Hermione's not around when Sam wakes up in the morning.
He lies back down on the couch and just listens for a while, trying to find sounds that would indicate someone else in the house besides him. The cabin's silent though. He can hear the wind outside, thinks maybe Hermione has left a window open somewhere because he can hear the birds more clearly than he thinks he should be able to. There are no footsteps though; no sound of anyone human sized moving about.
Yawning, he pushes up, the pressure on his bladder to insistent to allow him to ignore it any longer. He pulls on his jeans, doesn't bother with the fly and shuffles down the corridor to the bathroom.
He opens the medicine cupboard above the toilet while he takes a piss, hand dropping back down to push up under his t-shirt and scratch his stomach while he peruses the shelves. He doesn't find anything interesting; a whole shelf of what looks like homemade herbal products, some with hand written labels that make them look like they were bought at a arts and crafts fair, two extra tubes of toothpaste that look out of place with their marketed packaging, and a packet of contraception pills.
Sam pulls the latter out and studies the name on the prescription label – Hermione Granger - then pushes the box back inside the cupboard, squeezing it back in between a bottle of amber liquid and a tub of pearlescent cream.
He shakes off, tucks his dick back into his boxers and pulls up his fly.
The door opposite creaks open a fraction when Sam opens the bathroom door. He steps back, anticipating making room for another person in the narrow corridor, but it's just the ginger cat. It arches its back and looks up at Sam as though it's assessing him.
Dean had never liked cats much; he thought they were too fickle. Sam's sure it comes from the time they lived in Oregon for two months whilst their dad was trying to track down a group of cultists.
There'd been this bedraggled little tabby hanging around the place where they were staying – all skin and bones and matted fur. Dean had took to trying to coax it in; plates of leftovers and a few tins of cat food he'd swiped from the general store where he'd managed to get a part-time job. It had taken him about a week but he'd got it lapping milk from a dish on their kitchen floor, pleased as punch with his handiwork.
Sam leans against the door frame, stares down at the cat and remembers Dean clear as a bell. See's his brother leaning back against the kitchen counter, grinning at Sam And saying, "See, nothing to it. I'm freaking awesome with animals."
The next day, after Dean had picked Sam home from school, they'd pulled up into their drive and the cat had been sitting in the window of one of the houses across the street, licking its paws contentedly. Dean had grumbled, murmured something about 'fucking freeloading felines' and stomped up into the house, dropping something glittery into the bin as he moved past Sam to switch on the TV.
Sam had hated the cat a little after that too; for putting that look on his brother's face, he just hadn't held it against the whole of it's species.
He drops to a crouch in the hallway and stretches his hand out towards Hermione's cat, his palm towards the floor. He clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and drops his eyes away from the cat's.
He wonders how Dean dealt with Hermione's pet, wonders if it was ever a source of tension.
It takes a few minutes of just sitting there, but then he feels the brush of fur against his skin and when he glances up the cat's rubbing its chin against the edge of his hand, purring lightly.
Sam smiles, reaches out and pulls the ginger fur ball up into his arms. "How about we go look for some food, eh?" he says standing up. The cat struggles for a moment, awkward and trying to find a way to settle in Sam's arms, but at the mention of food it mews loudly and digs its head into Sam's chest.
Sam makes his way into the kitchen, puts the cat down on the table and moves over to the counter.
Hermione's got one of the old fashioned kettles, the type you boil on the stove and that lets you know it's ready with a high pitched whistle. Sam lifts it from the stove and fills it up under the tap at the sink; just enough for two cups in case Hermione gets back.
He feels weird puttering around her house in such a familiar way. It makes Sam feel off balance and awkward like he did every time John dropped them at Caleb's when they were kids.
He pulls open a couple of the cupboards looking for cereal or something else to eat for breakfast. He settles on the breadbin and two of the slices of bread from inside, popping them in the toaster before searching out the coffee and sugar.
