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

Warnings: Pre-slash.

Note: Written for the Big Damn Prompt Race Competition (restless) and the Gringotts prompt "Scared isn't a good excuse. Scared is the excuse everyone has always used."

WC: 4120

On Opposite Ends

The rapid tapping of fingers on a keyboard, while common, was unwelcome to one Dean Winchester as he was forcibly pulled from blissful dreams of girls and pie. He groaned, burying his head under the pillow in a vain attempt to block the sound. The typing stopped for one euphoric moment, and Dean thanked whatever god or deity was listening to his prayers, but then his hopes and dreams came crashing down when the disastrous click-clacking of the keyboard started again. Dean tried to fall asleep once more for all of ten seconds before he shoved the covers off petulantly, grumbling about younger brothers getting up at the ass crack of dawn and ignoring Sam's quip of the clock reading well after 10:30. He rolled over on his side, glaring at Sam for his oh so helpful input.

Feeling a ticklish sensation on his left wrist, Dean scratched at it absentmindedly. But when it didn't go away, he brought his arm up to his face, tired yet curious eyes examining his wrist.

A simple red string was knotted neatly, ending somewhere out the door.

Dean scoffed, raising a disbelieving eyebrow at his brother who looked at him questioningly.

"Seriously, Sammy? This has got to be the lamest prank in history."

The corners of Sam's mouth dipped into a frown as his eyebrows drew together in perplexed curiosity.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean this," Dean said, waving his left arm exaggeratedly, "this pathetic excuse of a prank. C'mon man, if you're going to try to chain me somewhere, at least use handcuffs or rope or something that can't be broken if I pull too hard."

Sam ignored the soft, condescending amateur Dean muttered under his breath.

"Dean," Sam started, stopping his brother's rant on the art of mastering a perfectly executed prank, "there's nothing there."

Dean froze, an unreadable look on his face as he stared at Sam before he quickly reached under his pillow to grab the hidden knife, immediately trying to cut off the red strand. Key word: trying.

"It won't come off!" he exclaimed, wide, disbelieving eyes meeting Sam's concerned ones.

"Alright, uh, what does it look like?" Sam asked as he immediately opened a tab on his browser, intent on finding a solution to this mysterious problem. Although it was amusing to see Dean sawing an invisible (imaginary?) string in the air, the frustration in his voice gave way to an underlying panic that prompted the younger Winchester into research-mode.

"It's a red string, pretty long since it goes out the door, and it's damn strong," Dean growled out, giving up on trying to tear it with his teeth.

"Just, don't do anything," Sam said, exasperated. "Who knows what it might do."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled as he stared at string with a petulant pout. "Just do your weird computer mojo and find a way to get this off of me."

Sam studiously ignored him, furiously typing on the keyboard, the details of their current hunt drifting into the back of his mind.

"The red string of fate," Sam announced confidently as Dean stepped into the room. He slowly entered with two paper bags in hand, eyeing his brother weirdly before kicking the door shut. Dumping the bag of rabbit food on Sam's freaky long legs, Dean collapsed onto his bed, taking a large bite out of his burger. Swiping the back of his hand to catch the sauce dripping down his chin, he slurped his drink, rolling his eyes at Sam delicately munching on his salad. Just to spite him and his health conscious ways, Dean sunk his teeth burger with renewed vigor.

"You said something about fate?" Dean asked around a mouthful of food, ignoring Sam's grimace.

"Yeah, it's a popular Japanese legend where two people are linked together, usually by a red string tied around a pinky, as a physical connection between them. They are said to be destined for each other, regardless of time, place, or circumstance," he explained.

"So, like what, a soulmate?" Dean scoffed, raising an eyebrow at his brother, resisting the urge to glance down at the string around his wrist.

Sam shrugged, stabbing a piece of lettuce with his fork. Dean wrinkled his nose at the healthy crunch it made as he chewed on the leafy vegetable. "Yeah, other countries have similar variants to the myth as well. In China, it's a red thread around the ankle tied by a marriage god."

