Work Text:
“What’s your decision?”
Rufus cocks his head at, apparently, Death. “Can you fault me for thinking this sounds too good to be true?”
If he didn’t know better, he’d say her lips quirk just a little, like she wants to smile. “I know. But like I said, we’re…” She pulls an expression of distaste. “Shaking things up. This is the last time any resurrections will occur on my watch. What dies will stay dead.” She holds her hands out in a what can you do gesture. “But me and my colleagues are reworking Heaven, and in that process, we’ve found a few souls that might deserve a second chance. You’re one of them.”
Rufus looks at her for a long moment. “Let me guess: this has something to do with the Winchester boys.”
An expression that is difficult to describe crosses the woman’s face—hate with maybe a dash of respect, irritation with a bit of amusement. “Doesn’t it always?”
“Fair enough.” Rufus chuckles, but nothing about this feels very funny. The woman keeps watching him, scythe in hand. It’s an elegant weapon, sharp-edged and intricate in its designs; he kind of wants to ask if he can give it a try, but somehow, he thinks that wouldn’t go over very well. “Alright. Then let’s do this.”
“Are you certain? There will be no returning here until you die again,” She says ominously.
“I’m certain.” Rufus plasters a grin on, because if nothing else, he knows how to put on a brave face. “Let’s do it. Send me on back, baby.”
The woman sighs, like dealing with humans is perhaps the worst part of her job, and then there’s nothing.
---
Rufus is standing in a field. He looks around, and there’s nothing but endless rolling hills of grass and bright sunshine. If he squints, he thinks he can see a road on the distant horizon. Great. Supernatural entities never make things easy for you, do they?
He gives himself a quick once-over. He’s wearing the outfit he died in, it looks like, minus the hole in the chest. He doesn’t have his cell phone or his wallet or the knife he always keeps tucked in his boot, but other than that, everything seems normal. He feels normal—weird about being resurrected, but apparently, that’s the kind of thing that just happens now. He’s not sure if he can really unpack all of that right now.
So, ever a man of action, Rufus makes a beeline for the road.
For a few minutes, there’s just the sound of birds singing in the distance and the soft thud of his boots on thick grass. He takes slow, deep breaths, enjoying the cutting clarity of fresh air; some things Heaven couldn’t duplicate, and that’s one of them.
Strangely, he doesn’t miss it. When he thinks about the repeated memories, the moments with his family and his friends and more than a few bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue, they’re nice, but there’s a haziness to them. Like he’d been dreaming, just subdued enough to stay content and docile. Rufus likes eternal peace as much as the next guy, but he’ll take the sun at his back and the ground beneath his feet over it any day.
It doesn’t take as long as he thought it might to reach the road. As he gets nearer, he thinks he might see a truck heading toward him. And then, he’s sure he sees a truck, and damn if it isn’t one he recognizes.
“Hey there, stranger,” Rufus drawls when the window rolls down.
Bobby Singer grins at him, and for a brief moment, they’re a pair of fucked-up, overzealous, thirty-year-old hunters again, with a matching pair of vendettas and a proclivity for finding themselves in comically disastrous situations. Rufus knows they’re both too old to live those kinds of lives again, especially since this is their very last second chance. He knows that. But for just a second, he lets himself relive it, lets himself revel in the nostalgia.
“Get in the damn truck, Rufus,” Bobby says. But that grin is still there, easy like it’s only been a day since they’ve seen each other, like they haven’t both been dead, and Rufus doesn’t argue. He gets in the truck.
It’s just quiet, for a while. Rufus listens comfortably to the crunch asphalt under the truck’s tires, the way Bobby hums softly to himself. He’d forgotten he used to do that.
“How’d you know where to find me?”
Bobby shrugs. “Just had a feeling.”
Rufus grins again, but doesn’t say anything more. He looks at the window at the empty fields, the flat stretch of whatever deserted part of the Midwest they’re in. It’s a beautiful day. Bobby’s here beside him. They’re both alive, somehow.
As second chances go, Rufus thinks, this isn’t too bad.