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She thought she’d knocked them out, but they just kept coming. One down, two more take its place. It was a never ending onslaught. This was it. They were going to swallow her whole.
“Dawn, have you seen the calculator?” Buffy yelled up the stairs. Taking a couple summer courses had qualified her for financial aid, but the checks didn’t cover the bills. Who knew water was so expensive?
Dawn peeked out from around the corner at the top of the stairs. “It’s summer. Why would I touch a calculator?”
“I didn’t ask if you had it. I asked if you’d seen it.”
“No! Keep track of your own stuff!” she yelled as she disappeared.
Buffy sighed, sat down at the dining table, and rubbed her temples. When her parents’ divorce triggered the move to Sunnydale, her mom had bought the house outright, but the insurance and taxes were ongoing. Throw in utilities and food on a student loan budget, and they were barely scraping by. Heaven forbid something break. The week before, she almost had to call the plumber for the bathtub. Thankfully, Xander was able to snake out a disgusting wad of hair and get the drain draining again. Dawn wanted some new clothes for freshmen year; Buffy hadn’t told her yet that couldn’t happen. She was going to have to get a job soon, maybe sell her car. She’d even take fast food service again if she could get it. Anything.
The phone rang, and Dawn shot down the stairs like a bolt of lightning. “Is it ever for you?” Buffy yelled after her.
“Hello?… Oh HIIIII! .. Yeah, I can get her. Hang on.” Dawn sauntered into the dining room with a triumphant look on her face, her hand over the cordless phone’s receiver. “Sooooomeone is caaaaalllling for yoooou,” she sang.
Utterly confused, Buffy snatched the phone. “Hello?”
“Buffy?” It had been over a week, but she hadn’t forgotten his sexy rumble. “It’s Dean Winchester. I ruined your night at the graveyard.”
“How could I forget?” Her voice sounded more eager than she meant it to.
Dawn sat next to her with her chin in her hands and a dopey grin on her face.
“Did you find something?”
“Yes and no. We have a problem we were hopin’ you could help us with.”
That she hadn’t expected. Dean seemed too sure of himself to ask anyone for help. “Your friend couldn’t get you answers? Billy?”
“Bobby, and no. He’s part of the problem. Could we meet somewhere? This would be better face-to-face.”
“You’re in Sunnydale?” Buffy complimented herself on pressing down the excitement she should not be feeling.
“Yeah, just got in. Can we meet?” He sounded tense and tired. Whatever had shaken out his boyishness hadn’t let it return.
“Okay, you probably don’t know that much in town. Do you know how to get back to Sunnydale Cemetery where we met?”
“Yeah.” His voice urgent and firm.
“Let’s meet by the gates in half an hour.”
“Okay.” He hung up without another word.
Dawn was on the verge of a giggle fit. “Did he ask you out?”
“No, Dawn.” She measured her words to hold in her irritation. “He asked me for help. Mind telling me how he got this number?”
“I gave it to him. Told him to call if they found anything or just wanted to come back. They seemed cool. Plus, you totally have a crush on Dean, and it would good for you to move past the pile of mom’s romance novels you have hidden under your bed.”
Annoyed her sister had been snooping again, she could feel her face growing hot. “I do not have a crush on Dean. Besides, he’s a jerk.”
“Newsflash! So are you.”
She gently put her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Dawn, we don’t know these men. They are drifters, and they are deadly. Until I figure out if they are on our side or just crazy, please try to keep a little more information to yourself.”
“I didn’t tell them where we live. I’m not stupid! And you do too have a crush on Dean! You’ve muttered his name a couple time when you’ve fallen asleep on the couch.”
Buffy was certain if she wasn’t blushing before, she had to be twenty shades of red now.
Dawn gave her pigtail braids and cargo crops the once over. “You’re not wearing that, right?”
The Winchesters sat silently inside their black Impala, windows rolled down to fend off a little of the late summer heat. Sleep tugged at their eyes. They’d been on the road nine days, driven halfway across the country, and returned with more disturbing questions and no answers.
“You know what sucked about 2002?” Dean asked. “The music. The music was godawful. Linkin’ Park? Papa Roach? Limp Bizkit? These are the dark days of rock and roll, Sammy.”
