She's a rebel
She's a saint
She's salt of the earth
And she's dangerous
She's a rebel
Vigilante
Missing link on the brink
Of destruction

She's a Rebel, Green Day

She's aware that it's a Monday morning when she wakes up in an unknown bed with a foreign arm lazily draped over her body. The man whose name she quite can't remember lies naked beside her and is steel in a deep sleep. She decides it's as good a time as ever to get up and leave him (and this dingy motel room). She gathers all her clothes which had been carelessly strewn across the motel room's floor during the previous night and dresses herself quickly and quietly (the silencing charm helps quite a bit with that part), not wanting him to wake up before she leaves; if he wakes up, then this (whatever you want to call it) will mean something, and the second it becomes something, it can be manipulated. She's dealt with enough manipulation for a life time.

She exits the room just before sunrise and she makes her way over to her car, an evergreen 1997 Volkswagen Jetta; it's not the prettiest thing she's ever seen, but it's the closest thing she has to a home. She supposes that's got to be enough to count for something.

The engine turns over with a noiseless rumble, and she speeds out of the Days Inn parking lot with a little smirk on her face (she's well aware that she's a heart breaker, and she's a little self-satisfied that at the age of one hundred and twelve, she's still able to twist and touch the hearts, among other things, of men)

She's not quite sure where she wants to go next. She knows for damn sure she's done with jumping from small town to small town and charming the sexist redneck men (that look at her in a degrading manner) who reside in such areas. She's sure as hell not done hexing them, though; that's just too much fun of a pastime to give up.

She's about an hour out of Medford, Oregon, when she decides that California seems like a great place to visit; she hasn't been involved in the hustle and bustle of crowded city life in a very long while. The peace and quiet (which is often confused with monotony) of these small rural areas has really been giving her time to think about what she's been doing with her life in this new universe, and if she has one more conversation with herself about how she should give up on the 'monster hunting' business, as the American's like to put it, shits gonna hit the fan. (On a side note, she also needs to break her habit of pretending that these male 'acquaintances' of hers are Ron.)

She turns up the volume on her radio so that her Weird Sisters tape, which she bought (along with some herbs) a while ago in a little wizarding community right outside Topeka, Kansas, is blaring as loud as she can handle as she cruises down the seemingly never ending stretch of highway on her way to her not- totally permanent destination.

xXx

She makes better time on her journey than she was expecting and it's around noon when she arrives in Stanford, California. Her music, still playing loudly, seems to be bothering the college kids on the sidewalks. Others seem to be having a grand old time poking fun at her, but she doesn't mind; she was once a stingy twenty-something (although she probably had much better reasons to be a sour-pus than these college students ever could fathom, but she doesn't know their life stories). She finds a fairly busy café to eat lunch in, then meanders over to the library because parking was an absolute nightmare to find, and she's not moving her car until the meter runs out (which isn't until about 5:30, because the café was obnoxiously slow, but delicious. Besides, she just put the remainder of her spare change in the meter). She reads some interesting texts on myths and legends (surprisingly, she finds one in the original Latin) before she leaves and goes back to her car.

She finds a reasonably priced motel, where she'll be staying for the night, before driving to the McDonald's down the street for dinner. She returns to the room and watches some of the worst television she's ever seen, when she decides to hit some of the student bars and broaden her American experience.

With the use of her favorite hair unfrizzing charm, she's able to leave the motel room in twenty minutes after eight. She drives around the strip for a while before finally settling on a place that looked like it has a decent sized crowd (there's no better place to hide than in plain sight, not that she's hiding from anything or anyone at the moment). It's when she enters that she realizes that she's sticking out like a store thumb. It's Halloween Weekend; of course all the bars are going to be filled with girls in skimpy nurse costumes and everything in between. She feels entirely out of place in her overly large sweater and her skinny jeans. (She supposes she could always pull out her wand and claim she's a 'wizard' or something; but god only knows that's a disaster waiting to happen.)

So, she decides to pose as one of those cynical young adults that believes that Halloween is only for the children as she makes her way to the bar all by her lonesome.

She can feel all the eyes upon her as she sits in one of the few empty stools. She wishes all these people weren't staring at her; in part, it's her own fault for forgetting that Halloween was Thursday, but just because she wasn't in costume didn't give them the right to eye her up like some sort of candy. Sure, she was all too aware that she had this strange essence of beauty upon her (as Ronald liked to remind her), but she wasn't attuned to the attention, even after being in America for two years. Even though she wasn't used to being on the receiving end of all this attention, she ate it up. None of the men fighting for a chance to take her home tonight really interested her, though she did let one man (She believed he claimed to be Nathan Something on the speech and debate team or whatever the hell it was called) buy her a drink; he wasn't too thrilled when she turned down his advances afterwards.

