Fic: One Year (Buffy/Dean) PG-13
Title: One Year
Prompt: 008 - The Ghost of You by My Chemical Romance
Word Count: 1,441
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Mentions character death.
Summary: One year later, Dean's fighting back memories.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. They belong to Joss Whedon and Eric Kripke. I just borrow them.
He’d buried too many people in his life, too many people that he loved.
Hell, having to bury one was too many.
Beside him, he could feel Sam standing, muscles tense, body rigid. On the other side of him, Dawn trembled, her breath hitching. He couldn’t blame her but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything more than stare blankly as they lowered the coffin into the ground. He let the numbness flow through him, hoping it would hold back the indescribable anger for just a little longer.
Thump.
His eyes widened at the sound and he took a step forward, hoping that he was wrong, hoping he was right.
Thump.
The sounds of her screams could just barely be heard through the solid wood of the coffin.
“Stop,” he said. He glanced around as everyone continued to watch her get lowered into the ground. “What the hell is wrong with all of you? Can’t you hear her? Stop!” His voice got louder with every word as he made a move to do something, anything, to break the seal and let her out. A strong grip stopped him and he turned, not believing his eyes. “Sam? Sam, what are you doing? Let me go.” He began to struggle.
“You have to let her go, Dean,” Sam said, voice quiet.
“What are you talking about? She’s in there! Don’t you hear her? We’ve got to get her out of there.” He shoved at his brother hard and then froze as the sound of dirt falling on wood reached his ears. He spun around just as they dropped another shovel’s worth of dirt on top of her. He heard her scream again and rushed forward-
And woke up, breath coming in pants, eyes wild as they searched the room for anything out of the ordinary. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, taking stock. They were in some cheap ass motel in Idaho, hunting down something that was attacking both people and livestock that Sam thought was a demon. Only a few feet over in the next bed, Sam slept soundly.
And today was the one-year anniversary of Buffy’s death. One year since he’d held her in his arms and watched the fire in her eyes go out.
His fists clenched as he remembered that last exchange before they’d gone into battle.
“Be careful.”
He grinned. “Sweetheart, I always am.”
She snorted, a brief smile crossing her face before she became serious. “I mean it, Dean. Don’t let anything happen to yourself.”
His eyes on hers, he nodded and cupped her chin, swiping a thumb over her cheek. “Same goes for you.”
She smiled now. “I won’t.” A short pause and then, “Oh and just remember. If you do let something happen to yourself? I’m kicking your ass.”
Laughing, he could do nothing more than press his lips to hers.
Dean shook his head and pushed himself into a sitting position. He stayed there for a moment, resting his elbows on his knees and wiping his hands over his face.
Legs tangled together and skin pressed against skin as she lay on top of him, fingertips dancing along his arm.
“We’re going to have to talk about it eventually, aren’t we?” she asked, referring to the past, to their lives before each other, to all the things they hadn’t said.
“Probably.” It was the only acknowledgement that she was going to get out of him on that topic and she knew it. Still, she had to ask.
“Do you want to?”
“No. I really don’t,” he said, looking down at her, one corner of his mouth lifting. She nodded in understanding.
“Yeah. Me neither.” She looked up and smiled slowly as she suddenly sat up, straddling him. “Besides, we’ve got time for that later.” She sank down over him, savoring the groan that her movement pulled out of him. “We’ve got something very important to take care of first,” she laughed.
“Shower,” he muttered, climbing out of bed. He desperately needed a shower. He’d always been able to turn off his mind in the shower, to lose himself in the pounding hot water.
He could think of no better day for it.
Later, when Sam insisted on going for breakfast, Dean couldn’t stop the small smile as he studied the menu and remembered her breakfast logic.
“Pancakes are ideal for stacking.” Buffy motioned to her plate. “And they’re spongy, which is good because then they just hold all the syrup you can pour on them.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
She nodded. “Now, waffles,” she said, motioning to Sam’s plate, “are fun because they have all those little holes in them and you can put stuff in them. Like chocolate or whipped cream.” Off their looks, she rolled her eyes. “Or syrup. Whatever.”
“Okay. What about eggs?” Dean asked, ignoring the way Sam snorted at the question.
“What kind?”
“Fried.”
“Good for eating with toast. Because the yolk comes out and you can mix it with ketchup or whatever you eat your eggs with and then you just mop it up with the toast. Voila. Fried eggs.”
Dean laughed, shaking his head. “Let me guess. You’ve got something for scrambled eggs too.”
“Fluffy. They’re fluffy and you can mix stuff in with the eggs either when they’re cooking or after. Scrambled eggs are good for mixing.”
“Sir?” The waitress shifted. “What about you? What would you like?”
