A/N: All disclaiemers, warnings, plot changes, etc are found in the first chapter and stand true throughout the story...still not mine.
Sam could only nod, his mouth dry. It took an incredible amount of force to unpin himself from Death's glare as he reached behind him onto Bobby's desk and pulled off the slip of paper he had been drawing on in the Hilton. He felt as if he were occupying the same room as a vindictive king cobra.
He kicked his cracked lips and held it up. "You wouldn't, by any chance, happen to know what this is, would you?"
Death's eyes glowed in unmistakable recognition and suddenly, a nasty and irked sneer pulled at his lips. He looked up from the piece of paper to Sam's eyes and clasped his cane in both hands.
A moment's silence went by and Dean had the most suspicious feeling that they were witnessing Death thinking.
Finally, he answered. "It depends. Of what interest is it to you?"
Sam seemed hesitant. His movements were slow and cautious, as if he expected Death to pounce on him any second. He connected eyes with Bobby and Dean. His brother gave him a shrug and Bobby threw him a 'get-on-with-it' expression. So, Sam went in for the kill. It would probably behoove them the greatest if this meeting was as concise as possible. The less time they wasted, the sooner they could untangle whatever this knot was.
"I met someone." Sam replied, still holding the paper out steadily. "He had this tattooed on his neck. We have reasons to believe that he is a danger, but we haven't had any luck in identifying what type of creature he is."
Death now held an omniscient, mocking smirk and he gave a sharp exhale, a silent bark of laughter. With all knowing eyes, he rolled his weight to the back of his heels. "You are hunting him." He stated in unconcealed amusement glinting in his gaze.
"He nearly blew up an alleyway," It was only a white lie, Dean sufficed, adopting a sarcastically playful smirk of his own. "Plus, if he has enough power to take down demons, it can't mean good news for the rest of us. We want to take care of this as quick as possible, so if you could just get on with it, we'll send you on your merry soul-collecting way."
Death did not look at Dean as he admonished him; he did not need to. His voice was booming despite its tranquil, hushed tone. It sent a shudder down Dean's neck. "I thought I told you to show me a little more respect, Dean. Just because you've had the luxury of wearing my ring does not mean you are on my level."
Bobby seemed to notice the way things were heating up between the two characters and stepped more firmly into Death's line of vision. "Look…" he paused for a moment before deciding to forego an honorific. "Death," the name was stale and awkward on his tongue, "the boys found a book that mentions you."
Death appeared to be unimpressed, but something about his expression hinted bitterness. "Many books mention me." He waved a hand as if to shrug off his infamy. "You wish to kill this man—the one who bears the symbol."
"Yeah. We want to gank it. Probably, shoot it, ask some questions, and then finish the job." Dean stated bluntly. "We just need to know how to kill it. So, what do we need? Silver? Wooden spike dipped in chocolate?"
Death licked his lips and blinked lazily. "It is probably not a creature, that which you seek."
Dean stopped in his tracks, sharing a look with Sam, before he chuckled lowly. "Sure. Not a creature. Okay, great. So, what? Another fucking Pagan god? How many do they fucking have, anyway?"
"No. Probably not a god." Death was now picking at his fingernails in a way that Dean associated with stuck up assholes. If he could wipe that damn look of the old geezer's face…
Dean sounded ticked. "Okay, not a god or a creature." The man clapped his hands and raised his eyebrows in inquiry. "A ghost?"
Death's hand dropped and he looked absolutely spiteful as he looked at the ceiling. He huffed in annoyance. "Most definitely not a ghost…unfortunately."
"Look. We don't have time for your fucking games, so stop toying with us and just spill. What the fuck does this symbol mean? And where can we find the bastard?"
Death's look of irritation increased tenfold. "Didn't you read, foolish human?" he snapped. "How would I know where he is? I can't find him."
Suddenly, Bobby emerged again and in his hands he held the book of tales and quoted. "'But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him.'"*
Dean stomped straight to Bobby, snatching the book from him. "Wait a fucking minute. You trying to tell me that this shit is actually for real? You are the 'hooded figure'?"
"We've seen weirder." Sam muttered, looking thoughtful.
