Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or Harry Potter.

Author Note: You see any typos, let me know. Seriously, not kidding. Let me know. I'm in a haze of NaNoWriMo so I'm a little out of it to be spotting mistakes. I have the entirety-ish of Evermore planned. You have been warned.

Evermore

Mikkal

Forevermore: III

Dean tripped over a tree root and a flash of pain travelled up up his ankle and through his chest to his arm. He swore under his breath as he tried to force the pain and steady throbbing in his head away by will along. Stupid, damn kelpie and stupid, damn teenagers. A breeze travelled through the tress and made his already cold and soaked clothes freeze again his body. He swore again.

This is what he got for allowing himself to be dragged into a Hunt in exchange for the know-how only Hunters would have on what a certain demon was up to. He, admittedly, could have gotten the information without the Hunt because Christopher Tudor was a hard-ass, but the man knew a time and a place and that this wasn't it. Except, the kelpie was killing kids who had too many horses in their dreams, so there wasn't really a chance for Dean to say no. Of course he was going to help!

The fact that Azazel was all the way over in the first place was something he and Sam couldn't figure out. It didn't make any sense.

They had come to the conclusion in Salvation that there was barely any rhyme or reason to the demons killing. The only thing they had in common was that there was a six month old child or children and sometimes a family member would die as well. It went back decades before and the children who grew up were perfectly fine, some were locked in a mental hospital because a family member was caught in the cross fire, but there were no visions like Sam had or anything else of indication.

It made no sense.

Another root got in the way, stealing his breath for a moment in pain and panic.

"Sorry, Winchester," Christopher grunted, shouldering his gun. Iron knives in the chest was what killed kelpies, but a shotgun did wonders for distractions. The one on Christopher's shoulder right now probably saved Dean's life.

Dean ran a numb hand through his wet hair and groaned when the wind picked up again. "'s not your fault," he said, frowning when his words slurred ever so slightly. He jerked a thumb back towards the straggling teen behind them. "I blame him." He was teasing…almost.

Nicolas Tudor, seventeen years old, blushed bright red in embarrassment and a little bit of shame. "I didn't mean to," he muttered defensively. "I didn't expect it to be so… hypnotic."

He laughed despite the twinge in his ribs. "Most people don't," he replied. "I sure didn't the first time, but you get use to it. Don't worry about it."

Of course he was eleven for his first kelpie in the nice, wet state of Washington and, at the time, he had been completely unaware of the hypnotic affect the water horse monster gave off. He would have drowned had his dad not been fast enough. But he wasn't going to bring that little bit of information up.

"C'mon," Christopher said when they finally arrived at this cabin. "Let's patch you up and dry you off. I'll tell you what I know about your demon and what it's been doing."

The list of injuries was not surprising: cracked ribs and a large scrape on the side of his face from being slammed against rocks and dragged off them. There was a rather deep slice on his arm from a miss swing Nicolas got off once he shook off the kelpie's effect. And a too deep slice cut into his palm because Christopher thought blood from three people was needed (one of the main reasons the kelpie wasn't killed before this) to summon a kelpie when it was really only two and, of course, Dean was the third so the water horse showed up just as he was pressing the knife into his plan. It had yanked on his ankle with surprisingly sharp teeth, which left shallow puncture wounds. Apparently it hadn't been in the mood for the whole riding and drowning for poor unsuspecting sonovabitch tradition.

(The yanking of his ankle led to the "being slammed against rocks then dragged" because Christopher had missed with his iron and Nicolas took a moment to shake off the hypnotic and then missed when he finally did, hitting Dean instead. Really, it all made sense.)

All in all: Awesome and Sam was going to be pissed he got hurt even though he had back up.

Christopher's clothes were too large and Dean felt very uncomfortable, but it was so much better than sitting around in wet, frozen clothes. Nicolas had been sent to his room for schoolwork and the two adults sat at the table with Irish coffee in hand (which was surprising, he thought the British were all about tea) and talk about demons.

"I've never heard of a demon with yellow eyes before," the British Hunter aid. "Then again, until a couple of months ago I'd only heard of demons. Now I've exorcised seven in the past three weeks."

Dean couldn't help but wince. Somehow all this activity felt like it was his fault in some way, shape, or form, and he wasn't quite sure why he thought that. He nodded, though, in acknowledgement and bit his tongue on the subject. "Do you know what the yellow eyed one is doing? Everyone says it's attacking, but they don't say what it's attacking. Last I was aware it was in America two months ago, tormenting different families for one night for the past dozen decades, maybe longer."

