Exorcizamus

Song of the chapter: Fight Song – The Republic Tigers

Hehe a small disclaimer I forgot before:

I don't own Supernatural, if I did Sam and Dean would be topless. Period. Neither do I own Harry Potter; if I did I would own half the world and have designated sleeping days. They belong to Eric Kripke and J.K Rowling respectively.

On with the show!!!!

"Sam, I'm telling you. I'm not crazy!"

"I know Dean, but come on. Scottish?"

"Yes, Sam. Scottish." Dean ran a calloused hand over his face in exasperation. After his questionable meeting with the Scottish Psycho, Dean had high-tailed it back to their shabby apartment. Sam was waiting patiently, with his laptop for Dean's return. He expected the aforementioned brother to stumble in at some ungodly hour, smelling of beer and sex. What he didn't expect however, was Dean to come barging in at 10:30 spluttering some crazy story about popping people. Also the crazy psycho Scottish lady, oh yes, her. Dean had slammed through their motel door, swearing blind that she shot him with a beam of light. Sam was starting to wonder if Dean had had one to many, but his breath wasn't laden with the smell of downed beers.

"I was at this bar, and I decided to go for a walk round town. Ran into a group of weird looking people, and decided to follow them."

Dean made chopping movements with his arms, indicating time, and place.

"They all started disappearing, so I got my gun out and stopped one of them. She said her name was Muc-gornaguld or something stupid like that."

He began pacing like a caged tiger, uneasy with their current predicament. Sam just sat there, in the uncomfortable motel chair, thrumming his fingers against his laptop.

He was researching into their next job, trying to find any supernatural indications anywhere in the US. So far his list came up with none. Sam was partially annoyed, and largely relieved. Over the past months or so, Dean had thrown them both into jobs one after another. Salt'n'burn. Back to the motel. Sammy! Get researching. Next morning, bam. They're off to some decrepit town 3 states away. Sam didn't think that he had gotten decent nights sleep, for about a year and a half now. With Dean back, his crippling insomnia disappeared like dust in the wind. He was revelling in every second he had, with his older brother.

Sammy wasn't annoyed at Dean, no, he could never be. He was relieved for Dean. He was stretching himself so thin; his newly rejuvenated body was showing signs of wear and tear. Sam had grown used to the long days and nights, but Dean had been out of commission for the past 40 years. He wasn't suggesting that Dean had had it easy, not by a long shot. When Dean had finally come clean about his time in hell, Sam had been mortified. He had idolised Dean even more, being able to hold out for so long. But being back in his body, Sam would have thought he would have needed a well-deserved vacation. But Dean always was a stubborn mule, and had thrown himself into every job that had had the slightest relation to the supernatural.

"Muc-gornaguld?"

"Yeah, Sam. Don't mock me." Sam held up his defined forearms, in a peace offering.

"I was doing no such thing."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean sighed heavily, and flopped down on the too-hard motel bed, defeated. Sam watched with mild concern, flipping through the profiles of all the supernatural beings they had fought. Finding a link between the two wasn't easy.

"She didn't like being called a witch." Dean stated matter-of-factly. He made some sort of Frisbee throwing motion, but with his forearm facing upwards. "She waved this twig at me, and said Oblivate, or something similar."

"She what?" Sam was listening intently. He knew a Latin word when he heard one. This one sounded like oblivisci. Which in Sam's freaky knowledge database, translated to forget.

"Dean that sounds like the Latin for forget, you sure you remember everything?"

"Ya, clear as a bell. Even how many traffic lights I went through to get back here."

"Which was?"

"Five." Sam nodded, satisfied. He snapped his laptop shut, and slid it into his leather satchel. He got up, and walked over to the foot of dean's bed. He opened up a large dark green duffle bag, and started rifling through it.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Dean lifted his head and looked down his chest at Sam, who was lifting a torn and tattered book, from the spacey duffle bag.

