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Vitoller pulled his cloak closer around his head, and wondered why on earth he was here. It wasn’t as if they didn’t have a perfectly perfect theater to perform in. The Dysk, perched on the south bank of the Ankh, and always one errant spark away from total conflagration, was everything a formerly strolling player could wish for. Gods and angels descended from its rafters, and demons rose from the floorboards. They could produce everything from a thunderstorm to a sea battle on the stage, and Hwel had cleverly designed the stalls so that tomatoes and oranges sailed harmlessly over the actors’ heads, and provided a nice snack during intermission. It was as close to heaven as a troupe could get, and yet…yet. Here he was, soaked to the skin while the driving rain slowly transformed into sleet, tiny meteors of ice bouncing off the oilskin coverings of the wagon which held the rudimentary stage, props, and costumes needed to put on a show one hundred miles from home. Behind them, another wagon carried some of the troupe’s actors, those who were young and foolish enough to think that the life of a strolling player was somehow exciting.
They were on their way to Lancre, supposedly at the request of King Verence II. Vitoller had his doubts about that; he was too smart to have missed all of the whispered conversations Tomjon had been having with Hwel, and the speculative looks they sent in his direction. No, he was certain that this trip had been cooked up to satisfy an old man’s urge to get on the road one more time, to revisit the cold, miserable, hand to mouth existence that had been his lot for the majority of his life. He looked over at Hwel, perched on the wagon seat next to him, bundled up so well that he resembled a disgruntled anthill. “This is the life, eh?” Vitoller smiled. “Wouldn’t trade it for the world.” Hwel replied.
One week earlier-
The Winchesters were at Bobby’s, doing research. The man himself was out on a supply run.
“In this?” Sam asked, motioning at the storm raging outside.
“Man’s a hero” Dean replied, upending an empty bottle. “We are officially out of hunter’s helper.”
“Hello, boys.”
Neither Sam nor Dean had any particular affection for Balthazar; that was Castiel’s thing. And Cas, these days, was…wherever. Hey, they got it. There was a war going on in heaven, after all. The dude was busy. None of which was any consolation when the British angel burst in and started rummaging through Bobby’s desk.
“Hey! Hey!” Dean shouted, but Balthazar continued assembling ingredients for a spell, spewing insults, and babbling bad movie references. He may have hated Titanic but he’d definitely seen The Godfather too damned many times.
“I said HEY!” Dean said sharply. It was one thing to have angels around, another to have them act like you didn’t matter to the fate of the world. Been there, done that.
“Yes, you did- three times. Good for you.” Balthazar gave Dean’s shoulder a patronizing pat, and went back to work.
“Is Raphael after you?”
“He's after us all. Cassie’s deep underground, and Raphael’s got a hit list on everyone who helped him, including you and, so much more importantly, me. Heaven’s weapons are hidden, for now, and I need to keep it that way…” The lights began to flicker, and all three looked up in alarm. “And that is all the time we have, gentlemen” Balthazar said, pausing in his rummaging to hand a key to Sam. “And here’s for you.”
“What are we supposed to do with this?” Dean demanded.
“Run with it.”
A sudden blast threw Balthazar to the ground, as a grim-faced angel, dressed like Castiel’s Italian Mafioso cousin, stormed through the door. “Virgil” Balthazar growled, before shouting “I said RUN!” as the brothers rocketed through the window with a crash of glass.
“Well done, fellows!” Dean felt a hearty slap on his backside and looked down.
And down.
He’d thought Bobby was short, but this man was even shorter. The man smiled and, stretching onto his tiptoes, clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get that makeup off you- you’re back on stage in another…” the man paused, listening to the dialogue still running on the stage “ 48 lines, and you still need to change your clothes.”
“Make up? I don’t wear…”
But the small man had pulled out an immaculate handkerchief and was vigorously scrubbing away. Dean grabbed the cloth and, to his shock, saw smudges of beige, red, and a shade of blue he’d always thought of as “Dumb, but Easy”. No way around it- he was a painted whore.
He looked around for Sam, and spotted him off to the side, being persistently questioned by a severe but rather attractive young woman dressed all in black who was writing down his every word. He had a hunted look on his face, and pulled away as soon as he was able, coming to Dean’s side, and muttering “I think I’ve got it- we seem to be in some kind of…alternate reality. Your name is Gensin Ackells, and I’m something called a Jarhead Paddeleky. We’re part of a theater troupe…” Before he could say more, the small man bustled up with an armful of clothing.
