Untitled; SPN/Buffy Crossover Fic - Part 1 / ?
Title: Untitled (Part 1 / ?)
Author: talynn27
Fandom: Supernatural / Buffy crossover
Rating: PG?
Pairing: None, so far
Spoilers: Supernatural - Pre-series. Buffy - Oh, right after Passion, I guess.
Warnings: None in this part
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be
Word Count: 2064
Summary: The Winchester Boys are having a very bad weekend, in a very bad town...
Author's Note: Well, this was written back in January, I think, though I am just posting it now. Point being, dear reader, that Dead Man's Blood had not yet aired in my universe, so you will have to disregard the fact that Sam and Dean have supposedly never heard of vampires :)
How had Dean managed to let it all spin out of control? He should have known better, should have never taken his eyes off of Sammy…
*****
"This town sucks," Dean muttered to himself as he eased the Impala around a dark corner. "Stupid mystical convergences."
He glanced over at the slip of paper lying on the passenger seat, barely visible by the dashboard lights; reread the address that he had copied carefully in his blocky print. He was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of panic, blindsided by the fact that the seat was otherwise empty. Sam was not slouched there, complaining about Dean's musical taste, about school, about Dad, about that cute girl in History class…
Dean took a deep breath and turned up the stereo.
Master of Puppets I'm pulling your strings
Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams
Blinded by me, you can't see a thing
Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream
Metallica, on about the evils of drugs. But, to Dean, the song took on a new significance, an eerie foreboding of danger and madness. An anthem to what was waiting in the dark. His hand slammed at the cassette player, killing the suddenly sinister notes.
He drove the last few blocks to his destination, pulled over to the side of the street, and turned off the car's engine. He let his hands drop into his lap, tried not to notice how they were trembling.
"This town sucks," he whispered.
*****
Everything had been all right until last night. Dean and Sam had been alone in the house, almost giddy at the prospect of a weekend without Dad. A weekend that would allow them to pretend, even though they would never admit it, that things were normal. That they were just two brothers, hanging out, while their father was away for a few days.
They wouldn't have to worry about weapons training, or research, or when they might have to move again. For this short time, they could just let it all fade, let that life feel like a dream.
Yesterday had been Friday, and Dad had left in the morning, dropping Sam off in front of the high school on his way out of town. Dean, who had graduated last year, spent the day catching up on sleep in between old Godzilla movies. By the time Sam had gotten home from school, and the brothers had ordered a pizza for dinner, the weekend had seemed to be off to a perfect start.
How had Dean managed to let it all spin out of control? He should have known better, should have never taken his eyes off of Sammy… How could he have expected what happened, though? It was insane. Insane to imagine that Sam could answer the door, pizza money in hand, and then just vanish. When Dean had come out of the bathroom, eager for a few slices of greasy goodness, the world had suddenly crashed down around him.
The open door, creaking in the breeze; the twenty dollar bill fluttering on the floor; the pizza box on the porch, just outside the threshold… Dean had frozen for a few moments, just staring at the bizarre vignette before him. Staring, stunned, at the absence of Sammy.
If only he had moved right away, if only he had run for the door, he might have been able to do something. Might have been able to, if not save Sam right there, at least have gotten a good look at the vehicle that had spirited his brother away. Instead he had only been roused from his paralysis by the sound of its engine, roaring into the night.
And blood. There had been blood gleaming from the cover of the pizza box, sparkling on the cheap linoleum of the kitchen floor, on the worn wood of the porch. Not much, not the pools and splashes that Dean had long ago become used to seeing. Just a few drops, a few spots. Just enough to notice, just enough to make his own blood run cold. Those few precious spatters of scarlet had pierced him more deeply than all the gallons he had seen in his strange young life.
This was Sam's blood. And Dean had let it be spilled.
*****
Dean, make sure you look after your brother. Dad's voice, echoing in his head as he sat behind the wheel of the black Impala, sat in the dark, in the silence. Sat alone.