"Adding extra protection, seeing as we don't want Muc-grumpy calling at 3 in the morning, when you're trying to get your much-needed beauty sleep." Sam smirked slightly at Deans affronted look.

"Bite me."

BAM!

The small motel window shuddered, in its weak wooden frame. It only took a fraction of a second, for Sam and Dean to grab a knife and a gun respectively. Another fraction had them stood in front of the motel door, weapons trained on the fake oak panelling. They cast weary glances at each other, before Dean crept forward and reached for the handle. Snapping the door open, he aimed his gun left, then right. But no one was there. He lowered his gun slightly, berating himself for being too paranoid.

He was turning his head to say the 'all clear', when a feathery mass careened into the side of his head with such force; he lost balance and stumbled back through the doorway. Sam folded his 6'5 frame to get out its path, as it rocketed its way into their motel room.

Dean righted himself and looked around wildly, trying to locate his assaulter. The feathery cannonball was actually, a small barn owl. Which, (after it's rather ungraceful entrance) sat regally on top of the decades old T.V, preening itself as if to say "None of that ever happened." Strapped to its leg, was a thick-papered envelope. Sam cautiously inched forward, trying not to scare the animal.

"Sam, wait a sec, this thing nearly took my head off…"

"It's addressed to you Dean."

"…" Dean stalked forward to untied the offending envelope off the owls leg, which it stuck out parallel to the floor to make Deans job easier. Raising an eyebrow, he deftly untied the string and read the address. Which was written in flowing, loopy writing.

"Well," he croaked, "they're a stickler for details." He tilted the yellowing paper towards where Sam was standing, the still wet ink glistening under the harsh lights.

Dean Winchester

Room 14

Sunset View Motel

Stratton

Nebraska

"You told the Scottish-Psycho your real name?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably "Maybe." Sam rolled his eyes; he grabbed the letter from Dean's hand and proceeded with opening it. He broke through the heavy, red wax seal and pulled out the contents.

"This is written on parchment Dean."

"And I need to know because…?"

"You don't, it's just that no one uses parchment anymore. It's heavy-duty stuff as well, it ways a tonne."

He opened the letter and began to read:

Dear Mr. Winchester,

I am aware that you met a fellow colleague of mine tonight, named Minerva McGonagald. The series of events that have unfolded are of great interest to me, as the magic used upon you seemed to have no effect. I apologise if Minerva came across as harsh, but these are hard times for our community. If it is at all possible, I would like to come and meet you, as soon as you write me back a reply. As I have already stressed, these events have caused us great consternation. Please send the owl back with your reply as soon as possible.

Best Regards

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

"Aren't you mister popular?" Sam chuckled slightly, handing the letter to a dumbstruck Dean. Who read the letter several more times.

"Its not often that I get call Mr. Winchester."

"Make you feel important?"

"No, it makes me feel fifty." Dean ran a calloused hand, through his ash blonde hair.

"Right, Mr. Dumbledore wants a reply, by owl post. Seriously?" Getting a notepad and pen, Dean began writing his response. Once he was done, he rolled it up and strapped it to the owl's leg. Flapping its wings madly, it launched itself off the T.V and disappeared out the door. Dean started, and ran around picking up everything that was Sam's and putting it into his bag.

"Dean! What are you doing?"

"They don't know about you, they can't know about you. So we gotta hide your stuff haven't we?" Sam complied, and started gathering up his meagre belongings.

"Dean, we ordered a twin bed room." Halting in his frantic packing, Dean shivered slightly.

"Sam, get in the bathroom."

"What? Dean why…"

"Just do it Sam, I can feel him coming!" After shoving a startled Sam into the tiny bathroom, Dean set about arming himself. A small whirling sensation in his stomach intensified, he knew Dumbledore was nearly there. He grabbed his sawn off, and his pistol, and stood facing the door. Both guns trained to head height. Popping noises filled the room, as an old man, with a shockingly white beard appeared before Dean.

"Aha, Dean Winchester I presume. I, am Albus Dumbledore."

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