Raven (black_raven) wrote in spn_fic, @ 2009-08-02 04:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | author: black_raven, ch: bobby, ch: castiel, ch: dean, ch: sam, length: multi-part, rating: r (frm), type: crossover |
Guarding Death (Supernatural/Harry Potter) Rated R
Title: Guarding Death
Author: Black_Raven
Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Dean, Harry, Sam
Word Count: 6250 (whole story so far: 13450)
Rating: R
Summary: What if Castiel had one more charge, other than Dean. All those times Dean needed the angel, but he wasn't there, what if Cas were aiding someone else in their great times of need. SPN AU. Work in Progress.
Spoilers: Supernatural Season 4, All Harry Potter Books
Warnings: Foul Language, smoking, Slash (Pairings undetermined), Slightly Dark Themes
Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own anything having to do with the tv show Supernatural, or the books Harry Potter. I make no profit from this story.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 |
~~~
~^03. Demons, They Follow Me~^
“Dude, turn that down! I can barely hear myself think!”
Music blared from the speakers of the 1967 Chevy Impala as it purred its way down the highway. The driver was happily oblivious to the glares he was getting from other passing cars as he hung his left arm out the open window, belting the lyrics with abandon. The unhappy passenger winced and rubbed his forehead before reaching over to crank the volume down away from the maximum end of the scale. The sudden near silence took a moment to register to the driver as he continued singing.
“Bang Bang Shoot 'em up! The party never ends! You can't think of dying when the bottle's your best friend! And now it's-- Hey! Dude, don't mess with my stereo! If it bothered you then you shouldn't think so much.”
Sam rolled his eyes. Always the same old Dean. Even with the Deal hanging over his head, he never changed. For that he was privately grateful, despite his brother's overly obnoxious guilt-tripping. For once he bit his tongue and ignored Dean as he grabbed the map from the dashboard. They had passed over the Ohio state line not even twenty minutes ago heading East on County Highway. They were en rout to Milan, Ohio to investigate a series of suspicious suicides, and at their current rate they would reach the town in under two hours.
That good news brought Sam's spirits up. The brothers had been trapped in the car for three days straight aside from brief pit stops at backwater diners and gas stations. He was ready to put in at a hotel and pass out for a week. Brief cat-naps with your head hanging over the edge of the backrest did not constitute sleep. Dean seemed equally as happy about their time, though he suspected it was more to do with getting the case started than anything.
Daydreams of a shower and a full eight hours of rest were shattered when Dean's cell phone rang. The damn thing was nearly as loud as the volume on the radio had been. The youngest Winchester shook his head at Dean. His brother wouldn't have hearing problems in the first place if it weren't for listening to his music so loud.
“Yeah? Bobby, what's up?”
Sam sat up straighter, turning in his seat to stare at Dean, or more specifically, the phone. Bobby usually never called these days unless there was an important hunt that he couldn't take care of himself. He could barely make out the older man's muted voice through the speaker pressed to his brother's ear.
“Dean, where are you boys right now?”
“Uh, Ohio. There may be a hunt in Milan.”
Bobby sighed, and Dean's forehead creased in puzzlement. “Bobby?”
“I'm in Vermilion, Ohio right now. I guess you must'a picked up the same scent Harry did before his little break-down. I need you to get here asap.”
“Who's Harry? And where are you exactly in Ver-Vermilion?” Dean stumbled over the unfamiliar name. He shot Sam a pointed look and nodded his head towards the map before training his eyes back on the road.
“We're at the White Rapids Hotel, it's just off the State Road coming in from Milan, room 34. I'll explain everything when you get here. And before you say it, 'Christo'. I ain't possessed and this isn't a trap.”
The line went dead and Dean's attention wavered for a moment to stare at the offending electronic device. He looked slightly worried as he addressed Sam, grip tightening on the steering wheel.
“Hey, how far is Vermilion from Milan?”
Sam looked up and grunted. “It's a twenty minute drive. You think it's a set-up?”
“Nah. But something's going on. You ever hear of anyone named 'Harry' that Bobby might know? Other than that chuckle-head from 'Ghostfacers'.”
Snorting, Sam frowned in thought. He almost shook his head 'no' when a distant memory came to him. Back before the Road House was destroyed he recalled one night sitting at the bar with another group of hunters. The discussion now seemed like it had taken place a life-time ago, but the subject had been of interest enough to remember.
