The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Page count: 9

Dean didn't know what the hell possessed him to kiss her.

Maybe it was the heat of the argument, maybe it was the goddamn sunlight catching in her hair, or maybe it was that for days now, she'd been crawling under his skin in a way that made no sense. He'd told himself a thousand times he shouldn't even look at her that way. She was a witch. Everything he'd been raised to hate and kill. He should've despised her on principle. But every time she opened her mouth—sharp, clever, unshakably brave—it chipped another piece off the wall he'd spent a lifetime building.

He'd tried to tell himself it was just curiosity. Just another case. But it wasn't.

He liked her. God help him, he liked her.

It had started with Castiel. The Angel had looked at her like she was something rare, something fragile and precious—words Dean would never in a million years associate with Cas. Then there was Bobby, who actually liked her. Bobby, who'd called her "the only witch worth a damn" and said it without a hint of irony. She'd fought in wars before she was even old enough to drink. She'd lost people, friends, parts of herself, and somehow she still woke up every morning and chose to fight for others.

And yeah, she was beautiful—he'd have to be blind not to notice—but it wasn't the kind of beauty that begged for attention. It was quieter than that. The kind that hit you sideways and didn't let go. The kind that lingered when she smiled softly over her tea or rolled her eyes when he teased her. Hell, he'd willingly given her his t-shirt to sleep in without complaint. That should've been the first sign he was in trouble.

He'd been cold to her at first, mean, even. Told himself he was keeping his distance. But the truth? The truth was uglier—he was scared. Because every time she looked at him, it felt like she could see through the armour, through all the bullshit and bravado.

Then came the attack. The way she bled, shaking but unbroken. The way she'd looked at him with absolute trust, as if she knew he'd get her out alive. That kind of faith... no one ever had that in him anymore. Not even Sam.

She'd cried in his arms that night. Cried like someone who'd carried too much for too long and finally cracked under the weight. And he'd held her, fingers tangling in her hair, whispering the kind of nonsense you only say when you don't know what else to do. It had been years since someone made him feel protective without it being about the job.

And then she'd gone and told him about her torture—casually, almost, but with that tremor in her voice that gutted him. He'd seen people die, monsters tear them apart, but nothing hit him quite like that moment. Maybe because he knew exactly what it was to be broken by pain and come out the other side still breathing.

She'd told him, and he'd told her about Hell. About the screams, the smell of burning flesh, the endless days that bled into centuries. And she hadn't flinched. Not once. She'd just looked at him with those dark, steady eyes that said she understood. Maybe not the details, but the feeling.

It was the first time he hadn't felt like a monster for surviving.

So when she said she was going in alone—when she told him and Sam to leave, like she was writing her own damn obituary—something inside him snapped. There was no way in hell he was walking away. Not from her. Not now.

Lucifer could claw his way out of the cage before Dean let that happen.

He'd been angry—furious, really—but under the shouting, there was something else. Fear. Raw, clawing fear that she'd walk in there and never walk out again.