Mother may I
A few weeks had passed since Harry last saw the Winchesters. He’d been busy with his own hunts, taking down a poltergeist in Michigan and a rogue banshee in Ohio. The rhythm of the road, the quiet moments between the chaos of battle, were soothing in their own way. But today, as he sat on his balcony looking up at the bewitched night sky sipping coffee, he almost missed the brothers.
His phone rang and startled him from his thoughts. Harry answered, his voice a mix of confusion and curiosity, Bobby rarely called him, only waited for Harry to call for a job. “Bobby?”
But it wasn’t Bobby’s gruff tone he heard on the other end—it was Dean.
“Hey, man,” Dean said, his voice heavy with something Harry couldn’t quite place. “I don’t mean to bother ya...”
“No bother, Dean,” Harry said immediately, sitting up straighter. “What’s up?”
Dean took a breath. “It’s... it’s Sam. He had a nightmare about some woman, and we came to check it out. But something happened. In our old home. The one our mom died in. We think it could be the thing that killed her.” There was a heavy pause before he continued, “Sammy thinks we should handle it ourselves and I'm not saying we couldn't…but it's just not like the others. And our dad isn't answering still…”
Harry frowned. He didn’t know much about their mother’s death, only what little Dean had mentioned before. But the tension in Dean’s voice told him enough—this was serious. And their dad was still missing.
“I don’t know where you are or if you’re already on a hunt,” Dean continued, his tone almost apologetic. “You don’t have to—”
Harry cut him off. “No, I’ll head your way. Where are you?”
“Lawrence, Kansas. If you’re nearby, that is. Don’t go out of your way, we just—”
“I’m maybe four hours away,” Harry said, already pulling out his atlas and flipping through it. “Less if I use disillusionment charms to speed. I’ll be there in two hours, tops.”
Dean sounded relieved. “Thanks, man. I’ll text you the address.”
Harry hung up, his mind already shifting gears. He stood from the diner booth and called out, “Trixi! Going on a hunt, be back soon.”
There was a soft pop as Trixi appeared in front of him, her usual fussing already in motion. With a snap of her fingers, a fully packed bag of snacks and potions sailed into Harry’s arms.
“Master Harry always needs potions!” she chirped, adjusting the straps of the bag over his shoulder. “Be safe, sir!”
Harry chuckled. “Thanks, Trixi. I’ll be back soon.”
He shrugged on his worn leather jacket, grabbed his helmet, and headed outside to where his Harley was parked. With a few well-placed disillusionment charms to cloak his bike from prying eyes and to allow him to speed without notice, he was ready to hit the road.
The engine roared to life, and with a final glance at the map, Harry sped off, the open road before him, his thoughts already on the Winchesters and whatever was waiting for them in Lawrence.
Harry stood outside the hotel door at the address he received, the familiar black Impala parked in front of it. The cold Kansas air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed.
He knocked, and within seconds, Dean answered. “Thanks for coming, man,” Dean said, pulling Harry inside without hesitation.
Inside, Sam was sitting at the small hotel table, a few papers and books spread out in front of him, deep in thought. Harry could see the weight of the situation pressing on both brothers. This was personal.
Dean wasted no time. “The kids in the house—they’ve been seeing some kind of fire creature. Our mom was killed by fire, and we think... it could be the same thing that got our mom.”
Harry frowned, leaning against the wall as he processed the information. “And the family’s seen flickering lights and hear strange sounds,” Sam added.
“Sounds like a haunting to me,” Harry said, crossing his arms. “Maybe a poltergeist. But I don’t think a poltergeist killed your mom, not with the way you’ve described it.”
Sam shook his head. “No, it doesn’t add up. We’ve spoken to a friend of our dad’s. He said after our mom died, Dad became obsessed with finding a psychic. He believed she could help him figure out what really happened. Maybe she can tell us what killed mom, and maybe that will tell us what we're walking into.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “A psychic?”
Dean nodded, leaning forward, his face serious. “Yeah. That’s why we called you. We need another set of eyes on this. It’s like we’ve been missing something every step we take.”
“You called him Dean, not me. I told you not to bother him,” Sam said with a shrug. “I'm sorry about the urgency man, it's just…”
“No worries,” Harry said, shrugging his leather jacket off and tossing it on a chair. “I wasn't busy, and I don't mind the company. I usually hunt alone.”
“Thanks again for coming,” Dean said, patting him on the shoulder.
Harry nodded, “Don't even worry about it. Alright, let’s get a phone book. See if we can find any local psychics who might be worth talking to.”
Dean quickly grabbed the phone book from the hotel drawer and started flipping through the pages. After a few moments, Sam read off the names and one name in particular stood out to Dean and Harry, “Missouri,” he read aloud.
Dean froze, the name triggering something in his memory. He reached into his bag and pulled out their dad’s old journal, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for.