"Well, fuck that," Dean said eloquently, dismissing it with a rough shake of his head.

"Don't you think it's interesting though?" Sam asked, tilting his head to the side in a puppyish manner, an act that reminded Dean of how his brother used to always pester him with questions when they were younger. And now he was the one that found the answers himself. "Someone out there is your soulmate, your perfect match in a sense. Isn't that a good thing?"

"Please, Sammy. When did anything good ever happen to us?" Dean retorted back, crushing the soggy wrapper in his hands and roughly shoving it in the paper bag before crumpling them both into a ball.

"Find anything on the case?" he asked suddenly, looking at Sam with unreadable eyes. At his confused nod, Dean snatched the keys from the table, heading to the door and jerking it open. He gestured impatiently out the door, tapping his foot as Sam tossed the remainder of his salad in the trash.

"I'll start the car," Dean called out, leaving the room. He barely acknowledged the pretty blonde woman manning the counter as he walked out the motel, so lost in his thoughts. Once he stepped foot outside the building, Dean looked down at the heavy shackle chaining him to whoever was on the other side. No, nothing good could come from this.

Dean hummed under his breath, fingers tapping in time with the solid beat of the music. Nothing like some good old classic rock to jam to, screw the pop techno shit kids were listening to these days. Just as he was really getting into it, hands enthusiastically smacking the steering wheel during the guitar solo (gently, of course, since his baby was his baby after all), Sam reached over and lowered the volume just as Brian Johnson started singing again.

"Dude, what gives?" Dean exclaimed, giving him an incredulous look, eyes wide in bewilderment like Sam just upped and said that he was joining the circus to elope with the bearded lady. As if touching the radio was a sacrilegious act in and of itself if not done by the driver, the only one worthy enough to brush his fingers across its holy surface. "No one touches the radio, alright? No one but me," he said, giving Sam a penetrating glare before turning back to the road. "I'm not playing any of your classical, dead guy music."

"No, Dean," Sam cut himself off with a sigh, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Did he really give up Stanford for this—traveling with his brother to follow some cold trail hoping it would lead them to their dad? "We need to talk about your situation."

"What situation?" Dean asked obtusely, but Sam could see the way his shoulders tensed up and jaw clench stubbornly.

"You know what I'm talking about," Sam said with a frown, irritation seeping in at Dean's blatant avoidance of the problem.

"No, Sammy, I don't know what you're talking about. Why don't you come out and say it," his voice dropped low, almost daring his brother to continue. He refused to turn over and see Sam's observant eyes, taking in his defensive form hunched over the steering wheel. Dean relaxed slightly when the weight of the heavy stare dropped away.

"You know you're going to have to acknowledge it eventually," Sam pointed out, crossing his arms with a dissatisfied huff.

"Yeah, well, it's not happening any time soon," Dean promised, reaching over to the glove compartment and pulling out some newspapers, dumping them uncaringly into Sam's lap. "Make yourself useful and find a hunt."

He ignored Sam's glower, turning up the volume just in time to catch the beginning guitar riff of Highway to Hell.

Steam coated the mirror, misting the surface and blearily reflecting his image back at him. But he could care less about his appearance right now; the red string hanging loosely around his wrist held his attention, haunting his mind like it had these past few weeks.

He tried everything: knife, scissors, fire, nothing worked.

A finger traced the smooth texture of the thread, memorizing the weight and feel of it, tugging curiously. His shoulders slumped when nothing happened, as if he expected something to happen. This was the only time where he could freely examine it without Sam shooting him knowing looks. It's not like him looking at the thing was going to change anything; Dean wasn't going to just drop what he was doing to go and search for his soulmate like some desperate teenage girl in a cheesy romance novel.

A small thought niggled in the back of his mind. A soulmate, someone destined for him, a perfect match. It was too good to be true, that he could have someone who understood him completely, who would always stand at his side. Dean had wanted someone like this when he was younger before he resigned himself for the lonely, familiar life on the road, always looking for the next hunt.