“I would have gone with crappy internet. It’s certainly been a bear to us this week.”
Dean twisted around to peel off his army green button down. It was too hot for anything heavier than a t-shirt. “At least we’re back to low-rise pants and tiny tees, huh? God, I’ve missed the tramp stamps.”
Sam huffed. “She said half an hour?”
“Yeah, but she’s probably busy doing her hair or something,” he muttered as he leaned on the steering wheel.
Sam squinted at his brother. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“Look, I’ve met a lot of women who hunt, good hunters, too. Ain’t none of them ever sported painted nails and high heels. Buffy’s a damn good fighter, a survivor, but what’s the deal with the girly-girl stuff?”
“Bela always looked nice–”
“Bela was a parasitic bitch, not a hunter.”
“I thought Buffy was cute.”
Dean gave his brother the side-eye and a smirk. “You got a little crush, Sammy?”
“I’m just acknowledging what my eyes see!” His voice was a little high. “Besides, Dean, you’re the one who couldn’t stop staring at her and her ‘girly-girl stuff,’ and it was pretty clear she didn’t mind. God knows why.”
“Because I’m the handsome, charming one, that’s why.”
A few more minutes went by before Sam smacked his brother’s arm and pointed down the street at a petite blonde in a white dress. They both got out of the car and leaned on the hood, waiting.
His brother was right; Buffy wasn’t like the sexpots Dean was normally into. She had a girl-next-door cuteness that reminded him of Jo, but unlike Jo in her work boots and flannels, slinging beers and staving off truckers, Buffy embraced her cuteness, no doubt another weapon in her arsenal. It was so out of the ordinary in his world that it was nearly unsettling.
The little white sundress glowed against her tan skin. Her hair was wavy today, held back with two pink barrettes. Definite girly-girl. A girly-girl who blew up her high school and could take out a monster with her ninja throwing skills. Cute, fierce, and interested.
Too bad Dean was too tired to play.
“What on earth is that?” Amusement in her eyes, Buffy pointed at the car as she approached.
“She’s a ‘67 Impala,” Dean replied proudly without realizing that wasn’t what she was asking.
She smiled pityingly. “Do you think you’re some sort of renegade on the run from the law? Is there a Confederate flag on the top?”
Dean caressed the car’s front panel and grumbled. “Don’t listen to her, Baby. She’s not worth getting upset over. Can’t even tell a ‘67 Impala from a ‘69 Charger.”
Sam shook his head. “Thanks for coming to meet us, Buffy.”
“Late,” Dean coughed.
“We have a problem.”
“Couldn’t find your friend?”
“More specifically, we couldn’t find anyone we know. No one is answering their phones. We stopped at a few places this last week and not only is no one where they should be, but no one even knows who we’re talking about.”
“Bummer, but what do you want me to –”
“Look, princess, do you have any books or research or anything about this wack-a-doo world you live in?” Dean asked, not in the mood for small talk. “‘Cause your vampires ain’t vampires, you’re fuckin’ Supergirl, everyone we know is missing – hell, we’re missing – and it’s goddamn 2002! I just want to get sorted out how to get out of Oz and back to Kansas.”
She glared at Dean, her shoulders stiffening and fists clenched. “Sam, is your brother drunk?”
“No? Thanks, Dean, you’re a real help.”
Dean rubbed his eyes. “I just want to get back to our kind of crazy. None of this makes sense, and nonsense gets ya killed. I mean, I understand Cas movin’ us around. He’s done it before. But off eight years? And shouldn’t people be somewhere? Shouldn’t he be somewhere? Why isn’t anythin’ the same?!” These were the highlights of the same tour of confusion they’d been on since dashing out of the diner.
“Um, hello! Buffy here. You asked for my help, and now you sound crazy, which is something coming from me. You either start making sense, or I’m going home.”
Sam began, “Remember how we said we’d recently been in Ohio? Well, we had been, but, like, immediately before arriving here.”
Buffy blinked and tilted her head. “Do you not remember the drive or was this some sort of gatey-portaly-thing?”
