SPN fic: Four Horsemen Walk Into A Bar (gen)
Happy birthday, teand! You know it must be a special occasion, because this is only the second time this year I've written fic. *g*
Four Horsemen Walk Into A Bar
PG, approx 4000 words, gen. Set just after Swan Song (5x22).
Summary: Death has some unfinished business.
Characters: Four Horsemen, a Winchester, an angel, and some pie.
Notes: with thanks to mollyamory for her excellent suggestions.
Four Horsemen Walk Into A Bar
by Destina
It fell to Death to select the location for the reunion with his brothers. Had it just been the four of them, he might have preferred something a bit more interstitial, but circumstances dictated this event should take place on Earth's mortal plane. Death decided a small pub-cafe in Boston would be just the place. It wasn't a choice he examined closely, but this meeting inexplicably put him in the mood for Boston cream pie.
Only a few patrons remained in Bob's Tavern past midnight, so it was a simple matter to collect their straggling souls as he passed. A gentle touch to the back; a brush of his sleeve against theirs. Even a breath could bring about their rapid demise. He spared only the bartender, who had seen this sort of thing happen once before. Death could be kind to those who provided the few small pleasures this world had to offer.
"Four slices of the Boston cream pie," Death said, fixing him with a non-lethal gaze. The bartender nodded his understanding, but he waited until Death's back was turned to glare, no doubt in retaliation for the loss of a few paltry dollars in checks and tips. Humans frequently lacked a reliable sense of self-preservation, but they could be counted upon to behave predictably, once they understood the stakes.
Death settled in, facing the front windows, and looked expectantly at the bartender, whose nametag read MARK in angry red letters. Mark quickly shoved up the counter partition to exit the bar, then flipped the closed sign over at the door.
Outside, a steady stream of humanity flowed past, their colors drab and unimaginative, brown folding into grey merging into black. Nothing unusual or unique, but Death watched them anyway, as he had for longer than he could remember. There wasn't anything left to discover about humans, but every so often, one of them did something intriguing. Something unexpected. He watched with faintly bored hope, waiting for the one to walk by who would bring that tiny spark of entertainment to the vast cosmos of uniformity his existence had become.
"Did you order the pie?" A voice at his shoulder, the rasp of dead leaves brushing together: Famine. "I'm starving."
"Of course." Death didn't pay any attention to Bartender Mark, who was fully recoiled against the neon green of the backlit liquor display. Famine might be the worst thing he'd ever seen; this was to be expected. A period of adjustment was required. Humans were so delicate. They had been made with regrettably weak constitutions.
Famine pulled back the chair to Death's left and settled onto the thinly padded red vinyl seat. Death took the opportunity to examine his appearance. Time had not been kind - of course, Time was quite the fickle creature, and its steadfast refusal to bend was a point of contention for Death, but he was trying to move on from that - and Famine's general appearance was, well. Spackled. It had been difficult for Death to reassemble Famine at the atomic level, and the results were less than pleasing.
God could have helped to make the final product more attractive, but he had been unavailable, unfortunately.
Nevertheless, Famine looked less horrifying than he had in those dreadful days after Sam Winchester had blown him apart in a rather ingenious fashion. As Death looked on, Famine tipped his head back, opened his mouth, and consumed the souls of those recently deceased in the immediate vicinity. It was Death's fault, really; he had failed utterly to bring a Reaper or two to prevent that, but it was of little consequence. Famine was in need of sustenance, and this might help make him look a bit less like a Halloween cartoon.
Famine licked his lips and turned his opaque eyes to Death. "Now I'm ready for dessert."
Death beckoned to their bartender, who had a pallor Death generally associated with those who had already received his services. Mark grabbed a tray, threw four plates and some cutlery on it, and came around the bar. He set the servings on the table with his arms outstretched as far as they would possibly go.
Death lifted one plate and a fork from the tray, set them before him precisely, and took a bite of the pie. Exquisite; creamy and sweet, the epitome of delicious cake-called-pie. "My compliments to the chef," he said, though Mark was already edging away.
The fabric of space-time rippled as it was shoved aside, and War materialized in the chair to Death's right. War looked more or less as he always did, minus a few key parts. He was somewhat more withered, and appeared to have aged substantially, but what were a few millennia in the scheme of things? Death refrained from commenting on any of this, however, because War had always been quite vain, and remarking on his appearance would not serve Death's agenda. It was an unsubtle reminder of a defeat Death preferred to set aside, for the time being.
"Welcome, brother," Death said, and slid a piece of pie toward him.
War arched an eyebrow and sank back in his chair, his posture the very definition of challenge. "Do you really think a pile of sugar will appease me?"
"I think nothing of the sort. I merely offer it to you as a gesture of good will." Death paused, his fork in midair, and met War's eyes. He was gratified to see the immediate capitulation there. Good to know he hadn't lost his touch. "Please, join us."