“Get changed, and be ready for your cue.” Dean looked down. He was wearing an eyelet-trimmed white nightgown that reminded him vaguely of his mother. He HOPED this play, whatever it was, didn’t feature him stuck to the ceiling, crying a single man tear. To his relief, if not his happiness, the costume thrust into his arms was that of a giant mouse. Not really a step up, but at least the mouse was (hopefully) a guy.
The small man turned to Sam. “Ok, Jarhead, let’s get you suited up for the Nutcracker!” Sam’s face drained of blood, and Dean winced in sympathy. Before either could react, the small man clambered up onto a stool, and clapped a tall black helmet onto Sam’s head. He pulled out a bright red, garishly trimmed jacket from the pile, and expertly threaded Sam’s arms through the sleeves. “Good enough for now, but both of you...” he fixed them with a gimlet eye “work on your transitions!”
They blundered their way through the rest of the show ( Jarhead, for Gods’ sake, have you never used a sword before? And Gensin, you’re a MOUSE, not a hero!”), then bolted from the theater to get their bearings and review what they knew about this new world. What they knew didn’t bode well-they were with a troupe of actors, rehearsing a special holiday production. Dean, to his disgust, appeared to be the designated damsel in distress. “Shouldn’t have been born with such a pretty face, lad!” Vitoller laughed when Dean groused about the nightgown. Sam, because of his height, played the hero. The play also featured fairies, magic and giant rats. Some things never changed.
From the discussion around them, it seemed that the troupe was sending some of its members out on tour. “No way, Sammy,” Dean insisted. “Bad enough we don’t know where we are- if we want to get back, we gotta stay near the damned portal, or whatever it is Balthazar used to blast our asses here.”
“If we stay here, Virgil won’t have to work too hard to find us” Sam argued “and if he does, he might wind up with the key-that’s a risk we can’t take.”
“Unless we take him out when he gets here…” Dean countered. “And right now, we need to know where HERE is. Let’s head out, find a car to hotwire, and figure out the lay of the land.”
They bolted out the door, looking for cars, trains, bikes, anything, but there was nothing. Nothing except a white horse, calmly grazing on the tiny verge of grass in front of a small, half-timbered building. Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and by the way they were dressed, they were DEFINITELY beggars.
Dean grabbed the reins, and Sam was about to throw his leg over the saddle when they heard a soft “AHEM”. It was the sound of someone quietly clearing their throat, if throat clearing sounded like the grating of a slab of granite being slowly pushed off the top of an ancient crypt. It was a sound that packed a lot of meaning into four letters.
There, leaning in the doorway, was a tall, hooded figure. He was eating something out of a greasy sack, which he offered to them. “FRIED PICKLE? I ASSURE YOU THEY ARE QUITE TASTY.”
Dean glanced at Sam, shrugged, and reached into the sack. A man couldn’t be expected to escape an alternate reality on an empty stomach.
They were delicious.
'MAY I ASK WHY YOU WANTED TO STEAL MY HORSE?’
It was a reasonable question, so Sam answered. “We’ve been blasted here from another dimension, and we’re trying to get back home.”
“AH, AN “ALTERNATE UNIVERSE!” THIS IS QUITE A COMMON SITUATION IN MANY OF THE STORIES I HAVE BEEN BEEN READING.” Death’s voice sounded suspiciously enthusiastic. “I HAVE TAKEN AN INTEREST IN A NEW TYPE OF LITERATURE CALLED FAN FICTION, ALTHOUGH I SOMETIMES FIND THE PLOTS, AND SOME OF THE, ER,INTERACTIONS, PHYSIOLOGICALLY… IMPLAUSIBLE.”
“You and me both, brother” Dean muttered. “If you don’t mind my asking, um, what exactly, brings you here?”
“REST ASSURED, DEAN, IT IS NOT YOU. NOR IS IT SAM.” Death gestured towards the cottage, and his voice took on a petulant tone. “MR. LAMWITH WAS NOT SCHEDULED TO DIE FOR ANOTHER THREE MONTHS, BUT HIS NEPHEW IS VISITING FOR HOGSWATCH, AND HE HAS BROUGHT DOCTORS. UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES, I THOUGHT IT BEST TO WAIT.” He paused for another pickle. “SO TELL ME HOW YOU CAME TO BE IN THIS PARTICULAR PREDICAMENT.”
