Disclaimer: It's still not mine.

Rating: M

Pairing: Dean/Fem!Harry

Summary: Someone gets their ass kicked, someone finds what they were looking for, and Sam continues being a whiny teenager.

Author's Note: What's this, an update? Yes, it is. Feast your eyes. I'm not great at updating, as you may all notice. However, I promise I won't abandon this story. There is a plot, and I like it. Things are going to start getting epic. At some point. Also, someone pointed out that I messed up the months last chapter. I'm terrible at numbers. That's my only excuse. I'll fix it once I wrap my head around it. Promise.

Thank you for all your reviews. You guys keep me ashamed enough to write.

And now, Bon Appetit!

There was something in Dean's throat that wouldn't let him breathe. Every casual move demon-Harry made felt like a punch to the sternum. Her smiles turned his stomach; the tilt of her hips filled him with guilt. Dad was stuck to the wall. His arms were bound and his chest was heaving. He kept giving Dean that pointed glare, the one that said: shoot her, dumbfuck.

But Dean couldn't, because it was Harry.

"Meg?" He spat, desperate. He could see the strain on his father's body, the beads of sweat that stung at his eyes. Bravado had always been Dean's back-up. "What sort of shitty-ass name is that?"

Meg looked at him through Harry's eyes. She seemed amused. "Cool down, Junior. I'll deal with you later."

She flicked her fingers and he went flying, overturning the table and slamming against the wall with a thump. An invisible force kept him up, pressing into him like a steel band across his ribs; he could feel his skin stretching as gravity tried to pull him down. The tips of his boots didn't reach the floor.

With sweaty hands, he fumbled with the shotgun's grip, hooking his finger around the trigger in order to keep it in his grasp. He could see Sam hunkering down behind the overturned table, trying to fold his body into a small ball. The poor kid looked about ready to double himself: staring at Dean with a clammy face. His eyes flickered to the shotgun and back, but Dean turned away.

Meg gave him a small smile.

"Now Mr. Winchester." Her eyes snapped towards Dad. She placed a hand on her hip. "A friend of mine said you were looking for me."

"You demons are all the same to me," Dad said.

"Are we?" Meg laughed and Dean couldn't help bucking against the invisible restraints. Her laugh was just like Harry's. "Is that why you were asking specifically for a Duke of Hell? Oh, John. If you want to make a deal all you need to do is ask. We'll send out our best -our brightest, just for you." She eyed Dad's reddening face with a patronizing smirk. "But somehow, I don't think that's what you're after. Let me guess... You want to know who killed your wife?" She rolled her eyes. "John, John, John, after all these years, you're still pining after that barbecue?"

"Why don't you come say that to my face?" Dad spat, eyes looking wild.

Dean flicked his gaze towards Sam, staying any stupid decisions with a look. The kid looked murderous, but thankfully his ass was parked on the floor. If worst came to worst, Dean still had the shotgun.

"And step on the Devil's Trap under the carpet?" She cocked her hips. "I don't think so, Papa John."

"What do you want then?" Dad asked.

With a little twitch, Dean fixed the nozzle of the sawed-off so that it pointed towards Meg. He could feel his hand trembling from the strain, soft flesh digging against the plaster and the grip. One shot and his hand would be pulp. But one shot would be all he needed.

Meg spread her hands. The laces of Harry's boots tapped against the floor as she circled the carpet. "Just want to end it," she said. "You've had a good run, but it's about time you retired, old man." With a clench of her fists Dad started choking, chest heaving and eyes bugging. The heels of his boots dug into the wall, leaving tracks of mud and spreading cracks like veins. "Don't worry, we'll take care of your kids. Dean's quite the looker, I'm sure we could find some use for him. And Sam... well he has potential."

Dad's face twisted with hate; the skin under his beard was turning red. They'd been through demon attacks before, skirmishes that ended with broken bones gained by hightailing and some civilian's trashed living room. But Demons had never come to them; they'd never followed them home and caught them with their bellies up. Now Dad was choking to death and Dean was pussyfooting over the trigger. Bile lodged itself in his throat; he tightened his grip on the gun.

"You're going to shoot me?" Meg looked at him with Harry's eyes. Behind her, Dad gasped in relief. He sounded like a drowning man. Meg sauntered closer, hips swaying. "While I'm wearing this? Tut-tut, Junior, and here I though you actually liked this piece of ass."

Dean grit his teeth and watched Meg smooth her hands down Harry's arms, she slid them up her hips, fingertips catching the hem of her shirt, pulling it up to reveal a pale stomach and a silver scar above a hipbone. Dean had kissed that scar, he'd licked and made love to it while Harry laughed somewhere above.

