The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

Page count: 18

Shattered glass littered the floor, beer bottles smashed into glittering shards. Pizza boxes lay overturned, their contents smeared into the carpet like something obscene and wasted.

A woman screamed—flailing, trapped—pinned to the wall by magic she couldn't break.

And blood.

Warm, red blood soaked into the carpet.

Dean Winchester sat in it.

Hermione was cradled against his chest, her weight slack, her body wrong in his arms. His legs were braced around her, his hands slick and shaking as he pressed them hard against her stomach, trying—desperately—to stop something that had already gone too far.

His face was buried in her curls, his breath hitching as tears soaked into her hair.

"Please," he whispered brokenly. "Wake up. Don't—don't do this. I need you. You promised me."

He lifted his head, just enough to see her face.

Too pale. Too still.

She looked like she was sleeping.

His hand left her stomach, trembling as he cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone like he'd done a thousand times before.

"Please open your eyes," he begged.

She didn't.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as a sob tore out of him. His fingers slid to her neck.

Nothing. No pulse. No warmth. No life.

His wife—his Angel, his heart, his world—was gone.

A sound ripped out of him, raw and feral, as he crushed her to his chest and rocked them both, breathing her in like it might save him. Blood. Caramel. Apples.

Then—

"What are you doing?" a voice snapped. "She's dead! You're free now. You should be thanking me!"

Dean's head snapped up so fast the room spun.

Jo.

Still stuck to the wall. Still breathing.

She was smiling.

"What did you do?" he asked quietly.

"I freed you," she said.

"You killed her," he said. His voice didn't shake. "You killed my wife."

"She was evil. She had you under a spell. But now it's over—we can finally be together."

Something inside Dean broke.

Not cracked. Not bent.

Shattered.

The grief burned away, leaving something colder. He could hear his own heartbeat. Feel the blood roaring in his ears. The air around him felt wrong—heavy, sharp—like a storm about to break.

He looked down at Hermione one last time. A tear slid down his face as he kissed her forehead. Then her lips.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I should've protected you."

He laid her down gently.

Then he stood.

Jo's smile faltered as he approached. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, the air thickening with something violent and final.

"I knew you'd understand," she said weakly. "Help me down, would you?"

She gasped.

Dean's eyes were empty.