“I remember this,” Dean said, his finger tracing the words in the journal. “This was the first entry Dad ever wrote. It says, ‘Went to Missouri. Now I know the truth.’”
Harry’s eyes widened. “Missouri? I met a voodoo woman a while back who told me I’d run into her cousin. She mentioned someone named Missouri.”
Sam looked up, surprised. “Her cousin?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. Sounds like the same person.”
Dean’s jaw tightened. “Well, I guess we know where we’re going next.”
Without wasting any more time, the three of them packed up and headed to the Impala.
“Where's your bike?” Dean asked and Harry shrugged.
“She comes and goes,” Harry said simply.
Confused but accepting, Dean fired up the engine and as they pulled away from the hotel. Harry could feel the tension in the air. Whatever truth Missouri held, it was something John Winchester had been chasing for years.
They drove through the streets of Lawrence in silence, the weight of the unknown looming over them. Harry glanced at the brothers, knowing that this was more than just another hunt for them. It was a chance to finally get answers.
When they arrived at Missouri’s place, the small, unassuming house seemed out of place for someone with such significance. But Harry had learned long ago that appearances were often deceiving.
Dean knocked on the door, and it swung open. A sign posted said, “wait to be seen,” and there were seats like a waiting room. The boys shrugged at each other and took a seat.
Dean glanced at Harry after they'd sat down. "Hey, man, I never asked after last time... you okay?”
Harry looked over, a small grin tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I'm good."
"You sure?" Dean leaned forward, resting his arms on his knee. "It looked like you were kinda strained there. You started bleeding and shit…”
Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Yeah, that shield wasn’t meant to hold for that long. It’s really just used to deflect an incoming attack while you fire one of your own and regroup. A minute or two at most. And it's only designed to take a few blows... not a few thousand every second from all angles."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "You held that thing up for what, 6 hours?”
"More or less." Harry chuckled, but there was a hint of exhaustion behind it. "In retrospect, I could’ve just gotten us out of there... or attacked the bugs... or hell, I’m sure Ron could’ve come up with twelve better strategies in a second. But it’s the first thing I thought of. And, well, I’m strong enough that it worked."
"Strong enough," Dean echoed with a low whistle. "Damn. You held a spell that should only last a few minutes for hours, you must be a fuck ton stronger than most of your kind.”
"My friends back home are strong in other ways,” Harry continued, almost nostalgically, "Hermione’s a genius. She’d have known a hundred better spells to use. And Ron? A strategy mastermind. He'd have had a dozen plans on the fly. Me? I'm mostly brute strength and kinda just wing it... not the best, but it seems to work for me."
Dean shook his head, a small smile on his face. "Well, I'm just glad you're okay."
From beside them, Sam gave Dean a look of curiosity, but Dean didn’t seem to notice. Harry caught it, though, and just shrugged nonchalantly. "Eh, worst case scenario, I deplete my magical core and go into a little coma. No biggie."
Dean's face twisted in disbelief. "That's... kinda a big deal, Harry."
Harry leaned back in his chair, eyes slightly distant. "When you’ve shaken hands with death more times than you can count, it doesn’t really get to you anymore."
Sam let out a low laugh. "If you're so used to almost dying it doesn’t phase you, should we maybe not be around you? Doesn't sound safe." He grinned, clearly joking.
Dean smirked and nudged Sam. "Nah, we’re all pretty much magnets for danger. I think we’re better off together."
Harry smirked. "Dean, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked having me around."
Dean scoffed, crossing his arms. "You’re just useful."
Harry and Sam both rolled their eyes at the same time. "Sure," Harry said, trying not to laugh.
Just then, a door creaked open, pulling their attention. Within moments, an older woman with a sharp gaze and an air of wisdom opened the door. She took one look at them and smiled knowingly.
“Winchesters,” she said, her voice full of warmth. “I’ve been expecting you. And you,” she said, turning to Harry. “Took you long enough to find me.”
Harry chuckled softly, realizing just how much this Missouri knew. “Sorry ma'am, Marjorie didn't give much to go on.”
She motioned them forward, “come on in boys, we got a lot to discuss.”
They followed her into the back room, the air thick with anticipation. Missouri poured herself some tea, her movements slow and deliberate as though she was giving them all time to settle in for what came next. She looked at the brothers, then Harry, and leaned back in her chair, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
“You know,” Missouri started, her voice low and gentle, “haven't seen you boys in a long time. Dean, you grew into such a handsome man. And little Sammie, you look so much like your mother.”
Dean and Sam both tensed, listening intently. Harry crossed his arms, curious about what she'd reveal next.
“You knew our dad?” Dean asked in a tight voice.
She nodded, “your daddy, John, wasn’t always a hunter you know. He wasn’t born into this life. He didn’t know what was really out there until he came to see me.”
