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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
A soft thud sounded as Spike buried his head on his table. It took all of his strength not to let loose the growl trying to claw it’s was out of his throat. Spike was starting to believe he was cursed. It seemed every time he got back into town after taking out a new threat, he always ended up either subbing for someone’s class, or he got sent back out again with the bane of his existence. If Buffy had not looked at him with wide green eyes, and a slight pout on her lips, Spike would not be stuck in his current dilemma. Luckily for Spike she had promised him a long shagging session upon his return. It gave him something to look forward too, if he got the chance to go home anytime soon.
“Oh stop your grumbling William,” a silky voice purred off to his left. With a barely audible growl Spike graced his traveling partner with an amber tinted glare.
“Whining?” Spike growled, keeping his voice low. He did not want to draw the attention of the crowded bar’s patrons. “It’s your bloody fault we’re stuck here.”
A look of distain was quickly shot his way. It didn't seem to matter to his forced partner whose fault it was they were stranded in a bar simply known as “The Road House”, because according to Darla, Spike was nothing more than an annoyance she put up with, for Angel’s sake.
“We would not be here, William,” she began, “If you had not insisted on driving that classic piece of junk you call a car.”
“Hey!” Spike growled, not caring anymore about gaining unwanted attention. “You leave my car out of this! Besides if you hadn’t decided to drive the bloody civatateo over with it we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“It wasn’t like you were being very helpful,” Darla smirked.
Suppressing the urge to rip Darla’s head from her dainty shoulders, Spike stood up and stormed over to the bar.
Glancing up at the stern woman behind the bar, Spike gracelessly slumped down onto one of the stools, and with a whine lacing his voice, asked for a bottle of whiskey, any whiskey.
Once the bottle was paid for, Spike slumped even further, and continued to grumble under his breath about pushy birds who didn’t appreciate the value of a beautiful classic car. Spike was so lost in thought he never noticed the young man sitting next to him. It wasn’t until he heard a slightly gruff voice asking him a question that he managed looked up.
“What was that?” Spike asked, eyeing the man with a suspicious glance.
“I said,” the man started as he gestured towards Darla with his beer bottle, “That I couldn’t help, but over hear what you said about your car. Did she really crash it?”
“Bloody right she did,” Spike grumbled sourly. “Stupid bint did it on purpose. Only she swears it was an accident.”
“What type of car?” the man asked as he turned on his bar stool so he could face Spike.
“1958 DeSoto Firelight, black and white exterior, black leather interior.” Seeing the man’s sympathetic grimace, Spike raised his bottle in a friendly salute. They quietly toasted, and each took a drink from their bottles before the man spoke again.
“I hear ya,” he said pausing as he lovingly fingered the keys he pulled out of his jacket pocket. Holding them up, he let Spike get a look at them before he put them away again. “1967 Chevy Impala, black exterior, tan and black leather interior. I recently had to rebuild her.”
“Me too,” Spike sighed, a similar grief as the other man’s mirrored in his voice. “What happened?”
“Eighteen wheeler,” he answered, a pained look flashing across his face. “You?”
“Crater,” Spike replied.
“Crater?” the disbelief was plain for Spike to hear.
“Sunnydale,” Spike clarified. “We got out in time, but I had to leave my baby behind.”
“Luckily my girl had it fished out for me,” Spike said, a smile turning up the corners of his lips. “Presented it too me as an anniversary gift.”
“I take it Blondie isn’t your girl?” the man smirked as he inclined his head to indicate where Darla sat, primly scaring off any hardened trucker daring enough look in her direction.
She was currently talking on her phone, no doubt telling Angel their current predicament was all Spike’s fault. Growling, Spike turned around, cursing the Powers under his breath. Why they had to bring the Ice Bitch back to play seer was beyond him. If it had been his choice he would have found a nice hellmouth to toss her into.
“Not bloody likely,” Spike answered, downing some more whiskey. The feeling of being watched caused to the two to turn their attention behind them again. A tall young man with shaggy brown hair stood behind them, all the while keeping a cautious eye on Spike.
“Dean,” the man said. “It’s time we left. We’ve got that thing to take care of.”
“Yeah, Spike. We’ve also got a thing to go take care of.”
Whipping his head back around, Spike watched in awe as Buffy neatly stepped around the young man, and came to place a small hand on his shoulder.
