The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

Page count: 11

Two weeks later...

"Come on, Glinda," Dean said, tugging his jacket on. "Sam's heading to the morgue, and we've got to talk to the victims' families."

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed beside Hermione, who was currently curled into herself like a grumpy burrito, completely cocooned in the duvet.

"Can you handle it without me today?" she asked, her voice thick and muffled beneath the covers.

Dean frowned. "Why? You feeling okay?"

He pulled the duvet back just enough to see her face — pale, pinched, and definitely not her usual fire-breathing self. His hand went straight to her forehead.

"Yeah... you're warm," he muttered.

"I feel sick," she groaned. "My back hurts, I've got cramps, and I swear the shrimp I ate last night was dodgy." She sniffed. "Food poisoning and my period at the same time. Why does God hate me?"

She yanked the covers back over her head dramatically.

Dean bit back a comment. He'd learned. Survival instincts.

"Alright," he said gently. "You stay here, get some rest. I'll bring you soup for lunch."

"And chocolate."

He hesitated. "I don't think chocolate's a great idea if you're nauseous—"

"I want chocolate."

She reappeared just long enough to glare at him like she might hex him into next week.

Dean raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. Chocolate. Soup and chocolate."

Satisfied, she disappeared back under the duvet.

"Sammy's waiting," he added. "But I'll be back soon, alright?"

She nodded beneath the covers.

"Good," he said softly, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead before standing.

As he left the room, he heard the faint click of magic sealing the door behind him.

Yeah. She was definitely not getting up anytime soon.

~000~000~000~

By the time Dean had finished talking to the victims' families and Sam had wrapped up at the morgue, it was well past lunch. They stopped at a diner on the way back, Dean grabbing soup for Hermione, chocolate, and—because he wasn't an amateur—a slice of chocolate fudge cake. Her favourite. If brownie points were currency, he'd just bought a small country.

The moment they stepped into the motel room, the sound of Hermione retching echoed from the bathroom.

Sam froze mid-step. His eyes went wide.

"Oh my God," he whispered urgently. "Is she pregnant?"

"I wish," Dean muttered, already moving. "Food poisoning."

The toilet flushed. The tap came on.

Dean reached the bathroom just as Hermione finished brushing her teeth, leaning heavily against the wall. One look at her had his stomach tightening. She was pale—too pale. Sweat clung to her skin, her t-shirt damp and sticking to her, curls plastered to her forehead and neck.

"How you feeling?" he asked.

Her weak glare in the mirror was answer enough.

"Yeah. Thought so," he said quietly.