Each Mile Drags Me FurtherAuthor:
I DO NOT OWN. All recognizable characters and situations belong to their respective owners and I make no profit off of this.andom(s):
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/SupernaturalRating:
Buffy Summers/Dean WinchesterPrompt:
Table #3 prompt #6 “You still pull me home” at Route 66:destination Sunnydale's "Would You Still Have Fallen" table challenge.Spoilers:
BtVS post Chosen, SPN season 1 “Pilot”Summary: He drove across the country hunting down one evil son of a bitch after another but he always felt it, that pull back to her, that pull home that let him know there was a place where he was wanted and loved.Author’s Notes:
Beta'd by IceBlueRose (Nicole) who is awesome. This was the first idea that hit me when I read the prompts so it was teh first one I wrote. It's been awhile since I've written Buffy/Dean so I felt a bit rusty but I hope you guys enjoy this, please take the time to let me know if you do.
For awhile now it’s just been him and the road, the Impala roaring under his hands and AC/DC a soft soundtrack in the background. Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t always have to blare his music. He only did that when someone else was in the car but it had been just him for awhile now.
Sam had been at college for a few years now, doing the whole normal routine that he had wanted so badly, and the seat where he used to seat beside Dean has long grown cold. Unused, abandoned.
He had even been losing contact with his dad recently. They went on different hunts and only meet up now every few weeks with John giving him a new hunt and then they once again went their separate ways.
A guy was bound to get lonely, to want something more. To crave some kind of affection, hell even attention and Dean had never been good without someone’s attention.
He had met her on one of the solo hunts his dad had sent him on. A young girl had been showing violent tendencies in and out of school and when she had bloodied her father, it had made the newspapers. It might not have been a newsworthy case if the girl hadn’t been 13 years old and her dad over 200 pounds.
Dean had spent a week looking into the girl and had finally started making progress when a short, blonde babe had knocked him flat on his ass, literally, and told him to mind his own business.
That had only made him more curious about the girl, about the girl and one Miss Buffy Summers. Turned out little Buffy had more of a record than he did and that was including the fake IDs.
She was a violent thing with a long list of “suspected” murders and arson.
So he had assumed she was some kind of creature, because to him it made sense, and had tried to waste her.
That hadn’t turned out so well.
He had been laid up in the hospital for two weeks and on pain meds for a month after that. Since he was on bed rest for a good amount of time, he had learned all about Slayers and how a mystical calling had been responsible for 13 year old Susie Michaels beating the crap out of her abusive father.
It wasn’t love at first. Definitely lust though when Buffy had showed him some scythe shaped weapon she had acquired that was the stuff of wet dreams.
She wouldn’t let him play with the wicked beauty so he had stuck around for a few more months and wormed his way into her good graces and other places because the scythe wasn’t the only thing Dean was drooling over.
Buffy Summers in black leather was a knock out and all his.
He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when his feelings for her had changed. He figured it had been a gradual, over time sort of thing because if he had realized sooner what was happening, he would have taken off.
He could pinpoint the moment he had realized he loved her. They had been lying under the ruins of a factory they had followed some voodoo sorcerer into and the guy’s death had resulted in the whole thing collapsing. They had been trapped under a pile of rubble, wrapped tightly around one another, and as Dean had watched Buffy’s eyes close, a thin line of blood seeping out of her mouth, he had panicked. Hell, he had lost it.
He didn’t remember Willow moving the stones off them or the invisible force that had lifted them into the air. All he could remember were his arms wrapped tightly around Buffy’s body and her heartbeat against his hand.
He loved her, he couldn’t lose her.
A month later, his dad had called with another case, a big one that they needed to work together and Buffy had slipped a silver ring onto his left hand with the promise that if he wore it, she would always know where he was.
Sometimes Dean loved magic, the crap Willow could do was freaking awesome.
So he had left, but it hadn’t felt like leaving. He still had a place there, with her. His clothes were in her closet, his gun was at her waist, his
ring on her finger even though it would be a long time before he could do anything about it.
It had become their bed.
He drove across the country hunting down one evil son of a bitch after another but he always felt it, that pull back to her, that pull home that let him know there was a place where he was wanted and loved.
He had been raised on the road. They hadn’t had a home, the closest thing had been the car his Dad had passed on to him and seedy motels scattered across the U.S.
For the past six months, there hadn’t been a break in any of the cases his dad had sent him and only one had led him close enough to spend a weekend wrapped around her. Too much time had passed and he was getting a little grouchy but the phone calls helped.
They let him know that she hadn’t forgotten, that she was still living, still waiting, still there.
He had spent a week with her before his Dad had stopped calling and this time when he left, he knew it would be a long time before he got back and she’d known it too. He was going to look for his dad and if that didn’t work, enlist Sam’s help because she couldn’t help him with this and he couldn’t do it alone.
So he had kissed her lips and ran his fingers through her hair and breathed in the promise of her - that no matter where he went his compass would be pointing him towards her and that was something that he couldn’t forget. His mom was dead, Sam had willingly left, and his Dad had seemed to stop caring but he would always have her.
She had taught him to believe in that, to count on it.