pan. There are three layers of different cheese on it. "I think this is heaven," he says and takes one last bite, relishing the taste of Cheddar and pepperoni and feta and whatever the last thing is. Mozzarella. Fresh basil. It's perfect but he can't eat more, not without making himself sick. He chews, takes a swig of the beer and leans back, full and content. "Damn, it was good."
"Yes." Sighing inaudibly, Death leans back as well. He is nurturing a glass of Kentucky rye, politely having poured one for Dean first. Only the exhalation and the moment in which Death's hand rests on his stomach reveals that even beings such as he are able to eat a bit too much. "Do not get cocky, Dean. But I am inclined to regard your suggestion, acquiring an apartment, as one of your better ideas."
"Beats the apocalypse anytime," Dean says, groaning. He really wants to open the top button of his pants, but it might offend Death if he does. Dean considers pulling the cream wool plaid that Death has placed over the armrest on top of his stomach, so that he can hide the unbuttoning maneuver. "It's cozy."
Two small lamps provide a dim, golden light that keeps at bay the approaching night. Outside the gray rain-sky darkens, a soft charcoal creeps up on Chicago. The rain hasn't stopped. A few cars drive down the street; the weak hum of engines echo between the houses. Death reaches for the plaid and pushes it in Dean's direction before he leans back again. "It is," he says, sounding content.
A clock somewhere in the apartment makes a rhythmic tick-tock; the only telltale sign of time passing by. Dean curls up in the corner, his boots discarded on the floor, his jeans open and the plaid wrapped around him. He's not tired, merely comfortable. The silence isn't unpleasant. Dean drinks another beer and then one more. It takes a long time before Dean speaks again.
"I wonder what Sam's doing," Dean says, reminding himself that he should talk to his brother. "He sounded off. I called him to say I'm staying until the weather is better." A slosh of heavy rain runs down the window, underlining how clever that notion is.
"You're feeling guilty? Leaving him?"
"No. Yes. Dunno." Dean's so comfortable. He doesn't want to go anywhere. That should make him guilty and maybe it's just his default setting: if Sam isn't his first priority, like he's always been, then he, too, is off. "I don't want him to get into trouble. He tends to make-"
"How old is he, Dean?"
"Not twelve, that's for sure." Dean opens another beer. He's getting a bit drunk, having cut down on the drinking considerably lately. He takes a deep drink. "It's like you and God, I suppose, in a much smaller scale. We're so used to being together and to save each other. Can't break a good habit."
"It occurs to me that there is a lot you do out of habit. May I suggest thinking instead? Before you act. We discussed this before. You, leaving Sam room to do what he wants."
"Screw you. I can think. Occasionally." Dean glares at Death. He doesn't look unkind, mostly he looks sympathetic. "I try." Dean's not exactly fond of being berated for his tiny, minor obsession with Sam.
Only Death knows solitude, and it somehow gives him the right that no one else has. Death knows the emptiness of being alone, knows on a larger scale the solitude Dean, too, is all too familiar with. The fear of being abandoned. The way Dean felt every time Dad walked out the door. The way he felt when he realized that Sam had left him to rot in Purgatory. The way he felt when Mom was taken away, fighting for the white picket fence life she wanted for them.
It hits Dean like a sledgehammer, this awful, horrible feeling, that everyone Dean has ever loved has been taken away from him, Sam more times than one. He sighs, refusing to let the sense of loss wash over him.
Death senses it too. "I will never die, not until it doesn't matter to anyone. I'll never leave," Death says quietly. No matter what, he makes it sound like a promise. "When God left, I-"
Yeah, Death knows. Dean fights an urge to reach out to Death, to touch him, to offer some kind of comfort. But that thing, God and Death, it is so beyond his level of comprehension. "You really don't know where your old drinking buddy went?" he asks instead. "God." It comes out rude. This, God abandoning Death... it's like the divide between him and Sam, when Sam was gone for that woman. A betrayal that requires forgiveness before there can be trust again. Dean leaves the beer alone in favor of the whiskey. He downs the glass before Death can reply.
Death doesn't get angry. Maybe he knows what Dean means, or maybe he simply picks up on the pain that Dean feels behind his eyes, pain that could turn into tears if he let it. The loss, the way Sam turned out, the way that he tries so damned hard all the time. The sacrifices. Dean looks into Death's eyes and sees nothing but understanding. It is as if he understands without words the immense loneliness that lies inherent in what they do, him and Sam. How painful it is to see one's beloved brother so changed. How deep rejection burned when Sam had set him aside for a girl with a dog.
"No," Death says. "I don't know where God is. He didn't feel inclined to inform me." The bare bones of loneliness and rejection.
Dean doesn't hold the punches. "Feeling lonely and abandoned is not limited to humans, is it? Man, you're the ones who got here first, and he just left you like that? Fucker. If at least had left you with the dog," he adds, thinking of Sam and the girl and the dog. Sam should have taken the dog. Dean could have lived with that.
"The dog?" Death frowns. "Those were a later addition. Dogs."
"What I meant," Dean tries to explain, "was that-"
"I know what you meant," Death says. "I looked inside Sam's broken soul, remember?" Death reaches for the bottle and pours another glass for Dean. "Drink that."
Dean lets out a stream of air, almost a huff. Death so likes to boss him around. Dean isn't entirely against it; it makes him feel cared for. "I don't need to drink to hear what you're going to say." Yeah, Dean knows. He knows precisely what Death is going to tell him. All the love Sam held for him, blah, blah, blah. Only love hadn't been enough to make Sam stay.
"Some might say that I am no angel," Death says, making Dean look up, surprised. Okay, so he didn't know what Death was going to say. "Or that I am some form of primordial pre-angel. I don't even know myself. But the latter creations, those my 'drinking buddy' created, they feel like my little brothers. You do not think I haven't seen the pain in Lucifer when his love was not enough and too much at the same time? That I didn't see Michael, trying to keep Heaven together as best he could? They might have locked me up for the fear they have of me, but I could still see, still know. From the first sentient beings, that would be God and me, we have struggled not to be alone. It is inherent in us all, angels or humans, the quest for love and care. Maybe that is why Sam had difficulties letting go of Lucifer. Why Lucifer wanted Sam so much. They saw each other so clearly. What a tragedy that they were both irreversibly broken beforehand, the angel of light and your brilliant brother. I have said it before, but they would have made a beautiful couple."
A fish would have looked more intelligent and more understanding than Dean at this point. Silently he empties his glass and pushes it towards Death, signaling that he'd like another. "Excuse me if I'm getting this wrong," Dean says acerbically, "but I get the distinct notion that you continuously endorse a homosexual connection between Sam and the guy who tried to bind you, start the apocalypse and almost killed Sam out of spite because he couldn't have him?"
"You are getting better, Dean. A full sentence and no swear words. Impressive."
"Try to rein in your micro-aggressions and answer me." Dean snorts derisively. "Dude."
"In a way, yes." Death nods once, ignoring Dean's outburst. "Although Sam would not have chosen Lucifer, had his love of-" Death shuts his mouth. Hard. As if he was about to say something that was not his to share. He nods as if to confirm that idea. "Lucifer is possessive and violent in his love. Sam? He needs that burning love. He let Lucifer in because there was something in him that needed a love like that, omnivorous in its nature. He allowed Lucifer in his mind, even after Lucifer was confined, reluctant to let go." Death looks searchingly at Dean as if he, too, seeks confirmation.
Cleverly, Dean manages to keep his mouth shut. He really wants to hear what Death has to say, and then again, he'd prefer not to. But this is about Sam, about keeping Sam. That is the one loss Dean cannot afford.
"It's not that Sam needs violence," Death elaborates. "Violence has nothing to do with love. What I am saying is that the strength of that love, the love Sam needs — that needs to be violent. Brutal. To the death and beyond, and I should know. I am not going to tell you everything I saw; Sam is entitled to his secrets. But he wanted to be free of your rule — yet he cannot be free because he loves you so much. He does not want to be free of you. Your connection is special. You are the only one left who loves him like he wants to be loved. You died for him, sold your soul for him. Why else do you think he keeps coming back to you? Why do you think he left the girl and the dog?"
Dean wants to protest, argue that Death has no idea what he's talking about. But he can't. First of all, Death has poked around in Sam's soul, separating the ruined bits from the sound. Sam's new and improved soul might not be damaged, only Dean knows deep down that Death is right, at least partly. And why does he know? Because Death knows how much Dean loves Sam. He knows how much they have given up for each other. To Hell and back. Forty years of torture. Selling his soul. Killing, moving Heaven and Hell, dying. Oh, yeah. To the death. "So what are you now?" Dean sneers. "My shrink?" He's been thraped one time too many, and Death can just stay out of it. "Keep out of it. It's not-"
"Not healthy?"