He wanted to kill that demon.

"Personally, I quite like this meat suit." She cupped Harry's breasts and squeezed. "It's nice, and so strong. It feels like I'm riding an electrical current; there's something buzzing under my skin." She shivered. "You sure know how to pick 'em. All these secrets... I'm guessing she hasn't told you about the ex-husband?" Meg smiled, all nasty knowledge and curling lips. She crowded close to Dean, fingering the edges of his shirt. "I hate to break it to you, Junior, but you're trailer-park trash without the trailer compared to him. He has what, three -no, four titles? Houses all around the world. He was crazy about her, too." Black eyes fixed on Dean. They seemed oddly still, shimmering along the edges with some indefinable emotion. His finger tightened around the trigger -not pressing down, but a present threat in his mind.

When she spoke, her voice was a grating whisper, "But he had to cut her loose. Your girlfriend is trash, just like you-"

She stopped, eyes wide and chocking on her words. "What-"

The tight bands holding Dean up splintered and broke; he hit the floor on his feet. Dad grunted from the other side of the room and Dean heard the cock of a gun and the click of the safety latch.

Harry's face seemed strangely still. She clutched her head, stumbling backwards with jerky movements, knocking against the table and overturning a chair. When her heels touched the carpet she gave a full-body shudder and fell to her knees.

"Shoot it!" Sam said.

Dean's hand twitched around the sawed-off. He kept his eyes on Harry's pale face, on the black and green flicker of her eyes. Dad's gun was cocked at the back of Harry's head, just on the edge of Dean's vision. He knew Sam wasn't talking to him.

Dad grunted, lowering his gun. "Won't do a damn bit of difference," he said.

Dean let out a rushing sigh. He felt weak all over, shaky in the absence of pounding adrenalin. He watched Dad right a chair and take a seat, flipping through his journal.

"What do you mean, it won't make a difference?" Sam asked. He hadn't turned away from Harry's shaking form.

"It's a demon, kid. Shooting it will only hurt the girl," he said, all gruff impatience. "Right now it's trapped and powerless. We've got to exorcise it."

Dean thought back to all the things he'd heard about demons: salt kept the supernatural out, Dad's training had drilled that in, and when in doubt mutter 'Christo'. Anything that flinched at Jesus' name was bound to be cooky.

"Devil's trap, is it?" Dean asked. Harry's body reared at the words, acting like a skittish, blind animal. A sheen of sweat popped on her skin.

Dad nodded. "Pentagram with protective Christian symbols. Traps them like nothing else." He found a page on his journal and dragged his chair over to the edge of the carpet. Harry turned to look at him through sweaty eyelashes.

"Wait, you had to draw it, right?" Sam said, stepping forward, eyebrows twitching. "Under the carpet."

"Course I did, boy."

"Then you knew it would come. You planned this out!" Sam said, voice escalating. "This was a trap the whole time."

Dean stilled and waited for Dad's answer. No way Dad would endanger them like that: pulling them into a hunt they knew nothing about.

"It was necessary."

Dean's stomach dropped.

Dad pulled out a flask, splashing Harry's face. Her skin sizzled and smoked. She scratched at it with short nails, eyes leaking unto the carpet.

"Wake up, demon," Dad said. He sprayed her some more, watching her convulse as if it were on TV, not up close at his feet. "I know devil's traps don't weaken you that much, so cut the bullshit."

She stared at him with a blank, smoking face. "Fuck you, John," she said. The words sounded as if they'd been dragged out of her throat by force; Meg's accent. Until her head snapped back and her eyes flashed green. "No, fuck you, Meg."

Harry. That was Harry's accent.

Dad reared back. "What in the Hell?"

Dean took a step forward. He'd never seen a trapped demon before, but he reckoned most of the hosts didn't put up as much of a fight as Harry. He felt a surge of affectionate pride on top of everything else. This was his girl: the ass-kicker.

"She's fighting it," Dean said. He watched her shake on the round carpet, muscles tensing while sweat dripped down her nose and drenched her shirt. "We need to help her, Dad!"

"We need to question it, Dean."

The world stopped. With shaky limbs he turned towards Dad, staring at the hard line of his lips.

"What?" Dean asked.

Dean's clean trust in Dad suddenly splintered and cracked; he felt the fracture like the pain of a breaking bone, the crunch of his hero-worship on the sidewalk. He looked back at Harry.

She stared right back.

Sam rushed forwards, fists trembling at his side. "You can't just torture someone," he said, with enough outrage to end world hunger.

Dad sighed. "I don't want to torture no one, boy. But this here demon has information that we need." He sprayed more holy water onto Harry's face. "Dean, take your brother for a walk."

