Fic: Guarding Death (SPN/Harry Potter) 04/?
Title: Guarding Death
Author: Anguifer
Fandoms: Harry Potter, Supernatural
Rating: R
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4 and HP Book 7!!!, Slash (Pairing Undetermined, No Wincest), Foul Language, Violence, Cigarette and Alcohol Use, Dark Themes, Mentions of Child Abuse in Chapter 1. Alternate Universe
Summary: What if Castiel had one more charge, other than Dean. All those times Dean needed him, but he wasn't there, what if Cas was aiding someone else in their great times of need. Season 4 spoilers, AU
Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own any characters, settings, histories, etc., recognizable as belonging to the TV show Supernatural, or the Harry Potter book/movie series. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
Distribution: Supernaturally Twisted, Insanejournal, Fanfiction.net
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
~~~
~^Chapter 4~^
Bobby and Harry didn't stop or speak until they reached the outskirts of Lansing. Harry was wound up tight as a piano wire, and he was afraid to pause and speak to his friend for fear he would snap. Admitting so much of his old life had torn open wounds that up until then he had thought healed. The feeling of being chewed up and spit out was far worse now than it ever was when he had first met Bobby and given him the heavy edit version of his past.
He hesitated at pulling into the next gas station he spotted, however his car needed fuel and he needed a cold beer. They would not stop again until they reached Munising, but it would be nice not having to go on a beer run once they reached a hotel. Certainly he would not drink while driving. Almost probably not. At least perhaps only one bottle.
A disgusted sigh escaped him as he shoved open the door and stood, stretching his legs and twisting his spine until it popped. The beer would wait. Or he'd ask Bobby to hold onto the case until they reached their destination. With the frame of mind he was in at that moment, having alcohol in the vehicle was a very bad idea.
Bobby pulled into the pump next to Harry and climbed out, nodding to the wizard as he unscrewed the gas cap. All was silent save the sounds of passing cars and the whir of the pumps. Currently they were the only ones at the station. Predictably, it was Bobby who made the first move. Harry nearly jumped when a throat was cleared, looking up at the older hunter with the look of a startled feline.
The man's lips twitched in amusement, but it didn't last long. “Just so we're clear, we're gonna have a nice long chat once we find a motel for the night.”
His tone changed from stern to uncomfortably gentle, ”Harry, I've been your friend for years, I respect your privacy, but if we're going to figure out what's going on with these visions, you're going have to tell me a lot more than you told them.”
The brunet twitched, seemingly engrossed by the nozzle of the gas hose as he placed it back on the pump. Thus was the reason he had not wanted to stop. He knew he had left holes in his story. He knew that Bobby would want to know what those holes contained. And Harry wasn't so sure he was up for that retelling. Then again, he knew he never would be. Just as he knew that Bobby would break out the big guns, literally, if he refused.
Rock and a hard place didn't even begin to cover Harry's situation. Receiving dreams and premonitions of fellow hunters was one thing. But being a wizard, something to be hunted, was entirely a different matter. Either way he could see it, he'd end up with a chest full of wrought iron before the night was through.
Suddenly overcome with emotion, Harry stalked off silently towards the building, intent on getting that twelve-pack. Nothing short of cosmic intervention would force him to have that particular conversation while sober. A trip to a liquor store was also in order before they retreated to a motel. He would also need more cigarettes, he realized as he fished around his pockets for his wallet. He'd left the rest of that last pack back in Vermilion.
Not wishing to prolong their idle time, Harry paid for both his and Bobby's gas, a twelve pack, a carton of cigarettes, and snacks for both of them. He tersely handed over the beer and one bag of snacks to Bobby before hopping into his car, revving the engine, and taking off. All the older man could do was shake his head in annoyance. Damn Potters and Winchesters may as well have crawled out of the same gene pool as far as he was concerned.
Five hours later and they were finally pulling into Munising. Harry was very much dreading the approaching interrogation, and attempted to push it off as much as possible by driving just that much slower, and taking unnecessary detours. Bobby caught on quick enough, but chose not to comment, other than to call Harry and let him know that the older man was going to break away and find them a hotel.
