Archive of Our Own

"Does it strike you as morbid," Sam asks as the automatic doors glide open in front of them, "to plant graveyard flowers in front of a hospital?"

Dean stops in the open door, turns to look at his brother, at the white lilies along the sidewalk. Takes a second to make sure it's him Sam is talking to, not the Satanic hallucination that seems to be present more often than it isn't, these days.

But Sam is already catching up, meeting Dean's gaze with relaxed consideration.

"No," Dean replies shortly, doesn't actually care one way or the other what kind of flowers are blooming in the small town that is Cheyenne. A small town so far at the edge of Wyoming that it almost spills into Colorado with miles upon miles of snowy acres surrounding it. A town where for the past three days, not a single person has died.

(Maybe, a tiny voice in the back of his mind argues, they should be less concerned with the type of flower and more concerned with the fact that they’re in bloom at all, in the midst of winter. But right now, they have more pressing matters to attend to.)

The nurse the hunters present their CDC-badges to has a confused sort of look on her face, but ultimately seems to decide that she's not being paid enough to deal with whatever made her frown. She sends them on, up an elevator and down a corridor until they're at the office of Dr. Opel and knock at the door, entering without waiting to be invited.

Dr. Opel is an older woman with lines chronically crinkling her forehead, a round face framed by grey hair that might once have been a mousy brown.

Two men are already sitting in her visitor's chairs, looking up in blatant curiosity as the brothers enter.

"Sorry to walk in on you," Dean barrels forwards, tries to downplay his lack of polite waiting with serious professionalism. "But I'm afraid this is urgent. I'm Peter Smith, this is David Jones. We're with the CDC."

Dr. Opel has the same sort of half-surprised, half-confused look on her face as the nurse downstairs, but is doing a better job of hiding it.

The two men are already standing up. But instead of making to leave the room, they come over to shake hands with Sam and Dean.

The taller one smiles at them, a note of annoyance colouring his tone. "One day, I swear, our offices will learn to communicate about where they send us. I'm Hector Farsala, this is my partner, Theo Sorrent. Also CDC."

Shit.

“Farsala. Isn’t that a pasta?” If nothing else, try and buy time to come up with a plan.

The question earns Dean an elbow to the ribs from Sam. “No, that’s Fusilli.”

“It’s a town in Greece,” Farsala offers, annoyance gone, amusement clear on his features. The guy is blonde, has the definition of a sunny disposition, with a soft smile, and broad shoulders and freckles across his nose. Next to him, Sorrent is a few inches shorter, black hair a stark contrast to pale skin. When he shakes Dean's hand, his skin is cold but the grip is firm.

Dean does his best to keep a straight face.

Only two months ago, this would have been where they would have pulled out a business card with a fake name and the number to one of Bobby's phones, the one neatly labelled "CDC". And Bobby would have barked down the line, would have pulled rank he has no rights to so that the brothers could work their case in peace. But Bobby is dead, and the pain too fresh for either of them to have come up with a new cover should they run into trouble.

Before either of the brothers can come up with some sort of explanation, Sorrent is already talking. “We didn’t mean to step on any toes here. We’re from Colorado, but when the higher-ups caught wind of the situation here, they sent us up over the border. You’re the Wyoming contingent, I assume?”

Usually, they do federal, just so they can pull rank over the local authorities. But if an easy out is being offered, Dean is all too willing to take it. “Exactly.”

Farsala turns back to Dr. Opel, shakes the woman’s hand. “I think we were done here, anyway. Thank you so much for your help.” He turns back to face Sam and Dean. “How about we grab lunch together and we update you on what we could find out so far?”

Dean doesn’t particularly like the idea of spending more time than necessary with people who might at any time call base and discover that another CDC-team had not, in fact, been sent to check on the town. But he doesn’t have a good idea on how to decline without tipping off both Dr. Opel and the CDC-guys.

“There’s an Italian fusion place a few blocks away,” Sorrent mentions. “Come on. It’s on us, for beating you to the punch on your own terrain.”

And when has Dean ever been able to say ‘no’ to free food?

The way out of the hospital is spent with almost aggressively menial small-talk. “Since when have they been working on that construction site on the I25? I swear I had to take a detour because of last year already.” – “It’s not even that I don’t like snow, you know. But at some point, enough is enough. I’m ready for spring.”

Sam and Dean make agreeable noises, don’t push the topic they should by rights be talking about. After all, as long as Sorrent and Farsala are carrying the conversation, there’s less chance for Sam and Dean to give themselves away.

