Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Dean lost the ability to speak, he lost it all at once.

There had been too many words gushing out, just as quick as Sam’s blood had been, while Dean begged Sam to stay with him, screamed for Tonks to help them. Dean must have used them all up then because when Sam was gone, he took all of Dean’s words with him.

Dean kneeled on the floor of the forest in the mud that was made with dirt and blood and he rocked Sam in his arms, clinging to him long past time to let go. Sam wasn’t breathing, he wasn’t bleeding, there was no movements, but Dean couldn’t let go.

When Tonks finally rushed to them, speaking too quickly about demons and Hell and shit that Dean did not care about, Dean found three more words to use.

Dean looked up at her, begging with his eyes.

“Sam,” he said, an explanation. “Fix him,” a plea.

Because Dean couldn’t fix him. Dean hadn’t been fast enough, smart enough, good enough. Sam had been all those things and he got three bullets in the back of his chest. Dean should have chased the fucker who did it, wailed him until even dental records couldn’t identify him. But when Dean saw Sam go down, he made the worst fucking decision of his life:

“Get him,” Dean screamed at Tonks, indicating the dude in the army uniform who just shot his brother. “I’ve got Sam.”

Dean didn’t have Sam, he never did. Dean made a bad call and it cost him everything. Every single time that Sam needed Dean the most, Dean made bad calls and it was Sam who was punished for it. 

Tonks stared down at Sam and she took a step in the wrong direction as her eyes widened and her hair went from pink to an ashy grey.

“Sam?” she said, choking the word as she took in the extent of Sam’s injures for the first time. “Is he…?” Tonks waved her wand and Dean waited for Sam to breathe again, to speak again, to open his eyes and just look at Dean once more.

When none of that happened, Dean felt as if the world have fractured in half, leaving him hopeless and desperate.

*****

When Harry was shaken awake by his professor, he didn’t immediately know that his world had been fractured in half.

Harry made groggy noises when his professor told him he needed to get home and he sleepily gathered his belongings without waking the other boys in the dorm.

His dad’s shirt, the boots his brother bought him, the ear his friend made, the egg, and the sword.

“Quickly,” the professor said, his voice solemn. Harry wasn’t sure what the rush was until he obediently trooped out of the dorm and the professor began taking long strides to get to his office.

“Professor?” Harry questioned, struggling to keep up. “Is everything alright?”

It was the way that the professor never forgot to remind Harry of his name that had been the first clue. The second was that the professor was dressed in a nightshirt beneath a plain black robe.

The next clue was rather clear when the professor shook his head and Harry could see in the dimly lit corridor that his eyes were shining with what looked like tears.

“Let’s speak in my office, Harry,” he said, too softly to be good news.

Harry was already shaking before he even stepped foot in the office. When he found his godfather in the room, his arms open and his chin wobbling, Harry knew that something had gone as wrong as it possibly could.

*****

Dean held Sam until Tonks popped them back home – to the house that was too quiet without Sam’s bitching and his laughter and Sam’s breathing – then he took up vigil beside Sam’s bed while Tonks did whatever the fuck she did while Dean thought.

Dean thought about Sam, how magic couldn’t bring him back.

Dean thought about when he had been on the edge of death, being chased by a Reaper, how he had been brought back from the dead.

Dean thought about Sam and how everything inside of Dean felt cold and empty without Sam there.

It wasn’t until Bobby showed up, silently putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder while he stood as a silent watcher to Dean’s worst pain, that Dean was able to say anything.

“Harry,” Dean said, a harsh whisper that tore at his throat.

“He’s comin’,” Bobby said, squeezing Dean’s shoulder and keeping him grounded. “That girl sent a message to Sirius on her way back to Oregon.”

Dean didn’t care about Sirius or Oregon, Dean didn’t even want Harry there.

Seeing Sam’s face bloodied and still was destroying Dean slowly from the inside out, like a poison he swallowed that would eventually burn him up. Harry didn’t need to see it too, but if the damage was done then Dean didn’t feel up to arguing over it.