Flashes of last night, of tearing out into the street, of staring after the far off taillights as they disappeared around a corner. He'd had to run back into the house for his car keys, and that had led to a long, frustrating drive around the unfamiliar neighborhoods of this new town. He'd had no idea where to start, which way to go, and had finally given up the useless, random wandering.
He'd gone back home, alone and numb, and cleaned the floor of his brother's blood. It was dry now, and the task had taken a long time. Dean performed the chore calmly, stoically, holding down the lump in his throat and the tears in his eyes. It was only after he had finished, when he had leaned back against the wall, and noticed the dark crimson smudge on the bottom of his shoe, that he had broken. I stepped in it, stepped in his blood, I stepped in Sammy's blood. How could I do that? How could I step in his blood? Dean's mind had whirled, frantically spinning on that one thought, as he put his head in his hands and wept.
Then to the books, always the books, brimming with horror and dread and a thousand sleepless nights. The Winchesters didn't have many possessions, were always ready to pack up and move at a moment's notice with what would fit into the Impala and Dad's truck, but the books were never left behind.
Dean had turned to them last night, flipping through one after another, even while admitting to himself that it was pointless. He had no idea what he was looking for, and he certainly didn't expect to find a reference to unholy kidnapping pizza boys. It was just an exercise, something to keep his hands occupied while his mind worked. It had also kept his eyes from wandering to the phone. Kept him from wondering if Dad would call tonight, from agonizing over whether he should make the call himself.
He had told himself that it was too soon, that he would figure this out, he would find Sam on his own. He'd rationalized that Dad was busy, probably in danger himself, and that there was no point in worrying him when Dean could handle it. Besides, Dad's mobile phone was probably out of service range…
Dean knew he'd been kidding himself. For all the surface logic, he knew that he was just making excuses, looking for any reason not to pick up that phone. Anything to not have to voice the fact that Sam was gone, that he had let something take his brother, that he had failed in the one constant duty he'd had since he was four years old.
Dean, make sure you look after your brother, and he had thrown the book from him, letting it spin across the room and drop against a wall. He didn't need it anymore, never had. He knew what had taken Sam, knew what was going on in this town. Since the Winchesters had moved into this strange little community, Dad had been very clear about the dangers, the demonic acticity, the way that evil seemed drawn here as if the town itself was a flame for paranormal moths.
They had been here for almost three months, and this weekend had been the first time Dad had left them alone for more than a few hours. Though Dean was nineteen, and a well trained hunter, Dad had refused to let his sons stay alone. There were more than enough jobs, more than enough things to hunt, right outside their own door, so Dad had tended to stick close to home.
The occasional overmight journey had seen the three of them going together; Dean both excited for the hunt, and silently annoyed at being treated like a child. Sam alternately brooded, and did his best to pick arguments with Dad. Sam would complain about missing school, about wanting to hang out with a new friend; even, it sometimes seemed, about the color of his shirt, or the model of the car that they passed. Dean had learned to tune him out, stealing glances at Dad to see just how close the man was to lashing back at his younger son. The tension between them seemed to ratchet up with every trip, every day, every minute, and Dean was constantly on edge for the next big blowout. Even at just fifteen, Sam was amazingly adept at pushing Dad's buttons.
All of that disappeared once they were on the job, however. Once the preliminaries were over, the three Winchesters became a perfect team. Sometimes Dean believed that they could read one another's thoughts, anticipate each move. Even Dad and Sam fell into flawless harmony, and these moments were like heaven to Dean. Everything was right, everything was pure and splendid and right… Destroying evil, protecting innocence, trusting their very lives into one another's hands; to Dean these moments were their family, these moments were love.
How could he tell Dad that he may have destroyed that? That he had let Sam be taken? That he had not even been witness to the event? That he had not been looking after Sam?
Last night, after he had sent the useless tome spinning across the tiny living room, Dean had gone to the phone book. He had looked up a name that Dad had once mentioned, and he had written the corresponding address on the back of an old grocery list. If he was going to get Sam back before Dad returned, he just might need some help.
