𝔒𝔥, 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥

As she stepped out of the shower, she realized it didn’t make a difference. Not an inch of her skin felt clean. Just sore. As she wrapped herself in a somewhat fluffy towel, she couldn’t help but mourn the arms that could have been embracing her instead. Not even the Metallica tee she stole from Dean ages ago could soothe her frayed nerves. She put it on regardless, hoping the familiar scent would calm her. It had the opposite effect, a wave of nausea washing over her.

Maybe this was always how it was gonna end. Cold and lonely; a thin crack in the porcelain — not broken just yet, but already out of order. Useless.

The minute, which Dean claimed he needed had turned into the entire duration of that shower. Then it turned into the rest of the evening, which then turned into a sleepless night.

As soon as she allowed her body to collapse onto the bed, she found herself unable to move another muscle. Her limbs suddenly felt like they were made of stone. Her head was a heavy, rough mass of granite in an unidentifiable, ugly shape. Despite her fatigue, she lay wide awake, staring at the shape of the moon on their ceiling.

Each time she blinked she thought she recognized a new pattern in the craters. Each time she squinted she realized she was wrong. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever seems to, lately.

Not the heaviness in her chest. Not the ache of her muscles. Certainly not the emptiness of the spot next to hers. Not the silence surrounding it. Not the absence of warmth.

She must’ve gotten some wink of sleep, because thanks to a knock at the door, her body twitched awake in a different position than before. Slightly disoriented, she lifted her head from what she quickly recognized to be Dean’s pillow. The faint scent of his cologne lingered, but it offered little solace and all the more reminders of the previous day. It took not only willpower but every drop of strength within her to sit up.

More knocking, gentle, but a little more urgent than the first time around.

“Are you up, Y/N?” Sam’s voice, though dull, reached her ears.

She didn’t know whether or not she was supposed to feel disappointed. She just knew that she did.

“I’m coming in,” he announced.

Instinctively, she reached for the sheets and curled up underneath them, hiding away. Of course it was a childish attempt at avoiding conversation. A futile one, too. The door opened with a familiar soft creak, one that triggered unwanted memories of the last time it fell shut.

“Dean asked me to check on you.”

She clenched her jaw, burrowing deeper into the blankets. So he thought of her, at least. Not that that should make her feel better. It made her more upset, if anything. A weak but petty “He couldn’t do it himself?” left her lips before her brain could process her poor choice of wording.

You weren’t supposed to hate the messenger. Her damaged relationship was not Sam’s fault.

Her ears picked up on slow steps approaching. The mattress sank slightly with Sam taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He took a deep breath, before he asked the dreaded question: “Are you guys still fighting?”

“No,” was her immediate response. When silence followed, she sighed. What was she supposed to say here? Did he have to put her into such an uncomfortable spot? Correcting herself, she opted for a weak “I don’t know.” And she didn’t.

After what happened during that case — it wasn’t even a hunt, damn it, they were up against some people. Humans. Shady bastards, sure. But human nonetheless — she didn’t know what to think anymore. Much less after what happened once they got home.

Her trust in Dean was all that kept her going. It always has been her anchor, a thing she could rely on in the grimmest of times. She wanted to hold onto it so badly, even if he was trying everything humanly possible to prove her wrong. Was it such a mistake to believe in him?

It all seemed broken beyond repair.

If she were honest with herself, they reached that stage a long time ago. Salinger wasn’t the turning point. There have been plenty of signs before that. Flags so red she should’ve… well, what could she have done?

“Charlie called,” Sam interrupted her thoughts. “She found the book.”

If he’d informed her of this news just a couple of days sooner, she would’ve been ecstatic. Finally a step in the right direction, some progress, a win! But now? It seemed so terribly pointless.

“How’s Claire doing?” she asked, as if the topic of the Book of the Damned didn't even matter to her. It didn’t. Not right now. Not anymore. Possibly not anytime soon.

“I— Claire? I’m not sure. Cas said he dropped her off at the group home,” Sam stuttered, taken aback by her sudden disinterest. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“But she hasn’t said anything else?”

Sam blinked at her, then shifted slightly. “I know you wanna help her and I know yesterday was… hard… on us all,” he mumbled as though he was the one who had anything to apologize for. “She’s in good hands, that’s all we can do for her.”

They could’ve done so much better. Alas, they’re settling for the minimum. No matter. At least Claire was safe, or so she hoped.

Biting her lower lip, she nodded and sat up at last. Even if she didn’t like it, they had no choice but to move forward. If yesterday taught her anything, it was that they had to find a cure for Dean. Fast. It was more urgent than ever.

“Yeah, okay,” she sighed and cleared her throat. “So, the book. Charlie. What did she say?”

“She went on a heist to find it. Stole it from someone who’s tailing her now.”

At that, her eyes widened again. Great, more to worry about.

“Relax, she’s safe and at a hideout for now,” Sam reassured her.

It was all she needed to hear to get up, grab her backpack, and haphazardly shove some clothes for travel in there. She was not letting another friend get in harm’s way under her watch. If anything were to happen to Charlie, she couldn’t take it — not under normal circumstances and certainly not under these conditions.

“Where? Why didn’t she come to the bunker? It’s much safer here,” she rambled in between, until Sam gently placed a hand on her wrist. She flinched, ever so slightly, but enough for him to notice. Swiftly pulling her arm free, she scurried to the bathroom, from where she grabbed her toothbrush.

Dean’s, too.

She didn’t allow herself to question her own reasoning. Force of habit of including him in her every thought. Wishful thinking that he’d tag along. Call it what you will.

If Sam had a chance to catch sight of her bruised wrist, or heck, even the teeth marks on her neck, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he told her that picking up Charlie was the plan, and precisely the reason he woke her in the first place.

They agreed to meet in the garage in ten, which initially triggered queasiness in her stomach. Then again, neither ten minutes nor ten days could possibly prepare her for the awkward tension.

She was the last of the trio to head downstairs, the hushed conversation among the brothers dying upon her arrival. She could only guess that they’d been talking about her, and the way Dean averted his gaze like some kicked puppy confirmed her suspicions. The silence might as well have been a dagger nestled into her chest, though she swallowed whatever pride was left within her and approached the Impala, its parking slightly askew from her angry driving last night.

She opened the door to the backseat with more care than she ever did before, suddenly feeling both guilty and silly for taking out her fury on Baby. As she placed her backpack on the leather, Sam glanced back and forth between her and Dean. He offered the latter a look of compassion and took a step towards the passenger side. Dean’s spirit visibly deflated, even if he tried covering it up with a clenched jaw.

She’d be ignorant not to notice, if not downright foolish. Part of her wanted to give in. It would be so easy to stroke his ego, call for shotgun, and brush past Sam to sit in her usual spot — right at Dean’s side. Despite her heavy heart, she decided to go through with her initial plan of sitting in the backseat and spending the ride in complete silence. Or part of it, at least.

“I gotta grab some stuff real quick, be right back,” Dean muttered through gritted teeth.

“No need,” she said, patting the backpack next to her, “I packed your things too.”

Dean paused, that steel facade of his briefly softening. He glanced towards the backpack, then back at her. For the first time since last night, he looked at her. For the first time since then, she felt seen by him — the shadow under her eyes, the marks on her neck. Her fatigue, her pain, both done by his hand. And still, amidst her turmoil, her softness, directed to him all the same.

She was well aware that the damage and the guilt it triggered in him would overshadow the rest. But it was still there; that flicker of tenderness. The warmth of a candle’s flame, unyielding even in a snowstorm.

“Right,” he breathed slowly, forcing himself out of his thoughts and clearing his throat. “Thanks.”

He slid into the driver’s seat without another word, and once they were all settled, they made their way to Charlie. The ride wasn’t as unpleasant as she feared it would be. The tension was awkward, but they had plenty to discuss — escorting Charlie to the bunker, studying the book and gathering supplies for a spell, possibly contacting Rowena again.

With all the battles fought, at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

And she was desperate enough to throw herself into the flames like a moth, still.

The ride was also much shorter than anticipated.

Charlie greeted them with a bright smile and a firm embrace, both of which filled her with warmth and relief. If anything would’ve happened to her, she wouldn’t know what to do with herself. The redhead just barely ushered them all inside, wasting no time to indulge in a group hug. That girl was quite literally the glue that held them together, a ray of sunshine fighting against the grey clouds in their skulls.

“It’s so good to see you, Charlie,” she smiled, genuinely so.

“I know,” Charlie grinned half-teasingly, throwing in a wink before turning to her backpack. She retrieved her loot from it, the large and heavy-looking object wrapped in a stained cloth. “You know how it is, all you have to do is flash the Bat-Signal and the Gotham Police will be on its way.”

Sam reached for it immediately, peeling at the fabric to reveal the rampaged book. It looked old and gross and smelled even worse. The binding was intact, but the brownish-yellow surface was thick and wrinkly. Leather, no doubt, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know its exact origin.

She peeked over as Sam flipped through the pages. The paper had a similar texture to the cover, smooth but wilted.

“You might be holding the Necromancy of Thay in your hands, that thing is made of 100% pure human skin,” Charlie spoke, a purposeful shudder and stuck out tongue added to her statement.

The huntress recoiled in disgust, scrunching up her nose for good measure. Sam, though unhappy with the comparison, kept turning the pages. However, he did so with just the tips of his fingers, touching as little as possible of the paper. The only one that did not flinch was Dean.

He still stood by the doorway, his unfazed gaze fixed upon the ancient tome.

Everything surrounding it was a blur, Sam’s hands holding it unclear splotches in his periphery, his girlfriend’s movement an unidentifiable whoosh of color, Charlie’s amused giggle a muted noise in the distance. The Book of Damned held his whole attention, and that of the mark. It itched, the tingling under his skin bordering on burning. Letters of a language he had never encountered swirled on the pages, danced as if to beckon him closer, whispered to him in strange voices.

Even though he could not understand a single word — or maybe precisely because of that —, he knew right away that the book was better off far away from his reach.

“Maybe put it away for now,” Dean muttered, voice strained and hoarse, but enough to earn himself a look of bewilderment from the others.

“Right,” Sam agreed, swiftly closing the book and wrapping the cloth back around.

The moment it fell shut, it was like a weight was lifted off Dean’s shoulders. Like he could breathe easier again. Still somewhat dizzy, he ran a hand across his face only to realize a sheen layer of cold sweat sticking to his forehead.

“Hey,” she hummed, putting herself between Dean and the duffel bag, the depths of which Sam shoved the book into. She even placed a hesitant but grounding hand on his elbow, offering him a look of concern. “You okay?”

Dean’s mouth felt dry, but he managed a nod.

She drew her hand away before he could look at it.

“So, Charlie,” she said then, more than desperate to change the topic. Somewhat, at least. “Where’d you even find that thing?”

“The Stynes.”

“Gesundheit,” Dean huffed dryly, his attempt at humor deflated by the clench still lingering in his jaw. He plopped down on the couch, slowly rubbing his temple.

“They’re like this weird occult clan. Or mafia, I’m not entirely sure,” Charlie elaborated. “Either way, they’re collecting cursed items like Pokémon. That book was in a monastery library in Spain, written by a nun named Agnes 700 years ago. According to the research notes from the crypt, it’s a spell book for creating or undoing any kind of damnation. If we translate this thing, we can take the Mark of Cain off of you, Dean.”

A pause, pregnant with hope, filled the room. This was their chance. Finally.

Dean half-frowned. “You took a trip to Spain without us?”

