Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One: Try Burning Them.

---

Augusta, Maine

"I've found it."

The man's voice is young- hushed- but laced with a familiar enthusiasm that brings her back to her time at Hogwarts. It's this tone, more than anything that has her choosing to listen in on the booth behind her.

And besides, her half-pint of whatever they tried to pass off as stout could only go so far in the entertainment department. She makes a point not to turn around and takes a sip of the bitter drink. It's certainly not the best, but America had so far failed to impress her on the beer scale anyway.

"Did you call Bobby?" replies a second voice- also male. It's markedly deeper, with a southern drawl of the sort likely used to having panties drop at the lightest of rumbles. She rolls her eyes.

"I was going to, but then I stumbled across this; look." There's the sound of something hard scraping across the table. She takes another deliberate sip of her beer, curious as to what it is these two men have found. A home? A job? That would be nice; there were too many unemployed young people in America at the mo- "It's called a Redcap."

That… was an interesting topic of conversation to hear in an establishment of this calibre.

"Huh," remarks Panty-Dropper. There's a moment of silence between them, "…I've no idea what that is." He doesn't sound ashamed of the fact.

"It's from Celtic mythology. There's a few variation's going around, but the by and large of it insists that they're creatures that live in the ruins of castles and lure you in. They bludgeon you to death and soak their hats in their victim's blood. They have to continuously kill 'cause if the blood dries, they die."

A length pause. She imagines his companion is frowning. Lord knows she is. She remembers Redcaps from her time at Hogwarts; nasty little shits who were far too fast for their own good. But also largely classified as fictitious by Muggles.

"Right," says Panty-Dropper eventually. She hears a beer bottle settle on the table, "There's just one problem with that theory Sammy; we don't have castles."

Sammy (lengthened from Sam, she'd imagine) huffs, "Well yeah. According to most of the legends they're native to Britain anyway. Plenty of castles and the like there."

Were they… talking in euphemisms?

"So what's one doing here? It's about as far as you can get from ye old London-town." She grimaces at the crude generalisation of Great Britain. Typical Americans. No wonder that family living down the road from them had driven her parents up the wall.

She ruthlessly shoves down a pang of loss at the thought. It was no time to wallow in self-pity when in the presence of alcohol. She'd just end up waking in some stranger's bed, with some vague recollection that the guy snoring next to her was maybe called Todd.

"I don't know, Dean. Maybe someone summoned it, or smuggled it over here somehow."

Okay. So maybe the two were talking seriously about the existence of Redcaps. Weird. They should be more careful with where they speak, she muses in amusement. Anyone else would think them mad, to listen in on their conversation so out of context. She frowns into her dwindling beer as she ponders on what context they are speaking in exactly.

A bottle is put back on the table again, "Are you sure it's a Redcap? There's no mention of them anywhere in Dad's journal."

"Look, we knew this wasn't just your run-of-the-mill spirit. There's no pattern, no clear motive and we salt and burned the first known case. And I don't think it's just some random demon, beating people up for the kicks."

"Plus- I did a little more research- there's a whole string of continued murders like these all up the coast. Each of them in some abandoned warehouse. There's some lore that says they're nomadic."

"Right, so we've got a wandering…" A pause as she imagines Dean gesturing at something, "… Thing on our hands?"

She raises an eyebrow in concern. Their conversation was rapidly growing more and more extreme by the minute. In all her four years of travelling, she'd never once found any evidence of the mystic or the magical, and now there were two young men in serious discussion about spirits and demons and redcaps. For a moment she dwells upon the possibility of a shared hallucination- that town with the mass hysteria for Tourette's comes to mind- but to be honest, they didn't really sound like the mentally unstable sort.

"So how do we kill it?" Silence from Sammy. She's imagining fussily pursed lips on the unknown man's face and she takes a swig of beer to mask her amusement.

"I don't know. There's no lore that I could find."

Panty-Dropper sighs heavily. She takes a deeper drink, grimacing at the sediment at the bottom. There was obviously some serious crap going on here, and hell be damned if she said she wasn't interested.

"Okay, so is there any way to fight them?"

"…"

"Dammit Sam! Anything- anything at all?"

"Uhh- most accounts pin them down as fast- like, real fast. No one can outrun them once they've got your scent." Sam snorts, which is exactly what she's trying to stop herself from doing. Muggles; honestly, "Fun fact- they look like old men with steel-cap boots."

"Great. So we've got some inhumanly fast gramps on our hands and no way of ganking them."

"Yep." Sam pops the p at the end of his sentence.

"Ugh. Remind me again; why are we here?"

Sam's voice darkens. She's guessing this is a sensitive topic. "Because you want to keep on hunting, instead of looking for a way to get you out."

"Sammy, just… let it go."