“We were in Ohio, then we were in California, but eight years earlier. We’re pretty sure an angel moved us.”
“Angel? Okay. Goodbye,” she said as she turned back the way she came.
Buffy, more spooked than she’d anticipated from the phone call, wanted to get away from the Winchesters. Even without knowing the details, whatever they were involved in was a pile of trouble. They were big boys. They could handle it themselves.
A large hand squeezed her arm. She spun around and without even thinking crashed the heel of her palm into someone’s chest.
“Sammy, you okay?!” Dean bolted to his brother who was gasping and clutching his chest where Buffy had hit him.
“I didn’t hit him that hard. You alright?”
Still winded, Sam merely nodded his head.
Buffy turned her attention back to Dean. “Look, I’m sorry that something has happened to you, but angels? Time-travel? You two are a crazy cherry I don’t need on my life’s messed up sundae.”
“What do you need?” Dean pleaded. With his hand on his brother’s shoulder, he looked like a perfect cocktail of fury and worry.
It was Buffy’s turn to feel punched in the chest. She needed a lot of things. A job. Money. A Scoobies reunion. Giles. “What?” she nearly whispered.
“You don’t want to get involved in our mess. I get that. You got your kid sister to take care of, a city to keep safe. You got stuff.” He quieted his voice and moved toward her, his green eyes pleading. “But everyone we know to ask is up an’ gone. You’re it for help here, Supergirly. All we need is books. We need to figure out what happened. We’re not asking you to join a fight or side with us or anythin’. Just information. So what do you want in exchange?” He looked like a little boy again – a desperate, innocent and broken little boy.
“I’m not sure.”
“You don’t know what you want?” He was standing so close, she could have fluttered a hand out to his chest. She wanted to.
“It’s not a matter of knowing so much as trusting. Can I pocket the favor?”
“You hold all the cards.” He was right. She did. Whatever craziness they were involved in, she could work to her advantage, and she really needed an advantage right now.
“Start from the beginning. Start with angels. Those are real?”
“You’ve never encountered an angel before?”
“With the feathers and the halo? No.”
“Lucky you. Mostly they’re dicks.”
“Classy.”
Dean shrugged.
Sam spoke up, voice a little weezy. “There’s this one angel who’s a friend of ours, Castiel. When we were all together in Ohio, there was a pack of demons on our tail. Then there was a blue light and we were here. Different time of day. Different part of the country.”
“Different year,” added Dean.
“About that…”
“Buffy, before whatever happened, it was April 13th, 2010.”
She quickly put a hand over her face to cover her smile, but it didn’t contain her laugh.
Sam continued, “I know that’s hard to believe. If Cas hadn’t moved us around in time before, I wouldn’t believe it myself. But here, look.” He slide a thin black rectangle out of his pocket and handed it to her. Dean pulled one out too, and just held it in front of his face.
It was slightly heavy but not bulky. One half was a screen; the other a tiny but full keyboard. “A fancy cell phone?”
“Yeah, a smartphone. It can’t make any calls right now because none of the cell towers recognize it. It can’t connect to the internet right now either because it’s 2002, and you don’t have 3G wifi.”
Unsure if he was telling the truth or mocking her, she glared at Sam.
“It can do this though.” Dean turned his phone around to show her a video of the conversation they’d just had.
Handing Sam back his phone, Buffy said, “2010. It’s crazy, but I believe you. Sounds like you know how you got here. Can’t you ask your angel buddy to send you back?”
“He’s not responding,” Dean said.
“And everyone you know is missing?”
“Yeah, we drove to Sioux Falls to see our friend, Bobby, but he was totally gone. Bobby’s run a scrap yard for decades. The man’s yard is several hundred square feet of rusty cars, but when we pulled up, all of the cars were missing.” Sam’s hands grew more animated as he spoke. “The house had an honest-to-God picket fence around it and two kids playing in the yard. We talked to the people inside, and they said they bought the house six years ago. Dean was living there on and off in 2002. Bobby didn’t just up and sell it.”
Dean picked up the story. “We drove into town to see if anyone had seen him. The sheriff knows us, and she knows Bobby real well. Bobby Singer grew up in that tiny-ass town, but ain’t nobody there ever heard of him. He wasn’t the only one either. Sheriff Mills was just as missin’.”
