Word from the Author: Uwah. Ohmygod, I suck! Real life has been a hard mistress, and I really should've gotten this posted earlier but... and... yeah... so... Here it is? Thank you everyone for enduring with me this far, and for your patience and unending support! Let it be known that, no matter how much time passes between chapters, this fic, as well as everyone who reads it, has not been forgotten!

So, shall we?

Disclaimer: As it stands in chapter 1.

Chapter 10

Ж

Breathing deeply, trying to calm himself, Harry tried to repress the shiver that suddenly took him. Forcing himself to think of something else, he lifted his gaze away from his still quivering knees, to look at the bathroom instead.

Blinking, he stared at the place, which he hadn't bothered to take a look at the night before. Like the rest of the room, it was tastefully designed and impeccably tidy. The sight of big white fluffy towels was greatly appealing, and Harry wobbled his way over to put his things atop the bathroom cabinet, before sinking one hand into the cloud-like softness. Staring at the towels, Harry groaned.

He'd completely forgotten to take clothes with him in his haste to escape.

With a shaky breath, Harry released his hold on the towel, to brace himself against the basin's edge. His reflection gazed steadily back at him, colour high on its pale cheeks, eyes overly bright, mouth slightly parted.

Licking his lips, Harry glanced down. No change.

He was still so damn hard, even after not thinking about anything even remotely sexual for some time. He'd been aroused before, but he'd never… actively touched himself. For the most part, it had seemed like far too much effort. Most of the time, it didn't last. As soon as he didn't give it any attention, it went away.

So, of course, now would have to be the exception to the rule.

Generally, Harry could honestly say that he'd never been particularly aware of his body – it simply was, it served its purpose, and so long as he wasn't hurt, there was no need to spare it a thought. That had changed the first time he'd ever ridden a broom. The exhilaration, the speed, the subtle nuances that a twitch of a muscle could bring to one's control all served to heighten his awareness of himself. He'd felt so alive. And it had been the same every time thereafter.

Harry couldn't help but wonder if it would be the same now. Every part of him felt overly sensitized, taut and ready to be touched. And so, touch he did.

Filled with curiosity, Harry let go of the sink, and let his fingers trail over the exposed skin of his arms. He let his fingertips familiarize themselves with the feel of his own skin, something he'd never thought to do before now, not for the simple sake of it. A frisson of anticipation ran down his spine as he moved his hands to grip the edge of his t-shirt. Trembling, he took it off and let it fall to his feet.

Watching his own reactions in the mirror, he ran his fingers along his shoulders, letting a thumb brush against his collarbone, allowing himself to remember the heat of Dean doing the same in the dark of night.

The thought of Dean made Harry's breath catch, and his eyes were drawn to his nipples, tightening, exposed now as they were to the cool air. Closing his eyes, Harry brushed each with a fingertip, imagining Dean's fingers as his own.

He ached.

Rolling them between fingers, pinching them, stroking them lightly and then changing the pace, Harry found that he had no real preference. It was all so good.

With a start, Harry realized he was squirming, shifting as he stood, instinctively trying to find the needed friction to satisfy his arousal. A moan almost escaped as a particular twitch stretched the material of his pajama pants taut along his length.

Stopping himself, Harry glanced about nervously. He was meant to be having a shower. Quickly, he moved to turn on the water, pleased with the realization that it would help cover any embarrassing sounds he might, or rather he was likely to, make.

Decisively, Harry grabbed one of the towels and laid it on the floor, a little away from the shower, before tentatively stripping and kneeling on it.

It was weird to see himself like this, Harry thought as he took in the sight of his own hard… cock. Mentally, Harry almost choked on the word, and felt his own face flush further.

Carefully, he let one hand fall to rest against himself, gently, barely touching at all. It was surprisingly hot and… smooth.

Blinking, Harry titled his head and amended the thought. Apparently, he was surprisingly hot and smooth.

Harry grinned, before wrapping his right hand around his length.

And okay, wow. Pressure was nice. Really nice. Eyelids fluttering, Harry stroked. First up, and then slowly down.

And wow.

Panting slightly, Harry shifted awkwardly to lie flat on his back. On the next up stroke, he gently squeezed as he reached the tip, and gasped as a shock of pleasure burst through him.

Back arching he continued, just as he had done with his nipples, experimenting.

