Disclaimer - Buffy belongs to Whedon and Supernatural belongs to Kripke. If any of them want to sell, I've got three quarters and a lint ball in my pocket.

WARNING: This work includes spoilers for Buffy season 5 and Supernatural season 11.

Note regarding timelines:

This begins during Buffy season 5 (5.12–5.13) and Supernatural season 11 (11.4–11.5). Because of the time disparities between the two shows I've moved Buffy up into 2016 rather than the other way around. This means the tech in the Buffyverse will be updated, smartphones and wifi and such.

Commentary and critiques are always welcome!

Going westbound on a dark, isolated stretch of interstate highway 70 roared the engine of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Its occupants were two brothers, Dean and Sam Winchester, known infamously by those seeped in the dark ways of the supernatural as a bane and a menace. By their hands, those who would prey on mankind had been cut down by the hundreds, perhaps the thousands, over the years as they traveled back and forth across the country. Their most recent "job" was leading them to…

"'Sunnydale'?" grumped the driver, the elder brother Dean, a man in his late thirties with piercing green eyes, short cut brown hair, and ruggedly handsome features. "Who the hell names their town 'Sunnydale'? It's like you wanna advertise the fact that you're lame."

"I think there's a UC there," replied his brother Sam, a taller man four years younger with shoulder length hair and a face that leaned more towards pretty than handsome. He shifted a little on the passenger's side; ten years gone and the reminder of his forced abandonment of Stanford Law and a normal, white-collared life still had the power to sting.

"Well there's a silver lining," Dean said with a smirk. "Coeds."

Sam stared disapprovingly. "You're disgusting."

The older Winchester grimaced and shrugged. "I still don't see what we're doing out here in California when we should be looking for something to deal with Amara."

"Dude, we've been over this. We've got nothing. Might as well go out and do a job and help someone."

"Well it's more interesting than sittin' around on our butts. So what're we looking at again?"

"Five people who have gone suddenly insane," replied the younger Winchester as he shuffled through a few printouts. "All within the past few months, all perfectly normal one day; can't see reality the next."

"Like, murderous rampage insane?"

"No, more like schizophrenic. Babbling nonsense mostly."

"Sounds like a wraith. Or a ghost."

"Could be a witch."

"Oh, please not a witch," moaned the older brother. "I hate witches."

The two sat in companionable silence, the elder concentrating on the road (and desperately hoping it wasn't a bodily fluid spewing, stinky spell ingredient using, ugly crabby witch) and the younger opening the browser on his smartphone. "Huh."

"Now what?" growled Dean.

"For a small town, this place has a really high murder rate. Lots of drug related deaths, people going crazy on PCP or meth. Not a whole lot of anything else, maybe a few shootings or stabbings; deputy mayor got killed a few years back. Get this, the high school exploded during graduation. Fire department chalked it up to a gas leak."

"Sounds like people in this town get really bored."

"We'll see when we get there," Sam replied as he pocketed his phone. "I'm going to get some sleep."

"Betcha when we get there all we do is add to the insanity."

Buffy Summers, college student and, presently, very perturbed Vampire Slayer, closed the Magic Box door behind the last retreating Watcher. As a petite, blonde young woman (barely scraping past five feet in height), most of them had towered over her, and yet they were the ones who cowered. Less than an hour before she had firmly tiered the hierarchal structure between her, the Chosen One, and them, the Chosen One's so-called guardians, with herself high up on top. However, the revelations imparted by their leader, Quentin Travers, in regards to the latest Big Bad to grace their town had her regretting, maybe a little, how harsh she had been.

Defeating a Hellgod would take every iota of knowledge and strength that they could get their hands on.

She turned to face her friends gathered about the shop's reading table, every one of the dumbstruck. "A… god," stammered Xander Harris, a tall, dark haired young man whose normal upbeat, witty demeanor was blanketed by shock. "An honest-to-god god."

"Yes, well," said Rupert Giles, the group's paternal figure, owner of the Magic Box, and the only Watcher Buffy would ever trust. His usual English stoicism seemed absent as he nervously adjusted his spectacles. "Suddenly I feel the urge to panic just a little."

"That's okay!" chirped Anya Jenkins, formerly Anyanka, vengeance demon and patroness to scorned women, now a (relatively) normal young woman working minimum wage for Giles at the shop. "I feel the urge to panic a lot."

The last two people present stood together silently against a bookcase. Red-haired Willow Rosenberg was one of Buffy's oldest Sunnydale friends. Normally a bundle of cheer and optimism, she anxiously grasped the hand of her girlfriend, Tara Maclay, a soft-eyed ombré dyed blonde. The power that flowed through their clasped hands was rooted in both the emotional and the mystical as both were practicing witches.

Buffy rubbed her temples in an attempt to relieve her encroaching headache. "Look," she said, "it's late, I'm tired, and there's nothing we can really do right this second so I'm going to go home and pretend to sleep."

"Hear, hear!" Xander exclaimed in agreement.

The Slayer and her friends left the Magic Box en masse with Giles locking the door behind them. As the others headed their separate ways, the elder man placed a gentle hand on Buffy's shoulder. "Try not to worry so much. Everything has a weakness; we just need to find out what it is."

"Thanks, Giles," she replied with a monstrous effort to form a smile. "I just hope we find that before she finds the Key."

The Watcher and his Slayer brooded for a moment about their shared secret. "In the meantime," Giles finally said, "perhaps go check on Glory's victims. They may start pointing us towards her base of operations."

"I suppose. Who knows what kind of crazies might be out there ready to add to the insanity?"