Sam nodded. “We hadn’t been able to get anyone on the phone, not even using old numbers, so we drove down to Lawrence, Kansas where we were born.”
“And where our mom died,” Dean added.
“We couldn’t find anyone who remembered our family. At city hall, our birth certificates were missing, our parents’ marriage license, no death certificate. No record of a single Winchester living or dying in the whole town.”
Dean clenched his jaw. “There’s this whole Star Trek idea with time travel that you’ll mess up your own timeline, but we’re talkin’ eight years here. Mom was killed long before that, and eight years wouldn’t change Bobby from being a paranoid drunk. It just wouldn’t.”
Sam put a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder and continued, “I know exactly where I was in August 2002. I was finishing a summer course at Stanford. We drove out there yesterday. Couldn’t find me. Couldn’t find anyone I knew. Couldn’t find any record of me or anyone I knew. Then we came back here.”
“Only there was a hitch in that plan, too,” Dean said. He walked to the car, pulled a bunch of maps out of the back seat, and spread them on the hood. “This is the atlas we usually use on the road. Behold, California. This is the map we picked up on the way here. See the difference?” Buffy leaned in close enough to feel the heat radiating off the black car. The maps were virtually identical, except –
“Sunnydale,” she whispered.
“Yeah. Sunnydale.” Dean’s voice was also quiet. “The moment we show up in this town we’ve never heard of that’s not on any map we have, our entire lives and everyone we know disappears.”
She felt alone with only Xander and Dawn. To lose everyone… Buffy walked around the Impala and opened the back door. “C’mon. Books are at my house.”
She lived in a two-story bungalow on a quiet street. It had a porch. It had a dining table in its own special room. A comfortable-looking couch. A fireplace. Honest to God photos of happy friends and happy family decorated the walls. The Winchesters studied the last of these exotic items while Buffy and Dawn, who had seemed surprised to see them, argued in a hush in the kitchen. Words like strangers, dangerous, and crazy trickled in.
Buffy returned to the living room, arms crossed and looking like she’d gone twelve rounds, while Dawn stomped up the stairs.
Sam stopped studying a photo of a redhead and a familiar blonde. “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” she answered with a tight smile.
“We haven’t passed the test, Sam.” Dean kept his focus on a picture of Buffy in her cheerleading uniform.
“I haven’t even given you the test yet.”
Dean gave her a sidelong glance before continuing his inspection. “This your mom’s place?”
“Was, yeah.”
“Sam mentioned your parents had passed away.”
“Just my mom, actually. My dad’s still alive.”
“Where’s he?”
“With his secretary in Spain last I heard.” Buffy looked down at her hands and twisted her ring. “I honestly don’t care anymore.”
“Got a lot of pictures of someone you don’t care about.” Buffy looked confused, so Dean pointed to a photo of her teenage self resting her head on the shoulder of a handsome older man in a tweed jacket and glasses.
A warm grin broke through her worry. “That’s not my dad. That’s my Giles. He’s way better.”
“Step-dad?”
“Librarian.”
“Speaking of books,” Sam said.
“Oh! Yes! Well, there are a bunch over there; I have some more I can snag from upstairs. What sort of books are you looking for? Spells? Monster guides? Histories?”
“Maybe we should start with magic gateways?”
They’d scoured yellowed pages for hours, yet had learned nothing about time travel, angels or portals. They did learn there were a variety of spells for reanimating dead pets, and to Buffy’s surprise, that centuries before, there had existed a cult that worshiped the Slayer. (Where were minions when she needed them? They could have helped with the bills.)
In true Stanford style, Sam was still nose-deep in a book, scribbling in a notebook.
With a muttered “Fuck this,” Dean slammed shut Guide to Teleportation, and laid his head down on his crossed his arms.
Already familiar with his absolutely pornographic lips, Buffy now took note of his long, thick eyelashes; the freckles trailing down his neck; the hint of tattoo spilling out from under his sleeve. He was unbelievably gorgeous. The way he swaggered, he probably knew it. He didn’t seem like the boyfriend type, so she guessed he left a string of one-night-stands and broken hearts in his wake. She could deal with that.