“I remember a 'Harry' being mentioned by some people at the Road House. If this is the same guy Bobby mentioned, he's a hunter. Same caliber as Dad, from the way they talked about him. They called him by another name... uh, “The Cat”, in reference to the old folk song about the cat who wouldn't die, and that left a trail of death and destruction in its wake. Hell, you probably remember. When I asked, pretty much every hunter drunk enough started singing the song.”
“Eeh, yeah, I remember. Wish to god I didn't. Why do they call him that? Seems a pretty gruesome thing to name him after, even for hunters.”
“Yeah, well, they claimed, albeit jokingly, that he couldn't die, and that anything he set his mind to killing would be dead within a week.”
They shared a weary look. From past personal experience they knew not to take such claims of immortality lightly. Dean shook himself and drew his mouth into a grim line, increasing the pressure on the gas pedal. They needed to get to Bobby ten minutes ago. Rather than argue traffic laws, Sam stared quietly out the window at the passing scenery.
They reached Milan an hour and a half later, and the hotel fifteen minutes after that. The place looked in desperate need to repairs, but was obviously still in operation, by the number of cars parked in assigned spots. Bobby's truck was in an unmarked space, next to a black comaro in front of rooms 34 and 35. They were the last rooms farthest from the office, for which Dean was thankful. The last thing they needed was a nosy host eyeballing their comings and goings.
Bobby answered the door after the first knock. He looked healthy enough, and acted like his normal self as he waved them in. Sam and Dean were slightly relieved when they caught sight of the inside. Salt lines ran not just across the door and windows, but along the outside walls as well. The green walls sported cracks in the plaster, explaining the over-kill. Protective sigils and Devil's Traps were sketched around the entrances in white chalk, and hex bags were positioned at the four compass points. Doubtless, they were added protections to ward against demons or spirits.
Defenses and escape routs scoped out, they turned their attention to the room occupants. There was Bobby, dressed in his usual worn jeans, baseball cap, and flannel shirt. The other man though, they did not recognize. He was slumped over at the small table and looked to be asleep until they caught sight of bright green eyes glaring at them through tangled black hair over the crook of his arms. The man slowly sat up and observed them just as carefully as they were him.
The eldest Winchester was surprised. Harry looked about the same age as Sam. His face was pale beneath what would otherwise have been a healthy tan, dark bags under his eyes hinting at lack of sleep. His nose was crooked and slightly bruised over tightly pursed lips. Stubble grew along his jaw, which clenched and unclenched as he stared. The man's dark clothing was well worn, dusty and frayed from seeing too much action and not enough wash. A boot that peaked from beneath the table sported the same wear and tear. The only thing out of place was a gold ring with a black stone on his left index finger.
There was no mistaking it. Dean knew that expression plastered on the man's face. Knew that world weary attitude because he himself was wearing the same. If the room hadn't tipped him off about the man's hunter status, Harry more than would have. Sam shifted uncomfortably beside him. The movement seemed to break the spell that had fallen over the room.
“Sam, Dean, this is Harry Potter. Harry, these are Sam and Dean Winchester. John Winchester's boys.”
At Bobby's introduction the light of suspicion dimmed slightly in Harry's gaze. They watched as his head tilted and switched his attention to the older hunter. Dean was both confused and vaguely humored as the man spoke with a gruff accent that the Winchester couldn't place.
“Chester's sons? You never said anything about him being this 'John' fellow.” Bobby gauffed loudly and took a seat at the end of the bed.
“If I'd known you knew 'im I would have mentioned his last name.”
Dean stepped cautiously over to take the remaining seat at the table, eying the hunter across from him oddly. Sasquach opted to remain standing, though he moved closer to the group. Dean ignored him for the moment though, a burning question on the tip of his tongue.
“'Chester'? Really? How did he not shoot you for that? And how'd you know him?”
Green eyes flashed as Harry smirked, leaning back in his seat and looking smug. Though they were there for a reason, Dean could not help wanting to know the story behind his father's apparent nickname before they got down to business.
