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Beware the Deadly Sign

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Summary: SPN BtVS Xover. What would Sam be willing to trade to save his brother's life? What soul might the Crossroads Demon want more than Dean Winchester's? The Slayer's, maybe?

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Supernatural > GeneraltexasmeercatFR1824,494041,30116 Sep 0718 Sep 07No

Chapter One

BEWARE THE DEADLY SIGN

A SN/BtVS xover

By Texasmeercat

Synopsis: What would Sam trade to free Dean from his Crossroads pact?

Rating:   PG-13

Spoilers: SN--through end of Season 2, particularly “Crossroad Blues” and “All Hell Breaks Loose.” BtVS--everything canon is at risk.

[Author’s note: No you won’t escape the evil AN. They follow you everywhere. This one, however, will be short and too the point. Too late, I know. I don’t own anything even remotely related to Supernatural. Except the DVDs. I own nothing whatsoever of the BtVS universe. As a matter of fact, I have seen very few Buffy eps, so there are bound to be inconsistencies in this story that true Buffsters will find annoying to the extreme. I will do my best to avoid those. I have an excellent beta in Iroshi, who is in fact a Buffy fan, so that should cut down on the gaffes and goofs.]

 

Blitzkrieg

[Metallica, originally performed by Blitzkrieg (Recorded in 1981)]
[- words and music by Ian Jones, Brian Smith and James Sirotto]

Let us have peace, let us have life,
Let us escape the cruel night.
Let us have time, let the sun shine,
Let us beware the deadly sign.

The day is coming, Armageddon’s near,
Inferno's coming, can we survive the blitzkrieg.
The blitzkrieg, the blitzkrieg.

Save us from fate, save us from hate,
Save ourselves before it's too late.
Come to our need, hear our plea,
Save ourselves before the earth bleeds.

The day is dawning, the time is near,
Aliens calling, can we survive the blitzkrieg.


 

Chapter 1

 

     Less than three weeks. Twenty days. God, please help. We only have twenty more days to find a way out.

     Sam Winchester stared at his sleeping brother and fought the by-now-familiar urge to scream his rage and anguish. Another generic motel room, with its worn gray carpet, noisy air conditioner, and broken television set, and they were no closer to finding the one, elusive loophole that would release Dean.

     His wristwatch chirped midnight--another precious day gone. A pocket calendar lay in his trembling hands, its rat-eared pages lit by a single 40-watt bulb in the bedside lamp. Each day was marked with increasingly ragged X's. A closed laptop lay on the bed next to Sam's right leg. The machine's memory overflowed with articles, reports, charts, scenarios, notes, and contacts, all gathered for a specific purpose--to find a way out of the bargain Dean made with Hell, a way that wouldn't end with either of them in Hell.

     Nearly one year had passed since Jake Talley's knife had severed Sam's spine and stolen his life. Sam remembered the relief he’d felt, seeing Dean and Bobby coming up the muddy road. He recalled the sudden, white-hot agony in the small of his back, the sudden loss of all feeling, a slow slide to the ground, a hazy image of Dean’s anguished face hovering before his own then blackness.

     To bring Sam back, Dean had sold his soul to a crossroads demon. Together, the Winchester brothers killed Jake and, even more importantly, the yellow-eyed demon responsible for murdering their mother and Sam’s fiancé, but the price was way too high. Their father John Winchester had clawed his way out of the pit but so did several hundred demons and hell-sent souls.

     The intervening eleven-plus months had passed in a never-ending blur of hunting and research. Between killing dozens of fiends, imps, and spirits released by the opening of the Devil’s Gate in southern Wyoming, Sam had exhausted every conceivable avenue of inquiry, called in every favor ever owed to his family, traveled the length and breadth of the country, without success. And now, time was running out.

     Sam wracked his brain for even one new idea. It was no good. To the best of his knowledge, only one option remained open--if he only had the nerve to take it.

     Dean had the courage. So do I. Like him, I'll do whatever it takes to save my brother’s life. I won’t stand by and let a hellhound drag his soul into the pit.