“Well, it was not the fiesta I would’ve liked,” Charlie sighed. “What’s left of Agnes there…” she trailed off, pointing her chin in the direction of Sam’s bag, “seems to be connected to the Stynes. They lost the book a couple of decades ago, but when I dug it up and I, along with it, arrived back in the States, Dumb and Dumber came chasing after me. I distracted them and here we are.”

At that, the huntress tensed.

“You mean the book is really made out of the nun?” Dean asked, grimacing.

“Apparently, she had these dark visions, so she used her own skin to write them down,” Charlie nodded with an exasperated sigh, “With her own blood as ink.”

“Gross,” Dean bleghed.

But did they not realize? That was not the most horrifying part here. The huntress shook her head, pointing at the bag. “So they were able to locate you through the book?” Oh shit. Oh shit, saying it out loud made it sound all the more serious.

They did not locate Charlie; they located the book. And the couple of hours it took them to meet up with Charlie was surely more than enough to locate it again.

As if on cue, a loud crash interrupted their conversation. The window shattered and the door broke open with a bang, revealing the aforementioned Dumb and Dumber. Their pupils were dilated, their chests were heaving, yet they wore confident, sly smirks on their faces. They looked human, but they felt monstrous.

“I think you have something that belongs to us,” the taller of them hummed calmly, wiping dust from his sleeves as he stepped over the threshold. He stared right at Charlie, before charging. With a yelp, she dodged and reached for her bag. There were only milliseconds between reaching for her pistol and the ear-ringing shot.

Another heavy pause filled the room.

Charlie’s aim was never off, and the bullet did hit the man directly in the chest. A gaping hole decorated his shirt, thick blood oozing from the wound.

He glanced down at himself. Then back at Charlie, his grin never fading. He still stood tall, still managed to move towards her as if nothing had happened.

Immediately, they all reached for their weapons, though her grip around the gun was trembling at best. These guys were trouble, and how should they defend themselves against bulletproof villains?

The other one, a blonde man, threw a sucker punch in Sam’s direction, sending him flying against a cabinet and away from the duffel bag. He crouched down, browsing through it messily, before retrieving the tome.

She shot, knowing it would not do a thing. Even after firing multiple rounds into the bastard’s back, he straightened it as if unscathed. Turning around slowly, he glared at her. She could not care less. They needed the book, it was their only chance.

With a roar, she pounced.

She might as well have ran into a solid wall.

Blondie was unmoving muscle, merciless and towering over her. But what he failed to anticipate was her ambitious spirit. She went straight for the book, knocking it out of the man’s grip on pure luck and tossing it across the room, screaming for Sam to catch it.

The same moment it landed in Sam’s hands, the guy seized her by the throat and yanked her back flush against his chest. His strength was definitely not human, though she could not figure out what Steroids these guys were on.

Dean, cornered by the tallest along with Charlie, growled: “The fireplace. Burn it!”

“No!” she wailed, voice strained through the chokehold. “Don’t!”

She knew this was no time for arguments, but they could not lose that book. They could not. She pleadingly stared at Sam with sheer panic, shaking her head frantically.

The blonde Styne holding her disliked Dean’s suggestion as much as she did. He carelessly dropped her, letting the huntress slump to the ground with a soft thud and leaving her to cough. Charlie jumped in her direction, barely dodging the tall one’s counter-attack. Chaotic as the situation was, the huntress managed to leap in Sam’s direction all the same.

Dean used the opportunity to swipe at the enemy in front of him, clearing a path for him. He latched onto the blonde guy, rendering him immobile for the moment. With the way he was thrashing and resisting, she knew she did not have much time.

The huntress exchanged a meaningful glance with Sam.

Then a nod.

A silent agreement. They could not lose the book. No matter the cost.

Swiftly, she grabbed a random book from the shelf nearby, pushing it towards Sam. While the tall guy and the blonde one were distracted, Sam tore the fabric from the Book of the Damned, wrapping it around the other book instead. She shoved Agnes’s remains in her shirt, tucking it into the waistband of her jeans.

Dean groaned after taking a hit to his nose from Blondie. “Damn it, Sammy, burn the fucking book!”

Sam threw the object into the fireplace, the flames hungrily eating away at it immediately. It hissed to life, growing taller as it consumed its victim.

“What have you done?” the tall one snarled, running towards the fire.

For retaliation, Dean smacked the handle of his gun into the blonde one’s face, using the moment of surprise to break free. He waved for the others to follow his lead, nudging them towards the door. “Go, go, go!”

They ran as fast as their legs could carry them. Bags and everything in the cabin abandoned, they slid into the Impala. Dean wasted no time speeding off.

“Is everyone okay?” Charlie asked, completely out of breath, whilst looking back. “Do you think they’ll follow us?”

“I doubt it,” Dean said. “They’re after the book, remember?”

Sam glanced over to her as she instinctively wrapped her flannel tighter around her middle.

Dean noticed, too.

“Did they get you?”

The worried tone in his question made her stomach flip, for all the wrong reasons.

“I’m okay, just the shock,” she lied as the guilt spread through the rest of her body, making the rest of her body ache as well. The Book of the Damned was pressed flush against her stomach, the wrinkly leather cold and uncomfortable. She was carrying a ticking time bomb, a huge target that would led the Stynes straight to them. Still, what other option did she have?

The escape went smoother than expected, though she continuously checked the side view mirrors, fully expecting a group of superhuman guys chasing after them. It would not surprise her if they did not even need a car to catch up. Their strength and speed were uncanny. They did not stand a chance back there.

Back at the bunker, she could finally breathe with less trouble again. The Men of Letters have warded this place against pretty much anything and everything. She was sure the Stynes could not locate the book here. At the very least, she had some supplies to protect the book here.

“You should stay here, Charlie,” she offered. “Just for the night. Just to make sure nobody’s after you, right?”

Though suspicious of her fidgeting and the nervous edge in her voice, Charlie agreed.

“Don’t beat yourself up over the book,” Dean said as they all headed downstairs together. “That thing gave me the creeps anyway… good riddance, if you ask me.”

Her face fell further and her arms, crossed in front of her chest, clutched the forsaken tome closer to herself. She was doing the right thing. She was doing everything she could. Clearing her throat, she hooked one arm through Charlie’s and pulled her along, claiming to lend her some clothes for the night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Charlie asked once they were out of earshot.

She nervously bit her lip, nudging her friend into one of the guest rooms. There, she closed the door behind her and pulled the book from her shirt. The gasp it earned her did not alleviate her guilt in the slightest.

“But Sam, I thought he burnt it, how— Why did you keep it?”

“Because it’s the first chance we have at removing the curse, Charlie. It’s the only chance we have,” she whined.

“But the Stynes… won’t they find it?”

“Not here, not in the Bunker,” she replied, shaking her head.

“Are you sure?”

“I will make sure,” she insisted then, her free hand grabbing Charlie’s. “Please, we have to translate it. We’ll ask Rowena and you can help too, right? You already checked the research notes, and—”

“Shouldn’t we at least tell Dean?”

Such a simple, honest question. And the right one to ask. However, it knocked the wind out of her. They should, shouldn’t they? Of course they should. But how could they? Her eyes softened, briefly falling onto the brown monstrosity in her grasp, then back at Charlie.

“I don’t like lying to him,” Charlie mumbled hesitantly.

“Neither do I,” she sighed shakily. The words that left her mouth felt wrong on her tongue, but with all they’ve gone through, she wasn’t sure if she could take another loss. “You saw the effect it had on him, or the mark, anyway. That’s why we have to use it to remove it; he doesn’t have to worry about it.”

Charlie’s lips formed a thin line, almost as if she was hesitant to reply at all. The decision wasn’t easy. But their goal was clear. With a sigh, she nodded. “Okay, fine. But, just for protocol, I hate it.”

The following days were a tightrope act.

Somehow, they managed to convince Dean that Charlie was staying for a while — not that he had anything against the slumber parties. In fact, he seemed somewhat calmer with his friend around. If only for the most part. They all knew he was pulling himself together in straining fashion, wearing a mask around the others and retreating to privacy frequently.

Whenever he claimed to head to bed early, she neither stopped him nor did she ask any questions. She was well aware that he did not get a wink of sleep. But, as much as it pained her, his absence worked in their favor. With him blasting Metallica in their room and unwilling to talk to anyone, he was unknowingly giving them an opening to work on the Book of the Damned.

It was still too risky to translate it in the Bunker, of course.

Dean could still catch them red-handed there, and the paranoia of him potentially being able to sense the tome plagued her greatly. They had all seen how he — how the Mark of Cain — reacted to that thing. It would not surprise her in the slightest if he was somehow able to pick up on the object's presence.

Thus, they decided to move it to a different location, which in turn raised more suspicion in Dean.

She was not stupid, and neither was Dean. They both knew all too well that they were avoiding each other, evident by the fact that they had not exchanged a word since bringing Charlie to the Bunker.

It was the reason alone that remained unclear to Dean. Though, if you asked him, he’d have an answer ready immediately. It came as no surprise that she was giving him the cold shoulder. He was convinced that he deserved it after how he treated her. The weight of that guilt was just another thing on his plate, dragging him down further into the abyss.

Dean was never a man of words, always struggling to express the thoughts he did not want to delve into himself. Though his stance on the matter was so clear — him hating himself for his actions, him being sorry —, it was not that easy.

A simple apology wouldn’t cut it. He fucked up big time, and he had no idea how to fix any of it.

Whenever he did test the waters, it led him nowhere.

Like that one evening where he caught her in the kitchen, wrapping up what looked like a stash of sandwiches.

Despite the late hour, she was in full gear — boots, messenger bag, and an oversized jacket. The latter, at the very least, offered him some sense of hope. It was one of his, and seeing his girlfriend practically drowning in his clothes never failed to make his heart swell. Not even during an unresolved argument between the two of them. Especially not then.

“Hey, uh,” he started, awkwardly rubbing his neck and already cursing himself for his faltering voice. Smooth start, Winchester. Real smooth. “What are you up to?”

She flinched before her head snapped in his direction, her eyes wide with horror. Whatever had his heart feel remotely full and warm before was shattered in an instant. A tear went right through it as he watched her quickly avert her gaze.

She could not even look at him. And why should she, honestly? She had every right to turn away from him.

She fidgeted with the sandwiches, shoving them into her messenger bag while clearing her throat.

“Just going out with Charlie for the night,” she answered vaguely.

Her voice was not only meek, but it was shaking. She was scared. And Dean wanted to rip his heart out and die on the spot at the realization. Her body language was closed off as if hiding herself away from him, clutching her bag and brushing past him.

He was not only speechless, he was straight up frozen in place, unable to turn to her, let alone stop her from leaving. She was slipping away and all he could do was stand there dumbly and watch it unfold.

“You don’t have to wait up, it might get late,” she mumbled briefly and just like that, she rushed down the hallway and up the stairs.

It wasn’t until the heavy main door fell shut that Dean dared to breathe again. Even so, as he did, his head was still spinning.

To think that she was scared of him sent him spiraling, though he could not blame her. He could claim that he would never want to hurt her all he wished, it did not change the fact that he did cause her harm.

Dean found himself in an empty bunker, his girlfriend gone with food rations enough to last for an entire weekend, no sight of Charlie anywhere, and not even his brother around. Earlier this week, Sam had sent him a text message — something about being out of town and taking care of a small case, nothing serious, he’d take care of it himself and return soon.

How could he not think it was fishy?

Everyone was dancing around the elephant in the room. Fine, they did not want to be around him and he withdrew himself from the group just as much. But still.

