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It feels like this is his last hope, but Sam refuses to let it be. If this doesn't pan out, he'll find a different lead, and another, if that one doesn't work. He will go through however many false-starts and dead-ends he has to until he succeeds; there is no question in his mind.
Sam is not going to leave his brother in Hell.
In the back of his head, a last resort is quietly being put together that involves stepping into the jaws of Hell himself. If he can't get his brother out, Sam won't let him suffer alone. It's stupid and suicidal, but at this point, he is willing to work with what he can get.
Sam doesn't care if that's walking straight into the plans demons have made for him.
Dean is in Hell and it's all his fault. It doesn't matter that Dean made the choice –the wrong choice– to bring him back. It doesn't matter that there was no feasible way to stop Dean from going to Hell. What matters is that Sam hasn't fixed it yet. No rock will be left unturned now; if he has to make a deal with Lucifer himself, he will get Dean back.
(Sam thinks he can understand it better now; he had been running on anger and fear and unspoken thoughts of I will do whatever it takes to keep his brother alive. He had been fully prepared to cut a bloody swath through anyone and everyone who came to take his brother away from him. Murder.
But Dean had been abandoned with no one left to kill, only silent regrets and haunting memories. He had given enough and sacrificed enough and was still left alone in the dark. So Dean made a deal, his soul for Sam, because there was nothing left for him to begin with. Suicide.
And now Sam isn't far away from following in his brother's footsteps. It both surprises and terrifies him that he and his brother are so very similar, and yet so very different.)
All the hours, all the research, all the sweat, blood, and tears he's shed to get this far; he's so far beyond desperate that he would end the world, if it brought Dean back to him, and damn the consequences. But Dean still whispers to him, pleads with him not to anything drastic, and though he teeters on the edge of the cliff, Sam has kept himself from breaking the bottle of champagne on the grand ship for the Apocalypse.
So he stores the Impala with Bobby (an echo of Dean's harried voice telling him that under no circumstance is he to take Dean's baby on a goddamn plane) and travels to England, his last vestiges of hope clinging to him like rats on a sinking ship.
At this point, he is more than desperate enough to chase after tales of a man who had mastered death.
◊◊◊
"Are you Mr. H Potter?"
Harry pauses in his game of people watching and turns his head to address who called him by name. Craning his neck upwards, Harry dimly observes the man who towers over him. He is a scruffy sort of man, sporting a five o'clock shadow and a mop of brown hair; the untidy strands remind him of his own wild locks. It's irritating to realize that even if he stood up the man would still be taller than him, but he lets the feeling pass; water under the bridge and all that rot.
"And who is asking?" Harry asks, taking one last draw of his fag before crushing it under his heel. He gestures casually to the open chair beside him when it appears the man isn't going to leave without an answer. While the pub is private, he doesn't want to draw eyes from nosy bystanders; the man's height alone would draw attention.
"Sam," his guest replies, quiet strain lacing his tone. "Sam Winchester."
The name is a surprise that doesn't match the accent. "You aren't from around here," Harry comments.
Sam looks startled, "No, I– No."
"Where from, then?" Harry asks, vague curiosity pushing at him. For the most part, the world governments have been convinced to leave him alone. He still gets a star struck British fan once in a while, but Harry's whereabouts are not the common knowledge that the public feasted upon when he was a child. Sam must know some interesting people to have sussed out his location.
"Around the US," Sam replies, "I– Are you Harry Potter?"
"If I say no, will you leave?" Harry returns. He already knows the answer.
"No," Sam answers, his body language shifting into cold stone stubbornness. It reminds Harry of himself, once, when hundreds of lives depended on him being the same, headstrong and reckless.
"Then yes, I am Harry Potter," he confirms, leaning back in his seat. "You have a reason for seeking me out, I trust?"
"I do," Sam acknowledges with a sharp tilt of his head. "But I don't think it should be discussed here." His eyes dart to the other customers of the quiet pub, revealing his unease.
Harry is interested despite himself; the way Sam carries himself is intriguing and his obvious reluctance to discuss magic in a Wizarding pub that caters to private meetings is odd. He finds himself tilting his head, trying to gauge the seriousness of what Sam wants to talk about.
