#apocalypse fix-it

*

Dean didn’t believe.

Even after he saw Castiel walk straight through a demon trap, survive Ruby’s knife, spread his literal wings like a whore, and knock out people with a touch of his hand—even after that, he still didn’t believe.

Hell, Sam had more faith than him, and he was the one jacked up on demon blood.

“Dean, this is good news,” he insisted. “for once, this isn't just another round of demon crap. I mean, maybe you were saved by one of the good guys, you know?”

“Okay, say that’s true,” Dean said . "Say there are angels. Then what? There’s a God?”

Well, yes.

The debate devolved from there, with Dean stubbornly refuting every single one of their argument like the stubborn ass he was. Harry was honestly about to give up, when—

“ —If there is a God out there, why would he give a crap about me?”

Oh.  

Harry was an idiot.

It wasn’t about faith. It wasn’t about proof. It was about Dean’s damn self-esteem.  

Once upon a time, a flawed man called John Winchester taught Dean that his life was worthless. Because was the  good  son, that lesson branded itself onto his very soul, never to be forgotten.

And so, even after everything he did, he still doesn’t believe he is worthy of being saved. Never mind that he only ended up in hell because he was trying to save Sam’s life; never mind that he was chosen by Chuck to be a Righteous Man; never mind that a few dozen angels died in trying to retrieve his soul; never mind that Castiel would now be forever honored as the one who raised him from perdition.

But before Harry could point these out, this conversation had already moved on. Dean was now sitting with Bobby, scanning the books for more mentions of angels. Sam, on the other hand, was going out to ‘get pie.’

Yeah right. Harry could sense the guilt in his soul from a mile away. When has he ever remembered the pie?

Never, and Dean complained about it loudly all the way to Olivia Lowry’s house.

*

Harry didn’t get it when he saw Olivia dead.

He didn’t get it when Jed didn’t pick up.

He didn’t get it when he saw Henriksen.

He didn’t get it when he shot Meg’s ghost.

And then Sam drew the mark and—fuck, how could he have forgotten?

“I may have seen that before,” Bobby said. “We got to move!”

“No, no,” Harry interrupted, eying the fireplace. “I know how to banish them, so we got stay here.”

“What?”  

Harry ignored Sam, focusing on Bobby. “hex box, hemlock, opium, wormwood—do you have them?”

“Who do you think I am? Of course I do.” He turned to Sam. “There’s a red hex box in the linen closet upstairs. It'll be real heavy.” And then to Dean. “Everything else in the kitchen. There's a false bottom to the cutlery drawer.”

“Don’t try to talk, just shoot!” Harry called after them as they rushed to retrieve the items.  

“You sure you know what you’re doing, kid?” Bobby asked.

Harry grinned. “Who do you think I am? Of course I know,” he continued before Bobby could smack him for his sass. “Come on, you’re gonna make a salt circle around the fireplace. And I’ll be drawing some sigils, so try to keep those ghosts off my back, hmm?”

They got to work. It wasn’t long before two girls appeared in front of them.  

“Bobby,” one of them said. “You walked right by us while that monster ate us all up.”

The other said, “you could have saved us.”

Bobby shot them. They vanished, but new witnesses took their place. One was a man—a boy, really—with messy black hair and round hazel eyes. Beside him was a woman of around the same age, fiery red hair and burning green eyes. They were both dressed in pajamas, and, strangely, did not bear any physical wounds. Furthermore, Harry did not know them.  

But they knew him.

“My little Prongslet,” he whispered. “Look at how many deaths you have caused.”

“It was not worthy it, to have died for you,” she continued.

What?  

Before Harry could react, two shots rang out, and the witnesses disappeared. Sam and Dean came into view, shotguns cocked and smoking.  

“Are we ready?” Dean asked as both of them stepped into the salt circle.  

Harry shook himself out of his funk, and assessed the ingredients. They looked to be in good shape, so he indicated for Dean to drop them into a bowl.

“Let’s start.”

He recited the spell, Latin rolling off his tongue as if he was still living in Pompeii. Wind blew through the window, disturbing the salt circle and forcing the others to fight off the witnesses. Harry picked up the speed of his words, until the spell was completed, and he threw the ingredients into the fire. The flames burned blue. The witnesses vanished.

There was a thud. Harry turned around to find Bobby on the ground, and Sam trapped against the wall by a desk. Dean was breathing heavily, still holding onto an iron rod.

“Everyone’s good?” he asked, running his eyes along their forms. He sighed in relief as all three men nodded.

“Now, what the hell was that?” Dean demanded.

*

No one takes the revelation (heh, get it? Because it’s from the book of Revelations) that those ghosts were a sign of the impending apocalypse well. The tension was so thick that Harry just decided to leave the house. He transported himself to a bar, and was just about to order a drink when someone slid into the seat next to him.

“Hey,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Harry blinked, then glanced around.  

Ohhh, this was a  gay bar. No wonder he dared to be so straightforward.

Harry looked back at the man. He was pretty cute, all things considered. And Harry needed something to take his mind off of the day’s events, anyways.

“Sure, why not?”

*

Harry didn’t get back until the early mornings, and apparently, he missed a lot. 

*

Harry woke up from his nap when the Impala came to a stop. He stretched, feeling the pop of his bones. “We arrived?”

“Yeah. Come on, imp. Let’s see what this psychic has got for us.”

Pamela Barnes was beautiful, witty, and she was going to die in a few months.

But first, she went blind.

*

The ambulance came quickly. Bobby rode with her to the hospital, while Harry followed along in Bobby’s truck. After he parked, he found Bobby in the waiting room, being questioned by a nurse. She was trying to figure out how Pamela’s injuries came to be, but Bobby avoided answering by speaking rapid Japanese and flailing his arms around. Harry stifled a laugh, and joined him.

The nurse gave up a few minutes later, and they were left to wait in peace.

“I didn’t know you could speak Japanese,” Bobby said, in Japanese.

Harry shrugged, and replied in the same tongue. “It was a boring four months.”

That was true, but that wasn’t when he learned the language. He learned it sometime in the 18th century, when he had been reborn as a peasant farmer. So even though he could speak the language, he couldn’t read or write it. That just hadn’t been a priority for his station in life.

But Bobby didn’t know that, and misunderstood his answer, as Harry had intended for him to do. He squeezed his shoulder, an act of brief comfort, then pulled away.