“I met him on a hunt back in 2004. A pair of spirits were murdering white tourists who visited the Trail of Tears Commemorative Park in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. We wound up inadvertently stepping on each others toes. He tracked me down to my motel room and tried scaring me off the case until he realized I was a hunter too. We were tracking back to the burial sight when we were ambushed. He never gave me a first name to use, and I had to warn him quickly, so I accidentally called him 'Chester. It just stuck after that.
“He was quite fun to annoy the few times after that we worked together. I'm sad to hear he died.”
No matter how many times Dean heard the condolences, he could never quite suppress the instinctive flinch. The way Harry said it though, took away the sting of pain in his chest that usually accompanied the words. The younger hunter actually did sound slightly depressed, unlike other people who simply spouted out empty words with no real feeling behind them. Dean nodded silently to the other man before forcefully turning to Bobby.
“So, why'd you call Sammy and I away from the Milan hunt? Not that we aren't happy to meet a new, fellow hunter.”
“Apparently Harry here has been having visions.”
Sam jerked and sat down heavily next to Bobby, disbelief marring his features. Dean could certainly understand why. Neither had thought any other psychic kids had survived the 'ultimate showdown' a couple months back. Yellow-Eyes had told Sam that only one could survive. Thankfully that hadn't been the case, but Sam's continued existence was under unnatural circumstances. The knowledge put Dean on edge.
“You gotta be freakin' kidding me! Ho-”
“What have they been about?” Sam cut him off before he could start up a good rant. Dean's annoyance at being interrupted was countered by Harry's sudden nervous twitch. There was a pause before the man answered.
“They started a few months ago. Bobby tells me that they coincide with the opening of the Devil's Gate.... At first they were just regular dreams inspired by my past hunts. Or so I thought. There were no headaches, no sudden illness, no nothing. I didn't even realize what they were until I started getting migraines and having them while I was awake, about a month ago. They've been about you Winchesters.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a wary glance. The taller man leaned forward and eyed Harry carefully. Usually when people were having visions of something, it was never good. The fact that a fellow hunter was having visions about them was even worse. Dean sure as hell hoped it wasn't more demon mind-games. Ol' Yellow-Eyes was dead, there was no reason for anyone to be having any visions of anything. Especially not visions that supposedly started after the Gate to Hell was opened.
“What about us?” Dean demanded harshly. The sharp tone made the brunet's nostrils flair in irritation. Dean didn't give a fuck. Big bad hunter didn't like getting ordered around? Tough shit. This was his life, Sammy's life, that was being viewed by someone else like bad pay-per-view. He sure as hell wasn't going to play nice about it.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Bobby move to open his mouth, but cut him off with a sharp gesture, still glaring intently at Harry. He wanted answers, and by god he was going to get them. Even if he had to blow off a couple knee caps.
Perhaps sensing Dean's train of thought, Harry growled low in his throat and violently shook hair from in front of his eyes. Green bore into green as he answered evenly, “Hunts you've been on since the Devil's Gate was opened. From the looks of them, and by Bobby's information, all your hunts since May. I know that you were there when the Gate was opened. I know that Sam is supposed to be dead right now. I know that you sold your soul to a demon to bring him back. I also know that you only have a month and a half, two months tops, before the Devil comes to collect.”
Dean's mouth tightened into a thin line, and he released a long, slow breath through his nose. It took all of his strength not to burn a clip in this douche bag, or rip into him verbally. The words tore at him, 'Sam is supposed to be dead'. Like hell. Sam didn't look any happier than Dean at that moment, but for a different reason.
“How could you know about the deal if you only started having these visions after it happened?”
Harry speared him with a look. “My dreams almost always focus on Dean, but there have been one or two of you, and a demon named Ruby.”
The hunter quirked an eyebrow and smirked knowingly at Sam. Instead of responding, his brother shifted his weight and ducked his head. There was definitely a story there that he was beating out of Sam later. As soon as he got through with this asshole. Harry seemed likable enough when they weren't talking business, but it was the principle of the thing. Bobby finally got a word in before Dean could continue his interrogation.
“God damn it boys! I've known Harry for going on six years now. Hell, I'm the one who taught him the tools of our trade! He ain't no damn creature, any more than Sam was when he was having psychic episodes. Now shut yer traps and let him explain himself. And Harry, enough of your attitude. Idjits.”
