The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

Page count: 12

Two months later...

Hermione woke to the soft press of lips against her stomach.

She smiled before she even opened her eyes.

Dean was propped on one elbow beside her, his other hand warm and careful against the small curve of her belly as he kissed it reverently, like it was something sacred. His eyes were fixed there—soft, awed, utterly undone.

She followed his gaze.

Four months.

Castiel had been right—seven weeks to the day when they'd found out. Her bump was still small, barely noticeable unless she wore something fitted, which she no longer bothered with. Dean's t-shirts had become her uniform: loose, soft, familiar. He pretended to complain, but she knew he loved seeing her wrapped in his clothes.

No one knew.

Somehow, miraculously, no one had figured it out. Ellen had kept Jo under control. Sam—shockingly—had kept his mouth shut. Hermione still found that one difficult to believe.

Life had settled into a new rhythm.

They hunted as they always had, only now Hermione stayed firmly out of the field. She researched, interviewed families, sifted through newspapers, and cross-checked patterns. Sam hacked police records; Hermione read people. She was still indispensable—just safer.

Exactly the way Dean wanted it.

Since the pregnancy, his protectiveness had reached legendary proportions.

Sometimes it was unbearably sweet—bringing her food without being asked, hovering quietly when she was sick, holding her hair back, rubbing slow circles into her spine while she retched and cursed him into next week. He never snapped. Never complained.

Other times, he was an absolute menace.

He refused to drive above thirty miles an hour. Once, when another driver cut too close, Dean had broken the man's nose before Hermione could blink. She'd wiped the poor bloke's memory and hexed Dean all in one go.

She wasn't allowed to carry bags. Ever. They'd nearly caused a scene in a supermarket car park when he'd taken both shopping bags from her—despite already carrying more than he could reasonably manage.

And food.

Dean sampled everything before she ate it.

Everything.

She'd caught him on Sam's laptop one night, deep into research about salmonella and undercooked meat. After that, meat dishes became a battlefield.

It was exhausting. Infuriating. But they were happy.

Bone-deep, terrifyingly happy.

They'd just wrapped up a case—a supposed simple salt-and-burn that ended with Sam getting stabbed by a fire poker. Hermione had patched him up while screeching at both of them until they'd developed matching headaches.

Now, finally, respite.

They were still at the motel, but instead of heading back to Cambridge, Hermione planned to call Mimsy to fetch them.

"Morning," Dean murmured, dragging her back to the present.

"Morning," she replied, threading her fingers through his hair and scratching lightly at his scalp.

He sighed like a man at peace.

"How's my boy doing?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Still fine. And we could be having a girl."