Over the Rainbow
(1974 Quidditch World Cup)

There was no ornate lightshow or special effects extravaganza like he'd seen on Terminator. Just a blink, and then Dean Winchester found himself standing in a different room than the one he had a second earlier. Thankfully, he was clothed as well. In Dean's mind that movie had a lot of explaining to do.

As his mind struggled to catch up with the change, he realised that it wasn't a room at all. It was a field.

A rather busy field, if the littering of tents and bustling people were anything to go by. Some sort of hippy/renaissance fair, Dean theorised as he eyed the cloaks passing him. Oh God, not the actual rennaissance, Dean hoped. All that he remembered from vague high school conversations was that the renaissance ended before the Single Action Army was a twinkle in Samuel Colts' eyes.

Amidst all the people coming and going he noticed that one very important thing was missing. That thing being, of course, his brother.

Realising the futility of calling out Sam's name, Dean had his phone open and auto-dialling Sam before his mind calculated that into the pointless column as well. True to form, it beeped, and a glance back at the screen dispassionately told him that there was no signal. A second beep quickly warned that his battery was nearly flat.

Dean pocketed the now-useless technology, and after a quick check to reassure that his gun had survived the trip to wonderland, Dean proceeded in search of someone who might be able to help him figure out where the hell he was. Sorry, when the hell he was. Nair in the shampoo will seem child's play compared to what I'm going to do to Sammy when I find him. Possibly something involving glue, string and a whole lot of duct tape...

He'd made it all of two steps when he stopped in shock as a nearby man waved a stick, causing the little bag he'd put on the ground to erect itself into a two-man tent.

Magic. Had to be.

Dean looked around and found that no one else seemed to be surprised by the little display. It was then that he realised that he was the odd one out, and therefore greatly outnumbered by an encampment of witches/warlocks/whatever.

...and maybe some paint. And feathers, lots of feathers. Sammy's going to rue the damn day he even thought about this.

Dean tried to seem as inconspicuous as possible. He kept his gait relaxed (on the outside, at least), and avoided eye contact as his searching stare became the perusal of a relaxed camper, taking in the activities around him.

He passed by several tents and conversations, instantly picking up on the English accents. Which led him to conclude that he was in England. Which meant that... was that kid flying on a broom?

Dean's mental process went out the window as a small boy no more than ten cut Dean off, flying on a broom. He watched as the kid swerved in an effort to miss him, and ended up colliding into a nearby tent. Loud clangs and shouts could be heard inside, as though he had just knocked down a wall, not a piece of fabric.

A stern-faced woman appeared at the flaps a minute later, and seeing the boy sprawled by the sagging corner, proceeded to give him a stern talking to.

Beneath the dark locks, Dean could make out blue eyes widened in panic. Taking pity on the boy, Dean plastered on a concerned face stepped over.

"Excuse me, is there a problem?"

At the sound of his voice, the woman turned her eagle gaze onto him. "Of course there isn't a problem. Everything is fantastic - I just happen to like ranting about broken shelves for no reason."

Wow, Brits sure can pull out the sarcasm when they need to. Dean blinked. "Look lady, I was just offering to help. Way I see it, the damage is done, and the kid's sorry, right?"

The woman's piercing gaze flicked back to the intimidated youth, who swallowed audibly in response. When Dean nudged him with his foot, he nodded slowly.

When the woman continued to glare, Dean added, "And I'm sure he wouldn't hesitate to help clean up any mess he caused," to your shelves...? "but unfortunately he's still got to fix up the mess over at, uhh..." Crap, what's an English name? "Hitching's. If you like, I can send him back later...?"

At this piece of information, the woman let out a frustrated sigh. "That won't be necessary. Just make sure..." her brow wrinkled, "Hitching puts the boy to work. A little discipline would do him good." With one last huff, she turned back into the tent, angry mutterings under her breath.

When he was sure the lady was out of earshot, Dean held out a hand. The boy eyed him warily before taking it. He brushed off his pants before picking up his broom. When he was finished, he turned back to Dean and bit his lip. "Is Hitching the fellow whose stall I knocked over?"

Dean shrugged. "I have no idea. Rule of thumb, kid; adults are less inclined to discipline you if they think you're already going to get it much worse from someone else."

The boy looked up, and when Dean winked he smiled. "Thanks."

"No worries," Dean replied. He inclined his head and they started walking. "I'm Dean," he prompted, hoping the kid would reply. He was getting sick of calling him "boy".

"I'm Regulus."

Dean let out a scoff that quickly turned into a cough. When Regulus cast a glance his way, he quickly changed the topic. "So Regulus, you know what's going on here?"

Regulus' eyebrows disappeared under his fringe. "You don't know?"

"I just got here."

Regulus cocked his head to the side in scrutiny. "From... America?"

