The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Page count: 10

One month later...

"Why do you hate me?" Dean croaked from beneath the blanket.

Hermione snorted and sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing the blanket and tugging it down just enough to reveal him. She bit her lip to keep from laughing.

He looked rough—skin pale, hair damp with sweat, eyes glassy and unfocused. He glared at her like a wounded animal.

"I don't hate you," she said mildly. "Stop being so dramatic."

"Then why did you wake me up?" he groused.

"To see if you wanted soup."

His glare deepened.

"And don't look at me like that. This is entirely your fault. I told you not to eat that burrito. It smelled wrong, it looked wrong, and I'm fairly certain it violated at least three health codes."

"It tasted fine," he muttered.

"If it tasted fine, you wouldn't be puking your soul out every twenty minutes, would you?"

He scowled, defeated. "No soup. I won't keep it down."

"Alright. At least try to stay hydrated."

"I'll throw it up."

"Then dip your finger in water and rub it on your gums. It still helps. We've done it for the kids when they've had the flu."

Dean stared at her like she'd suggested blood magic.

"I feel like shit."

"I know."

"It wasn't this bad for you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"You didn't have cramps."

"Yes, I did. Along with period cramps. And headaches. And dizziness. And sweating. And aching joints. And I didn't whine about it."

Dean opened his mouth.

"And," she continued calmly, "you carried me out of the shower, helped dress me, and tucked me into bed like a Victorian invalid. So get some rest."

"I'm dying."

"Well," she said sweetly, leaning down and kissing his forehead, "do it quietly. The neighbours don't need the performance."

He groaned as she straightened and headed for the door.

"Try not to perish while we're gone," she called over her shoulder.

~000~000~000~

Sam was waiting by the Impala when she approached.

"Still complaining?" he asked.

"Yes. He's convinced he's dying."

Sam snorted.

"For a guy who's been stabbed, shot, and dragged to Hell, he sure falls apart over mild food poisoning."

"You should see him with a cold."

"I look forward to it," Hermione said dryly.

"So, bodies first or relatives first?"

"Bodies," she replied immediately. "Always bodies. I hate that part less when I get it over with."

"Morgue it is."

She smirked. "Want to make it interesting?"

Sam glanced at her warily. "How interesting?"

"If you beat me into the morgue, I'll give you one hundred and fifty dollars. If I beat you, you're on Dean watch."