Quickly, Dean brought Death up to speed on current events, including the play, and their concerns about Virgil coming through the portal after them. “WELL, I AM SORRY I CANNOT HELP YOU. WHILE I COULD TAKE YOU SOMEWHERE ELSE, I SUSPECT IT IS NOT SOMEWHERE YOU WOULD CARE TO GO. AGAIN.”
“Any ideas how we can get out of here?”
Death pondered. “I BELIEVE YOU WOULD BE BEST SERVED BY WITCHES, ALTHOUGH I KNOW YOUR OPINION ON THAT SUBJECT.”
“No. No witches. I hate witches . They're always spewing their bodily fluids everywhere.”
“Pretty much.” Sam concurred.
“It's creepy, y'know, it's downright unsanitary!”
Death looked at them consideringly. “IT IS, OF COURSE, YOUR CHOICE. YOU COULD ALWAYS STAY HERE. I UNDERSTAND THE DYSK IS QUITE THE CENTER OF LOCAL CULTURE, AND I HAVE NOT YET HAD THE PRIVILEGE OF SEEING YOU PERFORM AS JULIET, OR DESDEMONA, DEAN.’
Dean pouted, and Sam said
“So, witches it is then?”
“Pretty much.”
‘GOOD LUCK, AND I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU ONCE YOU ARE BACK IN YOUR OWN WORLD. BUT NOT YET.”
“Ok, so how do we find a witch?” Dean asked.
“The same way we always have, I guess,” Sam replied. “Look around for the kind of trouble they cause. We can probably start by looking for newspapers, and talk to the cops, if they have either one here.”
Newspapers weren’t a problem- a trip through the local outhouses yielded armloads of potential research material. The brothers headed back to the dormitories where the unmarried actors were housed, and dumped their booty on an empty cot. “Ok, witches, show us your stuff” Dean muttered. The Ankh-Morpork Times, (“The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret”; a hunter's motto if ever there was one) turned out to be factual, and not terribly long on public interest, at least the type of interest the Winchesters found interesting. The Inquirer, on the other hand, was full of stories of the supernatural, but even by the relaxed standards of monster hunters, seemed far too outrageous for belief. After several hours, even Sam admitted defeat.
“What are you reading all that for?”
They looked up to find several of the other actors returning from a night out, all somewhat the worse for wear.
“We’re looking for witches.” Sam shot Dean an outraged look. “What? Sometimes it’s easier just to say it out loud and see what happens”.
“Why?” Asked the spotty young man who played Sugar Plum Fairy Number Six.
“We’re…” Dean’s improvisation gave out, but thankfully Sam picked up the thread. “We’re writing a play- about supernatural happenings, so we needed to do some research about witches.”
Sugar Plum scratched his head. “Well, what witches do is smooth out…life’s little lumps and bumps.”
“That’s right!” interjected Clara’s Father. “My Uncle had piles something fierce, and a witch made him a salve that cleared things right up.”
“So witches are like doctors?”
“Gods no, witches CURE things, Doctors just kill you.”
Sugar Plum nodded. “Then they send you a bill.”
The brothers looked at each other.
“Let’s go find some cops.”
“Great, but what are we going to tell them ?”
“We, Sammy, are gonna lie. Let’s split up, and meet in an hour.”
“Where?”
“There’s a bar on Dimwell Street- I heard some of the guys talking about it…doesn't sound like we’ll run into any actors there.”
“Good.”
The brothers separated, and set out to find whatever passed for law enforcement in this world.
Sam found a pair of Watchmen. The short one had to be a Watchman, unless Ankh Morpork's Finest were experimenting with police monkeys. The older man was round, red-faced, and had a bearing that practically shouted “Sargent”. The younger one looked like he’d been assembled out of spare parts by a mad scientist who wasn’t too particular about his raw materials.
Hey, you’re one of those theater actors, aren’t you? “ The smaller man asked. “You’re him as plays the Nutcracker.” His partner sniggered.
“And how, exactly, would you know that, Nobby?”
