This is an experiment, and I have no idea if it works. I just know that some day, I had this in my head. This is about my two favourite characters in SPN and HP, and somehow I think that George would just be desperate enough to do something that might alert the Winchesters.

This is set in SPN season 2, which means that it takes place eight years after Harry Potter and the wizarding war (at least I hope I calculated it right...).

What do you think?

They say I'm going to Hell

The headlights of the Impala were fighting hard to find a way through the mist that was covering the street. The pale light of the moon added to the scenery. Once or twice a pair of eyes shone back at Dean, but the deer were careful that night and stayed off the road.

Dean was driving with one hand on the wheel, one resting calmly on his thigh. The sound of Led Zeppelin's "Good Times Bad Times" filled the inside of the car and Dean hummed along with it. Sometimes he would even sing a line or two, grateful for Sam's absence. No rolling eyes and huffing noises from the passenger seat tonight.

In his head the same scenes played over and over again. Sam waking up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat. A nightmare of a red-eyed woman, a crossroads, and a young man whose face

Sam hadn't recognised. A full moon, a street sign, an old tree – enough information to go on with.

"How dare she come back", Dean mumbled under his breath. It was only three weeks since he'd saved Evan Hudson's life and witnessed the beautiful demon-lady vanish in a cloud of smoke. And now it was happening again.

A full moon, a street sign, an old tree – enough information to go on with. Ironically enough, Sam had decided to get sick just a day later. Of course he had insisted to join Dean, but the older brother had made it clear that he wouldn't carry a sick man around who could only so much as focus on not throwing up every two miles.

With that, Dean had left, and he wasn't at all looking forward to the conversation that was due to follow once he'd return to the hotel.

Maybe he'd even get to the crossroads before the unknown man would have a chance to summon the demon.

When he finally approached the crossroads, he saw the young man immediately. Thanks to the moonlight, Dean could make out his red hair and broad shoulders. He didn't look too tall at first sight.

When Dean stopped the engine and stepped out of the car, the man turned around. His eyes widened, whether it was of shock or fear Dean couldn't tell.

The man's hand tightened around a small box in his left hand.

"Hey, buddy, you don't wanna do that", called Dean.

"Go away!", shouted the young man angrily, "Leave now!"

He spoke with a heavy British accent, which seemed so out of place in this area that Dean couldn't hold back a chuckle.

"You came all the way from the Old World for this? Where's the nearest airport anyway?"

"I told you to leave!", the red-head repeated furiously. He couldn't be much older than Dean, and he looked strong for his size. Mechanically, Dean reached for his gun.

"Expelliarmus!"

The man had raised his arm, the gun flew from Dean's hand, and the force of it made him stumble backwards.

"What the hell...", he mumbled, completely caught off guard by the British man who seemed to be capable of more than first met the eye. "Who – WHAT are you?"

His fingers reached for the silver knife in his back pocket as he carefully approached the man who was now kneeling on the ground. In his right hand he was holding something that looked like a stick to Dean, but something told him that the stranger hadn't just cut it off a tree.

"I won't ask twice", Dean said, the knife now in front of him. The moonlight was reflected by the silver blade. The man didn't even look up.

"Defodio."

It couldn't be real. Dean blinked three times, but his eyes hadn't betrayed him. A hole appeared in the ground – and the young man wasn't even touching the ground. Without looking at Dean, he growled: "I told you to leave. Now. You might regret it later."

"Not as much as you will."

The words had come out before Dean had a chance to think first. The man turned his head, and he was close enough for Dean to see the brown in his eyes.

Something was wrong with these eyes, yet he couldn't tell what it was.

"Cristo."

"Come again?"

No demon eyes, for starters. As Dean looked closer, his stomach twisted to a knot for just one second. The man was clearly missing an ear.

"Listen, mate, for your own sake, put that knife away", the man said way too relaxed for Dean's liking.

"Get away from that road and give me that box and I will." Somehow Dean wasn't as calm as he wanted to be.

"Expelliarmus!"

But this time Dean was ready and jumped to the left, a jet of light missing him by inches.

"Stupefy!"

Another one missed, and before the man could raise his stick (Dean forbid himself to think of it as a wand) again Dean wrestled him down.

The man was strong, and he knew curses that Dean had never even heard of. He landed a blow to the man's chin which sent him flying to the ground. Before he could even get up, Dean stepped onto his wrist and pinned the hand which was still gripping the stick to the ground.