Scant seconds later, he already felt on edge. Breathing heavily, Harry forced himself to relax, easing his grip, before gradually letting go, looking to simply catch his breath for a moment.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Harry gazed down at himself once more, tilting his head left, then right, as he peered at his erection. He poked it gently, and had to quickly muffle a giggle as it bobbed enthusiastically in reaction to his touch.

Harry frowned thoughtfully, as he wondered what exactly he was meant to jerk off to. Because that's what guys did, as far as Harry knew. They didn't touch themselves to watch themselves harden, tremble, twitch beneath their own hands, their own fingers. Masturbation served a purpose, relief through the exploit of fantasy. Harry knew from locker room talk, as well as from having shared a dorm room with four other boys for the last five years, the sort of things that were considered appropriate. Or at least that one talked of when in the presence of others. Breasts, tits, pussy, clits, slender waists, long smooth legs, soft, soft skin, firm, rounded asses, elegant, dainty hands, among some of the most extolled traits of the fairer sex.

The main problem with all that though was the fact that there was only one thing Harry wanted to think about. And that was Dean. Or, perhaps, it would be more precise to say, that he didn't want to think about. He wasn't exactly sure. Half of him was protesting the thought, that he would in some way be besmirching Dean's image, that Harry would be using him if he did so. The other half of him, the lower half of him, thought this was a particularly brilliant idea on Harry's behalf, and was quite happily gunning for him to continue.

It was a pity for the decent half of him that that side's blood flow, along with its much needed supply of oxygen, were already heading south, tipping the scale in the other half's favour.

The only question was, seeing as he was apparently going ahead with this craziness, what kind of fantasy did Dean evoke within him?

The first thing that came to his mind was black, satin boxers. Harry blinked at the thought. Licking his lips, he lay back down, taking himself back in hand as he did so, already conjuring a fantasy to go with this new experience.

It was odd, but it wasn't the thought of Dean in black satin boxers that was suddenly getting Harry hot, but the thought of him stealing a pair from Dean, and maybe, oh, getting caught?

Harry closed his eyes shut tight as he pictured an intensely focused look fix itself upon Dean's face, as he imagined Dean's strong, smooth gait as he stalked over to where Harry stood, surprised at Dean's sudden appearance when he wasn't even really dressed, what with his clothes laid out beside him on his bed.

Harry gasped as he brushed a free hand over his chest, seeing, behind closed eyes, Dean do the same, but with intent – pushing gently but purposefully until Harry's knees buckled and he sprawled upon his bed, his hard erection tenting the black satin of Dean's boxers. Dean pinned him then, simply but effectively, doing little more than straddling Harry's prone form, coming to rest easily atop Harry's thighs, staring down at him with a fierce, possessive expression that screamed, without a doubt, mine. And then Dean touched, fingers dancing teasingly over Harry's chest, soothingly stroking down Harry's flanks, before curving possessively over Harry's hips.

Harry allowed his hands to mimic the path, simulating as best as he could what he imagined it would feel like. He was sure it wouldn't compare.

Exhaling on a shuddering breath, Harry moved one of his hands away from where he had them pressed against the naked skin of his hip, letting it hover just above his length, close enough that he could feel the radiating heat of his own erection. Still he held it there, anticipating where his fantasy was about to lead him.

Dean was leaning closer now, his hot breath wafting against Harry's ear, as he huskily murmured, I hadn't realized these belonged to you, as he tightened his grip on the silky material, pulling it taut.

Harry rubbed his hand firmly against himself, feeling his eyelids flutter, as he imagined himself hissing his reply around a sharp moan.

No, Harry imagined himself telling Dean. They belong to you.

Harry opened his eyes in surprise as he realized just how true the underlying sentiment, the implication, was.

I belong to you, Harry thought in awe, nearly overwhelmed by the feeling of rightness those words evoked.

Suddenly impatient, desperate almost to find completion, Harry wrapped his fingers around himself and pumped, his mind screaming, deandeandeandeandeandeandeandean, as he increased the pace of his strokes, a little clumsy and inept but also gloriously slick and warm and wonderful.

He was so hard now he could feel each beat of his heart throb beneath his fingertips. With his free hand he glided further down, until he reached his balls, taking them gently in hand, before rolling them.