It's the eyes that convince him. Sam has a face made for puppy dog eyes, hazel and soulful that beg for attention. But the pain that lingers just beyond the surface is unmistakable, a beacon for those who know to look for it.
It's my fault, those eyes scream, and Harry is thrown back into the days where Ron and Hermione were still alive. Back into days where they looked at the carnage around them and wondered how it had come to this, days where they struggled to simply wake up and go through the motions of life. And it reminds him of how he looked in the mirror after Sirius died.
"Very well, then," Harry finds himself saying, extending a hand.
Sam blinks, surprised, but takes his hand firmly, calluses rough against his own skin. Harry focuses (an echo of Hermione chants in his ear: destination, determination, deliberation) and with a crack of displaced air they disappear.
◊◊◊
Sam stumbles, which makes no sense considering that he was sitting down. How can he stumble when he didn't move? But his eyes land on the wall behind Harry and he comes to the conclusion that yes, he did change locations. It's unnerving, being transported from a quiet bar into what looks to be a small house, but he shoves his misgivings to the side. A little bit of magic is far from the worst is he willing to do, even if his upbringing screams at him to take out Harry while he has the advantage.
"This way," Harry waves, stepping through an open doorway.
Sam follows, his eyes roving around the room automatically. Embers smolder in a fireplace to the side; a ruby encrusted sword rests over the mantle. Dark leather furniture sits casually about the room, linen draperies hung along the walls. Harry pulls down a pair of glass tumblers and a decanter of a red-orange liquid that seems to churn around itself like fire.
The drink –liquor, if Sam doesn't mistake his guess– is poured and passed to him, and Sam could swear that his hands feel warmer just holding the cup. He chooses not to drink, even as Harry props a foot up on the table and swirls his own glass, tilting it in the faint light until it seems to burn.
"You had something to discuss with me," Harry prompts, taking a languid sip from his glass. The dim firelight enhances the dark aura Harry seems to drag with him, highlighting a lightning shaped scar on his forehead and casting a glow over those rich emerald eyes.
Eyes that remind him of Dean.
"It's– you– my brother," Sam begins haltingly, starting half a dozen sentences before deciding to go back to where it all started. "I died, and my brother made a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"His soul for my life," Sam admits, guilt curling around his heart.
"How very interesting," Harry comments, and Sam swears he can hear a strange hissing undertone. "And with whom did he make this deal?"
"A demon," Sam confesses. He takes a swallow of the liquor and it burns his mouth, lighting a line of fire down his throat. Working not to cough, Sam closes his eyes and leans back in the leather seat. His lips open without his permission and everything seems to spill out in a rush of helplessness. He leaves out Azazel and his quest for a human general of a demon army, but Sam blurts out Dean's sacrifice and how everything seemed to turn against them.
"Why look for me?" Harry finally asks, his tumbler long since emptied and discarded on the table. His hand curls under his chin, elbow propped up on the armrest as he gazes intently into Sam's eyes.
"The Resurrection Stone," Sam whispers, his nails digging into his own palm where he knows they are leaving crescent shaped indentations.
Harry's lips curl into a half smirk. "You must have very good informants. That isn't common knowledge."
Sam shakes his head, not wanting to acknowledge where he had learned of the stone. Bela Talbot will never be a warm memory for him. "I– please," Sam breathes, "It could bring my brother back, please–"
"The Resurrection Stone wouldn't bring your brother back, Sam," Harry says smoothly, so calm while telling him something so cruel. "It would pull his soul from perdition, maybe, but it would also grant him something much worse. He would remain parted from this world and the next, trapped beyond the veil and unable to interact with you, alone and helpless. In many ways, it would be much worse than Hell."
"But your name," Sam argues, "The Master of Death– your name, your title, you–"
Harry looks slightly unsettled at the designation, but repeats firmly, "The Resurrection Stone wouldn't bring your brother back."
Sam tips his head back, the last bits of hope crumbling in his fingers. He is not going to cry. "You can't–?" he bites off the rest of the sentence, too afraid to continue. He doesn't want to hear confirmation of it's impossibility.
