Gotta Move On, a Harry Potter + Supernatural Crossover fanfic

"So I was reading this morning."

Sam didn't look up from the paper. Suspicious death in Mobile, maybe a chupacabra, though he'd never seen one that close to the coast. "I am shocked."

Dean dropped Dad's journal in front of them. "Read it, buttwad."

"Seventh grade insults, Dean?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows as he lowered the paper for the journal. It took a second to find what Dean wanted him to see. Dean said Dad talked like Yoda, he fricken wrote like him too. "Trisha Adams," he read, brow furrowing as recognition tugged at him. "That sounds familiar. Trisha… "

"Blonde hair. Toppled over on stairs. Ring a bell?"

"Oh, yeah. Hermione thought she had some troll blood." Dean looked uncomprehending, so Sam explained. "They like shiny things."

"Right, whatever," Dean said, facing scrunching in annoyance. He waved him on. "Read the name below it."

"Benjamin Beeker. Now I recognize that name. Okay, so they were at school with us. What's the point, why did Dad write their names down?"

"You know, I wondered the same thing," Dean said. "Brilliant minds, right?" His I know something you don't smile was warring with his this is fucked up grimace, so his face was somewhere in the middle at constipated.

Sam sat back, throwing both the journal and newspaper onto the table. "So what's up?"

"You know what they have in common. They were both at your school and they were complete bitches," Dean said. He threw himself sideways onto the bed, making it squeak as he bounced, and grinned at Sam. "Turns out, they have something else in common: they were both assaulted right after we left for Bobby's. I mean, right after."

"C'mon," Sam said. "You don't even believe that."

"I do, and Dad knew it too." He nodded at the journal. "Read it and weep."

Sam picked it back up, knowing this was stupid, he was playing right into Dean's hands. He couldn't stop himself. He ran his finger down the page, looking for whatever could make Dean so happy—not this musing on skinwalkers, shapeshifters, and werewolves being related, certainly—and his finger stopped under Dad's tiny, cramped writing, the word circled in fading red.

His voice brimming with glee, he said, "Dad thought it was Hermione," when Sam only stared at the page.

"No," Sam said. He threw the journal back onto the table. His jaw tensed and he forced it to loosen. "No. I don't believe it."

"You don't even know what she is—"

Sam cut him off. "No. She's not – that. Evil. I know her, okay?"

All the humor had disappeared from Dean's face. "Do you?" he asked, and they both knew the answer.

"Yes," Sam said and got up. He motioned to the table. "I know she wouldn't hurt anybody."

Dean shook his head. His chest shook, and when he looked up at him, Sam knew it wasn't true humor making Dean laugh silently. "You wouldn't believe she was evil if she performed a virgin sacrifice in front of you. You don't even want to know what she did to Trisha or Beeker, do you?"

"No, I don't," he said, already to the door. "So just shut up about it."

"I just want you for your body," she told him.

Gabriel grinned, his face a v of lechery, and leaned forward. "Now that's what I'm talking about."

Hermione smacked him over the head. "Don't put words in my mouth. It's creepy."

"Come on, ventriloquism is all the rage nowadays. The News says every girl should have it in her arsenal."

"That means I should use it on you," Hermione said. "Which I won't. The last time we ended up getting a fine from two Ministries. They could see us from Canada."

The thin walls made the clunking footsteps all the louder, the ranting of the inebriated carrying a loud, slurring voice. "I think I'm still hung over from that night. I'm never going to any of his parties again. The god who comes and comes and won't shut up about it."

Hermione grimaced and put down her wine. "That's my cue." Listing slightly to the left, she got up and after vaguely patting Gabriel on the shoulder, wobbled out the door. After a moment, she wobbled out of the closet and—glaring at Gabriel, who laughed—wobbled out the second entrance.

She wasn't invited to their monthly casino night. Frankly, Hermione didn't want to be. With her magic, she would be the main course. Yeah, she was frustrated, but she didn't want to be eaten that badly.

Dimly, she realized she was at that point of time between pissed and full out sloshhled. She wasn't slurring yet, but she was thinking like Gabriel. Boded ill.

"Or whatever," she muttered, and wobbled outside on legs that felt like the Giant Squib—Squid's. She laughed as she fell into the fire door, which screeched and opened for her. "Ah," she laughed under her breath as she swung with it, "it's the Giant Squib. Run, run for uhnn – as fast as you can!"

Luckily, she tripped over her feet, or else her face would have had an instant connection with a baseball bat—not a love connection either.

Unluckily, she tripped over her feet, which left her blind to the possession.

Sod's bloody law.

If there was one thing about witches and wizards that demons hated, it was this: they were magic.

Magic was not like demon powers, or gods, or even as simple as species. Like the gods, it wasn't created by any one god or being. Magic was belief sprung from the Earth and settling in humans, settling in whoever the hell it wanted, with no care for parentage or language or if you were the bloody Queen. Sure, demons could part with a few powers to let some mortal think they were the baddest thing on the block, but it was nowhere, nowhere near what a real witch with her real magic could do.

Hermione wasn't just some witch, either. You lay with a god just once—okay, five, she muttered, or eight, whatever, it wasn't important—and it has side effects. You might be mad for a few years after, since that god didn't bother to immediately tell you about these side effects, the great git, but eventually you forget about them until you're stuck in your mind and the only thing you can do is cause severe pain to your own head as you fire disembodied curses at the demon possessing you that don't work right since you're still pissed.

Gabriel wondered why she hated drinking.

Hermione tried her luck, and while she made the demon fight for control of her legs, she snapped her fingers.

…

Nothing happened.

Okay, she said as the demon wrested control from her as surprise distracted her. There seems to be a few kinks in the system.

Or Gabriel was just a great big sodding liar.

Guess which.

"Babe, this is one nice meatsuit," she said. She ran her hands over her chest, while the last of her spread into every crack and crevice she'd missed initially—one solid blow wasn't good for possessing, but you needed it for these fucking witches. She cupped her breasts. "Well. Could use some work."

Meg laughed, but nothing sounded from the back-side-top of her head where Hermione had sequestered herself. She shrugged. Be that way then. "You keep up your little spells," Meg told her as she kneeled down—hey, nice shoes—and took out the menthols she'd left with the man she borrowed. She debated waiting around until he woke up. The temptation was strong but … nah. "You're only hurting yourself."

