Disclaimer: Everything BTVS & AtS belongs to Joss Whedon and Co. Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke. No copyright infringement intended.
Time-line: Takes place after BTVS ends and after 2.2 for SPN.
Ages: Faith and Buffy are in their mid-twenties. Sam and Dean are the ages they are on the show.
Spoilers: All of BtVS and possibly all of SPN as well.
Pairings: Buffy/Dean and Faith/Sam.
A/N: We'd like to take a moment to thank Specks for her amazing beta abilities. Without her, we would flounder aimlessly through the SPN/BTVS fanscape looking for someone to point us in the right direction. She is our spiritual and intellectual leader who could easily talk us into drinking any sort of Kool-Aid no matter what poison she spiked it with. All hail Specks!!!
Confused, Sam looked around. The last thing he remembered was… Well, the last thing he remembered clearly was getting into another argument with Dean, his older brother. They were in yet another dive in another nondescript Midwestern town and all he’d wanted was to have a beer with his brother and unwind. Maybe talk about their meeting with their father, the ill-fated fight with the Devas. Definitely talk about Meg and her disparagement of their relationship. He knew her accusations had wounded Dean, especially since they'd seemed to be getting closer, and he was eager to do some damage control and fix things again.
What he wanted and what Dean wanted, however, never quite seemed to parallel. While Sam wanted to down a few beers and bond, Dean, apparently, wanted to get shit-faced and hustle pool. After a heated exchange, Sam had left Dean alone at the bar and walked back towards their hotel, downing the rest of his Rolling Rock on the short walk. Arriving back at the rundown motel, he pitched the empty bottle into the bushes carelessly before entering the dimly lit room and tumbling onto the bed. Flipping onto his back, he heaved a frustrated sigh and brought his hands up to cover his face.
"Fuck," he groaned, thinking over the events of the past few days. Resolving to try to talk to his brother again, he pushed up from the bed and crossed the few feet that separated him from the door. Pulling it open, he stepped quickly outside and turned back to bolt the door. Hearing an unexpected clap of thunder, he looked overhead. Heavy clouds hung low in the sky, partially obscuring the full moon. Focused on the developing weather, he didn't see the obstacle in his path and let out a vehement curse when his knee connected with the solid object.
"Son of a bitch! That's going to leave a mark." Leaning down to rub his knee, he caught sight of what he'd run into. "What the hell?" Sore knee forgotten, he spun rapidly, taking in his surroundings. His hotel? Gone. The path he'd been on scant seconds ago? Also gone. Instead Sam found himself standing in a field, surrounded by a cluster of headstones. As he tried to orient himself, the sky opened up and warm, heavy drops of rain pelted him.
"At least that didn't change," he laughed mirthlessly. Sighing, he pulled out his cell phone and started dialing Dean's number, knowing he'd never hear the end of this from his big brother. Putting the phone to his ear and waiting for it to connect, he ducked his head and realized he was standing on someone's grave. He immediately took a step back and gave a little shudder. Years of exposure to demon hunting and graveyards still creeped him out. He was pretty sure Dean felt the same way, not that his older brother would ever willingly admit such a thing.
Waiting another few seconds and getting no response, Sam squinted at his phone through the steady drizzle. No signal.
"More bars in more places, my ass," he grumped, turning off the phone and sliding it back into his pocket just as an incredibly loud roll of thunder sounded. The unexpected noise rattled him and he fumbled the cell, allowing it to fall to the sodden earth below. Rolling his eyes at his own antics, Sam bent to retrieve it just as a bolt of lightening snaked its way across the sky, illuminating his surroundings. Beyond the low fence surrounding himself and the graves he'd stumbled upon, the young hunter saw a stately mansion. Low lights shone from the windows and a surge of hope passed through him as he set out to ask if he could use their phone.
Loping in the direction of the house, he was about to hurdle the fence when a man with an umbrella appeared out of nowhere, directly in front of him. Hoping to avoid a collision with the stranger, Sam did the only thing he could think of: He dropped to the ground and slid to a stop. The bald man barely spared a glance at Sam, his attention riveted on something near the house.
"Jesus Christ!" Sam's frustrated utterance got the man's attention and he turned to examine the young man critically.
"Jesus was a feta man," he intoned soberly, holding out a silver tray lined with slices of various cheeses in invitation.
Stymied, Sam shook his head and said the first coherent thing that came to mind, "Oooooh-kay then."
He had a million questions for the tweed-clad man but found himself unable to verbalize any of them. Tilting his head, he was considering where to begin when he saw the reflection of a woman in the man's glasses. Following his gaze, Sam saw a dark haired young woman running along the side of the house. As he watched, she sprinted around the corner of the house and out of sight before reappearing, this time with a snarling, furry creature close on her heels.
"Werewolf," he breathed uneasily, patting his pockets to see if he had any weapons that would help him dispose of the creature. Finding none, he glanced around for anything he could use to save the girl. As soon as his gaze rested on the tray his mysterious companion had offered previously, he snatched it from the smaller man's grasp and dashed after the girl and the monster who'd been chasing her.
Making his way across the damp earth, he slid a bit as he rounded the corner he'd just watched them turn. Coming to a stop, he watched the girl dance in front of the growling creature twice her size, managing to avoid its snapping jaws and razor claws and even landing the occasional blow to knock it back away from her.
Springing into action, Sam rushed toward the werewolf, tightening his grip on the ornate serving tray as it swung in the direction of his target.
Caught off guard by the distraught cry of the female behind him, Sam's swing lacked follow-through and the blow glanced harmlessly off the werewolf. Sam's momentary distraction as he glared at the slight blonde who'd diverted him cost him, allowing the werewolf to knock him into the dark haired girl, sending them both sprawling in the mud.
His head jerked to the side at his brother’s voice, and he slid in the mud trying to push the blond off him so he could get up. Her hands were too strong, and he writhed in her grasp for a moment meeting her cold, green stare with trepidation.
The hands holding him down no longer had pale, pink fingernail polish. Nor were they soft and small. He panted as he stopped struggling and found his brother staring down at him in concern.
“Sam, you were dreaming.”
Dean's words sounded short, but his tone was soothing. Sam relaxed, falling back in the bed and let out a long breath. He shivered, trying to shake off the dark images of the dream. The last thing he’d recognized was the sign on the cemetery wall – Bonaveture.
“Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil,” he muttered causing his brother’s eyes to widen in concern.
Sam shrugged, “How do you feel about a trip to Savannah, Georgia?”