War's eyes narrowed, and he picked up a fork to stab it into the defenseless pie.
Famine leaned back, drawing a long, slow breath that might or might not be a laugh. "And so I see the old patterns are maintained. It has been too long, brothers. Too long."
"Eat something, you scrawny old man," War said, scowling at him, and stabbed again into the pie, still without actually bringing any to his mouth.
The bartender sneezed twice in rapid succession.
"And now we are all present," Death murmured, as Pestilence leaned over the bar and handed Mark a tissue.
"Damn flu," Pestilence remarked, with a deeply satisfied sigh. He dropped into the chair opposite Death, smiling beatifically at the sound of Mark coughing and hacking in the background. He had looked better, and the red rims of his eyes spoke to his general lack of maintenance, but he was generally well. He waved a hand over the plate of pie and said, "Sugar is a perfect incubation environment for the most mundane of germs, were you aware of that?"
"Really," Death said, setting his fork down delicately and wiping his mouth with a coarse paper napkin. "Spare us the details, if you don't mind."
"Oh, I don't mind," Pestilence said mildly. The pale pie in front of him was darkening with a strange and deadly strain of bacteria.
War gave Pestilence a disgusted look and said to Death, "You planning on telling us why we're here?"
"Patience," Death said. He was down to the nub of crust on his piece of cream pie, and he set his fork down with regret. It wouldn't do to overindulge, but it really was delicious. "We have several matters to discuss. Now that the presumed apocalypse is over, that is."
"Over far too quickly," Famine said. "I expected a few centuries of free rein, at a minimum, to indulge myself. Were we not promised as much?"
"Promises are cheap," War said. "And we didn't even have a chance for any real fun. I had plans for this little dirt heap."
"We all had plans." Pestilence pulled his shriveled hand closer to his body. "We all know who's to blame for cutting this short."
"No pun intended?" War asked. When Pestilence shot him a dirty look, he smirked. "Hey, I'm always open to a little vengeance. Just say the word."
Death looked from one to the other. They were all so young, so full of impatience and petulance, like spoiled children whose toys had been taken from them for bad behavior. "Let us try to have some perspective on the matter. Certainly we all have our roles to perform, but was it beneficial to be tethered to Lucifer for the duration? His amateurish spell work ensnared us all in his foolish and ill-considered plans."
"I thought all that was set in motion before we were born," Pestilence said.
"Perhaps. But as with most things involving the angels, the execution of the master plan left much to be desired. Efficient soldiers, yes, but not much more."
"Then maybe we should be celebrating." War raised a hand and wiggled one finger. Two bottles of premium scotch and four glasses flew from the bar stand and coasted to a gentle landing on the table. He picked a bottle up, uncapped it, and poured four shots. "Here's to being off Lucifer's leash."
"I'll drink to that," Pestilence said, baring a toothy and somewhat nasty grin. He picked up his glass and mimed a toast.
Death folded his hands in his lap. "Of course, you all have Samuel Winchester to thank for your newfound freedom. I'm sure you haven't forgotten."
"I always knew that beautiful boy was destined for something delicious," Famine gurgled.
Hypocrisy always grated on Death's nerves, so he turned his attention to Pestilence. "I seem to recall you were quite focused on proving God wrong for his investment in the human race," he said.
Pestilence offered a sickly grimace which approximated a grin. "Really, brother, you have a horrible habit of focusing on the negative."
"It is what it is." Death picked up his shot glass. The amber liquid caught the light, a swirl of changeable color. One of the things Death liked most about Earth was its light spectrum; the visible spectrum in particular was magnificent. "I mention this only because all of you sacrificed something to the Winchesters, in order to slip this particular leash."
Pestilence drank another shot and slammed his glass down. "Don't rub it in."
The expression on War's face had changed from one of anger to one of avarice, and he rubbed his thumb over the lip of his glass. "Sam Winchester had potential," he said. "At the head of an army, perhaps. Or as ruler of this planet. He could have conquered them all, ruled everyone." He licked his lips. "I saw the fire in him, the need."
"You're such a user," Pestilence said, rolling his eyes.
War shrugged. "What? Is it so wrong to notice? All those Winchesters have marched to my drum. They've always belonged to me. I don't mind taking what's mine, if you get my drift. In fact, it could be fun."
Pestilence flinched. "Oh, now there's a disgusting image I'll be thinking about for the rest of eternity, thank you very much."
"I'm not sure you're in a position to pass judgment on things of disgust," Famine wheezed.
"In point of fact," Death said to War, "the Winchesters have not always belonged to you. While your tendencies may exert a significant influence over them, I would say I have the superior claim. I have passed them between planes a number of times."
"True. You might as well install a revolving door," Pestilence said.
"God's pets," Famine sneered. "Nice to see one of them obtain his just reward in the pit."