Death straightened, looking slightly offended at Dean's jab. "Do not insult me. With time, fashion changes." Death wore a contemplative mask, before he half-smiled up at Sam. "I'm feeling quite generous today," he continued, voice suddenly taking a lighter tone.
He walked to the edge of the Japanese katakana, being unable to cross. His eyes surveyed the room before falling upon a text by Bobby. "Is that the book in which you discovered my summoning ritual?"
Bobby nodded begrudgingly. "Yeah. What's it to ya?"
Death looked unfazed by Bobby's demeanor. "Might I see it?"
Bobby, for all his tough exterior, was an utter bookworm—just as bad as Sammy and perhaps three hundred times more protective of his prized, priceless merchandise. For a minute, Dean believed that he would never hand the book over willingly. Bobby seemed on edge with Death's behavior, and it served him right, Dean concluded. However, the man gruffed a bit and bent down to pick it up and slowly stepped toward Death, holding it out like a reluctant peace offering.
Death hummed upon accepting it and began leafing through the pages. "The Japanese." He said in a wispy, lecturing manner, "Always seem to know of something they should not. If you ask me, they are by far one of the most progressive sects of the human race. I've observed that evolution has served them well."
"Page three hundred and forty-five." Bobby added, eyes scrutinizing Death's movements with the beloved text, looking ready to whip out a gun at any second. He only prayed that Death would not rip it to shreds. Not that it mattered much: he had copies of all his research books.
Death did not glance up, but seemed to nod in flippant gratitude. His eyes swept over the page, before he turned it and passed it back to Bobby.
"デス・アーツ. A book of death rituals," he said distastefully. "What a rare find. You should be cautious as to protect that book. Many would sell their soul to hold the knowledge of the necromantic arts…I do believe you used the wrong summoning ritual. After all, it is not Death you seek."
"Are you fucking me?" Dean started, unable to contain his exasperation, but Death cut him off promptly, slamming his cane on the floor.
"You were close." He continued with a sigh. "Page three hundred and forty-six. I do believe my service has been fulfilled and I will take my leave now, if you would be so kind…?" Death tipped his head and motioned to his imprisonment on the floor.
Sam saw Dean out of the corner of his eye, looking like he was about to tear Death to threads. Dean did so hate those who spoke in riddles. He was a lay it down straight kind of guy. Yet, Bobby beat him to whatever his violent imagination was planning and walked forward, erasing part of the tracing with his left shoe, eyes glued to the page of the book in his palms.
Death's shoulders seemed to drop a millimeter and he fingered his ring once more. "My aid does not come without payment. I've had enough of doing charity work for a group of disrespectful hunters." He threw Dean a look and walked unhurriedly out of his summoning area.
"Should you manage to contain the one you seek, I'd dearly like to have a word with him. If he is still who I think him to be, we have some unfinished business."
With that he was gone.
"Are you sure this isn't another Pagan god?"
"One-hundred percent positive, Dean. There's no mention of anything of the sort in any Pagan text." Sam confirmed, typing away at the computer.
Dean had just wanted to summon the thing and get this over with. But, Bobby and Sam were determined to do some research beforehand to get an idea of what they were dealing with. Dean might have been inclined to believe it was a fairly good idea to be prepared, however, six hours had passed since they contacted Death and all they could come up with was a list of what this thing was not.
Dean tossed a gem stone he had found tucked on Bobby's desk into the air, watching gravity take its toll before he caught it, saving it from the vicious fate of slamming to the floor. "So…a Wiccan god? Or deity? 'Learned in the magical arts?' That screams Wiccan to me." He groaned in dismay. "Great. Just what we need, another fucking Voodoo fanatic."
"Dean has a point." Sam sighed, finally leaning away from his laptop and rubbing his eyes.
Bobby hummed from behind his desk, but did not bother to even look up, still tracing whatever he was reading. "Makes no sense."
"What makes no sense?" Dean quipped. "Our life?"
Bobby looked up, lips pursed and directed his comments to Sam, who, though looked vaguely tired, was more invested in the research than Dean was at the moment. "Death says not a creature, not a God, not an apparition. There's nothing left but human if we go by that checklist."
Sam sighed and stretched his arms a bit. He had that feeling again in his gut. "Something rubs me the wrong way about all of this, Bobby. Nothing seems to fit the equation. We're hunting this kid who has a strange sort of power, yet is by information disclosed to us, human…And then they're the fact that he's taking out demons? Those are the bad guys."