"You want to know if I could bring your brother back," Harry finishes for him. "The Resurrection Stone can't." Sam feels what is left of his heart drop. Third time's the charm. He doesn't want to believe it. "I could."
Sam's head whips back, eyes opening to stare at the man who just served up his desires on a silver platter. "How–?"
"But I won't."
His hopes come crashing down again. "Why?" Sam breathes raggedly, "What can I do to convince you?"
◊◊◊
"It's a heartbreaking story, Sam," Harry comments softly. "But I'm afraid that I don't have a heart left to break. And I don't expend massive amounts of power for trivial pursuits."
"Dean is not trivial," Sam snaps, his eyes darkening.
"No, I imagine you would never label your brother as such," Harry agrees. "But it would be a fruitless endeavor for myself."
Sam hunches in on himself slightly, eyes glaring bloody death. "Fruitless?" he asks darkly.
"Profitless," Harry provides, intrigued by the spark of power that lingers in the air. It is different than Wizarding magic; sinister and more intense. Harry has touched magics like it before, but only after rituals and darkly powered emotions.
"Dean is more than worth it," Sam growls, the spark of power growing into a flare.
Harry pauses to really look at Sam, pulling up his own magics to see just what the man is doing. Something unholy ripples through Sam's blood, cloying and evil. Sam is not a Wizard. He is something else entirely.
"What are you?" Harry murmurs, watching the dark essence move through Sam's body with no direction. A good portion of it centers around Sam's head, but it is present in every part of Sam's body.
Sam falters and the power decreases with his confusion, intriguing Harry even further. "What–?"
"There is something in your blood," Harry explains, "Something evil that you draw strength from. I imagine it's been there for quite some time, but I don't know of any ritual that would allow you to obtain something that dark as a mere child."
"You can tell?" Sam demands.
"It fluctuates with your emotions," Harry answers. "You brought it to my attention."
"I– it's–"
"I have to admit, I'm curious why you can't bring your brother back yourself with that kind of power."
"It doesn't work like that," Sam's mouth twists, "I've tried."
"So you do know what it is," Harry hums, leaning forward.
"Yeah, I do."
Harry lapses into silence, waiting quietly for Sam to explain. It's not hard to wait out someone who is already at the end of his tether. Sam explains in halting words and frustrated tones; a demon had bled in him as a baby, all for the sole purpose of finding a human general for a demon army. This explains why Sam had died in the first place and has the added benefit of soothing Harry's curiosity concerning the recent demonic spike.
It comes to him slowly, a sluggish idea that trickles down his brain and solidifies into desire. Harry is bored with this world; if he wanted to, he could step up and conquer the entire planet with relative ease. But then there would be the actual task of ruling the world, which he has no interest in. If Ron and Hermione still stood by him, then maybe he could tolerate the sheep that reside on the planet, but as it is, he's rather certain he would just blast the pillocks until nobody remained. Not very conducive to continuing his current way of life.
But demons... He finds himself interested despite himself. A quiet life is beyond him, it seems. When the dust settled and Voldemort was gone, he tried to live that perfect life he once dreamed of, quiet and peaceful. But also stagnant. Harry desires to be back in the fight again, to feel adrenaline singing through his veins and keeping him awake at night.
He wouldn't be fighting demons for any altruistic sentiments, but rather to live again. And what was saying again...? Better to rule in Hell then to serve in Heaven? It sounds so very inviting right now. Hermione would chide him for neglecting to remember the author. Some old English poet; Ron wouldn't be able to remember it either.
"A deal then," Harry announces suddenly. "Your brother for your powers."
Sam looks flabbergasted. "You can do that?"
"I can," he assures. "Do we have a deal?"
Clearly uncomfortable, Sam hesitates. "You'd bring my brother back from Hell, whole and alive? Not that... stuck beyond the veil?"
"Alive, yes; whole, maybe. I imagine your brother is a rich commodity in Hell, and his mental state cannot be determined until I bring him back."
"But you'd try," Sam emphasizes, "You'd try to bring him back whole."
"Of course. What point would there be to bring him back in pieces?"
"And– and how would you take my powers?"
"Old magic," Harry smirks, knowing that even if it is distasteful, Sam will do this for his brother. Everything that he has done already demands nothing less. "A transference of powers during sex."
