N.B.: After writing The End, I had an urge to write one story with Dean as Death. So here it is. You'd have to have read Supernatural: The End to get any of this.

1 – Carrion Flowers

"We have to kill Death, and we have to do it now," War said, slamming his fist on the table.

Crowley rolled his eyes, and wondered when the final three of the Four Horsemen would ever get the stupid out of their system. Maybe never.

They were meeting in Hell, in a room so cloaked with angel repelling sigils that anything with even a single kind thought in its heart wouldn't be able to find them. While the Horseman had all been angels once, most of them had sided with Hell long ago. Except Death, which was one of the main reasons why the apocalypse never happened. When you didn't have Death on your side, you were pretty well fucked.

Which was why Crowley was in this room at all. He had some seriously deep reservations about all of this, but Heaven having Death on its side once again was super bad for Hell. Crowley figured Dean would eventually go his own way, but that might take a while, especially with Hannah running the joint, and Cas now Heaven's Assassin in Chief. Crowley doubted Dean would go anywhere without puppy dog Cas following him.

In retrospect, it made sense that Heaven would tap Dean as the next Death. Heaven always did have a kind of hard on for him, and if they wanted to crack down on demons, this would be the perfect way to do it. They could shrug helplessly and just say Dean was a loose cannon, which was true, but a loose cannon pointed with great deliberation towards them. Heaven had its reasons, all right, and they weren't any good.

Demons had been losing a lot of ground since the détente with Heaven ended. There was a general refusal to let the fact that Death was a Hunter – and firmly in the Angel camp – bother them at first, and some demons had a lot of fun on Earth. And then disappeared without a trace.

Slowly but surely, panic started filter down the line. Dean was going off the reservation quite a bit, and Heaven seemed in no particular hurry to rein in their attack dog. Sometimes Cas joined in too, doubling the carnage. Crowley especially didn't like Dean striding into Hell like he owned the place and threatening him to get his demons in line or else. The nerve of that wanker!

The worst part? Dean could back up his threat now. Even if he wasn't Death, he had an Archangel on his side. Check and mate. They were both tactical nukes. Maybe you could prepare for one, but both attacking at the same time? That was a scorched earth policy. Nothing would be left standing. There wouldn't even be ashes.

Hence the pow-wow with the remaining Horsemen. They were pissed off that the shaved ape who killed their brother, Death, had now taken his place, and there was a special extra level of contempt since this was also the shaved ape who lopped their fingers off and took their rings. The Horsemen were yearning for a fight with Death, they just wanted to jump him in an alley and beat him with a pillowcase full of soda cans, but there was a huge problem.

Death was stronger than all of them.

It wasn't that the other Horseman were weak, because they weren't. They could cut vast swaths of devastation. On Earth. Against other supernatural beings … there was a bit of a drop off. Famine could drive more than a few crazy, and War could turn them on each other if he was pumped up, but Pestilence was all but useless. He was also gross. He was getting snot everywhere.

"Give me two minutes alone with him," Famine wheezed, in his ghastly, rusty voice. "I'll make him eat his own arm."

"And how does that help us?" War replied. "Death doesn't need arms to kill anybody."

"Boys," Crowley said, trying to regain control of the room. "I am as unhappy with this development as you are. But do I really need to point out we will only have one shot at this? This has to be handled with great care. It's not only Death we have to worry about, it's an Archangel, and that's just the beginning. Heaven just replaced Death. We have to have a replacement ready to go, or Heaven's just going to put in another ringer. This may be impossible."

"Only if you're a quitter," Pestilence said, dripping even more snot on the table.

Crowley really wanted to banish him from Hell, just bar him from ever coming back and fouling his towels ever again, but you didn't want to make an enemy of Horseman, even one as annoying as Pestilence. "So what ideas do we have about replacing Death, if we can somehow kill Dean?"

For the first time in five minutes, there was silence. It was a tough nut to crack. Finally, Famine said, "A higher angel could step in."

War scoffed. "Which takes us back to square one."

"Not if he defects to our side."

Crowley sat forward, finally interested. "Is there one itching to jump?" He wouldn't actually be surprised. It wasn't only Hell that was unhappy with a Human – especially that one particular Human – being Ascended. And Castiel, which was its own bag of worms. He had a very checkered past with Heaven, and was known mostly as the one who rebelled. Unlike Lucifer, though, he didn't get caged.

"I believe so."