"Whatever. It's all semantics. Yours, mine, ours. You have to respect a human who'll come after a Horseman." War sighed. "But I'd really like my ring back. There's still work to do, and I haven't been able to throw any countries into true chaos for months. Things are getting stale."
"And that brings us to the crux of the matter." Death tapped a finger on the table, and the dishes vanished, nothing but the liquor and the glasses remaining. "Our guest is about to arrive."
"You're always so mysteeeerious," Pestilence said, drawing out the word with a little waggle of his fingers. "And it's always so irritating."
The brass bell on the front door jingled, and Death turned his attention to their visitor. Dean Winchester stood in the doorway, one hand on the glass as if he might still change his mind. Death was only mildly surprised to see him there. The invitation had been funneled through various intermediaries - Crowley was only too happy to oblige - and might not have been taken at face value. There was always a chance Dean would not agree, or might turn back.
So much had changed since Death had struck his bargain with Dean. The loss of his brother had taken a toll in ways seen and unseen. The boy radiated wave upon wave of crushing grief, something to which Death was not unaccustomed, but the magnitude of it was staggering. And beneath all that, a simmering anger, bright enough to make War take notice...and a deep, dark well of emptiness, which made Famine's breath grow shallow and hard.
Truly, each of them had claim to this boy, who had once been so far beneath their notice, they had never considered the implications of his existence.
Dean swallowed hard as he met Death's eyes. Death watched him steadily, wondering how much blame Dean assigned to him for his brother's death, but he felt no threat from the boy. Perhaps, after all, there had been some measure of change. Perhaps this was to be the one tiny surprise in his otherwise predictable day.
When Dean stepped across the threshold, War tilted his head and grinned. "Well, Dean Winchester. You've picked a big fight this time. I'm not sure if you're really that stupid, or if you've lost your mind because your brother's in the pit forever. Such a shame."
"Fuck you," Dean said, his hand twitching at his side, millimeters from pulling his weapon.
An unpleasant joy glittered in War's eyes. "That's my boy."
"He is here at my invitation," Death said. "And you will all conduct yourselves accordingly."
Dean stopped a few paces away, watching Death and his brothers warily, as if he expected to be atomized at any moment. Not an unreasonable fear, given the damage Dean had done to all but Death in his quest for their rings. Death waited while Dean searched his mind for an appropriate quip or smart remark of some sort.
"Let us get right to business," Death said. "Welcome, Dean."
Dean's eyes flicked toward Death. "You'll forgive me if I don't feel exactly chatty at the moment."
"Of course." Death filled a glass with scotch and pushed it toward the edge of the table. "Have a drink, if you wish."
"No thanks."
"Fair enough." Death watched him steadily. Though terrified, the human continued to hold his fear in check, as he had the first time they met. Impressive. It explained much about why he had initially been chosen as Michael's vessel, bloodlines notwithstanding. "Have you brought them?"
Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out four familiar rings. The power emanating from them provoked a sharp hiss of delight from Famine, who leaned forward eagerly. Dean closed his fist around them, frowning at Famine, and Death could feel his resolve wavering.
Death sensed the angel's arrival before he materialized. They all did, each of them turning to the spot where Castiel would be in mere moments. As the tip of his wings arced into the room, spanning the small space corner to corner, Death raised an eyebrow. This angel was newly imbued with a very old power, one Death had come to associate with the archangels. But Castiel had not mastered it, yet. Interesting that he should choose to attend this meeting, when there was nothing he could do to intervene.
Dean turned and frowned, and Castiel shrugged, a tiny communication Dean seemed to understand well enough. "Damn it, Cas, I didn't ask you to come."
"Some things, you should not have to ask." They stared at each other, until Pestilence broke the moment.
"You," Pestilence said, his voice a low growl. He clutched his now-healed hand, the one the angel had damaged. "I should tear your wings off, show you how it feels."
With one finger, Death pressed his brother back into the uncomfortable chair. "Have I not cautioned patience?"
"What he did to me," Pestilence said, turning a pleading stare on Death. "You can't mean I should let him get away with it!"
"We all have our parts to play," Death said.
"So you're the rebellious angel. The one who screwed up everything." War gave Castiel an appraising look. To his credit, the angel withstood it without betraying any reaction. "I've known you, haven't I? You've been mine on the battlefield. God's loyal soldier."
"I have known him also," Famine said, a slow smile creeping across his face "He has hungered for the kind of sustenance an angel should not desire. Not merely the base hunger for food, but something much less tangible." His gaze flickered to Dean, and back to Castiel.
Castiel glanced at Death, then looked away, and Death picked up a distinct bleed of emotion: shame at being known by Famine's touch. No, more than that; shame at having his hunger named in Dean's presence. But of course, it was that intangible hunger that brought him here, to Dean Winchester's side. It was admirable. Also, it was quite foolish, given the circumstances.
They were, after all, the Four Horsemen.
"You do realize, there is no power you possess against us that can change any outcome?" Death asked Castiel.
