Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Death's death was a problem.

Oh, not for most people. There were the millions of family folk who had massive heart attacks, but just kept on keeping on. Multi-car pileups were rendered much less interesting to gawkers, because the victims would simply wait for the emergency response teams to cut them out of their vehicles, stagger home, and dump their bloody clothes in the washer. Helpful friends merely told them to be sure to use cold water.

A few modern art aficionados took to staging wrecks, then painting the resulting mess in graffiti style fake obituaries.

The main problem, as far as everyone could tell, was that people got careless. Why would an airplane pilot be cautious when he (or she, as the case might be) knew that any screw-ups would result, at worst, in a stay at the hospital for the more mangled survivors?

Another problem--quite unexpected--was that families with elderly relatives in nursing homes were dragged through emotional and financial quagmires as granny just kept...living, even though there was pain. It's not as if elderly bodies suddenly became healthy again, mentally whole again. They just stayed alive. The nursing home companies were ecstatic: no need for expensive equipment, and many more months--maybe years!--of outrageous amounts of money. Their profit margins flew through the roof, and families bled out money.

Probate lawyers across the country filed for bankruptcy in droves. So did estate planners. And funeral directors. The resulting increase in unemployment and aid to families made the current administration look very bad.

Liquor companies did well. The bars and living rooms of the world were filled with government and industry strategic planners staring, dazed, into their scotch or martinis. They were creative, yes, but who the hell could dream up the various consequences of no death?

The world population skyrocketed as births kept going. Suicide attempts became a new performance art. Oil companies jacked up prices as they realized their limited supply needed to be extended further and further. War still continued, but armies had to scramble to come up with strategies to deal with never-dying opponents.

As far as Dean and Sam were concerned, though, it was a personal mess.

They were gathering a collection of very chatty vampire heads in one room of the bunker; they'd lop off the head, but the vamp was still alive, hissing angrily and displaying its teeth. The more creative vamp heads would open and close their mouths to try and rock the head close enough to get a bite. Of course, it was a slow business, so neither of the brothers was in any danger. But it was extremely creepy. The good side: their victims lived on, even though drained of blood. If they were generally healthy to begin with, their bodies would simply generate new blood, and they would go on about their lives. Oh, they might have PTSD, but, hey, at least they were alive.

Right?

Werewolves were no longer killable. They had another room in the bunker slowly filling with growling werewolf heads. Dean didn't really want to think of what happened to wolf vics that were eaten...did they just...stay alive inside the werewolf's stomach? What about when the werewolf finished digesting? The thought of intelligent werewolf shits trying to come back together was also creepy.

They could still deal with ghosts, specters, vengeful spirits. At least something still worked the way it was supposed to.

And Cas. Oh. Em. Gee. Cas just moped around, lost. Oh, every few days, he would venture out and do some healing, but he would return worn and dispirited, and complain that the supply of sick, hurt, mangled people was unending. Hanna had sent other angels down to help, but they, too, would become dispirited. She had to set up a rotation plan so her angel corps wouldn't burn out.

Crowley was giving them hell. Figuratively speaking. No deaths equalled no new souls for him to mess with. Hell was going to hell in a hand basket, he told them acidly, because of no new blood, new ideas. And what good was it to try and get people to sell their souls when they knew they wouldn't die? Business had plummeted. He blew up their phones with text messages, demanding they DO SOMETHING! ANYTHING!! To fix the mess. Which, he constantly snidely pointed out, was THEIR BLOODY FAULT!!!

They ended up blocking him for a while. He merely took to popping up whenever they were outside the bunker, and delivering his scathing tirades in person. Dean caved first and unblocked him; it was far easier to just ignore the shouty messages than a shouty Crowley in person.

The problem was, they had no idea what to do.

Chapter Text

"Dean. We have to do something." Cas was grim. "The world's population has already increased by more than three percent since you killed Death, and it's only been two months. The rate will continue to increase. And Heaven and Hell are both stagnating."

Dean slugged down some beer and gave Cas a quizzical look. "Yeah, well, just what do you expect me to do about it?"

Cas frowned. "Surely we can brainstorm some possible solutions."

Dean snorted and plunked his beer bottle on the common room table. "If you think Sam and I haven't been trying to come up with ideas..."

Cas silently paced back and forth for a few minutes. Dean just watched him. Sam wandered into the common room, toweling his hair dry from his morning shower.