"Hm," Dean whistled. "A dude who slays demons with bright lights. Hey, Sam? When you spoke to this thing, was he all la-dee-da and shit? 'Cause if he was angst-y and a dick, I'm thinking it could be an angel on our hands."
"Hey, idjit. What part of the classification human don't you understand?" Bobby retorted promptly.
Dean paused in tossing the gem and finally looked their way. He threw his hands up in a mock position of surrender. "Hey, white flag! I'm just throwing ideas into the brainstorm cloud here. You guys aren't exactly full of brilliant solutions. I'm telling you, we'd get more answers if we just summon this dude and get the party started."
There was a heavy silence.
Sam let out a breath through his nose, eyes shifting to Bobby and he said in a soft voice, "Do you think it could be another one of Azaezal's experiments?"
Dean looked sour and a bit like he had been stung by a bee. "You would have met him in pageant camp if that was the deal."
A shrug was the answer. "I dunno. Maybe he never made it?"
"Oh yeah. The one that got away." Dean snorted and dropped the gem to the floor, crossing his arms. "His invite to the demonically-fueled Hunger Games got lost in the mail."
Sam flinched lightly, before he threw Dean his bitch face. "White flag. I was just throwing ideas into the brainstorm cloud." He mimicked.
Dean threw his head back and emitted a suffering moan. "That's it."
The older Winchester stood, face screaming that he was fed up with this guessing game. "We've done it your way and we're still as empty-handed as before. Now, it's the Dean-way. We have everything we need right here: Bobby's place is a fucking mine of protection gear. Holy water, silver bullets, rock salt, dead man's blood, wooden stakes, guns, knives, and man power. We can take this dude on no matter what his freaky psychic power is. Three against one."
Dean pulled out his pistol and kick Sam's leg, ignoring his yelp of protest, to jostle him into moving. "Bobby. Start translating that shit."
Bobby heaved a breath, looking uncertainly between the two boys he thought of as his sons and clicked his tongue. They were at a loss of what to do. Fine. "Shino masutaa wo shoukan suru ni ha…"
To summon the Master of Death…
Harry had had a pretty slow going day.
No stalkers. No determined redheaded vipers.
It was odd. His day had actually been somewhat calm. He was starting to believe that Hermione and Kingsley had been right. A few days off and he would be as good as new.
Harry had woken up this morning with a full, beautiful seven hours of sleep under his belt. He felt refreshed and energized when he jumped out of bed and dressed. He practically skipped to the bus stop and hummed on his way to grab his daily cup of joe. He read the newspaper and found a quaint library in which he looked fascinatedly at ludicrous muggle projections of what a magical world would hold in novels of the sci-fi section. He picked up lunch at a salad bar and even went to see a film before he made his way back to the Hilton.
He had managed to keep his paranoia down to a low level and he had only profiled about ten people the whole day.
What could he say? You could take a soldier out of his station, but you could not erase the soldier within him. Harry was an Auror through and through, and it was this fact that made him feel proud of his behaviour today.
Runsack still bobbing at his side, he slipped the keycard into the card box that gave entryway to his room like a pro and shuffled into the bathroom.
He faced his reflection in the mirror with a slight grimace and reached up, letting his hair loose and shaking his head like a wet dog. Harry hummed softly as he felt the ever-present tension in his temples decrease and his fingertips rose to ruffle his bangs, gently applying a soothing pressure to his scalp.
He let himself stand there for a moment, just enjoying the silence around him and giving his lungs a chance to inflate to the brim with the fresh, clean oxygen of Colorado Springs. The air was different here, he noticed. It was thin due to elevation, yes, but it was clearer than that of Little Whinging: less polluted. It was like inhaling crisp ice crystals purer than water from the tap.
Harry blinked lazily and pulled his glasses off the bridge of his nose.
Now, he stared intensely at his blurred reflection. He should get contacts, he contemplated. That or he should use one of the many healing charms he knew to correct his eyesight. Over the years it had gotten worse. He could not see details, just blobs and color. So he stared at the oddly proportioned green dots that were where his eyes should be.
