Hello. I didn't take super long to update! Yay for that!

Please note that Hibbing Park Hotel is a real place. For the purposes of keeping this fiction as close to canon as possible, it was changed to a motel.

I would like to give a huge thank-you to Phantom of the Tech Booth! You are one amazing beta, and I am ever thankful for your support while writing this!

Hibbing, Minnesota was the location used in the episode of Supernatural called "The Benders."

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to either Harry Potter or Supernatural, but I do thank the wonderful creators of each series for making such amazing stories for us to enjoy and play with. I do own all of the other characters in the following and previous chapters, such as Frank and Josie Millerton, Sandra, Brent, Lena, Jared, Jason, and the Dodge family. I do not own Dungeons and Dragons or Bob Dylan.

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Last Chapter: Bobby and the Winchesters put Harry through a rather thorough investigation concerning his endless bag. Harry had the wound on his abdomen checked and rewound. While Sam was suggesting a new hunt, Castiel showed up and informed the boys that they would need to head to Hibbing, Minnesota. Then he healed Harry and disappeared. Sam found out that a man was stabbed in Hibbing, but that the video footage of his death showed no culprit.

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By that night, Harry and the two Winchesters were in Hibbing, Minnesota. They had left the afternoon of Castiel's visit, after Bobby had informed them that he had too much business with other hunters at the moment to bother dealing with even more. He trusted his boys to sort things out, and he was always just a call away if they needed him.

The car ride only took a couple of hours, and the duration of the trip was occupied almost entirely by listening to loud music from the eighties, which Dean seemed to know completely by heart, and by the occasional word or two passed between the two brothers in the front seats.

Harry absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the door, once again noting the green army man figure crammed in the ashtray, leaving Harry to wonder about the childhood the Winchesters boys had had. He knew that it would have been nothing like his own (just as he knew that most people would still call him a child, though he rarely felt like one), but he also figured that it probably could not have been anything which would qualify as normal.

He tried, without too much success, not to let his mind drag itself back to the topic of the friends he was leaving behind in his own world. What happened after he had jumped through the veil? Did they know about the alternate worlds? If so, were they trying to get both him and Sirius back? Did they think Harry was dead? While Harry could picture his relatives being ecstatic at news like that, he couldn't help the gnawing guilt he felt for all of the people who did care about him.

Aside from worrying about how his friends were taking his disappearance, a small part of Harry's mind - the part that he tried desperately to ignore - wondered also how his enemies were reacting. For all Harry knew, while he was sitting in a car on his way to hunt down some invisible killer, Voldemort and his Death Eaters could be back in Harry's own world, slaughtering the people for which Harry cared, one by one. And while he knew that they would all fight the dark lord with everything they had, Harry also knew that not everyone would make it out of a confrontation alive. He didn't know whether Voldemort was happy or furious that Harry was gone. He hadn't felt anything in his scar since he had landed in this world.

And so, despite his best efforts to distract himself by the passing scenery and the events which he had witnessed in the last couple of days, Harry found his mind repeatedly turning back to the sobering topic of his own world.

As they were nearing Hibbing, Sam reached over to turn down the volume a bit. The older Winchester simply turned it back up, still singing, and Sam let loose a sigh and an accompanying scowl. He turned the knob back down again, and, when his brother spared a glance over at him, Dean's face was set in an expression which he only used when he was about to say, "Really, Sammy?" in obvious annoyance.

Clearing his throat, Sam ignored Dean's annoyance.

"We're almost there," he offered, glancing down at the map for a second, even though he really had no reason for doing so. He had the route memorized by that point. He usually did. It was a way to fill the time during which Dean was too busy driving and singing to want to talk, which Sam understood. There had been drives where both Sam and Dean had talked, and, while it usually started out fine, they tended to both end up annoyed with each other a good way into any lengthy car conversation. Because of that, they were both content to leave the other to his own thoughts for most of their little road trips.

Dean, upon hearing his brother, scoffed. "Wow, Sammy, almost there? Thanks. I missed the road sign two miles back." He grinned over at his little brother, who just huffed out a small chuckle.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, before his smile worked its way into a small frown. "Where are we going to stay?" he asked. While they were both aware that there was an abandoned house when they had left town three years ago, they weren't going to stay there. Returning to that place, if it hadn't already been ripped down, was not anywhere on Sam's agenda, if not only for the fact that there was no free wifi, which Sam would more-likely-than-not end up needing for some research later.

