The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

Page count: 11

One month later...

"No. I'm not doing it."

"Come on, sweetheart."

"No. Someone else can do it."

"You're the only one who can pass for an eighteen-year-old girl."

"No, another Hunter can take the case."

"We're the closest."

"I don't care."

Dean opened his mouth again.

"I am. Not. Doing it."

"What aren't you doing?" Sam asked, pushing the motel door open with his shoulder, breakfast bags in hand.

"We've got a case in Price, Utah," Dean said.

"And?" Sam asked, already clocking Hermione on the bed — arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes dangerous.

Hermione shot Dean a glare sharp enough to cut glass, then turned to Sam. "Your brother wants to take it."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Why is that bad? And why is he suddenly my brother and not your husband?"

"He's not my husband today," she sniffed. "And it's bad because it involves one of us going undercover in a high school."

Sam shrugged. "We've done that before. Kids loved you."

Hermione's glare intensified.

"Not as a teacher," Dean cut in. "As a student."

Sam blinked. "...Oh."

"And not just any student," Hermione snapped. "A bloody cheerleader."

Sam stared at Dean. Then he burst out laughing.

"It's not funny," Hermione hissed.

Sam immediately sobered — her wand hand was twitching, and he valued his continued ability to breathe.

"Okay. Why a cheerleader?" he asked carefully.

"Three cheerleaders dead in the last nine months," Dean said. "All from the same squad."

"Ghost? Demon?"

"Probably a ghost," Dean nodded. "And the only way into the social circle without raising alarms is through the cheer team."

Sam nodded slowly. "Makes sense."

Hermione shot him a look of pure betrayal.

"No. It does not make sense. It's a terrible idea. I'm not doing it!"

Dean pouted. Sam grimaced — he knew that look. Dean absolutely wanted her in that uniform for more than investigative reasons, and he did not want to think about it.

"Why not?" Dean asked, innocent as sin.

"First," Hermione said tightly, ticking it off on her fingers, "there is no universe in which anyone believes I'm eighteen."

Dean opened his mouth.

"No," she cut him off. "Second, I cannot dance. I cannot tumble. I cannot do gymnastics. I trip over air."

"She's got a point," Sam said. "They'll want an audition. That's even if they've got open spots."

"They do," Dean said smugly. "I checked the school website. They're desperate. With the deaths, numbers are down, and girls are dropping out."