InsaneJournal

FIC: Torches Blazed (And Secret Chants Were Praised), (Sam/Dean, others, PG-13)
Title: Torches Blazed (And Sacred Chants Were Praised)
Author: cormallen
Pairings: Sam/Dean, Dean/War, Pestilence/Bobby UST.
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~10,400
Summary: It's that time again – Doomsday's upon us, the Four Horsemen ride across the land, and the brothers Winchester are smack in the middle of it all. Of course, Bobby Singer is sure – really pretty sure – that the current Apocalypse is entirely their fault.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Winchesters, The National Tattler, or the Four Horsepersons of the Apocalypse. And I definitely hold no claim either to The Destroyer, The Adversary, The Father of Lies, or to his Chosen Companion, The Lord of Sin and Abomination.
A/N: Written for spn_apocasmut; prompts 8 (the world is about to end, and Dean's pretty sure it's more or less, entirely all his fault) and 56 (Good Omens-inspired). As such, the occasional British-ism is intentional. Title taken from Iron Maiden's The Number of the Beast. Thanks to backinblack for the hand-holding, head-smacking and reassurances.



"Everywhere you look, there are signs that the end times are nigh. The apocalypse-prediction trend is nothing new, but this summer is a hot one for people keeping their eyes peeled for the Four Horsemen." -- Buzzfeed.com


Some Years Ago, Possibly Less than Thirty Three, but Surely More than Twenty Two, Maybe Twenty Four or Twenty Eight, but Really, Who's Counting?

It is commonly recognized that the earliest human prediction of the End Times had been carved into a clay tablet in Assyria, back in 2800 BC. "Our people are degenerate in these latter days. There are signs that the world is speedily coming to and end. Bribery and corruption are common," the tablet proclaimed, calling for the populace to repent, pray and prepare. Unfortunately, the prediction had come either nine hundred years too late – or roughly five thousand years early – give or take a century or two.

Followers of The Blessed Joachim of Fiore rescheduled the emergence of the Antichrist to 1290 AD, after 1260, their initial proposed Dooms-year, had come and gone without a single demonic omen of note.

Modern prophecy scholars have proposed that Satan has placed a man in every generation of recorded history for the purpose of fulfilling the role of Antichrist. Critics of modern prophecy scholars maintain that such statements are made merely for the purpose of covering either all possible bases – or the spread, depending on which American sports-based metaphor one happens to favor.

The Yellow Eyed Demon didn't give a fig for clay tablets, Joachite cultists and critics of prophecy scholars, modern or otherwise; he had what in his estimation was a rather important job to do, a very limited window of time in which to do it, and a slight hitch in his plans, due almost entirely to the Infernal Bookkeeping Department, Division of Apocalyptic Records, Subdivision 14 C. The remainder of the blame could be placed squarely at the door of Belial, whose second honeymoon had been both sudden and uncalled for, and whose lack of attention to proper signatures and the timely filing of paperwork had left the Yellow Eyed Demon quite thoroughly annoyed.

He exited the house and checked both the mailbox and the front door three more times, but the numbers maintained that he had, indeed, arrived at Six Sixty Four, Pleasant Street, Lawrence, Kansas. It was a rather modest, one-family structure, which, according to the rolodex on Belial's desk, was housing the present incarnation of The Great Beast Called Dragon, The Adversary, The Lord of the Abyss, et cetera, et cetera – a male between the ages of 0 and 5 years old, born to Mr. and Mrs. John Winchester, and – supposedly – an only child.

The Yellow Eyed Man's instructions – as relayed earlier by collect call from a hotel in Aruba – had been deceptively simple. "Take the boy, burn down the house, try not to wake the neighbors, and the corner office will have 'Azazel' on the door before you know it."

"I hope that cloven-hoofed bastard rots," Azazel muttered under his breath, ascending the stairs once more, "him and his harlot of a trophy wife. A male child with no siblings, my ass," he concluded, staring at the crib. "Your Diabolical Grace?" he tried, cocking his head, as the baby within gurgled cheerfully. "Most Terrifying Majesty?" he attempted again at the door down the hall, getting nothing but a snore from the boy sleeping behind it.

"Fuck it," he sighed in defeat, lighting a cigarette. "Burn the house down, let Child Services sort them out. I'll watch the little buggers for a few weeks, get a better idea of which one's which, and pass an anonymous complaint against Belial up the ladder. See how many vacations he takes after that."

The rest of what happened that night – and for quite some years thereafter – had not gone at all according to Azazel's plan, ultimately contributing to his own untimely and permanent vacation some time around Anno Domini 2007. And so it came to pass that the Angel of the Bottomless Pit grew, played catch with his brother, sat in his father's car on countless cross country hunting trips, learned to shoot a handgun, a rifle, and a repeating crossbow, jotted down various ways to identify and destroy any number of unholy beings, and was generally regarded by those who met him to be a fine-looking young man, if a bit odd. The entire story – up to the Tuesday last – was later deemed marketable enough to inspire tell-all books from the neighbors at both Six Sixty Two and Six Sixty Three, as well as a hit television show, a series of comic books, no less than twenty-seven fan conventions, ninety-five poster prints, and countless posable plastic figures with real arm-moving action.


Last Tuesday

It was a sweltering California Tuesday, the evening air thick and blurry with the heat, the rattle of air conditioners and the rumble of engines and whine of horns on the freeway starting to die down. One by one, streetlamps winked into existence, and traffic lights switched from red and green to endlessly blinking yellow, shop signs flashed up neon purple with a happy, night-time buzz. The third streetlamp from the corner on the left side of the street initially lit up in time with its fluorescent brethren, picking a tall, thin woman out of the settling darkness, but quickly sputtered out, as if having changed its mind.

Later, three eyewitnesses would claim that the woman in question had been a brunette and barefoot; two would say she had blonde hair and wore black leather boots. Yet one more would insist there hadn't been any woman, and that the driver of the green Lexus, license plate 9DKC284, suddenly screeched his brakes, stepped out of the car – right onto the double yellow divider – and began coughing and sneezing uncontrollably, completely oblivious to the pile-up that followed in his wake. It must be noted that, although each report did undoubtedly contain a small grain of truth – there had, indeed, been a woman, as well as a bewildered, suddenly sneezing driver, who, at the time of his arrival at Mercy Hospital, had reached his three-thousandth sneeze and showed no intention of stopping, and even a twelve-car pile-up on Figueroa – Officer Stephen Maloney, LAPD, found the lot of them quite useless.