The boys unconsciously leaned in as she spoke. “I pulled back the veil for him,” she continued, her eyes clouding with the weight of the memory. “Showed him the truth. The real truth. Bout what's out there. I made him a hunter, in a way.”
Dean leaned forward, frowning. “You mean...you showed him everything?”
Missouri nodded. “I didn’t have much choice. He was desperate to know what took Mary from him, and I couldn’t keep the truth hidden. Once he saw what was really out there, he couldn’t turn away. He became...obsessed. You boys know that much.”
Dean sat down on a sofa and began to lean back, but Missouri’s eyes flicked to him. She raised a brow. “And don’t you even think about putting your feet on that table, Dean Winchester, or I’ll smack you with a shoe.”
Dean blinked in surprise. His feet had been firmly on the floor. “I didn’t do anything!”
Missouri gave him a look, her voice filled with amusement. “No, but you thought about it.”
Sam chuckled, but the laughter quickly faded when Missouri turned her gaze toward him, her expression softening. “I’m sorry for your loss, Sam. That evil thing came after your girl too, I had no idea it would.”
Sam’s face darkened with grief. “How...how do you know?”
The woman looked mournful, “I can see it. You must be thinking about what happened. It's all the same, the fire, the girl on the ceiling…I'm so sorry.”
Sam swallowed hard, nodding, but the weight of the loss was palpable in the room. “Do you know what it was?” He asked.
She nodded softly, “a demon. Powerful one.”
Harry was about to say something when Missouri interrupted with a cryptic comment. “And don’t worry about that vase, Harry.”
He raised an eyebrow, confused. “What vase?”
Missouri smirked, her eyes twinkling. “The one you're about to break, never did care for it.”
Harry glanced around, confused, just as he backed into a side table, sending a green vase crashing to the floor.
“See?” Missouri chuckled softly as Harry winced. “I’ve always hated that vase in green. When you fix it, try making it blue. I’ve always hated green.”
Harry stared at her, then at the vase. With a flick of his wand, the vase mended itself, but this time, the once-green glass turned a deep, vibrant blue. Missouri smiled in approval.
“Much better,” she said, her tone light. “Thanks for that.”
Harry shook his head, unable to suppress a grin. “You’re welcome, I guess.”
Dean smirked, still trying to wrap his head around Missouri’s uncanny foresight. “You really know everything before it happens, don’t you?”
Missouri winked at him. “I know just enough to keep you boys in line. I don't know everything. I'm a psychic not a magician.”
They all shared a brief moment of laughter before the weight of their mission returned to the room. Missouri’s expression grew serious once more as she leaned forward, clasping her hands together.
“Now, you’ve got work to do. Whatever’s in that house might not be the demon that took your mom, but it’s dangerous. We need to clear it out before anyone else gets hurt.”
Dean leaned forward, eyebrows knit together. "So it’s not the demon?"
Missouri shook her head, her expression resolute. “No, that demon left the night your mom died, and it hasn’t been back since. But there’s something else in that house. I can feel its energy clinging to you both, Sam and Dean. It’s not the same. It’s some kind of haunting, likely a poltergeist.”
Dean glanced at Sam, who seemed just as unsettled. Sam cleared his throat. “But the fire... the kids saw fire.”
Missouri’s voice softened as she looked at Sam. “No, baby, the fire the kids are seeing is different. It’s a benevolent energy. It’s not the same thing as the poltergeist, and it’s certainly not evil.”
Harry leaned forward, his mind racing. “Do you know what demon it was that killed their mom?”
Missouri’s expression tightened, but her eyes remained kind as she looked at Sam and Dean. “Yes, I know.”
Sam’s voice trembled with urgency. “Who was it?”
Missouri sighed and shook her head slowly. “Sorry, sugar. It’s not time for you to find out. See, you’ve all got a part to play. Play them right, and we all win. But play them wrong... and a lot of people are going to lose. I can’t interfere with some things, as much as I’d like to.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly, “I'm not a fan of prophecies.”
The woman chuckled, “this isn't like the last one. Parts are still moving, nothing is set in stone. But I can't reveal what will become known before its time to be shown.”
Harry cleared his throat, the determination in his voice clear. “But we can kill it, right?”
Dean crossed his arms, his jaw set. “Demons can be exorcised back to Hell.”
Harry shook his head, his tone decisive. “No, anything—anything—can be killed. If it exists, there was a time before and a time after. Death isn't just for the living, everything that is was and will be can also not be…even death can be killed…so…we can kill it. Right?”
Missouri hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Yes, you can. Their father is working on a way.”
Dean leaned back, a little tension easing off his shoulders. Harry, however, was still deep in thought. His gaze wandered the room before Missouri's voice pulled him back.
Missouri looked at Harry with a small, knowing smile. “And tell that friend of yours to join me for dinner one day. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
Harry chuckled, though there was a hint of confusion in his tone. “Me either. He’s been... distant.”
