I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural.

Pairings: Harry/Sam (might be Dean/Cas later).

Beta: None.

Author's Notes: I've never written a crossover before and this is the first thing I've written in months so sorry if it's utter crap. Also, I couldn't bring myself to watch the first episode of Supernatural again, so some details might be wrong and such. I think that's all...

Summary: He saved Sam Winchester's life six times and Sam might have saved his too somewhere along the way.

Seven

1 – the first time harry potter saved sam winchester's life

Darkness had fallen and it curled along the streets, spinning through gardens and backyards, seeping through windows and flying above rooftops. The neighbourhood was nice, not exceedingly rich nor fancy, but the houses had good structure and the colours of each blended together well as one walked down the sidewalk. Harry kept his footsteps slow, knowing the reason he had arrived on this very street wouldn't happen for a few moments. His sneakers shuffled as he walked. The wind blew softly against his face, caressing his cheeks and neck. He smiled slightly, but it faded quickly as he reached his destination.

Harry could feel it; the dark, tainted presence creeping around the house, invading the walls. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, adrenalin beginning to rush through his veins. He almost reached for his wand, but stopped himself. You don't need your wand anymore, he told himself firmly. You never will again.

It was hard adjusting to this new role he had been shoved into. All his life he had played hero and now he just existed. Never aging, never changing, just repeating the same thing over and over again. A part of him wished he could go back – stop himself from picking up the wand, or the stone, or even the invisibility cloak, despite the connection it had given him to his father.

A father I'll probably never get to meet. He snorted bitterly. Master of Death, indeed.

Harry shook his head firmly; he was here to collect a soul, not dwell on thoughts that would only lead him down a messy road. Turning on his heel, he appeared silently and invisible in the intended room. It had creamy walls and there was a crib in the middle.

Please, no, don't let this be the child. He begged, an aching settling in his gut. He should be used to this by now; he should be able to detach himself, but he couldn't find that cold mask that Death had. Sometimes he was jealous of that, the way Death never batted an eyelash at the way life seemed to dissolve in the blink of an eye. But after those thoughts had run their course, Harry always felt grateful that he couldn't do that. Maybe that meant he still had his humanity – that he hadn't been deformed from who he had been; who he wasn't now.

The child moved restlessly in its sleep, a small mop of fine brown hair encircled the baby's head, eyes closed and fists tightly clinched.

"Azazel," Harry greeted coldly as the demon entered the bedroom. He easily could have hid himself from the yellow-eyed man, but a small part of him thought that his presence might make the demon pause his actions, but it was a vain hope. Death told him he could not interfere; it just wasn't done.

Harry was harry though, and he had always tried to bend the rules to his will. Despite never stepping in, stopping the blood from reaching the chosen child's lips, he had taken it upon himself to collect the souls of their mothers (or the few children that didn't live through his actions) – which Azazel ruthlessly killed. Maybe, maybe one day he could fine that spark of defiance he used to possess and kill the demon for the lives he was ruining.

"Master of Death," Azazel greeted with false cheer, turning his back completely to Harry and ignoring his presence. Cutting his wrist evenly, without flinching he opened the small child's jaw and let the blood flow slowly into his mouth.

Time passed quickly; the mother entered just as Harry knew she would. Who would not race to their son's rescue should they notice a strange man bleeding into their baby's mouth? He hoped, perhaps due to the woman's history in hunting, she could overcome the powerful demon, but Azazel worked just as swiftly as he had done with the others. She was on the ceiling in seconds. The child awoke, hearing his mother's scream and started to cry, his little face turning red and tears escaping from his brown eyes.

Just as the flames started Azazel disappeared. Smoke wafted from the ceiling, curling around the child in the crib. The baby moved groggily. The door burst open; the young father froze upon seeing his wife hanging from the ceiling, fire slowly licking her flesh. Harry could feel the woman's soul leaving her body, but he was watching the child, whose lungs were slowly filling with smoke.

"Save him." A voice in his ear whispered. "Please."

Harry turned, looking at the woman who now stood beside him, ignoring her own burning body atop the ceiling for the sight of her infant son.

"You can save him, I know you can. Please."

The dark-haired husband grabbed the baby and turned to the toddler who had come to investigate, his frightened green gaze boring into Harry's very soul.

"Take Sammy and go!" The young man ordered, shoving the toddler away from him.

Harry ignored the man – John? – and followed the child out, reaching out an invisible hand to stop the little boy from tripping on the stairs. By the time they made it out to the yard, little Sammy was wheezing pitifully and his older brother was staring at him, frightened. The soul of their dead mother was crouched beside them, eyes pleading.

Bending over the baby, Harry was shocked to find the infant's eyes looking right at him. Of course, that was impossible. No one should be able to see him now. Unless... That small thought was enough to pull him into action.

Damn the consequences! Harry growled at himself. He touched a finger to the child's head.

Mary smiled at him.

"Hello," Harry greeted the man as he sat down in the chair across from him. They were somewhere in Saint Louis – or at least he thought so – in a small, mostly empty diner. Death had a milkshake in front of him, eating french-fries slowly, taking the time to lick the grease and salt off his fingers.

Harry's fists curled nervously as the man did not respond. The waitress came immediately upon seeing the new arrival.

"What can I get you?" She asked, her face straining with its large smile. Harry knew she could sense the power surrounding himself and his companion and was frightened of it. That was normal, really, and it made Harry hate himself a bit more every time he saw that fear spring into their eyes as they gazed at him.

Biting his lip, he asked softly, "Do you have chocolate milk?"

Her smile widened, shaking at the ends. Nodding, she turned back to the kitchen.

"Do not assume I do not know what you did." Death finally said, pushing his empty plate to the side.

Harry sat his chocolate milk down, suddenly feeling very cold. It was not fear, rather dread. What did he have to fear really? He could not die. Death did not have the power to harm him. He supposed it was the way the man could look at him, disappointment and perhaps even anger in his eyes. Harry had never had parents, and even with all the twists and turns that Death and his relationship included, was made of, the five years he had spent like this the man had grown on him. He hadn't been soft, but he had been patient with Harry and his still mostly human emotions.

Death finally met his eyes. Harry almost slumped in relief when he saw the man's normally emotionless orbs looking back at him.

"Samuel Winchester was not supposed to die." With that, Death stood and left Harry alone to his chocolate milk and the bill.