The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Page count: 8

Hermione drifted up through the fog like she was swimming against stone.

The first thing she felt was leather—soft, warm, worn in the way only the Impala could be. Then the gentle rumble of an engine, steady and familiar, vibrating up through her spine. Then the scent of motor oil, old paper, and something that was unmistakably Dean Winchester clinging to her skin like a memory.

Her shoes were gone. Her clothes intact. A pillow under her head. A blanket tucked around her like someone had been afraid she'd get cold.

She groaned when pain throbbed behind her eyes, lifting a shaky hand to her temple. The seat in front of her shifted instantly—alert, startled, like he'd been listening for the smallest sound.

A few minutes later, the Impala slowed, turned, and rolled to a stop. The engine cut off.

Hermione forced her eyes open. Slowly pushed herself upright. When her vision cleared, Dean was already half turned in his seat, staring at her like he wasn't sure whether to hug her or have a goddamn heart attack.

"Careful, Sweetheart," he said, voice low and rough. "Took a hell of a hit to the head. How do you feel?"

"Sore." She winced, pressing her fingers lightly to her skull. "But... fine. Thank you."

Dean frowned. "For what?"

"For rescuing me," she murmured, gaze dropping to her lap. "I know it must've been an inconvenience—"

"Hermione."

Her name came out clipped. Sharp. And when she looked up, his expression was furious—not with her. With the idea.

"You are not an inconvenience. You hear me?" His jaw clenched. "If you need me, I don't care what stands in the way. Nothing—nothing—stops me from getting to you."

Her breath hitched, but she looked away, shoulders curling inwards.

Dean saw it. His eyes tightened.

"Sam said you were going back to England," he said, the careful calm in his tone stretched thin as wire.

Hermione's fingers twisted in her lap. "You didn't come back," she whispered. "Sam said you would... but you didn't. I thought you didn't want anything to do with me anymore. I didn't want to stay somewhere I shouldn't. But I... I couldn't leave without saying goodbye. Not to you."

Dean stared at her like the words physically hurt him.

"You're... leaving?" His voice rasped, barely above breath.

She gave a helpless shrug. "You didn't take the reveal well. I thought you hated me."

"Don't be fucking stupid."

The words burst out raw—more panic than anger. His eyes flashed up to hers, shining with something wrecked.

"I don't hate you. I have never hated you."

Tears welled, silent and heavy.

He raked a hand over his face, breathing hard. "If you wanna go—if that's what you really want—then don't let me keep you here."

Her voice trembled. "So... you do want me to go?"

"Jesus, no!" He snapped, leaning in. "Of course, I don't want you to leave. You're—" His throat bobbed. "You're my wife."

The word hung there, stunned and soft and world-ending.

Hermione's eyes widened just before they filled. And then she was crying—not loud, but broken, trembling, hands covering her face like she was trying to hold herself together.