"Oh, hey, Cas. What's up?"

He wasn't prepared for the impassioned response. Cas threw his hands in the air, and shouted, "What's up is the world population! I don't think you two really understand how dire the situation is! We need to...to...replace Death. Resurrect him. Something! And soon!"

Dean folded his arms on the table and propped his chin on them. He muttered sardonically, "Y'know, resurrecting him is probably a bad idea. He's gonna be royally pissed." He reached out with one hand and idly rotated the beer bottle. "Besides, that would take some real powerful mojo. Like, God-level mojo, I'm thinking."

Sam sat down at the table, thoughtfully rubbing the ends of his hair with the towel. "We've been trying to think of a solution, Cas. It's not like we haven't noticed the problems it's causing...it's just--just--" He stopped and waved his hands in exasperation. "We haven't got the vaguest idea how to solve it."

Dean murmured, "Yeah. We've got rooms full of talking disembodied vampire and werewolf heads to keep the situation fresh for us, y'know..."

Cas had been striding back and forth, getting more and more perturbed. He stopped and spun around to face Sam, pointing an accusatory finger.

"Dammit! We can't afford that kind of defeatism, Sam! And if the three of us can't come up with ideas, maybe we should involve some other people!"

Sam folded his lips, leaned back and gestured with a hand, palm up, inviting suggestions. "Like who?"

Cas stared pensively into space. "Hmmm. Well, Hannah, as Heaven is directly involved. And Crowley, of course--"

Dean dropped his head on his hands, groaning. "Oh, God. He's bad enough as it is. He's turned into a world-class nag about the whole damn business!" He clutched his hair and yanked at it.

Cas looked at him through narrowed eyes, and repeated firmly, "And Crowley, of course." Dean just whimpered. "Reapers."

Dean jerked his head up in horror. "What?!? Reapers?!? They all want my head on a plate! Nuh-uh, nope, no way. No Reapers and Dean Winchester in the same place, thank you very much."

"I would ward you from them. Any other objections?" Cas's voice was steely, and if looks were weapons, his glare at Dean would have skewered him. Dean regarded him grumpily, his jaw working, but said nothing in response.

Sam rubbed his chin. "Hunh. How about...Atropos and her sisters? I'd think they'd be pretty damned interested."

Cas nodded agreement. "Good idea, Sam. I can locate them, and the Reapers."

Dean sat up again, getting interested. His brain was ticking over ideas. "So...what? We're talking some sort of...big conference with all these characters?"

"That was what I was envisioning," Cas responded.

"Well, then...what about some gods of death? Surely there are a bunch of them floating around the world, and I'd think they'd be pretty damned interested," Dean suggested.

Cas clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at the floor, thinking. "Hmmm...there are a lot of them...they might have some ideas..."

Sam shook his head urgently. "Whoa! No way. Every single one of them would be jockeying for the chance to be the new Death. Things could get real ugly, real fast. No death gods."

Dean looked at him, made a face, then nodded reluctant agreement. Cas shot a look at Sam from under his brows, lifted his head back up, and sighed. "No. You make a very good point there. Too much conflict of interest."

Dean slapped his hands decisively on the table, pushed his chair back, and stood up. "Okay then. Let's do it! Set a date and time, find a conference room large enough, and start rounding up the players..."

It wasn't exactly a solution, but it certainly felt like the beginning of a plan.

Chapter Text

They ended up deciding to hold the conference in the bunker after all.

Since there were so many Reapers, the Reapers had decided to send only a delegation. Seven, they thought, would be good: a prime number, very mystic, and there would be no fear of ties when casting votes.

Atropos was easy for Cas to find, and her sister Clotho, but Lachesis was nowhere to be found. Atropos pinched her lips together disapprovingly at the news, but Clotho merely laughed and tossed her golden curls. Clotho was much less stuffy than her sister.

Crowley had snarled, "About damned time!" when informed of the meeting.

Hannah had just smiled gently at Cas, and murmured, "Of course I will be there." Her soft eyes followed his form wistfully as he left Heaven's current command center.

Dean and Sam peered into the common room. It was crowded--there were more people in there at once than they had ever seen. Dean's shoulders itched: what with the Reapers and the Fates all having excellent reason to hate him, the thought of stepping out in front of them made him twitchy. Sam dropped a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it, and said, "Well. Let's get this party started."

