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Those Left Behind

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Summary: In the war against the machines, everyone has lost someone they love. (BtVS, Supernatural, Terminator-verse)

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Supernatural > Buffy-Centered
Movies > Terminator
(Moderator)DemonaFR1522,5551122,5421 Aug 0911 Aug 09Yes

Testing the Waters

Title: Testing the Waters
Author: Demona
Rating: PG15
Crossover: BtVS, Supernatural, Terminator
Pairing: None at the moment
Disclaimer: The characters of BtVS belong to Fox, the WB/UPN, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc, Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, the CW, etc., and Terminator belong to Fox, James Cameron, etc. The ideas and concepts in this story are mine entirely. Please do not copy or take this story without my permission.
Summary: It was during the fifth mission that Connor sent them on that Buffy almost died.
Warning: Set in the Terminator verse – anything could happen
Word Count: 1820
Author’s Note: Set post Buffy S7, Supernatural S4, set post-Judgment Day in the Terminator verse
Beta: The wonderful KaylaShay

August 11th Entry for TwistedShorts



It was during the fifth mission that Connor sent them on that Buffy almost died. They were two of the best trackers that Connor had – two of the best at covering their own trail as well. Connor had sent them to find two people: Sciuto and McGee. No questions were asked as to who they were or why they were important, only what they looked like, where they’d last been seen, and how Connor wanted them returned.

Buffy’d been worried about the metal for the last fourteen odd years. Demons had gone to ground, and humanity banded together against a common deadly foe. She should have realized that not all humans would band together, would stand side by side and fight. That some would sell their souls to the devil, metal at the moment, in exchange for a reprieve from death. While Buffy and Winchester tracked Sciuto and McGee, someone was hunting them.

The gunshot came out of nowhere, startling in the silence of the dark cover of night. Buffy jumped and crouched down as the sound echoed through the rubble.

“Fuck,” Winchester swore as he ducked behind the mangled Ford truck and pressed against her side. The contact burned, set her side on fire, and she shied away.

“Shit,” she muttered as she felt the dampness of her clothes. Even in the inky darkness she knew it was blood soaking her jacket. “Damnit, I’ve been hit,” she swore as she transferred her gun into her left hand and wrapped her right arm around her stomach to press it against her side.

“What?” Winchester hissed as he faced her. “That hit you?” he asked, skeptical at the idea.

Gunshots peppered just above their heads and Buffy flinched as the sounds rang out. Sam reached out, fingers pressing against her side, and she tried to shy away but had nowhere to go.

“Shit,” he swore under his breath and shifted slightly to slide his hand under her jacket, under the layers of thin, worn clothes, to press against her skin. “Did it go through?” he muttered as his fingers slid along her stomach, searching for an exit wound.

“Don’t know,” Buffy managed to get as she tried not flinch as he pressed into her stomach and fire spread through her insides. She coughed, iron flooded her mouth and her lips drew down into a frown as she added, “Doesn’t feel like it though.”

His hand slid out from under her shirt and leaned out from around their crappy cover. More shots sprayed the rubble around them and Sam ducked his head back in. “They’re closing in,” he said even though he knew she’d figured that out.

Her fingers tightened around the gun in her hand as she tried to draw her legs back underneath her.

“Whoa, where do you think you’re going?” he asked and pushed a heavy hand down on her thigh.

“Not going out laying down,” she replied and struggled against his hand. Her side pulled, causing more blood to soak her shirt and she sagged back against their cover in defeat.

“They’re not taking us out, period,” he told her as he pulled off his jacket and stripped off his long-sleeve shirt.

“Damn it, Buffy,” Winchester’s voice jerked her back to consciousness as he finished tightly tying his shirt around her middle, trying to staunch the bleeding. “I need you to stick with me,” he urged her and grabbed her chin, his fingers wet and sticky with her blood.

She struggled to focus on Sam as darkness crowded the edges of her vision. “What?” she muttered, her words slow and weak even to her own ears.

“How many? How many do you feel out there? It’s important. None of them can get away.”
His eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them. Blackness bleeding out from his pupils to finally cover his whole eyes. Demon, the Slayer in her hissed, coming to life with a vengeance and heightening her awareness.

She blinked and Sam’s normal hazel eyes stared down at her. She saw fear there, fear and anger, so much anger.

“Focus,” he pushed and shook her head sharply, rattling her teeth.

Buffy pushed her senses outward, past the swirling blackness that resided in Sam, and into the wreckage around them. “Three,” she answered, not entirely sure. Her senses focused on one more further behind the group. “Four,” she amended and drew him a rough map in the dirt at her feet.

