(10/30/2016) Yeah, this chapter was a lesson in not getting too far into characters' heads. My own father passed not five years ago very suddenly, although I'm fairly certain no demon deals were brokered. If you've still got your daddy, and he's a good father, make sure you show him. You never know when you might never see him again.

Anyways, enough with the melancholy. On to the melancholy chapter!

Thank you wolfpoke, RHatch89, IoSolUno (hello again!), philly cheese dude, missmeow1958, thedarkpokemaster, and Ace Trainer Jesse for the reviews! And Halloween goodies to all the favoriters and followers!


Buffy had no choice but to tell her mother what had happened. Naturally, she left out several pertinent details. Joyce then spent a hour with her daughter, shedding tears and sharing good memories, before making arrangements for Buffy to fly out to South Dakota. Dean had been adamant that her mother not come, as they had planned for a hunter's funeral rather than a conventional one, but Joyce decided on her own not to go. John's children, she believed, would be best off mourning him with only each other and not his vitriolic ex-girlfriend.

Sam and Dean picked her up from Sioux Falls Regional Airport and explained that Bobby Singer, an old friend, was handling the sticky business of getting their father from the hospital mortuary. Buffy was surprised to see the salvage yard that surrounded the man's home, and was even more surprised by the portly older man who answered the door. She'd figured that hunters were all rough drifters and the permanence of this place definitely said otherwise.

Bobby greeted her with a smile and a nod, called her "John's little girl, the Slayer," and invited them all inside. Beers were handed to her brothers, a generic lemon-lime soda can to her, and the three men got down to business. While they had discussed areas that would serve as a good place for the (highly illegal) funeral rites, Buffy took her chance to wander about the house.

The place was a mess. Books were piled in every corner, titles such as "The Black Compendium" mixed in with "The Dummy's Guide to Windows." Dust lay thick in areas where apparently nothing had been moved in a while. A squishy couch lay invitingly underneath a large window, surprisingly clear save for throw pillows and a blanket. On a wooden desk in front of the fireplace a myriad of dismantled weapons and occult items were strewn about in what must have been Bobby's personal organization system. Buffy picked up a silver bullet and admired it. "Shiny," she said to herself.

"Sure is," came Bobby's voice from behind her. Buffy jumped a little. "Deadly, too. If you're a werewolf or a shapeshifter."

"Well, far as I know I'm neither, so yay me." She put the bullet back where she found it. "Where's Jack and his Giant?"

"Out gettin' your father ready." Bobby cleared his throat. "Dean's wantin' to fix up that Impala of theirs, even though I told him all that's left is a pile of scrap. He's gonna be stickin' around for a bit. You staying, too? I can get you fixed up in a room upstairs."

"Yeah, I have another week until school starts. I think I threw enough clothes in my suitcase for a week. If not, could you take me shopping?"

The elder hunter looked absolutely terrified by the thought of having to accompany a teenage girl on a shopping excursion. He swallowed and replied, "Sam can probably take care of that for ya. I've, uh… I've got some, uh, research to be doin'." Buffy watched the man try not to scurry as he headed for the stairs. "I'll be on the second floor clearing a room."

"Chicken," she groused. Well, if she was going to stick around she was going to have to do something about the kitchen. Buffy was fairly certain Dean's whole menu consisted of burgers and fries and Sam's had various salads. By the number of cans in the recycling Bobby was a fan of various chilis and soups.

Buffy texted her mom and asked for some simple dinner recipes. Dean's appetite would make her barf, Sam's would starve her, and Bobby's was just unnatural. She was going to have to learn to cook or risk starving to death.


After a spaghetti dinner (which Buffy thought was a great success, even if the noodles were a little smooshy), the three siblings loaded themselves up into a barely functioning four-door sedan and headed out. Once they arrived at the isolated copse, the eldest brother tried to assign the job of cleaning the detritus to Buffy and leave wood gathering to him and Sam. In response, she promptly walked over to a large fallen tree trunk and hefted it onto her shoulder. She plopped it down in the middle of the clearing as easily as someone else would have dropped a stick. Sam took the more tedious job instead.

None of them spoke beyond what was necessary. The physical effort of gathering and building made conversation blessedly difficult. Each of them tried their best to think about pleasant things (Zeppelin lyrics, a college class that had made a profound impact, dancing with friends) rather than the task ahead.

