Unlikely Alliance by Luvscharlie

Warnings: Supernatural/Harry Potter crossover, Voyeurism, wanking, outdoor sex, intentional POV switch, a tiny bit of Twilight teasing, seriously bad puns, changes in dialogue from American and British depending on whose head I was in at the time.

A/N: Originally written for treeson's request for at the 2010 hermione_smut exchange on Live Journal where she asked for over-the-top silliness, laughter, bad jokes, a man's perspective (it starts with Hermione, who needs to tell most of the story, but I added in Dean's perspective as well to meet her request). This was my first attempt at a crossover, and once it got into my head I couldn't unthink it

Part I. Change of Course

"Honestly, Hermione, another one?" Minister Shacklebolt's incredulous voice rang out as he rudely entered her office without knocking. "You promised you'd give this one a chance."

He was referring, of course, to her most recent assistant, whom she'd sent crying from the office earlier in the day. "I did give her a chance," Hermione replied nonchalantly. "If she did not live up to my expectations for her job performance, well, that's really not my fault now, is it?"

"No one lives up to your expectations," the Minister spat back. "You're impossible to please."

Hermione shuffled some files and tried to pay little attention to the man before her, but that was difficult. The comments he was tossing in her direction rankled. She'd heard those exact same complaints from her past several boyfriends, who had lasted perhaps even less time than her assistants. She needed to say something in her own defence, "My expectations are high. Perhaps others should require more from their… staff." And less from their boyfriends, but she'd keep that to herself. She looked up and gave the Minister a reproachful look. He had gotten to her, and that was annoying.

Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't know that Maybella Branson wasn't doing her job, but the witch was well into her eighties, and he just didn't have the heart to let her go. He had removed her from the Department of International Cooperation after her last blunder had almost caused the Bulgarian Ministry to declare war against them. So, he kept her on as his own personal assistant, and tried not to notice that she rarely answered Floo calls and she slept at her desk more often than not. Simply because the Minister was willing to accept less than adequate assistance in his office didn't mean that Hermione should lower her own standards. Thus, she held firm her position.

"When might I expect my next assistant to arrive?" she asked, and she was proud when her voice didn't quiver.

"You can't," said Shacklebolt, startling her out of her cool resolve with his answer.

"Whatever do you mean? I cannot be expected to perform my duties without an assistant." She'd spent a good many years in the field, and this recent transfer to a desk job, where parchments and research received her undivided attention, and she spent so many hours with books—well, really, it would be her dream job, if only she could get some adequate help. Hermione did not need action and adventure to consume her; books and parchment suited her just fine.

"You're being transferred," he said, and turned on his heel and walked out of the office before she could respond further.

She rubbed her nicely polished-to-a-gleam (at least the janitorial staff did their work to satisfactory standards), beautiful wooden desk and cursed the Minister for making her hand it over to someone who she was certain wouldn't be nearly so appreciative of its beauty.

Part II: In Like a Tornado

So, this was what happened when you expected first rate work out of third rate employees, Hermione thought, as she fastened her seat belt on the 747. They sent you packing without so much as a 'nice to work with you'. No one had even given her a going away party, and there were nasty rumours that said little more than good riddance to the Queen Bitch of the Fourth Floor, which Harry had tried to shield her from, but had still made it back around to her ears. Well, they could all kiss her bum. They'd miss her when she was gone... far away.

She leaned back and closed her eyes, knuckles turning white as she clutched the seat. It was no secret that she hated flying, and it made no difference if it was by aeroplane, by broom or by Thestral. She preferred the firm, comforting, steady, never wavering, always reliable ground. They could have given her an international Port Key, and she felt confident that being forced to ride this plane was just another form of punishment for her difficult work standards, rather than part of her covert mission to the United States. She was to appear "normal" by Muggle standards, and this was simply part of that ruse… or so she was told.

