Author's Note: So here's the gripping tale of where I came up with this (skip on to the next paragraph if you don't give a wad of flaming demon monkey crap): I was sitting there, "working" at my table at the Democratic primaries for US Senate, and I was trying to come to terms with the fact that I'd finished my book, gotten sick of logic puzzles, and run out of steam in my other fics in only two hours. The time was 7:00 am, I'd been there since 5:00 am and I was going to be there until 8:00 pm. In that time frame exactly zero people had come to vote. (Over the next 11 hours, 18 people total came to vote.) Things were looking majorly sucky, but then I realized that I had been itching to write my own Spn/Dresden crossover ever since I read E-MouseGirl's "Allies" and "Looking for the Devil". Which BTW are fantastic and should be read. But anyway I started writing this, and since then it has evolved like some strange sort of plant. Maybe I'll name it Audrey 2 or something. Props if you understand a word I just said.

IMPORTANT STUFF HERE- So this is set after the start of Season 4 of Supernatural and sometime before the start of Blood Rites in the Dresden-verse. Except I'm going to completely ignore that Harry picked up Lasciel's coin because it adds an impossible amount of complexity to my relatively simple plotline. Also, I'm trying to emulate Jim Butcher's snarky first-person Harry. Let me know how I do, yeah?

So enjoy, and if anything seems horribly out of place, it's probably cause I've never been to Chicago and haven't read all the way through the Dresden Files series in a while, so my magical jargon is a bit rusty. Sorry about the overly long author's note, but I think I covered everything.

I am a firm believer in Karma. What goes around comes around, and as my friend Michael once told me, "Sometimes you're what's coming around." Of course, he said that in a feeble attempt to comfort me after I burned down a building around at least fifteen innocent kids, maybe more. Sure there were a couple dozen vampires of the Red and Black courts in there too, but their faces aren't the ones that keep me up at night.

Anyway, that's not my point. My point is that, every now and again, the Powers that Be decide that I've saved my own ass, and coincidentally the world, enough times to have one day where everything doesn't totally suck. Usually, such days are identified by a few simple traits, similar to those I encountered this morning.

One: I woke up this morning, after chasing two ghouls and a hostage half-way across Chicago in November, feeling only as bad as a "coma" warmed over, rather than my usual "death". Two: I got up, got dressed, and went to the grocery store for some food without anything trying to disintegrate, immolate, desiccate, exsanguinate, or otherwise -ate me. Three: The Chicago PD had ponied up the cash on time for the last case I'd helped with, and it meant that my bills would actually be paid this month. All in all, I was feeling pretty good by lunchtime. So, naturally, that was when an explosion of magic from somewhere downtown knocked me on my ass.

I don't just mean the metaphor either; I mean that it literally sent tremors of energy through the floor of my apartment that made me drop my plate of cold cuts and sit down, hard. Mister came sailing out of nowhere and made the entire plate of food vanish before my eyes, then tossed me a glare and sauntered away as if to say "If my nap is going to be ruined by magic you aren't responsible for, then so is your lunch".

As I picked myself and my Tupperware (I had long ago abandoned the idea of anything that might break) off the floor, I could hear Bob swearing a blue streak through the floorboards. To clear up any lingering confusion, Bob is a spirit of intellect that lives in a human skull that I keep in my underground magical laboratory. Who says wizards aren't clichéd anymore? I reinforced yet another stereotype as I grabbed my heavy robe and descended to my sub-zero basement. Both of the candles on Bob's shelf had gone out, so I reignited them with a wave of my hand and a muttered "flickum bicus"

"Bob?" I called warily as a stream of curses, mostly in English but also in what may have been Gaelic and/or Ancient Egyptian, continued to pour from the skull. "You okay?"

"No Harry I am not okay," Bob snapped, orange eye-lights blazing in irritation. "Something big just transmuted on South Street and it surprised me into knocking my book off the shelf!" As I bent to get it for him, he yelped, "no no wait, it's okay Harry, I'll get it!"

I paused with one hand on the spine of the book, shooting Bob a suspicious look over my shoulder. "You are never that polite. And you're a skull on a shelf, you can't get it yourself." I turned the book over in my hands as I stood and frowned at the unfortunately all too familiar cover. I had been meaning to ask what Bob meant by transmutation, but now a far more important question came to mind. "Bob, where the hell did you get a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey?"

If a skull could blush, Bob would have been bright red. "I'm feeling very judged right now Harry."

"That's good Bob, because I'm judging you. Come on man, it's not even well-written sex! This is a new personal low for you." I turned away, book in hand. "On the bright side, I was running out of kindling for the upstairs fireplace." Over on his shelf, Bob was starting to panic.

"Aww come on Harry, don't be like that! I haven't even gotten to the elevator scene yet!"

"Tell me who gave it to you, and explain what you said about transmutation, and maybe I won't burn it." I had no intentions of letting another hour pass with filth like that under my roof, but Bob didn't know that.