     Sam stared at his sleeping brother for another five minutes, memorizing everything, from the way Dean's sandy hair stood on end in a bad case of bedhead, to the tipsy little twitch in the corner of his mouth, to the way his lips puffed in and out in rhythm with his breathing. The room smelt faintly of whiskey, both from his sleeping brother and from the open, half-empty bottle on the bedside table.

     Once certain his brother would not awaken from his liquor-induced slumber, Sam slid a photograph, bones from a black cat, and a bottle of graveyard dirt into an old tin box. He dug the Impala's keys out of Dean's jacket pocket, paused to stroke Dean’s hair one last time, and quietly slipped out of the hotel room.

 

SN SN SN SN

 

     Sam pressed down on the disturbed earth with the sole of his right shoe and tamped it in place. The summoning ritual was complete. It wouldn't be long.

     He waited.

     The word “crossroads” had many definitions. It could be a place where two roads intersect, or a point at which a vital decision must be made, or a main center of activity. Tonight, for Sam Winchester, it would be all three.

     Light from a bloated moon bathed the red clay farm-to-market road outside of a small town in the North Texas Hill Country in a deceptively gentle light. Sam couldn’t remember name of the place--after so many years on the road, the towns all ran together.

     Insects rustled and buzzed in the mesquite brush and cacti that lined the roads. Sandstone cliffs stood in the near distance, eroded by time, wind, and rain. Nothing moved.

     He looked north then west then south then east. Still no movement.

     “Where are you, bitch!”

     “Oh, for the love of Hell, not again. I just did this script!”

     Sam spun around. The crossroads demon stood behind him, cloaked in shadow. The strapless scrap of crimson cloth--the color of blood--that served as her only piece of clothing melted into the darkness. Straight, hip-length black hair framed a superficially beautiful, pixie face.

     The demon stepped out of the deeper shadows and into the moonlight. She rolled her black eyes and groaned.

     “Don't you Winchesters ever tire of making deals with Hell? Isn't there something in your stupid little Hunter's Guidebook, some rule against making pacts with devils?”

     Sam ignored her ripe, snide commentary. This would be his one chance, his last chance to save Dean. Please, God, don’t let me blow it.

“I want to make a trade: my life for Dean's.”

     “No deal. One soul is the same as another, after all. Your father John, Dean, you.” She shrugged a naked shoulder. “They all weigh the same on my scales.”

     “Yeah, but you don't have Dad anymore, remember?” Sam bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. It felt good to rub the demon's nose in that loss. “He got away from you. He climbed out of Hell itself and helped take down one of yours.”

     The demon scowled, her eyes flashing red. The barest hint of inhumanly distinct facial bones shimmered beneath her ivory skin.

     “With talk like that, I don’t feel much like making any bargain.”

     She’s right, Sam thought. I don’t dare antagonize her. I have to play this cool.

     The demon shrugged away the irritation and smirked, satisfied that her jab had struck him hard.

     With deliberate scorn, she said, “Not that it matters. Why would I need you? You've served your purpose. You helped Yellow Eyes open the Devil’s Gate--for a few minutes, at least--and unleashed an army. What good are you to me now? Just one more soul to clutter up the place.”

     “The Yellow-Eyed Demon is dead,” Sam wracked his brain for anything that might pique the demon’s interest, “but I still have the powers he gave me. You like power, don't you?”

     “It's not the kind of power I can use, sweetheart.” The demon waved her hand in the air, as though fanning away a bothersome gnat. “In twenty days, I'll have Dean. He's a guaranteed shipment.”

     Hips swaying a seductive rhythm, the demon stepped well into Sam’s personal space and stroked his jaw line from ear to chin. Her pointed, black fingernails raked across the dark stubble of a day-old beard. Sam shuddered and pulled away from the obscene caress.

     “No way out for him, sweet Sammy,” she purred. “That's the way the deal was made, the swap he agreed to--your return to life in exchange for his soul, due in full at midnight, one year to the day. If he does anything to try to welch or weasel his way out, anything at all, the deal breaks and you drop dead right where you stand.”

