Chapter Text
The smell of bacon, eggs, and toast woke Sam around eight o’ clock the next morning. The wakeup would have been far more pleasant had Sam’s head not felt like it had been shoved into a subwoofer during a metal concert. He moved like a sloth, rolling cautiously to one side and lifting himself off the floor one small increment at a time. Sam put a hand to his head and inhaled slowly through his nose. His mouth felt like the Texas countryside, scrubby and dry. He couldn’t recall the binge, but he certainly had the hangover.
“Good morning, sunshine!” boomed out a loud voice from somewhere above Sam.
The hunter winced and groaned. “Harry, please…”
Harry grinned from his place standing over Sam. In his hands, he held a Styrofoam to-go container that held a fairly hearty diner breakfast. From his fresh-faced appearance and clean clothes, an outsider would never know that Harry had taken and dealt several beatings the night before. “Sorry, Sam,” Harry said. “You’re just feeling the comedown from getting your chaos freak on last night.” He offered the box of food. “Me and Buffy and Giles got breakfast for everybody.”
Sam glowered at him, but he accepted his breakfast tribute. “Thank you,” he said, mumbling around a mouthful of toast.
“You’re welcome,” Harry said, and his fond look reminded Sam too much of Dean.
“Dean…” Sam said, mouth frozen in midbite. “Dean.” He looked up at Harry, wide-eyed. “Harry! DEAN!”
“Whoa, whoa, kiddo,” Harry said, as Sam nearly dropped his breakfast in his rush to look around, “Dean’s going to be fine. Take it easy. You look like a strong wind would blow you over, this morning.”
As Sam looked around, he saw the effects of post-Cybele hangover on the rest of the crew. Now that his brain had gotten past its initial ‘where’s Dean?’ panic, he could see that his brother was curled up right beside him on the library floor, still asleep. Since Dean was out of danger, Sam took a moment to grin stupidly at the fact that no one had changed Dean out of the ritual gown and jewelry. There was still makeup on his face. Beyond Dean’s sleeping form, Sam could see Willow, Xander, and Cordelia as they woke up. Buffy had shaken them all awake and given them the same to-go containers that Sam had received. Giles and Buffy were dressed and clean like Harry. Everyone else was still in their old clothes and looked like they had rolled around on the floor a few times during the night. Even Willow’s board-straight hair was tousled. The only two people still asleep were Dean and Thomas. After they were all awake, everyone tiptoed around the two sleeping men with the care usually reserved for napping infants--everyone except Cordelia.
“Oh. My. Gosh,” Cordelia exclaimed, as she peered in the compact mirror from her purse, “Look at my hair! It looks like some birds made a nest in there!” Her voice echoed in the library rafters. Everyone turned and stared at Cordelia, who looked away from combing her hair long enough to say, in a loud, irritated voice, “What? Why is everyone looking at me? I just told you my hair is a nightmare. Just avert your eyes!”
There was a groan from Sam’s right, and Sam saw Dean’s shoulders move. “Nice going, Cordelia,” Sam heard Xander say, sarcastically. Dean curled up further into himself and ran slow fingers through his hair, like he was feeling for a concussion he wouldn’t find. Across the room, Thomas slept on. Sam could only figure that the vampire was nearly comatose in order to be so unaware of his surroundings.
“Coffee,” Sam said, urgently, and Giles passed him a hot to-go cup. The younger Winchester put a hand to Dean’s shoulder and said, gently, “Hey, Dean, how are you feeling?”
“Like crap,” came the predictable reply. Dean rolled onto his back gingerly, testing out how his abused body would react to the change in position. He put his hands to his face, then drew back his fingers and growled at the black smudges on their tips. “Really, Sam? You let me sleep all night with this stuff on my face?”
“Uh, I didn’t on purpose,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “I was as unconscious as the next raver last night, Dean.”
This statement seemed to shake the sleep from Dean’s brain. He sat up, accepted the coffee, did his best to sit appropriately in his white robe, and gave Sam one of the critical glances he had learned from their father before he could shave. “Are you okay, Sammy?”
