Chapter Text
Buffy moved like a woman who knew how to turn chaos into a plan. She set her palms on the table, eyes sweeping the tired, wired faces around her until the room stilled.
“All right,” she said. “We need a strike team for New York, and we need to make sure the Slayer House doesn’t collapse while we’re gone. I’m assigning house command first.”
She pointed at Faith without hesitation. “Faith, you take overall responsibility for patrols and emergency response. You know how to keep kids from doing stupid things and you don’t freak out over weird.”
Faith raised one shoulder in a grin that didn’t make her words any less solid. “I got it.”
“Robin,” Buffy went on. “You handle training schedules, logistics for the minis’ drills, and the paperwork: rotas, homework times, that kind of thing. Make sure the kids have structure.”
Robin inclined his head. “I will set a schedule and a check-in roster. No one misses their drills, or school.”
“Rona,” Buffy said, meeting the older Slayer’s steady gaze. “You run the night watch and the hands-on combatives. Keep the girls sharp.”
Rona’s jaw tightened with the same calm that made her a good sergeant. “Done.”
“And Kennedy,” Buffy finished, looking straight at her. “You handle discipline and inventory. Ward inventories, gear checks, and the minis’ morale while we’re away. You keep the peace and the gear stock. I want the house functional when we get back.”
Kennedy’s posture eased fractionally at being trusted with command rather than asked to volunteer. It gave her a concrete thing to do, but she still didn’t like the look Willow gave Charlie across the room.
Dawn cut in before anyone could breathe. “I'm going. I can help. I know the languages, dead and demon. I can translate. I can research. Sending me out there is…”
“You’re staying,” Buffy said flatly.
Dawn’s mouth opened and closed. “Buffy, I’m eighteen. I can look after myself.”
“You’re finishing the semester,” Buffy replied. “You’re doing your senior year in public school. You want that to matter, don’t you? I’m not taking that away.”
Giles stepped in like the grown-up that balanced the household. “Dawn, if it helps, I will drive you to school and remain in town with you. After homework, we will research together, quietly, away from the blast radius.” His voice had the soft steadiness Dawn needed. “You will also have access to our files remotely, and I will schedule you into the evenings for any direct work on the prophecy correlations.”
Dawn glanced between Buffy and Giles, stubbornness and relief warring across her face. “Weekends?” she asked.
“If it’s safe and we’re still there,” Buffy said, “you can come for weekends. We’ll rotate, and Giles will ensure your coursework is up to date.”
Dawn folded her arms, the fight in her not gone but contained. “Fine. Weekends.”
Giles smiled, small and private, and put a hand on Dawn’s shoulder. “Let us get you to class.”
They left together: Dawn with her backpack and a sigh, Giles with careful plans already forming for evening research. The door closed and the war room seemed to inhale.
Buffy turned the conversation. “Now… who’s actually going?”
Willow answered first. “I brewed the bloodline potion. If there’s interference, residue, or a mirrored bind, I need to be there to read it and fix anything. I’ll go.”
Charlie zipped a duffel shut, eyes bright with that focused determination that had become familiar. “I’m going,” she said simply.
Kennedy’s jaw tightened so visibly Buffy could have sworn it showed in the air. “She’s going?” The question wasn’t about skill, Kennedy knew Charlie could handle herself, but it had an edge. Willow had been her girlfriend; the split was raw enough that every proximity Willow and Charlie shared felt like salt. “Because what?” Kennedy’s voice rose. “Because Willow asked? Because you two are… close?”
Willow’s hand went half-formed to her mouth like she might say something soft, but the words didn’t come. She looked at Charlie and the look between them was small, shared, private. Kennedy’s face set in an expression that was mostly hurt wrapped in anger.
Dean didn’t let the comment go. He stepped forward with the kind of directness that made people stop and listen. “Listen, you don’t get to question Charlie’s place here because you don’t like who she’s been talking to. Charlie’s part of this mess now. She’s one of us. She pulls her weight and she’s earned her seat on the team. End of story.”
The way Dean said it wasn’t about titles or pedigree. He wasn’t waving a Slayer flag, he was saying this was family. Kennedy didn’t like being told to stand down, but Dean’s tone carried the weight of someone who’d learned to trust his people by the blood and scars they shared, and that was hard to argue with.
Spike, who had been leaning against a crate, blinked when Willow opened a small pouch and placed a polished band in his palm. “You’re giving me the ring?” he asked incredulously.