Dean shrugged. "Where I stayed last time."

Sam, who had been nabbed before they had even bothered to get a motel for the night, had no clue where that was. They never rented a room until they were sure that the hunt would last more than one day. They had learned that growing up. Money was not to be wasted, even though they had done countless credit card scams, and they always kept a bit of cash in reserve for when they would hit up bars to hustle.

"And where's that?"

"Heck if I know. You think I remember?" Dean shook his head. "Think the name had something to do with the town itself. Hibbing Motel or something."

"Yeah, okay." Sam's eyes were already scanning the county map for any inns. He found the one to which he thought Dean had been referring. "Hibbing Park Motel?" he offered, his eyes resting on the location on the map: E Howard St.

Dean nodded. "Yup. Sounds right. It was actually pretty good for the price, I think."

Soon enough, they were at the motel. Dean signed them in under some obscure names that Harry had never heard before, and when the overweight man at the front desk asked how many beds, Dean automatically started to say two singles before he hesitated and glanced at Harry.

He had almost forgotten about the kid. Well, forgotten wasn't the right word. He kept part of his mind on guard for anything suspicious from the kid, but he focused less on him while he was talking to his brother.

Sam cleared his throat and stepped forward a bit. "Could we have a cot brought up to our room?"

The man shifted his eyes to the younger Winchester, glancing over to Dean and then to Harry behind him. "Sure," he said, nodding his head and typing a bit on the keyboard of his dated computer. "Two beds, then, and a cot?" he asked, to be sure.

The two brothers nodded.

Typing a few more things and jotting the room number in the space next to their fake names on the sign-in sheet, the man handed them a key to room 204. They nodded and, each with a bag in tow, made their way into the unbelievably tiny elevator.

When they got to the room, Dean shook his head and grinned. "Yeah, I remember this place," he said, his eyes dancing across the room. "I think they had the same decorations in the other room. Like, exact."

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking at the décor. "Sixties?" He asked, looking toward his brother with a small grin.

Dean dropped his bag on the small silver-topped table. "Yup," he said. "They had free breakfast last time, I think." He grinned, like free breakfast was the greatest thing any place could offer.

Harry was looking around the room with curiosity. Besides the Dursleys', Hogwarts, and the rare couple of times when he had been forced by his relatives to stay the night under the so-called watchful eyes of Mrs. Figg and her many cats, the only other places where Harry had stayed the night before the whole incident with the Veil had been the Burrow, Grimmauld Place, and the inn above the Leaky Cauldron. The only one out of any of those which could be said to even remotely resemble this place was the Leaky Cauldron inn. But while the Leaky Cauldron had lots of dark wood, this place was furnished with a much lighter coloured wood, and its retro look was stiflingly loud.

Sam chuckled lightly and set his bag on the bed farthest from the door, as he had done since he was little, the way Dean always insisted. Before long, two men brought Harry's cot into the room. The only place where it could really fit was in front of the old box television. It was obscuring the main pathway, leaving just enough room for someone to narrowly squeeze past.

When it was all set up, Sam apologized to Harry. "I would offer to sleep in it," he said as he scratched the back of his neck, "but..."

"It'd break under Sammy, with his giant, uh, Giantness," Dean finished with a grin. Sam sighed, but let it go. Stupid comments like that from Dean were a nice relief to hear again, after the months of loneliness while Dean was stuck in Hell.

Harry took the cot with no fuss. It didn't bother him. The rickety antique bed in the cupboard under the stairs had been much more cramped, stiff, and lumpy, and at least this cot didn't have the faint smell of urine and lint that Harry had grown used to over the years.

Sam, who was flipping through some brochures that he had grabbed from the lobby, asked Dean, "Do you think she would be willing to help us again if we asked?" Harry didn't know who Sam was talking about, but Dean seemed to understand after a couple of seconds of silence.

"The deputy?" the older brother asked. Sam nodded.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe." He sighed heavily, flopping down onto his own bed. "I mean, is it even worth asking?"

Sam put the brochures on the bed in front of him. "She let us go last time. She could probably help get us access to the video footage and the body."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, that'll go over great. It's not like she has no clue about what we do or anything." He frowned a bit, his hands behind his head and his eyes looking up at the ceiling. "But, I think she still thinks I'm your cousin. I don't even remember what name I used."

There was only the humming whir of the air conditioner for a couple of seconds, before Sam broke the semi-silence.

"You do realize there's a chance she'll come across us while we're digging around for info?"

