Archive of Our Own

All she said was, “We’re alive. Get here.” Racing back to Buffy’s, Dean’s mind flooded with bloody, maimed pictures that fit alive. When he saw the house – dark, windows shattered, doors smashed – he bit back a scream. Alive. Alive.

Xander and Anya, sweeping up glass around a body in the living room, both pointed upstairs. He found Buffy in her sister’s room lifting an unconscious Andrew. Seeing Dean, she dropped the boy’s limp body and leapt over the bed, landing in Dean’s arms.

As he held her, he tried to make sense of the bodies in the hallway and the giant hole between the sisters’ bedrooms. Through the hole lay the splintered remains of the chair Spike had been in. “Did Spike hurt anyone?”

Buffy started to tremble. Dean eased her to her room where she set loose a torrent of tears muffled by his chest and a pillow.

After a few minutes, she blew her nose, and chewed on her lip while searching for words. “It’s all the same thing. It’s all one thing. My visions. ‘It is watching.’ Mom and Tara. Spike killing. It’s all the same. Its flunkies, they were in my vision a few nights ago; it was the first time in dozens of visions that I saw what killed me.”

Fear had carved a place around her eyes. It was the sort of fear people had when they first heard the hounds baying for them.

“Girly, ain’t nothing gonna kill you. I’ll kill it first.”

“But that’s what they’re doing.” Her voice was rough and weak. “Dean, I think the evil monks are killing Slayers, or at least unactivated Slayers. I’m probably the big finish. It’s the only reason I can think of that I would see and feel so many of these deaths.”

And she felt them. Night after night, she’d wake coughing, sputtering, flailing and scared. When her breathing steadied, and she stopped sweating, she’d tell him her vision. Always a girl being murdered. Sometimes she ran. Sometimes she fought. She always died.

He refused to accept it as some sick prophecy. “Maybe you’re just supposed to protect these girls, and that’s the only connection.”

“The bodies. Those are the monks. That’s what wrecked the house. A crew of them came to kill Andrew and ran off with Spike.”

Spike. Of course. Were the tears for Spike the redemption project or Spike the ex?

“What happened?” he asked.

She seemed to calm as she recounted Spike attacking Andrew, though Dean was less than thrilled to hear the thing had dressed up like him. She rattled off details of the attack on the house like it was a paper for school.

“Spike’s gone,” she said, an emptiness taking over her eyes. “He has information, and God knows what they’re doing to him.”

“We’ll get him back, Buffy. We’ll find him. Now, tell me how we kill the branded freak shows.”

“They’re easy enough to kill, but we have no idea what’s controlling them. It knows where to find us.” The fear returned to her face. “I c-cant fight this! It’s just me, and I-I n-need Giles.”

Dean took her face in both hands, once again reveling in just how tiny his superhero warrior really was. “Look at me. This nasty has been hiding underground for how long?  Even if it’s met a Slayer before, you’re a goddess-crunching, master-vampire-dusting badass who’s fucking climbed back from death. It may have been the baddest son of a bitch on the block back in the day, but it ain’t got shit on you.

“First thing we’re gonna do is seal up the house. Then Sam and I are gonna get rid of those bodies. When I get back, darlin’, if you’re not in bed, I’m dragging you in with me. You’ve been up for days. Tomorrow, we’ll hit the books. Okay?”

She slid back into his arms, calmer and quieter than before. “You’re wonderful, you know. I love – love hearing your voice. It’s all deep and rumbly and calming.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, concerned about her brief pause, the way her words sped up to the point of tripping her tongue. He looked over the room again just so he didn’t have to make eye contact. “Get your cute little ass in bed. I gotta deal with the bodies.”