"I'm not going to just take a walk, Dad," Sam said, crouching by the carpet. The tips of his fingers sunk into the fuzzy edge. "You can't do this."

"You seemed mighty keen on shooting the girl just a minute ago."

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam redden; he didn't give a fuck. A trickle of blood left Harry's nose. Her eyes were blank, neither telling nor asking. He felt strangely calm.

"Dad," Dean said. The voices stopped. "Please don't hurt her."

Dad frowned. "Dean-"

Dean tapped the sawed-off against his thigh. There was something hard on his face. "I said no." He picked up the journal from the floor, scanning through Dad's shitty cursive. A Latin exorcism; basic stuff. His Latin was crappy, but serviceable.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus."

"Dean," Dad said, in his gruff soldier's voice.

Dean kept going, moving so that he was out of Dad's reach. He could feel the burn of Harry's gaze on his face: demon black and grass green. He could see the whites of her eyes when she was human.

"Dean. Listen to me, boy."

Harry's limbs shook, veins crawling up her grayed skin. She tried to reach the edge of the circle, fingers ghosting over Sam's hand, before retracting with a hiss.

"Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine."

Harry keened.

Dad stood up, plastic motel chair falling dead behind him. He clutched his clunky Glock tight. "Dean, have you any idea how long it took me to get this demon?" Dad said, loud and rough. Dean could taste the desperation in his father's words. But Harry was writhing on the carpet, blinking darkened eyes and gnashing sharp teeth. Blood was seeping out of her mouth.

"He can't stop, Dad," Sam said. He was standing next to Dad, holding down the hand carrying the G30.

Kudos, Sammy.

"This is the girl," Sam said, just as Dean stumbled through: "Terribilis Deus de sanctuario suo."

"The girl I was telling you about, Dad," Sam said earnestly. The kid had that look down pat. "Dean's girlfriend. Don't hurt her."

Dad was shaking, and Dean didn't have the balls to look up. He kept his focus on the journal, on the soft leather at his fingers, on Harry's gasping face. He watched her get on all fours, hacking on the carpet. It was unattractive, but Dean had seen worse; he didn't have to remind himself that this was the girl that smoothed his hair when he placed his head on her lap, the girl that roughhoused with him in her delicate living room. This was Harry coughing up blood and tears.

"Benedictus deus," Dean said. He heard Dad growl something unintelligible. Harry stilled."Gloria patri."

A torrent of black smoke pushed itself out of Harry's mouth, bending her neck at an impossible angle. Dean had seen demon smoke before, what Hunter hadn't? But up close and personal the smoke was darker than in the pictures: thicker, like 3-D brushstrokes slamming into the ceiling. Dusty ash rained down, darkening the area around the devil's trap.

When it stopped, Harry closed her mouth and crumpled onto the carpet, eyes glassy.

"Mr. Winchester," Harry said, voice wrecked but blessedly hers. All eyes turned towards her. Dean was the only one smiling. "Er -John. Just so you know, I don't make it a habit of hosting demons. Ghastly first impression."

Dean's smile widened into a grin. It was easy to ignore the scent of sulfur and irony blood; he had years worth of practice. With a gentle hand he helped her stand, catching her as she swayed.

"You OK?" Dean asked, scanning her face. There were flecks of blood around her mouth and shadows in her eyes. The grey-tinge of her skin had lightened to a deathly pale.

"I'm fine," she said, grip white-knuckled on his arm. He could tell she was lying.

"Dean," Dad said, eyes wild. "Outside, now." He picked up the gun bag as well as his duffel, slinging them on each shoulder. His boots made the foundations shudder as he stomped outside.

"Sammy," Dean said. But Sam had already moved to Harry's other side.

Kid was quick with the ladies.

Sam cupped Harry's elbow, Sasquatch hands swallowing half her arm. He wore his bashful smile.

"Hi. Harry, right?" Sam said. He sat Harry on the bed and shook her hand. "Sam, pleased to meet you."

Dean watched a small smile blossom on Harry's face; he could trust Sam to take care of her.

Outside, he found Dad by the bed of his truck, arms braced and face hidden in shadow.

"What in the Hell did you think you were doing in there, boy?" Dad asked. His eyes were red-rimmed.

"Saving people, Dad. It's what we do." Dean knew he was being mouthy, and Dad wasn't one to stand being disrespected.

"You think this is a game?" Dad turned, jaw-locked and crowding into Dean's space. "That hunting is just some cool sport you can show off to your floozies?"

"No. Dad, I would've done the same thing regardless-"

"Really, boy? What would you have cared if the demon had possessed a trucker, huh?"

"It's not -Dad, you can't just torture people!" Dean said.

