One week after the visit from Ruby, Hermione gets a call. Sam thinks it's the first time he's heard her phone ring since he's arrived. He's actually a little surprised she has a phone.

It starts ringing while Hermione's outside, gathering vegetables for dinner. Sam had been working on some questions from one of the old Arithmancy text books Hermione had given him, taking advantage of Hermione's rarely vacant desk, when the shrill chirping catches him off guard. He has to look for it and it takes a while for Sam to track it down to the high up, corner bookshelf where it's stood, half hidden by some sort of vase. By the time he gets to it and picks up the call, the phone's already rang off once, promptly starting back up a moment later.

It's a new phone and seems out of place in the cabin. When the noise had first started Sam had expected to track down some old antiquated rotary telephone.

"Hello," Sam says and feels a moment of awkwardness answering Hermione's phone, like he's over stepping some invisible boundary. "Uh, Hermione's phone," he adds.

No one says anything straight away and Sam wonders if it's a wrong number, then a male voice says, wary and uncertain, "Who's that?"

Sam hesitates before he responds, not sure how to answer. The person on the other end sounds surprised not that Sam expected anything else. Apart from himself and Dean, Hermione rarely talks about anyone in her life, it's usually only when Sam pushes and it's always brief and quickly brushed aside.

"I'm a friend of Hermione's," Sam says, and the last of the awkwardness seems to fade away with the simple answer. There's a cough on the other end and the person starts to say something, but Sam jumps in first. "She's in the garden, I'll just get her. Hang on."

Sam watches Hermione talk into the phone. Her face is flushed and while Sam can only here one half of the conversation, the way she half whispers her answers, flustered and embarrassed, makes him smile. He remembers having conversations like that with Dean.

"Harry, he's just a friend. What? No! I'm just – he needed somewhere to stay." Hermione pauses then, "No, I know I haven't mentioned him. I didn't know him then. Okay, yes, that sounds bad, but – it's complicated. I -"

Hermione pauses and her face goes from exasperated to pissed off. She stops pulling her hair and places her free hand on her hip, glaring down the phone.

"What do you mean you think it's good?" She coughs, flushes redder and then turns to Sam, she holds the phone against her chest and doesn't quite meet Sam's eyes as she excuses herself and moves out of the room into the hallway.

Sam picks the textbook back up, tries not to listen to the mumbled conversation fading down the hall with footsteps. He can't help but overhear her hiss, "It's not like that. Merlin, no you don't. Yes, well me either so can we just not talk about it."

When she comes back in Sam doesn't look up at her, he pretends to follow the text in his book and watches her discreetly in his periphery. Hermione's cheeks are still tinged pink and he can't resist, glancing up and asking, "It's not like what?"

Hermione stutters to a stop and stares at Sam with her mouth open and working. Sam lets the moment drag on, cocking his head and raising an eyebrow, before finally letting his face break into a smile.

Hermione glares, brushes her hair back off her face and huffs.

"Sorry," Sam says, though he can't keep the hint of laughter out of his voice.

"You sound it." Hermione looks away, bites her lip.

Sam sits up, tracks the tense line of her shoulders and frowns. "What's wrong?"

"I have to go away for a few days."

Sam doesn't interrupt, just waits for Hermione to continue, he watches her teeth split the skin on her bottom lip, a bead of read blooming and finds his thoughts straying to what this is like.

"They're moving Ron to a new ward. Trying something different."

She's still chewing on her lip and Sam inexplicably thinks of Hermione saying she tried to cure him; that she promised and he understands in a way he didn't fully that night. Understands too well.

"I know the timing's bad, with Ruby and -" She shrugs, regretful. "I have to be there."

She looks up at him and Sam sees the hope he doesn't think he's felt himself for months.

"It's okay," he tells her. "You should go."

Hermione smoothes the hair back off Ron's forehead, his eyes blink open and he smiles at her; familiar and lopsided - confused.

An old ache she's learnt to bury awakes in her chest.