He slid the hand down his brother's back and gave him a little push. Dean staggered forward a step, then turned a dark look at him. "Dude!" he hissed. Sam just nodded his head to the entrance to the common room, lifted his eyebrows, and gestured him along.

The hubbub slowly died down as they entered. They had pushed the two tables together, end to end, and collected all the chairs they could find. The table was crowded. As the room quieted, everyone's attention focused on the brothers.

Seven Reapers drilled holes into Dean with their eyes. Atropos glared. Dean smiled nervously, tugging at the collar of his shirt with a finger. "Dude--is it just me, or would I be dead by now if looks could kill?" he muttered to Sam. "And if people could die."

"Shhh!" Sam hissed back.

They sat down at one end of the table, beside Cas. Clotho's eyes slid slowly down Dean's body, then back up again. She gave him a tiny, coy smile, moistened her lips with her tongue tip, and twirled a curl around a finger. She looked somewhat like Marilyn Monroe, quite a contrast to her sister. Her fifties-style dress and sultry makeup made the resemblance more noticeable. He shifted uncomfortably and looked away, down the table, at the others.

There was a long silence. It was broken by Crowley, who leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on the table.

"Well?" he said harshly. "So what's the plan, Squirrel?" He squinted at the three at the end of the table suspiciously. "I assume there is a plan? Yes?"

Dean cleared his throat, leaned back in his chair nonchalantly. It was totally false nonchalance. "Um. Well. No. No plan. That's why you're all here."

Everyone started talking at once:

"NO BLOODY PLAN?!?" Crowley roared.

Atropos sniffed. "I might have known," she snarked.

Hannah had a puzzled frown. "But if you don't have a plan...what...?"

The most cadaverous of the Reapers stood up and yelled, "You've destroyed the world and you don't have a solution?!?"

There came a sudden crack of thunder. Cas stood up, his eyes glowing and the shadow of his wings looming on the wall. "SILENCE!!!"

Everyone stopped talking. The Reaper abruptly sat down again.

Clotho sat up and stared at Cas, her moist lips slightly open. The eyes which had given Dean the once-over now did the same for him, except more intently. Well, you had to admit that badass-Cas was pretty damned hot...and Dean certainly didn't mind having the Fate turn her attention away from him! Though she was...um...quite sexy.

"Thank you!" Cas snarled sarcastically. "Now. No, we do not have a plan--". He held up a commanding hand to forestall any further comment. "We have run out of ideas. We need help. That is why you are all here." He swept his hand around the room to gather them together. "Now. You can sit there sniping and complaining, OR..." He paused, looked at each participant. "OR...you can help by tossing out ideas."

Reapers, angels, Fates, the King of Hell--all traded glances, but were silent.

"Anyone...?"

The cadaverous Reaper narrowed his eyes angrily, folded his arms. "What use are ideas? What we need is the scythe." The seven Reapers glared at Dean as one.

Dean jerked his head and lifted his eyebrows in surprise. He twisted in his chair, jabbing his thumb vaguely out of the common room. "The scythe? You mean that thing I've got hanging on the wall in my room? We need it?"

Thirteen glares stabbed at him. Then the room erupted in angry shouts again. Hannah merely covered her eyes with a hand, shaking her head in resignation. Atropos folded her lips thinly. Clotho tore her gaze away from Cas and returned her sensual attention to him.

Dean tugged at his collar one more time, smiled weakly, and shrugged.

Chapter Text

Dean tossed the large scythe on the table. It clattered loudly. Everyone looked at it nervously.

"So there it is." He glanced over at Sam, who was shaking his head. "What?!? Dude. I had no idea what to do with it, so I just...just...hung it up, okay?" Sam closed his eyes and sighed. "You need it?" He glared at the head Reaper. "You got it."

No-one said a word. Crowley slouched in his chair, leaned his elbow on the chair arm, cupped his chin in his hand, and stared at the scythe intently, one eyebrow raised. Hannah reached out a tentative hand, poked at it, then withdrew the hand quickly. All the Reapers looked at it with hungry eyes, but none of them moved.

Clotho turned sideways in her chair, crossed her legs, and started filing her fingernails. "I really don't know why I'm here," she pointed out. "I'm all about sex and birth, y'know. Sis here is the one in charge of death." She pointed at Atropos with the fingernail file. "And if you want to know when someone's supposed to die, you need Lachi, but she's being a bitch and hiding away." She frowned, somehow managing to make the pout sexy.