"I am aware." Castiel lifted his vessel's chin. The imposition of flesh over the angelic presence was clumsy and awkward, and Death had to exert himself to see past the doughy container to the bright spark beneath. Death had known him, of course. His living presence was the result of a special bargain between Death and God. Not that Castiel would ever know. "I come simply to observe."
"He thinks he's my backup," Dean explained, gesturing over his shoulder at Castiel, whose shoulders hunched in response. Death concealed a smile. The angel's aggravation was amusing.
"Then he's a fool." Pestilence hadn't taken his eyes off Castiel since the moment he arrived. Castiel was immune to his powers, of course, but Death was quite certain Pestilence was calculating how best to serve his revenge.
"Dean, allow me to reiterate what I told your...associates. You're doing the right thing," Death said. "Balance must be restored, and you are quite intelligent enough to realize you can never open the cage again, lest Lucifer once again be set free. I know you harbor no illusions of saving your brother this way. The rings are no use to you now that your work is accomplished." Even as he said it, Death realized Dean had not entirely abandoned the idea. His need to save the world, as overinflated as it may have been, warred with his lifelong instinct toward saving his brother, and that instinct compelled him not to surrender any potential tool. Interesting. Death could not quite tell which way Dean would bend.
"Maybe I can't use them, but that doesn't mean I should give them back to you." Dean squared his shoulders. "Since basically, you're just in it for the body count. Not exactly a noble calling."
"Evil doesn't originate with us, kid." War tossed back a shot of scotch, and continued, "We just carry out the mission. We all have our role to play, right? I start a couple of wars, bring on a genocide or two, stir things up. I just...align the natural order of things."
"Balance, Dean," Death said. "It's all about balance. There are things that are required for the universe to be in proper working order, and we are four of those things."
In the corner, Castiel vibrated with anxiety. His concern for the human was incandescent. Distracting.
"How do I know you won't turn on me the minute I give these back to you?" Dean asked.
"Good question," Pestilence answered, shifting his hate-filled gaze from Castiel to Dean.
"You know because I have given you my promise on our behalf, and as you are already aware, I am capable of keeping my end of a bargain. As are you. And you know because Castiel has already explained this to you in great detail, since he has your best interests at heart. We are necessary beings, Dean. This is why we are here." Death extended his hand. "Give them to me, please."
Dean hesitated a moment more. He glanced at Castiel, who nodded once, and finally, he held the rings out to Death. "You promise not to come after me and mine?"
"Yes."
Dean dropped the rings into Death's hand. Immediately, Castiel moved forward far too quickly for the human to perceive and enfolded him in wings Dean could not see, lifting him from that spot and carrying him away from their influence. Such a pity, that lack of trust.
"Finally," Famine said, rubbing his hands together.
Death separated the rings and slid his back on. It was warm to the touch, the residue of being clasped in Dean's human hand. He didn't need a ring to focus his power, of course; he was far past that requirement. But it was good to have it back again. A reminder of the old days.
"My ring," said Famine. "Give it to me."
"Not just yet." Death slid the three remaining rings in his pocket. "I spoke earlier of balance. There is something I must do, for which I require the rings."
"What are you up to?" Pestilence said, his ever-suspicious nature asserting itself.
Death merely looked at him, since there was no need for grand pronouncements. Then he looked at War, whose knowing look caused Death's lips to turn in a smile. "There is work for you, brother. All the supernatural beings of this world await your touch. You know what to do?"
"I do. And then you'll return my ring?"
"Oh, yes."
War nodded, satisfied, and disappeared from view.
"What's going on?" Pestilence shifted around in his chair like a particularly difficult child.
"There will be work for both of you, in time. I will summon you, when I have need of you."
"You never change, brother," Famine said, his voice full of resignation.
"It is my nature," Death said.
A moment later, he stood in a vast, dead field and contemplated the concept of balance. The sky was bright blue and beautiful above, the grass lifeless and dead below.
Such a small battlefield, for such a large sacrifice. Death could still feel the charge in the air. Not much time had passed since Samuel Winchester gave himself to put the rogue angel back in his cage. Dean Winchester had made a desperate bargain, and had given up all that was precious to him, in exchange for the lives of billions.
More importantly, Death was now free of Lucifer's influence. He could feel Lucifer squirming about in the realm to which he had been banished, pouting like a child who cannot accept his punishment. Good riddance. He could sense Sam Winchester's soul in close proximity to Lucifer, still bright and true, but diminishing rapidly. No being could remain bright for long in Lucifer's presence.
Tethers could take many forms. Dean Winchester had given up infinitely more than Death in the course of their bargain, and now Death felt a certain obligation. He did not like to feel he owed this human a debt for the disparity. It had been a fair deal between them, but...well. There should not be more death than life, or more life than death. Every being in its proper place. Things had to be...rearranged. Debts repaid.
Death was willing to settle his obligations. It seemed only fair.