Harry squeaked as his body bucked at the sensation, causing him to tighten his hold on his cock, and then there was whiteburningheatpleasurereleaseohgodsoooooogood.

Harry wasn't sure how much time had passed, seconds, minutes, before he realized he was staring at the ceiling, blissfully zoning thanks to his very first self-induced orgasm.

He totally understood why guys would bother to do this. It was bloody awesome.

It was a moment before any thought other than that simple realization came to mind, such as getting up off the floor, and maybe taking that shower.

Harry wrinkled his nose as he noticed the white goo oozing to his sides from its puddle upon his chest and stomach. Frowning, he stuck a finger in it, before swooshing it about a bit. It was a weird consistency, and freakishly enough reminded Harry of this one potion Snape had made them brew. Harry shuddered at the thought.

Normally his only contact with this stuff came in the form of sticky sheets, or pajama bottoms, so it was mildly interesting to see an actual amount laid out before him.

At the very least, he knew the mechanics behind a blow job, he just couldn't imagine wanting to have the stuff in his mouth. Eyeing the slight sheen of a couple of his fingers, he raised his hand to sniff them. It didn't particularly smell like anything, but Harry wasn't sure he was game, yet anyway, to try tasting it.

Sighing, Harry shifted to stand. His first attempt to do so, however, was met with little actual movement. He felt completely wrung-out, and kind of boneless.

Harry blinked in surprise. Okay, so maybe not entirely boneless.

He was still partially hard, despite having just come, and quite nicely if he did say so himself. Ignoring it, as was the usual scheme of things, Harry lethargically rolled onto his side before easing up, using the bathtub's edge as leverage.

Shakily, Harry stumbled into the shower, quickly adjusting the water temperature back from the frigidity it had reached when left to its own devices.

Stepping under the hot spray, the first thing Harry did was wash his front clean. Reaching for the shampoo, he was surprised to realize that he'd forgotten to take his glasses off, which were now both misting over and spotted with water. Sighing, he left them on. It's not like he could see anything without them on anyway.

Feeling the heat slowly seep in, Harry sighed, this time in contentment. Even though he was already half-hard again, Harry felt too like liquid to bother doing anything more taxing than soaping himself up and letting the water wash everything off as he simply stood there, making the effort to scrub only when it was absolutely called for.

Harry stepped out from the shower feeling revitalized. Drying himself off with a highly absorbent, fluffy, white towel, his hair already wrapped up in one, Harry also managed to brush his teeth whilst doing so. Humming tunelessly to himself as he did so, he finally spat and rinsed, before wiping his face dry.

Figuring that his hair was dry enough, Harry hung that towel back up on the rack, before hesitantly heading to the door that was the only thing separating him and Dean, barring a few layers of clothing and a measly towel. Tucking his towel more firmly around his waist, Harry inhaled a calming breath, before opening the door and stepping out.

Just don't look at him, and you'll be fine. Harry told himself gamely. After all, out of sight, out of mind… right?

Ж

Dean turned, hearing the bathroom door open, only to stop and stare, his eyes trailing over pale skin, delicate rivulets of water, and Harry in nothing but a low-riding towel hitched about his hips. This was certainly something Dean had had to endure before. Admittedly, Harry wasn't as built, as sculpted as Sam had been in moments like these, but there was something so temptingly fresh and pure and innocent looking about him, Dean could actually feel his mouth begin to water.

Turns out, Dean hadn't changed all that much, mindless chatter being his first and foremost reaction to such occurrences as near-naked-fantasies-come-to-life, especially when acting upon said fantasies was definitely not allowed, for any number of reasons. This too was no different. Perhaps that's why the first thing that came blurting out of his mouth was, inadvertently, "What on earth took you so long?"

Stupid, stupid question.

Harry seemed to think so too as his eyes abruptly snapped up to meet Dean's from where he'd been previously gazing anywhere but at Dean. Almost instantly, he looked away, as if fascinated by the pattern of their bedspreads. And if that weren't indication enough of just what had gone down in there, the tell-tale blush that was smouldering across Harry's cheeks told a story of its own.

Dean watched on in fascination as Harry blushed, and his fingers twitched in the hold of his towel, causing it to balance even more precariously upon smooth, lickable hipbones. Kicking himself, he amended, "I mean, I wouldn't want to find out you'd been sucked down the drain."