And, okay, as Harry Winchester, he would have found this acceptable, perhaps even a little too much; but as Harry, the immortal being who had been reincarnated into thousands of lives, it was not. He just insinuated, to his surrogate father no less, that he had learned Japanese to keep busy and avoid thinking about Dean’s death. Shouldn’t he at least get a hug?

But he doubted that this was the best time to open that can of worms, so he kept quiet, fiddling his ring and listening to the angel radio. Castiel seemed to be feeling some smidgen of guilt for burning out an innocent woman’s eyes, and some higher-ups named Zachary was comforting him.

By which he means, Zachary was telling Castiel that humans were nothing more than mud monkeys, who did not deserve an angel’s sympathy.

‘It’s not your fault she foolishly disregarded you warnings and continued with the séance. Really, it was like she was asking to be burnt. And she was being impertinent, anyways, demanding to see your true face.’

‘But…’

‘No buts, Castiel. You’re an angel, she’s a human; we’re superior, and they’re inferior. Do you understand?’

‘…yes, Zachariah. I do.’

Harry closed the connection, shaking his head in silent disgust. And they said angels were supposed to be compassionate.

Why did you leave, Chuck? He wondered. Are you really satisfied with the world, as it is right now? Is it everything you had envisioned?

*

A few hours later, a doctor stepped out, clipboard in hand. “Family of Pamela Barnes?”

He told them that they’ve stabilized her conditions, although it was certain that she’ll never be able to see again. She had been moved out of ICU, and can accept visitors, but only one is allowed in the room at a time.

Bobby went in first, while Harry called his brothers to tell them the good news. The two of them had stayed behind, cleaning away any evidence of the séance. Judging by the sound in the background, they had now relocated to a diner.

“I think we’ll leave pretty soon,” he said. “Save me a milkshake, won’t you?”

“You bet,” Sam said, with the tone of someone who had absolutely no intention of doing so, and hung up.

Well, he was the health nut of this family.

Soon, Bobby came out, and Harry slipped inside. Pamela was lying in the middle of a hospital bed, pale-skinned and weak, nothing like the feisty woman he’d just met, half a day prior. A roll of bandages had been wrapped around her skull, covering her eyes. She jolted when she heard the door open.

“Is that you again, Bobby?” She called.

“No, it’s me. Harry.”

“What do you want?” She asked, words tinted with bitterness. Harry doesn’t blame her. She wouldn’t have lost her eyesight if it weren’t for them.

“I just wanted to apologize,” he said, “and to see if I could fix things.”

Pamela scoffed. “You certainly can’t make things worse.”

Harry moved forward, stopping mere inches from her bed. He raised his hands, hovering them above her eyes, and murmured a spell. Somethings were capital-F fated, which means if he messed with it, he’ll draw attention to the divergence and thus, himself. But her blindness wasn’t—if she had just backed off when Castiel asked, she would have been fine—so Harry healed her.

(He’d even corrected her eyesight, because why not? The woman was going to die in a few months. For putting up with their shit, she deserved to live the rest of her life in 20/20 vision.)

Immediately, Pamela gasped, hands flying up to her face and unraveling the bandages. She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the harsh fluorescent lighting. “What…? How did you—what the hell are you, boy?”

Harry shrugged, tucking his hands into his jean pockets. “Well, I’m not a demon, if that was what you were worried about. But you would have known that already, right?”

She studied him, gaze roving from the soles of his shoes to the wispy strands of his hair. “You definitely don’t feel like a demon…and even a demon wouldn’t have been able to do that. It wouldn’t have wanted to, either. But then…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, with an exaggerated wink. “For now, why don’t you just think of me as someone with a little extra juice, trying to protect my brothers and fix their mistakes?”

“Do they know?” She pressed. “Does Bobby know?”

“It’s just between you and me for now, love,” he paused, and cocked his head. “Of course, if it’s too big of a secret for you to handle, I can erase your memories.”

She shook her head, shifting away as much as she could, as if an extra feet of space could deter him. “No, no, no, that won’t be necessary. You don’t need to do that, I can keep quiet. I owe you one, right? For the eyes?”

“Sure,” Harry agreed, even as he discretely wiggled his fingers. Now, if she tried to speak of this to anyone, she’ll suddenly find herself mute, though that would only last a day. Still, it’s a neat little spell, just in case someone decided torture the information out of her. After all, this was bigger than things that go bump in the night. Angels and demons were involved, and he knew better than to underestimate either of them. “Well, I’m glad we could reach an agreement, love. Bobby and I will take our leave now. We’ll try not to bother you again.”

“Wait!” she cried out, just as his hands closed around the doorknob. “Do you know…that thing I summoned…do you know what Castiel is?”

“Of course I do,” Harry said, not turning around. “But the less you know, the better off you’ll be. Have a good day, Ms. Barnes.”

*

Harry had no idea what happened between the phone call and them arriving at the motel, but whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good. Because when Bobby pulled up in the parking lot, Castiel was yelling at Dean, trying to tell him that Sam had returned to the diner to kill the demons. Unfortunately, all Dean heard is static and high-pitched ringing, so Castiel was forced to stop, frustrated. Bobby and Harry burst into the room just as the last of the mirrors exploded.

(They were kicked out of the motel, obviously.)

This must have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, though, because Dean announced that he was going to try and summon Castiel. Or, as he knows him, a super powerful, supernatural creature capable of pulling someone out of hell, terrifying the demons, and burning out eyes. He has no guarantee that Castiel won’t harm him at first sight, nor does he have a way of defending himself from such attacks.

And he still wanted to summon him.

What. An. Idiot.

Bobby obviously agreed, peering at Ruby’s knife doubtfully. But like Harry, he also doesn’t want anyone else to be hurt, so he relented, directing his truck to an empty warehouse on the outskirt of town.

“We could really use Sam on this, Dean,” Harry suggested from the backseat.

“Nah, he’ll just try to stop us. He’s better off where he is.”

Well, Harry knew that wasn’t true, but he also didn’t want to explain how he knew, so he kept quiet, twisting his ring.

This time, Dean noticed, zeroing in on the action through the rear view mirror. “Didn’t know you were into jewelries, Henry. Where did you get that from?”

“An old friend gave it to me,” Harry said. “Supposedly, it can bring back the souls of the dead.”

“Oh,” Dean said, and Harry suddenly realized the implication behind his words. He thought about backtracking, about claiming that he never tried to summon Dean’s soul, but he wasn’t sure Dean would believe him.