The temptation to simply drive out of town and sleep in the car for the night was overwhelming. If there was one thing Harry was good at, other than hunting, it was avoidance. Sure, there were some things he simply refused to ignore or put off, but when it came to certain topics, all bets were off. Unlucky for him, this was one of those things that were unavoidable.
The nearest liquor store turned out to located on the opposite side of town from the hotel. Not that that was saying much. Munising wasn't that big a place. During the drive to their lodgings, Harry discovered that driving around the town as opposed to through it added an extra twenty minutes to the trip. He loitered in the car once he pulled into the parking lot next to Bobby's truck.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while pretending to be interested in the goings on of the surrounding area. He rooted around in the back seat for fifteen minutes as if looking for something, and then spent another five simply standing, staring into the trunk of the car as if it held all the secrets of the universe. Finally though, he admitted defeat when he spotted Bobby eyeballing him through the curtains of their room and shaking his head.
Once again, Harry was disgusted with himself. Where had his Gryffindor bravado gone? He had faced down the meanest, scariest man in England without flinching, had allowed himself to be killed without hesitation. But now, here he was, dragging his feet as if he were about to mount gallows hill. This was only Bobby. Only his friend who would not pause at shooting Harry once he discovered the man's deepest, darkest secrets. Well, when one put it that way....
Too late for him to turn tail and run now. Bobby opened the door before he could even think of bolting. The second the door closed and locked behind him, Harry made a beeline for the small table, already shaking a cigarette out and lighting it, while at the same time pulling the bottle of eighty proof whiskey out of one of the plastic bags he carried. Impatiently he shrugged the strap of the duffel bag off his shoulder and let it fall to the floor.
Bobby had already taken care of the wardings, now Harry would take care of the getting pissed and spilling his guts both figuratively and most probably literally. A long neck already sat open on the table, but it went ignored as Harry plopped himself down and unscrewed the cap on his own bottle. The older hunter sat down opposite him and waiting patiently as the wizard chugged a couple mouth fulls of the burning liquid.
Ragged gasps escaped him as he lowered the bottle and followed it up with a hit of nicotine. Shadowed eyes locked on Bobby.
“What do you wanna know?”
“Well, for starters, how is it that you didn't die? And exactly what 'community' did you come from?”
Harry could have bashed his skull against the wall. Trust Bobby to ask the most difficult questions first. It took the equivalent of two more shots before he could draw upon his vastly depleted store of courage. He figured he may as well get the worse of it out straight from the beginning. Skirting the questions wasn't an option, Bobby could smell a lie from a mile away, including lies by omission. The most he could hope for was a quick death.
Drawing in a deep breath, he stared at the ashtray, not wanting to see the look on the hunter's face when he got his answers. Thoughts derailed as suddenly it struck him that Bobby had gotten them a room which allowed smoking. The older hunter despised Harry's nasty habit. But still, he'd gotten the room with Harry in mind. Tears choked him for a moment. He coughed and blinked hard before finally speaking.
“The Wizarding community.”
The silence which sprang from that was worse than if the man had started shouting. Harry felt like a kid again, as if he was back in Dumbledore's office awaiting judgment for some misdemeanor. He couldn't bring himself to look up.
He was forced to, however, when Bobby sighed and murmured gruffly, “Which one?”
“Huh?” The wizard nearly gave himself whiplash. Bobby didn't look angry, or indeed like he was going to attack Harry at all. Rather, he had an air of wary calm about him, much like he had after hearing about the visions. That was... so not how Harry expected him to react. Near that Harry could tell, most hunters equated magic-wielding humans with demons.
“Which magical community are you from. Did you make a deal, are you a psychic, a wand-user, elementalist...?”
Mind working furiously now, Harry hastened to answer. “Wand-user. I didn't make any deals with anything to get my powers. I've had them since I was born. I went to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Scotland.”