Sam blanches slightly, but manages to ask, "You and me? Now?"
"You have something better to do?" Harry questions lightly.
With a weary shake of his head, Sam whispers, "No."
"Then shall we adjourn upstairs?"
◊◊◊
Despite the rolling in his stomach, Sam follows when Harry stands. Up the stairs and through an undecorated door, Harry leads him to a clean room, lighting candles along the walls with black flames. The bed is wide but simple, black sheets under a dark emerald comforter. He pushes back his unease when Harry strips, pulling off his slacks and shirt.
Sam knows the mechanics of gay sex, but it has never interested him personally. Zach was gay and it never bothered him, but Sam is firmly heterosexual. For that matter, he's not sure that he'll even be able to get it up. Harry is attractive in a dangerous, abstract way, but not even remotely close to his type. But this is for Dean so he'll grimace and bear it, even if he wants to run from the room and never come back.
Getting rid of the powers Azazel gave him sounds like a great plan, in theory, and if it helps bring Dean back, all the better. It's the lingering smirk that Harry still wears that worries him. There is probably some hidden fine-print somewhere, but until it's done and over with Sam decides he doesn't want to know. Stupid, maybe, but that's how he's going to get through this.
Sam follows hesitantly, pulling the layers of his shirts off quickly (like a band-aid; if he does it fast enough, maybe it won't hurt as much) and moving to hunch over the bed.
"On your back," Harry murmurs, voice smooth like whiskey as he runs a hand down Sam's side.
Sam hesitates, but keeps a running mantra in his head, this is for Dean, this is for Dean and flips over onto his back. This will be harder, more intimate being face-to-face, but still not into the realms of impossibility. He can do this.
Harry crawls over to sit on his jean-clad thighs, still dressed in black silk boxers. A slender hand smoothes over his hip, drifting to pop open the button on his jeans. His zipper rasps open and allows questing fingers to explore, touching and pressing against the lines of his boxer-briefs until his cock wakes up and starts to take interest.
It sickens him a little, to know that his cock is apparently not connected to his brain, even if this will make the whole experience easier.
He pulls his legs up to brace himself against the bed, lifting his hips to push his jeans and underwear down to his knees. Harry finishes the job, tugging the clothing off his legs and dropping it over the side of the bed.
The silk of the sheets and Harry's boxers is cool and slick against his skin, a poignant contrast to the heat of the body still astride his hips. Harry leans forward (too close, Sam protests silently) and exhales, a fluttering of warm breath over his mouth.
"You're uncomfortable," Harry comments quietly.
I am. "No," Sam protests. If this will help Dean, then he doesn't care. He can do nothing less.
"You're lying," Harry sing-songs, trailing biting kisses down Sam's throat. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No." Sam's answer is quick and vehement. He doesn't want to stop to have to start over again later. Or stop and not start again at all; not being able to save Dean.
"Alright then," Harry responds, his hands pressing into the tense muscles of Sam's shoulders, mapping out the territory and unknotting what he could. "It would work better if you relaxed."
Sam knows this and tries to forcibly loosen his muscles. It works for a moment, right before Harry slithers down his body and drags his mouth along his cock. Everything in him tenses up again.
His mind blanks as hot, wet suction surrounds his cock, yanking a low moan from his lips. Sam's head falls back against the mattress, his eyes fluttering shut as Harry swallows down more of his cock, teeth scraping gently along the underside and making him swear aloud. It's been too long, and his body is jumping at the chance for sex even if his brain isn't quite with the program.
This is for Dean, this is for Dean, this is for Dean.
Sam jumps, slightly, when he hears the distinct pop of a cap and forces himself to relax. Lube is going to be a part of sex. It's just how sex between guys works, and it'd be worse without it. But when Harry just continues to curl his tongue around his cock, lapping and sucking at the firm flesh, Sam forces his eyes open and lifts his head.
He can feel his eyes widening in shock when he sees Harry fingering himself, lips still stretched around Sam's cock in an obscene picture.
"I– but–"
Harry releases him with a wet slurp, a shiny string of drool glittering in the glow from the candles.