Dean paused for a moment before handing her the menu. “I’ll have the pancakes.” He doesn’t meet Sam’s gaze as he says it because he knows what’ll be there.
“Dean,” Sam says as the waitress leaves. Dean shakes his head.
“Don’t.”
“But-“
“Sam, I said don’t. I’m not in the mood.”
Sam shook his head. “No. You never are.”
He didn’t say anything, just turned his head to look out the window.
The silence carried on throughout the day, the only exception being when they exchange information or ask around the neighborhood, trying to get a feel for where the attacks happen the most. Listening to some of the stories, some of the local legends, only makes Dean shake his head.
“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like? To live a life where you didn’t have to fight demons and spirits?”
Dean frowned. “What’s the point?”
“That’s not an answer.”
He shifted, looking away. He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to think of a time, of a life, where ‘How do we kill it?’ wasn’t an every day question. He shook his head. “No.”
“Never?”
He hesitated. “Once. When I was a kid.” He shrugged. “I saw moms dropping their kids off at school and I wondered what that would be like. Wondered what it would be like to grow up with my mom around.” His jaw tightened. “And then I remembered why I wasn’t and that was it.”
Buffy nodded. “I used to dream about it. All the time.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “And then I tried it. I tried to live my life without fighting demons. It didn’t work. I’d see something in the paper, hear something on the news, and I’d wonder if it was really an accident or if it’d been a demon. I realized that it’s not in me to just sit back. I started fighting again.”
“You regret it?”
Her smile widened. “Not a bit.”
He nodded in understanding. “Yeah,” was all he said but he knew she understood what he meant.
“Dean!” Sam’s eyes widened and Dean barely ducked in time to avoid the swing of an arm the size of a telephone pole.
He let the anger take over, felt a bit of relief as everything seemed to get clearer as he swung up with his axe and felt the impact ring throughout his body. Satisfaction welled up inside him as he swung the axe again and again.
“Dean. Dean, stop! It’s dead.”
He paused and looked up, saw the look on Sam’s face and looked down at what was left of the demon before stepping back. The grief wasn’t ripping at him the way it had been all day and he knew the violence of this kill had helped with that. But he didn’t know how long it would stay that way.
And as he thought of all the close calls he’d had lately, he wondered how long it would be before Sam realized he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be, that he was getting just a bit more reckless with each new job they got.
He wondered if he’d ever really be all right ever again.
Prompt: 008 - The Ghost of You by My Chemical Romance
Word Count: 1,441
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Mentions character death.
Summary: One year later, Dean's fighting back memories.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. They belong to Joss Whedon and Eric Kripke. I just borrow them.
He’d buried too many people in his life, too many people that he loved.
Hell, having to bury one was too many.
Beside him, he could feel Sam standing, muscles tense, body rigid. On the other side of him, Dawn trembled, her breath hitching. He couldn’t blame her but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything more than stare blankly as they lowered the coffin into the ground. He let the numbness flow through him, hoping it would hold back the indescribable anger for just a little longer.
Thump.
His eyes widened at the sound and he took a step forward, hoping that he was wrong, hoping he was right.
Thump.
The sounds of her screams could just barely be heard through the solid wood of the coffin.
“Stop,” he said. He glanced around as everyone continued to watch her get lowered into the ground. “What the hell is wrong with all of you? Can’t you hear her? Stop!” His voice got louder with every word as he made a move to do something, anything, to break the seal and let her out. A strong grip stopped him and he turned, not believing his eyes. “Sam? Sam, what are you doing? Let me go.” He began to struggle.
“You have to let her go, Dean,” Sam said, voice quiet.
“What are you talking about? She’s in there! Don’t you hear her? We’ve got to get her out of there.” He shoved at his brother hard and then froze as the sound of dirt falling on wood reached his ears. He spun around just as they dropped another shovel’s worth of dirt on top of her. He heard her scream again and rushed forward-
And woke up, breath coming in pants, eyes wild as they searched the room for anything out of the ordinary. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, taking stock. They were in some cheap ass motel in Idaho, hunting down something that was attacking both people and livestock that Sam thought was a demon. Only a few feet over in the next bed, Sam slept soundly.
And today was the one-year anniversary of Buffy’s death. One year since he’d held her in his arms and watched the fire in her eyes go out.
His fists clenched as he remembered that last exchange before they’d gone into battle.
“Be careful.”
He grinned. “Sweetheart, I always am.”
She snorted, a brief smile crossing her face before she became serious. “I mean it, Dean. Don’t let anything happen to yourself.”
His eyes on hers, he nodded and cupped her chin, swiping a thumb over her cheek. “Same goes for you.”
