Okay, another fic. Again, written on R66. All of them are, unless otherwise noted with a tag something along the lines of:
"YAY! Thank GOD, new fiction!!"
And then you shall see, It will be all new work. Ahem. ANYWAY, this fic is a serious WIP, from a challange on R66 by blue_icy_rose
. Aaaand maybe some day I'll write chapter two, no? Hee.
Title: Death of a Slayer
Pairing: BtVS/SPN - Buffy/Dean (eventually), with others from both worlds.
Disclaimer: Not mine. I would sooo have a better car if they were.
Title: The Death of a Slayer
Timeline: Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Post Chosen; Supernatural: AU post Bloody Mary due to Buffy-verse sidetrack.
Synopsis: Dean never told Sam why Bloody Mary evoked from him tears of blood. But Buffy knows.
Disclaimer: I don’t own either series. If I did I’d waste sooo much of the CW studio’s money trying to coerce Sarah Michelle Gellar into a steady role on Supernatural. I mean… she’s really gotten into a horror kick, right? She belongs on the show! Hell, so do I! I want to be that sad little PA that they send out to try and find the guys and drag them back to work when they run off. Anyway, point: I gain nothing from this. No money, no nookie.
Challange: In response to Nicole's Death of a Slayer challange.
Note: Yay! Newly re-vamped and de-ickified (well, kinda).
Dean swung a fist back and coiled the muscles along his shoulder together, putting all of the energy of psychical and mental force behind the punch. The girl before him went down hard, as he’d intended. He kneed her under the jaw and pulled a spare magazine from his dusty leather jacket, utilizing what short time he had before she recovered her senses enough to knock him down to her level. Quickly he pressed the release button to slide the empty clip out and exchange it for the fresh one before leveling it at the possessed girl and pulling the trigger.
The first bullet hit it’s mark square in her forehead, and was the only one needed to calm the tensed body beneath his boot. The loud crack rebounded off of the tombs around them. He didn’t have time to see the cloud of darkness flee the dead host, though, because as the final echoes of the shot faded a quick whistle and searing pain turned him. An arrow had buried its pointed head into his left shoulder, and reflexively he blocked out the pain and raised his weapon, squaring off gun to crossbow with another girl, this one older. And she was definitely not happy.
The vivid image flashed through Buffy’s mind as she stared at Dean Winchester. It had been a little over a year since she’d last seen him, and if her memory served her correctly, they’d both left each other in bloody tatters. Slayer or no, she was definitely not looking forward to her continued time working together with him. No telling how many times he’d shoot before the hunt was over.
Dean was trying his best to ignore her presence, running a mental checklist over his precious Impala’s arsenal in the trunk. His brother and hunting partner, Sam, was leaning again the passenger side door, trying to show allegiance with his brother without being rude to her. He reminded Buffy of what Dawn, or of what she might become after another few years of maturing. Despite her hatred fore his brother, she enjoyed Sam’s company. Her thin friendship with him was the only thing that kept her from snapping Dean’s neck.
Dean slammed the trunk closed and strode past her, back into the dingy motel room to grab his bag. She broke her gaze from him and turned it to Sam, who just shrugged and opened his door.
Being on the road with the brothers wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be. Originally she’s assumed she would kill Dean, or maim him somehow, within the first few days. And she was pissed off that she hadn’t yet done so. What the hell was with him? By all rights, she should have killed him a year ago, but her sense of moral right and wrong had been in high gear that day. Lately it had been slipping. But back then, right after losing so many friends and comrades, she hadn’t felt the urge to cause more human death. She was paying for it today.
She had quite a few scars from Dean’s gun. Right shoulder, abdomen, left thigh. The only consolation to her was that he’d left not only with an empty gun, but with her full round of arrows jutting from his body. She’d assumed he was dead.
She wasn’t so lucky in life. Word of a demon, a powerful one, gaining power had spread to the Council, and she’d been sent to track and kill the thing. Like a dog. Sam and Dean were already on the case. So it had been with not a small amount of sheer heart-stopping shock that she’d literally run into Dean’s chest last week in Kansas.
Sam was the reason they were working together. The verbal battle between brothers had been horrible, but in the end the younger had won, reasoning that if Buffy had experience in hunting demons then they should join with her. She’d hung back and listened, sick satisfaction rearing its ugly head at the pain that crossed Dean’s face. They had no one else. The only people mentioned that could help would, but not in actual battle capacity. And their dad couldn’t because he’d abandoned them to hunt alone. The defeat in the elder’s green eyes had been beautiful.
Buffy growled and followed Dean into the room, waving at Sam to stay in the car. The younger brother shook his head and leaned back, ready to sit alone and enjoy the peace for the next half hour it would surely take for them to battle out whatever was going on.
Dean ripped the zipper of his duffel bag closed and glared up at her when she gently closed the door behind her. “What?”
Buffy’s eyes narrowed and she stalked across the room to face him, chest to chest. She might be short, but she wasn’t going to cower from him while he loomed over her, muscles tense. She knew he was fighting not to shove her out of his way. “Don’t “what” me, what the hell is your problem?” She folded her arms under her breasts, lightly brushing the larger chest before her. The spark between them had nothing to do with lust, but it did excite their tempers.