"What did you think?" Harry laughs, genuine amusement shifting his features into something beautiful. His green eyes are dark and blown open with lust, and Sam swallows hard at the sight of it. "You're giving your powers to me, Sam. Not the other way around."
Sam barely has time to think that statement through (contrary to popular belief –Dean– he hasn't spent time researching sex magic and rituals) before Harry wraps a slick hand around his cock and sinks down onto him in one smooth motion.
"Fuck–" Sam swears, hips bucking up sharply into tight heat.
A shaky laugh escapes Harry's lips. "That's the idea."
It's too hot, burning and spiraling up his spine as Harry rocks in small circles before lifting himself up and then lowering himself down. They graduate to a choppy rhythm, never quite synching as Sam bucks up and Harry bears down. It's harsh and real and never lets Sam forget where he is. No pretending.
Harry digs his hand hard into Sam's shoulder, nails providing pinpricks of pain as he finds the leverage to lean down. His mouth attaches over Sam's heart, nipping the skin and then sucking hard, dragging blood up to the surface in a blotchy mark. Something inside him ignites and Sam is relatively sure that he isn't waxing poetic.
It fucking hurts; his blood is burning and his body is screaming at him to stop, but he can't seem to stop thrusting up into Harry's body. He blinks sweat out of his eyes and squints through the pain, looking up to see Harry mouthing unknown words. Black hair is plastered to his head, sweat dripping down the sides of his face as he chants something beyond Sam's hearing.
And then his world splinters, coming so hard that his vision blacks out, screaming as his body erupts in white hot pain and something seems to drain from his very soul.
◊◊◊
Harry screams, throwing his head back. Sam's powers invade and brand his body, dark and cloying as they are ripped from their anchors and invited in. It burns, white hot fire that skitters up his spine and down his limbs, cementing itself into his very blood. The power sears his nerves, latching onto his magic like a babe at it's mother's tit, suckling and enhancing itself with a mind of it's own.
It won't be possible to transfer this power again.
Grim determination clinging to his soul, Harry forces his magic into alignment, yanking his new acquisition into place shortly after. He will not surrender to any sort of power, in any shape or form. He started by refusing the Imperius, and he continued against mind magics and greedy politicians. This is nothing.
With a snarl, the demonic powers rally against him, but he can weather out this storm. Harry pulls up every last bit of bullheaded stubbornness he has and then creates some more. A mental battle ensues, demonic energy battering at his shields as he wrestles to work it under his magic. In what seems like hours, the power settles aside with a petulant grumble, sinking into his magic and under his skin.
Opening his eyes, he realizes that the candles have been snuffed out by the transference of power, and Sam is deathly still underneath him.
"Sam?" he murmurs, running a hand across his companion's cheek.
Sam groans and shifts slightly, jostling Harry as he mumbles, "H'ry?"
"It's fine, sleep," Harry comforts once he realizes that Sam is just knackered. Any normal person would be and, by definition, Sam is very normal right now. He will likely carry an echo of the power he once held, but never enough to affect the outside world. Mental planes might be a different story.
Harry groans and pulls himself off Sam's cock with a wet squelch, semen and lube trickling down his shaky thighs as he rolls over onto his stomach. He feels drained and tired, unused to vigorous sex and difficult mental battles. But he also feels energized and awake, a rich new power singing through his blood and crying to be used.
It seems sentient (he hadn't expected anything less; his magic is the same way) and has never been given a chance to be experimented with before. With Harry's experience, it curls around his soul and tugs, wanting to see what it can do.
(Harry rather imagines that it is the power that wants to levitate Sam up to the ceiling and light him on fire. Sam had yet to incite murderous rage within him and burning the man alive seems a bit high on the vindictive scale.)
With a near silent groan, Harry rolls to the edge of the bed, hauling himself into a sitting position with a wince. He lifts a hand to steady himself on the bedpost, but a ball of fire explodes into being, hovering just above his palm.
"That's new," Harry mutters, looking at his rebellious hand. He pulls the power back into his body, fighting it every step of the way. He needs to take a shower first; maybe if he's feeling nice, he'll clean Sam up too. Then he can start to test this ruddy stubborn power and figure out just what it can do.