And damn it, Dean could almost feel a blush coming up himself at his phrasing. As… that was quite possibly precisely how it'd happened, at least in part, a part that Dean wouldn't have minded sucking down himself, and oh my god, so should not be going there!

Coughing, Dean decided he'd best shut up.

And turn around. Because hell, watching hungrily as Harry got dressed wouldn't help either of them. No siree.

It was incredibly hard to focus, however, when he could hear the sound of Harry's towel hitting the floor, the rustles of fabric brushing against naked skin.

…Naked skin? Oh, boy.

Dean licked his lips as he felt a drop of perspiration catch. And in spite of all his preventative measures, this morning, the night before, and just before that, he was fucking hard again. Probably because he'd been sitting in front of his desk, his eyes closed, and his ears straining to hear something, anything, the entire time Harry's been in the shower – he was obsessed and pervy like that.

In fact, though Dean was a lot of things, dishonest was not one of them. So while he might pretend to the world, and even to Sammy, that he didn't realize things, or didn't feel stuff, he had never actually lied to himself about it, not purposefully. As a Hunter, he had to play the part, do things that were often morally questionable, but he never denied that fact. He didn't try to dress things up with pretty words and pleasant sounding euphemisms, because at the heart of it all, he wanted to be honest. And he wanted to do the right thing.

That was another thing about being a Hunter, when you did the right thing you knew for sure that it counted. And yet at the same time, sometimes that alone was also the only thing that kept you going. The life of a Hunter sure wasn't the easiest of paths to walk. But there were harder ones, ones not as worthwhile, not as meaningful. It was only these thoughts that had kept Dean on the straight and narrow for as long as it did. At every juncture where he'd almost veered off the path, it was that truth, and his utter conviction in it that had kept him going.

And so, even though everything he'd ever wanted in life, and never thought he could have, was so close, standing there, open and vulnerable, just a few steps from the path, Dean knew he couldn't do it. Because he wanted to do the right thing.

Because sometimes the right thing hurt like this; like the sensation of burning in his eyes, in his chest, and lower still. Self denial wasn't usually something that Dean practiced, but as in a lot of cases, this, what he'd felt for Sammy, and what he was definitely starting to feel here and now, was the one major exception to that rule. His sleeping around, playing about, as well as a lot of the other stuff he wasn't all that proud of having done in his lifetime, were all about making up for that single source of self denial that perhaps could never be balanced, no matter what Dean tried to replace it with. Nothing really eased the ache. Not for longer than mere seconds at best.

Still, there was a lot that Dean could deny himself for that one person. And there was nothing wrong with being honest with himself about it. Recognizing this fact in himself helped him to deal with it, to not simply give in to every demand of Sam's like he'd wanted to. Because that would've given the game away. Sublimation had been the key. And hopefully it would fit this lock, too. Luckily for Dean, the training would probably actually be sufficiently time-consuming and challenging. Enough so, that hopefully he'd not spend too much time thinking of things he couldn't have.

Better to think of all he could do, all he was going to be for Harry. And to let Harry dictate the dance, wherever it might lead.

And speaking of dancing, it was time they got this show on the road.

Ж

Training, as it turned out, was actually quite relaxing. So far, there hadn't been anything particularly taxing, just stretches and peculiar movements that seemed entirely foreign and made Harry feel ungainly and uncoordinated. Not that that was an unusual feeling for Harry, when he wasn't in the air, that is.

He'd heard of people whose sense of direction sucked on land but was exceptionally accurate in the sky, people in the Muggle world described as born pilots. Harry wondered if it wasn't something similar for him, after all, people described him as a born flyer.

They started with some warming up exercises, mainly stretches, most of which consisted of shapes and positions that Harry would have never even imagined contorting himself into otherwise. 'Incremental, gentle movements' was Dean's motto for this part, or so he informed Harry. The point, as he explained it, was not to force his muscles to do more than they could, but to coax them, with much consideration and loving attention.

At the look Harry had given him, Dean had simply grinned and said, "Look. Think of your body as an ally, as opposed to a simple extension of yourself. As an ally, you need to treat it with respect, in order to gain anything from it. It'll only ever willingly give equal to what which you're willing to offer," Dean shrugged slightly, as if to say 'that's just how it goes.'