He didn't trust it. He wanted to believe it. Dean hadn't managed to suppress the thrum of hope and excitement when Sam first explained the meaning of the string to him, but then wariness and suspicion marred his thoughts, corrupting the little spark of hope in him for happiness. Because Dean could hope all he want but nothing good ever happened to them. He had hoped Sam would get his white picket fence dream, silently supporting his choice when he left for college, even if his chest hurt when his little brother walked away without a backward glance to either his dad or Dean, and look at what happened: Sam's fiancee dead, pinned to the ceiling, burned to death. Just like his mom. He had hoped he would find that cliche, rom-com love that makes him simultaneously cringe and gag, where nothing short of death could tear them apart, but Cassie left him. He hoped and hoped and hoped until he had nothing else to give. There was no one listening to him on the other end. They were just Fate's bitches, and she loved toying with them.

Dean blinked rapidly, stubbornly dismissing the sharp stinging in his eyes. He was not going to cry; Sammy was sentimental enough for the both of them.

Small tugs on the thread jarred him from his thoughts, and Dean stared at the string blankly for a minute before jumping into action, throwing open the bathroom door and startling Sam. Dean paid no heed to the sores and bruises caused by flying straight into a wall thanks to that angry poltergeist a few hours back. Bent over the table, hair still dripping with water, Dean rapidly jotted down what was being said.

"What's happening?" Sam asked, getting up from his bed to peer over his brother's shoulder. Dean waved Sam off impatiently, focusing on the tugs on the string until they finally stopped. He squinted down at the messy, confusing scrawl of letters, trying to decipher when the words began and ended.

Dean let out a victorious sound, leaning back to admire his work.

Is anyone there.

He stared at the crinkled paper, something he ripped out of a health magazine in his hurry. The words looked back at him mockingly. It was one thing to know that he had a soulmate but another matter entirely to hear from them. He now had evidence that they existed, and Dean tried to hide the surge of hope rising in him. He hesitated, hand wrapping around the string before throwing caution to the wind.

I'm here.

Dean perked up when he felt the tugging, reaching over the nightstand to grab the pen and notepad. Sam had raised an eyebrow when he returned from the store with a bag of small notepads, but he always kept at least one in reach nowadays. He didn't know much about his soulmate, only that his name was Harry and he lived in England. Dean hadn't known what to think when he found out his soulmate's gender, but after some deep thinking, something that both impressed and weirded out Sam, he came to the conclusion that lifetime companionship was well worth whatever sexual crisis he'll undergo later. And hey, soulmates didn't exactly have to involve a sexual relationship. This guy might just become his best friend or something.

He sat up abruptly, heart picking up speed when he registered the words.

Help.

Sam warily observed his brother's growing panic, form tense and eyes alert, mind racing as he tried to gather what had Dean so on edge.

Dean tugged back urgently, yanking so hard that if it were ordinary string, it would have snapped. Where.

A pause. Sorry.

He waited for more, but nothing came. He sent another message, trying to find a location, something, anything. But he didn't get a reply. Dean cursed, throwing the pen at the wall furiously, not even feeling the least bit satisfied when it crumpled to the ground in tiny pieces. Growling dangerously under his breath, he paced the room, thoughts immediately jumping to the worst case scenarios involving his soulmate. What if he was hurt, or dying? Dean couldn't help him if he was halfway across the world! Did a poltergeist, wendigo, a fucking demon get to him? What if it was the demon? Can demons even go to England? Fuck, what if it wasn't any of those? People were one of the worst monsters out there, and Dean couldn't protect him from people, not as much as he could from freaky supernatural shit. But he couldn't help him right now regardless because he was in shithole America where everything's going to shit when Harry was all the way in good ol' England, probably dying in a hole somewhere, all alone, bleeding to death without Dean there to protect him from god knows what. What kind of soulmate was he?

