The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Page count: 11

It was late by the time Hermione finally crawled into bed, exhaustion pulling at her like gravity.

They'd returned to her apartment after the tattoo parlour, and Hermione had gone straight to deal with the house-elves. She came back thirty minutes later with a scowl that could curdle milk—because the moment she stepped into the room, the kitchen table exploded with lunch dishes. The brothers had howled with laughter.

Later, she'd handed them each a thick book on magical creatures, ordering them to read it cover to cover. Sam had practically ripped his copy from her hands like a starved academic. Dean took his book more slowly, brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages, pretending not to be intrigued.

They'd spent the afternoon reading and working—Hermione finishing reports, Sam peppering her with questions, Dean pretending he wasn't checking her every few seconds.

Dinner had been waiting for them.

And there had been two pies.

Dean had almost ascended.

Now, finally, Hermione was half-asleep, drifting in and out. Her muscles loosened, her breath slowed, and warmth spread through her chest.

Then—knock, knock.

She didn't need to ask who it was. She felt him.

Still too comfortable to move, she flicked her wand at the door. It opened on its own, revealing Dean standing there in the low light, brow raised.

He stepped in, shut the door quietly, and crossed the room like he'd done it for years. Then he slid into bed behind her without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His arms wrapped around her instantly. Solid. Warm. Familiar.

He pulled her back flush against him, his bare chest pressed to her thin satin nightgown, his legs tangling with hers like he'd been waiting all damn day to get his hands on her.

"Comfortable?" she mumbled, eyes already half-closed.

Dean hummed against her skin—deep, low, content.

His hand slid up her thigh, stopping at the hem of her pale pink nightgown... then slipped under it, spreading warm fingers across her stomach. He traced over her new tattoo, then ghosted over her scar with a tenderness that made her breath catch.

He was definitely only wearing boxers. His heartbeat thrummed steady against her back. His breath warmed the crook of her neck.

She could feel the weight of him—his heat, his strength, his need for contact—the same way she could feel his eyelashes brushing her shoulder.

His hand drifted lower, brushing the lace of her underwear.

"No sex tonight. I'm tired," she muttered.

"Okay," he mumbled into her skin, completely unbothered, voice sleep-thick.

Then—of course—he kissed her shoulder. Soft. Warm. Lazy.

His mouth slid up, his tongue tracing the curve of her phoenix tattoo beneath her curls.

She shivered and scowled. "Dean. I'm serious. If you keep that up, you can get out of my bed and go sleep somewhere else."

"Fine," he grumbled.

And yes—he absolutely pouted.

"Good. Go to sleep," she sighed. "You never know when we'll get a call. I need to be rested and prepared."