Written for the Fandom Firsts Crossover Challenge at The Supernatural Crossover LiveJournal.
Timeline: Set early Season 4.
Little Did She Know...
Dean Winchester was a man of uncomplicated principles. Loyalty. Duty. Honour. Fun. Protect his family. Save people. Hunt things. He had once off-handly referred to his profession as the family business, and there was an underlying truth to that sentiment in the heart and mind of Dean Winchester. He believed unequivocally in - and was proud of - the fact that his family travelled from one podunk village to another to surmount fearsome monsters and rescue innocents whose lives had been thus far unsullied by the gruesome truth of what truly lurked beneath the primp and lustrous veneer of Life.
And if said innocents happened to be young, vivacious, and appreciative bubbly blondes or busty brunettes, he certainly wouldn't decline their offers of gratitude. He was, after all, a man.
Yet such a nomadic life, dangerously positioned on the front lines defending society from the denizens of evil does undoubtably accumulate unsavoury characters that would prefferably be avoided. In laymans' terms: enemies.
His somewhat military upbringing, which consisted of years of honing his reflexes, ingrained Dean with a certain degree of paranoia that had saved his life on more than one occasion.
Today however, was not one of those occasions.
Today was in fact one of those times his sensitive intuition would wake him up unreasonably early, an act that prompted events which would lead to his unfortunate demise.
And so it was with unprecipitated abruptness that Dean Winchester awoke from his slumber on that fateful Sunday morning. Alert for a sound that couldn't be heard, Deans' eyes frantically skittered about the room, searching for anything amiss.
When his inspection retrieved null results, Dean slowly rose. One hand slowly rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his eyes as he trudged half-heartedly to the bathroom.
A cursory glance in the mirror revealed little surprises. The same gorgeous face smattered with three-day stubble impressed a sense of danger, and the expressive green eyes that made countless women fall into his-
"SAMMY!"
Sam bolted upright, his head banging into the lamp that hovered by the headboard in his haste. "Whah...?"
"You hear that?"
Sam rubbed his head. "Hear what Dean?"
"Listen."
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
"...For what?"
Dean grew frustrated, it appeared that his brother-
"There! That?"
"What?"
"That voice!"
Sam blinked, still half-asleep. "Dude, please don't tell me you woke me up to yell at me for talking." He fell back onto the bed.
"What? No, not you dumbass. The other voice."
"Dean, there's no one else here."
"I know that. Just listen; there's this chick's voice."
After a minute passed in silence, Dean cocked his head to the side to better hear-
"There!"
"Where?"
"Just then! Don't tell me you didn't hear it. It was clear as day!"
When Sam looked over at his brother, Dean had no doubts of the thoughts running through his head.
"You can't tell me that you can't hear that."
Sam's brow scrunched up. "You sure you're alright Dean? I mean, maybe it's some residual from getting tossed into that tree last night. You did hit your head pretty hard."
Irritated, Dean waved the idea away as though he was trying to shoo a pestering insect.
Dean looked down at his arm. "No, this is something else Sammy."
Sam tilted his head to the side, the corner of his mouth sneaking up. "What, you're hearing voices?"
"Aha, laugh all you want Sammy. But there is definitely something going on."
"I believe you, Dean. I mean," Sam closed his eyes, trying to gather thoughts from a brain that was still in sleep-mode, "after all we've faced? Voices is pretty tame." He glanced at the clock. "But can we deal with this later? When the sun's up, perhaps?" Decision made, Sam rolled over.
Casting an eye towards the glaringly bland alarm clock on the bedside table, Dean realised that it was only four-thirty. Whilst the idea of sleep did strongly appeal-
Dean snapped. "No, now."
Sam gave a pained look, his question was as much directed at his brother as it was to the heavens. "Why?"
"Because it won't friggin' shut up."
"Alright," Sam conceded, rubbing his eyes to chase off the last vestiges of sleep. "When did this start?"
Dean sat on the end of the bed. "Not sure. I was sleeping and I heard this woman start talking."
"What did she say?"
"She was describing my life. Y'know, travelling, hunting... when she said-"
Dean stopped. Telling his brother that a disembodied voice predicted that he was to be the Death du Jour was not a conversation he wanted to have. Especially since he had just been granted a mysterious reprieve from the downstairs furnace.
"...and I woke up and she was still here."
"And what's she talking about now?"
"Just... narrating everything I do. Friggin' annoying."
"Uh-huh. And what was the part of the story you neglected?"
Dean froze, his attempt to avoid the tabboo subject-
"SHUTUP!"
"I'm trying to help you out. You woke me up-"
Dean sent a demeaning glance his brother's way and pointed up.
Sam took the cue and forgave his brother. "So...?"
When Dean looked over, he realised that no matter of distraction would dissuade Sam from finding out what Dean had neglected to mention earlier. Especially since his avoidance confirmed that it was something of relative importance.
"She... She said I'm gonna die, alright?"
"Did she say how?"
Dean shook his head. "No, just that I would wake up early, and cause some chain reaction that ends with me dead."
"Hunh." Sam gazed off towards the back wall.
Dean knew that Sam's inattention was due to his concentration in devising a logical response to the situation at hand. Still as the silence stretched on, punctuated by the ticking of his watch that only seemed to reflect the daunting thought that time was running out-
"SHUTUP!"
--
Karen Eiffel clicked in the last letter for the line and smacked the typewriter back to start.
After the debacle with Harold Crick she had been hesitant to write another novel concerning where a protagonist met an unwilling fate. But her agent had informed her that her fans held on because of the imaginative and diverse grim outcomes that befell the characters. She then laboured for hours trying to find a way around her predicament.
Her answer came two days later when she saw a news article on television reporting the deaths of two fugitives. Comfortable in the knowledge that dead people couldn't die a second time, she researched the two unfortunate souls, using just enough facts so they wouldn't be misconstrued with another Sam and Dean Winchester, and just enough imagination to fill in the gaps in their records.
Creating a concept so outlandish and impossible, she was satisfied that no one could possibly fall prey to her fable. And for the first time in years, she began to type.
After all, paranormal hunters? Really...