The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Page count: 10

Sunlight filtered in through the motel curtains, painting stripes across the room. Sam woke first, as usual, and immediately spotted Dean wrapped around Hermione like a human safety blanket. Only this time, Hermione wasn't just clinging—she was practically draped across him, one arm thrown over his chest, her legs tangled with his. Sam blinked and resisted the urge to snap a photo for future blackmail purposes, quickly reminding himself of last night's events and why it probably wasn't the best idea.

He slid quietly out of bed, heading for the bathroom, leaving the two of them tangled like a badly wrapped burrito. Fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and towel-draped over his shoulder, Sam returned—only to find Hermione gone. Dean was still there, but now he clutched the pillow she'd used like it held all the answers to the universe.

Sam tossed the wet towel at him. Dean shot upright, silver knife in hand, eyes sharp and wild.

"Sam," Dean growled, ready for a fight.

"It's me. Hermione's gone," Sam said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Dean's eyes went wide. In a flash, he shoved the knife in his pocket, yanked on his shoes, and pulled the shirt from the chair over his head. His leather jacket followed. He bolted for the door like a man possessed.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, frowning. Dean didn't even pause.

"To find her. Anything could've—" His voice cracked slightly, betraying genuine worry.

"She'll be fine," Sam said evenly.

Dean spun, incredulous. "How can you say that like it's nothing?"

"Hermione wouldn't just vanish on us," Sam said, gesturing to the table. "Her bag's still here."

Dean's gaze snapped to the beaded bag. Relief flickered across his face, quickly masked by tension. "She wouldn't go anywhere without it," he muttered, mostly to himself.

"She wouldn't," Sam echoed. "Wherever she went, she'll be back. This case matters to her. She doesn't abandon things that matter."

Dean huffed, obviously not thrilled with waiting, but he went to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Sam shook his head and headed to the Impala, determined to sort the weapons and gear before Dean came out to lose his mind.

By the time he returned, Dean was sitting at the table, clean clothes on, leg bouncing like a jackhammer, eyes glued to the door. A flicker of relief passed over him at Sam's entrance, but then it disappeared—he was waiting for her, not Sam.

"She's fine. She'll come back," Sam said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed, giving Dean a pointed look that said calm down, it's not a hostage situation.

Dean didn't respond. Eyes stayed trained on the parking lot, scanning for any hint of movement. Sam busied himself with the dirty laundry, placing it neatly by the door. Then he sat beside Dean, side by side in tense silence, the kind only hunters and protectors understand.

"Think she's brewing up trouble?" Dean muttered quietly, half to himself.

"Wouldn't surprise me," Sam replied with a smirk, leaning back.

And there they sat, three people connected by chaos, danger, and an unspoken promise: no matter what, they'd watch out for each other.

~000~000~000~

Twenty minutes later, the door creaked open. Both brothers were on their feet in an instant—Sam with his gun drawn, Dean gripping his knife since his Colt was still locked in the Impala.