He was sound asleep, but Dean still stretched out his arm for her. Buffy placed his searching hand over her heart and smiled as he snuggled deeper into the pillow, his pouty lips slightly parted, his brow smooth with peaceful sleep. The night they’d met, she had a hard time pinpointing his age. Dean Winchester existed between two extremes – the wide-eyed, grinning boy with a soft heart and silly humor, and the brutal, cold-eyed hunter with a temper. Both sides of him had a place in her life, but she liked seeing his boyish side the most. Perhaps because that was a rarer moment, a moment when they were safe and happy; she liked to imagine who Dean would have become had his innocence not been stolen from him when he was four.

What if Dean’s mother hadn’t been killed? What if Dean never knew monsters were real? Would they have still found each other? Doubtful. Maybe that Dean would have settled down with a wife who could provide him with a couple chubby babies to bounce on his knees. He wouldn’t know the recoil of a gun or the sensation of blood on his hands.

That Dean wouldn’t be afraid of the words I love you which Buffy had felt obligated to choke back a few hours before.

But a Slayer and a Hunter would be crazy to think of happily ever afters. They’d discussed the likelihood of dying young many times, but those talks had been what ifs. Now, an unknown evil was knocking down her door, and she had no idea how to stop it; which meant the clock was ticking on their time together. She wondered if those glimpses of Dean the Lost Boy were about to disappear.

Startled by the sound of a window sliding open, she reached for the dagger she kept on her nightstand. Then she recognized the shadow climbing inside from the trellis. Painfully aware that she was wearing her boyfriend’s t-shirt and nothing else, Buffy approached the man in her bedroom. “Angel, what are you doing here?”

Her vampire ex, her first love, glanced at Dean sleeping in her bed. “I heard you were in danger.”

She tugged at the hem of the shirt and willed herself to stop feeling so dizzy. “So you climbed through my bedroom window? That might have seemed romantic to high school me, but I gotta tell you, adult me would have appreciated a phone call. Or a knock on the door. It’s battered and glassless, but still extremely knockable.”

He shook his head and smirked. God, did she swoon over his smirk. “Had to be in person. Had to be secret. So the rumor’s true then?”

“Off-the-scale danger. Some big evil force with an army of evil monks is trying to kill me with…evil. And I have no idea how to fight it.”

“I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about your new boyfriend, Dean Winchester,” he said, pointing at the bed.

Feeling like she’d been dunked in cold water, Buffy grabbed a blanket and sat down on the bench. “How did you know about Dean? Are you keeping tabs on me?”

“Not in the ‘Let me know if my ex is seeing anyone’ sort of way,” he confessed, sitting down beside her, “but a stranger rolls into Hellmouth City from another dimension? That causes some waves. Been hearing his name for a while, doing some research, catching some whispers. Buffy, he’s bad news.”

“I know who he is,” she said with a bubbling rage. “Who do you think you are to come here in the middle of the damn night to comment on my love life?”

“I’m someone who cares about you! This guy is a pathetic low-life. He’s a womanizing, alcoholic criminal. Worse than that, he’s a black hole. He’ll suck you in and you’ll die. He’s got a trail of bodies in his wake, and a lot of them are people who cared about him.”

“We live a violent life. You know that. Just because people died, that doesn’t mean it’s his fault.”

“Okay, ask him whose fault his dad’s death was. Ask him about his girlfriend Jo and her mom. Ask him about Bobby–”

“Bobby’s not dead. He’s just missing.”

“Then he probably doesn’t know about Bobby yet. Anyway, they all died because he abandoned them, and he’ll abandon you too. You think he’s going to fight beside you against whatever is coming? Buffy, it’s here because of him. He’s going to get you and your friends killed, then turn tail and run. He only cares about himself and his brother.”

“If you knew Dean at all, you’d know that’s not true. He cares about everyone. Yeah, Sam’s definitely special –  he practically raised him for God’s sake – but Dean Winchester would never run from a fight.”

“Is that why he jumped dimensions? He wasn’t running?” Angel rose and straightened his jacket before walking towards the bed. “I’m sorry, Buffy, but you’re not listening to reason.” In one swift motion, he yanked the pillow from under Dean’s head and covered his face with it.