The cat meows on the table, its tail puffed up in irritation. Sam finds himself apologising to it without thinking, moving past it to the fridge and pulling out a carton of milk. It meows again, jumps down and rubs its back up against Sam's leg, purring happily.
"Manipulating much?" Sam asks, pouring out a dish of milk and setting it on the floor.
He turns back to the counter and his toast, sees a curl of smoke just starting to lift and swears. He pops the toast - black on one side and leaking a burnt smell that crawls up Sam's nostril. It makes him want to hurl; the smell thick and cloying and lifting memories of dreams he keeps trying to push to one side.
The kettle starts to whistle as Sam drops the toast in the bin. He moves back to the stove, turning off the gas with one hand while his other reaches for the window, lifting the catch and pushing it open. He leans forward across the counter, pushing slightly up so that he can stick his head out the window breathe in the fresh clean air from outside. He closes his eyes, blocks out the stench of smoke and tries to shut a door on the images of Dean that they invoke. When he opens them again, he looks down and sees a familiar groove running the length of the sill.
He traces the routed line with his finger, feels the rough salt filling it up beneath the coat of varnish. When he looks closer he notices a small ring of runes at one end, unfamiliar and unlike any he's seen before in either his Dad's journal or Bobby's books. There's a similar ring at the other end and Sam frowns and pulls back just as the door from the garden opens.
"Morning," Hermione says, pulling off her coat and hanging it loosely on the back of a chair. She glances between Sam and the toaster. "Sorry, it's broken. I keep meaning to drive into town and get a new one. If you give me a minute, I can make some porridge."
Sam leans back against the counter, almost tall enough to perch his ass on the edge of the low worktop. He nods, then decides he should probably say something more. "That would be good. Thanks."
Hermione hums in reply, picks up a basket of logs from the floor and heads into the sitting room with it.
The door outside blows open, light breeze blowing in along with some stray leaves. Sam stands up and walks over on the pretext of shutting it. He curls a fist around the handle, and bends down to look at the step, sees the same familiar line of varnished salt with the odd circle of runes at either end. When he stands back up and closes the door he notices the line of runes etched into the central beam running down the door.
Hermione appears back in the doorway and glances over at Sam as she dusts her hands off on the legs of her jeans. "Thanks! I couldn't have caught the latch properly, it's a bit finicky. I usually have to lock it when I don't want it open.
Sam nods, watches her move over to a cupboard and pull out a jar of oats and a pot. She pauses and looks down at the cat, fond expression on her face. "You little sod, Crooks." She huffs, leaning down to ruffle the fur on the animal's neck.
"You know, much as I'm certain he loves you for it, you shouldn't really give him cow's milk. It's not good for their stomachs. Most people don't realise, but the majority of cats are lactose intolerant."
"Sorry," Sam says automatically, more focussed on the bundles of herbs hanging to dry from the ceiling. He recognises a fair few, notes a number that have associated properties of protection, but the majority he thinks are only known for their medicinal qualities. "I didn't know."
"Oh, it's okay," Hermione says, pouring some milk from the carton Sam left out into the pan. "I'm sure Crooks knew exactly what he was doing." She pauses, setting the pan on the stove, then looks over her shoulder at Sam, grinning as wide as Dean whenever he'd played a prank on Sam. "Besides he'll probably be your best friend for the rest of the day now, so you can deal with his lactose intolerant farts."
Sam cuts his eyes to Hermione sharply.
She's still smiling and she lets out a small laugh before turning back to the stove.
Great," Sam snarks. He watches the line of her back, her arm shifting as she stirs the porridge.
"There's supposed to be a storm due in tonight," Hermione says, voice a little awkward like she's not sure how to make conversation now.
Sam's sure he sees her shoulders tense just a fraction as soon as she's said it. Six months ago, he'd have tried to put her at ease. Instead, he says, honestly curious, "What are the runes on the door and windowsill."
Hermione glances over at him, small frown on her face. "Er – Sorry, huh?"