There had been a seventh eyewitness; unfortunately for Maloney, he had already sold his story to The National Tattler for forty five dollars and ninety three cents by the time the officer had arrived at the scene. That story, subsequently printed on page nineteen of the Tattler's second July issue, correctly identified the mystery woman's boot color (black), dress color (charcoal), hair color (sable), as well as the color of the horse she had ridden in on (ebony, with a few spots of soot for good measure). It also mentioned something the other eyewitnesses had not, namely, the red-headed kid in a Slayer t-shirt, who had yelled and waved at the woman from across the street, which had been the sole reason for her subsequent jaywalking into traffic. It mentioned the driver of the green Lexus, California license plate 9DKC284, screeching his brakes sharply to avoid the woman as she strolled across, and screaming, "Watch where you're walking, you [expletive redacted – Ed.]," out of the power windows.

Had Officer Stephen Maloney read the Tattler's second July issue, he would have found out that upon hearing the driver's rather unfavorable description of herself, the woman stopped, pointed a slim, pale hand at the green Lexus, briefly observed the driver's subsequent sneezing fit with a disdainful nod, and left the scene accompanied by her horse and her red-headed acquaintance, the young thrash metal aficionado.

Unfortunately, even if Officer Maloney had made it a habit to read supermarket tabloids, it is doubtful he would have considered the conversation between the equestrian duo as anything other than nonsense and gobbledy-gook. While service in the LAPD had prepared him for skillfully dealing with a variety of situations, it had not done anything to enhance his understanding of Ancient Sumerian, a language currently spoken by only a handful of antiquity experts, as well as Christi Walsh, a housewife from Dryden, Ontario; Konrad J. Michailowski of Warsaw, Poland, current editor of the Alternative Cuneiform Studies Quarterly; and Samuel Winchester, a Stanford University dropout, of nowhere in particular as of late.

Had the aforementioned Samuel Winchester purchased his usual weekly copy of The National Tattler on July the twelfth, he would have been quite alarmed to read that very conversation, relayed on page nineteen phonetically, and with surprising accuracy.

"Long time, no see; what's it been, nine, ten centuries?"

"Closer to seven - remember that temporal fold back in 1260?"

"That was quite the clusterfuck, if I do say so myself. Have you seen the others yet?"

"No, Belial just called me this morning. I haven't even gotten around to picking up my horse yet. Have any idea who's running the show this time around?"

"Oh, yeah; he's a strong one, too. Haven't felt a pull like that since, what was it, my fourth apocalypse? You know the one, that warlock from, I think the humans call it the European Union these days."

"Right, right; that was a ride to remember."

"Trust me; this one will be, too. I can feel it in my bones. Anyway, we're looking for two guys in a big black car."

There was a great deal more Samuel Winchester could have read on page twenty, mainly centered around the identity and location of the one known as The Son of Perdition, Destroyer of Kings, The One Eyed Liar, The Deceiver, ad-Dajjal, The Lawless One and The Lord of Iniquity, and also of the identity and location of his Chosen Companion, The Knight of Darkness, The Man of Sin, The Beast's Whore, and Prince of Abominations. Unfortunately, on the week of July twelfth, at the insistence of his brother Dean, Samuel had purchased neither The National Tattler, nor the Weekly World News, not even a copy of the Alternative Cuneiform Studies Quarterly, although he hadn't been pleased about it.

"Dean, it's what we do," he attempted, "we need to be prepared."

"Let me spell it out for you, Sammy," Dean told him. "V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N. Break. Can't a man have two freakin' days of rest and relaxation once a decade?"

"Well, yes, but –"

"No 'buts'. The only things we're spending money on tonight and tomorrow are steaks, beer, and maybe tequila shots – if the bartender's hot."

"Of course," Sam sighed, put the unopened copy of The National Tattler back down resignedly, and that, as they say, was that.


Present Day

"I love this steak," Dean proclaimed, chewing and swallowing. "I love this beer. I love this bar, even if it has sub-par tequila and freaky cowboy shit on the walls. I love days off, even if they only come once a century."

"Hmph," Sam grunted, tracing his placemat over in blue crayon. "It was 'once a decade' earlier today. Try to remember your sob stories accurately, would you?"

"Well, I know one thing in this bar I definitely don't love," Dean scowled back, but Sam paid him no mind, choosing instead to flag down a passing waitress and ask her for another placemat.

"Sure thing, hon," she said, coming back with not only a new placemat, but another napkin as well, with 'Teri, 587-9011' scribbled on it in her own blue crayon. "You just let me know if there's anything else I can get for you, yeah?"

"You just let me know if there's anything else I can get for you, hon," Dean mocked as Teri retreated into the kitchen. "Well, since your night is all but assured, and a table's just opened up, I'm gonna go play some pool and think about how much I don't love you."

"Hmph," Sam said again, defacing his second placemat. If he hadn't been quite so busy connecting the dots on a Stetson hat and a pair of boots with spurs, he would have noticed quite plainly that his brother was lying.

For the sake of continuity, it must be noted that Dean Winchester lied quite a lot, whether or not it was required of him. Most of his lies were hardly malicious – "Why, yes, I am a founding member of Deep Purple," or "Of course, I'm a film producer," and "Not to worry, little lady, I am an officer of the law". Indeed, the skirts and trousers those little lies were usually aimed at would likely have ended up pooled around ankles or hitched up to the waist regardless, but Dean found that keeping in practice allowed him to tell his larger, less innocuous lies with a more sincere face.

There were only two lies of any notable magnitude that Dean Winchester told on a regular basis, and he considered the both of them matters of ultimate importance. Lie the first could easily be summed up in the phrase, "No, there isn't a monster in your closet," or the even simpler, "Don't be afraid of the dark," and on those 3648 days of the decade Dean didn't have off, he disproved those sentiments time and time again. Although he had been sound asleep when the Yellow Eyed Man peered into his room on the night of November 2, some twenty eight years ago1, he remembered his rude awakening in stark detail, the flames spreading throughout their modest, one-family unit, his father's hands shielding his eyes against the blaze, and baby Sammy clutched tightly in his arms, crying. He also remembered years of target practice, cross-country hunting trips, sleeping in motels, inns, hostels, campgrounds, and, just once, a bed-and-breakfast. He remembered taking turns with his brother and father to fill in the pages of a thick, leather-bound journal with endless notes on how to properly identify and dispatch numerous and varied unholy creatures. Unfortunately, "Professional Demon Hunter", although undoubtedly a valuable enhancement to any curriculum vitae, was a job one had to keep mum about, and so Dean gritted his teeth and lied, sometimes up to five or six times daily, reminding himself it was all for the greater good, in humanity's best interest, and, most importantly, would help keep baby Sammy safe – all six feet, four inches of him.

