The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Page count: 8

Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, head buried in her hands. The only sign that Dean was still pacing was the swing of his shadow across the disgusting motel carpet. She'd been frozen like that for almost half an hour. Dean had been pacing longer.

Sam was gone.

Someone — or worse, something — had taken him. And she wasn't sure which possibility terrified her more. They still had no idea what they were dealing with. No pattern. No motive. Just scattered victims, scattered scenes... and now Sam.

She knew they shouldn't have split up. She'd felt it — that gnawing, twisting dread — and dismissed it as hormones or stress. Hard not to, when the last few weeks had been a whirlwind of revelations: not fully human, part Angel, soul-bound and married, and now fertile for the first time in eight years. Any one of those things would've been enough. All of them together had left her unsteady.

Things had been going too well. She should've known something would come along and tear it apart. It always did.

Her hands slid into her hair, gripping the roots until her scalp ached. She needed to do something. Sitting here wasn't saving Sam. Waiting wasn't helping. If they didn't get him back soon...

Her gaze drifted to the carpet.

The blood.

A large, dark stain soaked into the fibres — too much for comfort, not enough (she prayed) to be fatal. Her chest tightened painfully. Sam couldn't die. She wouldn't let him. They would find him. They would fix this. They would kill whatever bastard had taken him and whatever bastard had killed the others.

She would heal Sam. They'd get back on the road. They'd bicker and tease each other. Dean would drag Sam into some ridiculous argument. Sam would roll his eyes every time she and Dean disappeared to "try for a baby." Life would just... go back to what it was supposed to be.

Because that was the only outcome she would allow.

A spark of determination snapped through her. She stood abruptly, wand clenched tight.

"Dean?"

He didn't hear her. Still pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Jaw tight. Hands clenched. Steps heavy with a rage she knew was eating him alive.

"Dean?" she said again, louder.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Sam needed saving.

But first... she had to save her husband from tearing himself apart.

She walked straight into his path. Dean didn't even realise she'd moved until he collided with her, hands shooting out on instinct to catch her by the hips before she could hit the floor.

For a heartbeat, he just stared at her — blank, lost, eyes unfocused like he didn't recognise the world around him. Hermione lifted a hand and pressed her palm gently to his cheek. His eyes fluttered shut, then opened again.

And there he was. Her Dean. Raw, terrified, burning.

"Sammy's gone," he muttered.

"He is," she said softly.

"They took him."

"They did."

"He's hurt."

"More than likely," she murmured, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

"He's dead?"

"No." Her voice sharpened. "No, he's not dead. He's not allowed to die. And if he does, I'll drag his arse out of the grave and kill him myself."