Disclaimer: I do not own X-Files, Supernatural, blah blah blah. Author's Note: This is a sort of drabble. Not sure if I'll continue it or not, but it's one of the only things I've written in like, months. It's sort of a crackfic. I'm sorry. You probably shouldn't take any of this seriously. I'm okay with it if you don't.


Dean sat down on the ratty old couch and raised his eyebrows at Bobby. "What do you mean you haven't found anything about how to kill one of these sons-of-bitches? You're Bobby Singer, you're who we go to when we can't find anything to kill something." There was a nocnitsa terrorizing the town over. It had started small, kids complaining of night terrors, but now there were multiple people in comas. Nothing physically wrong with them, but no matter what the doctors tried, they wouldn't wake up. "I mean, I ain't found an answer for you, Dean. I've found plenty on it, all in Polish or Russian, but I ain't found how to kill it. This book," Bobby grumbled, holding up a book that was not in any language Dean could understand, "Says that a rock with a hole through it will protect children, but doesn't mention anything about-" Knock. Knock. Knock. Bobby and Dean both looked over at the door and stopped talking. Hardly anyone ever came to the Singer Salvage Yard, especially not on a Sunday afternoon at three o'clock. Dean got up from the couch and walked over to the door.

Pulling back the yellowed curtain, he glanced out the window and his eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Samuel Campbell is dead," Dean murmured under his breath. He'd been killed in that whole alien-worm fiasco. The question was, what was the thing outside the door posing as his dear deceased granddad? Shape-shifter? Demon in Samuel's meat-suit? But then, Samuel had been resurrected before, and Dean saw no reason why it couldn't happen again. "Well, who is it?" Bobby pressed, standing up from the old armchair he'd been planted in for hours now. Dean could practically smell the dust coming off of it and the old books that Bobby had been interred in since he and Sam had arrived the day before. He took two steps forward before Dean raised his hand in a stop-there motion. "Sam Campbell, or something that looks like him," Dean said. Bobby grabbed the shot gun off of his desk and Dean leaned over to grab the vial of holy water from the window sill. Dean plucked the cork from the vial. "You ready?" He asked, glancing over his shoulder. Bobby nodded. Dean took a deep breath in and pulled the door open. He instantly tossed the holy water on Samuel, but nothing happened. Samuel sputtered, gave Dean a disapproving look and then pushed passed into the house.

"Nice to see you, too, Dean," Samuel said and strode to the couch.

"What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be dead." Dean said, turning and watching as his maybe-grandfather headed to the couch and sat down in the exact same spot Dean had been sitting in only moments before. "And better yet, what are you? Samuel Campbell has been dead for weeks."

Samuel looked from Dean to Bobby. "Would you stop pointing that shotgun at me?" Bobby looked over at Dean, and Dean nodded. Bobby lowered the gun, but did not set it down. "About that," Samuel began. He proceeded to tell Dean that the man that Bobby had shot him, but he had, with the help of some of his friends, survived. When Dean asked how, Samuel told him that it would be best if they waited for Sam until he could explain further. In the meantime, however, Dean could slice him with a silver blade, if it made him feel any better. Dean, ever the disbeliever, sliced his grandfather on the arm without remorse. When nothing happened, thus proving that Samuel wasn't a shifter, Dean almost smiled, partially relieved.

"Well, while you're here," Bobby said, gruffly. Almost begrudgingly. He turned in his chair to face Samuel. "Maybe you can help us out with something. You ever heard of a nocnitsa?"

Before Samuel even had a chance to open his mouth and attempt to respond, Dean glanced over at his Bobby, a disapproving look on his face. Bobby raised his brows in return,. "What? Like you or I got any ideas!"

Dean sat silent, crossing his arms over his chest. Point was taken, and put into the reasons-Dean-resents-Bobby piggybank. Samuel glanced between the two men and shook his head. "Good to see nothing's changed in the months since I faked my death," Samuel replied. "You tried iron yet?" Samuel glanced between the two men. Dean wore an aggravated expression - Bobby an 'well, duh' one. "Apparently not. If that doesn't work, I'll call in a favor."

"Call in a favor from who?" Dean asked.

"All in good time, Dean. All in good time." Samuel said as the sounds of a clunking automobile evaded the silence of the room until the engine sputtered to a stop and the car door slammed.

A few seconds later, Sam walked into the house with a bucket of extra crispy chicken from KFC in one arm, and a bag full of fixins' tucked under the other. He glanced over and almost dropped the chicken before he realized that that would upset not only his brother but Bobby as well. "Uh, Samuel?" Sam questioned, eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. If Samuel wasn't on the floor dead by now, then chances were he wasn't a shifter or a demon. He set the food down on the table, and headed into the living room.