"Course I do," Dean answered gruffly. "That's why we don't usually do this. It's supposed to be one-stop shop. If we bump into her, we'll deal with it then."

...

The next morning, they ate breakfast at the 'restaurant' offered by the motel. The food wasn't the greatest, but it was free (or, at least, included in the price), so they weren't about to pass it up.

Sam had his laptop out and was occasionally clicking and scrolling, furiously bouncing his leg in frustration. The hotel's wifi was really crappy, he had told them last night, so nearly everything took forever to load.

Harry was watching the TV while he ate, not really paying that much attention, when the news woman started talking about a series of thefts the previous day.

That piqued Harry's interest, if only because he had got the impression that, aside from the previous string of missing people and a somewhat strange obsession with Bob Dylan (about whom Harry knew nothing, aside from the fact that he was apparently from Hibbing), there really wasn't usually much going on in the area.

The newswoman went on about how numerous purses had been raided, apparently in public places, without anyone knowing the culprit. She informed the public with a very serious face that the police were investigating and to keep, "a close eye on your wallets."

Dean, who had apparently also been loosely paying attention to the news as he shuffled eggs into his mouth, paused. "Huh," he said, setting his fork down.

Sam looked up from his laptop, his leg halting its frustrated bouncing. When he saw the other two watching the TV, he turned his attention to focus on the broadcast. Over the general din of the other guests eating their breakfast and making small talk, he could barely hear the blonde woman transitioning the focus to the weather.

"What?" he asked, looking to his older brother for an explanation of what he had missed.

"Some thief picking pockets and purses," the older man answered, shoveling another forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

"That doesn't really sound like something that we would look into," Sam pointed out, waiting for his brother to explain why he had taken an interest.

"No one saw him do it. Not once." Dean nodded his head to the TV. "According to that."

Sam furrowed a brow, grabbing a piece of toast from his own plate of half-eaten breakfast. "So, what, there's some random invisible guy running around, offing people and stealing from the purses of unsuspecting women?"

Dean shrugged. "I guess. If it were another Max Miller, someone would have noticed their cash making a break, right? At least with the dead guy, he could have been blocking the view of the knife." Dean shook his head. "I would say maybe a spirit, but they are more about revenge than money."

Sam looked at his brother thoughtfully. "Maybe the people targeted by the thief were connected to the dead guy," he suggested.

"Maybe," Dean agreed. "It'd probably help if, you know, we figured out who the dead guy is."

Sam nodded. "Morgue first?" he asked. "Are we going to try to avoid getting anywhere near the cops, or what?"

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. "Morgue. Yeah, no cops, as long as possible."

Harry was listening to the conversation and trying his best, as he had the night before, to figure out what exactly was going on. It was pretty difficult, if only because Harry had no clue who all of these people were, and Sam and Dean kept mentioning them.

"How do you get access to the morgue?" he asked in honest curiosity.

"We just use fake - oh, damn!" Dean cut himself off before he could even finish his answer. He looked at his brother and asked, "What do we do with him?" He nodded his head over to Harry. "It's not like a teenager's gonna pass for a Fed, or... well, anything."

Sam frowned, glancing over at Harry. He shook his head, pushing a bit into his chair. "I don't know. Say that he's, uh..." The younger brother blew out a huff of breath in annoyance, frowning thoughtfully. "Shadowing?"

It was Dean's turn to frown. "Do they even do that with the FBI? Besides," he said, gesturing to Harry. "I don't think anyone would believe he's old enough. We'd have better luck just telling everyone it's confidential."

Sam's lips curved into a small smile. "I wish it were that easy."

Dean wanted to agree. They had learned from experience that 'easy' was not a word that could ever describe their lives. It hadn't been for a long time, not since Dean was four years old. Sam didn't remember anything other than traveling with their Dad across the country, from one hunt to the next - one school to the next - but Dean did. They were faint memories, but they were there. Anytime a part of Dean would wonder what it would be like, just to live a normal life, he would find those memories surfacing. And then he would remember why their life would never be easy. Because the demon, Azazel, had ripped all normalcy (and, by extension, all of the things that they would now consider easy) out of their lives on the night that he had pinned Mary Winchester to the ceiling and held her there to burn.