She did not have a crush on Dean Winchester, despite what her sister thought. Crushes were for boys you wanted to hold you when you’d had a bad day. Boys you wanted to call every night. Boys you wanted to romance you with flowers and chocolates and sweet nothings. Buffy didn’t want any of these things, not right now. Relationships would be a complication in her already complicated life. What she did want was a strong, handsome stranger to hold her up against a wall and fuck her until she couldn’t feel her legs. Dean seemed like he would be more than up for the task.
Buffy, what is wrong with you? Those trashy novels have colonized your brain. “Giving up?” she asked, reaching out with her foot to give his leg a nudge.
He half opened one eye. “That’s not really my style.”
“Neither is reading,” added his brother without breaking from his notes.
“Me either. Point me at the evil, put a weapon in my hand, and I’ll get with the slayage.”
Dean propped his head up with his hand. “So, how do you like being The Chosen One? Is it all bullet time and leather pants?”
“Bullet time, not so much, but I do have some leather pants.”
A smirk crept across Dean’s face.
“It has its perks and drawbacks,” she continued. “I think both sides of that equation boil down to fear.”
“You afraid a lot, Supergirly? That’s surprising.”
She didn’t need handsome boy patronization. “If you’re not, then you’re either an idiot or a liar.”
Sam pointed at her with his pen. “I like her.”
Dean mock laughed and waved his brother off. “I have my days,” he said. “I just figured doin’ this so long, havin’ the powers you have, you didn’t get scared any more.”
Maybe he wasn’t being an ass. It was impossible to tell. “When you learned that monsters were real, did it make you more afraid or less?”
Glancing at his brother, Dean replied, “My fears shifted.”
“On the one hand, becoming the Slayer actually meant there were fewer monsters for me to deal with. If I can take out a vampire, I can certainly defend myself against the assholes of the world.” He smiled at her warmly as if he enjoyed the idea of her beating the shit out of a handsy college boy.
“On the other hand, being the Slayer means the biggest of the bads want an evilness merit badge for taking me out. They keep coming one after another, and I only get the smallest glimmers of peace and quiet. There’s a contingency plan for the Slayer line, but my life and everything connected to it…”
There was a pat-pat-pat on the stairs and Dawn was passing through the dining room. “What are you doing down here?”
“I need something to eat. It’s after nine!” she complained from the kitchen.
It was, indeed, long past dinner time. Remorseful for having neglected her sister for so long, Buffy followed Dawn. “Hey, Dawnie. Been keeping busy?”
Dawn slammed a box of pizza rolls on the counter and gave her sister an exasperated eyeroll. “No! I’ve listened the the Moulin Rouge soundtrack so much today, I’m probably going to do burlesque dancing in my sleep. I got so bored, I even started reading, and you know I’m opposed to reading in the summer!”
“What were you reading?”
“Mom’s old People magazines. That whole thing with Chuck and Di was so sad.”
“Want to help us with research?”
For a brief moment, the thought of translating ancient Sumerian made Dawn’s face light up. Then she composed herself, her interest in greasy frozen foods renewed. “Maybe. What are you researching?”
“Short version: an angel moved Sam and Dean here from 2010, and now everyone they know is missing, themselves included.”
Dawn could no longer control the excitement on her face as she abandoned her food and rushed to the dining room. “You’re from the future?!”
“Little bit, yeah,” said Sam.
Dawn was bouncing, hands a-flutter. “What’s it like? Tell me something awesome!”
Dean pursed his lips and said, “In 2008, Britney Spears is going to shave her head and attack an SUV with an umbrella.”
“That is the best thing I’ve ever heard!” she squealed.
Buffy woke up on the couch, but she didn’t remember moving there. Sam was slumped over a book at the dining table. He looked asleep but… Where was Dean? Where was Dawn?! A noise in the kitchen drew her attention. Quietly, she grabbed the katana she kept under the couch and tip-toed to the back of the house. She spun around the corner, blade at the ready, only to find Dean lazily rubbing his eyes while he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. He greeted her swift threat with a smile and a chuckle.