Grabbing a beer from the fridge, Dean returned to their room. Though he figured it was best not to overthink it, not even a session of Jeopardy could take his mind off everything. After finishing the bottle and one episode, he reached for his phone with a sigh.

His eyes were glued to his lock screen for an embarrassingly long moment. The sight of his arm around her shoulder and her bright smile stirred something uncomfortable in the pits of his stomach. Then, his thumb hovered over her name longer than he cared to admit, only for him to scroll further up his list of contacts.

Dialing Castiel’s number, he waited — each painfully long ring increasing his anxiety. It usually didn’t take that long for the angel to pick up a call, and when he finally did, the tense “Dean?” on the other line sounded so damn wrong.

“Cas,” Dean started, slowly, as though he needed to digest his own suspicions before he could throw them around. Maybe it was nothing, just him and his paranoia. Maybe they were all just like him, needing some space without harboring any grudges. “I’m just checking in, haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Right,” Cas replied. A long pause followed. “I’m working on a case with Sam.”

Another pause, this time on the hunter’s account. He thought Sam said he was fine hunting on his own for this one.

“You’re with Sam right now?” Dean didn’t mean for his question to sound grumpy, but the inexplicable sense of betrayal cut him deeper than expected. Then again, who was he to judge after everything that happened? “Can you hand him the phone real quick?”

He heard some shuffling on the other end, a hushed whisper that he could not interpret.

Castiel sighed, then spoke hastily: “He’s not with me right now.”

“But you just said—”

“I will call you back. My apologies.”

Before Dean could dare the angel not to hang up on him, it already happened.

Castiel abruptly ended the call, shoving his phone back into his trench coat just in time for the door to open. She and Charlie walked into the abandoned warehouse, both of their faces reflecting the guilt that was plastered on the angel’s face. Upon the girls’ arrival, Sam also joined the scene, looking more frustrated than anything.

“No luck with our favorite witch?” Charlie inquired, the sharp edge to her tone less than subtle.

“I can hear you, you know? And I do not appreciate the sarcasm,” Rowena huffed from the other side of the room. Her shackles clattered gently as she flipped her hair dramatically, glaring in Charlie’s direction. Even cuffed, the witch did not like to be messed with.

“Never mind that,” Sam muttered through gritted teeth. The last thing he needed was more bickering between Rowena and Charlie. They clearly despised each other, but in the end, they were all in the same boat, with Sam acting as supervisor.

He’s been stuck in this place for days now, the bags under his eyes indicating the toll Rowena was taking on him. He might have convinced her to help translate the book, but at what cost? Not only did Rowena expect a grand reward, but she was also impossible to deal with. Well aware of how useful her skills were to the Scooby Gang, she continuously tested their patience.

Not that she was wrong. They did need her aid. Without her they could’ve never sealed this place, shielding it — and more importantly the Book of the Damned — from the Stynes. Not to mention the translation, which was difficult enough with her and impossible without her.

“What took you so long?” Sam asked then, watching as the huntress dropped her bag on the table.

She clicked her tongue at him and retrieved the sandwiches. “Please, you had to wait for like five more minutes,” she retorted, visibly irritated as she distributed the food among the group.

“No offense, darling, but I do not care for morsels unless they are—,” Rowena started, but she did not bother listening to the rest of it. The witch probably didn’t even need food to survive, so if she preferred complaints over a full belly, it did not matter. For all she cared, Rowena could starve in here if the snacks were not to her luxurious tastes.

At least Castiel had the courtesy of accepting the sandwich, despite definitely not needing to eat anything. Perhaps it was the way she had stomped around that intimidated him enough to accept her offer.

“I mean, I know… Just— Sorry, I was just wondering,” Sam justified, his already tired eyes softening further as he offered her an apologetic expression.

“No, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to snap at you,” she sighed back, slumping down in one of the folding chairs they had set up. All their nerves were frayed, but they needed to stick together and see this through. “I bumped into Dean on the way out, I think he’s starting to suspect something’s up.”

“He just called,” Castiel chimed in, curiously picking at each layer of his sandwich — not eating any of it, just examining the ingredients thoroughly. “He is definitely onto us.”

Sam, clenching his jaw and running a hand across his face, sighed and nodded. “Maybe, but even so, we can’t give up now. We’re so close.”

Were they, though? It felt as though they had not made any progress.

Deciphering the scriptures was more than difficult, even with all the help they had. Her gaze wandered to their notes, more crumpled pages than neat papers scattered across the table. They haven’t even figured out if there was a cure for the Mark of Cain in that tome, let alone what ingredients such a spell might require.

What if all of this was pointless?

A warm touch interrupted her troubled thoughts. She lifted her gaze to meet Charlie’s smile. Her friend gently squeezed her shoulder, giving her a reassuring nod.

“Let’s kick the nun’s ass for her terrible handwriting,” she half-joked, taking a seat next to her and setting up her laptop. Between her fingers flying through their notes and across the keyboard, she happily munched on those sandwiches.

At least one of them appreciated her effort. Though she felt horribly useless for providing only that.

She was no witch, so none of the scribblings in the book made sense to her. Cas being the only one with angelic powers, he was in charge of gathering supplies from all over the world within seconds. She also lacked Charlie’s talents in formatting their findings into neat tables. All the huntress could do was go over their notes again, double-checking everything and trying to find patterns.

Initially, she thought some distance would help her clear her head, but every time she left the bunker to sit in the warehouse, her mind would drift back to Dean anyway. She hated lying to him, hated leaving him all by himself. But here, she at least had a clear goal and clear tasks, things to keep her hands occupied.

If anything, Sam could catch a break from babysitting. He honestly looked like he was hit by a truck, curled up on a chair that looked uncomfortably tiny for his long limbs. His arms were folded tightly over his chest, his nose twitching slightly during his slumber.

She got up, stretching her stiff muscles briefly, before making her way over to the younger Winchester. Shrugging off Dean’s jacket, she draped it over his sleeping form and made a mental reminder to herself to bring blankets next time. Maybe a pillow, too.

Sam jolted slightly, eyes fluttering open with confusion.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” she whispered.

Rubbing his eyes, he shook his head. “All good,” he yawned and sat up straight, glancing past her and towards Charlie and Rowena.

“I am telling you, you will not find anything with that machine,” Rowena scoffed.

“And I’m telling you to leave the modern stuff to the professionals and the ancient stuff to the… well, ancient ones,” Charlie retorted.

“They’re still at each other’s throats, huh?” Sam asked with a sigh.

All she could offer was a shrug. She didn’t expect those two to get along. She wasn’t a fan of Rowena herself, but she preferred having the witch on her team rather than as her enemy. Still, their bickering was enough to make all their heads throb.

Even Cas struggled to maintain peace. They were talking right over him, ignoring his attempts at keeping them focused on their tasks.

“I’m sure Dean could just crack a dumb joke and get them to stop,” she snorted softly, weak smile fading immediately thereafter. “Maybe we shouldn’t have left him at the bunker.”

Sam regarded her words for a second, then removed the jacket from himself and returned it to her. She eyed it sadly, as if she was holding the manifestation of her own guilt in her hands.

“What did you tell him?” Sam asked.

She glanced up at Sam briefly, then back to the jacket, the sleeves of which she traced her fingers across. The fabric was well worn, softened thanks to both years of hunting and her. She was sure her continuous theft of his shirts contributed to it, at least.

Sam followed up: “Have you talked to him at all?”

“I just told him that I’m out with Charlie for tonight,” she shrugged.

“That’s not what I meant,” Sam sighed, tilting his head slightly.

As if she didn’t know that.

“Look, I don’t know what happened between you two,” he hummed. “But you gotta talk to him eventually.”

As if she didn’t know that, either.

What she truly did not know, just like Sam, was what happened between them. How could you even put that into words? It felt wrong to file their last encounter under ‘He used me and then he ditched me!’ but at the same time, she did not know how else to interpret his actions.

“I just want to find a spell, translate it, and fix this mess,” she replied instead. Wasn’t that what all of them wanted? The rest didn’t matter. Not until the rest was dealt with, anyway. They could discuss everything else after. Or so she hoped.

“Ugh, that’s enough!” Charlie exclaimed, her loud groan echoing through the room. She jumped from her chair, slammed her laptop shut, and waltzed towards the exit.

Alarmed, the hunter dropped the jacket back into Sam’s grasp and chased after her. “Where are you going?”

“She’s impossible to work with!”

“I and many of other talented witches would disagree, but it just goes to show that you are overwhelmed by true skill,” Rowena sing-sang, her teasing words accompanied by a nonchalant shrug.

“See what I mean?”

She pulled Charlie aside, both of her hands cupping the redhead’s. “I know she’s annoying, but we need her. And we need you as well,” she spoke, pleadingly batting her eyelashes at her friend. “Try to ignore her, please?”

Charlie chewed on her bottom lip, then rolled her eyes. “I love you guys, and I really want to help Dean… but if I have to spend another minute in the same room as her, I will enter a villain arc.”

Pouting, the huntress scanned the room. There was this closed off, stuffy space in the back…

“Cas, could you…?” she trailed off, pointing her chin at Rowena and then nodding towards that little corner. Maybe they could move Rowena’s workspace over there and create some distance. It was better than nothing, right?

“I’ll help,” Sam chimed in, moving to unlock Rowena’s chains from her chair.

“Why would you keep me locked up like some dog, anyway?” Rowena complained. “I, for one, see no issue in me working right here.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Sam mumbled, unimpressed by the woman’s huffing and puffing. Nobody ever told you that being a hunter involved dealing with disputes at the level of middle school students.

“I’m sorry to put you through this,” she muttered at Charlie.

“It’s not your fault,” Charlie demurred wearily. “I know it’s rough on all of us, especially you.”

That prompted her to blink. “Me?” she scoffed halfheartedly, dismissing her friend’s concern. “I’m not even doing much.”

“Keep telling that to yourself, but don’t lie to me,” Charlie countered with a frown, “You should go back, check in on Dean. Resolve whatever is going on with you two.”

Her jaw dropped, but no sound came out. She exhaled shakily, wanting to brush it off, but her voice faltered. “There’s nothing going on, we’re just—”

Returning from Rowena’s new corner, Sam reasoned: “Charlie’s right.”

Since when was he siding against her now? She snapped her head in his direction, but seeing the exhaustion on him, her rebuttal died on her tongue. Damn him and his pleading puppy eyes.

“Look, if anything, just make sure he won’t find out about all of this,” Sam argued.

She scoffed, bewildered to be reduced to a distraction: “So now I’m just a decoy?”

She knew she was just lashing out, like a cornered animal. She knew just as well how unfair it was to direct her anger at her friends when she only had herself to blame. Just because she was scared of confrontation didn’t mean the others deserved to be snapped at.

Sam spoke her name slowly, his tone somehow both chiding and calming. Both a warning and a plea. His patience was running thin, too.

She pressed her lips into a thin line and gave in, begrudgingly grumbling a half-assed “Fine, I’ll go.”

Sam held out the jacket for her again, which at first earned him some hesitation, before she gingerly took it and slipped back into it.

“Will you guys be fine here?”

Charlie nodded. Sam glanced over his shoulder at Cas, who tried to reason with Rowena, then he exhaled and nodded as well.

“Will you?” he asked her, worry written across his features.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” she sighed. “I’ll survive.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“No,” she replied immediately, waving him off. “No, you’re right, I just gotta get it over with. Or keep an eye on him, at least. It’s okay, seriously.”

It was, in fact, not okay.

Once she stepped foot outside the warehouse, a sense of dread filled her. She felt more than silly for it, since they really did not ask much of her. What was so bad about spending an evening with your boyfriend, anyway? Her temper tantrum was, simply put, ridiculous.