"The runes." Sam clarifies, and walks over to the door, runs his hand down the line. "I'm pretty sure Dean taught you the salt trick. He always used to do it to any place we stayed more than a couple of weeks. But these runes and the ones on the windowsill - I haven't ever seen anything like these before. Their formation seems completely different from anything I've come across."
Hermione runs her tongue across her lips, cuts her eyes to the left and doesn't answer straight away.
Sam doesn't repeat the question, just waits, can't help but study the different lines of the runes again, trying to find some point of reference.
She turns the gas off, pours the porridge into two bowls and then answers. "You're right. Dean showed me the salt trick, but didn't he show me the runes. I was using them before I met your brother. They're for protection. They're fairly ancient which is why they probably appear unfamiliar to you. Honestly, I don't think there's more than a handful of books in general circulation that you could have come across them in. I'm – specialised."
Sam nods, knows he sounds too eager when he says, "Do you still have any of the books?"
Hermione's lips tilt. "Sorry," she says, and sounds honestly regretful.
"Could you teach me some of them though? What you remember?"
Hermione bites her lip, lifts the bowls up and sets them on the table. "Maybe, but I'm fairly busy right now. Come on, better eat this before it gets cold."
"Are these your parents?"
Hermione looks up from her desk at the question. Sam's standing by one of the bookcases, a photo frame in his hand, the picture angled towards her. She looks at him, runs over the sounds she'd heard but not taken in - hums. All she can hear is the line of text she'd been working on; the two possible variations of intent she'd been trying to ascertain correctly using the only two scrolls she'd been able to find to use as a key. She'd told Blaise she would have the translation of the eighteenth century Centaur text done by next Friday, and right now she thinks she might miss her deadline. It's not urgent and Blaise would understand, but – Hermione clucks her tongue against her cheek and scowls – she hates not finishing something on time.
Sam inclines his head, nudges the photo forward slightly – waits.
Hermione shakes her head, puts down her pencil and shuffles the chair around slightly. "I'm sorry, I was concentrating," she apologises. She looks back down to the photo, recognises the image all too clearly and hesitates. When she speaks she can hear the hic-cup of nerves in her voice, "What did you say, again?"
"I just asked -" Sam pauses. With his free hand he sweeps the hair back off his face, steps back. He turns the picture in his hand and drops his gaze to the left.
Like Dean, Hermione thinks. More than she expected.
"It doesn't matter. Bad habit." Sam says.
Hermione thinks she should let it go. Take the out he's given her and avoid the discomfort of what may follow if she does answer.
"My Mum and Dad," she say's instead, and stands up. She walks over to Sam, moves past him to the shelf. She strokes the top edge of the frame with her thumb, runs it down the side, pushes it into the ledge of the bottom right hand corner. "We always used to go to my Aunt's house in France in the summer."
"You don't anymore?" Sam asks.
Hermione snorts and it sounds bitter even to her. She thinks about the books she's read on dealing with loss and depression. How they'd all agreed it was such an important step - talking about these instigating life events. She looks up at Sam.
"You and Dean didn't talk much, right?"
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"I mean... about stuff."
Sam's eyebrow goes higher, his lip quirks.
"I'm usually a lot more eloquent than this," she says. "Merlin!"
"We talked." Sam says, and the tilt drops from his lips. "But Dean, he -" Sam stalls, mouth open and moving.
"I know," Hermione says. "I – I'd guessed."
Sam nods.
"They're in Australia. Stuff happened that I was involved in. It was safer. I -" Hermione stops mid sentence, looks down at the floor, the way that the wood needs polishing. She breathes in, long and slow, lets it out and does not look up. "It was selfish," she says. "I didn't want to have to worry about them." I didn't want to have to explain, she adds silently.
Sam doesn't say anything.
Hermione watches his hand flex, lift up a fraction and drop back down against his side. She wants to cough and clear her throat, but her mouth's too dry and it doesn't seem to be working.