"More often than not," he continued, "the body, as far as a fight goes, is a reluctant ally. I mean, it sure as hell doesn't want to get involved in something if it's just gonna end up getting beat into a bloody pulp. Self-preservation as an innate biological mechanism is a hell of a lot stronger than any self-preservation we're bound to actively contemplate once the adrenalin's pumping. So, in order to balance this, to tilt things in your favour, you need to be generous and always make your offerings first. Time, effort, dedication. Care, devotion, relaxation. They're all necessary components to hone your body from a blunt tool into a fine weapon."

It sort of made sense when Dean put it like that. Because it was true, most of the time Harry simply expected his body to do as he commanded, never really thinking about what he was asking of it. To think of his body as a separate entity did in fact make Harry more aware of its condition. Maybe because being concerned about others, and putting them before himself, was such an ingrained part of the way Harry thought. Previously, he had always simply seen it like this: if he screwed up and got hurt, the consequences were his and his alone, and he would suffer them. If he screwed up and got someone else hurt, that was another matter entirely.

By perceiving his body as one such 'someone else' Harry felt compelled to do more for it, which he supposed was precisely what Dean wanted.

Harry found it a little bit amazing that when Dean talked about training and Hunting, he seemed so… Harry wasn't sure the right word was confident, because Dean seemed confident most of the time anyway. Competent, maybe would be a better way to describe it, unlike he was when things shifted toward the emotional side of the spectrum, where Harry could sense just the tiniest bit of awkwardness underlying it all in spite of Dean's best efforts to reassure him and comfort him.

It was something of an enlightening process and Harry was more than happy to be able to better acquaint himself with this side of Dean.

They spent a fair bit of time simply going over and over the various movements Dean wanted Harry to incorporate into his repertoire to apparently increase the flexibility of his body, and to make it more limber and less prone to injury.

Harry thought he was getting the hang of it, until he caught Dean watching him intently on several occasions as he went through the last few of the basic stretches Dean had just shown him.

"What?" Harry finally asked, wondering if he was doing something wrong.

Dean's eyes strolled casually over his form, seeming to take every little detail into scrutiny. A moment or two passed before Dean replied with a question of his own.

"Do you play sports at school?"

"Uh," Harry said, even as he thought to himself, to tell the truth, or not to tell the truth. To tell it all, or only in part. And if not at all, then what to say instead? Those were the questions currently running through Harry's head.

"Is that a no?" Dean guessed, one eyebrow raised in question.

"Sort of," Harry grimaced, wondering how one would go about explain Quidditch without involving any of the necessary elements of magic.

"What do you mean, 'sort of'?" Dean said, his brow furrowing slightly as he seemed to consider this.

"I run a lot," Harry hedged. Of course, the running usually wasn't so much for sport, as it was to save his own hide. Still, incidental exercise should count for something, right?

"Yeah?" Dean asked, looking pleased.

"Yeah," Harry affirmed. "That and there're a lot of stairs at school? My dormitory's in the tower, so I spend a lot of time walking, you know?" Harry didn't really think Dean needed to know about all the summer exercise he got from doing all of his chores at the Dursleys. It's not like it had done anything other than leave him really just kind of skinny.

"The tower?" Dean appeared to be fixating on this point, even while his expression took on a sceptical hue. "You sleep in a tower?"

"Well," Harry winced slightly, "the boarding school I go to is sort of, well, a really old castle…?"

Dean's eyes bugged a little at this pronouncement. "And the Dursleys pay for you to live in a castle?"

"What?" Harry said, before huffing, "As if! My parents had me enrolled from birth, with everything set up so I wouldn't have to worry about anything," which was close enough to the truth, Harry thought, even as he continued to say, "and the only reason the Dursleys let me go was because they had no way to stop me." That part, at least, was entirely true.

"Good," Dean stated firmly, with a sharp nod as if to emphasis his approval. "I don't even want to think about where they would've stuck you if you hadn't already had somewhere to go."

Harry stayed silent. He didn't particularly want to think about what life would have been like if he hadn't even had Hogwarts to go to. It was quite possible that a prolonged stay at St. Brutus' for Incurably Criminal Boys might've been about right, if it had come to that. Not that Harry was planning to mention that little nugget of joy the Dursleys' had concocted to Dean either.