Once her feet somehow finished dragging her to her car, she did not have it in her to start the engine right away. The jacket felt wrong on her, too big, too warm, smelling too much like Dean.

What was she even supposed to say? Was she supposed to say anything?

It was all she could think about the whole way back. Even after parking in the garage, she could not come up with a greeting that sounded right in her head. Or maybe she was just overthinking things.

Maybe he’d long gone to bed.

Maybe he didn’t even want to talk to her.

Not that that made her feel any better. It actually made her feel even worse.

“Here goes nothing,” she mumbled to herself, exiting the car and heading to the main door.

The solid wall of steel appeared to her even more unbreachable than usual. Her shaky fingers unlocked it and pushed it open, the loud creaking noise making her wince. It closed behind her with a bang just as booming. With no way back now, she headed downstairs hesitantly.

Downstairs, she heard quick steps approaching.

Not a second after, Dean stood in front of her, his eyes wide — something laced within his surprised expression. Something relieved, if she had to guess. Something hopeful. She realized it only after he took a small step back again, that the way his arms hovered in mid-air, close to her sides, that he had planned to embrace her and had a change of heart at the last second.

After her short excursion, it must’ve been around midnight. Usually, it wouldn’t strike her as odd seeing him buzzing about this late into the evening. But with him going back to his room much earlier recently, she couldn’t help but wonder.

Had he been waiting for her?

“You’re back,” he breathed almost as if he didn’t quite believe it himself.

Suddenly, she felt even worse to have abandoned him without an explanation. Unable to speak up, she just nodded and shrugged off the jacket, walking to the war room and hanging it over a chair there.

Dean followed behind her like a lost puppy. Avoiding her for so long led to abandonment, so now he switched tactics to the other extreme.

“Where’d you leave Charlie?”

Shit. She should’ve come up with an excuse for that instead of scrambling for apologies.

“Oh, you know,” she started, awkwardly clearing her throat and gesturing wildly with her hands. “We were, uh, at this bar. She met this girl, they really hit it off.”

It didn’t sound like Charlie at all, at least not the part where she’d let her friend drive home all by herself. But it was the only story she could come up with on the spot. Skeptically, Dean raised an eyebrow, then nodded.

“A bar,” he echoed thoughtfully, scratching the back of his neck. “One with shitty sandwiches?” His attempt at humor failed completely. She tensed, but remained unresponsive. He cleared his throat, going for a more serious approach again. “Good for her, I guess?”

“Yeah, right?”

Since Dean did not look convinced by that brief of an answer, she decided to elaborate. Only that she quickly slipped into a full ramble.

“I mean, she asked me three times if it’s okay, but why wouldn’t it be? She can do whatever she wants; it’s not a big deal. Nothing wrong with her having some fun. Why would there be something wrong with that?”

It must’ve been the most words she exchanged with Dean in the past week, yet it was all just gibberish. Even the crooked smile she forced onto her lips was nonsensical. There was no way Dean would buy any of it.

At first, he looked puzzled, then his expression melted into something different. Defeat. Disappointment. Her heart sank right away.

“Of course I told her to call me later. I mean the girl seemed nice, but you never know, so—”

She didn’t know why she thought elaborating on her story would make it more believable. She didn’t know why she was so nervous to begin with. Since when was talking to Dean so intimidating?

“No need to beat around the bush,” Dean rasped then, interrupting her babbling. He made an effort to feign a nervous smile, just as crooked as hers. “You guys were having a girl-talk. About us?”

Her eyes widened into the size of saucers, her mouth gaping. For a second, she struggled to find the right response. “What? No, nothing like that, we—” She stopped herself mid sentence, swallowing thickly. Not the best cover-up, but she could work with that.

“It’s okay,” Dean shrugged, shoulders slightly tense, but more so out of discomfort rather than anger. His crooked smile softened into a sad one, his chest deflating slightly. “Honestly, I’m kinda glad. That you’re opening up to someone, I mean.”

Part of her wanted to spill the truth then. Let him know everything, so long as he wouldn’t have to doubt her feelings for him. It wasn’t him that couldn’t be trusted, after all. She was the one lying to him, leaving him in the dark, letting all of this get into his head in all the wrong ways.

But the stakes were too high. She couldn’t risk missing their only chance at removing the curse. So, even if she didn’t like the fact that he was doubting himself, it was better than exposing him to the Book of the Damned. If the tension between them had any silver lining, it was this.

“We weren’t gossiping about you, if that’s what you’re scared of,” she mumbled, “Just… talking.”

Dean looked at her. Really looked at her, scanning her from head to toe once, before averting his gaze. “So, what’s the verdict?”

Dumbfounded, she blinked at him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“C’mon, don’t sugarcoat it,” he sighed, rotating his shoulders and looking back at her, as though bracing himself to be condemned. “What did she say? That I’m an ass, that I don’t deserve you? Not that she’d be wrong.”

Every word was a punch to her gut. Oh, she hated everything about this. Hated everything about herself in that moment. A tight knot formed in her stomach. Another in her chest. There was even a clump in her throat, one preventing her from denying it all.

She felt like she couldn’t breathe. Even her vision was getting blurry, though she quickly blinked to fend off any tears.

“Dean, I…,” she tried, really tried, but she didn’t know what to say, and her voice sounded way too shaky to be remotely convincing. “That’s not true.”

The silence that followed couldn’t have lasted for more than a couple of seconds, but every one of them felt more torturous than the other. Her eyes drooped slightly, gaze fixed on the floor — the space between them, which couldn’t have been more than four or five feet, but it felt like they were oceans apart.

He took a deep breath, slow and shaking.

“Okay, rough start, let’s just try again” he muttered, though she didn’t know whether he was talking to her or himself. “How about this: You know I’m bad at this, like, real bad. But… You talked to Charlie, right? Can you talk to me?”

She blinked up at him, through slightly glossy eyes and the tiniest amount of resolve.

“Please,” Dean added through a desperate whisper. “Or, I don’t know. I can do the talking, if you want me to.”

“You don’t have to,” she murmured, too overwhelmed with the implications.

He was going to give her the whole thing; a heartfelt speech that she did not deserve, all the kindness he could muster.

Sensing her apprehension, he instinctively took a step closer. It was a hesitant step, because he was terrified she’d pull away. When she didn’t, he took another, crossing that ocean and reaching for her hand again.

His calloused skin was as warm as the scent of coming home after a long day.

She let him touch her this time, letting him take her hand, letting it rest in his palm, and letting him relearn its weight. Though it occurred to her that he was touching her like he was learning how to lose her.

“I do,” he spoke, a little more confident now that she wasn’t running away anymore. “And I want to. So, please, just hear me out. And then you can send me to hell, if you still feel like it. But just let me say this.”

The only one she wanted to send to hell was herself. Though this whole conversation felt like her own personal hell, designed to give her the worst punishment she could receive.

“I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand gently, green eyes glued to hers. “I swore I’d never hurt you, and I fucked up, and I can never forgive myself. I can never forgive myself for losing you.”

She swallowed thickly, but she let his words wash over her. It would’ve been rude to interrupt him, to deny him this. In a way, she knew this apology would give him peace, would heal him. Besides, she deserved to feel like a fool, to have the guilt eat her alive.

“You’re not losing me, Dean,” she breathed quietly.

Dean snorted softly, shaking his head in disbelief. Slowly, he let his thumb trace her knuckles, the shape and texture all too familiar.

“Yeah… I am, I know I am,” he stated like someone accepting defeat. “I mean, you won’t talk to me. That’s on me, I guess. I mean, I run away like a coward whenever I see you. But maybe it’s for the better. You won’t look at me. Hell, you flinch when I talk to you.”

At that, her stomach flipped. Shocked, she stared up at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re scared of me, I’m not stupid,” Dean continued and her heart sank further. “And that’s the worst part. The worst. I never wanted you to be scared of me.”

No.

Secrets or not, she could not in good conscience let him believe that. If there was anything to set right, it was this. She squeezed his hand, tightly, interlocking their fingers desperately.

“We’ve been over this already. I’m not scared of you,” she insisted. “Never! Remember?”

“I’m not blaming you,” Dean reassured her. “Honestly, I’m scared of myself.”

“No, you don’t get it,” she whined, no longer fighting those tears. They spilled over like the words she’s been trying to swallow down. “I’m serious, I… I’m not scared of you, Dean. I mean it. I just thought, with you leaving, that I— I don’t know, that maybe I’ve done something wrong. That I should’ve acted differently. That I failed you, again.”

When Dean released her hand, a wave of panic washed over her. She gasped for air, a broken sob, only to have him cup her face and catch her tears. He wiped them away, his thumb stroking over her reddened cheeks over and over again.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he clarified immediately, his tone not allowing any rebuttals. “Nothing, you hear me?”

But he still didn’t get it. She did it all wrong. Everything. All of it. It was all she ever did, messing up and making him feel responsible. How could he not see that? How could he believe all of her lies and trust her so blindly?

Just like that, the dam broke. Sobbing, she let her head drop into his grasp.

He caught her with practiced ease, arms seamlessly wrapping around her. He pulled her in, let her bury herself into his chest, let her soak up the sound of his heartbeat, the scent of his soft flannel, the warmth of his embrace.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into the crown of her hair, his fingers combing through the strands. At that, she cried even harder. And he let her, prompting even more tears. It was a vicious cycle, his obliviousness to it all being the cherry on top.

If he knew the truth, he couldn’t stand being near her.

Her crying eased into sniffles, her trembling fingers clinging onto the fabric of his shirt like her life depended on it. “Dean,” she whispered hesitantly, knowing this was it.

“It’s okay,” he cooed softly, breaking her heart all over again.

“No, there’s something I need to tell you,” she sniffled. He deserved the truth. He deserved the world. If she could give it to him, she would.

A buzzing interrupted their conversation. Dean held up one hand in a ‘hold that thought’ gesture, reaching for the pocket of his jacket with the other. It was her phone that was ringing, Charlie’s name on the display.

She froze.

Dean picked it up without second-guessing it. “Charlie, how’s that date going?” As he grinned, he looked at her, his whole aura feeling so much lighter, while she knew his newfound happiness was about to be shattered in seconds.

She couldn’t make out what Charlie was saying on the other line, but judging by Dean’s face sinking, it couldn’t have been good news. His smile faded in an instant, horror washing over his paling face. He quickly put Charlie on speaker.

“I don’t know how much time I have left,” Charlie wailed. The distinct sound of typing was in the background. Tapping, like there was heavy rain.

“Whoa, slowly, where are you?” Dean asked.

Her blood ran cold. She immediately knew something had happened, and what else could it be related to if not the tome?

“Some motel. I needed some space, and now the Stynes, I think they’re here for the book.”

Dean’s brows furrowed as he stared back and forth between the phone and her. When his gaze finally settled on her, all warmth had vanished from the green. She could practically see the pieces falling into place for him. Her avoiding him, everyone avoiding him, the book, the Stynes.

He must have had so many questions, yet his focus was only on getting Charlie out of danger.

“You gotta ditch the place,” he instructed, turning away and rushing towards the spiral staircase.

Grabbing the jacket, she followed right after. Her heart was beating faster than ever before, so much so that she felt the pounding of it rattle her bones.

“I can’t. I’m almost done with the translation,” Charlie hushed. She could feel her friend’s panic through the phone. More frantic typing could be heard in the background.

“Forget the translation, Charlie,” she chimed in now. This was no joke, this was life or death. “Run away, now.”