Nobby drew himself up to the meager extent of his resources. “The lads from the Folklore society stop by The Dysk of an evening, to give “em pointers on their dancing” He said with quiet dignity. “And it’s no good getting on your high horse, Fred Colon, 'cause I know for a fact that your nephew’s one of ‘em too.”
Fred deflated slightly. “Yes,” he said, conceding the point with a sigh. “He is, to his family’s shame. Plays all the old lady parts, on account of he’s got a voice like a whistle and 5 o’clock shadow that starts about 9 am. A few pairs of old socks down his jumper and you’d never know he had socks anywhere else, if you take my meaning. We’ve been on him to change his name, but he says someday we’re all going to be proud to say we’re kin to Misha Colon.” Fred shook his head at the hubris of the younger generation, and Sam decided it was time to move things along.
“You’re right about me being with the Dysk, and…can you keep a secret?” He asked, strongly suspecting the answer. Both men nodded vigorously and completely falsely. “Well, we’re writing a new play- about witches.” Both men leaned in. “I was wondering, as lawmen” said Sam, laying it on as thick as he dared. “If you had any encounters with the unnatural?”
Both men looked blank. “Unnatural?” Fred asked. “Witches is who you go to to get RID of the unnatural.”
Dean, meanwhile, had spotted his quarry. A slight, dark-haired female Watchman with a pronounced widow's peak, accompanied by someone who could have been Hwel’s twin brother. Dean pasted on his best “Blue Steel” and sauntered up. “Hello, officers,” he said. The dwarfish cop let out a strangled shriek and stood, transfixed. “Oh gods, Cheery” Sally said, correctly reading the starstruck expression on her partner's face. She rolled her eyes. “Fine, you can have five minutes to fangirl. I’ll just be over here, fighting crime.” With that she stepped away, ostentatiously leaning against the wall in a pose of studied nonchalance.
With great effort, the dwarf found her voice and said “ Are you doing research for a new role?” Under the copious facial hair, Dean saw a blush rising. “I’m a HUGE fan-I go to the Convention in Sto Lat every year, all three days, PLUS the concert! ! I did have a question, though” the dwarf said, practically vibrating with excitement. “When you and Jarhead (she breathed the name as if it were a prayer) “are backstage…do you… make out, or do you only kiss in front of an audience?” Dean was saved from spontaneous combustion by a snort from Sally. “Look, as much as I’d love to arrest you for incapacitating an officer, we have work to do. Cheery, do you need a moment, or can we proceed?”
With an effort, the smaller Watchman pulled herself together, and the two walked off.
Dean headed towards the rendezvous point. “Biers?” he snickered. He might be an actor in this world, but at least he knew how to spell a four letter word. Hoping this was the right place, he waited a few moments until Sam came loping up.
Dean hauled open the door, and stopped short. Shaggy heads lifted; fanged, furred and feathered faces looked up at them, then returned to their drinks.
“Should we be killing anybody ?” Sam asked cautiously. “Don’t think so…” Without another word, Dean headed purposefully towards the bar. “Two beers please.”
“We got Human, Vampire, Werewolf, or Igor. Might have some Troll in the back but-“ the bar keeper shot them a flat look “I doubt you two would survive it.”
“Human is fine” Dean said shortly, collecting the mugs and stomping with poor grace over to a nearby table. “I hate this universe, Sammy. We need to get out of this universe”. His tone changed as a new figure entered the bar. She was tall, blonde, and beautiful, even dressed in nondescript clothing. There was a surreptitious stir among the patrons, a straightening of tunics, and claws running through untamed pelts. Clearly, this woman commanded attention.
“Hey, Angua, the usual?” called the barman. The woman nodded, and took a seat at the bar. That was all the invitation Dean needed.
Ok, time for a little R and R” Maybe it was just the nightgown talking, but after his encounter with the Watch, he felt a need to reassert his masculinity. With a slight swagger, he walked across the room and sat down next to the newcomer.
"Rough crowd in here- you're pretty brave, coming out by yourself. "
Angua paused, and slowly set her glass back on the bar. `Are YOU offering to protect me?"
Dean preened. "Well, back where I come from, that's kind of my job."
"And where do you come from, exactly?"
Dean wracked his brain and came up with the only name he'd heard. "Sto Lat?"
“Try it again, without the question mark. Are you a Sammie?”
