Word from the Author: It's been a long time since I've written and actually presented something for the wider reading community, so all I can say is that I hope you guys enjoy this, whoever you are. I'd love to hear comments, feedback, you name, I want it. That said, I'd like to acknowledge the fact that this will probably a long fic in the making but that I really would like to see it through to the end, responses permitting.
Warning: As the summary says, there's mention of Sam/Dean made by Dean himself, but the content lying therein is of a more emotional nature than a physical one. I add here my disclaimer regarding the fact that I am in no way making money as a result of this purely intellectual venture, from either those who hold the rights to all things Supernatural or the esteemed J.K.Rowling. So, without further ado, I present to you, beloved readers, my Harry Potter-Supernatural crossover: (Note: I'm posting this in the Supernatural category as it begins for the most part with perspectives from SPN characters, not to mention the fact that I somehow find it more likely that people who watch SPN will be familiar with HP, rather than vice versa. Anyhow, here we go!)
It seemed to Dean as if this hunt would never end. Even now that everything he had ever lived for was gone. First Mum, but that was practically bygones, though none of her boys, Dad included, would have ever let them be such. Dad was the second to fall, sacrificed to keep Dean alive, and by extension Sammy. That's Sam.
Dean had thought that when he saw the light of life bleeding out of Sammy's beautiful brown eyes that he would simply die with him.
Alas, such a fate simply could not be. Dean had work to do.
And a goddamned evil son of a bitch to destroy.
One Week Later
Dean's first stop, after salting and burning Sammy's body, and then spreading his ashes, was Ellen's place. He needed Ash to tell him what was what with current demonic movements. To Dean's frustration, there was nothing. No signs of an apocalypse coming. Nothing. It was as if this war that everyone had been going on about had simply fallen through.
Jo was the one who had kindly offered to dress his wounds. Surprisingly, he hadn't had that many on him. Most of them had just grazed the surface. Although a gash on his forehead had bled profusely, leaving him caked in a layer of blood. If only all blood washed off as easily as this did.
As the young wanna-be hunter cleaned and sterilized his injuries, Dean felt numb. Almost adrift from the world at large. There really wasn't anything here to ground him anymore, and the only pain he was suffering from had been internalized, buried beneath a grim expression and hardened eyes. He knew he'd have to leave soon, but how soon was simply a matter of deciding what his next move should be. After all, it had been some time since last he'd had to make a decision based solely on his own input. What's more, Dean wasn't sure how long he could stand to be around people who still had connections to this world, people to call their own. Family.
He'd finally had enough when Jo had put her hand on his arm, and looked at him with her heart in her eyes. He couldn't deal with the contact. Or the pity.
Dean was alone now, and he intended to stay that way. He didn't want anything tying him down, or holding him back, and he knew that that was exactly what Jo wanted to do. She may have been pretty, she may have been soft, and she may have been sweet but what Dean really wanted was hot, hard and bitter. Only, it was gone, and he had to keep on moving. Cos what he was most scared of right now, wasn't something putting him away too. It was the possibility that his anger might fade or mellow. That he wouldn't be able to hold on to his resolve, on to his rage. That he wouldn't be able to get the job done. To finally get his revenge.
And there was no way in hell that he could let that happen. He just had to keep on moving.
With barely a word said edgewise, Dean packed his stuff into the Impala, as soon as he was able, apathetic to the pleadings of both Jo and her mother to stay and rest and heal.
As if any of that would help him find and smite that bastard.
As he stiffly sat behind the wheel, and slammed close the door, Jo begged him to at least tell them where he was going, saying that they'd feel better if they knew.
As if Dean cared how they felt.
Still, something compelled him to answer. So he left them with one word, "Missouri." He knew how they'd interpret that, and for some reason he felt a certain sliver of satisfaction at the mistruth he'd just fed them. He wasn't sure what to make of the feeling.
The drive wasn't particularly long, or at least, it hadn't seemed to be. Neither had it been particularly eventful, besides nightmares of Sam dying, over and over and over behind his closed eyes.
It didn't help that when he opened them, he saw exactly the same thing.
He couldn't escape from this reality.
"If you can't save him, you have to kill him…" How wrong Dad had been. Well, wrong in the context Dad had believed he was conveying. Dean however now saw greater depths to those words, or perhaps they'd become more shallow. You can't save him, you killed him.More than anything the words now sounded like an admonishment. And all he heard in them was disappointment. When he didn't hear scorn, that is.
In the months that had followed Dad's death, he and Sammy had managed to find more and more of the 'special kids'. Each of them showed strong manifestations of the human psyche in the form of various abilities. Telekinesis, prophetic visions, mind control, and telepathy being the most common. One of the more unusual had been the ability to electrocute things, fry them, from the inside out…
All these 'special kids' were meant to be a part of an army, humans battling on the side of demons, only there seemed to be fair few as far as numbers go. A handful of them at most. And not all of them experienced the same phenomena; their mothers pinned to the ceiling and burned alive.
As time went by, however, Sammy proved to show more and more variation in his abilities. Most of the others only had one aspect of power to control, whereas Sammy's mental strength and range of capabilities seemed to grow and extend, boundlessly, far more so than any of the others'.
Between the two of them, they figured that those who were strongest were the ones whose mothers had been attacked. Rather than this being what made them stronger, Dean believed it was the exact opposite.