Crowley slid further down in his chair and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His eyes were hooded and thoughtful. "Well, darlings," he drawled, "Now that we've got the tool, how do we use it? Someone's got to use it, right? Tag, you're it," he added sardonically. He swept his hand around the gathered beings. "Anyone? Volunteers?"

Sam frowned at him. "So...you're saying that's all we need? Someone using Death's scythe? Boom, we have people dying again?"

Crowley tilted a lazy eyebrow at him. "I certainly don't know, Moose. Different pay grade. But it seems...logical."

The head Reaper nodded grim agreement. "We do not know for sure. But it is possible that is all it will take." One of the other Reapers licked his lips nervously, looked away from the scythe.

"Well, hey, don't everyone volunteer at once!" Dean snarked. He reached out, nudged the long handle. Everyone jumped a little at the scythe's movement. He pushed it further down the table, angling it at Crowley. "You. You've been bitching and moaning at us about this for months. Why don't you do it?"

Atropos sat up even straighter, if that was possible, and huffed. "Oh, no! The King of Hell?!? No. He'd just use it for personal gain. No and no and no." Her lips pinched tightly together, and she narrowed her eyes over the top of her glasses at Crowley. Crowley just smirked back. Then he pushed the scythe away and returned his attention to Dean.

"Oh, no, darling. Not me. It might be fun for a day or two, but after that? Ugh." He shuddered delicately. "Boring. No thanks, pet."

Dean and Sam looked at Hannah. Dean murmured, invitingly, "Hannah...?"

Hannah looked back at them, blinked, then shook her head abruptly with a small frown. "No. Oh, my, no. I'm sorry, but I have far too many responsibilities already, just keeping Heaven running smoothly."

Dean turned to Atropos. She sniffed. "Of course not. Dean Winchester, I cut the thread and record the death, that's all. Me? Death? Really." She rolled her eyes.

"So you're saying you're just some kind of god-like bureaucrat?" Dean asked snidely.

She tilted her head up haughtily. "Please. A very good bureaucrat."

He drew in an exasperated breath. He was pretty sure he didn't like her very much, if at all. She reminded him too much of one of his third-grade teachers. He turned to Clotho, but she held her manicured hand out, palm facing away, studied it with interest, and spoke before him: "Don't even think of me doing it. I told you--sex and birth, that's my thing. Death is waaay too morbid."

Dean snapped his mouth shut, folded his lips. This wasn't going very well.

Everyone turned their attention to the Reapers. The one who seemed to have appointed himself their spokesman sighed, looked down at his hands. "We are escorts of the souls of the dead. We do not kill them. I think none of us should be Death himself. We are...too personally involved with the souls." One by one, the others nodded slowly.

Crowley snorted. "Well, well, well. This is just fantastic," he commented sarcastically. "We have, right here--on this table--" he pointed at the scythe. "--the means to end this mess, and no-one wants to actually DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT!!!" He ended with a frustrated roar. He shook his finger at Dean. "You! You do it!"

Dean had started shaking his head before the words left Crowley's mouth. "Nope. Nope. Been there, done that, not again, and definitely not for eternity!" Crowley drew in a frustrated breath, transferred his gaze and the pointing finger to Sam. "Moose...? You're a model of responsibility, a pillar of ethics. Surely you--" Sam held out his hands to fend off the idea, and shook his head silently, his long hair swaying.

Crowley pounced on the last person left.

"Cas!" Crowley crowed. "Beloved of God! Pick up that bloody scythe and get your angelic ass to work!"

Cas leaned back, folded his arms, and narrowed his eyes. He brooded about it, and everyone held their breath. Then he, too, shook his head. "I am just an angel, and only recently aware of free will and the freedom to make choices. Many of my choices have been...disastrous." He shot Crowley a grim look. "As you well know."

Crowley waved a dismissing hand. "Bygones, pet!" he sang out cheerfully. "You've learned from your mistakes--"

"No." Cas's voice was firm.

Crowley sagged and snorted. "Great. Just great," he muttered sourly. Dean had to agree.

Chapter Text

They all sat like lumps for a while. Most had gloomy expressions. Clotho pulled a bottle of nail polish out of her clutch and started repainting her nails, whistling tunelessly. Atropos leaned over to her and hissed something. Clotho flounced angrily, but put away the polish.