“Naw, that’s my brother.” Dean gestured towards Sam, who responded with a hesitant wave.
“So…” she said thoughtfully “NOT a copper- care to try again?”
Dean grinned. “Ok, you got me. We aren’t really cops, per se. We just…investigate things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Things that go bump in the night, monsters under the bed…” he raised a flirtatious eyebrow. “You got any monsters under your bed?”
She gave him an icy stare. “UNDER it? No.”
The bartender wandered over, a mug in one hand, a nail-studded club in the other. “This guy bothering you, Angua?”
“Thanks, but I think I can handle it.” The man nodded and wandered back to refill a bowl of what Dean devoutly hoped were peanuts.
“Look” Dean said desperately, in the hopes that being honest with the police would pay off for once in his life. “We’re looking for witches.”
Angua snorted. “Witches are too smart to live in a place like Ankh-Morpork. If you’re really looking for them-” her tone suggested that only a fool would do so “try Genua. Or Lancre.” She gave him a look that was pure copper all the way through. “Anywhere but here.”
“OK, now what?”
“Well, it sounds like witches here aren’t like OUR witches..”
“Yeah, no kidding, Sam. And they don’t even LIVE around here-apparently we’ve got to go to Genua, or Lancre.”
“Lancre?” Sam interjected. “Isn’t that where the troupe is going?” Dean nodded grimly. “Come on, we’ve gotta get back there and get our asses on that wagon!”
For the first time, Sam was grateful that the troupe were paid by the day. It seemed that actors entrusted with large sums of money were just as likely to rush out and buy an alpaca as to put it in a sock beneath the mattress like a normal person.
Fortunately, the actors playing The Nutcracker and Clara in the touring company must have wanted an alpaca. Some coins changed hands, and Sam and Dean were on their way to Lancre.
Vittoler wondered what in the name of the Great A’Tuin had happened to turn his two best actors into a pair of glaring amateurs who couldn’t speak and hit their marks at the same time. Gensin and Jarhead had always been solid, professional; a bit given to regrettably adolescent humor and pranks, but right now the director would put up with any amount of flatulence-based hilarity if it meant getting through the entire show just ONCE. If possible, they seemed to be getting worse, and no amount of direction helped.
“Jarhead, don’t look at the audience.”
“Where should I look?”
“Anywhere! Anywhere BUT the audience. And Gensin, you’re a girl- a delicate young flower! Think graceful, think feminine . You’re waiting for the Hogfather, not Cohen The Barbarian! And for gods’ sake, smile !”
Vittoler closed his eyes and hoped the good people of Lancre had low expectations where highbrow theater was concerned. If not, his two stars had better be good at ducking hurled produce. Making a mental note to dress them in oilskins just in case, he crossed his fingers and wished for broken legs.
The trip to the mountains was long, cold, and punctuated by far too many performances of “The Nutcracker” in the brothers’ opinion, but at last the wagons creaked to a stop in the small town square, and they were able to get out and look for witches.
“Hello boys-where do you think you’re going?” They looked up to find Vittoler standing in front of them, arms crossed. “We just wanted to…look around” Sam began, but the director shook his head. “We’ve got two wagons to unload, a set to build, and costumes to sort! You’ll get your time to look around AFTER the work’s done!”
It was several hot, sweaty hours later that the brothers were able to break away, and begin their search.
It turned out to be easier than they thought.
There was a guard standing in the town square, leaning on his spear and watching the world go by with a sleepy stare.
“Excuse me, could you direct us to the nearest witch?”
“Well,” the man scratched his head. “If it’s witches you want, Mistress Weatherwax is usually at her cottage, if you’ve got the nerve to go there. Mrs.Ogg’s at home to visitors most days, and she’s right over there” he pointed to a large, well kept cottage near the center of town. “Her Majesty Queen Magrat don’t do much witchin’ these days, what with Little Esme, and all the good works she and the King’ve got going on. And” he said, almost as an afterthought “There’s Miss Nitt.”
“Nitt? Where’s she?”
The man pointed towards the well in the center of the square. “Right there.”
If women were cars, Dean thought, the woman at the well would be a 1970 Cadillac Coupe De Ville- big, beautiful, and with ample trunk space. She was doing distinctly unwitchy things at the moment -It was difficult to look pale and mysterious while beating laundry against the cobblestones- but she was the closest witch around, and that was good enough.