The silence in her head turned deeper, a waiting silence.

"Honey," Meg told her as she stepped over the man and began walking away from the god expo, "you might play with gods, but I'm way outta your league."

The silence hesitated.

Meg grinned.

The silence in her head turned deeper, a waiting silence.

"Honey," Meg told her as she stepped over the man and began walking away from the god expo, "you might play with gods, but I'm way outta your league."

The silence hesitated.

Meg grinned.

"Babe, this is one nice meatsuit," she said.

The silence in her head turned deeper, a waiting silence.

"You keep up your little spells," Meg told her as she kneeled down—hey, nice shoes—and took out the menthols she'd left with the man she borrowed. She debated waiting around until he woke up. The temptation was strong but … nah. "You're only hurting yourself."

The silence hesitated.

Meg grinned.

"Babe, this is one nice meatsuit," she said.

I think you meant out of my league, Hermione said. Meg cupped her breasts, kneeled down. Hermione watched, tapping what would have been her foot if her foot wasn't currently being controlled by a demon stuck in a time loop. A disembodied subconscious remembrance of a foot, then. Going further back had proved impossible.

The scene rewound, played and rewound, and rewound, and Hermione settled in to think over what she would do next.

Nothing came to mind.

The silence hesitated.

Meg grinned.

Fine, the witch told her, scorn burning the syllable. Except demons burned hotter, and Meg by herself burned hottest. The witch scoffed. You can borrow my body for now. Gabriel will see through you in seconds.

"That would be a problem," Meg said. She shrugged, and as she did, she ripped the last piece of Hermione's resistance away. "Except I don't want him. Now go away, little Glinda."

Hermione found herself pushed back into the cage she had made for herself out of the only things she saved from the demon's possession. Her magic, information on the Horcruxes, secrets she couldn't possibly give away since it would literally kill her. The door slammed with an echo that split her head. The room-slash-cage was the size of a jail cell for goblins, divided by three and a half. Hermione could immediately tell that she would love this place.

In my head, she added. I didn't even know I liked chintz.

The demon pulled out Hermione's mobile phone and went through the names. She went past D, and then paused at the H's. Harry Potter.

"Aren't you an interesting little kitten," she murmured. After a tense moment where Hermione was a second away from reasserting the time loop, Meg kept going. To S – Sam Winchester.

He'll exorcise you, Hermione said. And I can't wait.

"I hate you witches," she said, her fingers curling tight around the phone, hard enough to break it if she wasn't careful. Hermione was obliging enough to point that out, since she didn't want her mobile harmed. She kicked at the body at her feet. "At least those windbags will shut up."

Hermione held on to a doily-covered table as her cage shook around her.

Meg, satisfied, smiled and pressed send.

"Here? Where's here?" He looked at the clock. 2:13 A.M. Shit. He'd only been asleep fifteen minutes. He didn't deserve a dose of hyper Hermione at full blast on fifteen minutes sleep. No one deserved that. He couldn't even remember half of what she'd said. Her words had went by as fast as a nuclear bomb homing in on a capitalist state. He'd caught the words don't and come and here. He got the gist.

"That's the point, Sam, you can't be here."

"So I'll know where I can't go," Sam corrected himself without clenching his teeth, which was medal-worthy seeing as how he wanted to break the wall with his face. God, she could be so—Hermione.

"Oh. Okay. Paradise, Kansas, outside of—"

"Lawrence. I know. What are you doing there?"

"Well, you know how I think psychics and seers and anyone who looks at their tea leaves and sees tools of the universe – I mean, can you actually tell me if someone's going to die by a freak triangle accident with a daytime talk show host and a rogue manticore by reading some clumps at the bottom of a mug? You know what I think? Grudge. Huge grudge—"

"Hermione."

"A psychic named Missouri called me. She said she knew you. She said my mom wanted me to call. Which she did. She also wanted to set me up with one of their partner's sons. That, however, is not the point."

"We know Missouri," Sam said, rubbing his eyes again. He needed a cold shower, and not as a remedy to the common problem cold showers usually solved. "She's helped us before. Why'd she call you?"

"She said she knew I was looking into you." Hermione paused. Sam avoided Dean's eyes, feeling her uncomfortable through the line. It was quite a lot of uncomfortable. "You and Dean," she said, with a breathless, uneasy laugh. "Can't have you without…"

"Dean," Sam said. The dryness in his voice could have caught oceans on fire. "Got it. So?"

"Right. She knew I was looking everywhere and finding you, er, both of you wiped completely off the map. Prophecy archives in every country, the trans-universe flotsam in Delray – Dubai, even, where along with delicious shrimp pasta they have information on every mole rat that twitches their whiskers. Very enterprising." She paused. He could imagine what she was doing quite well. Looking side to side, catching the inside of her cheek, the left side of her mouth grimacing. She coughed. "In a very disturbing way, of course," she added.

"You hang out with Loki. I get that you're a little morally ambiguous, Hermione. Why is this important?"

"I wouldn't call it ambiguous – selective, perhaps – Missouri told me she could help, told me to come here, where to look, what to expect… "

"Did you?" Sam asked. Had Hermione—and Missouri—just solved all his problems? Finally found an end to their search? He put his feet on the floor. "Did you find anything?"

"A dozen demons buggering off with all the information loot I was looking for. But. There is a but. I have good news."

"Good news," Sam repeated blankly. How was any of this good, exactly, and why had this phone call been made in the first place? Not that he minded her calling, exactly … He just liked to know, was all. To be prepared. To mentally gird himself. You rather had to have a cupful of drugs before talking to her. Being surprised with so much Hermione at one time was not at all good for neurological functions. Being surprised at all by her was worse. Being surprised with her one too many times would probably induce a comatose state as the brain's way of protecting itself from becoming Hermione-ized. Dean hated him for weeks after talking on the phone with her for too long.

He was a little too tired to be Hermione-ized right now. Plus, Dean would probably shoot him in the brain.

"Yes. One of them possessed me. Meg. She said she knew you?"

"Wait." Had Dean already shot him? Was this – no. It would have to be limbo, right? Was limbo talking to Hermione forever?

Show mercy.

Sam took a deep breath, feeling like he was going to need one or eight.

