Title: The Last Crusade of Heaven

Fandom: Fate/Stay Night x Supernatural

Genre: Action/Adventure

Rating: T

Summary: It's been nearly two years since the apocalypse that wasn't. Nearly two years without Sam. Dean had more or less accepted that his hunter days were over… Until Bobby calls, with a case. There's a witch in his area cooking up something weird, and he's the only hunter in the area who can reach her. Maybe one last job would help him settle for good… Wait, why's this witch using such an odd summoning circle? And where the hell did the mark on his hand come from?

The Last Crusade of Heaven

A Supernatural x Fate/Stay Night Crossover

By Angel of Friday Night

Dean's alarm clock went off every morning at seven o'clock except on Sundays; more often than not, though, he'd be staring at the ceiling hours before. At his side, Lisa would wake up, sometimes groggy, sometimes not, but for the last year and a half before even saying good morning, she would ask without fail; "Are you okay?"

And he would look at her and smile, and answer "Yeah, I'm good," or some variation thereof, all the while hoping that the lie wouldn't reach his eyes.

She probably knew he was lying. Just like him, she'd smile, and the smile wouldn't quite reach her eyes. Then the two of them would bury whatever thoughts they had and get up to face the day, and all fears and worries would be forgotten until the next morning.

Mornings were quick, but relaxed. They'd eat breakfast at the table with Ben, food preparations switching off between Dean and Lisa depending on who felt like cooking. Then the kid was off to school and the adults were off to work.

Dean had landed a respectable job at a construction company, locally-owned by a man willing to hire a man with a GED and no real skills to his name. However, he was determined, good at hard labor, and great with cars, so it worked out. As the months passed Dean had eased into the job, settled into a routine that didn't change much and was always predictable. He'd gotten to know his co-workers, joked with them, shared drinks with them, went to barbecues with them on the weekends. Dean was comfortable in his job, felt included. Maybe even liked, if anyone asked.

But it wasn't hunting.

Everything remotely related to the life he'd previously had was locked up and out of sight. He told himself it was for Ben's safety and Lisa's peace of mind, though deep down he wondered if in hiding it from sight, it would fade from his mind as well. The Impala was currently sitting in the shed, untouched for months and covered with a tarp; he drove a tan pick-up now. All the weapons that made up his hunter arsenal were still in the trunk, but he kept the key on his person at all times. Dean had promised to live a normal life, and so far he had kept that promise…

…At least, not without a few precautions. He'd been living far too long to go without at least a modicum of self-defense at his fingertips; a shotgun loaded with rock-salt rounds was stashed safely under his bed, next to a jar of holy water. A single devil's trap sat innocently under a rug at the front door, and if Lisa noticed his diligence in keeping the pantry stocked with a few containers of salt at all times, or using the silver cutlery whenever guests were in the house, she didn't say a word.

Finally, at the end of the day after longs hours of work, attempting to help Ben with his homework, kicking back on the sofa with a beer and a remote for an hour or so before dinner, he would crawl into bed and kiss Lisa on the cheek as darkness filled the room and the cycle of the day reset itself for tomorrow.

Where he'd wake hours before the alarm, staring at the ceiling with all his thoughts and regrets.

One of the first lessons Dean had learned as a hunter was this: Routine was bad. Of course, it was next to impossible to always be random, as that in itself was predictable, but in application it meant not staying in one place for long, using different badges at every town, switching out the credit cards after certain amounts of use, keeping the arsenal stocked and ready, cleaning out the guns every other pit stop. A good routine was being a hunter; going where the wind blew, and ganking whatever mean son-of-a-bitch that crossed their sights. Bad routine was being predictable.

This and much more was the reason why settling down was the hardest thing Dean had ever dealt with (aside from, well… yeah.) The old life had been thrown out in exchange for the new, and now Dean had a routine to work with, such as getting up every morning at seven, clocking in and out of work at the same time every day, using one credit card and one phone (even though they were Lisa's; he was still working on his own nonexistent credit score.)

It had taken him a while to stop jumping at shadows, especially in those first few days… weeks… months… of the End.