Fingers squeeze her shoulder and Hermione's head snaps up, eyes focussing on them. She looks at Sam, but he's looking at his hand. She thinks maybe he's as surprised as her by the offer of comfort - who it's coming from and where it's directed.
His hand falls away, clenches into a fist before he stuffs it inside the front pocket of the hoodie he's wearing. "Did it work?" he asks.
Hermione's falters and has to back track the conversation, but then she drops her head again. When she lifts it, she keeps her chin high, making eye contact with Sam and keeping the waver out of her voice. She holds perfectly steady – perfectly sure. "Yes," she says.
"Do you visit them?" Sam's voice has an odd edge to it – thick, like a child about to cry, but there's no hint of tears in his eyes or in the set of his face.
Hermione bites her lip and her fingers itch to pick up the photo frame. She doesn't. She looks along the closest shelf of books, moves down the row until she spots an old fairy tale book, one illustrated by Arthur Rackham that her dad used to read to her as a child.
She smiles, but doesn't feel the way it stretches her mouth. "Sometimes," she says. "It's not the same. As it was before. Too much has – we just don't seem to have that connection any more." What's not the same is that her parent's don't look at her the same way. Sometimes her dad forgets who she is entirely and then blames his age. Sometimes her mom will stop what she's doing, hold Hermione's cheek and ask what happened in that lost year, and she's never really sure exactly what to tell them. She'd tried telling her dad once, but he'd just looked at her like she was a stranger and said her name like it was an alien word.
"It was worth it though," she says. She looks up at Sam, searches his face and realises what she wants him to say is that it was; that she made the right choice.
He doesn't say anything, just hums. His hand reaches up and wraps around Dean's necklace, thumb wrapping itself up in the leather thong.
"Sometimes, I think Dean was glad I left," Sam says. "Dad, too. I think – Sometimes, when I look back it just seems that they gave in too easy. He could have got me to stay, you know? I know he could, but he didn't. He didn't try hard enough." Sam doesn't wait for a response, just huffs out a breath, blows his bangs back out of his eyes and says, "I should get my bag from the car."
Hermione stares at the familiar spine, the well known tears in the dust jacket. She murmurs an acknowledgement and Sam turns away.
"He visited you. I don't know about your dad, but Dean – I know he used to come check up on you. I thought - it was a two way thing."
Sam snorts. "Instead of a crazy 'lets-stalk-my-kid-brother' thing?"
Hermione laughs.
"I knew. I... I figured." Sam shrugs and turns back to the door.
Hermione straightens the frame on the shelf, looks too long at her thirteen year old self smiling up at the camera, her parents either side of her – carefree.
She sighs, thinks how long ago that moment feels and turns back to her desk.
When Sam found the picture it was a pure accident.
He wasn't looking through Dean's stuff. Wasn't sorting it out like he'd accepted that his brother wasn't coming back. Because he hadn't. And Dean was.
Sam had hardly touched Dean's backpack since everything had gone down.
When he'd booked into the first motel he'd come across (ditching Bobby two days after he'd helped him bury Dean), Sam had done nothing more than to shift Dean's stuff from the Impala to the spare bed. Spare because it was all too ingrained in Sam to ask for two queens. Spare because Sam wasn't willing to just ask for one anyway.
And it had sat there for more than a month. Books growing up in piles around it; all of the tomes Sam had been able to find over the past year that dealt with the smallest hint of pacts or deals. All of the ones he'd found since; Dean's jacket, untouched amongst Sam's notes and his desperation and the box he'd buried at a crossroads one week to the day that Dean had died, until one random night as Sam had been downing the last dregs of a bottle of Jack.
Sam had been sitting on the edge of his bed, staring across the gap at the place where Dean should be lying back against the pillows; cracking jokes and flicking the channels on the shitty TV set until he found some porn or a cheesy seventies horror to make Sam roll his eyes and call him a dick.
