A/N: Thanks to all of my awesome reviewers! And lurkers, of course, since I know you're out there. Welcome to the first "real" chapter of Crossroads. To vballmania23--this will be cannon concerning Supernatural, up until a point, and it is not epilogue compliant as far as HP is concerned. So Deathly Hallows happened exactly as is written, but they certainly did not have that wonderfully happy ending. You'll find out more about what happened there as the story progresses. For reference purposes this chapter is set between Mystery Spot and Jus in Bello. Unfortunately I can't promise you that all updates will be this fast; I only have one more chapter completed--eek!--and I'm heading off to college in a couple of days, so my life will be hectic for at least a few weeks. Hopefully I'll be able to post but...no promises. Enjoy!

Chapter One

The moon is a silver crescent, almost entirely hidden by the trees that are just starting to blossom. The woman walks along the path, eyes fixed on the house only yards away. The forest around her buzzes softly with cicadas, the occasionally owl crying into the night, bullfrogs bellowing every so often. These are the sounds she is accustomed to and she almost doesn't hear them.

But when everything—everything—goes silent, she pauses dead in her tracks. The hush is sudden, all of the sounding just cutting off as though someone has hit the mute button on the remote of the universe. She licks her lips, peering nervously into the darkness. Jolting into motion, a sense of fear creeping up her spine, she quickens her pace.

The cold creeps around her. As her breath comes faster in the darkness she realizes that it is tangible in front of her, a cloud of vapor. The cold sinks around her, cutting straight to her core, and her teeth chatter together. She shakes, because the temperature has gone from pleasantly warm to frigid in a matter of seconds.

Her pace quickens even more and she glances around, searching the darkness for some source of the cold. She sees nothing but the trees around her, bathed in the silver light of the moon.

And the feelings set in.

She sucks in a breath that doesn't seem to reach her lungs. She feels cold all over, cold in her soul rather than just body. And there is the disturbing feeling that happiness has been destroyed, that there is no such thing in the world; that only misery and sadness and pain exist. Memories leap into her mind, one after another, the worst memories of her life—her father dying, the fight with her best friend, the death of her dog, the car accident—all the memories that she keeps buried away as too painful. But they are all in her mind, each as new as the day they were formed, each raw and painful.

She tries to run, but she can't. Everything around her is foggy and cold and miserable; she is too disoriented to even realize where the house is, too drained to even force herself to focus. She stops, falling to her knees, wrapping her arms around her. She wants to scream but her vocal chords are paralyzed; tears slip silently down her cheeks.

And there is a terrible pulling. As though something inside of her—something she didn't even know existed—is being ripped out of her. It's a pain in her chest, in her mind, in her entire body. Pain like she's never known before. Joy, love, life—it's all gone.

She slumps to the ground, eyes staring vacantly up at the sky. She lies in a pool of moonlight, the light painting her silver. Her mouth gapes open. Her muscles twitch, then settle into immobilization.

It will be a long time before anyone finds her. And it's already too late.

_____

"I just don't understand it." The doctor says, glancing at the door nearest to him. Through the glass window a bed can be seen; in it is a young woman, completely comatose, the monitors around her showing completely healthy vital signs. A young man sits at her bedside, holding her unresponsive hand in his own, his head bowed. "There's nothing physically wrong with her. Nothing at all, at least that we can find, and we've run every test in the book. Yet she is completely comatose. Brain-dead. I would chalk it up to a medical anomaly but…," he hesitates.

"But her case isn't the only one like this," Sam Winchester completes the sentence. "How many other cases are there?"

"Four." The doctor says. "The patients are all of different ages, gender, ethnicity, class, with completely different backgrounds…but their symptoms are all exactly the same. Healthy vitals but completely brain-dead. I've never seen anything like it before in my life. I suppose it could be some kind of virus, or infection, but there would be signs. Elevated white blood cells, other presenting symptoms…." The man sighs. "I just don't know. Does the CDC have any ideas on it?"

Sam looks to his brother, Dean. They are dressed in suits, fake IDs that identify them as members of the CDC clipped to their pockets. Dean clears his throat. "We're looking into the matter, but we haven't formulated any theories at this time."

The doctor nods, looking disappointed but unsurprised. "You'll keep me informed if you discover anything?"

"Of course." Sam manuvers his way towards the exit. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Rosenblaug." With a final nod to the doctor, the two brothers walk towards the exit, emerging into the bright, hot, early

Spring sunlight. They head towards the shiny black 1967 Chevy Impala parked near the entrance of the hospital; inside the confines of the car they shed their suit coats the way a butterfly sheds its cocoon, tossing them into the backseat. Dean pulls the tie over his head and tosses it into the back seat as well, while Sam merely loosens his, letting it rest loosely around his neck, like a noose waiting to be pulled.

As Dean starts the car, classic rock pouring from the speakers, Sam stares blindly out his window, his forehead furrowed and his lips pressed into a frown of concentration. The car pulls out onto the road and Dean turns his gaze expectantly towards his brother.

