stock: typewriter

Fic :: Jagged

Title :: Jagged
Rating :: PG15
Spoilers :: All of season 1-2. None of season 3.
Disclaimer :: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. No infringement intended. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.
Summary :: There are things that, once broke, can’t be repaired but sometimes they can be rebuilt. Written for blue_icy_roseand for the Rt. 66 Valentine’s Day Fic-A-Thon. 

The engine rumbled to a standstill and Dean rolled his shoulders back, neck tilting to the side as he stretched before lifting his hand free of the keys and shoved it into Sam’s shoulder. His brother snorted, jerking away from the window his forehead had just thudded against and turned toward Dean. Who smirked at the steadily spreading red mark and the narrow-eyed glare he was getting.
“Shut it, Sammy. We’re here.”
With those as his parting words he yanked the keys from the ignition and put shoulder to door, shoving it open and spilling him into the early morning sunshine. The keys to his baby were lost to one of the many pockets of his leather jacket as he closed the door with a whine and a bang. Dean patted the Impala’s roof absently before letting his gaze settle on what was left of the Roadhouse, his lips thinning at the sight.
The passenger door gave the same painful, needs oil, groan as Sam closed it and Dean turned, arched a brow at his brother. They both flinched, shoulders rolling forward as their heads swiveled back toward the Roadhouse and the sharp sound of wood splintering. Their brows rose in unison as a hole formed in the back wall, spilling light into the gutted and charred interior. He met Sam in front of the Impala before they made their way through the knee high weeds and toward the back of the bar.
The repetitive sound of something heavy striking wood, cracking it hurried Dean’s stride as he managed to distance himself from Sam and paused when he caught sight of a petite form and long blonde hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. He watched thin arms lift a sledgehammer up and over defined shoulders before bringing the metal end forward and into the edge of the steadily growing hole.
His brother’s shout brought his head to the side, “Wrong.”
Sam turned to him with a frown, “What?”
“That’s not Jo.”
“What? How can you tell? Her back is to us.”
“Exactly,” his brows rose as he offered with great certainty, “wrong ass.”
“Dean. You can’t tell—”
“Please I’d know that ass anywhere.”
Sam’s missed a step and nearly stumbled. “Dean, you didn’t. Dean?!”
He turned, left Sam behind him as he made his way closer and frowned as he noticed a rhythm to the sledgehammer’s falls. Ignoring Sam’s muttered, “dammit,” and the sound of his boots crunching the dried grass as he followed, Dean came to a stop a few feet behind the blonde.
The sledgehammer struck the wall and more wood splintered, widening the hole.
Her shoulders tightened, bringing the sledgehammer up and forward again before Dean noticed the earphone wires snaking out of the back of her tank top. Green, hazel flecked eyes rolled as Sam reached his side and he stepped forward, caught her sweat slicked shoulder and had to duck and scramble back a step as the sledgehammer swung where his head had been.
The hammer struck a solid section of wall and lodged there as green eyes settled on Dean and widened, “Winchester?”


The blonde’s head lifted, eyes growing wider at the sight of Sam pointing a compact shotgun at her chest. “Um, Sam?” She yanked the earphones free and motioned to the weapon, “Could you point that elsewhere?”
The youngest Winchester sighed and lowered the cut-down Remington before he found himself with an armful of Slayer. Her embrace tightened to just this side of painful and Sam winced, offering weakly, “Breathing becoming an issue.”
“Oh!” She pulled back and grinned up at him. “Sorry! It’s just—”
“Good to see us. Yeah, yeah. What the hell are you doing?”
Her lips pursed, “A pleasure as always Dean.”
His head cocked, lips quirking. “Never heard you complaining before.”
She rolled her eyes and stepped back, gloved hands wrapping around the wooden handle of the sledgehammer and she gave a sharp pull, dislodging it. She swung it downward, letting the metal tip hit the dirt before propping it against the beaten wall.
Dean arched a brow, “What? No hug?”
Tugging the gloves from her hands, Buffy arched a brow at him before turning to Sam, “What’re you guys doing here? Ellen mentioned that you were off with Bobby.”
His chin dropped in agreement, “We were but…”
His voice dipped off and Buffy offered, “Trail cooled?”
“Pretty much.”
She shrugged, “Happens—”
“Are you listening to Zeppelin?”
Buffy stiffened with the confusion and trace of outrage in Dean’s voice, “What?” He motioned to the earphones draped over either shoulder and she caught the lifting of Sam’s lips as she stated, “Yeah, so?”
“Are you speechless?” Sam laughed.
“Shut up, bitch.” Was Dean’s absent reply before he stated, “I never pegged you for liking good music, Summers.”
Her lips thinned, “What else am I suppose to listen to as I break down a wall and,” her head rose, green eyes catching his stare head on as she lifted a brow, “When did you ever take the time to ask, asshead?”
He snorted, “Why bother.”
Sam’s brows rose with the way her tone matched Dean’s from only moments before. “So why are you breaking down a wall?”
“Ellen gave us a call a month or so ago. Let us in on what was going down in the States.” She frowned at Sam, “Which you both failed to do.”
“Didn’t know we owed you anything.”
Buffy’s head swiveled and she narrowed her eyes on Dean, “You obviously don’t, but a heads up would have been nice.” Buffy shrugged, “Eh, water under the bridge.” She paused and her lips lifted upward with an excited grin, “Hey, I said it right!”
Sam coughed to cover his amused chuckle before steering the conversation back on topic, “Ellen called and told you about the Roadhouse? Why?”
“Well I use to work here for starters.”

