I apologise to everyone who placed the previous version of this story on their favourite and follow lists. It is the same story, I've just tweaked it a bit. I always wanted to put in a prologue, but could never think what to write for it, but now it's done. I hope you can enjoy this version. So... on with the story. Thanks, Pixie
SPN~HP~BTVS
Prologue
Ducking under the blade of the axe swinging for his neck, he came up behind the demon and rammed his knife into its back, before yanking it out and running on. He had neither the time nor the inclination to make sure it was properly dead as he swerved around cars and jumped over garbage; he had one focus and one focus only.
And it didn't involve being topside when the monsters descended.
Not yet.
The fence was a few feet ahead but he didn't slow his speed, instead he sped up, driving muscular legs up and down more ferociously. Once he was within reach, he sent his body to the ground, sliding underneath the gap in the fence, feet first in a full baseball slide. As soon as his long body fully cleared the fence, he came up running, sprinting in the direction of Homebase; an old subway station and the place they had called home for the past few years.
The stairway entrance to the subway station was guarded twenty-four-seven, as were the two escape routes they'd miraculously been able to keep secret. The six on guard duty tonight were immediately on alert as he rounded the block and shot toward them without reducing any of his speed. Terry and Rich were forced to jump out of his way, the rest calling after him for information.
He knew he should pull himself to a stop and explain, but there was no time. Pounding down the stairs, all he could do was call over his shoulder, gruff voice echoing off tiled walls, "They're coming!" and hope the guards knew what their jobs and positions were.
He had his own job to do.
SPN~HP~BTVS
He held back the screams that wanted to vacate his lungs as he sprinted up the stairs, keeping a firm hold of the very precious bundle draped over his shoulder. A large dirty-white sign stating level 13 flashed in front of him momentarily as he rounded the railing to the next staircase to take them further upwards. Just three more levels to go.
"Just three more, kiddo," he spoke aloud to his son without realising it, his brain needing the stimulus to keep going, to keep pushing his legs up and down.
As if his body needed any more incentive to keep going. He could feel the fresh warm blood draining down his chest, through his thin t-shirt. Gunfire and screaming echoed up and around the staircase from the ground floor below, those of his party doing all they could to impede the demon army's advancement so he could reach the top.
They wouldn't last much longer. He hated to think it, but it was inevitable.
A few hundred against thousands… there was no conceivable odds to that.
His little boy cried out over his shoulder as they took a sharp turn around the next guardrail to continue upwards.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry, kiddo, just hang on, please hang on …" he trailed off into a whisper, his breath becoming shorter; lungs hammering against at least four broken ribs.
He had to get there. He had to reach the top; there was no other alternative. This was the core of their two years of planning. It was what all those below and others scattered across the compound were willingly sacrificing their lives for. It was what the rest of his family had died for.
A burst of speed suddenly spread through him. He shot a quick glance at his son, whose small hand was now resting against his chest, a spark of energy seeping out of the hand and into his body.
"Stop that," he ordered, "you need to save your energy."
"W-won't nee-need it if we d-don't get u-up th-there soon," his boy stuttered out through hisses of pain.
As much as he wanted to dispute that statement, his kid was right. All the energy in the world wouldn't change the outcome if he couldn't get them both up to that specific spot that was central to their plan succeeding.
"All right, buddy, just hold on for me. We're nearly there."
Reaching the sixteenth floor moments later, he slammed his way into the open and abandoned space, turning back around to close and secure the door with the three consecrated iron and holy water infused beams that had been hauled up here only a week prior.
Being as careful but as swift as he could, he manoeuvred his son into his arms and gently lay him on the floor in a relatively cleaned space. With a quick inspection he took in his son's injuries – and had to stop himself from either throwing up or breaking down into sobs. Right now neither action would be productive to his son whose chest was riddled with slash marks from a hellhound. His boy was shivering having succumbed to the effects of blood loss and shock and there was nothing he could do.
"Jesus," he breathed, choking back a sob as he stared deeply into his boy's pain-filled gaze, trying desperately to give him a flimsy smile full of all the comfort and reassurance his child was craving. He had to bite down hard on his bottom lip to stall its trembling from the impact of seeing the clear knowledge of what was coming staring back at him.
"No," he shook his head, "You gotta hold on for me, baby. You can't go, just stay, okay, I need you to stay, kiddo," he whispered, his denial full of its own futility, unconsciously running his hand through the boy's messy and dirty dark hair.
He didn't have the supplies to fix his son's wounds – nor could he fix them; there was too much damage.
God, this couldn't be happening, not again.
The barred door behind him was slammed into from the other side, numerous growls echoing through, but they couldn't get in, so he ignored them. For now.