"Why Dean? You've got four months left! And what, you're just not even going to try?"

"I said drop it Sam." The words are hissed and laced with… not quite venom. Maybe something closer to frustration.

"No! I'm not gonna drop it. Dad died for you! And you're just gonna throw it all away?"

A bottle slams onto the table. "You know what? Yeah, I am!"

"Why?" Sam sounds pained. She's guessing the two are brothers.

"You know damn well why! I should be dead already Sam. I should have been dead for months now. Dad should never have made that deal in the first place!"

That sounds suspiciously like a deal one makes with the mafia.

Sam huffs through his nose but has nothing to say to that. An elongated and tense silence follows.

Hermione Granger sighs, sliding her mostly empty glass away from her. That was enough angsty testosterone-fuelled arguing for one night. She flicks up the hood of her jacket, arranging her curls about the sides to obscure her face from view. She didn't know who these men were (well, apart from their first names), but something told her she doesn't want them on her trail.

In one casual movement she slides out of her booth, sending the barman a dignified nod before turning about face and leaving the bar.

As she does, she lets her eyes slide over Sam and Dean. They're young enough- Sam- the huge one who'd had his back turned to her- looks about her age, with floppy brown hair and eyes that remind her of a golden retriever. Dean's obviously older, with close cropped hair and a tattered old leather jacket that she's half tempted to steal off him. In the dim lighting of the bar, it's hard to tell their eye colour; probably somewhere between hazel and not-quite blue, she guesses.

Shit, but they're both good looking.

Against her better judgement, she makes sure to brush past their booth nice and close; close enough to oh so conveniently drop a piece of paper on their table as she saunters past.

She doesn't try to hide the smirk once the door swings shut behind her.

---

Sam and Dean Winchester look after the woman with identical looks of bewilderment. With tentative hands, Dean opens the little folded piece of paper she'd left behind.

Try burning the Bastard. Says the note in an elegant hand.

"Well fuck." Says Dean.

Sam's already halfway out the door.

Chapter Text

Augusta, Maine

By the time Sam gets out into the parking lot, the woman is already long gone.

Sam passes it off as just another Hunter, happy to help the Winchesters and leave them be- he's aware of the Winchester reputation. Dean is more wary; the women they tend to run into on hunting jobs like to carry a second agenda with them, and Dean's not particularly keen on discovering what Hood's is.

Burning the Redcap does however work; though it's more because the excess heat dries the blood on his so called cap than because of any damage the fire does to it. He makes a note to remember that handy tip for next time.

---

Murfreesboro, Tennessee

After spending the final death throes of her childhood on the run, Hermione Granger had picked up enough skills to know how to make herself unmemorable. It was an important knack to have acquired when travelling through North America unchaperoned, she'd found. A young, single woman who had a preference for spending a night or two in a bar had a tendency to be hit on.

A lot. And there was always that one guy who wouldn't take no for an answer.

She hated those ones.

Fortunately, diners generally didn't have such problem, and it was all too easy to sit in her booth, munching on whatever special they professed to making the best of and reading her latest book. She'd been lucky too today; walked into the dinky little eatery with the 50 years out of date décor just as a couple were vacating the corner booth.

She loved corner booths. They were perfect for the passive observer- no one behind and everyone in front, all within eyesight. It was a defendable position too- easy to pick out an oncoming threat and hard to be taken by surprise. Not that such notions held much importance for her anymore; not since she'd ended up as Queen of the Nobodies. But it was a comforting feeling nonetheless.

She strides through the diner, eyes glancing to the side, smug in her victory of the corner seat. She sends a vacant smile to the waitress and the blonde shoots her a harried smile and a tight nod of her head back. She makes sure to keep her gaze straight ahead in the homeward stretch for the table, avoiding any glances from casual observers.

Passive victory of the corner booth tastes sweet on her tongue. She slides across, the side of her arm rests against the wall. She pulls from the pocket of her jacket her recently acquired Murfreesboro history book (pamphlet, really. It was of the typical self-published make that didn't quite merit being called a book, but was too large to be called a pamphlet), bought from the local information centre. She'd taken to purchasing information/history books of all the towns and cities she'd come across, pencilling in their front covers the dates of her arrivals and departures and circling the places she's been to in their margins. A scholarly witch's equivalent of scrapbooking, she liked to think.

The waitress comes over just as she sets the book to the side and picks up the unpleasantly sticky menu that's laminated surface crackles like thunder as she opens it. She doesn't bother looking at its words.

"Hi." Harried says unnecessarily. Her nametag reads 'Evelyn'.

"Hello." The waitress's eyes narrow slightly at the accent- Hermione had never bothered to get rid of it (nostalgia still ran deep in her veins)- but says nothing.

"What would you like?"