“Excuse us, are you a witch?”
Agnes looked up into a pair of big, brown, puppy dog eyes. Her own eyes narrowed. “What gave me away? The green skin? The warts?” She pointed upward. “Or was it the black pointy hat?”
Sam looked hurt. “Sorry, it’s just- where we come from, witches don’t advertise it.”
“And where is that?”
“Er…”
“Oh, that explains it.” Using her special “speaking to the weak-of-mind” voice she said brightly “And what can I do for you today?”
“We need someone to do a spell to send us back to our own dimension.”
Five minutes later they were at Nanny Ogg's cottage.
Nanny Ogg might be old, but she wasn’t dead. In fact, certain parts of her had improved with age and experience, and those parts were responding VERY enthusiastically to the young men in front of her. She’d found that everyone brought something to the table (when there wasn’t time to make it to the bed), and that good things came in all shapes and sizes. Still, it was nice when neither party had to wear a bag over their head. The taller one would be an interesting challenge, but it wouldn’t be Nanny’s first time on a ladder. The other one was just about perfect- pouty lips, lovely eyes, and a pair of bow legs that boded well for a lady of ample hiptitude.
Agnes, who was well acquainted with Nanny’s Greebo-like approach to pulchritude in the opposite sex, gave her a nudge. “They want us to send them back to their own dimension.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
Nanny looked wistful, but Anges was firm. Time travel was all well and good, when it was done in a straight line from one nanosecond to the next, but people who didn’t belong in a given reality had a way of creating chaos for those who did. Nanny might be easily distracted by a pair of pretty eyes and even prettier buttocks, but Agnes took her work seriously.
“If we must. Why don’t you go get Esme and I’ll keep these boys entertained?”
“Because you can’t be trusted alone with good looking men.”
Nanny subjected this statement to scrutiny and found no flaws in Agnes’s logic.
“Fine. Pewsie?”
A small, tousled head appeared from behind Nanny’s overstuffed armchair. “‘S?” he lisped.
“Be a good boy for your Nanny and run to Mistress Weatherwax’s cottage. Tell her we’ve got someone as needs her help. There’s a sweetie in it for you, and remember, the Hogfather’s watching!”
The child left the cottage as if shot from a cannon, and Nanny clapped her hands. “Now, who’d like a nice cup of tea?”
By the time the kettle had come to a boil, Pewsie was back, an affronted Granny Weatherwax in tow.
“Gytha Ogg, you KNOWS witches don’t go out on Hogswatch Eve- what’s gotten into you?” Her eyes took in the brothers, sitting incongruously on the chintzy, antimacassared chairs, and narrowed. “Never mind, it clearly ain’t about what’s gotten INTO you.”
“Yet.” Nanny added hopefully, before Agnes cut in. “These two came here from an alternate dimension.” She had to admit, she enjoyed saying those words- they were so much more glamorous, so much more witchy , than most things witches got to say. Witches in Lancre at any rate.
“Dimension travel, is it?” Granny said shortly. “That’s a big ask-last time we tried anything like that, it was ONLY through time, and you know how hard that was.”
“Nearly froze my nethers off” Nanny said cheerfully, then added archly “You sayin’ we can’t do it, Esme?”
“Not sayin’ can’t- I never says can’t, just sayin’ it’s got to have some thinkin’ behind it.”
Sam and Dean looked on in mounting tension as the three women put their heads together in quiet but earnest consultation, each occasionally raising her voice to make a point. Finally they broke apart, each turning her back, with crossed arms and angry faces.
“Well, teamwork don’t seem to makin’ the dream work” Granny snapped. “Perhaps it’s best if we each retire to our own cottage and come up with our own ideas.”
The other two glared and nodded, but little Pewsie piped up “Why don’t you just ask the Hogfather?”
When witches came to an agreement, things got done, (which was why nature made sure they usually didn’t.) They were seated in a circle around the scrubbed wooden table. “Now, everyone hold hands.”
Nanny, by dint of levering herself between the two men and wriggling like a crowbar, had managed to secure a seat next to Dean,and grabbed his hand with a gummy grin. Anges shrugged, and grabbed Sam’s.
Granny rolled her eyes, and began the summoning.