Eventually the brush had been cleared and the funereal pyre built. Night had fallen by then. Sam and Dean retrieved their father from the trunk of their ride and laid him gently on top of the stacked wood.

Buffy stared. Corpses were nothing new to her; she did, after all, live on a Hellmouth. This was, however, the first time she'd ever encountered the corpse of someone she loved.

Her brothers backed away as she approached. John was wrapped in several layers of muslin, his features now anonymous beneath white cloth. She reached out to grasp where she assumed his hand was. He was cold, so cold.

"Buffy," Sam said quietly.

His sister leaned in and gave their father one last kiss on his cheek, the familiar stubble prickling her through his shroud, then walked to where her brothers stood. She and Sam held each other tight as Dean struck up a book of matches and placed it underneath the body.

John's younger children wept unabashedly. Buffy remembered the elation she'd felt every time he had shown up at their door. When she was little her father would pick her up and give her a tremendous hug in greeting, her brothers doing the same as soon as she was put down. Buffy's mother would then chide John over something or other, (sometimes fondly, sometimes not), Hank would glower, and then Buffy would get a wonderful day with all three of her male blood relatives.

When they were all together they always did something fun. A day at the park, watching the buskers on Hollywood Boulevard, exploring a beach. Buffy now realized that there had been a perceptible release of tension to her father's shoulders during those days that rose immediately when it came time for him to leave. Knowing now exactly what those "jobs" of his entailed, she believed that he had relished those moments when he could forget that there were monsters and just be a dad, even if it was only for a few hours.

Sam felt, most heavily, guilt. Their last few days together as father and son had been colored mostly by animosity, most of it on his own end. He'd just been so furious, so sure that all John Winchester wanted to do was set his sons' futures in order to ensure that the vendetta against yellow-eyes would last beyond his death. In that their father had at least gotten his wish; Sam and Dean were going to hunt that banana-eyed son of a bitch and put him down.

They were going to protect their sister as well. Slayer or not, John had made it very clear that he considered his youngest child, and his only girl, to be very precious. His boys had been with him for all their lives; the mission to avenge their mother a joint endeavor. Buffy was separate, normal (at least until this Slayer crap had come about). Those days when the four of them had been together were treasured. There were no monsters to be slain and innocents to be rescued; they were just the run-of-the-mill single father family doing their run-of-the-mill single father family things.

Their reality would snap back into place as soon as they were back on the road, but for those weeks or days or hours with his sister and her mother Sam would fall into the illusion of being just another little boy. Joyce's house was a bastion of stability and normalcy, Hellmouth be damned. Whatever happened next, Sam was going to make sure his sister would always have that regular life waiting for her on Revello Drive, and would never be consigned to the road and the hunt.

Dean was angry.

How dare his father lay this burden on him. Dean knew he should be dead, that no matter what anyone said his existence was an anomaly that blighted their world. It shouldn't be him standing here, it should be John. John was the one who should be immolating a family member; John was the one who should be dealing with the crushing grief of his children; John was the one that should be watching his youngest son for signs of corruption and evil.

Fuck you, dad, thought Dean.

Sam and Buffy had separated, the young girl huddling on the ground miserably. "Before he… before he went," choked out Sam, "did he say anything?"

Yeah, Dean wanted to say, he said that I gotta prevent your going Dark Side. That happens, I have to put a bullet in you. Instead, he told his brother, "No. Nothing."

It would take several hours for the cremation to be completed. After Buffy flopped over into the grass, exhausted by grief and travel, Dean pulled authority as the oldest family member and pressured Sam into taking her back to Bobby's. When they left, Dean considered taking the opportunity to air his grievances out loud.

Dean contented himself with muttering, "Fuck you, dad," and finished watching John Winchester burn.


The next few days were full of busywork. Buffy became fascinated with the way Bobby had to answer variously labeled phones. She tried to pick up one on her own, but when it turned out to be an irate member of the Cleveland Police Department she quickly handed it over. Bobby covered her lapse by telling the detective that she was his protege and still needed practice.

