e v e r y . d a y . a . l i t t l e . d e a t h

Every Day a Little Death
[by victoria p.]

Rating: g

Summary: "You're definitely one of mine, Dean Winchester. In ways you don't even realize yet."

Spoilers: for "In My Time of Dying"

Notes: This was originally meant to be longer and more involved, but it never worked out.

Word count: 1,335 words

Date: March 1, 2007

He sees her from the corner of his eye sometimes, a flash of sleek black hair and chunky black boots hovering in his peripheral vision. He knows he knows her, but he can't quite place from where, and in the adrenaline rush of hunting, the memory slips away.

He sleeps less now, spends the hours cleaning his guns, watching over Sam as Sam tosses and turns in the other bed. He wonders, sometimes, if he's really up to the job his father gave him, now that the dress rehearsal is over and there's no backup left to call.

After another mostly sleepless night in a string of them, he dozes in the car while Sam drives, and when they pull up to a diner for lunch, he considers telling Sam to go ahead without him, but the twin pressures of full bladder and empty stomach force him out of the car.

Sam's in the restroom and Dean is contemplating his third cup of coffee and a slice of blueberry pie when a girl with multicolored hair slides into the booth across from him.

"I like pie," she says. She has one blue eye and one green one, and Dean can't look at her too closely, because the room starts to spin when he does. "I'm looking for my brother," she says. "He's never where I found him the last time. I wish he would come home so I wouldn't have to keep looking."

"Del." Another girl joins them--she's older, with black hair and pale skin, and the hair on the back of Dean's neck prickles. His mouth goes dry with a combination of fear and lust that overpowers the taste of coffee. She holds a hand out to the girl sitting across from him. "Let the man have his coffee in peace," she says with an affectionate exasperation Dean recognizes all too well.

Del looks at him for a moment, and maybe he's crazy, but the air seems to shimmer gold around her, and her hair is made of snakes, and then she's just a kid with multicolored hair again, and a cute goth older sister. He blinks. He really needs to get some sleep.

"He could be mine," Del says as she scoots out of the booth. It sounds like the continuation of an old argument, and Dean takes a sip of coffee to hide his grin, fear forgotten. She's just a kid, but it's not the first time he's been the subject of that kind of discussion between sisters.

Her sister smiles. "Not today, Del."

"Bye." Del waves at him and he waves back, amused.

"You all right?" Sam slides back into the booth. "You're asleep at the switch there, Dean." Dean blinks again, because he doesn't think he's been dozing, but... "Why don't I tackle the library by myself, while you go have a nap?"

"I'm not three, Sammy. I don't need a nap."

Sam holds his hands up in surrender. "Dude, I'm just trying to help."

Dean rubs a hand over his forehead, eyes stinging from lack of sleep. "I know." But he can't face the rumpled motel sheets that smell like industrial detergent and scratch against his skin, the stink of their dirty laundry hanging in the air, the rasp and thunk of the barely functional HVAC unit, which makes the room hot when it should be cool and cold when it should be warm.

They drive over to the library and Dean stays in the car, curls up against the door, pulls his jacket on like a blanket, and lets himself doze, the soft patter of rain on the roof easing the way.

A knock on the window wakes him suddenly. It's the goth girl from the diner, alone now, and smiling. She opens the door and climbs in before he can say anything.

"Hi," she says. "I forgot my umbrella."

He feels the same thrill of fear and desire as before, and it takes him a second to get his upstairs brain working again. "No problem. Wouldn't want you to catch cold."

"No, that's not an experience I'm interested in repeating. Who would look after my goldfish?" She shifts, leans closer, and he notices she's not shivering. Water beads on her skin, which gleams like mother-of-pearl. "You don't remember me."

"Sure I do. The diner. The kid with too much Manic Panic in her hair." But there's something else going on, something about the way she cocks her head, looks as if she knows him, that sets alarms ringing in the back of his head.

"Well, yes, but we've met before. More than once, actually." She reaches out, cups his cheek, and her fingers are cool and pale--too pale to be human, he realizes. "Every girl likes to think she's memorable, Dean. Even me." Her voice is sweet, teasing.

He jerks away, hits his head against the window, and remembers, tasting fear like copper in the back of his throat. "Shit. Tessa?"

"That's one of my names, yes." He fumbles for the door handle, but she just laughs, a silvery sound that should be scary, but isn't. "Don't worry. I'm not here in any official capacity. Not today."

"Ottumwa is a vacation hotspot for reapers? I'll have to keep that in mind, avoid the place in the future."

She wrinkles her nose. "You can't avoid me forever."

"No, but I can for damn sure try to avoid you for now."

"You haven't done such a great job of that recently."

He laughs, though it's not really funny. "No, I guess I haven't. Occupational hazard."

She nods. "Most people don't get the chances you've gotten," she says. "Most people don't even know those chances exist."

He thinks of Marshall Hall, of Layla. Of Dad. "I didn't ask for those chances."

"No, but you were given them anyway. Which is why I'm here. Keeping an eye out. You're definitely one of mine, Dean Winchester. In ways you don't even realize yet."

"Excuse me if I don't find that comforting."

It's her turn to laugh, and this time it does send a shiver down his spine. "No, you shouldn't."

"So, was that another illusion, in the diner? The little sister who likes pie?"

"No, Del's as real as I am. And she really is my sister. It's--"

"Complicated?"

"No, not really. Just not pertinent to the discussion at the moment."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"No, not really, but then, I'm not exactly used to sitting around, shooting the shit with a reaper."

"The Reaper," she says. "They're all aspects of me, Dean, filtered through culture and expectations." Her mouth twists in a small frown and one elegant white hand plays with the silver ankh hanging around her neck. "I'm not always fond of the fashion choices, but," she shrugs, "occupational hazard."

"I think it was easier when you were a creepy old guy in an undertaker's suit," he says. "The cute girl thing is...disturbing." In the way that he's finding her more attractive by the minute, and he knows that's no attitude a hunter should have.

She laughs again, delighted. "I'll take that as a compliment."

He nods, though he's not sure he meant it as one.

"We'll talk again soon," she says, which isn't comforting, but also doesn't sound like a threat, "but you should really get some sleep." She leans in, kisses his cheek with warm, dry lips before he can pull away. His eyes flutter closed--she smells of something he can't quite put a finger on, though it seems familiar, like Mom, like home, and he hears the slow, steady beat of wings--and when he opens them, she's gone, and Sam is climbing into the car.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he says, "I found out where Uriah Hampton is buried."

Dean shakes his head to clear it of sleep, and looks at his watch. An hour--he'd slept for an hour, dreamlessly, peacefully.

He supposes he can thank her for that, the next time they meet.

end

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Disclaimer: All Supernatural characters belong to Eric Kripke, etc. Death of the Endless belongs to Neil Gaiman, etc. This piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.