Fandoms: Harry Potter, Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Warnings: Spoilers for all Harry Potter books, spoilers for Supernatural until 5x10.
Disclaimer: This is a transformative work of fiction for entertainment purposes only.
AN: Sequel to Damned Demented Demons and Bobby and Hermione - An Epistolary Fic . Updates every Wednesday (PST).
AN to Chapter 1: Here it is folks! I hope you enjoy it!
Summary: In which Dean gets a phone call, Sam gets a head wound, and Harry's logic gets questioned.
Dean stood over an open grave, the familiar scent of decay filling his senses. Sam cursed and fired shots behind him, keeping the malevolent spirit at bay while Dean filled the grave with salt and gasoline, then fished through his pockets for a lighter or a matchbook. Really, if Dean had taken some time to think about, it was no time to be answering his cell phone. Also, since when had he programmed his ringtone to say his name?
“Dean?” His pocket asked, and Dean had his hand in there anyway looking for matches, so it was pretty easy to wrap his fingers around cold metal instead and pull out the phone. It was only when he was flipping the slim thing open that he realized it wasn’t a phone at all.
“Is this a bad time?” Harry asked as his face swam into focus in the little magic flip mirror.
“Uh,” Dean said, his free hand still patting his pockets trying to find a lighter. “I don’t have any matches.” And yes, this is a bad time, Dean thought, this is a very bad time not to have any matches.
“Dean, behind you!” Harry suddenly said, as Dean felt cold air hit the back of his neck, and dropped to the ground just before a shotgun went off very close to him.
“Dean, what the hell?!” Sam yelled over the ringing in Dean’s ears. Dean turned to look at Sam, who stood beside him looking pissed off – and judging by the blood slowly dripping down his face, he probably had good reason to be.
“I don’t have any matches,” Dean stated, standing again.
“Oh for the love of...” Sam muttered, shoving the shotgun into Dean’s free hand so he could reach into his own pockets. Sam pulled out a matchbook, with the name of a motel on it that they’d both long since forgotten, and lit the entire thing, and then tossed it into the open grave. Flames lipped up the steep dirt walls and warmed Dean’s feet, behind Sam a figure screamed and burst into flame. Sam glanced over his shoulder at it and sighed in relief, before turning back to Dean looking pissed again.
“Nice professionalism there, Dean. How can you not have matches?” Sam asked, taking his shotgun back and resting it casually against his shoulder.
Dean glanced down at the mirror to see Harry watching them with wide-eyes.
“It’s been a while since I wore this jacket,” Dean answered. It was enough to get Sam’s eyes to swing down to see what Dean was holding. Dean watched as recognition and then confusion settled on Sam’s face.
“Hi Sam,” Harry said with a smile.
“Uh, hey Harry,” Sam replied, then looked at Dean in confusion. Before Dean could say anything, there was a distant wail of a police siren.
“Shit,” Dean and Sam both swore together.
“Grab the shovels,” Dean said. “Harry, I’ll call you back.”
Harry stared blankly down at the mirror that was now only reflecting his face.
“Well, that could have gone better,” Harry muttered. Still, besides Dean being covered in dirt and Sam being covered in blood and dirt, they had both looked relatively good. In truth, they had looked even more intimidating than Harry had remembered them being, but it was best not to dwell on that thought.
He placed the mirror to side of his desk and turned back to the paperwork in front of him. Dean would call back.
“Where’d you get that mirror?” Sam asked once they were safely back at the motel.
“Uh, Harry gave it to me last year, just before we left,” Dean answered.
“You didn’t tell me that,” Sam said quietly. Dean cringed inwardly, but tried not to show it on his face.
“Honestly, I had forgotten,” Dean said, trying for flippancy, “don’t think I’ve worn this jacket since then, actually. Explains why it didn’t have any matches.”
“Whatever,” Sam said, “thanks for that by the way, spirit threw me into a goddamn tree and you didn’t even have any matches. Next time, you’re on shotgun duty.”
“You alright?” Dean asked, because Sam wasn’t meeting his eyes and there was dried blood caked to his face.
“Yeah, I’m calling first dibs on the shower, though,” Sam replied, already unbuttoning his shirt.
“You think I should call Harry before we shower or after? I didn’t give him much time to say if it was an emergency or not,” Dean asked, as Sam threw his shirt to the floor and started kicking off his dirt crusted jeans.
“Just call him while I’m in the shower,” he said flatly.
“You sure?” Dean asked.
“Dean,” Sam said, as though Dean was the one being ridiculous, “just...tell me about it after or something.” Then Sam disappeared behind the bathroom door. Dean made a mental note to check for head injuries once Sam had washed away all the dirt.
In the meantime though, he ran a hand over his face and reached back into his pocket for the mirror. So, maybe he should have told Sam about it, but then he hadn’t been lying when he said he had forgotten. It wasn’t like he didn’t have other stuff on his mind or anything. Dean flipped open the mirror and looked down at his reflection for a moment, trying to remember if there was anything special about the way the mirror worked.
“Harry?” Dean asked the mirror, “You there, man?”
