A/N: Welcome to part two! Thanks for putting up with me until now, and sorry it's taken so long to get here (and sorry that it's going to take even longer to get to the end) but this show is slowly getting back on the road. If you want to keep up with progress updates and all the woes of writing you can follow my tumblr aj-writes-fic - seriously though check there before leaving reviews asking about the next chapter especially if you're on anon because I literally can't respond to you.

Chapter 1 – The Will of an Angel:

If there was one thing Harry Potter didn't believe in, it was miracles. Coming back from the dead? Sure, it was easy enough under the right circumstances. He'd be a fool to ignore those facts, as they'd helped him out before – and also gotten him into this mess. There was a problem here though. Dean Winchester was dead – properly, undeniably sentenced to the realm of Hell – and no one had called him back. Bobby knew better, knew the consequences, and knew Dean wouldn't have wanted anyone sacrificing themselves for him. Sam might have, were he given the chance, but Harry had been by his side every single minute for the past four months, regardless of how volatile his moods sometimes became. There was no one else who knew of his death. No one to play God, to rip him out and shove him back into his body.

Miracles just weren't real. If Dean was really Dean, then that was all well and good, but it meant someone wanted something from them. Or, more specifically, from the Winchester brothers. Because those two were a pair and you'd be a fool to think otherwise. And he could tell all this because Harry had buckets of experience being a pawn of the universe, and things like resurrection never came without a price.

Harry mulled this all over with a looming sense of dread as he snuck back up the stairs, having ascertained Dean's location before telling him to stay put and hanging up on him. Sam was still asleep when he crept back into the bedroom – it was only quarter to six in the morning, and the duo had gotten content and lazy recently – but for how much longer that would be the case, he couldn't be sure.

He moved as silently as he could, changing into some jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Then he snatched an empty duffle bag from the back of the wardrobe, and a pair of shoes, and slunk back downstairs. His shoes he left in the entranceway, while he carried the duffle bag down to the basement.

After Dean died, they didn't really go out on any hunts – too emotionally unstable, too dangerous, no drive to vanquish evil. But they still had all sorts of crazy hunter material that they couldn't just keep lying about the house, because believe it or not, on rare occasions people did actually come over. Mostly electricians and other handymen, for things Harry didn't feel equipped to try and fix himself, but still people who might see an excessive collection of guns and knives scattered across the place and decide to call the cops. So they packed away all the knives and guns and holy water into the basement, where it sat safe and sound, locked away from the rest of the world, until it was needed again.

Harry needed it now.

He unlocked the door and dropped the bag on one of the crates littering the room. The place really did look like some sort of armoury now. He started packing things into the bag. Silver, iron, holy water. The works.

One phone call might be enough to have him heading out in the wee hours of the morning, but that didn't mean he was totally convinced. There were tests, procedures if you will, for this sort of thing, and Harry'd be a fool not to follow them. Did inferi possess memories from life? Who knows? But it was a possibility. And it was what he didn't know about the world that made him even more suspicious of Dean's call than the things he did know.

Once he had everything he anticipated needing, Harry zipped the bag shut and slung it over his shoulder. He locked the basement door, slipped the keys into his pocket, and padded softly back up to the first floor. In the entryway he shoved his shoes on, listening carefully to all the early morning sounds his ears could pick up. There was no sound of movement upstairs, so Harry surmised that Sam was still asleep. He was thankful for that. He'd rather hold off the inevitable questioning until he had definitive answers. Or someone else for questions to be directed at. Or, if this all went to shit, a good lie about where he'd gone at six in the morning.

Unlocking the front door Harry headed out into the street. There was a handy apparition spot down the block he'd discovered back when he first moved into the neighbourhood. It was sheltered from view, and not quite close enough to any houses to risk waking someone with the sound.

Harry counted to ten, took a deep breath, and spun on the spot.

oOoOo

Once he got there it didn't take Harry long to locate Dean. He was hovering impatiently by the public phone he must have used to call Harry. There was no way he'd had any money on him when they buried him, so he must have stolen it from somewhere. But a little bit of petty thievery was the least of his problems.

Harry marched towards the shifty figure, stopping a handful of metres away and just staring.

Dean looked like shit.

Actually, no, he didn't. He was dusty and covered in dirt, and was that a little bit of grass in his hair? But underneath all that, the debris that came with waking up in a shoddy coffin beneath the earth, he actually looked… really good. Healthy. It was strange. Too strange. He'd been dead for four months, his body shouldn't have looked that good.