Missouri’s smile faded into something more serious, her eyes deep with unspoken meaning. “He’s been busy. Keeping a balance that’s dangerously close to tipping one way or another.”
Harry frowned but didn’t press her further.
Missouri stood, her gaze sweeping over the three men. “Things are stirring, boys. Darker than anything you’ve ever seen. You’ve all got your work cut out for you.”
Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, who swallowed hard, both of them knowing that whatever was coming, it wasn’t going to be easy.
With that, Missouri nodded, giving them the space they needed to absorb her words. "Now go on, you’ve got a house to deal with." She motioned to the door, her energy calm, but there was a weight behind her words that lingered as they stood up to leave.
Harry, Dean, and Sam all knew one thing as they stepped out: they had a demon to hunt and kill. But first they had a house to deal with.
The three men stood in front of the house, shadows stretching long in the fading light. Harry glanced at the mother, clutching her kids tightly as they lingered by the front porch, unsure of what to do next.
Harry's gaze hardened. "This will be easier," he muttered, then lifted his wand. With a flick and a whispered command, the Imperius Curse settled over the woman. Her eyes glazed over, and she gently tugged her children toward the car.
"Take your kids and leave. Go somewhere safe and keep your kids happy and don't worry them. Nothing is wrong. Don’t come back until morning, then forget this ever happened," Harry instructed. She nodded, guiding the kids without another word as she started the car and drove off.
Dean raised an eyebrow, watching the taillights disappear. "You can make anyone do anything you want? That’s...dangerous."
Harry shrugged, sliding his wand back into his pocket. "It’s not really a legal spell. It’s one of the Unforgivables. We’re not supposed to use it. But if she stayed, we’d risk her kids getting hurt. I’d rather take the stain on my soul for the spell than for their deaths. It’s plenty stained anyway."
Sam, standing beside Dean, gave Harry a curious look. "That’s actually kind of noble."
Harry chuckled, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I’ve been called that before. I prefer ‘selfish.’ If they die, I’ll feel like crap. So I save them so I can sleep at night. Makes me feel better to think I’m doing it for selfish reasons instead of selfless ones. I spent enough time being selfless."
Dean scoffed but nodded, slightly impressed. "Fair enough."
Without further explanation, Harry headed inside the house. The air grew colder as they entered, and Harry paused, closing his eyes. "I feel two different things here," he said quietly. "One good and one...not so good."
Dean and Sam exchanged a look. "That’s not comforting," Dean muttered.
Harry didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he began pulling out a mixture of supplies—red brick dust, gopher dust, and various other strange ingredients. He started drawing symbols and sigils on the floor and walls, casting spells under his breath as he moved. His movements were deliberate, focused, like he’d done this a hundred times before. Dean and Sam watched in silence, keeping a careful distance.
When Harry finished, he stood in the center of the room, wiping sweat from his brow. "That should have cleared it out," he said, though his voice was uncertain. "But I don’t know...I feel it’s gone, but…"
Sam’s brows furrowed. "I still feel something."
Harry frowned, his shoulders tensing. "That’s not good. We should stay the night. See if it’s really gone for good or not."
Dean gave a curt nod. "Alright. We’re staying then."
They moved into the living room, drawing a thick salt circle on the ground large enough for the three of them to sit inside. They settled in, weapons close by, as the light outside faded completely, leaving the house in a deep, oppressive silence.
The night crept in slowly, and with it, an unsettling stillness that seemed to hang in the air.
"Now we wait," Harry said softly, his eyes scanning the room, prepared for whatever might come.
The night stretched on in uneasy silence, the air thick with tension. Harry, Dean, and Sam sat huddled within the salt circle, their gazes flickering toward every creak and groan of the old house. The minutes dragged until, suddenly, a cold gust swept through the room, sending shivers down their spines.
Without warning, objects around the room began to shake—books flew off the shelves, picture frames rattled violently, and then, with a sudden burst of force, an entire lamp was thrown across the room, shattering against the wall.
"It’s starting," Harry muttered, gripping his wand tightly.
Dean and Sam tensed, eyes scanning the dark corners of the room. The salt circle surrounding them quivered, disturbed by the increasingly violent movements of the spirit. A chair flew toward them, knocking over part of the circle and breaking the protection.
"Harry!" Sam yelled, but before anyone could react, the spirit surged forward, an invisible force crashing into them. Harry raised his wand, casting spell after spell, the air crackling with magic, but the spirit was relentless. It slammed into Harry with unnatural strength, throwing him into the wall with a sickening thud. His head struck hard, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
The poltergeist turned on Sam and Dean next. Dean grabbed a nearby iron poker from the fireplace, swinging it at the invisible force. "Come on!" he growled, striking out, and for a moment, the spirit seemed to retreat as if dispelled by the iron.
