Reprieve

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Drabble – When dreaming of hellhounds, be sure to wake up before they catch you. And please ignore the bloody stranger in your house.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing.

Warnings: Gore, and spoilers for SPN Season 3

AN: Crossover_las entry. This was a crossover born of plot bunny that bothered me for years. I always shouted at the screen during Medium episodes, "Call the Winchesters!"

There was a growl like thunder, a bark that rattled her bones. Alison ran. Heart pounding, legs screaming, chest tight , each breath an agony. "Faster!"

The man beside her was every reason to keep running all rolled into one damaged, horror fest. Clothes ripped, chest splayed open, covered in blood and gore. He kept pace with her, shooting anxious fearful looks behind them, ones she was too afraid to do herself. "Run, lady, run!"

Alison ran. Ran like the hounds of hell were on her heels, because they were. She could feel their hot breath on the small of her back, smell their rank sulphur and brimstone odour, hear the pound of many legs, barks and howls.

"Run!"

A scream rose in her throat as she tripped, something snagging her foot and as she fell, Alison twisted to raise her hands, defend herself. The snarling brutish face of twisted agony that leapt at her stole her scream and turned it into a wail of despair.

"No!"

Bolting upright in bed, Alison scrambled to get away and it took several long seconds for her to realise she was awake, and home and hale and alive. Heart still pounding, she looked down at her soft pink pjs, expecting to see blood and torn skin and death, but there was just smooth flannel.

"Hon, you ok?"

Joe, sleepy, hair mussed, eyes slitted and bleary. Joe. Taking a deep breath, Alison tried to calm down, steady her pounding heart and she nodded, "Yeah, yeah, the usual. Go back to sleep."

"Wanna talk?" Joe sounded as interested as a husband whose nights were always interrupted by psychic dreams not his own could be. Weary but supportive. "No, no. I'm gonna..."

Joe was already asleep, conscious clear and Alison didn't finish with her intent to go have a beer, or several. Grabbing her robe, Alison padded through to the kitchen. It was early, way too early to be up, and drinking, but alcohol was needed. As she turned the corner into the kitchen, a tall bloody man stood in her kitchen, staring at her fridge. Heart pounding again, Alison swallowed her shout and hissed, "Hey!"

The man turned to look at her and smiled, "Hey."

It was the man from her dream, looking the same, if not more bloody and torn up. Only his face seemed to be spared, spotted with blood only. It was a nice face, and the smile was pleasant. "What do you want?" Alison hissed making for the fridge, shooing him aside.

Still smiling, the guy shrugged, "Small thing, tiny. I need you to do me a favour."

Ah, hopefully this was going to be an easy one, no digging and prying, trying to figure out the meaning of the dream or anything. Alison pulled out a light beer, snapped off the lid and took a good long drink. Putting it down, she sighed, "Kay, what do you need?"

Staring at her beer with longing, the man said, "I just need you to make one phone call. To my brother. Tell him I'm ok."

Alison stared at the ghost, his bloody clothes, gaping chest, torn up guts. Her eyebrow of scepticism must have been obvious, but he waved that off with, "Look, I know this looks bad, and I know I'm dead. But I'm not in Hell, and Sam needs to know that."

Not in Hell. "Where you expecting to be in Hell?" Alison snapped, wondering just what kind of person he was, wondering if this was going to be a rough one afterall.

The guy though smiled reassuringly, actually embarrassed, "Long story. Made a deal to save Sam, so yeah, I was expecting Hell. Not 'this' and a dude in a trenchcoat telling me that the next stop is Heaven."

"Trenchcoat? Heaven?"

Laughing in what could only be stunned relief, the kind of rush one gets when the worst doesn't happen, the guy nodded, "Yeah, who figured angels watched Columbo. But yeah, I gotta let Sam know I'm ok, or as ok as dead can be."

Alison leant against the counter, considering and figured she'd want to know too. If she thought Russ had been headed for Hell, and he came back to tell her Hell was closed for the day, she'd want to know.

"Ok, what's his number, name and yours?" Alison snagged the phone off the cradle.

"Sweet! He's Sam, I'm Dean Winchester and the number is..." Dean paused, patted himself down and cursed. Thinking hard he rattled off a number.

While Alison dialled, she asked, "When did you die?"

Dean stared at clock and said, "Few hours ago."

As the phone on the other end rang, Alison tried to sort out what she was going to say. When a deep voice, dead and layered with grief snarled, "What?" Alison couldn't help smiling at the eagerness on Dean's face.

"Sam? Sam Winchester? My name is Alison du Bois, and I know this is going to sound crazy, but I have a message from your brother."

Fin