"It's 'Sam'," Sammy always corrected, "and in case you don't remember, 'Professional Demon Hunter' is also right at the top of my resume," to which Dean would ever respond with a grin, an indulgent ruffling of Sammy's shaggy brown hair, and a manly thump on Sammy's left shoulder, bringing him smoothly into lie the second, that being, "I don't love my brother Sam so much I think it might make my heart explode, and I certainly don't love him in any way commonly proscribed by basic human mores, values, ethics or incest laws.2"

Had Dean not taken his two every three thousand six hundred and fifty days off so seriously, and allowed Sam his intended purchase of The National Tattler's second July issue, and had Sam then subsequently translated for him the phonetic relays of the strange and compelling conversation printed on pages nineteen and twenty, Dean may have only had to tell one lie that evening, that being, "The Apocalypse is only a myth and the Bogeyman isn't out to get you." Had he become privy to the equestrian duo's printed exchange of information about the location of both The Enemy, The Snake in the Grass, He Who Regards Neither the God of His Fathers Nor the Desire of Women, and his Loyal Soldier, The King's Hand, The Wicked One, he might have purchased an entire bottle of the sub-par tequila in order to ply his brother with shots, toast his newfound lack of need to obey basic human values, morals and laws, and ponder whether "Hey, Sammy, since it seems you're the Antichrist, we can definitely have sex without impugning our honor or endangering your immortal soul, which is pretty much scheduled for drop-off at the Bottomless Pit, anyway," was a good opening salvo.

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, however, neither brother had a copy of The National Tattler in their possession, which is why Dean had resolved to spend the evening the same way he'd spent countless similar evenings past – playing a little pool, drinking a little more beer, and finding a reasonable replacement to whom he could transfer his affections, albeit temporarily.

The current target of his transference, Dean decided, would be the lanky red-headed kid in a worn Megadeth t-shirt, not only because his black jeans were ripped in strategic places and rode low on his hips, but also because he seemed to have one of Dean's other goals in mind, that being the lone green-covered pool table towards the back of the bar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Good game," Dean told the kid, and picked up his beer. It hadn't been, really. The kid played abysmally, scratching more often than not, sending the cue ball off the table on more than one occasion, and dropping his cue, the latter, thank God, only once. Granted, Dean had gotten an ample chance to check out the kid's ass, ripped black jeans riding tight and low as he bent to the floor for the cue.

He glanced over in Sam's direction, and immediately wished he hadn't. Sam was stalking angrily across the floor, a tall, leggy brunette trailing in his wake, clearly trying to get his attention. Sam's face was scrunched into a look of pure annoyance, lips pursed and brows furrowed. He stopped next to an empty booth and plopped into the vinyl bench seat, arms folded over his chest. The woman with him was a little thinner than Dean would have gone for3, and very pale under a mass of long, black curls, but she was wearing a tiny dress and shiny black leather boots up to the knee, the heels excitingly sharp and tall. Yet, for some reason, instead of smiling, Sam's mouth was moving, quick and angry, his brows were impossibly close to overlapping, and the brunette was throwing her hands in the air in obvious exasperation.

Dean glanced longingly at the kid's slick, pink lips, and gritted his teeth.

"Listen, give me a minute, would you? I think my idiot brother is having some kind of crisis. Don't go anywhere; defend the table. I'll be right back," he promised the kid with a wink, and made his way decisively to Sam's table.

"Sammy, who's your friend?" he asked without ceremony, settling into the squeaky bench across from his brother and setting his beer on the checkered tablecloth.

Sam opened his mouth, but it was the woman who started talking, sliding into the booth right next to him. She had a raspy voice, low and smoky, and Dean noted absently that her lips were pale and slightly chapped.

"I'm going to say it one more time, alright? Not a hooker. Could you maybe stop being so damned rude and push over, uh, Sir?"

Sam relented, giving Dean a shrug and a frown, and the woman stretched her long, booted legs into the aisle, examining a scuff on a lacquered toe with mild concern.

"Are you ok with 'Sir'?" she asked, turning back towards Sam. "Would you prefer 'Master'? I can do 'Master', or 'Milord', no problem. Take your pick."

Much, much later, Dean considered that really, he should have figured it all out a lot quicker, having heard the word "Master" reverberate through his brain and settle somewhere in the recesses of grey matter. However, at the moment, he was too occupied considering if maybe, through some karmic twist, or perhaps, a lot more Budweiser than was currently on the table between them, Sammy might not balk at hearing the woman say the word back in their motel room, tiny dress unzipped and waiting for her on the chair. The boots could stay on, Dean decided, and maybe, just maybe, having all that shiny black leather wrapped around his waist would make Sam –

"Well, well," the woman said, reaching over the table. Taking Dean's unfinished beer in hand, she took a long, hard pull and slammed it back down, as if to say, I know exactly what you are thinking, and I wouldn't mind you thinking some more.

"Aren't you the Wicked One4," she said, running her tongue over her mouth. "I should've known. Buy me a drink?"

Sam grabbed her skinny wrist, pressing it down onto the sticky tablecloth.

"He's not buying you anything. As a matter of fact, we were just leaving, weren't we, so, if you would –" Sam trailed off, gesturing at her to stand, but the woman pretended not to notice, and Dean chuckled, finishing the dregs of his Bud.

"Speak for yourself, Sammy," he suggested. "I kind of want to see where she's going with this 'Master' thing. Don't get to hear that kinda thing every day, that's for sure."

"It's all rather simple, really," the woman nodded with a sage expression. "You tell us where, when and how you want us, and we get on with it."

"There's more of you?" Dean coughed. In retrospect, this was yet another moment when his brain ought to have supplied a helpful Aha! or Eureka instead of Two girls, two guys, that's ironclad math even by Sam's standards, sobriety be damned.

"Three more, of course. You don't have much experience with this, do you? If you don't mind me asking, Sir," she pulled on Sam's sleeve, causing him to twitch slightly, "how long have you been in the business?"

"The business," Sam repeated, a bright red blush creeping through his face, and the brunette frowned, glancing over the rest of the bar for a quick second.

"The Apocalypse business," she said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. "Got a light?"

"Did you just say 'Apocalypse'?" Sam asked, the blush receding abruptly.

"Ah, hell, don't tell me you are in one of those alien Mothership cults. What do you white-robes call it, 'Rapture'? 'The Ascension'? Bring two pairs black socks, one t-shirt, one towel, one pair off-brand sneakers, drinks are on us? Ugh."

She returned Dean's lighter with a quick frown and inhaled, letting the smoke curl out of her nostrils. "Sorry to disappoint you, but you've signed up for an old fashioned Doomsday. You know, volcanoes erupting, seven seals, some trumpets, the rule of the Dragon, the whole Revelations shtick. Of course, if you insist, we can always call it 'End Times' or 'Ragnarok'. In either case, nobody needs to drink hemlock, or, what do you call that, um… help me out here," she prompted, and Dean found himself supplying the word "cyanide" in a toneless voice.

"Oh, yes, that's the stuff," she said, snapping her fingers in satisfaction. "That's what happened the last time, too, this guy was totally convinced we were going to take all his little cultists up to the Southern Cross. Didn't know the last thing about leading the armies of hell, took him three tries to believe the cyanide wouldn't kill him. All due respect, Sir, but he was quite the moron – especially for an Antichrist, and – oh, fuck me."