Dean punched the wall, gritting his teeth, lips pulled back in a snarl. His fist throbbed angrily back at him, but he barely winced, rearing it back for another punch when firm hands pulled him back.

He whipped his head around, one second away from self-destructing, eyes wild as he searched Sam's concerned face.

"Dean, calm down," he said, voice tight with worry. Calm down? His soulmate needed help, and he wasn't there for him. "Pull yourself together," Sam gritted out, squeezing Dean's shoulders, fingers digging into the soft material of his T-shirt. "You can't help him when you're like this."

Jerking away from his brother's hold, Dean took a deep breath, trying to rein in his overwhelming panic and desperation. Right, he forced himself to relax; he wouldn't be useful if all he did was run around like a headless chicken. Dean clenched his fist. All he could do was wait.

His eyes were shut, dozing lightly, allowing himself a brief reprieve from his constant worrying. Head propped up with his hand as a pillow, Dean leaned against the wall. He was distantly aware of that his back was going to be protesting this sleeping position later on. Sam was fast asleep on his bed, sick of watching Dean work himself to a ball of frenzied nerves. A worried Dean was a touchy Dean that snapped at every little thing, and Sam gave up about an hour ago, throwing the covers over his head to avoid his brother.

As much as Dean loved sleeping, he was a light sleeper; he had to be one what with the family business and all. Something had woken him up, and it wasn't Sam's snoring; Dean was used to that although Sam insisted he didn't snore. His eyes snapped open, suddenly wide awake.

He smacked himself in the face, swearing a mile a minute as he searched for a pen. Throwing his body on the ground, Dean grabbed the broken fountain pen that he had snatched from the lady at the front desk when she wasn't looking. He didn't bother heading back to the table, leaning the paper against the wall as he scribbled out barely legible words on there.

Hello. Hello? Who did this guy think was? Five hours of nothing, and all he got back was a 'hello?' Harry was extremely lucky he wasn't here right now because Dean would likely throttle the guy. His muscles were tense and coiled, ready to attack an unseen enemy. It felt like he was drowning in his own frustration, and he wanted nothing more than to demand justice from someone he never met. But more than anything, the panic and worry that had been his primary state of being the past few hours subsided in the face of the all encompassing relief, that soul-soothing balm to his anxiety. He hadn't been this worried since that Sammy Incident years ago.

And that scared him.

He was feeling things for a stranger, things he normally reserved for his family. This wasn't the saving people thing he had; it was different. And fuck, if that didn't make Dean want to turn tail and run. He didn't do emotions, simple as that. They were complicated and messy, and who needs that when you could have pie and easy hunts. He could barely handle the monthly chick flick quotas with Sammy for crying out loud!

Who was this guy to just march into his life and upend everything he stood for?

Dean scowled. The past few hours were hell for him, and while every inch of him itched to give Harry a piece of his mind, there was something more important to take care of.

Status. He hoped that Harry knew what he meant because Dean was running on so little sleep; he had moved to the table and collapsed on the chair, eyelids growing heavier by the second.

Alive. Dean's shoulders sagged in relief, finally allowing himself to descend into Morpheus's waiting arms.

All his life, he had only ever wanted to be loved unconditionally. Everyone came with conditions; some harder to complete than others. With the Dursleys, there had been no chance in hell that he'd ever attain a look of something other than repulsion or disgust. Ron's friendship with him was built on the foundation of his Boy-Who-Lived status, something that continually threw a wrench in their relationship throughout the years. Fortunately, Ron's jealous tendencies and Harry's own stubborn ways had mellowed out since then. He had hoped Hermione would be different, but he was once again faced with disappointment. Hermione didn't get jealous; she got self-righteous. She was right, and everyone else was wrong. There was no in-between. If Harry disagreed with one of her statements, she would look at him like he was an especially slow person and then proceed to explain to him in a patronizing voice why exactly his opinion was stupid.

