Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural.

A/N: I should first start off by saying that this was a test and me posting this is a test. I wrote this because I wanted to try my hands at a more serious, angsty story and I uploaded it because I wanted feedback. This idea came to me some time ago, but it just floated in the back of my head for a while. Just recently, however, I decided to give it a try and this was the result of my efforts.

Oh, I also don't know if I will continue this story... Yeah, haha. I tend to want things to be of epic length, so if I get started on it in earnest, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop. I'd much rather this story be very short (like, 5-6 chapter), but I don't think it wants that. Oh well.

This is totally unbeted, so all errors and things are my own. If you could hit that review button telling me what you think after reading, it would be much appreciated.

o0o

Dean's world was Hell, and it had been for as long as he could remember. It felt as if most of his life had been spent on the rack, hooks digging into his flesh and acid being injected into his veins. Most days, he wasn't even lucid enough to think, and when he was, he wished he couldn't. The pain was constant, and when it wasn't, the sound of screams echoing in the distance was a steady fear—a fear that he would be next, that soon his own cries would mix with the other's to form a twisted symphony.

His only saving grace was the kid with green eyes—Harry, he called himself. Just Harry.

When Dean first met him, he thought that he had been in Hell ten, maybe eleven years. He had just been "healed" of his injuries from Alastair, meaning that he was left bloody and broken on the rack, but with all his limbs intact.

Again, as the many days before him, Alastair gave the same proposition, a warped grin on his grotesque face, "Poor, poor Dean… all of this resistance and for what? Whether you agree or not, they'll still be tortured. Better it be you than me, right? So, whaddya say?"

And just like every other time, Dean spat in the demon's face, his own blood mixing with his saliva. "Screw your offer," he choked, baring his teeth in a snarl.

Alastair just laughed, his amusement evident even as he wiped the spittle from his face. "You'll give in eventually… they always do." With those sure words, Alistair gave another quiet laugh and turned on his heel, disappearing in an instant. It was moments later when Dean saw him.

The little kid with the brilliant green eyes.

Dean had never thought he'd see such a vibrant color again, not when all of Hell was darkness and pain and fear—but not this boy. His green eyes still held a spark, a spark that plucked at Dean's heart and reminded him of everything good in the world. It was easy to lose sight of that when you were being tortured in Hell, and rightfully so, but just one look from this kid managed to fill Dean with more hope than he thought was possible.

The boy crept over to where he hung trapped to the rack, glancing around to make sure that no one saw his approach.

Despite the sight of those green eyes, Dean was on guard. This was Hell after all, and wouldn't it be so like a demon to wear the façade of an innocent, only to reveal the sinister truth underneath? Dean wanted to slap himself. The vision of green fields and vibrant trees was wiped from his mind, all that remained once more being the dark presence of Hell.

"You're Dean, right?" the boy asked, biting his lip and staring up at him with curiosity shining in his eyes.

Dean glared, too tired to do much else after his session with Alastair. "Who wants to know?"

The boy grinned, as if he had expected such a response, his green eyes twinkling. "I'm Harry. Just Harry."

"Well then Just Harry," Dean said, mocking the boy's British accent, "what the hell do you want from me?"

Harry laughed and gave a quiet shake of his head. "Nothing," he admitted.

Already Dean found himself growing annoyed at the perky boy. This was Hell; you weren't supposed to be happy, and the sight of someone who was… it was cruel. It was like someone who couldn't walk being forced into a triathlon and having to watch the other contestants as you fell farther and farther behind. The sight of Harry smiling reminded Dean of everything he'd lost, everything he was losing and his dislike was edging toward hate.

Dean once again bared his bloody teeth, lashing out, hoping to inflict just a fraction of the pain he felt onto another. "Then get the fuck outta my face."

That did the trick. The spark from Harry's eyes dimmed and he gave a complacent nod. Before he left, however, he placed a single hand along Dean's abdomen and a white light began to glow. Warmth filled Dean at the touch, but it was different from the sweltering heat that seemed to dampen the very air of Hell. This was an inner-warmth, something peaceful and comforting and Dean gasped at the sensations.

When Harry removed his hand, all of Dean's pains had stopped. No longer did his bones feel brittle and hollow, and no longer did it hurt to simply breath. The wounds of his psyche were still there, but with just his physical aches gone, the fog clouding his mind receded just a bit further backward.

Before Dean could even open his mouth—to thank him? Question him? Dean didn't know—the boy gave him a final look before disappearing. Dean looked around, hoping to find the green eyed boy who had helped him, but the boy was nowhere in sight.