“Well,” Bobby said, interjecting false cheer into his tone. “At least if this turns out to be a disaster, I can bring you back to kill you again.”

*

It was a disaster.

Harry had presumed that, since Castiel didn’t mean to do Dean any harm, the encounter would go smoothly. They’ll have a chit-chat, Castiel will explain and apologize for his mistakes, and then inform Dean of his role in the upcoming apocalypse. They will part ways, somewhat peacefully.

What a stupid presumption.

The problem began after Bobby completed the ritual, and all them stood back, hands on their respective weapons, waiting for him to appear.

And waited. And waited. And waited.

Harry glanced at the ritual circle, frowning. Bobby definitely did the ritual right, so why wasn’t Castiel responding? Wasn’t he the one who tried to reach out to Dean in the first place?

He tuned into the Radio, and immediately received his answers.

‘…leave a good impression on him.’

‘But I have already impressed my handprint on his arm. Is that not enough?’

‘No, no, it’s a different kind of impress. You want him to like you, right?’

‘It would be an honor to be favored by the Righteous Man.’

‘Exactly, which is why you got to make a cool entrance, okay?’

‘What is this “cool entrance” you speak of? How do I make it?’

Harry left the conversation, biting his cheeks to stop from bursting into laughter. It seemed like they were going to be waiting for a while. He abandoned his spot beside the ritual circle, and jumped up to sit on one of the tables. His gun was returned to its holster.

Dean and Bobby gave him disapproving looks, but eventually, both of them gave in, joining him on the tables. They swung their legs back and forth silently, chocked by the anticipation in the air.

Harry was the first to break. He hopped off the table and headed for the door, waving a pack of cigarette as an explanation. The other two moved to stop him, but he was gone because they could speak.

Leaning against the side of the warehouse, Harry lit up a stick, inhaling and exhaling the smoke gratefully. He had been trying to quit but, fuck, this day had been very, very stressful. Besides, he’s the Master of Death. What’s a cigarette going to do, kill him?

And, because he had been looking up at the bright sky, he saw a sight he was never going to forget.

One second, there had been nothing above the warehouse; in the next, a figure appeared, large wings extending from his back. Harry expected Castiel to land on the roof, perhaps survey the area before entering.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stumbled in mid-flight, rolling down the slanted roof until the concrete gave up, and fell straight down to the ground with a thump.  

Harry gaped.

A second later, Castiel stood up, cocking his head in the direction of the warehouse.

“Why couldn’t I get through?” he muttered to himself, but the night was quiet enough that Harry overheard the words.

He blinked.

Oh.

Castiel must have intended to fly through roof and land straight into the ritual circle, which, to be fair, would have been quite the ‘cool’ entrance. Unfortunately, Bobby had come across an angel-warding sigil in one of his books, though neither he nor the author knew its purpose. Still, he had painted it on the walls, which prevented Castiel from phasing through like he had intended. Instead, he had been tripped up by the ward, and fallen.

Once he and Castiel become friends, Harry was going to give him so much shit for this.

For now, though, he simply wiggled his fingers. The ward disappeared. Castiel frowned harder when he registered the change.

“Whatever,” he said at last, almost petulantly, and blasted the warehouse doors open. He sauntered forward, and the sound of shotguns firing filled the air.

Harry vanished his cigarette—he knew better than to litter, considering the state this planet was already in—and rushed in behind Castiel, who was now looking down at Ruby’s knife in a bemusement. Ruby’s knife, which had been jammed into his heart.

Oh, Dean.

Unconcerned, Castiel pulled it out, letting it drop to the ground with a clatter. The wound healed immediately, and Dean stared, shocked. Bobby, however, jumped into action, swinging a crowbar at Castiel’s head. But Castiel caught it without looking, using the momentum to swing himself around. He touched Bobby’s forehead with two fingers, and sent him to sleep.

Wow, Harry thinks, not even bothering to bring out his gun. That was very, very cool.

“We need to talk, Dean,” Castiel said. “Alone.”

Unwittingly, Dean’s gaze flickered to over his shoulders. Castiel followed his line of sight, to where Harry was standing by the doors. There was the sound of wings fluttering, and Castiel disappeared from view.

“What the hell?” Dean whispered.

Too late, Harry realized what Castiel was planning to do. But by then, Castiel had already landed in front of him, fingers extended to brush against his temple. Unprepared, Harry’s awareness shut down, and he crumpled to the ground, asleep.

*

“So where is it?”

Harry and Dean exchanged a look of confusion. “Where’s what?”

The woman leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed. “The pizza…that takes three guys to deliver?”

“I think we got the wrong room,” Dean said, backing away. Just as he was about to turn around, another figure joined them, yawning. He stilled mid-motion when he sees who, exactly, is in front of him. Harry would laugh if the situation wasn’t so tense.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean greeted quietly.

Ignoring the woman, he stepped into the room. Sam watched him approach carefully, and just as Harry started to believe that this reunion would go smoothly, that the two of them would hug, talk, and make up, a knife appeared.

The woman screamed as Sam lunged at Dean, who quickly blocked his attack. Bobby and Harry immediately raced forward, each gripping one of Sam’s broad shoulders to pull him away. Sam doesn’t make it easy for them, buckling wildly in their grasps.

“Who are you?” he shouted angrily.

Dean scoffed, which doesn’t help the situation at all, thanks so much, big brother. “Like you didn’t do this?”

“Do what?”

“Sam, he’s not being possessed by a demon, trust me,” Harry interrupted, catching Sam’s wrist to prevent him from hurting someone with the knife.

“It’s him, it’s him,” Bobby added. “I’ve been through this already. It’s really him.”

“But…”

Dean continued to watch Sam with cautious green eyes. “I know. I look fantastic, huh?” He said, trying to lighten the mood.

“We’re going to let you go, now,” Harry said. “But you gotta promise me you’re not going to kill Dean, okay? I just got him back, after all.”

Sam nodded mutely, and Bobby and Harry released their hold, stepping away. At the same time, Sam rushed forward, embracing Dean in a tight hug. The other man clutched him back just as desperately. Harry glanced away, feeling slightly awkward, and accidentally caught the gaze of the unknown woman.

“So, are they like…together?”

Harry snorted. He can’t say that’s the first time that that misunderstanding ever happened. They were once denied lodging because the clerk refused to lend them a room for the purpose of a threesome. “No, no. They’re brothers.”

