Chapter Text
The sharp sound of ringing cuts through the air, and you groan, hiding your face in your pillow.
“Fuuuuckkk…” you mumble, slowly pushing yourself up, squinting at the light coming through the window blinds. Reaching for your phone, you check the screen, letting out a soft eugh at the blood on it, since, presumably, it isn’t yours. 30 new texts and 4 missed calls. You tap the most recent, the one that had woken you up, and hold the phone to your ear, ignoring the way your dry mouth tastes.
“Good to know you’re still alive,” Sam says. You chuckle a bit.
“No thanks to you, chucklenuts,” you groan, stretching your free arm outwards. “Dean doin’ okay? Is he…?”
“He’s fine, Lyra. Tried to give me Baby, but, eh.” He says, and you can practically see the shrug, which isn’t normal.
“Whoa, whoa. Dean tried to give you Baby? His...” you scoff. “Sam, that’s no small thing. What do you mean, ‘eh’? This… I know he said he was off hunting, but really? A-and why are you treating this like it’s not something to be, like, mildly excited about?”
“I have my car set up the way that I want it,” Sam replies, and you bark out a laugh until you realize he’s actually being serious.
“Wait… Sam, you sound like Cas when he first got to Earth. You… you sure that you’re alright?” Sam isn’t acting normal, that much is obvious. It’s only trying to figure out why he’s so strange that makes you suspicious.
“Yeah, I’m good. Hey, Lyra, I’ll call you back. Samuel wants us to move locations. I’ll text you the new spot if you want to drop by and help us out.” Sam hangs up, and you can only sit there, tossing your phone onto a neighboring chair as you ponder what’s wrong with him.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The rest of the day consists of you taking a much-needed shower to wash away the remains of last night's hunt, making yourself some breakfast, and sitting on the couch to recharge. As the happy introduction music for Modern Family plays, your mind wanders. Dean loved Baby; anyone who lived and breathed and had eyes could see that. She was his most prized possession, but also a painful reminder of everything that he’d had to do and everything that had happened to him, so his trying to give away Baby to someone who would respect her and use her for hunting made sense. What didn’t make sense was Sam’s easy dismissal. Before you have more time to think about it, though, your phone (which you’d also cleaned of the blood) rings.
“Dean,” you greet.
“Lyra.” He sighs. “Good. Dude, I was worried! You just… disappeared. I asked Sam, and he said that someone was takin’ care of you, but still.”
“Ah, yeah. Uh, so… Death… Death kinda swooped in and like, saved me. Just popped in like C- uh, just popped in and yoinked me and brought me home. So yeah, I’m safe, don’t worry.” You say, tripping over where you would’ve said Castiel’s name, but deciding that it would be safer not to say it.
“Whoa, hold up. Death? As in the Horseman?” Dean asks, voice incredulous. Then he sighs. “Wait, you know what, I don’t wanna know. I’m glad you’re safe, kid. By the way, Lisa, Ben, and I have decided to move. Ain’t safe here anymore. I’ll text you the new address once we get there. Maybe you can drop by, say hi.”
“Yeah, for sure. Stay safe, Dean,” you say, then hang up.
“I see he’s still running.” A monotone voice muses behind you, and you yelp, grabbing the butter knife from your slightly syrupy plate of pancake crumbs.
“Holy-” you groan. “Okay, Death, that is… that’s freaky. I know you can just like, pop in and out, but seriously, knock or something. God, I’m gonna have a heart attack.” You let out a breath, hand on your sternum as you sigh. He looks mildly amused as always, thin lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.
“Hello, Lyra. I’m glad to see you awake.” He’s seated on the chair where you’d tossed your phone earlier, a plush blue armchair that seems at odds with his fine black suit and lean frame, a small cup and saucer balanced on his knee.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks, by the way, for last night.” You wince internally a little at the implications of the statement, but he seems to pay it no mind.
“Of course. Unlike those… morons, you actually seem to contribute something to this ‘business’ of hunting.” Death puts the word in air quotes, then takes a sip of what looks like espresso from the small cup. “I have information that may be useful. I found your angel friend, Castiel on Earth, searching for holy relics. It seems some of Heaven’s stash has been pawned off to some mortals.”
“Really? Cas hasn’t been answering any of my prayers or my calls.” You say, setting the utensil down on the plate, tucking your legs up beneath you, and grabbing your mug of tea from the table, holding it close to your chest.
“As far as I am concerned, that angel has no business in attempting to try and garner your help.” Death says breezily, looking out the window. “And as far as I know, he has been busy with other things that require… angelic assistance, or whatever you would like to call it.” You raise a brow at the words. Death isn’t the warmest being, considering he’s the living(?) embodiment of the end, but still.
“Uh… I guess.” You shake your head. “So… is there anything that I can help you with, Death? Want some uh, mediocre pancakes or some tea?” Death lets out an amused little huff and shakes his head.
“I do appreciate the offer, lux mea, and while I intend to capitalize on it at a later date, I will decline for now.”
“Oookay…” You trail off, waiting for him to continue.
“I merely felt it was in good faith to stop by and check on you after the events of last night. It would be rather rude of me to just… disappear, wouldn’t it?” He’s looking directly at you when he says this, but you somehow know he isn’t directing it at you. His bitter coffee eyes seem to peer right into your soul (you don’t doubt that if he should want to, he probably could), and while there’s no discernible emotion in his eyes, the gaze feels distinctly warm. You and he sit there for a minute that feels like an hour, and then you look away first. It almost feels wrong to look at a being of such immense power like that, but that’s not the whole reason you break eye contact.
“Well, since you are in good spirits and seem to be recovering, I make my leave.” He says, tilting his head as his voice calls your attention back to him.
“Yes, yes, I, uh… yep. Doing pretty good.” You say, chuckling a little to hide the way that a warm feeling spreads through your chest at his apparent concern.
“Lyra.” His voice is serious, flat as always, but something in his tone makes you meet his eyes again.
“Yes?” you ask, voice a little softer than you intend.
“Be careful.” He’s gone in a blink, leaving you without an answer to a question you didn’t even know you were forming.
“I will.” You say to the empty room, ambient sounds fading back into notice: the sound of Phil Dunphy on the TV, the distant honking from the street outside, and the faint beating of your heart in your ears.