The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER TWO

Page count: 10

The gunshot still rang in Dean's ears.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, voice raw as he shoved his handgun into the waistband of his jeans and dropped to the floor beside the woman. Blood spread across the dry ground beneath her, a dark halo pooling fast.

"What? I panicked!" Dean yelled back, his voice pitching high, too sharp, too wild. His pulse thundered in his ears. He could smell the gunpowder—sharp, metallic, like guilt itself.

"You idiot!" Sam barked, hands already working, pulling back the woman's hood with rough, urgent movements.

"Don't yell at me!" Dean's voice cracked, hysteria bubbling just beneath the surface as he gripped the gun tighter, the metal slick in his sweaty palm.

Sam ignored him. He untied the blood-soaked robes, wincing as the fabric stuck to her side, revealing where the crimson had bloomed.

"Whoa—" Dean froze, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "She's... she's hot."

Sam shot him a look that could have cut through steel. Dean blinked, shaking his head like he could dislodge the comment from existence. What the hell is wrong with me?

Her face was too still, too pale. Brown curls spilt around her like a halo of shadow and gold. Up close, her skin looked almost luminous—unmarked. Sam brushed a curl from her forehead. Her lashes were long, brushing against high cheekbones, freckles dusting her nose like flecks of sunlight. She looked young. Human. Too human.

Sam checked her pulse—weak but there. He pried her eyelid open. The pupils were blown wide.

"She likely just saved our lives," he muttered.

Dean gestured at the wreckage around them—burned cars, splintered porch, smoking craters where spells had struck. "She's obviously a witch, Sam. All that freaky light show? Only dark magic does that."

"Dean?"

Both brothers looked up.

Castiel was standing in the distance, trench coat flapping in the faint wind, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his brow. His expression was unreadable as always—until he saw her.

Dean blinked. "Bit late now, Cas. I got the witch."

Castiel didn't answer. He moved—fast, purposeful—and knelt beside her. His eyes widened, the faintest crack in that usual celestial calm. His hand hovered over her wound, trembling.

"Hermione?" he said softly. The name left his lips like a prayer.

The brothers exchanged a stunned look.

"You know her?" Sam asked, disbelief heavy in his voice.

Castiel didn't look up. His gaze stayed fixed on her blood-stained face, his jaw tight with something that almost looked like grief.

Castiel moved before either brother could speak. He stooped, sliding his arms beneath the woman's limp body with a care that made Dean blink. Her head lolled against his chest as he straightened, wings flickering faintly in the dim light like an afterimage only half visible.

"What the hell, Cas?" Dean muttered, trailing after him as the angel strode toward Bobby's house.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of coffee and motor oil. Castiel pushed through the doorway, shoes heavy on the floorboards, and carried her straight into the kitchen. He laid her down gently on the scarred wooden table, the blood from her wound soaking into the grain. With an odd tenderness, he slid a pillow beneath her head.