"Do I know you?" he asks. His voice is thick and clumsy, like a child still learning to talk, phonemes mixed up and the pronunciation lazy.

Hermione smiles weekly in return, cups his cheek and says, "Yes. Sorry, it's been a few months."

Ron smiles blankly back. "Okay."

His hand starts twitching on the bed sheet. It starts off in his fingers, spreading up to his arm and his shoulder.

"I'm thirsty." Ron tries to push up, reach out for the beaker on the table, but his arm buckles under his weight and his hand knocks the beaker to the floor.

Hermione winces and picks it up.

"Sorry," Ron says, brow furrowed in concentration.

What hurts the most is the thought of how much of Ron is still trapped inside a body and mind that don't quite work together; the way he looks so stressed when he can't remember who someone is or how he can't understand why doing simple things is so difficult.

"I'll go get you a drink, okay?" Hermione leans down, kisses his forehead and gives his shoulder a squeeze.

"'mione?" Ron says, syllables slurring together through his groggy voice. He smiles, genuine and hopeful. "We should go out after as Harry kills him."

Hermione blinks hard. "Yes, Ron. Yes, we should."

When Hermione comes back Harry's sat in her chair. She steps around the other side of the bed and slides a hand under Ron's head to tip him up. "Drink?" she asks.

Ron frowns up at her and looks across to Harry, who nods.

"Yeah," he says, and she brings the beaker up to his lips, lets him take a long sip before pulling it away and setting it on the side.

"Thanks," Ron says. "You're new."

Hermione sighs and looks down. When she looks up Harry's watching her with a look of sympathy. "Good to see you," he says.

Hermione nods. "You too, Harry."

Ron's arm's still shaking and Hermione busies herself by looking at his chart.

"When did you get in?" Harry asks.

"Took a Portkey from New York this morning. I've been here about an hour. Went and picked up some supplies from Diagon Alley first." She flips a page of the notes over, hums. "His medication's due soon," she says and when she looks up she sees one of the mediwitches heading their way.

"I'm, uh, going to get a drink," she says. "I'll be back in a bit, okay, Ron?"

"Sure. I'm sleepy."

"Okay. Get some sleep." She kisses him again and he frowns at her, for a moment she thinks he might have another moment of lucidity, but instead he just blinks heavily and yawns.

"I'll come with you," Harry says, standing up.

"No, stay. It's okay, I won't be long."

"Nah, me and Ron can catch up in a bit, can't we mate?"

Ron smiles and yawns again, longer this time.

"See."

"You look good," Harry says, setting two cups of tea down on the canteen table.

Hermione looks up at the comment, a little startled. "Sorry, I was just -"

Harry nods and looks so much older than his years; tired and worn down. "Yeah, I know."

"How's Teddy?"

Harry smiles. "He's good. Andromeda's looking after him for a few days. They've gone down to Cornwall with Fleur and the other children."

Hermione smiles and looks down at the table. "I'm sorry," she says.

"What for?"

Hermione flicks her eyes up briefly. Harry's bent over, head cocked to one side and trying to catch her eye.

"Seriously, Hermione?"

"I just – I just left. It's just, it was so -" Hermione hiccups back the word 'hard.' It's true, more so than she's comfortable admitting even now, and she hates the fact that she gave up so easily. She hates that it's been eight months since she even looked at her research into Ron's condition; that she hasn't since Dean turned up and told her about his deal.

Harry reaches across the table, squeezes Hermione's hand and says, "I know. It's okay -"

"No, it's not. I just left you all because it was easier to not be here. Because it was too difficult. Because I wasn't making any progress and I hated not being able to fix this, hated the way everyone kept looking at me with all this hope and expectation and how I was just letting you all down."

"You didn't leave entirely, Hermione. You've been back."

"I've visited, a few times a year. It's not the same. Don't make excuses for me, Harry. I left. I left you and Molly and Ginny. I left Ron. And it's not okay."

