the wind and the west moon

[ultraviolet9a]

>>the wind and the west moon

 

TITLE: the wind and the west moon

AUTHOR: ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: for everything Spike, and pretty much everything SPN.

GENRE: Gen. Xover with Angel the series. Or Buffy the vampire slayer. Don’t know, take your pick, Spike was in both, so there.

CHARACTERS: Spike, Bobby Singer, Sam and Dean Winchester.

SUMMARY: Set after the Xmassy SPN episode

RATING: R
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh. 
DISCLAIMER: Can somebody hand over Spike please? Pretty please? No? I didn’t think so either. Fudge.

NOTE: dear zombieprincess buffyaddict13, this is for you. Because of your general shininess. (*hoops and yoyo wave*)

NOTE2: beta by shiny hiyacynth

 

After the first death, there is no other.

-Dylan Thomas-

 

 

Spike’s made of a lot of words these days.

 

He doesn’t want to think in pictures, cuz pictures hurt

 

((Angel dust))

 

and they scar deep ((it shouldn’t have been you)), but words… words are cheap candy wrap, and he doesn’t tear it off. Doesn’t have to.

 

He plays small looping gigs in his mind, word games, because he’s always been good at them. Like, effulgent. S for sex and P for pistols, I for… I, and oh bugger it all, because after the ‘s’ it’s not important. Most of the words he’s made of, he decides as his fingers circle over smooth wood, seem to fall in with his chosen name’s monogram. Sex and sarcasm and soul and suicide and self-loathing. And sadness. And shit, Angel used to say, but Angel’s not here. No one is here.

 

((you get to live. again.))

 

Spike’s mind runs through the whole sodding alphabet (here comes the s again), but always gets stuck on the ‘s’. Stumbles and falls, and maybe he can’t handle words, he can’t, not the ones that start with that bloody letter anyway. Slayer and Sire and shanshu and soul and sin and sacrifice and so.much.pain.

 

“I bloody hate s,” he says. His voice comes out muffled, because his cheek is on the table, and he is slurring, ssssslurring, and his mind is hiccupping, and the beer bottle is warm in his hand, and glassy, until Bobby takes it off his hand and props him up.

 

He is warm, that man. And too gentle. Except when he’s not. Kind of like Wes, really, and the thought of Wesley in a Bobby outfit has him giggling till breathing hurts. He wished he didn’t. Breathe, not hurt. He’s used to hurting.

 

“Come on, Spike, up you go,” Bobby says, and Spike’s arm winds around Bobby’s neck. “Let’s get you to bed, son.”

 

And Spike wants to tell him that it should be Pike and On, no s anymore, thankyouverymuch, and wants to ask him if maybe Bobby took him in, the way Dru and the Scooby (Ooby) gang did, because of another s word. Because (S)pike is Stray. Tray. Always has been. Redemption and hell and death and vampire and blood and family and oh, how he misses a black and white and red world, it’s all so grey and dull and achy now, and he never belonged. Never. He’s always left behind. He’s always pushed away, and he’s so pissed drunk that he thinks maybe he’ll start seeing pink elephants dancing around the ceiling. He’s looking forward to them, really. They’re much better than memories.

 

Then the bed takes in his weight, and Bobby pulls the cover over him and all is dark and not throbbing and alphabety.

 

“Merry Christmas,” Bobby says, and there’s the click of the light switch.

 

Before dreams come, Spike wonders if memories are like ghosts. If he could imply alt and burn them.

 

.:::.

 

The day is full of light (Unlight? His pulsating mind mocks but he doesn’t hear it) the day is filled with proper, full-lettered sunlight as he sits watching Bobby work. He doesn’t burn and the metal pieces at his feet hold his broken reflection. What he sees is a mere distortion of outgrown brown hair, shabby clothes and too much dropped weight. Many pink elephant days and Bobby cajoling and scolding him back to live.

 

“Will you just bring the damn thing over or are you just gonna stare all day long?” Bobby gruffs.

 

Spike huffs, but picks up the scraps Bobby is salvaging from an old Ford. He drops them the first time, cuz he puts too much swing into the movement, too much of the old strength he no longer has. He gets it right the second time, and it rolls smoothly from there; he doesn’t have to adjust to human physiology.