*****
Now, standing on the porch of the house, seeing the pale glow of a flickering TV set inside, Dean was suddenly nervous. He was having trouble believing that this was the correct place. It looked so normal, so perfect. He was actually surprised that there was no white picket fence around the manicured lawn. But, he had rechecked the address, and knew that this was it. If only he could make himself knock.
Dean had spent the day roaming the town, looking for anything suspicious, anything that might point the way to Sam. He had tried to tell himself that it was crazy, that he was just wasting time, but he was also hoping to feel something. Feel his brother, be drawn to him like a magnet. He knew it could happen, had happened in the past, even though he had never told anyone about his strange feelings. He knew he wasn't psychic; he couldn't see spirits or bend spoons. He just had feelings about people sometimes…
So, he had spent hours driving around, hoping to sense Sam, or whatever had taken him, until he had finally been forced to admit that he truly was wasting time. He told himself that Dad would never forgive him if he learned that Dean had been so impractical. He had started for this house when the sky had darkened, and now, after his Metallica meltdown, stood on its porch, watching the flickering light of some sitcom, some movie, something normal…
As he finally almost worked up the nerve to knock on the perfect front door, it flew open. Standing in the newly created space was a teenaged girl, tiny and blonde, glaring up at him.
"How long were you planning on lurking there?" she asked, and Dean was surprised at the cold, hard edge in her voice.
"Umm, until just about now, actually."
She continued to stare at him critically, standing back, carefully though subtley keeping herself inside the door's threshold, until finally raising her eyebrows, "Well?"
"Are you… Buffy?" The unlikely name jarred him, as did the sight of this slender girl, breathtakingly pretty in her ponytail and stockinged feet.
"Who wants to know?" she asked, suspicion causing her eyes to narrow, her jaw to tighten.
Dean slowly, pointedly, took a single step inside the house, just crossing the threshold, being careful not to touch the girl. "My name is Dean. And if you are Buffy, I need your help, Slayer."
*****
To Be Continued...
Author: talynn27
Fandom: Supernatural / Buffy crossover
Rating: PG?
Pairing: None, so far
Spoilers: Supernatural - Pre-series. Buffy - Oh, right after Passion, I guess.
Warnings: None in this part
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be
Word Count: 2064
Summary: The Winchester Boys are having a very bad weekend, in a very bad town...
Author's Note: Well, this was written back in January, I think, though I am just posting it now. Point being, dear reader, that Dead Man's Blood had not yet aired in my universe, so you will have to disregard the fact that Sam and Dean have supposedly never heard of vampires :)
How had Dean managed to let it all spin out of control? He should have known better, should have never taken his eyes off of Sammy…
*****
"This town sucks," Dean muttered to himself as he eased the Impala around a dark corner. "Stupid mystical convergences."
He glanced over at the slip of paper lying on the passenger seat, barely visible by the dashboard lights; reread the address that he had copied carefully in his blocky print. He was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of panic, blindsided by the fact that the seat was otherwise empty. Sam was not slouched there, complaining about Dean's musical taste, about school, about Dad, about that cute girl in History class…
Dean took a deep breath and turned up the stereo.
Master of Puppets I'm pulling your strings
Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams
Blinded by me, you can't see a thing
Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream
Metallica, on about the evils of drugs. But, to Dean, the song took on a new significance, an eerie foreboding of danger and madness. An anthem to what was waiting in the dark. His hand slammed at the cassette player, killing the suddenly sinister notes.
He drove the last few blocks to his destination, pulled over to the side of the street, and turned off the car's engine. He let his hands drop into his lap, tried not to notice how they were trembling.
"This town sucks," he whispered.
*****
Everything had been all right until last night. Dean and Sam had been alone in the house, almost giddy at the prospect of a weekend without Dad. A weekend that would allow them to pretend, even though they would never admit it, that things were normal. That they were just two brothers, hanging out, while their father was away for a few days.