It was Bobby's turn to chug his alcohol before responding. Harry took the opportunity to finish off his cigarette and steal another sip from the whiskey. There wasn't much of a buzz right now, but he knew it would hit him like a freighter in a few moments, with as much as he'd imbibed in the past fifteen minutes.
“Is that what you were so afraid to tell me? That you're a wand-wizard? Like I give a rats ass. You don't live in this business for so long without picking up a few odd connections along the way. I'm assuming you're the Harry Potter? That would explain everything, right there.”
Harry was sure he was catching flies as he gaped at Bobby in amazement. Nearly six years of getting to know the man, and he still managed to throw unexpected curve balls. Was there any wonder that Harry sometimes found himself comparing the hunter to his old headmaster? Which brought about an inquiry of his own.
“How do you know about wiz- uh, wand-wielders? Even here in America they're not supposed to let anyone know they exist.”
“I know a guy down in Chicago. He clues me in on anything big going on. Voldemort was huge. Only heard the he-said-she-said version of the story, but now that I know who you are, I think I can piece it together from what you've already told me. Not that it really helps overly much in figuring out your Winchester problem.”
After how much stress Harry had been under, he was nearly disappointed at the anti-climactic conversation they were having. Not that he wasn't incredibly grateful that he was still in full possession of his life. They sat in quiet contemplation for a few minutes before Harry could not help giving voice to his pessimistic thoughts.
“Do... do you think Sam could be right? About Voldemort escaping Hell.”
Pressure was building behind his forehead as his gaze drifted down to focus solely on the curled label on the bottle. To distract himself from further depression, he started scraping at the paper with a fingernail. His hearing was sharp and tuned directly on his companion. Multitasking in such a way was starting to become difficult. Sardonically, Harry wondered how he'd managed such concentration to begin with.
Bobby's silence on the topic was beginning to unnerve Harry. Nausea curdled his stomach and the migraine got worse. Displeasure warred with the effects of the alcohol. The juvenile behavior he had been exhibiting since they departed Vermilion was liable to get him killed if he did not quell it before the hunt. He was a grown adult of almost thirty years, for Pete's sake.
He set the bottle aside resolutely and finally faced Bobby like a man. A very much drunk man, but that was simply a technicality. His voice was much steadier than he felt at the moment as he answered his own question.
“The Reaper sounded absolutely positive that Voldemort's soul was destroyed when I killed him. Believe me, that's not a conversation one ever forgets. And even if he were back, the visions would be focused on him, not Dean. It's something else. Something to do with Dean himself.... Given the circumstances, I'd say it's the Deal. Only question is why.”
“Hn.” Came the distracted reply. A second passed before Bobby nodded to himself and took another swig of beer. “Maybe you're supposed to stop it. If that is what it's about. Ain't got no other explanation for it.”
Focusing was getting more difficult. He felt light headed and mild tracers followed every movement his companion made. Bobby snorted and gave him a knowing look, perhaps noticing his dilated pupils, or simply the fact that he was lightly swaying back and forth in his seat. Sound was pleasantly muffled, extremities tingling happily as the alcohol at last began doing its blessed work. Now the wizard couldn't even truly remember why he had been so apprehensive about talking to Bobby.
Blinking hard, he squinted when he realized Bobby's lips were moving.
“Get some rest, kid. Boat leaves in the morning. Last thing we need is you bein' sick on the hunt.”
That sounded like a splendid idea! Harry grinned, climbing unsteadily to his feet. It took him a few seconds to remember how to walk without falling flat on his face, but eventually he managed to weave his way towards one of the two beds. After attempting to take off his boots and nearly falling off the bed, he scowled and grunted, throwing himself back to lay across the comforter still fully clothed. He felt like he was floating on a cloud.
He fell asleep with a half-grin on his face, listening as Bobby quietly cursed the 'Damn idjit boys who don't know how to hold their liquor'.
~ ~ ~
Back in Vermilion, the brothers Winchester had settled into Harry's hotel room as comfortably as they could. The room was small, with only one bed, and hot water that seemed to work half the time. After Harry's and Bobby's departure they had settled into a comfortable routine. Sam went over what little notes Harry had compiled, and Dean laid back on the bed channel surfing on the small, 20” TV sitting on the dresser.