But then it returned, more furious than ever. The room erupted into chaos—furniture crashing, windows rattling violently, and the air thick with malevolent energy. The poltergeist grabbed Dean by the throat, lifting him off his feet. Sam rushed forward, swinging another iron poker, but he too was caught, his breath choking as the spirit constricted around him.
Both brothers struggled, gasping for air as they were lifted higher. The iron pokers fell from their grasp, clattering uselessly to the floor. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, Harry stirred. Groaning, he blinked his eyes open, still disoriented from the blow. As his vision cleared, he saw it—the figure of a burning body standing in the room, the same one the kids had described. Flames licked around the edges of the figure, yet it moved with eerie calm, walking toward them.
Dean’s vision blurred as he gasped for breath, but his eyes widened when he saw the fiery figure. "Sam," he rasped, "look…"
Sam strained to turn his head. "The body… it’s…"
Harry struggled to sit up, raising his wand, ready to attack, when Sam suddenly shouted, "Wait! It’s our mom!"
The fire continued to burn, but as the figure stepped closer, the flames slowly began to die down, revealing the image of a woman—Sam and Dean’s mother. She looked just as she had the last time they had seen her, glowing and ethereal.
Tears welled up in Sam’s eyes. "Mom?"
She smiled softly at him. "I love you so much," she whispered, her voice full of warmth and sorrow. She turned to Dean, her gaze softening. "Both of you. I’m so sorry."
Dean’s breath hitched, his eyes brimming with emotion. "Mom…"
Sam choked out, "We missed you so much."
Their mother’s expression shifted, becoming more determined as she turned her gaze toward the poltergeist. "You get out of my home!" she commanded, her voice ringing with authority. "Leave my boys alone."
The spirit seemed to hesitate, its grip on the brothers loosening.
She turned to Harry, her eyes locking with his. "Take care of them. Watch out for Sam," she said gently. "And do right by Dean."
Harry, still on the floor, nodded solemnly. "I will."
Then, with a fierce determination, their mother turned back to the poltergeist. She held out her hands, her presence glowing brighter and brighter. "Leave!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the room as her energy collided with the poltergeist’s malevolent force.
The two forces seemed to clash, the air vibrating with the power of their struggle. The poltergeist howled in fury, but Sam and Dean’s mother stood firm, her love and resolve burning brighter than any darkness. Slowly, the poltergeist began to fade, its power weakening under the force of her will. With one final push, she banished the spirit from the house, and both the poltergeist and their mother’s figure began to fade into the air, the room settling into silence.
Before she disappeared completely, their mother looked back at Sam and Dean one last time, her smile full of love. "I’ll always be with you," she whispered, and then, she was gone.
Sam and Dean collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, tears streaming down their faces as the room fell into a quiet stillness. Harry, now fully awake, watched them with a mix of awe and respect, realizing just how much these two men had endured.
Dean wiped his eyes, his voice hoarse. "She saved us."
Sam, still catching his breath, nodded. "Yeah...she did."
The three of them sat in silence for a moment, the weight of what had just happened settling over them like a heavy blanket.
As the room settled into silence after the intense encounter, Harry slowly pushed himself to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. His vision blurred, and a wave of dizziness hit him like a freight train. He swayed dangerously, almost collapsing, but Dean lunged forward just in time to catch him, steadying him with a firm grip.
"I'm fine," Harry muttered, though his voice lacked any real conviction. He winced, rubbing the back of his head where he’d slammed against the wall earlier.
"You're not fine," Sam said, stepping closer, concern etched across his face. "You’ve probably got a concussion. You should stay with us tonight so we can keep an eye on you."
Harry groaned, waving them off. "No, thanks... I'm—" He trailed off as another wave of dizziness hit him, this time stronger. He nearly knocked Dean over as he lost his balance again.
Dean and Sam exchanged a quick glance before they both shifted to help support Harry between them, holding him upright.
"No arguing," Dean said firmly. "Let’s go."
Harry, too woozy to protest, could only grumble under his breath as they helped him out of the house and into the cool night air. They made their way to the Impala, the brothers carefully guiding Harry into the backseat before getting in themselves. The engine roared to life, and they pulled away from the house.
As they drove through the quiet streets, Harry rested his head back against the seat, still trying to shake off the disorientation. "If I need babysitters, can we at least do this at my house instead of that crappy hotel you’re staying in?" he muttered, his voice laced with exhaustion. "I'm hungry."
Dean glanced back at him in the rearview mirror, smirking. "Sure.”
They got to the hotel and Harry pulled out his key, still a bit shaky, but managed to insert it into the door.
As they entered Harry's home, a soft pop echoed in the room as Trixi appeared, her apron tied neatly around her waist, her eyes wide with concern. She immediately rushed forward, her hands wringing in her apron as she took in the sight of her master being supported by Sam and Dean.