Next to Dean, Sam looks oddly relaxed, his focus calm on the conversation he’s barely participating in instead of roaming through the room as it so often is these days, catching on malicious hallucinations.

They make it outside, Sam and Dean immediately bee-lining for the Impala, the other two trailing behind. It takes Dean a moment to realize the two had apparently meant to walk the couple of blocks to the restaurant.

“I’m not wearing the right shoes for a stroll in the snow,” Dean remarks, regardless of the fact that

• A: there are no shoes in the world he’d willingly go for a winter stroll in.

and

• B: the streets and sideways of Cheyenne are free of snow, the city doing their best with the winter services.

Farsala shrugs with an easy smile, rattles off an address. “We’ll meet you there,” he says, then strolls off with his partner.

As Dean pulls out of the parking lot, Sam groans, runs a hand through his hair.

“What’s up?” They only have a few minutes to talk among themselves, and Dean will use them to make sure his little brother is alright.

For a long moment, Sam says nothing, but his face settles into annoyed acceptance. Dean is uncomfortably familiar with that particular expression and knows the gist of the answer before Sam even opens his mouth to voice it.

“Lucifer is sitting in the back seat. He’s singing. If you’re bonkers and you know it, clap your hands.” And then, as if he has to prove a point, he claps his hands twice.

Somehow, against the laws of physics and traffic regulations, Farsala and Sorrent beat them to the restaurant.

Sam and Dean take the seats opposite them, smile at the waitress when she brings two more menus. She’s back a minute later to take drink orders, two minutes after that to actually bring them their drinks.

Only after they order their food does Dean get the chance to broach the topic they’re all here for. “What do you have so far on the case?” He keeps the question vague, not knowing just how well “do you have an idea why no-one is dying in this town?” or “do you even know just how much you’re in over your head?” would go over.

“Not much,” Sorrent replies, still squinting at the artwork at the back of the menu, black hair just shy of falling into his eyes. “Witchcraft, most likely; a summoning or binding ritual gone wrong.”

Dean does a double take, stares openly for a moment. “Witchcraft?” he chokes out after a moment. “Are you being serious?”

Because these two are just a bit too relaxed with the whole situation, too little weirded out by the fact that people stopped dying in an entire town. At the same time, binding something that shouldn’t be bound would take a lot of power, but might actually account for what’s happening.

Sorrent meets his gaze, dark and calm and not at all in a joking mood. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam blinks, gets his thoughts sorted faster than Dean does. “I’m sorry. What do you know about witchcraft?”

“A thing or two. My sister dabbles.”

“Don’t let her hear you call it dabbling,” Farsala snorts under his breath. “And don’t you think you should have lead with more context?” He looks over at Sam and Dean. “Hi. My name is Will Solace, this is Nico DiAngelo. We’re not with the CDC, but then again, neither are you.”

Sam lets out a relived laugh and even Dean has to smile at the easy code-switching. “You’re hunters,” he realizes.

The look on Nico’s face softens as he returns Dean’s smile. “Basically, yes.”

“I’m Sam, this is my brother, Dean,” Sam introduces them, leaning in over the table and abandoning all the stiff shoulders and official behaviour. After all, they’re among peers, now. “So, what did you say about a binding ritual?”

The pasta is good, the conversation insightful.

Nico and Will had come to the city following the same reports Sam and Dean had. They’d taken a first sweep around the city, been to the morgues, to the graveyards, then to the hospital, all without learning much about the situation.

Nobody can explain why people stopped dying, Dr. Opel at the hospital is concerned about it rather than happy, as mutterings and superstitions are already running wild within her staff. Turns out, people not dying when science demands they do is something that really unsettles medical professionals.

Who would have thought?

Once finished with lunch, they exchange numbers, promise to update each other with relevant information before taking significant action and then head off their separate ways.

Back in the Impala, Sam flips through the few news articles they have on the situation while Dean steers them through rush hour traffic.

“This would be easier if we’d know where to start,” Sam complains. “But people not dying is too much of a non-event.”

A truck cuts Dean off and he leans on the horn, earning nothing but annoyance from Sam. “Right. According to Dr. Opel, first person at the hospital who definitely should have died was that old dude who was taken off life support after a heart attack.”