"Oh, fuck you!" Dean says and pushes the chair back. "Fuck you very much!" He stalks across the floor, ripping the door open before he realizes that he has nowhere to go. He's a bit too drunk to drive and Death's apartment is sort of... homey and it scares him. He wants to stay — which means he has to go. Yeah, it makes sense, at least after a couple of shots. Keep moving, don't stand still. Don't become attached. Standing still means an easy target. When it becomes unpleasant or demanding, run. Unless it's a monster. The kill it.
"Are you done with your childish antics?" Death gets up, seemingly unperturbed. "It is really not surprising that Sam fell for Lucifer. You are like him, all tantrums and drama and too much love. Stop being a fool. The truth is not going to be less true because you refuse to confront it. If I didn't know you better I'd thought that you were scared."
"He didn't fall for Lucifer! Are you mad? How could he? The guy's an angel and a killer and batshit crazy! Lucifer is in the bloody Bible. You don't go fall in love with someone from the Bible! And what kinda truth is that? He's-" Dean stops his rant. He stares at Death, silent, not knowing what to do, where to go. He knows what he just said. Death is in the Bible too. But Death... he is different from Lucifer. They are not the same. They aren't. Dean has seen how kind Death is to the poor bastards he is sent to reap; how dignified and calm Death is. Okay, so he has killed everyone who ever died on Earth, more or less, but that's the natural order. Nothing like the abomination that pursued Sam, nothing at all. Death is loving, caring, respectful.
Death just stands there, one eyebrow raised. "You were saying?"
Dean suddenly finds his old boots exceedingly interesting. He studies the dark-brown worn-out leather. Maybe they'd be nicer with a bit of polish. He doesn't want to let Death's ideas seep in to deep; the idea that Sam is in need of something Dean cannot give him because they are brothers. That he, himself is in need of someone that isn't Sam, someone who...
Dean finally looks up, knowing that there has to be desperation in the way he looks. He feels desperate, as if there are too many ideas, too many solutions that he has to consider. "So what now, couples therapy? Forget it, man."
As usual Death is unflappable. "Which couple are we talking about, Dean? You and Sam? Sam and Lucifer? Sam and anyone that isn't you?"
"No. Me and y-" Dean shuts his mouth so hard that his teeth rattle. That should teach him to think before he speaks. "I don't know."
"Don't you?" Death asks softly and returns to his chair. He doesn't say anything, just pours himself a double. He doesn't offer the bottle to Dean again.
- 0 -
Dean wakes up with a headache and a mouth that tastes as if a herd of zombie wildebeests with athlete's foot has migrated across his tongue. The apartment smells of coffee and of something fried. A weak accent of pancakes. The world is fuzzy at the corners and Dean tries to remember. So, he remembers the whiskey; great Kentucky rye, price way above anything he could afford. Leave it to Death to buy the best. Dean stretches, groaning as his head pounds like said herd of zombie wildebeest is returning to forage. He squints as the sun teases his sensitive eyes through the thin curtains; the late fall sun clear and crisp and annoying. It has stopped raining and the fall morning is beautiful. "Urgh," Dean says, not appreciating the sharp light as much as he probably should. He turns in the soft bed, the springs pliable and gentle under his weight. Dean licks his lips and comes to enough to register that he is not in his own bed in the Batcave. The sun and the springs should have clued him in. Those and the fluffy comforter. Okay, so memory foam has its benefits but this bed is better.
Dean sits up so fast that the zombie wildebeests tilt and end up pounding his skull violently. He opens his eyes again, wincing at the light and the pain. At the bedside table there's a glass of water and some pills. Dean grabs at them like a drowning man, but they are all slippery and escape him to roll over the floor, one disappearing under the bed, the other lays itself to rest against the panel. He gives up and downs the cold water before he falls back into the depths of the plush pillows.
He's in bed. Not his own. He's in bed in Death's apartment. In Death's bed. Next to him lie pillows that have been used and the comforter is pulled aside as if someone has slept next to him. He's in Death's bed, and he can't remember at all how he got here, not that it requires a very long line of thought to figure it out. Dean squirms, checking that he's still dressed. Boxer-briefs and t-shirt. He lets out a relieved sigh, at the same time strangely disappointed, as if he'd wanted to wake up with traces of Death's touches on his body. He discards the thought immediately. He is so not lusting over Death.
Dean sighs. There is no reason to lie to himself. He knows what he'd almost said yesterday, about them being a couple, maybe surprising both himself and Death. Then again, probably not. Death doesn't let himself be overtaken by surprise which is one of the many things Dean likes about the man.
Fumbling for his jeans, neatly folded on the plywood chair next to the bed, Dean grabs his phone. 10 a.m.? He groans. He's slept for more than ten hours? Instead of getting up, he does what he should have done yesterday before he got drunk: he calls Sam. The phone rings, covering the distance and the divide between Lebanon and Chicago.
Someone answers at the other end.
"Sam?"
The only reply is a groan, and mutterings that sound like oh, fuck and move over.
Dean removes the phone from his ear, checking that he's got the right number. He has. So, Sam has someone visiting? At their place? Almost jealously angry, Dean bellows a, "Sam! Dammit!" into the microphone.
"Dean?"
"Sammy." Oh, Dean's going to tell him one or two things. "What the hell? What's going on?"
"Er, nothing?" Sam is lying. Again. Maybe he senses Dean's discontent, because he thinks better of it and decides to share a bit of information. "I... someone..."
"Yes?" Dean knows he sounds bossy, like their dad when he got home, demanding to get an explanation for this or that. "You've been fucking some girl all night, and now you won't tell me?"
"Um. Not. Not a girl."
"Sam!" Dean's shocked outburst echoes in the small bedroom. "And when were you going to tell me? That you're-"
"Does it matter?"
"Hell, yes!" Because it will be so much easier for Dean to tell Sam about his—
Dean shuts down the line of thought immediately, in his mind salting and burning it.
"Can we talk about it later, Dean. I... My head aches."
"And your ass, I bet." Dean rolls his eyes. "Got it. But don't think it's over, dude; you're not getting off that easily. I am so going to kick your sore butt, you idiot. I'm coming back. Like... now."
"Later. Please?"
Reining in his anger and the stupid jealousy, trying to relish the slight flicker of relief that Sam actually has done what Dean suggested and got himself laid, Dean shuts off the phone. He lies back, phone in hand, trying to gather enough energy to get up and face his own... well, demons might be the wrong expression. Face his own Death. Unfortunately Dean has no problem remembering what he'd done the night before, no trouble recalling the discussion with his friend.
He might have reached a point where the respect and care and appreciation he has for Death has turned into something irreversible. As if flirting with Death shouldn't have made him see that already. Who in their right mind flirts with Death and has Death flirting back without actually going somewhere with it?
If Sam can admit that he likes guys... Dean sits up, unable to decide if he really want to be angry at Sam for hiding that fact. Although Sam didn't hide it as such, since he in his own underhanded way did tell Dean. Anyway, if Sam can admit it, so can Dean. His masculinity doesn't come with a preconceived notion of who to... kiss, take to bed. It should bother him, sure, but it doesn't. Dean decides it's a battle not worth fighting and he merely leaves it at that.
A bit later, Dean walks into the kitchen, feeling better after a long, hot shower. He knows he has to talk to Death at some point sooner or later, and Dean hopes they'll make it to 'later', because right now he needs food. Perfectly enough, Death is at the counter, making pancakes. The smell is mouthwatering and Dean sneaks up to Death, hoping to steal one of the golden, fluffy things right off the stack. He attempts to slide an arm in front of Death, almost getting there. Dean's fingertips are greasy and warm with butter and he's about to grab the pancake when Death's thin hand closes around Dean's wrist and pulls. Dean stumbles forward.
"No, Winchester. You will eat at the table. Hands off."
Death doesn't let go, and Dean's only option is to stay pressed against Death's back. He is lean and warm and suddenly Dean has forgotten all about the food he were about to steal. His other hand rests on Death's hip, the bone protruding and sharp underneath the thin layer of fabric stretching over it.
"Please," Dean begs, not sure for what.
Death shifts, changing hands so he can turn around. Dean's wrist is still caught in Death's grip; he is strong, it's no use fighting. Dean is not even sure he wants to. He can feel Death staring at him; without looking he senses the dark eyes sliding over him. Dean's breath hitches and he shivers. It's like their touch creates electricity: a broken circuit which is suddenly complete. He cannot stop himself but raises his eyes to meet Death's.
They are warm. Like dark brown velvet-warm. Dean sees feelings there, still unnamed. He sees only acceptance of everything he is, everything he has ever done, everything he will ever do. For a few intakes of breath, for a few exhales, he stands there, pressed against Death, one hundred percent sure of what he wants. Then fear sets in, and he tries to bolt like a skittish colt.