Christopher nodded. "It's doing that here too. Also destroying cemeteries and churches."

Dean choked on a gulp of alcohol and coffee. "W-What?" He asked once he could breath. "You have any idea why?"

The older man shook his head. "None. That's all I know. I take it this is news?"

"Hell yeah it is." Dean dragged a hand down his face, wincing when he touched tender skin. "I know about the families, that's a given. I'm assuming they're all either families with Muggleborns in them or Half-bloods?" He swore when Christopher confirmed it. There was no reason for Azazel to be attack those types of families unless he was trying to keep Voldemort from getting suspicious of his true places. "I just don't understand the churches and cemeteries? What's it looking for?"

The buzzer on the dryer went off, successfully stopping a conversation that was going nowhere anyway. Christopher finished his coffee and grabbed Dean's clothes for him. Normally he'd protest, but the less pressure on his ankle the better.

Dean changed quickly and carefully then thanked the older Hunter for his help. His words were waved off and he was thanked instead—for killing the kelpie (when it dragged you underwater by the ankle there wasn't much more you could do). And then he left down the footpath that led to town.

His ankle felt like it was on fire and his chest hurt when he finally reached the boarder of Christopher's property and the town. But he ignored it in favor of pulling out the coin Sam handed to him before they separated. (He knew Christopher from the 'Stanford days.' A few calls here and there whenever Dean somehow ran into something that was suppose to be strictly European. Bobby'd put them in contact.)

Albus (wow, he sort of felt uncomfortable calling him by his first name) had said he didn't want to give them a portkey—apparently an inanimate, but spelled, object that you only had to touch to get transported. If it was anything like apparating then Dean was glad he wasn't only going to experience one out of the two. So they were just stuck with all but summoning him with a special coin.

Awesome.

With a quiet, barely there, crack the old man was standing next to him, staring in the direction of the lake with a complementing look on his face. Dean would've turned around so they were facing the same direction, but he didn't really feel like dealing with the sight of a peaceful, rather beautiful lake where eleven children died before Christopher narrowed the killer down to that kelpie.

"I didn't learn anything," Dean told the old man. Albus seriously got on his nerves with his 'ah, but of course, grasshopper' feel he gave off. "Other than watch out for your churches and cemeteries and the usual suspects when it comes to families." Dean stuffed a hand in his pocket, letting the other arm hang loosely. "Me and Sam will do some research about why and how the demon is choosing the places he attacks."

Man, Sammy was pissed when Albus informed him his computer and cellphone weren't going to work in both the school and the Order's headquarters. Dean decided he was going to label that look 'Bitch Face Special #23.1: Magical School Interferes With My Normal Life.' There were more sure to come.

Dean, on the other hand, was a little disappointed none of his old gadgets worked (the cellphone part was a little iffy because he still needed to call Bobby, but that'll work out some how), but he'd been so off the radar for a long time to stay away from nosey and stupid LEOs that he just didn't mind the no internet. Sure it made researching easier, but while old books were outdated (it was really hard to be outdated in this field) they couldn't be tampered with by stupid kids who thought they were hilarious.

"The library closes mid-evening," Albus said finally. "But that is only to the students. There is also a restricted section, but it is only restricted to the students as well. I'll be sure to give you and your brother full access to them." He pondered for a moment. "Perhaps I shall give you a list of books and their contents from my own personal collection? There might be something useful there."

Dean was surprised, but he hid that pretty well. "Thanks," he said, almost dismissively, but semi-sincerely. "Sam's gonna love that." He'll drool, no doubt, Dean bet to himself, grinning at the mental imagine that brought up.

Albus put out his arm like a delicate lady from those old movies. "I imagine you're tired and hungry."

He snorted and gripped the wizard's wrist tightly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Albus smile, a twinkle in his eyes that just made Dean even more uncomfortable.

And then there was the almost overpowering sensation of being shoved chest first into a very, very tight metal pipe.

The night before their Diagon Alley trip dinner was was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. No one usually came during dinner (except a few notable times, including Sam's arrival) and anyone who would was currently sitting at the table.

Sam was the first one out of his seat, seeming to know who it was, his long legs eating up the distance unbelievably fast. He disappeared around the corner; there was a breath of silence before they heard the voices.

"Dude, stop. I said I was fine," came an unfamiliar, exasperated voice.

"You came back more hurt than when you left. You're not fine," Sam snapped, words hard in concern.

There was a smack. "Get off, mother-goose. I'm fine. Just roughed up."

"At least get someone to look at you," Sam urged.