Hermione hears Harry let out a long exhalation of breath. He sounds tired and she tries to remember a time when he didn't. She comes up with a memory of five years earlier when she'd visited the Weasley's for Christmas; Harry on the floor helping Teddy open a mound of presents, the way he'd been smiling the whole time - the whole day.

"We never expected you to make him better, Hermione. No one did."

Hermione wipes her eyes, looks up.

Harry's looking at her calmly, but his forehead's creased and he pushes his glasses up his nose, something he always used to do when he was uncomfortable; fiddling with the way the arm sits on his ear. She feels a little too raw and it seems so long since they were this honest with each other. Ron's condition was one thing, but as Harry's hand drifts to rub at the back of his neck, she realises she's missed this too, has felt the loss of this ease with Harry just as keenly.

"You all kept looking at me -" she starts to answer, because they did. She saw it in Molly's face every time she brought her dinner upstairs to her desk and asked how she was doing.

Harry shakes his head. "No," he says. "It wasn't like that. The best mediwitches and wizards have looked at Ron's case; have researched it, examined him and treated him. And he's not the only one to be affected this badly by these types of curses." His voice is slow and sure - steady like Lupin when he taught them. Hermione watches his lips tilt down and recognises it from too many mornings spent staring in the mirror - regretful. "You were eighteen, almost nineteen and we all know you're bloody scary brilliant, Hermione, but no one expected you to cure him. We just hoped you'd find your own way and be able to move on."

Hermione blinks. "You seemed so frustrated with me all the time. So angry?"

"I just wanted you to stop pretending everything was okay, but I didn't know how to get through to you. Molly said we had to let you work it out your own way, but I just –" Harry sighs.

"Oh!" Hermione says and thinks of the argument they had when she'd first decided to leave.

She looks down.

"I'm glad you got there," Harry says, and rubs his neck again, tugging at the neck of his jumper. "You know with your... At the... Uh, you know?"

"What?"

"Your, uh - houseguest?"

Hermione feels her cheeks heat and looks away quickly saying, "It's not like that."

"Well, whatever. It's helped right. I mean that's why you're like this now – talking and stuff," Harry says, then adds quickly. "Ron would understand."

Hermione thinks she wants to be sick. She rubs her hand over her stomach and quickly stops before Harry gets any more wrong ideas.

"I mean even if the new treatment works, it's not going to be quick. He's never going to be how he was. He'll need to do a lot of work, and might never be – I'm just saying, it's not a cure and I know you and he kind of - you know, but no one would judge you, least of all Ron if this, uh, turned out to be, you know?"

Hermione thinks she hears Harry swear and when she glances at him he's looking anywhere but at her. Any other time it would be amusing.

"It's not like that," she says firmly again, and Merlin she feels like she's saying that a lot lately. Her stomach flops and she feels acid burn her throat. "He's just – he just needed a friend," she says adds silently that maybe they both did.

Harry looks at her until Hermione has to shift in her seat under the weight of his eyes. Sometimes – most of the time – Harry can be almost as obtuse as Ron used to be, occasionally he can be all too perceptive.

Eventually, he looks away, nods and takes a sip of his drink. "Okay," he says, but it really doesn't sound like that.

There are lights on in the cabin when Hermione Apparates the last step of the journey home. She stands at the gate a moment longer than necessary and takes in the knowledge that she's coming home to someone. It's a realisation Hermione thinks she probably should have had before, after she'd met Blaise in town, but it feels more poignant now after being away for a few days and with the forest so dark.

Hermione smiles, understands what Harry had meant a little better and walks up the path.

The fires on when she unlocks the front door and steps inside and there's the smell of tomato soup coming from the kitchen. "Hello!"

"Hey," Sam calls back. "Hungry?"

Hermione reserves judgment until reaches the kitchen. Sam's at the stove, stirring. "Home made?" she asks, glancing around the room and expecting to see an empty tin.

Sam looks over his shoulder and smirks. "I can cook!" he says, mock offended.