“How’d you get here luv?” Spike asked, a soft smile gracing his face.
“The Willow Express,” Buffy beamed as she gave Spike a quick kiss on his lips.
Noticing the interaction between the two, Dean smirked.
“Your other girl?” Giving a smirk of his own, Spike placed his bottle on the bar top and pulled Buffy firmly to his side.
“Other girl?” Buffy asked primly, looking from Dean to Spike.
“His car.” Dean and Darla answered, one in appreciation, the other irritated. It was then the four of them notice the incensed blonde woman standing behind them.
“Not another one,” the other guy grumbled, his voice filled with dismay. Eyeing him, Buffy stepped forward, ignoring Darla’s insistence they leave. She sensed a kindred spirit in the guy before her.
“Yours?” she asked nodding towards Dean.
“1967 Chevy Impala,” he answered. “Yours?”
“1958 DeSoto Firelight,” Buffy volleyed back, a brief pause then, “Does yours hog the radio too?”
“Sex Pistols.” Eyeing each other, they then grinned.
“I’m Buffy, and this is Spike,” Buffy said. With a dismissive wave she gestured towards the irritated blonde standing behind the group. “She’s Darla. Her guy is the one standing in the doorway.”
Buffy smiled as Darla turned, and stalked towards Angel. The small group watched in amusement as the tiny woman quickly dragged the larger man out the door.
“I’m Sam Winchester,” Sam grinned back. “This is my older brother Dean.”
Looking the two over, Dean glanced towards Spike who shrugged back. It didn’t seem Spike knew what was happening anymore than Dean did.
“Umm, Sammy?” Dean asked, giving his brother’s arm a soft shove. “Thought we had a thing to take care of.”
“Yeah, pet,” Spike asked, as he noticed neither of them seemed that intent to leave anymore. “Thought we also had a thing to take care of.”
“It can wait,” the two replied in unison, their matching grins widening. Turning they left both Dean and Spike watching them as they took a seat at one of the empty tables. They immediately started to commiserate over their shared grievances.
“He’s possessed,” Dean stated firmly. “Gotta be.”
“Demon or Spirit?” Spike asked as he studied Buffy’s form with the same intensity he reserved for scaring off Dawn‘s dates. A quick glance told Dean Spike didn't seem to be joking.
“You know about that stuff?” Dean asked, wariness back in his voice.
“Well yeah,” Spike answered. “Oh here, mate. You might need this one day.”
Pulling a card from his jacket pocket, Spike handed it to Dean. Looking the card over, Dean look askance at the man beside him.
“International Council of Watchers? Thought they only dealt with slayers?” Dean asked.
“Old one did,” Spike answered as he casually lit up a cigarette. Taking a drag, he continued. “New one is run by the Slayers, since there’s no longer only one. My girl’s the head Slayer.”
“That doesn’t tell me why you’re handing out their cards to random strangers.”
“Recognized your last name,” Spike answered. “You and yours developed quite the reputation over the years. A rather impressive one, if I do say so myself.”
Seeing the skeptical look, Spike sighed.
“Look mate, the demon community, it’s small and word spreads fast. Buggers love a good bit of gossip almost as much as they do violence.”
“Sounds like you know from experience.”
“Yeah,” Spike said softly his eyes gaining a distant look for a brief moment. “Was one of the Big Bads for a while. Then I rolled into Sunnyhell, and met my Slayer over there. Next thing I know I’m getting my soul back, and going up like a Roman candle to close a hellmouth. Higher Powers tossed me back 19 days later since they weren’t quite done with me yet.”
“So your William the Bloody?” Dean asked, nodding as a look of recognition filtered across his face.
“You’ve heard of me then?” Spike asked, looking pleased.
“Yeah. My Dad heard from a friend of his that you and the current slayer were the reason the rules were changed,” Dean answered with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
For once he wasn’t concerned about the guy next to him being a demon. If Spike could enter Ellen’s bar without setting the protective wards off, then he must not be evil. Besides, Spike had good taste in cars and music.
“Want to hear about it? Since those two are starting to look chummy,” Spike asked as he drank a bit more of his whiskey.
Casting a quick glance his brother’s way, Dean shrugged.
“Sure. Why not?” Dean muttered. “So, Sunnydale? That was a hellmouth, right?”
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