He would have voiced his desire for a long, hot shower, but all of a sudden, he felt a crucifying pain shoot through his stomach, as if someone had poked a smoldering sword through his naval.
Gone were the distorted colors.
He saw black.
As soon as a body appeared out of thin air, the hunter in Dean took over like a vicious instinct. Pistol cocked and eyes cautious, he threw up a hand to signal a cease of movement to his companions.
Gone were the Japanese characters that created Death's prison and in their place were a mixture of odd looking sigils and katakana, mixed together and carved into the floor's wood with one of Bobby's spare pocket knives. The scripture had warned that the summoning circle would not hold its inhabitant captive—it merely forced his presence.
So, he eyed the crumpled heap in its center. The figure lie face down and unconscious. Though, he well knew that that did not mean he was safe to approach. Eyes still glued on it, Dean felt his muscles tense.
"Sam." He said in a hushed but firm voice. "This the guy we're looking for?"
The younger Winchester stood behind Dean, who had jumped in front of him the moment the wilted figure beamed into existence. Hesitantly, he side stepped and peered over Dean's shoulder. From this angle, he could not see much but the familiar sight of all black clothing and tousled hair.
"I think so."
Sam waited for his brother to give him the sign it was okay to advance. He watched with an odd sense of anticipation as Dean stepped forward close enough to nudge the figure with his toe. When nothing happened, he witnessed his brother drop his pistol to his side and whip around to face them, his face hardened from years of being in the business. "There's no telling how long he'll be knocked out for. We've gotta move fast."
Dean's hazel green eyes swiveled to Bobby. "Get the rope. I'll get the chair." He then threw Sam a sharp nod that immediately told him his duty.
Sam felt uncharacteristically nervous as he made his way into the ring and faced his responsibility. He kneeled down, eyes sweeping over the limp man. For a moment, the only movement was the rise and fall of Evans' body that told Sam the man was at least alive. Nope, not a ghost or an angel.
With careful hands, he removed the backpack from the body, placing it to the side. His head rose as he turned to Dean and Bobby, who were cutting sections of firmly braided rope. "We're on the last one, Sammy. Let's go."
With a deep breath, Sam reached down and turned the body around to face upward as he lifted it off the ground. For a moment, he found himself unexpectedly paralyzed.
This was, without a doubt, the same man that had bumped into him in the Manitou Springs coffee shop.
The things he and Dean hunted were abominations of nature. They were disgusting and resistant to the natural order. Vile vermin with exploded egos and hideous faces and bloodthirsty cravings for chaos. Things that liked to prey on humanity or charm a lost person into selling their souls. They were all ugly beings. Even sirens: their alluring images were solely projections of man's fantasy—an induced hallucination that tricked their victims into seeing not their true decrepit and rotting visages. Or vampires: whose seduction was also known to blinded humans with the temptation of immortality, foregoing the details of its price—dead bodies, frozen hearts, and an unmaskable coldness.
But, the body Sam now cradled in his arms was neither ghastly nor icy. He felt a heartbeat steadily from where his left hand lay, he felt the warmth radiating from the man's body, and as he gazed upon the familiar face, he felt his throat clog and constrict.
The man did not feel very threatening.
Even considering his unconscious state, Sam felt his mind having difficulty trying to conjure an image of this man on a malicious rampage of death. As he walked slowly to the chair set out by Dean, he thought the man in his arms seemed just that. A man.
A man that was perhaps a bit underweight, despite the obvious fit form covered with black attire.
He continued on autopilot as Dean helped him, none too gently, arrange the man in the chair.
Even though he was sitting now, Sam knew the man was smaller than him. Smaller than Dean. Eyelids closed, plentiful lashes curled and noticeable against pale skin, not really hiding the dark bags that uttered confessions of a lack of sleep. Ebony curls messy like a fitful halo, bangs plastered to his forehead by a layer of sweat. Pink lips, chapped, but full, parted and jaw-slacked.
As it had last time they met, an unidentifiable emotion swept over Sam.
He watched through a fog, so consumed in his ponderings as Dean's strong hands tied the rope tightly around each ankle and wrist, leaving no wiggle room. He almost felt inclined to remind his brother that this man actually needed room to breathe. But, instead, his eyes observed the tan rope's bristles cutting into the flesh. The wrist was already beginning to redden with discomfort.