He imagines that it's going to be a rough ride. For the first time in a long time, Harry is looking forward to it.
◊◊◊
Sam groans, waking up to a body that still throbs with an echo of pain. It feels like he went five rounds with a vengeful spirit that had an unholy fixation on his neck. Coughing, he tries to work up some spit to soothe his dry mouth. Whatever liquor Harry gave him last night has made his mouth taste like the remnants of old Red Hots. Too spicy.
He blinks his eyes slowly, staring at the blank ceiling for a moment before he hears a quiet rustling on the other side of the room. Choking back another groan, Sam shifts on the bed to catch sight of whatever Harry is doing.
His mouth drops open.
Harry is rolling a ball of fire up and down his shoulders as if it was a toy. The ball sparks and spits tiny flames that die in the air but fail to ignite Harry's clothing. When he turns slightly, Sam is horrified to see Harry's (Dean's) brilliant green eyes cracked with a sickly yellow, glowing just like Azazel's had done.
"You took them," Sam says hoarsely. He can hardly believe it. So many problems could have been solved earlier if the option of just giving them away had been available. No splitting headaches, not being brought to Azazel's little contest, not dying– He shuts off the train of thought before it threatens to choke him.
This is not the time for could have's, would have's, and should have's. What matters is now.
"I did," Harry affirms, the ball of fire rolling into his palm and exploding into motes of dust. "It was remarkably easy once I figured out that they just wanted to be used."
"Easy?" Sam demands, thinking of nights where it felt as if someone had used an icepick to bludgeon into his brain.
Harry's mouth curves into a smirk. "I've had practice with painful visions. And the rest of it just wants to be used. I'll admit, they want to murder and bathe in blood, but more than that, they don't want to be trapped."
Sam's mouth twists. "You say it like Azazel's blood can think for itself."
"Not his blood, a fraction of his power. And yes, it can. Most powers do."
Sam tilts his head, sickened by the conversation itself. He doesn't want to talk about powers and magic that under normal circumstances he would loathe. Under normal circumstances, he would hunt Harry down like a dog and kill him because of that unnatural power.
"My brother?" Sam asks instead, and he doesn't even try to keep the broken hope out of his tone.
Harry got what he wanted, took whatever Azazel had given him as a child, and apparently didn't need Sam's help at all in controlling it. (Not that he could have been much help in the first place, but the intent remains.) But Dean is still in Hell, and Sam has no way to make Harry follow through on their deal. He might be taller and stronger than Harry, but in no way is he more powerful. Especially now.
"I'll bring him back for you," Harry murmurs, taking a step closer to him. "As safe and whole as I can manage. But Hell will have changed him, you know."
Sam could swear Harry almost sounds sympathetic. Which is ridiculous, but at this point he is willing to pretend that Harry feels something for his situation. As long as it encourages Harry to bring his brother back.
"Then go," Sam orders, turning his head back to the pillow.
With a sharp crack that reminds him of an engine backfiring, Harry disappears.
Sam can only hope he'll return with Dean.
◊◊◊
Harry lets his new power lead him straight into Hell, using the Hallows as an afterthought instead of his main guide. It is almost laughably easy navigating towards Sam's brother. He can hear the screams that echo desperately through all of Hell.
"SAMMY!"
The Hallows make him stand out like a beacon, demons skittering out of their dark corners to see who dared to invade. Harry takes a perverse joy in sending them screaming back into the dark, letting his new powers off the leash and do what they want. He is somewhat amused to see demons lifted up high into the air before being incinerated.
"HELP!"
He had tested out a couple of other skills back at the house, but pets all have their favorite tricks. Or in this case, favorite attacks. The demonic energy is very fond of fire. It probably doesn't help that one of Harry's favorite curses is Fiendfyre.
"SOMEBODY HELP ME!"
The Hallows tug him through an open arch that bleeds into dark thunderclouds. Roaring thunder and flashing lightning brighten his way as he lifts himself up to step through the air, filthy looking chains gradually flooding his frame of vision.
"SAM!"
The chains are definitely linking to something as they quiver without being touched, so Harry carefully avoids contact with them as he continues to follow the broken screaming. It doesn't take long to come to the core of the chains and trapped within is a man with green eyes.