"Yeah. So what's going on?"

"It's the World Cup."

"Right, and what time does it start?"

Regulus stopped walking at that. "It's already over."

Years of putting up with his brother rambling on about things Dean had no idea about taught him to to bat an eyelash when he'd let his ignorance show. Instead, he turned back to the kid with his brows furrowed in surprise. "You mean I missed it?"

Though he answered "Yeah," it was clear Regulus was really saying, Duh! "what were you doing?"

"I got here early and went for a drink - the rest is fuzzy after that."

Regulus seemed to accept this answer and nodded. Dean was relieved to know that no matter what time or place he was in, all problems could be explained away by alcohol.

"Firewhiskey?"

"Huh?"

"Was it firewhiskey?" Regulus asked.

"To tell you the truth, I don't really remember." Best to leave it vague, Dean decided. Less details means less likely to be caught out.

"My brother likes firewhiskey," Regulus continued, relaxing a bit more now that he had an avenue of conversation to pursue. "He says it tastes like piss and kicks like a centaur when they can't see the stars."

Dean let out a little laugh, "Can't say I've heard that one before."

"He was drinking firewhiskey when he said it."

"Your brother sounds like my kinda guy."

"Yeah." Regulus grew quiet. "Everyone likes him."

Knowing a chick-flick issue when he saw one, Dean changed the topic. "So what were you doing back there? Is tent-crashing the latest craze?"

"I was practicing," He admitted. "I want to try out for the team this year."

Uh-huh. Yeah. A sport played on broomsticks. "Which team?"

"My house. Slytherin," He added, when Dean looked ready to ask again.

Chancing how much he could ask before he made a fool of himself, he hoped that this sport followed the same basics of most sports. "What position?"

Regulus sighed and murmured something unintelligible.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

Regulus raised his voice by the smallest fraction, and Dean could make out the word, beeder. Or was it beaker? Or beater? ...Beaver?

"Huh?"

The voice went up again. "Beater."

"What?"

And again. "Beater!"

Dean shrugged as if to say he couldn't hear. Which was ridiculous because the kid had returned to normal conversation levels.

Frustrated, Regulus yelled. "I said I wanted to be a BEATER!"

Several people nearby turned their heads at his outburst, and Regulus dropped his head in embarrassment.

Dean ignored the whole thing completely. "Oh, so you want to be a beater, eh?"

Regulus looked up at Dean's flippant tone. There was accusation in his eyes, and the briefest hint of betrayal. Dean tried to figure out if it was because "beater" was some taboo subject, or because he'd made the kid make a spectacle of himself.

He didn't get a chance to ask as Regulus ran off, darting around the strangers who were still eyeing him with curiosity.

Dean cursed under his breath and chased him. "Hey kid - Regulus - stop!"

Of course this only prompted him to run faster. After spending years hunting down wolves, spirits and the occasional black dog, ten year olds were surprisingly easy. Dean caught up to him in less than a minute. Just in time, it seemed, as Regulus was about to mount the broom and take to the air.

Dean snatched a handful of clothes and yanked. Regulus' lanky frame stumbled backwards, but Dean caught him before he could fall. When he made sure the kid was steady, Dean noticed he had a stick pointed at him. Probably a wand or some shit, Dean surmised, recalling the man who used one to erect his tent.

Not wanting to fight, Dean opted to bluff instead. Levelling his most intimidating glare, he spoke in a low voice, "Don't even try it."

Frightened, Regulus' grip wavered. Dean held his stare and raised an eyebrow in challenge until the boy surrendered, lowering the piece of wood to point at the ground.

Dean relaxed his grip, but didn't let go. He didn't want the kid running off before he said his peace, not after going to all that effort to chase him down. "Look, kid, is it really that bad being a beater?"

Regulus shook his head.

"Then what are you ashamed of, huh?"

The accusing stare was back. "You're just like him."

"Just like who?"

Regulus' eyes narrowed. "You just pull mean jokes on people and expect them to forget about it when you want them to. You're a jerk."

"Woah, hey," Dean let go of Regulus and raised his hands in surrender. The words were hitting a little close to his teenage years. "Look, no one cares that you called out like that. Those people have probably already forgotten about it. Besides, even if they do remember, you said it yourself; there's nothing wrong with being a beater. Now either you weren't telling me the truth about that, or you're just getting girly - overreacting," he quickly amended, "over something small."

Regulus shook his head. "You don't get it."

It was at this point that Dean decided he needed to know what the hell a beater was. "Do you want to be a beater, yes or no?"

Regulus petulantly looked down at his feet. Dean grabbed his shoulder insistently,

"Yes or no?"

"Yes," He mumbled.

"Then why do you care whether random strangers know it?"

"Because I'm no good at it."