Willow smiled, sheepish and proud. “Not the original, your own." She looked around at the others. "It's our take on the ring of Amara. We made one for Angel years ago and it took this long to get everything we needed again. Spike had volunteered to test it first.”
Spike’s grin was slow and delighted. “Of course I did. I was the guinea pig for an Angel-Tech prototype.” He turned the band over in his hands like a kid with stolen candy. “Sun’s gonna be my new favorite time of day.”
Dean muttered, near enough for Sam to hear, “Planes are not my thing. Driving’s better. Solid ground, no sudden vertical drops.” Sam gave him a look that read both amusement and sympathy; Dean’s pall for the aircraft ride had been established long ago, and this trip being a drive was one small mercy he didn’t hide.
Then Xander stepped into the tense bubble around Kennedy and Willow and made himself heard. His voice was low and tight. “I’m going.”
No one was surprised when the room went quiet. Xander rarely volunteered for the front line now, and when he did his reasons were never casual.
“If there’s a chance,” he continued, “that this is connected to what Drusilla said, if there’s even a possibility that the man in New York fits that shadow… I have to see it. I can’t lose anyone else to that kind of thing. Not after what happened before.” His hands curled into fists at his sides. The memory behind that line was a raw thing, one that hardened his resolve. He wouldn’t let indecision or distance keep him from facing what might be the thing that hurt people he cared about.
Buffy’s voice folded them together. “All right. Willow, Charlie, Xander, Sam, Dean, Spike, and me. And obviously Lindsey and Castiel. We'll take the cars. Weapons and wards, everything we can fit in the Impala and an extra. Faith, Robin, Rona, and Kennedy stay. Keep the house running, keep the kids on schedule, and don’t let anything go sideways.”
Kennedy’s glare softened, not entirely, but enough. She’d been given a job and authority, and that steadied something in her. Willow and Charlie exchanged a quick look, tension humming, yes, but also the tacit agreement that they would do what needed doing.
Xander’s face held hard lines; he breathed, steadying himself. The team was set.
Buffy let the plan settle like a weight finally shouldered. New York waited; they were going to drive toward it together.
They spilled out into the back lot behind the Slayer House just as the morning clouds pulled apart, leaving everything washed in cold, honest light. Gravel crunched under boots. Breath fogged in the air. Everyone was keyed up some buzzing, some simmering, some pretending they weren’t either.
Parked side by side like they were spoiling for a drag race sat Baby, proud, polished, impossible to miss. Next to her was a freshly resurrected ’69 black Charger, gleaming like it had been carved out of midnight and sarcasm.
Spike leaned against the Charger’s hood with one hip, arms folded, smirk fully loaded. “Feast yer eyes. Black beauty’s all tuned up, purrs like a bloody demon kitten. Trunk’s reinforced. Replaced the shocks. Even the radio works, mostly. Only gets classic rock and that one station that plays ABBA, but I consider that a blessing.”
Dean stopped dead in his tracks. “You rebuilt a Charger?”
Spike sniffed. “I resurrected it. Rebuilt is what mortals do.”
Dean whistled low. Sam muttered, “Oh boy,” because he could already feel the ego contest sprouting wings.
Buffy strutted up behind Spike, flicking the roof with her knuckles. “He’s been bragging about it for three days.”
“And rightly so,” Spike said. “This beauty’ll keep up with your girl any day.”
Dean stepped forward, chest puffing just a little. “Baby doesn’t keep up with anything. Everything else keeps up with her.”
He might as well have slapped down a gauntlet.
Spike grinned, fangs just barely peeking. “We’ll see on the freeway.”
Dean clapped his hands suddenly, shifting the mood. “All right! Field trip. You guys wanna see how the adults pack weapons?”
Spike arched an eyebrow. “Adults? Bit rich coming from someone who panics at the sight of a peanut-labeled airplane seat.”
Dean pointed sharply at him. “That is not… okay it is, but that’s beside the point. Come here.”
He strode to Baby and popped the trunk.
Every single person not named Winchester inhaled.
The trunk unfolded like a steel-lined shrine to destruction: racks of shotguns, blades polished and indexed, boxes of ammo aligned like soldiers, holy water vials, dead man’s blood, cuffs, a spare machete, an angel blade, even a collapsible crossbow tucked cleverly under a false panel.
Xander blinked. “It’s like… a Weapons TARDIS.”