Sam hums along, switches the news articles for the paperwork Nico and Will had all too willingly handed over. “Exactly. But that doesn’t mean it actually has anything to do with him. Everything we know about him suggests he should have died, wanted to die. His family got the chance to say goodbye. You really think it’s them?”

“I don’t know. But it’s the only lead we have right now.”

For a moment, Sam settles his head against the backrest. He lets out a long sigh, then straightens up again. “Let’s go to the family, then. Priest getups?”

Dean is about to reply when something along the side-walk catches his eye. “Hey, Sammy, look at that.”

“What? The college library?”

Dean shakes his head, already pulling into the library’s parking lot. “No. The flowers.” Because between the parking cars, camouflaged by snow and buried underneath grey slush are a few white lilies framing the path.

They don’t take the detour to properly change out of their CDC-suits. Dean gets rid of tie and jacket, loosens the first few buttons of his shirt, puts on his leather jacket.

He walks into the building on his own, eyes scanning over the entrance room. There’s service desks to the right, return stations to the left, stairs and an elevator straight ahead. Crammed between the staircase and the high windows are a few rows of shelves with a “new purchases” sign above them.

Having little to no interest in browsing through any of the written information stored in this building, Dean heads over to the shelves, starts flipping through the most recent purchases meant to feed the minds of college kids.

It takes only a minute or two until the door opens once again. Sam enters with a book-bag slung over his shoulder, a blue pullover over his white dress shirt. He takes a quick look around, locks eyes with Dean for a mere moment before heading on to the service desk closest to Dean.

“Hello,” he greets the receptionist, all exited voice and soft smile. “My name is James Reeds, I’m currently going for my Master’s degree in Sheridan. I’m doing my thesis on summoning rituals from different cultures. Does your library have any literature on that?”

The receptionist, a girl Sam’s age with soft blonde curls and an unfortunate overbite frowns, half charmed by his energy, half confused by the request. “Summoning rituals?” she echoes.

Sam shrugs, a “what can I do?”-gesture that makes his tall body look smaller and less threatening than it actually is. “My professor thinks it’s a topic that hasn’t been explored enough and now he makes me travel through the entire state hoping to find books on how to summon the supernatural.”

When she smiles, the receptionist’s overbite doesn’t look as unfortunate anymore. “I had an English lit professor like that, once. Made me track down translations of Chinese poetry to compare to American writers.” When she rolls her eyes, the look she gives Sam is commiserating and open. She makes a gesture towards the staircase. “Our Ancient Cultures section is on the second floor, keep to your left, just behind the books on modern religion. If you get to the study area, you already walked past it.”

“Thanks,” Sam says, an earnest and wide smile on his face. “Anyone up there who might help me find specifics, or am I on my own?”

“That’s usually Sheila’s part of the library, but she’s taken a few personal days. You can ask Toby if you need anything, he’s over in the Historical Politics section on the other side of the floor.”

“Good to know, thanks.”

Dean replaces the book whose cover he hadn’t been reading anyway back on the shelf, calls the elevator while Sam heads up the stairs.

Toby is an easy man to find, sorting returned books back onto the shelves while humming under his breath. Dean approaches, shoes just dragging over the floor enough to make a noise and warn the man of his presence. His eyes are a watery blue tapering off into a muddy brown around the edges, his beard growing in the stubbly patches of a man who should shave more often.

“You must be Toby,” Dean says in a lowered voice, putting on a face of slight recognition.

Toby raises an eyebrow. “Says who?” It’s bored rather than confrontational. Dean can work with that.

“Sheila.”

Boredom is replaced by recognition and confusion. Before he can get up any form of defence, Dean closes the distance, offers his hand in introduction. “I’m Denis, Sheila’s cousin. She mentioned working the floor at the library with a Toby over Thanksgiving last year.”

The beginnings of a fight that had taken root in Toby flood away, his shoulders softening with the new information. “Nice to meet you,” he says while shaking Dean’s hand. “What brings you by?

“I was in the area, thought I’d drop by to say hello. Then I realized that since my niece shattered my phone over Christmas, I lost a bunch of addresses and don’t know the city well enough to find to her place by memory alone. I asked in the family group chat, but my senile uncle posted some video minutes after, and now everyone is talking about that instead of sending me Sheila’s address.” Dean’s gestures are getting bigger, flying hands just avoiding toppling over the precarious stack of books on Toby’s cart. “Then I thought I could just swing by here, she should be working anyway this time of day, and she’d said she works the Ancient Cultures section, but I didn’t find her there, so I thought I’d look who else I could find.”