What might come to pass after the debt was paid would not be his concern.
~~end~~
Four Horsemen Walk Into A Bar
PG, approx 4000 words, gen. Set just after Swan Song (5x22).
Summary: Death has some unfinished business.
Characters: Four Horsemen, a Winchester, an angel, and some pie.
Notes: with thanks to mollyamory for her excellent suggestions.
Four Horsemen Walk Into A Bar
by Destina
It fell to Death to select the location for the reunion with his brothers. Had it just been the four of them, he might have preferred something a bit more interstitial, but circumstances dictated this event should take place on Earth's mortal plane. Death decided a small pub-cafe in Boston would be just the place. It wasn't a choice he examined closely, but this meeting inexplicably put him in the mood for Boston cream pie.
Only a few patrons remained in Bob's Tavern past midnight, so it was a simple matter to collect their straggling souls as he passed. A gentle touch to the back; a brush of his sleeve against theirs. Even a breath could bring about their rapid demise. He spared only the bartender, who had seen this sort of thing happen once before. Death could be kind to those who provided the few small pleasures this world had to offer.
"Four slices of the Boston cream pie," Death said, fixing him with a non-lethal gaze. The bartender nodded his understanding, but he waited until Death's back was turned to glare, no doubt in retaliation for the loss of a few paltry dollars in checks and tips. Humans frequently lacked a reliable sense of self-preservation, but they could be counted upon to behave predictably, once they understood the stakes.
Death settled in, facing the front windows, and looked expectantly at the bartender, whose nametag read MARK in angry red letters. Mark quickly shoved up the counter partition to exit the bar, then flipped the closed sign over at the door.
Outside, a steady stream of humanity flowed past, their colors drab and unimaginative, brown folding into grey merging into black. Nothing unusual or unique, but Death watched them anyway, as he had for longer than he could remember. There wasn't anything left to discover about humans, but every so often, one of them did something intriguing. Something unexpected. He watched with faintly bored hope, waiting for the one to walk by who would bring that tiny spark of entertainment to the vast cosmos of uniformity his existence had become.
"Did you order the pie?" A voice at his shoulder, the rasp of dead leaves brushing together: Famine. "I'm starving."
"Of course." Death didn't pay any attention to Bartender Mark, who was fully recoiled against the neon green of the backlit liquor display. Famine might be the worst thing he'd ever seen; this was to be expected. A period of adjustment was required. Humans were so delicate. They had been made with regrettably weak constitutions.
Famine pulled back the chair to Death's left and settled onto the thinly padded red vinyl seat. Death took the opportunity to examine his appearance. Time had not been kind - of course, Time was quite the fickle creature, and its steadfast refusal to bend was a point of contention for Death, but he was trying to move on from that - and Famine's general appearance was, well. Spackled. It had been difficult for Death to reassemble Famine at the atomic level, and the results were less than pleasing.
God could have helped to make the final product more attractive, but he had been unavailable, unfortunately.
Nevertheless, Famine looked less horrifying than he had in those dreadful days after Sam Winchester had blown him apart in a rather ingenious fashion. As Death looked on, Famine tipped his head back, opened his mouth, and consumed the souls of those recently deceased in the immediate vicinity. It was Death's fault, really; he had failed utterly to bring a Reaper or two to prevent that, but it was of little consequence. Famine was in need of sustenance, and this might help make him look a bit less like a Halloween cartoon.
Famine licked his lips and turned his opaque eyes to Death. "Now I'm ready for dessert."
Death beckoned to their bartender, who had a pallor Death generally associated with those who had already received his services. Mark grabbed a tray, threw four plates and some cutlery on it, and came around the bar. He set the servings on the table with his arms outstretched as far as they would possibly go.
Death lifted one plate and a fork from the tray, set them before him precisely, and took a bite of the pie. Exquisite; creamy and sweet, the epitome of delicious cake-called-pie. "My compliments to the chef," he said, though Mark was already edging away.
The fabric of space-time rippled as it was shoved aside, and War materialized in the chair to Death's right. War looked more or less as he always did, minus a few key parts. He was somewhat more withered, and appeared to have aged substantially, but what were a few millennia in the scheme of things? Death refrained from commenting on any of this, however, because War had always been quite vain, and remarking on his appearance would not serve Death's agenda. It was an unsubtle reminder of a defeat Death preferred to set aside, for the time being.
"Welcome, brother," Death said, and slid a piece of pie toward him.
War arched an eyebrow and sank back in his chair, his posture the very definition of challenge. "Do you really think a pile of sugar will appease me?"
"I think nothing of the sort. I merely offer it to you as a gesture of good will." Death paused, his fork in midair, and met War's eyes. He was gratified to see the immediate capitulation there. Good to know he hadn't lost his touch. "Please, join us."
War's eyes narrowed, and he picked up a fork to stab it into the defenseless pie.
