Title: Celtic Stars and Crooked Scars

Characters: Harry Potter, Dean, Sam

Rating: M (for language only)

Warnings: Language, non-descriptive torture, and blood.

Spoilers: None, though this happens in Season 3, so knowing up until then might be helpful.

Word Count: 1,021(~11,000 total)

Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series or Supernatural

Summary: Dean finds himself captured by a real psychopath, and meets Harry, a boy who has been chained up for years. It's a desperate attempt at survival and time is ticking away. Tick tock, Dean, tick tock.

Author's Note: This is already complete in five parts and I'll post these about once a week until it's done. Until then, enjoy!

Every so often, Dean finds himself desperate—not very often, mind you, but certainly enough for the urge to do just about anything to make the problem go away. Usually, it's money. When you're on the run with no steady income, a back-pocket full of fraudulent credit cards, and no education past highschool(which also had the downside of his marks being halfway between horribleville and I-don't-give-a-shitland).

If it's not money, then it's sleep. Sleep is one of those things normal people take for granted, and half the teenagers in the world don't think sleep applies to them. What he would do for a solid twelve hours of rest...no monsters or poltergeists seven towns over to worry about, no one to save...general normality. Hell, what he would give for five hours.

Normal. The word seems so foreign.

This time it isn't sleep or money that drives his desperation, but pure desperation alone. There's a little fear mixed in there somewhere too. He can't be fearless all the time, despite whatever mask he puts up in front of Sam.

Sammy isn't here now, though, and his face is set into a grim mask of near acceptance. Even though he wants nothing more than to lie in a ditch and wait for the problems to pass, that wont' work here...not now. Not with four angry sharpshooters chasing him down, pinning them in the sights of their guns and waiting for him to make just one wrong move. The second he does, it's over. It's all over.

The words echo horribly in his head, but they aren't as bad as they could be. Sam could be there, in just as much danger as he is, but he's not. Sam's back at some ass-backwards motel doing research on some mysterious creatures that take out three or four people every night, hitting different towns and cities. All the disappearances occurred in one state—Ohio. Only after six hunters went missing and the body count racked up to over twenty did Sam and Dean hear about it. Being Winchesters and all they rushed right in, stormed in, and got it all wrong.

They never stopped once to think maybe—just maybe—the attacks were human.

It turns out, that was their big mistake. Dean forces the Impala onto a side road, his eyes switching constantly so he could focus on the road ahead, and the damn soldiers driving recklessly only a few meters back. If they get any closer...damn!

Dean ducks his head just as a bullet shatters the windshield and sends another projectile reeling towards his very exposed head, a long stream a colorful words following right behind it. Yup. This is going to be a long night... Getting away from human snipers is like being crushed by a python. There's a small chance someone will stumble upon the half-crushed person, but otherwise they're completely and utterly screwed.

Demons...demons are nothing. Their just hell-overun souls blackened by hatred and torture from both sides. They go down black and come back up even blacker, possessing good souls to do bad things. Yeah, he got demons. It's not like they, unlike humans, are difficult to figure out. They want humans to be destroyed, but no without a little pain first. It's their one and only goal. It's the way the are.

Humans, though...the humans that did his shit are fucked up. There is no simpler way to put it—no black and white area. The stupid soldiers tailing him got fucked in the brain somewhere along the road and they were forcing others to reap what they sow. It's stupid, arrogant, and completely pigheaded. And, dammit, it he gets out of this with less than three bullets through his forehead, he'll kill those sonsofbitches. Even if he gets three bullets through the forehead, he'll come back and haunt their sorry asses.

The Impala jumps and swerves; Dean's head manages to connect with the doorframe, practically sending stars shooting before his eyes. Despite the blossoming pain in his head, he instinctively knows that the soldiers got smart and blew out one of his tires—why they hadn't done that twenty miles back is completely beyond him. Unless he bails, he's screwed. He wrenches the wheel sideways, systematically pulling her over as he apologized and bade his most prized possession a good-bye. If he is lucky, maybe the soldiers will forget all about the car while in pursuit of Dean and he can come back to get it later.

Stupid...stupid thing to think about now. He loves his car, but his life..his life is effin' priceless.

He throws open the door, one of is shotguns already in hand as he bolts for the thick woods only a few meters away As he runs, he can hear the other humans behind him, the noises from their heavy boots fading and growing closer at different intervals. The woods was his best form of cover; it would be hard for them to get a clear shot on him as long as he keeps running.

He runs for several minutes, the sounds of small birds and restful creatures are droned out by his mad dash for safety—a place where he can duck and watch the huge boots patter by like in the movies. Craptastic thing about moves are, nothing like that happens in real life, so he is stuck running and tiring faster by the second.

Yes, he's been raised on drills and military-style training—courtesy of John Winchester—but that doesn't mean he's an endless energizer bunny, beating on a drum.

His foot catches on one thick root that seemed to spring from nowhere, curling around his foot—this, of course, was probably a part of his imagination—and pulling him to the ground with a heavy thump. He feels a bit of pain blossom in his left hip—there's going to be one hell of a bruise there later.

"Shit." He curses softly, struggling to regain his footing. Sure, he would lose time, but if he gets up fast enough—

The butt of a gun descends on the back of his head, sending him sprawling into unconsciousness.

His life officially sucks.

Review for more.