The British stranger winced in pain and tried unsuccessfully to point the weapon at Dean. But before he had a chance to do so, the pain made him drop it. Dean picked it up quickly and put it into his pocket. Then he held out his hand.

"Get up, James Bond."

The young man got to his feet without reaching for Dean's hand, his body tense and defensive. The freckles stood out against his pale skin. Brown eyes scanned Dean as he put his knife away.

There was an expression in this man's eyes that Dean knew too well. Troubled eyes.

"I'm Dean", he said, surprised by himself. Usually he didn't give strangers his real name too soon, and definitely not at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere.

"George." The man gave Dean a quizzical look. "You're not afraid?"

"Afraid of what? You? Look, man, that was some weird kind of Whoodoo but believe me, I've seen worse."

"Not bad for a Muggle."

Now it was Dean's turn to be confused.

"A what?"

"Doesn't matter", George said dismissively. "Anyway, I don't know why you're here but please, just give me back my wand and go."

"Give you back your – yeah, right. And I'll just drive away knowing you'll summon the demon and trade your soul for whatever it is you want. Come to think of it, what is it you want? Money? Women? Believe me, it ain't worth it. Nothing's worth selling your soul."

"Don't you talk like that!" George pushed Dean away, who stumbled and fell. Suddenly the redhead was on top of him, one hand holding the sleeve of his jacket, the other hand ready to slam into his face. "You don't understand!" Slam. "It's none of your fucking business!"

Before he could hit again, Dean managed to push him away. He could feel the blood trickle down the side of his face.

"Then explain it to me."

He was calm, while the young Englishman stood panting heavily in front of him.

"What part of 'It's not your damn business' do you not understand?"

"Do you believe me when I say that I've met the demon you wish to meet not so long ago? And she made me an offer – and I was tempted. Very tempted. But I didn't do it because nothing – nothing – good comes out of deals with demons. You get what you want but after ten years it'll be worth squat and you go to Hell for the rest of eternity."

"So what? I'm already there." The words came out as a whisper and Dean barely heard them. George had his gaze fixed onto the ground, his once tense arms now hanging loosely down his side. Somehow he looked much younger all of a sudden.

Dean waited. He felt uncomfortable, he wasn't the caring, sharing kind of guy. Showing sympathy and offering a hanky to the grieving was usually Sam's job. But Sam wasn't here, and after all there was something about this man that made Dean feel drawn towards him. Eventually George looked up. His brown eyes were shimmering in the pale light, grief and sorrow reflected from them in a way that Dean found strikingly familiar.

"Maybe you don't understand. Maybe you don't know what it's like to lose the most important person in your life. Lucky you." He laughed bitterly, then looked directly at Dean. "I can't live without my brother. I won't. It took me a while to figure out how to get him back, and you're not stopping me now."

"How'd he die?"

It was probably the most stupid question to ask, Dean thought, but somehow, when you grew up investigating death in all its details, it was the first thing that came to mind. And anyway, if said brother was likely to come back as an angry spirit, it would be wise to be prepared.

George eyes him suspiciously, obviously fighting an inner battle with himself about whether to talk about it or not.

"He was killed in the Battle."

"Where? Afghanistan, Iraq?"

"Hogw... never mind."

George's eyes were shining again, for a few moments he seemed to be lost in thoughts. He was probably lost in more than one way, Dean mused.

"And you think your brother won't be pissed if he comes back and finds out he gets to live and you go to Hell?"

"I'll have ten years. I'll be 38 when my time's up. That's not so bad."

"You'll go to Hell. For real. Seriously, is it worth it?"

George seemed to hesitate for a moment before he spoke with a quiet, yet firm voice.

"I'd give anything just to see my brother laugh at me one more time. Anything, for just one moment. Can you even begin to understand what it's like to miss someone so bad that your soul is literally breaking apart? Having this one person that makes you feel like this is a gift and a curse at the same time. You love this person so much and yet you hate him for causing you all this pain, and all you want to do is to find a way to live without him but after all these years you still can't do it."

It was quiet when George sank to his knees, his head turned away from Dean who felt like something inside him had just been torn apart.