He'd at least gotten over having the feeling something would jump him if he stopped at the same stop sign, or walked the usual corner to the bar more than once. With a year and a half of practice Dean had concluded that domestic routine wasn't actually that horrible. In his old line of work, ordinary had been a bad thing. Nothing was ever normal, not with them, and it thing seemed to calm, too good to be true…it probably was.

Funny how that was the opposite now. Ordinary, calm, predictable, was good. It meant things were going fine. It was the out-of-the-ordinary that was bad, meant something was going down. Sort of like that one time the Carlsons down the street had gone through that messy divorce when the mister had started an affair but suckedat hiding it and kept the rumor mill buzzing for weeks not that Dean actively listened in on it or paid attention or anything, no sir, it's just that the neighborhood watch was another way of keeping tabs because man those nosy old ladies sure knew how to sniff out the weirdest info.

Dean had grown to expect certain things in his new life, and allowed this routine to lay itself out like the ruts in an old country lane.

Which was why the phone call, ringing suddenly around eleven at night, from the cellphone that had not rung once since almost two years ago yet stayed with him at all hours just in case, did more than surprise him.

He flicked the remote up, thumbing the mute button and sending the television into silence. It was some cooking program he'd only been half-watching anyway, more for the sake of keeping his mind occupied in the half-darkness of the living room as he just hadn't felt like going to bed quite yet. The phone was still vibrating in his pocket. Only one type of person ever called his number, and with no small amount of wariness he dug it out and flipped it open.

"Hello?" he asked gruffly, briefly regretting not letting go to voicemail until the first words crossed over into his ear.

"Hiya, Dean."

It was a deep voice, rough with age and thick with a smoker's brogue, making up a voice that belonged to one person alone.


"Yeah, it's me. How you been doing, kid?"

"I… I'm good. I've been good. You?" Dean spluttered, too shocked to ask any other kind of question.

"I'm managing. And Lisa? And the other kid, they're doing fine?"

"Uh, yeah, they're great. Ben had a birthday just a few weeks ago."

"Yeah? How old?"

"He's twelve now."

"Good for him. Give him my best, will yah?"

"Sure. I'll—I'll do that."

They fell silent. With all the safe conversation topics covered, it quickly turned awkward, and Dean shuffled on the couch, trying to think of something else to say. On the other end, Bobby cleared his throat, also at a loss for words until he sigh heavily, muttering under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like his trademark idjit, more focused at himself than Dean.

"Look, I—"

"You, uh, haven't called in a while," the ex-hunter cut in, and the other coughed, stumbling on his words. He hadn't. Bobby had called two, maybe three times in the first few months after… after, and had never called again. Until now.

"I've been busy," the older man defended himself, but the excuse was hollow and both of them knew it, even though the statement was most likely true.

"…Either way. It's… good to hear from you again, man."

Bobby couldn't see it, but Dean had smiled, just a bit, because he meant it.

Then he leaned back against the sofa, stretching his arm over the cushions.

"Well, Bobby, what do you need? Must be pretty big to call me out of retirement."

"What? Maybe I just wanted to check in on you. Ya thought of that?"

"After this long? Seriously, I'm thinking the odds of you calling just be chatty— close to midnight, I might add— are as low as hell. What are you really calling about?"

"…Idjit." The insult was directed at him this time. There wasn't any real annoyance it, not really, at the next words were all business as Bobby got right down to the point.
"I hate to do this to ya, but I need to call in a favor. Few days ago I got word that a witch was brewing up trouble over in your neck of the woods."

"My neck?"

"Close. Detroit, to be exact. So I hooked up some guys and sent 'em over. Only…"

"Let me guess. Instead of them ganking her…"

"That's the thing. I don't know what the hell's going on over there, but one of them, goes by the name Brent, rang me in a panic yammering about how this witch ain't like any they've seen before. That her spells were different… and that she was planning on summoning something. Something big."

The longer Bobby went on, the faster a feeling was growing somewhere in his gut. Not an uncomfortable one, or fearful, just… a feeling. Dean wasn't sure if he liked it or not, but the facts were already running through his head, and words spewed out before he could stop them, all in a rush to confirm the details.

"Okay, so… An overpowered witch, pulling some funky mojo that catches them off guard. And those hunters are still alive? They got away?"