"I'll have the special." The chalk sign outside said it was lasagne. It made a pleasant change from burgers and pancakes and food fried in oil for longer than necessary.

Evelyn nods, "Fries or salad?"

She frowns only slightly at the question. She'd thought the norm for lasagne was both, "The salad. But no dressing, thanks. Just a slice of lemon, if it's possible." The answer is scribbled down and Hermione casts the unread menu back down on the table.

"Any drinks or sides with that?"

She smiles, hand already straying back to her book, "Coffee; black. No sugar." The waitress smiles again, relief at the brief exchange clear on her face and returns to her spot behind the counter. She can hear the stuttering groan of the coffee machine start up as she opens a bookmarked page.

"Hey," says the man seated in the booth ahead. She glances up momentarily from her book, long enough to catch sight of a tall man walking towards the speaker and looks back down. His voice sounds vaguely familiar, in the way most short greetings can seem familiar without further speech.

"Hey," comes the reply, equally verbose. A pause, and the sound of denim sliding across faux-leather seating, "I think I've found it."

It's taken some time, but Hermione has learnt the art of keeping mum when hearing something interesting or surprising.

Interesting, like a mellow voice that she's certain she heard only a fortnight ago, in the corner of a run down pub in Augusta. Surprising, in that said voice had no right in being here.

"I've found something too." Dean's voice, spoken with what can only be called a smirk saturating its gravelly tones is the clincher. She stares unseeing at a black and white picture on page 42, fully aware that her fingers are clenching at the cover.

Fifteen days.

Fifteen days since she'd gone out on a limb and left the brothers a note on how to kill a creature she's quite sure they were only talking in code about, in a completely unrelated part of America. And now Dean and Sam were sitting in the booth directly in front of her, within eavesdropping distance once again. Hell, Dean must have seen her walk straight past him to get the corner seat. Heard her order and everything. The coincidence was of the magnitude of unnerving, bordering on uncanny.

But… there was no plausible reason for them to cross paths twice- not here, not so soon after their last 'encounter'. Her idea of planning for the road involved closing her eyes and pointing randomly at her map. Random selection at its most satisfying, and almost impossible to track. And she'd done her very best at hiding her tracks after Augusta, because in hindsight those men had spoken like Hit-men, and she'd helped them! She'd cleared out of Maine as soon as she could. She'd crossed off the chances of coming across them again as impossible. You were supposed to get lost in America; the people you met you were supposed to never find again. Those were the rules and this pair of boys had gone and broken them. To hear them even in the same diner beggared belief. They shouldn't- couldn't- be here. It was too convenient; too coincidental to be left up to chance alone.

But maybe she was looking too much into it. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

A very big, fat, unnerving and unlikely coincidence.

"Oh?" says Sam, easy and sanguine and utterly ignorant of her growing panic, "What?"

There's the creak of leather and the hum of softly spoken words, too quiet for her to hear and suddenly she can feel the weight of eyes on her. She fights the urge to stiffen at the attention. Would they recognise her? She'd been sure they'd never properly seen her face but maybe she was wrong. Maybe they'd asked for her description at the bar.

Casually, as though Sam's gaze went unnoticed, she pulls her pencil from her hair and writes a note in her book. She looks the perfect picture of an innocent tourist, or student, content in their own work. She's glad her hand doesn't shake as she leans over the book to scribble nonsensically on its pages. She couldn't hold a clear thought right now if she tried.

A quiet snort from Sam, "Dude, Jailbait." Comes his not so muted reply.

What?

"British." Dean hums, as if that makes all the difference. And it does, but not in the way he was thinking. If she weren't striving for nonchalance she would have sat back and laughed. Or thrown something at him in outrage. Because what, was Sam fucking blind? Jailbait? She may have considerably youthful features- given she was turning 29 this year- but she did not look like some preppy teenager busting out of fucking high school. She looked 23, at least. If it wouldn't have drawn attention to herself, she would have punched him.

"Huh," Sam replies, not really that curious, "She's not-"

"No."

"Right." He clears his throat awkwardly, "Well-" He cuts himself off as the waitress approaches Hermione, coffee balanced in one hand, her meal in the other.

Deliberately, making sure she doesn't come off as a threat to Sam- who's gone back to staring at her- Hermione lifts her head, smiling widely at Evelyn and determined to ignore the men sitting in front of her. The waitress smiles in response, "Lasagne and salad, no dressing. Black coffee, no sugar." The plate settles on the table with a loud tink, and her coffee slides over to her, "Anything else today?"

Hermione's eyes flick down to her lasagne and her mouth waters. It looks gloriously homemade. She sends the woman another smile, "No, thank you."

"Great." Evelyn hums, "Enjoy." She slides over to Sam and Dean at the dismissal, pulling out her notepad. She doesn't miss the suddenly flirtatious lilt to her voice as she asks them for their orders.