"No," Dean breathes, and steps back. "No!"
Death knows. He, too, knows the crossroads they're at. "Do you really think I would sink so low?" Death says, his voice merely a whisper, almost inaudible. He takes a step forward, pressing Dean up against the old fridge,"As to force my company on anyone who does not want it?"
His words slither down Dean's skin, down his neck, making him shiver. He isn't cold, on the contrary, so that isn't it. Dean cannot stop himself from looking; Death's face is calm, but his voice is velvet sliding over steel, hard and soft and caressing all at the same time. It's oddly alluring. Dean can't help himself. He raises his eyes defiantly, wanting to tell Death that it is exactly what he thinks. The lie gets stuck in his throat. Death is dignity personified and he would never do such a thing. Not this Death, Death who drives a Cadillac that he loves, Death who has lived a solitary life, imprisoned for more years than Dean can count if he used his entire lifetime. Not this Death who could have taken just anyone he wanted because no one in the universe has the power to stop him. Not this Death who has shown Dean nothing but care and friendship and...
"No," Dean says. "I really don't think you'd do that." Dean doesn't move away. It has been a long time since Death scared Dean — they are too close now, too intimate. Dean knows that he will trust Death with his life.
"I am possibly the most powerful being in the universe. You do understand why the first step can never be taken by me?" It is as if solitude and decency intertwine in that sentence, in a few words offering an explanation to why Death is alone.
"Yes." Dean nods and pulls his arm out of Death's grip, buying himself more time. A mistake, maybe, but he needs that time, if only an hour or two to properly think through what he's doing. Death is forever, it is not and can never be, a random fling. Especially not now, not when Death has revealed why he doesn't have a lover. Love cannot grow from fear and no one in their right mind isn't afraid of Death. That probably says a lot about Dean, but nothing he doesn't know already. Fear and love don't go well hand in hand and no one has ever seen through the surface, seen Death as he really is. No one has seen Death bared, a raw and lonely being, searching for love like anybody else. No one has seen him.
Except Dean.
There's just the small problem that Dean isn't ready for this, he really isn't.
Death makes it easier for him. "Maybe you should go catch up with your Ebay business?" Death suggests, turning his back to Dean, relieving him of the sharp shard of guilt that threatens to ruin his morning. "Go sit at the table."
Obediently and relieved Dean hurries into the living room. He grabs the laptop and sits down at the tiny round dining table. Death's cleaning mojo had it polished into a warm shine. Dean is careful when he places the laptop there. Ignoring his rumbling stomach and the jumble of thoughts and needs that the encounter with Death has elicited, Dean logs into his mail and his Ebay account. There's a message waiting for him.
It takes but a few seconds to read it through. "He's got one! The carburetor!" Dean whoops, almost jumping up from the chair. "He's got the one in the car and a 1960 spare, unused! Okay, so 1960 isn't perfect, but gift horse much? The car is a 1960 62 Series. It's as good as it gets!" Dean points at the screen as Death returns from the kitchen. The seller has posted a few pictures with the message. "The carburetor in the car is a bit rusty, but nice, and the one in the box is probably as good as one might expect from an original part, hibernating in a barn for fifty years."
"Buy both," Death says. "No, wait! Buy the entire car. It hurts me to see her like that. We can take all the usable parts, salvage everything we can carry. Give her a little more life, if only as spare parts." Death sounds excited and eager, his usual balanced demeanor tipping a bit. He leans in, reading the screen over Dean's shoulder. Death is wearing only a thin, white shirt, warmth emanating from him. Dean sighs, forgetting for a moment the carburetor that started the hunt.
"I'm not into men," Dean volunteers, entirely out of context, leaning back until his back is pressed against Death's chest. He has no idea why he needs to inform Death about this obviously incorrect notion. They both understand what a pathetic liar he is, Dean is sure. Technically speaking Death isn't a man, but he looks very, very male and Dean, despite his current reluctance to admit it, is very, very into him.
"That one," Death says knowingly, "was old even before the sentence ended. Lie to yourself if you must, but don't lie to me." He stays where he is, letting Dean lean against him.
"If you know so much better, why are you asking me?" Dean snaps. He turns his head over his shoulder, glaring defiantly at Death."Don't you think I know best?"
"Actually," says Death, an annoying smirk on his gaunt face, "I don't. What I think you know best is pretending. I can wait."
"Could we eat, please?" Dean deflects, knowing very well that Death won't fall for it. "Don't want those pancakes to go to waste. I suppose you'd like to go fetch our loot as soon as the seller replies?" As if to help Dean, the laptop pings with the sound of incoming mail. He leans forward, avoiding Death's touch. "There's a reply. Maybe the seller was checking his mail too." Dean deliberately directs all his attention to the laptop.
Death doesn't make a fuss. He simply walks away, and Dean has to stop himself from looking. Death's narrow hips do look very nice in chinos. "He is okay with you picking it up," Dean says, reading the reply. "And you can fetch the carcass... the parts any time. It's in Boswell. Not too far for a good drive." He looks up from the computer, only to discover at his right elbow a plate filled with pancakes and toast and some deliciously looking sausages that Dean has absolutely no recollection of purchasing. He decides not to comment on Death's untraditional shopping habits. The food's too delicious.
"If you want-" Death pauses, thoughtful. "I would like you to come with me. We can go see your brother on the way. And this... this was our hunt, not mine alone. We're going... now. Today. Please, Dean?"
It makes Dean all warm inside. "I'll tell him. I'd like to go with you as well."
"If we drive, we can go see Sam. If you-"
"Yeah. I do. Do you want me to... come back?" Dean doesn't want this to be over. He doesn't want to stop going to Chicago, he doesn't want to stop working on Death's car. He simply wants to continue what they have. But he doesn't want to lose Sam because of it. They, too, need to talk. Dean groans. Too much talking, too many feelings, too much that needs resolve. He needs to get his hands on a motor and some decent tools and do what he loves and leave the chick flick he's been living for the last few weeks.
"I thought we talked about that? That you'd want to return to Chicago if I had a place. I have one." Death sounds a little offended, as if Dean hadn't understood in the first place what Death meant.
Maybe he didn't, but he does now.
"I'd love to," Dean says. "I'd really love to."
They eat quickly, with almost no time to enjoy the spicy sausages or the sweet taste of pancakes and maple syrup. They clean up fast and pack what's necessary for a stay at a motel; there's a long way to Boswell and they may need to take a break. It depends, Dean decides, on whether Sam is still living in the den of iniquity with some guy he picked up God knows where. Why Sam has to fuck the guy, revealing to an outsider the place that's theirs and theirs alone, is beyond Dean. Desecration of their heritage is what it is. But if that is what Sam has decided, that is what Dean has to suck up. He needs to be on the not-so-windy side of Sam for reasons. Because.
Dean sends Death a glance. Because that he, too, has things to explain and to make up for; things that don't go away by being repressed and avoided. Friggin' girl-flick life!
Finally done with the dishes, they end up in the courtyard, Death and Dean. With each their duffel slung over their shoulders, they look at each other, confused. "Er-" Dean says and eyes Baby.
"Um-" Death says and looks from Baby to his pale darling.
"Baby," Dean decides. "We're hauling half a Caddy back with us. She can take it." Even disassembled and thoroughly wrapped up, it's going to be messy. Death's car is too much of a princess to be a pack horse. Not that Baby isn't refined, but she's not pristine white, silver chrome and virgin leather in perfect condition.
"Sure? We could rent-"
"Don't!" Dean all but cries, the mere thought appalling. "I am not going on a mini-roadtrip in a fucking Prius! Or anything, really, that isn't either your darling, or my Baby. Is that clear?" Dean rolls his eyes, borderline annoyed. "Christ! The things I have to put up with!"
Death laughs, a happy, wonderful laughter, one that makes Dean laugh too.
"Let's hit the road, yeah? In a decent car." Dean fumbles in his pocket for the keys. "We should probably check on her before we go. It's a long ride." He slides into the driver's seat. Baby starts with a loud growl, as if she's been impatient, restless. Dean lets her roll outside, into the open, before he turns off the motor. "Fifteen minutes, sweetheart, and we'll be on our way," he tells her, caressing the worn steering wheel.
It takes Dean a few moments to make sure the Impala has oil and water. He filled her up not too long ago, so she will go for miles before they need gas again. Death makes himself useful, handing tools to Dean before he asks for them. Sometimes mind-reading does come in handy, although Dean prefers to have his thoughts to himself, thank you very much. Stay out of here, dude! he thinks as loudly as he can manage.
Death chuckles. It should be disturbing, but Dean finds it annoyingly endearing. "Yes, Dean."