He punctuated his words by leaning forward and whapping both hunters upside the head. Both were suitably cowed at the action. For the most part. Dean glared and rubbed the back of his head but remained silent, while Harry frowned at the older hunter and sighed. Sam smirked until Bobby shot him a look as well. Awkward silence permeated the room for several moments until finally Harry cleared his throat.
The guy looked highly uncomfortable as he began to speak. As Dean processed the words, he suddenly realized why the kid might be touchy about the insinuation that he was one of the creatures they hunted. The tale hit far too close to home. Sam's and Dean's eyes locked as Harry's soft accent took on rough, brogue undertones, testament to his country of origin -England or Scotland, Dean couldn't tell which; it was an odd, mixed dialect- and how upset he was at having to reveal his history to them.
“When I was fifteen months old, my parents were murdered by a man named Tom Riddle. He was neck deep in dark magic, and now that I know of demons on more than a base academic level, I believe that he either made deals with demons for his powers, or he was possessed by one. My mother sacrificed her life for me, and was killed for not stepping down when he came for me. He tried killing me, but the magic he used rebounded, and killed him instead. Some speculated that because my mother died protecting me, it summoned a type of magic in itself that shielded me.
“There was also a prophecy involved. A seer predicted that Tom would be defeated by a child. So in his infinite wisdom, he attacked one of the two children referred to, and in the process created a self-fulfilling prophecy. That child was me. For ten years, everyone in my community thought that Tom was gone for good, until my first year of schooling, when he revealed himself as still being around, as a disembodied spirit. He was like a demon without a host, and as I later discovered, he could possess people if they were of weak constitution....
“When I was fourteen, I was captured by his followers, and they resurrected him. Created a body for him using blood magic. My blood was used. I escaped, people died, and the summer after, I began having debilitating visions of Tom and his movements. My blood tied us together, as well as the remnants of the magic he tried using against me when I was a baby.
“War broke out. More people died. I killed Tom. The visions ended. People turned on me, thinking I was evil incarnate because of abilities I still possessed from him. I left. Then a few months ago I started having visions again, only connected to you. End of story.”
His tone grew harsh and stilted as he spoke of war. Dean could detect a familiar note of despair at the mention of people dying and turning against him. Suddenly, the eldest Winchester felt like a class-A dick. The younger hunter's attitude was reminiscent of the front Dean put up to hide his own emotions. He was such a hypocrite.
Apparently not even Bobby had known that much about his friend, because he seemed just as surprised and unsure as the two Winchesters as Harry fell silent while glaring at the table top. After a pause, the man sat up from a slouch and began pawing through his jeans pockets, extricating a pack of cigarettes and a silver zippo. Dean scowled and almost protested as Harry lit up, until he saw the look in the man's eyes. It was obvious that Harry was hurting, and Dean figured, hey, it was his hotel room, he can smoke if he needs to.
Sam fidgeted impatiently and coughed as smoke drifted under his nose. To his credit, he did wait until Harry was half way through his cigarette before speaking up, a thoughtful note coloring his voice. Dean winced minutely and mentally groaned. For all his sentimentality, Sam could be as obtuse as a water buffalo sometimes.
“So, wait, you suspect that this Riddle guy may have been a demon? If he was, that could explain the sudden visions. A lot of demons escaped before we could shut the door.... And even if he was human when you killed him, if he was really as bad as you imply, he would have gone to hell.... We've found out, from Ruby, that all demons started out as human souls....”
He wilted under the brunt of three identical glares. Harry scowled and chewed the end of his cancer stick, shaking his head. His voice was slightly muffled by the cigarette hanging from his lips but the message came across loud and clear, “No way in hell. I completely destroyed him. His soul is awaiting judgment from Death, last I knew. So find a different fucking theory.”
The comment struck Dean as odd. Odder than most things he'd ever heard in his life. He could not resist asking about it. Bobby beat him to it. The oldest hunter seemed to have a knack for that. He watched as Bobby stood from the bed and paced around a bit. From the look on his face, Dean knew he was mentally going through the 'Encyclopedia of Weird' he seemed to stock in his brain. When he spoke, his voice reflected the distraction but was steady.
“What do you mean, 'awaiting judgment from Death'?”