Famine leaned back, drawing a long, slow breath that might or might not be a laugh. "And so I see the old patterns are maintained. It has been too long, brothers. Too long."
"Eat something, you scrawny old man," War said, scowling at him, and stabbed again into the pie, still without actually bringing any to his mouth.
The bartender sneezed twice in rapid succession.
"And now we are all present," Death murmured, as Pestilence leaned over the bar and handed Mark a tissue.
"Damn flu," Pestilence remarked, with a deeply satisfied sigh. He dropped into the chair opposite Death, smiling beatifically at the sound of Mark coughing and hacking in the background. He had looked better, and the red rims of his eyes spoke to his general lack of maintenance, but he was generally well. He waved a hand over the plate of pie and said, "Sugar is a perfect incubation environment for the most mundane of germs, were you aware of that?"
"Really," Death said, setting his fork down delicately and wiping his mouth with a coarse paper napkin. "Spare us the details, if you don't mind."
"Oh, I don't mind," Pestilence said mildly. The pale pie in front of him was darkening with a strange and deadly strain of bacteria.
War gave Pestilence a disgusted look and said to Death, "You planning on telling us why we're here?"
"Patience," Death said. He was down to the nub of crust on his piece of cream pie, and he set his fork down with regret. It wouldn't do to overindulge, but it really was delicious. "We have several matters to discuss. Now that the presumed apocalypse is over, that is."
"Over far too quickly," Famine said. "I expected a few centuries of free rein, at a minimum, to indulge myself. Were we not promised as much?"
"Promises are cheap," War said. "And we didn't even have a chance for any real fun. I had plans for this little dirt heap."
"We all had plans." Pestilence pulled his shriveled hand closer to his body. "We all know who's to blame for cutting this short."
"No pun intended?" War asked. When Pestilence shot him a dirty look, he smirked. "Hey, I'm always open to a little vengeance. Just say the word."
Death looked from one to the other. They were all so young, so full of impatience and petulance, like spoiled children whose toys had been taken from them for bad behavior. "Let us try to have some perspective on the matter. Certainly we all have our roles to perform, but was it beneficial to be tethered to Lucifer for the duration? His amateurish spell work ensnared us all in his foolish and ill-considered plans."
"I thought all that was set in motion before we were born," Pestilence said.
"Perhaps. But as with most things involving the angels, the execution of the master plan left much to be desired. Efficient soldiers, yes, but not much more."
"Then maybe we should be celebrating." War raised a hand and wiggled one finger. Two bottles of premium scotch and four glasses flew from the bar stand and coasted to a gentle landing on the table. He picked a bottle up, uncapped it, and poured four shots. "Here's to being off Lucifer's leash."
"I'll drink to that," Pestilence said, baring a toothy and somewhat nasty grin. He picked up his glass and mimed a toast.
Death folded his hands in his lap. "Of course, you all have Samuel Winchester to thank for your newfound freedom. I'm sure you haven't forgotten."
"I always knew that beautiful boy was destined for something delicious," Famine gurgled.
Hypocrisy always grated on Death's nerves, so he turned his attention to Pestilence. "I seem to recall you were quite focused on proving God wrong for his investment in the human race," he said.
Pestilence offered a sickly grimace which approximated a grin. "Really, brother, you have a horrible habit of focusing on the negative."
"It is what it is." Death picked up his shot glass. The amber liquid caught the light, a swirl of changeable color. One of the things Death liked most about Earth was its light spectrum; the visible spectrum in particular was magnificent. "I mention this only because all of you sacrificed something to the Winchesters, in order to slip this particular leash."
Pestilence drank another shot and slammed his glass down. "Don't rub it in."
The expression on War's face had changed from one of anger to one of avarice, and he rubbed his thumb over the lip of his glass. "Sam Winchester had potential," he said. "At the head of an army, perhaps. Or as ruler of this planet. He could have conquered them all, ruled everyone." He licked his lips. "I saw the fire in him, the need."
"You're such a user," Pestilence said, rolling his eyes.
War shrugged. "What? Is it so wrong to notice? All those Winchesters have marched to my drum. They've always belonged to me. I don't mind taking what's mine, if you get my drift. In fact, it could be fun."
Pestilence flinched. "Oh, now there's a disgusting image I'll be thinking about for the rest of eternity, thank you very much."
"I'm not sure you're in a position to pass judgment on things of disgust," Famine wheezed.
"In point of fact," Death said to War, "the Winchesters have not always belonged to you. While your tendencies may exert a significant influence over them, I would say I have the superior claim. I have passed them between planes a number of times."
"True. You might as well install a revolving door," Pestilence said.
"God's pets," Famine sneered. "Nice to see one of them obtain his just reward in the pit."
"Whatever. It's all semantics. Yours, mine, ours. You have to respect a human who'll come after a Horseman." War sighed. "But I'd really like my ring back. There's still work to do, and I haven't been able to throw any countries into true chaos for months. Things are getting stale."