Dean tried to think about his next move, the next step he needed to take, but he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe… Sam was gone and everything had lost meaning.

*****

Harry couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe…

People were talking at him, his godfather and the Headmaster, then their neighbor, but Harry didn’t want to listen to them and so he didn’t. Harry’s godfather said, “It’s Sam,” and Harry didn’t listen to anything past that.

Harry only moved silently through the living room to approach his brother’s bedroom while he felt like he was walking through a dream.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t true. It was a lie, a misunderstanding.

Sam was too strong, too smart, too amazing to be d–

Harry couldn’t even think the word.

If Harry opened the bedroom door and his brother was in there, he wouldn’t be gone. Harry would see him grinning and he would flip his hair out of his face, ask Harry how the task went. They would laugh and Sam would take full credit for Harry’s athleticism.

But if Harry opened the bedroom door and his brother was in there, gone, then it would be real. It would mean he was gone and Harry would never see him again, never talk to him again.

Harry didn’t think he could do it. As long as he stood in the hallway and refused to answer the door then his Sam wasn’t gone, he wasn’t.

Could Harry live indefinitely without knowing?

Harry used the hilt of the sword he was still holding to nudge the door open and only one look in the room managed to knock the air from his lungs, leaving Harry to gasp one word.

“Sam?”

There was nothing of more importance than his brother and where he laid on top of his bed, blood soaking his clothes, his face almost unrecognizable beneath the blood. There was no chest movements though, no flickering of his eyelids. The body of Harry’s brother was laying there and there was more pain in his silence than anything Harry had ever felt before.

Harry dropped the sword as his feet unconsciously pulled him forward to his brother’s bed. Harry dropped to his knees and reached for his brother, scared to touch him, and said his name again as a plea and a question.

“Sam?”

Sam didn’t answer him, he didn’t stir at all. He couldn’t…

He was dead.

Sam’s body blurred as tears filled Harry’s eyes, clouding them over and hiding Sam from his sight. Harry swayed some and an arm was around his shoulders in an instant.

“He’s dead?” Harry asked, needing to hear it as badly as he didn’t want to. If Harry’s oldest brother said it, if he said the word, then it would be true.

Sam would be gone forever and nothing would be the same.

His brother didn’t answer him, but he did pull him in for a hug that said more than anything else could have. When Harry said Sam’s name next, it wasn’t a question, it was just him saying the one thing he wanted more than anything in the moment.

“Sam,” Harry said, grabbing at his oldest brother and needing him to hold him tighter, keep the sobs from ripping him inside out. “I want Sam.”

“I know.” His brother tightened his hold on Harry and let Harry hide his face, his tears, the unbearable grief welling inside of him, in his shoulder.

Harry clung to him and cried while he hated himself for thinking that it wasn’t the brother he wanted then. Harry loved both of his brothers, but Sam was gone and Harry needed him back.

It hadn’t been long enough. It wasn’t fair.

Sam was everything good about a person and he should have lived another fifty, sixty, years. Sam should have went back to school and became a lawyer or taken over the magical defense department and been a world-renowned hunter.

Sam should have lived and spent another fifty, sixty years talking about lore and interesting research. He should have lived and given more advice to Harry about everything. He should have lived.

Sam should be alive and Harry didn’t understand why he wasn’t.

When Harry could speak, make his voice work for something more than just the pained sounds he shared with his oldest brother, that was the first thing that he asked.

"What happened?"

What happened?

Demons happened and dragons happened and Dean didn’t save Sam, he didn’t protect Harry.

Dean shouldn’t have compared himself to Dad before because Dad had never screwed up as badly as Dean had.

Dad would have found Sam sooner, he wouldn’t have let his fear drive him to make the wrong call. Dad would have had Tonks go to Sam while he went after the other dude. There wouldn’t have been a voice screaming in his head to GET SAM. And he wouldn’t have had to hold him as he died.

“I don’t know,” Dean told Harry, feeling his heartbreak like an accusation.

