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To Walk This World

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Summary: Illyria lived seven lives at once and walked between worlds at will, but now she’s stuck with one body in one world, and must learn to adapt following the death of Wesley.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Supernatural > Fred/Illyria-Centered(Moderator)DemonaFR1523,2291143,66430 Dec 0730 Dec 07Yes

Dean's Guide on How Not to Catch a God-King

TITLE: To Walk This World
AUTHOR: Demona
FANDOM: Angel the Series / Supernatural
PAIRING: Sam/Fred/Illyria sorta
CHARACTERS: Sam, Fred/Illyria, Dean, mentions of others
WARNINGS: Spoilers for Supernatural All Hell Breaks Loose Parts 1 & 2
SUMMARY: Illyria once lived seven lives at once and walked between worlds at will, but now she’s stuck with one body in one world, and must learn to adapt following the death of Wesley.
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, the CW, etc. The characters of Buffy belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, the WB, Fox, etc. The ideas and concepts in this story are mine entirely. Please do not copy or take this story without my permission.
NOTES: Written for the Holiday Fic-A-Thon for EenaAngel. I hope this fits what you were looking for!
Thanks to Kayla Shay for the beta and for the title to Dean’s story. *hugs*

Dean’s Guide on How Not to Catch a God-King

The first time Dean met Illyria, he got his ass handed to him by a ninety-pound Goth girl with cold, blue eyes and matching hair. Sam wasn’t around to witness the fight, thankfully, but just as soon as Dean’s blood had been spilled, the girl quit fighting him. She cocked her head to the side, studying him with a stillness that no human could ever possess. “You smell like him – how can that be?” she asked, voice devoid of any emotion. Dean didn’t get an opportunity to answer or even consider the question. He lunged, sensing a moment of weakness in his female opponent, only to have her knock him down like she was swatting at a mere fly. He woke up alone, with absolutely no idea where the Blue Bitch had gone.

The first time Dean met Fred, she served him up a hot meal and a cold beer at the Roadhouse. Ellen said the Roadhouse was a safe haven for hunters, and occasionally a few strays. She was cute, reminded him of Andrea, but with an edge that Andrea had never possessed. She was sweet and Texas-southern, easy to talk to and a great listener. She was actually kinda perfect, which is why Dean immediately suspected she was a demon. The chunky blue streaks could be passed off as rebellious, but the flash of ice blue eyes confirmed it. Little did he know she was a thing the demons feared – a thing that existed long before God and Lucifer and the eternal war was created from belief.

When she returned with another beer, Dean snagged her wrist, fingers wrapping tightly, completely, around the delicate bones. Sam raised an eyebrow at his actions but remained silent.

“Christo,” Dean breathed out, deliberate and just loud enough for the three of them to hear.

“Oh come on Dean!” Sam bitched, shocked at Dean’s behavior.

But Fred didn’t flinch, though her eyes did lift up a little in confusion. “Bless you,” she offered with a hint of uncertainty. Dean immediately released her wrist and let her go.

It made sense to Dean, in a rare moment of rational thinking, to test his demon theory with Fred before he declared her evil in the middle of a bar full of single-minded hunters. So he put his plan to work much later that night, after the bar had closed, and everyone was passed out for the evening.

He snuck downstairs into the Roadhouse bar room and carefully painted a Devil’s Trap on the ceiling above the main dining area. Fred had worked through that area constantly the night before and this evening would be no different. When she got stuck it would be all the proof he needed. Satisfied with his handiwork he packed up his supplies and trudged back upstairs to the room he was sharing with Sam.

That night he arrived to the bar early, slowly nursing one beer – much to Jo’s dismay – as he kept his eye out for Fred. She arrived a few hours later, smiling and greeting the hunters as she made her way in through the front door. Dean’s hand tightened on his beer bottle, fingers sliding against the condensation, as Fred stepped into the Devil’s Trap.

She stopped walking and looked up at the intricately painted markings on the ceiling. A smile appeared on her face as she turned her head to meet Dean’s gaze head on. He was automatically reaching for his gun as he rose from the table. Her eyes bled from brown to ice blue as her face became a little harder, a little less human, and more of whatever she was when she had kicked his ass.

Deliberately holding his gaze, Fred moved forward and walked out of the lines of the Trap. His mouth dropped in shock, not quite understanding what had just happened. She broke eye contact to glance back up at the Trap. Dean followed her gaze and his beer bottle slid from his fingers, crashing down onto the table, as the painting disappeared right before his eyes.

He wasn’t all that offended when Sam refused to believe him later. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he believed it himself.

That night Dean lost every penny he’d earned from hustling a couple college boys a few nights prior. Hustling hunters didn’t work, but they were always up for a game of pool, even willing to wage their scarce money, when their pride and skill was insulted. And Dean was good, good enough to fool the others into thinking he wasn’t, and good enough to beat those who’d been at the game longer than him. But that night he missed every big shot, tripped over his own feet as he circled the table, and managed to knock out one hunter when his cue ball jumped the table with alarming speed.

He’d felt eyes on him all night. And when he finally gave up, broke and frustrated, he threw his cue stick on the table and headed to the bar.

“Looks like you’re having a rough night,” Fred said, all concern and southern charm. Dean glared back at her in return. “This one’s on the house,” she added and placed a cold beer down in front of him before sliding out with a tray full of drinks.

Dean grabbed the bottle and took a long pull from it. The taste hit him after he’d swallowed it down. And he couldn’t help but gag – she’d salted the hell out of his beer. When he finally spotted her, she gave him an amused smile, eyes flashing ice blue for a second before returning to the warm brown that fit Fred Burkle.

It was then that Dean decided to up the ante and show this bitch exactly who she was dealing with. Though, looking back on it, Dean realized it probably didn’t require a whole bucket of holy water to determine possession. And he would have done things differently, given the chance. But as it was he threw an entire bucket of blessed water on Fred, soaking her white tank top making it see-through, and angering the table of hunters that also got sprayed. And she didn’t sizzle, more like just stood there shocked and dripping wet.

Sam’s punch caught him off-guard and dropped him to the floor. The last thing he saw before the lights went out was the bucket spinning on the wet wood floor and Sam’s boots entering his field of vision. He was beginning to think he may be the one with the problem after all.

When he came to, he stumbled off the cot in the kitchen, and out into the bar. It was empty except for the five people sitting at the bar. Sam looked up first, eyes silently apologizing for hitting his brother. And Dean acknowledged it with a slight dip of his head that sent pain shooting around his face.

Ellen handed him an ice pack and a cold beer as he slid onto the barstool. He offered her a smile of gratitude as he drank half the bottle before applying the ice pack to his face.

“I’m not a demon,” Fred’s southern voice broke through the silence. He turned to look where she sat on her stool next to Sam. “At least not like the ones you are used to dealing with,” she added with a small frown. She took a look around at the people surrounding her, carefully reading their faces. Finally, she spoke again, “Demons, your demons, rose from the muck long before humans did. But I was there before it all, before the world became as it is,” her voice changed, flat and emotion-less and so very reminiscent of the Blue Bitch that had kicked his ass.

“I was once Illyria, God-King of the Primordium. This shell was once a human called Winifred Burkle. But neither of us exists entirely anymore, so I have chosen to accept, assimilate myself with the scum that once oozed at my feet. I have chosen to fight, to help save your pathetic way of life rather than see the demons rule.”

Dean just stared at her for a moment before he snorted and shook his head. “Well, ok then.”

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