“NO!” Buffy pulled on the vampire’s arms while her boyfriend flailed. “Angel, stop! Please, don’t!”

Her cheek stung, and when she opened her eyes, she saw Dean leaning over her, worried. “You okay, Buffy? You were screaming about angels. Did you have another vision?”

She was in her room, in bed with her boyfriend, alive. “Let’s hope not.”

A cup of cold water to the face didn’t rouse Andrew. Dawn crossed her arms and twisted her mouth. “Boiling water?”

“Ooh, that’s an excellent idea,” said Anya, nodding.

Buffy smacked Andrew, causing his lip to bleed. Stung awake, the boy shook his head, trying to take in the room. She grabbed his bound wrists and practically spit in his face. “I am done playing. Tell us about the seal, or I’m turning you over to them.”

She pushed him into Anya’s arms. “Anyone have any wishes for Andrew?”

“Could you turn him into a jellyfish?” Dawn asked from the stairs.

“No, please,” begged Andrew, as Anya pushed him down at Willow’s feet.

“We have some unfinished business,” said Willow darkly.

Andrew, pale and shaking, rolled away from her. Sam yanked him up by the shoulders and turned him to face Dean.

“Wha-what are you gonna do to me?” Andrew asked with a small bit of hope.

Dean smirked. “Whatever we want. See, my brother and I, we just like hurting people. What’d’ya think, Sammy? Kneecap first, or maybe a molar?”

“Knee,” Sam replied.

Dean raised a hammer.

Twisting away, Andrew cried, “I liked you so much better yesterday, when you were just the guys who tied me up!” He bumped into the Slayer. “Thank God! The crazy hot guys are trying to kill me. You’re a hero. Go hero for me!”

“Answers now or–” Buffy pushed him back to Willow.

“Oh God, no! No! Please! Okay, the seal is in the basement of the high school.”

“In that case, it’s guaranteed to be sealing sunshine and rainbows,” said Xander, who’d been watching the show from the stairs with Dawn.

“What does it do?” Buffy asked.

“Don’t know. I was just told to open it.”

“How?”

Looking very much like a child learning to lie, Andrew bounced on the balls of his feet and said in sing-song, “If you sing it showtunes, it will tell you everything your heart desires.”

Grabbing Andrew by the throat, Dean raised him to eye level. “Willow, you think he needs two eyes? That seems like a lot.”

“Blood! Blood! You open it with blood.” Dean dropped him, and Andrew fell to his knees gasping.

“The pig’s blood,” said Willow.

“Yeah, I botched it the first time, so I was hoping to open it with pig’s blood or I’d be next.”

“First time? Why do I have the feeling the first time wasn’t a simple ‘open sesame’?” asked Buffy.

“H-he told me how to do it, but it didn’t work. The pig’s blood was sort of my long-shot to the thermal exhaust port, but I-I’m not as good of a pilot as Luke.”

“Details, Andrew,” Buffy demanded.

“W-Warren told me sacrificing Jonathan would open the Seal of Danzalthar and we’d become gods, but Jonathan didn’t have enough blood.”

“First of all,” said Willow, shaking her head as if it would help make sense of the chaos, “Warren is super dead. Second, you killed your best friend because your dead worst friend told you to?”

“Warren is very convincing. He’s like the Yoda of badness.”

“Yeah, a dead Yoda,” Dawn scoffed.

“Death cannot stop a true Jedi!” Andrew shot back. “Plus, Jonathan said it was okay. It didn’t even hurt, and he’s in a better place.”

“For the record, kid, getting stabbed always hurts,” said Dean, setting down the hammer and leaning against the washer.

“But Warren said–”

“Andrew, that wasn’t Warren!” Buffy was rubbing her head. “Your friends haven’t been talking to you. Those guys who came to kill you last night were sent by whatever thing’s been visiting you.”

“Assassins?” His big blue eyes filled with tears as the betrayal sunk in. “But I’m just Andrew Wells, little brother of the guy who ruined prom.”

