Summary: The Devil wants Sam to do him a not-so-pleasant favor. And Sam's not going to like it. Assume this one takes place sometime after season 1.
A/N: Thanks much to those who read/reviewed my earlier fic! Like, love, or hate this piece? Think I could've written something differently? Drop me a line and let me know!
Disclaimer: Reaper is the CW's playground. I only play here for no money.
Sam opened the door to his apartment, exhausted. Damn that Ted for signing him up for a double-shift at the Bench. Not that it was quite Ted's fault, then again: Sam hadn't exactly been a model employee lately, not with the latest madness considering his other "job." And the excuse about his father dying could only go so far.
Sock and Ben were still at work. Andi was out of town visiting relatives. He was still on his Devil-imposed hiatus from catching souls, so at least he could have a quiet night by himself at home.
Or so he thought.
"How's it going, Sam?" The voice nearly gave Sam a coronary.
Speak of the devil. In this case, literally, as Sam noticed him standing in the kitchen in his usual overly-expensive suit grilling shrimp kabobs.
Well, so much for a quiet night at home.
"What are you doing here?" Sam asked brusquely. He balled up the Work Bench apron and irritably tossed it on the couch.
There was a time Sam would've reconsidered being rude to the Devil. Probably before he'd gotten so tired of his mindgames with his contract and who his father was.
But now, to hell with the niceties. (No pun intended.)
"Whoa there, Sammy, take it easy, I wanted to see how you were doing," The Devil threw up his hands in mock surrender, flashing the barracuda grin Sam knew so well. "What, you have a rotten day at work? Got up on the wrong side of your bed of nails this morning?" He chortled.
Ever the comedian, thought Sam darkly.
"I was going to raide the fridge and watching the tube tonight. Alone," added Sam pointedly.
"Ah, gluttony and sloth, two of my favorite sins! Sometimes you're a man after my own heart, Sammy." The Devil beamed. "Shrimp?" He held up a kabob.
"What do you want?" said Sam expressionlessly. "Another job? Another soul caught? What?"
"Well, since you're not in much of a chatty mood tonight, I guess I'll just tell you," said the Devil in a wounded voice. The guy had feelings. Who knew? "I came by to give you this." He handed Sam a wrapped package.
Sam eyed the package suspiciously. "The next vessel?"
"I told you I'd give you some time off, Sam," the Devil said impatiently. "Listening has never been your strong suit, has it? It's a gift. Well, sort of. Actually I need a favor."
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a 24-karat gold lighter and a Cuban cigar. "I want you to kill Tony," he said matter-of-factly as he lit the cigar, filling the apartment with thick, acrid smoke.
Sam started to feel sick. Was it the request or the cigar?
"You – you want me to do what?"
"You heard me, Sammy," said the Devil casually as though he was asking Sam to pick up his dry cleaning.
"Don't get me wrong, it's been fun and all that," he said quickly. "I had a blast, going to that silly little round clubhouse of theirs and collapsing the roof in and doing the old switcheroo with the sword. There's nothing better than getting the best of stupid demons, Sam. You outta try it sometime! It's like watching those dumb criminals on Cops, the ones who try to rob a convenience store with a water gun!" He chuckled vainly. "Oh, they crack me up!" He almost doubled over laughing.
The cigar smoke stung Sam's eyes. He coughed, leaning over to open a window. "Those things will kill you, you know," he choked sardonically, gesturing to the cigar.
"Ah, you kill me with that sense of humor of yours! I'm going to miss it when you finally go rot in hell, well, except on the days I visit," said the Devil amiably. His smile faded. "But seriously, Sammy, it's no longer fun, you know? I had my kicks. But this goes on much longer, Tony'll just be a thorn in my side. That's why I need you to kill him. You can't use any earth weapon. This should do the trick." He pushed the box toward Sam.
Sam's mind reeled. Like with any other thing the Devil had ever asked him to do for him, this wasn't as simple as it sounded.
Before he even realized he was speaking… "No."
Hilariously, the Devil did a double take at Sam. "No?"
"You heard me," said Sam coolly. "Now who's having trouble listening? No. N. O. I'm not going to kill Tony. Or anyone else."
The Devil flashed another familiar smile – the menacing one where he bared his teeth but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "You owe me a favor, Sam." The congenial tone was completely gone from his voice. "For Gladys, remember? I got her back out of hell?"
"No, you offered me a favor when I helped with that adulterous jerk," Sam fired back. "And I accepted the offer. You didn't have to offer me anything for doing my reaping job, but you chose to. But I say no. I'm not going to kill anyone for you, especially not one of my friends."
"Friends?" The Devil spit the word out completely enveloped in a guffaw.
"Yeah, friends. You got any?" Now, I'm insulting the Devil. I'm on a roll tonight.
Which means I'm probably dead meat tomorrow.
"It won't be killing outright," the Devil patiently, adopting the tone of an adult trying to explain to a child that one plus one equaled two. "All that's going to happen is that he'll go back to hell." He said earnestly. "He's a demon, Sammy! Do you have any idea what kind of havoc they've caused up there? He's got evil in him, they all do!"
"Everyone has some evil in them. And you don't know he's going to go to hell. Steve didn't." Sam paused. "It's not in my contract. I don't have to kill anyone,okay? I'm not going to be your damn hitman."
"Hitman? You've been watching too many Sopranos reruns, Sammy. This isn't that big of a deal, really."
"It is to me," said Sam flatly. Without realizing what he was saying next… "If you want to kill anyone, do it yourself."
The Devil's menacing look returned in full force. "Well, I might just have to do that, then," he said softly. He looked straight into Sam's eyes. Sam shuddered inwardly. "That'd teach you not to listen to me, wouldn't it? Because you know what happens when I don't get something I want."
The images of collapsing shelves at the Work Bench filled Sam's mind along with the crunching sound of a broken arm – his own. "Yeah, I do. But at least it won't be on my head."
Sam walked over to the fridge and pulled out a beer and a leftover sandwich. "Will that be all for you tonight?" he asked as though he was serving another customer at the Bench.
"That'll be it," the Devil said slowly. A crafty smile spread over his face as he turned to go. "Whoa, you're growing quite the cajones, aren't you, Sam?"
He opened the door to leave. "I wonder whose side of the family you get those from?" He added quietly as he vanished, leaving Sam alone with his now-ruined appetite.