Dean watched as Harry’s face swam into focus. Now that he wasn’t standing in a graveyard with a vengeful spirit trying to take him and Sammy down, he could observe more details about where Harry was. For instance, he noticed that Harry was seemingly in an office building with a view of, what Dean assumed was, the London skyline behind him.
“Swanky digs, Harry,” Dean said.
“Is that a stuffed armadillo behind you?” Harry asked with a smile. Dean turned around and sure enough...
“Yup,” Dean said with a laugh, “what’s up Harry?”
“Where’s Sam?” Harry asked.
“Shower,” Dean said, “He, uh, told me to fill him in later. Think he wanted to get the blood out of his hair.”
“Oh, ok,” Harry said, “well, um, the reason I’m calling is because...well, you see...I heard that...that is to say, that I wondered...”
“You heard about the apocalypse?” Dean guessed.
“Well yes, but...” Harry said, “I was wondering if you maybe you wanted to come for a visit? For Christmas?”
Dean starred at Harry for a moment in disbelief, watching Harry bite at his lip a little as he stared back with a questioning look on his face.
“You heard that Lucifer was roaming the earth and you want to invite us to your house for Christmas?” Dean asked slowly.
“Well, the two are a little unrelated, but essentially, yes,” Harry said.
Dean scrubbed his free hand through his hair, and glanced over to the bathroom door. The last Christmas they celebrated felt like a lifetime ago for Dean, but it hardly seemed appropriate to celebrate now. Dean wondered whether Ellen and Jo ever celebrated Christmas.
“Also,” Harry said, “I could use your help.”
Dean’s attention refocused on Harry immediately.
“What’s up?” he asked, reaching for the nearest journal – Sam’s, he thought absently, though they used each other’s interchangeably these days. He looked around for a pen, but couldn’t see one.
“Dean...Dean,” Harry was saying, Dean looked back at the mirror to find Harry shaking his head, “it’s nothing specific. It’s just that, well, ever since May, we’ve had...increased supernatural activity.” Dean cringed.
“Yeah?” he asked blankly, glancing back at the bathroom door.
“I don’t have that many ears in the Hunting communities here, but I’m thinking they might be a little overwhelmed. I’ve been thinking of maybe using one of my teams, where applicable, to relieve some of the stress on the Muggle Hunters.” Harry said as though he were pitching an idea to his superiors. Dean wondered if Harry even had superiors.
“English, Harry,” Dean said.
“I need you and Sam to teach a bunch of wizards how to Hunt,” Harry said.
“You serious?” Dean asked.
“Yes,” Harry said, “I wouldn’t be inviting you if I weren’t.”
“What about the Department of Mysteries? Are they still after us?”
“Don’t worry about them,” Harry responded vaguely, and then added, “you wouldn’t have to fly either – I’ve got it all worked out.”
“You going to take me on the Magic Wizard Vomit Ride again?” Dean asked.
“It wouldn’t be as bad as that,” Harry answered, “but you could fly if you wanted.”
“Let me talk to Sam about it,” Dean said, “I’m not promising anything.”
“It doesn’t have to be for Christmas, if you already have...” Harry started, but then paused, apparently reading something in Dean’s expression, because he finished with “...a hunt lined up.”
“Yeah, alright, I’ll call you back,” Dean answered, “I have to go stitch up my brother’s head.”
“Uh, ok, yeah, don’t let me keep you,” Harry replied and Dean had to bite his lip to keep from smirking at Harry’s expression.
“Later, Harry,” Dean said and snapped the mirror shut, tossing it onto the bed just as Sam exited the bathroom with a towel tied snuggling around his hips. Dean watched as Sam’s eyes tracked the mirror and then slid down and away.
“Let me jump in the shower, then I’ll have a look at your head,” Dean told him. There was no sense poking at Sam’s cut now, he’d just get dirt in it.
Sam nodded, pulling a clean t-shirt out of his duffle. Dean paused in the bathroom doorway.
“It’s nothing bad, Sammy,” Dean said, “Just...let me have a shower first.”
“Yeah, ok,” Sam answered, but Dean could tell he didn’t believe a word.
Sam wasn’t sleeping when Dean finished his shower. Really, he wasn’t. Dean was just really quiet these days and Sam happened to be thinking with his eyes closed, that was all.
“Sam,” Dean said, and Sam had to wonder how Dean managed to have his voice be both sharp and gentle at the same time. Sam opened his eyes to find Dean leaning over him, hair still damp from the shower.
“Don’t drip on me, man,” Sam said.
“Let me see your head, Sam. You might have a concussion,” Dean responded, already putting a hand to Sam’s jaw and brushing his hair away from the cut on his head.
“Get off,” Sam protested, but he stayed perfectly still so that Dean could see the cut.
“I’m gonna put three stitches in,” Dean mumbled. Sam sighed.
“Dean, just leave it. I’m tired.”
“You can’t sleep. You have a concussion,” Dean replied, already moving to get the first-aid kit out of his bag.
“I don’t have a concussion,” Sam said. “We haven’t slept for two days! I’m just tired.”