Fuck her? You know you probably still would, Dean's brain informed him, and just then, all the lights in the bar went out with a loud pop, followed by a tense and unexpected silence.

"Say that again. Fucking say that again, I dare you," a single male voice snapped through the darkness. A chair scraped across the floor. A glass shattered.

"Yeah, I'll say it again, you little queer, you and that other one, with them cocksucking lips, struttin' –"

The second voice cut off with a thick, meaty thud. The lights came on.

"Who else wants some?" asked the red-headed kid in a Megadeth t-shirt, pool cue dripping viscous red. He took off his glasses with a free hand, folded them carefully, and slipped them into a black jean pocket.

"I was hoping he wouldn't start so fucking soon. Time for Plan B, I guess," said the woman right next to Dean's ear, grabbing him by the hand.

"What's Plan B?" he asked dumbly, noticing that she was already gripping Sam's shoulder, and this time, his brother didn't seem to mind.

"We get through that door – the one with the exit sign – get into that shiny black car of yours, and get the ever-loving hell out of Dodge," she said, breaking into a run, and Dean held on to her cold, clammy hand and ran with her.

~~~~~~~~~~

The tires left skid marks on the pavement, the engine growled and hissed, and the woman calmly reached her hand up over the front seat and turned the radio knob.

"Hey!" Dean protested, and she settled in the back of the car, pulling the hem of her dress towards her stark white knees. Double yellow lines wrapped around telephone posts and blinked out of sight. The speakers ranted on about leather steeds, the sound of hooves, demon swords, famine and death in James Hetfield's voice, and in the rearview mirror, he saw the woman frown.

"Too obvious," she said, wrinkling her nose, and James Hetfield obediently began to belt out the lyrics to Seek and Destroy, instead. Somewhere behind them, there was the wail of sirens, the rat-tat-tat of gunfire, and then a monstrous, earth-shattering boom.

"And to think, that was all for your lips," the woman said, lightly patting Dean on the shoulder. "I'm starting to believe War is sweet on you."


Last Tuesday

"State of Massachusetts Internal Revenue Service, Izzie Mortimer speaking; just a moment. Let me transfer your call."

"State of Massachusetts Internal Revenue Service, Izzie Mortimer speaking, how may I help you? No, he isn't in today. Of course. Me? Oh, I'm just the assistant junior sub-auditor; I don't think there's anything I can do. Why don't you leave me your information, and he will get in touch with you when he gets back."

"State of Massachusetts Internal – Archduke Belial? No, thank you. I already have a job. Yes, I know it's twenty three thousand a year. There is tremendous growth potential – no! No, I won't do it for old times' sake. I couldn't get the time off even if I wanted to. MBA. Working on my MBA. Bu-si-ness Ad-mi-nis-tra-tion. No, it's nothing like running the Fifth Circle of the Abyss. What's that? Of course I know it's really hard to have a Doomsday with only Three Horsemen. I wasn't born yesterday5. Anyway, you are cutting into my lunch hour. What? Yeah, we can do lunch; I know this great Thai place on Eighth, but the Apocalypse thing is definitely still out."

~~~~~~~~~~

As of the 1990 census, Andover, Massachusetts, incorporated in 1646, had a population of thirty one thousand two hundred, quite a feat for an unremarkable town in Essex county, whose only claims to fame included housing a regional office of the Internal Revenue Service, and accusing a total of forty women of witchcraft in 1692. Ten of them were condemned to death; out of those, three were finally executed, leading the townsfolk into a frenzied fear of Satanic retribution. No fewer than twenty eight Doomsday predictions were made at the time, eighteen of them for various dates in July of that year, nine for August through December, and one – just one – for January 1, 2000.

Unsurprisingly, none of those predictions came to pass. Nevertheless, January 1, 2000 was a very important, if unappreciated date in Andover history, noted only by the United States Bureau of the Census and the State of Massachusetts Internal Revenue Service as the date that the population of Andover increased to thirty one thousand, two hundred and one. The thirty one thousand, two hundred and first resident of Andover, one Isabel Mortimer, a small, round-faced blonde, had a Public Accounting License, a penchant for pastels, and a tattoo of a scythe under her crisply starched cream blouse. She worked hard for her promotion from secretary to the assistant junior sub-auditor to assistant junior sub-auditor of the State of Massachusetts Internal Revenue Service, was indeed enrolled in a correspondence MBA course at Boston College, painted her walls lilac and her shutters a robin's egg blue, had lunch at the Thai place on Eighth on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and her boyfriend over for horror movie marathons and large bowls of popcorn every Saturday, the latter, along with the tattoo, firmly placing her into the category of coolest girl he'd ever dated. Izzie Mortimer doubted her ability of retaining the title if he ever caught wind of her real age (just this side of two million), birth name (unpronounceable in any current language), or the scrawny pale horse living out the last of its days in a small barn in her backyard; thus, she judged having one more lunch with Abyssal Archduke Belial a small and necessary price to pay for emotional security.


Present Day

To say that Bobby Singer was hardly surprised would have been a massive understatement. In fact, he didn't so much as twitch an eyebrow at the pair of Winchesters and the strange pale woman on his doorstep.

"Sit," he said, pointing at his kitchen table. "Which one of you got it?"

"Which one of us got what?"

"Oh, it's always something with you two," Bobby shook his head. "Come on, spit it out."

The woman grasped Bobby's hand with cold, pale fingers.

"Mr. Singer. I've heard so much about you. Pestilence. As in, War, Death, Famine and. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"She thinks I'm the Antichrist," Sam supplied sheepishly, twisting a corner of tablecloth between his hands.

"Figures," said Bobby, and set out the whiskey. "So, where are the rest of 'em?"

"War got in a bit of a tussle. He should be catching up in a bit," Pestilence explained, pouring herself a shot. "Famine's a newlywed, you know how they get – but she'll be here. Her husband's in the business as well. I haven't been able to get a hold of Death all week, but she's got a house in Andover, Mass. You might need to go get her, Sir," she nodded, turning to Sam.

"That might not be a bad idea," Bobby agreed. "Miss, er, Pestilence, do the Horsemen – excuse me, Horsepersons – need some kind of sign to start with the destruction, or is it first come, first serve?"

Pestilence shrugged and put away another shot glass.

"We can't actually proceed with the Apocalypse until Master gives his say-so, and for the most part, we are supposed to obey his every whim. But, you know, we are the Heralds of Doom and Destruction. We're meant to get humankind used to the idea."

"Riiight," Bobby drawled out. "Yeah, you boys better go and round up the other three. Probably best to have them all in one place and under supervision while we figure out how to fix this. Got an address for that house?"

"Yeah, sure," Pestilence said, pulling out a sleek phone. "Want me to Mapquest the directions?"

"Just give me the address," said Sam. "And, um, try not to get anyone sick while we're gone."