"Sorry," Hermione replies. "I just thought, what with moving around a lot -"

Sam's smile dims a little. "Jess taught me a little. Dean's the cook of the family."

Hermione looks up, surprised, and tries to imagine Dean in the kitchen doing anything other than trying to get her pants off. "Really?"

Sam's looking away again, back to the pot. "Yeah," he says, and his voice is soft, fond. "He never cooked for you?"

"No," Hermione says. Almost adds that they never really got much cooking done when Dean strayed into the kitchen during a visit, but it feels oddly awkward to talk about that with Sam now. Hermione's not sure she's entirely comfortable with why.

"He makes - He always made a mean chilli," Sam says.

Hermione swallows at the slip and thinks about how her and Harry had started to talk about Ron in the past tense. She hadn't realised they'd been doing it until now, but they had and it feels a bigger betrayal than anything else. She wonders if Sam feels the same and tries to recall what she says when she talks of him.

"Here you go," Sam says, placing two bowls on the table and pushing a spoon across the space towards Hermione.

"Thanks."

"'s okay."

Hermione's washing up their dishes in the sink with her back to Sam, letting him just watch without observation.

"You ever think about coming home to Dean, like this?" Sam asks.

The question's out of the blue and he wants to take it back as soon as he's said it. It's one of those random thoughts he has about this situation that should never be said aloud. It's one of the moments that Sam remembers what brought him here and who Hermione was to Dean. It's important and he wants it to be. He wants Hermione to reaffirm the verbal confirmation she's already given him. At the same time it makes something twist in his stomach; ugly and confused.

Her shoulders tense and her head seems to drop down, long wayward curls breaking free to dangle in the soapy water in the sink.

"Don't answer that," Sam adds quickly.

Hermione's head bobs in acknowledgement, but she stays quiet, withdrawn.

He thinks about the times he'd come home from school and Dean would be with some girl. He remembers walking into the kitchen one afternoon after math club, Dean had Chloe Macintyre hoisted up on the worktop, legs spread around Dean's hips and his brother's hand on her thigh, disappearing under her skirt.

He stood in the doorway watching Dean's hand move and twist, sliding higher, the distant sounds of Chloe's laugh and the way her cheeks had flushed and she'd pushed his brother off when she caught Sam staring.

Sam's never really gotten along with any of the girls Dean brought back or dated. Even things with Cassie had felt strained.

It wasn't just that they weren't good enough for his brother, though they weren't, Sam just hadn't had much interest in any of them nor them in him. Sam guesses he got in the way; Dean had cancelled on a date more than once because Sam was having problems with a class and needed help or had just had a tough day.

Sam looks at Hermione's back and thinks of Dean visiting her; Dean knowing where the spare key to the front door's kept and just walking in and surprising her.

For a moment Sam stares at the hint of skin where Hermione's jumper's rode up above the waist band of her jeans and sees Dean's hand there and imagines coming home to them.

Everything seems suddenly so much more unfair than it has since Lilith took Dean. Sam feels a desperate and familiar need for revenge spike through him and it's a struggle for a moment to push it down.

Sam pulls the lid from the cookie jar, pulling out a biscuit. "I think I made a break through with one of the puzzles in the text you gave me," he says, forcing his concentration elsewhere. It feels necessary now to fill the silence that's built up in a way it doesn't usually. It's enhanced by the fact that Sam's had no one to talk to for three days. He's missed it in a way he didn't after Dean died; when he'd only wanted to talk to his brother and couldn't be bothered with the pleasantries necessary to deal with anyone else. He leans back against the table and starts to talk about the problem, how once he'd started to understand some of the principles better the puzzle had been so much easier to translate from the Latin and had just unravelled.

Hermione's shoulders loosen as he talks so Sam carries on.

"It's nice," she says, cutting through one of Sam's pauses for breath.

"It is," he agrees. "It's kind of nice to be able to sit back and see the progress you've made as well."