"Meg possessed you?" Dean became vastly more interested in the conversation, and put down his Maxim to make what, what, what the fuck, man faces at him. Sam waved him off. "Possessed as in past tense?"

"Yes, past tense. Did you think I would let her stay in me? Saying she's a raging bitch would be putting it lightly."

"Uh, yeah," Sam said slowly—when did Hermione start saying bitch and not er'ing her way through it—"it would. How did you… "

"Sam, this is part of one of the things you don't want to know about me. Remember that conversation? You were quite adamant about it."

Adamant. Sam sighed, bringing up his hand to rub the back of his neck. Such a small word for just how large he'd fucked things up between them.

You shouldn't really try to tell a … whatever the hell Hermione was that her powers were wrong and probably evil and then expect her to fall into your arms, you white knight you.

Yeah, Dean had given the after talk. He'd been surprisingly good at it. Of course, it would have been better if his pep talk hadn't included try getting her to tell you what the hell she is and if we need to gank her.

Thanks, Dean.

He couldn't even estimate just how big of a douchebag he'd been. He'd be represented by a three digit figure on a scale of one to ten. It made him uncomfortable all over, like clowns and locust swarms. He was, well. He was used to Dean doing shit like this—not, you know, him.

Then there was Trisha and Beeker, and the possibility she could be evil… and chilling with a Loki didn't lend her any credibility as far as morality went.

He shook his head. This thing with Meg was more important, however. Besides, it was good Hermione could take care of herself. Fantastic. Even if he knew himself that Meg was no amateur at possession; that she suffocated your self with her personality-demon juice-whatever it was called that was evil.

He swallowed. Just great.

"Did you learn anything from her or… " He didn't know how to finish that sentence. Exorcise it, or kill it for good, or any number of things he hadn't known Hermione could do. It wouldn't surprise him if she did know. He knew Hermione was smart and, from the vibes he got from her, extremely talented at what she did, but the question Dad would have answered right away was: did that make her a hunter or another predator?

Sam hadn't answered that question yet. And, from what Dean found in his journal, Dad had only begun to ask the question.

He contained his agitation quickly as she began speaking.

"Missouri did, Sam. She was able to get a connection to the residual demonic energy in me. She—" Hermione paused; Sam heard someone memory identified as Missouri speaking in the background. He could make out her sarcastic, angry tone, but not the words. He got the gist of it. Hermione huffed. "Fine. It's not safe to talk about it on the phone. We're going to – okay, okay, I won't say that. We're going somewhere safe to see if she can discover more. I actually think she's the real thing, Sam."

"She is," Sam said. "And we gotta be there, too."

"I'm certain that would be a very bad idea, Sam," Hermione said, her voice low, intense. "They're expecting you to come. They know we're friends now. I can come to you later."

"We'll meet you at Missouri's," Sam said. Hermione started to say something; Sam cut her off after Dean did a quick mental tally as he pulled on his shirt. Sam was already doing up his boots. "Two and a half hours." He hung up before she could add any more entreaties to stay away. He knew when she was lying or less than a hundred percent anyway. He slept in the car.

"I feel really uncomfortable about this," Sam told Dean over the roof of the Impala.

"Let me ask this," Dean said as he closed the door. He turned, propped his elbows on the roof, and put his chin in his hand. "Are you a man or a freakishly tall girl?"

Dean raised his eyebrows, smile taking over for the victory lap when Sam only glared. That smile earned Dean another check by his name in Sam's mental clipboard. It meant doom. Dean just smiled.

Two seconds later Sam kicked in the door to Missouri's and everything went to hell.

They searched the house. Missouri was tied to her bed upstairs, her limbs stretched to their limit. Sam put towels around her forearms to staunch the bleeding. Looked like it could have been some dark ritual. Dean came back fourteen seconds later and shook his head at Sam's anxious look. Two floors, nine rooms, and Hermione wasn't in sight.

Missouri's eyes flickered. She wheezed as she took deep breaths, free of the gag. Sam tried to keep her flat, but finally had to cede to her when movement from her protesting made her go white in the face. Carefully, he helped her sit up. Dean holstered his gun, caught Sam's eye, and quietly left to get more towels across the hall. Sam figured if Missouri did want to get up, they might as well take her to the hospital. EMT would take longer to get here than Dean's lead foot.

Missouri tried to grip his jacket, couldn't. Sam hurt to watch it—why hadn't they anticipated this would happen sooner? She groaned something as he used his strength to get her upright, putting her arm around his shoulder in preparation to stand.

Sam paused. "What?"

"Out," Missouri whispered, her head rolling against his shoulder. "Get … she's here. Still."

Sam went cold.

"Tut, tut, tut, Missouri," Hermione said, and Sam caught a shimmer in the air before she appeared in front of him, full body close-up, close enough to graze his knees. She was smiling. Her eyes held Meg.

They'd checked the entire house, but vigilance meant nothing when Meg could turn invisible.

But she can't, his brain pointed out. She'd never used it when she was in him. That would have been the coup in her quest to use his body to kill Dean. They would both be dead.

That left one possibility.

"No," he said, face and body tight with the need to defend, to fight. This was not a good place to be, weapons holstered, Dean out of the room, and facing a demon-possessed special. One of the Yellow-Eyed Demon's chosen. Someone who'd been honing her powers for years, like Andy and his mind control. And her powers must be huge. Human enough, Sam remembered her telling him. Oh God, Hermione. You didn't have to be afraid of me, not for this.

"Hermione," he said, keeping his voice low, straining to keep Meg focused on this and not his arm slowly letting Missouri back down to the bed. "You can fight her. I know you can."

Meg, who'd been watching the emotions cross his face with evident enjoyment, quirked her lips. "Leave a message at the tone," she said, and caught his arm as he rocketed up, fist aimed at her face. She looked over it at him. He struggled to move his arm, but Meg's grip on his fist was a bear trap. Shit.

"Here I thought you liked me," Meg said, and damn if he wanted to hear that sort of voice from Hermione's mouth when Meg controlled it. He grimaced, fighting to pull his arm back. Meg let him go, abruptly, and gravity made him fall back onto the bed. Meg stared at him, and the expression on her face was beyond blank, it was emptiness so deep nothing could penetrate it. The silence in the room as she looked down at him and he looked back was so thick he could cut it with a machete.