Dean smiles at Toby, wide and unguarded and charming, the kind of smile that has gotten him into many beds and even more fights.

When Sam shows up at their motel room, he does so with three new books and a bag of take-out. Dean is grateful for both, but knows which he’ll pay attention to, first.

“Find anything good?” he asks five minutes later, burger in one hand, beer in the other, Sam across from him at the tiny table in their shared crappy motel room.

Sam takes another bite of his burger, swallows it down with a swig of beer. “I found something,” he replies, wiping his hand on his pants before putting one of his new books open in front of Dean. “Took me a while to half make sense of it, though.”

Dean takes a look at the pages in front of him and immediately abandons any hope of making sense of this, himself. “This isn’t Latin.”

Sam smiles, excited about his research and completely in his element. “No, it’s not. It’s Ancient Greek.”

“Which neither of us speaks or reads.”

“No. But do you know who does?” Sam is still smiling.

Dean wagers a guess. “Sheila?”

Sam nods. “Exactly. And since dear Sheila is currently taking a few personal days, Penny from the reception desk was kind enough to let me take a look at her notes.”

Dean whistles through his teeth. “Seriously? Letting you read a colleague’s research without supervision? Man, you’ve got more game than I give you credit for.”

The look on Sam’s face is less than approving, but he makes no remark of it. “Anyway, even once translated into English, this doesn’t make a lot of sense in relation to everything we know.” He pulls out a stack of papers, fans them out next to burgers and fries. “The wording is rather unclear, shifting in translation and such. But bottom line is she found a summoning ritual for an Alpha.”

Dean almost chokes on his beer.

Oh, the things Crowley would have done to get his hands on this a year ago. To be able to summon the first monster of its kind, instead of having to hunt them down one by one, offspring by offspring, in hopes of getting close enough to not kill but capture.

(And why does a year feel like half a lifetime ago?)

“Which Alpha?”

“That’s where it gets weird,” Sam says, like the thought of summoning an Alpha isn’t weird on its own. “This ritual is designed to summon and bind the Alpha of Reapers.”

“Well, that doesn’t make sense. Reapers aren’t monsters.”

Sam shrugs. “My thoughts exactly. But that’s what the translation says.”

Dean lets his gaze wander over the assembled texts. “Anything else of interest in there?”

“Quite a few things on summoning Death,” Sam replies. “I looked through them, buts it’s mostly consistent with what we found when we summoned him at Bobby’s. Some Greek texts that describe Death as a minor God rather than what we know him to be. But that was probably just muddled in translation with the Alpha of Reapers thing.”

“Anything on how to free this Alpha?”

Sam shakes his head. “Not yet, but I haven’t read all of this, yet. One way or the other, we’d have to find Sheila, first.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Dean replies. “I have her address.”

Dean, in fact, doesn’t just have her address, but has spent a considerable part of his afternoon in her neighbourhood, staking out the place, talking to neighbours.

Sheila Adams is a woman in her forties whose son is nine, has cancer and doctors say he won’t make it to see the fireworks at the Fourth of July. They’re surprised he even made it to the new year. Apparently, she’s a dedicated and kind woman who is always up for a chat or to help a neighbour with carrying groceries.

Nobody has seen her in the past three days.

Lights are burning in the upper story of her house, and she answers the telephone with her usual resigned cheer.

But for the past three days, she hasn’t opened the door to anyone.

After dinner, Sam gets back to research while Dean tends to their weapons. He sharpens knives, cleans guns, keeps an eye on Sam who keeps scowling at the doorway leading to the small bathroom.

When Dean follows his gaze, the doorway is empty.

But he knows what his brother sees.

He doesn’t ask about it.

Dean falls asleep around three in the morning and is awoken an indeterminable time later by Sam stuck in a nightmare, yelling and thrashing.

Outside their windows, the sky is still dark, but the snow reflects the street lights and casts the early morning in a yellow glow. “Want to head out and get breakfast?” Dean offers.

Sam runs a hand over his face. He looks tired.

Dean doesn’t know when he last got a good night’s sleep.

“I should shower and then get back to my research. Get me a coffee when you head out?”

Dean gets him a coffee and a bagel and a smoothie that looks way too healthy for his own taste so it might just be the right thing for Sam.

