The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Page count: 7

"Dean, I'm heading out for dinner. What do you want?" Sam asked, slipping into his jacket and fishing the Impala's keys out of his pocket.

"Not hungry," Dean muttered without looking away from Hermione.

Sam paused in the doorway, watching his brother from across the small motel room. It had been three days since the warehouse fight, and Hermione still hadn't woken up. Three days of silence. Three days of waiting.

Dean hadn't moved from that chair. He only left it when he absolutely had to—quick bathroom breaks and nothing else. He hadn't eaten. Hadn't changed his clothes. Hadn't slept. He just sat there, hollow-eyed, like the rest of the world had stopped turning.

Sam had tried everything. He'd brought food, coffee, pie—especially pie. But Dean hadn't even looked at it. The first day, he'd waved Sam off. The second, he'd muttered something about not having an appetite. By the third, he didn't even bother pretending.

Sam had even seen him turn down pie. Twice.
That scared him more than the bloodstains still smeared across his brother's clothes.

Dean still wore the same torn jeans, the same leather jacket stiff with dried blood. His hair was a wreck, sticking up in uneven tufts where he'd dragged his hands through it again and again. His eyes were bloodshot, dark bruises shadowing them like bruises left by sleepless nights. He was slumped in the chair, but his focus was razor-sharp, fixed entirely on the unconscious witch lying in the bed.

Sam sighed softly, dragging a hand through his hair. He didn't know what to do anymore. He'd even called Bobby about it—twice. Bobby's answer had been the same both times: Give him space. Let him work through it.
But space wasn't helping. Dean was fading right in front of him.

"You haven't eaten in three days," Sam said gently. "You need to eat something."

"Not hungry."

"Dean—"

"I said I'm not hungry," Dean snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. His bloodshot eyes cut to Sam, a dangerous flash of anger breaking through the fog. For a heartbeat, Sam saw his brother again—the old Dean, fiery and sharp-edged. Then it was gone, replaced by silence and exhaustion.

Sam exhaled slowly. "Fine. I'll bring you something back anyway. You might change your mind later."

Dean didn't answer.

Sam lingered another moment, watching him stare at Hermione's face like if he blinked, she'd disappear. Then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

~000~000~000~

Fifteen minutes later, the room was still. The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic tick of Dean's watch as he sat forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glued to Hermione.

Then her hands clenched.

Dean straightened, eyes narrowing as her fingers dug into the blanket. He'd seen it before—every fifteen minutes, like clockwork. Her breathing would hitch, her body would tense, her eyes would flicker beneath her lids. But this time... something was different.

Her breath quickened, turning shallow, uneven. Her lips parted, a soft sound escaping—something halfway between a gasp and a word. Dean leaned in, his chair creaking under his weight.

"Hermione?" he said quietly, reaching out.

Her chest heaved. Her knuckles turned white. She started murmuring under her breath—broken fragments, too quiet to make out. Then her whole body jolted, as if caught in the grip of an unseen force.