I do not own Supernatural or Percy Jackson. All rights go to their original authors.

2004, TEN YEARS LATER

Dylan woke with a jolt, his face dripping with perspiration and his mouth gaping with the force of his own frightened pants. Last night he'd dreamt of demons with blackened eyes and twisted, malicious grins. He scratched absently at the scar above his left eye he'd gotten hunting last summer in Texas, almost reminiscently.

His coarse, white bed sheets were proven even more flimsy and useless than usual when he whipped them off of his body with a simple, quick flick of his wrist, the creaky frame of his bed groaning like an empty stomach as he swiveled his legs off of its side. He took a moment to remove his trademark, navy baseball cap and clutch a generous amount of his curly hair within his fingers to tug at. These dreams are driving me insane, he thought to himself, chewing at an already tender section of his lower lip anxiously, I need a walk. His head was pounding. He shouldn't be roaming the corridors of the boarding home alone in such a state, knowing what he did about what was really out there, but his feet disobeyed logic. He'd shrugged on his favorite, red flannel jacket, and was out the door within moments.

There was an uneasiness in his stomach. He was painfully aware of the fact that he'd been nauseous from the moment he'd woken up (he could still feel the demon's jagged blade running morbid lines through his skin), but this was somehow different.

When a cloud of frosted breath pooled before his face, he stopped walking with a jolt of realization. He knew for a fact that, no matter how faulty and cheapened the electrical heaters running throughout the dated building were, it was impossible that the air was cold enough for such a thing. It was early November, for crying out loud. The dim light of the long, lonely corridor began to flicker ominously, confirming his suspicions.

Dylan swore under his breath. He'd kill for an iron crowbar and some rock salt right about now. There was a scream from some distance away, and he swallowed back what he assumed to be traces of escaped vomit at the sound. Ignoring how disgusting that was in spite of the current situation at hand, Dylan sprinted down the hall in the general direction of the sound.

"Damnit, Helen!" someone exclaimed. The beaten soles of Dylan's converse screeched as he skidded to a halt. "This is the fifth vase this week!"

"I-I..I'm sorry, Jack, really! It's just-" the new voice stopped abruptly, and footsteps growing ever closer to where Dylan stood shot sparks of unease up his spine.

"What the hell are you doing out of bed?" Dylan hardly had the decency not to squeal like a surprised child at the intimidating growl coming from so near to his neck. Abel, he realized, the surly old drunk who keeps the boarding house.

"I heard screaming," he replied easily, white like a sheet and dizzy like devastated remains of forestry caught in the grasp of a hurricane.

"You should've stayed in bed," Abel hissed, snatching Dylan by the shoulder and mumbling dark, angry things about the "ungrateful teen children mucking up his establishment." Dylan had half a mind to remind him that this was a seedy boarding complex attached to a school for troubled youth, and not the freaking Buckingham Palace.

"Where are you taking me?" Dylan asked firmly, suppressing the worry in his voice. His worry was most definitely not over the wrath of Abel the Atrocious, but rather the potential angry spirit lurking the grounds of the school he'd been in attendance to for a meager two weeks.

Abel grunted and shoved Dylan into the room where the screams had first come from. Inside was a frazzled looking middle-aged woman blushing over the remains of a pastel blue vase, and a stout, red-faced man glaring intensely at the intruders in his doorway.

"I thought I heard you stumbling through the corridors, Abel, you absolute pig," the man spat, "Shouldn't you be off somewhere moppin' up piles of your own stinkin' vomit from the floorboards? Or maybe, I don't know, doing your job?"

"The hell you think I'm doin', draggin' this kid into the room by his shirtsleeve?" Abel snapped in reply, tightening his grip painfully on Dylan's shoulder. "Sure as hell ain't because it's fun, Dedrickson." The man known as Dedrickson's malicious gaze zeroed in on him at that moment. A spark of recognition played across his stubbly, sweaty face before he turned momentarily towards the room's second occupant.

"Scram, Helen! I'll talk to you later," he exclaimed, and didn't make another move until the kind-faced woman had completed her hasty evacuation of the dingy room. Once she was gone, a smirk played on his thin lips.