Blood trickled down her temple. Her expression flickered; when she blinked, her eyes were black.

Behind her, Dean's expression turned into astonishment as Meg calmly turned around. She turned her back on Sam to turn around.

Doubt entered his mind. That should have taken her down. It should have given her a concussion. Dean pistol-whipped like nobodies business. She should be down. Another one of the Yellow-Eyed Demon's special kids or not, head wounds were universal. And Meg wasn't stupid enough to turn her back on Sam unless she had a bazooka under her sleeve.

That must mean Hermione wasn't like Sam. That human enough had been the truth. Or was she just that powerful?

He left the questions for later and swept her legs out from under her.

Meg dived sideways before the ground broke her fall, rolled and came up with a stick of wood pointed at them. They stilled. Dean lowered his gun an inch. Sam stopped with his gun aimed at her head. Nothing was ever just a stick in this business.

"You guys." Meg pouted at them. "This is what happens when we don't stay in touch."

"How was the crawl out of Hell?" Dean asked. He tried, he did, to snarl, but Sam could see his worry, his concentration wavering. This was Hermione. She and Dean might not have matching friendship bracelets, but Hermione was their almost-maybe-enemy. She wasn't a demon, that was for sure. Meg …desecrating her like this to get to them—well, uncertainty about Hermione herself didn't stop either of them for hating Meg for it. Even Dean, with his find out if we have to gank her lectures, saw that.

Missouri groaned on the bed. Sam's eyes flickered, Dean jerked, and Meg took advantage.

Their guns were gone in an instant. Just gone, the only thing left a remembered, ghostly weight. He didn't have time to process. The floor at their feet was blasted. They jumped away, but Meg with Hermione's powers followed and the carpet became one long singe mark. Meg laughed and pulled the stick up and the floor under their feet stopped sizzling like a frying pan.

Retreat, retreat, that was always what Dad told them to do when they faced a superior force. Return when you find bigger weapons. They couldn't, though. They didn't even have to look at each other after Meg's show of power to know they couldn't leave. Not just because of Meg's new super powers, but Hermione and Missouri, too. They couldn't leave without them.

Strike that: Sam wouldn't leave without (her) them.

Meg, seeing them hesitate, let her smile grow. It looked wrong on Hermione's face. Sadism had never been part of Hermione's emotional range. He couldn't see anything of her in Meg's eyes.

And he really needed to stop letting Hermione handicap him.

She turned the stick on Dean and kept her eyes on Sam. He knew she wanted him to see her next act. "Crucio."

Dean dropped with a scream. He twisted, rolled, but he didn't stop screaming, he couldn't get away. Pain stretched across his face. Sam made a move—and Dean's screams went higher, until his voice broke. Sam stopped. Dean sobbed something like you fucking bitch. Meg raised her arm higher.

"No!"

All of Meg's limbs jerked at once, a full body spasm, and Sam saw, he saw, it was Hermione. Hermione was fighting off Meg. Somehow. Somehow, she was managing it. The blacks had rolled up, as if Meg was trying to see inside her skull, and the stick wrenched from side to side like two forces struggling to control it. While they did that, Dean gasped, face wretched but the pain pulled away.

Hermione.

There came an inrush of air, like a giant suction cup, and Meg's eyes became Hermione's became Meg's became Hermione's. She dropped to the ground, fingernails digging into the singed carpet, the wand thrown away, and her brown eyes burned fiercely up at him. Help me, they said.

"Devil's trap," she gasped, swallowed. "Do you know how?"

Sam didn't answer—he didn't get a chance before Hermione's eyes went white. Her eyes rolled back and she collapsed.

It was a maelstrom. She didn't know how Meg had grabbed her magic, but she had, which obliged Hermione to take it back. Hermione hadn't wanted to kill Bellatrix as much as she wanted to slice Meg apart with her hands. She didn't stand a chance, and knew it. Hermione had never fought incorporeally before, while that was how Meg earned her bread and butter.

It's not like I have never been on the losing side before.

She bared her teeth and slashed.

"She's burning up," Sam said. Most of the towels were around Missouri's forearms, but Sam spared one to use on Hermione. Sweating buckets was no longer an applicable phrase. Sweating whole bodies of water. He could feel the heat an inch off her.

"Will you get outta there?" Dean rasped for the third time, his voice weak but his glare as strong as ever. Stronger, actually. It was like all the anger he kept in reserve had escaped through his eyes.

Sam stepped out of the trap.

"How's Missouri?" Sam walked along the edge of the white chalk to the kitchen table, where they'd placed Missouri in a chair next to it. She had only spoken once since they brought her downstairs, and that was to tell them off for tracking mud through the living room. Same old Missouri. She would be pissed once she saw what they did to her kitchen floor.

"She's breathing," Dean said. He turned his head and narrowed his eyes at Hermione. "What the hell is that thing?"

"What?" Sam asked, shock making his voice hitch an octave higher. "Dean, that's Herm—"

"And she just put my blood on boil!" The chair screeched as he jumped to his feet. "You weren't under it, Sam. You didn't—God, you're still protecting her. What will it take to make you see she's evil!"

"It was Meg, Dean," Sam said. "She made me torture Jo. Me. Hermione – she wouldn't do that, not on her own, you know that."

Dean's jaw clenched, but Sam knew he had him. It was truth, and Dean couldn't deny it, no matter how bad his pride was hurt or how shocked they both were about Hermione's powers (but Sam wasn't shocked, not really). Sam was sorry for whatever spell or whatever Meg put him under, but it was Meg, not Hermione. Hermione wouldn't—couldn't—hurt Dean.

Dean sighed, looking away. "Exorcism, then. But then we're finding out what she is, Sam. I don't care how."

"Dean."

They turned around, Sam spinning so fast he almost overshot the mark, missed seeing Hermione lift her head and groan something unintelligible. She looked bad. Horrible. Her hair clung to her face, sweat soaking her visible skin. Her throat contracted as she swallowed, before she allowed her head to fall back forward. "Dean," she repeated, her voice a burned out shell of her own.

They looked at each other. Sam, because what the hell, why Dean, and Dean because of the same thing. Dean eventually shook his head and asked, "What?" while Sam tried to focus on her and not his silly insecurities. So what she wanted Dean and not him? She had a freaking demon in her head. Somehow, he thought she would be more concerned with that then catering to his ego, which was obviously ginormous considering his feelings were stillhurt.