Late as it was, they had decided to catch a day of rest before picking up the trail. They would check in with Amanda come morning and then hit the library for some research. Rather, Sam would research, and Dean would track down friends and family of the suicide victims. If there were any. Sam had quietly commented that two of the four victims had been loners, with no surviving family. From the notes, Harry had been going on the angle that it was some sort of vengeful spirit.
Speaking of the strange hunter, Sam had been oddly quiet ever since they'd settled down. Usually they would have discussed it immediately. Someone having visions of the Winchesters wasn't exactly normal. Admittedly, Dean wasn't sure what there even was to discuss, but the silence on the topic was killing him. He fidgeted with the remote for a minute before speaking up.
“So, uh, what do you think about that Harry dude?”
Sam glanced up and slowly put down the note pad, giving Dean his full attention. He looked thoughtful and, if Dean wanted to look further into it, slightly worried. There was a pause before he answered.
“Well, I think that there's a lot more going on than he told us.... But I don't think Bobby would trust him if he thought there was any real danger. Harry seems to have had it pretty rough,” Sam shrugged, “it's probably best to let Bobby handle him for now. If we need to we can track him down later.”
The eldest grudgingly admitted that letting Bobby handle it for the time being was the smartest option. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, staring at Sam. His brother was not the best liar when it came to Dean. He could tell by the inflection of Sam's tone and the way his leg jiggled nervously that something was bothering him; or he was up to something. The suspicion was only confirmed when the younger man squirmed and looked down at his hands, rather than at Dean. So, little Sammy was up to something he didn't want Dean to know about.
Normally Dean would have taken the time to goad it out of his brother, but they didn't have all the time in the world. Not with the Deal almost being up. And Dean knew damn well that if Sam didn't want to talk about something, he would have to ask about it directly if he wanted a truthful answer this century. He didn't even bother hiding the accusation in his voice.
“You're up to something. What's goin' on in that noggin of yours, Sam?”
“... I can't tell you.”
So, it was about the deal. A scream of pure frustration tried working its way past clenched lips, but Dean swallowed and closed his eyes for a minute. Judging by the previous subject, Sam most likely was planning on some way for Harry to help him break the deal. Calming himself with several deep breaths, Dean wracked his mind for any reason Sam might think that. Sure, Harry had admitted to dying on at least one occasion, but apparently with hunters, that wasn't exactly unique.
Maybe Sammy thought Harry could contact a Reaper or something? No, that couldn't be it. A reaper had helped Harry, but from the sounds of it, that had been a special case. Then it hit him. Earlier that morning, just after they got the call from Bobby. What had the nickname been? The Cat, yeah that sounded right. Sam had cited the origins of Harry's nickname as being from a folksong about a cat who wouldn't die.
For the love of-, “Sam, enough! Harry can't help you break the Deal! The poor guy probably doesn't even know why the reapers were batting for him in the first place. And do I have to keep reminding you about the terms of the deal? I try weaseling out of it in any way, you die, and my soul is forfeit anyway. So just stop it! Please.”
The 'please' was probably the only thing that saved Dean from a long-winded bitch-fest. He was just so fucking tired. Tired of having this same argument with his little brother over and over again. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands covering his face. All he wanted to do, was hunt with his brother, and enjoy what little time he had left. Was that too much to ask for? The deal was air tight. Do not pass 'go' do not collect $200.
He let his hands fall to dangle between his knees as he gazed at Sam. The big girl looked like he was about to cry. Eyelashes fluttering as he blinked rapidly, stoic tenseness in his jaw. Dean shook his head and looked away. He knew that Sam wouldn't just give up. But he hoped to at least de-rail any crazy ideas involving one slightly insane, unstable hunter named Harry.
Come time for lights out, they both lay tense and unmoving side by side on the queen sized bed. The air between them felt thick enough to cut with a knife. Once or twice, Dean made as if to say something, but stopped himself before any sound could get out. Neither brother talked for the rest of the night. Dean knew that this was going to be one long ass hunt.