"No, not that. I mean coming home to someone. I'd forgotten."

"Oh." Sam says. "Yeah."

Hermione's visibly off balance for the rest of the night.

After they'd finished dinner, Sam had tried to ask about her trip, how it went. She'd shut down, hadn't responded, pretended to carry on with her work as though she hadn't heard.

It wouldn't be unusual if she hadn't, but Sam could tell that this time she had from the forced set of her head, the way she was careful to keep him out of her line of vision.

Sam lets it drop in the same way Hermione hadn't made him talk about Dean when he'd first arrived; had let Sam push the discussion.

He goes back to his book, makes a note in the margin of the pad he's using to scribe the translation.

"Do you feel guilty?" Hermione says, breaking the silence of the room.

Sam doesn't get chance to answer because she carries on. He does, more so because Dean died for him. More so because the one thing Sam promised his brother he'd do for him he failed at. More so because he looks at Hermione and doesn't miss Dean any less, but he finds it easier to pretend he does.

"It was always the three of us. We always looked out for each other. Even when we were arguing I knew they had my back. But I wasn't there when it counted. Harry's got an excuse, his reason is permissible, but mine –"

"Hermione -" Sam tries to say.

"It's not even that though, or that I can't find a cure. It's that – we were just starting, you know? We'd taken so long to get to that point and we were finally there, on the same page and together and we never really got to start.

"It seems so unfair that I got the chance to try that with someone else and Ron never did. I think that's why it didn't matter, that Dean was never in the position to offer more because I didn't feel like I -" She hiccups a half sob, swallows it down and meets Sam's eyes and Sam understands, feels his own throat close up in shared empathy.

In his head, Sam hears Hermione when he first arrived. He hears her telling him to stop being selfish, to not waste Dean's sacrifice and hears it again in the rise and fall of the tone of Hermione's voice now; in the fractured pitch and broken timber.

He's thinks right now he's supposed be the supportive one, mirroring her words back at her, telling her not to beat herself up. He can't though. The words won't come and he isn't sure that's exactly what Hermione's looking for anyway. So instead, he chooses a different tactic, one he knows Hermione employed with him too.

"I have a problem with this chapter. I've looked at the chapters that supposedly explain this particular strategy for this strain of Arithmancy, but it doesn't make sense. It doesn't correspond to the translation I've done. I think maybe there's a different interpretation, one that contradicts the theory, but would support the result."

Hermione just stares at him and it seems to drag on a beat too long, enough that Sam questions whether he misinterpreted his reaction. He's almost sure he couldn't have told her it was okay, though. Sam learnt to lie on the job, but he always sucked with anyone close. Dean and Jess could both always see through him and it was just easier to tell the truth. He thinks he should be more shaken by the realisation that Hermione has fitted herself so quickly into this category, but he really isn't.

Hermione draws an intake of breath and says, "Show me what you have."

It starts innocently enough, not that Sam hasn't thought about this, but it's not something that ever had any real intent behind it. It couldn't.

Except for that once and that had been different.

What Sam had wanted had been different; all tied up in confused tangled knots of his brother, his grief, and something that felt like it had been stolen from him unfairly and that he wanted – needed – back.

Sam shows Hermione the text and his notes, starts to try and explain the conflict between the theory in the books Hermione had given him and this particular chapter which seems to tear the theory apart.

It works exactly as Sam had hoped. She scans through the chapter and Sam's interpretation, correcting the grammar of the translation with pencil marks in the margin as she goes.

Sam smiles at the attention to detail, the way she can't help herself. Her brow's furrowed and she's frowning down at the page in concentration and Sam's always found that attractive. Dean did too. He liked focus, however it was directed. Sam guesses it's a hangover from their upbringing.

She starts muttering on the fourth page, eyes flicking back and forth between the neat type and Sam's messy shorthand.

Sam's stayed back until now; leant against the couch cushions, content to watch Hermione get preoccupied, but he leans forward and tries to hear.