He barely gets a nod in thanks upon returning with breakfast before Sam’s mind is back on the case. “So, get this. I got through more of Sheila’s translations. Apparently, summoning this Alpha of Reapers isn’t even that hard. The problem is rather the question about how to keep what you summoned from killing you.” He pats around for another piece of paper. “This ritual describes a way to bank up his powers.”

Dean looks over the ritual. It’s complex, sure, but they’ve done heavier stuff in the past. A few of the ingredients Dean has never even heard of, sound hard to get your hands on, but that isn’t really his concern right now, either. Beyond that, it’s runes and spell-work, burning herbs and proper timing. “She did this on the first day of spring?”

“Four days ago,” Sam confirms.

“So, break the binding circle, have him collect who he missed out on these past few days, and then off to the next case?” Dean asks, already knowing that it won’t be quite that easy.

Predictably, Sam shakes his head. “Looks like this Alpha has quite a bit of juice. And the ritual only serves to bank it up for the moment, not to make it go away for good.”

“So, we free him, his bottled-up powers come pouring out?” Dean doesn’t like the sound of that, doesn’t like the way Sam is nodding at his question. “Anything we can do about it?”

Sam waves a hand over Sheila’s notes. “Nothing in here, at least. But, Dean…”

Dean already knows what his brother wants to tell him. The longer they wait, the more power they’ll have to try and disperse later. And it’s not like they can just let things stand as they are now. “We can’t really put this off, either,” he finishes for Sam.

Sam, because he’s a nerd who wants to keep up good relations, tries calling Nico and Will on their way to Sheila’s. They don’t pick up, but Sam diligently updates the voicemail on their findings, tells them Sheila’s address.

It’s probably better this way, to not have two strangers at their side while they try to diffuse a supernatural bomb without any tools or instruction.

They ring the doorbell but nobody answers, not that they expected her to. They’re in their FBI-suits, but people don’t even look at them twice as Sam finds a key underneath a flower pot filled with white lilies and lets themselves in.

The house is colourful and friendly, but fallen into a bit of a mess. Framed family pictures hang on forest green walls, laundry both clean and crumpled is littered over the violet couch. Dust clings to the couch table. From the direction of the kitchen wafts a smell that tells of food disregarded but not disposed of too many days ago.

The staircase creaks underneath their feet as Sam and Dean make their way upstairs, guns at the ready even though they know they won’t be of much use against what they’re about to face.

Finding the correct room isn’t hard: of four doors, only two are open, one of them a bathroom. The other is a child’s bedroom.

A bed with space-themed spreads and medical equipment stands to one side of the room, occupied by a sleeping child with irregular breathing and clammy skin. Next to the bed sits a woman who must be Sheila, gaunt features making her look old and tired. With one hand, she pushes sandy blonde hair out of her son’s face.

On the other side of the room, shrouded in shadows the morning light doesn’t account for, stands a tall figure. Dean doesn’t know if he is an Alpha, or a God, or something else entirely. In any case, it feels demeaning to call him a man.

Standing in a corner of the room, a devil’s trap over his head, a summoning circle around his feet, runes and symbols littered all over the floor surrounding him, stands who might be the most beautiful man Dean has ever seen. His skin is the colour of ebony wood, his eyes a molten gold. A pair of wings stretch out behind him, tangible and solid and ruffling in all the colours of the night.

Sheila barely stirs when the hunters enter the room, but her breath comes with an added shudder to it.

The Alpha, on the other hand, moves forward, as much as the binding runes on the floor will let him. He tracks attentive eyes first over Dean, then over Sam, a curious lilt to his lips as he regards them.

“You’re two interesting ones,” he comments blandly. “Not many manage to be taken by my kind and return to live their lives unpersecuted.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Oh, we’ve been persecuted, all right.”

He remembers all too well the things that had happened in the decades he’d spent in hell, and still thinks it might be better than what Sam is dealing with these days, being haunted by what happened in the pit, haunted by Lucifer not only in his dreams, but during his waking hours, too.

“But you are still here.” His voice is melodic, but carries no hint of softness. From somewhere, he procures a tablet, taps away on it, tutting as he goes. “And this doesn’t tell me to return you to the hell you escaped.”

Dean looks at the tablet askew. “Since when do Reapers carry lists? Memory not as good as it once was?”

Even an ugly emotion as disdain cannot make his face less handsome. “Do you think me a reaper?”

Across the room, Sheila stirs.

“Not a reaper,” Sam stresses. “The Alpha of Reapers.”

There is a question in his voice, because he is putting things together, just as Dean is.