"Confirm it. He'll have to jump before he smites him, or it's Heaven's ball again," Crowley said. "And then we have to figure out how he can smite him." Maybe an Archangel could kill Death, but as far as Crowley knew, there were no Archangels lining up for the Hell express elevator.

"There's a way," War said. "I know it."

"Okay. So what do we do about Castiel?" Crowley said. "He has to be out of play before this goes down."

More silence. If he was just a grunt angel, fine, but Arch was the major league level. Hard to neutralize, even for Horsemen. Pestilence was now grinding his teeth, as Dean hadn't cut off his finger, Cas had. He was still taking that personally, even though they grew them back. It wasn't like they even needed them.

"We distract him," War suggested. "Keep him busy with something else."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "How do you keep an Archangel busy for more than five seconds? That's the problem."

"Angel trap," Pestilence said, snorting. "What's the big deal?"

War scowled at his disgusting brother. "To hold an Archangel? That's a lot of mojo."

Crowley considered it. "I might be able to help. But here's the bottom line. I'm not doing a damn thing until we get plans firmed up. And even then? I don't want my fingerprints on any of this. If this goes South, I don't intend to take Heaven's wrath on your behalf. Are we clear?"

Pestilence snorted. "Kings of Hell used to have balls."

"It's a new economy, sunshine. Job security is a good thing."

"Why don't we just grab Death's brother?" Famine asked.

Crowley grimaced. "Do you want to know the fastest way to get dead in this scenario? It's to go after Sam Winchester. Dean will have your balls on a plate so fast you won't even realize it until you're chowing down on them."

War sneered. "It almost sounds like you admire him."

Crowley shrugged. "He was a good choice for Death. The man can kill shit."

Which was also exactly what worried him. This had to be handled very delicately, and even so, Crowley had kind of a bad feeling about this.

But when three of Four Horsemen asked for your help, how could you say no?

Claire figured she'd made a mistake on her second day on Portland.

She thought Oregon was so very far away from all the angels and demons bullshit, and it was the hip place to be, right? But she had never felt more out of place in her life. She didn't like pot or handicrafts that much, and if she saw another white person with dreads she was going to start punching them. And why were there so many weird shops? If you wanted a fancy donut or a fetish strip club, you were in luck, but if you just wanted to buy some regular groceries, you could be out of luck, depending on where you were.

She was also running out of money. She was thinking of heading up to Seattle or down to Los Angeles, but she heard both of those places were even more expensive. Besides, you'd think there'd be a lot of demons down in L.A., just because.

She was trudging back to the place she was crashing at when she heard what sounded like an impromptu concert on the neighboring street. Lots of noise, people screaming and shouting, although the music was kind of hard to hear. Once she arrived on the corner, she saw why.

It wasn't a concert. It was a riot.

People were beating each other in the middle of the street, on top of cars, inside cars. People were throwing each other through windows and ramming their heads into light posts. Some of them were yelling something about demons, and when she looked … yes. Everyone on this street was a demon. All their eyes were black.

A cold shock went through her, and she reached for the secret pocket in her coat. She could still recall Castiel giving her the silver angel blade, and saying, with all seriousness (was he ever not serious?) "Never use this." But he gave it to her anyway, for protection, on the off chance she came across this bullshit again. She still wasn't sure what she thought of him, the angelic monster still wearing her dad's face. The man he killed. She still kind of missed her dorky, sappy dad.

Her fingers brushed the angel blade when it suddenly occurred to her that this didn't make sense. Why were demons screaming "Demons!" and attacking each other? Now, she didn't know a lot about this crap, but she didn't think this was something they did. Maybe that whole Darkness thing caused them to go crazy, but did that make any more sense?

She stepped back, ready to flee if any of them noticed her, and reached for her phone instead. Amongst the numbers she had saved was one she had labeled "MF". That was Castiel. She hit it. There was no message, simply a beep. "Castiel? It's Claire. Um, I'm in Portland? Oregon. And people are just going batshit. They all look like demons, and they're all attacking each other, but it doesn't make much sense. Why –"

Suddenly she was grabbed from behind, and she gasped and dropped her phone. She cringed when it broke on the sidewalk, but also didn't much care, as she was struggling to break free from the man who had a vice like grip on both her arms.

"Hello there, little wing," a man crooned into her ear. All she could see of him was silver hair. He smelled like gunpowder and blood. "You're my angel bait."

And before she could do anything, the world disappeared.

Dean's current happy place was an empty roadside bar. It had a jukebox and a pool table, and all the booze he could theoretically drink. How much could Death drink? All he wanted, that's how much. Since alcohol had no effect on him, it was kind of pointless.