Sam sat spinning a pen around on the table. Dean fidgeted. Crowley laced his hands behind his head, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. Cas just looked grim.

Finally, Hannah broke the silence with a gentle cough. "Ahem. Perhaps we should decide based on ability?" Thirteen heads turned to her. Dean gestured her to continue. "Well. What if we were to..." She paused, tilted her head, obviously thinking how to phrase it. "If we were to each take the scythe for a day and perform Death's duties? Then, at the end, after everyone has had their day, we decide who has done it best..." She trailed off uncertainly. Cas smiled at her encouragingly, and she gave him a grateful smile in return. Dean watched the byplay grumpily.

"Fine then," growled Crowley. "A day apiece. Who's first?"

Again, no-one volunteered.

Atropos looked around the table impatiently, then folded her lips in disapproval. "Really. Well! Since no-one wants to--"

"I don't see you volunteering, Posie," Clotho muttered. Atropos pointedly ignored her, and continued.

"Since no-one wants to--" She stopped and glared at her sister. Clotho shrugged one shoulder like a sullen teenager. "--I propose we just draw numbers. That would be fairest. Right?" She looked around the table. Over the course of a minute, she got thirteen nods, some grudging, some thoughtful. She sat up straight, adjusted her glasses, and looked at Dean. "I assume there are writing materials somewhere around here?" Dean nodded. She waited a beat. "Well? They're not just going to appear by themselves, are they? Snip-snap! Writing materials! Here!" She tapped the table in front of her with an imperious fingertip. Dean immediately vowed to himself to not get her anything.

Crowley rolled his eyes, raised a languid hand, and snapped his fingers. A Cartier pen and fourteen strips of creamy linen paper appeared before Atropos. A moment later, after some thought, he snapped again, and a large goldfish bowl joined the other objects. Atropos simpered at him. "Well! That was quite efficient! Thank you, Crowley."

"Think nothing of it," he drawled, slouching down in his chair again. She gave the slouch a disapproving look, then quickly added numbers to the strips of paper, folded them in precise squares, and dropped them in the bowl.

She held it out to Clotho. "Swirl them around, Clottie."

Clotho objected. "My fingernails--!" She added, very quietly, "And you know I hate that nickname!"

Atropos sighed, and instead held the bowl out to the Reaper who was sitting on her other side. "If you please, Master Reaper..." The medium-cadaverous Reaper leaned forward gravely, dipped his long fingers into the bowl, and swirled the folded squares around multiple times, lifting and sifting for good measure. He slowly drew out his hand and gave Atropos a nod. "Thank you!" she said perkily. She pushed the bowl across the table to Cas. Her smile was slightly edged as she said, "Why don't you draw first, Castiel? And then pass it to your left."

Cas slowly reached in, drew a square. He pushed the bowl to Sam, who did the same and forwarded the bowl to Dean. One by one, each being at the table drew a square. By unspoken agreement, no-one opened their square yet.

When the bowl had made its rounds, Atropos spoke again. "Well! Are we ready?" She poised her hands to open her own.

Dean leaned forward on the table, holding his square between two fingers of his right hand. "I'm not ready. Whoever has number fourteen, you're trading with me. I've done this before, and I'm not exactly itching to do it again. Any objections?" He gave each one of them a steely look, Cas and Sam excepted. Nobody objected. "Fine. Just let me know." He leaned back, flipping the square over and over in his fingers.

"And...look!" Atropos said cheerily. Everyone unfolded their squares.

The youngest-looking--which wasn't young at all--of the Reapers raised his hand. "I've got fourteen," he said. His voice cracked, like an adolescent's. Everyone was careful to not look at him, except Crowley, who grinned and saluted him with his piece of paper. Dean slid his square down the table, and the Reaper took it, opened it.

Crowley had opened his without looking at it. He finally glanced down at it and immediately raised his eyebrows. "My, my, my. Looks like I'm first." He smiled toothily and reached for the scythe.

Dean squinted suspiciously down the table at him. "I thought you didn't want to do it? Why so eager now?"

"Squirrel. I said that a day could be fun, but then it would get boring. Now I've got a day, and, trust me, I will have fun." His eyes gleamed devilishly as he stood up, waved, and gave them a cheery, "Ciao darlings. See you in twenty-four hours!" Then he vanished with the scythe.

