Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.
A/N: This is the first chapter of the third story in my planned trilogy. The first story is called 'Once is Happenstance'. The second is 'Twice is Circumstance'. If you've not yet read those, you can go ahead and read this, but you'll probably be highly confused. It's post-OotP for HP and goes AU for SPN after season two.
Okay, just to say right out, in case you didn't catch the memo in the last fic, I'm going with JKR's original intent of Harry's birthday being July 31, 1980. What this means is that he's 27, Dean's 29 (his DOB is January 24, 1979), and Sam just turned 25 (DOB of May 2, 1983).
Three Times is Enemy Action
10:03 pm, May 10, 2008
Bucky's Bar and Grill
Winslow, Arizona
Sam didn't notice his cell phone ringing; he was too busy ducking a well-aimed fist. Landing a jab in the substantial gut of the man in biker leathers didn't calm the chaos around him enough to hear it either. The biker doubled over with an 'oof' noise, colliding with Sam's right knee on the way to the floor. Glancing over at Dean, Sam saw his brother was about to be hit in the back of the head with a broken-off pool cue, so he grabbed a mostly empty beer bottle and flung it. The bottle exploded in a spray of glass and foam on the head of his brother's would-be assailant. "Thanks, Sammy," Dean yelled, even as he spun out of reach of yet another biker.
"No problem," Sam called back, now busy avoiding being hit by the guy he'd beaned with the bottle, "And it's Sam!"
"Come on, man!" Much to Sam's astonishment, Dean was still trying to talk his way out, Not that it'll do any good. "It was just a game! I think you're overreacting!" Sam ducked another swung fist and dodged the broken cue, Still, though. Dean's only ever quiet when he's up to something.
"It was three hundred bucks you stole, you sonuvabitch!" roared the biker, who picked up a bent bar-stool and threw it at Dean.
Don't say it, Dean, please don't say it, Sam thought, blocking a swing of the broken pool cue, even as Dean batted the thrown stool out of the way. "Hey, dude, if you can't afford to lose, don't play!" Damn it, Dean! I told you not to say it! Sam dropped and swept his leg out, connecting with the back of Biker2's knee. The man stumbled, but didn't fall.
The sound of a shotgun blast managed to silence the room, save for the sound of the juke playing 'Take it Easy' by the Eagles. Sam appreciated the irony.
A dozen or so people slowly emerged from hiding places behind overturned tables, including the pretty girl with the long, black hair and denim jacket Dean had been flirting with all night. The bartender pumped his shotgun. He didn't look at all pleased. "That's just about enough!" Yep, the bartender was thoroughly pissed, but Sam noticed that the spent shell the shotgun ejected was the distinctive blue of a riot-round – it contained dozens of little plastic pellets, not lead. Designed to hurt like hell, but not to maim or kill. I have to wonder just how often this place gets rowdy. "Mortimer, you got played. Deal with it before the kid puts you in the emergency room." Mortimer? Sam had to choke back the urge to laugh. The three-hundred-pound badass biker's name is Mortimer? "Why don't you and Tommy take Leroy home?" The man with the broken pool cue dropped his weapon and stepped towards the fallen Leroy. "These boys will be happy to cover your tab," he glared first at Dean and then at Sam, "right, boys?"
Dean wiped a trickle of blood from a cut on his temple and smiled, "Sure thing, boss."
The bartender addressed the rest of the room, "The rest of you – clear out. I'm closed for the night."
The rest of the crowd couldn't get to the doors fast enough – the brunette paused by the doors long enough to make the 'call me' signal to Dean. A chubby brunette stayed, leaning against the bar. "I'll start picking up, Dad."
The bartender nodded and replaced the shotgun on the rack above the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar. Sam noticed that it had a sign over it that read, 'Yes, it's real. No, I'm not afraid to use it.' "You do that, Lindsey. I'm sure these boys will lend a hand."
Sam hurried to help Lindsey with righting tables and chairs and cleaning up broken glass while Dean strode over to talk with Bucky, the bartender. "I'd ask what the damages are, but I can see that for myself," Dean said. "So… How much do I owe you?"