Sam stumbles through his order, eyes flicking back to Hermione more than once. She can feel his eyes on her forehead as she tucks into her meal, intent on ignoring them whilst they have nothing important to say. Dean's order- which has no business sounding so deep and gravelly- is calm and collected and smooth as butter. She can hear the smirk dripping off his voice. Apparently it didn't matter that the woman looked to be in her forties; evidently any attention of the female spectrum was good attention.

Sam clears his throat again as the waitress leaves, "Right. Well it's definitely a spirit. Get this; five years ago, Ivy Walters was killed by her husband. Thrown headfirst off the bridge on Medical Center Parkway. Died of massive blunt trauma to the head when she hit the rocks."

"Like the other jumpers."

"Yeah. Anyway, apparently her husband had thought he'd caught her cheating, so he killed her to get back at her. Turns out though, she'd been meeting with her estranged brother and he'd misinterpreted the situation. He killed himself with his shotgun when he realised."

"How's she doing it then? The other jumpers have all the markings of suicides."

A pause, and Hermione chews thoughtfully on her meal. If this was coded speak- and surely it was, because if not then they were legitimately talking about ghosts and she would have to reassess the collective hallucination theory- it was far more sophisticated than she'd originally thought.

"I think… I think she's possessing them. Jumping into jealous husbands driving over the bridge, and throws herself off the bridge still wearing their meat-suits."

"That's one hell of a grudge."

"Tell me about it."

"So… you up for a little digging tonight Sammy?"

Digging up what?

"Yeah… about that…" Sam sounds tentative, like he knows his next words won't be good news, "She was cremated."

"Are you- are you fucking kidding me?!" In her peripheral vision Sam shakes his head and Dean groans in vexation, "It's never that easy, is it."

Sam sucks at his teeth in reply. Hermione imagines he's grimacing too, but she doesn't want to look up and draw attention to herself.

"Great… so was there anything of hers left over? Trinkets, mirrors, paintings… dolls?"

"I didn't get a chance to go looking yet."

"Any family that we could ask about?"

"They never had any children. Her brother lives in France, both sets of parents dead long before. I found out the story from the librarian; she'd been a family friend."

Dean moans into his hands, "Awesome."

"I was thinking we could check out the bridge."

"Better than nothing. We should probably talk to the-" He cuts himself off as Evelyn comes back with their meals. Hermione can smell the red meat from here and Dean moans in delight, "Now that is what I call a burger."

The waitress laughs as she moves away.

They're quiet for a moment as they tuck into their meals; Hermione continues eating slowly and carefully, though the lasagne is mostly cold now. She could have performed a mild heating charm on it, but the threat of it being less than inconspicuous stays her hand. Whatever code they were talking in, it was dangerous, and they were dangerous, and the last thing she wanted to do was place herself in their spotlight. She rather like the anonymity she'd garnered for herself in this world. It was peaceful and relaxed, and the closest thing she had to stress was the approaching of deadlines for the demon of an editor she'd managed to acquire a few years ago.

"You were saying?" Sam finally asks, unable to hide the curiosity from his tone.

"Mm- right." Dean sounds like he's still got food in his mouth as he speaks, and Hermione only just manages to stop herself from scrunching her nose up in disgust, "I think we should go to the coroner's office, check out the records… see if there was anything missing."

"Okay. Today or tonight?"

Should there be a difference?

"Tonight. We've already established ourselves as family. Best not to push it with the credentials."

Were they planning on breaking in? Hit-men or not, these brothers were very obviously criminals. Disturbingly attractive criminals with odd fixations, but criminals nonetheless.

That said, it seemed like they were trying to find a link between the recent string of suicides in Murfreesboro- which she knew were real; she'd heard about the most recent one from a pack of gossiping women who'd been walking in front of her the other day. Hermione was having a hard time deciding if they were using the name Ivy Walters as a cover-up for some deeper conspiracy involving the eerily similar suicides, or if they legitimately thought they had to stop these men from being possessed by an angry spirit.

Which did not exist.

Surely.

Surely- surely- she would have come across some authentic evidence for that by now. It wasn't as if she hadn't looked when she'd first turned up, but she'd long ago resigned herself to this plain, predictable and utterly ordinary world.

She's still stuck on thoughts she should have come to terms with years ago, her hand almost unconsciously scribbling questions down on her book, when someone slides into her booth uninvited.

She jumps violently, left hand dropping her fork in fright. It clatters loudly onto her almost empty plate. She stare wide-eyed into the murky green gaze of Dean. He smiles at her, leaning forward over the bench-top and she moves back in response.