“I conjure and command thee- show me your face!”
“I conjure and command thee- show me your face!”
“I conjure and command thee- show me your face!”
Suddenly, Granny paused. “Castiel? Castiel Who? Go away, we’re workin’ here!!”
“Cas?” Whispered Dean, and Agnes shot him a warning look.
“If someone thinks they can do this better, they’re welcome to try. If not, shut up” Granny said frostily, and Dean ducked his head. The chanting and commanding continued, Nanny's hand tightening in his until his fingers were numb. With a sudden explosion of sparks, a figure appeared in the circle.
It wasn’t Castiel.
It wasn’t the Hogfatther either.
The witches and the Winchesters watched in dumbfounded silence as a cushion slipped slowly from beneath its robe and plopped onto the flagstone floor.
I’m assumin’ you’ve got a good explanation for this ?” Granny asked acidly, and Death drew himself up. “OF COURSE” he replied, then wilted under her glare. BUT CAN I JUST LOAN YOU THE BOOK? I ASSURE YOU WILL BE QUICKER. MY MOTIVES ARE PURE, NOBLE, AND MUCH TOO COMPLICATED TO EXPLAIN IN THE TIME WE HAVE AVAILABLE.”
“A week ago, you said you couldn’t help us.” Sam interjected.
“A WEEK AGO, I WAS DEATH. NOW, FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE NIGHT, I AM THE HOGFATHER. THE HOGFATHER CAN MAKE HOLIDAY WISHES COME TRUE.” Death paused, considering something. “OF COURSE, IF YOU WERE TO INCONVENIENTLY EXPIRE DURING THE TRIP, I WOULD HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO FULFILL MY PRIMARY FUNCTION….”
“We won’t!” Dean assured him hastily, and Sam nodded.
“Well boys, you’ve got your ride home, so best get going.” Nanny gave Dean a pinch on the backside as incentive, and they wasted no time climbing up on the sleigh.
The witches watched them leave. “That boy’s just as pretty going as coming, if you catch my drift.” Nanny sighed.
“Bit hard not to, when you won’t stop pointing it out.” Granny sniffed.
“I like the tall one better,” Agnes chimed in. “The short one’s a bit bowlegged.”
Nanny cackled. “Those legs are bowed because his arse is a gift.”
“Gytha Ogg, you are as common as muck.”
“Just as you say, Esme” Nanny agreed happily, still looking toward the sky, a wistful smile on her face.
“Now let’s get home- there’s been enough foolishness for one night.” Granny was firm, but Agnes shook her head. “What about the play? Those two were the stars- who’s going to fill in for them?”
Nanny shot her a conspiratorial look. “Don’t seem right, just leaving them in the lurch…I heard young Esme was all excited to see it; still, high time the child got used to disappointment, even if she IS a princess.”
Granny knew when she was outgunned. “Seems the two of you have more foolishness left, after all.”
Afterwards, everyone agreed that it had been a wonderful show. All that dancing, and swordplay, and sparkly costumes; the man playing the Nutcracker had been wonderful, if a bit on the short, fat side for a hero, but lad playing Clara? If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he was a real girl.
As soon as Tusker, Rooter and Snouter flew off into the sky in the same way that other pigs don’t, Dean took back his promise. He WAS going to die. With a splat. Preceded by a long, screaming fall.
“IS HE ALWAYS LIKE THIS?” Death nodded towards Dean’s legs, protruding from beneath the toy-laden sack. His hands gripped the sides of the sleigh hard enough to embed his fingerprints in the wood grain.
“Yeah, he hates flying.”
“WHY? I HAVE ASSURED HIM MULTIPLE TIMES THAT HE IS NOT GOING TO DIE TONIGHT, OR INDEED FOR QUITE SOME TIME. AND EVEN WHEN HE DOES, HE SEEMS TO FIND HIS WAY BACK” Death added somewhat petulantly.
“It’s just his personal phobia.”
“It’s NOT a phobia” came a muffled voice. “It’s the logical response to being thousands of feet in the air. There’s a thing called GRAVITY, you know!”
“JUST TRY TO RELAX.”
Just try to shut up!”
At the next house, Death poked Dean in the leg with a bony finger. “IT MAY MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER TO GET OUT FOR A MOMENT.”
