The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Page count: 7

Hermione landed in the narrow alley behind the bar Dean had run to — the place she'd tracked him to with a single-minded desperation she hated herself for. She had planned to go straight home to England after several Apparition jumps to reach her apartment... but she couldn't. Not yet.

She needed to see him one last time. Needed to say goodbye. Needed closure — even if it shattered her.

Wiping the lingering tears from her cheeks, Hermione reached into her beaded bag, pulled out a soft grey cardigan, and wrapped it tight around herself as though she could shield her trembling heart.

Then she stepped inside.

The bar was exactly the kind of place Dean Winchester would drive to when he wanted to drink himself stupid — dim lighting, rickety stools, questionable clientele, and the smell of old beer soaked into the walls. Hermione hated it instantly.

Her eyes found him in moments.

Dean sat at the far end of the bar, shoulders tense, jaw set — but that wasn't what made Hermione's stomach drop.

A tall, leggy blonde was perched beside him, leaning in far too close, fingers brushing his arm like she'd known him for years. Laughing. Tossing her hair. Practically draping herself over him.

And Dean... Dean was smiling.

Not his real smile — she knew that instantly.
But he wasn't pulling away either.

Something inside Hermione cracked. Not loudly. Quietly — the way a heart breaks when it's been hurting too long already.

She swallowed down the nausea clawing up her throat.

Don't cry. Don't you dare cry in front of him. Not for him. Not again.

She straightened her shoulders, inhaled once more, and crossed the bar floor with a steadiness she didn't feel.

She came to a stop directly behind them.

The blonde was giggling at something Dean had said — Hermione didn't even care what — and Dean's fingers tightened around his beer bottle.

Hermione pressed her lips together, lifted her chin, and said clearly:

"There you are. I've been looking all over for you... husband."

~000~000~000~

Dean didn't know why he'd walked out the way he had—only that if he'd stayed another second, he would've suffocated. His chest had been too tight, the room too small, the air too thick with truths he wasn't ready to hold all at once.

So he left. Got in the Impala. Drove until instinct told him to stop.

The bar he ended up in was the usual kind of dump—sticky tables, cheap beer, and a jukebox coughing out some song no one actually listened to. He ordered a drink, but mostly just sat there with it in his hand, staring at nothing. He didn't hear the music. Didn't care about the games of pool clacking in the background. He just tried to sort through the mess crashing around his skull.

Hermione being part Angel?

Yeah, okay. Sure, that was insane. But weirdly? It also made sense.

She didn't throw cars around or smite demons with a snap of her fingers, but... hell. He'd been calling her his Angel long before he ever touched her. Long before he ever kissed her. Long before he realised she'd carved herself into every broken place inside him and forced light into the cracks. She brought out every stubborn, stupid, soft part of him he thought had been dead for years.