Dad's lips thinned. "It was necessary," he said tightly. "There are bigger things at work here: dangerous things. I needed that information, Dean. Family always comes first."

"And no one got hurt!" Dean said. He could feel a lump of something resting in his throat. Why didn't Dad understand?

"You chose that girl over your father," Dad said.

"No, I didn't! Harry didn't deserve it," Dean said, "she's a good person."

"So was Mary," Dad snapped. He looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. "You don't know what you have in your hands, Dean, she could've invited the demon in; she could be a witch. Think with your brain."

"She's not a witch; I trust her," Dean said. He could see the twitch in Dad's eye, and the clench of his fists. Dad wouldn't give an inch. Weariness sagged Dean's shoulders. Things had always been fucked up in his family, but he'd always been able to trust Dad. And now... "It's saving people first, Dad, hunting things second," Dean said quietly. He couldn't meet Dad's eyes, but he could feel the burn of his gaze.

"You and your brother can take a breather," Dad said, pushing past Dean. He climbed into the driver's seat, stomping so hard the truck shook. "I'll come back in a couple of months, when you've gotten your head back on straight." He eyed Dean with his hands gripped around the wheel. "Take care of your brother."

He slammed the door in Dean's face and drove away.

Well fuck you too, Dad.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dean headed back into the room. He could see Sam framed in the open door, the sawed-off he'd dropped on the bed and the chunky pool of blood staining the carpet.

This was gonna be damn hard to explain.

"I packed our stuff," Sam said, wearing Bitch Face Number Three: concern. "The guy from the office came by. He ran off before I could say anything."

Fucking Kevin.

"We gotta skip." Dean rubbed a hand over his face. It was turning out to be a long-ass night. "Right, pile the things in the car. Harry?"

"She passed out." Sam stepped aside, and Dean caught sight of Harry, limbs akimbo, looking like she'd died.

"Did the-"

"Yeah he saw her." Sam hefted one of the duffels on his shoulder, tucking the sawed-off into his jacket.

"Nosy little shit," Dean said.

He threw Sam the car keys and packed his own duffel in the Impala's trunk. Between them they carried Harry over to the backseat, arranging her awkwardly on the bench.

Sam shifted. "So I was thinking, since it's your girlfriend-"

"-Harry's not my girlfriend-"

"-Maybe I could drive?" He looked down at Dean tentatively, exploiting the full power of his puppy dog eyes. Dean felt a wave of relief. At least the kid looked okay; he wouldn't be able to take it if Sam had been as pissed off as Dad.

One fuck up was enough for today, thank you very much.

"Hell, no. You're riding with Harry, bitch," Dean said. "Make sure she's ok." He swung open the driver's door and sank into the leather. Behind, he heard Sam snap the door shut, laying Harry's head gently on his lap. An indefinable emotion tugged his lips into a smile. He wasn't content or anywhere near happy, but he was glad that Sam liked Harry.

He just wasn't sure why yet.

"So, uh, where are we going?" Sam asked, as Dean pulled out of the parking lot.

"Harry's."

The woods were dark and unlovely, cold with an early winter. He hadn't seen a streetlamp for miles. The dark looked dangerous within the forest: hostile. He knew the tingle in his spine well, first from the damp shittiness in 'Nam and later from twenty years hunting things that didn't exist.

He wasn't welcome here.

"What do you think you gonna get done here, Johnny?" Mary asked.

John kept his eyes on the patch of yellow road, feeling the truck rattle under him and his flask rattle in his hand. A vicious part of him imagined the alcohol rattled inside him, too.

"Nothing," he said. His voice wasn't as clear as hers.

"Then why are you here?"

"Still have to try, don't I?" From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of her legs: pale and curled beneath her. He hated it when she wore the white nightgown.

"Stubborn man."

John parked the truck just inside the gravel driveway, as far as the dark would let him without swallowing him whole. He heard the engine pop, and leather creaking as he shifted. The Jack in the flask was cold.

The damn agents had told him where the girl lived: middle of fucking nowhere, creepy woods, Massachusetts. Staring at the driveway he couldn't help thinking that he'd been duped. The line had been scratchy when he called their department; he'd given them a description of the girl and they'd barked the sort of laugh John heard from older hunters. You're in for a nasty surprise, hunter. Don't go up the driveway; she's got wards that could fry a dragon. She'll come to you.

Fucking wizards. What in God's name was the government doing messing with magicals anyway?

"That alcohol of yours gonna get you killed one day," Mary said. She turned her head, hair messy like it used to be on sunny Sunday mornings, and looked out the window. She had no reflection.

"Sorry, Darlin'."

