A/N: So, here's my latest attempt. Yay for crossovers! :] I'm very stoked to be back in business, and I absolutely love writing this . I can only hope you'll enjoy reading it half as much. A warning, though (and if you've read any of my other stories I'm sure you'll be very aware of this already): this is not exactly the happiest or neatest story out there. I can promise violence, gore, angst... Of course, that's not all of it, just the majority. So if you're into stuff like that, this is your story. If not... can't say I didn't warn you. This is definitely on the high end of the 'T' rating.

~SN~CM~SN~CM~

Ash is blowing across the barren landscape, and Dr. Spencer Reid pulls his moth-eaten coat tighter around him, blinking back false tears that are brought on only by the hot wind blowing by his face. Behind him, Garcia, Prentiss, Morgan, and Hotch stand. They're…the only ones left.

It was never supposed to get this bad. The disasters that had spread across the world…there'd been talk of apocalyptic behavior, but no one had really bought into the idea. The end of the world? Really? It was just…too terrifying to even consider. Least of all believe.

And yet…they'd continue to spread. Fires, quakes, tsunamis, twisters…then…even more horrifying than the movement and noise of the storms, than their destruction…came a great silence, over every land. With the resounding absence of sound, heavy and stifling, came a darkness. Total and impenetrable, it had lasted…and lasted… And lasted…

Only when it seemed that the dark and quiet would eat away your very soul and leave only an empty, smoking shell, did it lift. The first rays of sun were the most beautiful thing…

But then the discoveries came. People, things, plants, bodies—all gone. Just disappeared, without a trace, sound, or explanation. Or, worse than the disappearances…they changed. Everything too weak, or sick, or lonely, was caught by the darkness and mauled. The things that emerged were no longer of the earth, unnatural and twisted.

"Spence…"

The quiet whisper startles Reid out of his dark thoughts, and he turns, clearing a parched throat coated in dust, ash, and who knows what else to answer.

"What do we do?"

Morgan sounds meek, and Reid blinks, momentarily taken aback. He's not supposed to be the leader…

"W-what do you mean?"

"I mean, what do we do? I figure, you've read up on…everything, you're smart, you're the best one for this job right now. So tell us what to do…we'll take care of the rest."

"Well, um…" Reid clears his throat again. "We, uh, we need…" He automatically glances to where J.J. would be standing, for her reassuring smile, but it's not there. Before even his brain can stop it, the gaze darts to Rossi's spot. But there is no comfort to be found there, either, and before he knows it, his already sore throat is tightening further, nose prickling and eyes burning. He turns away from their meager leftover team, gasping. The ground blurs threateningly beneath him, and he drops to his knees without warning, hands fisting in nothingness, fingers desperately searching for the grass that isn't there. Sobs tear through his chest, wracking his fragile frame.

Guy, what's wrong with him? He hasn't cried like this since he was a toddler. Sure he's feeling the grief, the pressure—the world just ended, for Pete's sake!—but so is everyone else. And, sure, he's lost people—J.J., Rossi, Dad…Mom…—but so has everyone else! He supposed to be indifferent, the one who consults his head, not his heart, but for some reason…he can't stop it. His universe has fallen away beneath his feet, and that's impossible to get back.

Then suddenly, there's a hand on his quaking shoulder, and a comforting voice, deep and scratchy and achingly familiar, in his ear.

Reid reaches over and grasps Hotch's calloused hand, shivering uncontrollably. He's not anywhere near all right; he won't be for awhile. But right now, with what's left of his family, and an uninterrupted stillness around him, he figures it's worth living for a little while longer.

~SN~CM~SN~CM

There are things in the shadows.

There always have been—the Winchester boys were brought up knowing that—but its different now. These things—creatures—were once people, but that species name deserted them long ago. As soon as their flesh begins dripping off their bones; their eyes yellow and empty. When they begin eating their own kind…they are no longer known by any name. Only "them," whispered fearfully in inner circles of the Last Ones.