In the meantime, Buffy made a concerted effort to clear the clutter despite Bobby's grumbling that his stuff was being moved around. When her back was turned, the older hunter kept putting things back to their old, random places, much to Buffy's frustration. She got a good deal done when he and Sam left to Nebraska to get John's belongings out of his truck. By the time they returned she'd organized his books and dusted most of the downstairs. Bobby grudgingly admitted that the place looked and smelled better after Buffy's ministrations and left her to it afterwards.

Sam went through their father's things, mostly clothing and weaponry. Most of his time was spent breaking into John's cell phones. The voicemails he managed to retrieve were primarily old calls for help from other hunters. One or two were raunchy callbacks from questionable women. He promptly adopted selective ignorance towards what must have been his father's intimate proclivities.

Dean worked on the Impala and made spectacular progress. Seeing as how he banged, twisted, soldered, and cursed nearly 24/7 his accomplishment wasn't surprising. He rebuffed both his siblings' attempts to get him to take more than the most necessary breaks. The only lengthy one he took occurred after Buffy threatened to douse him in soapy water if he didn't take a shower. When he saw her grab a pail to make good on her word Dean threw down his wrench and marched his pungent self into the house and to the bathroom.

The third day after John's funeral found Dean underneath the Impala, Buffy scrubbing something that she thought might have once been a piece of cheese out of the carpet, and Sam going through yet another phone. Bobby was rummaging through books researching a creature some hunter had called about. He was fairly certain it was a shapeshifter but it was better to be safe than sorry.

"There!" Buffy exclaimed. She looked proudly at the formerly orange(ish) patch on the carpet. "That was disgusting."

"Man's gotta eat," Bobby said.

"Yes, but man should get more food in his mouth than on the floor."

"Bobby," Sam called from the kitchen, "do you know an Ellen?"

"Yeah, why?"

"She called dad saying she could help somehow with the demon. Do you know where she's at?"

"Runs a place called the Roadhouse. Let me get my contacts book…"

"First drawer, left side," Buffy said cheerfully.

"Thanks, kid," Bobby told her fondly. He retrieved the notebook and headed into the kitchen, Buffy on his heels. "Here," he told Sam as he handed over the book already opened on the requisite page.

Sam nodded and stood. "I'm going to drag Dean out from under the car. You got something we can borrow in the meantime?"

"Yeah, but you ain't gonna like it."

"I'm coming too!" Buffy proclaimed. She slapped the dirty rag onto the side of the sink and promptly rushed upstairs. "I'm going to pack some clothes for all of us," she yelled. "Tell Dean to get rid of his stinkage or he can ride on the roof!"

"She is definitely one of you," Bobby observed. "All sass and stubbornness."

Sam grimaced as he peered out of the window. "Yeah, well, let's see if I can get King Stubborn to move his ass out from under that damn car."


An hour later the three siblings were in a rundown family van with threadbare seats heading down Interstate 29 to Nebraska. Harvelle's Roadhouse was somewhere outside of Broken Bow and was going to take between four and five hours of travel to arrive (if, as Dean grumbled, the soccer mom hunk of junk even made it there).

Both Sam and Buffy eyed Dean askance as he drove. Their elder brother hadn't brought up their late father once since they'd scattered the ashes. Sam managed to let Buffy know that he'd tried repeatedly but always ran up against the classic Dean Winchester deflection mechanism.

They stopped midway because Buffy swore to sing Black Eyed Peas at the top of her lungs if Dean didn't let her use the bathroom, but other than that they arrived at the Roadhouse without incident. The brothers insisted that, since it was a bar, underage little sisters weren't allowed. She rolled her eyes and pouted, but stayed in the van while they approached (and then picked) the door.

Sam and Dean gazed about and took in the comfortably dim interior. Deep in the back they spotted a what looked like a body on a pool table. With trepidation Sam approached and poked it. "Hey, buddy?" When the hunter spotted the well maintained mullet he commented, "I'm guessing that isn't Ellen."

"So who is it?" asked Buffy.

Both brothers started, Dean going so far as to yell half an obscenity. When they saw who it was, they glared.

"What?" Buffy queried, aiming for innocence. "You left the door open."

After exchanging exasperated looks, Sam headed into the back room and Dean continued looking around the main area, Buffy following. "Uh, Dean?"

"What?" There was a fine selection of whiskeys behind the bar. If it wasn't for the fact that the owner was most likely a friend of their father's Dean would have poured himself a shot.

"There's someone else here."