Author: Anguifer
Fandoms: Harry Potter, Supernatural
Rating: R
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4 and HP Book 7!!!, Slash (Pairing Undetermined, No Wincest), Foul Language, Violence, Cigarette and Alcohol Use, Dark Themes, Mentions of Child Abuse in Chapter 1. Alternate Universe
Summary: What if Castiel had one more charge, other than Dean. All those times Dean needed him, but he wasn't there, what if Cas was aiding someone else in their great times of need. Season 4 spoilers, AU
Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own any characters, settings, histories, etc., recognizable as belonging to the TV show Supernatural, or the Harry Potter book/movie series. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
Distribution: Supernaturally Twisted, Insanejournal, Fanfiction.net
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
~~~
~^Chapter 4~^
Bobby and Harry didn't stop or speak until they reached the outskirts of Lansing. Harry was wound up tight as a piano wire, and he was afraid to pause and speak to his friend for fear he would snap. Admitting so much of his old life had torn open wounds that up until then he had thought healed. The feeling of being chewed up and spit out was far worse now than it ever was when he had first met Bobby and given him the heavy edit version of his past.
He hesitated at pulling into the next gas station he spotted, however his car needed fuel and he needed a cold beer. They would not stop again until they reached Munising, but it would be nice not having to go on a beer run once they reached a hotel. Certainly he would not drink while driving. Almost probably not. At least perhaps only one bottle.
A disgusted sigh escaped him as he shoved open the door and stood, stretching his legs and twisting his spine until it popped. The beer would wait. Or he'd ask Bobby to hold onto the case until they reached their destination. With the frame of mind he was in at that moment, having alcohol in the vehicle was a very bad idea.
Bobby pulled into the pump next to Harry and climbed out, nodding to the wizard as he unscrewed the gas cap. All was silent save the sounds of passing cars and the whir of the pumps. Currently they were the only ones at the station. Predictably, it was Bobby who made the first move. Harry nearly jumped when a throat was cleared, looking up at the older hunter with the look of a startled feline.
The man's lips twitched in amusement, but it didn't last long. “Just so we're clear, we're gonna have a nice long chat once we find a motel for the night.”
His tone changed from stern to uncomfortably gentle, ”Harry, I've been your friend for years, I respect your privacy, but if we're going to figure out what's going on with these visions, you're going have to tell me a lot more than you told them.”
The brunet twitched, seemingly engrossed by the nozzle of the gas hose as he placed it back on the pump. Thus was the reason he had not wanted to stop. He knew he had left holes in his story. He knew that Bobby would want to know what those holes contained. And Harry wasn't so sure he was up for that retelling. Then again, he knew he never would be. Just as he knew that Bobby would break out the big guns, literally, if he refused.
Rock and a hard place didn't even begin to cover Harry's situation. Receiving dreams and premonitions of fellow hunters was one thing. But being a wizard, something to be hunted, was entirely a different matter. Either way he could see it, he'd end up with a chest full of wrought iron before the night was through.
Suddenly overcome with emotion, Harry stalked off silently towards the building, intent on getting that twelve-pack. Nothing short of cosmic intervention would force him to have that particular conversation while sober. A trip to a liquor store was also in order before they retreated to a motel. He would also need more cigarettes, he realized as he fished around his pockets for his wallet. He'd left the rest of that last pack back in Vermilion.
Not wishing to prolong their idle time, Harry paid for both his and Bobby's gas, a twelve pack, a carton of cigarettes, and snacks for both of them. He tersely handed over the beer and one bag of snacks to Bobby before hopping into his car, revving the engine, and taking off. All the older man could do was shake his head in annoyance. Damn Potters and Winchesters may as well have crawled out of the same gene pool as far as he was concerned.
Five hours later and they were finally pulling into Munising. Harry was very much dreading the approaching interrogation, and attempted to push it off as much as possible by driving just that much slower, and taking unnecessary detours. Bobby caught on quick enough, but chose not to comment, other than to call Harry and let him know that the older man was going to break away and find them a hotel.