That night—one could never really tell in Hell, so it could have been morning—Dean fell asleep on the rack, memories of green eyes swimming behind his eyelids.

After that, the boy with the green eyes—or Harry, as he'd called himself—would appear every day, becoming a staple on Dean's routine. Wake up, get tortured, refuse Alastair's deal and get healed by Harry. He had no idea how long things continued as they did before he worked up the nerve to stop the boy after he had been healed.

"Wait!" Dean called. Harry paused in his departure, shooting him a blank look. Dean winced under the emptiness of that stare, remembering the green eyed boy whose gaze had sparkled with life, even in such an unforgiving place. "I'm-I'm sorry…"

Harry shifted, his gaze considering as he stared Dean up and down. Dean shivered underneath the stare, helpless to do much else. "What for?" Harry asked, eyes still hard and distant, but Dean saw something that gave him hope.

"For being such an ass. I—thank you…"

There it was. That spark was there, not as vibrant as it had once been, but it was there and that was good enough for Dean. Harry smiled, a tentative thing that Dean returned with his signature grin, smiling for the first time in what very well could have been a decade.

"You're welcome," Harry said, giving a small nod. Before he disappeared this time, he gave Dean another small smile.

For some reason, Dean felt accomplished, as if he had done a great justice by returning the spark that had been in Harry's eyes. He still didn't know who the boy was or why he was in Hell of all places, but maybe… just maybe, Dean felt he could endure—he could stand up to the onslaught of Alastair's torture and refuse his deal time and time again. Then, one day, he would escape. He didn't know how and he didn't know when, but Dean knew that he would.

Once more Dean found his routine changing, but this time for the better. He was still tortured, yes, but at least now he had something to look forward to. Harry was the highlight of his day, and if he wasn't there Dean was sure he would have begun considering taking up Alastair on his offer. He may have continued to resist, but the idea would be in the back of his mind, and the desire to do so would have continued to grow.

But not now—not with Harry. With just a small smile and a glint of life in his eyes, 'Just Harry' was the only thing keeping him from simply falling apart.

"How did you end up in Hell?"

Harry stilled in his efforts of healing him, his eyes growing wide. It was only a moment's hesitation before he resumed his healing, ignoring Dean's gaze with purpose. Once he was done, he took a step back and gave the man a bitter smile. "I killed myself."

Dean gaped, unable to believe that someone as pure and good as Harry was sent to Hell over something so small. Yes, taking your own life was a terrible thing, but when compared to all of the horrible things one could have committed… suicide was on the 'tame' side of things. "Are you kidding me?" Dean asked. "I mean—that's all you did? No murder, raping, pillaging?"

"Nope," Harry denied, snorting at Dean's guesses. He gave a small sigh and turned toward where more tortured screams were sounding from. "I gave up on life. I abandoned those who had faith in me and… this is my punishment. I deserve this…"

"Bullshit!" Harry jumped and turned toward him in shock. "That's a load of bullshit," Dean said again, staring hard into Harry's eyes. "You don't deserve this. I know this won't mean much coming from me, but… you do not deserve this."

Harry gave a quiet laugh and shook his head, his expression showing how unconvinced he was by Dean's speech. "What about you?" Harry asked, brushing a hand through his hair.

"You don't know?" Dean asked, raising a shocked eyebrow. "I figured all the demon's talked about me during tea time."

Again, Harry laughed and Dean basked in the sound of hearing it. Harry bobbed his head in agreement, a playful grin on his face. "Indeed they do, but I'm not one for tea."

Dean joined in on Harry's quiet laughter, his lips quirked up in a small smile. "Well… I sold my soul."

"For magic?" Harry asked, voice hard and something in his eyes flashing.

"What? No." Dean grimaced. "I hate those pea soup spitting sons of bitches—no. I… sold my soul to save my brother's life."

Harry had appeared less than pleased at his pea soup jab, but his eyes once again lightened at the mention of his brother. "Sammy, yes?" Harry questioned with a cute tilt of his head.

Dean pointedly ignored thinking of Harry as 'cute' and instead answered the presented question. "Yeah… I see you follow the demon gossip on him." It was said with a little more venom than he had intended, but Harry didn't seem to notice.

"How can I not?" Harry snorted. "He's practically a local celebrity down here in the pit…"

"He is?" Dean's eyes narrowed and he wracked his brain on why demons would be so interested in his little brother. Harry wore an expression that said he regretted even opening his mouth and Dean stared down at him, gaze imploring. "What do they say about him?"