"Let me guess," he drawls with the confident, self-assured manner of a man who's aware of his own attractiveness, motioning to the pencil still poised over paper covered in notes, "You're a travel writer?"

Hermione he… hitting on her? After everything he'd just talked about with his brother, he was going to turn around and start flirting with her as if nothing ever happened.

Talk about compartmentalisation.

She licks at uncomfortably dry lips, but her smirk of amusement is nothing if not genuine. This man had guts. That, or they did this so often he was desensitised. It was difficult to tell.

"Close, but no cigar." She says before the pause can extend into the realms of awkwardness.

Dean's head tilts, and his grin grows wider, "You're a tourist though."

"Yes." She doesn't mention that he is too; to say that would be to admit she'd been listening to their conversation.

"You have the looks of a writer." His eyes flicker back down to her book, but not before making the inevitable rendezvous with the slight view of cleavage her v-neck sweater offered. She ignores it; he was a man, and honestly didn't expect any different.

"And I suppose you'd know what all writers look like?" He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. She glances back at Sam; he's staring again, but there's an apologetic look on his face that tells her this happens often.

"No, but there's a look in your eyes. It's familiar."

She raises an eyebrow, pointedly glancing at the leather jacket that she's still debating on nicking. He has all the looks of a jock, "A writer too?" She asks, already knowing the answer but being sure to insert enough doubt into her tone to make it believable.

He snorts, "No." She doesn't bother asking what he'd meant by the familiarity term.

He extends his hand, "Dean."

For a moment, she studies it. It's wide and callused; the hand of an honest worker. It feels cool and firm when she shakes it, and the roughened skin of his calluses catch slightly on her own, formed from years of extensive wand-use.

"Hermione."

"Huh," Dean looks momentarily stumped, "That's a cool name. Memorable."

Hermione can't help the involuntary smile in response. "Thanks." It's refreshing to have someone not remark upon the strange choice in name. Most of the time she was met with mild confusion bordering on incredulity, and a heavy amount of derision.

"Are you a local?" And just because she already knows the answer doesn't mean she can't ask it.

Dean shakes his head, "Nah, we're just visiting some family." He points behind him with his thumb, "That's my brother, Sam."

"Hello."

Sam sends her a funny sort of resigned wave in response, as though reluctantly accepting that he was going to have to watch his brother flirt with yet another woman.

"He's shy." He offers in explanation.

Somehow, she doubts that.

"So, what brings you to…" He seems to be struggling to find the name of the city they were in, "Here?" he finishes lamely.

Hermione bites back a laugh. How verbose, "Process of random selection." She admits.

"Gap year?"

"… Plural."

He smirks, "What were you studying?"

"Literature." She lies. This was beginning to feel a bit like twenty questions.

"So you are a writer."

Amongst other things, sure.

"Yes."

"Anything I'd know?" And isn't that a typical question.

She laughs softly, "I write children's books, so I'm gonna say… no."

Dean leans back, smirk still firmly in place, "So where you from, Hermione?"

"Far, far away. Nowhere you'd know."

"That's probably true."

The waitress comes over with her bill, and she's got a smile on her face that speaks of reminiscence of 'young love', which just makes Hermione want to roll her eyes. As pretty as Dean is, and as much as she'd like to run her hands up arms that she just knows are gloriously toned (so sue her, it had been a while since she'd last been laid), she can't help but listen to the voice in her head that says this man is dangerous. Walking with a frequently used gun in the back of his jeans kind of dangerous. Not to mention, there was that deal he'd made with what was probably the mafia, ensuring what could only be his death in four months and counting.

All in all, a bad man to get entangled with; even for a one night stand (though it is sorely tempting).

She pushes away the growing urge to give him her number (he is very pretty. In the roughened manly kind of way) and takes the bill as her cue to leave, packing away her book and pulling some money from her wallet.

"It's been nice to talk to you Dean," she purrs- because why the hell not- and leaves the cash on the table. The flash of green instantly catches Evelyn's eye, but she stays where she is as Hermione slides awkwardly out of her corner.

"Leaving?" Dean looks disappointed, but the sudden flash or wariness in his eyes- gone the moment she looks back- makes her want to flee.

She grimaces, trying to look reluctant, "I'm only passing though. I'm headed for Atlanta." Another lie. Ideally, she would have like to have stayed in Murfreesboro for another week or so, but Dean and Sam's appearance had blown that out of the water. At least they didn't seem to show any signs of recognition from Augusta. Not that she could be one hundred percent sure about that, but she was loathe of use legilimency on someone who wasn't her mark.

Dean seems severely put out by the 'fact'. He stands up, and she doesn't miss the once over he gives her. She smiles amusement, "It's been a pleasure."

"Yeah," he offers his hand again and she juggles her coat and handbag awkwardly to clasp it. She'd be lying is she said she didn't like that way her skin catches on his, "I'll see you around Hermione."