They were good people. He couldn't fault them. They were the best friends he could ever ask for, but they only stood by his side if it was right by them. And sometimes Harry was tired of acting for them; he wanted to live for himself.

And so after the war, Harry said his goodbyes and walked out of this life and into the next, following the single red thread to the one person that would accept him for who he was.

That's how he ended up in America, riding Sirius's old motorbike across miles and miles of open land with only a little red string as his guide. It was an easy life. He bummed his way through the different states, crashing in ratty old motel rooms that would have Hermione turning up her nose. He ate whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and Harry could just imagine Ron here with him, gorging himself on the junk food. God he missed them. But this was something he longed for ever since he found out he had a soulmate.

Dean must have worked up a storm with that stunt he pulled a month back. But Harry had been at his wit's end, prepared to sacrifice himself for the Greater Good, and honestly, could anyone fault him for wanting some reassurance before he walked to his death? He just wanted to know that someone cared.

Harry kicked the stand up, taking off his helmet as he dismounted the bike. A dog perked up from its spot by the porch, growling low in its throat, staring at him with suspicious eyes.

Cars were stacked precariously on top of each other, looking like a strong wind would knock them over, and Harry made sure to park his bike well away from them. A sleek black car was parked near the house, and Harry took his time to admire the obviously well cared for beauty. If Sirius was alive, he would no doubt be salivating all over the car. He stepped onto the porch, keeping a wary eye on the snarling dog when the door opened with a bang.

Harry found himself under the close scrutiny of the gruff man with a worn baseball cap on his head. His eyes immediately flicked down to his wrists, breathing a quiet sigh of relief when no red string was in sight. Instead, it continued into the house. The man scowled, stepping in front of him and effectively blocking his view of the interior of his home.

"Hi, I'm Harry," he said. It was as good a place to start as any. "I'm looking for Dean."

The wariness didn't go away. If anything, it only seemed to increase with his statement.

"Oh yeah? And why's that?"

Before Harry could open his mouth to answer, a voice from inside the house called out.

"Is everything alright, Bobby?"

Harry perked up. Was that Dean?

Bobby turned his head slightly but still kept cautious eyes on Harry. "Just some kid asking about Dean."

He bristled at being called a kid but refused to show any outward sign of dissatisfaction other than the slight straightening of his spine. There was silence inside before two men emerged from behind the door.

And if the string wasn't any indication, then the widening of those green flecked hazel eyes and the underlying expression of tentative hope in them surely did the trick. Harry was distantly aware that the tall giant of a man—Sam, his mind supplied helpfully—ushering Bobby into the house, explaining to him in hushed tones, so they could have a private moment. Harry allowed himself some time to take in the sight of his soulmate (and he could see Dean doing the same), taking in the tall, muscular build and the short cropped dark blonde hair. He was a handsome guy.

When they were both done with their brief examinations, they locked gazes. There wasn't an earth shattering realization; the sun didn't shine brighter or anything cliche like that. It wasn't love at first sight.

"Don't love me because you have to," he said firmly, staring seriously at Dean. "Love me because you accept me for who I am. Otherwise I'll kick your arse sideways to Sunday."

And in an uncharacteristic show of self restraint and consideration, Dean bit back a snarky retort. His eyes softened imperceptibly, drinking in the image of this scruffy guy who looked no older than eighteen but seemed to sag under a heavy weight and had dark bags that spoke of many sleepless nights.

He jerked his head to the side. "Come in," Dean said instead of throwing out a cheesy romantic line like he'd done countless times for girls to fall in bed with him. "We got a lot to talk about."

There wasn't anything life changing about this, Harry thought as he followed Dean inside. He blinked in surprise as the gruff man from earlier shoved a shot glass in his hands, staring him down until he knocked it down. Sam looked at both him and Dean with knowing eyes, a satisfied smile on his face.

They both didn't magically fall in love with each other like in those unrealistic romance novels his aunt liked reading. But he did feel lighter, like the air was easier to breathe, like life was just that much easier to live now that they were together.