"Master Harry! Oh, dear, what has happened?" she fretted, her voice filled with worry as she darted toward them. "You’re hurt!"
Before Harry could even try to protest, Trixi snapped her fingers, and Harry was gently lifted off the ground by magic, levitating over to the couch. She fussed over him as he was carefully lowered onto the cushions, adjusting pillows under his head and making sure he was as comfortable as possible.
"I’m fine, Trixi," Harry muttered, his words slurred slightly as the lingering dizziness clouded his thoughts.
"You are not fine, Master Harry," Trixi scolded gently, brushing a lock of hair out of his face. "You’ve had a terrible night, and you need rest. Trixi will take care of everything!"
She popped out of the room for a moment. When she returned, she held a small vial filled with a deep crimson liquid and a jar of thick salve in her hands. She approached Harry, her eyes filled with determination.
"Master Harry, you need to drink this," she said softly, offering him the vial. "It’s a Blood-Replenishing Potion. You’ve lost some blood, and this will help you feel stronger."
Harry sighed, feeling too tired to argue, and reached out for the vial. His hand trembled slightly as he took it from her. With a resigned groan, he uncorked the vial and downed the potion in one gulp, grimacing at the sharp taste.
Trixi quickly set the vial aside and opened the jar of healing salve. She dipped her small fingers into the thick mixture and gently applied it to the spot on Harry’s head where he had hit the wall. The cool, soothing sensation spread across his skin, easing the throbbing pain that had been pounding in his skull.
"Don’t move, Master Harry," Trixi instructed gently but firmly. "You could have a concussion, and you need to rest."
Harry groaned, rolling his eyes slightly but nodding. "Yeah, yeah, I know, Trixi. But I can’t just lay here all night. If I’m going to stay up with Sam and Dean, I’m going to need tea. The good tea Hermione sent, not that cheap bagged American stuff.”
"Alright, Master Harry," she said, her tone soft and loving. "I’ll fetch you some tea. But you mustn’t move too much. Let Trixi take care of you."
With another pop, Trixi vanished again, only to return moments later with a full teapot and a cup. She carefully poured Harry a cup of tea, setting it on the table next to him before giving him a stern look.
"I’ll keep the kettle on all night, Master Harry," she said, adjusting his blankets one more time. "If you need more tea, just call for Trixi. And please, try to stay still."
Harry gave her a small, grateful smile, lifting the cup of tea to his lips. "You’re too good to me, Trixi."
Trixi blushed slightly, wringing her apron in her hands. "It’s Trixi’s job to take care of Master Harry."
She turned to Sam and Dean, her expression softening, though still tinged with worry. "What can I get for Master Harry’s friends? You must be hungry after such a dreadful evening."
Sam, clearly still a bit surprised by the house elf’s presence, paused before speaking. "Uh, maybe some soup and salad, if that’s alright."
Harry, despite the haze of exhaustion, scoffed from the couch. "Steak frites for me, Trixi please love.”
Trixi gave him a fond smile. "Of course, Master Harry. Anything you want."
Dean, grinning at the whole exchange, added, "I’ll take the same. Steak frites sounds great."
"Right away," Trixi said warmly, giving them all one more worried look before disappearing with a quick snap of her fingers.
Harry sank further into the cushions, his head lolling back as his body finally relaxed. "She’s sweet, isn’t she?" he muttered, mostly to himself, his eyelids drooping.
Sam chuckled softly. "Yeah, she seems... very dedicated to you."
“She is," Harry murmured, still fighting off the dizziness. "Fusses over me all the time. Can’t get her to stop.”
A few moments later, Trixi reappeared, balancing trays in her hands as she brought their meals into the room. She set them down carefully in front of Sam, Dean, and Harry, who gave her a grateful, if slightly disoriented, smile. The smell of perfectly cooked steak frites filled the room, making Dean’s stomach growl in appreciation. She also brought a salad and a few soup options for Sam.
"Here you go, Master Harry," Trixi said softly, tucking a napkin into his lap as if he were a child. "And for your guests, too."
Harry chuckled lightly, giving her a tired but warm smile. "Thanks, Trixi."
"Anything for you, Master Harry," she replied with a loving smile, before retreating back to the corner of the room, watching him closely to ensure he was alright.
The three of them began eating in a comfortable silence. Sam picked at his salad, glancing over occasionally to check on Harry, while Dean dug into his steak with enthusiasm.
"You feeling any better?" Sam asked after a few minutes, watching Harry as he chewed slowly.
Harry gave a small shrug. "A little. I’ll be alright by morning," he said, though the exhaustion in his voice made it clear he was still struggling.
Dean shot him a sideways look, smirking. "Good, because I’m not carrying your ass again."
Harry managed a weak chuckle. "Noted."
After eating Harry went to get up but Trixi stopped him, “Master Harry not be needing to get up! Trixi will get anything he needs.”