The temptation to simply drive out of town and sleep in the car for the night was overwhelming. If there was one thing Harry was good at, other than hunting, it was avoidance. Sure, there were some things he simply refused to ignore or put off, but when it came to certain topics, all bets were off. Unlucky for him, this was one of those things that were unavoidable.
The nearest liquor store turned out to located on the opposite side of town from the hotel. Not that that was saying much. Munising wasn't that big a place. During the drive to their lodgings, Harry discovered that driving around the town as opposed to through it added an extra twenty minutes to the trip. He loitered in the car once he pulled into the parking lot next to Bobby's truck.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while pretending to be interested in the goings on of the surrounding area. He rooted around in the back seat for fifteen minutes as if looking for something, and then spent another five simply standing, staring into the trunk of the car as if it held all the secrets of the universe. Finally though, he admitted defeat when he spotted Bobby eyeballing him through the curtains of their room and shaking his head.
Once again, Harry was disgusted with himself. Where had his Gryffindor bravado gone? He had faced down the meanest, scariest man in England without flinching, had allowed himself to be killed without hesitation. But now, here he was, dragging his feet as if he were about to mount gallows hill. This was only Bobby. Only his friend who would not pause at shooting Harry once he discovered the man's deepest, darkest secrets. Well, when one put it that way....
Too late for him to turn tail and run now. Bobby opened the door before he could even think of bolting. The second the door closed and locked behind him, Harry made a beeline for the small table, already shaking a cigarette out and lighting it, while at the same time pulling the bottle of eighty proof whiskey out of one of the plastic bags he carried. Impatiently he shrugged the strap of the duffel bag off his shoulder and let it fall to the floor.
Bobby had already taken care of the wardings, now Harry would take care of the getting pissed and spilling his guts both figuratively and most probably literally. A long neck already sat open on the table, but it went ignored as Harry plopped himself down and unscrewed the cap on his own bottle. The older hunter sat down opposite him and waiting patiently as the wizard chugged a couple mouth fulls of the burning liquid.
Ragged gasps escaped him as he lowered the bottle and followed it up with a hit of nicotine. Shadowed eyes locked on Bobby.
“What do you wanna know?”
“Well, for starters, how is it that you didn't die? And exactly what 'community' did you come from?”
Harry could have bashed his skull against the wall. Trust Bobby to ask the most difficult questions first. It took the equivalent of two more shots before he could draw upon his vastly depleted store of courage. He figured he may as well get the worse of it out straight from the beginning. Skirting the questions wasn't an option, Bobby could smell a lie from a mile away, including lies by omission. The most he could hope for was a quick death.
Drawing in a deep breath, he stared at the ashtray, not wanting to see the look on the hunter's face when he got his answers. Thoughts derailed as suddenly it struck him that Bobby had gotten them a room which allowed smoking. The older hunter despised Harry's nasty habit. But still, he'd gotten the room with Harry in mind. Tears choked him for a moment. He coughed and blinked hard before finally speaking.
“The Wizarding community.”
The silence which sprang from that was worse than if the man had started shouting. Harry felt like a kid again, as if he was back in Dumbledore's office awaiting judgment for some misdemeanor. He couldn't bring himself to look up.
He was forced to, however, when Bobby sighed and murmured gruffly, “Which one?”
“Huh?” The wizard nearly gave himself whiplash. Bobby didn't look angry, or indeed like he was going to attack Harry at all. Rather, he had an air of wary calm about him, much like he had after hearing about the visions. That was... so not how Harry expected him to react. Near that Harry could tell, most hunters equated magic-wielding humans with demons.
“Which magical community are you from. Did you make a deal, are you a psychic, a wand-user, elementalist...?”
Mind working furiously now, Harry hastened to answer. “Wand-user. I didn't make any deals with anything to get my powers. I've had them since I was born. I went to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Scotland.”
It was Bobby's turn to chug his alcohol before responding. Harry took the opportunity to finish off his cigarette and steal another sip from the whiskey. There wasn't much of a buzz right now, but he knew it would hit him like a freighter in a few moments, with as much as he'd imbibed in the past fifteen minutes.
