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“Sorry about messing up your night,” Sam said to Dawn as they walked outside the cemetery wall.
She glanced up at him with watery blue eyes before quickly inspecting the sidewalk. “Uh, it’s okay. I was feeling some performance anxiety anyway. Normally I scream and run away while Buffy gets with the stabbing. We have a system.” Dawn’s high voice cracked and she laughed nervously.
Buffy reached out to squeeze her little sister’s hand. She hoped the nerves were from the fight not from being around handsome strangers; because, the last thing she needed was her sister to follow in her footsteps of age-inappropriate men.
“How old are you?” asked Dean, his eyes narrowed.
“I just turned fifteen!”
“Oh, well, in that case, hunt -- excuse me -- patrol, away! I mean, she’s worried about us gettin’ killed, but you’re a seasoned veteran. No offense.”
Buffy took offense. She was doing her best raising Dawn alone. Who the hell did he think he was to judge her sibling parenting choices? Deep breath. You need people.
But Dawn jumped to her defense. “I asked for this.” Her voice was sharp and clear, nerves gone. “Buffy can’t be with me all the time, and I need to be prepared. I’m starting high school soon in the same place that spent three years trying to kill my sister. Not that it’s your business.”
Dean put his hands up in surrender.
Sam’s face lit up. “Oh, high school’s fantastic, Dawn! You get to learn all sorts of cool stuff. Chemistry, physics, debate, computers--”
“Your high school tried to kill you? Is it haunted?” Dean asked.
“We had some ghosts, some demons and idiots with spell books. But mostly vampires.”
“And hyena people,” Dawn interjected.
“Yeah, they ate the principal,” Buffy continued. “The monsters are usually out for easy-pickin’s teenagers though. Delicious with the hormones and the angst. So, you see, prepared is the only dish on the menu.”
Dean looked off in the distance and pursed his lips forming little dimples on either side of his mouth. Dimples? Dimples, a voice that rumbled through her, broad shoulders, tall, gorgeous smile, not half-bad with a machete... He’s too much, Buffy thought.
“So kids are dropping like flies at Sunnydale High, have been for years, and the response is what? I scan the papers for news of the weird every day, and I never heard of this town.”
“Well, the death rate went way down when I went there.” Buffy brightly offered. “I don’t know. I think people just try to bury it. They can’t accept what’s going on, so they pretend it’s something else, something not newsworthy.”
Dean nodded in agreement.
“But Sunnydale High hasn’t been a problem since I blew it up --”
“You what?!” Dean stopped walking. He wore happy shock on his face like a ten-year-old boy at a monster truck show.
The words had slipped out before she could stop them. I blew up my high school isn’t something normal people say when meeting someone new. Her words ran together as she tried to explain. “Our commencement speaker sort of turned into a dragony-demon and started eating students, but I had rallied the students together to blow...up...the...school…” Her voice trailed off small and insecure at the end. Even though these guys were in on the monsters-are-real secret, she knew she sounded crazy.
But Dean’s smile could have lit the block. “Buffy, you little criminal!” He started walking again, shaking his head and muttering to himself. “Blew up your high school. That’s awesome!”
Two images had come to Dean’s mind when he first laid eyes on Buffy. One was a good girl, an ex-cheerleader, maybe, a daddy’s girl experimenting with the dangerous element before hitting up Starbucks and getting a manicure. The other was Jo Harvelle, a blonde firebrand with more ambition than ability, a tragedy he had failed to prevent. But Buffy was neither playing a game nor drowning in danger. Instead, she was some sort of badass mother fucking superhero. Supergirl could hold her own, and despite the fact she was confused about vampires, she got the job done. God, that’s hot.
Since Buffy was reminding him less and less of Jo, he didn’t feel bad giving her the once over again. She was absurdly tiny for someone who could throw a three hundred pound monster fifteen feet. Maybe one hundred twenty pounds soaking wet. Her hair, thick and golden blonde, hung to the middle of her back. He wanted to run his fingers through it, see it spread out like a halo on a pillow. She had a small, pouty mouth and large eyes in a perpetual bedroom state. Her short, muscular legs lead to the sort of perky ass he usually only saw on dancers. Her shirt stopped short of her pants, leaving her hipbones on display. He was certain his hands would overwhelm her slim waist, her small breasts. Growing more aroused than he’d felt in months, he wondered if she was a surprise in bed too. Unfortunately, they’d be hitting the road before he’d have the opportunity to ditch the brother-sister act and find out.
“What are you looking at?” Damn. She’d caught him.