Was this truly the Master of Death?
He looked so normal.
The first thing Harry became aware of was that he was bound to a chair.
His mind was foggy and his eyes were glued shut. He could instinctively knew there was darkness in his location. The air was cold, still, uncomfortable and foreshadowing. He forced his eyes open and was greeted with blurs.
Harry inhaled sharply and tested his freedom to find that he could not use his arms or legs. He was tied to a chair…and he was secured very well.
The Auror Academy trained their students to not think of what, when, or where in the rare event of being held captive. They trained them to think of how to get out. The key to survival in most hostage situations was not compliance, contrary to popular belief. It was surveying your options. One had to scan the environment. Digest their stance, their captor, weaknesses in their enclosed structure, and options for exit.
That was what he would do. But, he was at a severe disadvantage, considering he could not see.
Harry was suddenly alert.
He could not see.
His eyes jerked from left to right, but no avail. The world was a blurry mess.
Abruptly, out of nowhere, he heard a deafening click and something was pressed without caution into his temple. It was cold and circular and Harry had a flashback to spying on his cousin Dudley watching spy movies on the television. Was that a gun held against his head?
Honestly. Harry would not know. It had never happened before. Wand? Totally. Gun? He had never seen one in real life.
That was enough, Harry concluded and pulled himself together. He sat up as straight as he could, not flinching at the cold metal and let his instincts run the show. He flicked on his magic sensitivity and was greeted with three auras.
Three occupants in the room. Three captors. Three against one.
No big deal. Harry had surely taken on worse when he stumbled into the Forbidden Forest to meet Voldemort and his Death Eaters in the Final Battle. But then again, he was murdered when that happened.
Small details had no place at the time, he screamed to himself.
"So, Master of Death, eh?" a strictly masculine voice rumbled from his left. The voice was low and disapproving. "That's kind of a big title isn't it?
Harry felt his heart rate quicken as he took in the auras once again. Two muggles, that was for sure. Not a drop of magic in these buggers. But, suddenly, a blob caught the corner of his eye off to the right. As he turned his head, the metal dragged across his left ear. He should have been reminding himself that wizard or not, a gunshot to the head would prove fatal. But, bullets were the last thing on his mind as his chest ached with dread.
The third aura was impressively larger than the first two he encountered. And it was speckled with the same black inkiness that had been on his tail since he left Dick Roman's motivational speech.
Bloody fucking hell. He should have known that a stupefy would not have been enough to rid of his stalkers. They found him.
Dean readjusted his gun at his hunt's temple, watching him like a viper stalking its prey. The Master of Death sat tied to Bobby's old wooden desk chair and he had to think to himself: oh, how the mighty have fallen. Whoever this dude was, whatever his position and connection to the fearsome and all-powerful Death, it did not matter. For right now, they had him on lockdown.
"Woah there, tiger." Dean laughed without amusement when the man's head shot toward Sam's direction. If this chucklehead tried any funny, supernatural business, he was going to send a bullet home. "Bobby!" he called out.
The eldest hunter stepped forward and with a quick flick of his hands sent a hearty amount of holy water spraying onto the raven curls and oval face.
They all watched eager for a response as the man in the chair jerked back in shock, but nothing happened after that. No smoke or steam or scream of agony.
Harry blinked in astonishment as he felt the drips of cold water drizzle down his face and neck. Then, he could not help it. Out of all the cases he had ever taken on and out of all of the cases on which he had been kidnapped by avenging dark supporters, he had never had a cup of water sprayed in his face.
"What the bloody fuck?" he stated. It just sort of slipped out. Normally, he liked to think he was more in control of his impulsivity since the war had ended, but on occasion, such as those in which he was greeted with the unfamiliar, he tended to simply react.
Great. He could not see. He was definitely not in Colorado Springs. And, now, he was positively drenched. It was at times like these that he considered he did not get paid enough. He was not a happy camper.
"Did you just throw a bloody bottle of water on me?" A cruciatus he would have expected if he were surrounded by wizards. Muggles? Maybe a chainsaw or something gruesome. But, water? He felt his face contort into confusion.
Seriously. His stalkers finally kidnap him and they throw a bottle of water on him? Harry sighed moodily and readjusted himself in the chair.