"I'll hold the cow," she said. A vein in her neck stood out as she hissed through her teeth. No one said anything, so her sudden gasp slashed through the silence. Her eyes flew open to focus on Dean, the whites of her eyes especially white. "You make sure it doesn't get out alive. Don't waste time. Trap won't hold."

With a sound like a parachute ripped away by the wind, Meg took control.

The glitter of her eyes, Hermione's eyes, made her recognizable. The way her whole face shifted, became something different than the open confidence Hermione carried with her, sealed it. Meg had a studied look about her. How she carried herself, the tilt of her chin, the slow smile—she had thousands of years to hone the effect.

The long, slow look she sent him made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. She looked like a snake around the bend, poison on display with her diamond head hidden by the tall grass.

The grass, this time, being Hermione. His sometimes, occasionally, mostly in his head something or other.

Despite all his confusion, and now that he knew what human enough meant, he knew that much. Hermione was his friend, whatever else she was. He couldn't let Meg run them in circles like she usually did. The stakes were too high.

Meg smiled at him. "Crucio."

Sam tensed. Beside him, Dean raised his gun, a relieved hiss escaping his teeth, though from the way his shoulders hunched, he hated even admitting that. Nothing happened.

Meg kicked out, swearing. When she looked up, the hate in her eyes had multiplied. "I'll say it again. I fucking hate witches."

"A witch?" Sam asked. "That's what she is?"

"Sam, time's passing; you heard Hermione—"

"No." He couldn't even – how could she have – stupid. "We'll exorcise her."

"Won't work," Meg supplied, all how may I help you, sir. "See, witches, real witches, not those bags of meat we dangle on strings for you, are our soul twins. Now, Hermione? She's mine. Like matching puzzle pieces, we"—she winked—"complete each other. I mean, I may have had to come in by force, but she's the Dorothy to my Blanche. The Dean to my Sam. There's no getting rid of me."

"Face it," Dean said, sixty minutes, three exorcisms and a bottle of Jim Bean later, "it's not working."

Sam's bottom lip ached from a long way away, like an echo of pain. He had gnawed it to bits. The ache wouldn't leave. Neither would the headache, or the incessant buzzing in his head that had become Dean's voice. He licked his thumb, kept flipping the pages. "There has to be another one here," he muttered. "Dad had hundreds—thousands—of tiny things like this. Burn at silver, can't cross salt, have to- have to check reflection twelve times before leaving the house. Why did he have to scrimp on the exorcisms?"

"Because there's really only two ways," Dean said, rubbing his forehead the way he had done since he was fourteen and Sam was being a pain. "The short and long version. You've tried both, Sam. Look. I don't like this any more than you do, but you heard Hermione—"

His fingers curled against the journal's cover, but he didn't let his hands form fists. This wasn't Dean's fault, this was Meg's and only hers. There wasn't any use in getting pissed at Dean.

Even if he was being a giant ass.

"Just"—he licked his lips, stared unseeing at the floor—"let me try one more time, okay?"

Silence. After a second where Sam wasn't sure whether Dean would kick his chair out from under him or bang his head against the wall, Dean sighed and started pacing again, his eyes on Meg. She stared back at him like a chupacabra locked in a cage. Sam looked back at the journal.

He had to admit it soon. The truth had crept up when he wasn't watching, sneaking along the edge of his vision while he succeeded in ignoring everything but the desperate need to find Hermione the key back into her head. Now it sat on his shoulder, roosting there like some demented bird of prey, pecking at him with its sharp beak every time he tried to deny it.

Hermione's command might be the only way.

Missouri, her head resting on a pillow from the sofa they put on the table, lifted her head. Her arms were bandaged the best they could do them. The bleeding had stopped. There was nothing else they could do unless they brought her to the hospital, which she made a fuss about when they suggested it. Psychics didn't come with a wide range of health insurance options.

"Sunshine never follows you boys, does it?" she murmured, blinking at him. He didn't want to look at her. How many people was he going to drag into this fucked up life?

"No, it doesn't," Meg said loudly. "Speaking of—Sam, were you ever going to grow a pair and ask her out? I mean, the results would have been the same, but me and my buds had a little bet going—"

"Christo," Dean said. Meg flinched. Sam gave him a grateful look he ignored in favor of re-chalking the trap.

Meg didn't like being interrupted or ignored. She bared her teeth just as blood poured down her chin, gushing out of her nose like rain down a windowpane. That got Dean's attention. And Sam's. He stood at the edge of the trap, his boots grazing the chalk, and stared in. Feet away and helpless. Meg grinned at him, allowing blood to rush into her mouth and stain her teeth.Hermione's mouth and teeth. Hermione's blood.

She adopted the tone of an auctioneer.

"Going, going—she's gone!" Meg laughed. If the chair had wheels, she would have spun in giddy glee.

Sam didn't like it that he knew Meg so well, but he knew her well enough to see this as the bad sign as it was. Even the hair on his arms stood to attention. He raised his voice over her laughter. "What? What happened?"

She had to spit out blood before she could talk, but that didn't stop her from giggling.

"Just how could John Winchester look at you two and call you his sons?"

Dean pointed at her—if Sam wasn't mistaken, he tried to smite her with his mind. "Don't talk about our Dad, bitch."

Meg's eyes widened in mock dismay, and then she laughed again, apparently too happy to keep up the charade.

"Don't either of you ever listen?" she asked, lifting her shoulder to smear the blood on her cheek. "I told you real witches were different than demonic ones. Even Hermione told you"—she smirked—"or tried to, at any rate." She adopted Hermione's accent, pitching her voice falsetto. "'Don't waste time. Trap won't hold.' Did you think she was talking about this one?"

"She wasn't," Sam realized slowly. "That soul twin thing, right?"

Her eyes glittered. "Dorothy to my Blanche."

"What does that mean? What are you talking about?" Dean looked between them.

"See," Meg continued, ignoring him, "funny thing about witches. Real witches. They can fight demon possession. All up in here in the noggin. They can kick us out, too, if they're strong enough. Thing is? They lose, they die. Just – whoop! Dead. And I don't have a squatter in my meatsuit anymore." And somehow Sam knew what was coming before she said it, before her bloody lips caressed the words with boundless delight.

