A/N: Supernatural/My Bloody Valentine crossover. Canon up until the last five minutes of Sex and Violence. After that we go AU. Don't tell me you're surprised at that. This is me, remember? Story title inspired by the song The Mysterious Axeman's Jazz (Don't Scare Me, Papa), by Joseph Davila. There actually was a serial killer in New Orleans who killed folks with an ax back in the 1900s. Go to Wikipedia, type in Axeman of New Orleans if ya don't believe me.

Warning: There is major character death, more than one, in this fic. Don't say I didn't warn ya. Dean and Bobby are still standing (sorta) in case you're wondering. Everyone else is fair game.

POV: Harry Warden

Summary: He was made for killing, and once he zeroed in on somebody nothing could stand in his way.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or My Bloody Valentine. This is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.

"Get off my back, Warden. I know how to do my job."

Kid was nothing but a pretty boy. Harry knew that from the moment he laid eyes on the punk. Good for nothing rich kid. Daddy's little bitch. Harry wasn't surprised that the bastard managed to fuck everything up down there in the mine.

But later? Harry was surprised at what happened later. That Tom kid was a machine. He was made for killing, and once he zeroed in on somebody nothing could stand in his way.

Took a little time to wear ol' Tommy boy down at first. Harry was patient. The sheriff actually did Harry a favor when he shot him in front of the Hanniger kid. Tom got a faceful of Harry's blood, and that was all it took. That was how Harry wormed his way in. Nothing mattered after that.

It didn't matter that later on that same night Tom Hanniger stood underneath a scalding hot shower and tried to scrape that freckled skin of his down to the bone with a copper scouring pad. Didn't matter that later on Hanniger popped all kinds of pills: Haloperidol and Paroxetine, just to name a few. None of it did boychick a damn bit of good.

He was Harry Warden's bitch from then on.

It was sweet for a while, but the good times never last. They made it out of Harmony after the mine blew, and Harry wasn't that broken up about it. He was glad to put that dump of a friggin' town in his rear view mirror. The dude who owned the truck Tom stole had some objections, of course, but he quieted down real fast when Tom introduced the business end of that crowbar to his noggin. Repeatedly.

Yeah, the kid was tougher, stronger and smarter than Harry ever gave him credit for, but he was still human after all. Tom was dying, but he managed to put an entire state between them and Harmony before he gave up the ghost.

"Sorry, kid," Harry whispered softly, days later.

Tom's chest hitched, first one labored breath, and then another. Those green eyes were already glazed over, staring at something that only he could see. Harry knew it wouldn't be long.

"Been a hell of a ride, y'know? "

The kid lay on the floor in the hotel room, too weak to even try to get into bed. Harry could hear the blood gushing out of Tom's body, into the carpet, through his clothes and the bandages and rolls of cotton he'd tried to stop the bleeding with. Sounded like melting snow.

There was a commotion out in the hallway. Wood cracking, glass breaking.

"Tell me again how weak I am, Sam."

Sounded like a pretty good fight, so Harry went out to have a look. Maybe he could hitch a ride at the very least.

Harry took one look at the man holding the fire ax and did an honest to God double take.

The one on the floor was wide-eyed, startled. He pleaded with his eyes: Please, Dean, please don't do this. I'm your brother ---

Harry laughed. That was different from the tune this kid was singing moments before.

"You don't have the guts to do what needs to be done. I'm a better hunter than you are. You ought to stop whining about what happened to you down in hell. Boo hoo."

Harry slid into Dean, right in between those fierce green eyes a split second after the kid brought the fire ax down on his own brother. They stood there together and watched the life go out of those hazel eyes.

"You're not my brother anymore, Sam. I don't even know you anymore."

It felt strange inside this kid. All numb and happy and laughing and empty and full all at the same time.

Harry liked the feeling. What were the odds, what were the fucking odds that he'd find two in a row? Same face, same body? Somebody up there liked him, Harry thought. It was a fucking sign, and Harry and the new kid kept right on rolling.

Dean kept the fire ax. Harry didn't see any reason not to let him keep it, especially after Dean used it to do a number on that Siren critter in the motel room.

Harry liked the car this Dean kid had. A black 1967 black Chevy Impala in cherry condition. He stood there in Dean's body, stared at the stuff in the trunk and whispered, "Holy Mother of God, I think I'm in love."