Harry groaned in frustration at having to sit still but slouched back on the couch. Dean and Sam couldn't help but glance around Harry’s home with wide eyes, taking in the large, cozy space filled with strange, magical objects and shelves upon shelves of books. The place had an old-world charm mixed with an unmistakable sense of magic in every corner.
"Man," Dean muttered, running a hand through his hair as he surveyed the room. "This is... something else."
Sam, on the other hand, was more captivated by the sheer amount of books everywhere. His eyes scanned over the shelves, and he absentmindedly reached for one, clearly drawn to the possibility of untapped knowledge.
Harry, leaning back on the couch and sipping his tea, watched the brothers with an amused expression. "Look, I'm not gonna sit here all night doing nothing," he said, the slight grogginess from his injury still in his voice. "If I need to stay still, we can at least do something useful."
With a snap of his fingers, the sound of fluttering pages and shifting volumes filled the room as dozens of books flew off the shelves and piled themselves on the nearby coffee table. Some were ancient, bound in worn leather with cracked spines, while others were newer, filled with detailed notes and magical scripts.
"These are all I’ve got on demons," Harry explained, gesturing to the impressive pile of tomes. "We know a demon killed your mom, but not which one. Maybe we can find something in here."
Sam’s eyes lit up with a mixture of excitement and curiosity. "I’ve never seen this many resources on demons," he said eagerly, reaching for a book at the top of the pile and flipping it open. "This is incredible."
Harry chuckled softly, seeing Sam dive headfirst into the research. He could tell that Sam was in his element, surrounded by knowledge that could potentially give him answers he'd been chasing for years.
Dean, on the other hand, gave the stack of books a brief glance before shrugging. "Yeah, that’s great, Sammy. But, uh, you got any beer around here?" he asked, more interested in unwinding than diving into demon lore.
Before Harry could even respond, Trixi popped back into the room, a bottle of firewhiskey in one hand and a glass in the other. She smiled sweetly as she handed them to Dean, who grinned in appreciation.
"Thanks, Trixi," Dean said with a nod as he poured himself a glass, clearly pleased with the stronger-than-beer option.
Harry reached out to grab the bottle for himself, but Trixi was quicker. She gave his hand a sharp slap, causing Harry to flinch.
"Master Harry, no!" she scolded, her tone firm but loving. "Firewhiskey won’t help you stay awake. You need to stay focused!"
Dean snickered into his glass, clearly enjoying the sight of Harry being bossed around by his house-elf. "Looks like you’re cut off, Harry," Dean teased, taking a sip of his drink.
Harry groaned, rubbing the back of his hand where Trixi had slapped it. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he muttered, though there was a hint of a smirk on his face. He settled back down, sipping more tea instead, his eyes glancing over to the books Sam was devouring with growing enthusiasm.
Sam, already deep into the research, barely glanced up. "This is going to be so helpful," he muttered, flipping to another page. "We might actually get closer to figuring out who did it, Dean. There’s just so much here."
Dean, comfortable with his glass of firewhiskey, raised an eyebrow and said, "That’s great, but I’ll leave the nerd stuff to you and Harry." He glanced at the bottle. "Meanwhile, I’ll be enjoying this fine drink."
Trixi gave Dean a look but stayed quiet, continuing her vigilant watch over Harry as the night crept on.
The night settled into a rhythm of quiet reading, drinking, and the occasional rustle of pages as Sam and Harry sat together, immersed in research. Dean leaned back in his chair, sipping on firewhiskey, his gaze wandering between the two as the silence began to weigh on him. For Dean, silence wasn't always a friend—it left too much room for old memories to creep back in.
After what felt like hours, Dean finally broke the quiet. "So... do you have any music in this place?" he asked, half-bored, half-hopeful.
Harry glanced up from his book, raising an eyebrow. "Music?" He smiled a little. "Yeah, I've got a record player."
Dean scoffed at the suggestion, his grin playful but skeptical. "A record player? Seriously? What are you, like... eighty?"
Harry stood, stretching a little as he smirked. "Don't knock it till you've tried it," he said, making his way over to the record player. "The audio is better than you'd think."
Dean rolled his eyes but waved a hand in amusement. "Sure, whatever you say."
Harry began rifling through his collection, flipping past album covers with a thoughtful hum until he landed on one. With a sly grin, he tossed it onto the player and set the needle down. The familiar opening chords of "Carry On Wayward Son" by Kansas blared through the room, the volume a little too high for comfort.
"Hey!" Sam shouted over the music, glaring up from his book. "Can you keep it down over there? Some of us are trying to actually do research!"
Harry’s grin widened as he cranked the volume even louder. "Oh, come on, Sam!" he called back, his voice barely cutting through the song. "You can't listen to this song quietly. It's sacrilege!"