"Thanks for giving me some time to break through her devil's trap. Couldn't have done it without you."

Sam wanted a drink.

He also wanted Dean to stop looking from him to Hermione, because … no. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Hermione.

But she wants it, said the part of him that was all shades except black and white. She's suffering. She might die.

She might be dead already.

"You're lying," Sam said, feeling like he could be some supernatural creature himself. He wanted to growl, to harm, to see Meg suffer for this. Hermione had hurt no one, she didn't deserve to be in this mess, to be affected by the rotten shit that swirled around the bowl that was his life. He thought he had felt hatred when it was Jo, when he was banging on the bars behind his own eyes, but this – this was – it was Hermione in there.

"You're lying," he repeated, his voice rising on the last syllable.

Meg licked her-Hermione's lips. "Down boy."

"Okay," Dean said, his eyes an apology when Sam glanced over, "I'll do it." So quick Sam only saw a flash of black leather, he pointed the gun at Meg's head. He backed up when Sam approached, but didn't lower the gun. "That's why she said it, Sam. You know it. You wouldn't be able to do this and I can—she knew it. Don't, Sam," he shouted when Sam raised his hand, jerking his arm out to intercept him before Sam could grab the gun. His face was tight. "It has to be done."

Meg laughed.

Sam lowered his head, breathing deep, and a rock the size of Kansas stuck in his throat. He could hear Meg breathing out of Hermione's mouth, hear her smile around Hermione's blood, and hear her feet shuffle in Hermione's shoes.

He didn't try to stop Dean again.

The safety clicked.

"If you two aren't the dullest knives in the drawer," Missouri said. Groaning, she struggled to sit up as Dean and Sam turned around in dumb surprise. She put her elbows on the table to help keep her head up. Her hands and forearms were too weak to hold her up. Her head weaved as she glared at them, like still life vertigo.

Dean and Sam exchanged glances. Frankly, this whole night felt like one whole what-the-fuck moment, a running gag, the punch line of which he still didn't get. Or would he ever.

He swallowed. Anything to get him out of someone else's schadenfreude.

"What is it?" he asked Missouri, glancing at Dean to make sure he lowered his gun. He took a step forward when it seemed like she would topple out of her chair. "Can you – sense something?" He hadn't really believed in psychics and what all before this whole disaster zone that his life had become—that he had become. Now he believed, more than believed, especially if it helped Hermione.

"I can sense you two are the stupidest things in this room," Missouri said. "My refrigerator has more sense than the two of you combined. Hell, it helps me."

"Uh, hello," Dean said, waving the hand holding the gun at her. "Saved your life, here."

She glanced at her arms in irritation that she couldn't use them to smack them. She settled for pursing her lips. "Won't mean a nickel if you kill your friend."

"But she's—"

"You must be two innocent souls to believe what comes out of a demon's mouth as truth."

They blinked at her, Sam too confused and whipped by the emotions the whole night had spurned in him to respond. This was just another thing on top of an already overflowing pile. One more and he thought it would topple. But not yet … not yet. Maybe Missouri had some way to settle this in a way that didn't kill Hermione.

"A demon," Missouri repeated. "Y'all know they lie, right, or do I have to be concerned about you two being the so-called defenders of this world?"

Dean was the first to cave after a few minutes thought, looking over at Sam with his brow furrowed. The possibilities, Sam had to admit, were high. He didn't like being tricked—nobody did—but the more Sam thought about it, the more giddy hope rose from his chest. Hermione could still be in there, alive and waiting for him to rescue her.

Sam decided. Meg's word was nowhere near gospel, yet they acted as if they were. Sam even admitted she was the ultimate player—

He scrubbed at his face. Damn, they were stupid.

"But what about what Hermione said?" Dean looked at both of them, lines around his eyes pulled tight. "And the exorcisms? That Meg, too?"

"Meg deals in half-truths," Sam recalled. "So some of it has to be true. The exorcisms proved that."

"What would we do if it was a stranger?" Dean wondered aloud.

They caught each other's eyes and turned almost as one. Meg, not at all disappointed they had pulled the curtains on her show, said, "Silly me. I must have broken my halo."

A quick search, aided by the threat of holy water, and Sam found the sigil branded into Hermione's shoulder. It was pulsing and probably ached like a son of a bitch, but the real pain it inflicted was keeping Meg tied to her. One good thing to come of it: Meg couldn't leave either.

She sneered, snapped and derided them, all in an effort to reassert her original plan—Sam didn't even want to imagine what he would have done if they had gone through with it. The one thing he knew was that Missouri would have Christmas presents for life. Even Dean, as he heated the poker in Missouri's fireplace, seemed relieved.

It took minutes for the fire poker to get hot enough. It shone like a lamp, a vicious red bee-sting. Dean wore gloves, just in case. One quick burn, to break the sigil, and they could exorcise Meg.

Meg struggled in her bindings, straining to twist out from under Sam's hold on her shoulders. As Dean came closer, the more violent her struggles, until Dean was in the trap with them and she suddenly stilled. Her weight pulled his hands, but only as she collapsed forward, moaning.

"What, what happened?" Sam asked, not resisting his urge to shake her. Dean's face blanked as her head fell back. His gaze jumped to Sam when he saw her face, his own face two shades paler.

"Headache," Hermione whispered weakly. She turned her head until her cheek rested on his hand, lashes trembling until her eyes shone out of her tired face at him. "Oh, Sam," she said, warmth and happy exhaustion lacing her voice. "I knew you would figure it out."

"That – that's you, Hermione?" Sam swallowed as she nodded against his hand.

"'Course," she said thickly.

Dean's face mimicked his, succinctly summing up the situation: Crap. Of course Meg would do this, make sure they got the biggest possible sledgehammer in the chest for doing what they had to do.

"Uh, Hermione?" Sam kept his eyes left-center of her nose.

She frowned at him. He opened his mouth and nothing came out. She twisted in his grip, pushing away. "Sam – Dean, what is it? What—"

The back porch door squeaking in the wind was loud in the silence, before her voice, tiny as a tick, broke it. "What's that?"

He heard the click of Dean swallowing. He shifted nervously, eyes going up to the ceiling as if he was wishing they weren't there at all. "It's a—"

"I'm not stupid, I know what it is! Oh my – oh my – what were you going to do? Torture her? The body doesn't go with her, you know!"