“You. You’re pretty small, but you threw that fat poofy like it was nothin’.”
Buffy and Sam both raised their eyebrows, and repeated, “Poofy?”
Dean curled his lip. “I ain’t callin’ ‘em vampires. Anyways, what is that? The Super-Girling?”
She gave him a smirk and a sidelong glance as if his confusion was amusing. “You're a lifelong monster hunter. I assumed you knew: I’m the Slayer.”
Sam and Dean looked at each other with equal confusion.
She stopped in her tracks, gaping at them like she was waiting for a punchline, her gesture of confusion now amusing him. “You’ve never heard of the Slayer?”
“Only the shitty metal band.” Dean shrugged and kept walking. “So Buffy the Slayer. Sorry, but you sound like a bad B-movie.”
“Are there good B-movies?” Sam asked.
“You really haven’t heard of me? ‘Into every generation, there is a chosen one. One girl in all the world. She alone will wield the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of’ blah, blah, blah. Slayer. That’s me.”
Dean stifled a laugh with his hand. B-movie escaped from between his fingers.
“Soooo,” said Sam barely suppressing a grin, “that’s a prophecy or something?”
“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Dawn said, standing her ground. “Buffy’s not the tooth fairy. She doesn’t stop existing if people don’t believe in her. She’s the Slayer, and she’s the only thing keeping this town from--”
“It’s okay, Dawn.” Buffy gave her sister an appreciative smile, inhaled deep, and frowned at them. “She’s right, though. It doesn’t matter what you think. I didn’t pick the name. Didn’t pick the job. Didn’t pick the life. But I’m here -- every night -- fighting back the dark. Being the Slayer means something to some people, and it means more to the bump-in-the-nights, but it’s everything to me. I can’t turn it off. I can’t give it away.
“Whatever you’re planning to do in Sunnydale, you need to understand this: we are literally standing on the edge of Hell, and I’m the only thing stopping it. You can snark ‘B-movie’ all you want, but I’m the director, producer and star of this show. Got it?
“Yes, ma’am,” said the brothers in unison.
They stopped at a twenty-four-hour 1950s themed diner near the highway. Some of the neon at C-sey’- -lace was burnt out. It had been a cute place once, but the pastel booths and checkerboard floor had grown dingy. They grabbed a table by the windows away from the truckers at the counter and the stoners in the booths toward the back.
Dawn, round-faced and with her sister’s large sad eyes, laid her head on Buffy’s shoulder. Buffy leaned into her and reached up to pat her cheek. “Tired, Dawnie?”
“Too much excitement tonight. I’m going to cut out thrills and chills for a while. Maybe I’ll join the chess team. I hear, they have the lowest death rate of any clubs in school.”
Sam leaned forward and studied Buffy over the napkins. He had a very angular but sweet face. Kind eyes. Cute dimples like his brother. God, bless Kansas.
“How did you say you knew about that vampire --”
“Poofy.”
“-- rising tonight?” Buffy pulled a newspaper clipping out of her jacket pocket and handed it to him. “Neck ruptures?” He passed it to his brother. “It didn’t seem like you knew those other three were going to be there.”
“I didn’t.”
“Good thing we showed up then,” Dean said. His green eyes drilled into her. Searching for chinks in the armor?
She returned the stare. “I’ve beaten four at a time before.”
“They’re pretty strong.”
Buffy shrugged and leaned back. “So am I.”
The waitress, middle aged and sad in her pink retro diner dress, came to take their orders. They hadn’t even touched the menus.
Dawn perked up. “Can I get some chili cheese fries and a chocolate milkshake?”
“I’ll have a milkshake too. Vanilla, please.” Buffy turned to her sister. “I’m stealing your fries.”
“No, get your own!” Dawn preemptively slapped her sister’s hand away.
Dean leaned in towards the waitress and gave her the most charming smile Buffy had ever seen. Sam was cute, but Dean was lethal. Well-mannered boys with machetes. “Long day?”
“Six hours in and not e’en halfway through.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” his eyes darted to her nametag, “Marsha. Someone told me Casey’s Place has good cheese burgers. Were they lyin’ to me?”
Marsha returned a gap-toothed grin. “Well, I always thought they’s pretty good. Especially with extra pickles.”
“Sounds awesome, Marsha. Casey’s famous cheeseburger with extra pickles. Fries on the side. How’s the coffee?”
“Terrible, but I’ll put on a fresh pot a terrible for ya.”
“That’s mighty kind of you.”