“Is that what you were so afraid to tell me? That you're a wand-wizard? Like I give a rats ass. You don't live in this business for so long without picking up a few odd connections along the way. I'm assuming you're the Harry Potter? That would explain everything, right there.”
Harry was sure he was catching flies as he gaped at Bobby in amazement. Nearly six years of getting to know the man, and he still managed to throw unexpected curve balls. Was there any wonder that Harry sometimes found himself comparing the hunter to his old headmaster? Which brought about an inquiry of his own.
“How do you know about wiz- uh, wand-wielders? Even here in America they're not supposed to let anyone know they exist.”
“I know a guy down in Chicago. He clues me in on anything big going on. Voldemort was huge. Only heard the he-said-she-said version of the story, but now that I know who you are, I think I can piece it together from what you've already told me. Not that it really helps overly much in figuring out your Winchester problem.”
After how much stress Harry had been under, he was nearly disappointed at the anti-climactic conversation they were having. Not that he wasn't incredibly grateful that he was still in full possession of his life. They sat in quiet contemplation for a few minutes before Harry could not help giving voice to his pessimistic thoughts.
“Do... do you think Sam could be right? About Voldemort escaping Hell.”
Pressure was building behind his forehead as his gaze drifted down to focus solely on the curled label on the bottle. To distract himself from further depression, he started scraping at the paper with a fingernail. His hearing was sharp and tuned directly on his companion. Multitasking in such a way was starting to become difficult. Sardonically, Harry wondered how he'd managed such concentration to begin with.
Bobby's silence on the topic was beginning to unnerve Harry. Nausea curdled his stomach and the migraine got worse. Displeasure warred with the effects of the alcohol. The juvenile behavior he had been exhibiting since they departed Vermilion was liable to get him killed if he did not quell it before the hunt. He was a grown adult of almost thirty years, for Pete's sake.
He set the bottle aside resolutely and finally faced Bobby like a man. A very much drunk man, but that was simply a technicality. His voice was much steadier than he felt at the moment as he answered his own question.
“The Reaper sounded absolutely positive that Voldemort's soul was destroyed when I killed him. Believe me, that's not a conversation one ever forgets. And even if he were back, the visions would be focused on him, not Dean. It's something else. Something to do with Dean himself.... Given the circumstances, I'd say it's the Deal. Only question is why.”
“Hn.” Came the distracted reply. A second passed before Bobby nodded to himself and took another swig of beer. “Maybe you're supposed to stop it. If that is what it's about. Ain't got no other explanation for it.”
Focusing was getting more difficult. He felt light headed and mild tracers followed every movement his companion made. Bobby snorted and gave him a knowing look, perhaps noticing his dilated pupils, or simply the fact that he was lightly swaying back and forth in his seat. Sound was pleasantly muffled, extremities tingling happily as the alcohol at last began doing its blessed work. Now the wizard couldn't even truly remember why he had been so apprehensive about talking to Bobby.
Blinking hard, he squinted when he realized Bobby's lips were moving.
“Get some rest, kid. Boat leaves in the morning. Last thing we need is you bein' sick on the hunt.”
That sounded like a splendid idea! Harry grinned, climbing unsteadily to his feet. It took him a few seconds to remember how to walk without falling flat on his face, but eventually he managed to weave his way towards one of the two beds. After attempting to take off his boots and nearly falling off the bed, he scowled and grunted, throwing himself back to lay across the comforter still fully clothed. He felt like he was floating on a cloud.
He fell asleep with a half-grin on his face, listening as Bobby quietly cursed the 'Damn idjit boys who don't know how to hold their liquor'.
~ ~ ~
Back in Vermilion, the brothers Winchester had settled into Harry's hotel room as comfortably as they could. The room was small, with only one bed, and hot water that seemed to work half the time. After Harry's and Bobby's departure they had settled into a comfortable routine. Sam went over what little notes Harry had compiled, and Dean laid back on the bed channel surfing on the small, 20” TV sitting on the dresser.