She jerked out of Sam's grip, his hands falling off her shoulders. She caught sight of the brand on her shoulder, and she might have sucked all the air out of the room with her gasp.

"I don't understand." She whimpered, her head shaking back and forth. A nerve in Dean's jaw jumped. Sam backed away from the chair—god, what, what the fuck. His brain spun in circles. Fucking Meg. And now he had to listen to the hurt in Hermione's voice, the kind of voice that said never forget, never forgive, and Meg was probably laughing it up, and they still had to break that sigil.

And that voice, Hermione's voice, so much hurt she didn't have a reason for.

"I – I figured she would reveal what I was to you, but I didn't think you would hate me so much. I stopped the Crucio, I stopped it, and—Merlin, here I am bargaining for my life like some coward." She blinked, her swallow audible. He could see Dean shaking his head out of the corner of his eye, opening his mouth to say something, and Sam elbowed him.

"It's to break that sigil, Hermione," Sam said. "She's still in you. That sigil's keeping her there. We have to break it before we can exorcise her."

Hermione just sobbed.

They didn't see Missouri until she stepped between them. Dean had already lowered the poker, so she wasn't branded with the hot iron. Moving gingerly, she passed them, vile distaste on her face as she looked at Hermione. Sam didn't see the steak knife in her hand until it was too late.

Missouri slashed.

The sigil turned red, filling with a thin trickle of blood. She had managed the knife perfectly. It was barely a nick. She stared down at Meg with contempt so thick Sam could have caught some on his tongue like snowflakes. She said, "You ain't nothing but a no good liar."

"Tell that to your son," Meg spat, gleeful and vitriolic all at once. Whatever she hoped to achieve didn't work. Missouri turned her back and ignored her as thoroughly as the linoleum under her feet as she shuffled back to the table.

"Exorcise her," Dean told Sam. He scowled at Meg, holding the brand like a baseball bat now that he knew they had fallen for it, not once but twice. "Quick."

Sam could perform an exorcism in his sleep at seventeen. He found a little more enjoyment in this one, though. Meg would get away—they couldn't hold her incorporeal form in the trap—but next time she would die. He didn't have to make grand gestures or scream his vengeance. He just looked at her and she looked back, and that was that. They both knew the score.

"You're going to have to glue the pieces together," she said, sneering, but there was fear in her eyes and her wrists yanked at the cords. That settled the irritation in Sam, which was nothing so simple as irritation, as it growled and prowled the edges of his tight grip on himself.

Dean did the honors, anyway. "Shut up."

Her eyes sparked. "Knew you – " Her sarcastic comment was ruined when she choked. Sam squeezed the rosary, wishing it were her neck. She started shaking, straining against the binds that kept her there. She didn't pretend to be anything but herself anymore. She snarled with bloody teeth, her eyes rolled back and came down black.

Finally, Sam thought, I meet the real Meg.

"Next time I'll rip her spine out," Meg rasped, and Hermione's head fell back as Meg decided to bail instead of being sent back to the pit. After a long second, the black cloud was gone, and Hermione sagged sideways, breathing hard and moaning.

A little anticlimactic, he admitted, and that was how he knew this was the real Hermione. He looked back at Missouri to be sure. She didn't even open her eyes before nodding.

"Sh'okay?" she slurred when he kneeled in front of her, cutting through the cords on her wrists.

"Dean's fine," he quickly assured her. Her face relaxed an inch, until he pulled her arm over his shoulder and she hissed as the burning red sigil branded into her shoulder pulled taut as he helped her stand.

Hermione lowered her head to stare at it and muttered, "I foresee a future inconvenience."

"Trust her to talk in four syllables," Dean said as they passed, Sam supporting Hermione.

"Missouri," Hermione said softly after Sam deposited her in the chair across from the psychic. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"

Even though she only opened on eye, the glare was doubled. "Girl, I'm sure I'll stab you harder if you don't heal me right now."

Hermione, her face already pale with exhaustion and pain, paled two more shades. "I-I just assumed, after what she did—"

"I ain't the kind to turn down help when I'm bleeding outta both legs. Or arms." Sam thought she might have shifted her glare to Dean, then, but with the lighting and how Dean turned and walked out of the room, Sam couldn't be sure.

"Okay," Hermione said slowly, sounding unsure how to handle this brassy, bossy alpha female. Tell him about it. She looked up at him. "I'll need my wand."

Sam hesitated.

"Sam Winchester," Missouri said, raising her voice. "If you make me lose another drop of blood, I'll put a curse on your skinny little ass. And trust me, I don't need a wand to cast curses."

"Yeah, here you go." Sam didn't waste time giving it back. Besides, it wasn't like she would hurt Missouri when he was right there (or, more likely, since Dean was in the next room and wouldn't hesitate to shoot her.)

Hermione gave him a look that reminded him of her old self—laughing at him—and took Missouri's hand. Dean walked back in just as she started knitting the jagged cuts back together. He took one look, said, "What the fuck," and walked back out.

Sam shrugged at Hermione when she glanced over. "It'll take time."

"To make the voodoo doll," she muttered, going back to Missouri's arm as if she regretted even looking away.

Sam considered. Yeah, maybe he should keep an eye on Dean for the next little while. Just in case. And make sure he didn't snip off a chunk of Hermione's hair.

He escaped from Missouri's glare after the third time he asked Hermione if she was all right. Apparently, not even kidnapping, taking her hostage and carving her up like a Halloween pumpkin could derail Missouri and Hermione from being best friends. Or as friendly as Missouri got with anyone, which was barely.

Fine, whatever. He was just asking if Hermione was okay. The whole bleeding randomly bit was totally just a blip on his radar.

"Dude, you're sulking," Dean told him and punched his shoulder for good measure.

He sputtered. "I – That's stupid," he said. "I was just standing here."

"Pouting," Dean said. "Standing there pouting."

"You said sulking," Sam said, determined not to give up the point, whatever the point was.

"See, you agree," Dean said, brushing off the topic like a piece of lint. "Now can we leave? I'm sick of this and Missouri doesn't even have good whisky."

