a handful of teeth

"live," says death."i am coming,"

--- 

He thinks of death. Often and at length. 

Sam would like to think that he doesn’t want to die, but Sam also makes a concentrated effort not to lie to himself. Death, in the end, is something that Sam would - and has - welcome with an open heart and open arms. 

He and Death have spent plenty of time together, many years ago, when Sam was a plaything for a spiteful Archangel, ripping himself away from Lucifer, over and over and over . All suicides go to hell, the bible got that bit right. 

In this, Death is an old friend. 

In more than one way. 

That is, if anyone ever lets him stay dead. 

He’s bitter. Sue him. 

“It’s surprisingly cosy in here,” Death says, smoothing a hand down the front of his immaculate suit. 

He is tall and thin, older than Creation; he shall be here at the end of the world and longer still. He is sitting in front of Sam eating a cheeseburger and sipping at a bottle of coke. Sam idly wonders if this is a hallucination brought on by his recent illness through the Trial’s to close Hell’s Gates. He hasn’t seen Death for a while now. 

“Dear boy,” says Death, and it is infinitely fond in a way no one has ever sounded to Sam. Not even Dean . “ I’d be worried if you were hallucinating me,” 

Sam laughs, a soft sort of hacking heh . 

“Like I’m not crazy from hallucinating Lucifer , you mean?” He says. He swallows a mouthful of blood. 

“Well, one can hardly blame you, can they?” Death tells him. He wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “After all, more than five millennium stuck with Lucifer and Michael can’t be good for anyone , let alone the man who put them back where they belong,” 

“Tell Dean that, yeah?” Sam smiles tiredly. 

“Dean has always been hard-headed,” Death says, taking a large bite of cheeseburger. He slurps at his drink; it’s a strawberry milkshake now.”I take it he still thinks that the Cage runs on normal Hell time?” 

“Yeah,” says Sam. There’s something cold and black, yawning wide open in the pit of his belly. “I couldn’t, couldn’t tell him, you know,” 

“Foolish boy,” Death tells him. He still has that fond tone. “He’ll figure it out, Sam, or his little feathered friend will let it slip,” He raises an eyebrow. “Eat,” He prods, nodding his head to Sam’s take out bowl of tomato soup and bread roll. 

“I’ll just throw up,” Sam shake his head lightly. 

“My dear,” says Death, all articulated tenderness. “You’re beginning to look nearly as ghastly as I,” 

“The travesty,” Sam gives that soft hacking laugh again. His ribs ache, a sort of push-pull almost-hunger that grates at his insides. Sam is anything but hungry. 

Death takes another bite of his cheeseburger. Another slurp of strawberry milkshake. Sam politely leans away from his takeaway bowl of soup. Thick on his tongue, blood beckoning like an early morning. 

“You have a rather strange relationship with food,” observes Death. “Unlike your brother, you don’t care for it, do you?” 

Sam finally pushes away the soup, a heavy stone in the pit of his gut. He knows he should eat, especially with how much weight he’s noticed he’s lost since the first trial, but he can’t force himself to.

“Food is fuel,” Sam says flatly. He shrugs his shoulders in the thick hoodie he’d scavenged off Dean because his own had gotten too baggy. Dean’s still hangs loose.

“Waste not, want not,” says Death. There is a peculiar look in those ageless eyes. They aren’t ancient. Death is more than time, more than fate and destiny. Death is the inevitable.

(Death is the inevitable Sam longs for.)

There is a pause for Death to bite and slurp. He still gazes at Sam. Sam gazes back, placid. 

“You haven’t told anybody, have you?” says Death. It is not a question. Sam shakes his head.

“How can I tell anybody ,” Sam begins to say. “That I spent five millennium in There , with Them ? That I spent so much time with him and Michael that when I got back topside I could barely understand English?” 

“It is a precarious situation,” Death acknowledges. “It is fortunate that Samuel Campbell did not mind reteaching you English after,” 

“The rest came on it’s own after,” Sam reassures him. “As soon as I relearned the basics, it came back pretty quickly,”

Death leans back. There is a strange look on his face that Sam doesn’t know how to begin to interpret.

“Remarkably fascinating,” Death says. There is a tone of almost admiration in his voice. Sam doesn’t know what for.

Sam dips his head. He tries not to notice the flush curving up his cheeks.

“You are a strange, incredible creature, Sam Winchester,” Death says, and there is a note to his voice that Sam doesn’t know what to think of. “To think, that you had to relearn all that you knew," 

“It’s nothing,” Sam tries to say. Death waves a hand dismissively.

“You’ve become a human of my realm, Sam,” says Death. “You have been with me far longer and far more often than any other human or even creature in existence,” 

“That-doesn’t fill me with confidence,” Sam tells him hesitantly.

“Mere sentiment,” Death dismisses. He takes the final bite from his hamburger, wipes his greasy fingertips on an impeccable napkin. He leans back in his chair, this implacable being that has taken Sam’s favour. 

“Should you ever need anything,” Death says. He doesn’t finish his sentence but Sam has the feeling of something weighing heavily in his pocket.

Death blinks slow, the tiny push-pull heaven crack of humanity. Sam blinks. He finds himself alone. 

His soup still stares up at him from the table. In Death’s neat handwriting, a note says; Eat. You deserve too .

He slips a hand in his pocket and doesn’t let go of the ring for several hours.

---