“I thought you were Moriarty,” said Sam, bored.

“This may surprise you, but I was never very good at being bad. Warren was the brains. I was just the brawny lemming.” He pulled his knees up to his chin and started to weep.

Dean looked at Buffy, who shrugged. When they’d set up this ruse, they hadn’t expected tearful remorse.

Willow mouthed ice at Dawn who went upstairs for something to help Andrew’s swelling.

Dean almost felt bad for the kid – was he even eighteen? Nerdy and insecure, he’d fallen in with a bad crowd, much like the teenager who’d stolen Sam’s body months before.

Andrew sat up and wiped his face on his sleeve, leaving a noticeable trail of snot. “If Darth Vader can throw the Emperor into the reactor shaft, I can change too. It’s never too late for a super villain to redeem himself. I’ll help you.”

The timing of everything was a perfect stress cocktail. Buffy should have been studying for her Developmental Psych exam next week. She should have been decorating and shopping with Dawn. She should have been planning her first Christmas with Dean, who, if the pattern held true, hadn’t had enough holiday cheer in his life. Of course, all of the evil would converge around the holidays and finals time. When did the bad guys ever make things easier on her?

Instead, ‘tis the season Buffy and Sam were following Xander and Andrew through the high school basement.

“Pick up your feet, you shuffling waste of air,” Xander hissed.

“It’s hard to walk with my hands tied behind my back. It’s hurting my bad shoulder, too. I pulled it in a light saber fight right before Episode I came out, and now whenever the weather changes it–”

“Shut. Up,” barked Sam.

Maybe if she wasn’t so stressed, Buffy wouldn’t haven’t gone gushy on Dean. There was fear in his eyes when he left her room, though she didn’t know if it was because she’d almost said I love you or because of his phobia that caring about him marked her for death; not that she needed help in that area. But he’d come back and climbed into bed with her after doing God knows what with the bodies. He’d even told her a story about a cursed coin, a wishing well, and a suicidal teddy bear she refused to believe was true. True or not, it was funny and sweet that he wanted to help ease her mind. They seemed to be okay. Maybe her fumbled attempt at affection hadn’t hurt.

After a couple turns, they entered a small room. Xander whistled low as Sam and Buffy swung their flashlights over a large metal plate featuring a goat’s head in an inverted pentagram. The ground was littered with shovels, burnt torches, and spots of blood. When Sam lit one of the torches, they could see a large, bloody wheel suspended from the ceiling.

“Of course this is what’s in the school basement. I don’t know why I expected anything different,” Sam muttered.

“The wheel of misfortune wasn’t me,” Andrew said. He looked away from them, his voice falling to a whisper. “I just stabbed Jonathan and took off.”

“You left your friend to die alone?” snapped Buffy, who wished more and more that they didn’t have to let their hostage talk in order to get information.

“It was icky.”

“Someone was bled on that thing.” Buffy wondered if it was Spike’s blood. If so, at least no one died, but it couldn’t have been pleasant. What would they have done with him after?

“Do you think it opened the seal this time?” asked Xander.

Passing around shovels, Buffy replied, “Don’t know, but we have to cover this thing.”

Later as they were leaving the little room, Buffy stopped short and stared at a dark corner, a corner she’d hidden in days before. “Andrew, what night did you kill Jonathan?”

“Wednesday. I remember because I had to record–”

“No one cares,” said Sam.

“Slayer senses tinglin’, Buff?” Xander asked.

“I was down here on Thursday during school, and I ran into Principal Wood. He had a shovel and blood on his sleeve. If Jonathan’s body was still down here, maybe Wood moved it.”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. “Wood is a pretty chill guy. He’s never given me the impression he’s wrapped up in Hellmouth business.”

“Maybe he wasn’t before,” Xander said. “See, the Hellmouth used to be directly under the library. Giles had a bunch of charms and incantations to keep from going crazy with it blasting him every day, but that room we were just in sits right under Wood’s office. He may have started the year as Principal Nice Guy, but who knows where his head is now. Sam, you got a key to his office?”