"Try not to get anyone sick? Weak, man. Did you miss the part where she said she has to obey the Antichrist's every whim? Better make that 'Do whatever Bobby tells you to'," Dean interjected, and Sam nodded in agreement.

"Right. You do whatever Bobby tells you to," he said, with the smug look of someone who'd thought of it first.

~~~~~~~~~~

"No way is this it. Just look at it – purple walls, blue shutters, house looks like a freakin' blueberry muffin. And the lawn gnomes – seriously, Death lives here?"

"Just ring the doorbell, Dean," Sam sighed, tugging on his tie as he walked up the gravel path.

"That gnome is looking at me funny," said Dean, but pressed the button for the bell all the same.

The doorbell chimed out a spirited rendition of the Blue Danube waltz and fell silent; footsteps shuffled inside, and the door opened a crack.

"No, I don't want to buy a calendar, cookies, a copy of the Watchtower, band candy, a subscription to Alternative Cuneiform Studies Quarterly, vinyl siding or whatever it is you are selling. I am also not interested in school board elections, donating to the Fire Safety Fund, or voting 'no' on Proposition 1894-b. Two healthy young men like you; you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Get a real job!" said Isabel Mortimer, and slammed the door shut.

"Well, she certainly told us," said Dean, scratching his head. "Seriously, man, that gnome is giving me the evil eye."

"Lawn gnomes don't have eyes, Dean. At least eyes that aren't painted on," Sam huffed, and rang the doorbell a second time. "Hm. Greensleeves."

"You again," said Isabel Mortimer. "I already told you vultures – I am not interested. The nerve of salespeople these days, worse than – "

They didn't get to hear what salespeople these days were worse than, although it was probably for the best, all things considered. A sharp scream echoed through the house behind Isabel's curly blonde head, followed by a dull thud and crunching noises.

"Sweetie, did you drop the popcorn again? There's another bag in the cabinet, just go get it," Isabel Mortimer called, and smiled sheepishly. "That's my boyfriend. We're watching The Fog. He won't admit it, but horror movies scare the crap out of him."

"Did you know that Carpenter named the characters of Dan O'Bannon, Nick Castle and Tommy Wallace after actual producers he worked with?" Dean asked, sliding his foot between the door and the jamb.

"Yes," said Isabel Mortimer. "Did you know that most of the story was actually taken from 1958's The Trollenberg Terror, which was released in the US – "

"As The Crawling Eye," Dean finished for her, and Isabel Mortimer gave him an appraising look.

"Call me 'Izzie'," she said, and smiled.

And that's when you freakin' cock-blocked me, Sammy, Dean would usually say later, when recounting the story of the Apocalypse that wasn't6. She had a boyfriend. Also, she was Death, Sam would protest every single time. Yeah, yeah, you're tough, but you're fair, Dean would allow, but call Sam a killjoy all the same.

The exact reasoning behind Sam's subsequent attempt to cock-block his brother – Death, Dean! She was Death! Did you miss the memo? – is still a subject of much speculation. It is entirely possible that Dean could have stopped telling his second lie7 that very day to resounding success; it is also entirely possible Sam was just exercising his God-given privilege of Open Mouth, Insert Foot. In either case, the words that came out of him just then were, "Miss Mortimer, we're here about the Apocalypse."

"Did Belial put you up to this?" Isabel Mortimer screeched. "I told that vacation-taking, cloven-hoofed, trophy-wife having, toupee-wearing bastard I was out of the business! I bought a house! I'm pretty sure my boyfriend is going to propose! I'm done! Done, you hear me?"

She punctuated the tirade by angrily wagging her finger in the general direction of the neatly manicured trees on her neatly trimmed lawn. Three birds tumbled to the ground, dead, hitting the grass with thick, wet smacks.

"See what you made me do?" she screamed even louder. "Get out! Get off my property, right now."

"We just – "

"Honey, call the police," Isabel Mortimer instructed, turning back to the house.

"We're just gonna get out of here, ok?" Dean told her, grabbing Sam firmly by the wrist. "Come on, Sasquatch Messiah, let's go."

~~~~~~~~~~~

"But do you think it's possible to have a Doomsday with only three Horsemen?" Sam asked halfway through Ohio. "And even if it is, don't I have to give the ok to start the whole thing, anyway? I mean, couldn't I just keep postponing indefinitely? And, well. I guess if it has to happen, if I have to do this, I'm sure we could at least find a way to protect the people that matter, Bobby, Ellen – you're giving me that look. You're gonna say they all matter, aren't you, you – "