“Dawn’s upstairs. Went to bed a couple hours ago. She’s probably still asleep.”
“How did you –?”
“–Know you were worried about her? First thing I do in the mornin’ is look for my little brother. The sword don’t exactly say calm, either. Coffee?”
Buffy put her weapon down and pulled the creamer from the fridge. “Sure. How long was I asleep?”
Dean checked his watch. “Maybe three hours?”
“I don’t even remember falling asleep, let alone moving to the couch.”
“You didn’t. I carried you.”
Buffy, her face hidden by the cabinet door, paused in the middle of grabbing two mugs to ponder the delicious moment she’d missed. “You what?”
“You were sound asleep. Almost fell out of your chair three times. Thought you’d sleep better on the couch. Is pickin’ up the Slayer against the rules?”
She handed him a mug and met his gaze. “I’ll make an exception for you.”
Dean licked his lips and shot her his charming smile. After swinging between confused, annoyed, and pissed yesterday, it was refreshing to see his boyishness return. He looked sweet, the early morning light making his dirty blond hair glow and highlighting his smattering of freckles. She wanted to kiss each of those freckles, find out how far down his body they traveled.
“Where did you sleep?”
“Didn’t.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Nope.” He poured them both coffee. She loaded hers with cream and sugar.
“So, Dean, what happens if you don’t find anything?”
He smoothed his brow and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if our friends are in trouble or what.”
They leaned against the kitchen island, a foot of space between them, sipping their coffee and looking out at the sunlight dancing on the leaves outside.
“You know what pisses me off the most? My mom. Sure, she’s not dead anymore, but she didn’t get to live either. Not the life we knew at least. I dunno. Maybe it’s better this way.”
“How’d she die?”
“Demon burned her alive. Yours?”
“Aneurysm.”
“That’s rough.”
“Yeah, I spent all these years sticking my neck out fighting horrors and when something hits home, it’s not even something I can hit. Still, yours sounds like a nightmare.”
Somehow, the gap between them had closed. Buffy could feel the heat from Dean’s body. She wanted him to carry her again. “You know,” she started quietly, looking up into his face just inches away, “if your angel friend was trying to save you, maybe he put you in Sunnydale for a reason.”
Dean had put his coffee down. His arm stretched out on the counter behind her. She could lean into him, feel his strong arm against the skin of her shoulder, consume lungfuls of his leather and whiskey scent. She wanted to grab fist fulls of his t-shirt and pull him into her, taste his strawberry lips, wrap her legs around his waist.
“Hey.” Sam drifted into the room, yawning, the imprint of a book still on his cheek. “Do I smell coffee?”
After the week they’d had, Dean was running on fumes. The lack of sleep had not given them fresh minds for morning research; the words swam in front of his eyes mocking him.
He wanted desperately to find Bobby, but he wasn’t exactly in a hurry to leave. They’d spent months on the run from Lucifer, Michael and their respective hoards. Here, no one had ever seen an angel. Buffy had mentioned demons, but they didn’t sound like the primary concern of her life. The streets weren’t running with blood. Cities weren’t abandoned to chaos and war. It was a nice change of pace.
Maybe it would be better to bring Bobby to Sunnydale.
He peeked at the small blonde sitting at the other end of the dining room bench. Her hair, twisted into a bun secured with a couple of sticks, was still damp from her shower. She had swapped her little sundress for a tight black tank top and loose army green cargo pants. The small of her back was exposed.
Dean wanted very much to slide his fingers over her skin, kiss her neck, carry her wherever she wanted to go.
There were two problems with this idea. One, their siblings were in the room with them reading and munching bagels. Two, despite this morning’s flirtation, Dean wasn’t sure that going there with Buffy was such a good idea. When he’d met her, he’d thought she’d be one of his more interesting hookups; but having spent some time with her, talked with her, seen her life, she had enough going on. She didn’t seem like a one-night-stand kind of girl, and he wasn’t a stick-around kind of guy.
As if she felt the heat of his stare, Buffy suddenly looked up at him.
Dean headed to the kitchen for another cup of coffee.
Buffy followed.