Charlie grinned. “Yeah. It’s bigger on the inside of Dean’s paranoia.”
Sam shrugged.
Xander, overcome by pure geek reverence, whispered, “I want… a diagram. And measurements. And blueprints. This… Dean, man, this is art.”
Spike leaned over Buffy’s shoulder, appreciative despite himself. “Gotta admit, Winchester… this is bloody gorgeous.”
Willow whistled. “Wow. That is… a lot of metal.”
Dean grinned, proud. “Got shotguns, salt rounds, silver, dead man’s blood, machetes, demon traps, hex bags…” he paused dramatically, rummaging through a side compartment.
“sadly, no grenade launcher.”
Spike snorted. “What, you want one?”
“Hell yes, I want one,” Dean said. “Do you understand how many problems a grenade launcher would solve? One. One giant boom, end of problem.”
Xander and Buffy both went very still… then slowly turned to look at each other.
Buffy failed to hide a smirk.
Xander coughed. “Yeah. Uh. One boom. Works great.”
The Winchester boys stared at them.
Buffy waved a hand dismissively. “Long story.”
“Very long,” Xander added quickly. “And crispy.”
Dean blinked. “Wait… did you actually?”
Buffy cut him off. “Nope! Moving on. What else you got in there?”
Dean squinted suspiciously but didn’t press. “Right. Got a few extra blades, charms, anti-possession cards for your pockets… you can take anything that’s not sentimental.”
Xander’s eye brightened. “You label sentimental weapons?”
Dean looked offended. “Of course I do.”
Sam sighed. “Don’t encourage him.”
Spike clapped his hands. “Right then. We’ll divvy up and pack the Charger. Let’s see if you boys can keep up with our arsenal.”
Dean raised a brow. “Your arsenal, huh?”
Spike smirked. “’S bigger than it looks.”
Buffy groaned. “Please never say that sentence again.”
Finally, the packing began.
Dean nodded at Charlie “You’re in Baby’s backseat,” he said. “You know where everything is. You’re on quick-reach duty.”
Charlie saluted. “Aye aye, Captain Dude.”
Sam started layering spell bags and sigil kits into a side compartment while Willow handed him magically reinforced pouches.
Spike popped open his Charger’s trunk it was less organized, more chaotic, definitely deadlier. A vampire’s war chest: axes, swords, stakes, a flame-thrower (Buffy side-eyed that one hard), multiple knives, and something that hummed ominously.
Buffy squinted. “Spike… what is that?”
Spike shrugged. “Dunno. Found it in a demon armory outside Toledo. Probably won’t explode.”
Lindsey, pale and still not entirely himself, stood beside Willow like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. He watched the weapons movement with interest bordering on concern. “Should I be worried?” he murmured.
Spike grinned “Only if you drop it.”
Willow moved closer to Lindsay, magic quietly inspecting him for aftershocks of the ritual. “You’ll ride with us. If anything flares, I’ll sense it.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, mother hen with spells.”
Lindsey managed a strained smile. “I don’t remember being this popular.”
Spike smirked. “You’re not. You’re just fragile.”
Lindsay scowled. “I don’t feel fragile.”
“Exactly,” Spike said sweetly. “Which is why you need supervision.”
Buffy clapped sharply. “Okay! Cars are assigned. Weapons are loaded. We leave in ten. Bathroom, snacks, meditation, soul-care, whatever you gotta do.”
Dean closed Baby’s trunk and patted her like a living thing. “New York,” he said under his breath. “here we come.”
By the time they finally pulled away from the Slayer House, Cleveland was fully awake.
Dawn was at school, Giles had texted a thumbs-up emoji he definitely didn’t understand, and the minis were already doing laps under Faith’s command.
The convoy slotted into late-morning traffic.
Up ahead, the Impala cut a clean line through the congestion: Dean at the wheel, Sam riding shotgun with the window cracked, Castiel in the backseat sitting straight as a saint tragically trapped in a Bob Seger song.
Behind them, Spike guided the ’69 Charger like it was an extension of his undead spine. Willow sat in the middle of the backseat with Buffy, Lindsey riding shotgun and trying not to look like a man who’d woken up with half his memories scrambled.
“Bloody hell,” Spike muttered as he hit the first wall of brake lights. “Cleveland traffic. Apocalypses I can handle. This? This is torture.”
Buffy didn’t even look up from checking her stake holster. “Spike. We literally fight demons. Be grateful these monsters use turn signals.”