"Not exactly." Bobby said wryly. "When Brent called, he was panicking. I could hardly make out what I did, and before I could ask any questions there was this laughter in the background. Last thing I heard was him say, 'She's here' before he cut out."

"… Right, so probably not alive." Dean felt his forehead knitting together as he frowned, thinking. "Did he say what she was summoning? Like a demon or something?"

"I don't know. To tell the truth, I don't think Brent knew either. In my opinion, the thought of her actually doing a summon scared him. He was never good with demons..."

"Okay. So, Bobby, what do you want me to do?"

There it was. The ultimate question, the one avoided until now. The old hunter sucked in a quiet breath.

"I wouldn't have called you otherwise, but… Dean, you're the only hunter in the area that could possibly get there in time to stop her. You're the reserve army if anything, but… you feeling up to it?"

The answer was out.

And it was a job.

It was at that moment that Dean identified the slight queasiness in is gut as not fear, but excitement.

"Detroit, you said?" He asked, as he leapt from the couch and searched for anything to write on and write with.

"…Yeah. Listen, Dean, I know it's been a long time, and I hate to do this to ya, so if you don't want—"

"No! No, I mean I'm actually okay with it." There, a notepad and a pen. The hunter started scribbling, trying to convey all the facts into a few compact words (which were, specifically, rock city, bitch witch, funky mojo and summoning shit respectively) before licking his lips and rushing on. "It's only one job, right? I mean, just one witch? I've been over the moon with weird cases, Hell, with some of the witches me and Sam—"

As quickly as he was speaking, Dean ground to an abrupt halt, and there was a very long, very uncomfortable silence. His hand froze over the pad of paper in front of him, his mouth stuck in the middle of voice words that died quietly in his throat.

"…You know, it… might be good for me to take one last job. For old time's sake. You know? Then, maybe I…. maybe I can put it behind me for good."

Dean smiled bitterly, to himself, in the dark.

"…Yeah." Bobby said quietly. "Maybe so."

There were instructions, locations, tactics spoken after that, but the mood was subdued. Dean filled out his sheet of paper with more specific details, asking a question here and there as Bobby listed off what he knew. The call itself was short, and ended when the last precaution was given. Then it was silence again, Bobby hesitating with the final word. He spoke it, in the end.

"It's nice hearing you, Dean. Take care. Be careful."

"You too, man, you too. I'll call when it's done."

The phone flipped shut as the call was disconnected. From the glowing numbers on the front, the whole thing had lasted for almost half an hour. It was nearly midnight— Suddenly, Dean felt his eyes itch with oncoming sleep, and he rubbed at them absently. He slipped the phone back in his pocket, ripping the paper with all the important information and folding it in half for later, when—

"Are you leaving tomorrow?"

Dean jumped a mile high, spinning with an expression like a deer in the headlights. Standing at the foot of the stairs was Lisa, with a calm face and loose body language.

"Lisa! Um… how long have you… been there?" he said awkwardly, trying and failing to think of something that might get him out of the situation.

"Long enough," she replied, squashing any chance of his talking his way out. So Dean exhaled heavily through his nose, steeling himself for what was sure to come.
"Hey, look, I—" he began, somewhat unsteadily, but Lisa stopped him with a sigh and a shake of her head.

"You might be right. About what you said." The woman said quietly, crossing her arms as she approached, in her white shirt and sleeping shorts.

"What… did I say?"

"Putting it behind you. Closure, I think you meant."


Right at that moment a clock began to chime softly in the house, counting off the twelve hours of midnight, and Lisa still was calm as she smiled at him, though her eyes were sad.

"You've been restless lately," she stated plainly, holding up a finger when Dean attempted to speak again. "Don't think I haven't noticed. You're still a hunter inside, I know, and you probably aren't ever going to get over it."

"…If you don't want me to go, then I won't. Just say the word." He mumbled, completely sincere, though Lisa scowled.

"Dean, you keep beating yourself up over that fact that you think you have to choose between two different lifestyles! Maybe you don't, you know?"

"What, you actually want me to hunt?" Dean attempted to joke, but that didn't help either as she shot him an annoyed look.

"Truthfully? No. I don't. But I'm not you. Hunting was your life, and if it would help you… I don't know, get some closure, then…" she shook her head, dark tresses frizzy from sleep falling down her shoulders. "…I just want you to be safe. But I don't want to see you fighting with yourself like this. Like you have been."

