The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

Page count: 7

"It's been five days," Dean muttered, slouching in the chair beside the bed Hermione's sleeping form occupied. His fingers tapped anxiously on his thigh; his knee bounced restlessly.

"And she's fine," Sam said from his own bed, sprawled on top of the covers with one of Hermione's Wizarding History books open on his lap. "You've been feeding her Nutrition Potions. Cas checked her. If something was wrong, he would've said."

Dean didn't answer. He just dragged a hand through his hair and stared at Hermione like he could will her awake through sheer stubborn force.

He'd expected three days, maybe four. She'd said as much. But today was day five, and his nerves were wearing thin. He knew the drill: let her magic recharge, keep her nourished, wait. But knowing didn't make the waiting easier.

She looked peaceful — annoyingly peaceful — like she was just napping. No pain, no lines of strain in her face. Just Hermione. Breathing slow. Warm. Alive.

And out of reach.

Castiel had finally answered Dean's call two days ago, showing up like an exhausted pigeon with an attitude problem. He'd checked Sam first — the stab wound was almost healed thanks to Hermione's reckless, insane, brilliant magic. Then he'd inspected Hermione, too, resting a hand on her forehead.

"She is well," he'd said. "Her magic simply needs rest. When it settles, she will wake."

Dean had wanted to shake him. When wasn't good enough.

He missed her. He missed her voice, her sarcastic little comments, her cold feet attacking his legs at three in the morning, her fingers messing with his hair, her smile. He missed sleeping beside her — though "sleeping" was generous. He hadn't slept more than a couple of hours at a time, between nightmares and the torture device of a chair he refused to abandon.

And the longing was creeping in now. The bond-ache. The slow, gnawing need that made his skin buzz and his head throb. They hadn't been intimate in almost a week. If she didn't wake soon, they'd both start feeling it. It wasn't about sex — it was the bond fraying at the edges, protesting the distance.

He heard Sam speaking again and blinked, dragging himself out of his spiralling thoughts. He glanced around the room: overturned furniture righted, but broken glass still glinting in corners; Sam's blood stain still soaking the carpet. Hermione would have to magic it away — if she didn't, they were going to have cops crawling all over them, and Dean was not losing his clean record after Hermione worked a miracle to wipe it.

"Dean? Dean?"

"What?" he grunted, rubbing his eyes.

"Dinner. What do you want?"

He shrugged, exhausted. "Don't care. Whatever you want."

Sam watched him for a moment, concern etched into the lines on his face. He finally understood the depth of Dean and Hermione's bond — and now it made sense why Dean was wound so tight he could snap. At least this time, Dean was eating, showering, and sleeping some. Not much. But enough.

"Alright. I'll be back in about an hour."

"Take your time. It's not like I'm going anywhere," Dean muttered.

Sam sighed, closed Hermione's book, placed it on the bed, grabbed the car keys and left. Dean listened to the door click shut, then stood and re-salted the threshold. Now that he knew Crowley was sniffing after Hermione — too curious for his own good — he wasn't taking chances.