Willow lowered her voice, hands glowing faintly as she shaped a quieting spell around the car. “Okay… magical signature muffled. Anyone scanning for weird won’t see us. We’re magically—”
“Don’t say yogurt,” Buffy warned.
Willow sighed. “Fine. We’re magically… beige.”
Lindsey blinked. “Is that good?”
“It’s better than yogurt,” Xander said from the far side of the backseat.
Traffic forced them into a slow grind past construction cones and an aggressively hostile city bus. Spike swerved around a delivery truck with a flourish wholly unnecessary for the situation.
Lindsey braced both hands on the dashboard. “Is he always…”
“Yes,” Xander and Buffy said together.
Up ahead, the Impala slid elegantly into the left lane, Dean signaling with almost smug precision.
Spike scoffed. “Showoff.” Spike flicked his eyes toward the Impala.
Dean’s arm emerged from the driver’s window, middle finger raised like a salute.
Spike grinned. “See? Respect.”
Cleveland’s congestion finally spat them out onto the highway, the city shrinking in the rearview as the road stretched wide and sunlit ahead.
Dean shifted gears. Spike heard it. Just a subtle rev, a quiet invitation.
Buffy groaned. “Don’t you dare.”
Spike put on the halo-innocent voice that fooled absolutely no one. “Dare what, love?”
The Impala inched ahead.
Lindsey squinted. “Are they… racing?”
Xander covered his face. “Not officially.”
Spike downshifted.
Buffy grabbed the seat. “Spike.”
Spike pretended he didn’t hear.
The Charger surged forward. Smooth, powerful, and loud enough that the Impala’s rearview mirror definitely shook. Spike sidled up beside Dean like a wolf trotting next to another wolf just to prove he could.
Dean grinned right back across the lanes, tapped Baby’s roof twice.
And accelerated.
“Oh my god,” Willow whispered. “This is what testosterone poisoning looks like.”
For three glorious, stupid minutes, the two cars tried to out-cool each other without breaking an actual speeding law.
Acceleration.
Hold.
Creep ahead.
Fall back.
Passive-aggressive revving that could summon angels.
Castiel, visible through the Impala’s back window, stared ahead with the exact blank expression of someone silently reciting every heavenly law against reckless mortal behavior.
Eventually, Spike let up first.
Dean followed a second later.
They returned to normal speed like nothing ever happened.
Spike leaned back, deeply self-satisfied. “Won that.”
Buffy blinked at him. “No. You didn’t.”
“He clearly backed off.”
“He let you,” Xander said.
“No he bloody…"
The Impala flashed its headlights. Twice.
Spike growled at the windshield.
Buffy smirked.
Xander laughed.
Willow patted Spike’s arm. “Maybe next time.”
Castiel, in the Impala, was probably praying for the apocalypse just to escape.
And the cars rolled on, finally hitting their rhythm, the long road to New York stretching out in front of them.
The gas station squats beside the highway like it’s been there since the Eisenhower administration. A convenience store that promises snacks and regret in equal measure.
Dean takes the pump like he’s claiming a battlefield. “Fill up and caffeinate,” he announces. “That’s the game plan.”
The others peel off to stretch or wander toward the store. Sam and Xander head inside together, both automatically drifting toward the refrigerated wall of drinks. Sam reaches into the cold case for a cold brew at the same moment Xander does.
Their hands nearly brush.
“Oh! Sorry,” Xander says quickly.
Sam smiles, warm and easy. “You take that one. I’ll grab the one in the back.”
Xander huffs a shy laugh. “Guess we both run on caffeine and questionable life choices.”
Sam gives him a soft, amused look. “One of us more than the other.”
Willow pauses in front of a rack of aggressively regional souvenirs, lifting a tiny moose keychain between two fingers with a dubious squint.
Charlie leans in, too close to be accidental, close enough that Willow can smell cherry lip balm, and murmurs, “That one looks like it’s seen things.”
Willow snorts. “I respect that in a moose.”
They share a quick, crooked smile.
Sam walks by on his way toward the refrigeration aisle, a basket in hand. He freezes mid-stride "moose" always gets his attention, and slowly turns his head toward them.
Charlie lifts the keychain a little. “We found your… uh… distant cousin?”
Sam blinks once. Twice. The look he gives them is pure long-suffering patience.
“Please don’t encourage that,” he says flatly, and keeps walking.