What happened? Dean screwed up.

What happened? Sam was gone.

What happened? Dean wasn’t enough to save his mom, his dad, or his Sam.

Who would die next because Dean wasn’t worth his salt as a hunter? Harry? Bobby?

All Dean wanted was to keep his family safe and he failed. He fucking failed so badly that it was almost laughable.

Sam was the smart one. Sam was the better hunter, the better brother. Sam took down Gordon Walker and he trained Harry up real good for when he had to face a dragon.

If the world was fair, it would be Dean on that bed and Sam saying all the right things to Harry.

If the world was fair, Harry’s oldest brother wouldn’t be staring at Sam with empty eyes and dried tear tracks down his face.

Harry didn’t know what happened, he couldn’t even guess, but he felt sure that if Harry’s brothers hadn’t been so concerned with the task that it wouldn’t have happened.

They had been so focused on Harry, on the dragon, that something must have been creeping up on Sam, attacking when they were the most distracted.

It struck Harry then, out of the blue, a thought so horrible that he would never be able to get it out of his head…

How long would it be before Harry forgot Sam’s name? How long would it take for him to be a faint memory, nothing concrete?

Harry made a choked sound and turned away from his oldest brother so he could reach for Sam and take his hand while he leaned his forehead against him.

It wasn’t just unfair… it was the cruelest thing to ever happen.

If anyone deserved a happy ending to their story, it was Sam.

Harry tried to breathe slowly while he made himself think of every moment, every memory, he had with his brother…

The day they met in the library, when Sam thought Harry was a demon but he helped him anyway. The first night Harry spent with his brothers, when he and Sam both were kept awake with nightmares and went to get a snack together.

All their conversations while they ran together. Sam’s dimples when he had laughed and sang along to songs in the car. Their trip to buy quidditch tickets when Sam called Harry a jock for being so excited.

Sam never got to see a quidditch match or - or to find someone to fix the hole in his heart his girlfriend left.

And who would fix the hole in Harry’s other brother’s heart? Not Harry, with his magic that was too different, too strange. Harry didn’t know how to hunt or work on cars or how to fight with someone and then turn around and be perfectly in sync.

Sam should be there.

Harry would do anything to have Sam there.

Dean would do anything to have Sam there.

It was so freaking unfair that Sam did everything right and that he was the one who laid on the bed, being cried on by Harry.

And Harry… how was Dean supposed to take care of Harry on his own? Dean couldn’t even comfort the kid right. Sam would have all the right words, he would know what to do.

If Dean were gone and Sam was there, Sam would get Harry through it in a way that wouldn’t fuck him up for life. Sam would talk about how it was okay to be sad or something and he’d give Harry one of his big hugs that would make Harry think that he had to be right.

Dean couldn’t do that because Dean didn’t think it would be alright, not without Sam.

Ever since Dean had been a kid, it had been him and Sam. Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. They added a Harry, but the base had been the same.

Sam was the most dependable thing in Dean’s life and he didn’t think he could do it - do life - without him.

Sam had never really needed Dean, but Dean had always needed Sam.

Dean could go down in a hunt, hell, he could drink himself to an early grave, and feel fine about it if he knew Sam was still kicking. If Dean knew that Sam was there to take care of Harry, to take care of Bobby, then Dean would follow that freaking light with a smile on his face.

The thought made itself known then so clearly that he must have been thinking it since the start.

If he had one wish, one desperate wish, what would he give up to see it be granted?

Dean stood up slowly, relieved that his legs were supporting him in the world where nothing else was working right.

Dean looked down at Sam for a long moment, taking in every bit of his face that he could see. Sam’s hair was stuck to his face, matted down with blood.

“Boy band hair,” Dean teased him. Dean had just gotten his hair cut, down in a barber shop in New Orleans after they finished a case. Sam said he was getting his hair cut too, but he meant ‘a trim’.

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean and crossed his arms while his shoulders hunched defensively.