The woman sitting beside her had a sleeping infant on her lap, and Hermione was smiling at the peaceful repose of the sleeping child. She'd never taken the time from her busy life, her commitment to her job to have a family of her own. There was also that tendency to chase away boyfriends in record time which tended to put a kink in any plans for a family. In fact, the last three hadn't even lasted long enough to be taken home for a dinner with her parents. For the most part, she didn't regret her decision to choose her job over children and family, but when babies were sleeping there was something rather magnetic about them that brought all of her maternal instincts bubbling to the surface.

The child beside her chose just that moment to wake up and begin protesting the changing of pressure in the cabin—protesting very loudly, in fact, and all those warm, fuzzy feelings faded and she remembered why she favoured parchment and quills over nappies and blankies.

It's going to be a long flight, Hermione thought, and sighed. She tried (and failed) to relax, as the infant's cries made her head begin to pound.

Hermione arrived at the Sioux Falls Regional Airport jet lagged and with her head pounding from the screaming child who'd grown less adorable with every passing hour. She gathered her bag—just a small one. She may have to ride the aeroplane like a common Muggle, but she took full advantage of her magical status and used Shrinking Spells when packing.

She looked around, eyes scanning back and forth over the thinning crowd as people gathered their bags and began to go on their way. She enjoyed watching them, even with her head pounding. Each person had their own purpose, so many possibilities as they exited the doors. Some would be heading home to families, some were catching connecting flights on to greater adventures, and others—well the possibilities were endless. And she was just imagining what might be waiting on the other side of the exit door for a tall, blonde woman lugging a flaming red suitcase when someone tapped her on the shoulder and pulled her, with a slight shriek of surprise, from her thoughts. Her hand had gone immediately to the back pocket of her denims, and it was only at the last minute that she reminded herself not to pull her wand and hex the man before her. He was holding a crude cardboard sign with the name 'Grainger' written on it in purple crayon. She was just about to correct his spelling faux pas when the man spoke.

"You Granger?" said the rather attractive man, shorter than the one beside him, but at least that one was smiling a friendly greeting.

She held out her hand in a greeting of her own. "Hermione Granger."

The pleasant man with the lovely dimples and beautiful smile stepped forward to shake her hand. "Sam Winchester. It's nice to meet you, Miss Granger." He pointed back at the less friendly, snarling one and said, "That's my brother, Dean." Sam took Hermione by the elbow and began to lead her toward the door. "Dean will carry your bag," he said, and Hermione watched the young man roll his eyes and heft her bag up onto his shoulder. The weight of it nearly knocked him over.

"What the hell have you got in here?" he exclaimed, trying to reclaim his balance. Shrinking Spells were great for packing, but they did make for one heavy bag.

"A cauldron, some potions essentials, my clothing—oh and my books, of course."

"Of course," Dean mocked. "You realise we do have books over here, right? No need to bring them all the way from wherever the hell you came from."

Sam cleared his throat loudly. "Manners," he said and tried to hide the word with a cough.

"Dammit, Sammy, she brought her own cauldron. Are things really so bad that we need to bring in outside help? Outside help with a cauldron! Does nobody but me see how wrong that is? Jesus fucking Christ, I mean, aren't witches usually the people we are fighting against? Do you not see the problem with this scenario?"

"Bobby says she's a good witch," Sam said, never raising his voice, his tone remaining patient and placating, despite his brother's obvious dislike of the situation.

"Well, that's just great, Sammy," Dean said, his voice amplified to the degree that people were starting to turn and stare, "Bobby went and got us Glenda the fucking Good Witch to take care of it all. Does, that make you feel any better, Dorothy?"

Sam glared. "Why yes, in fact it does, Toto. See, I happen to trust Bobby, and besides everything we've done so far has gotten us nowhere near our goal."

"Do you even know what our goal is?" Dean demanded.

"I know it's not the sounds of screams and terror we heard last time we visited Elm Street."

Dean nodded his head in what Hermione thought was some indication of concession, then rolled his eyes. "Well, what did they expect when they decided to live on a street named Elm Street? Did they really think it would be nightmare free? See this is what happens when people don't give pop culture the respect it deserves."