"We got ourselves a sleepwalker, huh?" the pudgy man said as he made his way over, leaning so close to Dylan's face that his hot, stenching breath burned against his very flesh. From this close, Dylan could see the red veins scattered like a jigsaw puzzle throughout the discolored whites of the man's beady, dark brown eyes. He isn't the cleanest slate himself, he thought with a snort. "Somethin' funny to you, boy?" Dedrickson's glare intensified, his eyes hard as he whipped out a cigar and lighter. "I'll tell ya somethin', Winchester-" his name was spat like a bad shot of whiskey as the switch of the lighter flipped with a muted click "-I ain't never had issues with somebody who's been here only two weeks, but I know all about you," He blew a ring of smoke into Dylan's face, making the boy's nose crinkle in disgust. "I've been watching you, and I'm sick of hearing Abel whine about all of the bullshit you pull under his care."

Dylan's breath hitched. He knew this speech. This was the beat it, dirtbag! speech, and, oh, was Dean going to have his neck when he found out. More importantly, however, he had the distinct feeling that there was a job to be done in this school, and he was intent on finishing it.

"Sir-" he halted at the foreign feeling of a sweaty palm slapping him harshly across the cheek. He was frozen, shocked.

"I don't wanna hear it, Winchester. I know your story, seen your records. There's red marks up in there like they were lightin' up a goddamn Christmas tree when they wrote 'em. But that don't mean squat to me, because once we're through with you here-" Dylan seemed to have come to his senses by then, as he felt warm droplets of blood drip slowly over the corner of his lip.

"You slapped me," he exclaimed, "you dick!" Before a second slap could reach his face, Dylan's hand shot up and caught it, bending the man's wrist crudely. He watched with satisfaction as that stupid, smug smirk dissolved from his face completely.

"Let the hell go of me!" he demanded.

"You slapped me," Dylan repeated, not willing to admit that harm came from human hands as well as those of monsters. "You slapped me like a rabid animal!" It was that moment that Abel decided to come over and smack Dylan forcefully upside the head, forcing him to release Dedrickson in favor of nursing his sore skull.

"Get the hell off of this campus!" Dedrickson screeched, "and don't you ever come crawling back, you stupid piece of shit! You hear me, Winchester?!" But Dylan was already racing back to his room, passing by the speculative faces of strangers new and old whom he'd hardly ever gotten to know. If there was a haunt here, so be it. He was sure that there'd be hunter besides himself passing through the area soon enough. He just knew that, with the anger he was feeling towards exhibit a of human waste back in the room he'd just fled from, he wouldn't be able to happily fulfill the obligation of stepping in and "saving the day" as he'd been raised to.

He threw absently into his travel bag several faded pairs of jeans, his hand-me-down leather jacket, his old, oversized Metallica shirt gifted to him by Dean on his 12th birthday (stolen freshly from the nearest clothes shop), and then topped the pile with the pair of boots he liked to wear out hunting. Remembering it last second, he added to the growing stack of belongings the gun he'd been sleeping with beneath his pillow (to the wide-eyed horror of his confused roommate, that had been feigning sleep the moment Dylan came running like hell through the door), and then zipped the bag shut with a final, frustrated sigh. He closed his eyes tightly.

"Shit!" he swore under his breath, wondering to himself what the hell he'd just done. "The hell am I supposed to tell Dean?" At this point, he was prying open one of the room's shabby windows, which glided the rest of the way ajar smoothly once broken free of its seal of mold. He didn't feel like making the shameful hike out the front door past all of those people he hardly knew- especially when they'd be accompanied by a smug looking Dedrickson with a red, possibly sprained wrist. He cracked the smallest of smiles at that thought, then hopped out the window. His room wasn't that far from the ground, and he soon found his feet planted firmly in the coarse, dead blades of grass that vaguely resembled a front lawn.

It wasn't more than two hours after he'd dialed up his brother's number on the nearest payphone that a sleek, black, 67' Impala pulled up in front of the skeevy diner he was holed up in. Dean kicked his way out of his baby angrily, stomping towards the front door of the diner with a dangerous look on his face. Dylan shrinked in his seat. Fear gripped at his beating heart. I'm really in for it now, he thought. That slap was nothing compared to what I'm about to hear.