     “Look, there must be something I can do, some price I can pay. I'll do anything.”

     She paced away from him and shook her head. “You don't mean that.”

     “Yes I do.”

     The demon threw back her head and laughed. The land fell silent. Nothing dared make a sound, not even the tiniest insects.

     The breeze vanished. The air hardened, weighing heavy on Sam's shoulders.

     “Fair hearts and sacrifice, nobility and love--the things from which Heaven's martyrs are made.” The demon twitched her shoulders and scrunched up her unnaturally beautiful face. “It's sickening.”

     Desperate, Sam pleaded, “I mean what I say. Tell me what you want in exchange for Dean's life.”

     The demon shook her head again and took three steps down the northbound road before she stopped, a thoughtful expression on her face.

     “There is ... one thing.” An unholy smile spread across her features. “Yeeeessss. There is one soul I want even more than Dean Winchester's. Or yours.” The demon turned to face Sam, her eyes shining red as the fires of perdition. “Bring me the Slayer. Bring her to me, bound and helpless, ready for sacrifice. Do this, and I will release Dean.”

     Sam frowned, confused. “The Slayer?”

     “Not just any Slayer, mind you. I want one in particular. I want the Slayer.”

     Sam’s mind finally made the connection between the demon’s demands and a short, barely remembered entry in his father’s journal. “But ... the Slayer's a myth. She doesn't exist.”

     The crossroads demon twirled in her toes, a lascivious parody of an innocent tease. “Oh, she exists, pretty one. And thanks to the thrice-cursed Red Witch, 'she' is now 'they.' Every potential slayer has been Called ... at the same time.”

     “If there are so many of them, why would one Slayer's soul interest you?”

     The demon stared at him for almost two full minutes. Sam fought the urge to fidget under her soulless gaze.

     “The one I want is the oldest of them all. In the last ten years, she's done more damage than your family and every hunter ever born combined. Her life, and hers alone, will buy your brother back his soul.”

     Sam leaned against the Impala’s hood for support. He stared off into the night, unseeing, unhearing. He’d been prepared to sell his own soul, no question. But this ... thing ... this demand. How could he even consider her proposition? How could he possibly think about surrendering another life--an innocent life—even to save Dean?

     He struggled to remember everything he'd ever learned about the Slayer. Admittedly, it wasn't much. Great strength, agility, stamina, an instinctive command of any weapons. Resilience, tenacity, a warrior's spirit. Called young, usually in her mid-teens. Assisted by a companion called a Watcher, who had access to centuries of historical records and knowledge on vampires and demons.

     If the demon spoke the truth--the concept alone required a colossal stretch of the imagination--this Slayer was a powerful force for the Light. Her loss would be horrendous, particularly now, with an army of demons let loose on the Earth.

     A face leaped before Sam's inner eye--Dean, laughing, eating, yelling, sleeping.

     Dean. It's the only way to save Dean.

     “How ... I mean ... where can I ... how do I find her?”

     The demon scoffed. “What, you expect me to do your job for you? You'll have to work for it, dear sweet Sammy.” She tilted her head and smiled. “But I will give you one clue. Find the Red Witch. When you find her, you'll find the Eldest Slayer.”

     The demon slid her arms around Sam's shoulders and ground her body against his from breasts to knees. Their faces were less than an inch apart. Sam shivered--the Impala’s cold metal frame against his back felt warmer than the body that wiggled against his own.

     “Do we have a deal?”

     Sam clarified the terms of his bargain. “The instant I bring her to you, bound and helpless, Dean is free.”

     “Agreed. If you do it before Dean's trade comes due. That gives you twenty days, sugar.”

     Last chance to back out, Sam. Which one do I surrender to this demon--the Slayer or my brother?

     “Agreed.”

     Fighting the desire to vomit, Sam slammed his lips down on the demon' mouth to seal the bargain.

 

TBC

 
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