The woman nodded slowly, appearing unconvinced. “Right…Well, I should probably go.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

Harry waited for her to get dressed, then saw her out, closing the door behind him. “Wait.”

She turned around, lips pursued. “Look. I’m not interested.”

“Trust me, neither am I,” Harry replied, smirking. “I just wanted to say that I prefer this body to the last one. How kind of you to choose a woman who had already died, Ruby.”

The woman tensed, her eyes flashing black. “How did you…”

Harry laughed. “You didn’t think my brothers were the only ones who were special, did you?” he asked, leaning back against the door. “Love, I’m a Winchester.”

Ruby shook her head. “A Winchester who wasn’t even supposed to be born.”

“To be honest, I’m quite proud of my abilities to fuck up fate,” Harry admitted, shrugging. “But enough about me! Let’s talk about you and my brother. I’m going venture out a guess, and say that there was more than hot sex happening in that room tonight, wasn’t there?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, of course you don’t.”

Ruby studied him. “And if something else did happen tonight, what are you going to do about it?”

Harry sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Well, Ruby, I reckon you’re quite an important piece, if you’re stationed so close to Sammy. So if I kill you, a lot of other players are going to take notice, won’t they? Then, I suppose the answer is nothing. I can’t do anything until I can see everything that’s on the board.”

Her jaw slackened, surprised. “How the hell do you know any of this?”

Harry winked. “A man’s got to have his secrets, love. And because of that…”

Suddenly, he snapped his fingers in front of her face, leaving her to blink, disoriented. “None of this happened, alright? You came, you saw, you, uh, bled, and then you left. I saw you to the door, but that’s it. We didn’t have this conversation, understand?”

Her eyes glazed over. “Got it.”

“Fantastic. Have a safe trip home, darling.”

*

When Harry re-entered the room, the others had settles on to the couch, beer bottles in hand. Dean glanced at him as he dead bolted the door shut. “You took your sweet time seeing her out, huh? What were you doing out there, asking for her number?”

Harry shrugged. “She’s hot.”

And, because he was looking for it, he caught Sam’s expression of disgust.

“Well, be careful,” Dean continued, oblivious. “You don’t know what Sam might have passed on to her.”

“I’ll wear a condom.”

“Anyways,” Sam interjected, eager to steer the conversation back on track. He really could live without the image of his brother and his, uh, Ruby, shacking up. “I was checking out some demons in Tennessee, and out of nowhere they took a hard left, booked up here.”

“When?” Dean demanded.

“Yesterday morning.”

“When you got out,” Harry realized. He dropped into the seat besides Sam, ruffling his hair in greeting. It was even longer, now, and Harry wondered if the consumption of demon blood sped up its rate of growth. He wouldn’t be surprised. Sam’s soul was practically drenched in that stuff.

“You think these demons are here ‘cause of you?” Bobby questioned. “But why?”

Dean took a swig of his beer. “Well, I don’t know, but—some badass demon drags me out, and now this? It’s gotta be connected somehow.”

“But we don’t know what they’re doing,” Sam pointed out. “So we got a pile of questions and no shovel. We need help.”

“I know a psychic,” Bobby suggested. “A few hours from here. Something this big, maybe she’s heard the other side talking.”

The brothers exchanged glances, then Dean shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

“I’ll be right back, then.”

Bobby left the room, presumably to make a phone call to the aforementioned psychic. Dean stood up as well, heading for the direction of the bathroom, but Sam stopped him. “Hey, wait. You probably want this back.”

He reached under his shirt, and took out a cord, revealing the amulet he’d given Dean when they were younger. Sam pulled it over his head, and dropped it in Dean’s palm. Harry narrowed his eyes, studying the jewelry intently. It was just a piece of metal, so why did he detect so much magic from it?

“Thanks, man,” Dean said.

“Don’t mention it,” Sam murmured, watching intently as Dean put the necklace on, looking as if he’s debating with himself, before he blurted out—“hey, Dean? What was it like?”

“What, Hell?” Dean asked, managing a small chuckle. “I don’t know. I must have blacked out. I don’t remember a damn thing.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

Right. Because Chuck was the one to thank in that situation.

*

“I assume you want to drive,” Sam said as they left the motel, heading towards the parking lot. It was a four hour drive, with Bobby leading in his truck, and the Winchesters following him behind.

Dean caught the car key Sam threw at him, eyes lighting up in delight. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he whispered reverently, caressing the hood of the Impala. “Hey, sweetheart. Did you miss me?”

Harry loved his brother, but fuck was he weird.

Dean slid into the driver’s seat, while Sam and Harry played a game of ‘rock, paper, and scissors’ for shotgun. Sam won, and climbed into the passenger seat, only to be greeted by Dean’s harsh glare.

“What the hell is this?” he hissed, gesturing to the dashboard.

“That’s an iPod jack,” Sam replied, smiling innocently.

“You were supposed to take care of her, not douche her up!”

“That’s what you get for willing the impala to him instead of me, idiot,” Harry pipped in. He was now stretched out across the backseat, fiddling with his phone.

Dean turned the key in the ignition, sighing when Jason Manns began to blare from the stereo. “Really, Sam?”

“Dude, I thought it was my car.”

Dean didn’t seem to deem that worthy of a verbal response. Instead, he violently ripped the iPod out of the jack, tossing it to the back carelessly. It hit Harry in the stomach.

“Ow.”

“You deserved it for letting Sam do this to baby.”

And what was Harry supposed to say to that?

*

It took a long time for them to drive to Bobby’s place, and even longer for them to convince him that yes, Dean was back and no, he’s not a demon nor a shapeshifter nor a revenant. Harry liked to think that his presence helped, but he also gladly admits that he did nothing but laugh at the look on Dean’s face when Bobby splashed him with holy water.

That is, until he himself got soaked.

Still, it’s enough to persuade Bobby, and the man lets them inside, slamming the door shut behind them. He offered them towels to dry their faces and beers to drink, chuckling when Dean downed his immediately, before grabbing Harry’s for himself.

“It’s good to see that you haven’t changed one bit, boy,” he comments ruefully, shaking his head. He takes a sip of his own beer. “Still…this don’t make a lick of sense.”

“Yeah, you’re preaching to the choir,” Dean responds.