Hermione was unsure what they were talking about, but even Sam, who she'd already come to think of as the more reasonable of the two (not that it took much to top Dean in the reasonable department), seemed to agree with his brother's line of thinking. Apparently living on a street named Elm wasn't something Americans should do. She'd make a note of that. She would be sure to note it in her report.

A whole new country, a whole new set of rules.

Hermione found Bobby Singer, though a rather lacking housekeeper, to be a charming, tell-it-like-it is kind of man. He reminded her a bit of her father, and his den was a book-lover's paradise. There were books on charms and demons she'd never even heard of, not to mention things they'd never been allowed to study back at Hogwarts.

The ride to Bobby's house had been accomplished in silence, with the only admonishment from the grumpy brother being that she not open up her bag and spill any eye of toad or some such on the upholstery of his car. As if she would be so careless.

But when they arrived and entered the kitchen, beers were passed around, even Dean Winchester had remembered his manners enough to offer her a beverage, though she had graciously declined, and the argument about her involvement had started up again with renewed vigour.

"Why are you being so damn difficult, you numbskull?" Bobby shouted at Dean. Oh yes, she liked Mr. Singer right away.

"She's the enemy," he replied, taking a swig from the long neck of the bottle. "We don't team up with witches. Sam teamed up with a demon, and look how that turned out. Started the apocalypse, tried to end the world, yada, yada, yada. Did no one learn their lesson from that?"

"Yes, please, let's bring that up as often as possible," Sam glared in Dean's direction. "Besides, this is completely different. You don't complain when Cas helps out and he's an angel. I would remind you that angels aren't exactly our best friends. Also, I would remind you that Miss Granger comes highly recommended."

"Excuse me," Hermione interrupted, fascinated by the turn of this conversation. "Did you say angels? As in feathers and halos?"

"More like trench coats and stubble." Dean sighed loudly. "Oh yeah, this one's a genius. Yes, honey, angels are real, not nice and fluffy with feathers and clouds, and for someone who's supposed to be an expert, you seem seriously lacking in your knowledge of things that go bump in the night. And you were called to help us. Sheesh." Dean slammed his bottle down on the table and stormed from the house, slamming the door so hard Hermione feared it would come off its hinges.

"Just ignore, Mr. Sassy Pants there. He's a pain in the rear, but he grows on you. You know, when you're not considering fifty ways to kill him and put him out of your misery." Bobby smiled and patted her shoulder in what Hermione thought was an attempt at consolation for Dean's poor behaviour. "You're leader says you're the best there is," Bobby said, "and most of us here are willing to take him at his word. The other—well, he just needs a bit of convincing... or a good kick in the ass. I'll decide later which one to give him."

Bobby Singer put her at ease, and in his calming presence, Hermione was even able to ignore the sombre Winchester brother who scoffed as he came in the door and pulled another beer from the ice chest. She reached into the zippered front of her bag and retrieved some parchment and a quill to take some notes. "Now, Mr. Singer, if you would be so kind as to—"

"Look," Dean interrupted. "She doesn't know a thing about angels' feathers, but she plucked a chicken before she came and now she's writing with its body parts. You never heard of PETA, 'cause I'm sure that's against the rules. You have some prejudice against a pencil, sweetheart?"

He nodded at her quill and Hermione saw red. "I'll have you know, Mr. Winchester, that this is a top of the line Eagle Owl feather quill." He snorted at her response, and Hermione decided that she would not let him best her. "Of course, if I have the desire for a chicken feather quill when I'm here, I certainly will not be asking you to retrieve one for me. I can't imagine chickens find you any more tolerable than people do."

Bobby chuckled. Sam sniggered behind his hand, and Dean did the perfect imitation of a fish, opening his mouth, searching for a word, not finding it and closing it again.

"I like her," Bobby declared to the room. "She stays."

"Now, Mr. Singer, before we were so rudely interrupted, you were going to tell me why you felt the need to contact Minister Shacklebolt and have me summoned." She pressed the tip of her quill to the parchment and prepared to take down all the pertinent information that Mr. Singer was surely about to give her.

"Well, where to start?" Bobby asked no one in particular as he stroked his beard. "Erm, well, I guess at the beginning is a good place. We got us a rogue leprechaun."