Sam let the diminutive go for now. “Yeah, I’m fine. A little traumatized, but I’ll live.” Dean sipped the coffee and nodded. “Are you okay?” Sam asked him back.
Dean shook the bangles out on his wrists. “I’ve got to say, it’s not been one of my favorite weeks. This cult was seriously messed up. Now, give me some monsters to waste, and I’m your guy. But plain old humans getting so twisted by their evil deity…”
“Yeah.” Sam ate some more of his breakfast. Several moments passed in silence, then Buffy walked up and sat down across from the Winchesters, her own breakfast resting in her lap. She had put her hair in a cute little up-do and she wore a white blouse and pink shorts with pineapples on them that seemed at odds with her destiny as The Slayer. Sam liked the ensemble; it didn’t suit The Slayer, but if suited Buffy. He smiled. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Buffy said, with an answering smile. Then she pulled a pack of baby wipes from her pack and handed them to Dean. “I thought you might want something to clean off the drag-queen getup.”
Dean’s eyes lit up and he snatched the baby wipes with a grateful sigh. “I love you, Buffy.”
“Let’s not be too hasty,” Buffy said, as Dean swiped at his face, rubbing off the makeup. “They’re baby wipes, not a marriage proposal.”
“You want some jewelry?” Dean asked, as he slipped the bangles off his wrists and ankles.
Buffy shuddered dramatically. “Ugh, no thank you. I can’t stomach owning a little piece of the sex cult.” She tilted her head, considering. “Nope, I think I’ll make some bullets out of those copper beauties.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll take ‘em,” Harry said, cheerfully. He sat at one of the library tables, polishing the long wooden staff he had lost somewhere in all the cult madness. “Copper’s a great conductor. It’s useful for all kinds of spells.” Dean chucked the bangles at the wizard, who caught them and stuffed them in one of his many pockets.
“Not that I’m not happy you look good as new, Harry,” Buffy asked, curiously, “but, um, how do you look good as new? I mean, I’ve got my Slayer powers and that’s why I heal fast, but you definitely took the brunt of the beatings last night.”
“The same principle applies to wizards,” Harry said, nonchalantly. He added a bit of carving to the end of his staff with a small knife. “We heal freakishly fast, and we can take more damage than the average human. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if The Slayer was more than a little powerful, magically.”
Buffy snorted. “Yeah, I’m just a regular Merlin.” She took a drink from her coffee cup. “Nope, not a magical bone in my body. That’s Willow’s specialty.” Willow heard her from her spot on the other side of the bookshelves and blushed.
“Don’t be so sure, Buffy,” Harry said, with a smile that showed he meant no offense. “Not all magically strong people are wizards or witches.” He carved another rune. “Take Sam, for example.” Sam choked on his eggs. “He’s got a store of potential magical energy bottled up in his essence,” Harry went on, as Sam stared at him with his mouth open, “but it’s not necessarily the kind of magical energy that will translate into wizardly activities. In order to be a good wizard, you have to practice and discipline yourself for years before you can do more than give someone a nosebleed. The Slayer must have a similar energy, too, to pull off the things you’re capable of.”
Dean slapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and used it to stand up. “Well, that was real interesting, Professor Dresden. You got any clothes in those pockets? If not, someone’s gonna have to give me a ride to my motel, because I am not staying in this nightgown any longer than absolutely necessary.”
With Dean dragging all the attention toward himself, Sam got to process Harry’s off-handed observations, but he couldn’t make much sense out of him. Buffy gave Sam a sympathetic smile and a shrug, then she got up and started bantering with Dean over the merits of dresses versus jeans.
“Well, you might have a point,” Dean was saying, “but I’ve worn pants my whole life, and I’m sticking to them.”
“What, are you not willing to broaden your horizons, Dean?” asked Buffy, teasingly. “Afraid to explore some alternative culture?”
“I’ve had about as much alternative culture as I can take, thanks anyway,” Dean said, with a scowl. “Between wearing a gown and kissing a dude—“ The older Winchester blanched, suddenly, and grabbed the table to steady himself. “Oh, man—son of a—“
“Dean!” Sam and Giles both shouted, sharply.