She smiled now. “I won’t.” A short pause and then, “Oh and just remember. If you do let something happen to yourself? I’m kicking your ass.”
Laughing, he could do nothing more than press his lips to hers.
Dean shook his head and pushed himself into a sitting position. He stayed there for a moment, resting his elbows on his knees and wiping his hands over his face.
Legs tangled together and skin pressed against skin as she lay on top of him, fingertips dancing along his arm.
“We’re going to have to talk about it eventually, aren’t we?” she asked, referring to the past, to their lives before each other, to all the things they hadn’t said.
“Probably.” It was the only acknowledgement that she was going to get out of him on that topic and she knew it. Still, she had to ask.
“Do you want to?”
“No. I really don’t,” he said, looking down at her, one corner of his mouth lifting. She nodded in understanding.
“Yeah. Me neither.” She looked up and smiled slowly as she suddenly sat up, straddling him. “Besides, we’ve got time for that later.” She sank down over him, savoring the groan that her movement pulled out of him. “We’ve got something very important to take care of first,” she laughed.
“Shower,” he muttered, climbing out of bed. He desperately needed a shower. He’d always been able to turn off his mind in the shower, to lose himself in the pounding hot water.
He could think of no better day for it.
Later, when Sam insisted on going for breakfast, Dean couldn’t stop the small smile as he studied the menu and remembered her breakfast logic.
“Pancakes are ideal for stacking.” Buffy motioned to her plate. “And they’re spongy, which is good because then they just hold all the syrup you can pour on them.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
She nodded. “Now, waffles,” she said, motioning to Sam’s plate, “are fun because they have all those little holes in them and you can put stuff in them. Like chocolate or whipped cream.” Off their looks, she rolled her eyes. “Or syrup. Whatever.”
“Okay. What about eggs?” Dean asked, ignoring the way Sam snorted at the question.
“What kind?”
“Fried.”
“Good for eating with toast. Because the yolk comes out and you can mix it with ketchup or whatever you eat your eggs with and then you just mop it up with the toast. Voila. Fried eggs.”
Dean laughed, shaking his head. “Let me guess. You’ve got something for scrambled eggs too.”
“Fluffy. They’re fluffy and you can mix stuff in with the eggs either when they’re cooking or after. Scrambled eggs are good for mixing.”
“Sir?” The waitress shifted. “What about you? What would you like?”
Dean paused for a moment before handing her the menu. “I’ll have the pancakes.” He doesn’t meet Sam’s gaze as he says it because he knows what’ll be there.
“Dean,” Sam says as the waitress leaves. Dean shakes his head.
“Don’t.”
“But-“
“Sam, I said don’t. I’m not in the mood.”
Sam shook his head. “No. You never are.”
He didn’t say anything, just turned his head to look out the window.
The silence carried on throughout the day, the only exception being when they exchange information or ask around the neighborhood, trying to get a feel for where the attacks happen the most. Listening to some of the stories, some of the local legends, only makes Dean shake his head.
“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like? To live a life where you didn’t have to fight demons and spirits?”
Dean frowned. “What’s the point?”
“That’s not an answer.”
He shifted, looking away. He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to think of a time, of a life, where ‘How do we kill it?’ wasn’t an every day question. He shook his head. “No.”
“Never?”
He hesitated. “Once. When I was a kid.” He shrugged. “I saw moms dropping their kids off at school and I wondered what that would be like. Wondered what it would be like to grow up with my mom around.” His jaw tightened. “And then I remembered why I wasn’t and that was it.”
Buffy nodded. “I used to dream about it. All the time.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “And then I tried it. I tried to live my life without fighting demons. It didn’t work. I’d see something in the paper, hear something on the news, and I’d wonder if it was really an accident or if it’d been a demon. I realized that it’s not in me to just sit back. I started fighting again.”
“You regret it?”
Her smile widened. “Not a bit.”
He nodded in understanding. “Yeah,” was all he said but he knew she understood what he meant.
“Dean!” Sam’s eyes widened and Dean barely ducked in time to avoid the swing of an arm the size of a telephone pole.
He let the anger take over, felt a bit of relief as everything seemed to get clearer as he swung up with his axe and felt the impact ring throughout his body. Satisfaction welled up inside him as he swung the axe again and again.
“Dean. Dean, stop! It’s dead.”
He paused and looked up, saw the look on Sam’s face and looked down at what was left of the demon before stepping back. The grief wasn’t ripping at him the way it had been all day and he knew the violence of this kill had helped with that. But he didn’t know how long it would stay that way.
And as he thought of all the close calls he’d had lately, he wondered how long it would be before Sam realized he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be, that he was getting just a bit more reckless with each new job they got.
He wondered if he’d ever really be all right ever again.