"I don't understand," she says, voice a quiet hum. "No, that can't be right. I haven't seen – Arithmancy isn't a discipline you can manipulate."

"Is that why you like it?" Sam asks.

"Huh," she looks up, teeth biting that fucking lip again and Sam almost forgets what he asked.

"Uh," he hesitates, watches her pink tongue dart out and over an imprint of teeth. "I asked if that was why you liked it," he says again. "With Math, back at school, that was what I liked. Our lives were so – I'd say unpredictable, but they really weren't. Not for us. But they weren't steady, and Math was just – there was no inconsistency to it. There's always a right and wrong answer, always the same answer. It just made sense."

Hermione just looks at him, and Sam starts to feel self conscious in a way he really hasn't for a long time. He rubs the back of his neck, something he's sure he picked up from Dean, cuts his eyes away. "Sorry, you were -, I interrupted your flow."

"No, it's okay. I mean you did, but yes." She flushes. "That is why I like it. Translating has some of the same appeal in that there's a formula; a key to all languages, but it's not exact like Arithmancy. It's dependant to some extent on perspective and interpretation, but I enjoy the unravelling aspect of it. Arithmancy was one of the only subjects at school I found that doesn't really change - nothing else seemed as reassuring. I expect that's another reason why I disliked Divination so much."

Sam nods. "Maybe I made a mistake."

"Umm," Hermione agrees, looking back at the page, she takes a minute to finish reading then looks up and says, "Yes, I think this is the problem".

Her face is bright and full of success, but it's not condescending, just open and honest with shared interest and discovery.

Sam doesn't really think.

He leans in and Hermione looks back down at the book, pointing to something, thinking that's his intention - to see.

It's really not, at least not the book at any rate.

Sam's hand catches Hermione's chin and tilts it up. Her lips part on a question, and Sam can see the flash of straight white teeth and pink.

He leans in the last few inches, gives her chance to pull away and when she doesn't he presses his mouth against Hermione's and kisses her.

Sam feels her hesitate, her mouth closing against his, trying to gentle the kiss into something else. Sam almost lets her. He starts to pull back and ease off, but her hand reaches out, grasping on to his upper arm in contradiction and Sam begs her mouth back open with small swipes of his tongue.

Hermione makes a sound; a short puff of surprised air pushing out into Sam's mouth. He swallows it down, feels her bottom lip move against his, slotting and fitting just right, leaving him open to suck it inside his mouth, and it's good. Sam has the thought that they've always been heading here; that Dean knew.

He shifts closer, tipping Hermione back with a hand on the small of her back, except then she's pulling back, pushing against his chest and shaking her head.

"Sam, stop. We've been over this. I'm not – This isn't what you -"

Sam's hand is pulled from her chin, but he catches Hermione's shoulder before she can put too much distance between them. "Don't tell me what I want," he says. "Fuck! I know what you're not, Hermione. That's not what I want. Not from this anyway."

Hermione's looking away from him, lips downturned. Sam's not sure she's listening to him, because she's worrying her lip and her fingers are digging into the leather of the book's bindings. Sam, runs his finger along the back of her hand, tries to draw her attention to the pressure she's inflicting. It doesn't work, a nail digs in and Sam can see the impression it makes; the way a jagged edge of it has scratched into the surface as Hermione's nail's slipped down.

"Hermione," he says, lifting her hand from the book, dropping his other hand to slide the book away to safety, not willing to worry her further right now and draw attention to the damage. "Come on. Tell me you don't want this. I've seen you."

"Sam," she says, and still won't look up. "I don't – It doesn't matter, it's not right. You -"

It's a lot like getting woken up with a bucket of ice water and Sam feels like a dick.

He swears and he's not sure if it's at Hermione or himself, he thinks it's more likely to be the latter though. "Sorry," he says and pulls both his hands back using them to push himself up from the chair. The couch's cushions seem to protest his escape and try to pull him back, but he pushes forward and stands. "I thought maybe you – I thought we might - Sorry."