It was bad enough that the entire neighbourhood thought that Harry was crazy.

And, of course, I get enough of that crap at school, too, Harry thought to himself grimly.

"Right," Dean coughed slightly. "Let's get to it, then."

Brightening from the gloomy turn his thoughts had taken, Harry smiled shyly as he asked, "So, what am I supposed to do now?"

"From what I can tell you seem to have these warm ups down pat. Now we can move onto some of the more heavy duty stuff. The substance, if you like. Today, I'm starting you off light. But soon, you'll be doing daily runs and callisthenics, as well as quite a few of my favourite agility, strength and endurance exercises. Once you start showing a decent level of proficiency with these, we'll move onto hand-to-hand combat training, and the little bit of martial arts that I know. And after you get a handle on those things, I guess firearms and weapons training, it is."

Dean nodded, as if finished, before startling slightly as if he'd remembered something, which he apparently had, as he quickly added, "And on top of that, let's not forget our theory, basically strategizing and tactics. Though, we might try out some battle drills or scenario based simulations – I'll have to think about those for when we get to them, which won't be for a bit. But yeah, I'll also teach you everything I know about ghosts and stuff. No point in leaving anything out, huh?"

Harry nodded numbly. At least there wasn't an exam being attached to all this. He wasn't sure how he'd handle it if there was.

Taking a deep breath, Harry relaxed as he positioned himself as Dean had instructed, before picking up the weights held out to him and doing as Dean did. Today, as Dean had said, they were starting off light.

Somehow, Harry thought to himself, I'm sure I'm going to be feeling this tomorrow, anyway.

Ж

Dean was pleased when he called time out at just past midday. Harry was certainly no slouch. Dean could tell that he was a hard worker, and that despite his slender frame he was no stranger to physical activity. Not to the same extent as Sam or Dean had been, but still, there was plenty to work with.

One of the problems Harry seemed to have, however, was following instructions. Sometimes Dean found he would have to explain certain things in several different ways before one would finally stick. Once it did though, and Dean had tested this over the last few hours, Harry could remember and demonstrate what he'd been told almost word for word, as well as action for action. It was as if once his brain had grasped something, it was determined not to let go.

Dean would have to see how long this retention of his lasted. It would certainly be interesting to see.

Making sure that Harry was getting enough liquids, Dean told him to lie down and take a load of while he went and got lunch.

Downstairs was fairly empty at this time of day, the Inn didn't seem to get all that many visitors that loitered about in the front pub, not until night time anyway, when a lot of the locals came in, for a drink, or a bit of gambling, be it cards or be it pool, if not darts or the like. Seeing as most of them probably worked during these hours, it was only logical that they'd not be in, whereas any tourists staying at the Inn were likely to be out and doing tourist-y things during the daytime.

In the few days before Harry, Dean almost snorted aloud at the turn of phrase, B.H. the time before our Saviour was found, the solitude meant that Dean got to know the pub owners a little better than he might've been able to otherwise. They were a friendly couple who had apparently owned the Little Whinging Inn for four generations now, and they were more than happy to tell Dean about the local history and the like, especially after Dean had bartered with them that first night. They, too, were keen to hear tales from across the ocean, as they referred to Dean's stories.

Strolling up to the counter, Dean called out, "Hello? Anybody home?"

Margaret, Richard's wife, who ran the kitchen, came to meet him, exclaiming, "Dean! Good to see you, dear. What can I do for you today?"

Dean smiled fondly at the exuberant middle-aged woman, "I was just looking to get some lunch. What've you got?"

"Today's House Special: a steak, salad and soup combo," she winked, "nice and hearty, just like a young man needs!"

"Yeah?" Dean grinned in response to her antics, "I'll take two, then."

"Two?" She said, looking surprised, before adding, "I'll have you know, I'll not be making you go hungry with just the one serving, they're large enough to fill you up plenty! There's no need for you to eat two."

"Uh," Dean hesitated, "they're not both for me."

Margaret shot him a knowing look, "The nice young lady stayed the night, did she?"

"What?" Dean spluttered, "You mean, Harry?"

Dean was pretty certain he had seen Margaret loitering in the dining area the night before, which meant she very well could have seen Harry head up with him. The only thing about that was that while Dean definitely thought Harry was pretty damn gorgeous, he certainly wouldn't have thought anyone could ever mistake him for a girl.

