The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Page count: 5

Hermione stood frozen.

It took several heartbeats—long, stretching, suffocating heartbeats—before she truly came back to herself. Before she realised what she'd done. A teenage girl lay dead on the floor. Hermione's chest tightened painfully.

Her eyes darted to Dean.

He wasn't looking at Jane, not at first—he was staring past her, eyes unfocused, breathing hard. Then he turned, slowly, and his gaze locked on Hermione's.

That was all it took.

Hermione launched forward, dropping to her knees in front of him so fast the world blurred. The corpse, the overturned table, Blake unconscious on the ground—none of it mattered. Her hands were already skimming over Dean's face, his shoulders, his chest, desperate, frantic, checking him for wounds with trembling fingers.

When she reached his throat, she inhaled sharply.

A thin line of blood trickled down the skin just over his pulse point—the knife had already kissed him.

Hermione pressed her wand to the wound, focusing until the magic settled. The cut sealed cleanly, the blood vanished, and the skin returned to unblemished tan.

When she pulled her wand back, Dean touched his throat curiously. "You weren't kidding about being good with knives," he said quietly. "I don't think even I could've made that shot."

There was no judgment in his voice. No horror that she'd killed a seventeen-year-old. Only steady amusement and something warm and fierce underneath it.

And that undid her.

Relief crashed over her so intensely her breath stuttered. Dean was alive. Dean was fine. He was here, breathing, teasing her, being his impossible, infuriating self.

She threw her arms around his neck and crushed herself against him, burying her face in his shoulder as her hands fisted in the back of his jacket.

Dean didn't comment, didn't joke, didn't make light of it. He just wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tight, burying his face against her neck as her curls fell around them both. He placed a slow, grounding kiss on her shoulder.

"I'm fine," he murmured, low and certain, like he knew exactly why she was shaking.

Sam, off to the side, tried to look anywhere but at them.

Hermione drew one last unsteady breath and rested her forehead against Dean's. His green eyes met hers—no fear, no disgust, only understanding and unshakeable pride.

When she finally pulled away, she forced her legs to carry her toward Blake. Dean rose behind her like a silent shield.

She knelt beside the boy, sweeping her wand over him, murmuring diagnostics. Sam joined her.

"So...how the hell was he involved?" Sam asked, voice low. "He just appeared out of nowhere, and then she started chucking knives at my head."

"Give me a minute," Hermione murmured.

She pressed her wand lightly to Blake's temple and slipped into his mind. It took several minutes—longer than she wanted—because she had to sift through the mess Jane had left behind and soften the memories as she altered them.

When she finally pulled back, she exhaled shakily and sank onto the couch.

"Blake wasn't aware of anything," she said tiredly. "What she did to him...it's closest to possession. I took samples from the chalices upstairs—blood magic." Both brothers grimaced. "She got some of Blake's blood somehow. Probably a cut, maybe something she stole. That gave her full control."