You worked here?”

 Her brows pulled together and she glared at Dean before crossing her arms and asking, “What’s that suppose to mean?”
“Well, princess, you’re not exactly the Roadhouse type.”
“Whatever brain-trust,” she turned from Dean to Sam, “I came back to the States soon after Ellen’s call and tried to help her anyway that I could.” She shrugged, “Or more precisely anyway that Willow could.”
Sam’s head cocked, “Willow’s here?”

“Nah, her and Kennedy are still living it up in South America. She made with the mojo and hacker-ness to get Ellen the insurance money to cover rebuilding.”
“Ellen had insurance?”

Buffy quirked a brow at Dean, “No, hence the need for Will’s skills,” she frowned, “Ugh, that rhymed.”
Dean glanced at Sam to share an amused, if somewhat confused, smile before turning back to her. “Need help?”
His hands smoothed over the wheel before Dean turned it with a gentle nudge of his right, helping his baby ease its way free of the parking space between a minivan and Buffy’s rental. His gaze settled on the little two door sedan and his lips thinned before he shifted focus and brought the wheel straight before shifting into drive. His boot grew heavier on the gas and the Impala crawled its way forward.
Without warning his foot lifted and dropped on the brake, hard enough to bring Sam forward against his seatbelt and his own knuckles to turn white as he held himself motionless with the help of the wheel.
“Sam, I’m as good as dead in a few months.”

Sam blinked, struggling with the sudden and abrupt topic, “Dean—”
“No.” He shook his head and slipped his baby back into park, “Screw it.”
With the keys left in the ignition and Sam calling his name behind him Dean jogged his way back to the hotel room that had been beside his and Sam’s for the past week. A room he hadn’t set foot in once but found in his thoughts more often than not. Found the room’s occupant in his dreams. Snaking her way in like she had before when his world had held some semblance of a future.
The fist hesitated a spilt second before it dropped, side first and more than once. There was a pause when Dean knew she was checking the peephole before she said his name in confusion and opened the door. Her face was makeup free and still damp from the morning regiment of washing before moisturizer that she had followed since she was seventeen.
A line formed between her brows and she offered, voice still confused, “Did you forget something?”
His jaw tensed and his hand flattened on the door, shoving it open and Buffy stepped back to avoid being hit. She said his name one last time before he invaded her personal space and slipped a hand beneath the plastic clasp that held her hair up and away from the nape of her neck where his callused fingers settled.
He felt the muscles tense beneath his touch as she swallowed and her eyes grew wide as he drew her closer. Gave her that slow moment to shove him away—kick his ass—but she didn’t. Instead her eyes shuttered, lids heaving as he finished those last few inches between them and their lips meet. Mouths fusing in the most basic of ways when the personalities behind them didn’t, couldn’t.
Her lips softened beneath his, parted and her tongue slipped out, tracing the inside of his upper lip before her hands rose to grip his shoulders and she pulled herself up. Brought them chest to chest as she rose on tip toe and his mouth opened, fingers tightening on the back of her neck as he dominated the kiss, tried his damnedest to dominate her—again.
Her hand rose, cupping the back of his neck before slipping upward to draw her nails through his hair, score his scalp and he grunted. Brought his mouth down harder against hers and she simply opened hers wider. Welcome him with open arms, like before, when he had run on her. Left her alone and without a second glance.

Remorse had him pulling back, her heat had him gasping for breath and her quick, shallow pants tightened his jeans. “Christ.”
She blinked up at him before correcting, “Buffy.” He snorted and stepped back, pulling her with him and Buffy stumbled a little with his quick movement. “What are—”
His boot caught the edge of the door and nudged it closed with a thud that interrupted her words. The hand caressing the back of her neck, rose and grasped the plastic clip before dragging it free from her hair.
 “Now let’s see if you remember my name.”
Her brow quirked, “Dean.”

His lips twisted, “I don’t mean right now.”
The End.

  • Current Location: Home
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  • Current Music: Black Dog - Zeppelin

That's probably not the reaction you were expecting from me of all people, but there it is.
Hope you don't mind that I friended you. I've read your fanfic on, and have seen you around on Lisa's journal. You're very good, btw.

Anyway, this is a lovely fic! Buffy with a sledgehammer, breaking through the back of the The Roadhouse, seems like a wonderful metaphor for her stealing her way into Dean's thoughts. It'd take a sledgehammer to get through that guy's thick skull, and Buffy is just he girl to do it.

Great story! Loved the detailed descriptions.