A/N: Okay. I know, I know that I have other WIPs that should take priority. I should be writing Renaissance, I should be working on other things. But Crossroads of Providence is my labor of love right now. I've been playing around with this idea for a long, long time, especially since it combines two loves of mine: Supernatural and Harry Potter. I generally hate posting fics before I have a significant amount done, but I'm just too excited to wait any longer for tihs. I hope that this proves to be at least mildly different from other crossovers you might have read, but let me know! Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I could claim that I owned Supernatural and Harry Potter. I could also claim that I'm a 500-year old vampire; the claims would be equally ludicrous. In other words, *sigh*, not mine.
Crossroads of Providence
The man's eyes are red, the irises completely scarlet surrounding the black pupils. He's only seen red eyes before in the crossroad demons, and this man is no crossroad demon. He doesn't look human—or rather, he looks like something that was at one point human but has now been transformed. His skin is pale white and he is completely bald; his figure is encased in heavy black robes of an archaic fashion. His nostrils are mere slits, giving him a snake-like appearance, and his lips are thin.
Snake-man holds a polished piece of wood in his hand, pointing it straight at the heart of the man in front of him. This man is in his late twenties, his hair black and messy, his eyes a bright, vibrant green. On his forehead is a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt; the scar is angry red and blood runs from it. The man trembles, his eyes wide, his lips parted slightly.
"I killed you." The man says, his fist clenching. His eyes bore right into those scarlet eyes, seemingly unafraid.
Snake-man's lips quirk into a parody of a smirk. "Not well enough, apparently. Thought you could run, did you Potter? Thought you could run and hide and give yourself a new name and that would be enough? You can never escape me."
The man's jaw clenches. "I killed you once, Riddle. I'll kill you again."
Snake-man laughs, the sound chilling. "You have no idea what power I possess, little boy." For a moment the red eyes turn completely white, draining of all color. The man's green eyes widen further. The white fades and the red resurfaces. "The end of the world is here, Potter."
"The end of the world means the end of you too, Riddle."
Snake-man raises the piece of wood in his hand. "No, silly boy. The world is ending and I and my kind shall rule." Those thin lips quirk upwards again, the expression mocking and cruel. "But first…you die. Avada Kedavra!"
Green light shoots forth from the tip of the piece of wood, hitting the man straight in the chest. A woman's scream fills the air and the snake-man laughs. The man falls backwards, his mouth parted, his eyes wide and vacant. He crumples lifelessly to the ground.
Sam Winchester bolts upright in his bed, white-knuckled fists clutching the comforter. His eyes are wide in the darkness; he sucks in shaky breaths, fighting back waves of nausea and the pounding in his head. Sweat pours over him and as the cool air hits him he feels cold, a chill running up his spine. As his eyesight adjusts to the darkness he shoots a glance over at the other bed in the motel room; his brother is fast asleep, snoring softly, apparently undisturbed.
He closes his eyes, forcing his muscles to unclench, forcing himself to ease his grip on the comforter, taking in deep breaths. In his mind there is a silent litany of thoughts—it was just a dream, it was just a dream. No matter how much it felt like a vision, it was just a dream. Yellow-eyes is dead and all of his freaky psychic shit is done and buried with.
He sinks back down against his pillows, drawing the covers up and closing his eyes.
It was just a dream. Just a dream.
But there is the little voice in the back of his mind—the one buried beneath the weight of his denial—that whispers no, it wasn't. It wasn't just a dream.
When sleep comes again, it is uneasy.
And when the sun rises, he wakes with a vague sense that something is wrong, something is off. He shakes off the intuition and the remnants of the dream, dislodging all memory of the night terror. The only image that remains, lodged in the back of his mind, is that of a scar, shaped like lightning, dripping blood as red as those unnatural eyes.
So...what do you think?