Alphas are as their offspring, but stronger, faster, more powerful, more in control. None of that accounts for the wings on this creature. Dean has seen Castiel’s wings, Anna’s wings, the wings of a dozen other angels. But all of them had been impressions, shadows on a wall, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it demonstration of power meant to intimidate and impress. Yet this creature’s wings are solid as a bird’s, they look soft and move with every breath he takes.

So, he’s probably not a reaper – least of all their Alpha – but he’s not an angel of the Lord, either.

“If you’re not a reaper, what are you?” Dean asks.

“I am Thanatos.”

The words carry grandeur, the name carries power.

But Dean has never heard it, can’t place it, can’t put lore or myths, strengths and weaknesses to it.

“He’s the Greek god of Death,” Sheila says, voice shaking. “I… I messed up the translation on the ritual.”

Sam turns towards her. “And why do you have the Greek god of Death bound in your son’s bedroom?”

“I couldn’t let him take my baby,” she wails. “The doctors said there was nothing else they could do for him, but I couldn’t just let him die. Someone had to do something.”

“So, you bound a god in a rune circle and then what?” Dean is quickly running out of whatever patience he had left entering this building.

Sheila looks at the brothers, looks at the god she summoned and captured, looks at her son in the bed next to her. “The doctors said he would die before the month is out. Like this, he can’t. But he isn’t getting better, either.” She sinks to the bed, sits next to the child she did the impossible for. “Why won’t he get better?”

“Because there is a difference,” Thanatos replies in a deep baritone, “between living and not dying.”

“All I did was in vain,” Sheila sniffles, gaze locked on her son, voice tiny and brittle. With considerable effort, she raises her gaze, looks at the god she so thoughtlessly captured. “I’m sorry.”

Thanatos’s face is unreadable. “I believe you,” he replies slowly. “But it doesn’t change what you have done. It will not alter the consequences resulting from your actions.”

“You can take me,” Sheila offers immediately, no fight at all left in her. “Without him, I wouldn’t know what to live for, anyway.”

“This is already so much bigger than you,” Thanatos informs her. “This is not about this house, or this street, or this block. This is about the city district if not the city as a whole.”

Dean had hoped it would be less.

Other gods they’d faced only needed a few sacrifices every decade or so.

Tens of thousands of people for just four days of capture seems a bit excessive.

Dean’s thoughts must be written on his face, for Thanatos turns towards him. “Do you think me callous, young hunter?”

“Well, a bit drastic, at least. I’ve been held in hell for forty years, and did not go on a killing spree once I got out.” Which is only half the truth, but Dean’s killing spree had strictly focussed on monsters, not innocent humans. “Plus, the whole revenge-thing is a bit overdone, isn’t it?” He honestly, genuinely doesn’t think this line of reasoning will yield results.

“This isn’t about revenge,” Thanatos replies, explains what Sam had laid out only an hour before. “This is about building a dam and then releasing all the water at once and trying to argue away the force of a flood.”

“Tell us how to operate the floodgates, then. Let your power out in a controlled manner.” Dean can’t decide if the look he gets in reply is condescending or just pitying.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you trying to stem this flood would be as useful as throwing a grain of sand onto the shore and calling it a dune.”

Condescending then, good to know.

Next to him, Sam shifts, sudden and surprised by something, though not unhappy with it. A beat later, Thanatos tilts his head, curious and confused.

Dean is the last to catch on to the pair of footsteps heading up the stairs.

He had half forgotten about Nico and Will, certainly hadn’t expected them to show up at Sheila’s place before all was said and done. (Not that the brothers were making a lot of headway right now.)

Nico strolls into the room with the air of a salesman at an auction – wholly at peace, with a certainty to him that all proceedings will go at his leisure, unhurried and at the centre of attention.

He walks over to Sheila, first, shakes her trembling hand. “Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Nico, this is my partner, Will. You must be Sheila. Is this your son?”

Sheila nods, makes space so that Nico can step up to the bed.

Placing his hands on either side of the boy’s face, Nico leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. The kid heaves one last, shuddering and rattling breath, then he finally gets to rest, falling silent as his mother cries quiet tears.

Nico turns his back to the bed, steps over to join the brothers in the middle of the room. “Sam, Dean,” he says in greeting. “Thanks for the voicemail. We came as fast as we could.”

“Yeah, man, of course,” Sam says, with more appreciation in his eyes than Dean finds suitable in this exact situation. After all, Nico had just, somehow, allowed the kid to die, with a god of death bound only a few paces away.

