Title: Moonshine
Program: Supernatural; Dexter
Type: Crossover
Setting: Dexter, between "The Big One" and the season six premiere; Supernatural, sometime after the season seven premiere. (Note: I did not set this fic between "The Man Who Knew Too Much" and the season seven premiere because the finale ended on a cliffhanger, and the premiere will more likely than not pick up on the same scene in which it left off. Also, since I am neither a writer of the show nor can I see into the future, I do not know what is going to happen during/after the season premiere, so forgive me if there are some details in this story that don't go along with the next season once it airs. This is, after all, fanfiction.)
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or stories. I am just an obsessed fangirl writing a fic. That being said, they're both kick ass shows and I highly recommend checking them out if you haven't already. Although, you probably have because why else would you be reading a fic about them?
Note: I WROTE THIS FIC ABOUT TWO YEARS AGO, SO IT DOES REFERENCE THE OLD SEASONS. IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH WHAT'S CURRENTLY GOING ON. I JUST WANTED TO POST THIS ON THIS WEBSITE. READ THE "SETTING" SECTION FOR MORE OF AN EXPLANATION.
As always, reviews would be awesome. Enjoy!

Chapter One.

March 18th.

It was like a slaughterhouse – well, that is, before everyone got all Upton Sinclair on the meatpacking industry. The master bedroom of the small Cutler Ridge house was covered in carnage, the homicide department of Miami Metro, and – most importantly – blood. Lots and lots of gooey, red, sticky blood, baking in the 90-someodd-degree weather that liked to hang around South Florida at all times of the year. But the problem wasn't the stain that all that blood would leave on the bed, the walls, and the ceiling; that wasn't Dexter's problem, after all, but he'd be sure to give a "good luck" pat on the shoulder to anyone whose job it was. The problem was the pattern of the blood, or better yet, the lack of pattern.

As the best and only blood splatter analyst of the Miami Metro Police Department, it was Dexter's job to figure out the sequence of events that took place during the homicide by determining the object used to commit the murder, the origin of the impact, the movement and positions of the parties in question, and, on a lucky day, the height and body build of the murderer. Unfortunately, that day wasn't a lucky one. The blood wasn't telling any stories.

"Hey," said a familiar voice from behind Dexter, who was kneeling down next to a part of the carpet that seemed to collect more than its fair share of blood. It was Deb's voice, Dexter's stepsister who worked as a detective for homicide. Detective Morgan. Their dearly departed detective father, Harry, would have been proud. Harry taught both Dexter and Debra everything they knew.

Everything.

"Find anything?" Deb asked. Her voice was slightly more butch than it probably should have been, and Dexter had a running theory that she did that on purpose to make herself sound tougher; he frequently wished she would knock it off. Dexter looked up at her. She seemed especially uncomfortable in this particular crime scene; her arms were tightly folded across her chest as she eyed the walls, careful not to make any disgusted faces. Deb was damn good at her job and had been around hundreds of crime scenes, but this one was worse than even most the veterans of the station had ever seen. Dexter knew he should ask her if she was alright. Of course she wasn't alright; it was just another stupid question people were supposed to ask to which the reply would always be, "Yeah, fine." Unless you're Deb. Of course, if you're Deb, the reply would always be, "Fuck off and tell me what you know." Dexter decided to skip the pleasantries.

He shook his head instead. "Nothing," he said, standing up straight next to his sister. "There's absolutely no pattern I can see. The room's a mess."

Deb snorted a bitter laugh. "You're telling me." Dexter eyed her. It was strange to see such a beautiful girl in such an ugly scene. "LaGuerta's not gonna like that report," Deb went on after collecting herself with a nod of the head and a hard swallow. She was right, though: Lieutenant LaGuerta would want results from this crime scene, not because she cared our anything; but the news would be all over her ass if she didn't find the killer soon.

"Good thing I have to tell her, then," Dexter said with a side smirk toward Deb. "She likes me better than you anyway."

"Fucker."

"If I didn't know better, I'd call this an animal attack," Dexter said, ignoring the name calling like he always did and taking another look around the room. An animal attack was impossible though. What animal crosses town lines and attacks four different people in the course of four days? Well, this makes five people and five days. "I'll run the blood samples when I get back to the station, see if any blood other than the victim's pops up. That's the most I can do right now."

"Then get your ass moving," Deb commanded, going back into Detective Morgan mode. "Find me a lead. I want this asshole on death row by breakfast tomorrow."

"Anything for you," Dexter said dryly before moving to leave the crime scene. The sooner he got back to the lab, the better. He already had an important arrangement set up for after work; one he couldn't miss. As he stepped outside the house, the news reporters and busybody onlookers had already formed a mob on the sidewalk. Dexter smiled at the almost-full moon hanging low on the horizon in the dusk sky as he thought, Tonight's the night.

Two days later, the brutal animal-like murders came to a stop for no reason that anyone could explain.