"I was gonna say, 'shut up, Sam,'" Dean said, laying into the gas pedal. They made it back to South Dakota in record time.

~~~~~~~~~~

The streets were surprisingly empty, even for a backwater town like Bobby's. There wasn't anyone sitting in the rocking chair in front of the general store, and the gas station was manned by a lone attendant with a scratchy voice and red-rimmed, watery eyes.

"Laryngitis," he croaked as he counted their cash, "wouldn't come too close, if I were you."

The blades of grass on the sides of the road were dry and broken, every lawn they passed a shade of brittle brown, pale flowers hanging their heavy, dying heads. All the hedges were prickly and rust-colored, skeletons of trees leaning over the houses, and Dean chewed on his bottom lip in concern.

"I'm startin' to think leaving her with Bobby wasn't such a hot idea, after all. Look at all this shit."

"I'm sure he's fine," Sam said, watching the dust clouding around the tire tracks. "She's got no reason to do anything to him. I told her –"

"Yeah, that's right, Master Sammy. You told the big bad horse-lady what to do. Didn't work so well with Death, did it?" Dean smirked, staring ahead down the road. "Hey, there's still some green left up there."

The hedges surrounding Singer Salvage were a rich green indeed, the trees leafy and full of shade. A large, shaggy dog ran up to the car as they pulled up to the house, its fur grey and matted, saucer-like yellow eyes unblinking from above its white and red slavering jaws.

"Fenrisulfr! Down! Down, I said! Master, he'll listen to you," Pestilence yelled from the porch as the wolf-dog circled them, cocking its massive head, and playfully butting Dean in the knees.

"Uh, good wolf," Dean told it cautiously, and at the same time, Sam reached out a tentative hand, stroked the dark grey muzzle; the beast rumbled, pleased and low in its chest, and trotted after them to the house.

"Where's Bobby?" Sam asked as they stepped inside, and Pestilence put a finger to her thin, pale mouth.

"Please, keep your voices down. He's taking a nap, stayed up almost until dawn this morning, doing research. Don't know why he bothered, I mean, I could just answer whatever questions he's got, but, well, you know Bobby," she said, a strange familiarity lacing her tone, "has got to come up with his own solutions. Sit. I'll warm up the lasagna."

"Lasagna? Um, you cook?" Sam asked, surprise making his voice louder, and Pestilence put her finger back up to her lips with a frown.

"Thought I asked you to keep it down, Sir," she said, turning the knobs one the gas stove. "It'll just be a few minutes. Bobby said it was pretty good, considering this is only my second time using the oven. I've already done stew and waffles, and he's teaching me to bake apple pie tomorrow, if they get a fresh fruit shipment over at Harrison's. I might have gotten a little overzealous with the whole, um, blighting the town thing," she whispered sheepishly, "it's not like I need human food."

"The lawns in the town, that your work, then?" Dean confirmed as Pestilence dished up the lasagna. It smelled good, like sausage, tomato sauce and cheese; he poked it slowly with his fork, watched Sam do the same.

"Daniel Carver, from up on Willis Street, tried to stiff Bobby for a tow last week, so I blighted his lawn, and his wife's window boxes, too. And their crabapple trees and the beans their kid was sprouting for some state fair thing."

"Uh-huh. What'd everyone else do?"

"Nothing, yet. I did the rest of the lawns and the flu as a pre-emptive measure. It's totally vaccination resistant; that'll learn 'em," she added with a smile, showing pointed white teeth. "How is it? The food, I mean."

"Millions of people make lasagna every day. Trust me, yours isn't a special achievement," War yawned, emerging from the living room. His hair was plastered to the side of his head, and his Nuclear Assault tee rode up above his navel as he lazily scratched his stomach. "'Keep it down, Sir, Bobby's sleeping'. Oh, it's ok. Don't worry about me. Not like I could possibly be tired. Anyway, now that I'm up, I'll take some dinner."

"Get it yourself," Pestilence said, and War shrugged and grabbed a plate.

"Sir," he nodded at Sam as he sat down, and then gave a similar nod to Dean. "Sir."

I'm at Bobby's house, having dinner with War, Pestilence, and my baby brother, the Antichrist. My life, Dean mused, could not possibly get any weirder. Naturally, in the next minute following, Sam opened his mouth, and Dean realized he was quite wrong about that.

"You don't have to call him 'Sir', you know," Sam said with a pinched expression.

"Yeah, actually, we do," War said airily. "He's the Knight of Darkness."

And maybe "whosa-what's it" was not the best response given the situation, but that was the only thing Dean managed to say to that.

"The Prince of Abominations," War said. "Otherwise known as The Man of Sin, The King's Loyal Soldier, The Strong Right Hand, The Beast's Whore and The Wicked One."

"Wooza-huh?" said Dean.

"Wooza-huh? Man, you're the Antichrist's Chosen Companion. Get with the program."

"Right," said Dean, and dropped his plate with a loud crash.

Had he been less absorbed in apologizing to Bobby for interrupting his nap, assuring Pestilence destroying his dinner was in no way a comment on her cooking skills, and then cleaning up the kitchen floor, Dean would likely have noticed the thick red blush staining Sam's cheeks, and the strange, assessing way he stared at his brother as he worked at his own lasagna. However, whatever it had been in Sam's demeanor, it was gone by the time Bobby inquired about Death's whereabouts, shaking his head with ill-disguised concern.

"From what I gather, it's still possible to start a Doomsday with only three Horsemen of the Apocalypse. It might give us a bit of an advantage when it comes to stopping it –"

"I already told you, you can't stop it! Why won't you believe me?" Pestilence said, and poked War in the shoulder. "A little help here."

War nodded, licking up tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth.

"She's right; there's nothing you can do. It's all part of the Greater Plan, you know. Every few millennia or so, humankind gets out of control, and we hit the reset button. You can't possibly think that this is gonna be the first Apocalypse ever."

"Which one is it, then?" Dean asked from the floor, staring dumbly at the red spots on the tile.

"Two hundred and eighty ninth," War said proudly, "and my fifty second. The old War moved on to Mergers and Acquisitions."

"Famine called this morning," Pestilence added. "She and Archduke Belial – that's her new husband, he's in charge of The Abyssal Division of Apocalyptic Records – are getting in tomorrow. So, if there's anything you want to get done, maybe someone you want to call, whatever it is you humans like to do on these sorts of occasions, you'd best get it done tonight. Now, if you excuse me, I'm going to feed Fenris."

For a few moments, none of them spoke. The clock ticked. Water trickled through the pipes with a hiss, and outside, Fenrisulfr yipped and howled like no dog they'd ever heard.

"Well," Bobby said finally. "I don't know about you, boys, but I sure as hell ain't giving up. Come on, I've got some more books in the den."

"I'll be right there, Bobby," Dean said, turning on the sink. "I'm just going to take care of the dishes."

He listened for Sam and Bobby's footsteps retreating back into the depths of the house as he mechanically filled the sink with soapy water, and jumped as War clapped him on the shoulder.

"Damn, you're tense," War said, and turned off the tap. "Leave it. Let the Antichrist do his planning, and let's you and I go have a beer."

~~~~~~~~~~

They sat on Bobby's back porch, worrying at their beers and staring out into the junkyard. After ten minutes, War reached into his back pocket and produced a small plastic baggie.

"Wanna partake?" he said, and extended a painted glass pipe in Dean's direction.

"Nice," Dean said, and for the next ten minutes, the only noises coming from the back porch were the click of lighters and the occasional cough.

~~~~~~~~~~

His brother might be the Antichrist, he might be something right out of the Letters to Demon Penthouse, and the Apocalypse might be coming tomorrow. Tonight, however, Dean figured, life was good.

"Nice shirt, man," he said happily, poking his finger into the middle of War's ribcage. "Didn't really figure you for a concert-goer."

"Well, the thing is, I'm a bit of a metal groupie. Think about them kinda like notches. Belt buckle or bed post; take your pick."

"Huh. So, what other shirts you got?"

"Let's see," said War, bending his fingers, "there's Judas Priest, Anthrax, Testament, Pantera, Tool – they're a bit more on the progressive side, but I got them and A Perfect Circle. Sepultura, Flotsam and Jetsam. No Ozzy or Black Sabbath just yet, but I have hope. Besides, I have four Metallica shirts, and one of just Hetfield."

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow," said War, and shoved his hand down Dean's pants.

"Wow," Dean said again, and "goddamn," and "oh, fuck it, I'm probably going to hell, anyway."

~~~~~~~~~~

Life was awful. Dean's head was killing him, his mouth tasted like grit, his mattress was lumpy and far too narrow, the Apocalypse was happening come morning, and his baby brother Sammy – the Antichrist – was in the process of climbing onto aforementioned mattress with him. The Antichrist reeked of whiskey. Also, he was naked. Also –

Yep. That there? That would be Sammy's dick, grinding into my hipbone. I wonder if it's not too late to pretend I'm still asleep, thought Dean, clamping his eyes shut.

"Dean," the naked Antichrist whisper-yelled. "Dean, wake up."

Definitely too late, Dean's brain confirmed. Also, I'm not sure if you noticed, but Sam's dick? Definitely bigger.

"Thanks a lot. Thank you, brain, for that wonderful tidbit of information," Dean grumbled. "I've never appreciated you more than I do right this very minute."