Chapter Text

Crowley's day was a disaster. Oh, not for him, of course. He simply chased down all the people whose demon deals had come due during the past few months, set the hellhounds on them, and cheerily welcomed their souls to Hell. The Reaper who was assigned to him to be sure all the right people died properly ended the twenty-four hours with his cadaverous head in his head, weeping. It sounded like a creaky wooden wheel turning.

Sam was next. He picked up the scythe with a thoughtful frown, gestured to the Reaper assigned to him, and vanished. When his twenty-four hours were up, he reappeared, dropped the scythe on the table in front of them all without a word, and strode out of the common room, eyes haunted. He didn't come back out of his room for days. When he finally came out, and Dean cornered him, he said, softly, "So many children, Dean. So many."

Out in the world, people who had adjusted to life without death were shocked to discover that it had started up again. Performance suicides came to a screeching halt, as all the artists foolish enough to still try died. More intelligent artists watched, took note, and turned to other areas for their performances. Pilots started being careful again. Hospital workers drew in a collective sigh of relief, as their workload plummeted, and they no longer had to stitch together people who, by all rights, should be dead. Now they were again. And governments, strategic planners, and oil company executives all happily went back to their normal, pre-Death's-death, approaches to the world. (Not that oil prices dropped. Don't be silly.)

Each of the Reapers came back looking solemn. The self-appointed spokesman pulled Dean aside after his shift, and shook his head gravely. "We cannot do this for more than a day. We are too close to the souls. It would break any one of us." Dean just nodded.

Clotho...well, she was capricious. Her assigned Reaper came back snarling about "flibbertigibbets". He yanked Dean into the hallway and growled, "That...creature...shouldn't be in charge of anything!" and then stormed off down the hallway. Dean saw him later in the kitchen, drinking straight from a bottle of scotch. One of their bottles of scotch.

Atropos, of course, was methodical and meticulous. And rigid.

Hannah came back sad, but said to Cas, in private, that she had had to do much worse, she thought, at the command of The Lord. She reminded him of Babel and the Slaughter of the Innocents. But she would prefer--just between them, of course!--to not be selected as Death. Could he...could he find a way to maybe keep that from happening? Cas folded his lips sternly, and said, "Are you asking me to tamper with the results?" She ducked her head, her long brown hair hiding her face, and didn't answer.

Cas was the thirteenth. When he reappeared in the common room and dropped the scythe, he looked weary, and his tie was more askew than usual. Dean tried to get him to look him in the eye, but Cas, like Sam, refused to speak to or look at anyone. He merely shoved the scythe across the table to Dean and sat down with his head hanging. Dean frowned at him, concerned.

Then he bit his lip and touched the handle of the scythe. He didn't pick it up right away--no-one except Crowley and Clotho had done that. He looked around the table at the beings gathered together for the fourteenth time, and drew in a deep breath. He really, really didn't want to do this, and he knew he was delaying.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Oh for God's sake, Squirrel. give it a rest! I know who I'm voting for, and it isn't you. It isn't me, either, more's the pity. In fact, I suspect..." He paused and let his glance wander around the table, then focused back on Dean. "I suspect we all already know who would be best."

There were somber nods from everyone, even Clotho. Dean blinked in surprise.

"Who's that?"

Hannah sighed, and turned compassionate eyes on one person. "I would vote for Sam." Sam jerked his head, then froze, stunned.

Crowley snorted. "Two votes!" He rapped his knuckles on the table, and grimaced. "I'd love to fuck with the process, but reason tells me not to. Far too important. Sam is the best candidate. All those...ethics...and that...that...kindness and gentleness." His face twisted in disgust at himself, and he added, rhetorically, "Kill me now, please!"

Dean was quite tempted by the idea, but for the fact that all the beings were murmuring agreement. He couldn't kill them all, even if he was now supposed to be wielding the scythe. His eyes flew to Sam's and locked on. Sam was stiff with terror. He was mouthing, "No...no...no" over and over.

"No. No way. We'll find someone else. Maybe me," Dean snarled. "Give me my twenty-four hours, and I'll blow that 'Sam's the one' shit away, dammit!" He grabbed the scythe.

"You can try, Squirrel," Crowley scoffed. "But it's not going to work." His eyes were surprisingly kind as he looked at Dean.

"Dammit, yes! It will work! Where's my damned Reaper guide?!? Get your ass down here, and let's get started!" He shook the scythe angrily.