"I mean it, man." Dean wipes his hands in a rag, returning to fire Baby up once more, wanting to make sure that everything is put back in place properly. He leaves the hood open. An odd noise is heard clearly through the rumble of the engine. "Crap," Dean groans. "See if the water pump is leaking," he shouts at Death. He has seen Death work on the Caddy enough times to know that Death, too, knows what he's doing. Not like Dean does, but Dean trusts him with his car, and that's all there is to say about that.
Death disappears behind the hood and the noise changes as Death is working. The sound from the motor isn't to Dean's liking. Maybe he should do it himself anyway? Just to be sure? He takes a deep breath, just as impatient as his baby and similarly discontent, and gets out, walking around the car.
And he stops, unable to move, because he could just as well have been struck by lightning. Everything stops, and for what seems like minutes, Dean stands there, studying Death with his rolled up sleeves, globs of grease and oil smeared over the formerly so pristine white shirt. His arms are thin and bony, lean muscles clearly visible underneath the skin.
Death isn't beautiful, far from, and still there is this lean efficiency about him that makes him worth looking at twice anyway. He really is a bit like a greyhound, Dean thinks, deadly and quiet. Like the hound, Death is all long lines; even the narrow, sharp face and the brown almond eyes vaguely recall the face of a greyhound. Dean suppresses a need to reach out and touch where the muscles of Death's underarm flex as he bends down, tightening the screws that fasten the water pump. The desire that has simmered in the outskirts of Dean's consciousness becomes clearer, more difficult to ignore.
Death looks up, maybe sensing Dean's eyes on him. His hair is messy, falling over his left eye. There is a dark smear of oil over his right cheekbone. Without the tie and the sinister coat, top two buttons open, Death looks younger and almost carefree. "Yes?" The even beat of the motor almost drowns out his voice. "Dean?" His lips curl into a smile, one of the rare smiles that Dean has come to appreciate, the ones that are only for him.
His heart beats so fast, almost like the purr of the engine, a fast, deep beat. He can't stop it, the warm smile that grows inside him. He smiles at Death, sure that everything he feels can be seen on his face in that instant, every emotion bright and clear. He's not sure he's ready for the inevitable; maybe he will never be. Death is... extraordinary and not someone one can ever be ready for.
But Dean is ready not to be ready and instead live in a constant state of mild surprise for the rest of his life.
It's not surprising, though, that the music that accompanies Dean's advances isn't dated country or annoying pop music, but the steady, raw throbbing of a V8. He should have known. Everything else about Death is perfect, perfect for him. Without thinking too much, Dean reaches out, wiping away the oil on Death's face. If he was in doubt that this is the right time, that doubt disappears now. It is not only the right time, it is the perfect time. It is all perfection, for Dean can see his unspoken question answered with a silent reply, one that doesn't need words. All it needs is the sparkle in Death's eyes, that is enough.
Yeah, it's perfect.
He knows it's his call to make. Death has already told him that it is his decision. Dean doesn't see any reason to hesitate, not any longer, not when all the pieces and parts suddenly seem to fall into place in an instant. They've been beating around the bush for weeks, probably from the second that Death asked him to come to Chicago for the first time. Death straightens up, traces of the smile still in his eyes. Dean ends the waiting, the anticipation, by stepping up to Death, unceremoniously pressing a lingering kiss to Death's thin mouth, wanting to catch the last of the smile before he drowns it in more kisses.
Death surely isn't surprised. His mouth curls under Dean's lips, and his strong, thin arms wrap around Dean's waist. There is nothing tentative, no question, nothing insecure in the way Death kisses back; it's like he has expected what is happening, welcoming it. But Death is warm and safe and his kisses a bit more experienced than Dean had thought they would be; enough to make him wish they weren't about to drive half-way across the country to finish their hunt.
"Maybe we did not understand that the hunt was a different one," Death says quietly, pulling back far enough to speak, his lips still brushing over Dean's mouth. "But I still need that carburetor. It's all about perfection."
It is. It is all about perfection, and this is it. Dean lets out a satisfied moan and kisses Death again.
Yes. Perfect.
5. Death Rides a Pale Horse
Soon they are on the highway towards Omaha, heading west for Lebanon. The road stretches out in front of them, naked and open, as if to welcome the change that happens every time Dean has visited Chicago. It is his crossroads, except that there are no road to cross, only change to come to terms with. With his hand resting lightly on Death's thigh, bridging the small distance between them, Dean knows that his travels between Lebanon and Chicago are about to close another divide: the one between Sam and him, the one Dean dug himself. Now, with Death at his side, the constant feeling of loneliness is gone and the fear of losing Sam fading, Dean hopes that Sam, too, is moving forward. It might not be the road to redemption, but Dean hopes that it is one that might lead to some kind of happiness for Sam.
If Dean, broken and torn as he is, can find someone who cares for him the way Death cares, then Sam can too. And Dean will accept that choice, that person, no matter who, Lucifer as the only exception. Dean will never forgive Lucifer for what he did to Sam.
They drive on in comfortable silence. They pass the motel that Dean used to stay at, the one where he did all his thinking. He watches it disappear in the rear view mirror, a faint echo of the distance he has moved. The sign, still missing a few letters, blinks one last time and then it's gone. An hour later they switch places, and Dean lets Death take over Baby, knowing he'll treat her as his own. Which in Dean's book is good enough for him because Death's darling is one pampered lady. Dean cuddles up on the back seat, Death's long, black coat as a blanket. He falls asleep instantly.
He wakes up when they are about an hour's drive from Lebanon. Dean stretches, yawns and needs coffee. "Pull in for coffee," he demands, finding it somehow entertaining to make Death do his bidding. "I really need some if I am to run into Sam's new... whatever he is. Or maybe some beer. A lot of it."
It earns him a glare in the mirror from Death. "You are not interfering again, are you?" Death stops the Impala, waiting for Dean to get into the front seat. There's a cup of steaming java waiting for him even before his ass hits the seat.
"Good to see you can make yourself useful," Dean jokes, pulling the lid off. He doesn't know where Death got the coffee from, but it smells damned good. "And no, I'm not interfering. We talked about that. If we never talk about it again, I'll be grateful, though." Dean cocks an eyebrow. "What are we waiting for? Please, James, onwards."
"Just be grateful I haven't turned you into something unfortunate," Death growls, "I am sorely tempted."
"You could do that?" Dean is curious to how much power Death has. Apart from the power to change life and death and destiny and the ability to glue frayed souls back together, that is.
"You'd actually be more impressed if I turned you into a turtle than by the fact that I got your brother an ang-" Death shifts, as if he's uncomfortable.
Of course Dean needs to explore. "A turtle? That'd be so boring, dude! And that... you got my what, what?"
"Is it possible for you to express yourself in a civilized manner?" Death snorts.
Dean's sure it's a distraction. "No. Spit it out."
"No."
"Seriously? Man, if you've fiddled with something that you shouldn't have touched, I'm going to end you!" It's a laughable threat. There will be no killing, not least because Dean really doesn't want Death dead. But he could strangle him a bit if he's done something he shouldn't; Dean's not above that.
Death sighs. "I might have... helped Sam along a little. Finding a someone."
"You what?"
"You heard me, Dean. I will not repeat myself. You were worried about losing Sam. I saw long time ago what he wanted; how could I not when I had to clean his soul of things he never should have done, of things he never should have seen? I couldn't help seeing his desires and needs too. But I have merely provided occasion. I have not tampered with his mind. That has been done adequately, in my opinion."
Dean feels a jolt of cold fear race through him. "It's not Lucifer, right? You said that Sam-"
"Don't be foolish. Of course not. Not even for your brother would I let loose Satan once more. And I do not know whether Sam has taken the offer. I had other things to do than to spy on him and I don't intend to begin spying on your brother, by the way. If you want to know, you must talk to him."
"Listen! Do not ever do anything like that again. Promise me." Dean is angry, but the bit about keeping Sam, about losing him, keeps the anger reined in. Dean knows it's true. He is so afraid that Sam will leave him for good, that it almost makes him forgive Death instantly if giving Sam what he needs actually makes Sam want to stay. "Promise me!"
"Yes. I did nothing that Sam himself didn't want. In fact I did nothing to Sam at all."
Dean purses his mouth. Now he understands squat. "Then what did you do?"
"What I always do," Death says. "I uphold the natural order of life and death."
Death couldn't possibly be more cryptic, and Dean supposes that Death is right: Dean has to ask Sam if he wants to know more. How annoying it is that Death has integrity.
- 0 -
The door is locked and Dean doesn't have the key. "You know of anyone who is able to make a copy?" Dean asks Death as they stand outside the Batcave. "This will be annoying in the long run."
"It already is," Death says, less diplomatically. "Good thing that the Men of Letters had no idea that they had to ward the place against angels and other celestial beings." Death's thin lips curl upwards by a millimeter, indicating that he is amused.