He drew in a sharp breath as he studied their positions for a moment before nodding to her. “Keep your head down, okay?” He waited until she nodded before he thrust her gun back into her hands, wrapping them tightly around it. “I’ll be back. Just…just hang in there. I’ve got to go deal with this problem,” he practically spat out the last word.

“Sam,” she called out, reaching out for him before he could leave. “Be careful,” she whispered.

He gave her a nod and shifted until he was in a crouched position behind their cover. Buffy’s hand slipped off his arm and back down to the gun in her lap. He gave her one last look that chilled her. Sam’s eyes had gone solid black, and again the Slayer in her rolled and stretched, recognized him for what he was, demon. His face was expressionless, colder than before when she knew him as Winchester, not Sam. And she wondered who or what this was that looked down at her. Vaguely, as Sam pushed himself to his feet and the darkness completely took her under, she thought she heard the Slayer whisper, kin.



Buffy cracked her eyes open only to squeeze them immediately shut as the harsh overhead light blinded her. She took a moment to access her own physical condition. Her side ached, a dull throb with each heartbeat and she felt the drugs coursing through her veins, dulling most of the pain. She was on a bed, in a med based on the smell. She tried to move but a heavy weight trapped her left arm. Panic rose in her throat, her heart rate sped up, and she forced her eyes open, squinting against the light.

“Easy Summers,” a familiar voice broke the silence and her right hand was squeezed gently.

“Connor?” she forced out through dry lips and severe cottonmouth. She tilted her head to the right, out of the glare of the light, and the tired, worried face of John Connor came into view.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked her and forced a smile to his face that came out looking rather grim instead of comforting.

“I’ll live?” she phrased it as a question rather than a sure statement, hoping he would fill in the blanks. Bullet wounds were certainly her least favorite of injuries.

“Told Winchester it’d take more than a single bullet to take you down. Though you passing out didn’t help support my argument,” he told her and a small but genuine smile graced his face this time.

“Where’s Sam?” she asked, worried.

“Drooling on your arm.” He nodded to Buffy’s other side.

She turned her head to find Sam passed out against her left arm, face soft and gentle in his sleep even though it was covered in dirt. She stared at those closed eyelids and got a flash of solid black staring back at her. She blinked and the image was gone.

“How long have I been out?”

“You’ve been in and out for about a day. You apparently insisted that if Winchester was going to bring you back in that he lost all chance of a tail. You almost bled out before he got you back.” His voice was disappointed, upset, sounded like he was mad at her for getting herself shot. Instead he gave the sleeping and drooling body on her other side a worried, considering look. “Would have if you’d been with anyone else,” he muttered under his breath.

Sam was standing between her and one of the men that had been following them. His right hand was outstretched toward the bound man lying at his feet, his left hand balled in a tight fist at his side, knuckles going white from how tightly it was clenched. The man was screaming, eyes terrified and bulging, even though Sam wasn’t touching him. Abruptly the scream cut off, the man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped over and then Sam turned his attention on her. The solid black of his eyes scared her more than they had earlier. His nose was bleeding, a slow trickle of thick, red blood dipped into the corner of his mouth and continued down his chin. He reached out with his left hand, unclenching his fist, and pain split apart her chest as something pushed its way inside. She tried to fight it, opening her mouth to tell him to stop, but an uncontrolled, brutal scream tore through her throat, until the darkness took her again.

Buffy sucked in a deep breath, shaking her head as she tried to rid herself of the memory. “I’ll go back out to track down Scuito and McGee. The trail won’t be too cold,” she said and gave a weak nod, almost to herself. She’d failed John Connor. Almost gotten herself killed, almost gotten Sam killed.

Connor let out an exhausted, frustrated sigh and scrubbed his hands over his face. When he looked back down at her, her Commander was back, fierce, steadfast in the face of chaos and danger. It was the man she respected, the man she’s chosen to follow into the hell the metal had created without a second thought to her life. “There never was a trail, Summers.”

“What?”

“Those two, they exist, and I’d love to find them but the intel was fake, made up to set a trap.”

“A trap?” Her brain struggled through the drugs to keep up.

“SkyNet wants them too and would stop at nothing to keep us from finding them. And I’ve suspected for a little while that we have a mole.”

The words chilled her, sent fear spiking through her and tightening her stomach. A mole in Connor’s camp. A spy for the machines. She mentally flipped through all the faces of those she’d seen in the camp but was unable to come up with anyone that would turn and side with the metal.

“And they took the bait by coming after us,” she whispered.

He gave her a silent nod as he rose from her bedside. He reached down and gave her hand another squeeze before he turned and left her alone. She swallowed around the bile that rose up in her throat. It was bad enough that they had to worry about the metal, about the possibility of the demons returning, and now the added worry of their turning on them was almost too much to bear.



The End

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