Dean's grin stretched wide, and before anyone could stop him, he was up, strumming an air guitar alongside Harry. Both of them belted out the lyrics in obnoxiously off-key voices, swaying to the music, completely abandoning any pretense of being serious.
As the song reached its climax, Harry and Dean found themselves standing side by side, breathless and grinning. The moment lingered longer than either expected. Harry, for the first time, really looked at Dean—not just as the hunter he'd come to know, but as something... more.
Dean was only a few inches shorter than him, but not by much. His green eyes—so different from Harry’s own—were pale, flecked with yellow, like the soft green of leaves just before autumn took them. His hair, dark and tousled, was cool in color, not warm like Hermione's had been. He looked younger than Harry, but he obviously had to grow up fast. He has a severe look you only get from age, and a smoothness you only have in youth. An intriguing combination.
But it was Dean’s eyes that struck Harry the most—there was a coldness in them, a haunted quality that Harry knew too well. Not cruel, like Voldemort’s or calculating like Draco’s had been, but cold in a way that spoke of a man who’d seen more pain than he should’ve. It was the same coldness Harry had seen in George's eyes after Fred died, in Molly’s when she thought no one was watching.
Dean's rugged handsomeness had an edge that Harry couldn’t quite mimic, no matter how hard he tried. And for a brief moment, they stood there, locked in each other’s gaze, a beat too long to be casual. The room felt smaller, the music still echoing in the background as the unspoken passed between them, charged and unexpected.
Then, with a sharp snap, the moment was broken.
Sam slammed his book shut, just a fraction harder than necessary. The sound pulled both Harry and Dean back to reality. They quickly looked away from each other, awkwardness settling in like a heavy blanket.
"Well," Dean muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice rough with a forced casualness. "That was... fun."
"Yeah," Harry agreed, clearing his throat as he walked over to the record player. He carefully switched the vinyl out for a softer jazz record, the low notes filling the room at a more reasonable volume.
They didn’t look at each other after that. Not for a while, at least.
Harry returned to the couch, grabbing another book from the pile, sitting beside Sam, who was now engrossed once again in his research. Dean returned to his chair, still nursing his firewhiskey, though he glanced at Harry now and again out of the corner of his eye.
Trixi popped back into the room quietly, bringing more tea and snacks for everyone, but the energy had shifted. It was quieter now, more contemplative, but the effects of that brief moment between Harry and Dean lingered like smoke in the air—visible but not spoken of.
And so, they continued through the night, reading, researching, and avoiding the one thing neither of them could ignore for too long.
The night dragged on, the steady hum of the jazz music barely cutting through the silence as Sam, Harry, and Dean continued their own tasks—Sam and Harry buried in books while Dean sipped firewhiskey, occasionally tapping his fingers against the glass in time with the music. It wasn’t until Sam’s voice cut through the quiet that the room stirred back to life.
“Hey... how do we know when the day’s passed? I don’t see any windows,” Sam asked, his brow furrowed as he glanced around the room.
Harry blinked, suddenly realizing the oversight. "Oh... shit, I didn’t even think about that," he admitted, running a hand through his messy hair. "This place exists on a plane outside yours or mine. There can’t be windows—time doesn’t move the same way here."
Dean perked up at the mention of time. "Wait, what? So we could be sitting here for, what, days?"
"More or less," Harry said with a shrug. "Time doesn’t exactly follow the rules here."
"Great," Dean muttered, standing up from his chair and stretching. "Well, let’s see where we’re at, then." He walked over to the door and swung it open, glancing outside. After a moment, he turned back to them with a grin. "Sun’s up, boys. We made it to morning."
Harry stretched, groaning as the stiffness in his muscles reminded him just how long they'd been sitting. "Alright, I suppose I should be good now—no coma, no permanent damage. That’s a win."
Sam stood and closed his book with a satisfied sigh, though he cast a longing glance at the piles of tomes still left untouched. "Guess we should head out then," he said, his voice reluctant. "Thanks for all the help, Harry."
Harry waved him off, grinning. "I’ll keep reading and see what I can find. You’re both welcome to come back anytime," he said, gesturing to the seemingly endless supply of books. "If you’re looking for answers, I’ll do what I can to help."
Sam gave a nod of appreciation, but his eyes lingered on the books. It was clear he wasn’t quite ready to leave them behind. Dean, however, was already making his way to the door, giving Harry a smirk over his shoulder.
"Take care of yourself, Potter. We’ll be in touch."
Harry smiled, watching the two brothers walk out the door into the early morning sun. As the door clicked shut behind them, the room fell into a comfortable silence. He let out a breath, the weight of the night lifting, but something in the air still lingered—something he couldn’t quite place.
He glanced at the piles of books surrounding him, and for a brief moment, he considered diving back into them. But instead, he let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes. Morning had come, but something told him that wasn’t the only thing changing.