“You! You just keep staring at me like you expect me to pull out a gun and bleed everyone!” He stepped back, for both of their sakes, and turned back to his duffel. “Look, you really don’t have to come. Sam thinks it’s a good idea, but you can’t help if you’re constantly judging me. I did what I had to do.”
“You killed my friend.” Buffy blocked his way to the door and put a hand out to grab his bag from him. He didn’t let go, and she didn’t force him to. Bone headed as he was, he’d probably rather she break his hand than give the bag up willingly. Just to make a damned point. Thirteen months ago she’s come to Dean standing over her dear friend, panting, gun in hand. That was where the exchange of fire had happened, and that was why. She’s snuck up on him with a weapon, and he’d killed a human. None of it was right, but she was more right than he was. Definitely.
“It wasn’t your friend.” His voice had lost its angry heat. It’d gone cold, emotionless. If it weren’t for his eyes, she’d have thought he’d completely flipped over into another personality. Never knew who the crazies were, and even though she’d been living in motel after motel with the brothers for a week or so, she still counted him as drastically unstable. “She was a demon. You just can’t tell because it had possessed her. It isn’t like your monsters, you can’t just see the evil by looking at it.” He sneered at her reflexively, then continued to cut off any argument. He was damned tired of listening to her lectures about the better way to battle. “She put a dagger through my shoulder, I didn’t have any choice. I have no idea how many times I’ve gone over this.”
Buffy just continues to glare and shake her head. “You have no idea what was going on. None. You run from place to place looking for ghosts, this was a Hellmouth. Have you ever been on a Hellmouth? Things are different there.” She released the bag, suddenly overwhelmingly exhausted by the constant bickering, and turned to sink onto the hard mattress. Dean moved around to the other bed and stood, duffel forgotten on the other bed.
“Look. No, I don’t know about all the shit that goes on over a Hellmouth. Sam’s the nerd, he’s looked it up. But they aren’t that special, Princess, there are like six in northern America. Five, now. But everything else? All of the less Hell-based spots in the country? Things run differently. You don’t know everything…”
“She wasn’t a demon!” Buffy screamed, really screamed at Dean. He frowned, more than a bit shocked. She yelled, bitched, but never, ever had she flat out screamed at him. This was a full throated cry of anguish, and he really didn’t know what he’d done to put that there. But he did know he didn’t want it to continue. For his own sake, of course. What a pain in the ass this girl was. Slowly he backed off and crouched down before her, keeping his hands clasped over his thighs and eyes on her face. Her eyes were shut, probably trying to get her emotions under control. Her throat was working past tears, and when she’d conquered the urge, her bright eyes opened to his. “She was a student. A human student.” When he didn’t say anything, she swallowed another lump and made a vague wave with her hand. She sighed, frustrated with herself for breaking down.
Dean sat back, back against the other bed. His mind was rejecting the information, but with this new information he was determined to hear the normally bitchy blonde out, tears or no. There were plenty of demons that possessed people, she just didn’t know it. That hadn’t been her friend, and he’d done her a favor.
“We were out hunting in a group, it was her first time out without someone glue to her side. The other students were doing the same thing, trying out solo patrols. It was a quiet night, I though it would be okay.” Buffy refused to meet his gaze and concentrated on the picture hanging over her headboard: a hound scratching up a carefully manicured flowerbed, captured quail in his mouth.
Dean followed her gaze, not really taking in the lurid colors of the abstract scene. “Hunting.” He shook his head absently and narrowed his eyes. “What were you hunting, exactly? With a girl like that? She just about took my head off, and she damned near cut into my lungs. That’s not normal. Humans just don’t do that.” His tone was heated again by the time he’d completed the thought, and his eyes were back on her face, boring holes through it. “Demon possessions can give a normal human super strength, and the people around the person would never know what was going on inside.”
Buffy closed her eyes and counted slowly backwards from ten. Her eyes opened, no longer watery but fierce and sparking. “A slayer. She was a slayer, like me.” He tone invited him to contradict her, and he opened his mouth to do so. Her hands twisted in the sheets to keep from knocking his condescending smirk away. “I could always prove it to you.”
Dean slid into his arrogant mask and thanked her silently for her anger, Anger he could deal with. “There’s no such thing. The Slayer is a vampire boogey girl. The monster under the coffin, waiting with a wooden spatula to kill you when you wake up.” He saw her breath hitch and congratulated himself. If he could keep her focused on her hatred of him, he’d be safe. “Besides, there’s only one. You can’t both be it.” He nodded and leaned back a bit, not sure he’d gotten through to her. She was seriously twisted in the head.
Buffy stared at the ground at Dean’s boots. “I was the first. Not the first. But. You know.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I died a few times; a few slayers were called up to take my place. Faith is the second oldest of us. Then, last apocalypse, when we fought the First,” she broke off and sighed. “The First Evil, not slayer. Willow did her magic mojo thing and woke up all of the potential slayers-hundreds of them. We needed an army, and she gave one to us.” She focused now very hard on the mottled carpet. Blues, browns, grays and blacks blended together over the hideous shag. No doubt to cover up stains.
“And you train them.” Dean’s voice still held that condescending doubt she’d grown accustomed to, but it held a frightened edge to it now. She nodded, finally looking up to meet her eyes. Some connection snapped into place. And Dean knew she was right. He’d murdered one of the good guys, a girl no more than nineteen. And all she’d been trying to do was help keep the world a little more safe.