"And that brings us to the crux of the matter." Death tapped a finger on the table, and the dishes vanished, nothing but the liquor and the glasses remaining. "Our guest is about to arrive."
"You're always so mysteeeerious," Pestilence said, drawing out the word with a little waggle of his fingers. "And it's always so irritating."
The brass bell on the front door jingled, and Death turned his attention to their visitor. Dean Winchester stood in the doorway, one hand on the glass as if he might still change his mind. Death was only mildly surprised to see him there. The invitation had been funneled through various intermediaries - Crowley was only too happy to oblige - and might not have been taken at face value. There was always a chance Dean would not agree, or might turn back.
So much had changed since Death had struck his bargain with Dean. The loss of his brother had taken a toll in ways seen and unseen. The boy radiated wave upon wave of crushing grief, something to which Death was not unaccustomed, but the magnitude of it was staggering. And beneath all that, a simmering anger, bright enough to make War take notice...and a deep, dark well of emptiness, which made Famine's breath grow shallow and hard.
Truly, each of them had claim to this boy, who had once been so far beneath their notice, they had never considered the implications of his existence.
Dean swallowed hard as he met Death's eyes. Death watched him steadily, wondering how much blame Dean assigned to him for his brother's death, but he felt no threat from the boy. Perhaps, after all, there had been some measure of change. Perhaps this was to be the one tiny surprise in his otherwise predictable day.
When Dean stepped across the threshold, War tilted his head and grinned. "Well, Dean Winchester. You've picked a big fight this time. I'm not sure if you're really that stupid, or if you've lost your mind because your brother's in the pit forever. Such a shame."
"Fuck you," Dean said, his hand twitching at his side, millimeters from pulling his weapon.
An unpleasant joy glittered in War's eyes. "That's my boy."
"He is here at my invitation," Death said. "And you will all conduct yourselves accordingly."
Dean stopped a few paces away, watching Death and his brothers warily, as if he expected to be atomized at any moment. Not an unreasonable fear, given the damage Dean had done to all but Death in his quest for their rings. Death waited while Dean searched his mind for an appropriate quip or smart remark of some sort.
"Let us get right to business," Death said. "Welcome, Dean."
Dean's eyes flicked toward Death. "You'll forgive me if I don't feel exactly chatty at the moment."
"Of course." Death filled a glass with scotch and pushed it toward the edge of the table. "Have a drink, if you wish."
"No thanks."
"Fair enough." Death watched him steadily. Though terrified, the human continued to hold his fear in check, as he had the first time they met. Impressive. It explained much about why he had initially been chosen as Michael's vessel, bloodlines notwithstanding. "Have you brought them?"
Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out four familiar rings. The power emanating from them provoked a sharp hiss of delight from Famine, who leaned forward eagerly. Dean closed his fist around them, frowning at Famine, and Death could feel his resolve wavering.
Death sensed the angel's arrival before he materialized. They all did, each of them turning to the spot where Castiel would be in mere moments. As the tip of his wings arced into the room, spanning the small space corner to corner, Death raised an eyebrow. This angel was newly imbued with a very old power, one Death had come to associate with the archangels. But Castiel had not mastered it, yet. Interesting that he should choose to attend this meeting, when there was nothing he could do to intervene.
Dean turned and frowned, and Castiel shrugged, a tiny communication Dean seemed to understand well enough. "Damn it, Cas, I didn't ask you to come."
"Some things, you should not have to ask." They stared at each other, until Pestilence broke the moment.
"You," Pestilence said, his voice a low growl. He clutched his now-healed hand, the one the angel had damaged. "I should tear your wings off, show you how it feels."
With one finger, Death pressed his brother back into the uncomfortable chair. "Have I not cautioned patience?"
"What he did to me," Pestilence said, turning a pleading stare on Death. "You can't mean I should let him get away with it!"
"We all have our parts to play," Death said.
"So you're the rebellious angel. The one who screwed up everything." War gave Castiel an appraising look. To his credit, the angel withstood it without betraying any reaction. "I've known you, haven't I? You've been mine on the battlefield. God's loyal soldier."
"I have known him also," Famine said, a slow smile creeping across his face "He has hungered for the kind of sustenance an angel should not desire. Not merely the base hunger for food, but something much less tangible." His gaze flickered to Dean, and back to Castiel.
Castiel glanced at Death, then looked away, and Death picked up a distinct bleed of emotion: shame at being known by Famine's touch. No, more than that; shame at having his hunger named in Dean's presence. But of course, it was that intangible hunger that brought him here, to Dean Winchester's side. It was admirable. Also, it was quite foolish, given the circumstances.
They were, after all, the Four Horsemen.
"You do realize, there is no power you possess against us that can change any outcome?" Death asked Castiel.