They both knew that God didn't have a damned thing to do with any of this.

They hit the road, had to, before this Bobby character showed up. Dean put on his shades, slipped behind the wheel of that classic car of his and cranked up the radio as they turned onto the highway. The kid felt free, like some kind of burden had been lifted off those broad shoulders of his.

That suited Harry just fine, even though he didn't care for some of the music Dean played.

Now the country western, and the jazz later on? Better.

They cut a wide swath through the South, which was pretty nice this time of year. Nice and warm and bright, a big change from the northern states. Dean was damn good at hustling pool and poker, and those fake credit cards of his were gold. He went by a lot of names. Harry was surprised Dean could keep track of them all.

New Orleans was kind of sad, even after all this time after Katrina. They didn't stay long. Harry looked up some old acquaintances down there, and the kid didn't mind. He expressed Harry's displeasure with his hands and knives. And that fire ax of his.

This kid, this Dean, was made for this kind of work.

The newspaper headlines screamed: "Has the Axeman Returneth?"

Dumb bastards.

Dean and Harry laughed all the way out of town.

They took what they wanted, and fucked who they wanted. Dean never had to force himself on anybody; with that face and that body, he didn't have to. They killed for fun, and they killed for sport. Dean never had to wear a mask because he never left any live witnesses.

Turns out this kid had actually been down in Hell, and he had a big rep as an extremely talented torturer of damned souls.

Even better, he liked it.

He dreamed about it most nights. Dreamed about standing in some room down in Hell, with a wide-eyed damned soul stretched out on the rack. Dreamed about how they would scream and beg. Dreamed about how his hands would get slick with blood.

The way Harry figured, maybe that Sam kid should've kept his damned mouth shut.

In Atlanta there was this brunette chick, this smirky bitch wearing this black leather jacket and blue jeans. She'd been following them for a day or so, and when Dean backtracked on her and showed up, suddenly right there behind her with the fire ax, the look of terror on her face was priceless.

"Hi, Ruby." Dean's smile was wicked sharp and feral bright. "So how've you been, princess? Keepin' yourself busy, huh?"

Harry figured it was personal. He didn't understand any of the things the kid did to her. The Latin bored him, but the cuts Dean made in her body with that bone handled knife of hers were interesting. The end result was the same, namely, one less, demon or human, in the world.

That suited Harry just fine.

Harry noticed that handprint on Dean's right shoulder. Angel stuff. He figured that any moment some feathered fuck would swoop down and put a stop to the whole thing. He was gonna enjoy himself before that happened, though.

Didn't end that way.

That Bobby fella caught up with them right outside of Lowry, Arizona. It was twelve of them at first, and then there were seven after Dean went to work on them. They weren't cops, they were hunters. They took him down from behind, lousy bastards.

Dean came back to himself slowly. Being tied to that big wooden chair wasn't that bad, considering the alternative. He drifted in and out, heard the old guy, Bobby something, talk about how Castiel and Uriel got killed in some kind of war.

Dean didn't even bother to play possum. Waking up alive was a plus anyway. He tried not to laugh at the Devil's Trap painted on the ceiling above him. Harry tried not to laugh, but he couldn't help it. Dean let out a short bark of laughter. Harry was no demon. They couldn't even get that right.

Dean twisted his wrists from side to side. Thick ropes. Good knots. Wasn't enough, though. The rest of the hunters stood behind Bobby, all nervous and scared. Harry could smell the fear on them. Hell, he'd hang around until he got bored. And then he'd leave.

"Dean?" this Bobby said, all angry but concerned, too.

Dean smirked. One name's just as good as another in this life. "Hey, Bobby. Dude, you look like hell."

"Sam's dead, Dean."

"I know."

"That...that thing inside you killed him."

Thing, huh? I get loose, Harry thought to himself, you're the first to go.

Dean smiled warmly. He looked years younger just then. He was free from the weight on his shoulders, free from giving a damn about everything. "Harry didn't kill Sam, Bobby. I did."


I changed the ending to this somewhat to clear up some confusion that I created. My bad. Sometimes I forget that you guys aren't in my head with me. It's very likely that there will probably be a second chapter to this, posted sometime this week or weekend. Harry/Dean hasn't told me what it is yet. What? Don't look at me like that!