"And?" Hermione prompted scratching out the words 'rogue leprechaun' and underlining it across the top of the parchment.

"And—" Bobby started, only to be interrupted by Dean.

"And that's it. Rogue leprechaun. You're Irish, he's Irish. Take him back with you."

"I'm English," Hermione replied, doing her best not to rise to the challenge of the man's baiting tone. "Not Irish."

"Whatever. Close enough." Dean chugged the rest of his drink and took a stool across the room.

Just when Hermione was considering hurling her inkpot at the pain in the arse, Sam took a chair, placing himself between Hermione and his brother. "Miss Granger," Sam began.

"Hermione," she corrected him.

The loud snort came from across the room and there was a muttered, "Doesn't even have a normal name."

She refused to ignore his ungraciousness any longer. "And what exactly are you the dean of? The School of Bad Manners?"

Bobby let out a giggle that was almost melodic in its obvious glee. "Oh, yes, she definitely stays. She's feisty. I wish I'd sent for her ages ago."

Sam seemed determined to ignore both Bobby and Dean. He looked at Hermione and smiled, making the dimple in his cheek play in and out, and a lock of hair fell over his forehead in the most adorable manner. She only just caught herself. Her hand seemed to have moved without her permission to brush it from his face. Hermione had no doubt that while his brother's sour attitude probably sent people running the other way, Sam Winchester would have no problem drawing people in. He was attractive, well spoken and pleasant to be around. And did she mention attractive, because boy, was he ever.

"Hermione," Sam began again, and hurried on before he could be interrupted again, "what do you know about leprechauns?"

"Tiny, green, men, rainbows, gold, Irish." She ticked off the words and noted Sam's nodding head. She was just about to continue when, of course, she was cut off. Conversations were difficult in America.

"So she knows what they show on Saturday morning cartoons."

Hermione glared at Dean Winchester, one of the looks that would have typically sent Harry or Ron scrambling for a place to hide. Dean, however, was unaffected by her "evil eye."

"Also," she continued, "legend is that if you capture a leprechaun's gold he must grant you three wishes."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Dean was across the room and in her face before the first syllable passed his brother's lips. "Yeah, that's what the kids who summoned them on Elm Street thought too, sweetheart."

"Well, apparently they've done their research," Hermione said, glad to know that Muggle children these days were at least smart enough to turn to folklore when researching things of the supernatural world.

"Yeah," Dean continued. "They did their research all right. Captured themselves a leprechaun and got their three wishes all lined up. Want to know what the leprechaun granted them?"

His invasion of her personal space was becoming unnerving, but Hermione stood her ground. "S-sure," she stammered.

"NOTHING!" Dean shouted in her face. "There got no wishes, no heart's desires—want to know what they got?" He didn't wait for her to respond. "They got fucking eaten!"

"Oh." Hermione's voice was a mere squeak, and Sam was glaring at Dean and biting his lower lip. "These are clearly not like the leprechauns I encountered at the Quidditch World Cup."

"What's Quidditch?" Sam asked politely. "That's not a word I'm familiar with."

"Sounds like a sandwich," Dean replied, and his demeanour seemed to change as he asked. His face softened and his eyes sort of glazed over. "Is it a sandwich? A good sandwich? Cause it sounds really good and I didn't think there was a kind of sandwich I hadn't tried."

Sam shoved him into a chair. "Please forgive my brother… yet again. He has a bit of an oral fixation and a food obsession."

"So what? The mention of food and he goes from pain the arse to salivating over a sandwich he's never heard of?" She might have questioned this a bit more if Ron hadn't been somewhat similar. He could be in the foulest of moods, but bring out the food and he was nothing more than a purring kitten. It appeared Dean Winchester and Ron Weasley shared this trait.

"Just like one of Pavlov's dogs," Bobby chimed in. "Not much smarter either," he said, which earned him a glare from both Winchester brothers.