Perhaps that was why Dean understood more than their father had when Sam had announced - with the same tone of certainty as the one John had used with them every day - that he was leaving for Stanford. John had chosen the life of the hunter. He had lost the love of his life, and he had wanted revenge. Dean also knew what he had lost, because he could remember it. Sam didn't, couldn't. He was raised to a life in which the closest thing that he had to a home was a 1967 Chevy Impala. He hadn't understood, then, what had been taken from them. Not really. He hadn't understood the driving need to not only get revenge but to make sure that it didn't happen to other families. Because no one deserved to have their family ripped away from them.

Hell, a part of Dean had been glad for Sam's inability to grasp the depth of their pain. John only ever saw Sam's decision to leave as a betrayal. But Dean had been the one to take care of Sammy when they were younger, when John would leave for days to hunt down one monster after the next, each time coming back with less fear and more injuries that would leave scars, visible or not. Dean had been the one to make sure that his brother always came first. So, yeah, when Sam had left for Stanford, a part of Dean had been proud, because Sam could do what neither John nor Dean himself could: get away.

But then John had gone missing. He hadn't given any explanation, and Dean hadn't known completely what to do, so he had gone to get his brother, if only to forge some sense of normalcy back into his own life. That weekend, Dean knew, had been the one that changed Sam's life. Dean had seen it in his brother's eyes - the same resolution that John had held when he was thinking of what had happened to Mary. Yeah, Dean was glad to spend time with Sammy, but it hadn't happened the way that it should have. Because it took losing Jessica for Sam to understand.

Life, for them, was never easy.

"I just wish we knew what this damn thing is," the older Winchester said angrily. "I mean, you looked through Dad's journal last night, right?" he asked, looking at his younger brother.

Sam nodded, speaking quietly enough that the people at the other table wouldn't be able to make out his words, though none of them appeared to be paying attention. "I didn't see anything about it," he started, with a small shake of his head. "I mean, there are some things that can be invisible - hellhounds, spirits, some creatures from certain folklore, but none of them really fit. They all have other signs, not just invisibility." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Killing and stealing don't make sense, either. It just doesn't add up."

Dean dropped a hand onto the table and fiddled with his fork a bit. "Awesome," he huffed out sarcastically. "I love working with nothing to go on."

Harry was torn. He had his suspicions as to what was going on, and he was internally debating whether or not to voice his suspicions to the Winchesters. While he didn't know why someone would feel the need to murder and steal, he did know of something that would give them the ability to do so unseen. However, if he told the Winchesters, he wasn't sure what their reactions would be.

It once again came down to trust. How much did they need to trust Harry? The last thing Harry needed was another round of interrogation.

Maybe he could let them know without letting the conversation get too invasive. It would be difficult, but, if Harry wanted them to trust him, he couldn't keep something so important to himself.

So he braced himself and looked up at the two giant hunters. "I think I might know what it is."

Both of the brothers turned to stare at him in shock, like they had expected him to stay silent. He understood that, after the past few days of near-silence. After all, if he didn't speak too much, there was less of a chance that he would say something that the hunters would find 'incriminating.' It was almost like life with the Dursleys, if he thought about it. As the Winchesters continued to stare at him, apparently waiting for an elaboration, Harry cleared his throat, and it sounded a bit awkward, but he ignored it and tried to sound more confident than he actually was.

"It might be an invisibility cloak."

The brothers both raised their eyebrows at the same time, before Dean moved his head to the side a little, like he was trying to figure out if Harry was being serious or not.

"Did I just hear you right?" the shorter man asked, his eyes still showing his obvious disbelief. "An invisibility cloak? First of all, cloak? Who even says that? And second, those don't exist." He then shot a look to Sam. "Do they?"

Sam shook his head. "I've never heard of one."

Dean nodded, because that had been the confirmation for which he had been looking.

"You know Dungeons and Dragons isn't all real, right?" he asked, and Harry had no clue what he was talking about. His confusion must have shown on his face, because Dean looked even more confused himself.

"They might not exist in this world," Harry said slowly, trying to figure out a way to explain without really explaining, "but we had them in my world. I inherited one from my dad."

Both Winchesters looked dumbfounded, and it took a couple of seconds before one of them spoke.

"And that's normal?" Dean asked, his eyebrows still raised in surprise.

Harry looked down and shrugged. "Err—I mean, not really. They're sort of rare. I had never heard of one until I got mine," he said, specifically not mentioning that he hadn't heard of many things up until the year that he got his letter from Hogwarts.