“That’s the third time I’ve caught you checking out my ass,” she said in a low whisper.
He bit his bottom lip and returned her warm gaze. “You’ve only noticed three times?”
She lightly punched his arm. He resumed staring at her ass as she crossed the room to grab the phone off the wall. All soft and come hither, she glanced at him over her shoulder before heading to the living room with the phone.
When Dean returned to the dining-room-turned-study-hall, Sam was rubbing his eyes. “Maybe we’re approaching this all wrong.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re looking for answers about our friends, but what if we’re not even asking the right question? We’ve been at this for – what? – twelve hours and all I have is a list of stuff that doesn’t make sense.” He tossed his notepad at Dean to thumb through. “Slayers, vampires, an absurd amount of natural witches. None of this matches what we know. I’ve counted, like, fourteen Apocalypses, Dean. Fourteen! No Horsemen. No angels.”
“No Lucifer,” Dean muttered. “So whadaya think we should be doing?”
“We know our friends didn’t just disappear. There would be signs of that. What if they just never existed?”
“How the hell would that work? We’re here but our parents never were?”
Sam threw up his hands. “Alternate dimension?”
“So we’re going from Star Trek: IV to Mirror Universe?” He tossed his brother’s notebook back at him.
Sam glanced at his notes wearily. “I’m not saying I have the answers, Dean. I’m just saying our current line of questioning isn’t getting us anywhere.”
Buffy resumed her position at the table. “What did I miss?”
“Alternate dimensions,” Dawn answered.
“That works if you’re some sort of hellbeast,” Buffy said.
“Are you hellbeasts? Buffy was too distracted to ask,” Dawn said.
“For the record, no. What do you mean by that?” Sam asked.
“Well, there are lots of other dimensions, but they’re almost entirely hell dimensions, more sulfur and brimstone, less nicely paved roads and lattes. Lucky for you, I just called an expert. Anya’s more knowledgeable about this stuff than me. Plus, she knows how to do a locator spell, so we can know for sure if you’re anywhere.”
Less than an hour had passed, when a pretty brunette in low-slung jeans and a pink lace blouse sped through the front door saying to whoever was there to listen, “Since you’re the one with the super strength and damsels in distress, you can get the stuff out of my trunk.”
When she laid eyes on the Winchesters, she stopped moving for a moment before erupting into a giant grin and hair fidgeting. “Hell-o! Buffy, are these your damsels? They are quite undamsely.”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Anya, this is Dean and Sam Winchester. Dean and Sam, this is Anya Jenkins.”
She popped into the chair between Dawn and Sam, covered the teenager’s ears and half whispered, “Just so you know, I am very single and sexually adventurous.”
Dean could barely contain himself at the sight of his brother’s wide-eyed surprise. “Hey-ya, Sammy, why don’t you help the lady with her stuff,” he teased.
Beet red, Sam glared at his brother while Anya led the tall hunter outside.
The moment they passed the door, Dean broke into a belly laugh. “Is your friend always like that?”
“Anya’s always been a little different, and she’s not my friend.”
“Ooh, hostility. What’d she do? Hit on your boyfriend?”
“No, you jerk. We just…went to high school together.”
Looking cooler than when they left, Sam and Anya returned with a couple boxes – one full of books, the other magic paraphernalia. Anya unpacked the latter in the living room.
“Sam filled me in on some of the details Buffy left out.” She looked annoyed, her jaw in a crooked pout. “Which milk carton child am I locating first?”
“Us.”
“Okay, let’s start with the big maps then.” She lit candles, arranged crystals, and mixed potions, but when the dust settled over the map, nothing came up Winchester. “That’s odd.”
“You’re preachin’ to the choir of odd.”
“But you’re right here in front of me. You should have at least lit the map in Sunnydale, let alone wherever else you are. Unless, of course, there’s some sort of spell blocking you from being seen.”
Sam and Dean looked at each other innocently.
“Why- why are they doing that? Are they telepaths? That’s very rare in humans. Are they witches?”
“Neither,” said Buffy. “They just do that. Can you do the spell again?”
