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Lachesis's Knot

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This story is No. 5 in the series "Road to Morning". You may wish to read the series introduction and the preceeding stories first.

Summary: This time it's not a 'where' but a 'when'. Sam really should stop touching everything in sight. Road to Morning story.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Supernatural > Buffy-Centered > Theme: Action(Past Moderator)FaithUnbreakableFR131339,7181212132,03815 Aug 1029 Dec 10Yes


Disclaimer: Both Buffy and the Supernatural crew belong to their respective creators. I make no money off these stories and I have no rights to any of the hot guys.

A/N: So, here we go, next part of the series. I'm still fixing some details, so the next chapter might be a week or two, but then I'll update regularly, promise. A big thank you goes to Amusewithaview, who betaed this story and pointed out the details I'm currently trying to fix. Thanks for making the story better.

Warnings: A lack of plot, lots of slow going character moments and a boat load of emo midnight conversations, some of which happen in broad daylight. Which doesn’t change the face that they’re emo midnight conversations. Also, temporal confusion, gratuitous overuse of the word ‘kid’, weird dreams and my brain.


Lachesis’s Knot


Lachesis: The second of the Moirae, the Greek Fates. Clotho, the first, spins the thread of life, Lachesis allots the length and Atropos, the third, cuts it in the end.




“Where the hell is my knife?!”

“Wherever the hell you put it, would be my guess,” Sam snapped right back at his brother, trying to zip up a duffle bag and navigate the room without stepping into the greenish puddle of demon goop on the floor at the same time.

Only five minutes ago, the puddle had been a vaguely humanoid demon with a knack for traveling through time. They’d been hunting – and regularly losing - it for the past week and had apparently found it sometime the next day. The demon had gotten out of the fight – if its angry and in some places incoherent yelling was to be believed – and traveled backwards through time to get them before they got it. Or something along those lines. The whole case had been confusing from beginning to end because the thing jumped through time so often, that it was impossible to establish anything approaching a sane pattern of movement.

They had then proceeded to trash their motel room completely while battling one helluva pissed off demon (which Buffy called a Chronidian when she wasn’t intentionally butchering the name and Dean simply referred to as ‘the fugly’) in their nightclothes. Predictably, they’d won. Braining a monster to death with a lamp while wearing nothing but panties and a tank top was admittedly a new thing even for Buffy, but dead was dead.

That had been five minutes ago. They’d wasted a good ten seconds just staring at the rapidly decomposing pile of goop, breathing hard and trying to figure out what had just happened. Then they had heard the first voices outside and exploded into action, throwing on clothes, gathering their stuff and arming themselves to the teeth in case fugly had a few buddies who could willy-nilly beam through time and space and right past their salt lines, too.

“Do you hear sirens?” Buffy asked as she stuffed the last of her clothes into her bag and started making knives disappear along her body. “I hear sirens.”

“Nope, nothing yet,” Sam supplied distractedly, finally managing to pull the zipper shut on the t-shirt that was trying to escape.

“Two minutes then,” the slayer prophesied without looking up from her task. Dean kept cursing under his breath, almost ripping drawers out of their fittings in his frantic search for his favorite hunting knife.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s probably under your pillow, man!” Sam finally snapped, already stressed enough without his brother’s bitching in the background.

Dean threw himself onto the bed like it was a life raft and he a drowning man. Sam rolled his eyes and shouldered his bag, trying to skirt the demon goo again in order to see if they could get out through the bathroom window. But then, while stepping over the remains, something shiny caught his eye and he automatically crouched down to inspect what had gotten stuck in the quickly decomposing corpse.

It was a piece of jewelry, from the looks of it. An amulet, Sam remembered. The demon had been wearing an amulet when it had appeared in the room. According to his research, those amulets were the source of power of that particular kind of demon. They used them to harness their energies or something, to make them useful. Either way, leaving it lying around where anyone could find it was probably not a good idea.

Dean moved in his peripheral vision, knife firmly tucked away in his jacket pocket, duffel in hand. Buffy had gotten everything together as well and was just twisting her hair into a messy bun when Sam reached out to fish the amulet out of the goop and tuck it away before they made for the hills.

He never saw Buffy’s eyes widen comically as she saw what he was doing, but he heard Dean’s angry and panicked yell of, “Sammy!” just as his fingers touched the dark red center stone of the amulet.

Buffy grabbed him, trying to pull him back from the thing, but his fingers seemed to sink right into the stone. It didn’t hurt though, just felt really funny. Sam wondered what he had gotten them into by touching that thing and if Henriksen was going to celebrate tonight, after the police had identified the splatters on the walls as the Winchester brothers. Would be sad, getting killed by random demon bling after all the shit they’d been through in the past few years.

He let himself be jerked to the side by the slayer who had a hold of his collar, the jolt not really registering as a strange feeling of vertigo hit him. He was only peripherally aware of Buffy latching onto his brother’s hand before everything started going fuzzy and real colorful. Both his companions were cursing up a blue streak by now, but all he heard was a strange rushing sound, like his ears were rapidly filling with water.

His last thought was a completely random memory of the first time Dean had told him that he wasn’t allowed to go around willy-nilly touching everything in sight. He’d been six and just cut himself on their dad’s favorite machete because he’d been looking with his fingers again.

Then he hit the ground hard and didn’t think at all anymore for one, glaringly painful moment.

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