Dean shifted awkwardly under the scrutiny and cleared his throat.

"You just going to gawk at me all day?"

Harry frowned, drawn from his inspection, and placed the duffel bag on the ground between them.

"I doubt you need me to state the obvious, but you should be dead. So cut me some slack, I'm allowed to stare." Regardless, Harry shifted his gaze, kneeling down to rifle through the bag instead.

"What's in the bag?" There was an edge to Dean's query. Harry had no idea how Dean thought things were going to go down, but there were procedures for this sort of thing. Theoretically.

Harry straightened again with a sigh, a silver medallion and an iron cross hanging from one hand, a sharp blade held firmly in the other.

"I thought you didn't like it when I repeated myself?"

Dean scowled at the non-answer. Harry paid it no attention, stepping around the bag and holding the cross and medallion out towards Dean.

"Hold these please."

Dean opened his mouth, likely to complain, but paused when Harry swung them in his face. His eyebrows furrowed as he got a good look at them. Realisation flashed briefly across his dirty features, but rather than clarity, his expression soured further.

"This is pointless. I don't know how, but it's really me. Can we just go? I only called for a ride, not a lecture."

Harry closed his eyes for a long moment, jaw clenched in frustration. In retrospect, it had been rather nice not having Dean around. He'd had four months free of Dean's unique brand of stubbornness, and the way he always found issues with any plan Harry came up with. Butting heads like this, well, he should have been expecting it.

"I'm not offering a lecture. I'll gladly leave that to Bobby or your brother. You either do this, or I leave you here to rot and pretend that phone call never happened. Now, hold these."

With a snarl, complaint and anger and frustration spun together in a single sound, Dean snatched them from Harry's grasp. He clenched them tightly in his hand for several long moments, before unceremoniously dropping them to the ground. Holding his unmarked palm out for Harry's inspection, he glared venomously between Harry and the bag.

Harry sighed, tucking the knife momentarily into the waistband of his jeans and crouching to collect the now dusty items. "I'm going to pretend this pointless rebellion is a by-product of your overall confusion at being alive when you shouldn't be, and not simply you being an argumentative pain in the ass. I am trying to help, you realise. You'd be absolutely furious if I got Sam killed because I took your word at face value and you ended up being a psychotic shifter or something."

Dean refused to dignify that with a response, and kicked petulantly at the ground.

"Fine then."

With an agility and speed Harry hadn't made use of in quite a number of months, Harry shot back to his feet, grabbed Dean's wrist securely with his left hand, and retrieved the knife. Allowing Dean a semblance of choice in the matter was getting them nowhere, so he was done with asking permission. With a little more force than technically necessary, Harry slashed a line across Dean's palm, watching dispassionately as blood beaded along his torn skin.

Dean fought back against the grip only after the fact, startled by the lack of warning. Harry relinquished his grasp without comment, fetching a cloth from his pocket and wiping the blade.

"I swear to god, if you keep doing that then I can't be held accountable for my actions."

Though it was quite obviously a rather angry threat of bodily harm, Harry merely snorted in amusement. "Just try me Winchester. We'll see who ends up in the dirt." Dean may have looked perfectly healthy, but no man could be fighting fit straight after rising from the dead. Even then, where Dean was brute force, Harry was agile grace. Maybe he wouldn't win a fight against him, but that didn't mean he'd go down easy either. If Dean forced this into a punch-up then so be it, but Harry was fairly certain he was all bark and no bite at the moment.

He sheathed the knife and dropped it back into the bag. There were plenty of random bits and bobs left in there, but most of it was retaliatory measures on the off chance that he was being duped. Despite the unlikeliness of the entire thing, he hadn't been overly concerned about the possibility in the first place, but with the life he'd lived it was always better to be safe than sorry, even if that just meant going through the motions.

"Are you fit for apparating or are you going to punch me in the face if I touch you?"

Dean flexed the fingers of his non-injured hand. He seemed to be seriously considering whether the act would be worth it or not. Harry wouldn't leave him here, in this strangely wrecked ghost town (which, now that he thought about it, definitely hadn't been like this four months ago), but he wasn't against the idea of dumping him halfway across Jackson and making him walk to the house from there.

Finally, Dean shrugged. "Just get me out of this damn place."