 

“You know about cars?” Bobby asks.

 

“A thing or two,” Spike replies. The day is sunny, but still cold, and he’s broken into a sweat. His fingers move, search for a ciggie in his pockets. Smoke tastes the same. He likes it.

 

“Those things are gonna kill you,” Bobby mutters.

 

Spike tilts his head, cocks his eyebrow and shrugs.

 

“’s not a bad thing, Bobby.”

 

Bobby shakes his head.

 

“Idjit.”

 

Spike laughs. The sound feels strange coming from his mouth, but he hears it, and he can’t deny it.

 

He takes another drag, looks around the scrapyard (crapyard, and this time the mind does acknowledge the joke).

 

“What on God’s green earth am I doing here?” he says.

 

“Stalling work,” Bobby replies. “Now get your ass back here, I’ll be damned if I’m taking this engine out by myself.”

 

Spike finishes the ciggie. Then he crushes the fag under his heel and gets back to work.

 

.:::.

 

When, in a couple of weeks, Bobby tows in the car, Spike’s heart skips a beat. It may be battered and have a disgustingly crème colour, but he can’t mistake the curves. It’s a ’59 DeSoto Fireflite, and it hits too close to home.

 

“I’m going to take her apart,” Bobby says when Spike asks and there’s a glint in his eyes. “Why?”

 

“She’s still got life in her.”

 

“Not the only one, I reckon,” Bobby mutters, pushing the keys in his hand.

 

Spike spends his time working on her. Sometimes Bobby helps. Sometimes Spike feels him watch with what he swears is smugness. He wonders if he speaks when he’s drunk, and if he does, what the hell he’s been saying.

 

He’s pretty sure Bobby’s been listening anyway.

 

.:::.

 

Sam is way tall. He also looks fussy and a bit tight-arsed. Spike feels the urge to ask him if nancy hair, brooding and insufferable taste in clothes come with height and broad shoulders, but… he can’t go there. Can’t go there. Not just yet.

 

Dean’s got a nice leather jacket, and the Impala looks like one sweet ride. Not as sweet as his baby’s gonna be once he’s through with her, but sweet alright.

 

Spike spends his afternoon with Dean, tinkering with their cars and talking about chicks and real music and sweet rides and evil Santas, and from the corner of his eye he watches Bobby and Sam digging through old books, and there’s something in the air. Something other than… than the fun he’s having. Cuz he is. If he was still a vampire, he’d have sired Dean in a heartbeat. Just like that.

 

But there’s something there, something he’s seen before in the way Dean looks over at Sam. He looks… he looks like Buffy. Not blonde and petite, though Dean’s totally shaggable in his own right, just… Dean looks just the way she looked when they set out to save Dawn. He lights another ciggie.

 

After all this time, after all her happy ending, it still guts him. Still guts him to remember her dive off the tower, hear her bones crack, see her broken body.

 

And Spike’s been around. Spike’s… been. A mortal, a vampire and a sodding human torch and a ghost and a vampire again. And again a mortal. He’s seen most perspectives. And he doesn’t mistake the scent of death.

 

Hunter, Slayer, there’s not much difference from where he’s standing. What Buffy carried, Spike can see in Dean. Someone who carries death and light in equal proportions. Someone cradled by death.

 

And that’s what Dean feels like. Like he has taken the swan-dive, but hasn’t hit ground just yet.

 

.:::.

 

The boys leave before New Year’s. Spike hasn’t seen pink elephants for some days. It stuns him.

 

“Wanna do something for New Year’s?” Bobby asks scratching his head.

 

“What do you have in mind?”

 

“Maybe we could go down to Maumee’s joint. There’ll be the guys and gals and maybe you could just…” Bobby’s palm draws vague gestures in the air. “Get laid or something.”

 

“Oh Lord, I’d rather my cock shrivel and fall off before I have this discussion with you, Bobby.”

 

“Well, if you don’t get laid soon, it just might. From all that rust, ya know?”

 

Spike wants to come up with some witty repartee, but Bobby’s shoulders are already shaking so hard there might be an earthquake, and besides, Spike’s chuckling along.

 

And that stuns him, too.

 

They spend New Year’s drinking beer and playing poker and watching old re-runs on TV. Bobby makes some mean onion rings. It doesn’t get better than that, and the fact that Spike can think in terms of good and better stuns him the most.