He could also people this place, crowd it up, but since Ascension he sort of enjoyed being alone. The thing Cas tried to warn him about, but Dean never understood until he became Death, was there was no more alone time. You felt everything. If it was living, it was on the sensor network that now spread across everything, a brain without a skull, and he could feel every little death. It should have been horrible, but somehow it wasn't. He understood now how angels could casually accept a small group of deaths in exchange for a larger one, because ten thousand deaths felt like nothing compared to ten million. And Dean had killed things his whole life. How was this different? He should feel every death; it should hit him like a bullet.

He had expected to become like an angel. Emotionless, logical, Vulcan. But he was still him. He still got mad, he still felt regret over the horrible things he had done, he really missed sex and bacon cheeseburgers. It was part of the new regime; angels attempting to incorporate some emotions in their sterile paradise. Maybe that's why Cas seemed a little hippy-dippy nowadays, even though he was a cosmic death ray. But that kind of worked out for Dean, because Cas was endlessly patient with him, always eager to help him, determined not to let Dean go insane. He got the idea insanity would be very easy to reach, especially with this new sensory network he had to deal with, but Cas insisted it wouldn't happen. According to him, Dean's sense of self was way too strong. Was that a nice way of saying he was a dick? He suspected it. Maybe that's why all – most – of the most powerful angels were dicks. You had to be to survive the barrage of the universe intact.

Death didn't sleep, or eat, or dream. But Dean needed breaks, moments when he wasn't always aware of what was going on, when he could be deliciously tuned out. Hence the happy place, a space in his mind he could go and block out everything. Cas taught him how to do this, and Dean had to be careful not to do this all the time. It was very tempting.

Led Zeppelin's "Houses of the Holy" was playing on the jukebox, the whole record in its entirety, because it was just too ironic not to. He had his own pitcher of beer and was playing a game of pool by himself. It was nice. It felt like a small vacation from weird. Since time was a very loose concept, he could have been here for fifteen seconds, or fifteen days.

He did have friends he could now visit in Heaven, but he didn't want to bug them all the time. Also, Bobby got so furious with him when he discovered he'd become Death. But he still allowed him to drop by and drink with him, play some cards, shoot the shit. At least he didn't hold it against him, although last time Bobby looked at him sadly, and asked, "Son, do you realize you've traded the weight of the world for the weight of the universe?' Nope, not until he mentioned it. Ignorance was a kind of bliss.

Dean was setting up a shot when Cas suddenly walked in. "Dean, I'm sorry to intrude, but I may need your help."

He straightened up, and put his cue on the table. He shut off the music with a thought. "What's going on?"

Cas frowned slightly, which was unusual for him nowadays. "I got a call from Claire. She was saying something about a demon attack when she was cut off."

Jesus fucking Christ, Crowley was going to make him do it, wasn't he? Dean was dying (no pun intended) (okay, maybe just a little) to just wipe out a whole tenth of demon kind just to show him he wasn't going to put up with his bullshit. He gave him fair warning, which Crowley absolutely hadn't deserved. "Where?"

"She called from Oregon. I went there to check it out. I found her phone, and no sign of demons."

Dean sat on the edge of the pool table, not sure where Cas was going with this. "Wait, what? Was it a trick?"

"No, I think it's a sign of what I feared might happen. Because I picked up an energy signature of War."

It took Dean a moment to realize War was capitalized. "The Horseman?"

Cas nodded. "He took Claire. I don't know why. But I can't find her or him."

"He's pissed off at the regime change, and he's trying to take it out on you?" Dean shook his head at the Horseman's stupidity. Was this really the hill he wanted to die on? "Can I take out War?"

Cas studied him a moment, as if not sure he should answer that question. But he finally did. "Of course you can."

That's sort of what he expected, he just hadn't contemplated the possibility that the other Horseman would be on his chopping block. Dean picked up the hand scythe from where he put it on the bar. In a sense it was real, but honestly it was just a tangible expression of his own power. It was a dark river flowing inside him at all times, and all he needed to do to unleash it was let it go. "Let's go reap a Horseman."

If Dean's hunch was right, he'd have to take them all out before this was done. That was okay by him.

Some grudges died hard. But at least now he could kill them for good.

Sam had not expected to spend Saturday night chasing monsters through a Podunk cemetery in Blackwell, Montana. But why not? The fact that he hadn't done it in a couple of weeks just meant it had been unusually slow.

