A strange stillness hung over the motel room. Dean Winchester wasn’t sprawled across the bed in his usual brash, cocky manner. Instead, he sat perched delicately, almost primly, his fingers brushing against the long, drooping ears that had sprouted from his head. A fluffy tail extended from the base of his spine, twitching every so often with a little hop. The result of last night’s hunt—a witch’s curse—had left Dean half-rabbit. Across the room, Sam sat hunched over his laptop, scouring the internet for a way to break the spell, when Dean’s voice pulled his attention upward.