Giant meathooks pierce through his skin, the web of chains hoisting him far up into the air and away from any chance of rescue. Blood leaks from his mouth and over his chin, sweat and blood dampening what is left of his clothing. It looks like something Voldemort would have been proud to do, if the thing (because Voldemort had never been a man) had any imagination.
It takes but a spark of magic to hold Dean in place and sever the chains that hold him captive.
Dean screams, spitting up more blood that falls into the dark cloud that surrounds them both.
"You're safe," Harry assures him, walking to where Dean can see him without turning his head.
"Who–?" Dean demands, but Harry knocks him unconscious before he can finish. The exit ride is not going to be pleasant.
Coming closer, Harry moves to gently push the hooks from Dean's body, using his magic to temporarily seal the bleeding holes. He frowns at the damage done to Dean's soul; ten years in Hell have taken their toll on the man. It might have been a month for Sam, but Dean has been here far longer.
Harry's frown darkens when he sees the mark of Heaven on Dean's shoulder. It burns with pure white light, a blessing of an angel. Something had marked Dean before he had fallen all the way into Hell, something that would likely come to claim Dean once the man had suffered enough. That was how the 'light side' often worked.
Sam hadn't asked for this, but Harry will give it to him anyways. If Heaven wants to start mucking around in Harry's new playground, so be it. He can fight both demons and angels. But Dean didn't ask to be a champion, didn't ask to be a savior of light.
Dean just wanted to save his brother.
And Sam just wanted to return the favor.
So Harry clasps Dean's arm, new powers bright and eager for his orders, for once rushing to bend to his every will. They don't like the grace of Heaven either. Dark tendrils of power inch over Dean's skin, digging underneath raw wounds and burned flesh, searching for their opposite. Heaven's fighting grace will have no claim on this man, no demands that must be filled by Dean's actions. He will not be a pawn in this new war.
Dean screams, white hot pain surging through his body as Harry chases down every last bit of heavenly power, burning the handprint of God from Dean's shoulder. It is the last time Dean Winchester screams in Hell.
◊◊◊
Dean jerks awake, his mind racing with the even the idea of the possibility of sleep. Sleep is unattainable in Hell. Between the screams and the fire and the painpainpain that laps at his heels like a disobedient dog, sleep is fucking impossible.
"SAMMY!" he screams, because if he's going to scream then he's going to scream about his brother. He won't forget, he won't give in. He won't, he won't, he won't. No matter what Alastair taunts him with. He won't.
"Dean," comes his brother's frantic voice, and fuck he isn't going to look, he isn't going to see some mirage of his brother. Nonono. He knew it had only been a matter of time before illusions of his family joined him in Hell.
Large hands clasp at his shoulders and Dean bites back the urge to scream. It amazes him that he still has the power to be defiant, but screaming in pain for an audience is different than screaming for help, proving that he hasn't broken yet.
"Oh, Dean," Sam's voice comes again, choked with sobs. Something wet sprinkles down on his face, but it's just blood, just blood, that's all that there ever is here.
"Open your eyes, Dean," an almost familiar voice tells him. Dean struggles to recall who owns it, because it isn't Sam, it isn't Dad, it isn't Bobby. It reminds him of green eyes and yellow cracks, reminds him of–
Dean's eyes open of their own accord. Sammy is above him, tears in his eyes and his lips twisted into a muffled sob, and behind Sammy is a plain black ceiling. He notices for the first time that he's on something soft, not suspended in the air like a prize bird.
Movement in a corner catches Dean's attention and his eyes land on a man with jet black hair and brilliant green eyes cracked with glowing yellow swirls.
"You–" Dean breathes, remembering the pain and the words you're safe. Like he'd ever be safe in Hell.
But Sammy crumples into his shoulder, hot tears spilling onto his neck and fucking huge arms winding around his chest. For the first time in what feels like forever, he relishes in the pain he can feel. The hug is too tight, but he can feel it, and maybe it's a fucking dream, but–
"Dean," Sammy sobs, and Dean's hand reaches to dig in his brother's hair without his permission. He's not chained up or tied down and he moves to tug his brother in closer to him.
–But it almost feels real.
"Sam?"
fin.