“I like my hair,” he said stubbornly. “Sorry if I don’t want a standard douche cut.”

Sam’s eyes were closed, but Dean knew what they looked like when he was a- when he was awake. Sam had their dad’s hazel eyes, Dean had their mom’s green eyes.

“Girls say you have pretty eyes,” Sam huffed, inspecting himself in the mirror after bitching about how he didn’t have any facial hair yet. “My eyes are sooo boring.”

If Sam were smiling, really smiling, he’d have his dimples out that a lady once called All-American when they’d been kids.

“Ooh, look at those dimples!!”

Dean had been pushing Sam on the swings at the park across from the place they were renting. A lady stopped with her kids and smiled sweetly at them. When she caught Dean’s eye, she winked.

“All-American dimples like that and you’ll be fighting girls off your brother with a stick,” she said.

Dean didn’t know how she knew they were brothers, but maybe it was a thing that people could just sense.

Sam didn’t need Dean to beat the girls off with a stick, he had needed Dean to save him when it counted.

Dean screwed up, screwed up real bad, but he could fix it.

Harry felt his brother touch the top of his head and he heard him leave the room, leaving Harry in a room too quiet, too pained.

And Harry was alone in there because Sam was gone.

Harry couldn’t even bear to look at Sam, he couldn’t, not like that.

When Harry thought about Sam, he wanted to think about his brother who seemed taller than anyone, who smiled bigger than anyone, whose eyes lit up when he was excited about something.

Harry didn’t want to see Sam covered in his own blood, looking too small and frail, Harry wanted… Harry wanted to remember what Sam’s last words to him had been.

They were before the task and he said… Harry’s eyes pricked again and he squeezed them shut to try and remember.

They were in the pub and Sam said…

“Stay calm, don’t panic and, for the love of God, Harry, don’t try singing to it.”

That was it.

Those were the last words Harry heard from Sam. Those would be the words that Harry would hear in his dreams, in his worst nightmares, as they mixed with words from his mum, his dad, the fantasy Harry had lived in for a brief time.

‘Don’t try singing to it’.

No, Harry couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

Sam meant too much to only be remembered by a brief blip of time, even shorter than the time Harry had his parents for.

Harry squeezed Sam’s hand one more time and wondered if his legs would even support him as he struggled to stand up.

Dean made it across the trailer in no time. He walked right past Bobby, past Sirius. They didn’t matter just then, nothing did outside of Sam and Dean’s one last ditch effort to get his brother back.

Dean had his gun already, he grabbed his bag of supplies from the floor of his closet. There would be everything he needed in there; some standard ritual supplies and the book of chants.

It wouldn’t be hard, Dean knew just how to do it and what he was going to ask for.

Standard contract: ten years of life to spend with both of his brothers and then Dean would head straight to Hell.

Dad did it for Dean, Dean would do it for Sam.

That would be that though. Dean would make sure that Sam and Harry knew that there weren’t going to be any more deals made after Dean. They weren’t going to make it a family fucking tradition to spend eternity as some demon’s bitch.

They would have ten years together. Harry would be an adult, he wouldn’t need Dean anymore. Sam would be - Hell, maybe he’d have his own family in ten years. A couple of little Sammy’s with big smiles who would call Dean Uncle Dean?

Yeah, Dean could deal with two eternities in hell if that was the kind of future he got to give his brothers.

Dean slung his bag over his shoulder and planned on saying nothing to anyone on his way out the door. Bobby said his name and Dean couldn’t even look at him; they both knew what Dean needed to do.

Then fucking Sirius got right in Dean’s path, blocking the front door. Dean’s eyes ticked to the right for a second, looking at the only photo they had decorating the trailer.

It was Dean and his brothers and they were so damned happy. They looked like idiots, just laughing their asses off about something. Dean couldn’t remember what it was, but it didn’t matter. They’d laugh together again, they’d make a thousand more memories.

Dean looked at Sirius again and saw that the dude thought he was going to stop Dean from leaving.