"Don't you dare criticize my ancestors! How could they know? Until Gabriel showed up, playing tricks on us, no angel had set foot on earth for two millennia, or that's at least what they say."
"Whatever, dude," Death says and presses a finger to the lock, which immediately yields.
"I'm rubbing off on you, ain't I?" Dean smirks.
"Mostly you rub me the wrong way, but if it pleases you to think so, go ahead," Death says, trying to gather his dignity. "Are you going to stand there, or do you want to go inside?"
"Inside," Dean says and pushes open the door. He immediately regrets that decision. If the thumping, creaking sounds from upstairs hadn't made it quite clear what Sam and his new boyfriend are doing, then Sam's loud moans and prayers for 'more' and 'rougher' and 'fuck me harder' certainly would.
"Seriously?" Dean asks acerbically and steps outside, closing the door behind them, cutting off the guy's moans in the middle of 'I love you, Sammy'. "I think I could have done without hearing that." He frowns, his eyes becoming narrow slits as he glares at Death. "He loves Sam? And why does he call him Sammy. Only I can do that. Although not in that situation. Your doing?"
Death shakes his head. "Do I look like Cupid to you?"
Dean tsks. "Not... No."
"Then why do you ask? I do not decide who gets to love another. They already did, if you must know."
"I don't understand. They know each other that well? Sam has never..." A feeling of dread hits Dean. It's not Lucifer, Death has already said that. "It's not that girl again, is it?"
Death is about to open his mouth when the door to the Batcave is flung open.
"Hello, kiddo." Gabriel stands there, half naked, wearing a pair of Sam's boxers, judging from the size. "We're done."
"Fuck, no." Dean closes his eyes in the vain hope that the damned Trickster or archangel or pagan god or whatever it is he's playing when he's not playing dead. "The fuck!"
"Hell, yes!" Gabriel grins and steps aside. "And I think I broke your bro-"
"Well, thank you. Could we... just not?"
"Sure," Gabriel says, unperturbed. He pats Death on the shoulder. "Thanks for the leg up, bro. Much appreciated."
Gabriel disappears in a flutter of wings, leaving Dean on the doorstep, dumbfounded.
"Seriously?" Dean repeats, thinking he might look very tired. "Seriously, seriously?"
"Sorry," Death says. "They were falling in love when Lucifer killed Gabriel. Neither Sam, nor Gabriel were aware of it, not truly. But you don't tease someone you're not interested in the way Gabriel teased your brother. Perhaps you'll forgive him one day for what he did to you and Sam. He's all about good intentions, like your Castiel. Gabriel... he'll be good for Sam, I'm sure. He'll keep him safe. Gabriel was once God's general. Few can stand against him when he's come into his full power. And I made sure that he is."
"There's no chance you could get Sam Amelia back, is there? Or the dog? It'd be great, actually, if it was only the dog."
"Did you not understand me the first three times? Sam has longed for Gabriel for a very long time. I did nothing but to resurrect Gabriel from a death that was not timely." Death pauses. "I admit that I let him into this world. But that?" Death nods in the direction of the Batcave. "All Sam's doing."
Dean mulls it over long enough for Death to look impatient. "I promised that I'd accept his choice." He throws his hands up, not entirely sure he'll be able to keep that promise. He reaches for Death, grabbing his hand, as the physical connection and Death's composed demeanor might help Dean endure Gabriel's presence. "Let's get inside, at least. If Sam..." Dean cringes at the thought of Sam and Gabriel together. Naked. Doing things little brothers shouldn't do. Especially with annoying and cocky archangels. "If Sam is decent."
Death chuckles softly. "I didn't take you for a prude," he whispers, his lips brushing over Dean's ear. Dean shivers, biting his lip.
"I'm not." Dean makes the mistake of taking a look at Death. There is such heat in the way he lets his eyes slide over Dean's lips, down to his chest. "Stop it. I'd like to keep my clothes on and you're about to melt them!" But Dean's heart beats faster and he's absolutely certain that Death knows how hot he feels. Crap.
As they enter the hall, Sam has decided to descend to be among mortals. He looks a bit too well-fucked for Dean to be comfortable; it really isn't that inspiring to find one's kid brother with bite marks on the neck and lips red and chapped from kissing. Dean can feel the old jealousy, the one he'll deny having, even under the threat of torture. Of course he isn't jealous, he's merely a bit possessive. Sam's a kid, almost, and not equipped to keep a lover like Gabriel in his place.
Sam looks a little nervous as he sits down at the table carefully, very carefully. Gabriel leans over him, like a mother hen protecting her chicken. He whispers to Sam, something that makes Sam smile so brightly that it lights up the entire Batcave. He blushes a little bit, something Dean would find endearing otherwise. Now it's just infuriating.
"Please, Dean. Could we... just sit down. I really need something to eat before you bitch at me and tell Gabriel that you're going to kill him. I'd just... let's postpone it for half an hour."
Sam's puppy-eyes work. Dean suspects that Death's presence is actually making him calmer. Death's hand rests on his back, a distracting, warm pressure. "All right."
Gabriel snaps his fingers and the table is filled with just about... everything. Not what Dean had expected. But the food looks good, except for the gay cakes. Those are clearly Gabriel's because no one in their right mind with a measurable testosterone level would look at the pink and white strawberry-laced horrors more than once without gagging.
Of course Death takes a chair and a considerable selection of said cakes. "Sit, Dean," Death orders, in a tone which, under normal circumstances, would make Dean reach for his knife.
"Fuck you," he says a bit too lovingly for it to be working.
"Sweet," Death says. "Your eloquence slays me. Again."
"Already bitching like an old couple," Gabriel offers, looking at Sam. "Have they set a date yet?"
Dean holds in the reply he'd really like to give. With an angel blade. Then again, Sam might see that as interfering, so Dean reaches instead for a bowl of scrambled eggs and bacon and slaps a gigantic pile on his plate. "We talked about this, Sam. No more monsters. No all-powerful beings, no werewolves, no Amazons, no girls with dysfunctional families. No immortals. No messing with celestial beings, no supernatural lovers. And what do you bring home?" Dean sends Gabriel a glare that could bring down lesser angels. "That."
Sam, unfortunately, doesn't seem to take Dean seriously at all, something that really makes Dean angry. "Are you listening at all, or do you just want to sit and gape at... him?"
Sam doesn't reply right away, and the grin doesn't waver. He looks from Dean to Death and back again. "You were saying? No celestial, all-powerful, immortal, supernatural beings as lovers? Or did I hear you wrong?"
"I-" Dean begins, removing Death's hand that rests on his shoulder. "Er."
Gabriel giggles annoyingly, trying to feed Sam organic weed or whatever the slimy green things are. "Oh, Dean-o. I hope you washed your feet before they came into such close proximity of your mouth."
Sam escapes the green slime. "Are we done with the brotherly advice by now, or was there anything else you'd like to point out?"
"I hate you. All of you," Dean growls, not fighting it when Death puts his hand back around his shoulder. They eat in silence, Dean stewing in the juice he provided himself. He's sure there will be a lecture on the philosophy of double standards later, courtesy of Death.
"Awww," Sam comments, and Dean finds it below him to justify the comment by reacting, so he just eats some more bacon. At least Gabriel knows how to conjure decent food. It might, just might, speak in favor of the annoying little shit.
Full, Dean finally leans back in the chair, considerably less moody.
Death gets up. He waves at Gabriel. "Gabriel, if you don't mind, I'd like a word. Perhaps a walk outside?"
An excuse for them to leave Sam and him to work out what needs working out, obviously. Gabriel and Death disappear without further explanation.
"He needs to learn to clean up, too," Sam says, looking at the impressive amount of food left on the table. "Is Death... I mean... "
"Yes, he eats, and so do I. We are... I mean, Death's living next door to the best pizzeria in Chicago."
"Good to know that your health is your first priority," Sam says, slightly snippy. "Obviously you don't need to worry about dying from a cardiac arrest or clogged veins anymore, what with Death at hand."
There's that. "So we're going to have the talk now? Another one?"
"Anything you want to talk about? Like how obvious it is that you're in love with Death?" Sam looks far too triumphant for Dean to feel comfortable.
"Fuck you."
"You say that a lot." I think I agree with Death. Not that eloquent. Also, that part I'll leave to Ga-"
"No! Don't say it!" Dean almost cries. "I think I've heard enough when we walked in in the the middle of you and Gabe doing the horizontal."
Sam is suddenly busy doing girly stuff with his hair, fiddling with it and messing it back up. Score!
"So," Sam says when he's done doing the coiffing. "Does Death have a name?"
Dean's eyes narrow. "I don't know." He remembers that he'd asked himself that question the day he'd gotten the first invitation from Death. "I guess I forgot to ask."
"You... forgot to ask? You don't know your boyfriend's name? Sam's mouth makes a surprised and prissy 'o'.