"Oh!" Margaret peered at Dean, before squinting to say, "I'm sorry, dear, I'm still waiting for my prescriptions to be adjusted; vision's a bit fuzzy at the moment, you see?"

Dean nodded his understanding. Well, that explained it.

"Harry, you said?" Margaret smiled kindly. "From what I saw, you certainly make a nice couple."

Dean felt his face heat up. "It's not—we're not…"

"Oh, hush," Margaret instructed genteelly, "no need to be embarrassed. I've an eye for young love, I'll have you know."

Dean smiled ruefully. She's at least half-right, he supposed. "Yes, Margaret," he diligently agreed.

"Now, let me just get your order and they'll be done in a jiffy!"

Dean sat down to wait. He was sure Harry would be happy for the reprieve, especially as they had a hell of a lot to do once they finished eating and digesting.

You'll be ready, whatever comes. I'll make sure of it.

Ж

By the time dinner arrived that first day, Harry felt as though his muscles had turned to goo. His body trembled as he moved, not enough to be seen, but nevertheless felt.

Dean simply smiled at him knowingly, before laughingly offering Harry the choice of Dean bringing something up for them, or them going down to the adjoining pub to eat.

It was a difficult decision for Harry, wanting to keep Dean to himself was one side of the argument, while the flip side, of course, was the freedom of actually being allowed to leave his room, to not be contained for the entire holidays as he would've been were he still at the Dursleys'. In the end, the latter won out, after all, Dean would be by his side down there anyway.

They headed out into the main corridor, side by side, Dean's hand a burning presence at Harry's back, there at the ready to steady him if need be. Little did Dean know, Harry supposed, but if anything, it made the trembling worse.

Smiling wryly at himself, he hobbled his way down the steps into the foyer of the inn, Dean alternatively teasing and cajoling him each step of the way.

Passing the reception desk, Dean cheerfully greeted the guy manning it, Richard apparently, who heartily replied with a booming, "And a good evening to you too, mi'lad!"

Harry did little more than nod in acknowledgement, feeling too worn, and too distracted by that damn hand, to do anything else.

Breaking left they moved into what appeared to be the dining area. It was rustically furnished, like the rest of the inn, in rich, vibrant colours, and solid timbers. The place wasn't overly crowded, but from what Harry could tell there was much laughter and half-shouted cheering going on.

"Come on then," Dean said, propelling Harry forward from where he'd paused at the threshold. "I'll introduce you to the locals."

Dean said this last bit as if he found it amusing that he, the American, would be doing so, especially seeing as this was the town in which Harry had grown up. Harry could see how it was, sort of. And yet, at the same time, knowing why he'd never had the opportunity to get to know the people of what was meant to be his hometown, tinged Harry's amusement with the slightest streak of melancholy.

Drawing to a stop at the table, Dean grinned widely at the men sitting there. Most of them grinned back, some of them calling for Dean to spare them tonight.

Harry's eyebrows rose at that comment. Looking at them, he realized they must have been talking about playing cards, after all, that's what they were doing.

"Don't worry," Dean said, his smile widening further, "you're safe from me tonight. We're just here for a nice, hot meal, and that's it."

"We?" One of the louder men asked, his bushy eyebrows quirked curiously as he peered intently around Dean's solid form.

Harry, wanting to be polite, quickly shuffled slightly to the side so that he could be properly seen.

"And who's this?" Another of the men demanded, a cigarette hanging precariously from his thin lips.

Harry glanced away from the man, looking to Dean, trying to gauge what he would say. It was hard to see his expression from this angle though.

The surprisingly nonchalant tone came as a surprise, but not nearly as great as the one evoked by Dean's words, which seemed to echo into one of the almost soundless lulls in the room.

"This is my brother."

Harry froze.

Ж

To Be Continued...

Another Word from the Author: Right then. So. Heh. Kind of, uh, cliff-like... /apologizes profusely/ ...but, you know, good things come to those who wait? ...Right?

Anyhow, that said, please do let me know what you thought, yeah? I always look forward to hearing responses from you guys. (I would describe it as a nice buzz, but... that sounds a little addict-like, doesn't it...?) XD

So, until the next chapter...!

Kamikumai.