Looking at each in turn, Hermione's eyes settled on Sam. "So I guess we should start with some research." Her eyes scanned the piles of books in the untidy room. "These books should—"

"And while you and Sammy are going through book after book, the leprechaun will be having a Thanksgiving feast on all the kids who were stupid enough to summon it on Elm Street tonight," Dean interrupted. "Sammy's gone through all of those anyway. Don't you think we tried what we knew before we called you?"

Hermione reached into her case once more and pulled out a stack of her own tomes. "Then I guess we should start with mine. And since there are only a few hours until sunset, perhaps you could stop complaining and start helping?"

"It's not a fucking vampire. It's a leprechaun!" Dean shouted. "What? You've been reading that idiotic book like everyone else and now you see a vampire behind every corner. And I swear if you even mention glitter or sparkles, I'm out of here."

"You're the one who said it will happen at night time," Hermione replied, growing more and more frustrated by the moment. "Maybe you're the one who should share your most recent reading experience with the rest of us."

He seemed to be replaying the words over in his quickly-becoming-beer-soaked mind. "That was for research purposes only."

"He's completely Team Jacob," Sam divulged.

"Hey, that kid has serious charisma. And everyone knows that werewolves are way cooler than vampires any day and—and-shut up."

"Perhaps," Hermione said, in an attempt to direct the conversation to more pertinent things at the moment, "you might be of more use to us if you weren't completely pissed, eh? Put down the bottle and pick up a book."

"What?" Dean looked bewildered. "I'm not mad?"

"That's debatable. I think you're a right nutter."

"Well, I'm glad you've come to your senses, woman, and at least you've conceded that I'm right."

Sam was biting his lip throughout the back-and-forth word confusion in an attempt not to laugh at both of them, and Bobby was shaking his head at the nonsensical chatter. They were both staring at one another as if the other had surely lost his or her mind.

They finally agreed to do more reading and less talking, and after several hours of turning pages, Hermione said, "Perhaps someone might help me retrieve my cauldron from my bag," Hermione said, after turning a page in her book. "I do believe I've found our solution."

Part III. Dean Winchester Stars in

"Jesus Fucking Christ," Dean muttered, lugging one side of the cauldron full of pink bubbling brew, as Sam heaved the other without protest, but looking angry in his stoic silence, as they trudged through the darkened woods behind the largest house on Elm Street.

"You can set it down here," Hermione whispered, pulling a phial from the pocket of her cloak dunking it carefully into the cauldron and filling it, finishing it off with a cork for a lid. "Okay, let's go," she said.

"What about the rest of this," Dean said in a loud whisper.

"We'll only need a small bit if we even use it."

"Then why in the hell did you make us carry this bastard into the woods?" he said, his rage evident as he dropped his side of the cauldron, kicked it, and then hopped around holding his injured foot as the liquid sloshed over the sides.

"Builds character," Hermione replied with a smirk. "And your character could certainly do with some building."

Grumbling something he hoped was inaudible, 'cause it would certainly lead to one of the girl's boring lectures if she heard him, Dean scuffed the toe of his boot at the ground and then attempted to change the subject. "What is that stuff anyway?"

"Love Potion Number Nine."

"I think that's a song."

"I wouldn't know anything about that. However, it is a potion, and a rather potent one at that."

"So what? You plan to feed it to the leprechaun and make him go all googly-eyed and… what? Marry him?"

Hermione and Sam smiled at one another, giving Dean a rather patronizing look in the process. He'd kick Sam's ass later for that. They were supposed to be a team after all, and here he was siding with this obnoxious, frizzy-haired creature over him. Some brother.

"I think I'll let you explain, Mr. Winchester," Hermione said, nodding at Sam, taking a blanket from beneath her cloak and beginning to spread it over the dried leaves and small brush on the wooded ground.

"I think at this point you can address me as Sam, Hermione."

"Point taken. I agree that it does seem more appropriate. All things considered, that is. I do believe I've chosen you." At that point she took the phial she'd only just filled and tossed it away.

"Wait?" Dean stuttered. "What things considered? I don't like the sound of this… at all. What have you two cooked up and why did you throw that away?"

