The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Page count: 8

They returned to the motel only long enough for Dean and Hermione to change and grab what they needed. Hermione pulled on a black tracksuit jacket, black t-shirt, black skinnies, and boots — practical, quick to move in. Dean, predictably, went full Winchester: the leather jacket, worn jeans, boots, and a t-shirt that had definitely seen better days.

Hermione slid her wand into the holster up her sleeve, her spare tucked in her boot. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Sam and Dean loading up — blades slid into boots and waistbands, guns disappearing under layers of denim and leather.

"All set?" Dean asked. He tried to sound casual, but Hermione caught something else in his eyes — worry. Real worry.

She nodded, tucked her beaded bag into her inside pocket, and led the way out the door.

~000~000~000~

The drive wasn't long, but it was silent and thick with tension. Jane's address wasn't far; they parked a few houses down, stepped out into the cool night, and walked the last stretch on foot.

Lights on. No noise. No movement.

Hermione didn't like it.

She cast a heat-signature charm, her wand glowing faintly in her palm.

"One presence," she murmured. "No idea where."

Sam pressed the doorbell. Waited. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing.

He glanced at Dean, then lifted his brows at Hermione and made a little wand gesture with his hand.

"Can you—?"

She was already stepping forward.

"Alohomora," she whispered.

The lock clicked open.

Dean stared at her like she'd just sprouted a second head.

"That is gonna be useful as hell."

She gave him a quick, humourless smile — work mode fully in place.

They entered in formation — Sam first, then Dean, then Hermione.

The house felt wrong. Too still. Too staged.

"It's too quiet," Hermione muttered, eyes darting.

Dean shrugged. "Aren't teenage girls supposed to be loud? Stomping around, screaming into phones, music shaking the house?"

She shot him the most Hermione look possible.

"How in Merlin's name would I know? I wasn't exactly a normal teenage girl."

Sam snorted behind them. "Guys, adorable as this is, witch? Murder? Focus?"

And then — it hit.

All three of them were slammed backwards, pinned flat against the wall, limbs locked. Dean's gun ripped itself out of his hand and flew across the room; Sam's followed seconds later. Hermione felt her wand twitch, but the concealment charm held — she still had her weapon.

"You better not be responsible for this, Glinda," Dean grumbled, trying to glare at her without being able to move his head.

"Of course I'm not, you muppet," she snapped back, equally annoyed.

"Guys!" Sam hissed.

Hermione flicked her eyes toward the stairs...

And there she was.