The Demon had known that these children would turn out to be strongest, and thus, in order to prevent any usurpation in the coming war, the Demon had cast bindings forged in the blood of the birther, such that as the child's strength grew, so did the Demon's.
Turns out Sammy had been strongest of all, and that the bond had dipped deep into the dark and desolate depths of the Demon's very existence.
Bet the fucker hadn't expected Sammy to die as easily as he had; protecting his big brother's life with his own. His body, his shield.
It was the sight of his brother's constantly strong and steady form suddenly crumpling, the heavy feel of his suddenly lifeless limbs as Dean's arms encircled him possessively that left him gasping and crying out as the hold of sleep abandoned him. Dean wasn't sure which was worse, having to relive that moment when dreaming, or having to continue living, aware that it wasn't just some nightmare that would disappear with the fading darkness of the night.
What happened after… That still haunted Dean too. But not quite in the same way, because it was only when Dean was awake that he knew what happened next.
After the connection had been severed the Demon had screamed, and screamed, and screamed before a final unholy shriek found it in its non-corporeal creepy-ass black-mist state of being. It had even had the nerve to try and possess Dean.
That would be what cinched it though; it had been incapable of entering him. The sensation of its malignant presence trying to force its way into his body had sent a cold chill down Dean's spine.
Almost instantly, however, upon having realized the futility of its pathetic attempts at possession, the black cloud engulfed itself in flames. The space around the burning ball seemed to distort fractionally before the fabric of existence seemed to be rent apart leaving a gaping black wound in reality. The black hole embraced the emblazing blob of evil, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the hole, and its contents, all but vanished before Dean's eyes, the universe righting itself momentarily.
Dean had fallen to his knees, as his breath caught in his throat. The beginnings of a sob tore its way out from the depths of his soul as he clutched the remnants of a shattered family, a shattered life and a shattered heart as close to his being as he could. As he clutched his beloved baby brother to him and howled in fury.
He thought to himself that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't hurt nearly so much, had he been able to say in words, just once, how much he loved his Sammy.
But the body in his arms had grown cold, just like the tears on his cheeks, even as what was left of his heart burned for revenge more passionately than ever before.
Neither he nor Sam had returned to Lawrence since helping Jenny with the problems their old home had been giving her. He gave the house a wide berth. There were just too many memories, too fresh for him to deal with, and he knew that if he saw it, he would probably break. Instead, he by-passed the area entirely, driving along streets that had long changed since his childhood, enough that they didn't stir anything in his thoughts, or in his heart. For the most part, they just looked like the streets of any old American city might, and for that he was unbearably grateful.
He arrived at Missouri's just before nightfall. Parking outside, he felt hesitant in approaching her house. For one, he wasn't exactly sure what he had come here looking for. And for another, he wasn't sure he'd like what she'd have to say to him. Particularly about Sammy.
Berating himself mentally, he forced himself to get out of his car and move toward the same old house she'd been in since last he was here. It really hadn't changed much since then. Dean took note, surveying the place as he crossed the street, that the gardens seemed to be just a little more overgrown with weeds and other native foliage than they had been previously. He walked, a little unsteadily, up the garden path, and onto her porch.
Trembling, he knocked on the door.
Missouri Mosley wasn't getting any younger. Her days of being an active Hunter were long gone. Still, she knew all the regular haunts, and never lost touch with her contacts, human and otherwise. She didn't have to be psychic to know she'd soon be getting a visit from the last living member of the Winchester clan.
With the ease and agility of someone half her age, she danced about her kitchen, methodically tasting and adjusting the flavour of her wares. Nowadays, cooking was about the only physical endeavour she chose to partake in, and she found it to be no less meaningful than her time spent hunting things, saving people. Instead, she took food to the homeless, and those too poor to feed themselves adequately. She also cooked up balms, and healing salves, various potent mixtures that could ward of evil, or be used to banish the unholy. Just because she wasn't out in the field, didn't mean she'd stopped doing what she'd lived for. She was still a psychic, and that meant that no matter where she went, or how far she ran, the field would always come to find her. And so, she made sure as hell, she was always prepared.
Even as she stirred the chicken broth that was being heated on a slow flame, she recalled the first time she'd met John Winchester, almost 24 years ago now, just after the death of his wife, Mary. He'd come for a reading, but she'd known, from the moment she set eyes on him, that he was different from all the others that normally came to her. This one, he hadn't come looking for good news. Oh no, he had wanted the cold, hard truth. And she'd given it to him.
Like she'd told his boys, all she'd done was drawn back the curtains for him. It was he who had chosen to jump head-first through that window, and never look back.
Missouri hasn't been a palm-reader all these years not to know a little about human nature, beyond what she was able to pluck from people's minds and the movement of their energies. A person's body, in and of itself, is often enough to tell those who know how to look a lot more than most would want to give away. And she'd been able to read John Winchester loud and clear; nothing would stop him in this. Nothing.
She imagined that his sons were not too unlike him in that respect. After all, they'd grown up with him, with next to no contact that could show them the softer aspects of the human existence. Another cold, hard truth: those boys, they'd been raised for the hunt.
Missouri sometimes wondered what life would be like had she never had her powers. However, she never pondered this line of thought for long, as she knew there was nothing she could do to change the reality that she possessed abilities above and beyond most other humans. In fact, she took pride in what she could do to help.
And she knew that the young man anxiously standing on her porch, waiting for her to open the door for him, would need all the help he could get, not to mention all the help she could give.
To Be Continued...