"Dean—"

"Harry, please."

Harry heaved out a great sigh and chewed on his lip, looking around as if searching for listening ears. "I shouldn't be telling you this," Harry admitted, eyes still darting about, "I shouldn't even be talking to you…" He sighed and returned his gaze once more to Dean. "Your brother is… special."

"Special how?" Dean growled, growing impatient.

"I can't tell you," Harry sighed, not meeting his gaze. Dean snarled and Harry gave him an irritated huff. "I'm sorry, Dean, but I don't want to be killed! If I told you, I would be, no doubt."

Dean wanted to say more, but the pleading look in Harry's eye gave him pause. Harry was still a demon—or at least, he thought so—and he'd always have saving his own hide as his main concern. Dean could understand that, but when it came to matters concerning his brother, nothing else seemed to matter.

"I need to know," Dean pleaded, "Harry, please tell me."

"I'm sorry."

Harry disappeared, and Dean growled as he stared around for the - demon? Human? Angel? Dean didn't know, but he was pissed all the same and struggled against the hooks digging into his flesh, pained cries escaping him. He needed to know! His brother, his poor baby brother who he had abandoned all alone in the human world… The demons were plotting something with him and there was nothing Dean could do about it!

Eventually, with no other choice, he rested against the hooks supporting him, pained gasps leaving him in steady puffs. Blood oozed and trickled from the wounds he inflicted upon himself, but he didn't care. They were comforting. They distracted him from thoughts of Sam and Harry and green eyes.

The next day, Harry didn't appear. Nor did he appear the day after or the day after that.

Dean found his concern for his brother ebbing to the back of his mind and worry for Harry springing forward.

It was days, maybe even months later when Harry came again, green eyes dull and black hair hanging like a lifeless animal into his eyes. Dean was quiet as he let Harry come up to him and heal him, and when the boy drew back Dean spoke.

"What happened to you?" Dean asked, ice creeping into his stomach at the sight of Harry's dim gaze.

Harry gave a snort and brushed his hair from his face with trembling fingers. "Alastair."

Dean winced, more pained by that simple word than any torture Alastair had performed on him that day. "I'm sorry…"

"It's not your fault," Harry sighed, turning away from him. "I was already walking a fine line by talking to you and healing you. Giving you information…" The boy trailed off, but Dean didn't need the rest to be said. By just telling him that Sam was 'special', Harry had been tortured for days on end, and Dean was now staring at the result.

Guilt began eating away at Dean's insides, leaving him feeling empty and hollow. He shouldn't have asked. He should have left well enough alone and not pressured Harry into something that he had been reluctant against doing. "I'm sorry," he apologized again, wanting Harry to know how much he really meant it.

However, instead of being pacified, Harry turned toward him with a snarl, his face twisting into something that was truly demonic. He still looked human yes, but the anger and pain in his gaze –it was so different from Harry's usual cheeky expression that Dean reared back in shock. "I said it's not your fault!"

Dean opened his mouth to once again apologize, but he closed it with a snap, shutting his eyes to block out the frightening image of Harry's face. That wasn't Harry—that wasn't his Harry. That was the demon that had been tortured for days on end and was lashing out with the intent to hurt. Dean knew that desire quite well as he had done the same thing after all.

So that was why he knew. Harry still had humanity; he wasn't yet a demon who had lost all semblance of ever once being human. Harry could laugh without it being cruel, Harry could smile in true innocence and the being before him was not Harry.

It just couldn't be.

The demon drew in a deep breath, and by the sound of their voice Dean knew that Harry was back. "I'm sorry…"

"No," Dean said, opening his eyes. "No…"

Harry tried to smile, but it fell flat and he shook his head. "I'm sorry Dean, but…"

Dean nodded, showing that he understood. Harry gave another tired smile before disappearing.

From that moment on, Dean vowed that he would do everything in his power to bring by the angelic version of Harry and he would make sure the demon version never returned. If he were to be honest with himself, the demonic Harry frightened him and reminded him of just how twisted and ugly hell made you. But angelic Harry… he gave Dean hope. Hope that he could survive this place with his sanity intact. Hope that if he ever left, he would be human and not some monster who thrived on other people's misery.

Because Dean knew he would leave. If he thought otherwise he didn't think he could manage. And when he left, he knew for certain that Harry would leave with him. Harry reminded him of how to be human, which was something Dean never wanted to forget.