 

.:::.

 

When he’s not working on his car or helping Spike, Bobby is digging through his library. There are always phone calls and more books delivered. Sometimes Sam or Dean calls too.

 

And Spike, contrary to what Bobby calls him, is no idjit. It’s the new year, and with every new day, Bobby is more edgy, and Spike has already looked through the passages Bobby’s underlined and the notes he’s filled whole sketchpads with. Spike’s completed the puzzle.

 

This time it’s Bobby’s turn to cradle a beer bottle in his hand, and Spike knows that look. Knows that Bobby isn’t really looking at the ceiling or the wall, but at a bleak future.

 

So Spike settles himself opposite him.

 

“Dean’s going to die, innit?” he asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Crossroad demon. He made some sort of deal for Sam.”

 

Not a question. Certainty.

 

Bobby tilts his head. His eyes glaze with alcohol and held-back tears.

 

“Guess you’re smarter than you look, boy.”

 

“Death’s not final, Bobby.”

 

Bobby gives a tired chuckle.

 

“Death’s death, Spike.”

 

“I sorta died three times. Death’s not final, Bobby. Take it from me. The Powers That Be are cock-sucking bitches, but they are cock-sucking bitches with loopholes.”

 

Spike’s hands are fidgeting with a piece of paper, neatly folded. Now his fingers push it in Bobby’s free hand.

 

“What’s that, boy?”

 

“Debt settled,” Spike replies, watching Bobby unfold it. It took him hours to complete and line up the facts and the phone numbers.

 

“I don’t know the whole story, don’t know any details. Hell, all I have is guesswork and an outline, but if there’s a deal involved, I bet Wolfram and Hart are not that far behind,” Spike says.

 

“What are these, Spike?”

 

“Contacts, Bobby. Information. You haven’t got the loophole yet, but this is your way to tracking it down.”

 

Bobby nods, the nod of a man not registering that tears have already spilt free.

 

“Don’t let Dean die,” Spike says.

 

“I won’t let Dean die,” Bobby replies. His hand reaches out and squeezes Spike’s.

Spike squeezes back.

 

He watches Bobby fall asleep, then gently slides his own hand away and pries the bottle from the other. He covers him up with a blanket and noiselessly moves into the yard.

 

It’s night, and the cold is that of winter, crisp and dry and merciless. But it smells clean and pure, and stars are hanging overhead, and in their constellations he sees patterns and purpose he hadn’t seen for a long, long time.

 

There are no pink elephants, and there are still ghosts he can’t salt and burn and sodding pain that rips him apart when he thinks of all he’s had and all he’s lost over and over again.

 

But his baby is waiting all ready and gleaming, and she’s hungry to swallow miles.

 

And Spike’s hungry to swallow life. It’s been so long, too long since he’s last felt the fire, and if this isn’t a blaze, just a spark, he’s still going to take it.

 

So he’ll drive a lot of miles. There’s an ex-Watcher and a Slayer (lots of slayers now) and a Witch, whose power made his skin tingle whenever he stood nearby.

 

In the night, Spike lights another ciggie and feels joy at the nicotine and his own heartbeat.

 

Maybe he should bleach his hair again. Yeah. He’ll do that.

 

The crossroad demon bitch doesn’t stand a sodding chance.

 

 

-The End.

 

 

SIDENOTE: What? Me? No sidenotes? That’d be a first.

 

That swan-dive/fall analogy? That Dean hasn’t hit ground yet? Sounds familiar for some reason. Why is it in my head that I’ve read something similar either in King or Pratchett? I googled but didn’t find anything. If you DO know the answer, let me know, it’s eating my brain. (Then again, it could be familiar because it’s jotted down somewhere in my notes. ARGH.)

 

Also, I suppose my writer’s block consists of me NOT writing the things I’m supposed to be writing, and instead writing this. *facepalm* I blame watching Spike episodes. Oh Spike. Fudging is a verb I’d love to practice on you. *sigh*  

Comments

[ultraviolet9a.livejournal.com]

Yei! I just thought it'd be fun starting out the story not explaining how they met, but simply what would happen. God, i love crossovers. So much fun!

Thank you for reading and happy new year!