“Sorry, sorry,” Dean stammered, “just having a minor identity crisis, but please, worry about the kids’ ears.”
“There’s no identity crisis here, Dean,” Harry hastened to say. He had put down his staff. “Look, you were under the influence of some hellishly powerful compulsions—“
“I kissed a dude!” Dean hissed, and then he looked at Harry in horror. “I kissed your brother—Harry, that’s like kissing my own brother! And I don’t mean on-the-forehead, totally-not-romantic kissing--”
“I was there, I remember,” Harry said, clearly unwilling to go into detail.
“And I practically forced Thomas to do it, too!” Dean looked a little green around the gills and he sagged against the table. “Man, not only did I turn gay for like five whole minutes, I also violated a freakin’ vampire!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Giles said, forcibly calm. “Now, Dean, I understand you may need some time to work through the lingering effects that Cybele had on you, but I think it would be best if you did so off of school grounds. You and Harry go and fetch some of your clothes. We’ll all stay here and recuperate.”
Harry took this as his cue to herd Dean out the door. Sam could hear the wizard start to reassure Dean as they walked off down the school hallway. Whatever Harry acted like at times, Sam knew he was a good person and that he cared about Dean quite a bit. The times their father had left the two of them with Harry while he went on a hunt rose to Sam’s mind. Very few people earned so much trust from a hunter like John Winchester, and even fewer people earned Dean’s trust. As he watched his brother walk away, Sam could read in the set of Dean’s shoulder that he would listen to what Harry had to say.
“Well,” Giles said, bringing Sam back to the present, “now that we’ve got a little bit of hush, who wants some tea?”
The rest of them gathered around while Giles made a couple different flavors of tea. Thomas slept on in the corner. Cordelia peered over at the vampire and asked, “Are you sure he’s not dead?”
“He’s obviously breathing,” Buffy said, deadpan.
“Okay, well, I was just asking,” Cordelia huffed. “Because he kind of looks dead.”
“He had a rough night, just like everybody did, only ten times worse.”
Sam jiggled his tea idly in its cup and let the bickering roll over him like waves on a lonely beach. He only looked up when Willow reached out and slid the items he’d missed in the chaos of the spring fling across the table to where his hand rested on its surface. “I thought you might need those back,” Willow said, shyly. “And also I, uh, needed to practice a divining spell, so it seemed like a good time to try.”
Sam lifted the silver chain with its crucifix and Saint Jude medallion onto his hand, then he slipped it over his head. The little items made a pleasant weight against his chest. “Thanks, Willow. I almost forgot about them.”
“That’s not right, you know,” Willow said.
Sam still wasn’t completely focused on the conversation. “Huh?”
Willow pointed at the saint medallion. “Saint Jude’s not the right one. You’re not a hopeless case.”
A trickle of warmth spread through Sam, and he gave Willow a genuine smile. “I’m not?”
“Of course not,” Willow said, as if surprised that he would ask. “Nobody is—well, except maybe those sex cult-y people.” Grinning, she added, “Saint Hubert’s far more appropriate.”
“Which one’s Saint Hubert?”
“The patron saint of hunters, of course,” Willow said.
Sam laughed, Willow’s eyes sparkled, and the background noise of Buffy, Cordelia, and Xander arguing over which bad guy was the worst they’d fought created an atmosphere that, for the first time in a long time, seemed comfortable for all of them.
The day passed in relative quiet for the heroes of Sunnydale. The gang had a chance to relax and recover from their encounter with Cybele and her worshippers. Harry and Thomas, once the vampire had awoken from his energy-drained sleep, had left town once the afternoon rolled around. They had both been away from Chicago too long. Harry had exchanged brotherly hugs and back slaps with Dean and Sam. Dean had nervously apologized about his behavior of the night before to Thomas, who blew it off with an easy shrug and a promise to never mention it again. Sam and Harry had a very quiet but intense conversation, the contents of which was not disclosed to either of their older brothers.