Dean was ignoring him. He was laying out the first-aid supplies as though it actually mattered – like they were back on Dr. Sexy MD or something. Sam had the fleeting thought that maybe Dean was too sleep deprived to be allowed near his head with a needle and thread.
“You want some whiskey or something?” Dean asked.
Sam shook his head.
“Do we still have some of that topical numbing cream left?” Sam asked. Dean nodded, heading back over for the bag. “Just use that,” Sam continued, “save the alcohol for the bad stuff.” Your stuff, Sam wanted to add, but didn’t.
“Yeah, ok,” Dean said, “found it.”
They were both silent for a bit, Dean rubbing the numbing cream into Sam’s forehead with a calloused finger, and then threading the needle. Sam counted Dean’s breaths and found his own breathing synching up just like always. It was a trick Dean had taught him when he was little to try to get him to fall asleep, but Sam found that it worked well for getting through pain too. It’s why those months – first because of the Trickster and then because of the deal – were the worst for pain in every way, because Dean wasn’t around for Sam to synch his breathing to.
“Harry wants us to visit,” Dean said on his next exhale.
Sam’s thoughts came crashing back to the present: Dean, the mirror...
“How come you didn’t tell me about the mirror?” Sam asked. It didn’t take a genius to see what was going on. Sam knew now – he knew – Harry telling him they were the same, despite telling him that he didn’t believe Sam would go bad – it had all been a lie. Harry hadn’t trusted him. He’d given Dean a mirror so that when the time came, maybe Harry could help Dean escape or help Dean kill him...maybe he should have used it.
“It’s not like that Sam,” Dean said, his grip tightening on Sam’s jaw where he was holding Sam’s head still while he worked. He tilted Sam’s chin a bit, forcing Sam to look at him. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I just forgot, that’s all. He gave it to me, and I put it in my pocket, and then there was that stupid Siren and...”
“He still gave it to you,” Sam said, and fought the urge to grimace when he realized how childish he sounded. Maybe he could blame it on the concussion that he didn’t have.
“Yeah, well, he invited us for Christmas,” Dean replied, thankfully tilting Sam’s head back down and refocusing on his head-wound.
“Yeah, you see, a long time ago Caesar Augustus declared that everyone should be taxed, so this dude, Joseph, and his knocked-up wife had to-” Dean started.
“Are you seriously going to tell me the Christmas story?” Sam laughed.
“You asked,” Dean muttered, but Sam could hear the smile in his voice without looking at him.
“He really invited me too?” Sam asked softly, while Dean tied the thread off.
“He also wants us to give him a hand with something,” Dean said, ignoring Sam’s question, but in a way that answered it at the same time.
“With what?” Sam asked concerned, as Dean started packing up the first-aid supplies again. “Is he in trouble again?”
“Nah,” Dean answered, “he said it was nothing specific...just that, well, since May there’s been a bit more to handle, and he wants our help training up his men.”
Sam heart sank.
“Do you think he knows?” Sam asked.
“He knows about the apocalypse, Sam,” Dean answered, “Bobby would have told Hermione.”
“No, do you think he knows that it’s my fault?” Sam asked insistently.
“Our fault, and I don’t know,” Dean said with a sigh. “He knew we were trying to stop it, and it’s obviously not stopped, so probably.”
Sam nodded, and then the ridiculousness of it started to sink in.
“So, there’s a good chance he knows we’re responsible for Lucifer roaming the earth and his reaction is to invite us over for Christmas?” Sam asked in disbelief. He was rewarded with a chuckle from Dean.
“That’s what I said,” Dean admitted, “Wizards, man, fucked up.”
“You want to go?” Sam asked.
“Dunno,” Dean replied sobering, “maybe? Maybe not for Christmas though...”
“No?” Sam asked.
“Nah, thought maybe we could just do Christmas Winchester-style,” Dean said with a devilish grin firmly in place.
“Beer-can-wreath Winchester-style or completely-ignore-it Winchester-style?” Sam asked.
“Either one,” Dean shrugged, “just not...” Dean made a vague motion with his hand, but Sam already knew what he meant.
“Yeah, sounds good to me,” Sam replied.
“Get some sleep, Sammy,” Dean told him, “I’ll wake you up in a couple hours to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”
“Yeah, ok,” Sam said. He wanted to argue that Dean could just let him sleep through the night, but at this point, he’d take what he could get.
Dean turned the TV on low and settled back against his own headboard, while Sam slipped under the covers.
“You’d have to fly,” Sam pointed out, realizing that there was a good chance that Dean had never really considered going at all.
“No, he said he had something else worked out,” Dean replied without taking his eyes off the screen.
“Are you really considering going?” Sam asked.
Dean actually turned to look at him then, at least briefly, before refocusing on the TV.
“Yeah...” Dean said, “I mean, it’s not the Grand Canyon, but I’ve never been overseas and maybe it’d be nice to go before-“
“Yeah, ok,” Sam interrupted, “just, not for Christmas.”
“Not for Christmas,” Dean agreed.