They wouldn't have to worry about weapons training, or research, or when they might have to move again. For this short time, they could just let it all fade, let that life feel like a dream.
Yesterday had been Friday, and Dad had left in the morning, dropping Sam off in front of the high school on his way out of town. Dean, who had graduated last year, spent the day catching up on sleep in between old Godzilla movies. By the time Sam had gotten home from school, and the brothers had ordered a pizza for dinner, the weekend had seemed to be off to a perfect start.
How had Dean managed to let it all spin out of control? He should have known better, should have never taken his eyes off of Sammy… How could he have expected what happened, though? It was insane. Insane to imagine that Sam could answer the door, pizza money in hand, and then just vanish. When Dean had come out of the bathroom, eager for a few slices of greasy goodness, the world had suddenly crashed down around him.
The open door, creaking in the breeze; the twenty dollar bill fluttering on the floor; the pizza box on the porch, just outside the threshold… Dean had frozen for a few moments, just staring at the bizarre vignette before him. Staring, stunned, at the absence of Sammy.
If only he had moved right away, if only he had run for the door, he might have been able to do something. Might have been able to, if not save Sam right there, at least have gotten a good look at the vehicle that had spirited his brother away. Instead he had only been roused from his paralysis by the sound of its engine, roaring into the night.
And blood. There had been blood gleaming from the cover of the pizza box, sparkling on the cheap linoleum of the kitchen floor, on the worn wood of the porch. Not much, not the pools and splashes that Dean had long ago become used to seeing. Just a few drops, a few spots. Just enough to notice, just enough to make his own blood run cold. Those few precious spatters of scarlet had pierced him more deeply than all the gallons he had seen in his strange young life.
This was Sam's blood. And Dean had let it be spilled.
*****
Dean, make sure you look after your brother. Dad's voice, echoing in his head as he sat behind the wheel of the black Impala, sat in the dark, in the silence. Sat alone.
Flashes of last night, of tearing out into the street, of staring after the far off taillights as they disappeared around a corner. He'd had to run back into the house for his car keys, and that had led to a long, frustrating drive around the unfamiliar neighborhoods of this new town. He'd had no idea where to start, which way to go, and had finally given up the useless, random wandering.
He'd gone back home, alone and numb, and cleaned the floor of his brother's blood. It was dry now, and the task had taken a long time. Dean performed the chore calmly, stoically, holding down the lump in his throat and the tears in his eyes. It was only after he had finished, when he had leaned back against the wall, and noticed the dark crimson smudge on the bottom of his shoe, that he had broken. I stepped in it, stepped in his blood, I stepped in Sammy's blood. How could I do that? How could I step in his blood? Dean's mind had whirled, frantically spinning on that one thought, as he put his head in his hands and wept.
Then to the books, always the books, brimming with horror and dread and a thousand sleepless nights. The Winchesters didn't have many possessions, were always ready to pack up and move at a moment's notice with what would fit into the Impala and Dad's truck, but the books were never left behind.
Dean had turned to them last night, flipping through one after another, even while admitting to himself that it was pointless. He had no idea what he was looking for, and he certainly didn't expect to find a reference to unholy kidnapping pizza boys. It was just an exercise, something to keep his hands occupied while his mind worked. It had also kept his eyes from wandering to the phone. Kept him from wondering if Dad would call tonight, from agonizing over whether he should make the call himself.
He had told himself that it was too soon, that he would figure this out, he would find Sam on his own. He'd rationalized that Dad was busy, probably in danger himself, and that there was no point in worrying him when Dean could handle it. Besides, Dad's mobile phone was probably out of service range…
Dean knew he'd been kidding himself. For all the surface logic, he knew that he was just making excuses, looking for any reason not to pick up that phone. Anything to not have to voice the fact that Sam was gone, that he had let something take his brother, that he had failed in the one constant duty he'd had since he was four years old.