"And yours have several. At least mine doesn't have a double identity," Dean points out. "I guess it doesn't matter. Doesn't change who he is." Dean somehow misplaces the argument that Death isn't his boyfriend in favor of smirking at Sam again. Also, he's sure it wouldn't come out right.
"I guess," Sam says, knowing not to pursue a case when it's lost beforehand. "You're going back to Chicago to-"
"To live with him? Yeah, I guess. Not that it's very far away. Archangel-transport or whatever." Dean tilts his head back, looking up at the balcony of the upper floor. "And he's staying here? Gabriel? Don't think I'd-"
"You'll get used to him." Sam smiles in a way that makes Dean feel strangely happy, for Sam looks happy too. "Gabriel... he's not bad, you know. And he... he loves me, Dean."
"And you're in love with him too." It's a different love, an easy one, Dean understands that, vastly different from the so-called love that Sam insisted he had for the girl with the dog. This one, Dean believes, a brief look at the happy expression on Sam's face is proof enough. Gabriel is an ass, but Dean admits he likes the guy a little. A very small little. He makes great bacon. "You could get a dog, too."
"That's your way to tell me you are giving us your blessing?" Sam's smile becomes even wider, lighting up the place with a sparkling, bubbly joy. "Gabriel has a dog. Not me," Sam adds hurriedly as if Dean would ever suggest something like that. Then again, who's he kidding? Of course Dean would tease Sam about being Gabriel's pet.
But not today. Not when Sam is so happy that it almost lights up the entire building, not when Dean is no longer alone, not when he has a lover to return with to Chicago — to the first place that Dean has ever thought of as home, apart from his beloved Impala. And she's there too. With Death's Darling, parked in the courtyard behind their apartment.
"Yeah," Dean says. "It is, I think. A blessing."
- 0 -
They drive from Lebanon to Boswell without stopping. Dean nods off from time to time, happy to get some sleep. Cuddling up under Death's long black coat once more, he wakes up now and again, only to shift, his hand brushing over Death's in confirmation of his content state. It's not that Death replaces Sam. Death is the complementary goodness to what Dean has with his brother. In his half-awake state, Dean can't help himself from being glad that Sam, too, has his complementary goodness. Dean is truly happy that they both have found someone strong enough to stand on their own; to let them stay what they are: hunters, brothers, family. Neither Death, nor Gabriel have anything they need to prove.
They stop for hot dogs at some small gas station that Death, not surprisingly, knows to have delicious home-cooked food. It is. They eat in the car, Death driving on. Full, Dean falls asleep again, and only comes to when Death gently shakes him awake.
They're parked in front of a small farm. Even in the setting sun it is clear that the low buildings are well-kept and the barn nicely painted, which makes Dean hopeful. "Looks like the folks here take care of their stuff. Promising," Dean says as he stretches his legs before he opens the door and gets out. The air is cool and there's a vague smell of horses and a stronger one that indicates that the farmer keeps cattle somewhere.
"Surprising that a 62 ends up in a place like this," Death muses. "It's not exactly a truck."
"Might be why they parked it in the barn and forgot about it."
A man Dean's age comes out from the barn. The electric light creates a long square of golden light on the ground. He greets them, nodding. "You're the ones about the car?" He waves them closer. "It was my grandad's. I'd like to have it restored, but-" He waves a hand at the barn and the fields. "Too much to do, and a new tractor comes first. Too late now. So I'd rather she is..." He sends the Impala an admiring look. "You take good care of what's left, ya' hear! My grandpa loved his Caddy."
"And so do I. I've had my ride since '59. And I am very, very fond of her," Death volunteers. Dean notices that Death doesn't say which ride and which '59. He doesn't want to think about it. He's here, now, and so's Death. Time and eternity can wait.
Dean, too, nods reassuringly and points out that he restored the Impala himself, and that he keeps her in perfect shape. He knows how expensive it'd have been, repairing her, had he not had Bobby's workshop and the skills to do it himself. He sends the seller a compassionate smile.
The seller is satisfied and helps them pack up the spare parts and what is salvageable from the original car. Baby's trunk is filled to the brim, and they have to use the back seat too. The last thing they carry into the car, the only part that gets to ride in the front seat next to Death, is the spare carburetor. Apart from some dust, a few dead spiders and a bit of rust, the carburetor is in perfect unused condition.
Their hunt is truly over.
The sun is long gone as they turn back on the road, heading towards Chicago. The old box with the carburetor clatters softly between them when the Impala occasionally catches a pothole in the dusty, old road. In the dim light in the cabin, Death reaches out, brushing his fingers down Dean's cheek. "Is it cheating," he says, "if we return home a bit faster, now that we have driven all the way out here?"
"Home." Yeah, that's where they're going. Dean thinks about it for a moment. "Technically..."
"And?"
"We could still manage to look at your car and get pizze from Rinascita before they close, right? If you-" Dean isn't particularly fond of the zapping between space and time, but he'd like to get on with what they're getting on with: starting this alluringly pleasant new life together. He'd never had the inclination, not truly. Not until he... Not until he fell in love with Death. And now he finds that he doesn't have the patience to wait for it. Not as much as a second.
Death surely understands the urge that Dean feels. Dean is certain it is abundantly clear what he wants, what with the hungry way he looks at the being who is about to become his lover.
"Beam us up, Scotty," Dean orders. "We're going home."
Maybe Death is more experienced, compared to Cas, moving people and cars, because Baby is suddenly inside the garage in Chicago, headlights and engine turned off. The lights in the garage are low, shining with a low, golden glow. Dean lets out a relieved sigh only seconds before Death reaches for him, pulling him into a soft kiss. Dean's sighs become content and pleased as he runs a hand over Death's slender back, ribcage making shallow ditches underneath his skin. Death's confident kiss makes Dean want more, much more. He opens his mouth, letting Death take what he wants, surrendering entirely to the man he has come to love, not even flinching at the thought.
They kiss for a while, forgetting everything else in favor of sitting in the dim light, just enjoying and exploring, taking a few steps down a road where their beloved cars can no longer follow them. In a moment of clarity, Dean appreciates the fact that they are inside the Impala; it is oddly fitting that she is with him in this beginning of something new.
"Let's go upstairs," Death suggest, breathless. "Get some food, maybe?"
Death's stomach rumbles. It's so human it makes Dean laugh. "Please! The deep-pan pineapple stuff?" Death arouses Dean, but it's like with their cars and the carburetor: Dean, too, has learned to embrace anticipation and patience as a part of their pleasure. A few kisses is far from enough to make him sated. He wants more.
Later.
- 0 -
While Death fetches pizze two houses over, at the Rinascita, Dean showers. Wearing his most comfortable jeans and a t-shirt that's a bit damp because he was too lazy to dry himself properly, Dean walks on bare feet into the living room, unpacking the carburetor. Having no patience left for it, he fetches a bit of fine grain sanding paper and a tool set and gets to work. The patches of rust on the mounting base are gone and sealed with a splash of Plasticote, even before Death is back with two deliciously smelling pizze.
They share the food. Dean is still in favor of the ham and pineapple, although Death's mozzarella-and-fresh basil certainly isn't bad. With some meat on it'd be really good. Dean manages to clean the carburetor's bowl vent and make sure the fuel inlet is pristine in between wolfing down more slices.
Full, Dean leans back in his chair. It is as if the solitude he's carried around with him for so long has evaporated. Everything is so calm and safe here. Dean feels cared for in a way he has never really tried before. Sam did care, of course, but it's not the same. The care between him and Sam is different. The fear of losing Sam, of failing him, has always tainted the love they have for each other. And now Sam has Gabriel. Not that Dean is elated, but like Death, Gabriel is everything Sam needs when Dean can't be there for him. Gabriel is perfect, apart from the fact that he's a murderous, annoying little shit. He's good looking, though. Hell, Dean would take Gabriel himself if he wasn't already... unavailable.
Dean smiles at Death. Yeah, he's already... something. Taken. Whatever it is, it's perfect. "Wanna go switch the carburetors?" Dean asks. "I really wanna do it now. The end of a perfect day," he says.
Death allows himself one of those rare smiles that only belongs to Dean. "Yes. I'd like that."
They don't care to clean up. Instead Dean carries the treasured original carburetor down the creaking stairs. The staircase smells vaguely of cabbage and cat pee, and Death leaves open the door at the bottom of the stairs. They can talk to their neighbor about the cat tomorrow. In the small courtyard, Dean rummages around in the garage, finding more tools. Dean wants it perfect: he doesn't want to ruin any part of the AFB by accident. Death gets into the Caddy and puts her in reverse, letting her slide outside into the darkness, leaving only the front of her, all sharp chrome teeth, inside the garage, so that they have better room to work.