"Goddamnit, Dylan!" Dean exclaimed, slamming his open palms against the table of the booth his brother had settled himself in. The small cup of coffee Dylan had purchased to appease the nosy waitress behind the register jumped on the tabletop upon impact, spewing droplets of black liquid everywhere. "How is it that, no matter where I put you, you always seem find some stupid way to screw up and get yourself booted out of there like some sort of fuckin' reject Idol contestant!?" before Dylan could reply, parting his mouth briefly to speak, Dean continued, "It's like a freakin' soap opera with you, I swear! 'I couldn't read the course work, I'm dyslexic!' Really? Well, golly gee, I somehow remember reading that on the papers we give your teachers! In fact, I bet that means that you could have easily used that to explain it to them. Or, this one's great too: 'He swung first! It's not my fault the stupid douche got the wrong idea.' Is that so, Dylan? Then, here's an idea: don't. Swing. Back! In fact, I bet that advice could've helped real well, just now, when you managed to get kicked out of the fifth school this year!"

Dylan sighed. He understood Dean had reason to be upset, but he sometimes felt as though his brother wasn't thinking of him in situations such as this. "Dean, if you'd just listen-"

"Listen?!" Dean exclaimed, with a dark chuckle, "Isn't that what I've been doin' this entire time, watchin' ya while dad ran off to God knows where completely out of the blue the past two years? In fact, if you'd listen to me for just a second, you'd know that he went off on a hunting trip two weeks ago and has not said a single thing since. No phone call, no weird, indirect messages, nada. He's just..gone!" Dylan was silent.

"Gone?" he whispered, "Why didn't you tell me?" Dean's reddened face cooled in color as he began to realize how his little brother must be feeling. Dylan was rarely quiet, so Dean was reasonably unnerved by the softness of his voice.

"Because you were in school, dumbass," Dean teased, in that odd tone that was his way of saying he was sorry. Dylan understood regardless. "Don't get me wrong-" Dean's lips curled up into a snarl as he looked heatedly into empty space "-I wanna kill the sorry sonofabitch that laid a hand on my baby brother first chance I get, but I'm still pretty ticked that we're having this conversation for a fifth time."

"I know," Dylan sighed, "I'm sorry. I'll try harder next time. But that doesn't change the fact that you really need to explain to me what the hell's going on with dad being missing." Dean smiled softly.

"'Course. Just let me get in an order of food, I'm freakin' starving," Dean moaned. Dylan snorted.

"When aren't you?" Dean just shot him a playful glare and grabbed his brother in a headlock. "The hell Dean?!" He was straining to speak around his brother's unfairly large arms, but he was laughing nonetheless.

"Missed you, baby brother," Dean chuckled.

"Missed you too, dickhead."

A/N: Ok, I honestly was not expecting to get any reviews when I posted this, so I really just wanted to thank everybody who left one. It's good to know someone reads this stuff, haha.

: Thanks, I'm glad you liked it! Well here's a new chapter now. Hope you found it good. Also, you should expect to see A LOT of Supernatural in the fanfic (but of course, some of the camp, too. This IS a crossover)

DancingWolves101: maayybe...*awkward winking*...haha, anyway, I'm really happy that you liked it!

Br0kenThOrn : You'll definitely be seeing a lot of interaction between the camp and all of the monsters that the Winchesters hunt. Also, I hope you read on regardless of who Dylan's dad turns out to be.

CheynotShy : Thanks, that's awesome to hear! :D

ww1990ww : Although I've already decided the story starts season one of Supernatural, I'm not sure whether I should have Dylan be older or younger than the characters in PJO. But that's a good point.

matioschka & sweetchick621 : Here's some more now!

Hopefully, I'll see even more reviews like these in the future. Thanks so much! :)

Also, a lot of swearing this chapter, huh? Haha, this crossover is half Supernatural, so I guess it's to be expected. And that's why I rated this story T for Teen!

SOME POTENTIAL QUESTIONS CLEARED UP:

Dedrickson is "Exhibit A of Human Waste"'s last name, Jack is his first. That's why Helen called him that.

What was she doing there in the first place that she broke "the fifth vase that week"? If you were curious, I'd like to imagine that Helen was on the board house's cooking staff, and had been experiencing some of the effects of the haunting. She was shaken up and coming to Dedrickson with a complaint about the heat, and she dropped "the fifth vase that week". So yeah, there's Helen's story, if you were curious. :)

Dylan and Dean refer to each other as "brothers" because, after all of the time they've spent together, and everything they've gone through over the years as a team (with Sam as well, of course), their feelings towards each other have progressed past estranged cousin to something more like long-lost brother.

If you have any other things you'd like cleared up, leave a review and I'll give you an answer! Hopefully I can start to get these updates a bit more regular soon.

~Steph