Dean, make sure you look after your brother, and he had thrown the book from him, letting it spin across the room and drop against a wall. He didn't need it anymore, never had. He knew what had taken Sam, knew what was going on in this town. Since the Winchesters had moved into this strange little community, Dad had been very clear about the dangers, the demonic acticity, the way that evil seemed drawn here as if the town itself was a flame for paranormal moths.
They had been here for almost three months, and this weekend had been the first time Dad had left them alone for more than a few hours. Though Dean was nineteen, and a well trained hunter, Dad had refused to let his sons stay alone. There were more than enough jobs, more than enough things to hunt, right outside their own door, so Dad had tended to stick close to home.
The occasional overmight journey had seen the three of them going together; Dean both excited for the hunt, and silently annoyed at being treated like a child. Sam alternately brooded, and did his best to pick arguments with Dad. Sam would complain about missing school, about wanting to hang out with a new friend; even, it sometimes seemed, about the color of his shirt, or the model of the car that they passed. Dean had learned to tune him out, stealing glances at Dad to see just how close the man was to lashing back at his younger son. The tension between them seemed to ratchet up with every trip, every day, every minute, and Dean was constantly on edge for the next big blowout. Even at just fifteen, Sam was amazingly adept at pushing Dad's buttons.
All of that disappeared once they were on the job, however. Once the preliminaries were over, the three Winchesters became a perfect team. Sometimes Dean believed that they could read one another's thoughts, anticipate each move. Even Dad and Sam fell into flawless harmony, and these moments were like heaven to Dean. Everything was right, everything was pure and splendid and right… Destroying evil, protecting innocence, trusting their very lives into one another's hands; to Dean these moments were their family, these moments were love.
How could he tell Dad that he may have destroyed that? That he had let Sam be taken? That he had not even been witness to the event? That he had not been looking after Sam?
Last night, after he had sent the useless tome spinning across the tiny living room, Dean had gone to the phone book. He had looked up a name that Dad had once mentioned, and he had written the corresponding address on the back of an old grocery list. If he was going to get Sam back before Dad returned, he just might need some help.
*****
Now, standing on the porch of the house, seeing the pale glow of a flickering TV set inside, Dean was suddenly nervous. He was having trouble believing that this was the correct place. It looked so normal, so perfect. He was actually surprised that there was no white picket fence around the manicured lawn. But, he had rechecked the address, and knew that this was it. If only he could make himself knock.
Dean had spent the day roaming the town, looking for anything suspicious, anything that might point the way to Sam. He had tried to tell himself that it was crazy, that he was just wasting time, but he was also hoping to feel something. Feel his brother, be drawn to him like a magnet. He knew it could happen, had happened in the past, even though he had never told anyone about his strange feelings. He knew he wasn't psychic; he couldn't see spirits or bend spoons. He just had feelings about people sometimes…
So, he had spent hours driving around, hoping to sense Sam, or whatever had taken him, until he had finally been forced to admit that he truly was wasting time. He told himself that Dad would never forgive him if he learned that Dean had been so impractical. He had started for this house when the sky had darkened, and now, after his Metallica meltdown, stood on its porch, watching the flickering light of some sitcom, some movie, something normal…
As he finally almost worked up the nerve to knock on the perfect front door, it flew open. Standing in the newly created space was a teenaged girl, tiny and blonde, glaring up at him.
"How long were you planning on lurking there?" she asked, and Dean was surprised at the cold, hard edge in her voice.
"Umm, until just about now, actually."
She continued to stare at him critically, standing back, carefully though subtley keeping herself inside the door's threshold, until finally raising her eyebrows, "Well?"
"Are you… Buffy?" The unlikely name jarred him, as did the sight of this slender girl, breathtakingly pretty in her ponytail and stockinged feet.
"Who wants to know?" she asked, suspicion causing her eyes to narrow, her jaw to tighten.
Dean slowly, pointedly, took a single step inside the house, just crossing the threshold, being careful not to touch the girl. "My name is Dean. And if you are Buffy, I need your help, Slayer."
*****
To Be Continued...