"Darlin' my ass. If you die and leave my babies alone, Johnny Winchester, I'll haunt you forever. " She turned back, poking him on the chest. He imagined he felt it: a small pain and the warmth of her finger through his shirt. But she wasn't there; Mary was never there. It was just the alcohol and the loneliness and a little bit of crazy.

"You already haunt me."

Mary looked sad. "That I do," she said and disappeared.

The car was fucking cold.

When the girl appeared, she looked annoyed, wearing boots and flannel pajamas. She slid out of the darkness as if it were a curtain. John hated them types: theatrical and selfish. Bunch of weirdoes.

He stepped out of the truck and onto the gravel, getting smacked in the face by the wind. The girl was pale, like a ghost in the dark. She made a shiver run up his spine.

"You're breaking and entering, Mr. Winchester." She said, politely.

"Am I?" John said. "Looks like an abandoned driveway to me."

She looked at him pointedly and slipped her glasses up her nose.

"I got your address from the Department of Pest Control," he said, straight to the chase. "They were real friendly. Said all sorts of things."

"Yes, I reckon they did. Magical Control is always very helpful." Her stance widened. "Nonetheless, you are still trespassing."

He ignored her, leaning against the car. "You have my boys," he said.

"I do," the girl said. She had one of them death sticks strapped to her forearm. "It doesn't seem like you quite listened to the agents."

"Oh, I did. They said you were dangerous."

She nodded sharply. "Henrietta Potter, Magical Secret Intelligence Service."

John catalogued her then, with military precision: small, compact, relies on her left side, possible wound on right knee, leaves her flank open -trap, heavy set stance, relaxed and fluid. Trained killer.

"Fancy title you got there," he said. He never knew when to keep his trap shut, that's what Mary'd said anyways. "What's a girlie like you messin' around in the government for?"

"Misogyny is bad form, Mr. Winchester," she said. A cold wind shuttered through her pajamas. She didn't even blink. "But to answer your question: I was stationed here to keep an eye out for certain war criminals: dangerous men. I suppose I should thank you for terminating one of them. Fenrir Greyback?"

"The werewolf?" He clenched his jaw at her nod. "Wasn't like any wolf I've seen."

"He wouldn't be."

"Bunch of weirdoes."

"Not the first time I've heard that." She smiled tightly. There was something strong and horrible about the girl. John could see it in the looseness of her stance, and the gritty set of her full mouth; Henrietta was the charade of a delicate girl, all fire underneath. Just like Mary. "Now, pardon me, Mr. Winchester," she said, turning on her heel, "I must reset my wards-"

"What do you want with my sons?" He asked, gruff and loud. No way he was letting the damn witch get away.

"I don't want anything," she said. Half her face was cast in shadow. "Your son Dean is my friend. That is all."

"You expect me to swallow that?"

"You may swallow anything you want," she said, "that's not the reason you're here though."

"You were taken by something dark tonight," John said, falling back into the habit of talking to civilians. Plain folk had to be eased into the supernatural, they couldn't be shoved in the dark and expected to swim.

"Don't patronize me." She tossed her head like an angry bull, annoyed for the first time. Her eyes were glittery in the dark. "You want to know about the demon. Right, 'course you do. Let's hear it, then."

"My wife, she was killed." He clenched his fists, wishing he could just reach into his pocket and take out his flask. Some jack sounded good right about now, some jack and a shotgun. "The demon must've known who done it."

She eyed him. "What makes you think-"

"Don't." John could feel his face redden with anger. "Don't you fuckin'..." He took a deep breath. "Magical Control says you're powerful. I saw you fight the thing with mine eyes. You know who killed my wife."

She stared at him.

He wiped the cold sweat on his palms with his jeans. "If that don't convince you, then... I'm willing to deal."

"I'm not some bloody demon," she snapped. The frosty air crackled around them. "But I'll tell you. On a life vow."

"Fuck your vow!" He stomped his way closer, shoving the girl a step or two backwards. He could see Mary on the sidelines, body flickering in and out of existence. She looked angry and sad. There was a red stain on her stomach. "Almost twenty years," he said, choking towards the end. There were no tears; John Winchester couldn't cry anymore. Instead, he felt the trickle of Mary's ghostly hand on his cheek, and the kisses she used to press against his forehead. "Tell me," he said, voice like the growl of a pained animal.

The girl looked up at him, face like stone. Up close she almost didn't seem human. "For a life vow."

"Fuck-" He hadn't been this angry since Mary...since Mary -or maybe even since 'Nam. "What do you want?"

Her damned stick snapped into her palm. The thing was dark like sin; it looked like a bone. She tapped it to her wrist. "On my life, I vow to tell John Winchester the name of the one who killed his wife, so long as he vows not to include his sons in his revenge."