Late as it was, they had decided to catch a day of rest before picking up the trail. They would check in with Amanda come morning and then hit the library for some research. Rather, Sam would research, and Dean would track down friends and family of the suicide victims. If there were any. Sam had quietly commented that two of the four victims had been loners, with no surviving family. From the notes, Harry had been going on the angle that it was some sort of vengeful spirit.
Speaking of the strange hunter, Sam had been oddly quiet ever since they'd settled down. Usually they would have discussed it immediately. Someone having visions of the Winchesters wasn't exactly normal. Admittedly, Dean wasn't sure what there even was to discuss, but the silence on the topic was killing him. He fidgeted with the remote for a minute before speaking up.
“So, uh, what do you think about that Harry dude?”
Sam glanced up and slowly put down the note pad, giving Dean his full attention. He looked thoughtful and, if Dean wanted to look further into it, slightly worried. There was a pause before he answered.
“Well, I think that there's a lot more going on than he told us.... But I don't think Bobby would trust him if he thought there was any real danger. Harry seems to have had it pretty rough,” Sam shrugged, “it's probably best to let Bobby handle him for now. If we need to we can track him down later.”
The eldest grudgingly admitted that letting Bobby handle it for the time being was the smartest option. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, staring at Sam. His brother was not the best liar when it came to Dean. He could tell by the inflection of Sam's tone and the way his leg jiggled nervously that something was bothering him; or he was up to something. The suspicion was only confirmed when the younger man squirmed and looked down at his hands, rather than at Dean. So, little Sammy was up to something he didn't want Dean to know about.
Normally Dean would have taken the time to goad it out of his brother, but they didn't have all the time in the world. Not with the Deal almost being up. And Dean knew damn well that if Sam didn't want to talk about something, he would have to ask about it directly if he wanted a truthful answer this century. He didn't even bother hiding the accusation in his voice.
“You're up to something. What's goin' on in that noggin of yours, Sam?”
“... I can't tell you.”
So, it was about the deal. A scream of pure frustration tried working its way past clenched lips, but Dean swallowed and closed his eyes for a minute. Judging by the previous subject, Sam most likely was planning on some way for Harry to help him break the deal. Calming himself with several deep breaths, Dean wracked his mind for any reason Sam might think that. Sure, Harry had admitted to dying on at least one occasion, but apparently with hunters, that wasn't exactly unique.
Maybe Sammy thought Harry could contact a Reaper or something? No, that couldn't be it. A reaper had helped Harry, but from the sounds of it, that had been a special case. Then it hit him. Earlier that morning, just after they got the call from Bobby. What had the nickname been? The Cat, yeah that sounded right. Sam had cited the origins of Harry's nickname as being from a folksong about a cat who wouldn't die.
For the love of-, “Sam, enough! Harry can't help you break the Deal! The poor guy probably doesn't even know why the reapers were batting for him in the first place. And do I have to keep reminding you about the terms of the deal? I try weaseling out of it in any way, you die, and my soul is forfeit anyway. So just stop it! Please.”
The 'please' was probably the only thing that saved Dean from a long-winded bitch-fest. He was just so fucking tired. Tired of having this same argument with his little brother over and over again. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands covering his face. All he wanted to do, was hunt with his brother, and enjoy what little time he had left. Was that too much to ask for? The deal was air tight. Do not pass 'go' do not collect $200.
He let his hands fall to dangle between his knees as he gazed at Sam. The big girl looked like he was about to cry. Eyelashes fluttering as he blinked rapidly, stoic tenseness in his jaw. Dean shook his head and looked away. He knew that Sam wouldn't just give up. But he hoped to at least de-rail any crazy ideas involving one slightly insane, unstable hunter named Harry.
Come time for lights out, they both lay tense and unmoving side by side on the queen sized bed. The air between them felt thick enough to cut with a knife. Once or twice, Dean made as if to say something, but stopped himself before any sound could get out. Neither brother talked for the rest of the night. Dean knew that this was going to be one long ass hunt.