It is perfect, too, that they both disassemble and reassemble the Cadillac, finishing her together. With the new carburetor, shiny brass screws neatly tightened and the lines attached in the right places, the motor in pristine condition, Dean carefully wraps up the old carburetor, putting it in a box for safe-keeping. Clearly, they need to start building a small storage, stay on the hunt for spare parts. That is the kind of hunt Dean truly enjoys. Perhaps he could make a living of it one day?
With one final wipe of a rag, Dean regards the result of his work with satisfaction. Death steps up close, wrapping his arm around Dean's waist.
"It feels complete," Death says, turning his head and kissing Dean's cheek. "Thank you."
"It does. We need to adjust a bit, but we could do that tomorrow, make sure the carb runs neither too rich, nor too lean. I just wanted her... whole. Tonight."
"I'll turn her on, let's see how she takes it, being all dressed up and ready to go." Death closes the hood carefully, patting his car lovingly. "I'll just move her inside."
Dean steps aside, waiting for the roar of the V8. Tomorrow they'll work on the adjustments; they'll have her sound like she is supposed to sound: no grating, annoying sounds to disturb the piece of art that she is. Leaning back against the Impala, Dean doesn't feel as if he's cheating on Baby by appreciating Death's ride so much. There is no one like Baby, even though Death's darling is pretty too.
Turning the ignition key, the motor lets out a loud growl, and the engine falls into a steady, loud heartbeat as if the new carburetor is exactly what the car needed to reach yet another level of perfection. The deep rr-rr-rr echoes against the walls of the garage, almost drowning out a sound that Dean doesn't fully realize that he's heard until he hears it for the second time. His head snaps up, and there, in the darkness of the courtyard is the gray shimmer of a spirit, a ghost. A pale horse whinnies once more, prances and dissolves; the white shimmer dancing like cotton tufts in the wind before it disappears.
Wide-eyed, Dean stares out in the dark, remembering what Death once told him. "I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him," Dean quotes, whispering, as if that is answer enough. The car really is alive!
Death knows what Dean has seen. It's obvious from the slightly apprehensive look on him as he turns off the motor and steps out of the car.
"Don't try to deny it," Dean says. "So she's a horse? The pale horse from the Bible? You're doing a Christine on me?"
"I'm not denying anything," Death says. "There is little left of what she once were, my only companion. I had... I was forced to leave her for centuries, bound in the coffin below Hell, or Hades, if you like that better. She... deteriorated. I believe the new carburetor will help restore her. But she is no longer sentient, not in a sense that you'd understand." Death's words almost reek of loneliness.
Caught beneath Hell, bereft of his horse... There is nothing to say, no comfort to offer. Dean can't even be bothered to feel offended that Death thinks he doesn't have the ability to fully comprehend that. He cannot understand, that's for sure. Dean understands the feeling of loneliness, but the rest? As usual way above his pay grade. Which in itself is great, because he is not required to take care of it. One thing he wants to take care of, however, is the expression of loss on Death's thin face and Dean knows exactly how to do that.
That is the beauty of what they have, this mutual consolation of solitude, the relief of loss and longing. Dean suppresses a need to face-palm himself. God, how did he suddenly become so deep? He laughs it off, letting the seriousness disappear and yanks Death close, all dignity be damned. With the Cadillac as complete as she will ever be, they have more pressing urges to take care of, or rather Dean has, not that he thinks that Death's going to oppose in any way.
Not with the way Death kisses him back when Dean decides to stake a claim to what is his.
They make it up the stairs without falling back down; a miracle in itself, since neither of them are aware of much else than lips and tongues and hands that stray to places that are yet to be explored. The slide of lips across Dean's collarbone. The feeling of the sparse sprinkle of hair on Death's chest. The sinewy tug of muscles, hard strung, as Death pulls Dean into their small apartment, pressing him against the door as it closes behind them. The damp whiff of a shared breath. The rise of lust and the hardening of erections. It's a slow, deliberate dance that ends up exactly where Dean wants it to end up.
The bed is familiar and soft, a contrast to the new sensation of Death's hard edges and willowy strength.
They lie there in the dark and it is nothing like the frenzied coupling that Dean is used to. It is not even like with Lisa, her want for him somehow so... mundane. No, with Death it is slow and deliberate, they slip off clothes and slide together, exactly as they have done everything else; it is merely an extension of their time they have spent with each other, another logical step. Dean has never felt like this — like he is both doing something as natural as breathing, and at the same time participating in something greater, something that is meant to be.
Death's body is thin and lean and strong; all wiry muscles and determination. It's so easy, there is nothing to prove, no masculine showing off or bravado to flash. Dean relaxes in Death's embrace, offering up himself to the being he has come to want so intensely. How lust and desire came into play, he doesn't know. But now he is here, his t-shirt on the floor, his pants open and Death's narrow lips doing wonders on his neck. Dean sighs, finally getting on with the program. Death's hair is soft and thick in the palm of his hand, and the sensation of fingers trailing through it makes Death sigh, a moan or a content sigh, perhaps a mix. It's just so easy, like they have done this before. Maybe that's how it is, to know one's... one's lover so well? To feel comfortable and safe and wanted and aroused, all at the same time.
"You with me?" Death asks, his breath a whisper on Dean's chest.
"Yeah," Dean says, laughing, a tinge of bittersweetness mingling with the pleasure. "It was just... I was thinking about how much I like what we have. Whatever it is. Like I belong somewhere."
"If you want," Death says solemnly, "you belong with me."
It's a promise, Dean knows it is. It is merely a few simple words, and then so much more, more than anyone has ever offered. Death doesn't need Dean. Not like those girls who wanted him for his looks, not like Lisa who wanted somewhere to target all her tender love. Not even like Sam. And therein lies the difference. Death doesn't need him. Not for anything. Death is like a god, the god. He needs nothing. And yet he lies here, his arms around Dean, his lips creating small currents of pleasure, dancing over Dean's skin.
Because Death wants him.
Death wants; he wants Dean, but he doesn't need him. Not for a second does he need him and still he lies here next to him, offering him the strongest power of all.
Love.
Dean lets out a sigh that lets him fill up the emptiness inside him with this still so unfamiliar feeling. "I want," he says, turning his head to kiss Death. He's afraid, more afraid that he has been his entire life. Love is scary! "Please." With that one word, Dean gives himself up, no longer holding back out of fear. "Please!"
It's all they need before the passion flares, suddenly burning hot like embers hidden deep down in the ashes of burned lives and wasted time.
The concept of experience holds no meaning in connection with Death, but Dean appreciates the confident, secure way that Death undresses him, the way Death isn't afraid to show how much he likes how Dean touches him. Perhaps Dean should be the one worshiping Death, but it is Death who uncovers Dean's body, slowly, hands sliding down his arms, his chest, until Death's thin fingers unbuckles his belt, pulling pants off, leaving Dean open and exposed underneath Death's scrutinizing eyes.
Maybe for the first time in his life Dean gives in entirely, safe in the knowledge that no harm can come to him. No, nothing can hurt him here in their small apartment, not when he's wrapped up tightly in Death's arms.
And when Death's thin oil-slick fingers slide between Dean's legs, Dean doesn't care who they are, he cares only about pleasure. He spreads himself willingly, moaning at the touch of long fingers inside him. It's so good. It's slow and passionate, fingers rubbing over the sensitive spots, Death's tongue in his mouth, a slow ebb and flow of arousing, wonderful sensations. Dean buries his hands in Death's hair again, pulling him closer, wanting more.
Pleasure overtakes him and tries to relax, one leg hooked over Death's lean thigh. "Oh, God," Dean moans as Death thrust in hard, freezing in mid-movement at how close to reality that outburst is.
Death picks up on Dean's sudden reservation or reverie. "It's you and me, Dean, just... us. It doesn't matter what we are." Leaning on one arm, he caresses Dean's cheek, warm fingers resting on his cheek, assuring and tender. "I want you, all of you. Relax."
"Friggin' hard to do with a cock in your ass," Dean growls, clenching hard around Death, satisfied when Death lets out a strained moan. He does it again because he likes the sound Death makes. He undulates his hips, moving under Death, forcing him in deeper.
"Dean, please," Death hisses, "I'm not human, but dammit, you are making me- oh!"
Satisfied, Dean does it again. The discovery that he isn't entirely powerless makes him want to explore the power that he holds, uncovering Death's lust with the slightest move of his body, with the slide of a hand down Death's spine. Death seems to understand, for he doesn't move, instead letting Dean do what he wants. Dean reaches for Death, pulling him down into a kiss, one that is slow and deep. Dean kisses as if he wants to erase anything that isn't here and now, all sloppy and harsh, no finesse, just pure, undiluted desire for his lover.