When Nico turns to address the god in the room, he does so with a straight spine and squared shoulders and the utmost respect in his voice. “Thanatos.”

“Little ambassador.”

“I feel like I outgrew that title almost a decade ago.” There is no strife in Nico’s voice, only fondness.

“You know how little time means to one as old as me.” Thanatos flares his wings, the feathers catching the morning light streaming in through the open curtains. “Did your father send you?”

Nico nods. “He noticed you missing, a friend noticed reports of people no longer dying. Someone connected the dots, now here we are.”

“Are you going to free me, then?”

Without a second thought, Nico takes a step forwards. Before he can scratch a hole in the binding circle with his boot, Dean yanks him back. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll level half the city,” Sam replies. “All his pent-up energy being released.”

Nico faces the god. “Is that true?”

A shrug, more casual than the situation deserves. Thanatos’ voice suddenly carries a warmth previously absent. “Unless you know someone to harness it safely.”

Nico almost seems amused by the statement. He walks up to the circle once more, stops so that the tips of his boots barely touch the circle. “Come here, then.”

Thanatos steps up to the circle’s edge, large wings fluffing behind him. He towers over Nico, but the way he bends his neck to touch his forehead against Nico’s has something obedient to it.

For a long, eternal seeming moment, nothing happens.

Sam has gone still, Will watches the scene before him with little worry on his face, even Sheila’s cries have died down to a sniffle. Dean doesn’t dare breathe.

When Nico lifts a foot to scratch at the binding runes on the floor for the second time, nobody moves to stop him.

When Thanatos stretches his wings, they fill up the entire room, spanning from one wall to the other, grazing the ceiling while the tips hang down to drag over the floor.

“I leave you with my gratitude, little ambassador,” Thanatos says.

It isn’t that he moves, not in the way Dean knows to quantify the term. But somehow, his presence seems to shift, becomes more, becomes suffocating. His being fills the room and it’s mesmerizing.

“Don’t look at him,” Will’s voice is sharp, commanding, an order rather than a suggestion. Dean averts his gaze, shields his eyes.

Even through closed eyes, Dean can track the way the soft morning light outside the window is superseded by a supernatural light, glowing and bright. It chases away all the shadows from the room before vanishing.

When the room is back to its normal brightness, Dean opens his eyes.

Thanatos is gone, the runes that bound him and the wooden floors they’d been scribbled on burned away. Next to him, Sam is uncovering his eyes, gaze finding first Dean, then roaming around the room.

Is it a hunter’s awareness or is he looking for Lucifer, lingering in a corner?

But the face Sam pulls isn’t that of annoyed acceptance. The look he casts past Dean is one of sadness and regret.

On the other side of the room, sunken onto the mattress next to her recently deceased son, lies Sheila. No sobs spill from her mouth, no breath moves her chest.

Her eyes are burned out, blackened holes in an ashen face.

It feels like an eternity has passed since Dean had stood by and witnessed something similar happen to Pamela. Back when he’d been fresh out of hell, back when all he was after was to know the truth about who got him topside again.

Back before he’d known Castiel.

Not many can stand to witness an angel’s true form, the Seraphim had told him once.

Apparently, the same goes for Greek gods.

Nico and Will don’t waste a lot of time with the clean-up. Headings downstairs, Will already has a phone to his ear, calling authorities for a ‘welfare check-up’ on Sheila. Police won’t make haste to arrive, but sooner or later, someone will find mother and son, surrounded by burn-marks and odd symbols on the walls.

Dean plans on having left town by then.

But before they leave the case behind, he has a few questions he’d like to have answered.

Just as Nico puts a hand on the doorhandle, Dean pulls a gun on him, flicks off the safety with the ease of practice. “What are you?”

Nico’s hand stills as he turns his head to face Dean. A few paces behind him, Sam has his gun in hand as well, not yet raised, waiting for Will to make a move.

Will looks oddly resigned to the situation, leans against the stairwell, arms crossed.

“You took that kid’s life up there, and Thanatos’ magical mumbo-jumbo and he called you what, exactly? His ambassador?”

“Not his ambassador,” Nico stresses. “Pluto’s.” He runs a hand through his hair, fluffy and black and in need of a trim almost as badly as Sam’s.

“The planet?” Dean shoots back, incredulous.