By that time the two of them walked in, Sam hovering over a tall, but still shorter than him, man with a scowl on his face. They looked nothing like brothers, but Harry had to guess this was Dean anyway. Who else would it be? He looked close to passing out, his face pale with a slight sheen, and he was pressing his arm around his chest, a small partly healed scrape on his forehead and a larger, fresher one on his cheek.

Despite all that the new man gave them a blinding, charming smile.

"Hey, y'all," he drawled, sounding like a cowboy from those American Westerns. Harry couldn't decide if it was real or faking it, though Sam didn't have one. "I'm Dean, you're second teacher and this," he jerked a thumb at Sam, "moose's older brother."

He didn't even wait for Mrs., Weasley to offer him a seat; he just took limping steps to the free space across from where Sam had been sitting. His face paled a little more and he winced a little, but didn't make a sound.

Dean looked around and waved a hand. "Don't mind me," he said, tone not so cowboy anymore. "Go ahead, eat. Don't wait on my account." His smile seemed less charming and more smarmy, but that could just be Harry.

Sam glared at his brother as he sat down. "You're a jerk," he muttered.

"Bitch," Dean shot back, ignoring the glare Hermione gave him and instead answered the glare Mrs. Weasley was sending his. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley," he said with a little boy smile that Harry had seen on Fred and George when they were trying to get away with a prank they obviously pulled, not bothering to explain how he knew who she was. "I'll keep the swearing to a minimum."

Sam snorted, but Mrs. Weasley's face softened a little and she handed him a plate full of food, making Dean's expression light up. He began eating like he'd never had food before, using his shaky left hand while the right stayed hidden under the table for some strange reason. Considering how shaky the occupied hand was Harry kind of figured it wasn't his dominant hand.

"What happened to your face?" Fred asked bluntly.

"Fred!" Mrs. Weasley admonished.

Dean just chuckled. "That's the best part of the story. But you'll just have to wait and find out in class."

Ron shot him a look. "See," he whispered. "They're the same."

Harry shrugged. "I tried," he replied. "I must have jinxed it." He grinned wryly. "In case you haven't noticed, Ron, I tend to do that."

Dean continued eating while Sam and Hermione launched back into their conversation of hexes versus curses. Harry figured it was obvious: hexes were harmful but ultimately more for fun and laughs at a generous expense while curses where only meant to harm and destroy. But apparently that wasn't the case, those two were delving into topics and points Harry didn't have the patience to keep up.

Somehow, at one point near the end of dinner, Fred and George started talking to Dean. Their heads were bent low and Harry just had to assume it was about the twin's joke shop if the devious smiles on their faces meant anything.

He looked at Ron, who just shrugged, mouth still full.

"I dunno, mate," he said after he swallowed. "I don't think I want to know." He made a face that Harry whole heartedly agreed with. Who knew what kind of things the twins were coming up that needed someone to taste test?

Ginny helped Mrs. Weasley with some of the dishes. Fred and George were forced to as well as punishment for attempting to spell a broom into helping them. The spell went a little wacky and caused the broom to act like an excitable puppy that liked to do inappropriate things with people's legs.

Snape arrived in a billow of black and sneering air. He gave the Winchesters one look and practically turned his nose up at them.

"Professor Snape," Ginny said, surprised, when she came out of the kitchen. She had a roll of bread in her hand that she was probably suppose to give to Remus if the direction she was going meant anything.

The Potions Master ignored her and spoke with Remus instead about something he couldn't hear.

Harry picked up his own plate and started headed to the kitchen to put them in the wash when Sirius decided to have a go at Snape. He didn't blame his godfather, being cooped up in a house you could never leave or else get a Kiss was a horrible thought he couldn't even imagine actually living it.

And he was going to ignore it for the most part. Watching the reactions of the new professors was a lot more entertaining and enlightening.

The Snape said something about his father, like always. And, like always, it managed to get a rise out of him unlike anything else. (He should probably fix that, like Hermione kept saying)

Harry whirled around, wand out and a hex at the tip of his tongue. Next thing he knew, though, Dean was standing in front and a little off to the side of him, Harry's wand twirling between the fingers of his right hand fluidly. The Boy Who Lived blinked, he didn't even see the American move. How'd he move so face with a bloody limp?

"I'm pretty sure hexing a teacher is against the rules, Potter," Dean said, smirking. "Even outta school." He glanced at Snape. "Besides, you can't hex someone who's part of the war-effort, that's just bad taste, even if they're dicks."

Snape glared at the other man, but Harry was too angry with Dean to notice. Too angry to even wonder how the man knew he was planning on a hex with just a few syllables.

"Give me my wand."