"Oh, that was only in case something happened and I'd had to choose you. I thought a potion might be required in that case. You are rather unpleasant and completely not my type, and—"

"I'm everybody's type!" Dean interrupted. "Women love me."

"Yes, well, there's no accounting for taste." Snorting, Hermione continued on, "You see, Mr. Winchester," she explained, "leprechauns are voyeurs by nature, and they're quite romantic creatures—"

"Tell that to the kid he ate last night," Dean retorted.

Hermione disregarded the comment and continued on. "Anyway, we—Sam and I—have decided to lure the leprechaun here. A lovers' tryst in the woods will be more than he can resist."

"Wait! What?" Dean rubbed at his ears as though they must be deceiving him. "You and Sammy—you're going to go at it here in the woods? While I do what?"

"Watch, of course." Hermione said, and Sam nodded his agreement.

"And you're okay with this?" Dean asked.

"Well, Mr. Winchester, your brother is quite handsome and though I don't ordinarily do this sort of thing, I can't very well sit by while innocent children are consumed by—"

"I wasn't talking to you, you crazy broad. I was talking to my brother."

"Hello. Functioning boy parts, willing girl. Why would I object again? 'Cause I'm not coming up with any kind of reason here."

Okay, Sammy had a point there. One that was impossible to argue with. The girl was a shrew, yes, but he'd certainly had worse—and Sammy had had a demon, so this was probably even a step up for him. Probably.

"So what? You all are just going to go at it right here, while I stand around with hands in my pockets and do nothing?"

"Of course not, Mr. Winchester," said that obnoxious chick. "You'll be finding the leprechaun."

Flinging his arms wide, Dean shouted, "And what will I do when I find him? Shove my tongue down his throat? Invite him for a roll on the blanket?"

"Well, you could," said Little Miss Obnoxious Brit, "but I'd suggest slitting his throat."

"Oh yes, because we would never have thought of that before inviting you over here from across the pond, what with us being amateurs and all."

Sam placed a silver handled knife in his hand at that moment. "Use this. Hermione and I discovered that it has to be killed by a blade which has been anointed with a witch's blood during a very complex ritual which she performed flawlessly. Rather handy that we had a witch on hand."

Handy indeed! There was nothing handy about having that girl here, and nothing would make him happier than to put her back on a plane to Ireland or England—or better yet a rocket ship to the moon. He was fantasizing about just such a thing—Hermione being shoved into a rocket as his foot kicked her in her skinny little butt when the thought occurred to him. "How do you know this ritual was flawless exactly?" Dean said raising a sceptical eyebrow.

"It looked flawless." Shrugging Sam gave Dean's back a hearty wallop. "Guess we'll find out. Scream if you're dying, m'kay?"

"Smug bastard," Dean grumbled, grasping the knife by the handle and feeling the hard metal refuse to yield against his calloused palm. He backed against the nearest tree and watched as the timid young witch reached for the top button on Sam's shirt, hands shaking. Sam gave her what Dean thought was an attempt at a comforting smile. Dean thought it was just rather stupid looking, but Hermione's hands steadied a bit—so what the hell did he know? Apparently Sam's idiotic tactics worked.

Sam ran his hands through her hair-he'll be lucky if his fingers ever make it through that mass of frizz without tangles and screaming, and cupped her face, tilting her chin up to him and leaning in... Dean wondered if he'd slip her the tongue—or maybe he'd start out with a bit more class—well, as classy as a guy could be standing in the middle of the woods and making out with a girl and-

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam demanded.

"What? Me?"

"Yes, you. What are you doing?"

"I'm watching. Just like the crazy chick told me to do. I said what am I supposed to do—she said watch."

Hermione's hands were on her hips at this point, and Dean feared that her glare might very well do him bodily harm- this was what was meant by if looks could kill. He thought this witch might well be able to commit murder with her eyes.

"I meant watch the woods for the leprechaun, you bloody moron! Whatever would make you think that I wanted you to watch me—watch us, do this?"

"Thought maybe you were kinky, got your jollies this way. Hey baby, to each their own, you know? I'm not one to judge."