“Dean,” Bobby says, more insistent. “Your chest were in ribbons, your insides were slop. And you’ve been buried for four months. Even if you could slip out of hell and back into your own meatsuit—”

Harry winces at the word, but Dean doesn’t seem bothered when he interrupts, “I know, I should look like a Thriller video reject,” he says casually.

A beat. “What do you remember?”

“Not much. I remember I was a Hellhound’s chew toy, and then…light’s out. Then I come to six feet under, and when I crawled out, I found Harry. That was it.”

Harry immediately realizes that Dean’s lying, lying, lying. It probably wasn’t obvious to Bobby, who, despite his statue as their father, didn’t grow up around Dean. He wasn’t there when Dean came home with a bruised cheek and an unsteady gait, and lied about fighting with a gang and ‘you should see the other guys;’ he wasn’t there when Dean came home with a wad of cash stuck inside his underwear, and lied about his great success at hustling pool; he wasn’t there when Dean came home with bags of fast food and a rumbling stomach, and lied about having already eaten on the way back.

Dean has always lied to the ones he loved.

And Harry cannot begrudge him for it.

“Sam’s number isn’t working,” he says instead, smoothly changing the conversation topic. “Would you happen to know where he is?”

Bobby shrugged. “I haven’t talked to him in four months.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You let him go off by himself, too? Bobby, you should’ve been looking after him.”

“Dean, I told you,” Harry interjected, annoyed that Dean was directing his anger and frustration at Bobby. Unfairly, considering all the things the man had helped them with, “Sam was dead set on it. You couldn’t have stopped him if you had been here, either.”

“I would’ve at least tried.”

“I did try,” Bobby replies. “These last months haven’t been exactly easy, you know. For him or me. We had to bury you.”

Dean sighed, looking away. “Why did you bury me, anyway?”

“I wanted you salted and burned. Usual drill. But…Sam wouldn’t have it.”

“Well, I’m glad he won that one,” Dean replied weakly. He took a swig of his beer, swiping his mouth clean roughly with the sleeve of his shirt.

“He said you’d need a body when he got you back home somehow,” Bobby added.

Dean furrowed his brows, and leaned forward in his seat. “What do you mean?”

“He was quiet, real quiet. And then he just took off. Wouldn’t return any of my calls. I tried to find him, but he didn’t want to be found.”

Dean and Harry exchange a look, both of them coming to the same conclusion. “Oh damn it, Sammy.”

“What?”

While Dean explained his theory to Bobby, Harry excused himself outside to have a smoke—“it’s been a stressful day, Bobby. Just one stick, I promise”—and, unknown to them, have a little chat with Julian, who denied his suspicions.

“Oh, he definitely tried,” Julian reported, chuckling softly. “But the demons had their orders.”

Harry grimaced. Of course. Michael, Lucifer, Lilith, and whoever else are involved in this scheme must have predicted that Sam would try to bargain for Dean’s soul with his own, and would have forbade their underlings from allowing him to do so. The Righteous Man must spill the first blood for the Apocalypse to begin, after all. Dean Winchester couldn’t be rescued from Hell until after the fact.

“But you already knew it was the angel, Master,” Julian continued, dipping an onion ring into his sauce.

“I just wanted to check he didn’t make any other deal,” Harry replied, answering the unspoken question. “Stopping the Apocalypse is already difficult enough. I don’t want to have to worry about my little brother’s soul on top of that.”

“You plan to stop it then, Master?”

“Of course.”

Julian hummed. “Humanity has changed you, Master.”

Harry rolled his eyes, aware of what Julian was referring to. When he had been Death, he hadn’t particularly cared about the Apocalypse. Angels and humans and Earth—those had all been Chuck’s creations. If he wished to preordain a battle between Lucifer and Michael, fought in their respective vessels and possibly destroying Earth in the process, well. That was entirely his business, not Harry’s. At most, he would have just grumbled about the extra work. But now…

“Dean and Sam are my brothers,” he said. “I can’t just stand aside and let them be killed.”

“Death is a natural part of life,” Julian pointed out. “One day, even you and I will die. Even God will die.”

“But none of this is natural!” Harry retorted. “Angels and demons have been interfering with their lives—with the lives of their ancestors—since the beginning of time! Even now, they’re going to play at God and force the Apocalypse to start.”

“As it was prophesized.”

“Screw prophecies,” Harry hissed, not bothering to hide the resentment in his tone.

Julian cocked his head. Ate another onion ring. “God will be quite angry with you for interfering with his plans.”

“Then he can come here and tell me himself,” Harry said. “Have you seen him anywhere, by the way?”

Julian shook his head. “Not since before you fell.”

Harry sucked his bottom lip in worry. “What the hell is that bastard doing?”

“Doing whatever is good, I suppose,” Julian said. “He is God, isn’t he?”

Harry frowned at him. “You know, Julian, I don’t think I’m the only one who’s changed.”

“How do you mean?”

“Before I fell, you would’ve never argued with me like this. Really, I remember you as being quite meek.”

There was pause. “I suppose,” Julian said slowly, “that you might be right.”

“Perhaps it isn’t humanity that changes us, but the experiences we had. My experiences as a human changed me, as did your experiences as Death.”

“An interesting proposition, Master. Alas, I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this conversation short. Your brother is coming.”

Julian disappeared just as Dean rounded the corner, Bobby following behind him. “Hey. You done smoking your cigarette yet?”

“Of course. Just taking a little breather before I have to go back and deal with you,” Harry responded. “Everything alright?”

“We tracked Sam down,” Dean said. “He’s in Pontiac, Illinois.”

Harry blinked. “Isn’t that where you were buried?”

“And right where I popped up. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

*

Harry spent the next month trying to track down any of the other three Horsemen, which is hard work, okay, since they don’t have a physical form, shut up Julian. Famine, Pestilence, and War all rely on their respective rings to inhabit a human body, which was currently impossible, as those pesky little things were still being used to trap Lucifer in his Cage. Harry, on the other hand, was Death, a being that had existed for as long as God had. A ring wasn't going to change that.

(Nevermind the fact that Harry didn’t even give Chuck his true ring, just a copy of it, weaker and smaller but still strong enough to hold Lucifer. Harry supposed he’ll give that one to Julian when Lucifer inevitably broke out.

Because he will. The first seal had broken, and the rest will fall like dominoes. There were over six hundred of them, after all, and the demons only have to break sixty-six of them. There was a chance that they might be stopped, but only if the angels protect the seals with everything they had. As of now, however, Harry knew that that was not the case.

