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Dean has his own room at the motel, again. He has to remind himself that it's not because Sam isn't here. Sam's next door in number 17.
Space is good right now, for both of them. Even if Dean's still trying to shake off the sense - the fear - that Sam's still gone. That he's one man short, that he's left hunting alone, when he's not. The room's not helping. There's just the tidy, unused lines of the beds with their cheap linens, the shitty carpet that's seen way too much foot traffic and the tumbled contents of his bag.
"Stop being fucking stupid," Dean tells himself. Because if it goes on like this he's going to make up some bullshit excuse to go next door, again. He strips off his shirt and t-shirt, and tries to find something clean before he showers.
When he looks up from his bag he's no longer alone. The chair next to him tips backwards with a crack when he hits it, bag sliding off the bed to roll against the wall and scatter the last of his clothes across the floor.
"You have something that belongs to me," Death says quietly.
Dean had forgotten that voice. The way once it starts it's the only sound in the room. It's low and firm and impossible to ignore. Like the rest of the world just ceases to exist while Death's speaking. Dean gets two steps back before he hits the wall, the plaster freezing on his bare skin. He stiffens up, like he can defend himself, like he has any hope at all of doing anything if Death wants him dead.
"What do you want?" he manages, though it's barely audible at all.
"I don't want to hear you speak," Death says. "I don't want to hear anything from you at all."
There's a firmness there that tells Dean that wasn't a suggestion. He shuts his mouth, a self-preservation instinct that literally fucking shuts down every inch of bullshit or bravado he has.
Death watches him from his position by the door, one eyebrow raised, as if to see if Dean's going to do as he's told. Holding eye contact with him is all but impossible. Because his focus is fucking terrifying. Nothing should ever be happy about having Death's full attention. Dean doesn't know what the hell he did to deserve it, but whatever it was, he takes it back.
Death drifts forward, slow and purposeful, like he's carving the world apart to make room for himself. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he is, if he takes up a hell of a lot more room than Dean can see. Because he feels vast and impossible even to his completely human senses. It's like he's pulling the world into this room, and freezing it solid. Dean can feel himself digging back into the wall, shoulders hard points of pain where they press in, and he doesn't even try to pretend he isn't scared.
"You're held together by only the barest of degrees," Death tells him. "It's amazing you manage to keep yourselves alive at all."
Dean's fingers press back into the wall, twitch there. Like somewhere underneath there's an instinct that wants to find a weapon and fight back. Dean's not sure whether Death can even die, or whether he's just something that exists. His death being something that's between him and the universe. But he's close enough for Dean to reach out and touch now, and even the thought of it sends a twitch of something cold straight down his spine.
"And yet everything, from the minions of hell to the Seraphim, who really should know better, can't seem to stay away. Of all the things God created, it's you that seem to provoke endless fascination." Death frowns at him, just a little, as if he's trying to read what it is about him, or them. "And yet, I could do what I like with you. I could unravel you and piece you back together in the blink of an eye without you even realising it. Your existence, or not, is completely irrelevant to me."
Dean inhales, opens his mouth, and Death narrows his eyes. There's a jump in Dean's blood that, without doubt, is a fucked up mixture of terror and adrenaline. He grits his teeth against it and looks away, says nothing at all.
Death raises a hand, he does everything slowly, carefully, like he has to think about the body he's in. Like he has to restrain himself in a hundred ways. His hand hovers a breath away from Dean's skin, Like Death is thinking of grasping his jaw and forcing Dean to look at him. Dean half expects to die right then. Because how the fuck is he supposed to survive that?
When the fingers actually touch him he makes a noise in his throat, something quiet and panicked. Death doesn't punish him for it. His hand is freezing cold, all sharpness and ice. Dean inhales, head tipping slowly back away from the bite of it. The skin tingles and twitches, like it's had electricity run across it. Death's fingers slide down his throat, seemingly just because it's there. But they spread on his chest in an arc, freezing all the way down under the skin.
"There is something to be said for your warmth though." Death's voice is slow and considering. The fingers slide away. "My ring, where is it?"
Dean swallows, hand moving slowly towards the front pocket of his jeans. Death smacks it out of the way, a sting of cold that leaves Dean pressing his abused fingers back against the wall, clenching them against the strange tingle left behind. Death's hand twists, and slides inside, chilled through the material of his pocket, one slow push of strength, and Dean can't help spreading his legs under it, trying to make it easier, faster, less invasive. Death regards him blankly from inches away while his fingers slither into the depth of Dean's pocket sliding through the keys and loose change to curl around the sharp weight of his ring. Dean inhales and holds it when Death draws his hand free, knuckles brushing the sensitive curve of Dean's thigh.
Dean tips his head back and twitches under that too-slow movement, all the air in his lungs falling out in a quiet rush.
He watches Death slide the ring back onto his hand,
"Most people find my touch unpleasant," Death says flatly. "Or fatal."
He looks sideways at Dean, a long endless look that seems to be asking why he isn't like everyone else. It wouldn't be the first time Dean's been asked that question.
"But then you've already proven yourself a mixture of brave and foolish that the underlying nature of the universe seems to find endlessly amusing." Death tilts his head and leans into Dean's personal space, it's aggressive and effortless. Like every single space in the world belongs to Death.
There's nowhere for Dean to go and he's so close to baring his throat it's not even funny.
"Everything has a place in the world," Death says quietly. Like he's, reluctantly, sharing something Dean needs to know.
He's close enough for Dean to get a good look at his eyes if he wants to and his brain's screaming at him that he doesn’t, that he won't survive that.
"You won't," Death says quietly, and before Dean can do anything he's touching him again, long, fingers curving round his cheek, leaving lines of ice and then pressure.
Dean's so focused on the touch of skin against his cheek and jaw that he's not prepared for the kiss.
It's cold and it burns at the same time. It's like being hollowed out, like being owned in ways so terrifying he has no words for them, and Dean's shaking under it, mouth falling open. It's helpless, it's fucking submission straight from the lizard brain.
And then it's abruptly nothing but the cold, strange pressure of another mouth against his own.
It's barely a second, before Death's stepping back, fingers slipping from his skin again, though Dean still feels numb. He twitches, muscles clenching, and his throat's full of noise that he can't get out. Because he has the horrible feeling that Death kissed him just to see if he could survive it.
"You can learn obedience, which is something," Death says, like he's conceding perhaps Dean is not entirely irrelevant after all.
But only just.
"Obedience suits you." Death's voice up close, curls over Dean's skin, cold and heavy and sharp at the same time. But Dean knows he's never going to shake the memory of the way he feels, the way he still feels because the inside of his mouth is warm like it's full of static.
He's half afraid that's never going to go away.
"Try to stay out of trouble," Death says smoothly, and then he's just gone, like the world opened up and swallowed him.
The cold slowly drains away, until Dean can feel the warmth of the room again. He exhales, rough and loud, mouth strange and stinging. He tips his head back and looses a torrent of shaky curses, then slides down the wall, until he's sprawled out on the carpet, horrified, painfully aroused and confused all to hell.