Bad Hunts, Good Nights
Title :: Bad Hunts, Good Nights
Rating :: FR13
Disclaimer :: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.
Prompt :: childe_strife/Buffy, Dean, Jo/“No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife in the shoulder blades will seriously cramp his style.”Bad Hunts, Good Nights
Sam remembers running into Jo on a hunt gone bad.
Brown eyes narrowing and glossed-mouth twitching as they both watch her partner lay Dean out before turning on him with a glare that rivaled anything Bobby had ever shot his way when he failed to move his idjit-ass quick enough.
He’s use to that sort of treatment and it doesn’t faze him in the least.
Her short stature, more petite than Jo, and scarred mouth intrigues him, but Dean was already opening his mouth and Sam fails to get a word in edgewise—for the next two weeks.
They team up on the next three hunts before Jo gives in and acknowledges, over beers and crappy bar food, that the four of them made a decent team. Buffy—the scarred blonde—doesn’t acknowledge much of anything other to snap at Dean for ganking her fries and stab at his hand with her fork.
They mutter and curse and Dean continues to steal from her plate.
By the third stolen fry Dean’s hand is bleeding, Jo is laughing, Buffy is back to eating and Sam is stuck shaking his head and wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into.
Six weeks and three long nights later Sam finds himself holed up in an abandoned warehouse with a bleeding Dean, a cursing Jo and demons hot on their tail. Idjit-ass comes to mind in description of the three of them, but Sam wisely keeps the comment to himself as he works his way through chalking a devils trap on the floor.
The door beside him shudders and groans; the salt line in front of it is spreading outward before a shriek on the other side startles him and his hand tenses, chalk breaking before Sam is scrambling to finish the trap. He gets the last line completed as blood seeps under the door and his brows draw down as the door rattles with a knock and he hears Buffy on the other side, “Your cavalry has arrived.”
Sam turns, meets Jo’s gaze with his brows raised and she shoots him a sheepish look, “There’s probably something I should tell you about Buffy.”
Dean’s disgruntled, “Ya think?” has him nodding in agreement.
They were real and Buffy was one.
It also made a hell of a lot of sense.
It isn’t until the third month Dean notices that while there are two beds in Jo and Buffy’s room only one of them gets any use at night. This revelation has his brother silent and watchful for another full week before his swagger is back and his smirks are just a little too smirk-y for Sam’s taste.
Granted he’s interested by the concept as well, he does have a dick and likes sex—no matter what Dean implies—but he’s also pretty certain Jo would kick his ass and Buffy would break him. His brother, however, only sees this as a challenge and not a deterrent.
It’s five am and their group is well into its sixth month of working together when Dean stumbles his way into their shared room with a sated smile and Sam rolls over onto his stomach, away from the light spilling in from the streetlamp outside and Dean’s obvious urge to share the night’s exploits.
There’s a shuffle and a thud as his brother discards his boots and Sam’s just feeling sleep tug him back under when a rough voice whispers, “Sammy?”
“Shut up, Dean.”
His mutterings get a chuckle and the urge to hit something makes his palms itch before Dean settles himself into his bed and Sam pushes his face deeper into his own pillow.
Idjit-ass comes to mind again before he falls asleep.
Blood is making a steady trail down the side of his head and there’s a pounding, which reminds Sam of a sledgehammer demolishing concrete, reverberating through his skull, but the part that worries him is the tingling in his extremities. That is never a good sign and the idiot chanting over his head in Latin, really bad Latin actually, isn’t helping the pounding any.
The urge to just tell the idiot that he’s doing it wrong almost has Sam speaking, but he snaps his mouth shut with the clink of teeth, and a searing pain. He really shouldn’t help the bad guys. It’s poor form when the good guys do it according to Buffy and Sam really has no urge to piss her off—at least not again so soon.
She has a temper—and a nasty right hook.
The book hits the concrete beside him with a thud and Sam tenses, head turning with a stabbing pain and he squints at Dean and the knife his brother has buried in the idiot’s shoulder. A small fist, there’s that right hook, hits the wannabe witch’s—are they still called a witch if it’s a dude—chin and blood and something that looks suspiciously like a tooth flies from the idiot’s mouth and he’s down the for the count.
Sam dips his chin and cocks his head, staring at the hilt sticking out of his assailant’s back and frowns. “Is that my knife?”
“Thought you’d appreciate it, princess.”
He snorts and absently shrugs his shoulders. “I’d appreciate you more if you untied me.”
“Oh no, not yet.”
Sam turns, catches sight of Jo with her phone pointed towards him and he sighs even as she snaps a quick photo with Buffy and Dean on either side of him—smiling like jackasses.
He should be pissed.
Sam’s pretty sure he’s got a concussion and his saviors took their sweet time untying him and if Jo keeps her promise of emailing those pictures to Bobby he will never live this night down.
A night in which some idiot gets the drop on him and Buffy, whose touch is about as gentle as Dean’s, stitches him up but it’s the fact that he’s sandwiched between Buffy and Jo and Dean is acting like he got the last cookie is what almost makes this shit’tastic night worthwhile.
Jo lifts her head from his pillow and orders Dean to get them ice so she can change the pack that’s pressed against his head and as Sam watches Dean mutter his way from the room he knows a bad hunt does not always mean a bad night. The end.