When Harry saw both open their mouths with not only confusion in their eyes, but also interest, he decided to push his luck. While he didn't know much about this world, he wasn't stupid enough to not notice that the exorcism that Sam had used on the demon was some form of magic. Yes, it was unfamiliar to Harry, but that wasn't the point. It was magic. And if magic existed in this world enough to manifest its form into spells (no matter how lengthy and specific), then there was a chance that it could show up in the form of an object, as well. That was good enough for Harry.

And while Harry would never go so far as to call himself a good actor, he had made many attempts during his childhood to make himself appear as innocent and confused as possible. Dudley did it all the time. Harry didn't know why Aunt Petunia always believed the nonsense that her son had spouted out on a daily basis, but she had. So Harry had, on many cases, tried his luck at acting even more confused than he actually was (because, honestly, most of the accusations thrown at him from his family members had been false. Usually, Dudley was the culprit), and on a few rare occasions, it had worked. At least, Harry thought they must have. He could have sworn that just those couple of times, Aunt Petunia had to have believed some part of him, because the scraps of food that he had been left were always bigger on those days, scant as they were.

He tried his best to frown in what could be perceived as confusion. "Aren't there objects like that in this world, too?"

This seemed to throw the two men for a loop.

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ah," he said, looking to his older brother in a silent request. "Well," he said with a frown, "there are, uh, cursed objects."

Harry silently thanked whoever or whatever was out there that he had been right. He nodded to the brothers.

"So, what?" Dean asked. "We track down whoever's playing stab and grab, seal the cloak, and then what? Why is this so important?"

Harry himself wasn't even sure. He shrugged. "Maybe it's from my world?" He then thought of something, something that he couldn't believe that he hadn't bothered to check yet. "Wait," he said, pulling his bag up to settle on his lap. Then, he unzipped it and jabbed a hand in.

'I need my invisibility cloak. I need my invisibility cloak.'

Nothing. The bag did not supply anything. He tried once more.

'I need my invisibility cloak!'

Both Winchesters were watching him. Neither of them bothered to ask him what he was doing. When the youngest of the three finally pulled his hand out of the bag, still empty, it wasn't much of a surprise.

"It's not here," Harry said quietly.

"So, it's yours?" Dean asked after a couple of seconds. "You think this guy has your cloak?"

Harry glanced up. "Yeah. It was my dad's," he repeated with a tinge of regret, staring down at the table absently.

Why wasn't his cloak in the bag? The angel had said that the bag would give him what he needed. Well, he needed the cloak for this hunt.

"Damn," Dean said, interrupting Harry's thoughts. When Harry pulled his gaze away from the half-eaten plate of food resting on the table in front of him, the older man continued. "We - uh, you could have used that thing. You could have checked the area while Sammy and I interviewed people."

Sam glanced at his older brother with a raised eyebrow, his face questioning, and Dean knew his little brother well enough to see what it was that he was asking. 'You'd trust Harry enough to let him do that?' And, yes. That was the answer. Dean didn't trust Harry completely, but it was setting in that they really had no choice. If they tried to keep the kid out of everything, Dean had no doubt that Cas would show up and chew them out, in his own lost-but-still-somehow-in-control way.

And, even Dean had to admit, being able to be invisible would be awesome. It would make things so much easier. Maybe that was why the kid's bag would not supply the cloak. That would just be too damned easy. Instead, they had to go hunt the freaking thing down.

"Do you think that the cloak was the thing you felt earlier?" Sam asked, and Dean shifted his attention to his brother, who continued, "You know, when you said you thought you could feel something from your world?"

Harry, who had just been coming to the same conclusion, nodded.

"Well, I guess we don't need to go to the morgue," Dean said in a matter-of-fact tone. "If we're pretty sure that that's what this is, seeing the body won't tell us anything."

Sam nodded, the lines of his face drawn in thought. "Do you think you could track down where the cloak is?" he asked Harry. "I don't know, like, sense it or something?"

Harry shrugged. He had sensed it in this world already; maybe he could narrow it down. Somehow. "I can try."

Sam nodded and stood up. "Room," he said by way of explanation.

...

When they did make their way back into the room, away from the noises of various chattering people, Harry tried not to feel the stares of both Winchesters as he attempted to concentrate.

Nope. Not working.

"Could you, uh, not stare at me?" he asked, peeking his eyes back open to find both men sitting on the edges of their beds, attention on him.

"Oh," Sam said in surprise. "Uh, yeah." He awkwardly shifted his gaze to rest on the side table. Dean turned and set his own sights to the closet, before glancing back at Harry, who nodded his thanks.