He and Charlie had arrived just in the nick of time. The demons had already broken into the crypt of a family named Conyers, and sicced ghouls on them so they could make a break for it. They had something, but Sam wasn't one hundred percent sure what it was.

He hid behind a tree, trying to catch sight of one of the demons, and he finally did, a fleeting movement in the shadows. There were no working lights, and the moon was a fingernail sliver tonight, occasionally occluded by clouds. Sam charged after it, only to be slammed into by something with the force of a car.

He hit a crumbling tombstone and went down, the large ghoul on top of him pinning him and making a bite for his neck. He tried to squirm out from beneath him, but this was the biggest ghoul yet, at least six seven, maybe just shy of three hundred pounds. He smelled like rotten bologna.

Sam slammed his forehead into the ghoul's mouth, loosening some of its yellowed teeth. It made a horrible noise, somewhere between a screech and a moan, and bit him on the cheek. Sam screamed and tried to reach his gun, which was wedged between his body and the ghoul's, when a shotgun was suddenly pressed up against the ghoul's head, and the trigger pulled. Sam could hear nothing but ringing in his ears as the ghoul's head exploded like an overripe pumpkin.

Sam kicked its body off of him, and accepted Charlie's hand up. "Where did that one come from?" she asked. He mostly lip read that one. How he and Dean escaped constant tinnitus was a mystery to him.

He was forced to shrug as he wiped ghoul brains and blood off his face. "And why are they working with demons? None of this makes sense."

This was the second demon based grave robbery in as many days, although the last one had been in Guadalajara. To add to the curiosity factor, the dug up, robbed grave had belonged to someone in a potter's field, an absolutely anonymous body. There couldn't have been anything in there worth stealing.

But the Conyers? Maybe. The last Conyers to die and be entombed in the crypt had been Lemuel Conyer, a collector of antiquities, many of them magical or demon, and it was assumed one of those was responsible for his bizarre death in 1958. (He had ingested a glass pitcher and two wine glasses, somehow without chewing them, and they broke apart in his stomach, shredding it and killing him.) As far as Sam – and the Men of Letters – knew, all his artifacts had been stolen or destroyed decades ago.

Sam scanned the cemetery as best he could, but it looked like the ghouls had bought the demons enough time to get away. What the hell? He knew the demons were at a loss since Dean became Death, but this kind of acting out was beyond weird. "Should we go after them?" Charlie asked.

He shook his head, and started stalking back towards the crypt. They had too much of ahead start. "No point. I just want to know what they've stolen."

Only head shots took out ghouls, so there were several headless corpses scattered around, including one Sam had to decapitate the hard way. He'd lost his machete, so he used a tombstone to smash a ghoul's skull flat. It was not even in the top twenty of the grossest things he had ever done. On the walk back to the crypt, he found his machete stuck under another headless corpse, and picked it up.

The crypt had seen better decades, and the demons breaking through the door had caused part of it to collapse. He had to duck to work his way in, although lucky Charlie was just small enough to slip inside without a problem.

It smelled like dust and dirt, the sweetly rotten scent of decay a simple suggestion now, since the flesh had completely decomposed long ago. He tucked his machete in a sheath and took out his flashlight, which was also heavy enough to use as a bludgeon. As a Winchester, you quickly learned that items that could double as an impromptu weapon were the most valuable.

Charlie put on a head lamp, and turned it on. He raised an eyebrow her way. "What, it keeps my hands free."

Well, he had to give her that. If she could live with its slightly dorky look, so could he.

A quick search showed that the demons had been targeting Lemuel's resting place specifically. It was now just a hole in the ground with scattered chunks of marble lying around, threatening to trip them.

Sam crouched down, and examined some of the marble. Most of it was white, but some of it was green, and call him crazy, but he didn't think they used two different kinds of marble in a crypt this small. "We should take some of this back to the Bunker, test it."

"For what?" She crouched down and joined him in searching through the rubble, although she kept glancing at the doorway. This was her first time fighting ghouls, and he thought she did really well, but maybe he should have left out the whole cannibal thing.

"Anything. This means something, I'm just not sure what yet." While sifting through some chunks, he got something smeared on his fingers. It was green and slimy, and before he wiped it off on his pant leg, he sniffed it. It smelled like blood. What demon had green blood?

"Uh, Sam," Charlie said, holding out a big shard of marble. "Does this mean anything?"

It was a hand sized piece of rock, and it had the remnants of indecipherable symbols – not Enochian, but maybe something similar – on it. The one he could make out was shaped like a crescent moon. Or maybe a scythe.

There was no way this was good. But what the hell were they after?