Furious, Dean added: “Give them whatever they want, you hear me?”

They ran to the garage, wasting no time to hop into the Impala.

“Sorry, Dean,” Charlie sighed. “I can’t do that.”

“Charlie— Charlie?”

The only response they received was beeping. The call had ended. She snatched the phone from Dean’s hand, frantically trying to trace it back. Calling Charlie again didn’t do anything; she did not pick up. Texting proved to be futile too, there was no response.

“She better be okay, or I swear…,” Dean threatened, hitting the gas.

“We had to—”

“I don’t want to hear it! Just tell me where the fuck she is,” Dean barked.

This time she really winced, shrinking in the passenger seat. Biting her tongue, fighting her tears, she worked on locating Charlie.

Her phone seemed to be at some motel, like she said. They rushed there without any regard for traffic rules. The rain came crashing down on the road, and later on them as they stopped in front of the motel.

They knew which room she had booked immediately. The window was broken, pieces of glass scattered everywhere. The door was ajar and askew, broken off its hinges. Inside, it was pitch black, safe for the occasional lightning bolt brightening a horrifying scene.

Both hunters bolted inside.

Her breath hitched at the sight of scattered furniture, a kitchen table and its matching chair lying broken on the floor. Aside from that, the room appeared to be entirely empty.

Dean clicked his tongue, reaching for his gun and the flashlight on his phone.

“Charlie?”

He dialed her number as he paced around the room, searching for any traces of his friend. When they both heard a ringing noise, they both stopped in their tracks. The unmistakable buzzing of a phone emitted from the bathroom.

Dean forcefully pushed the door open, both of them stumbling inside.

A stench of iron hit their noses, fresh and heavy.

“…Charlie?”

Lightning struck, illuminating the horrifying crime scene. Thunder followed, matching the turmoil in her stomach. For a second, she thought she was going to throw up. Her eyes were fixated on the tuft of red curls, a familiar face stained with still glistening crimson. It was splattered all across her, all across the tiles, all across the bathtub Charlie’s body sat in.

Slumped over and lifeless.

Dean moved before she could even make sense of what she was looking at.

He knelt in front of the bathtub, hands pawing at Charlie in a desperate attempt to find a pulse. It didn’t matter how weak it would be, as long as it was there. It would be there, right? His thumb pressed into her wrist, his fingers searching on the side of her neck for any sign of life.

She was cold, the puddle of blood in the tub warmer than her skin.

“No, no no,” he rambled, gently shaking Charlie’s shoulders. “Hey, look at me!”

The girl remained unresponsive in his grasp, swaying in the motion of his nudging like some rag doll.

“Dean…” Her voice was so feeble, she wasn’t sure he could even hear her. If he did, he made no indication of listening to her.

He kept wiping strands of hair out of Charlie’s face, all of it soaked in red. At last, he picked her up, lifting her out of the tub. He walked past her without even looking at her, his expression stoic as he left the motel room. Even when she followed behind gingerly, he paid her no mind, draping his friend’s corpse in the backseat of his car without a word.

Then, he slipped into the driver’s seat, still silent. He didn’t talk to her. Didn’t look at her. Part of her wondered if he’d drive off without her if she stood next to the car for longer. Not wanting to test her luck, she quietly slid into the passenger seat, eyes cast down to her lap.

He drove off, the low rumbling of thunder the only noise mixing with the roar of Baby’s engine.

Not that any words, under any circumstances, could fill the hollow this loss has left behind.

The hole resembled more of a spiral, an endless round and round that made her dizzy.

She made the mistake of catching a glimpse of the rear-view mirror just once.

Dean pulled over without her having to say anything and once the car stopped, she opened the door and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the side of the road. She tasted a stale, sour version of the sandwich from earlier, and just thinking that that was the last thing Charlie had tasted, too, made her hack up another wave of sickness. Though he waited patiently for her to catch her breath again, Dean did not say anything. Wiping at her mouth with shaky fingers, she closed the door again, and he continued driving in silence.

No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t make sense of it.

When she left, Sam, Cas, Rowena, and Charlie were all back at the warehouse. Why did she leave? What happened? Where were the others? Why didn’t she stay?

Why did they do this to begin with?

They arrived at the garage before she realized. Dean parked the Impala, stepped outside, picked up Charlie’s body, and left, going inside. She didn’t know where exactly he went. He didn’t tell her. He didn’t say anything.

She had never seen him like this, and suddenly, her promise from earlier began crumbling. She was scared. Terrified, even. Not of Dean, but also not not of him.

Her phone rang again, the sound jolting her out of her dissociation. She stared at the screen, Sam’s name on the display. The last time her phone rang, it was Charlie. Alive and kicking. It came to her then that she was never going to hear that chipper voice again. No more nerdy puns, no more of those sweet giggles.

Charlie was dead.

And it was their fault.

“Y/N?” Sam’s voice echoed through her phone. She didn’t even realize that she had picked up his call. “Y/N, are you there?”

“Charlie’s dead,” was all she could say. “She’s dead, Sam.”

The rest of the night was a blur. Her body was physically there to witness all of it, but her brain was not doing its work to comprehend any of it. When Sam came back, he was bombarded with Dean’s questions.

It was the first time she’d heard his voice since they left that motel.

There was more shouting than talking. More blaming than asking. What were they thinking? Why didn’t they burn the book like he told them to? Why didn’t they tell him what was going on? Why did they have to drag Charlie into this? Why Charlie?

Why Charlie?

…Why did Charlie have to die?

She listened in, but for the most part, she couldn’t focus on the words. She sat at their main table, stiff as a stick, unmoving, eyes staring straight ahead. Images of her friend, blood oozing from her, kept flashing through her mind like the lightning bolts outside.

Sam tried to explain the situation and from the snippets she caught onto, she gathered what must’ve happened.

Rowena kept annoying Charlie. Sam went to take an important call. Cas was out shopping for more snacks. Charlie must’ve left to work in peace. The book, no longer warded within the warehouse, lead the Stynes straight to that motel.

The only things coming from Dean’s angry mouth were accusations and curses, all of which they deserved. Sam did not argue back on any of it, taking every word from his brother’s fuming speech.

“And you,” Dean hissed, pointing directly at her. “You were in on it. All of it. And you didn’t tell me. No, you watched me squirm like some idiot.”

“Dean,” Sam tried, placing one hand on his shoulder, only to have it smacked away immediately.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he growled. “You all went behind my back. For what? Was it worth it? Was it worth Charlie’s life?”

“I’m sorry,” she spoke softly. It was all she could think of. How sorry she was. But saying it out loud was like a newborn trying to find its voice for the first time. She might as well have been a doe, taking her first steps in uncharted territory.

She knew Dean’s anger, but she never had it directed at her. Not like this.

Dean slammed his fist onto the table, shoving everything atop of it down with a single swipe. Even Sam flinched at that, rarely seeing Dean’s fury to this extent.

“Sorry won’t bring her back,” Dean spat. “Charlie is dead, because of you.”

A silent tear rolled down her cheek. It wasn’t caught by Dean’s tender touch this time. None of her tears might ever be again. She cast her eyes down, her lips moving without her realizing it.

“We were trying to help you,” she mumbled shakily.

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, you fucked up. And now we got nothing and Charlie’s corpse! Good job!” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth with angry stomps while Sam and her remained in their spots, perfectly still like some scolded children.

“We didn’t want this to happen,” Sam mumbled eventually.

“That so? I bet Charlie will be thrilled to hear that, oh wait, she can’t anymore. And why’s that? Right, because you were too dumb to keep an eye on her,” Dean hissed angrily.

“Come on, I think we should—”

“You know what I think?” Dean interrupted Sam’s attempts to smooth over the situation. “I think it should be you guys rotting in a bathtub, not her.”

That was the final blow for her. Getting out of her chair slowly, she made a decision.

“I’ll pack my things,” was all she gave for an explanation before she stepped into the hallway.

Dean did not stop her.

Sam, at least, wanted to follow after her. “Wait, you don’t have to leave, just—”

“Let her,” Dean cut him off, loud enough for her to hear. “Looking at her makes me sick.”

Dean Winchester Taglist (Pt. 1):

@ablondehoe @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @angelicjackles

@artemys-ackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @bigivori @blueschevy

@bohoooitsme @calibootsgirl @castielscaplan @charliesangel67 @chronic-fangirl-222

@deansbbyx @deanswifeyy @deanwinchesterlover67 @deekaag @emma1998sblog

@emmy21842 @fertilise-me @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean @hot-and-confused

@idjit-central @jackles010378 @jollyhunter @justwhisperingfantasies @kimxwinchester

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“Maybe we should call Rowena,” Sam sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face.

She frowned in response.

“I don’t like this idea,” she grumbled.

“Me neither,” Sam huffed. “But we don’t have many options left.”

Upon surveying the table and the various books scattered across it, she had to agree.

They’ve been at it for months and weren’t able to find anything about removing the Mark of Cain. Now, after Dean had turned into a demon, they knew they couldn’t go through the same process again. They didn’t have another couple of months.

They didn’t know when the curse would take over again. Moreover, if it ever came this far, whether or not they could save him a second time.

Perhaps Rowena really was their last hope. As a powerful witch, surely she knew a thing or two about lifting curses.

Still, the huntress’s expression remained to be one of dismay and skepticism as Sam dialed the woman’s number. She didn’t know if they could trust Rowena, after all.

While Sam and her were digging through more lore and contacting possibly helpful yet dubious sources, Dean was busy staring at anything but his reflection.

He was in the bathroom just next door. Had been there for the past twenty minutes. Just standing at the sink and scrubbing his hands until they were raw.

He was barely able to make out Sam’s and Y/N’s voices from outside. The ones in his head were much louder. Much more persisent, even overshadowing the running water.

Hissing and screaming and taunting and aggravating — he could barely take it.

Making the mistake of blinking upwards, his gaze met his own eyes. Dull and circled with dark shadows underneath.

Sleep hasn’t been able to find him in days. Not since his girlfriend and Sam managed to inject him with enough purified blood to keep his demonic side at bay.

Not when he knew — they all knew — it was still dormant within.

Dean clenched his jaw, staring down his reflection and seeing nothing but 50% monster and 50% empty, pathetic shell. Or maybe, just maybe, there was some amount of guilt laced within there too. The past weeks and months were mostly a blur to him, mere snippets of clarity in between.

He remembered some of the hangouts with Crowley, drowning himself in even more whiskey than usual. He remembered some demons tailing him, all of which he killed. He remembered being dragged back to the Bunker. And, worst of all, he remembered going after Y/N.

He remembered the rush of adrenaline. The raw, pure joy the idea of chasing her brought him.

How could he possibly, in good conscience, ever look her in the eyes again?

After everything that happened, he didn’t have it in him to face anything anymore. Least of all her.

Why, out of all the memories that could’ve been so vivid, it had to be the image of his hand around her throat or that damn hammer aimed at her, he didn’t know. It felt like fate was being cruel to him. Then again, he couldn’t help but think he deserved it.

When splashing his face with cold water didn’t soothe his frayed nerves either, he let out a shaky sigh and turned off the faucet. The voices outside were clearer, though he still couldn’t make out what she and his brother were talking about.

It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. The Mark of Cain was the hottest topic in the bunker. Hell, it wouldn’t even surprise him if they were just straight up badmouthing him. He would’ve deserved that, too.

Honestly, part of him hoped she’d talk to Sam. She sure as hell hadn’t talked to Dean about this mess. Not because she didn’t want to. Quite the opposite. It was him, who repeatedly shut her down. It was him, who avoided the much dreaded conversation like a plague.