“Move,” Dean said, a raspy bark.

Sirius clenched his jaw and shook his head.

“Don’t do this to Harry,” he said. “It’s not worth it.”

Bobby knew how Dean operated, he must have known Dean’s next move before Dean did. Why he told Sirius, Dean couldn’t imagine, because Dean would lay Sirius out cold before he let him stop him.

“I said move,” Dean repeated. Dean wasn’t doing anything to Harry, he was doing it for Harry.

“Don’t make me stun you,” Sirius said softly. “Neither of your brothers would want you to do this.”

Dean put up with a lot of shit from Sirius, he did. Dean deserved a freaking award for the times he bit his tongue so that Harry could have Sirius around. Not once did Dean make Harry feel like he had to choose Dean or Sirius.

But Sirius wasn’t Dean’s father and he wasn’t going to tell Dean how to take care of his family.

Dean inhaled slowly like he cared what Sirius thought and just when Sirius’s face started to relax, Dean clocked him as hard in the side of the head as he had ever hit anyone.

Sirius had magic, Dean had a lifetime of fighting people and monsters that were twice his size.

When Sirius staggered, his eyes going unfocused from the force of the hit, Dean grabbed him by the side of his head and bounced him off the wooden doorframe just once - once was all he needed.

Sirius slumped to the floor and Dean shoved him to the side, out of his way.

“Dean,” Bobby’s spoke up and his voice was uneasy. Dean ignored the guilt that it wanted to pool in his stomach. “Where you goin’?”

Where was he going?

Hell.

“Out,” Dean said. He spun around and fixed Bobby with a stare that was half pleading, half resolute. They both knew where he was going. It didn’t need said.

“Dean, don’t do it…” Bobby’s face crumpled in the way that he and Dean didn’t let happen. Bobby meant so much to Dean, but Bobby wasn’t the center of Dean’s world, not like Sam and Harry were.

If Dean could get Sam back for himself and for Harry, he had to try.

“Boy, stay here, let me do it,” Bobby begged. “Sam - Sam wouldn’t want this, Dean, he wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you dare,” Dean told him, quietly and firmly. He turned so he didn’t have to see how much he was hurting Bobby with his decision. “Bobby, you stay here, alright? Keep an eye on Harry. I’ll- I’ll be back soon.”

“Dean…”

Dean hiked his shoulders up in defense against the soft tone Bobby used and he snatched his keys off the hook. His eyes lingered for another moment on the photo that hung by the door… Dean and Sam and Harry.

“You’re not my dad, Bobby,” Dean said before he walked right out the door.

There just wasn’t a Dean without a Sam.

Harry felt badly about digging through Sam’s belongings, knowing he wouldn’t like it, but he didn’t have a choice.

Harry needed the soft leather bound notebook that Sam kept all of his research in, added to twenty years of his dad’s research before him. It would have the information Harry needed in it and Harry could figure out the rest from there.

Other people did it, Harry finally understood why.

Harry didn’t think that there was anything he would ever sell his soul for, but he’d been wrong. Harry only thought that back when he’d been hunting hellhounds with his brothers because he didn’t understand.

There were things worse than death, much worse. Having a family and losing half of it in a single blow? That was worse. Knowing that Harry could never be Sam for his oldest brother? That was worse.

Living ten more minutes in a world where Sam was dead? That was much worse.

Harry gave up a lifetime with his family for his brothers; what was the point of that horribly painful decision if Harry didn’t even get his brothers?!

If Harry killed himself in that perfect fantasy so that he could be with his brothers, what wouldn’t he do by then?

Sell his soul? Easy.

Harry wasn’t afraid of Hell, he couldn’t even properly wrap his mind around the idea of it. What was hell? Pain? Fine. Harry was hurting anyway.

Ten years of happiness for some pain after he died was an easy trade, not even a question.

As soon as Harry found Sam’s book he went to his room to grab his cloak and broom. Harry didn’t give Sam one last look because it wouldn’t be his last look.

