The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

Page count: 19

Hermione made quick work of it—wand flicks precise, controlled—cleansing the blood from Dean and Sam as if she refused to let the evidence linger. Once they were clean, she vanished into the bathroom.

She was back minutes later. No blood. Fresh clothes. Steadier.

She grabbed her leather jacket, shrugged into it, and didn't hesitate—just took Dean's outstretched hand. He pulled her from the room like there was nowhere else she was ever meant to be.

Sam followed without a word.

"Car," he reminded as they stepped outside, only to blink in surprise when he saw the Impala parked two spots down from Jo's truck.

He blinked. That definitely shouldn't have been there.

He glanced at Hermione. She shrugged.

"Made a pit-stop on the way back from the hospital."

They piled into the car. Sam claimed the back seat. Hermione was already settling into the passenger side, turning sideways without thinking—her boots finding Dean's thigh, feet resting comfortably in his lap like they belonged there.

Dean didn't complain. Didn't even blink. One hand went to the wheel, the other settled over her ankle, grounding himself.

The engine rumbled to life.

They pulled onto the road.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?" He glanced at her, smiling wide—soft and unguarded, his eyes flicking from her face to her stomach and back again like he couldn't quite believe it was real.

Her breath hitched. Her stomach fluttered.

"I don't want pizza anymore," she said quietly, guilt creeping into her voice.

Sam snorted from the back. "Here we go," he muttered.

Ignored.

Dean didn't even flinch. "Alright," he said easily. "What do you want?"

She chewed her lip, brows knitting as she thought. "I can't decide between chicken pot pie or cheeseburgers."

Dean nodded like this was the simplest problem he'd ever been asked to solve.

"Then we'll get you both."

No hesitation. No teasing. Just fact.

Her lips curved into a soft, grateful smile, and she leaned back against the seat, one hand drifting—instinctive now—to rest over her stomach.

Dean squeezed her ankle gently, eyes back on the road, already planning routes, diners, stops.

Anything she needed.

Anything at all.

~000~000~000~

Dean scanned the menu for the third time, jaw tightening.

No chocolate fudge cake.

That wasn't going to work.

His pregnant wife wanted chocolate fudge cake, and that meant chocolate fudge cake was happening—menu or no menu. He'd fought ghosts, demons, Hell itself. A diner's dessert wasn't about to beat him.

He already knew what he wanted. Knew what Sam wanted. Knew exactly what Hermione wanted—down to the way she'd hesitated between options, the tell-tale signs he'd learned to read like a map.

Decision made, Dean slid out of the booth.

Hermione looked up at him. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he smiled, brushing a kiss over her hair. "Be right back."