“And you, sug’?”
“The same,” Sam said.
The waitress bounced away.
Dean was smooth, a practiced liar. A couple years ago, Buffy would have been putty in his hands. Especially with those big green eyes and full lush lips. The better to see you with. The better to eat you with. And those freckles she could faintly make out across his nose. The better to throw you off guard with my boyishness. Guys are bad, Buffy. Guys are bad. He’s definitely a cocky, know-it-all. He’s a jerk, and totally your type of mistake. No. You have Mr. Tickles. You don’t need a guy.
“Let me see if I got all a this, Buffy.” He didn’t over enunciate her name this time. She liked the way she sounded tripping off his tongue. “You are the fulfillment of some sort of prophecy. One day a Supergirly will be born. She will regularly fight monsters by herself, but occasionally with an army of teenagers with explosives. Hell of a birthright. You been doing this your whole life?”
“God no!” Buffy laughed at the mental picture of her nine-year-old self, crossbow in hand, trying to sneak out of her bedroom window. The ancients who put the heart of a demon in the first Slayer may have been assholes, but they at least had the sense to not thrust it on children.
“It sort of chooses you,” she said. “One day you’re trying out for cheer squad, the next you’re that freaky girl who hangs out in cemeteries and runs towards the screaming.”
“That sounds familiar,” Dean said with a half-hearted smile. Embarrassment quickly washed over his face. “Not the cheer squad part.”
“So you didn’t know this was coming? This wasn’t because of some ritual or spell?” asked Sam.
“Not really. The Watchers’ Council finds some Potentials early and trains them in case they're called. They didn’t know about me. I was already the Slayer by the time the Council found me.”
“Watchers’ Council? There’s a group of people who...watch...you?” Dean’s green eyes had a mischievous glow about them.
“You make it sound so ick.” She started folding and tearing the paper placemat in front of her. “Slayers are not a very long-lived group, so the Council makes sure a Slayer’s knowledge and experience get passed on.” She did not look up, but she knew Dean was still studying her, inspecting her amidst the diner's din.
Marsha returned and filled their mugs from a pot of fresh coffee. The boys both thanked her and smiled.
Sam pointed at the elephant in the room. “How long does a Slayer normally live?”
“About a year.”
“A year?!”
“The fuck?”
More silence. She felt laid bare before these strangers. Buffy, the freak with a doomsday clock tick, tick, ticking away in her ears.
Dawn jumped in with a flurry of words, "Buffy's been at it nearly seven years now. She's, like, super old in Slayer years.”
“Thanks, Dawnie,” Buffy said, poking her sister’s ribs.
“And the Council’s been helping you stay alive?” Sam asked.
In spite of her heavy heart, Buffy laughed. “Senior year, I sort of told them where they could shove their books. I figured, I’m the Slayer. I get a say. They came crawling back a couple years ago, but I kind of made them beg. No Christmas card since. They might be holding a grudge.” Dean grinned at her. Suddenly shy, she fought back a blush. “No, I wish I could say I’ve stayed alive this long because of my own brand of badassitry, but it’s been sheer luck and good friends.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Dean. “Seven years is a little long to just be lucky and friendly.”
“You’re right. I am a total badass. Nothing gets past you,” she said with a smirk. Maybe he wasn’t such a jerk?
“Seven years, so you were, what, eleven, twelve when this happened?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen? Goddamn. That’s too young to be out in this mess.”
“The Slayer is usually pretty young. Your number gets called, you join the fight. Destiny’s shitty draft.”
“No, that’s crap!” Dean pounded the table, rattling the silverware. His gruff voice angry. “Kids should be worried about kid things like zits and school and who to ask to a stupid dance, not vampires and demons and evil shit.”
Buffy shrugged. “That’s not an option I ever had.”
The waitress came back with their food. Dean and Buffy examined each other while Marsha called out their orders. She wasn’t sure if he was measuring her up for a fight or a mattress romp. She hoped for the latter. She broke away first, eyeing her sister’s fries. “That’s my story. What’s yours?”
“No story.”
Buffy dodged Dawn’s disapproving hand-slap, and bit down on a cheesy reward and watched Dean dig into his burger across the table. She’d never been jealous of food before. No guys, Buffy. She nudged his foot under the table. “Liar.”
Unmoved, Dean took another bite.
“He means we’re not anything special,” offered Sam, smiling and puppy-ish. “No one writes prophecies about us.”