Sure enough, he responded instantly. "It was Thomas, he got it for me as a laugh, I swear!" I gripped the cover firmly between my fingers and began to slowly tear it off of the book, and Bob hurried on, "and the thing that just floored you, and probably every other magically gifted goon within the city limits, was some sort of transmutation spell. And I mean a really big one, animal to mineral or vice versa."

I twitched so hard that I almost tore the damn book in half. "Hells bells! You mean someone broke the Second Law?" The Second Law of Magic set down by the White Council forbids transforming people into anything else, which is why I will never turn anyone into a newt no matter how much they piss me off. Not only is such magic incredibly complex and almost certain to go horribly wrong, but even if the physical change works the psychic never will.

There is no way to fit a human mind into anything else's head, and people who are trapped as animals invariably experience a gradual collapse of Self. The less sentient the target animal, the quicker the decline. I heard of a man who survived as a dolphin for almost three weeks before they found him beached in South Carolina. I also heard of a wizard who turned someone into a toad by accident and only managed to undo the spell two days later. Apparently the victim spent the rest of her life trying to catch flies with her tongue, until the day she leapt in front of a train in pursuit of a juicy moth.

"Yep, right in the middle of Chicago," Bob confirmed, although his eyes were still trained on the slightly mangled romance novel in my hand. "Don't get involved, Harry. Someone will tell a Warden, and if it is a breach of the Laws they'll take care of it. This isn't your fight."

Part of me knew Bob was right, and was urging me to get on with things like throttling Thomas and burning the crappy BDSM book already. Another part of me however, the chivalrous one that usually held doors for women and got mad when kids were crying, wanted to investigate myself and make sure that it wasn't all a huge misunderstanding. I have a soft spot for people who've had misunderstandings with the council. I sighed in defeat. The death of Fifty Shades would have to wait for another day.

"Alright Bob, tell me everything you know or suspect about this. What could it be?" As I sadly put the paperback back on Bob's shelf, he began to brief me, his tone entirely too peppy.

"Well boss, it could be a couple of things. A shapeshifter of some sort, maybe." As he spoke, I was getting my wizardly essentials together. Blasting Rod: check. Shield bracelet: check. My mother's silver pentacle: check. Enchanted leather duster: check. I debated about taking my staff, then decided against it. While useful in most situations, it was large and hard to sneak with, and I was worried that I might have to do some sneaking.

"Come on Bob, what sort of shapeshifter lets off that much energy in one go when it turns?" I asked, voice slightly muffled as I dug around in my Chest of Wizardly Items.

I discarded a rubber chicken, a small coil of razor wire in a thick plastic sleeve, six and a half white candles, and a Chinese finger trap before I found the box I was looking for. Inside said box were six .358 bullets made of pure silver. After the Loup-Garrou, I asked Murphy if she had any spare silver lying around that had been passed down in her family, stuff she wouldn't mind making into weapons. I suspect that she gleefully pillaged her mother's good sterling silverware for the materials, and have since decided never to eat dinner at the Murphy home, lest my indirect guilt give me indigestion.

"Well, it would be like the Loup-Garrou," Bob hedged. "Except, you know, not dependant on the lunar cycle. And bigger."

I sat back on my heels to look at the skull. "Bigger how, Bob?"

"Bigger like Quetzalcoatl, for example."

"The ancient Aztec God?" I blinked in confusion. "Gods can be shapeshifters?"

Bob gave a long-suffering sigh. "More like shapeshifters can be gods, Harry. Don't you know your mythology? He was a god who walked the earth in the form of a human, but also had another body, that of the great feathered serpent. A shapeshifter, but way out of your league."

"So silver bullets wouldn't even work on something like that huh?" I asked glumly. Why couldn't it ever be easy?

"Probably not. Might piss it off enough that it kills you quick though, that's something." Bob injected artificial cheeriness into his voice. "But hey, if you're lucky it's just a confused kid who accidentally turned a hooker into a cat or something." He snickered. "Get it? Get it Harry?"

I jammed the probably useless but oddly comforting silver bullets into a pocket of the duster, along with the revolver, and turned to leave, ignoring the little pervert.

"You'd better read fast Bob," I called over my shoulder as I ascended the ladder. "When I'm done with this I'm going to burn that book and bleach your skull."

"You know Harry, I was gonna wish you luck, but I've changed my mind. I hope that this is a really long and painful case for you," Bob yelled back as the trapdoor closed above him.

Stupid skull always had to have the last word.

LOL sorry if you like 50SoG, I think it's gross and badly written so I make fun of it a lot (is there even an elevator scene?). Please don't take offense. That plea also extends to my tenuous memory of Aztec gods, -cough- Quetzalcoatl. And I know there were no Winchesters in this chapter, but they're coming! I just had to practice my Harry-esque narrating style. Review pretty please?