Sam's lips parted involuntarily. "But—"

Dean's stare steadied. "I'll shoot her, swear to God." When Sam didn't say anything, Dean raised an eyebrow and let the silence turn thick with restrained violence. And Dean wasn't very good at restraining himself from anything, so it was only a matter of time before he took his anger out on Hermione. He saw Dean's hands shake from where they were balled into fists at his sides. It wasn't from anger. That spell had done a number on him.

"It's okay," Hermione said quietly from behind him. Dean's expression froze as if he stuck it in a freezer. Sam turned halfway, keeping one eye on Dean. Hermione looked tiny in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest as if she was cold. She stared at the floor midway between them.

Sam counted seconds. When she took a deep breath, forcing her hands to her sides as she prepared to speak, he thought, Yep. Longest she's ever been silent.

"I'm sorry for what she did with my"—she gulped, looking like she would rather throw up—"my magic. Um. Chocolate will help you feel better." She rolled her eyes at herself, but Sam saw her fingers tugging at the bottom of her shirt and knew she was nervous. "It sounds like codswallop—fairy tale crap—but it does work on the effects of the Cruciatus Curse. So does Valium. Meg put a lot of power behind the curse but it had absolutely no finesse, so you should be fine in a few hours, with or without restoratives."

"Right." Dean drew the word out like a dagger. "What about you? Do you have any finesse with the Cruc – Cruciart – the curse?"

"Only on your end," she said, and then shook her head when her pocket started playing Funkytown. She retrieved her cell and silenced it. Sam could hear Dean's sarcastic three guesses. She stuffed it back into her pocket and proceeded to look uncomfortable. "I should—I'm going."

"Don't," Sam said just as Dean said, "Fine." Dean amended his comment when Sam gave him an exasperated look. "Fine. Whatever. I'll go let Missouri ream me out for saving her life."

Sam tensed, but Dean brushed past Hermione as if she was part of the doorframe. She closed her eyes and only opened them when Missouri's voice drifted out of the kitchen, something about the chalk on the floor. She grimaced. "He's never going to forgive me, is he?"

Sam didn't bother answering. They both knew he never would. "How are you getting back to Virginia?"

"I'll Apparate," she said. "Disappear from here and reappear there."

He figured she knew what she was talking about. He tried to think of something grand to say, something that would soothe everything, but his head was frustratingly empty. But he couldn't stand the anguish on her face any longer. He had to say something. "Look, Hermione—"

"Don't," she spoke quietly, without any reflection in her voice. She silenced her phone as it went down to Funkytown again. In the silence, she wouldn't look at him. "I just want to go home."

He hated it. He hated Meg, he hated that stupid ringtone, he hated the smear of blood on her cheek. He just wanted things to be normal for once. He hated that it couldn't, never ever again. Not that it turned out his high school crush was a witch and her godfather Loki, his own super mind powers developed, and Dad being punished in Hell. Nothing would ever be normal again.

This sucked.

"I know," Hermione said. Unless she had some super mind powers of her own—which logic suggested she probably did—he had spoken that aloud. She took a few steps forward, and Sam neither knew or cared who reached out first, but her arms were squeezing his neck, her warmth and alcohol breath and frizzy brown hair all enveloping him. He closed his eyes and hugged her back.

"I'm sorry," she said, her lips moving against his shoulder. He tightened his hold, shaking his head and opening his mouth to tell her no, it wasn't her fault, never, but she beat him to it, saying, "Sam, you have to watch him. Concussion, stroke, heart problems, low immune system—you'll have to take him to a doctor. Non-magical people under that spell don't fare well, not that anybody does. Make sure he gets some chocolate. Real cacao."

And, God, what a selfish fucking bastard, but he felt sick, literally sick when she pulled back, tears at the corner of her eyes. His hands fell off her. She didn't care about him. Not like that, at least, not the way he wanted.

The only good thing—besides Missouri's life and Hermione's life and Dean's life—to come out of this was that Dean hated her. She would never get the chance, either.

Makes two of us, he thought as she silenced her ringing phone once again.

"Call me when you get home," he told her.

Face wiped blank, she stared up at him. Her mouth opened as if she would say something, but then it closed. Sam didn't know what was going on behind those distant brown eyes.

He wondered, for the first time, whether he should care. Objectively, she was the worst bet he could ever make. The witch thing and then that Crucio, which she knew well enough to recite the aftereffects, and even what Dean said that morning, not twenty-four hours ago, about those assaults on Trisha and Beeker. Then there was the whole weird thing of high school, her being sent to watch them by some cannibalistic gods. Maybe he had lived in psycho delusion land. Maybe this was his first step back into the now foreign land, sanity.

She shook her head. His wondering whether she could read minds was put to rest as, instead of calling him out on his train of thought, she said, "I will. I – " She sighed and dropped her eyes. "Never mind. Gabriel must have pissed off Thor again and needs a safehouse."

"Right," Sam said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Gabriel."

She pulled her jacket closer as she prepared to Apparate or disappear or whatever. "Don't forget to give him chocolate.

Sam tried to smile. Grimaced. "I won't."

An awkward silence such as the one squatting between them had never existed in this capacity before. She pressed her lips together in a tight line that may have been a smile in another dimension. "Well, um, bye."

With a crack that made him jump, she disappeared.

"Is it weird she's totally banging someone who she used to call Dad?" Dean asked, coming into the room on the heels of her Apparate. His cell buzzed and he flipped it open to see Hermione's text message. At home.

Sam decided he would be mature about this. "Is Missouri okay?"

"Fine." Dean sounded as happy as he could at that, which wasn't much. Sam did a cursory check for any ball busters she might've left on him, smirking when he didn't find any. They were there, whether he could see them or not. Dean was scowling, obviously not pleased to be reminded of Missouri's good health. "Next time, she's demon Alpo."

Sam just followed him out of the house and into the night. Hermione must have fixed the door, because it locked just fine behind him. He tried not to think about it as he collapsed into the passenger seat of the Impala and Dean slammed the door as he got behind the wheel.

Sam watched as Dean put his hands on the wheel. He thought if Dean hadn't worn his jacket, he would see the tremors traveling up and down his arms.

Dean huffed and reopened the door. "You're driving, bitch."

He had a feeling he should say something grand for the second time tonight. Or think it, at least. Something about loss and realization and how those combined into one giant, maddening, downright suck mess.

"Jerk," he whispered, and prepared to drive out of this town.

fin.