Death's hand slides in between their bodies. Long, thin fingers make Dean's desire pool low in his groin, light strokes followed by stronger, harsher ones. Dean moan loudly, his voice sandpaper-rough in Death's ear. Little gasps escape him as Death moves, slowly at first, before he thrusts in deep, finally taking what he wants with fast, determined moves. With Death's strong arm around his waist, Dean lets himself be taken hard, biting his lips to keep in a scream for more, trying to keep himself from begging Death for more.
"Should have done this earlier," Dean pants, trying to hold on to something that can help him endure, just a little longer. But Death's relentless thrusts are too much. The curl of pleasure rises, becomes a storm of feelings and sensations he cannot stand against. Dean cries out his sudden orgasm, clinging to Death as the world turns over and becomes fuzzy and remote. All he hears is Death, moaning his name before he, too, comes.
Afterwards, Dean barely registers that he's cleaned and covered. But Death's warm body he senses. He cuddles up against it, warm and content in Death's tender embrace.
Death whispers a soft, "'night Dean" before sleep overtakes him.
- 0 -
The sun is clear and sharp. Outside, the sky is crisp and blue and Dean smiles at it. He turns in his lover's arms, sore and happy. The panic he usually feels when he has overstayed his welcome — or if the girl has — doesn't come. Dean is so content that he can't remember the last time he felt remotely like it, except perhaps when he for the first time woke up in his own bed in the Batcave after eight hours of undisturbed, memory foam-supported sleep. Only then he had had no lover and it certainly makes a difference. A very, very pleasant difference.
Death isn't asleep.
"Did you sleep at all?" Dean asks, foregoing a polite 'good morning' in favor of kiss.
"I like looking at you sleep," Death says, "It's a very human thing. Does it bother you?" His lips are moving against Dean's, the words little puffs of damp air that Dean cuts off by leaning closer, finalizing the kiss by sliding his arm around Death's neck, his fingers playing with Death's hair. Dean loves Death's confidence, it makes him aroused that he is not the one to lead all the time. Knowing that Death would let him take over control if he wanted it, it is so much easier for Dean to let Death do what he likes with him. Not that Dean doesn't like that Death is a little bossy, on the contrary. Dean likes it so much that he hardens, his cock twitching against his naked thigh.
Death moans as Dean's erection rubs over his stomach, over the hill of the hipbone and Dean can't stop himself from pressing closer. Death groans and slides his hand down Dean's back, kissing him deeper, making Dean forget the question he was asked, and just about everything else but Death's hands on his body. Sucking on Death's tongue, Dean thrusts, undulating his hips, letting Death know what he wants. He wants more. He wants Death to make love to him, to take him or fuck him or use him as he likes. Dean wants everything. All of it. As his arousal flares, Dean settles for fast and hard. "Fuck me," he demands crudely when Death finally lets go of his mouth to let him take an overdue and much needed breath.
Death's fingers run down Dean's ass, over his sore opening. He doesn't need that much preparation for Death's fingers to slide in easily, he's sure. He can deal with the slight pain. He wants Death to take him again, right the fuck now, and nothing is going to stop Dean from getting what he wants.
Luckily Death understands him so well. The click from the bottle of lube makes Dean moan. It's so delightfully dirty having Death prepare him. Dean turns over, spreading his legs invitingly, almost obediently for Death.
"The poster boy for debauchery," Death groans, pouring oil over his fingers.
"And whose fault is that?" Dean retorts, grabbing his own cock, sliding two finger up and down, massaging it into full hardness. "Not that I mind being debauched some more." He winces slightly as Death circles his hole. Death massages him gently, careful as he slides a finger in deep. Death watches him, as if to check whether he's uncomfortable. He isn't. He certainly isn't.
"Like this?" Death murmurs, moving the finger in and out slowly. The sloppy, wet sound makes them both moan in unison.
"Hell, it's so dirty," Dean moans, spreading his legs wider, his cock hard between his legs "I love it. Sex's not supposed to be clean," he adds. No, proper sex is hot and sweaty and smelly and ends up with messy sheets and the air heady with sex.
Death looks as if he's on the verge of coming by the mere thought. "Oh, I can make you messy," he promises, sliding another of his thin fingers into Dean's ass. "I like you like this, all needy and hot." Death leans in, biting at Dean's earlobe. "I like that you have my smell all over you. I want no one to question my right to you."
It makes Dean close his eyes. Fuck, if he'd known that Death's confidence and experience would make him so utterly wanton, he'd have skipped girls for an older man long time ago. Dean is not submissive, but having Death claim him like this makes him want to be. Dean wants to lie at Death's feet and give himself up to the primordial force that he is. Death has shown over and over that he respects Dean's limits, that he will never abuse the immense power he has. Dean feels safe in Death's arms, or basically anywhere that Death would want him. As long as there is sex and kisses and love-making involved, Dean is in. "Let them doubt," Dean whispers, his breath broken up in little gasps as Death thrusts his fingers in and out in a slow rhythm. "Let them believe what they want. I'm yours."
For a second all confidence seems to leave Death. His eyes soften and he sighs softly. There is so much love in the way he stares down at Dean, all lust and desire forgotten for a moment. They both know, Dean is sure, that this is so much more. Instinctively he knows that their love-making is the final step of a long road traveled, the turning of trust and friendship into more. Into love.
Death stakes his claim not only once but twice. When they are finally sated, Dean is in need of a shower and he's incredibly hungry.
"I could really eat a burger right now," Dean says.
"I love you too," Death groans. "Is that all you think of, food?"
"Nah," Dean manages to get up on one elbow. "But I'm too sore for more of that." He brushes a hand over Death's cock.
"To think that I gave you my ring. And just about everything else." Death looks very tired and Dean can't stop himself from kissing it better.
"I do, you know. That. Love. I... You." Dean admits it willingly, if slightly convoluted, and the smile that Death sends him shows that Death understands so well what he means. Dean doesn't feel uncomfortable by having said... that. He might try it again, later, to tell Death that he's in love with him. Maybe tonight.
Another great thing about Death: they don't have to do all that girly stuff to make their relationship work. It makes Dean want to, because it's not expected of him.
It's not just awesome, it's perfect.
- 0 -
What is similarly awesome is that Death doesn't question statements like 'I want Kuma's for breakfast'. Strictly speaking, things eaten around noon isn't breakfast, but still. Death just gets up, showers and drives the Caddy into the courtyard in time for Dean to show up, refreshed and clean and with a wrench in one hand, his best set of screwdrivers in the other. They tinker with the car for a few minutes, mostly for good measure: the carburetor's deep heartbeat is as perfect today as it was yesterday, like it was the exact part that the car was missing to become complete and perfect, too.
The fall sun is warm. Dean leans back in the soft seat, enjoying the smooth ride. He really likes this car, and if it wasn't because he had Baby he'd fall in love with Death's darling. What he does love, though, is to ride with Death, sitting next to him, close enough to touch if he wants to.
They stop outside Kuma's, on the opposite corner, next to the abandoned workshop. "Stay. I'll get us something."
Dean nods. Although Death probably could get a table instantly, lunch hour has started. Makes sense to eat in the car. Could be that Death has sensed that Dean would like that, sitting quietly in the sun, enjoying a good burger with his lover. Dean isn't ready to share any of his new-found happiness. Not that he has anything to hide, he's not in any closet, but he'd like them to stay in their little cocoon a bit longer.
Death returns with a large paper bag, the delicious smell of fried onions and blackened meat emanating from it. In the other hand he has two bottles, ginger ale for himself and a beer for Dean. Death shuts the door, leaning back into the seat with a sigh. "There are no better burgers in the universe than these."
"I beg to differ. Tomorrow we go to Delaware," Dean says, underlining his words, pointing at Death. "To get burgers. The best. With Baby. Can't let her feel ignored." Dean breathes in the smell of food. His mouth waters. Okay, so Kuma's burgers are probably better, but where's the fun in admitting that?
"With Gorgonzola," Death says, handing Dean a burger. "Yours. And use a napkin. You will not like it if I catch you staining the upholstery."
"Stop bitching. You like it far too much." Dean can't really tell why, but he likes it too. Death cares, that is what it means, the bitching. Demonstratively Dean unfolds one of the heavy paper napkins that came with the burger, then he leans over and kisses the corner of Death's mouth. He laughs, feeling young and carefree and utterly, deeply in love. Yeah, Death makes him happy.
Death has done what Dean himself has never managed.
Carefully Dean takes a bite of the Gorgonzola-and-marinated-pear burger, moaning as the sweetness of the pear blends with the spicy taste of cheese and onions. Sitting in the wonderful car he helped restore to its full glory, Dean is happy. He chews as he watches people outside; they're walking and driving and working; life happening in a dilapidated street. But Chicago is more than a run-down street with a few houses in disrepair. It's more than the high rises downtown. It's a city that survived the Depression and the apocalypse. It's a city that feels like home.
And that's where he is now, in the city that Death once gave him.