Sam reached out, touched his arm. "Dean. Stop. It won't do any good." His voice was low and strained.

"Sammy! No!" Dean dropped the scythe, took him by the shoulders and gave him one quick, sharp shake, his face desperate. "You don't have to do this! There has to be another way!"

"As a matter of fact, there is..." a voice interjected.

Everyone froze. None of them had spoken.

Chapter Text

The hair rose on Dean's neck, and an incredible, overwhelming feeling of guilt mixed with embarrassment washed over him. He swallowed. He knew that voice. It belonged to the one being in the universe who Dean both respected completely and feared totally.

One he had killed, he had thought.

The Reapers all sat stock still. If walking cadavers could have hopeful looks, that was what Dean was seeing on their faces. They were looking behind him. Cas and Sam were staring the same way, open-mouthed. The rest of the gathering just seemed bewildered. Of course: they had never met him.

A hand reached around Dean, long-fingered, knobby, skin like parchment, and a heavy ring with a white stone on the fourth finger. It pointed at the scythe.

"If you would kindly hand me my scythe, Dean, I would appreciate it," the voice murmured.

"Yessir!" he replied automatically. He had only ever responded that way for one other person in his life, his father. He leaned forward, pulled the scythe across the table and picked it up. He grounded the handle on the floor, looked at it for a moment, drew a very deep breath, and turned around. He kept his head down, not daring to look directly at Death, and held the scythe out. "Here you go, sir."

"So who exactly is this mysterious man?" Crowley asked lightly.

Dean made an urgent shushing motion behind his back. He kept his eyes focused on Death's black shoes.

"What?" Crowley started mildly. "Aren't you going to introduce us to this total stranger who you just handed DEATH'S BLOODY SCYTHE TO?!?" he roared.

"Oh, do be quiet, you irritating amoeba," Death said sharply.

"Have some respect!" the Reapers' spokesman hissed at Crowley, his already pale face paling even further.

Dean turned around again, looking at Crowley. He still hadn't been able to look Death in the face. This, however, he could do, and gladly. "Crowley, Death. Death, Crowley, the King of Hell." Crowley's jaw dropped, then he snapped his mouth shut. Dean was shamefully gratified to have shocked him.

Death sniffed. "Even less impressive than Lucifer, and that's saying quite a bit." He moved around Dean and took his seat. He crossed his legs, leaned his elegant cane against the chair, and glanced at the scythe. It immediately shrank back to the size it had been when Dean first met him. He placed it on the table before him, then took a long look around the table.

"Dean..." he said quietly.

Dean cleared his throat. "Yessir."

Death tilted his head to the side to look at Dean, before Dean could look away. He froze. The dark eyes looking at him from that long, narrow face were expressionless.

"First: food, if you please." Death's eyes didn't leave his face. He tugged at his collar.

"Uh...Cas...Crowley...if one of you could locate the absolutely finest green chili cheeseburger, fries, and a...Coke?"

Death shook his head. "A milkshake, I think."

"And a vanilla milkshake for our...guest..."

"What am I, an errand boy?" Crowley groused.

Death turned his head, looked at him, waited a beat.

"Why, yes. That's exactly what you are at the moment," he said gravely.

Crowley blinked, paled, snapped his fingers. A brown bag and a shake appeared on the table before Death. He reached in, pulled out the food, arranged it neatly before himself, then took a bite of the burger, patting his lips with the napkin afterwards. He chewed thoughtfully. "Mmmm. Delicious. My thanks," he commented, nodding to Crowley.

Crowley drew a breath, looked at Dean, smiled weakly. "With that, Squirrel, I do believe I'll just..." He flapped his hands. "...let you all work things out...ciao, darlings!" He vanished. Coward! Dean thought.

Death sipped at his shake. "Hmph," he commented. "Not exactly eager to hang around, is he?" No-one responded. He took another bite of burger. Then he turned his head back to Dean.

"I have a bone to pick with you, Dean," he said gently. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, hunched his shoulders. Here it came...he was sure his punishment for killing--trying to kill--Death would be...well, death. Right?

"I am insulted that you thought you could kill me."

Dean slit one eye open.

"Surely you realized that killing me or God would have cosmic consequences? Turning to charcoal and crumbling away...that is not cosmic." He took another sip, keeping his eyes on Dean. Dean's eyes popped open.

"But...but...no-one died--! For months!" he protested.

