The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER EIGHTY

Page count: 13

Two weeks later...

"I'm sorry," Dean said quietly, stopping Hermione just before she reached the motel room door.

She turned to him, frowning. "For what?"

He gestured down at himself — at them. "This. You wanted Christmas. Not... whatever the hell this is."

He looked down again, jaw tightening. Sewage. Sludge. God-knew-what. Chasing a Vampire into the sewers hadn't exactly screamed festive. Sam had taken the worst of it — fell and landed flat on his back — and Hermione hadn't been far behind after slipping to her knees in the filth.

And somehow, impossibly, even covered in sewer muck, she'd been terrifyingly beautiful when she'd lost her temper. One sharp spell. Clean hit. Vampire didn't even know what killed him.

Hermione had done everything she could — cleaning charms, protection spells on Baby, ventilation charms just to make the drive bearable. Still, Dean felt it. The weight of it. Christmas in a motel. Christmas covered in crap.

She reached up, cupping his cheek without hesitation. "Dean, I don't care where we are."

He blinked.

"This is our first Christmas together," she continued softly. "If that meant we were together, I'd spend it in the bloody sewers we just crawled out of. A grungy motel room is luxury compared to that — as long as I have you."

Something in his chest gave.

"I'd kiss you," he muttered, leaning in anyway, "but—"

"Shower first," she agreed instantly. Then, louder, over her shoulder, "Sam! Move it!"

"Alright, alright," Sam called back. "Keep your witch's hat on."

Hermione's eyes narrowed.

Dean smirked. "Which hex you going with?"

"One the protection runes won't stop," she replied flatly.

He snorted. Yeah. Sam's dead.

When Sam finally caught up, Hermione lifted her wand. The door swung open.

All three of them froze.

Dean's breath left him slowly.

Christmas lights covered the walls and windows, warm and golden. The ceiling shimmered — snow falling softly, vanishing just before it hit them. Fairies flitted through the air, glowing gently. And in the corner—

"Holy... shit," Dean breathed.

An eight-foot Christmas tree filled the corner, barely fitting, decorated in red, silver, and gold. The star at the top pulsed softly, alive with magic.

"Merry Christmas, boys," Hermione said quietly. "And welcome to your first magical Christmas."

Dean turned to her, stunned.

"How?" Sam whispered.

"The House-elves," she smiled. "They found out we weren't going home."

Sam stared up at the ceiling. "Are those...?"

"Yes," Hermione laughed softly. "Real Fairies. They're Fairy lights."

Dean swallowed hard, eyes burning just a little.

For the first time in his life — no blood, no guns, no guilt — Christmas felt... safe.

And for the first time, it felt like home.