"I am aware." Castiel lifted his vessel's chin. The imposition of flesh over the angelic presence was clumsy and awkward, and Death had to exert himself to see past the doughy container to the bright spark beneath. Death had known him, of course. His living presence was the result of a special bargain between Death and God. Not that Castiel would ever know. "I come simply to observe."
"He thinks he's my backup," Dean explained, gesturing over his shoulder at Castiel, whose shoulders hunched in response. Death concealed a smile. The angel's aggravation was amusing.
"Then he's a fool." Pestilence hadn't taken his eyes off Castiel since the moment he arrived. Castiel was immune to his powers, of course, but Death was quite certain Pestilence was calculating how best to serve his revenge.
"Dean, allow me to reiterate what I told your...associates. You're doing the right thing," Death said. "Balance must be restored, and you are quite intelligent enough to realize you can never open the cage again, lest Lucifer once again be set free. I know you harbor no illusions of saving your brother this way. The rings are no use to you now that your work is accomplished." Even as he said it, Death realized Dean had not entirely abandoned the idea. His need to save the world, as overinflated as it may have been, warred with his lifelong instinct toward saving his brother, and that instinct compelled him not to surrender any potential tool. Interesting. Death could not quite tell which way Dean would bend.
"Maybe I can't use them, but that doesn't mean I should give them back to you." Dean squared his shoulders. "Since basically, you're just in it for the body count. Not exactly a noble calling."
"Evil doesn't originate with us, kid." War tossed back a shot of scotch, and continued, "We just carry out the mission. We all have our role to play, right? I start a couple of wars, bring on a genocide or two, stir things up. I just...align the natural order of things."
"Balance, Dean," Death said. "It's all about balance. There are things that are required for the universe to be in proper working order, and we are four of those things."
In the corner, Castiel vibrated with anxiety. His concern for the human was incandescent. Distracting.
"How do I know you won't turn on me the minute I give these back to you?" Dean asked.
"Good question," Pestilence answered, shifting his hate-filled gaze from Castiel to Dean.
"You know because I have given you my promise on our behalf, and as you are already aware, I am capable of keeping my end of a bargain. As are you. And you know because Castiel has already explained this to you in great detail, since he has your best interests at heart. We are necessary beings, Dean. This is why we are here." Death extended his hand. "Give them to me, please."
Dean hesitated a moment more. He glanced at Castiel, who nodded once, and finally, he held the rings out to Death. "You promise not to come after me and mine?"
"Yes."
Dean dropped the rings into Death's hand. Immediately, Castiel moved forward far too quickly for the human to perceive and enfolded him in wings Dean could not see, lifting him from that spot and carrying him away from their influence. Such a pity, that lack of trust.
"Finally," Famine said, rubbing his hands together.
Death separated the rings and slid his back on. It was warm to the touch, the residue of being clasped in Dean's human hand. He didn't need a ring to focus his power, of course; he was far past that requirement. But it was good to have it back again. A reminder of the old days.
"My ring," said Famine. "Give it to me."
"Not just yet." Death slid the three remaining rings in his pocket. "I spoke earlier of balance. There is something I must do, for which I require the rings."
"What are you up to?" Pestilence said, his ever-suspicious nature asserting itself.
Death merely looked at him, since there was no need for grand pronouncements. Then he looked at War, whose knowing look caused Death's lips to turn in a smile. "There is work for you, brother. All the supernatural beings of this world await your touch. You know what to do?"
"I do. And then you'll return my ring?"
"Oh, yes."
War nodded, satisfied, and disappeared from view.
"What's going on?" Pestilence shifted around in his chair like a particularly difficult child.
"There will be work for both of you, in time. I will summon you, when I have need of you."
"You never change, brother," Famine said, his voice full of resignation.
"It is my nature," Death said.
A moment later, he stood in a vast, dead field and contemplated the concept of balance. The sky was bright blue and beautiful above, the grass lifeless and dead below.
Such a small battlefield, for such a large sacrifice. Death could still feel the charge in the air. Not much time had passed since Samuel Winchester gave himself to put the rogue angel back in his cage. Dean Winchester had made a desperate bargain, and had given up all that was precious to him, in exchange for the lives of billions.
More importantly, Death was now free of Lucifer's influence. He could feel Lucifer squirming about in the realm to which he had been banished, pouting like a child who cannot accept his punishment. Good riddance. He could sense Sam Winchester's soul in close proximity to Lucifer, still bright and true, but diminishing rapidly. No being could remain bright for long in Lucifer's presence.
Tethers could take many forms. Dean Winchester had given up infinitely more than Death in the course of their bargain, and now Death felt a certain obligation. He did not like to feel he owed this human a debt for the disparity. It had been a fair deal between them, but...well. There should not be more death than life, or more life than death. Every being in its proper place. Things had to be...rearranged. Debts repaid.
Death was willing to settle his obligations. It seemed only fair.
What might come to pass after the debt was paid would not be his concern.
~~end~~