Chapter Text
"Hello, Dean."
Dean picks himself up off the ground, which should've been covered by snow-wet grass, not grey, stone tiles. He sees the person—the being—the voice belongs to and freezes.
"Have a seat." A gnarled hand, long, thin and elegant, indicates the seat across from him.
Dean swallows but does as he's told because that's what one does when Death invites you to dine.
"I've decided to expand your horizons, Dean. We're having sushi."
Raw fish. Joy.
"Don't worry. I've chosen salmon. A rather resilient species I admire. As I've grown to admire you, Dean."
Yeah, that's not scary at all.
He looks down at his plate at the colorful rounds of rice and fish and other stuff he can't name. He's never had sushi. Never had any desire to. He picks one up. "Am I dead then?"
"Not at all." Death slurps his drink. Green tea, Dean identifies. Lisa used to drink it. "You have a serious concussion, which was enough for me to arrange our talk. You will be difficult to awaken for a while, however."
Dean just nods, waiting for Death to continue. Death, for his part, looks at him and then at the food in his hand. Dean takes the hint and puts it in his mouth.
"Not bad, yes?"
It's… different. Certainly not something he'd choose for himself, but not bad. He gives a small shrug. Satisfied, Death takes a piece of his own. The Horseman uses chopsticks, the show-off.
It's funny, but Dean always meets Death over food. It's always good food, but he can never enjoy it because having Death as his dinner companion completely wrecks his appetite. It dulls his taste buds and turns his stomach into a ball of hot lava. Today is no different. He chews determinedly and swallows down the gooey mass.
"Is it done?" he asks. "Have I fixed it?"
"Yes, it is fixed. With Lilith gone, no more seals will be broken, and the ones that were will eventually heal themselves. The angels and the demons will have to start over. The Mother of All Things—such a pretentious title, don't you think?—is still locked in Purgatory. There's no civil war in Heaven and chaos no longer reigns."
He eats another piece of sushi. It's better than he thought it would be. "So, we're good?"
"Indeed. You have fulfilled your task: I am returned to the same level of inevitability as taxes." Death gives a small smile at his joke.
Dean tries to return it. So many meaningless deaths, literally meaningless because something always brought them back to be killed again, have just been averted. It's good news, good enough that he lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. It's also good because it means this meeting is over. He starts to rise but Death holds up a hand.
"There is that other matter we talked about." Death lifts his napkin and tidily wipes his mouth. "How you and your brother should step out of the limelight, as it were. How is that coming along?"
"It's, um…" Breathe damn it. "It's do-able." Death lifts a skeptical eyebrow. It's a threat not to bullshit him and Dean knows it. "I just have to convince Sam, give him a little nudge, that's all."
"You've managed to derail the plans of some very powerful creatures, Dean, and as I said before, it would be best if you and your brother were both to keep your heads down for quite some time. I'd hate for either of you to repeat your mistakes." It's a threat and the sushi Dean's eaten suddenly feels like plutonium rods in his stomach, but Dead Dean the First had explained this part to him very, very carefully, so he nods in understanding and agreement.
"It would help if I could mention our talks. Fill him in…" Dean stops as Death looks at him with a little frown.
"That was not part of the deal."
"I know," Dean agrees quickly. "It's just… you're Death." Dean stops because Death's looking at him again. There's a little smile, almost a smile, on the Horseman's face.
"Are you saying I have more authority over your brother than you?"
Dean wants to roll his eyes and say "duh" but he's not concussed enough to think that's a good idea. "You're a Horseman of the Apocalypse; I'm only his big brother. He's used to ignoring me."
Death looks at him, calm, assessing and so frigging impersonal. Dean can't help himself: he swallows nervously.
The Horseman sips his tea and wipes his lips on the paper napkin. "Very well. You may inform him of our arrangement and give him my recommendation." Death gives a slightly larger smile and Dean barely refrains from flinching. From the change in Death's expression, he doesn't do a very good job of it.
The Horseman drains his small cup and sets it down on the table with a slight click. Dean waits.
"Now, as much as I've enjoyed our little tête-à-tête, I do have other things to oversee. Have a good life, Dean."
He doesn't put two fingers on Dean's head. He doesn't snap his fingers or wiggle his nose. One moment Dean's eating sushi with Death, the next he's waking up groggy and sore on a cold, wind-swept field, and Sam's staring down at him with wet, red eyes. He's been crying.
"Dean! Jesus fuck. You were almost dead!" In those eyes are panic and anger but mostly bitter, unquenchable grief, so unlike the impersonal puzzlement that Soulless Sam had displayed, or the avaricious enjoyment of the demonic Sam, or Lucifer's cold amusement. This is his brother: fully and completely, Sam Winchester—snot and all.
"Not this time, Sammy," Dean scratches out. "This time we're both going to live… as long as you do exactly what I say."
Sam stares down at his brother. It’s great that he’s back and mostly alive but “The Italian Job? Really? You remember the original didn’t exactly end on a happy note.” It ended with half the bus hanging off a cliff in the Italian Alps with the gold dragging them over and Michael Caine stuck for ideas.
“They totally got off of the mountain,” Dean croaks. “You know I believe it.”
And Sam knows that Dean does believe it because Dean has always believed that if they just try hard enough, long enough, they eventually figure everything out.
Kind of like they just did.
He finally smiles. “Yeah, whatever,” he concedes. He’s got his brother back again so they can negotiate the rest.
They’ve got the time.