Of the hundred or more garrisons that operate, only three were sent to retrieve Dean’s soul; the others were called back, in preparation for the final battle that the angels were certain will occur. And why wouldn’t it? They’re actively assisting the demons in breaking the seals, which means Lucifer will be released soon enough. No one had seen halo and wing of Michael since even before Harry’s fall, but that’s okay. He’ll show up eventually—he’s the obedient son, after all. And Dean and Sam Winchester will obviously fall over themselves to say “yes” to their hosts. They’re only mud monkeys, and as such, they wouldn't dare to refuse. No, they will feel blessed for having been chosen by fate to play these roles. Sorry, what is this thing called Free Will?

(Sometimes, Harry pitied the angels.))

The point is, by the four month anniversary of Dean’s death, Harry has only narrowed War’s location down to a region, not even the exact country. Nevertheless, he paused his progress to pop into a store to buy two bottles of Deans’s favorite beer, before going to Dean’s grave and settling down. He shoved one of the bottle into the dirt near his legs.

“Cheers, you jerk,” he said.

Harry popped the cap off of his own beer, and took a swig; scrunched his nose at the taste. He can just hear Dean calling him a girl for not liking the taste of beer, the drink of a real man. Involuntarily, he rolled his eyes in reply.

After a moment, he spoke, “I’m sorry, you know, for not getting you out of there. But if anyone knows who I am, or what I’m capable of…it’ll bring a host of troubles.”

He snorted at the inadvertent pun, but the cross remained silent.

“Alright, fine, so it wasn’t that funny. Still, I am sorry. Here, I’ll finish the rest of this shitty beer to show you how sorry I am.”

Harry finished the rest of his shitty beer, and smashed the empty bottle on the ground beside him. The glass shattered upon impact, shards rebounding and slicing his arm open. Harry watched impassively as red drops of blood welled to the surface, and one, two, three managed to fall before his skin knitted itself back together, pushing out the glass fragments in the process.

He turned around, preparing to return to the Balkans, when the Angel Radio suddenly boomed with a triumphant voice:

“DEAN WINCHESTER IS SAVED!”

The declaration was made by Castiel, whose voice Harry had become intimately familiar with, as the angel was the leader of one of the garrison charged with freeing The Righteous Man. He has dutifully reported their progress every day for the last month decade.

Harry breathed out a sigh, relieved. His decision to leave Dean’s freedom to the angels had been a difficult one. Despite what he had just said to Dean’s grave, he had seriously considered just saying fuck it, abandoning the plan Julian and he had painstakingly drawn up, blowing his cover, and diving down there to rescue Dean. His conviction had only wavered for each second longer the angels stayed in Hell.

He’s got a saving people’s thing, after all.

But that was unnecessary now. Castiel had done it. He had rescued Dean. Now all he has to do was put the soul back in Dean’s body—

Harry’s eyes widened, and he’s barely had time to fall forward, arms covering his head and eyes screwed tightly shut, before he felt Castiel ascend from Hell and land on Earth, sending ripples of purifying energy—grace, to be exact—to the surrounding areas. Even with his status as Death, Harry still feared that he’ll go blind. Castiel didn’t attempt to hide his powers at all.

Then, as soon as he appeared, he was gone, leaving Dean’s soul behind.

In his body, trapped six feet under.

Harry lifted his head, blinking blearily at the unmoving patch of dirt.

The angels really didn’t think this through, did they?

It took a while for Dean to break through his wooden coffin and the ground, and even longer for him to convince Harry that, yes, he is actual Dean Winchester, very human and very alive and no, he has no idea how or why that’s possible

(Harry is good at acting, alright? Besides, if he isn’t suspicious about Dean's miraculous resurrection, then Dean will get suspicious because of his lack of suspicion, then he will tell Sam about his suspicions about their brother, then Sam will tell Ruby, who will tell Lilith, who will tell whichever angel she is working with, and that’ll bring a whole host of problems onto his head.

Pun very much intended, this time.)

Harry refused to let him drink any of the beer until he’s eaten something, so they go to the nearest convenience store, which is fortunately deserted. He grabbed some food while Dean go to the restroom to wash his face and hands, and everything should be fine except Dean returned with a pale face and his shirt sleeves rolled to his shoulders.

There was a raw, raised hand print on his arm.

For fuck’s sake, Castiel, Harry thought, exasperated. There was no need to be this possessive. Everyone already knows you were the one who saved him.

“I think a demon yanked me out,” Dean said.

Harry stared. That could not be further from the truth, he wanted to says, along with damn, Castiel, your plan really backfired.

Castiel seemed to agree, and decided he should correct Dean's assumptions immediately. His true voice, when he spoke, reverberated with power, becoming stronger the longer Dean remained ignorant of his words. Finally, he seemed to realize that his efforts were futile, for the ringing disappeared. The building stopped shaking.

“So maybe not a demon,” Dean gasped out, still crouched on the floor with his hands over his ears. “But still, something with bad mojo. You saw what they did to my…to my grave.”

“Why would they save you, then?” Harry asked, carefully standing up and picking the glass shards out of his clothes. Thank Chuck for leather jackets. They’re virtually indestructible.

“To uphold their end of the bargain.”

“Bargain?” Harry repeated, before he realized what Dean was implying. “You think someone made a deal.” At Dean’s pointed look, he quickly shook his head, “I didn’t do it.”

“Sam, then,” Dean decided, and Harry would scoff at him for being so presumptuous, except the thought had crossed Harry’s mind more than once. “Where is he?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him for months. He’s alive, though,” he was sure of that. The reapers had been instructed to inform him if his brother’s soul was ever reaped.

“You didn’t keep an eye on him? Harrison—!”

Harry cut Dean off before he could continue his tirade. As a human, he had agreed that their youngest brother needed to be protected, but now that he has regained his memories, he has come to the realization that they were way, way, way too co-dependent on one another. Sam was a full grown hunter now, for fuck’s sake. He was completely capable of making his own decisions, good or bad, and doesn’t need to be watched by either of his two older brothers. “He was dead set on striking out on his own. And you know him. He’s more stubborn than the two of us combined.”

Dean grimaced, and finished the last of his energy bar. “Fine. Come on, there’s a payphone outside.”

“Or, you could just use mine?” Harry suggested, retrieving his phone from his jean pocket. “Because I really doubt that you remember his number from the top of your head.”