“If I get out, I’m not getting back in, man…”
“COME WITH ME, I AM CERTAIN WE CAN FIND SOMETHING TO HELP YOU RELAX.”
“Yeah, when pigs fly!”
Flying was great; no, scratch that, it was AWESOME.
Airlines in their universe could learn a thing or two from the Hogfather, Dean decided. Unlimited booze was definitely the way to go.
He’d followed Death down the chimney, and into the small house. There, on the table, was a small glass of sherry. There was one at the next house, and the next, and the next. Unfortunately, they were now several thousand houses in, and he was hungry. “Do they leave cookies out for Santa?” He belched “I mean the Hogfather?”
‘COOKIES? NO, OUR TRADITION IS PIE.” Dean’s eyes lit up, and he grabbed pies from the next several houses, until he had one in each hand and as many as he could stuff in his pockets. When they returned to the air, he took a huge bite.
It was an abomination.
This pie was to pastry as the sleigh was to woodworking- something a protohuman who’d seen an episode of HGTV might have produced during a prolonged bout of experimentation with the pretty mushrooms that grew in the dell.
It was constructed like a culinary fortress, with the express goal of preventing the unwary eater from ever, ever finding the treasure inside. The crust was easily an inch thick, and when Dean finally managed to break through (nearly cracking a molar in the process) he found a cold, slimy interior, with clumps of pork suspended in something suspiciously akin to lube. He quickly spat the offending mouthful over the side and downed another sherry in a futile attempt to cleanse his palate.
Far below, the bravest of the denizens of the Shades paused in his nefarious doings as an unspeakable wad of something came whistling out of the nighttime sky to land with a gelatinous “glop” on the pavement. Sidling forward, he nudged the glob with the toe of his boot.
“Whadda ya reckon, Hoit?” asked one of his less stalwart compatriots. “Present from the Hogfather?” he asked, sniggering at his own wit.
“I dunno,” Hoit replied. “More likely a present from his pigs- leave it for the gnolls.”
Even the gnolls avoided it, and eventually it became a landmark- ( “Go south down Mastication Alley, turn left at the Blob, then it’s the second door on the right.”)
It felt like forever and no time at all before Death pulled up in Singer Salvage Yard, and turned to Sam and Dean. “IT HAS BEEN A MOST ENJOYABLE IF UNCONVENTIONAL NIGHT.” He said. “I HOPE TO SEE YOU BOTH AGAIN. BUT NOT TOO SOON.” With that, he flew off into the night, and the brothers walked inside.
“Hello, boys,” Balthazar smiled. “Have a fun night?”
“Yeah, thanks for the excitement” Dean growled. “ He reached into his pocket for the key, and found he was still carrying a hated pork pie. He hurled it at Balthazar, who snatched it out of the air, and gave it an appreciative sniff. “MMMMmmmm.”
“Want your damned key back?”
“Oh, keep it” Balthazar said airily. “It opens a locker at the Albany bus station-”
Wait a minute- you said this was all about the key! And the weapons! And Raphael!” Sam shouted.
Balthazar grinned. “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I? It was going to take me a while to find them, so I volunteered you two marmosets for a game of fetch with Virgil. Cas has the weapons now. Did you really think I would entrust the two of YOU with a vital mission?” He took a large bite of pie and sighed. “Although you get full marks for having the good sense to bring pie.”
“Pie?” Dean snarled, anger at Bal magnified by this cavalier dismissal of the essential rules governing the definition of his treasured pie. “That’s not pie! Pie is sweet and full of fruit, not Vaseline and road kill!”
“Philistine.” Balthazar disappeared, taking the pie with him.
Dean wasn’t sure which one made him happier. “Friggin’ angels” he muttered.
Sam walked over to the nearest wall and slapped it. “Solid. It’s real” he said with a sigh of relief.
“Yeah,” Dean echoed. “Real, moldy termite-eaten, home sweet home. Chock full of crap that wanna skin you. Oh, and…we’re broke again.”
“But look on the bright side” Sam pointed out. “At least we're not kissing.”
The brothers smiled. It was good to be back in the real world.
Footnote-
*Virgil DID follow the Winchesters to Discworld, but had the supreme bad sense to materialize in Mustrum Ridcully's office, where his first words were "Out of my way, Fatso."
*They were also his last.
*Unless "rrribbbit" counts.