He didn’t even know why — whether he was embarrassed to face his own (literal) demons, or if it was her he was scared of. At times he thought the second he’d even look at her for just a moment too long, she might get scared.

At least that’s what she should be doing.

Of course, she’d never.

She’s always been too forgiving with him. But Dean’s guilt didn’t allow himself to accept her kindness. He was broken beyond repair, yet she still bothered to pick up the pieces, when instead she should be turning her back to him.

He had hurt her, badly, in more ways than one. And he could never take that back or fix it. He couldn’t even guarantee it wouldn’t happen again in the future, which was eating him alive.

How could he have let it go this far?

Clutching the edge of the sink, Dean stared down his own reflection. His hands were twitching, fingers grasping onto the white ceramic so hard that his knuckles matched the shade. So hard until he could feel the blood pulsating in his knuckles. Until his muscles ached.

Until suddenly, within the blink of an eye, his reflection was shattered — split into several, small pieces.

A large crack went down the middle of the mirror, lines of broken glass spreading out like veins, when his own were flooded with poison. Like a spider’s web, when he could not escape from himself.

Dean’s gaze dropped to his fist, shaking and covered in crimson. The flow of the rivulets was both nauseating and strangely soothing. He staggered backwards until his back hit the wall and he slid to the cold bathroom floor. The blood dripped from his knuckles down his arm, right over the pulsating mark, which was still throbbing with hunger.

Head between his knees, face buried in his palms, he barely registered the panicked knocking at the door.

“Dean, are you okay?”

Her voice, though muffled by the door, pierced right through to him. Like he had been shot straight into his chest.

Far from okay.

“I’m fine,” he spoke, barely having the energy to raise his voice enough for her to hear.

She rattled at the doorknob, then knocked again.

Dean didn’t budge, not wanting her to see him like this. The back of his head softly thudded against the wall behind him and he stared at an empty dot on the ceiling.

Persistent as she was, though, her worried voice tried again: “Can you let me in?”

A pause. Heavy silence. Nothing.

“Please,” she added.

“C’mon, Dean. Open the door,” Sam’s voice chimed in and ultimately, Dean gave in with a sigh. He picked himself up from the ground, which took way more effort than it should have, lazily rinsed off the blood from his skin, and halfheartedly wrapped some bandages around his hand.

“Dean, open the—”

“I’ve heard ya the first time, man,” Dean groaned and unlocked the door at last.

He couldn’t meet either of their gazes. Not that he had to to feel their concerned stares.

Y/N’s eyes flickered back and forth between Dean, his poorly wrapped up knuckles, and the shattered mirror. Before she even had the chance to ask what happened, Dean pushed past both her and Sam.

“Hold on,” she tried anxiously, “Your hand, you—”

“I said ‘m fine,” Dean grumbled coldly, tiredly, then retreated to the kitchen.

Instinctively her arm stretched out in his direction. Although he was out of reach anyway, Sam placed a firm, yet gentle hand on her shoulder to prevent her from following Dean.

“Give him some time,” he mumbled, not sounding too convinced himself. Though he knew his brother well enough to figure he wouldn’t want a conversation, he wished he could do something for him as well. Still, it was no wonder Dean wanted to be left alone.

He was scared, it was plain to see.

“He’ll come around,” Sam sighed with a half-nod. “He always does.”

She could only hope Sam was right.

But more than that, she couldn’t help but feel anxious.

It wasn’t the first time Dean was pushing everyone away and part of her knew he did it to prevent a possible lashing out against them. But honestly? She would’ve preferred for the time bomb to go off, for Dean to burst, over watching him slowly fade away.

“I hope you’re right,” she mumbled in response to Sam’s comment. Then, she tended to the mess Dean had left behind, because cleaning the broken mirror was apparently all she could do right now.

Broom and plastic bag in hand, she carefully collected the shards of glass.

The task couldn’t have taken longer than a couple of minutes, but to her it felt like hours. Hours of waiting for Dean to come back out of the kitchen. Of waiting for him to immediately reinstall a new mirror in that habit of his to fix messes right away. Waiting for him to flash her a goofy grin. For him to stop pushing her away.

By the time the floors were swept, the sink cleaned, and the trash thrown out, there was still no sign of Dean. In the meantime, Sam was back in the library, having a phone call with Rowena that sounded ten times more urgent than earlier that day.

At first, Y/N danced around the kitchen like it was a contaminated area.

She reorganized the DVD boxes in the Dean Cave, by alphabetical order. She cleaned her gun, taking it apart and building it back together from scratch. Twice. She listened to Sam’s summary of his conversation with Rowena, something about a ‘Book of the Damned’ that might or might not hold the solution to all their problems. She helped him go through their library, then stayed at the shelves even after Sam announced he’d be heading to bed.

When after all those hours the only sign of Dean was still just the light from the kitchen seeping into the hallway, she gave up.

If Dean was ever going to come around, it wouldn’t be with her lurking about. And frankly, she too was worn down and tired, given that it was already way past midnight.

Thus, after getting ready for bed, she climbed under the sheets. And then, to nobody’s surprise, she tossed and turned. She kept staring at the door, which she had left open on purpose. A silent invitation for Dean to walk in whenever he was ready. Only that he never accepted the invitation.

Every minute spent in a bed that felt empty without him beside her diminished the chances of him ‘coming around eventually.’

She couldn’t take it anymore.

Slipping out of bed and into her slippers and fluffy robe, she left the bedroom.

It wasn’t just today. Ever since they brought him back and cured him, Dean hasn’t slept in his room. She didn’t know where he was staying, honestly. Her best guess was the library, but whenever she’d check, he wasn’t there either.

Most days she’d find him in the kitchen. Like today; he’s been in there the whole time.

Her footsteps were soft and careful, not wanting to startle him.

She found Dean sitting at the table, a mostly empty plate in front of him with only a few bites of a burger on it. At least he was eating again. He was currently busy rearranging and cleaning parts of his gun. Great minds think alike, huh?

She gently cleared her throat before she spoke up: “Don’t you wanna come to bed?”

With his back facing her, she couldn’t gauge his reaction, but she saw the tension in his muscles. His shoulders rising, then slouching. His movements paused just for a second before he continued fidgeting with the metal.

“No.”

He might as well have shot her with the gun.

Something in her chest tightened. The room temperature dropped. He wasn’t even looking at her. He hasn’t been looking at her the whole day. Longer than that. Much longer.

“I found this lead, in Washington,” Dean rasped then and she swore that must’ve been the most words he has exchanged with her in weeks. “Bunch of bodies with missing hearts, looks like a simple case of werewolves to me.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, though.

“You wanna take on a case?”

“Why not?” He shrugged, “better than going stir-crazy.”

Not that he was wrong.

They’ve been cooped up in the Bunker for a while, but wasn’t it better to rest? To wait until things were smoothed over a bit, and maybe see if Rowena’s lead would take them anywhere? But Dean had made up his mind before she could voice her opinion on it. He got up and nearly walked past her.

“Shouldn’t we at least wait until tomorrow morning?,” she hastily uttered, half-panicked, while blocking the doorway.

She didn’t gather all this courage to approach Dean only for him to walk away again.

Though his expression was distant, she was glad he was looking at her at all.

“I can make a stop on the road, or take a nap when I’m there.”

I? He wanted to go to Washington by himself?

“Not a chance, Winchester,” she huffed and shook her head. “Look, I don’t wanna be a mother-hen, but you can sleep here and we can all head out together. Tomorrow morning.”

Dean blinked at her, unimpressed, then he groaned quietly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Y/N—”

She didn’t let him finish. She had cut him some slack this whole time, but enough was enough. He at least owed her this.

“You can even take the bed,” she suggested. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

That took him off guard. His eyes went wide, his lips slightly parted in confusion as he struggled to find the right response.

“What?”

Standing her ground, insisting he should get a proper night’s sleep, she repeated her offer: “I can take the couch. Or another guest room. We have plenty of those anyway, it’s fine.”

Dean’s expression grew more and more puzzled with each word, like she was talking in a foreign language. “No. What are you saying?”

“Just… you deserve some rest and I don’t wanna occupy your space—”

“My space? Babe, stop, that’s not–” He sighed deeply. The crease between his brows melted, his eyes softening as something clicked in his head.“It’s our room, not mine. Has been ever since we moved in here.”

As much as she wanted to, she found it hard to believe him. She spent too many nights in that bed by herself, too many hours dining without him, doing groceries without him, not seeing a glimpse of him, let alone talk with him, for his words to make sense.

Dean has been avoiding her like the plague. Whether or not he was doing it for her sake, she got the message loud and clear: He didn’t want her near him.

More bitterly than she had intended, her voice pushed out a meek: “Then why am I the only one using it?”

The brief silence it earned her was deafening. She didn’t mean to blame him for anything, but how could she not feel neglected? Feel unwanted?

Dean clenched and unclenched his jaw. At last, his gaze dropped again and without the eye contact, he was a million miles away from her. Again.

“…I can’t sleep anyway. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

Not only did she find it hard to believe, she knew he was lying. That blind trust she once had in him, was now cracked slightly. How could she take his word for granted when he’d been keeping secrets from her and withdrawing more and more?

She had a good reason to believe him going on a hunt, by himself no less, was a terrible idea. Last time she left him to himself, he disappeared, got killed, and turned into a demon.

Even if everything he did was to protect her, he should’ve told her the truth.

She wasn’t asking for him to act like everything was okay. She knew it wasn’t. All she wanted was for him to take care of himself, for once.

And if he didn’t want her to be part of that process, then so be it, but he couldn’t expect her to watch him destroy himself. Not again.

She took a deep breath. It came out shaky and she, too, had to cast down her eyes, which were red-rimmed from sleep deprivation and sorrows alike.

“I get it, Dean,” she muttered, weakness making her voice tremble. “You need space and time… and… honestly, I wish I could say that’s okay. I wish I could give you as much time as you need, but… I’m– I’m scared.”

As was he. He was terrified even.

In that moment he was as much deer caught in the headlights as he was the driver staring at the car crash. The sight of her tears was like a truck hitting him, though he was the one responsible in the end, wasn’t he?

Dean never wanted any of this for her. He was supposed to look out for her, not put her in harm’s way.

He was straight up poison for her from the very beginning, doomed by fate or whatever, and dragging her right down with him. It had only been a matter of time — he couldn’t even blame it on the mark.

No, he had been tainted long before that curse came around.

“Can’t blame you after what I did to you,” he spoke, his tone not wavering, but breathless and defeated nonetheless.

“What? No. God, no. Not of you, Dean. Never of you,” she clarified immediately, those glassy eyes of hers pleading with him. “I’m scared of losing you again— you’re slipping away from me and I can’t do anything to stop it.”

Despite his own resolution to stay away from her, for her own good, he snaked an arm around her waist. She accepted the offer immediately, burying her face in his chest.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she relearned the familiar scent of him and the comforting texture of soft, worn down flannel. It’s been so long that she almost forgot the warmth of his arms around her.

If she could, she’d drown herself inside of him, crawl into his skin and replace that cursed mark. But alas, her tears were the only thing his clothes soaked up.

It wasn’t much different for Dean. His senses reviewed all of her as well, committing every detail to memory once more. She still felt the same, and he felt like an idiot.

His arms around her tightened. Where his nose was previously buried in the crown of her head, he now perked his chin up and tucked her head right beneath.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, letting one hand comb through her hair while the other was rubbing small circles on her back.

“No,” she sniffled. “No, you’re not.”