Slinging the duffle bag over his shoulder Harry shook his head. "Never any gratitude with you is there?" Regardless, he complied. He wanted to be home, even if that home was about to get a hell of a lot more chaotic. With a muttered instruction to close his eyes and hold his breath, Harry grabbed Dean's shoulder and pictured the alleyway.

oOoOo

Dean didn't utter a single word on the way down the street, not even his usual complaints about how uncomfortable and stupid apparation was. Harry was both perturbed by – Dean was never one to bite back a complaint for the sake of others – and grateful for the silence, as he was feeling a little woozy. He'd never been overly skilled at apparating – unsurprising as he'd never taken any actual lessons in it, and he wasn't sure if his disconnect with his magic was in this case helping or hindering – and consecutive trips always left him off-balance.

Unfortunately, in this case the silence left much to be desired. It was never fun to be around Dean when he was stewing in silence, because it usually meant he was angry, or trying to process emotions he didn't like dealing with, and he would inevitably blow up at someone. When he was in the vicinity, that someone often tended to be Harry.

It made the short walk feel even more like a death sentence than it already did.

The lights were on downstairs when they arrived back at the house. Harry sighed. It was a shame, but not a surprise – they may have gotten into a habit of lazy, slow-starting mornings, but whenever Harry did get up first (a rare occurrence for sure) Sam had never lasted longer than an hour without him, usually less. He'd hoped he would have moved fast enough to avoid an immediate confrontation but, well, luck never had been on his side.

He considered giving Dean a quick run-down of things he'd missed while six feet under before heading inside, but ultimately decided not to bother, saying only "Try not to be a dick," before unlocking the front door and slipping into the hallway, leaving him alone outside.

In the kitchen, Sam was cooking omelettes, calm and unhurried even upon waking to an empty house. For a moment Harry simply stood in the doorway, bag hanging from his fingers, and watched the little scene of domesticity with a fond smile and a heavy heart. He was about to shatter the carefree bubble they'd built for themselves.

Dean slamming the front door shut startled him back into motion. Harry dropped the bag and darted into the kitchen to give Sam a good morning kiss before everything went to hell in a handbasket.

Sam smiled down at him when he pulled away, but his eyebrows furrowed in question when Harry slid around him to turn off the element.

"I'm afraid breakfast is going to have to wait," Harry said in lieu of an explanation. The question turned to concern at his tone, serious and not coy the way he usually was when he had better things in mind than food.

"Harry?" Sam cupped his face in one hand, staring apprehensively into his eyes. "What's going on?"

Harry wrapped his fingers gently around Sam's wrist. He opened his mouth, searching for the best way to phrase things, but Dean beat him to the punch.

"You took the words right out of my mouth Sammy. What is going on here?"

Instantly tension raced through Sam, his fingers stiff against Harry's cheek. Wide-eyed, he glanced left, towards the source of the question. Harry sighed heavily through his nose and tossed a glare in the same direction.

"What did I just finish telling you?" Harry protested, tugging Sam's hand back down to his side and cradling it soothingly between his own. Dean's gaze followed the action pointedly, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Oh no, you don't get to boss me around when you're being all touchy-feely with my little brother."

"Is that really the most pressing issue right now? Or are you just being petty? If that's the case I should have left you to wallow in that ghost town for at least a few more hours."

"It's like you're just begging me to hit you."

"You wouldn't da-"

"SHUT UP!"

Harry flinched as Sam's voice rang through the kitchen. Across from them, Dean did the same.

"Sorry. Just. Please, be quiet for a minute." Sam's shoulders were hunched forward, and Harry ached to soothe him, but he wasn't sure it was a good time for physical comfort. "I don't… I don't understand what's going on." He closed his eyes and turned away from Dean. "Harry… what's happening?"

"Listen, I don't really have any of the details either, so I'll just state the facts. I got a call this morning – well, you got a call this morning, but you never wake up when your phone rings so I answered it – and it was Dean on the other end – or someone who sounded like him anyway. I went out to meet him, and I tested him, and he's human, somehow. It's actually him. How is something I don't know the answer to though…"

Dean bristled when Harry glanced over at him in question. "Hey, don't look at me, I'm as clueless as you are."

"…You're lucky I'm too wrought out to try any legilimency. There's a difference between what you can remember and what you experienced after all. Although, I don't know how well it would work accessing memories you gained while without a physical form. I'm not that great at it and that might be enough to throw me through a loop."

"Maybe we should lay off the mind magic," Sam interjected softly before Dean had a chance to work back up to anger. Harry shrugged and let the subject drop without protest. It wasn't exactly a form of magic he enjoyed trying to use, so unless Dean did something to make it necessary he was perfectly happy not bothering with it.