"Who are you talking to?" Sam asked, and that was when Dean realized he'd berated his brain out loud.

You have fun now, Dean's brain said smugly. The asshole.

Hey, takes one to know one, Dean-o, it said, and that was the moment Sam chose to lean in and pinch Dean's nipple.

Now, to Dean's credit, it must be said that for all of his posturing, his equal opportunity pulling (completely unlimited by gender or social standing, and near infinitely stretchy when it came to such parameters as age, appearance and the amount of alcohol in Dean's bloodstream), the unfortunate fact that sometimes, just looking at Sam made his heart want to burst out of his chest and his mouth say incredibly stupid and irrelevant things, and his blatant disregard for the law when it came to things like grave desecration, public nudity, interstate flight, breaking and entering and a veritable host of other thoroughly exciting, dangerous and illegal things, there was one line that he had promised himself never to cross. No matter the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream.

Sam circled his nipple with the pad of his finger.

"Incest laws!" Dean squawked in a most undignified fashion, and Sam shrugged.

"I'm the Antichrist, dude. The real thing. The Dragon. Shit, there's a whole book about me in the New Testament. And you, it appears, are my Chosen Companion. I've given this a lot of thought, and I've decided that human laws don't apply to us. I've seen the way you look at me, you know. And I, uh, I've looked at you, too. Kind of a lot, actually. There was this one time, in Indiana, when I almost – anyway, that doesn't matter now. I think we should do it."

In case you had any remaining doubts, let me get rid of those right now, Dean's brain butted in again. The Universe definitely hates you.

Sam's hand moved lower.

"Sammy, I can't," Dean groaned, and that was when the Antichrist began to yell.

You'd fuck anything with a pulse, Dean. You did it with War, and he's practically a demon, Dean. You want me, Dean, just admit it. If I wasn't such an awesome guy, I would make you apologize, Dean would say later, and Sam would thump him on the head.

I'm not apologizing for telling the truth. Also, next time you tell this story, you are leaving that part out.


T Minus 3, 2, 1, Boom

The newlyweds arrived at eleven o'clock on Saturday morning. Famine was tall, blonde, and her face wore the perpetual pinched expression of someone thoroughly angry with the world at large. Her husband was short, plump, and –

"Dude, check it out, he does have cloven hooves," Dean said, poking Sam in the arm.

"Fuck you," Sam retorted, and said nothing else.

You were right. The Universe hates me, Dean told his brain, and boy, did it ever.

"So, how do I get Doomsday started?" Sam asked Belial, and scowled.

"Sam," Bobby said, "are you sure you want to do that," at the same time that Dean said "Sammy," and Pestilence said, "Sir, yes, Sir."

"Why not," Sam said. "This world sucks. I think I'm ready for a new one." He stared at Dean, unblinking, for a long moment, and something inside Dean's stomach whooshed and flopped and churned. Sammy, he wanted to say again, but didn't.

Sam turned away.

"Don't worry, Bobby. I'll keep your house on the map."

"Sam," Bobby said again, but Sam waved him off. "Well?" he looked at Belial.

"Oh, right. It's really simple. You just turn to the west, think of hellfire, and snap your fingers three times."

"Ok then. Let's do this thing," said Sam, and turned.

Dean shut his eyes.

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

Nothing happened.

The heavens didn't open up. There was no rain of blood, no fire, no brimstone, no seals, no trumpets.

Sam snapped his fingers again.

No Doomsday.

"Huh," said War.

"Come on, Sir, give it another try. You can do it!" said Pestilence.

Dean opened his eyes. Famine yawned. Fenrisulfr howled.

"My Antichrist is defective," Belial said in the small, miserable voice of a child who'd begged for a toy train for months and then broke it in the first five minutes of ownership.

"Hey, don't call my brother defective! Only I get to do that," Dean snapped, because, damn it, Sammy may have been acting like a world-class asshole, but there was no way he was letting some demon call him on it.

"Wait, what?" Belial said, digging at the ground with a cloven hoof. "The Antichrist doesn't have a brother. He's supposed to be an only child. Excuse me a moment."

He produced a phone out of the pocket of his vest, and began punching in numbers.

"Meg! Meggie, sweetheart! Dearest, could you do me the teensiest little favor? Could you look through your daddy's papers for me – oh, honey, your father was a wonderful man. Practically a saint. Demon. You know what I mean. Anyhoo, we all miss him dearly, and hope Oblivion's good to him, but, honey-bunch, could you look through those papers for me? Uh-huh. Specifically, anything pertaining to the Two Hundred and Eighty Ninth Apocalypse. Mm-hmm. Signs of, heralds of, Antichrist's date of birth. Right, right. Lawrence, Kansas. January 24, 1979? Are you sure? And they're not? Huh. Well, stranger things have happened. Thank you, pop-tart. Lunch? Of course, we can do lunch, sweetie pie. I'll see you then."

He slid the phone back into his pocket and nervously adjusted his tie.

"There, uh, may have been a little, what do you call it, mishap, when Azazel and I planned this thing. You see –"

"You fucked up the babies," Famine said. "What? Just calling it like it is."

"Now, sugar, there's no need to be hasty. Azazel –"

"It was you," Famine said with a scowl. "You are incompetent. I hate every pet-name you've ever called me. Also, you are short, cloven-hoofed, and cheating on me. I want a divorce."

"My wife, ladies and gentlemen. Ha-ha," Belial said with an enormous fake grin. "Isn't she a kidder. Pumpkin, why don't we discuss this after the Apocalypse? Remember, we're working, here. Let's not waste the Antichrist's time, shall we?"

He adjusted his tie again and cleared his throat.

"Sir! Let me start off by saying, I'm dreadfully sorry for the mix-up. That Azazel – horribly inattentive, should've fired him a long time ago. Turns out you and Sam aren't actually brothers. Azazel, again. To tell you the truth, the guys at the office were just tickled pink when you dealt with him. To make a long story short, congratulations, Dean Winchester. You're the Antichrist!"