He couldn’t blame her for thinking that. Dean knew he hadn’t exactly been easy lately. Nor had he been treating her fairly.

“Look at me,” Dean sighed and pulled back slightly. His heart ached when her fingers tightened their grip on his shirt, clinging to him as if scared to let go. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise. You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily, hm?”

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to crack a smile at his weak attempt of humor, but she simply couldn’t. Even as he cupped her face and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, the fear was still lingering.

Yet, she closed her eyes, allowed herself to relax into Dean’s hands, and nodded.

He took that as a small victory.

“Let’s go to bed, sweetheart,” he mumbled into her hair, weaving hope and warmth into the strands.

The tension eased from her shoulders, even more so when he wiped away her tears.

“Will you let me patch you up first or am I pushing my luck?” She mumbled, her fingers gently wrapping around his wrist and holding up his poorly bandaged hand.

Reluctantly, he nodded and let her guide him back to their room.

Figuring she needed this more than he did, Dean sat down and watched her carefully clean his cuts. He couldn’t care less about some scratched up knuckles, but she wanted him to be okay. She needed him to be okay. So, even if he wasn’t, he could let her do this small thing.

It was a start.

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The only difference now was that he was staring at the Mark of Cain on someone else — something else. On a sharp collarbone, hidden barely by the flowing fabric of a black dress and tickled by brown curls. The appearance might’ve been that of a human, but every fiber of the hunter’s instinct warned him otherwise: Whoever was standing in front of him was no ordinary woman.

He meant to ask what she was, but out came an inquiry of whom he had the pleasure of speaking with.

“Amara,” she declared, not particularly solemnly, but the three syllables carried a certain weight. “My name’s Amara.”

None of Dean’s muscles would move, no matter how much he thought he should run away. Something prevented him from doing so. At first, he thought it was her doing. But when her dainty hand trailed down his arm, stopping at the empty spot where the scar used to sit, he realized with horror that he didn’t want to escape.

The grazing left a familiar buzz in his blood, his skin prickling with a dangerous warmth — a deep, insatiable hunger.

“I have to thank you for setting me free,” said Amara, voice steady and earnest, and somehow Dean didn’t know whether it should make him angry or scared.

They should’ve known better. Hell, they did. Of course, removing the curse would lead to consequences. Even Death warned him about what would happen. But this, whatever it was, was too big of a mystery.

“Who are you?” Dean repeated.

“I’m your past,” she answered vaguely, her delicate hand brushing over the red outline sitting just below her shoulder. A scar, the shape of which would haunt Dean for years to come. “And I’m your future, Dean.”

“This,” she trailed off, tapping the Mark embedded into her skin. “This is what binds us. Even if you no longer have it, it’s our connection.”

Dean scoffed, though it lacked the heat he wished he could scream into the world: “So, what are you? The curse running loose?”

“Think of me as the manifestation of all the Mark made you crave,” Amara explained calmly.

Bloodshed? Violence? Chaos?

“Evil and destruction incarnated?” Dean gruffly guessed, his answer only half-sarcastic. “That’s reassuring.” His senses were tingling, hyper-aware of how dangerous Amara was. Just because someone wore a pretty face and was not aggressive from the get-go did not mean they weren’t capable of causing harm.

Her eyes softened, though it took him a second to realize that it was disappointment flickering across her features. It was almost like what he had accused her of upset her personally.

“No, no such thing. Nothing bad,” she muttered, brows knitted together like she needed him to really understand her. Her hand wandered lower, frigid palm pressed flat against his, with her fingers splayed out.

“I am above good versus evil,” Amara sighed. “There are beginnings and ends, shadow and light. But they aren’t opposites; they’re two sides of the same coin. One can’t exist without the other. It’s a symbiosis.”

Dean didn’t know what to make of that lecture. Nor did he know how to handle the swirl of black, ash, and dust filling his lungs and blurring his vision.

He jolted awake with a gasp, sitting upright in his bed, and a layer of sweat sticking to his forehead. It was the dim glow of their moon-shaped ceiling light that eased his state of disorientation. He lost count of how many times this strange dream interrupted his sleep.

And hers.

“Dean?”

Déjà-vu.

And at the same time, things couldn’t be more different from his last streak of nightmares. No imaginary red blood was staining his hands. He no longer felt the urge to rip something apart. But there was something about the stale air, the heavy silence, and the uncertainty that had him think they were back to square one.

He could certainly live without the full circle moment of startling in the middle of the night, alerting his concerned girlfriend like he had so many months ago. As if on instinct, his clammy hand rubbed over his lower arm, just like last time. The tension in his shoulders did not vanish until he found the spot empty now.

That’s right. They’ve successfully removed the Mark of Cain. So why could he not shake this icky feeling? What was the meaning of this reoccurring dream? He saw it flash before his eyes every night, and without failure, he’d forget most of it by the time he woke up.

“Just a weird dream, sorry,” Dean muttered, voice shakier than intended.

The bedsheets rustled softly as she sat up beside him. He couldn’t bring himself to look in her direction. After all, they’ve been through enough already. He wasn’t ready to face a new problem already. Even worse: He couldn’t bear the thought of burdening his girlfriend with yet another impending doom.

Was it even on that scale? Maybe he was overthinking things, maybe it wasn’t half as bad as he feared it might be.

“A tea-with-rum kind of dream?”

Her question was meant to lighten the mood, even if one could argue it was a little early for jokes about their last predicament. Still, his lips twitched into a weak, crooked grin while he shook his head. Even if it took him a deep breath to believe the mantra, this was no life-or-death situation. None that required any liquid courage either.

He appreciated the effort regardless. It felt good knowing she would always have his back, even now. Still, no immediate danger was afoot. Just his girlfriend, offering him a reassuring smile and an open ear. This time around, he knew to accept it without hesitation. He’s learned his lesson the hard way.

“C’mere,” Dean breathed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and settling back into the pillows with her. She snuggled up to his side, letting him tuck her against his chest like this was where she always belonged.

“I don’t want you thinking I’m keeping any secrets,” he murmured afterwards, voice laced with the guilt from the past couple of months. He’s fucked up quite a few times there. He did not want to repeat his mistakes. “I keep having this weird dream. Can’t really tell you what it’s about, though. It’s all a blur.”

Her fingers were splayed over his chest, absentmindedly tracing the outlines of his tattoo. The touch stirred something in him, triggering flickers of someone else’s hands ghosting over the non-existent mark on his arm and of someone else’s palm sizing up his.

Tensing ever so slightly, Dean took her wrist — his grip was both gentle and firm, neither pushing away nor pulling closer. He did stop her movement, though. He just needed something to ground himself with. To remind himself of what was real and what was fake.

“I’m back in that grey storm outside the diner, and there’s this woman. Amara, I think,” Dean continued, hesitantly so. “She’s got the Mark of Cain. But I don’t know what she wants.”

That, at the very latest, made her freeze. She blinked up at him, droopy eyes and sleepy lashes now wide and alert. When Dean’s gaze met hers, he thought the question marks in her eyes mirrored his own. He, too, was absolutely clueless.

“It’s probably nothing,” he sighed. “Aftershocks of the stress or something.”

But she wasn’t buying it. It sounded too specific to be brushed off as random. “I don’t know,” she muttered, her weak attempt at getting to the bottom of this already faltering. “Maybe we should look into it more. Can’t hurt to be careful.”

She hated to be paranoid. Hell, if anyone knew how badly they needed a break from constantly being on edge, it was her. At the same time, they couldn’t afford any more risks. Even with the Mark of Cain gone, a deep fear had settled in the pits of her stomach. What if it wasn’t over? What if the spell didn’t work, or if the curse somehow would restore itself?

Dean mulled over her words, watching the concerned crease between her brows deepen into a brooding furrow. He gently poked her forehead, drawing her attention.

“We’ll look into it,” he agreed somewhat begrudgingly. Under one condition: “Tomorrow.”

Before she could even think of a counterargument, Dean pressed a chaste kiss to her hairline, practically feeling her anxiety ease under his caress.

The wrinkles on her forehead melted, as did the bristling behind that stubborn skull of hers. Frankly, she was tired and still a bit drowsy from just waking up in the middle of the night. Whatever battle they had to fight next, it could wait until tomorrow. What better way to restore your energy than nestling into Dean’s embrace and allowing yourself to drift back into slumberland?

Dean, on the other hand, did not fall back asleep for a while.

He kept lying wide awake, his hands rubbing slow circles on the small of her back. No matter how many bad scenarios must’ve popped up in her head, double the amount swirled in his own. It was not until he forced himself to listen to her deep in- and exhales, a steady rhythm, that he was lulled back into a restless sleep.

Their concerns, as it turned out, had not been entirely unwarranted. Looking up lore on some Amara or more information about the Mark of Cain was futile. However, an unexpected ally joined their forces soon after.

From what they could gather, the dark mass of fog they unleashed upon the world proved to be highly dangerous. An entire town was wiped out by it, and people exposed to the fog for too long fell ill or died shortly after. All but one, anyway. They were in the middle of questioning this man when they realized the course of his life had changed forever.

“Professor Redfield,” she started through gritted teeth, hating to be the bearer of bad news and struggling to find the right words.

“Call me Donatello,” the man responded, a proud smile twitching at his mustached mouth. “I’m named after him.”

“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?” Dean asked, confused.

A beat. Donatello’s smile faltered, faded, then turned into an awkward one.

“The Renaissance sculptor,” he clarified.

“Right,” she nodded and awkwardly cleared her throat. “Dean, a word.”

She tugged at his sleeve, pulling him aside. Over her shoulder, she glanced back at Donatello, who sat down on the folding chair, looking as out of place as can be. The poor bastard had no idea what was coming for him. A flash of pity rushed through her.

“He’s a prophet,” she whispered to Dean.

“Didn’t he just say Donatello was a sculptor? Which one is it?”

“What– No, you idiot!” she groaned. “Not the artist Donatello, him.”

And when Dean still looked confused, she pointed towards the innocent old man with his tiny spectacles sitting on his button nose and his round cheeks. He was wearing a vest made out of soft wool, for God’s sake! The guy looked like he preferred to spend his afternoons nursing a tea and knitting in an armchair by the fireplace. The most adventurous event in this guy’s life was probably the annual mini golfing with his brother-in-law and his niece.

It was obvious this guy was not made to join their fight against demons, but such is the cruelty of fate.

“Donatello Redfield. The visions he’s describing? The sudden epiphany of clarity, or whatever? He’s a prophet.”

Scratching the stubble on his chin, Dean didn’t look too convinced. “Didn’t Crowley have them all wiped out?”

That part confused her, too. She thought the King of Hell ensured that nobody could steal and read any of the tablets anymore. But judging by everything Donatello said so far, she had no other explanation. There was the iconic moment that felt a lot like getting struck by lightning — in this case, a stormy cloud of mystic darkness — as well as the strange visions.

She shrugged, sighing: “Maybe it has something to do with the dark fog.”

Dean nodded along, eyes flickering back and forth between her and the witness. It was strange that he survived such a long span in the fog and came back with nothing but sudden, frequent migraine attacks, which were apparently accompanied by weird imagery flashing before his inner eye. Visions. Maybe she was onto something.

“Donatello, we have some more questions for you,” Dean said then, approaching the desk he sat at again.

The man, his hands folded neatly on the table’s surface, looked up at him as though he was a high school student about to get scolded. Yeah, you just had to feel bad for him.

“You’re not in trouble,” she reassured him quickly, thinking the quiet part to herself: Yet. “We just want to hear about these visions you mentioned. Is there anything in particular that you keep seeing, or anything else you remember?”