Dean couldn't think of anything to say. She was right, of course… he did want to hunt, travel on the open road in the Impala again, eat burgers from greasy joints off the highway, sleep at a different place every night, but… he liked living here with Lisa and Ben. He really did.

Yet, Bobby had called him and asked him, personally, about this job. It was a chance relive what he had before. A chance that he wanted to take.

"Hey, I'll… I'll probably leave in the morning. A friend asked me to take this as a favor, and I'm the only one who can at the moment," Dean said, quietly. Surprisingly, Lisa just smiled again.

"Okay. I'll make breakfast. And you'll keep me updated on how you are, okay?"

"Uh, yeah. I will. And hey— when I'm done, we can talk about the whole hunter thing when it isn't midnight, and I'll know whether or not if I want to keep doing it. Okay?"

"Okay. Yeah, we can do that," Lisa said, and she sounded relieved. "When you come back for sure, right?"

It occurred to him that Lisa wasn't only afraid of him running afoul of some monster, but afraid that if he left, he might not come back again. That the life would sweep him away to all the dark corners he'd been trying to avoid all this time and swallow him up for good.

"As soon as I get back. When I finish, I'll head straight home. How's that sound?"

"It sounds just fine, Dean."

They both smiled then, a smile that didn't just go flat, but actually managed to reach their eyes this time. It was a start, on something they probably should have talked about ages ago, but a start nonetheless.

"C'mon. Let's go to bed, so you aren't a zombie when you wake up."

"Woah, don't bring up zombies into this. Contrary to popular attention, they totally do not walk around half-asleep with their arms up, trust me."

"Shut up and get to bed, you."

Just as promised, Lisa made breakfast while Dean slipped into the garage and stood next to the tarp-covered lump in the middle of it. All it took was a quick tug to pull the entire thing off, leaving the 1967 Chevrolet Impala to stand in front of him in all its glory.

"Hey, baby," Dean murmured with a grin, running his hand over the hood. As for the trunk, everything was still inside, from the guns to the knives and everything in-between needed to put down the meanest ghost or most vicious monster. Everything was up to date and ready to go. He'd made sure that all the tools and weapons were in working order even after his so-called retirement, so there was no worry there.

Lisa called from inside, so he went to join her and Ben for breakfast.

"You're leaving?" Ben questioned him as he sat down, confused and a little bit curious.
"Yep, a friend asked me to take care of something for him."

"So you're going to kill something?" the boy lit up with an enthusiasm only a kid his age to have, and despite himself Dean chuckled.

"That's the idea."

"Can I come with you?"

"No," Said Dean and Lisa at exactly the same time. Ben slumped in disappointment. Dean would have laughed at it if Lisa hadn't shot him a warning look, daring him to encourage her son, so he shut his mouth and hastily dug into the scrambled eggs on his plate.

After that, the goodbyes were so quick and short that by the time Dean had hit the highway, it still hadn't sunken in that he was on a job. For the first time in almost two years. Then came the giddiness. He was excited. Honest to god excited, with a weight off his shoulders he hadn't even known was there.

All he needed was the radio, so he chose a station at random to find Joan Jett's I Love Rock n' Roll blasting away on the stereos.

"Oh, dude, awesome! I love this—" He began, drumming away on the steering wheel in time with the beat, shooting a look over at the…

…very empty right seat next to him.

His mouth remained open with the words he would have said if the seat were occupied. Only, it wasn't.

The music stayed on, but was much, much quieter anymore as the Impala barreled its way down to its next great adventure.

How great, though, neither of them knew.




[A/N]: HI HELLO HOW ARE YOU. I've decided to start up on this project here, because the two concepts together just seemed to click… only, sheesh, the angst and mind-fuckery of both combined? Hope I'll be able to pull it off. I'm a little less knowledgeable on FSN than I am on SPN, but I have the internet and the full season next to me for reference… I am prepared.

Next chapter of Investments should be up soon if it isn't already by the time this is, and I'm thinking of putting up a Good Omens x Supernatural story up soon, too, probably a one shot.

…Obviously I have Supernatural on the mind.