John's vision went red. He'd never hit a woman that wasn't a monster, but his fist flew by its own accord, hitting nothing but air and darkness. "My son would never forgive you for taking away his chance for revenge."

The girl stood to his left, glare scarier than all the Charlies put together in his twenties. "Rubbish," she hissed. And fuck if he didn't see Mary for a minute, spitting fire at him for coming home drunk. "Dean doesn't deserve to be brought into this; he didn't even deserve the life you gave him. Revenge is individual, John Winchester. Stop being a bloody git and get on with it."

"How would you know?" He shouted. "You're just a girl."

"Shake my hand and make the vow."

She waited patiently while John thought. He could feel Mary's phantom grip on his forearm. The wind sounded like her last screams.

He took the girl's hand. "I won't tell the boys nothing about my revenge, as long as they're in no danger..." He paused. Her eyes were as green as Mary's. "And as long as you don't tell them you're a witch."

A blue band of light wound itself around their hands, tightening, tightening, crushing their knuckles together, until it dispersed in a shower of sparks. Her hand slipped out of his like water. She was pale with anger.

"You're a right bastard, Winchester," she said. Gravel crunched under her boots.

"I don't want my sons messing with your type of magic."

"Oh, yes very decent," she said, "what about when they're contacted by the DMC? Your sons are hunters, Winchester. They'll either rattle the system enough to warrant an intervention or they'll kill a wizard by mistake and get sent to prison. And trust me, Wizarding prisons are considerably worse than their muggle counterparts."

"All that's got nothing to do with you telling them you're a witch." He watched her face fall. Shadows licked the downturn of her lips.

"What if they see me do magic?"

"Then you're fucked."

She looked angry enough to leave, to stomp away into the dark and leave him hanging. She'd made a vow; her life depended on it, even. But he didn't trust nobody not to backstab him, and the girl hadn't said when she'd tell him.

"It was a demon," she said, without looking at him. Her eyes were on the lightening sky. "Top tier, quite dangerous. Goes by the name: Azazel. You won't be able to summon him without the appropriate ritual."

He felt something build up inside: a powerful pressure on his lungs, the stillness of his muscles. He'd waited for this moment for twenty years. Finally, finally. "Which is?"

"Not my problem." Her gaze was flinty. "Additionally, you won't be able to kill him with a conventional weapon -and no, don't bother asking. I won't say a word."

"Do you know what it is?" His voice was a hiss.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Winchester. I believe I've said quite enough."

She strapped her wand back and turned to leave. Desperation clawed at him from inside. He needed more. Gravel crunched under his boot, he stretched his hand to catch her, but she slipped away.

"Tell me."

"No," she said and disappeared into the shadows.

Fuck, fuck. He climbed back into his truck, barely feeling the cold seats. The flask shook in his hands. "Fucking bitch."

"Don't be rude." Mary was sitting next to him again, wearing the blue dress she'd worn when he proposed. "She helped you didn't she? Gave you more than you asked for, too. Now you know where to start," she said, braiding her hair.

He started the engine, focus finally narrowing to a target. "Now I know where to start."

November 1999

The first week, Sam couldn't sleep.

The bed was too comfortable, smelling of feathers and silk. The curlicues on the ceiling made him dizzy at three in the morning. The walls were too thick and the house too silent.

He never thought he'd have a problem living in a house, especially one as nice as Harry's. It was what he'd always wanted. And anything was better than living out of the Impala, than waking up to the sound of screaming or cars rattling down the street. Sam hated the motel rooms of their life, with their stained ceilings and dirty sheets. They had thin walls and bad memories. Sam wished he could forget both.

If only he could sleep-

- but he couldn't. So he snuck out of his room on the second night.

The sitting room was the size of a small church, with a vaulted ceiling and pretty porcelain vases. It had high, crystal windows that faced east and the most massive fireplace Sam had ever seen.

It was only by accident that he found the book, shoved between the cushions of a love seat. It said Calvino on the cover, and Lily Evans on the inside, in round girl-writing. The pages were thin and creased, the print smudged in places, as if someone had read and loved it. He ran his fingers over the ragged edge, and took a seat by the window.

The sky outside was a predawn blue, a deep color that reminded him sleepy nights spent on the road, feeling the rumbling of wheels through leather and the gruff whispers of his brother's voice. Dean always told the best fairy tales.

"Kublai Khan does not necessarily believe everything Marco Polo says when he describes the cities visited on his expeditions..."

The night sky lightened as Sam turned the pages: from indigo to a pale grey, shot through with a flash of yellow. Dew crept over the gardens, misting the windows before disappearing at the first signs of orange and pink.