"Well?" He says. Normally that simple word would be all he needs to say; it is the word that unleashes a torrent of half-concocted theories spilling from his brother's mouth. But now there is only silence, and Dean looks at Sam, eyebrows raised. "Any ideas, Sammy?"

"I'm thinking," Sam replies, still staring out the window. There is a moment of quiet, in which Dean nudges the volume of the stereo higher, before Sam turns to face his brother, sighing. "I can't think of anything off the top of my head, Dean. I mean, maybe there's something in Dad's journal but…."

"But we already looked." Dean finishes.

Sam sighs. "Yeah. I mean, the closest thing I can think of is a shtriga, but—."

"But shtrigas usually attack children and they weaken the immune system, which would show up on the medical tests." Dean says, eyes focused on the road. "How in the hell does this thing leave no physical sign?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't know." He bites his lower lip. "Should we check out the last vic's house?"

Dean flips the turn signal on, moving into the right lane. "Might as well. Although I doubt we'll find anything." He shakes his head. "I don't get it, Sammy. Maybe this is just a freak medical thing."

"Five cases of completely healthy people just keeling over, brain-dead? Yeah right. It's not a freak medical thing. Something is doing it." He folds his arms. "We just have to figure out what."

_____

"Excuse me, Dr. Rosenblaug?" The middle-aged doctor turns to face the pair approaching him. The woman's strawberry blonde hair is twisted up into an elegant bun; the man's light brown hair is messy, falling into his eyes. They wear white lab coats, with two familiar looking badges clipped to the front.

Rosenblaug raises an eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

The man extends a hand. "Hello. I'm Dr. Cole Evans; this is my partner Dr. Molly Black. We're specialists sent over by the CDC to take a look into your patients, and we have some questions for you."

The doctor folds his arms. "The CDC moves faster than I thought then, if it's sending over specialists already. But I answered your friends' questions not even an hour ago."

The pair exchanges confused looks. "Pardon?" The woman says, her head tilted slightly to the side.

"The pair of CDC agents," he explains, "Dr. Bachman and Dr. Turner. They were here not even an hour ago."

Dr. Black's eyes narrow but she nods, her lips curling into a smile. "Ah, yes. Bachman and Turner." She shoots her partner an unreadable look and he gives the tiniest of nods back. "Yes, they're writing up their report as we speak, but Dr. Evans and I would just like to go over the details with you again, just for our own files."

Rosenblaug sighs in resignation but nods. "Of course, ma'am. Anything you need to know."

_____

"Bachman and Turner?" RJ James—formerly under the alias of Cole Evans—says as he slides into the driver's seat of the dark blue 2000 Ford Mustang. "Glad to know that someone else out there is breaking the law and that we're not the only fugitives around."

Jennifer James—abandoning the guise of Molly Black—pulls the ponytail holder from her hair, releasing her hair from its bun and letting it cascade down to her shoulders. "Think they're hunters?" She asks, looking at him.

"Who else would masquerade around as CDC agents, investigating a rash of medical mysteries?"

"Good point." She falls silent for a moment, before looking at him. Her lips part and she hesitates, biting the inside of her cheek. "RJ," she says slowly, "the only thing I can think of that would leave those kind of results…."

"Is a dementor." He says, his voice slightly harsh. His eyes are focused straight-ahead, never leaving the road, but she catches the glimpse of pain. "I know." He takes a deep breath. "But those people weren't just suffering from exposure to a dementor, Jenn. They'd been Kissed. And if it was just one or two who had been Kissed I could believe that it was a lone dementor, or a pack of them. And if there were more case I could believe that it was a pack, but just those five people…."

"Someone's controlling them." Jenn says, her voice even. He nods jerkily and her eyes narrow. "The question then is, who?"

"Here's a better one. Why? It has to be a witch or a wizard, but all of the victims are apparently random muggles. Whoever it is has enough power to control at least one dementor, so why are they just attacking random people?"

"Sounds like a Death Eater."

"Yeah, it does." And with that he falls silent, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he clutches the steering wheel tightly. Jenn looks at him, silent as well. She reaches out a hand, resting it gently on his shoulder. He doesn't look at her, and she can feel the tension in his muscles, the stiff, unrelenting rigidity of his entire body.

"It'll be okay, love. We'll figure it out." She whispers.

Of course, it will be a lot more reassuring if she can find a way to believe it herself.

_____

"Okay," Dean says, shutting the large volume in front of him with a slam. Sam shoots him a glare—most likely because of his blatant mistreatment of a very old piece of literature—that he shrugs off. "We've got nothing piled on top of more nothing." He leans back in his chair, tilting it back so that it balances on two legs. He rubs his temples, his eyes closing as he tries to massage away the headache that drums in his head. "Tell me that you have something."

The short, poignant silence answers his question, and he groans. "This case is driving me insane."

Sam sits up on his bed, frowning. "Maybe we missed something." He says.

"Like what, Sammy? We checked out each of the scenes, all of the houses, checked the patients, talked to the doctors…what the hell could we have missed?"

Sam flops back down on the bed, stretching his long legs out and staring straight up at the dingy white ceiling. "We found nothing at the scenes or at the victims' houses," he muses out loud. "No trace of anything physical or paranormal what-so-ever."