“Just the outer doors and the library, but…” He pulled a lockpick kit from his jacket.

Principal Wood’s office was tidy, modern, and devoid of any personality. Buffy sneered at the motivational poster on the wall. “I hadn’t noticed he was Anya levels of bland. He doesn’t even have free, random business pens.”

After some poking around, Sam said, “Nothing looks out of place in his files; well, other than you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Here’s my employee file. Standard stuff. My resume. My quarterly review. School picture.”

“Look at you with your tie!” said Xander.

“Very handsome,” added Andrew.

“Your employee file is similar, but I found this laying underneath all the other files.” He slapped a thick manila folder on the desk.

Suffering horrible high school flashbacks, Buffy flipped through it. Disciplinary records. Report cards. Teacher concerns. A Child Protective Services notice that was never sent. She knew her file was thick, but the other additions alarmed her. Wood had her records from her pre-Sunnydale stint in a mental hospital, transcripts and letters from all of her schools – university included – medical records, lists of jobs she’d worked and friends she’d had. Most disturbing of all was a small collection of candid pictures – Buffy at school, at her house, in various graveyards – all clearly taken from a hidden place with a professional camera.

A snap pulled her away from the stalker puzzle. Sam had jimmied open a locked case on the wall, revealing hangers full of axes, knives, and swords.

“For the record, I’ve never met this Wood and have no idea what his deal is,” said Andrew.

“Apparently none of us have,” said Buffy.

Dean chewed on his lip as he thought about how to get away with murder. It was important to not leave a body, but if he made it look like the principal was killed by a vampire, would anyone even look twice?

“Babe, are you listening to a thing I’m saying?”

“‘Bout how your boss is a fuckin’ stalker? Got it. Thinking ‘bout how to handle it.”

“Not the priority right now.” Buffy handed him another dish to dry. They’d been piling up for days, a fact no one had noticed until there was only one plate for lunch. “Besides, it’s not like he’s going to break into the house to steal my underwear. It felt more like research notes. You know, kind of Initiative-y.”

“You think he’s workin’ for the government?”

“Or crazy. Should be able to handle either, although I admit gave me the wiggins. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I got a footnote in the stalker file?”

“No, it looked like most of it was pre-Winchesters. I guess he didn’t feel like he needed to follow me around anymore since my desk is right outside of his office.” She shuddered and started scrubbing the flatware. “Tell me happy news about research,” she said.

“Dawn’s gonna lap Sam for smartest kid in the class.”

“You think Sam’s the smartest? Don’t say that in front of Willow. She had a panic attack over an A minus.” Buffy grinned.

“My brother’s brilliant, an’ you know it. Anyway, Dawnie found a pile of letters with your monks on ‘em. Post-translation, she found out they’re called Harbingers of Death. I know what you’re thinking, that’s an awesome name for a metal band.”

“You know me so well,” she said, stretching on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek.

“These Bringers worship something called The First Evil, which Anya said is a shitty demon pick-up line, but I figure she never got high enough clearance in the demon world to learn some of the uglier stuff.”

Buffy pulled the plug on the drain and dried her hands. “How do we fight it?”

He wanted to keep doing dishes, keep making her smile with lame jokes, instead of telling her what hours of research had produced. “That’s it. Jack shit on the seal. We got two letters in Sanskrit, an’ they’re mostly poetry.”

“That’s not enough! We need–”

“We need a lotta things. The geek squad is crackin’ at it now. Do you wanna call the Council again? They gotta know something or at least have more books.”

“They made it pretty clear they have no desire to help.” Throwing her towel on the counter, she grumbled, “I need Santa to bring me a very English-y Giles bearing answers. An army would be nice, too. And some new boots.”

Xander popped his head in the newly repaired backdoor. “Hey-ya handyman, can ya gimme a hand with the drywall situation? Unless you two enjoy zero privacy.”