At first, Sam didn't really hear them. Harry's voice was whispery most of the time, as if she'd grown up living in the dark. It was Dean's that stood out: rough even when he was trying to be quiet. It sounded like they were out in the hall, maybe but not really fighting.

Sam wondered if this was how it ended. Sooner or later Dean would push Harry away, just like he'd done with all his other girlfriends. Hunting always got in the way of everything else. Sam was sick of it.

Screw Dean. Harry was too smart for him anyway.

"...true?" Dean asked.

There was a pause; probably Harry speaking. Sam put down the book and slunk his way across the room, winding around the filigreed tables and chaise lounges with the trained precision of the snoopy. He'd left the door ajar earlier, and through the slit Sam could see them: Dean in boxers and a T-shirt, crowding Harry against the banister.

"What the demon said about you being married. Was it true?"

Sam stilled.

His safest bet was to retreat back into the room and pretend he'd never heard anything. But Christ, he was curious. Sam wasn't snooping; it was just hard to curb his inquisitiveness.

"Divorced, actually." Harry's face creased into a frown. "I thought it might frighten you off. I married him a couple of years ago: a mistake. The divorce came through in January."

"A mistake?" Dean said.

"We split; It didn't work out." She admitted. "I knew about the supernatural and he didn't."

"You know-"

"Yes, yes: demons, werewolves, goblins, what have you. I'm aware," she said, "A bit foolish of me to think that they wouldn't follow me here, though."

"I knew you were a hunter," Dean's voice was whispery, hopeful bordering on reverential. He smoothed a hand up her arm, resting it on the curve of her shoulder. "You look like you've had training."

"Training? Yes, I suppose."

Her eyes were focused on Dean, hypnotic. She shifted against the railing, somehow closer to Dean yet further away. Sam realized -Sam could tell now. Harry moved like Dad, all contained limbs and flowing muscles. No wonder Dean was drooling after her, she was everything he wanted: a female hunter.

Something dark twisted in Sam's stomach. He'd thought Dean was finally settling into normal, that he'd have a chance, that Sam would have a chance.

What a waste.

Dean's fingers tangled smoothly into Harry's hair, thumb tracing patterns on her bottom lip.

"I was going to say..." Dean paused. The tips of his ears turned bright red. "I was planning on leaving today, but I don't... I don't really want to."

"You can stay." Harry's pale arms wrapped around Dean's middle. "Stay."

Dean's silence was thoughtful. Sam knew his brother well enough to know that he was battling between his desire to stay with a girl that seemed perfect and his ridiculous ideas of family unity. Idiot. He should know that Sam would rather stay than squat in some dingy hole somewhere.

"I'm sorry about the demon," he said, "we dragged you into it. I guess it would be all right to stay, and... and help you out."

Sam rolled his eyes. Help her out... right. The most they could do was team up and line the house with salt, but with a house that big, who knew? He shook his head and moved back into the room. He'd heard all he needed to know. They were staying.

He picked up the book and started where he'd left off, falling into the story with Harry's muffled whispers in the background. It was only at a sharp knock on the door that he jumped. He could see Harry's profile through the crack between the doors, bright and young and amused. She wasn't looking at him.

"Next time you choose to eavesdrop, Sam, please do so in a more covert manner."

He was not eavesdropping; Sam Winchester did not eavesdrop.

Harry left before he could embarrass himself with spluttering.

Staying at Harry's was weird, Sam decided. Nothing had really changed in his life: he still went to school in clothes thinned from washing, Dean still bitched whenever he wanted to hang out with his friends, the SAT's were still lurking around the corner and he had to push his G.P.A half a point up or else. But besides that, it was strange to walk around a house where he could hear his own footsteps rather than traffic, where a pretty girl cooked his breakfasts and smiled whenever she caught sight of the ninety-eight's scrawled on his tests. He studied in rooms filled with lights, on expensive desks or on smooth kitchen tables where a rickety old lady kept his cup full of tea. Reading was done in the library, on a stiff armchair tucked in an alcove between the stacks. He spent hours there, pouring over Lily Evan's book. It was short; by rights Sam should've finished it already. But he'd never gotten the hang of post-modernism and he kept trying to find obscure meanings in the words.

Sometimes he hated his brain.

On a cool Saturday Sam sat in his chair, basking in the sunlight from a narrow window. Dean had left for work earlier, sticking his tongue down Harry's throat in plain view for all to see. As if Sam wanted to see him get to second base with their host. Don't tell me you're uncomfortable with PDA, Sammy. Shut up, Dean. Harry had blushed once his brother left, licking kiss-swollen lips and excusing herself with a smile. Sam was not asking her where she was going.