Charlie bites her lip to keep from laughing. Willow doesn’t even try.
Buffy and Spike stroll in a few seconds later, shoulder to shoulder. Spike veers toward the chips like he’s conducting a mission.
“You’re getting the smoky barbecue,” Buffy tells him without looking.
Spike glances over at her, smirking. “Since when do you choose my snacks?”
“Since you get cranky without salt.”
He steps slightly closer. “Careful, Slayer. Keep that up and I’ll think you care.”
Buffy answers without missing a beat. “Keep poking and I’ll get bitey.”
Spike’s grin sharpens. “And you wonder why I adore you.”
Near the coffee machines, Dean and Castiel stand side-by-side. Dean eyes the flavor options with suspicion.
“Why does every gas station think people want cinnamon in their coffee?” Dean mutters. “Just give me something normal.”
Castiel points to the plain brew. “This one is labeled ‘house blend.’”
Dean looks at him instead of the coffee. “Thanks, Cas.”
Castiel holds the gaze one beat longer than the situation requires. “You’re welcome, Dean.”
Once they’ve gathered drinks and snacks, they all head back outside to regroup. Sam cracks open his cold brew at the car. Xander peels the wrapper off a pack of Twinkies and offers one to him with a lopsided smile.
“Breakfast of champions?”
Sam takes it. “That depends. Am I the champion?”
Xander shrugs. “You’re tall enough.”
Dean returns from the store with his coffee, calling, “Everyone ready? We're not stopping for lunch for another three towns. It's about two and a half hours down the road. We gotta get going before spike starts narrating the minutiae of his life."
Spike scoffs. “Narrating would require an appreciative audience, which I do not have.”
Buffy pats his arm. “You have me.”
Spike brightens like someone flipped a switch.
The diner looks exactly like every diner on every interstate ever built: chrome trim too shiny on the outside, cracked red vinyl on the inside, and the smell of frying oil that somehow hits nostalgic instead of gross.
They take up almost an entire corner booth. The waitress drags over extra chairs without even blinking at their party of nine.
Spike slides in first; Buffy drops down beside him like that’s her assigned seat. Across from them, Charlie scoots over to create space for Willow. Their thighs brush, then don’t move apart.
Xander claims a seat on the other side of Spike, and Sam takes the chair next to him, close enough that their knees might bump if either of them shifts.
Dean and Castiel settle opposite each other. Dean leans back, arms stretched across the booth, but every few moments, he flicks his eyes at Castiel like he’s checking he’s still there.
Menus flap open. The table fills with overlapping chatter.
Spike taps the laminated page. “Right. I’m ordering the biggest fried onion monstrosity they have. Nobody touch it.”
Buffy bumps his shoulder. “Please. You always pretend you won’t share.”
“That’s different,” Spike says. “That’s me being generous.”
Willow and Charlie whisper over milkshake options, each bending closer as they decide whether malt counts as a personality trait. Charlie laughs at something Willow says, too bright, too fond, and Willow’s entire face lights up.
Xander decides on a patty melt and a chocolate shake. Sam looks over at him as he sets the menu down.
“You get chocolate shakes a lot?” Sam asks.
Xander shrugs. “What can I say? I like things that are good.”
Sam’s smile turns warm. “Fair.”
The waitress arrives, takes everyone’s order, and returns ten minutes later with plates so loaded they almost sag. The table falls into companionable chaos, passing condiments, trading fries, stealing bites when someone looks away.
Dean digs into his burger with reverence. Castiel eats his turkey club in small, precise bites, watching Dean occasionally like he’s learning something.
Spike tears into his appetizer like he’s reclaiming lost dignity, and Buffy steals one of the onion petals without asking. He lets her.
Xander dips curly fries into his shake. Sam watches him do it, eyebrows raised.
“Does that actually taste good?” Sam asks.
Xander pushes the shake slightly toward him. “Try it.”
Sam hesitates, tries it, then nods in surprise. “Huh. Yeah. Okay. You win.”
Xander beams. “Told ya.”
The hotel looked too shiny for people who’d spent the day eating diner grease and fighting highway traffic. Tall windows, polished stone floors, light fixtures that probably cost more than Dean’s car.
Xander let out a low whistle. “Yeah, the soap here definitely costs more than my first apartment.”
Spike gave him a sideways look. “Your first apartment was a basement, Harris. Let’s not rewrite history.”