If she's being perfectly honest, she isn't even listening to him; she's all too focused on the lone man sitting sadly at the opposite end of the bar who looks as if he's a sad puppy with his eyes drowning in the bottom of his amber tumbler (plus, his conversation skills were rather lacking).

She can tell by some weird sixth sense that he's dealt with death, but this death – the most recent one – is fresh and has hit him harder than usual. Despite his disheveled appearance, she can tell that he is dangerous and some part of her brain is telling her to get the hell out of here before something blows up in her face (she's never been one to listen to common sense; she blames Harry and Ron entirely for the possession of that trait and unfortunately passing it along to their children)

She plops herself on the barstool next to him that has recently been abandoned by its previous inhabitant and offers him a small smile, completely aware of the men glaring at the back of her head. Their glowering eyes convince her that she's done the right thing by coming over to speak with him, which in turn makes her smile grow even more. Flagging down the bartender, she buys him a drink and hopes to whatever deity is out there that he doesn't take her gesture the wrong way.

It's now when he turns to face her that she sees how broken this man really is. The aura of loss spout around him like clouds do the eye of a hurricane. It's like she's staring at a mirror image of herself after Ron's death all those years back. She swears to all that she has that the feeling of grief and pain radiating off this man like a space heater is something she's gone through before, and for the life of herself, she wouldn't wish this fate upon anyone.

"I'm sorry," he begins after his drink arrives and the bartender motions towards her when he gives him questioning glance as to where the drink came from, "I'm sure you're nice and all, but it's just not a good time."

"No, no, no –"she quips quickly, "It's just that you looked awful lonely and sad; sort of like you needed a friend or company or something."

"Well, thanks… I guess." He utters as he stares once again into the bottom of his glass. He's making no effort to initiate conversation as he continues to nurse his whiskey. She feels as if he's trying to get her to run away from him. It's almost as if he's weary of speaking because of fear of slipping up (honestly, there's very little that would surprise her anymore. Especially since she figured out that there were muggles that hunted monsters and demons and all the like in this universe.)

Their silence continues comfortably, as the bar draws in even more of a crowd. He finally speaks up as she's downing her third shot of the night.

"Jess… My girlfriend just died." He mumbles so quietly that she almost misses it. Her heart shatters for this man; she knows the pain of losing someone all too well. The loss of someone dear never really goes away (She still misses Ronald, that stupid ass, every day for the last twenty years for god's sake.)

"I'm sorry." She sighs, knowing how insensitive it sounds, but there is really nothing else to say in a situation like this.

"Yeah," he huffs, letting out a shaky breath and she's scared that he's just going to completely break down as he grips his glass so tight his knuckles turn white, "me too. It's just… it just sucks, ya know? I was gonna ask her to marry me – I was savin' up for the ring and everything. Then my brother shows up, sayin' my dad's gone missing or something; my life gets flipped upside down overnight; she's dead when I get back and it's my fucking fault. I should've done something about it." He's still wistful (of that she can tell without this new born sense thing, which she's almost positive has to do with her being the Master of Death), but with that she can discern the rage coming off him in waves, and that terrifies her.

While she can tell there is something so pure and good with in this man's soul, she can also feel an unbelievable dark presence. If she didn't know better, she'd say it's just the grief talking (she does know better; she's the brightest witch of her age for fuck's sake), but she's absolutely sure that there's something more going on than he's telling her.

"It hurts," she says, trying her best to relate her own experiences with his, "I lost my husband, Ron," she smiles, "a few years ago. We had married young – fresh out of school – and when he died, it just felt like… like my whole world had just come to a halt."

"Does it ever go away?" he questions as if he already knows the answer.

"The pain? No, it's here," She points at her heart, "and it hurts. But that's how you know it was real. So you take that pain and anger and you push it down and keep living because there's nowhere to go but forward. And who knows, maybe you'll meet someone else that makes you just as happy and loved as they did."

"So a replacement?" he implies.

"Do you honestly think anyone could ever replace her?" she challenges, baffled.

"No." he admits after a few seconds of a poignant pause, "for what it's worth, I'm sorry about your husband."

"Thanks." She downs the last shot in front of her.

"Sam," He blurts, "I'm Sam."

"Hermione." She extends her hand, and he shakes it. His hands are big and calloused (and not much unlike the hands on Dean, the hunter that saved her from the werewolves she had first encountered in this universe) but also gentle. She's learned over her many years that it's easy to figure out a lot about a person by their hands, so it's the handshake that gets her to trust this Sam fellow.

"I take it you're not from around here." He starts, and her smile gleams as she prepares a way to distract him from the freshness of his loss in the most interesting (and inaccurate) way possible.

xXx

It's around three in the morning and she's still taking to Sam; as it turns out he's studying pre-law (which she seems to think is a perfect career for him) and he also happens to rather enjoy reading (after which they promptly nerded out over Charles Dickens, because who doesn't adore the inventor of the paperback book). At one point during their conversation, she even had him smiling.