Sam tries hard to keep this in mind as he shoots another one's skull clean off its head. Tries to remember that as he fights them off, one by one, an efficient killer—no, hunter—at work. These things are no longer human.

His brother beside him is surely thinking the same thing…or so Sam hopes. Dean's face is still a mask set in pure granite, and these days, it sometimes seems not even Sam's pleading can crack it.

Sam snaps forcefully back into awareness at a blinding pain in his jaw. Crap. He lost focus, and now one of them has slammed an incredibly hard fist into his face.

He grunts, shoving the thing off and letting Dean pop it in the face before leaning against the wall, gingerly rubbing his jaw. He knows full well that in the middle of a battle is not the best place to nurse an injury, but he really doesn't have a choice. His hand comes away bloody—jeez, those things hit hard. Giving Dean a weak thumbs-up to show he's all right, Sam goes straight back to shooting…albeit a little less accurately. His vision is a little fuzzy.

The brothers only came in to the little, dark, dilapidated house for food. They really should've known better. They like dark places, the light burns their eyes, and the house is full of deep shadows, thrown about by the random rays the sun decides to turn their way. But the Winchesters were desperate. It was the first thing they'd seen that wasn't completely destroyed. And a house had to have food somewhere in it. So they'd gone in, guns drawn and ready. And they'd needed them.

Sam turns away, towards the door, amazingly still with a bag in his hand. He calls his brother's name and nods towards the wooden slab, pulling quickly away from the mini-war.

Dean turns to him and nods, kicking one of them off his leg. He's holding his own brown bag and quickly dives to follow Sam, bolting out the door as soon as they're close enough.

Once outside, Sam heaves a sigh of relief, hurrying to the middle of the field before them and relishing the sunlight, however dangerous it is these days.

"Sammy. C'mere. Let me have a look at that hit."

Sighing yet again, Sam turns to Dean, squinting in the harsh outside light. Dean's hands roam over the injury with surprising gentleness after the slaughter they've just caused, his brow furrowed.

"How'd it get the drop on you like this, Sam? I know the little things are fast, but still…you all right?"

Sam chuckles. It's such a useless question these days; of course he isn't all right. But he answers in the expected way, anyway.

"I'm fine."

Dean narrows his eyes for a moment, but accepts the answer and pulls out a flask of holy water. They try to apply it to every wound they get, especially from the creatures; just in case. After all, it's the apocalypse, anything's possible. They haven't quite figured out if the creatures actually are demonic or not, but it never hurts to be safe.

Honestly, though, they never expect anything to happen, and this time is no different. Sam winces as the warm water runs over the tear in his skin, but it doesn't smoke or sizzle and Dean finishes his first aid quickly, pulling a bottle of pills out of his pocket and smiling softly.

"Good job in there." He pours out two and hands them to Sam.

Life's become the slightest bit more chick-flicky since it happened.

"Thanks. You too. What've you got?" Sam pulls a canteen out of his coat and swallows the pills with a swish.

Dean opens his sack, his gentle smile turning to a trademark smirk. "Hmm…cans, cans, boxes, cans…"

Sam chuckles again, lightly this time. "Yeah. Same here. You hungry now? Or you wanna wait?"

Dean shrugs. "Eh. Either or. I guess we could wait."

Sam nods in understanding. Appetite is never very strong after one of the battles. "All right. Well…any place in particular you want to go?"

Dean shakes his head, letting out a short breath. "Yeah, Sam. There's this great place just a few miles from here… Oh, wait, that's right, it's gone now. Because, you know, the world kind of blew apart. So, yeah, I'm just dying to go places right now."

Sam rolls his eyes. And there's the mood swing. He wisely chooses not to reply and begins walking east. Maybe they'll eventually find someone they don't have to kill. He can always hope, right? Even after the earth's end, that's never a foreign concept. It's built into human nature. Sam almost smiles.

Even with the apocalypse, you can't take away hope.

~SN~CM~SN~CM~

A/N: There 'tis. Don't worry, they'll meet up soon enough. So, how am I doing so far?