Harry would leave and he would make a deal and when he got back… he’d find Sam awake and alive and the last conversation they had wouldn’t be about a dragon.

In ten years? If Harry knew the exact day that his deal would expire? Harry would make sure he told both his brothers that he loved them. Then when Harry was gone, they’d have the perfect last words.

It was as difficult to picture what life would be like in ten years as it was to picture what an eternity in Hell would look like. None of it mattered though, not like Sam mattered.

The easy part was slipping in his jeans, tucking his wand, list of spells, and Sam’s book in a backpack to be tossed over his shoulder. Harry grabbed the handle of his Firebolt then covered himself with his cloak. It wasn’t a perfect disguise, Harry’s breaths were too harsh and wet to be fully hidden, but Harry just needed to get out the front door.

Harry’s oldest brother wasn’t in the living room, but their neighbor was. He was sitting at the table, slumped over with his head in his hands. Harry hated the way his shoulders silently shook, it was terrible to see.

But he wouldn’t have to mourn Sam for long, Harry was going to fix it.

Harry paused by the door for a moment, glancing curiously down at the floor. His godfather was laying there, a red mark on the side of is face and his chest moving as proof that he wasn’t dead too.

Why he was laying there, Harry couldn’t imagine. Harry only hesitated once more to look at the photo on the wall, just beside the door.

Harry had more photos of his brothers, some of all three of them, but that one… Harry reached out to touch the glass that covered them, protected the memory.

That was what made their house a home, what Harry had always wanted.

It was Sam and - and the other one.

There wasn’t a home without Sam and Harry wouldn’t give up his home without a fight.

*****

Crossroads demons were easy to summon, they wanted to be.

Bone of a black cat, a handful of graveyard dirt, a drop of his blood. Put it all in a box, bury it on the corner where two roads met.

It wasn’t difficult to read a chant then and wait for the demon to appear.

It didn’t take long, Dean didn’t think it would.

Dean had sent enough of those demonic bastards back to Hell that he knew they had to be drooling on themselves to return the favor.

The demon that showed up wasn’t even a surprise. It was just a chick, the type that Dean would hit on if she didn’t come with black eyes and a cold smile.

“Well, well, well,” she purred. “If it isn’t Dean Winchester.”

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t… whoever the fuck you are,” Dean mocked her, letting his temper control his tongue. The chick didn’t seem offended, she was smug.

She flipped her long and dark hair over her shoulder and sauntered toward Dean until she was close enough to stare up in his eyes.

“It’s no fun kicking you when you’re so pathetic,” she cooed. “What’s wrong, baby? Did you have a bad day?”

Dean shoved her away with a snarl, hating that it was a fucking demon that he had to play nice with to get Sammy back.

Harry rather hated that it was a demon that he had to meet with to get Sam back, but he was sort of pleasantly surprised when the demon promptly showed up and was perfectly polite?

The demon that arrived in a showy cloud of black smoke was rather nicely dressed in a tailored suit and he had dark hair that was slicked back to show a calm face with neatly trimmed facial hair and dark eyes. There was something smug about his smirk, but overall he didn’t look anything like Harry expected.

“What an honor,” the demon breathed to Harry, his eyes lighting up as he stepped closer to Harry. “The third Winchester brother. The son of the witch and the hunter…”

Harry crinkled his nose at the unexpected British accent. Did the demon do that on purpose? Think that they would be somehow more appealing if they sounded like Harry?

“Where are my manners?” The demon chuckled and offered Harry his hand. “Crowley, King of the Crossroads.”

Harry glanced down at the hand being offered to him and then forced himself to look bored, unimpressed, when he looked back at Crowley.

“I hope you don’t mind if I don’t shake your hand,” Harry said coolly, mimicking something rude he once heard. “I’ve just washed my hands, you see, I’d hate to cover them in slime.”

Crowley laughed again, a rich laugh that almost made Harry forget he was a demon. He didn’t seem bothered as he pulled his hand back, Harry swore he only seemed deeply amused.