Bucky, a man who would normally give most people cause to pause, merely looked out over the room, one gray eyebrow arched over a brown eye and a serious expression on his weathered face. "Lindsey, turn off the damn juke, I can't hardly hear myself think!"
"Yes, Dad."
"You were saying?" Dean prompted in the sudden silence.
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest and leveled a smirking glare at Dean, "Come off it, son. You know and I know that you wouldn't have been hustling pool if you had the money to pay for all this."
Dean smiled outright, ignoring the bruising on the side of his head. "Could be I just enjoy the game. Could be that those three were the only competition in this place, aside from my brother – and I get sick of playing him all the time."
Bucky nodded slowly, "Could be, but ain't. I know your type, boy, and you live by this – though I'd wager you also play a mean game of poker, too. Now, I ain't got nothing against it – until it shows up in my place, and gets three of my best customers riled up and my pool table busted."
Dean glanced to where the pool table – the source of the evening's excitement – listed sharply to one end, the distinctive lines of wood poking up, straining the green felt. He shrugged and picked up an overturned bar stool to sit on. "Once upon a time, you would be dead right. But not any more. So, what do we owe you?"
"If that's the way you want it, son, so be it. I figure you owe three thou for general damages, two hundred for the booze, and thirty-five hundred for a new pool table." The man's tone indicated that he expected Dean to try to dispute the claim.
Dean reached for his jacket and realized he wasn't wearing it. "Hey, Sam? What happened to my coat?"
Sam located the table they'd been sitting at and extracted the worn, brown leather jacket from an overturned chair. "Here," he tossed it over to his brother and returned to helping Lindsey.
Dean patted down the pockets and withdrew a thick white envelope. "Three and three is six and five and two is seven, so that's a total of sixty-seven hundred, right?" Dean couldn't help but smirk at the bartender's gobsmacked expression as he counted out a stack of hundred-dollar bills.
Once the reality of the gift Sam and Dean had received as a 'thank you' from Harry Potter had sank in, both brothers had taken to carrying anywhere from three to ten thousand in an envelope in their jackets – the Impala had a similar envelope in the glove box – because, with their lifestyle, they weren't always in areas where they could get to a bank or ATM when they needed to. Tonight was an excellent case-in-point. "What did you boys do, rob a bank?" Bucky eyed the bills with a combination of suspicion and thinly-veiled greed.
Sam answered from across the room, "No, the money's safe, I promise."
Sam's honest reply didn't stop Bucky from examining each and every bill, checking watermarks and comparing serial numbers. Lindsey sighed and paused in her cleaning efforts long enough to grab a felt-tip pen and handed it to her father. "Dad, this is faster, you know."
The pen was uncapped, and Dean saw that it was one of the same pens that convenience stores and banks used to verify that large bills were authentic. Bucky touched it to the corner of each bill and received the desired result. By the time he'd finished checking all sixty-seven bills, Sam and Lindsey were nearly done setting the room to rights. "Satisfied?" Dean asked.
Bucky grunted and pocketed the money. Both Sam and Dean were sure that the money would never be logged in the bar's books, and they were fine with that. "Where'd you come by that much cash?"
"Had a lucky couple of days in Vegas," Dean lied smoothly. "Gotta love folks who can't play poker."
Looking around the mostly-righted bar, Bucky nodded brusquely. "I think it's time for you two to leave."
"And not come back," Dean sighed.
"Precisely," Bucky agreed.
Sam and Dean exited the bar and were sitting in the Impala before they broke down laughing. "I don't know which is more fun," Sam said. "Watching you hustle pool or watching the owners' reactions when you actually do pay for all the damage at the end of the night."
It was a rare occurrence when Dean was unable to tell if Sam was being serious or joking, but this was one of those times. Figuring he had a fifty-fifty chance of being right, he grinned. "I know, I know. What can I say? I'm just that good," He buffed the fingers of his right fist against his t-shirt before turning the ignition, and heading for their motel; Dean ignored Sam's mildly exasperated/amused almost-bitchface the entire way.
Another bonus of the gift Harry had given the Winchesters was that they no longer had to stay in motels that had last seen new towels the year they'd been built. They still did, on occasion, but that was usually because the cheap motels were the only kind to be had in small towns – unless it was a bed and breakfast, and Dean refused to stay at those places. Just as the car pulled to a stop in the parking lot of a motel that not only had full cable, but room service and a pool, Sam's phone rang again. Sam pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller-id. "It's Harry." He hit 'answer' and pressed his ear to the phone, "Hiya, Harry. Whacha need?"
