Because the world really needed a crack brained Swordspoint/Supernatural pastiche. Seriously, the lack was painful!

None of this is mine. Totally unbetaed. This is all kind of novaberry's fault, except where it's mine. Haha.

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It happened in a flash one summer night, with tempers already worn by the unsettling heat and the contents of a cask of sour beer. The first fellow was solid, well barrel round and had a wicked looking sword that whistled when he drew it. He was new, of course he was new, or he might have known better.

The second was Dean Winchester, who was anything but new. Winchester laughed and stood up, green eyes shining in the firelight. "All right, you boast well enough," he said. "Let's see what else you can do."

The tavern crowed leaned over to watch, shouts winding down to murmurs as they craned their necks to get a better angle. Jo Harvelle slipped between groups, naming odds and collecting bets, smiling through her carmine lips.

It started off slow and easy. Winchester was playing, drawing his opponent out with lazy feints. He moved like a cat, smiling and dancing with lazy curiosity. Another swordsman might have taunted to unnerve, but Winchester could already see the sweat beading the man's brow. The odds were well stacked tonight.

Jo reached the back, a small filthy table blackened with soot from the fire. There was no one sitting there but a boy, swaddled in robes of student black. It covered every inch of skin from neck to toe, slipping over his wrists so only broad, elegant palms and long bare fingers showed through.

He was watching Winchester and no one but Winchester, too focused to even notice when Jo settled on the chair next to his. Students were too poor to have much worth betting, but Jo knew enough to know that this stopped few of them.

She placed one small hand on his arm, drawing his attention to her. "Care to place a bet? I can give you good odds," she murmured.

He jumped liked she'd taken a knife to him, arm dragging back so fast that he nearly overturned his chair. His face in the firelight was young, painfully young, all soft skin and dew stretched over sharp, broad bones. His eyes were fierce and careless, shifting from slate gray to brown as the light flickered over him.

Those eyes flicked over her, from foot to hair and his mouth curled into something very like disdain. "I should love to bet," he drawled. "Except, I haven't any money, not even enough to pay for this drink." He flicked one hand in a dismissive gesture, flashing a sharp, elegant wrist before the robe settled back over it. "Go off and bother someone who can pay for you."

Jo winced. "You won't last long here with that tongue on you, boy," she hissed, drawing herself up and away.

The student shrugged, attention already back on Winchester. Jo turned her own gaze in that direction. The fight was almost over. The new man was visibly dripping, muscles a tremor, bleeding from a few small cuts. Winchester wore a faint, distant smile and then he moved. Just once, almost too fast to see and there was a body crumbling to the floor.

Winchester gave a half bow to the cheering, hooting crowd. Jo couldn't help but smile at him even if she wasn't sure he could catch her gaze from this distance. She almost didn't notice the student shoving past her, careless of the effect of his sharp elbows on the people around him.

He was very tall, taller than she'd expected and his robes even more ragged. He was watching Winchester and his mouth curved into a smile. Breathless and brilliant, for a moment it chased away the sour disdain and the boy was beautiful.

Later, Jo supposed that was the moment that Dean Winchester looked back and saw him, with that smile on his face. Then, she only knew that he was pushing off the arms and offered drinks of his admirers and drawing through the crowd toward them.

"Who's he?" the student asked, almost softly.

"That's Dean Winchester," Jo replied impatiently. "He's the best. Best swordsman in this city, at least for the moment."

"Ah. Really?" the student drawled and smiled again.

Jo knew that look, even if it was usually less sharp. She'd seen it directed at Winchester a thousand times, usually by whispering maidens, but not a few pretty boys. She sighed. She knew better than to offer a warning, she really did. "Yes. He doesn't fuck boys as far as I'm aware. You shouldn't fuck him anyway, he killed his last one." Beautiful, wild Cassie, who'd come after Dean with her own knife in a fit of jealousy. But, yes, he'd killed her. Everyone had seen it. Everyone had seen his face after.

As soon as she spoke, that was the moment the student's eyes caught fire. "Did he?" he whispered. "Did he really?"

Jo didn't answer, because suddenly Winchester was right there in front of them. He nodded at her. "Hello, Jo," he said and then he turned away looked right up at the student. And up.

"Hello," the boy said, his mouth still twisted into a sour parody of that earlier flash of smile. "She says you kill your lovers."

Dean blinked slowly and through a startled look at Jo. "Really?" he said.

"Not exactly." She flushed and shrugged. Let herself melt into the crowd to pay out bets, since it seemed best. She didn't stop watching them.

"She did say that," the boy's petulant voice followed her, pitching right through the people between them. "Is it true?"

Winchester laughed, she could hear it. She saw the motion of his arm and when she craned her neck he had his hand on the student's elbow. This time the boy didn't so much as flinch. "Your name-" she heard, in Dean Winchester's low, laughing voice.

"Sam. You can call me Sam," honey sharp voice with no face to distract from it, because that was hidden by Dean and a mass of others between her and the student. If Jo didn't know better, had never seen the rags and half starved thinness so very well, she would have placed that accent right down in the most elegant quarter of the Hill.

"Sam," Winchester said and there was something in his tone she'd never heard, not since Cassie.

"You can fuck me, you know," Sam said in that careless poisoned honey accent. "You can kill me too, I wouldn't mind. Or both. Preferably fuck and then kill, though, because the smell might be a bother otherwise."

The last Jo heard from them was Winchester's surprised laughter, rich and low. Then the back door opened into the night and they were gone.

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