Sam turns and his throat feels clogged with something that seems to threaten to choke him. He pushes his hair back off his face, wipes his hand roughly against his forehead, but can't get past Hermione's 'not right,' the way she hadn't been able to look at him.

"God, fuck! Sorry," he says suddenly, stopping in front of the door to the bedrooms. He doesn't think he's apologising to Hermione anymore. He curls his hand around Dean's amulet and leans forward, rests his head against the wood of the door and tries to stop seeing himself leaning forward into that kiss and Hermione's face when she'd pulled back, the disappointment in it. He tries not to think about what he'd thought about Dean. He feels the metal press into his palm and tries to focus on that instead. It doesn't seem to help.

Sam starts at the feel of a small hand catching his elbow, holding on and tugging. It's a moment before he hears his name being said softly - urgently - with each pull.

When he turns, letting Hermione urge him around, it's with the intention of more apologies, of backing away and trying to brush this off, hoping Hermione will let him as easily as she did before even if it's a different mistake he's made.

"Sam," she says and she's lifting up onto her toes, pressing forward, and Sam doesn't even register the kiss until her tongue's pressing between his lips; tentative and unsure.

Sam groans, his hands fit over Hermione's hips, fingers hooking into belt loops and trying to pull her closer. It's good, Sam feels something settle even as he thinks about Dean again; 'not right' and almost. He tries to pull back, but Hermione hums a protest, bites into his lip, and he smiles against the kiss.

"Fuck, should have known you'd be just as bossy with this," he says.

"Shut up," she replies, puffing hair back off her face. Her hand slides up Sam's chest and around the back of his neck, pulling him back down into another kiss.

It's harder, Hermione's more insistent. She presses in quickly and their teeth clack before Sam puts a hand on Hermione's cheek and moves them until the angle's right. He slides his tongue inside Hermione's mouth this time and pushes in deep, letting it skim against her own as he tries to take back some of the control.

Hermione doesn't let him.

He can feel the dimples in her cheek as she smiles, sucking on his tongue before forcefully slowing the kiss down like it's a dare.

Sam growls out a, "Fuck this," against her mouth and his hands move down, dig into her ass and hoist her up. He uses his elbow and shoulder to push off from the door and Hermione's legs wrap around his waist with a, 'humph.'

Sam turns around, pushes the plant and book on the small drop leaf table next to the door, to one side.

"Careful," Hermione cautions, the word breathed against Sam's mouth.

"Not gonna drop you," Sam says back, biting that damn bottom lip and setting Hermione down on the table.

"I meant with my book."

Sam laughs at that, then lets his tongue take a last swipe against her lips before moving down; licking and sucking at the skin below her ear, under her chin, moving down her neck towards her collar bone.

"Fuck! Don't think I realised," he says.

Her skin tastes sweet, it's like honey laced with salt and Sam remembers buying popcorn with Dean, mixing sweet and salted together and eating it while watching shitty horror movies, taking the piss out of the badly written lore.

He mind drifts and he doesn't think. That's why it happens.

Hermione's making these little noises and Sam can feel his dick responding; heavy weight settling and building between his legs as it hardens, pushes up against his fly. He remembers the first drink he had after burying Dean; the pleasant numbness that settled in his head after his sixth. This isn't like that. It doesn't drown out everything else like the alcohol did. Dean's still there. He's still a heavy weight in Sam's chest that he doesn't want to ever move, but for the first time Sam doesn't feel quite so exhausted from its presence.

Hermione fists a hand in the hair at the nape of his neck and Sam's nose is full of the scent of her shampoo; familiar now from all the times he's used it himself.

"Were you like this with Dean?" he asks, biting the lobe of her ear. "Pushy like this?" It's not a conscious decision, just a thought, fast and fleeting like all of the other times he's looked at Hermione and tried to fit her into Dean's life. Sam doesn't even realise he's said it at first, not until she freezes up and her mouth stops responding to his.