"This is fantastically helpful, Sammy. I mean really, this kind of thought is brilliant." Dean says sarcastically. Sam lifts his head long enough to shoot his brother a vicious Shut-up glare before letting it flop back against the pillow.

"And the patients showed no sign of trauma…." He trails off and Dean straightens, looking at him with interest. Sam props himself up on his elbows, looking at his brother, his expression curious.

"What?" Dean prompts.

"The patients show no signs of trauma now. The latest case was comatose for a week before we arrived, enough time for minor injuries to heal. Minor injuries which might not mean anything to a doctor, but might mean everything to us. Something like a scrape or a bruise, which a doctor would brush off as an already established injury, or something sustained from, say, falling to the ground."

Dean's eyes show renewed light and he grins out of the corner of his mouth. "But those little injuries might just be the clue we need."

"Exactly." Sam says, his voice triumphant. He pulls out his cell phone and dials a number, pressing another button to put it on speaker phone and then holding the phone out, so that it is between him and his brother. Dean pulls his chair away from the table, moving it closer to the bed and the phone. He sits backwards, propping his arms on the backrest of the chair.

Ringing can be heard, and then a click. "Good afternoon, Mercy Hospital. How may I direct your call?" A female voice says.

"Hello," Sam says pleasantly. "This is Dr. Turner of the CDC. I need to speak to Dr. Rosenblaug, please."

"One moment." Soft music plays and Sam and Dean exchange disgusted looks.

"I can never decide which is worse: hold music or elevator music."

The music clicks off and there is a low chuckle from the phone. "Hold music," Dr. Rosenblaug says, "most assuredly. What can I do for you, Dr. Bachman? Dr. Turner?"

Sam leans closer to the phone. "Sorry to trouble you, Dr. Rosenblaug, but we have just a couple more questions for you."

There is a soft sigh over the phone. "Well, one can't say that the CDC isn't thorough. Should I assume that I'll be getting a call from Dr. Evans and Dr. Black as well?"

Sam's eyes jerk from the phone to Dean's face. Silently Dean mouths the word 'who'? and Sam's brow furrows. "Pardon?" He says, his voice questioning.

"Dr. Evans and Dr. Black. The two specialists the CDC sent over? They arrived not an hour after you left."

'Play along' Dean mouths, and Sam nods. "Oh, yes. Of course."

"It's funny, actually." The doctor says. "They had the same reaction when I mentioned the pair of you, that little 'wait, who?' moment." His voice doesn't sound suspicious, but Sam knows he is treading on thin ice. He forces a little chuckle.

"Short term memory loss comes with the territory. Being around all those hazardous chemicals all the time, you know." Dr. Rosenblaug chuckles along with him. "Actually it's just that our team doesn't often work closely with Dr. Evans and Dr. Black's team. And there's just so many specialists over there we can't remember all of their names."

"I understand completely. Now, you had questions?"

"Just one, doctor. When the patients presented did any of them have any minor injuries or conditions? Aything out of the usual? Even a bump or a scrape is worth mention."

There is the sound of papers being shuffled. "Emily Lozen—she was the second patient admitted—had a slight bump on the back of her head, most likely from falling to the ground. Some of the others had scrapes or bruises, but…I probably should have mentioned this before, because it is unusual." Sam and Dean lean closer, eyes fixed on the phone. "All of the patients presented with a mild case of hypothermia, from which they have all recovered."

"Could hypothermia have caused the brain damage?" Dean asks.

"No." Sam says, at the exact time as the doctor on the phone. The doctor continues. "Hypothermia has been shown to preserve the brain, not damage it. Thus the theory behind cryonics. In cases of hypothermia the body dies before the brain does. Regardless, the hypothermia never progressed past the first stage in our patients. But for hypothermia to present at all is unusual. I would expect it in, say, Miss Bright, who was outside in the forest at night for a period of several hours before she was found. Mr. Ort, however, collapsed on a perfectly sunny afternoon and was found within fifteen minutes. Our assumption was that the hypothermia was a manifestation of shock, which is an acceptable theory, but still…."

Sam looks at his brother, his eyes saying this is it, this is the clue.

"Thank you, Dr. Rosenblaug," he says. "We'll be in touch."

He clicks a button on the phone and then flips it closed. Dean looks at his brother, raising an eyebrow. "So…," he says, tilting his head to the side. "Two questions, Sammy. One: what causes hypothermia and leaves a person brain dead? And two: who in the hell are Dr. Evans and Dr. Black?"

Sam shrugs. "I know one thing. They sure as hell aren't CDC agents any more than we are."

They look at each other, holding a silent conversation, when the phone rings again. Sam flips it open and answers it.

"Hello? Oh, Dr. Rosenblaug, did you forget something?" He listens to the voice on the other end while Dean watches him curiously. Then he nods, the frown on his face deepening. "Thank you, Dr." He says, and hangs up the phone once more. He lifts his gaze, his expression grime.

"There's a sixth victim, just found."

Dean's hand clenches into a fist. "Then we need to figure out what the hell this thing is, and we need to do it now."

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