Title: It's not the Roadhouse
Universe: Totally AU. The destruction of Sunnydale coincides with the death of Jess at the start of season 1-Supernatural. In terms of plot, it goes AU after Dean and Sam close the Gates of Hell, and Buffy and crew leave Sunnydale.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything belonging to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural or Angle the Series. This is intended for fun and not for profit

Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was trying, Lord knew he was trying, but this was just too much.

He and Sammy had just finished a job in the middle of nowhere in particular. It had been a bad one, a haunted house with emphasis on the haunted. A pair of spirits who enjoyed taking a meat cleaver to anyone who stepped on their property. Three people had died and of course, the bodies where buried on the property. The bastards had nearly gotten Sammy.

With that thought, Dean took another slug of the beer in front of him. That was how Bobby had gotten him to come to Cleveland of all places. The promise of cheap beer. And the incessant phone calls. And well, it was New Year’s Eve, and they couldn’t exactly go do the annual thing at the Roadhouse, now. He had to do it somewhere. The victims deserved it.

So he’d come with Sam to spend his New Year drinking beer at a dive of a bar in downtown Cleveland. To get in the door he’d been frisked for weapons by both a bouncer and Bobby. He was quite proud of the fact Bobby had found three more knives on him after the bouncer declared him clean. Sam had given up all his weapons when asked. Inside was Dean’s perfect New Year’s Eve party. A bar full of Hunters, really, really cheap beer and hot chicks. Of course, the majority of the chicks fell in the ‘jail bait’ category, but to a guy with less than two months to live, that wasn’t much of a deterrent.

However, it was not to be. After the last set of Hunters drifted in at a quarter to twelve, Bobby had gotten onto the stage and introduced a tiny blonde girl. She was the Slayer, or at least the Primary Slayer.

Dean had heard the myth before; it was the Hunters’ equivalent to Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty. If you didn’t know it you were odd.

Her story was different, well, it started out the same, but changed when she moved to Sunnydale. She told it with brutal honesty to the bar full of Hunters. All of it. There was many a winch in sympathy, and the whole bar had ordered a new round of drinks when she told of her relationship with a vampire (or two). Most had gone for seconds when they’d actually met one.

It was an amazing story, and Dean believed it. What he didn’t believe was how she talked about ‘after’. After the closing of the Hellmouth. How they’d moved east with a purpose. The mini-slayers as supernatural police. The New International Watchers’ Council.

When she said something about how traditionally Hunters cleaned up the small stuff on the fringes, he’d snapped. Or, more accurately, snorted. It was possibly closer to a hysterical laugh. He’d had his fair share of booze.

All eyes turned to him.

“Small stuff?” Even though it was slightly slurred the disgust was thick in his voice. “Sammy, why don’t you give the lady a Hunters’ roll call on our first ‘big bad’.”

“Dean…” Sam’s voice was low. The Hunters' roll call was the New Years tradition at the Roadhouse. The naming of a demon, and all those it had gotten to before they’d gotten to it. But, well, this wasn't the Roadhouse.

“Old Yellow Eyes.” Dean said, loudly, addressing the room. “Met it when I was four. First victim was –“

“Mom.” Sam interrupted. Dean took a swing of his beer and let Sam continue. “Jess. Meg…”

The list went on and on, in no particular order, just like every other roll call. Dean drank to each name. Some he barely remembered, if at all. Some cut like knives through his soul.

When Sammy got to Pastor Jim, there wasn’t a single Hunter in the bar who didn’t drink.

Eventually Sam came to the end of his litany.
“…Alex. Me.” The last was said so softly that Dean, sitting next to him, barely heard it. Dean drank to that truth, and ignored the looks the Slayers were directing at Sam.

Sam made an odd noise, somewhat between a choke and a sob. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Dad.” It came out clear. Much to the surprise of the blond Slayer, every Hunter in the bar raised their glasses.

“John Winchester” was the universal murmur as they drained their drinks. All except Dean, who just took another sip.

“That’s it, Dean.” Sam whispered. “That’s all he’ll ever take. We got the bastard.” The last was said out loud, so the whole bar could hear. The end of a roll call.

“You missed one, Sammy.” Dean said.

“Who?” His memory might not be perfect, Sam knew, but it was a heck of a lot better than his brothers. Especially when said brother was as drunk as he was now.

Dean stood in a single, rather uncoordinated, movement and drained the beer. Putting the bottle on the counter he moved towards the door.

“Dean,” Sam tried again, “who?”

He stopped hand on the door and tried to focus his eyes on Sam. He ignored everyone else.

“Me.”

With a push, he was out the door and gone, just as the clock struck three.

Sam slumped back in defeat.

“No, Dean.” He whispered to his empty bottle. “That was me.”