"Please. You must have noticed that plants and other animals were still dying all along?" Death raised an incredulous eyebrow.

Dean peered at Sam, at Cas. Both shook their heads, and Sam shrugged awkwardly. He looked around at the others. Everyone was looking stunned or ashamed or embarrassed.

"Uh, sir...I think none of us noticed."

Death closed his eyes and sighed. "What an amazingly arrogant and self-centered lot you insects are. I was just giving you a very small taste of what would happen if you truly succeeded." He ate the last bite of the burger, sipped the last of his shake. "Well. This has been...amusing. But I really think I will be going now. Thank you for taking care of my scythe." He picked up the bag of fries, collected his cane and the scythe, and stood up. "Oh, and Dean...?"

"Yessir."

The dark eyes fastened on him again. "What are you doing about The Darkness?"

Dean's stomach churned. They hadn't done a thing--the lack of death had seemed much more urgent, while The Darkness had simply been...well, dark...and then had just vanished. He tugged at his collar yet again. Then he flat-out lied. "We're working on it, sir."

"I see." Death looked skeptical. "You do that. It really is a very large problem." He swept his gaze around the room, settling it on the gaggle of Reapers. "Gentlemen, we have work to do." The seven Reapers stood up as one and vanished. "Good day to you all." Death nodded politely to them, then vanished, too.

Chapter Text

"So...he wasn't dead after all," Clotho mused. "Hunh. How inconsiderate! To leave us all hanging like that. I mean, if he was so pissed at something you did..." She glanced at Dean. "Why not take it out on you?"

"Charmed lives," Atropos sniffed, disapproving. "Sam and Dean Winchester have slid out of the fitting punishment for their crimes so many times, I can only think there's some hidden power either watching out for them or using them."

That particular nasty idea made Dean pale.

"Come, sister!" Atropos commanded, and she vanished, too. Clotho rolled her eyes. "I'm a grown deity, and I don't have to listen to you anymore, Posie!" She slid her eyes over to Dean, and smiled. "Maybe I'll just hang around here for a little while...what do you think?"

Sam abruptly looked down and coughed. Dean glared at him--he knew that particular little pantomime, and it meant Sam was trying very hard not to start laughing.

"What I think, Clotho, is that the fate of the world rests on you and your sisters, and we shouldn't risk you delaying in your duties any longer."

He hoped he wasn't laying it on too thick. Obviously not, though: Clotho preened a bit. Sam coughed again, made a horrible gurgling noise, and staggered up out of his chair. "'Scuse me--I think I've got something stuck in my throat--" He dashed out of the common room. After a few moments, Dean could hear him howling with laughter. It sounded like he was in the kitchen.

"Well...maybe I'll swing by sometime later, when I don't have as much to do." She smiled sweetly at him, ignored Hannah and Cas, and vanished, too.

Sam poked his head back in the common room. "Is she gone?"

"Yeah, yeah. Get your idiotic laughing ass back in here, dude."

Sam slipped back into the chair he had been using. "Whoo! That was close. I almost pulled a muscle trying to keep from laughing. Dean's got a guuurrlll," he sing-songed.

"Dude." Dean gave Sam a disapproving look.

"Well. I'm glad that worked out for the best," Hannah said gently, glancing at Sam. "I am so sorry, Sam, but you really were the best candidate. I felt guilty for saying so..." She frowned slightly and turned her eyes to Cas. "That's a human thing, right? Guilt?" Cas nodded, and she sighed. "How do you humans do it? All these deep feelings. Life is much...calmer...when you don't have to deal with them. Anyway. I should get back to my office again, reassure them all that new souls will be coming through, probably a large number very quickly. Our brothers and sisters will be relieved." She looked at Cas again, and her eyes softened. "I was pleased to see you again, Castiel. You are welcome to come back, you know. We are all in awe at your ability to navigate through humanity with such ease."

Cas smiled slightly. "The ease is just a show, Hannah. I continue to have difficulties."

She touched his hand gently. "Still. You give yourself too little credit." She stood up, there was the brief sound of angel wings flapping, and she was gone.

"Well." Dean drummed a quick tattoo on the table, pushed his chair back. "Anyone hungry for pizza?"

Cas frowned. "Dean. About The Darkness--"

"Aw, hell, Cas! Let me eat some pizza and get some rest before we jump into another mess, will ya?!?"