Work Text:
Playing with the Big Boys
You'll know what power is when we are done, son...
You're playing with the big boys now.
-Playing with the Big Boys, Steve Martin and Martin Short
It was cold, much colder than usual for Georgia, this time of year. Way colder than usual. Dean shivered, tugging the collar up on his leather jacket, pulling it tighter around him. On his right, he could see Sam rubbing his huge hands together, trying to keep them warm. Jo was rubbing her hands over her arms, cold despite her additional gloves and scarf. A gust of wind managed to send chills through the gaps in the layers, and Dean gave in.
“It is fucking cold!” he chattered, finally zipping up the front of his jacket. “This is not natural!”
Neither of his companions acknowledged him, and he didn’t think they would: they were both on edge, unhappy with the rumors that someone was looking for them. Rumors which happened to be verified at the last dive bar, where several Hunters had confirmed that someone had been asking about the Winchester Clan. The man, described as tall, pale and thin, had been very polite, and also very much not intimidated by the large men questioning his intentions. His confidence had unnerved them, and they had eventually admitted that the Clan was in the area. Jo had reamed the pair a new one, but Dean understood; the kids were young, inexperienced (the only Hunters to reach out to the Winchester Clan were desperate, Sam and Dean’s status as transgenic kept most of them away). And if this weather was any indication, the ‘man’ had been very powerful.
Next to him, Sam slowed, a very odd look on his face. “Do you guys feel that?”
There was…something on the wind. It was thick, and smelled of ozone. Dean had only felt that particular combination when something was manifesting itself, and the lack of extra—such as the sulfuric taste that demons had or the meadow scent that came with fey—meant it was something powerful.
He blinked, and in that fraction of a second, there was a man. He was just there, no smoke, no flash…just, there. Dean knew something then, and he held his arms out on either side, stopping both Sam and Jo’s forward momentum. They glanced at him first, but he knew when they spotted the man—they both jumped. “Uh, hi.” Dean said, when he was sure neither Sam nor Jo were about to do something stupid. “I take it you’re the one looking for us.”
“No.” The man spoke very proper, as if his very words carried weight. “I was looking for you, Dean. It’s concerning your brother.” He looked towards Sam and Jo, and then, almost dismissingly, “Excuse us.”
And then Dean wasn’t in Georgia anymore.
No, no, Dean was standing in the middle of a charmingly homey pizzeria, who’s window advertised they had the ‘best pizza in the five boroughs!’. It took him a long moment, but finally Dean found his voice, “Why am I in New York?”
“I was hungry.” Behind him, the strange, pale man was tucking a napkin into his collar, already seated at the red and white checkerboard table. He gestured towards the table, which had a deep dish pizza set out, two slices already set on plates. “Join me, Dean. The pizza is delicious.”
It was right about then that Dean realized how quiet the restaurant was. Everyone was still, perhaps still surprised at their sudden appearance—“They’re dead, Dean. Now, sit.”
A thousand questions sprang through Dean’s mind even as he used every sense he could to try to identify the being in front of him. Finally, he sat in the indicated chair, watching the man cut a small piece off his pizza. “Who are you?”
“You would think that was obvious.” He took a long moment, sipping his drink. “I’m Death.”
Dean fought not to scoff, despite himself. “You’re Death.”
The pale man shot him a look, one that froze him to his very core. “That’s what I said.”
Well, that was sobering. Dean straightened in his seat, fully aware that this was something he wouldn’t be able to touch, despite being transgenic. “Um…it’s an honor.” Which, it was, really.
Death was watching him, again. Dean shut his mouth. “Eat.” He waited for Dean to pick up his knife and fork before he continued. “You and yours have always been closely watched, ever since your destinies became…altered. I like you, Dean, which is why I’m here.” He took a moment, savoring another bite of the (rather delicious) pizza. “Your brother, Alec, has been ‘tapped’, as it were. Even as we speak, They are working their magicks and changing him, molding him into something more.”
Dean waited for him to continue, but Death seemed more inclined to eat his pizza. After a few minutes of (Dean’s) uncomfortable silence, he finally spoke. “So what is he?” he asked, his tone betraying his horror.
Death finished chewing and swallowed, giving a small shrug. “Minor death god. Psychopomp, really. Now in my employ. They apparently felt the need to resurrect the Wild Hunt.” He gave another shrug. “You tidied up the world too much. Oh, come now, Dean. Don’t be like that.” He said, as if he could feel the sudden wave of it’s my fault that had washed over Dean at that very second. “The only people Alec will actually kill are already destined to die—and their lives warrant a terrifying end. You humans find such…unique ways to destroy each other.” He took another long pause, and finished off his slice. “You know the world has to be kept in balance, and humans are still vile, squirming things. They need to be cleaned up. But like I said, I like you, Dean. You’ve never given too much fuss when you’ve died, and you are unusually selfless. Your Clan will be immune to the effects of the Hunt, for better or worse. I wouldn’t deprive you of your family.”
Dean just stared at him, now completely lost. Death looked slightly annoyed. Dean managed a “huh?”
Death rolled his eyes. “Your brother and his pack have been given purpose. I suggest you talk to Sam and have him explain the rest.” He took a sip of his soda, still watching Dean. “You’re playing with the Big Boys, Dean. I’d suggest brushing up.”
And that was it: Dean was back on the chilly sidewalk in Georgia, with the voices of Sam and Jo echoing in the vacant streets, still looking for him. It took him a long time to call out to them, to let them know he was ok. He knew that there were Reapers, guessed they served Death…but now little slivers of memory were filtering through—impossible things (how many times did that trickster kill me?), fantastical things, and, consistently, that pale, thin man. He was scared because only now was he remembering why Death had taken such a liking to him. He’d plead ignorance whenever asked, but, he knew. It wasn’t the kind of thing you admitted to anyone. And he needed to be on his game. Whatever ‘Big Boys’ were out there, Dean was now on their radar. He wasn’t playing any more.