"Its ti-time," his son told him, voice weakening.
He wanted to beg and plead once again for his boy to stay with him; his little boy was all he had left. His son coughed, a harsh body rattling cough that sent blood spraying out of his mouth. He pulled the sleeve of his t-shirt down and used it against the heel of his hand to wipe away the blood from his son's mouth, all the while still staring into his child's heavy-lidded hazel eyes.
The right side of his son's mouth turned up, blood-tinged lips trying for a half-smile, but it was more of a pain-filled grimace. A small, shaky and blood-covered hand reaching up, coming to rest on his left cheek, gentle fingers trying to trace a thick scar flowing from eyebrow to chin. He brought his own hand up to rest against the back of his son's, stilling the shaky movements, his throat tightening painfully as he turned his face into the small hand.
"Lo-love 'ou, Da-Daddy," his boy whispered a tear slipping down his pale cheek, seconds before he felt a sensation of being shoved through a space too tight for his body's capacity, white light exploding around him.
"NOOOO!" he screamed, trying to stop his son… but his child was no longer there.
No… that wasn't right.
He was no longer there.
He was no longer in that abandoned building; no longer with his son.
His son…
He stumbled to the side, catching himself on what he would later realise was a utility pole. He could feel the rays of the sun beating down on him in all its intensity from high above in the blue-blue sky, pain shooting through his eyes as if they had long ago become unaccustomed to such vibrant colour; the colours of his world having grown dull and lifeless.
He raised a hand to shield his eyes so he could lift his head fully to take in his surroundings; booted feet planted on a dirt track joining to a road around fifteen feet to his left. To the right the track ended at a pretty old looking white-slatted farmhouse. A large barn lay a little ways off to the left of the house, fields of dirt surrounding both buildings. An older guy was walking the short distance from the barn with a large bale of hay in his hold, loading it into the bed of a red pick-up truck - one that had seen better days.
Pushing himself off from whatever he was leaning against, he took a step in the direction of the farmhouse, one arm curled against his chest trying to protect his suspected broken ribs. His chest was tight and painful, but he took another step, barely swaying, and made his way up the track.
He came to a stop behind the guy who was now tying down a tarp over the bales of hay stacked in the red pick-up truck.
"Hey," his voice was hoarse; sounding as if he hadn't consumed fluids in a long while. Which could be true; dehydration hadn't really been on his top-ten list of things to think about the past few days.
The guy turned to face him and immediately backed up into the side of the truck, wariness written across his aged face as plain as day. He was startled to find himself surprised by the look. He then quickly realised it was because the people he had been surround by the last few years had lost the wary looks a long time ago. At least they had once they'd grasped the fact he was also a person, a father, and not just the hard-assed leader of the resistance.
Or… it could be the gun he still held in his hand; the weapons strapped across his back; the knife in his belt. The blood… NO! He firmly told his brain to shut the fuck up. He refused to go there.
"Mister, we don't want no trouble now, ya hear." He blinked as the guy spoke, the voice shaking. "You just be on your way now."
It had been a long time since humans had been afraid of him.
Well the monsters hadn't been either by the end.
He reached out, gripped the front of the man's jacket, startling the guy, but he didn't retreat. He needed that small contact to anchor himself to the here and now. "Year?" he asked, voice still as dry as the fields surrounding them. "The year? What year is it?"
The man stared at him wide-eyed, still tense and cautious, surveying him as if he had lost his mental faculties – which maybe he had – but he watched as the guy's dark, wary eyes, softened into a warm brown in just the slightest way a moment later. "It's 1972, son."
He stared back at the guy for a good minute, before he found himself whispering, "1972."
"Yes, son, 1972," the guy responded as if he had voiced it as a question.
He blinked.
It had worked.
God damn it, it had worked.
But… it hadn't gone to plan; his son was meant to be here with him!
Yet… his son had known, hadn't he.
He had known he was never going to make it and had done what he had to; sacrificing himself in the process.
His son had become just another statistic of death; joining the billions before him. But it was a loss that couldn't be tallied on any graph or chart. It was a loss that broke something deep inside of him.
He collapsed to his knees, head bowed low, the salt-water of unchecked tears more powerful than the blood, dirt and grime coating the rough skin of his face as rivulets were hewn down his cheeks.
None of it was right.
He had been fighting for years.
He never thought he would lose it all.
He was supposed to go first.
He was so tired, so fucking tired of it all.
He had seen the entire world go to shit.
And now… now he had lost everything and everyone he ever loved.
Everyone …
SPN~HP~BTVS
A/N - Edited 17/01/15 - Added a few physical characteristics to the characters to hopefully make it easier to read. Thanks to Paxloria for the suggestion