Things were still tense though. Sam didn't seem to want to interact with Dean directly, but Harry could tell Dean would rather he left them alone. There were things that needed to be said, he was sure, and though he felt guilty about springing it all on Sam without warning, he needed a bit of space himself to process what it all might mean for them in the days to come.

Harry sighed, shoulders slumping. "I'm going to the basement." He didn't offer any further explanation. He gave Sam an encouraging smile when Sam touched his arm, retrieved his bag, and disappeared downstairs.

The sound of voices followed him until he shut the door behind him. He didn't have any interest in eavesdropping on whatever conversation was sure to follow. The Winchester family had a complicated dynamic, and he knew his presence would inevitably be more hindrance than help.

For a short while Harry busied himself with returning everything he'd taken with him to their rightful places. It was likely, with Dean back, that they would have to reorganise their weapons cache (because he would want to go hunting and he'd guilt-trip Sam about not having spent the last four months hunting and Harry wasn't going to sit back and watch him go without him), but for now everything stayed put in their boxes and crates.

Once that was done, however, Harry started to regret his split-second decision to go downstairs instead of up. Because he didn't want to intrude on the brothers until he guessed enough time had passed for them to hum and haw through their emotional issues, he couldn't really leave the basement, because he'd have to pass the kitchen to get upstairs and Sam would definitely notice him and that would be the moment ruined.

It was going to take a while to get used to Dean being around again.

Harry sat on a crate full of bottles of holy water and stared at his phone. Dean said he wasn't sure what had happened, and regardless of whether or not that was true, Harry was still more than a little curious – and, of course, worried. But Dean wasn't the only person he could get information from.

"I'm sure even if I don't call he'll be in contact before the week is out."

He could wait. Give Dean some time to recuperate, let his mind settle, see what he remembered, and then try alternate methods. That's probably what he would have done a few years ago. But why wait when he could actively seek the answers he needed?

He unlocked his phone, typed three numbers, and hit the call button. It rang five times before someone picked up.

"Heard about the party did you?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Party?"

"You don't know the details then. Okay. Shoot. What did you call for?"

"Probably exactly what you thought I called for. I take it something's happened Downstairs?"

"Oh, just some light chaos." Crowley laughed, but that wasn't exactly reassuring.

"Chaos of what variety?"

"No, please, don't tell me what tipped you off. It's not like I'm in the business of exchanges or anything."

Merlin, he was in a mood. He'd sounded amused by whatever had happened, but, of course, any upset in Hell would have trickle-down effects for Crowley and his business, so it made sense that he'd be torn between amusement and annoyance.

"Let's just say that the dead once more walks among us."

"Ooh, being cryptic are we? No matter. I can put two and two together. Moose's brother is back?"

"Pretty much. So are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Now now, don't get your panties in a bunch. I only know hearsay, since I wasn't there – I'm not one for getting down and dirty with the torturers, you know – but word has it that some suicidal Angel dive-bombed the place. Thanks to you I know the end results of that little venture, but as for the why… At the moment, your guess is as good as mine."

Harry blinked in surprise, leaning back on one arm until he was staring up at the ceiling towards the direction of the kitchen. "An… angel? Really?"

"Come now," Crowley jeered, "I know you're not religious, but surely even you can come to the conclusion that if we exist, so do they."

"I, well, I guess I'd just never really thought about it. Wow." He frowned. "Why Dean though? That's so weird. What was that supposed to accomplish?"

"Like I said Luv, your guess is as good as mine. I'll look into it, before you ask, and I'm sure you will too. Watch yourself – those feathered idiots rarely set foot topside, so whatever is happening, it will inevitably be more than you thought it would be."

"Story of my life." Nothing could ever be easy. "Call if you find anything?"

"The same to you. You've gone and piqued my interest now."

"Sure. Blame me." Harry hung up before Crowley could snark back at him. He slumped further back until he was lying atop the crate, his head spinning.

Angels? Resurrection?

His understanding of the world around him was being rewritten yet again, and he honestly wasn't sure what to do about it. Were things always this confusing when you were on the side-lines and not the main player? Was this what it was like for Ron and Hermione back in school whenever he got himself mixed up in things beyond their understanding?

Harry draped an arm across his eyes. Later, he'd go upstairs, and the three of them were going to have to have a serious talk. Right now, he was going to try and settle the indignant anger that unfurled in his stomach as he thought about how angels were real, yet they'd not lifted a single cosmic finger to aid, well, anyone, and how much it rankled that somehow Dean Winchester was the exception.