Not bloody likely.

She smiles sweetly as he lets go. She finds it funny how put out he is at failing to woo her, "Sure." She leaves then, pushing his slightly pout lips and the urge to pick apart his and his brother's brain to the back of her mind.

Though, if she adds more of a sway than usual to the cant of her hips… well, it was nobody's business but her own.

---

Dean sits back down at their table; he looks slightly shell shocked. Sam grins at his brother- it's not every day one gets to watch the ladies-man be so firmly- and politely- shut down.

"Go well, did it?" he asks coolly, leaning back and trying his hardest not to start laughing. Dean tears his eyes away from the door and Hermione's retreating figure.

"Dude," he rasps, "She was so into me."

Chapter Text

Murfreesboro, Tennessee

It wasn't until the next morning that they managed to work out what was holding onto Ivy Walters. Upon talking to the librarian again- who'd slyly managed to wrangle a date out of Sam (much to his everlasting chagrin and Dean's everlasting glee) in return for information- they'd learnt that Walters used to wear a locket, that she thought might have held a lock of her hair and that of her still-born child.

The autopsy report and inventory had never included any jewellery of that description. Which had meant that maybe- just maybe- the locket was still on the site where she'd died.

Which had been all kinds of fun to search for. Dean hadn't exactly been hopeful of finding anything, but miracle of miracles, they'd managed. Dean and Sam had counted their blessings that they'd somehow found it in broad daylight, before another person could be possessed or hurt.

It made a nice change from the usual state of affairs.

---

New Boston, Texas

He was just passing through.

He had to remind himself of that fact, as he walked into the grimy diner on the side of the highway and spotted the waitress. He was just passing through, and Sammy would kill him if he hooked up with the woman with the fantastic, glorious tracks of land that had started to give him The Look- you know the one, with the eyes going all come hither at him and the lips pursing unconsciously- the moment he'd walked through the door. Sam was filling the car up- among other things- but that didn't give him nearly enough time to get his game on with the woman before the giant Sasquatch would walk in and give him the look of disapproval.

Inwardly, he curses his brother for managing to blue ball him without even being in eyeshot. Life was just unfair. He only had a month left, dammit.

He scans the diner half-heartedly, distinctly put out by the flirtatious smile the girl sends him as he sits down, flicking her blonde hair away in a gesture he bets she's practiced multiple times in her bedroom mirror.

He was just passing through. They had places to be; creatures to gank.

There's little else of interest; the usual old-timer hunched over the bar, digging away at his meal and looking disgruntled about 'the youth of today' or whatever it was that got old people's goat, the young couple in heated 'conversation' and the awkward teenager with eyes that stalk the waitress' breasts with the typical look of wonder scrawled across his face.

They are quite an impressive pair of tits. And when she leans over the counter just so as she collects paper and pen (that probably should have been on her person already but who is he to complain, really) she gives him the most spectacular view- the top three buttons of her blouse generously undone.

It's the moments like this that Dean loves; especially now that his deadline is quickly creeping up on him.

Which was a terrifying thing to consider; for all his posturing in front of his brother. Fuck. He had a fucking deadline. He- Dean Winchester- one of the most infamous Hunters in the States; in the prime of his life and at the pinnacle of health, had a deadline of just over a month. Just over a month and then he was boned- well and truly- with a one-way ticket down to Hell for the rest of eternity.

Yeah, life was just fucking peachy.

He tears at one of the cheap napkins on the table angrily, imagining it's the limbs of the demon bitch who'd taken ownership of his soul. It had been a stupid- stupid- thing to do, shortening his decade to one year. But if he was honest with himself- which he often wasn't- what scared him the most wasn't the fact that he was going to die soon… it was that he didn't regret his actions. Shit, he'd probably do it again, if the scenario presented itself. And he can't help but pity Sam for that.

The sound of a phone ringing shrilly from the booth behind him breaks him from his musings like a shot to the face. He hears a soft curse, then the sound of someone searching through their bag- cluttered by the sound of it.

"Hermione speaking."

The shredded napkin falls from his hands.

"Oh, hi Leigh." Her voice is strained; tired, "No I'm not busy… Shoot."

No fucking way. Hermione was here? The girl with the crazy hair that had been quite happy to turn down his advances. Which had been a shame; not only because Sam ribbed him about it for days afterwards. She hadn't exactly been his usual type- at all- and she was pretty, bordering on plain- with exception to her flyaway curls of hair. But she'd been… magnetic. Interesting in a way not a lot of women he came across were.

He gives the waitress a sign with his open hand, fingers splayed out in the universal symbol of 'gimme five minutes'. She looks disappointed but moves back to her place at the counter.