“Still counts,” Xander muttered, hauling his bag onto his shoulder.
Inside, the lobby was quiet in that plush, expensive way that made everyone automatically lower their voices. Buffy approached the front desk with a tired smile.
“Reservation for Summers.”
The clerk typed, paused, and brightened. “Yes… Ms. Summers, your party has been upgraded. All three suites are our executive two-bedroom category. And the conference room you requested is reserved for tomorrow morning.”
Buffy blinked. “We… got upgraded?”
“Complimentary,” the clerk said, sliding over the key packets.
Willow gave Charlie a look of delighted disbelief. Charlie whispered, “We’re so out of place,” and Willow tried not to laugh.
Buffy handed out keys.
“Suite One: Xander, you get one bedroom. Spike and Lindsey, you’re in the other.”
Spike lifted his eyebrows at Lindsey.
“Try not to throttle me in your sleep," Lindsey muttered
“No promises,” Spike replied, but the twitch at his mouth betrayed him.
“Suite Two,” Buffy continued. "Charlie and Willow in one bedroom. I’m in the other.”
“Best roommates,” Charlie whispered, bumping Willow’s shoulder.
Willow whispered back, “If you snore, I’m hexing your pillow.”
“Suite Three: Sam and Dean in the two-bedroom side. Cas gets the single.”
Castiel nodded solemnly. “I will respect the boundaries of shared human lodging.”
Dean dragged a hand down his face. “Cas, buddy… it’s just a room.”
Cas looked at him, head slightly tilted. “Your comfort matters.”
Dean’s reply stalled for half a beat. “Yeah, uh. Yours too.”
Buffy clapped her hands gently. “Okay. Everyone unpack, shower, decompress, and meet in Charlie and Willow’s suite in an hour.”
Spike, lingering near the elevator buttons, asked, “This place at least got decent room service?”
Buffy sighed. “God, I hope so. If I have to eat one more gas-station protein bar, I’m going feral.”
“Good,” Spike said under his breath as the elevator doors slid open, “you’re more fun that way.”
Sam and Xander ended up walking in step toward their suite. Sam glanced sideways at him, smile soft and a little tired. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
Xander shrugged. “Travel takes it out of me. Or maybe it’s the company.”
Sam huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Same.”
It hung easy and warm between them
They followed the others inside as the elevator hummed upward, voices fading, doors opening, everyone peeling off toward their temporary refuges.
Tonight was rest.
Tomorrow was magic.
And for the first time since the trip started, the air felt almost gentle.
Charlie lay sideways across her bed, laptop open, coding talk whispering in rainbow syntax across the screen. Willow stood at the window, watching the city lights blink like fireflies trapped in glass.
“You okay?” Charlie asked softly.
Willow turned. “Yeah. Just… thinking. Tomorrow’s spell. The energy load. The possible magical backlash.”
Charlie shut her laptop and padded across the carpet. “Hey. You don’t have to carry all of that on your own.”
Willow greeted her with a shy half-smile. “I know. It’s just… Buffy worries. Giles overprepares. And sometimes I forget that someone can help me without expecting me to fix everything.”
Charlie leaned a shoulder lightly against hers. “Lucky for you, I’m good at helping. And worrying. And panicking in a cute way.”
Willow laughed, aquiet, genuine sound.
“You really are.”
Charlie bumped their hands together, not quite a touch, but close enough that Willow felt the warmth.
“If you need anything,” Charlie murmured, “even if it’s just someone to sit with you while you meditate, I’m here.”
Willow looked up at her, eyes softening.
“Thank you, Charlie.”
Charlie swallowed like she hadn’t expected it to land quite so deeply. “Anytime.”
Willow finally sat with her on the bed, shoulders brushing.
It was small, quiet, and exactly enough. Dean sat on the small couch in the dim living room of their suite, boots off, feet on the coffee table, grinning to himself as he finished what appeared to be a Twinkie. Castiel came out of the bedroom quietly and sat beside him without being asked.
Dean glanced at him. “Thought you’d be asleep.”
Castiel’s head tilted. “I still don’t sleep. And… you seemed restless.”
Dean snorted softly. “Yeah, well. Big day. Bigger one tomorrow.”
Cas folded his hands in his lap. “You’re worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re worried,” Cas repeated more gently.
Dean let out a slow breath, staring at the patterned carpet. “It’s just… a lot of moving parts. Magic. Other worlds. People who trust us. And Sam,” His voice faltered. “Sam deserves a break.”
