Author's Note: I have long wanted to do a Supernatural/Dresden Files crossover. Because hell yes, that's why. This story takes place where the two universes overlap – a Venn Diagram of Awesomeness, if you will.

Pre-SPN Satanpocalypse, Post-Ghost Story, with flashbacks circa Storm Front.

This particular tale takes place during the events of Unfinished Business (sometime after the chapter Promotion).

Clearly neither of these two original stories belong to me, and are licensed to the original owners.

Dean peered around the corner, frowning after the woman who had let them into the house, then turned to his brother and asked,

"Did we just, uh... get magically transported into, a— like a Disney princess's cottage or something?" He sniffed the air. "Does it smell like donuts in here to you?"

An enormous bobtailed gray tabby cat – it was probably thirty pounds – bounded down from the doily-decked recliner. The living room floor shook as it landed. It threw itself at Sam's knees, mrowling, and almost knocked him down. Sam stumbled backward and sat down on the sofa – powder-blue velvet and probably older than both of them. The cat followed, winding a figure-eight around his shins.

"I think the mountain lion likes me."

"The cat isn't the one we're trying to question." Dean rubbed a hand across his jaw. "Probably be easier, though."

They had spent the last thirteen hours driving through a Midwestern heatwave to check out a pattern of mutilated bodies outside of South Bend and had hit a dead end. Very dead.

No leads, nothing. A suspicious suburban coroner had pointed them to the Chicago PD Special Investigations director, who sent them to a county medical examiner, who had directed them to pay a visit to an ex-cop, and now he and Sam were currently taking up most of the living room of a cute, sunny little white house near O'Hare.

Too cute. There was a Sleeping Beauty-worthy tangle of red roses inside a wrought-iron fence out front, the furniture was kind of a frilly mismatch and the smell of what was unmistakably donuts and fresh coffee made his stomach growl.

"Doesn't seem like the hunter type to me." He poked at the lace doily on the coffee table and looked around again. It was suspiciously girly for a hunter. "More like Tinkerbell."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Tiny, blonde and mean." He frowned. "Tinkerbell."

"You do realize," his brother said, visibly trying not to smile, "that you just described yourself."

Dean held up a finger in warning and turned back toward what he had been observing.

Okay. So there were a few things in Tink's house that weren't exactly vanilla-mortal normal.

There was a low table against the far wall, on top of it a white votive candle burned in front of a silver-framed photograph of a tall, dark-haired man who, from the corner of his eye, might have looked like Sam if Sam didn't have a phobia of scissors. A few other items were stacked neatly on the table; a row of leather-bound journals with runes stamped into the spine of each, an old-fashioned prayer card – St. Joan, and a Tarot card next to an heirloom rosary of dark red beads and a silver crucifix.

A nice guitar case leaned against the table, several months' worth of undisturbed dust on its surface – strange compared to the immaculate state of the rest of the house.

...And there was an epic fucking ninja sword in a rack on the mantel of the fireplace, but the fact that it didn't seem the slightest bit out of place in Tinkerbell's house was what really grabbed his attention.

"I don't know." The gigantic gray cat jumped into Sam's lap and bumped his chin with its nose. He scratched its ears. "That ME seemed to think she was the only person who could help."

"The guy was wearing bunny slippers, Sammy." He turned back to the fireplace, looking at the katana. It was several feet of wickedly-sharp Damascus steel resting in the rack above its bamboo scabbard. There was a familiar-looking kanji symbol carved into the hilt, what looked like rust on the iron tsuba. "Can you really take a guy in bunny slippers seriously?"

"Dean," his brother hissed as he reached for the sword.

It was shiny.

"Don't touch that."

He turned. The woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen stared up at him.

Literally; the top of her cropped blonde hair was barely level with his chin. Sam absolutely dwarfed her. She was in her late thirties, maybe, and cute – a little babyfaced, with angelic blue eyes and dimples even when she glared at him.

So she didn't exactly look like the clued-in, hardcore ex-cop the medical examiner had talked up.

"It's an antique."

It was then that he noticed the martial arts trophies next to the sword, with words like 'Krav Maga' and 'Aikido' and 'National Championship' engraved on the plaques. Also shiny.

"Yes, ma'am."

She filled the mug in her left hand from the coffeepot in her right, her eyes never left him. "Don't ma'am me."

Awkward. Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around again. There were a number of fresh, unpainted drywall patches along the street-facing wall, matching patches on the opposite wall.

...In a size and pattern that might have indicated automatic gunfire. From the outside.

The woman stared levelly up at him and took a long pull from the mug.

He turned to his brother for backup, but Sam was still making friends with the cat. Dean observed, hanging among the half-dozen photos above the sofa, a set of marksmanship qualification certificates in frames that looked more like they belonged an office:

Karrin Murphy – Silhouette Pistol, Bullseye Pistol, Light Rifle, Shotgun, Long-Range Rifle—

"Sit down, Mister Winchester."

"Yes, ma— okay."

"How do you two take your coffee?"

Dean sat next to his brother. He folded his hands in his lap. "Black as sin."

"Lots of sugar." Sam smiled politely. The big gray cat jumped onto the back of the sofa and lay around his shoulders like a scarf. It batted at his hair and rumbled with a diesel engine purr.

She stared at them for a moment, her brow clouded. "Donuts?"

"Yes, ma'am," the brothers said in force-of-habit stereo.

The woman pinched the bridge of her nose as she turned toward the kitchen, muttering to herself.

"Hell's bells."

to be continued...