What the hell was she doing here? New Boston wasn't exactly off the beaten track, but it was a fair way from the last place they'd met, and a town this small didn't exactly have much to offer for tourists like Hermione… provided she was a tourist. Though he somehow doubted she was stalking them; bumping into each other through 'coincidence' hadn't worked with Meg, and he didn't think demons would be stupid enough to try it again. And certainly not dumb enough to go for round two without even knowing he or Sammy were there.

"No, Leigh." She sounds irritated now, and Dean resists the urge to turn around and tap the woman on the shoulder, "You can't call him that; Harry is a wizard, not a male witch- and I'd wish you'd stop referring to him as one- no I won't refer to him as a witch; that just sounds ridiculous!"

What.

The.

Fuck.

His hand slides slowly to his pocket, pulling his flick knife out in one smooth and precise action. He's suddenly wishing he'd taken his colt inside with him. If Hermione knew a witch, and was capable of talking about it so casually, chances were she was in league with demons herself. His lip pulls back in disgust at the thought; her rapid extraction in February makes perfect sense now.

"I understand you want me to talk about the darker sides of magic, but he's only a child. He's so young, it makes no sense to expose him to that level of evil."

Dean isn't sure if he wants to burst into laughter or launch himself at the woman behind him. She- was she- was she saying that the witch was a fucking child? She'd condemned a child to an eternity in hell- moulding him into a monster that would have to be fucking exterminated- and here she was talking as if she were speaking about disciplining him?

And then had the gall to talk about how she didn't want to expose him to 'the evil side of magic'? Like there was ever a good side! What was wrong with this woman?

His hands are trembling with suppressed rage as he opens the knife beneath the table.

"I just think it's wrong."

Was she even hearing herself? Or was she just insane? In all honesty, he'd prefer for her to be batshit crazy. Crazy was treatable; evil was… well, evil, and could only be exterminated.

A snort from Hermione as Dean thinks of the possible cars she could have travelled in. If he could get out of here without her noticing, they could tail her and find a nice, secluded place to trap her, interrogate and subsequently gank.

His chest throbs uncomfortably at the thought and he pushes away the discomfort with the usual level of ruthlessness.

"Why should there be a softer side to him?" Why indeed? There was nothing soft about dead babies and cat skulls, "Voldemort is inhuman." That stops him short; he's never heard of a demon called Voldemort, "There's no use in talking about his daddy issues to Harry or his friends; he wants to rule the bloody world. He's a psychopath with a superiority complex, and Harry is eleven. He's not going to understand that there's more than just black and white in the world. It's something to talk about later, when he can comprehend the grey."

Dean frowns, thumbing the blade of the switchback in thought. There was something about what she was saying that didn't quite make sense. If he didn't know any better, he might even think she was talking about a human there. And he'd never really heard them call that skeezy shit magic before- it was always just called witchcraft or whatever.

"Who gives a shit if they say witchcraft is evil? I'm not going to change it; Harry is a wizard. He uses magic. It's a part of who he is and you won't see me changing him."

Uhhh.

"What do mean 'well how did he get his powers?' I thought it would be bloody obvious."

Yeah; all you had to do was pledge your soul to a demon and prance around with the blood of virgins painted on your forehead. It was simple. Obvious.

"Oh come one Leigh, it's integral to the entire bloody universe. I may as well just re-write the entire thing."

Wait, what?

An extended pause, and he can feel the air around him grow heated, "You- you would sully my entire story- year's worth of work- by proposing to make him a-a VAMPIRE?!" She hisses in outrage.

Oh.

Oh.

Well. In hindsight that conversation actually makes sense.

The relief is palpable.

"I don't care that vampires and werewolves are in fashion. Fashions change and I will not violate Harry's story because you feel like the Publishers would prefer it if it 'followed the latest fad'." The irate tone of her voice makes him think that she could probably go on for quite some time about what she thought about the 'latest fad'. Which was a surprise for Dean; since when had bloodsuckers and werewolves been the new 'in' thing? And more to the point; why? The fuckers were nasty.

"Oh for-" she makes a groan of annoyance, "Would it placate you to know that there will be vampires and werewolves in it at some point?"

There's an extended pause as Hermione listens to the other side of her call. Dean kind of wants to know what her angry face looks like; he'd bet it was priceless. After a time, she sighs, and he can hear the scrape of cutlery on ceramic. He slides his knife back into his pocket, "Look, I get it Leigh; you just want what's best for me. But please- for the love of God- trust me on this. The world doesn't need another soft-core vampire porno novel to fan the flames of the nutty tweens."

Those things fucking exist?

"And yes; I know you never suggested that was the route I should go down. But my intended audience isn't for hormonal teenagers searching desperately for a romance novel to validate their… I don't know- existence or whatever. It's people. I just want people to read it.

