The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Page count: 7

Dean missed Hermione.

It was as simple—and as devastating—as that.

He missed her sleeping in his arms. He missed her seeking out his warmth like it was instinct.
He missed her wild hair, her soft smell of apples and caramel, her laugh, her sharp wit. He even missed the way she'd pick fights with Sam just to amuse herself, or aim her creative insults at Dean when she was feeling particularly sassy.

He missed listening to her ramble about magical creatures. He missed teaching her about the supernatural in return. He missed her—in every possible way a man could miss someone.

For the first few days, he'd been physically fine... or so he told himself. His sleep vanished almost immediately. Nightmares returned with a vengeance—graphic, brutal, louder and more vicious than they had been in months. Without Hermione, they dragged him awake, gasping or kept him from sleeping altogether.

His mood tanked hard enough that Sam noticed by the second day.

Dean wasn't just grumpy. He was sullen. Exhausted.

He hadn't laughed. He hadn't smiled. He threw himself into cases with reckless focus, hunting to distract himself from the hollow ache in his chest.

But nothing helped.

When they returned to their motel each night, and Sam snored beside him, Dean would lie awake staring at the ceiling—thinking of nothing but Hermione. Without her pressed against him, without her breath in his ear or her soft weight curled over his chest, he felt cold. Empty. Wrong.

On the fifth day of her absence, the headaches began.

At first, they were faint. Annoying. But quickly they sharpened into something vicious—an ache that drilled behind his eyes and throbbed in the base of his skull. Painkillers did nothing. Alcohol made it worse.

His irritability skyrocketed. Even Dean could admit that he'd been especially brutal when they'd taken out a Succubus. Sam had said nothing, but Dean saw the look.

Then the dizzy spells started.

Dean lost count of how many times he'd nearly blacked out on hunts. One of them almost got Sam killed when they were up against a nest of Vampires. After that came the full-body ache—like the worst hangover of his life mixed with being jumped by a Werewolf and tossed off a building.

But the worst was the pain in his chest—right over his heart. A dull, relentless ache that made him rub the spot without realising he was doing it.

Then came the nausea.

Dean Winchester nearly threw up at the sight of a slice of pie. Pie. Sam had stared like the world was ending.

The stench of their motel room had sent Dean to his knees. The smell of his cheeseburger made him gag.

By then, Sam had concluded the obvious: Dean hadn't been the same since Hermione left.

His appearance proved it.

He hadn't lost weight—only because Sam forced him to eat—but the bags under his eyes looked bruised. His skin had a sickly, washed-out tone. His hair stuck up in chaotic tufts where he'd run his hands through it over and over.

On the tenth day, Sam snapped.

Something was wrong. Something deeply wrong.

He called Bobby, transferred their next case to Ellen and Jo, and declared they were driving to Sioux Falls immediately. He refused to let Dean behind the wheel—he wasn't suicidal—so Dean stretched out in the back seat, head buried in the pillow Hermione had left behind, wrapped around the jumper she'd forgotten in the car. It still smelled like her.