*No Winchesters were harmed in the writing of this fic.*
.
.
Sam glowers at his brother. "So did you win the stupid wager?"
"No, ass-hat, I took it off, remember?" Dean snaps, putting his hand up to remove the elaborate ring from his finger.
Death stands, waiting, watching the two of them with a face constructed purely of boredom.
"So why are you wearing it now?" Sam's frown deepens as he realises Dean is having a complete removal malfunction.
"I had to, ok?" Dean yanks harder, grunting in frustration. "Jeez - it's like it's welded on," he accuses.
"How did you get it off before?" Sam asks, putting his hands out.
Dean steps back hurriedly. "What are you, nuts? I touch you with this thing on, you die."
"Oh," Sam blurts. "Yeah."
"Any time," Death sighs, putting his hand out, palm up.
"Alright, just hold your horses," Dean protests. He closes his eyes, huffs to himself, then looks at Death again. "I meant-"
"Just take it off," he says meaningfully.
Dean again grabs the metal, again tries to pull it free. It refuses to even twist. "Anyone got any soap?" he asks weakly, letting go of it to plunge his entire finger into his mouth.
Sam blinks in doubt, his hands going to his hips as he watches Dean's mouth work around some long, complicated syllables. The ring and finger garble them admirably.
"A little bit of human saliva is not going to ruin the finish," Death sighs at them both.
Dean pulls his finger free of his mouth and again tugs at it. It still refuses to budge.
Sam looks at Death, then back at his brother. "We could - ahm - do, like-"
"What, Sam?" Dean demands. "What? The friggin' thing won't come off!"
Sam turns away to the bed of the motel room, going through his duffel and turning back to his brother, wielding the demon knife.
"Woah woah woah," Dean says quickly, putting his hands up. "What do you think you're doing? You can't hack it off!"
"It's for your finger, not the ring," Sam says innocently.
"What are you, cracked?" Dean shouts. "Oh wait, I forgot, you are!"
"What?" Sam asks innocently. "You've got nine more. You can live without that one."
Dean puts his fingers to the blade of the knife, consequently plucking the handle from his brother's grip. "You know that whole 'I'll carry your moral compass' thing? Well right now, mine's pointing at 'if you try and cut my finger off, I will lay my hand on you'!"
"Ok, alright! Calm down!" Sam shrugs affably. "We'll just have to think of something else."
"Tonight, boys," Death warns.
Sam considers him, then looks back at Dean. "Can't you pull it off?"
"Sam, now is not the time for a behind-the-veil round of Pull My Finger," Dean warns. He looks at Death. "I'll get it off, ok?"
"Do it fast," the Horseman asserts. "I have appointments."
"I know - believe me, I know," Dean nods. He drops the knife into his pocket and grasps the ring again. He twists, grunts, pulls, curses, yanks, swears and 'grrr's in anger. "Damn thing's attached!" he cries angrily. "You'll have to try," he heaves, looking at Death.
"I'm not touching your hand," he says plainly. "You're Death."
"And you're a Horseman!" Dean protests. "I can't kill you!"
"Are you so sure?" Death says clearly. "I'm not. And I'm certainly not going to find out by simply trying to snatch back a piece of jewellery." He glares, and several thousand years of annoyance are piled into his look tunnelling right into the young man.
"Fine," Dean growls, grabbing at it again.
"What's all this noise?" comes a grouchy voice, and the three of them turn to see Bobby ducking down the steps to the cellar. "Who's this guy?"
"Uhm, hey, ah, Bobby," Dean says genially, waving a hand at him in nervous greeting.
"What have you done now, boy?"
"Mr Singer," Death says almost cheerfully. "Dean here is having trouble returning something of mine."
Bobby comes forward and pushes Sam out of the way. He turns his unimpressed eyes on the thin man next to him, and even Death takes a step back. Then Bobby is looking at Dean with dawning realisation twisting his features into disappointment.
"Don't tell me it's stuck on?" he accuses.
"Kinda," Dean says uncomfortably.
"Of all the-." Bobby points across the cellar. "Stick your hand in that water."
"But-"
"Go!"
Dean turns on his heel and all but hurries to the old sink in the corner. He plunges his hand into the icy cargo within, hissing at the freezing sensation that inches up his wrist.
"Sam, you make him keep it there till I get back. Don't none of you eejits move," Bobby orders. He turns and disappears back up the steps, the sound of his boots only just masking the grumbled curses that escape from under his breath.
Sam looks at Death. Death looks at Sam. Sam dodges round him and goes to his brother, making sure he is at least four feet away still. Death wanders over, curiosity making him bend slightly closer, watching the red tide of cold discomfort wend its way slightly up Dean's forearm.
Eventually they hear boots again and Bobby returns, the sound of something hissing accompanying his stop by Dean's arm.
"Right," he grumps, "now take your hand out and hold very still."
Dean looks over his shoulder at the red-hot poker in Bobby's hand. "What the hell, Bobby!"
"Do as I say, boy, or I'll ask Sam how he wants to get that ring off!" he warns.
Dean takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and lifts his hand out of the icy water. He splays the finger as wide as he can and waits.
Bobby lifts the poker, shuffles both hands further down toward halfway, and then touches it to the ring. The heat transfers in a flash, making Dean hiss and gasp in abrupt agony. Bobby pulls the iron rod clear just in time. Dean splutters a couple of words more suited to turning the air blue and whips his hand up and down sharply in pain.
The ring whooshes off. It flies across the room, hits the wall, and lets itself fall to the wooden floor. Bobby eyes Dean for a long moment before turning and walking off, taking his poker with him.
Death strolls leisurely to the ring, crouching and picking it up smoothly. He slides it home on his finger and turns to look at the two men. "Be seeing you," he says, before he disappears as if melting into the background.
Sam looks at his brother. Dean is massaging his finger, and the bright red burn around it. He swears to himself before he has the strangest feeling he is being watched. He looks up and finds Sam blinking at him, his face a jigsaw of bafflement and curiosity.
"You," Dean growls, letting go of his hand to reach for the younger man's shirt.
"What?" Sam asks innocently, sensing the need to back away.
"Don't look at me like that, Data!"
"What?"
Dean picks up speed. So does Sam.
"You were gonna chop my finger off! My finger!"
"It would have been the easiest way to-"
Dean growls. He reaches for him. Sam turns. He bolts.
Boots clatter across the cellar and then up the stairs. The trapdoor slams shut over it, the floorboards above creak and groan as two heavy loads move away at speed.
And down in the cellar, watching the light blocked out by the retreating humans, the Horseman smiles rather lop-sidedly.
"Looks like I picked the wrong brother," he muses. "Maybe next time, Sam could take over. For a week or two." He looks down at the ring, twists it slightly around his finger, and then sighs. "Ah well. A boss' work is never done."
He senses his next appointment is near, and with a mere tinkering with time, space, movement and thought, he is there.
.
FIN
.
Just for fun. Something to keep my hand in before my next proper fic hits. :)