His chest had felt tight and his head thick with alcohol – muzzy and confused but for Dean, Dean, Dean and nothing was fucking working. Everywhere he looked there was just - nothing.
Sam had turned his cell off one hour after leaving Bobby, fifteen minutes after it had started ringing repeatedly. He'd had to pull over and reach into the inner pocket of Dean's leather jacket ten minutes after that, turn off his brother's phone, shutting it up in the glove box with his own and their father's. It had been the last time he'd touched the coat, other than to dump it on the bed along with Dean's bag.
Sam had curled his hand around the only piece of his brother he couldn't bear not to have close, felt the sharp edges of the talisman dig into his palm, the way the metal warmed against his flesh until it felt like it was almost burning and stared at the familiar worn leather opposite.
Before he left for Stanford, before Dad got his truck and it was still the three of them in the Impala, Sam remembers too many occasions of falling asleep in the back seat, waking up to Dean leaning over the front bench; spreading his jacket over Sam and shushing him back to sleep.
The motel had been cold. The small storage heater had packed up two days earlier and Sam hadn't gotten around to reporting it yet. Couldn't be bothered because usually the buzz of alcohol thick in his veins would take away the chill, let him block everything leaving a blissful numbness humming through Sam's body.
It hadn't that night though and Sam had stood up, reached across the small space and pulled Dean's jacket from the bed, ignoring the book banging to the floor and instead just tugging the coat on. The smell of Dean had still been thick in the leather; clean tang of soap and gun oil heavy and reassuring in a way Jack just hadn't been that night.
Sam had lain back against his pillows, shoved his hand into one of the pockets and pulled out the lump that proved to be Dean's wallet. He flipped it open, stared at the picture of him and Dean that Pastor Jim had taken one summer when Sam was eleven and John was hunting a pack of werewolves in South Dakota.
Dean's face was all awkward angles as a teenager - attractive, but too sharp, too prominent to really sit at ease on his face. Sam had always thought his brother looked a little otherworldly. Dean had always said if anyone had Fae blood in them it was Sam. He's wondered since then if Dean had even thought back on that jibe and the near truth of it.
There'd been the edge of another photo peeking out from behind the bottom corner and Sam had tugged on it, pulling it free of the sheaf.
He'd expected one of the photos they'd found in Lawrence, maybe one of the few of John, but it wasn't.
Sam had brought the picture closer to his face. There was a crease dissecting the centre of it, but the image was still clear despite the break and curled edges. It was of a girl - early twenties, mass of brown hair and her nose buried in a book. She hadn't been looking at the camera, instead just lying on her belly on the grass, reading - relaxed and unaware. There was a cabin in the background that seemed distantly familiar and Dean's leather jacket in a heap beside her.
Sam's stomach had turned over, a tangible flip-flop of discomfort in his gut. He'd tossed the photo onto the bedside table, dumping the wallet on top of it, but not before pulling out the other photo, tucking it under his pillow.
He'd turned onto his front, tucked his head down until his nose brushed soft leather and he could almost make believe he was in the back of the Impala again, Dad and Dean up front and the low hum of the Eagles filling the car.
He thought about the girl in the photo; the trust her unaware posture inferred, the way that picture looked liked Dean had been carrying it around for years and that Sam had been at Stanford three years with hardly any contact.
Sam had drew in a deep breath, thought of the fact that he'd never pushed Dean past the whole 'Hunting things, saving people – getting laid by grateful damsels,' when Sam asked what he'd been up to.
It was a mistake he'd never considered before that moment.
Hermione's working again when Sam comes back into the cabin, his rucksack slung over his shoulder. She barely turns and glances at him; her head bent and preoccupied with the books once more.
Sam glances over at the bookshelf, sees the picture he'd picked up sitting perfectly straight upon the shelf once more.