"Just watch for the damn leprechaun!" Sam cut in, grabbing Hermione's arm and pulling her back when she started towards Dean with murder in her heart.

"Fine, whatever. As if I even wanted to see you and her doing that. Not as if I could learn anything from you two or anything." Dean pushed aside the nearest branch and backed away...but not too far. He could still see if he ducked just right and looked through the branches and—of course, not that he wanted to watch or anything. It was just hard to look away when there was nothing else going on. Yeah, that was it.

Dean tilted his head to just the right angle. Sam had the witch's shirt off, and she was standing before him in a black, lacy bra that Dean thought was somehow off—it just didn't fit what he knew about her. He was, of course, no expert on this particular girl, having done his best to ignore her, but just from what he'd seen, he expected some thing cotton, strong even—something durable, reliable, practical.

Then she kissed Sam and that was anything but a practical kiss. Her shyness lessened and she grew bolder as her lips worked over Sam's. Dean imagined her tongue was sliding into Sam's mouth—and her skin, it must be soft. Sam's fingers playing over her back must have felt as if they were touching velvet. Then, he guided her down to the blanket and Sam kissed her, a kiss so full of passion that Dean thought perhaps Sam had sneaked a bit of that potion for himself when the witch had her back turned.

Sam's fingers slipped beneath the black straps on the girl's shoulders, and when she nodded her assent, he slid them slowly down her arms. The moon shifted from behind a cloud and the white light touched their skin and made it shimmer.

It was only the knife that Dean held much too tightly cutting into his skin that seemed to bring him back to the task at hand. He had to stop watching them. His job was to watch for the leprechaun, not watch his younger brother get laid. But it was just so hard to turn away. The dark woods didn't hold his attention in the same way that watching his brother's shirt come off did, seeing the witches short nails scraping down Sam's back, watching her tongue snake out to lick her lips and seeing Sam's own capture hers in a steaming kiss—all of it had Dean straining against his jeans.

God, it's hot out tonight! Dean's hand brushed across his forehead. Then Sam's hand was on the girl's thigh pushing up her sensible skirt—as sensible as a skirt could be he guessed when one planned to go traipsing about in the woods. Sam's hand was pushing under Hermione's skirt, and Dean looked down in surprise to find his own hand tugging down his zipper. He shouldn't do this. It would be wrong to jerk off while he watched them, but then again, it's not as if they'd know, and his cock really wanted some relief. He was just sliding his hand into his boxers at the same time that Sam's hand was disappearing beneath the girl's skirt and the sharp snapping of a branch to his left caused Dean to spin around with the knife in his hand—the girl had been right, and now they were all going to die because he'd been watching his brother fuck the brainy little thing rather than doing his job. And a hunter's work always came first. He'd lived it his entire life, and this lapse in judgment was unacceptable. He wouldn't go down without a fight though. He spun around, knife pointed out and nearly slashed a rather handsome, stubbled face.

"For fuck's sake, Cas. I thought I was going to die," Dean gasped, dropping to rest his hands on his knees and attempt to stay conscious. He thought that he might actually pass out from the racing of his heart and the way the world was spinning out of control.

When his blood stopped pounding so that he was able to hear once more, Dean looked up at the trench coat-clad angel. "I did not plan to kill you," Cas said calmly. "I believe that would be counterproductive. Bringing you back from Hell only to kill you myself. So much wasted effort."

"What the hell are you doing here, Cas?"

Pushing Dean aside, Cas brushed a tree branch away and tilted his head in a familiar manner. "Nothing as entertaining as Samuel. That's for certain."

"'They're leprechaun hunting."

Cas, in his normal dry tone, replied, "Does Samuel plan to find one in that young woman's underpants?"

"Never know where you'll find a pot of gold, but I doubt that girl's golden. Never know unless you check, I guess."

Cas's brows furrowed in confusion. "It appears that Sam has the checking under control and I am not needed here."