"Oh, and you know… make a boatload of money out of it in the meantime."

She snorts lightly in amusement, "And hey, if you want a trend- what the fuck's wrong with starting our own one? Screw fads, let's make our own; the kids will dig it."

She laughs outright this time, "Shut-up you. Anyway, when you're done editing, pass it back to me and I'll iron out the kinks and then we can start forwarding the manuscript onto as many publishers we can get out hands on; I'm starting to run a little low on cash."

She laughs at something 'Leigh' says. Dean's slightly perturbed by how quickly she manages to switch from wrathful to star-shine and rainbows.

"Yeah, yeah; I'll talks to you soon. Give me a call when you find the next thing to nit-pick about… Bye Leigh." He hears the soft tone as she hangs up, and the muffled clatter as the cell phone returns to her overstuffed bag. She lets out a long breath. It sounds tired.

Before he can question the intelligence of his actions (so sue him; he was gonna be dead in a month. He could do whatever he wanted), he turns around in his seat so he can see the back of Hermione's head. From his vantage point it looks like a mess of curls- frizzy and rather unexciting in colour, but charming in its own way- pulled back in a half-assed bun. She's pushing around her half eaten food as though debating whether to continue eating or not.

"Editors, huh? Guess they can be a pain in the ass."

Hermione yelps- quietly- in shock and drops her fork (it feels like a familiar gesture by now). She whips around in her seat, her eyes impossibly wide. A curl slips out of the knot at the back of her head and hangs loosely behind her ear. Dean's half-tempted to pull on it childishly.

She stares at him for a good, long moment. He's momentarily convinced he sees a look of horror flash through her eyes before thinking better of it.

"Dean…" She breathes, eyes boring into his as though they could read all his secrets. They narrow in suspicion, "Are you stalking me?"

He respects that her first reaction is genuine suspicion. It's far more believable than claiming it to be 'such a coincidence'. He smirks at her, "I could ask the same of you. What brings you to New Boston?"

"The highway. I'm just passing through."

His eyes narrow slightly. How convenient, "Where you headed?"

She pauses slightly before her next answer. She seems cautious- wary- of his questions, and there's a spooked look in her eyes that makes him think she'd run off right now if she had the chance, "Not that it's any of your business, but Wichita."

In the opposite direction. It's a relief. If she'd been headed in for the same route, he may have been forced to re-evaluate his judgement of her civilian status. He gives her his best non-threatening smile. Pity Sam weren't here- he did disarming charm way better than he ever could. He tries for casually curious, "Random selection?"

She smiles and the line of her shoulders relaxes minutely, "Yeah; somewhat. Though I'll probably head off to San Antonio at some point; I hear they have a festival going on there in April."

"Out of curiosity, what does your process of random selection look like?" Hermione blushes; a slight reddening of her cheeks that looks ridiculously appealing in combination with the sheepish slide of her eyes to the left.

"Pointing at the map with my eyes closed."

Dean lets out a startled laugh. That was a new one, "How do you manage to pay for the gas?"

She shrugs, "Publications mostly. It's a fairly steady income supply. What about you; what are you doing here?"

"Family reunion in Dallas." He lies effortlessly. She raises an eyebrow, a slight smile quirking her lips.

"Making the rounds?"

Dean blinks at her, "What?"

The smile turns into a smirk, "Well, you said you were visiting family in Murfreesboro as well. So I was wondering, Mister Not-a-Stalker; were you making the rounds?"

It was not very often that Dean Winchester was caught out on a lie. He sends her a 'not-a-stalker' grin in an attempt to maintain the falsity, "Yeah; Sam and I figured it was best to get it done in one fell swoop- spend a coupl'a weeks at each. Hoped it would keep them off our backs for at least the next year or so."

"And has it?" Her eyes look completely unconvinced, but the rest of her appears to be buying it.

"Well the last pair of folks were dying to get rid of us by the end of our stay, so I'd say so, yeah."

Dean Winchester, you are a comedy GENIUS.

Hermione appears to think less so, but that's just because she doesn't know the context. She shifts, and glances over at the waitress making her way over to them. Dean notes with no small amount of amusement that the girl is staring daggers at Hermione (who looks as though she couldn't give two flying fucks as to what she thought of her), as though it were her fault he was no longer making eyes with her breasts. He gives the girl a placating wink and turns around to take his order.

She leans down slightly lower and pouts flirtatiously in reward.

When the waitress leaves and he turns back around- the question of what book she had planned next on his lips- she's disappeared.

Guess she'd been more spooked than she'd let on. Pity. He would have liked to have talked to her some more.

He says nothing about the odd encounter to Sammy when he sits down two minutes later; he'd been ridiculous about coincidences ever since Meg.