Dean's smirk got wider, eyes going hard. He ignored his brother when the taller man said his name sharply. "Now that's no way to speak to a professor, Potter." His last name seemed mangled coming from the American. He twirled Harry's wand faster. "Wanna try that again?"

A small crowd started to grow around them, Ron and Hermione behind him in support. Sirius unable to decide if Dean was on the right side or if his godson had the right of way. Remus and Mrs. Weasley seemed to fully support Dean, as did Sam (of course). And Snape looked like he would rather be anywhere but there.

Harry gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. "Can I have my wand back…please," he added. When Dean did nothing he clenched his hands into tight fists. "I promise I won't hex or curse Professor Snape again."

Dean chuckled. "There we go." He flipped the wand so he was holding the tip, offering the hand towards Harry in a surprising display of trust.

Or maybe the American Muggle was just that stupid.

Harry grabbed the handle to yank it back when there was a flash of light and a sizzling noise. Dean's mouth opened to scream, no doubt, but he clamped his lips together and struggled internally. The Boy-Who-Lived let go of his wand immediately, thinking that it was reacting to his less-than-pleasant emotions but Dean's skin kept sizzling and it was amazing Dean hadn't just started his screaming.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, grabbing his brother's arm. "Let go, damnit."

Dean closed his eyes, lips pressing together until they were white. He seemed to think opening his mouth wouldn't lead to talking like he wanted it to. It was very obvious that Dean couldn't let go.

Sam swore. "Do something," he snapped at the crowd, glaring first at Harry in blame and then at one of the adults.

"I don't know what's going on," Remus admitted.

Sirius pulled out his own wand. "I could—." But he was cut off when Sam started forcing his brother's fingers to uncurl from the piece of holly wood.

He yelped and snatched his fingers back, shaking his hand. "Holy shit," he said.

Harry agreed. Sam's fingers were blistering and red and he couldn't imagine what it was like for Dean.

Dean who finally gave up and moaned in deep pain, sagging against his brother. His eyes opened, horrified that he made a noise.

"Oh for!" Hermione shouted. "You're useless!" She reached over, wrapped her fingers around the handle and yanked the want forcibly away from the Muggle.

"Jesus Christ," Dean finally said, well hissed was more like it, voice thick. He gripped his wrist, palm open so they could see the oozing burns and blisters marring the skin. A wound in the center, that had to have been there before, was open and bleeding profusely. "I know you don't like me," he snapped, breathless. "But did ya really have to do that, brat?"

"I didn't," Harry said defensively. "I just grabbed it and it freaked!" He saw the way Hermione was look at him. "I swear!"

"Lemme look at it, Dean." Sam reached for his brother's hand, but Dean pulled it away and grabbed Sam's injured hand with his uninjured hand.

"You're hurt," Dean said with a bit of difficulty but it seemed his brother was more important than little pain, surprising everyone. His hand almost burnt off and he was worried about his brother's fingertips? "Jeez, Sammy. Stop doing that."

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes. "If you'd stop being a walking disaster attraction then maybe both of us will stop being hurt," he countered. "What this? The third major injure in a week? You can take out an entire Nest almost by yourself but you can't handle a week of wizards."

"And kelpie," Dean added slowly, he looked a little peaky. "That was between the wizards."

"You break any mirrors lately?" Sam asked, almost teasingly.

Dean gave him a pointed look that had the taller man laughing softly.

"Here, try this. It'll help. Magic and all," Mrs. Weasley said in a rush and then she thrust a jar of burn salve into Sam's hands. "I promise."

Sam eyed it suspiciously, but opened it and dipped his injured fingers in it despite Dean protests. He gasped a little when the blisters were gone and only shiny, pink skin was left behind.

"It's not going to work for the cut," Hermione said, almost tutting at the wounds Dean seemed to be covered in.

He waved his uninjured hand dismissively. "'S fine," he said, words slurring a little. "'m use to it." He hissed when Sam applied the salve and sighed when the cooling, a slight tickling, sensation Harry knew was there (potions mishaps a plenty) activated. Next second his skin was hale and whole…except for that really deep cut into the center of his palm. "You'll learn about it in class," he snapped when Ron asked about it.

"Give the man a break, Ronnie-kins," George said, ruffling his brother's hair.

Fred pinched his cheek. "He's not gonna put, say, cracker jacks in your bed tonight, is he?" He looked up at Dean who smiled faintly, maybe a little mischievous.

Harry had the sudden feeling he didn't want to know what cracker jacks were. He looked at Hermione for help, but all she could was shrug her shoulders helplessly.

Oh, they were so screwed.