Dean winced inwardly as he realised he'd somehow wormed himself into a chick-flick moment. He sighed. No way but through...

"I got a brother too, you know. We go hunting together.

"Thing is, when we started, he was terrible at it. Which is strange, because Sammy usually gets everything first try. But my Dad an I took him out, and he couldn't hit a thing, his aim was so bad."

Not feeling cheered up in the least, Regulus pouted. "So."

"So, my point is that he practiced at it. Every day. Now he's got damn near perfect aim. You keep at it and you'll get there too."

There was a silence after that as Regulus considered his words. When he was done he gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

Dean smiled gratefully and clapped him on the back. "Good, now let's talk about something else, okay?"

They resumed walking, Dean keeping stride but letting the shorter boy lead. After a minute, Regulus spoke, "What do you hunt?"

"Huh?"

"You said you and your brother hunt. What do you hunt? Like Knarls and stuff?"

"Uhh," Dean struggled to think of something that a witch - or witch-boy... warlock? - wouldn't take offense to him hunting. All he come up with was something already dead. "Zombies."

"What's a zombies?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?" Even civvies know about zombies. Well, of them at least. "They're dead, but they move around. Living dead."

Regulus formed an 'O' of understanding. "You mean inferi?"

Dean was about to reply that he didn't know what the hell Regulus was talking about when he remembered the research his father had made him do on his first zombie hunt. The word inferi had come up in one of the texts. Though he didn't have Sam to confirm, he figured he was close enough. "Yeah, we just have a different name for them in the states, I guess."

Regulus' eyes lit up. "That is so cool! Could you teach me how to hunt them?"

Dean was saved from replying when a voice called out Regulus' name. They turned to see a slightly older teen heading their way. Regulus' shoulders slumped.

When he approached, Dean noted the similar features and deduced that he was the brother Regulus had mentioned. "Where have you been? Mother's been ready to leave for an hour now. And father's not too happy with you either." He finally noticed Dean and nodded. " 'Lo."

Dean nodded in reply. "Hey."

Sirius cocked his head to the side, much like Regulus had. "Yank?"

Dean mocked him, "Brit?"

He smiled and held out a hand. "Sirius."

A sarcastic reply was on the tip of Dean's tongue when he noticed the outstretched hand. His gaze switched between the brothers before he realised that it was possible bizarre names ran in the family. He shook it. "Dean."

They both let go and Dean waited for Sirius to make the next move. For a person who scolded his brother on tardiness, he seemed in no rush to get back. "How about that match, eh?"

Dean looked to Regulus, who blinked back innocently. "Riveting," was all Dean could come up with.

Obviously this wasn't the right answer as Sirius frowned. "It didn't even last an hour."

A slight sniggering to his left drew Dean's attention down to Regulus' smiling form. "Thanks a lot, kid."

"No problem."

Dean scuffed him playfully on the ear before giving him a gentle shove. "You better head back, wouldn't want her to come looking for you and find Ole' Hitching's stall all destroyed."

"You destroyed Hitching's stall?" Sirius asked. "Wait, who's Hitchings?"

Regulus let out a snicker as he waved to Dean. "Thanks."

"Later," Dean nodded.

Sirius lingered, halting Regulus departure. "I apologise for my brother," he said solemnly. "We try to keep him locked up, but every now and then the cage needs cleaning, so..." He shrugged as if to say what are ya gonna do?

Regulus ducked his head again at the words, not game to meet Dean's eye.

"I dunno, he seems alright. People are talking about how he's gonna be a kickass beater one day."

The way Sirius laughed suggested he highly doubted it. "Beater, that's a good one." He slung an arm around his brothers' shoulders. "Anyway, must dash. Nice meeting you. You're alright for a yank."

"There's nothing I like to hear more," Dean deadpanned.

Sirius let out another bark of laughter as he gave his brother a slight shove in the direction of their tent. "Come on, Reg."

Dean watched as the brothers walked off, waiting until Regulus looked back. When he did, Dean shook his head as though to discredit what his brother had said, and gave him one last wink of encouragement.

"Oh, hey!" Dean called out, suddenly remembering his situation. The boys turned around. "You haven't happened to have seen a guy about this tall-" He raised his hand as an indicator, "-with brown hair and big ole' puppy dog eyes wandering around, have you?"

Regulus' brow furrowed. "Why does he have dog eyes?"

"It's an expression."

"Oh. No, I haven't seen him."

Sirius shrugged. "No, but the officials set up a lost and found, you could try there. It's out front of the pitch."

"Right, thanks." Dean looked to Regulus, who tilted his head in the direction of the pitch before turning around and following his brother.

Having successfully conversed with three different witch-people (really need confirmation on that), Dean casually strolled to the pitch in hopes of finding his brother, confident that he wouldn't be found out and turned into a toad.

He was right on the second part.