Blue-gray smoke curled lazily about the dark figure on the other side of the table, distorting his features and tracing faux-arcane symbols in the air around him. Had Dean been the poetic type, he would have said the smoke made him look 'mysterious' or 'dangerous'. Of course, that did not mean the man wasn't either of those things to begin with. Inexplicably, the Winchester was reminded of Aragorn from the Lord of the Rings movies.
Shaking his head at his own irrational musings, Dean drummed his fingers against the surface of the table as Harry made a thoughtful noise. He expelled a full breath of smoke before he ground the cigarette out in the ashtray on the table. The small plastic affair that was shockingly already full to the brim with spent butts. How could Dean have missed that when he first sat down? His attention shot back into focus when Harry lit up another one and sighed.
“Just as I said.... I have never told anyone the full story of what happened that day. Not even those I called 'friends' at the time. It would have only enforced their beliefs that I was mentally unstable. I was, but that's beside the point.... Reserve your remarks for after I'm done explaining. I will not be interrupted.”
The last comment was directed at Sam and Dean more than Bobby. The two hunters really did seem to trust each other. The way they addressed each other with comfortable familiarity was not dissimilar to how the Winchesters treated the old family friend. Dean could appreciate the fact. Now that his temper had calmed, he rationalized that if Bobby trusted Harry so much, Dean could trust Harry, despite his freaky ESP tuned in to Winchester Central.
His ears virtually perked forward as Harry finally began explaining,
“I died that day. During the last battle, where I killed Tom. Went to confront him, knowing I would die, but I didn't count on coming back from it. I remember it. What happened while my spirit was severed from my body. For some reason I was whisked away to Kings Cross Station in London, rather than staying around the area I had died like I know most spirits tend to.
“I was met there by my old Headmaster, who had been murdered the year previous. Or at least I thought it was Professor Dumbledore at first.... He told me that I had to make a choice. I could either move on to 'the next great adventure', or I could go back and finish my task of killing Tom. He showed me a representation of Tom's soul.... It was horrible. Nothing more than a scared, withered, broken, child huddled bloody and beaten on the floor of the station. Twisted by its own ambitions and actions....
“After seeing what Tom really was... I guess my sense of duty,” He snorted derisively at the word, “would not allow me to simply walk away from a task that I had been trained for since I was eleven years old. My self-sacrificing, saving people thing,”
A angry flash of teeth made Dean uncomfortable, being the one sitting closest to the volatile hunter. Maybe asking Harry to explain himself hadn't been such a good idea after all. “Would not allow me to finally rest without guilt or regret. Guilt that all of those I considered my friends or family would be murdered. And regret that I would not have the opportunity to put such a pitiful creature out of its misery.
“Now is the part that I kept to myself all these years. I really did think I was loony, until I began hunting. After telling Dumbledore my decision, rather than returning me to my body, he... changed. He was no longer Dumbledore. Rather, he claimed that he was a Reaper, guised as my old Professor so as not to 'frighten me off'. Apparently Tom's actions were great enough to warrant the attention of certain large factions in the supernatural world.
“The Reaper claimed that had Tom been allowed to live, he would be 'recruited' into the ranks of a certain black-eyed legion. He refused to elaborate on how they would recruit him. Basically -keeping in mind that this is all guess work on my part- the Reapers were on my side, but being neutral, they could not openly force my hand. Such is the reason that one chose to press my decision while in the shape of a trusted mentor. The Reaper told me that once I succeeded in killing Tom, Death would judge the worth of his soul.
“I don't think he was supposed to tell me this next part, as he looked rather shifty, and kept gazing around as if expecting someone to reprimand him for causing some sort of mischief.... He said that most likely Tom's soul would be destroyed by Death. That the soul was too damaged to be given a chance at redemption. He heavily implied that he had a boss who could, and would, destroy Tom utterly. He kept referring to this boss as 'Death'. I guess it just stuck with me. Before I could question him further, he kind of... I guess 'tapped' my forehead and next thing I knew I was back in my body on the battlefield.”
One of Dean's eyebrows inched up skeptically and he couldn't hold his tongue, “A Reaper being mischievous. That's a new one.”