“And here I thought we might become the best of friends,” Crowley said smoothly. “No? Very well. I suppose you’re here to make me the deal of a lifetime, hmm, love?”

Harry’s heart started hammering and he hoped that Crowley couldn’t hear it, that he didn’t know how much Harry wanted - needed - his one wish granted.

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice was weak and he cleared his throat so he could sound more confident. “I want to make a deal.”

“I want to make a deal,” Dean drawled, forcing himself to sound casual, confident. No need to show the bitch how desperate he was.

The demon smiled widely and her tongue poked out to trace her lower lip. It was sick, how much pleasure she was getting out of the situation.

“I have waited a long time for this day,” she said with hooded eyes full of glee. “Dean Winchester, following in his daddy’s footsteps… ooh.” She shivered and it was taking everything out of Dean to not fill her so full of bullets that she would choke on them for eternity.

Dean only waited though. His soul had to be worth something, there were plenty of demons that would cheer for Dean to be sent down to their playground. He’d get his deal, he just didn’t expect the wrench that got thrown in it.

“You’re here to ask me to bring sweet Samuel back, right?” she asked when Dean wouldn’t rise to her bait.

“That’s right,” Dean said. He lifted his chin and knew it was the easiest decision of his entire life. “You bring Sam back, you get my soul in ten years.”

“Ooh.” The demon sighed dramatically, stupid sons of bitches - every one of them. “I’m afraid that I can’t make that deal, Dean-o.”

“Then get me someone who will,” Dean argued. He pasted on a cocky grin, giving it his all. “One of your douche bag demon friends can have the honor.”

“Nobody’s going to give you ten years.” The demon smiled again, showing what Dean thought was her trump card.

He was wrong, wrong as fuck.

“Not when little bro is trying to beat you to the punch.”

“You want me to bring back your dear and deceased big bro in exchange for a soul?” Crowley asked. He coughed quietly when Harry nodded. “Apologies, love, but you’ll need to be more specific here. What soul are you offering me?”

Harry blinked, a bit caught off guard by that. It all felt very surreal anyway, but that sounded like Harry didn’t have to trade his soul, he could…?

No. Ugh. Offer up some stranger’s soul? Or maybe even someone else that Harry cared about?

No.

“My soul,” Harry said firmly.

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked patiently, some emotion in the shadows of his face that Harry didn’t understand. “I can’t change the contract later, not even for the third Winchester.”

“I’m sure,” Harry said. “Can I do that? Give you my soul in ten years and you bring back Sam?”

“You absolutely could,” Crowley said, suddenly inspecting his nails as if he lost interest in the deal. “Except I’m afraid I can’t offer you ten years. It’s all about supply and demand.”

“What?” Harry didn’t understand. “But - those other people? I met them? They got ten years?”

“They didn’t start a bidding war with their brother,” Crowley said. It took a second for Harry to understand and then his stomach dropped.

Crowley smiled at Harry and it was mocking and cold.

“Bringing Sam Winchester back to life just became a race,” he said. “So! Make me a new deal, love. You don’t want Dean to win, do you?”

No, Harry really didn’t.

“It’s a fire sale and everything must go,” the demon sang lightly, mocking Dean when his face twisted in pain.

Harry was a kid, a freaking baby. He couldn’t sell his soul, he wasn’t going to go to Hell.

Dean should have guessed that the kid would chase him right out the door to pull the same shit Dean was. How many times did Sam say that Harry was like Dean?

Dean didn’t see it then, but it became pretty freaking clear.

“Five years,” Dean said quickly. “Give me five years and keep Harry out of this.”

Harry’s brothers had spent over twenty years together without Harry, they would just have to do it again. Harry could do that for them, he wanted to.

They did so much for Harry, he just wanted to do the one thing for them.

“Eight—”

Crowley held a hand up, displaying five fingers like he was giving Harry a visual cue on how to best make a deal.

“Five years,” Harry said, refusing to think about how short of a time that was. “Give me Sam back and five more years with my brothers and you can have my soul.”