Dean glared at him, but didn’t refute his statement. He grabbed Harry’s phone and scrolled through his contacts until he landed on Sam’s name, and pressed the call button. An alert tone beeped.

“We’re sorry,” a recording said. “You’ve reached a number that has been disconnected.”

Dean’s frown deepened. He swiped up Harry’s contact list and clicked on another name. This call is picked up immediately.

“Harry?” Bobby’s voice sounded through the speaker, “Something wrong?”

“Um, maybe,” Harry replied before Dean can say anything. “Listen, I was at Dean’s grave today, and, uh.”

“And?”

“I found him. Alive. I found him alive.”

There was a pause. “This ain't funny, kid,” Bobby warned.

“He’s not kidding,” Dean interjected. “It’s really me.”

There’s a click. Dean and Harry glanced at each other.

“He hung up, didn’t he?”

“To be fair, you wouldn’t have believed yourself, either,” Harry pointed out.

“This is definitely your fault,” Dean told him with a light shove. “If you hadn’t pulled all of those pranks on him when we were younger…”

Harry huffed. “Like you didn’t help me with every single one of them?”

They grinned at each other fondly. Dean, of course, was the first to look away. “I guess the only thing we can do now is go and reveal myself to him.”

“You make it sound so dramatic,” Harry said sarcastically, because if there was ever a time to be dramatic, this was it.

“Shut up, imp,” Dean called back, stepping out the door, no doubt heading towards the white car parked outside. Harry was sure it hadn’t been there when they first arrived. Well then. He supposed he should thank the angels for not forcing them to walk all the way to Sioux Falls. “Come on, we’ll have to hurry if we want to get there before it gets dark.”

Harry rolled his eyes—headlight existed for a reason—but followed after him.

Just like he had always done.

*

The anniversary of Dean’s death found Harry sitting on the side of the road, holding a bottle of beer loosely by its neck. An unopened bottle was buried in the dirt in front of him, along with two other similar bottles.

“It’s been three months, Dean…”

The crude cross made no reply, and Harry sighed. He lifted his hand and let the beer trickle down his throat, suppressing his gag reflex. He has never liked beer or any other alcohol, preferring the scent of smoke as it filled his mouth and lungs. Sam had always berated him, citing the list of cancers whenever he returned with another pack. But it’s not Harry who is dead, is it? Dean is. Dean is in Hell, because he is a dumbass who sold his soul for Sam’s.

Sam, who doesn’t even care. Sam, who Harry last saw six weeks ago. Sam, who is probably fucking that demon girlfriend of his and drinking her shitty demon blood instead of here, with his brother, drinking shitty beer to honor his other brother. The one who died for him.

The one who has been tortured for three decades.

Time passes differently in hell. John held out for ten months and a hundred years, but Harry knew Dean was never that resilient.

(It was why he went and got Sam that weekend to look for their dad. In truth, Harry and Dean would have been fine on their own, but Dean wanted any excuse to see and talk with Sam again; to try and lure him away from that apple pie life, and into the life of a hunter; to manipulate him into being with Dean again. Four years was the longest the two had been away from each other, and Dean, who carried and fed and bathed and dressed little Sammy, couldn’t cope with the separation.

(Look where that got him, huh? Buried six feet under, on the side of a random road.))

How long until he meets Dean again, this time with black eyes and a tainted soul? Would Harry be able to kill him, or even exorcise him?

Three months…

Harry finished the last of his beer, and threw the bottle at a nearby tree. It shattered upon impact and exploded into glass shards, hitting the man who had just appeared. It was midnight, and Harry had neither seen a car nor heard the click of the man’s cane, and he had the sharpest senses of any hunter he had come across. The man, if he really was a man, had literally materialized out of thin air.

Harry jumped up, a gun already cocked and aimed. The man remained unfazed, however, bushing away the pieces that had impaled themselves into his overcoat. He was old, with a narrow face and slicked-back hair.

“Who are you?” Harry asked.

The man chuckled, “ah, Master. How quickly you forget me. Well, it’s being several thousand years, and the Apocalypse dawns. I believe it’s high time for you to remember.”

Then, quicker than Harry’s human eyes can follow, the man was right there and pressing two thin finger against his temple and then he was screaming. The gun dropped out of his hands, hitting the ground with a thump, soon echoed by his knees as they buckled. The man followed him down, remaining skin contact as he poured something into Harry.

As he returned all the powers back to their rightful master.

Harry passed out, his human body unable to handle the burden.

*

When he woke, he was lying on top of the Invisibility Cloak, looking up at the bright sky. The being that had been Death, but no longer, sat at his side, picking French fries out of a McDonald bag.

Harry—Death—Harry groaned, flinging an arm across his eyes to block the bright sunlight. The Stone on his finger hit his forehead. He could also feel a wand harness digging into the skin of his other arm. He’ll have to adjust that. During his first life, he had been skinnier; this one introduced him to the oils and fats in American fast food.

“Finally awake, Master?” His loyal companion drawled.

“Julian,” Harry said, “shut up, please.”

The reaper crunched down on a fry loudly.

Harry sighed, and pushed himself up on his elbows. A truck drove by, slowing down as the driver turned her head to give him a concerned look. Harry met her eyes, and knew she was about to die twenty three minutes later by hitting a train head on. He gave her a thumbs up.

The truck sped up, driving away.

“So, the Apocalypse, huh?”

“As it is written: the first seal shall be broken when a Righteous Man sheds blood in Hell,” Julian reminded him, as if Harry wasn’t there when Chuck wrote them.

“And I’m guessing Dean is this Righteous Man?”

Julian inclined its head in agreement, and Harry let out a laugh. Right, just his luck. There were only six Righteous Men in the whole of creation. Of course he was born brother to one.

“Angels began storming Hell this morning,” Julian told him. “They intend to retrieve Dean’s soul and return it to his body.”

“Only after he broke the seal, of course. Those bloody bastards,” Harry muttered darkly. “And here I thought Michael’s Sword was supposed to be free of taint.”

Julian shrugged, “Perhaps an angel will purify him.”

Harry gaped, “and absorb the taint into itself? That will influence it to fall.”

“Where’s the harm in that? You did, and we were okay.” Julian said casually.

Harry winced. Ah, so Julian wasn’t going to ignore the topic Harry wanted to ignore. “I’m sorry, dude. I didn’t know I would be reincarnated. I thought I would be human for only a little while.”