After the first set of brothers departed, night fell, and Buffy invited everyone to her house for a ‘hey-look-we’re-still-alive-and-not-possessed-or-Hercules’ dinner party. Giles brought hummus, Willow brought fizzy drinks, Xander brought chips, and Cordelia brought cookies. Dean and Sam brought pizza and pretended not to feel touched when they were included in the celebration with the same easy familiarity that Buffy’s gang welcomed everyone who helped them save the world. Even Joyce, Buffy’s mom, graced the evening with her (very confused but obliging) presence. Buffy lied to her mom about how she knew Sam and Dean—the cover story was long and involved several of Willow’s family members twice removed—and Sam and Dean did their best to charm Joyce into accepting their admittance into the fold. Sam started up a conversation about art from the late Greco-Roman period and Joyce ate out of his hand (although not literally).
Across town in the abandoned warehouse, Drusilla burst free from the coffin she had struggled to escape for the past three days. She clawed the last pieces away and tumbled to the floor, hissing in pain as her leg grazed the fine silver chain wrapped around the coffin’s middle hinge. Scrambling to her feet, Drusilla ran over to Spike where he was still bound to a support pillar. “Come on, love, hurry up,” Spike said, as Drusilla’s hands fluttered uncertainly around the silver coin stuck into the lock on the chains.
“Don’t snap at me, Spike,” Drusilla pouted. She covered her hand with her skirt and carefully pulled the coin out of the lock. Then she found a bit of stray wire and set to picking the lock. There was a satisfying click, Drusilla unhooked the lock from the chains, and Spike fought his way out of restraint.
“Finally!” Spike roared, shaking out his limbs. “Now, we can go find that little choir boy Winchester and put some real fear of God into him!”
“Or fear of Spike and Drusilla,” Drusilla said, giggling. “Sounds scarier to me, love.”
“Right you are, darling,” Spike agreed, with a growl. “After all, big man in the sky ain’t here, is he? But we are.” He reeled Drusilla in and snapped playfully at her neck. Drusilla giggled and wiggled accordingly.
“I don’t want the choir boy,” Drusilla said, twisting her hands and licking her teeth. “I want the one with the green eyes. He’s prettier.”
“Well, can’t argue with that logic,” Spike said. “You can have whichever hunter you want, baby. Heck, I’m feeling generous: you can have ‘em both, and I’ll take the wizard and the pretty-boy vamp. We’ll double-dutch it.”
“I’m so hungry,” Drusilla sighed, smoothing her hands over her stomach. “I don’t like the coffin, Spike.”
“We’ll make them pay for putting you in there, Dru, don’t you worry!”
Spike ran to the warehouse doors and flung them open. The moonlit sky poured light into the echoing, desolate space, illuminating the vampire’s demonic features as his face transformed in response to his hatred. “Sam Winchester,” Spike shouted, “I’m coming for you, and nobody can stop me! Not your big bro, not your little Slayer friends, and certainly not that lame excuse for a wizard in a leather trench coat!”
“I’ll stop you.”
Spike most certainly did not let out a startled yelp. And he certainly didn’t flinch away in fear when he beheld the figure that stood before the warehouse doorway. In Spike’s eyes, the man was not very tall or impressive. He had a generic face and bland clothes which would blend into any suburban scene. But the moonlight limned his figure in a radiance which could only be described as celestial. Even in the dark, Spike could see the way the man’s eyes shone with purpose.
“Oh, wonderful,” Spike croaked.
“What is it, love?” Dru asked, from behind him.
“Nothing, Dru,” Spike said, sharply, “get away from the light.”
“Why, Spike? S’moonlight, it’s not going to burn me.”
Drusilla stepped next to Spike. She saw the figure standing in the doorway and gave a shriek of terror. Spike tried to hold her, but she pushed him away and fell violently to the floor, clutching her hair and wailing. Spike stood and watched her helplessly. “What’s wrong with her?” Spike demanded, but his voice was not as steady as he would have liked.
“I can stand here all night, keeping watch,” the man said, calmly, over Dru’s screams, “or you can agree to remain here until the Winchesters have left town. It’s your choice.”
“What’s wrong with Dru?”
“Nothing,” the man said. “She’s a prophetess that was corrupted years ago. She’s reacting to my presence in the only way she can.”