He looks past it and feels suddenly awkward and out of place. His eyes settle on the bedding he'd used the night before, folded and piled up on the seat of one of the wing-back armchairs. He suddenly realises how presumptuous getting his things must seem because Hermione asked him to stay last night. And Sam gets why she would, knows he was strung out, that he probably still smelt of beer and too much alcohol and that no one half way decent would have let him get back behind a wheel like that. It's just she made no mention of beyond that. Sam's head's too clear and he realises he has no idea what to do next, where to go, except to find Lilith and cut the bitch's head off, but he's not even sure where he would start.
Sam licks his lips, runs his hand through his hair and feels his bag slip on his shoulder, slide down and catch on the joint of his elbow, knocking into the wall as it does so.
Hermione looks back up, swivelling around in her chair.
She's got her hair tied up, Sam notices, twisted into some kind of bun and pinned with what looks like a pencil. Sam smiles, remembers Jess doing the same thing when she was working on a piece for her art class and couldn't be bothered to move away long enough to find a band.
After Jess had died, Sam remembers comparing almost every girl that smiled at him to her; every girl Dean threw his way.
Hermione's not much like Jess; she's a hell of a lot less outgoing for a start. At least she seems that way. Sam can't imagine her walking up to him in a club pulling him down and telling him he's got something on his mouth before licking over his lips.
She's confident, but in a different way, it's more a self assuredness in herself and her abilities than the way Jess just seemed to be carefree.
He wonders what Dean said to her to get her into bed. Doesn't think it would have been Hermione taking the initiative, pushing that boundary.
Hermione's eyes are on his bag, and he drops his gaze away, down to it and back up. "Sorry," he says and lets it slide to his hand, fingers wrapping around the strap and hefting it back up.
Hermione's brow wrinkles and she cocks her head to the side in a way that's becoming familiar. "Umm," she says, frown lines deepening. "Did I miss something?"
Sam wants to explain, but his mouth works around the first word and he tries to remember a time when putting his point across came easily. In the end, he just shrugs and shuffles awkwardly on his feet.
Hermione stands up and shifts closer, stopping a few metres away. Sam catches her looking back to the desk, her teeth biting into her bottom lip.
"I'm just finishing up this chapter, but if you give me half an hour I could get the guest bedroom set up."
Sam looks up surprised, wants to ask again why she's being like this. He wants to know how close she was to Dean, if that's the reason why. Instead, he starts to say, "You don't have to," but Hermione ignores him and carries on.
"There's some work stuff I need to move out first, and It'll need clean sheets, been a while since anyone's –" her voice trails of fades into a cough and she jumps ahead, skips finishing that thought. "I wouldn't be a very good host if I let you take the couch again. Honestly, I'm surprised you fit at all."
Sam hadn't, not really. His ankles and feet had hung of the edge when he'd tried to stretch out on his stomach. He'd ended up having to sleep curled up on his side like he hadn't since he'd been fourteen.
Hermione's already turning back to her desk. She has her pen back in hand and she's shifting the chair, sliding into it.
"I don't -" Sam starts. "Is there a motel in town? I could stay there tonight, you don't have to -"
Hermione looks up at him with an expression that makes him wonder if he said all that in English or slipped into Latin.
"Sam," she says softly, there's pity in her voice and it makes the hairs on the back of Sam's neck prickle like they haven't since the day before and her story about Dean. "And do what? Get drunk again?"
Sam doesn't reply, can feel the truth in her words and hates Hermione a little for throwing it out there.
"You need to deal with this. You can't bury it in a bottle or something equally distracting."
Hermione's voice has gone introverted, her gaze dropping off to the floor and Sam steps closer. "You say that like you - know better." Sam says, eyes narrowed. He thinks back to their conversation about her parents and wants to know how and who. It feels important, like it might change something.
Hermione shakes her head, says, "Not better," in a barely there whisper. "Sam, stay. Please."
Sam lets his bag slide to the floor, he knocks it out of the path of the door with his foot, nods and mumbles, "Sure," then quieter, "Thanks."