She's just about to leave when he asks for her number. The men who had been staring at her for the majority of the night had lost interest a while back (she may have placed simple hexes on them as they left the bar one-by-one with a 'nurse' in hand), so she's not too worried one of them is going to follow her out and beat her up in an ally for declining them (not that she would let them, but it is a reasonable fear). He hands her his phone and she punches her mobile number in quickly. He responds with a quick thank you as she returns his phone to him, and hugs her in return. (He's a very nice hugger; he sort of hugs like her daughter, and that familiarity is nice, needed even.) She hasn't been touched in such an intimate way in a long time (despite all the sex she's been having recently; this is something completely different, and casual sex is the least intimate things she can possibly think of), and Hermione knows that she should at least make an effort keep in touch with him.

"If you even need anything, just give me a buzz." She suggests, "I'll probably be either driving or reading, neither of which are as important as a friend."

"I can't thank you again."

"Then don't." she laughs. He's still holding onto her, and however nice his hugs are, he's griping her rather tight and it's starting to hurt, "Sam."

"Oh, yeah," he lets go of her tiny body, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment, "Sorry."

"You're fine. I've got to go; see you around!" she turns around before he can answer. Not looking where she's walking she tries to make her way to the door, but runs into a wall of muscle mass.

"Watch where you're going, sweetheart." The voice sounds familiar, like a much loved melody that you can't quite put your finger on. She looks up at the source.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." She groans. Of course it's Dean. That's the last thing she needs – a hunter in the area. If he's here that means something else must be also and the last thing she needs him to know is that she's taken up his line of business of hunting (and cursing and hexing and jinxing) things.

"Hermione?" he questions, testing out the name.

"Unfortunately." He rolls his eyes.

"Fancy seeing you here." He smiles. He looks pretty in the dimly lit room and she's sure the excess alcohol in her system is making her see things she shouldn't be. He looks like someone she'd take home, but she knows better than to mess with him; he's not someone to get involved with even if it is just for the night (although she's been hearing he has quite the reputation with in the hunting community)

"Likewise." She retorts, cautiously, "What brings you here?"

"I'm here to pick up my brother, Sammy. He just lost his girlfriend and I just wanted to make sure he didn't drink himself into a coma."

"Jesus Christ." She almost screams.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" he inquires with a smirk, although she would like to believe he was a little bit concerned for her welfare.

"Is sad, lonely, distraught, Sam your brother?"

"You've met him?" His face lights up in surprise. She mumbles something under her breath that's so quiet he can't catch it, so he doesn't bother worrying about it.

"So what killed Jess?" She questions, cutting straight to the chase.

"A demon…," he whispers, rolling his eyes despite being very serious," Are we seriously having this conversation at three in the morning?"

"Yes!" she hisses, not sure of what is coming out of her mouth at this point, "This is bad; this is very terribly bad."

"No shit, babe."

"Can you not." She growls, but her eyes light up in recognition as that damned sense thing comes back and she remembers the conversation she and Death shared those two years ago and she looks up at the ceiling, "Why is that I always get picked to the hopeless causes?"

"What was that?"

"Just shut up and get your brother. Here's where I'm staying. Be there by four; we're leaving at five. If I'm not mistaken and if I was given the correct information, you have a case."

She practically sprints out the bar so that she can get to her Jetta fast enough. She unlocks the car with an angry whisper of Alohomora and almost takes the car door off when she opens the door. The car starts and she speeds off into the night making it to her motel room in five minutes.

Not ten minutes after she's finished putting everything back in order, Sam and Dean come bursting in with shotguns pointing at her. In her state of shock, she points her wand at them. (Looking back on it, this was one of her many mistakes and it made gaining their trust much harder than it should have.)

"Put the stick down!" they both shout; she lowers her wand. She's no idiot and is quite aware that Dean won't hesitate to shoot her if she does or says something wrong, "Now you wanna explain what the hell is going on around here? Or do you wanna get two nice little holes right through your head."

And so she begins with her signature bloody Americans. (They didn't take lightly to her being a witch, as Dean shot her in her thy, but somehow, by the grace of god, as it seems, they didn't kill her.)

xXx

It's five in the morning as she's strapped into the back seat of Dean's Impala ( the one car that's ruined her taste in mechanics forever) and they're on their way to the last coordinates written down in their fathers journal.

It's honestly scary how accurate Death can be; the story he had told her by her bedside, which she had forgotten for a little more than two years, had been spot on.

And so her impossible task (of making sure the Winchester's don't die any more than they need to) begins just as it was told.

Here's chapter two. I'm sorry if Hermione seems a little OoC (actually I'm not) it's just how I wanted this to story to go.

I hope you liked it! And please, it doesn't take too much time, drop in and leave a lil review or favorite or follow. Every little bit helps motivate me to sit my but down and write more.

Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate it!

(And a happy belated Hanukkah to y'all!)

Thanks again,

bleuboxes