"You bloody gits have been on my ass for the last few weeks and as soon as you get me, you give me a shower?"
Harry tried not to roll his eyes. He felt the tiredness he was supposed to be sleeping away on vacation right now creep up on him again. Seven hours, he guessed, one night out of the past few years was not enough to recharge his batteries, especially if he had been left without his customary tea.
His eyes were useless. But, if he could get them to talk, he would be able to identify where they were exactly in the room and what the purpose of this was. If he was lucky, he could be dealing with the type of villains that like to hear themselves talk—a situation he believed he was in due to the mocking, playful tone that regarded him just seconds ago. Two could play that game. He was, after all, an investigator.
"So, you know we've been hunting your ass, huh? Feeling kind of special?" the deep tone inquired.
Definitely a talker and an arrogant one at that. Harry let his lips twitch upwards in a tiny smirk. "Of course. Your team wasn't exactly being subtle about it."
"Oh?" the voice urged him on.
Harry did a quick calculation in his head. The man had mentioned him being the Master of Death, which obviously meant he was knowledgeable of the Deathly Hallow, which would mean that he was no stranger to magic. Two muggles auras and one mixed with black. Harry had still to identify what type of creature these beings with wispy black auras were, although it was not completely outlandish to categorize them as a subset of squib. Perhaps, a squib of a dark family was not hunting the Hallows? It was entirely possible and had happened before on cases that were rumored in the tea longue of the ministry. Tales of magic-starved squibs who believed the Hallows would provide them with enough power to be revered and honored in the magical world, rather than shunned.
It was a good theory. But, he could not be certain. And, given his current situation could not get much worse, he decided he could ask.
"You've been following me since I ran into your friend with the dog. What is it that you want?" He let his head turn to the right, watching the tainted aura. "And what the hell are you?"
Dean looked incredulously at Sam, mouthing a 'what the fuck.'
Sam face was scrunched up and he shook his head, looking to Bobby who just shrugged.
Dean cleared his throat and re-focused himself. "We're human. That's what we are." His answer was bored and held a sense of animosity that clearly implied that his captive was obviously not human. But, it did not phase the Master of Death.
A snort. "Congratulations. Then we have that in common, you and I." his head nodded to Bobby's general direction. "Him too. But, what about you?" He turned all the way towards Sam who was on the right side of the summoning circle.
Harry was breaking just about every Auror training rule, but he felt his old strong curiosity coming back to him. "What is your kind so interested in me?"
It was at that moment that Sam realized the man's emerald eyes were facing him, but not moving. It was eerily like watching a blind man and then he remembered.
Opening the door, a bump to his chest, a squeak, hands catching his laptop, an embarrassed flush, and bottle cap lenses.
Sam's eyes looked to the side of the summoning circle where surely, a pair of glasses where sitting where the man had crumpled. They were circular and dorky, definitely old fashioned, not that he kept up with trends. Not sure why he did it, he bent down, grasped them, then moved in front of the man.
As he unfolded them and reached out to place them where they should be, he took in the eyes. They were not moss green like Dean's. In fact, they held no hint of hazel and Sam was struck with the notion that they were unearthly green. Too green, with no flecks of brown or even blue. Undiluted.
And they widened as he approached. But, they were not really looking at him. They were looking around him.
Harry was wondering how many times he was going to be startled today as he felt large, but gentle fingers prop his glasses on the bridge of his nose and tuck their hooks behind his ears.
The auror reacted quickly to his sight being returned and immediately took in the details around him. It was approximately ten at night. He was in what appeared to be an untidy study full of a mounds of books and run down furniture. He was in a wooden chair that he assumed was aged due to the fact that it creaked with his every squirm. The rope, however, wrapped around his wrists and ankles was brand new and stiff. He would not be able to fight his way out of it, but if he could focus enough on his core, he might be able to perform some wandless magic.
His eyes caught fell to his feet. The floorboards. They were covered in rough carvings of what he recognized to be ancient runes and…Chinese?
"Well. I hope you're done taking in the décor. It's not quite HG-TV, but it's home. Bobby? Test number two, shall we? It's getting kinda late."
Harry's eyes ripped from the floor as 'Bobby' stepped to him. A man in his forties that looked worse for wear. Harry's eyes were quick in taking in the details. The trim beard, cap, rounded stomach, and untrusting eyes. A knife in his hand.