Dean turned to find Buffy with her hands up. Another blonde, probably in her early twenties, had a rifle pointed at his sister's back. "I don't like guns," Buffy stated.

"Yeah?" said the stranger. "I don't like intruders."

Seeing the set of of his sister's jaw, Dean knew what she was about to do. "No, Buffy, don't—"

Buffy swiveled around and caught the rifle with both hands. She then proceeded to bend the barrel upwards, much to the gaping astonishment of her would-be assailant. "There!" the Slayer proclaimed happily before tossing the now useless firearm off to one side.

The other blonde then proceeded to throw a punch at the teenager. Buffy dodged easily and flung a kick out of her own which the newcomer barely ducked away from.

Dean made the mistake of trying to break up the now furiously engaged hand to hand battle. "Hey hey hey—" The blonde stranger parried one of Buffy's strikes then backhanded the hunter in the nose. He staggered backwards. "Sam! Need some help in here!"

Buffy had gathered the stranger into a headlock. At the same moment, Sam walked through the back door, his hands raised in surrender. An older woman had a shotgun aimed at his back. "Sorry, Dean, I can't right now. I'm a little tied up."

"Sam? Dean?" wondered the woman. "Winchester?"

"Yeah," the brothers said together.

"Buffy, I take it?" she directed at their sister.

"That's me!" she replied.

"Son of a bitch," the woman laughed.

"Mom," choked out the blonde.

"You three are John Winchester's kids," said the newcomer as she let her shotgun drop. "I'm Ellen, that's my daughter Jo. Sweetheart, do me a favor and let her go before she turns blue."

Buffy dropped Jo who sat down hard on the floor and rubbed her neck. She stared at the younger blonde, dumbfounded. "Why the heck are you so strong?"

After a quick glance at her brothers, Buffy lied, "I work out. A lot."

Dean had garnered the attention of Jo's mother. "You called our dad, said you could help. Help with what?"

"Well, the demon, of course," Ellen replied. "I heard he was closing in on it."

"What, was there an article in the Demon Hunters Quarterly that I missed?" Dean snapped. "I mean, who are you? How do you know about all this?"

"Hey, I just run a saloon. But hunters have been known to pass through now and again, including your dad a long time ago. John was like family once."

"Oh yeah? How come he never mentioned you before?"

"You'd have to ask him that."

Sam and Buffy did their best to mask how much Ellen's snippy response pained them. Dean covered it up with his rising temper. "So why exactly do we need your help?"

"Hey, don't do me any favors. Look, if you don't want my help, fine. Don't let the door smack your ass on the way out. But John wouldn't have sent you if—" Ellen caught a glimpse of Buffy biting her lip, then saw Sam turn away. "He didn't send you. He's all right, isn't he?"

"No," Sam mumbled. "No, he isn't. It was the demon, we think. It just got him before he got it, I guess."

"I'm so sorry," Ellen commiserated.

"It's okay," Dean said. "We'll be all right."

Ellen stared at him disbelievingly. "Really? I know how close you and your dad were."

"Really, lady. I'm fine."

"Dean," Buffy chided when she saw his fists clench.

"If you got something," Sam said quickly, "we could use all the help we can get."

"Well, we don't," Ellen replied. "But Ash does."

"Who's that?" asked Buffy.

The older woman tilted her head towards the body they'd inspected earlier. "Ash!"

With flailing arms and an inelegant snort the mullet-headed figure shot upwards. He gazed about blearily and asked, "What? Is it closin' time?"

"That's Ash," Buffy wondered flatly.

Ellen gave her a kindly smirk. "He's a genius."

The teenaged girl stared doubtfully at the young man; he was currently shaking his outdated hairdo back into its optimum shape. "Did he steal the wig from Joe Dirt?"

"No stealin' here," Ash proclaimed. "This 'do is one hundred percent natural."

Buffy gave him a tight lipped smile. "Great."

As Sam left to retrieve something from the van, Dean and Jo struck up a conversation and Ellen poured Buffy a Coke. "I thought you were in California," she said as she slid the glass over. "John said you and your mom were livin' the normal life out there."

Buffy sighed. "We were, until…" She hesitated, uncertain of how far to trust the Harvelles.

"Shit hit the fan?" Ellen offered.