There was the sound of strained breathing before a loud thwack noise. A distant voice said, "Tell them, Potter, or so help me I'll track them down and skin them alive."
Dean watched as the friendly smile his brother had been wearing fell and shattered on the floorboards of the car. "What is it?" he whispered.
Sam shook his head a little. "Harry? That you, man?"
Harry's voice was a lot nearer to the phone than the previous one, but still not close enough for him to be the one holding the phone. "Fuck you, you asswipe. Leave them out of this."
Another thwack and Sam was relatively sure he knew what was going on – someone had Harry bound against his will and was beating the crap out of him. "Come on, Harry. Where are you?" he yelled into the phone.
The first voice growled out something Sam couldn't catch, something 'see you', but the next sound raised the gooseflesh on the back of his neck and made him hold the phone away from his ear. Harry was screaming. Dean stared at the phone, not quite comprehending what was going on, but not liking the tinny sound emanating from his brother's cell. Nope, not liking it one little bit. The sound cut off suddenly and Sam had the phone back against his ear in a flash. "Harry! Talk to me!"
The first voice returned, louder this time. He had an accent similar to Harry's, though more pronounced. Actually, it sounded sort of like the accent Remus had, only cruel instead of kind. "If you ever want to see Potter alive again, you will come to 14329 Meadows Hill Road in Denver, Colorado. You have two days to show, or I'll kill Potter – and trust me, it won't be a quick death." The call ended before Sam could reply.
Sam immediately typed the address into his phone, holding one hand up to forestall Dean's questions before he could forget the address. When he saved the address, he turned to Dean. "I think Harry's in trouble."
"No shit, Sherlock. I kinda gathered that much. What's going on?"
"Some guy's got him – and from the sound of it, is having a heck of a time beating him to a pulp. He wants us to go to this address, or else he'll kill Harry."
Dean craned his neck to look at the address displayed on the phone. "Denver? We could make it there tonight. Seven hours, maybe seven-and-a-half if we haul ass."
"Dude said we had two days – probably means he doesn't know for sure where we are."
Dean nodded thoughtfully, "Did the guy say what he wants from us?"
Sam shook his head, "No, just that if we didn't show within the next two days, he was going to kill Harry in what I'm sure would be a gruesome manner."
"Hafta wonder what this is all about… I mean – why'd the guy call us?"
Sam shrugged, "Don't know, Dean. You want to head out tonight, then?"
Dean nodded and handed Sam the keys, "You go fill her up; I'll have everything packed before you get back." Damn, I was really looking forward to a swim, too.
Less than twenty minutes later, the Winchesters were headed south, the black Impala cruising at roughly ninety or ninety-five miles per hour – and somehow, the late-night truckers still managed to pass them with alarming regularity – Led Zeppelin playing in the cassette deck all the while.
12:29 am, May 11, 2008
14329 Meadows Hill Road
Denver, Colorado
Harry sighed and shivered, pulling the thin blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. An unfinished basement room in Colorado wasn't the warmest place to be in the middle of May. I hate this. I hate that this happened to me, that this keeps happening to me, and that I can have this thought. How many times am I going to be housed in a dungeon? Granted, this isn't the manor in Wiltshire, nor is it the basement of the Riddle house, or any of the others, and there aren't any racks, whips, chains, or other torture devices handy. The silencing spells in the walls are the same, so are the anti-apparation spells, and the walls are still thick stone, and the floor is as cold as ever. Why'd that coin land heads-up? If it had landed tails, I'd be in Kentucky or Ohio right about now, and I wouldn't be in this situation.
Harry had finished up a job in Miami and hadn't wanted to linger, not with hurricane season looming on the horizon, and so had flipped a coin to decide between heading north or west. He had started the journey looking forward to maybe taking a week off and touring Yellowstone. He felt he'd deserved a brief vacation after first finally taking care of the Voldemort problem and then working back-to-back cases ever since.