"Hi Sam," Samuel smiled at him as he stood up. It seemed genuine to Sam, which surprised him. Why on earth would Samuel be happy to see him? Right. He was, technically, their maternal grandfather. Sam went and sat down beside his brother.

"Dude, why's he here?" Sam asked to his brother, quietly. Dean shook his head, and then gestured back at Samuel.

"Alright, boys, I have something to confess," Samuel paused. "I'm not actually your grandfather. Now before you start firing rock salt with me, let me explain." Bobby and Dean exchanged glances, but let Samuel continue. "First off, my name's not Samuel Campbell. Never has been. Name's Walter Skinner, and I'm an agent with the FBI. A real FBI agent. " Sam and Dean both raised their eyebrows at 'Skinner'.

"We, at the X-Files, have had an eye on you two since Hendrickson picked up on you a few years back. We're very interested in having on our team, boys." Skinner said, leaning against a wall adjacent to Bobby.

Bobby raised his eyebrows at Skinner and shook his head. "So what you're trying to say is you're an imposter?" An imposter was one way to put it; Walter Skinner had pretended to be someone he wasn't, but he still cared about Dean and Sam. Not just as a great asset to the X-Files either. He almost wished they were his grandchildren, if they were he'd never have let John raise them the way that he did. Skinner hadn't seen many people who were as broken and jaded as Dean, Mulder came close if not exceeded Dean's level of cynicism, but Mulder was a different story.

Skinner was here because Mulder had told him that these men would be important to the survival of the division. That if they agreed to be apart of the FBI, dropping their wayward lifestyle, that maybe, just maybe someone would finally take their cases seriously; that more lives would be saved. And if he couldn't convince them? Skinner would simply have to find another way.

"It's pertinent that you hear me out. For nearly twenty years, myself and two of my agents have been solving cases- cases like yours. For most of those we've been ignored, temporarily shut down, and worse. We could've saved lives, and we still can. You boys have no idea what you could do for our division's reputation." Skinner paused. They could prove what no body at the Bureau wanted to believe. They had proof, and besides they were good, no great, at their jobs. "And it's not just that. It would be an honor to have you two on my team."

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Dean was angry; Sam, contemplative. "Just think of it as hunting, but with a badge, suits, and an actual, dependable paycheck," Skinner added.

"Sounds like a dream come true," Bobby scoffed, obviously not impressed.

Sam, however, looked as though realization had dawned on him. He turned to Dean. "This could be it Dean, our way out. Our way to some semblance of normalcy." Dean could see the wheels in his brother's turning, and he didn't like where Sam was going with this. Not one bit. Skinner, however, was ecstatic, even if his face didn't show it. Sam was seriously considering this. That was a good sign. A very good sign indeed.

"Sammy, are you fucking kidding me? We can't be FBI."

"Dean, we already pretend to be FBI on a monthly basis. Besides, it's not like we're going to be chasing down terrorists and spies. We'll be doing the same thing we are now, just wearing better clothes, eating better food, and actually making money. What we do will be worth something to someone other than the people we save, for once." Sam reasoned. Or tried to. Dean, ever the skeptic, wasn't so easily convinced. FBI. Real badges. Working under a liar and some, probably crazy, conspiracy theorist. Dean couldn't deal with that.

"Dad would've wanted us to do this."

"Dammit Sam." Dean sighed. What John would've wanted was hard to say, but seeing as how becoming an FBI agent, and part of this Grandpa-imposter's X-Files team, didn't necessarily interfere with the hunt, Dean couldn't see why his dad would've objected. That didn't make Dean want to do what Sam was suggesting any more tempting. Sighing, Dean ran a hand back through his hair. "Bobby, what do you think?"

"I think it sounds like a great option, Dean, but I ain't inclined to believe Campbell, er, Skinner for his word alone," Bobby replied, crossing his arms over his chest. Which essentially meant it was all up to Dean. He glanced over at his brother. Sam had that pleading, puppy dog look on his face again.

Dean sighed. "Fine, we'll go with you. See how this works out, but if something seems off or if it's not exactly as you say it is, Sam and I are gone, right Sammy?" "Of course," Sam said, a look of relief spreading across his face.

Skinner half-smiled, "Glad to hear it boys. Glad to hear it. Now, you're going to have to come with me to DC to fill out some forms, get acquainted with the Bureau and so forth." Skinner noticed the apprehensive look on the men's faces, "But since you're on a case, it can wait." The boys nodded and got back to work. A week later, they were walking into the FBI headquarters, both looking like fish out of water.

"When this goes bad, just remember this was your idea," Dean said to Sam, and entered Skinner's office.