Hermione takes longer than the half an hour she'd promised.
Sam lies back on the couch for a while, props his feet up on one arm and flicks through the novel lying bookmarked on the coffee table. He doesn't read much of it, can't focus enough to really get involved in the story. It's about a woman who works in her father's antique book store, the hint of a ghost story perhaps. Sam reads through the first chapter and pictures Hermione as the main character. He has to smile when he looks up and catches her bent in thought, tip of her pink tongue poking out through her lips as she reads.
"You're just Dean's type," he says without really thinking about it. He lies the book back down on the table, folds his arms behind his head and watches Hermione.
"Huh," she says. When she looks up she's got a pen between her lips and another in her hand.
"He liked to pretend he didn't care how slutty a girl was. I think because he thought it wound me up."
Hermione looks at him blankly.
Sam doesn't care, he leans back and closes his eyes. Thinks about how it did wind him tight, how it made him frustrated and exasperated all at once when Dean would just smirk, pull them closer and whisper in their ears.
"He hardly ever took them back with him though." Sam looks up then, tries to gauge Hermione's reaction. He's not sure if he's disappointed or pleased when he sees her just sitting there, watching him, face neutral.
"When we were at school, he always used to go out with the honour students. There'd be these girls on his arm with almost perfect 3.6 GPA's and up wanting to take him home and meet their parents and Dean would panic every time, get caught making out with some other girl and piss them off. I don't think he even realised he was doing it."
Hermione puts her pen down, closes her note book and leans back in her chair just waiting.
Sam shifts and leans forward, crossing his arms over the back of the couch and resting his chin on them.
"He says he doesn't - used to poke fun at me all the time for wanting to be normal, wanting a house and a dog and to stay in one state for more than a semester – but I think he wanted that too, you know? Just didn't think he deserved it. Or could ever have it." Sam rolls his head onto one side.
Hermione shifts in her seat, looks away to the bookcase then back at Sam.
"After Je -" Sam pauses. "After Stanford," he rephrases. "I met one of his old girlfriends. It was on a hunt, she'd called Dean about it."
Hermione bites her lip, shifts again and Sam smiles feeling pleased.
"She was a journalist on a local paper. Intelligent just like Dean likes. Spoke her mind too, idealistic – you know?"
Hermione's cheeks flush, and she drops her head. "Where are you going with this, Sam?" she asks, finally interrupting him. "Are you trying to make me jealous? Trying to gauge how serious me and Dean were? How serious I was about him? You could just ask."
"He just never fit with them," Sam says after a few moments silence. "It was hard to see him with any of those girls – long term. Even Cassie. They never got it. Couldn't. Your – I can see the similarities; smart, studious, respectable with an edge." He chuckles. "I think you're probably pretty moralistic too - taking me in like this, right? Yeah. Kind hearted. Respectable."
Hermione moves to speak, she looks more uncomfortable than he's ever seen her, even when he'd asked her about the drugged coffee. Sam jumps in first, doesn't give her a chance.
"You're quieter though, I think. You seem more closed off. Dean always went for these outgoing girls, the popular girls who seemed surrounded by everyone - everything we've never really had."
Hermione's hands clench and flex and it feels something like a victory.
"You've only been here a day," she says, voice prissy and lips a thin line.
"I think I'm a fairly good judge of character," Sam retorts. "Kind of have to be, you know?"
Hermione takes a slow breath in, lets it out and Sam's sure she's got her tongue between her teeth and is biting down on the muscle. When she looks up and meets his eyes there's a tilt back to the edges of her mouth.
"It's easier to recognise in others what we see in ourselves," she says, and stands up. "I'll go make the spare room up. Give you some space of your own."
Sam narrows his eyes. For some reason he thinks she just won, and he's not sure how when he'd got her so rattled. He's not even sure why.
"Sam," Hermione says, turning in the doorway, "I meant what I said; if you have questions I'd prefer you just asked me directly."