Before Dean could reply that he could use an extra lookout for the mad killer leprechaun, particularly since his concentration was certainly wandering, Cas was gone. "Fucking useless angel." He resolved to be on his toes. That leprechaun could be anywhere, and Dean would prefer that it found itself on the sharp end of his knife soon. Standing out here in the crisp autumn night and being the third wheel was not something to which he was accustomed.

Since his jeans were still undone, and despite the immediate danger of becoming a leprechaun's midnight snack, Dean was unable to look away from the scene playing out before him, and his hand naturally found its way back to stroking the bulge that was slowly returning after Cas's scaring his prick into a state of flaccid terror.

During the time since he'd last looked, all of the couple's clothes had somehow vanished. To give Sammy credit, he worked fast. Of course, he had learned from the best. Dean gave himself a congratulatory pat on the back for that one. Sam's lips were closed over the girl's right nipple and she arched her back in a fashion that only a woman could accomplish, and despite Dean's resolve to stay alert, the hunter's nature took a backseat to the part of him that was all male, fully aroused and dying for some release.

One hand held the knife and the other held his cock, and Dean watched the normally stuffy girl's legs fall open and wrap around Sam's waist. She reached between them and took Sam's cock in her hand, and Dean imagined that her smaller, more feminine digits were wrapped around his own cock, and as he moved his hand up and down, he pretended he was more than merely an observer of the lewd act taking place on the blanket a few feet away.

"Fuck." Sammy's voice came out in a hiss, and Dean imagined what it must feel like to slide into the warm, wet centre that was currently engulfing his brother's cock. In and out Sam moved, and Dean stroked his cock in time with Sam's movements. He watched the muscles in Sam's back ripple, leaning over the small girl beneath him, and then gasped as Sam rolled to his back, bringing the girl astride him.

Dean had to admit she had nice tits, and they bounced perkily, her hands bracing down on Sam's stomach as she began to swivel her hips. "God, Hermione," Sam gasped, and Dean thought her name didn't sound nearly so ridiculous when Sam said it like that. Dean flicked his thumb over the head of his cock imagining that it was the underside of the girl's pink tongue flicking over him. It was a thought that was almost his undoing. His cock twitched in wholehearted approval of that image.

The girl—Hermione (it really wasn't such a bad name), pinched her nipples, rocking her hips, riding his brother's cock, and Dean began to stroke himself faster, tightening his hand, increasing the friction. God, it felt good, it felt wrong—it was amazing and he was going to come so hard. Fuck, yes, so good, gonna- Warm breath hit his neck, and were it not for the putrid stench it might have increased Dean's desire and added to the fantasy. Instead, his cock shrivelled up still clutched in his fist. That was no woman's breath.

The hunter's instincts kicked in and Dean dropped to the ground in the nick of time and rolled away, just as the leprechaun bit the place that his neck formerly occupied. He looked frantically for the knife and was surprised to find that it was still clutched in the hand that had not been stroking his cock. The leprechaun leaped down to attack, and Dean drove his hand up hard with the knife. And just as he heard Sam groan out his climax and Hermione gasp 'oh, Sam', leprechaun slime exploded all over Dean. Well, fuck. Wasn't this just the perfect ending to this dreadful night?

They arrived back at Bobby's with Sam and Hermione wearing the afterglow of lovemaking, and a few leaves and twigs randomly sticking out of their hair. Dean was still covered in leprechaun.

Bobby looked at the couple and raised an eyebrow. Then he looked at Dean and burst out laughing. "Drew the short straw, did you?"

Hermione was escorted back to the Sioux Falls Regional Airport the next day by the brothers Winchester and Bobby Singer.

Sam leaned in and kissed her cheek after turning over her heavy bag to the attendant. "You'll write?" he asked.

"Of course. Watch for my owl. You'll send for me if you should ever need my services again?"

"Not likely," Dean grumbled.

"That would be a shame, Mr. Winchester. I was looking forward to comparing your performance to your brother's."

Dean's mouth fell open. Hermione winked at Bobby and Sam, and with a turn on her heel she walked away.

"I'm gonna miss her." Bobby said.

Sam clapped him on the back. "Me too."

Dean stood there stunned for a moment and finally said, "I really need some pie right now."