“But why are you here? Dean said you’re just passing through town. That seems a little too random to me. You said you hunt monsters, have for years. Why? And you’ve hunted monsters most of your life, but you don’t know what a run-of-the-mill vampire looks like?”
“Let’s just say it’s the family business,” said Dean, mopping up ketchup with his fries. “We’re not bound to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of Hell’s freak show by prophecy, but we don’t know how to do much else.” He glanced at his brother who was clearly not as excited about his burger. “At least I don’t.”
“We’ve seen a lot of monsters,” said Sam, “but not so many vampires. Certainly not as many as you. Thousands, you said?”
Buffy nodded. “Thousands might be an understatement, but we were talking about you.”
“Right, well, um, vampires! As far as we knew, they were kind of rare. No yellow eyes or messed up faces. Just a lot of teeth, almost like one of those nasty deep-sea fish. Stakes don’t do anything to them. Beheading only.”
“Never met a vamp like that,” she said as she pilfered another fry.
“Like I said, we’ve only encountered a handful. They could be different branches of the same family tree. You say Sunnydale’s full of them?”
“Yep. Lucky me.” Buffy stroked her straw, garnering a lustful stare from Dean. “If you’ve only seen a few vampires, what are you normally hunting?”
“Lately, demons.” Dean’s jaw was set, the memory of something awful weighed him down. He continued, “Lots of ghosts too. Then it’s just a three-ring circus of weird: shape shifters, pagan gods, werewolves, wraiths, rugarus ---”
“Rugarus sounds made up,” Dawn said.
“That’s what I said,” Dean replied, “but we went an’ found ‘em, big as life and twice as ugly.” He turned to his brother and smacked him on the arm to get his attention. “But if these poofies are some sort of new vampire, we should go talk to Bobby. I don’t like surprises that want to eat me.”
Buffy sat up straight and pitched. “If you want to know more about the ‘poofies,’ I can teach you. I’ve been doing this for seven years. Like Dawn said, I’m practically a wizened sage...without the crazy beard and abundant wrinkles.”
“I bet you could teach me a few things.” Dean leaned back in his chair, handsome and cocksure. “But interestin’ as your crazy-ass town sounds,” he smacked his hand on the table, “we do have to hit the road come mornin’.”
Struck out. Buffy reached over to Dawn’s plate for more fries, but it was empty. Her little sister smiled at her while sucking the last bit of chocolate milkshake through her straw. “You finished already?”
“I was hungry. Dinner was crappy.”
“How would you know? You hardly ate any of it.”
Dawn sought the sympathy of the boys across the table. “It was chicken and rice and some sort of green stuff--”
“Broccoli.”
“--and it was not as good as chili cheese fries.”
Buffy sighed in surrender. “Fine, Emeril. Tomorrow night’s your night to cook.”
“Mac and cheese it is!” Dawn smiled victoriously.
“I’m with you, Dawn,” said Dean. He gestured at Sam with his thumb. “This one tries to get me to eat all sorts of rabbit food, but that’s crap. Don’t need much else but burgers, pie, and booze.”
Buffy frowned and rolled her eyes. “She’s a little young for booze.”
Dean shrugged, bit his bottom lip, and offered her a smirk in reply. The smirk made him look like a teenage boy satisfied with some lame one-liner he’d thrown at the teacher. But when he clenched his jaw and glared, he seemed older. Late twenties, early thirties? She couldn’t tell.
Still studying Buffy, he said, “Dawn, there’s a case of pie by the counter. Wanna go with me to see what they got?”
Giddy, Dawn launched herself out of her seat and followed the drifter.
Buffy kept an eye on them. “Is your brother always so --”
“-- obnoxious? Yes.” Sam wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin.
“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”
“He’s my big brother. He’s a pain in the ass; doesn’t mean I admire him any less.” He shifted in his chair and checked his watch. “So how long have you been on your own?”
Dawn perched herself on a stool and swung her legs like a younger girl. She was making herself extra cute, and Dean was fairly certain she was planning to expound on Buffy’s suggestion they stay in Sunnydale. He almost wanted to take her up on her offer to learn about these new creatures and, more importantly, about the Slayer herself. In less than an hour, Dean’s concept of Buffy had shifted from another amatuer on the chopping block to one of the more interesting people he’d ever met. It wouldn’t be so terrible of an idea to learn from an expert -- a very attractive expert -- before taking the info back to Bobby. He would run the idea past Sam in the morning. They were both overdue for a solid night’s sleep.
“Hey, Marsha, your pie as good as your burgers?
