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These Small Hours

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You danced along to the music as you organised your latest purchases on the bookshelf. You’d been quite lucky recently, finding all kinds of books that were missing from your collection and even finally getting back that rare Italian witchcraft book borrowed by some hunters. You didn’t mind lending your collection out to hunters since it was for a good cause usually; you often found they weren’t the most reliable at giving them back sometimes though.

There was one hunter who had borrowed a book which listed all demons known to man and never returned it. When you’d called him about it you found out he was already on the other side of the country hunting this demon who’d killed his wife. You were annoyed at that; it was a hard book to get a hold of. The obsessive way he was going… he was probably going to end up dead and you’d never see it again.

It wasn’t that long ago you had been a hunter yourself. You were thrown into the world as many hunters were, allowed into the truth via a tragedy that left you with no way back to a normal life.

As time passed you realised that the hunter’s life wasn’t really for you and so you took a page out of a friend’s book setting up your little library. Nowadays hunters came to you from far and wide to ask for your help in identifying threats they were up against or to find a handy little spell to help them out. It was a good change.

There was only one more book to place now and this one didn’t go on the bookshelf. Reputedly straight from 1600s Europe it was supposed to contain all matter of information surrounding the mass witch hunts that took place. This was not to be left out in the open where it could be taken by anyone and instead taken to your hidden library. There were a lot of bad people out there who could do all kinds of horror with some of the books you had. You couldn’t let another book like this be taken… not again.

A loud knocking made you jump.

Dean Winchester was standing at the window, waving a book around that you recalled having lent him a few days ago.

You felt your cheeks up a bit at your reaction, sliding the witch hunts book back into the box and putting it just out of sight. It would have to wait a few minutes while you answered the door.

Dean had made his way to the front door as you did and now stood there with that faux innocent smile that made you flush just a bit more.

“Came to return this,” he said, holding out the book for you to take.

“Did it help at all?” You asked, genuinely curious as you took it back. His brother Sam had sent him here with instructions on what to look for, but Dean didn’t seem to understand half of what it was. We’d spent the better back of an hour looking through the collection for something that fit Sam’s weirdly specific orders.

“I think it did.” Dean scratched at the back of his head. “The thing is dead anyway.”

You hoped ‘the thing’ meant whatever monster he had been hunting this time.

“Say, you don’t have anything on angels, do you?”

You blinked. You’d been expecting him to hand back the book and go. Every hunter who bagged what they were hunting was always eager to leave town and get back to wherever it was they normally resided. No-one ever wanted to visit again.

“I… think I might? I’ll have run a check,” you answered after a moment. “You’ll probably have to come in for a bit again. Not in a rush I hope?”

Dean smiled brightly.

“Not at all.”