Truthfully, there was a faint ring of familiarity in the back of Dean's mind. He had been hunted by Reapers twice in his life. Once naturally, back in the hospital where his Dad died. He figured that the memories must still be in his head somewhere. It drove him nuts sometimes that he couldn't remember what happened between him and the Reaper then. There was also some envy towards Harry at his remembrance of his own experience with the soul stealing sons of bitches.
There were gaping holes in the other hunter's reiteration of his past, but Dean chose to ignore them for now. It was another thing he could respect, being someone who would rather not talk about his own life to complete strangers. It was an unspoken rule among soldiers and survivors, his Dad had once told him. Never pry unneeded information out of someone with a spotted past, or offer information in turn, unless you want to talk. Harry obviously didn't wanna talk.
The Winchester was relieved to see that Bobby and Sam caught the memo. Rather than question the man further, they began discussing what they knew of Reapers amongst themselves, leaving Dean to his own devices. Harry lit up yet another cigarette and Dean felt a twinge of guilt when he noticed faint tremors running through the hand that held the lighter. The air surrounding the table grew far too stilted and awkward for Dean's liking. To break the ice, he leaned forward on his forearms and grinned conspiratorially.
“Hey, can I bum a cig off you? Seein' you smoke is giving me an old itch.”
Harry blinked at him and wordlessly handed over the pack and his lighter. Dean gleefully noted that they were American Spirits. He hadn't smoked one of those babies in years. Not since Sam had started hunting with him again. The kid had bitched him out and lectured about lung cancer before tossing his last pack out the window of the moving car. The bitch had demanded to smell his breath every time he went out alone for months after he quit. His baby brother never seemed to understand that in certain bar crowds, not smoking would seem odd.
Well, Sam was preoccupied right now, and if the princess had any issue with him smoking again, he could lecture his corpse after his two months were up. That thought caused more guilt to surge, but he shoved it away. The fact that he would be in Hell in two months didn't bother him. What mattered was that Sam would be alive. That's all that mattered to Dean. To cover anything that may have slipped through onto his face, he ducked his head and flicked the lighter.
The first inhale nearly caused a coughing fit. Luckily he managed to cover it with a clearing of the throat and save face. Obviously not though. His eyes narrowed dangerously at Harry as he noticed the man's lip curl in amusement. He scowled and took a second, deeper drag, this time holding it in longer until he was sure the tickle in his throat had disappeared entirely.
It hadn't been that long since he smoked last. Lady couldn't police his social habits 24-7. That made him pause for a moment, trying to decide whether or not him being Tramp was a good thing. Speaking of Sammy, his brother must have finally noticed the abnormal-for-only-one-person cloud of smoke hazing about the corner the table was in. The kid sure had a set of lungs on him, Dean winced and ducked his head, sucking frantically at the filter, lest Sam decide to dispose of it prematurely.
“DEAN! What the hell are you doing? I thought you quit!”
“I did.” He mumbled around the cigarette. “Now I started again. Isn't the entire point of quitting the epic battle between life and death? Sorry to break it to you again Sammy, but I already lost that fight.”
Aw come on! Dean grimaced and studiously ignored his brother's “bitch-face”. Two months against a pack of smokes. It wasn't like Sam ever got after him for drinking, so he didn't see why he should have to pick and choose his vices at the moment. He snagged a second cigarette. Bobby really was Dean's new hero. The eldest man successfully redirected Sam's attention back to the situation at hand.
“Until we find out why Harry's suddenly having these visions again, I want all three of you to be careful. Extra so. As Dean so pleasantly reminded us, his Deal is up soon. With what ever's going on with Harry starting at around the time the Deal was made, we don't know for sure which event may have triggered it. Could be the Deal, could be the Devil's Gate, could be the plate of bad nachos he ate. Point is, we don't know for sure. All we do know is that the last time Harry had these premonitions, bad things happened.”
At Harry's solemn nod and hard gaze, Dean suddenly felt queasy. Bobby's warning abruptly reminded him that Harry had most likely seen what that Tom guy was planning on doing. Or what he was already doing at the time. If the dude was really as bad as Harry said he was.... No kid should have to go through something like that. Involuntarily he turned to look at Sam. His little brother was thinking the same thing, if that frown was anything to go by.