“Le’see. We gots a mighty good apple tonight an’ a blueberry. I’m partial to fruit, but we gots a pecan an’ a chocolate too.” The waitress leaned across the counter and whispered, “Wouldn’t touch the coconut cream though. It’s been in there since yesterday.”
Dean looked at the young girl next to him, “Waddya want, Dawn?”
“Chocolate, always!”
“A slice of chocolate and one blueberry. Can I get the bill?”
One of the truckers down the counter waved for the waitress. “Sure, sug’. Jus’ give me a moment.”
Dean felt Dawn tug on his sleeve. “Why are you leaving?”
He couldn’t keep from smiling at her. She was a cute kid dealt a crappy hand. “I have to find a friend, work out some monster problems.”
“Now? Right this minute? You can’t just call him?”
“Why? Do you want us to stay?”
Dawn stared down at her swinging feet. Her voice small. “She’s out every night. She’s by herself. It’s under control; I mean, we haven’t had a big boss fight for a few months. But it’s still neck ruptures and nests non-stop. The team just sort of...” She stopped swinging her feet and gazed up at him. “Having a hero in the house is great and all, but sometimes I’d like less Slayer and more sister in my life.”
Dean knew this song and dance well. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam chatting with Buffy. “You know, your sister did tell me to leave town.”
“Buffy says a lot of dramatic, in-chargey things.” She gazed sadly at the counter, then snatched one of the paper placemats and a pen from the register. “Here. After you find your friend, call. If there are a couple different types of vampires out there, Buffy needs to know. Maybe later you and Sam can come back?”
He accepted the paper, but folded it up and pocketed it without breaking away from Dawn’s hopeful face. Marsha returned to dish out the pie, and he shifted his attention back to the register. A classic car calendar on the wall featured a red ‘63 split window Corvette. The calendar was eight years old. “Your favorite?” he asked Marsha, pointing at the car. “‘Vet’s not a bad favorite. Sexy as hell.”
Marsha, now ringing up the bill, glanced at the calendar behind her. “You know, I never pay attention. It’s only there so I can keep track a the days. Le’see. It’s after midnight, so it’s the second now.”
Dean felt his stomach sink. “Yeah, August 2nd, 2002,” his voice small and uncertain. He tried to swallow but his throat was dry. “Hey, Dawn, when are you startin’ school?”
“Almost a month. September 3rd. Why?”
“It’s been awhile since I was in high school. You’re gonna be class of what?”
“2006.”
“Marsha, can you pack that blueberry to go?”
“So how long have you been on your own?” Sam asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Getting Dawn ready for high school. Teaching her how to fight. Dinner duties. Plus it’s quarter after one, and it doesn’t seem like you’re in a rush to get Dawn home to anyone. You’re alone, right? You’re her guardian?”
With his soft eyes and little frown, he seemed like he cared. He really did. That didn’t make his questions feel any less like a knife to the belly. You’re alone, right? Right. Buffy bent and twisted the straw from her milkshake. “Yeah, just lil’ ol’ me.” She tried to laugh, but it sounded sad.
“When did your parents pass away?”
Buffy wanted to bury her face in her hands. She wanted to be strong and together and kick ass. She wanted to impress. But she covered her face with her hands anyway. Screw them. They weren’t sticking around. They didn’t get to sight-see her troubles.
“Oh, God, Buffy, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you!” Sam reached across the table and put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s just, well, I know the look. Dean and I have essentially been on our own forever. Hey, do you have any sort of support? Anyone who can help?”
Buffy straightened up. She’d have a good long cry into her pillow tonight; tears were the only stress relief she got anymore.
Sam’s brows knit together in worry. He really was concerned. Concerned and kind.
“My friend, Xander, helps out with Dawn and the house -- God, the house would drown me -- but everyone else left.”
“That’s tough. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s life. Some people skate through with charm and ease and vacations to beachy-places. Some people scrape and claw and vacation via crap TV. I appreciate that you care, but your pity doesn’t help much.”
Sam appeared stung but didn’t have a chance to respond before Dawn plopped back in her seat. Buffy scrutinized her sister and her chocolate pie. “Seriously?”
“I am a growing teenage girl who requires chocolate to regulate my crazed hormones. You get no apologies,” she said, greedily digging in with her fork.
Dean came back with a bag and slapped a few bucks on the table. “We gotta go, Sam.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now!” His gruff voice commanding and fire in his eyes, where had the little boy gone?
Sam started to get up. “Do you two need a ride home?”
Buffy gave him a sad smile. “We’ll get along fine without you. Always have.”