Then he closed his eyes again and focused.

'Invisibility cloak.'

He repeated it, trying his damnedest to only think about that. He tried to recall the feeling from days before, when he had been struck by the strange but equally familiar sensation of home. His world. His magic. He could remember it, that tickle at the edge of his mind, setting a thrum to his core, resonating with something that, unlike the rest of this unfamiliar world, he knew.

It was there. He could feel it. It was faint, but it was there: lingering quietly at the corner of his consciousness. He tried to grab at it, but whenever he neared it, he could swear that it almost shifted away from him, just out of his grasp.

Had Dean or Sam still been watching, they would have noticed that Harry's face had turned from one of restful seriousness to a frown, which deepened as more moments ticked their way by on the clock.

Harry could have sworn that the cloak was taunting him. Every time that he would attempt to get a hold of it, by either being gentle or by prying and grabbing, it would slip just out of his reach.

As minutes passed, the two brothers found themselves glancing at each other.

When Dean raised an eyebrow and sent a semi-hopeless look purposefully in Harry's direction, Sam shrugged with a helpless, 'hey, what can you do?' sort of expression on his face.

Dean slumped over a bit, blowing out a quiet sigh. He dropped himself back so that he was resting his body, all but his legs, on the bed. Sam had settled himself on the edge of his own bed, one leg crossed over the other, which was hanging off of the bed. His arms were resting on the crossed leg, one being used to prop up his lulling head.

After a couple more minutes of dragging silence, Dean turned his head once more to look at his brother, wondering when, exactly, was long enough.

Sam nodded and sat up straighter, clearing his throat. Dean pulled himself back out of his laying position, sitting up again. He turned his attention toward the teen on the cot in front of them. Had he not been able to see the frown of consternation on the kid's face, Dean could have said that it almost looked like the boy had fallen asleep while sitting up.

When Harry made no response, Sam called out his name.

Still, there was no response. The kid was stock-still, his body a rigid statue of deep concentration. Sam frowned and called out his name again, and, when the teen continued to give no acknowledgment, both brothers started to worry.

Sam got up from the bed, scooting his feet forward over the foot of space between the end of his own bed and the cot. He reached over a hand, taking the black-haired boy's shoulder into a gentle grasp. "Harry," he said, shaking the teen gently. Then he shook the boy's shoulder a bit more, his grip that much harder.

"Harry!" he said loudly, and with a jump of surprise, the kid's bright green eyes shot open, his pupils adjusting to the light.

"Huh?" Harry looked around to both brothers. "What?" he asked with not just a hint of confusion.

"You were out for, like, twenty minutes, man," said Dean.

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief. "What?" he asked. "That can't be... I was just..." He slumped over a little and shook his head sadly, turning his eyes to the brothers in apology. "I don't think I can do it. I know that it's here, but... I can't get to it."

Dean nodded, standing up and stretching his limbs. "That's fine. You tried. It's no use killing yourself over it."

...

The man who had been stabbed was in the newspaper, in the obituaries. Dean had been right. They hadn't even had to go to the morgue. Sam had told the others that he would track down the family of Carl Dodge.

Dean had laughed, and Sam sent him a look.

"What?" Dean asked, still grinning. "Oh, come on, Dodge? How is that not hilarious? If the guy had been able to dodge, he wouldn't have-"

And there was the bitchface.

"Man, you have no sense of humor."

"No," Sam corrected with a scowl, "I just have a sense of respect."

Harry just watched in silence. He tried not to let his face show his amusement.

Dean grabbed his heart is mock-hurt. "Ouch, Sammy. I'm hurt. Maybe we should hug and make-up and-"

"Son and wife," said the younger man, cutting Dean off. "He was a construction worker." Sam frowned. "Huh. Not a high income."

"Do you know where they live?"

Sam nodded to his brother.

An hour later found Harry in the backseat of the Impala, while Sam and Dean (dressed the part of two officers from the state department) rang the doorbell of the small, rather run-down house that had belonged to the family of Carl Dodge.

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So, there's chapter eleven. For some reason, while writing it, I got very into describing the personal opinions and thoughts of the characters. I hope I did them justice.

Congratulations to those of you who guessed that the invisibility was due to Harry's cloak!

Thank you to all who have read, reviewed, followed, or favourited this story! You guys keep me going. Please keep it up!

If you have a moment, please review, so I can know what you liked or disliked. As always, it is great motivation.

See you next chapter!