"Pretty much. So now here I am with the flannel duo until the end of the week."

"Well, if your brothers are anything like your father you're in for one heck of a time. How old are you now, anyways?"

"Sixteen."

Ellen chuckled. "You're just a baby. I'm surprised your momma's lettin' you go across the country huntin' with your brothers." When Buffy squirmed, the older woman lifted an eyebrow. "She does know what you guys get up to?"

The young girl sipped her soda and tried to look innocent. Ellen shook her head. "That's a bad road to be going down, missy," the bar owner said as she brought out five bottles of beer. "The later your mom finds out the more hell there'll be to pay."

"Yeah, I know," Buffy sighed.

Ellen gave her a smile and reached over to pat the girl on the shoulder. "You got plenty of good family around here, kid, if things go bad. You just remember that, y'here?"

Buffy gave her a smile in return. She liked the woman. Ellen had automatically appointed herself a pseudo-aunt to the siblings, something Buffy hadn't experienced since her cousin Celia had died. Irene, Joyce's sister and Celia's mother, had cut contact after her child's sudden passing, unwilling to bear the pain brought about when she gazed upon her daughter's best friend.

It let Buffy feel better inclined towards Jo, who was doing her best, "I'm acting uninterested in you but really I want to jump your bones" impression for Dean. She was surprised to see that her normally lascivious brother so disinterested.

A few minutes later Sam returned holding a brown folder. The two brothers then dumped it in front of Ash and challenged him to make something of the nonsense they claimed was John Winchester's research. Buffy remembered peeking through the contents and couldn't fathom that it meant anything to anyone other than her father, but after spouting denials and several really long words Ash told them to give him fifty-one hours and it would all be settled.

The three siblings settled at the bar intent on having a few drinks and a meal. Ellen looked up at the wall clock and told Buffy, "Honey, five o'clock rolls around and I can't have you in here."

"We're going to find somewhere nearby," she replied. "I think."

Dean gazed doubtfully at the decrepit minivan outside. "Yeah, we better. I don't think that thing'll make it back and forth from Bobby's more than once."

They spent an hour more with the Harvelles with Jo continuing her non-flirting flirtation with Dean while helping Ellen preparing for the evening rush. The three siblings then checked into the Big 12 Motel and prepared to squabble about who got the beds.

"I'm a girl, I should get one," Buffy tried.

"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" Sam retorted.

His sister threw up her hands. "You guys are the most unchivalrous brothers I—Sam?"

The younger brother suddenly clutched his head in both hands, his face scrunched up in pain. As he let out a moan and sat heavily on the edge of one of the beds, Buffy shouted for Dean. He burst out of the bathroom, belt unbuckled and gun in hand. When he spotted Sam, he returned the weapon to the back of his jeans. "Another one?"

"Yeah," Sam groaned.

"What is it this time?"

"Guy taking out a couple of people before blowing his own head off. I don't know where. All I can remember is a logo on a bus." Sam rubbed his eyes. "It almost looked like someone told him to do it over the phone and he just… did it." He grimaced. "Can't look it up on my laptop; no wifi here."

"Maybe Ash can help. It'll cut into the fifty-one hours, but whatever. C'mon."

"Uh, hello?" asked a flummoxed Buffy. "What the hell is going on?"

The brothers exchanged puzzled looks. "We never told you?" asked Dean.

"Told me what?"

Sam sighed while Dean moved to the dresser to pocket his keys and cell phone. "I have… some kind of psychic ability," the younger brother explained. "I can see things before they happen. It's happened a couple of times and-and it's always something that has to do with the demon. And—" he added while glaring at Dean, "—they've always come true."

"I'm just saying," the eldest brother commented, "it's really frigging weird."

"Huh," Buffy said in response. She took a few moments to process the information.

Sam and Dean tensed. What would their sister, the Slayer, think of her brother possibly having a demonic connection? The fact that Sam was her blood might not factor into her predisposition to punch first and ask questions later when otherworldly beings were involved. Plenty of monsters they'd met on their initial road trip bore testament to her methodology.

"No way," Buffy finally said. "You've got super powers too? That's totally awesome!"


Acknowledgement : Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episode "Everybody Loves a Clown" (SPN 2.01).

Author's Note : Thus begins the scrambling of season two and three of Supernatural. Really, it's for a good cause.