He pulls back, not enough to break contact or give either of them chance to pull away and break this up, but enough to catch Hermione's eyes.

She's not looking at him, but her hands are still bunched in the fabric of his t-shirt and her legs are still around his waist, if a little looser.

"Hermione," Sam says and she looks up at him.

She licks her lip and almost bites it. She doesn't at the last minute, but her tongue flicks out again like she's tasting something there.

"I didn't mean..." Sam tries to explain, but she cuts him off.

"Sam, don't. This – Merlin! I don't know what I'm doing." She laughs and it's hollow and full of scorn that Sam doesn't think is directed at himself.

"No!" Sam shakes his head. "I know what you're thinking, but this isn't about that. That wasn't about that."

Hermione cocks her head to the side, question clear. She doesn't say anything, but she's looking at Sam like she's trying to work something out and just isn't sure. "I know you think that, but -"

Sam pulls back. "Shut up a minute," Sam says.

Hermione bites her cheek and goes from confused to pissed off; glaring at Sam.

He smiles. "Just – listen. Okay?" He lets Hermione's legs slide down and gives her just enough space to move away if she wants, without letting her weight slide totally to the table, just enough so she's still steady, just enough so he's still got his hands on her hips. "I want this. I want to try this?" Sam says and tries to sound as certain as he is, but his voice betrays him, turning it into a question against his will. "I know it's a weird situation and it shouldn't, but – it feels right?"

Hermione opens her mouth, closes it and swallows. Sam watches the movement of her throat, the crinkles of her forehead and tries to get a read on her reaction. It's not as easy as it was with Dean, he doesn't have the twenty-odd years of knowledge; of watching from close quarters and learning all her tells, but he can read enough to see some hesitation, some conflict of emotion.

"We need to slow down," Hermione says. "Step back a bit and think this over. You might not – It's probably not the best of times for either of us to be jumping head first into something."

Sam nods, even though his instinct wants to say he's not. Something in Hermione makes him want to argue things out. It's the same bursts of rashness he used to get when he was around his dad. He's not entirely sure that's a good thing.

"Okay," Hermione says and starts to push Sam away, to slide off the table until she's standing. She catches his hand at the last minute, prolongs the contact and Sam's relieved at the gesture in a way he's not sure he's ready to address. "I'm not saying no, okay? I just need – I just need to finish dealing with a few things. And, I haven't really thought about - this. Much."

Sam lips quirk into a grin. "Much?"

"Shut up."

"Okay," Sam says and considers leaving it at that, but Hermione's gaze flick from his eyes to his lips and he smiles, leans in slow and brushes a barely there kiss against Hermione's mouth.

"Uh!" Hermione says in response.

"Okay," Sam says again. "Slow." He wants to say something more, but there's a knock at the door and Hermione's head twists sharply, brow furrowing.

"You're not expecting anyone?" Sam asks. "I mean, your trip -?"

Hermione shakes her head, pulling her hand away. "Stay back," she says.

Sam glares at her, his eyebrow arched because seriously?

"Shut up," Hermione says, blushing. "I just – I'd rather no one see you until I know who it is."

"If they're here for me and have got past your wards without triggering them, then they probably don't need to see me," he argues, stepping forward.

Hermione picks her wand up from her desk and looks back over her shoulder at Sam. "Please," she says. "It's probably nothing. Or just Harry checking up on me." Hermione's eyes widen. "Oh Merlin!" she says and tries to smooth her hair, rubbing a hand across her mouth.

Sam almost laughs at the moment of panic, but Hermione's hand on the door knob makes him hold it back.

When she opens it, Sam can't see who's on the other side from where he is, the door blocks his view and all he can see is the side of Hermione's face angled away from him, the way her mouth opens and she lifts her wand, points it towards whoever's there.

Sam's moving forward before she even says anything.

He still can't see, when she says, slow and breathy, "Who- You can't – Dean?"

Sam feels his stomach drop out and the sky fall in all over again.