Sighing, Harry pushed his chair back and stood, busying himself by packing what little personal belongings were scattered about the room. Dean was shocked when he finally noticed just how short the guy was. Suddenly, he didn't feel so small next to Sam anymore. The dude was a good head shorter than Dean, give or take a couple inches. He could have been mistaken for an early teen if no one saw his face. Which begged the question of just how old Harry was.
When he voiced the question he received a nasty glare from aforementioned man.
“I'm twenty-eight years old. Bobby,” He turned and nodded to the man, “It seems that the Winchesters have the hunt here taken care of. Ellen called me just before you showed up, left a message saying there's a hunt up in Michigan, Grand Island. Sounds like a werewolf. No one else is within a days drive. Would you care to join me?”
Harry finished packing, pulled on a black leather biker jacket that had been hanging off the back of his chair, and sat his bags just outside the devil's trap on the floor near the exit. Like the Winchesters, Harry carried two bags for himself. One for clothing and personal items, and the other solely for weapons and hunting gear. The symbols coating the room, as well as the hex bags, remained in place. The hunter gave the room a quick once over before leaning against the wall by the door, awaiting a response. Bobby hadn't said anything during Harry's clean-up, but now simply shrugged and nodded his agreement.
“Sure, why not. Got nothing better to do, and if anyone needs me, I got my cell phone. The drive'll be nice. Been a while since I've been to the U.P..”
Seeming pleased, Harry then tilted his head and motioned towards the bedside stand where a pad of motel stationary sat. Leaning over, Sam made a curious sound. Standing, Dean paced over and examined it over his shoulder. The first page was cramped full of spindly, messy, handwriting. There was a moment pause before he could decipher it. God, did all hunters have crap handwriting? Not that he could complain, Sam often said the same of him.
“These are your notes on the hunt?”
“Yeah. It's all yours. I don't know what's causing these occurrences; I didn't get very far in my research before I got... distracted. I had already talked to the wife of the man who shot himself. Her name is Amanda. You may be able to get more out of her than I did. Simply tell her that “Peter Green” fell ill and that you two will be taking over the insurance investigation.”
For an instance Dean almost laughed aloud at the fake name, but then the entirety of the words registered. He felt mild disbelief that a fellow hunter that wasn't Bobby or Ellen, that Dean had been a complete bastard to (even if only in his own head), would offer his own research to help out a brother in need. The assumption that they would be working the case from scratch was usually an instinctive reaction when it came down to running into other hunters on the job. Unfortunately most hunters had that annoying chip on their shoulder that seemed to require their jealous guardianship over any hunt they claim as 'theirs'. Dean could honestly say that he was grateful.
The younger man was about to reach over and open the door when he paused. Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, he fished out a single key attached to a plain white tab. Without glancing back, he tossed the key over his shoulder. Sam caught it before it could smack Dean in the nose. The elder Winchester growled and mentally added a tally to Harry's name, right next to the ones detailing the other offenses the black haired man had caused him.
A strange sound from Sam brought him back to reality. Harry was half way out the door, both duffels slung over one shoulder, Bobby waiting to exit behind him. Once both men were out, Harry stepped back up to the threshold and blinked at them, looking confused himself. Sam coughed.
“Uh, eh-hem. This is your room key....”
Congratulations Sam! You have just stated the obvious! Harry grinned and snickered under his breath, perhaps holding Dean's same opinion on the matter. With a shrug, he shook his head.
“The room's already paid for until Sunday. No point in you guys wasting money. And time.” His tone became indignant, “Do you know how long it took to lay down all those runes? A bloody long time.”
Without further comment he turned and walked away. Dean could hear the sounds of a car door opening and closing, and then the comaro roared to life. It had nothing on his baby, but it was a sweet car. Bobby lingered for a moment longer and they exchanged their normal parting words. After a moment the Winchesters were alone once again. Silence prevailed.
That is, until someone turned their radio on to what seemed like full volume, regaling anyone in the immediate vicinity with Poison's Ride the Wind. With a squeal of tires, the music grew fainter and the camaro peeled out of sight, Bobby's truck following at safer speeds. A full fledged grin spread over Dean's face. He turned to Sam and stated perfectly seriously,
“Sam? I think I love that man.”
“So, finally coming out of the closet then, jerk?” Sam asked with a smirk.
“In your dreams, bitch.... Wait....” He mentally tallied up what he just said and found himself grimacing, much to his brother's delight.
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