The Median Witches’ Chronicles was also a bust. Willow looked at the book-strewn dining table and, not for the first time, longed for the resources the Magic Box provided. She kicked herself again for burning it down. One of those books could have had answers. No, no, she wasn’t going to guilt trip herself again. She wasn’t going to dwell on what she couldn’t change. Healing meant those moments had to stay in the past.

“Anything?” she asked the room.

“I found a really cool spell for changing hair colors,” said Dawn.

“Ooh, lemme see!” demanded Anya with grabby hands.

“I thought the drug store sold magic kits for that,” said Xander, relaxing on the couch after reassembling Buffy’s house.

“Try to focus!” snapped Buffy. “I know you’re all tired, but we’re sitting ducks right now. We don’t know how to kill this thing or even how to find it.”

Willow, too excited to find words, began waving her hands and ooh oohing.

“Monkey girl, do you have something to share with the class?”

“We don’t know how to find it!”

“Why is that exciting?” asked Dean.

“Locator spell. I can find anything.”

“Like with the map and little lights?” asked Sam, closing his laptop.

“That’s one kind, but with the not-so-creative name of The First, I’m thinking we won’t get great results. There’s another kind that lets you essentially search for something’s essence and see what it sees without it even knowing you’re there.”

“So any time you’re bored, you could get inside me, touch my essence, and have a looky-loo?” asked Dean. “Willow, I didn’t know you were such a perv.”

“What? No perv. Not perv!”

“Do you really want to try touching something that calls itself The First Evil?” asked Buffy.

“Yeah, you touching evil books didn’t go so well for any of us last time, and publication is several steps removed from evil essences,” said Anya, as she copied the hair spell from Dawn’s book.

“I’d like to think I’m smarter than that. No, for this to work, I need to touch something it touched. We don’t have anything of The First’s, but we have those Bringer blades. They probably touch each other’s weapons. They worship The First. Maybe if we find where they’re hiding, we could, I don’t know, bag one and give it the once over for answers.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have staged that Andrew scare. Now the fear-lust is in you,” said Buffy.

“I also like to think I’m a badass,” said Willow.

Everyone gathered in the dining room to watch her work her magic. The spell itself was shockingly simple – a couple candles, some sand, ground eggshells, an object, a bowl; it was staying in the subject’s head that was hard. It was the beyond the mental equivalent of tiptoeing. She had to be cat-like quiet, or whoever’s mind she was in would kick her out. Pouring the sand over the knife, she closed her eyes to see.

The room was cavernous. A church warmly lit with the flicker of a thousand candles. She was sitting in one of the pews beside a few other Bringers. At the front of the church, beneath a dark rose window, lay Spike, pale and stripped, stretched out on the altar.  

“Why don’t you bugger off?” she heard Spike. “You’re wrong. She’ll stop you.” She couldn’t see or hear whom he was talking to. Focusing on the host Bringer’s legs, she tried to stand.

Suddenly she was hit by an electric blue light searing through her body, a voice rumbling like thunder. Witch, you will only make me stronger.

The roar of it deafened her, and she blacked out.

Everything was dark. There was a steady beeping. Willow reached for the needles in her arms. “Will, don’t try to move, okay?”

“Xander? I’m scared. I-I can’t see!”

He squeezed her hand. “There’s a bandage over your eyes. No, don’t freak on me,” he said, pulling her other hand off of her face. “The locator spell went kaboom, and this giant demon ghost thing came out of you and started shooting lightning at Buffy and Dean. They’re okay, but your eyes have a flash burn from whatever you saw. The doctor said you’d heal, but only if you keep your eyes covered.”

Willow tried to speak, but her voice was replaced by a choked wail. She heard a couple clicks and felt Xander crawling into the bed with her, wrapping her gently in his arms.

“You can get through this, sweetie,” he murmured. “You can do this. We’ll all be your eyes while you heal. You’re not alone. You’re not alone.”

But she knew. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t alone, because the First wanted to see them all die together.