“Dwarf planet, actually,” Sam cuts in. “It’s too slow to be considered a …” He cuts himself off when Dean shoots him a look.

Nico looks bemused, and all too unconcerned by the gun currently being pointed at him. “No, not the planet. Roman god of the Underworld.”

“You work for a Roman god?” Sam asks, curious as much as he is sceptical.

Nico shrugs. “I sometimes run errands for him.”

“But what are you?” Dean stresses, still caught up on his initial question.

It’s Will who answers, pushing off the stairs and slowly walking over to stand besides Nico. “We’re nothing you need to worry about. We’re more human than we are not, even if we have a few more tricks up our sleeves than most.”

“That doesn’t actually answer the question,” Dean snaps back.

Sam knows better than to grabs Dean’s gun arm while the safety is off, so the calming hand lands on his shoulder instead. “Let them be, Dean. They did nothing but help us.”

Dean wants to hold his ground, wants to snap and demand answers. But when he looks at Sam, he notices just how tired his brother looks.

When had he last slept without waking from a nightmare?

“You ever decide to turn that energy against other people, we’re gonna find you and put an end to it,” Dean tells Nico while flipping the safety back onto his gun and putting the weapon away.

“Sure thing,” Nico replies. Going by the way he smiles as he finally does open the door, he doesn’t consider it a proper threat.

“It was good meeting you,” Will says as they amble out to where the Impala is parked at the curb.

Dean wonders how the other two had gotten here. No additional car has arrived in the time they’d been inside the house.

“Yeah,” Sam replies, something like awe in his voice. “Likewise.”

“Let’s not do it again too soon.” Dean has never liked teaming up with other hunters. Likes it even less if it’s people of questionable powers and loyalties.

Sam exchanges a few last pleasantries before joining Dean in the car.

“You didn’t have to be so rude to them.”

“What? Suddenly, being buddies with death gods is a point in someone’s favour? When did that happen?” It’s not the point, and Dean knows it. But his nerves are stretched thin as they are, with Cas gone, the Leviathan taking over the country and Sam’s hallucinations getting worse by the day.

He’s happy to dial up the temperature of an argument and to warm himself at the resulting heat.

That, at least, is familiar.

“I’m just saying, we could have asked if they wanted to have lunch together before we hit the road again.”

Nico and Will are getting smaller with distance as they walk along the snowy side-walk. The way Sam pinches the bridge of his nose as they turn a corner and vanish from view has something defeated to it.

“You seem a bit too eager to spend time with these two,” Dean remarks as the Impala pulls onto the street with a roar. Sam’s shoulders are slumped, his forehead crinkled. “What? Am I not good enough for you?”

“Believe it or not, but not everything is about you,” Sam snarks back.

The fight drains out of Dean at his brother’s obvious exhaustion. He ignores the attitude, knows something is going on he isn’t quite privy to. “What’s this about, then?”

Sam makes a vague gesture over his shoulder. “Lucifer is currently in the back seat, singing an altered version of Twelve Days of Christmas. Apparently, the third day is three eternal curses.”

Of course, it’s Lucifer. Of course, Sam is loosing sleep over his hallucinations, can only ignore them when locking in on the case. “So, his music taste is declining. What does that have to do with anything?”

“He’s never around when Nico and Will are.”

Dean breaks hard enough that the car behind him honks before swerving around. “What?”

His brother shrugs. “I don’t know what it is. But as long as these two are around, no hallucinations.” Sam shrugs, a dismissive gesture. “But I can’t use them as a crutch, I know that. I gotta deal with this myself.”

“No, screw that.” Dean makes a U-turn, a second later has the Impala roaring down the street in the opposite direction.

Nico and Will look at them with surprise when Dean breaks next to them.

“There’s a diner around the corner from our motel,” he says, no real plan in his mind, short of bribing them with food. “Want to have lunch before we never see each other again?”

The two men exchange a look. “Sure,” Will says slowly, already opening his mouth to say something more.

Dean cuts over him. “Great. Jump in, we’ll give you a lift.”

Sam’s relieved exhale next to him is worth all the confused looks these near-strangers can level in his direction.

Maybe, using them as a crutch will only ever be a temporary measure. Maybe, inviting them for lunch, and then insisting on having pie for desert is the least of what Dean is willing to do to see the worry lines on Sam’s face relax for a while.

Maybe, neither of them has learned to handle Sam’s hallucinations quite yet.

Maybe, they never will.

Maybe, they’ll run into a miracle and won’t have to.