“One moment.” Crowley held up a single finger then and cocked his head to the side. “Let me check in on the other Winchester too dim to save his own hide.”

Harry wasn’t dim, and neither was his brother. Harry didn’t want his brother to make a deal, to give up his soul, but he wasn’t surprised by it either.

“Sorry, love.” Crowley clicked his tongue at Harry in what was definitely fake sympathy. “Five years won’t cut it.”

Harry’s voice shook on his next offer, “Three?”

Harry wouldn’t even be an adult in three years.

The deal Harry hoped to make was quickly becoming less of Harry getting as much time as possible with his brothers and twisting to become Harry trying to keep them from losing each other.

It wasn’t going to be Dean and his brothers, it was going to be Sam and Harry. That wasn’t the deal Dean went in search of, but he’d take it.

If Sam had Harry and Harry had Sam, it would end up alright.

Dean wouldn’t get to see Harry grow up and he wouldn’t get to see Sam get married some day. But Dean had a good ride and there wasn’t anything he’d rather end it for than Sam and Harry.

“Baby brother just offered three years,” the demon said tauntingly. “It’s really the better deal…”

“Two years!” Dean snapped out, fucking hating it. “You give me two years!”

“I don’t know…”

Dean knew he was being toyed with, but God damn it, he was desperate. Sammy needed to live, Harry needed to keep his freaking soul.

“One year.” Dean swallowed hard and held a steady hand out. “Please, leave Harry out of this. He’s a kid, alright? He’s upset and he’s - he’s got freaking brain damage. Leave him alone and give me back Sam and you get my soul in one year.”

It was a good deal, for the demon.

The demon definitely lit up like it was Christmas freaking morning.

“One moment,” she said, holding up a manicured nail. “Let me see what sweet little Harry is offering…”

“Oh, Harry.” Crowley sighed at Harry, seemingly disappointed. “Trust me when I say that I would love to be the one to secure your soul in Hell. It would be grand, a true feat. I’m afraid that your brother is the better negotiator though.”

Harry’s heart sank and he felt dizzy for a moment. Did his brother do it? He gave up a long life with Sam? That- no.

“No,” Harry said, slowly sinking to the ground, certain he would fall if he didn’t sit. Harry didn’t cry, he wasn’t sure he had tears left to shed, but the crushing weight of failure was worse than anything.

“Afraid so,” Crowley said. “Dean offered up a deliciously short twelve months and I’m going to tell my little worker bee to take the deal.”

“Wait!” Harry’s head snapped up once the words processed in his mind. “Dean offered a year?”

“He did.”

“Fine.” Harry spoke on impulse, more desperate than he had ever been in his life. “You tell me what I have to offer for him to be left alone and I’ll do it.”

“Oh, love, I thought you’d never offer.”

“Are you sure your final deal is twelve months?” the demon asked after the longest pause of Dean’s life. “Maybe Harry just loves Sam more, his offer is much more desperate.”

God damn it.

Harry probably didn’t even understand what the weight of an eternity in Hell was. Harry wasn’t naive about the real world, but he didn’t know a damn thing about demons and the suffering they could inflict on a soul.

It would be endless pain, more than whatever grief Harry was drowning in as he tried to barter for Sam’s life.

“You tell me what to offer and it’s yours,” Dean said, laying it all out there.

Dean didn’t save Sam, but he’d be damned if he screwed up with Harry. Harry didn’t need to clean up Dean’s mistake, not like how Dean had always cleaned up after his dad.

It wasn’t going to be like that, Dean wasn’t going to let it.

*****

Six months? That… that was nothing. 

He thought ten years, would have settled for five… six months though?

It didn’t matter, not really. The demon knew he was going to accept, he knew was going to accept. 

Truthfully? If it weren’t for Sam… it didn’t matter. It didn’t. Six months or six days made no difference at all. 

As long as Sam lived, it didn’t matter. 

“Fine.” He held his hand out to the demon. “Deal.”