“You’re forgiven,” Julian said simply, “you couldn’t have known.”

“I—right, yeah.” Harry licked his dry, chapped lips, “so, you lot were good?”

“A soul has never not been collected,” Julian reported.

“That is good. Nice job.”

“Mmhmm.”

They sat in silence for a while, Julian finishing his Happy Meal while Harry properly listened to the Angel Radio for the first time in eons. In every lifetime while he was young, he would be able to hear voices. They would usually fade when he experienced puberty, and every time he had decided they were figments of a child’s imagination.

Only now has he finally learned the truth.

Harry didn’t know how the Radio worked, exactly. He just knew it allowed angels to telepathically communicate, but Harry and Chuck would also be able to talk in it. And when one message was sent, it was received by everyone. There was no such thing as DMs or privacy. Why would there need to be, unless someone had something to hide?

Currently, the Radio was buzzing with the news of three garrisons descending into Hell. Of plans to break more seals. Of cooperating with demons. Of how Sam Winchester is doing exactly as he should. Of summoning the Horsemen—

Ah, of course. The Four Horsemen and their rings that bind the cage.

Harry should go visit the rest of them.

*

It began like this:

After that disaster with the Tower of Babel, Harry turned to his companion.

“I think I’ll like to live some time as a human,” he said.

His companion cocked its head, “why?”

Harry gestured to the people they were watching, “do you not think they’re amazing? I had my doubts, initially, when Chuck created them. I did not believe they could compare to the leviathans or the angels, and yet, barely a few centuries since their creation and they’ve already tried to reach heaven. That’s a more momentous feat than any of Chuck’s creatures have done in the past few millennials!”

“But their attempts were unsuccessful,” his companion reminded him.

“Yes, Chuck was always the spoilsport, wasn’t he? Even now, when he has disappeared,” Harry sighed, “but I think they’ll overcome the language barrier, sooner or later. And, ah, how I’ll like to be there, among their midst, when they do. Yes, yes I do.”

His companion did not answer, for it did not yet understand the basis of Harry’s wish. From what it had seen so far, they were impulsive and illogical beings. For a while, the two stood together, content to observe the humans as they shouted, frustrated at the sudden appearance of the different languages.

Harry broke the silence, “The other day, I saw an angel tear out its grace. Then, it fell.”

“It became a demon?”

“No, not a demon. I think it was reborn as a human boy.”

“How fascinating.”

“Quite,” Harry agreed, “and, I wondered, if the same would happen to me if I lost my powers.”

His companion was alarmed, “Master?”

Harry smiled at it, “I think it would be rather interesting, don’t you agree?”

“Interesting, maybe, but who would collect the souls of the dead?” His companion questioned.

“Hmm,” Harry tapped his chin, his ring glinting as he did so, “perhaps…you?”

His companion seemed shocked at the prospect, although its emotions were always difficult to perceive. Of course, this was not its fault. His creator, being the entity that is Death, had troubles sculpting expressions. There was a reason why Chuck was God, the Giver of life, and Harry was Death, the Taker of life.

“Pardon?”

Harry placed a hand on its shoulder, “you’re my first creation, and I trust you like no other. I will give you my powers, and you will be Death.”

“What about you?” His companion demanded. “Will you cease to exist?”

“No, nothing so drastic.” Harry chuckled, appeasing his companion. “If things occur as I suspect they will, I will be reborn as a human.”

It remained hesitant, “Master, I can’t…”

Harry’s expression softened, “I am aware this may seem like a great burden, but I assure you it is not. You have seen me reap many times; you yourself have reaped many times. Furthermore, I do not think you will have to bear it for long. Humans die rather quickly, as we have both witnessed. When you reap me after I die, you can return my powers to me, if you wish.”

His companion mulled over his proposal, “and what if the Apocalypse occurs in your absence? I am not capable of collecting that many souls alone.”

“Indeed you will not be,” Harry agreed. “To assist you during that time, I will create other companions before I leave.”

“But…” His companion struggled to devise another counter-argument.

“If the Apocalypse do occur during my time as a human, I grant you special permission to find me and return my powers to me.” Harry added. “Any other times, however, you must leave me alone to live my own life freely as I will.”

“That is agreeable,” his companion finally said. It appeared that no amount of persuasion could change its Master’s mind. The entity was incredibly stubborn, after all. It still remember when he and Chuck had argued about the creation of Purgatory, and how the planets came to have craters.

Harry squeezed his shoulder, “thank you, my friend,” he dropped his arm. “Then, I will go and create your companions. Afterwards, I will give you my powers, and you will be Death.”

His companion said nothing as he walked away.

*

It continued like this:

Death watched as the human, named Shelah by his Earthly parents, took his last breath. By human standards, he had lived a decent life. Death could only hope that it had been enough to satisfy its Master’s curiosity. It had been a long 433 years as Death, and the being could now understand why its Master was so desperate to escape and be a human instead.

When the body’s heartbeat finally stopped, Death reached forward, eager to give the powers back to their rightful master and return to being just another companion of Death. Or, as the humans called them now, reapers.

But its Master’s soul had only exited Shelah’s dead body for a second before it disappeared.

Death paused, glancing around to check that another reaper hasn’t reaped the soul by mistake. It had given out clear instructions, stating that this soul was its and its alone.

None. There was nothing that suggested another reaper had been here.

Death was befuddled, until it suddenly felt its Master’s soul again. But it was no longer here, where the body of Shelah laid. No, it was across the ocean, and…

It was in the body of another human, this time of a baby girl.

Death stared at the wailing infant for seven minutes and 54 seconds before understanding dawned.

Its Master was the original Death, an immortal entity. Like his counterpart God, he could not die. He cannot be reaped.

He will only be reborn as human. Again and again and again.

And Death, who has been instructed to not bother its Master while he—she is alive, cannot return her powers to her until the Apocalypse came.

*

And it continued like this:

Henry Winchester was born on July 31st, 1981, to one Mary Campbell and John Winchester. When he is brought home from the hospital, he is greeted by his older brother, Dean. Two years later, they will both welcome Sam similarly.

Six months later, his mother will die, and John will throw away everything to hunt the demon that murdered her.

Included among the casualties are the childhoods of his three boys, but he will never spare that a single thought.

And Death will watch, and will count down to the second when Dean will say “yes” to Alastair.