“Th-That doesn’t make any sense,” Spike managed to stammer. The light around the man’s outline had started to hurt his eyes. He put up one hand to shield them.
“The longer I stand here, the more she hurts,” the man said. Drusilla gave out a particularly plaintive cry as if to emphasize the point. “Will you agree to stay here until the boys leave town?”
“Why do you care if I do?” Spike asked. “What, are those goody-two-shoes Hardy Boys important or something?” He aimed for hostile, but the words came out rather tremulous.
“None of that is your concern, Spike,” the man said. “Now, your word.”
Spike wanted to rebel. He wanted to spit on this man’s luminous face. He wanted to sink his fangs into that poised neck. He wanted to inspire in this creature a small measure of the terror it had inspired within Drusilla and, if he was honest, within himself. Instead, he had no choice but to bow his head. “I swear on Drusilla’s unlife, we won’t go after the Winchesters,” Spike gritted out, and added “sir,” for good measure.
The man didn’t thank Spike for his obedience. He simply nodded his head, like Spike had made a wise choice but he wasn’t surprised by the decision. Then he drew a long, smooth blade from thin air. “Just in case you change your mind,” he said, calmly, and raised it high above his head.
Spike shouted out in fear and flung himself backwards. He threw himself over Drusilla even as she screamed and tried to throw him off. As Spike looked back in dread, he paused, bewildered. The bright silver blade stood point-down in the doorway, shivering with the force at which it had been driven into the earth. The shining man snapped his fingers, and the sword blazed with fire.
“It seems counter-intuitive to spare your lives,” the man said, with a put-upon sigh. “But as much as I hate to admit it, you have work yet to do on Earth, Spike.”
Spike was not reassured that this creature knew his name. He stayed on the ground, covering Dru’s pain-wracked body with his own. He burned with fury at his helplessness in the face of this unknown man’s power. His mind reeled, trying to understand who this man was, or maybe what he was, and why the Winchesters merited his protection.
“Don’t pursue the matter any further,” the man said, as if he had read Spike’s mind. “Let’s just say I put the fear of God in you and leave it at that.”
And with a gentle gust of breeze and the sound of wings, the man was gone. The sword remained, lit with that holy fire, and the light continued to burn Spike’s eyes. He had to look away.
Sam and Dean said their goodbyes and left town early the next morning. The Winchesters were surprised by the amount of hugs they got from all around. They were still in a bit of a daze when they promised to visit Sunnydale again someday. Then they climbed into the Impala and backed out of the hotel driveway.
“I still can’t believe I missed all the commotion,” Jenny Calendar said, as she patted Sam’s shoulders.
“I hate to say it, but for once be glad you got a stomach bug,” Sam said.
“Trust me, Jenny, you didn’t miss out on anything,” Giles said, with a sickly smile.
“We’re still going to Louisiana together soon!” Willow said, as she waved goodbye to the Winchesters. Xander stood beside her and waved silently.
“Take care of yourselves, boys!” Buffy said, her arm around Willow.
“Just wait ‘til I’m legal to come back!” Cordelia called, cheerfully. Dean choked on his coffee.
“Do try to stay alive!” Giles said, from the edge of the driveway.
The brothers rolled down the highway for several minutes before they spoke. “Nice town,” Dean said, one hand on the wheel and one hand clutching his coffee cup. “If it weren’t on a Hellmouth, I’d call it one of the nicest we’ve been to, recently.”
“I think the people are what make it nice,” Sam said, with a smile. He let the sun warm his face out the passenger side window. Then he hesitated a moment before he said, “Dean, does it strike you as odd that we just slipped on out of town without any more trouble?”
Dean frowned. “Hm. Now that you mention it, it does seem a little suspicious, huh?”
“More than a little. Almost like it was…”
“Spit it out, Sammy.”
“I don’t know,” Sam muttered. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
Dean took another swig of coffee and shrugged. “If you say so.” He set his coffee between his legs and used his free hand to turn the volume up on the stereo. Styx sang about hoping for heaven, the Impala rolled down the California asphalt, and Sam rubbed his thumb over the image of Saint Jude over and over again, as the crucifix rested directly over his heart.
END