“And you?” Cas asked quietly.
Dean swallowed. “Me? I don’t know what I deserve.”
Cas looked at him for a long, steady moment. “You deserve peace, Dean. And not the kind you earn by bleeding for others. The kind that’s simply yours.”
Dean didn’t speak, he couldn’t.
Cas shifted a little closer. Not touching, but close enough that Dean felt the warmth.
“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” Cas murmured.
Dean’s voice cracked despite himself. “Yeah. Well. Habit.”
Cas’s eyes softened. “Let me change that habit.”
Dean finally met his gaze, for too long, too full, too honest to be just friendship.
“Cas…”
“Yes?”
“Thanks,” Dean said. “For… staying. For being here.”
Cas gave a small, almost shy smile. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
And they sat like that, quiet, close, with the city lights flickering against the window. The weight of the day slowly eased from Dean’s shoulders.
The hallway lights buzz like they’re judging everyone who’s awake at this hour. Xander stands in front of the vending machine holding an empty Twinkie wrapper like it’s evidence from a crime scene.
Sam comes around the corner, laptop tucked to his chest.
“Everything okay?”
“No,” Xander says, solemn. “Your brother committed snackicide. The last Twinkie died by Winchester.”
Sam actually laughs. “I warned you. Dean’s basically a raccoon in a leather jacket. You have to hide the good stuff.”
“I did hide it! He has… Winchester senses.” Xander waves the wrapper. “This used to be hope.”
Sam leans over, checks the machine. “They’ve got peanut butter crackers. Or mini-donuts.”
Xander presses his forehead dramatically to the plexiglass. “Fine. Second-rate sugar it is.”
He punches the button and the mini-donuts fall with a clunk.
“Hey,” Sam says, nudging him lightly, “you’ve got a fresh box of Twinkies in your bag. You made me swear not to touch them. Remember?”
Xander blinks. “Oh. Right. That does seem like something Past Me would do.”
Sam gives him a small, fond smile.
“Come on. Get your consolation donuts.”
Xander scoops them up with a resigned sigh. “I hope Dean steps on a Lego.”
They head down the hallway together, the quiet kind of companionable.
Buffy steps into the hotel lobby with the exhausted shuffle of someone who’s had too much supernatural nonsense for one day. The night clerk hands over the large, greasy pizza box she ordered without judgment.
“Plates?” he offers.
“Nope,” Buffy says. “I’m past plates.”
She pivots toward the front entrance just as the glass doors slide open, Spike strolling in like he owns the night, followed by a bewildered bike courier holding a small insulated cooler.
“Delivery!” the kid calls uncertainly. “Uh… for… Mr. Spike?”
“That’s me, sport.” Spike hands him a wad of bills he definitely shouldn’t have had. “Keep the change. Buy yourself somethin’ nice. Sunscreen, maybe.”
The courier hurries away with the speed of a man who sensed red flags but wants the tip too much to question them.
Buffy raises an eyebrow. “You used a delivery service? For blood?”
Spike shrugs, flipping open the cooler to inspect it like it’s fine wine. “We live in a modern age, Slayer. Why lurk in alleys when you can order in? ‘Knight Runner Delivery.’ Very discreet. Very prompt. The bloke even texted updates like he was deliverin’ Thai food.”
Buffy balances her pizza box on her hip. “You know that’s super weird, right?”
“Conveniently weird,” Spike replies with a smirk.
Buffy laughs despite herself. “Fine. Just don’t leave the empty cooler in the hallway. I don’t want housekeeping quitting on us.”
Spike snaps the lid shut. “Oi, I’m a gentleman. Mostly.”
They walk back toward the elevators together, Buffy with her pizza, Spike with his midnight blood, two very different kinds of hungry.
Lindsey dropped his bag on the floor and swung open the closet to hang his jacket. Spike had already staked his claim on the dresser drawers, so Lindsey quietly arranged his few things along the empty space by the bed. He tugged the sheets back, slipped in, and let out a long breath, the day finally catching up to him. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and Spike’s occasional shuffle across the floor.
Elsewhere, the others were settling into their own rooms, each carving out a little pocket of night for themselves. Some read, some plotted the next day’s spells, some just stared at the ceiling. Outside, the city waited, but inside the suites, there was a stillness, everyone poised at the edge of sleep, wondering what the morning would bring.