A/N: OK, back to the plot. They've got the Pompatus. Is that the end of the adventure? Not exactly...

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 32: Appointment with Death) by frostygossamer

The Enoan eatery where they meet up with Captain Harvelle and a discreetly disguised Mr. Death is what they would call a greasy spoon. Death, wearing a long, black overcoat with a distractingly cheerful red and white spotted napkin tucked in his collar, has already ordered and is diving into an evidently delicious plate of spicy fried dekaducken mega-wings. Ellen sits beside him toying with a cup of coffee and frequently checking her watch.

Sam and Dean sly in through the back entrance, skirting the noisy, steamy kitchen, and drop into the empty seats across from Ellen and Death. Ellen's relieved sigh deflates her to half-size.

"You've got it?"

She still sounds anxious. Dean and Sam nod simultaneously.

"It's in here."

Dean pats the backpack Sam has over one shoulder.

Death puts his dekaducken bone back on his plate and carefully wipes his hands on a large silk handkerchief with the monogram 'D' embroidered in the corner.

"Gentlemen, I was beginning to think I would never see this again. Or rather, see this GENUINE article for the first time."

He reaches out a slim hand and Sam passes him his pack. Death glances into it quickly before stowing the whole thing in his own portmanteau.

"Thank you. I can't say how glad I am to finally have that vexatious item in my possession. I'm sure you'll be glad to know that Miss Meg Masters was arrested yesterday at her Lunar business address, for her part in the conspiracy."

Dean's delight is evident. One down but what about the one to go?

"Evil bitch. What about fearsome pirate Cap'n Benny? The long arm of the law tap him on the shoulder yet?"

Death can only sigh. He's clearly not happy about something. Ellen takes over.

"By the time what passes for Emoan Civil Security got around to raiding the Selenitist secret base, Lafitte had already made his escape. They think he's holed up someplace on the Lunar darkside. But that's as much as they can say. The few guys they managed to pick up were too damn scared to snitch on him."

"Awesome," grunts Dean. "Did I mention how much I hate Emo?"

Sam doesn't like the way this sounds. Surely they can't have let the schizoid monster slip through their fingers?

"So he's still in the wind? They still on his tail? Can't let the guy get away with this. He's freakin' dangerous."

Death agrees. "Indeed. Captain Benny Lafitte must NOT remain at large. A man like he is will stir up trouble as long as he draws breath."

He turns and addresses Dean. "Captain Dean, my government would be, let us say, grateful if this man is never heard from again... quietly and permanently. The last thing we need is a martyr or a rallying point for disgruntled Selenitist sympathizers. There are LEGAL avenues for Lunans to pursue their cause."

Dean's eyes grow large. He really can't believe they expect him to clean up after some Emoan screw up.

"You want me to go mop up the crap? Again? You got no one else's name on your Rolodex?"

Death gives him a genteel smile. He is a diplomat after all.

"We who work behind the scenes rely on people like you, Captain, to help us protect the peace of the entire system. Without the services of neutral unbiased agents, those with an axe to grind, a cause to promote or a religion to spread will bring inevitable chaos. Innocents will suffer. Lives will be lost. We need you. Mankind needs you."

Dean dismisses this manipulative pile of poop. He doesn't need the guilt trip. Death changes his approach.

"Captain, we believe you're the best man for this job. And we would rather not involve anyone new at such a late juncture. You can rest assured you will be VERY generously rewarded for your help."

Dean opens his mouth to say "Hell no!", but Sam butts in ahead of him. He stares Death square in the eye as he answers for his partner.

"We'll do it. IF we can name our price."

Death meets his gaze for a long moment before nodding sagely.

"Very well. I believe I know your price, Your Highness."

Dean is speechless. He doesn't know whether he should chew Sam out for accepting the dangerous commission without consulting him, or demand to know what the hell is this price he is talking about. Although Sam is a little fazed by Death claiming to be already clued-up on his intended terms, he shakes the gent's hand and, grinning happily, rises to take his leave. Dean tugs on his sleeve, insistent he sits back down, but Sam ignores him, quietly shaking off his grasp.

"Next time you hear from us, Captain Benny will have been... redacted."

Sam turns and walks out of the diner leaving Dean sitting awkwardly on his own. He gets up, trying not to seem rattled, bobs his head to Ellen, and barely to Death, before following Sam out of the diner's front door.

He doesn't slam it but it does shudder a little in its frame.

Ellen and Death exchange a look.

=O=

It's a windy day on Eno. The turbines are working hard mixing fresh oxygen into the atmosphere. Eno doesn't spin so she has no natural wind. She also has no forests. Her air is manufactured in a series of massive gasworks on the equatorial line. Today being Monday, new air is being circulated to pump up the workforce for their week of toil. On Mondays women stick more hat-pins in their hats and men use extra-hold hair gel.

Back out on the street, Dean has to hold on to the lapels of his leather jacket to prevent it flapping open. Sam is striding ahead, his lustrous locks blowing out behind him like a comet's tail.

Dean grumbles as he hurries after Sam and his long legs. They have finally handed the Pompatus Box back to the Diplomatic Courier Mr. Death and now, because of Sam, they have yet another job to do. He is far from pleased. Sam does NOT get to pull that kind of crap on him. He's still the boss. OK?!

Several yards down the street, Dean catches up with Sam. Grabbing his arm, he forces the big guy to a halt.

"Dude, what the Sam Hill was all that about? You really WANT to go get us killed scouring the ass-end of Luna for some crapshack flying a skull and crossbones? That it?"

"Thought it was 'what you do', Dean."

"I choose how I risk my OWN life, partner," Dean shoots back. "No one else."

Sam refuses to get into it in the street. He takes a second before he replies.

"You WOULD have agreed eventually, Dean. I know you."

"Not the damn point, Sam."

Dean stomps off grumbling in the direction of the lot where they parked Baby.

As Sam hurries to catch up, he fails to notice a sheet of old newsprint as it flaps along the gutter. The front page of the Eno Gazette carries a headline that would have interested him:

CAMPOBELLAN WEDDING OF THE CENTURY

Grand Duke Samuel remarries in last minute switch.

The article under that header recounts how Sam's grandfather, the Grand Duke, gallantly saved Amelia's wrecked wedding day from total disaster by stepping up and marrying the lady himself. The distinguished and vigorous sexagenarian already had the nuptial kilt and the sexy calves and, coincidentally, his name was on the marriage licence.

Amelia was flattered to accept the aristocrat's offer and, after a lavish celeb-style honeymoon, she's already the proud mother-to-be of a future heir to Campobello, always her own personal fantasy.

It seems Sam isn't the only one who got what he wanted.

TBC

A/N: I'm guessing Amelia would be happy enough as an old man's darling. I wouldn't kick a super-rich Mitch Pileggi out of bed if I was her. ;) More shortly.