Bar Hopping: a Gossip Girl/Supernatural crossover

Summary: It was the week before the start of their high school carriers, and what better way to kick it off with a bang? Everyone knows that Chuck always throws a great party. There's a certain hunter prowling the streets after a night of partying on the elite island of Manhattan, and it is only fitting that he ends up at the best fest. Before both shows.

Parings: Established Nate/Blair

Chapter One: A City Filled With Surprises

Dean Winchester felt that this was a satisfying end to a tiring week.

He had been in the New York City metropolitan area for the majority of the past seven days. He stayed in a shady motel (when did he not do so?) in a part of lower Westchester (which was, to his surprise, not as snooty as he thought it was, though he didn't see any of the McMansions), around half an hour outside of the city.

(Staying in the Big Apple would have maxed multiple credit cards and possibly drawn the government's suspicions to him, or to John Smith, or whatever name he had adopted for the time being.)

The tiring commute into the city was done via Metro-North, with their super costly train passes, as driving his oh so precious Impala would have been too much of a hassle. No way was he going to let a stranger drive in it in order to park it in a garage. (Not to mention how much he would have to pay.)

Dean didn't trust his ability to find a parking space- the street traffic was very notorious for being terrible 24/7, even worse than its crazy yellow cabs and their foreign cabbies. (A cab, Dean thought, would be a fun thing to take for a spin, albeit an illegal one.)

However, he had soon learned that the pedestrian traffic during rush hours was just as bad. Dean had been pushed multiple times during his coming into the city. Once, some lawyer spilt their coffee on him right as he turned the corner. (Dean didn't even get an apology- all he received was a roll of the eyes! The lawyer or businessman or whatever was a top-notch asshole.)That was not a fun start to the day.

To get to the elephant in the room, Dean was in the city because some snobby Manhattan socialite thought that the foyer of their fifteen-million dollar, posh, new penthouse was haunted by some ghost. She had seen it multiple times, and as a widow living alone with the hired help, it scared her. (Though she had been young for a widow, Dean thought. Then he pondered it for a second longer and glanced at the social climber sitting next to him once again and saw that everything about her was false; from her subtly dyed greying hair, to her breasts, to the lack of movement in her eyebrows which was evidently from trying to get rid of wrinkles, to even her laugh, and so on and so forth.)

She had been right about the haunting. "Of course! I am always right, young man," she had said to him, with an air of smugness and superiority.

The ghost had been her first husband, the one who died from the complications from the hit-and-run accident. Dean assumed that he was concerned about his wife, and how quickly she had moved on.

Her second husband died six months after their marriage. He had been the heir of a big oil company, a trust-fund baby from Texas. (What a gold digger, Dean sneered.) She had two more spouses after the second one- which just furthered Dean's thoughts and opinions.

They both also had sudden, out-of-the-blue deaths, one from cardiac arrest, and the other had had a fatal infection caused by a splinter that was looked over for one too many months.

Dean thought that those facts were suspicious. He could be dealing with a top-class, clean-cut murderer here, but he just pushed that thought to the back of his mind and continued along with his job that he had to complete.

His dad had given him the recommendation to go after this case. They often hunted together, but something popped up in regards to some 'very important matter,' so that's where his dad had to be.

And so now Dean was here, somewhere on the island of Manhattan, following the sounds of the blaring music and the views of the streaming strobe lights and long lines from one club to the next. He had already worked his way through the nearest part of Brooklyn, chatting up an artist or barista or two or maybe twenty. He had gotten laid once already, in the kitchen of some pub that he was pretty sure didn't pass the city's mandated health codes. (He saw a rat- after his escapade, thankfully. It would have been a real mood killer.)

On his way to where he was now, some street in the city, he had stopped at one or two bars. Thank god (or maybe he should thank the devil, since most of the things that he dealt with were the opposite of angelic) that the socialite had been nice and gave him a nice wad of cash in return from his services. (Not those kinds of services, though. He was not, under any circumstances, a gigolo. Dean was a proud manly-man, for heaven's sakes, he hired prostitutes, he was not one of them.)

The club right ahead had a line going halfway down the block. Paparazzi were drawn to the entrance like flies, so Dean immediately concluded that this club was one for Manhattan's elite. Like the old socialite's risky friends in their heyday, he mused.

He may have not ever been even more correct.

Since this establishment seemed like one for the record books, Dean hopped onto the line, which was outrageously long.

Well, he was going to, until he was suddenly grabbed. Looking up, he saw that a blonde girl coming out from a taxicab had linked arms with him, and was stumbling her way to the entrance to the club.

Dean wasn't so sure as to what to do in such a situation. Here he was, trying to make sure this woman, this girl, didn't face plant onto the pavement. (It would be such a shame, he decided, since she had such a pretty face.)

This task was proving to be a herculean one, as this blonde bombshell in the red over the knee dress could barely stand on her two feet. Dean was trying to stop her and steady the both of them. Her body's momentum, however, decided that Dean was a douche and kept on moving forward, dragging him with it.

Making his way to the door, he noticed that people waiting in line were taking photographs of him and this girl. Dean was surprised to hear the clicks of cameras from phones accompanying the flashes of the paparazzi.

So this mystery girl is somewhat famous? Dean thought that this was the most sensible explanation for the actions he's seen and heard tonight. There were gasps of awe when people saw this Amazonian girl, then the way that some bouncer pointed Dean directly to the door, and the cameras.

The assumption that this girl was extremely popular was Dean's first thought.

His second was that she must be very, very rich.

With her, he made his way to the door and was let through the door with a smile and a nod, along with a motion of where they could check their coats.

Stepping through the entryway, he was invited into the sights, sounds, and smells of the club.