The boy who lived was creating a plan in which he could throw a repelling charm at the offending weapon, but in the time his thoughts progressed, the knife came down and he felt its cool metal part the skin of his forearm.
Harry stiffened, but he had a high tolerance for pain. In fact, the wound barely pinched. He could have sworn that knife was going to slit his throat, not give him a paper cut. He looked as Bobby eyed him suspiciously, but deflatedly.
"Nope." The older man's voice was husky.
"Okay…salt?" a voice suggested.
Bobby now held a glass salt shaker in his hand and without hesitation, he uncapped it and poured it thankfully not into the wound previously inflicted, but onto Harry's other arm.
There was a silence.
Harry now peered to the left to meet the eyes of the conversationalist. His loquacious kidnapper. The man was macho, black leather jacket and all. Tough guy exterior with symmetrical, attractive features and blond cropped hair. Hazel green eyes looked down at him accusingly.
Harry smacked his lips together. From what he had seen, these two did not appear anything like dark supporters who were usually dressed to the T with slicked back hair like his childhood rival, Draco Malfoy. Each were dressed so casually, they looked about ready to go on a fishing trip. But, Harry did not let their appearances misguide him. Harry could not read ancient runes well, that had been more of Hermione's job, and neither could he read Asian characters.
All he knew was that he was not in the Hilton and even though these men had no magical abilities, they had gotten him here somehow. This meant that they could possibly harm him if he was not playing smart.
He anchored his grip on his core and began pushing his magic towards his wrists. If he could just keep them busy and buy himself time.
"Alright then." Harry hummed, locking eyes with the man to his left. "So, you've doused me with water, slit me up, and then poured on some salt. You gonna bake me or something? Should we turn the oven to three-fifty?"
He quite enjoyed the way the man's head bobbed back and looked at him like an alien. "No baking." He said, amused and mocking tone gone. "Just trying to see what makes you tick. What should we try next, Sammy? Wooden stake?"
Harry pushed his magic harder. "A wooden stake? Are you sure this isn't a demented pig roast?"
Harry was full heartedly intending to send a fake laugh in this Sammy's direction until he saw the giant lurking into his channel of vision. For a moment, Harry lost concentration on what he was doing.
The approximately six foot four, brown hair, doe eyed, maybe-college student from OrganiCore.
Harry felt a voice snort in the back of his head. It sincerely hoped this was not all about his laptop.
There were times when Crowley wondered why he even bothered to scoop up the position as King of Hell.
The job description was contradictory to the title. A king should sit around, doing nothing but have his loyal servants cling to his every demand and desire. Yet, being the King of Hell was a hell of a lot harder than it sounded. The King of Hell was unable to indulge in the luxury of sloth while his faithful hands were about conducting his business because his faithful hands were a bunch of bloody, blathering, moronic imbeciles.
Send two demons to play chaperone to a measly human and ba-boom! The human sends them back home with their tails between their legs, looking like mangy flea-bitten poodles tossed by force into the basement.
If you asked him, the two idiots deserved their current places back on the rack. They deserved every little knick and tear that sliced into their mutilated souls. There was nothing more encouraging than a round of punishment to help one realize the irritation caused by their failures.
"Ugh," he sighed in exasperation and rolled his eyes.
That was exactly what he got for sending in two low-grade, bottom of the totem pole demons to do his dirty work for him.
The sad adage stands true: if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
And so, Crowley tossed back the rest of his scotch and thanked his stars that his secret interest's energy was so easily discernible.
Ah, yes! There it was. At least one reason why he bothered to claim the position as King of Hell.
He could pinpoint him with ease.
A/N: -hides- Don't kill me! (: I sincerely apologize for the long wait for the update, though I sincerely appreciate all of the reviews and encouragement I have received to aid me in continuing the story and prompting me to get back on schedule!
It's been very busy by me. Packing and getting ready for school. :/ Speaking of which. My update schedule may be looking a bit peculiar in the future considering school. So, just bear with me!
Anywho. This chapter is like double the size of the normal, so I hope that makes up a little bit. Hope you enjoyed! Mwahaha...More Sam-Harry, Crowley-Harry, and Dream Team-Harry interaction to come. Stick around.