He'd reached Denver and decided to stop for the night, so he had gotten a motel room in an out-of-the-way place that probably had the option to rent rooms by the hour, in addition to their daily and weekly rates. It was a normal place for him, and he was already missing it. He'd slept for a couple of hours before waking up and breaking out his computer. He remembered wondering if he could get away with staying in a place with an indoor pool for a little while; it had been too long since he'd been swimming. He had just finished up reading the local news for the Yellowstone basin – just to make sure there wasn't anything fishy going on – when his motel room door had been blasted off its hinges. He had been taken completely by surprise, and had barely had time to register what had happened before a stupefy had hit him dead-center.
He had come to in this basement room. A concrete floor, three concrete walls, and a fourth wall built of red brick, with a single fluorescent light hanging overhead, a cot in one corner, and a bucket in the other. Harry wasn't sure how long he'd been there, but was pretty sure it couldn't have been more than a couple of hours. Most stupefy spells only lasted an hour or so, but when his captor had stormed in not long after he'd woken, he discovered that the man had made stunning spells something of a specialty – he'd been out for nearly a full day.
After some rather monotonous gloating, his captor had his wand in one hand and Harry's phone in the other. In clipped, terse words, the had described his problem and demanded that Harry fix it. Harry refused – it wasn't his area, to be honest, and he really didn't feel like helping the man when it was highly likely that he would simply kill him or turn him over to the Ministry when his usefulness had been outlived. The man hit him with a painful bout of cruciatus, and Harry still refused. So the man had turned his attention to the cell phone. "I'm curious, Potter," he had said, his voice laced with a mocking derision that grated on Harry's nerves, "why someone of your affability has only five contacts in his phone? The Secretary of Magic – no surprise there, you always did manage to make friends with the most highly politically placed member of the White that you could find. A man I know to be a skilled mediwizard – again, no great shock, other than the fact that he actually has a phone number. A place called 'The Roadhouse'. And two names I don't recognize. Dean W and Sam W. Who are they?"
Harry had shrugged a little. "They're just friends of mine."
That made his captor hit him physically for the first time. The situation quickly escalated until, under the influence of a truth charm and one too many hits to his head, Harry managed to blurt out, "They're Hunters!"
"Hunters?" the man had asked, a puzzled expression on his face.
Still reeling from what he was sure was a mild concussion and the truth charm, Harry explained how there were a handful of muggles who had dedicated themselves to the eradication of evil and that they called themselves 'Hunters'. Harry's captor had actually smiled at the explanation and called the number that was still on the display – Sam's.
Once he had finished the call, he had removed the truth charm from Harry, smirked, and left Harry alone in the dark. I really, really hate him.
7:41 am, May 11, 2008
Keene Motel
Keenesburg, Colorado
Dean pulled the Impala to a stop and poked Sam in the shoulder. "Come on, Samantha, time to wake up."
"My name's Sam, you jerk." Sam cracked an eye open. "Where are we and why did you stop?"
"We're about thirty miles outside Denver. Keenesburg. I need some sleep before we figure out what to do next."
After securing a room for the day, Dean flopped onto a bed and was asleep before Sam could finish closing the motel room door. Sam retrieved his laptop and booted it up. As always, the research is my job. Sighing, he located a WI-FI network and began looking up information regarding the address they were to go to. By the time the sun had finished rising, he knew that the address was a large house in an affluent part of Denver, that it had recently been purchased by a 'T. N. Salazar', and that, other than the information at the county assessor's office, 'T. N. Salazar' didn't exist.
A/N2: I know it's a bit shorter than the average chapter length for this series, but I'm considering this the 'teaser'. I spent nearly all day working on various aspects of it – seriously, the muse just wouldn't shut up – and then, just when I was about to shut down and go to bed, my muse hit me with the opening few paragraphs for the chapter (yeah, I don't often write a chapter from one end to the other, I write the scenes as they come to me, which is a big part of why it takes me so long to write a chapter for AaO, 'cause I always feel like I'm forgetting important bits).
Anyhow, this is the springboard for the third installment in this series. I won't say 'final', because I might want to revisit this universe in the future, but TTiEA is the last planned story for this arc.
Review and let me know what you think – and to let me know what your theories for this tale may include.