Taking inventory of her supplies, she said, “A couple times. Maybe three.” She clasped her hands together and gave the boys a big, fake smile. “What else do you have for me, demon hunters? I am here to help you!” Sam must have mentioned it when they were outside. Buffy had warned Anya to keep her identity as a vengeance demon secret but feared telling her why would prevent her from helping.
Again, the locator spell couldn’t find Bobby Singer, John Winchester or Jessica Moore.
She started to repack her box of magic items. “Feel free to keep the books, Buffy. That’s all that survived Willow, and I don’t need them spreading their fiery, veiny memories around my apartment.”
Anya reached out and held Sam’s hand while running the fingers of her other hand through his hair. “You are the poster boy of sex, but it’s just not going to work between us. Sorry.” And she was out the door with her box.
Red again, Sam stammered, “That was, uh, um, uncomfortable.” He pulled a thick volume from the box Anya left, and set to transcribing before Dean could harass him.
Dawn had passed out on the couch, The Codices of Realms open on her chest. Dean and Buffy were putting together some sandwiches. Considering the occasional giggle and mutter floating in from the kitchen, Sam guessed the activity was more physical than normal. It was obvious that first night that Buffy was into Dean, but Sam had hoped it would have taken them longer to start this…entanglement. Granted, Dean was charming and singularly focused. This was not going to bode well for them if they needed to stay in town.
He’d copied a full page of notes from Notum Daemonia to English. Demons, it said, could only come to Earth via one of a handful of Hellmouths. Buffy had explained to them earlier that Sunnydale, the high school in particular, was on one, hence all the monster activity in town. They sounded a lot like a devil’s gate, including that they needed a special key to be opened. Also familiar, demons could only be killed with certain mystical weapons. Here was a book that made sense. He flipped to the index of known demons in the back. Before long, his stomach flipped. At the bottom of the page was a familiar name: Azazel. Sam turned to the demon’s page and started transcribing as fast as he could.
“…then shoved her real head into the meat grinder,” Buffy said as they came back to the dining room laughing together at the morbid punchline.
Buffy called her sister. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty! Lunch!”
“Sammy, what’s wrong? You look kinda pale,” Dean said through a mouthful of turkey.
He shoved the book at his brother. “Here! Look familiar?” There was a quarter page woodcut of a demon with leathery wings, spiral horns, four arms, and yellow eyes. Underneath, the name Azazel.
“No way. This ugly son of bitch is Yellow-Eyes?”
“Get this! This book is called Known Demons. The Latin reads, ‘Azazel, a high-ranking servant of The Demon-Maker, is most known for making deals with the desperate which require the sacrifice of their children. Unlike some of the more belligerent lower castes of demons, Azazel is well-versed in manipulation. However, do not be fooled as he will lash out if his intended target is not swayed. He is distinct among demons for his four arms, yellow eyes, and ability to breathe fire.’” The Winchesters stared at each other, shaken from the same dark memory.
Dawn asked in a small voice, “Who’s Azazel?”
Dean, hand over his mouth and practically green, handed the book to Buffy. “That’s the bastard that killed our mom, only he didn’t look like that. He was always a spirit possessing some poor schmuck’s body.”
“If he didn’t look like this, how do you know it’s him?” Buffy asked.
“Because he came for me when I was six months old. He struck a deal with our mom when she was still a teenager and didn’t know any better. When she tried to stop him…”
“He set her on fire,” she whispered.
Sam nodded.
“Where is Azazel now?”
“Fucker’s dead. I killed him ‘bout three years ago. He got our dad first, though. Sam’s girlfriend, too.”
The silence crushed the room.
“Remember when I was, uh, trippin’ through the Veil?” Dean asked Sam as he grabbed the book and started flipping through it.
“Yeah?”
“Well, I could see the demons through their meat suits, see their real faces. (Ruby was hideous, by the way. All teeth.) Anyway, I saw Lilith. I remember she had these freaky goat eyes and oily white scales everywhere.”
He stopped turning pages and handed the book to Sam. There was another woodcut of a pale demon with picene scales, thin limbs, and horizontal pupils. The Latin under the picture read, “Lilith: the first demon. Knight of Hell.”
One thing. One thing connected the realities they knew – the Host of Hell.