Who was he to blame this man? He, who sometimes still wished he'd accepted the demon's offer to get his father back. He, who couldn't sleep at night and watched his little brother instead, knowing that he'd save him from whatever destiny was waiting for him.

Some part of him felt nothing but deep respect for this man who had the courage to see this through.

But then again: Was it really courage that made him do it? Maybe it was the contrary. Fear, despair.

"I'm serious, George. Your brother won't like it. I can see how you're suffering now – how do you think your brother will feel when he learns that you'll go to Hell for him? He'll lose you in ten years just like you lost him, and no matter what, the pain will be exactly the same. No matter how many years you had together, he'll always think about what could have been, how your life could have been if you hadn't sold your soul. He won't be happy about the deal. He'll be mad. What's dead should stay dead."

It was only then that Dean noticed the raspy tone of his own voice which had become quiet towards the end of his little monologue. He took a deep breath and blinked twice before turning to George.

The redheaded man was sitting with his face buried in his hands. He didn't make a sound, but Dean thought that he could see his shoulders trembling.

Minutes passed before George raised his head. His face shone in the light of the moon, tear streaks were clearly visible even from the distance.

Dean moved closer until he was standing right in front of the stranger. As he looked down on him, he had a clear view on the side of his head. The side with the hole.

As if he could read Dean's mind, George pointed to the wound.

"Looks scary, I know. I've gotten so used to it that I sometimes forget the effect it has on strangers." He gave a lopsided smile. "Girls don't seem to mind, somehow. Apparently battle wounds are sexy."

"I need to remember that", Dean grinned. He became serious again when he saw George's smile fade. "How'd it happen, anyway?" He regretted the question the very same moment, but somehow George didn't seem to mind.

"It's complicated. Let's just say it was a battle. A rescue mission, actually, and I took one for the team."

"Was it then that your brother..."

"No. That was much later. Same mission, though."

"What kind of mission?"

"Save the world."

It would have sounded ridiculous under different circumstances. Here, Dean had no doubt that the man was right.

"I take it you succeeded, then. In saving the world, I mean. It's still in one piece."

The same old world, with all the pain and suffering it could bring to good, innocent people. People like his mother, who had died to protect her children. Like the father of four who had been killed by an angry spirit just because he had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. People like the young redheaded man in front of him who looked much older than twenty-eight. A man who was probably doubting that the fate of the world had been worth the price he'd paid.

Dean had lost track of time. It was still dark, but he thought he could hear a bird already singing in a tree nearby. Not long until the sun would rise to a new day.

"Don't do it", he said quietly. "Please, George. Don't."

"Do you have a brother? A sister?"

"A brother." Dean's voice held an unusual tremor.

"If you were in my position – would you not do it?" George eyed him curiously, and Dean realized that he really wanted to know. "If it was your brother, wouldn't you do simply anything just to get him back?"

Of course I would.

"I wouldn't get myself killed. I mean, I'd die for him in a second, but not to bring him back. He'd be mad and he'd probably never forgive me."

And I wouldn't give a damn.

"What am I supposed to do?", George whispered. "How do I go on without him? I thought it might get better eventually, that I'd somehow adapt, but it doesn't, and I haven't. And I wonder if I'll ever be truly happy again, you know? I want to fall in love and get married and have kids and show them magic tricks. I want to be happy again. But I don't think I can. Not without him."

He stared blankly at a spot somewhere in the distance, more speaking to himself than to Dean.

"You will be, George. I promise. It will take a lot of time, but you'll get to live a great life with a wife and children and a white-picket fence. Don't throw your life away before it has even started."

With that Dean turned around and headed for his car. His job was done here, though in another way than he'd planned beforehand. Somehow he knew that the man would not summon the demon. Not tonight, not any other night.

"Thank you", he heard George whisper from behind. "Obliviate."

A warming sensation hit Dean, and he spun around on the spot. He was alone.

His phone rang. Sam.

"Hey Sam. Don't worry, I'll be back soon. Gonna pick up lots of chicken soup on the way."

"Did you get to the crossroads in time? Did the man summon the demon?"

"He didn't show up. I guess your premonitions were wrong this time, psychic boy!"

"I'm not -"

Before Sam could finish his sentence, Dean hung up, smiling to himself, and opened the door of the Impala. It was time to get back to his family.

A/N: The title refers to a song by Papa Roach, "Be free". Some say I'm going to Hell but I am already there.