Instead he smoothed down the pages of Lily Evan's book and read away the morning.

"Mum sent me."

What? Sam looked around: the library was empty. With heated cheeks he remembered Harry's words about eavesdropping. Sam was not eavesdropping this time. He was just sitting. Sitting was probably within his Constitutional rights.

"Of course she did." Harry.

Sam looked out the window, watching Harry amongst the swirls of flowers and overhanging leaves of her indoor courtyard. She sat at her garden table, legs primly crossed, sipping from a dainty cup. A man sat across from her, tall with a shock of red hair and a strange purple suit. He was leaning forward, elbows dangerously close to upsetting the teapot.

"Quite frankly I expected you sooner," Harry said.

"Didn't see the point in it." The man moved back, deftly avoiding the teapot. "Your hand went from Possessed to Fine quick as you please."

Sam frowned, perching himself on the chair's arm to get a better view. Her hand? What in the- In the past week he'd known Harry, Sam hadn't suspected her of a thing. She always looked earnest when she spoke, natural. Just like Dean. Watching her sit ramrod straight, with pinched lips and an uplifted chin, he couldn't see a speck of the girl who'd giggled through Dean's kisses just this morning.

"Draco's looking for you," The man said. They'd been silent for a while, both drinking their tea while looking the other way.

"Yes, Neville told me."

"He's set to marry Astoria Greengrass next month. You remember her from school? Small, blonde."

"I received the invitation back in August," Harry said. She set her teacup in its saucer, angling it just right. "Don't know what he was thinking."

"They'll have very blonde kids." The man poured her more tea. "Will you go?"

"No. That'll just make things worse."

"I don't think things can get worse -for her, at least. Mum's had Mrs. Malfoy over for tea. The woman hates the girl. She hasn't gotten used to your divorce."

Sam flopped back into the armchair. Well that was getting boring; he'd never been one for stakeouts anyway. He picked up the book, flipping over to his page and attempting to read, but the words swam in front of his eyes, meaningless. He couldn't stop himself from listening in.

He was an eavesdropper.

"The Prophet's been gossiping again. Draco went to the last Ministry gala alone. They're saying he won't consider Astoria his true wife. His mother certainly won't."

"Why are you telling me this, George?" Harry said. Sam didn't know her well enough to tell, but he thought her voice sounded tight.

"I don't know," George said, "probably because you're as lonely as I am."

Sam craned his neck, looking out the window just in time to catch Harry break her icy exterior with a small smile.

"I'm not lonely anymore, George."

George didn't answer, letting the conversation fall into tense silence. Sam watched Harry sip her tea, hair drifting around her face like an ink stain. After a while he realized that rather than being tense, the silence was simply sad. Sad and longing.

It reminded him of Dad.

George stood. "Best get back to the shop," he said. He extracted a tan envelope from his jacket -how did that fit there?- And placed it next to the teapot.

"Percy looked annoyed when he gave me this. Apparently you don't get mail here. Kingsley relegated him to office boy."

"Did you read it?"

"It wasn't sealed," George said, giving her a half-hearted smile.

"What is it then?"

"You'll like it, I think: Vampires."

Harry's grin made the bottom of Sam's stomach drop. It was the same sort of grin Dean got at the possibility of a hunt.

"I'll see you out?"

"Don't bother." George waved and left through an archway, heading back inside.

Sam watched Harry sit alone, thoughtfully tracing the edge of the envelope with her finger. She'd dropped the icy facade completely, relaxing the set of her shoulders, slouching a little in the chair.

"You know," she said aloud. Sam frowned. "Covert definitely isn't your default setting, Sam."

She looked up, catching his eyes.

Sam couldn't stop himself from blushing ten shades of red. How did she know?

"So what do you think of hunting Vampires?" She asked, arms crossed and eyebrow lifted.

"I- that's more of Dean's thing." Sam called out. Christ, he felt like an idiot.

"What is?"

"Hunting."

She looked at him appraisingly with eyes that made Sam feel like she was gazing at his soul. "I'll ask Dean then," Harry said, standing. She gave him a little wave before heading inside.

Crap. Sam didn't want to hunt Vampires.

After that, he watched Dean closely, looking for any signs of extreme hunting-related happiness. But apart from that self-satisfied grin he got when around Harry, there was nothing. Until breakfast, almost exactly a week from the day Sam had eavesdropped on Harry.

She sat across from him at the table, to Dean's right. With a smile directed at Sam, she'd turned towards his brother.

"How would you feel about hunting vampires over that holiday you have coming up, Thanksgiving?"

Dean looked up from his bacon with wide eyes and an open mouth that quickly morphed into a smile. There was love and wonder and surprise written all over his face.

Sam hated his life.