"Right," Dean said, feeling the earth slip away from under his feet. "What do I win?"

~~~~~~~~~~

"So, here's what you do," said Belial, snapping his fingers. "You just turn towards the west, and –"

"I heard you the first time," Dean said, trying not to look at Bobby or Sam.

"Well, in that case, I suggest you get started. We're behind schedule already."

"Yeah," Dean said, studying his own boots. He needed new shoelaces. "I don't think this Apocalypse thing is going to work for me."

"What do you mean?" asked Belial, scratching his head.

"I like this world," Dean said, still not looking up. "It's got Sammy in it. And strip-bars, and high-octane fuel. And pie. Will the new world have pie?"

"Well, of course, it will have pie. Once the new civilization invents fire and cherry filling," said Belial.

"I don't want to wait that long," said Dean. "Thanks, but no thanks."

Belial's face began to resemble a deflated balloon.

"But you can't refuse your destiny! Nobody has! Not a single End Times Messiah! Not for two hundred and eighty eight Apocalypses!"

"Guess I'm gonna be the first, then."

"I'm going to file a complaint," Belial hissed. "You're interfering with The Great Plan. I'm going to send a report of this to the Almighty!"

"You do that," Dean said. "Make sure you tell Him what a bitch that free will thing is, while you're at it."

Belial stomped a delicate hoof into the ground.

"Mr. Singer. May I use your computer to send a quick e-mail?"

"Sure thing," Bobby said. "Come right in."

Belial's cloven feet made clicking sounds on Bobby's porch and the floor of his living room.

"It's right through there, to your left. A little more. Little more – there ya go. Mind the Devil's Trap," said Bobby, and began to recite in Latin.

"Oh, fiddlesticks," said Belial, before his earthly form ripped apart with a loud pop.

"Awesome!" Famine said, and smiled for the first time in five hundred million years.

~~~~~~~~~~

"So," Sam said, sitting down on Dean's bed. "You were the Antichrist. And you just completely defied hell back there. I don't even know what to say to that."

"You know," Dean said with a leer, "I would have made you my Good Right Hand. I'm pretty sure there's a jerking off joke somewhere in there."

"You jerk off with your left, dumb-ass."

"That's not the point – wait. You've seen me jerk off?"

"Yeah, I may have pretended to be asleep a time or two. Or ten," Sam said, leaning in. "You know, I may have been drunk, and an asshole, but I meant everything I said last night. Well, not the being above earthly justice part. But, hey, we wouldn't be violating any public morals, values, ethics or incest laws anymore."

"Pretty sure sodomy's still illegal in South Dakota."

"I don't give a good goddamn," Sam said. "Just touch me."

Dean did.

And if the next morning both of them looked like cats who had gotten the proverbial cream-dipped canary, well… gentlemen don't kiss and tell8.


When The World Didn't End

They said good bye in Bobby's front yard, four men, one woman and two large horses, one black, one red, snorting sparks and pawing impatiently at the ground.

"Sorry I tried to destroy the world, Bobby," Sam said with a sheepish grin. "I, uh. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," Bobby said, "or you'll owe me a hella lot more than an apology. I've half a mind to set you to alphabetize my library as it is."

"You and me, man," War grinned, shaking Dean's hand, "fuckin' Ozzfest, yeah? A VIP pass – I'll hook you up. You'll know it's me by the Sabbath shirt I'll be wearing."

"Hell, yeah," said Dean, and Sam elbowed him in the ribs. "Uh, I mean, I think I'll need two passes."

Sam coughed.

"Not that I don't appreciate your sudden concern for my emotional well-being, but all I wanted you to do is look over there," he whispered, pointing carefully. Dean followed Sam's fingers with his eyes and bit down on his tongue, hard, trying to stifle down laughter.

Over by the porch, Pestilence was sniffling, dabbing at her pointed red nose with a big white handkerchief.

"There, there," Bobby was telling her, awkwardly patting her bony arm. "I'm sure there'll be another Apocalypse before you know it, just look at how big Fenrisulfr has gotten."

"You think so? He's not so big," she said, blinking. "I mean, he is, for a dog, but you know, nowhere near jaws touching earth and sky when open. You'll take good care of him, won't you?"

"Wouldn't dream of doing otherwise," Bobby nodded solemnly, and Pestilence attempted a crooked smile, pressing the hankie against her eyes.

"Thanks," she said, leaning over, her usually pale, drawn face redder than a ripe tomato, and pressed her thin lips to Bobby's cheek.

"Don't mention it," Bobby said, a similar shade quickly inching up his face. "Nah, you keep it," he added, as she extended the handkerchief in his direction.

The black horse neighed and Fenrisulfr howled.

"Let's ride," War said, pulling on the reins; in a few moments, the two horsemen were just two small dark specks on the distant horizon.

"Well, all's well that ends well," Bobby pronounced, tugging on Fenrisulfr's collar. "You boys keep safe. You know damn well that I'm too old for this crap."

~~~~~~~~~~

Clouds of dust billowed behind them as Dean guided the car from the dirt road to the blacktop. All around, the grass and the trees were still mostly brown and dead, but spots of green broke through here and there, reassuring the world it was all going to be ok.

"Where to, Sammy?" Dean asked, turning on the radio.

"Doesn't matter," Sam shrugged, and put his hand on Dean's thigh.

For a brief second, Dean twitched, shivered, and then put his own hand on top of Sam's, blushing like a beet all the while.

Torches blazed and sacred chants were praised, howled the radio. Sacrifice is going on tonight.

"Iron Maiden, Dean, after all this? You're really something else," Sam said as Bruce Dickinson questioned hell and the relative craziness of his dreams out of the speakers.

"Yeah, Sammy, I know," said Dean, and joined Bruce on the chorus.

THE END9.






1 - due to the unfortunate mishap at Subdivision 14 C of the Infernal Bookkeeping Department's Division of Apocalyptic Records, as well as Abyssal Archduke Belial's lack of concern for proper signatures or the timely filing of paperwork, the exact period of time elapsed is unknown, estimated at anywhere between twenty four and twenty nine years, but surely more than twenty, and less than thirty one, give or take a month or two












2 - for more information regarding your state, province or territory's basic human mores, values and/or ethics, please call 1-800-787-0991. Operators are available 7 AM GMT to 5 PM EST; $2.00 for the first minute, $.15 for each additional minute, some restrictions apply. Offer may not be valid in your area, please check before dialing; not a local call for residents of Newfoundland, Fiji, and the Seventh, Fifth, and Ninth Circles of the Bottomless Pit.











3 - there is some debate over the issue of whether Dean is, in fact, an equal opportunity puller. While it's generally accepted that he doesn't put much stock in gender or social standing, some experts argue that appearance and age do play a factor. Opponents of that theory base their own argument on brother Sam Winchester's statement of "Who, Dean? Oh, believe me; he'll fuck anything that doesn't fuck him first."













4 - Of course, it is rather a shame that Dean is unable to hear capital letters. Oh, well, nothing to be done for it. Carry on!












5 - Ms. Isabel Mortimer, Certified Public Accountant, was, in fact, born close to two million years ago, when the Earth was still flat, and before the Powers That Be inserted dinosaurs into the fossil record.











6 - That was probably a spoiler for the end. However, the very fact of you perusing this story is a spoiler in itself. Had the Apocalypse proceeded as scheduled, "So You Want To Survive Doomsday" would have made slightly better reading material.












7 - That's the one involving basic human mores, values, ethics and incest laws.














8 - "Are you freakin' kidding me? I totally kiss and tell! First, Sammy did this swirly thing with his tongue – man, you are gonna be doing that every day, until the next goddamn Apocalypse – ow! What the hell was that for?"












9 - And they lived happily ever after.