For a moment, Donatello frowned, then he took a deep breath. “Uhm, I suppose there is this woman. Brown hair, black dress. She has this… symbol on her chest. Right here. A tattoo, maybe, or a scar. I’m not sure.”

She felt Dean tense at her side without having to look at him. He stiffened, suddenly anxious.

Nervously chewing on the inside of her cheek, she fished for a small notepad and pen, handing both to the professor. “Do you think you could draw the symbol?”

Donatello scribbled the design down hastily. Something that looked like an upside-down L with two little lines emitting off to the side. Undoubtedly, the Mark of Cain. Unless this professor, who, to their knowledge, was teaching chemistry, had a special interest in religion or Christian mythology, this proved that she was right about her hunch.

The huntress glanced over to Dean, who stared at the doodle like it personally offended him. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

“Donatello,” she continued, nudging Dean’s side with her elbow. “Could you read this out loud for us, please?”

She scrolled through her photo gallery until she stopped at a picture of an Enochian spell, handing the man her phone. He took it, eyeing it with suspicion and bemusement.

“I have never seen a language like this, what even is—” Donatello chuckled nervously, before his eyes suddenly darted back to the screen. He squinted, and surely enough babbled to himself: “Combine two crushed raven skulls and a vial of angelic grace over a fire— What is this?”

And there they had it.

She gave Dean a ‘told you so’ look, but he still seemed shook by Donatello’s drawing. Which, when the professor noticed, she quickly snatched away. “I never said I am as much of an artist as the man I was named after,” Donatello muttered shyly, almost apologetically.

“You’re fine, this gave us an important hint,” she reassured him. “We might need your help at the station. Can you come with us?”

It took some convincing, but eventually the professor was sitting in the backseat of the Impala. Dean was dead silent while he drove them back to the Bunker — past the local police station. Before Donatello could voice any concerns, she shot him a telling glance. “Sorry, Prof. You’ll be safer with us. We’ll explain everything later.”

Turns out the explanation was trickier than anticipated. She couldn’t blame the guy for being a non-believer. Try kidnapping an atheist and bringing him to an underground Bunker in the middle of the woods, filled with occult artifacts and strange sigils covering most walls. To top it all off, you just had to inform him that he was a Prophet of the Lord, yes, like the ones in the Bible, and of course, he would stare at you like you were bat-shit insane.

“Sit,” she sighed, nudging Donatello into the nearest chair. The poor guy, probably more out of fear than anything, complied. Since he wanted some cold, hard proof, she had to deliver. She wanted to go about it the nice way, but Dean, ever the one without patience, laid out the cold, hard facts for him. Their quote-unquote victim didn’t stand a chance against the good-cop-bad-cop method, though.

Mercifully, fate sent an angel their way — literally. The moment Castiel entered the bunker, she practically jumped him. It was the perfect opportunity for him to show off some magic tricks, whatever it took to convince Donatello that his kidnappers might be insane, but they weren’t liars. Moreover, whatever it took for Dean to go easy on the poor bastard.

What sucked most about this was the tension and its familiarity. Watching Dean fall back into a pattern of clenched jaw, gruff tone, and short temper triggered several alarm bells within her. Suddenly, she found herself overcome by the same kind of worry she thought they had conquered weeks ago.

The fact that she couldn’t even blame him came in close second. It was the same for her, after all. Whatever was happening was clearly tied to the Mark of Cain and to their removing said curse. Everyone and everything had warned them that there would be consequences, likely of cosmic scale. It didn’t exactly bite them in the ass, since they saw it coming. But it bit them regardless, and now they realized that despite all the apocalyptic dangers they’ve dealt with so far, maybe they bit off more than they could chew.

The research won bronze in the category of shittiness. Just reading more texts about the Mark of Cain — or rather, rereading the same old songs, because she was pretty sure she already memorized most of them by heart — filled her with nausea. She thought she’d never have to look at the symbol ever again. Oh, how wrong she had been.

She could try to stay calm and collected all she wanted. Every “We can tackle this, too.” in her mind was followed by a mean, small whisper at the back of her head. Could they? What if they couldn’t? They did it before. Except they didn’t, otherwise they wouldn’t be in this mess again. In fact, they never left this mess behind at all.

Their research, reports from the angel radio, and translations done by their newly installed prophet all pointed to a solid 10/10 in how badly they were screwed. The more they found out about this brunette woman, Amara, the more worry washed over the huntress. And not just that. It filled her with jealousy. Irrational and selfish jealousy.

Amara — whatever she was, a Goddess? Darkness? Not even the lore they studied really had a term for her — she was directly connected to the Mark of Cain. And the Mark of Cain, removed or not, had been connected to Dean. Apparently, that was enough for this being to take an interest in him.

Dean didn’t choose any of this. He didn’t want any of this, she knew that. But all of a sudden, there was this almighty entity, which was ancient and powerful and greater than anything a mere huntress like her could ever hope to be. How could she not feel small in comparison? Unimportant. Disposable. Worse than that: Replaceable.

Who was she to stand in between what might’ve been destiny for Dean and that curse and Amara? Time and time again, there’s been that thought that maybe she should’ve heeded to what his demonic version wished for; to leave him be.

Slowly but surely, she fell back into old patterns as well. The schedule was tight — shower, library, if she was lucky, a little snack while she was still hunched over another book, sometimes a power nap at the desk. Her days consisted of sleep deprivation and insecurities. Not to mention the desperation, which worked wonders against the need to rest. Who needed shut-eye when you had an impending doom waiting to be fixed? 

By the time she lost count of how many nights she spent at the library instead of their shared bedroom, she didn’t even flinch anymore at Dean’s voice. Every evening, he asked her to get some sleep, to which — every evening — she said she needed to finish up on research first.

Eventually, Dean had enough, though.

“Don’t make me carry your ass to bed,” he sighed.

“I’m not making you do anything,” she countered, humorlessly.

“I mean it, sweetheart,” Dean insisted. He walked up to her, reached over her shoulder, and snatched the book away. That one was new; he was switching tactics. Before she had a chance to protest, he snapped it shut and held it out of her reach. “We can save the world tomorrow.”

“What if there won’t be a tomorrow?” she snapped without meaning to. Her biggest fear just escaped her mouth like she wasn’t able to contain it anymore. But in her mind, she had a point. Who knew how much time they had left? What if this Amara was already tracking Dean down? What if she didn’t even need to do anything like that? It probably takes one snap of her fingers, and she’d steal you away, just like that. And then what could we possibly do to save you this time? Kill another cosmic entity? Cause another mayhem? Set the world ablaze? How would I even go about that? And what good would it do, since I stand no chance against Amara anyway?

In fact, the bond between you and her is divine, Dean. Divine! Like biblically set in stone, if not preceding holy scriptures and shit. How should I compare?

She didn’t even realize that she was rambling all this out aloud. Not until Dean firmly cupped her face and forced her to look at him, to which she effectively pressed her trembling lips into a fine line.

“Whoa there, easy now,” Dean cooed. “Breathe, baby.”

She tried, and though she didn’t do it very well, the attempt was what counted.

“It’s gonna take more than that for anyone to steal me away. Hell, no smiting in the world could make me pick something else over you.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. A subtle twitch of her eye made him wonder if she really didn’t believe him entirely or if the stress was starting to get to her. Good thing was that there was a remedy for both — a two birds with one stone kind of solution. In one swift motion, his calloused hands let go of her face. Instead, he hooked one arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her shoulders, pulling her out of the chair and picking her up bridal style.

Despite the yelp that escaped her, her fingers curled in his shirt. “What are you doing?”

“I told you I would carry your ass to bed if you didn’t listen,” Dean huffed.

He successfully ignored all the complaints she had and wordlessly walked down the hallway. Upon arrival, he entered their room, kicked the door shut behind them, and carefully dropped her onto the mattress. She let out a soft oomph, bouncing on top of the sheets, but looking up at him half-expectantly.

If she needed him to prove just how much he worshiped the ground she walked on — along with the legs she was doing it with; or the sweet treasure in between them — Dean would gladly comply.

He climbed on top of her, arms bracketing her shuddering frame. His eyes never left hers while he unbuttoned her shirt with one hand and used the other to unbuckle her belt. He relished the hitch of her breath like he knocked the air out of her lungs. He soaked up the shiver that went down her spine like she quenched his thirst.

The fingers of his left hand splayed over her chest, his palm flat against her warm, soft skin, and pressed right against her heartbeat — it whirred like a little hummingbird, precious and quick. Alive and kicking. Uncontrolled, because of him. The fingers of his right hand ghosted over the waistband of her jeans first, before slipping past layers of fabric and lace — she felt both like velvet and silk beneath his touch. Fluttering in tandem with her pulse. Already damp, because of him.

The sweetest of whines escaped her pretty mouth, and the most beautiful shades of pink dusted her nose. All because of him. And he would be damned if he let anything or anyone stand in between this. In between them.

Dean pressed closer, applying pressure to both the valley of her breasts as well as her core until she erupted into another one of those cute gasps. His mouth nipped at her jaw, where he paid extra attention to the sensitive spot just below her ear. His lips curled into a half-smirk when he felt her shaky fingers claw at his shoulders.

“You really think I would trade this for anything else?”

His voice was a siren’s song in her ear, the lyrics inviting her to just let go.

Once she was just there, teetering on that sweet edge of bliss that his ministrations expertly had pushed her towards, he pulled away. An involuntary whine escaped her, feeling hollow because the only physical contact left was the string of her arousal sticking to his digits. Not that she had much to fret over for long.

The next thing she knew, Dean captured her lips as though a deep kiss might make up for her denied orgasm. He slanted his mouth over hers and pawed at the plush of her hips.

It couldn’t have taken more than a couple of seconds, but then again, every touch and every piece of fabric shed was a hazy blur. Like time couldn’t go fast enough, there was also the urge to savor every second. Thus, hungry hands were both eager to undress as well as make the most of it.

Her shaky fingers unbuckled Dean’s belt, he kicked off his jeans, she yanked at the hem of his shirt, he pulled it over his head.

Her lips wandered from his down his jaw. She nipped at his neck, hard, sometimes biting with the intent to leave a mark. A claim. A signature. She wasn’t even sure who she wanted to prove her ownership to. She was, on the other hand, very much aware that it was unnecessary — pure hedonism drove her to this point.

Dean belonged to her, and she wanted everyone to know. Him. Herself. Amara. Didn’t matter, so long as he carried a piece of her brandished on his skin.

Her hands moved with the same confidence. She explored every inch of him, tracing every freckle and scar without having to look, because this was Dean. Her Dean. And she knew him inside and out in ways others could only dream of.

Apparently, great minds think alike. Judging by the way Dean’s grip on her waist tightened, at least. His fingers dug into her skin so firmly that she wouldn’t be surprised if prints were left behind the next day.

Suddenly, he lifted her. Within one yelp, they flipped around so she was on top of him. With their positions now switched, Dean sat back against the headboard and pulled her into his lap. Her thighs were already trembling as she straddled him, and her dripping folds were now pressing against his hard cock instead of gushing around his thick fingers.

Even better.

She rolled her hips; slowly at first, then ground down against him more insistently, until she found a rhythm that had Dean grunting against her mouth.

His head fell back, hitting the wall behind him with a soft thud. The green of his irises was swallowed up by a black — the kind that did not startle her, but filled her with a perverse sense of power. She was the one he was looking at like she hung the damn moon for him. She was the one earning herself that smug smirk. It was her fingers that carded through his hair until it was messily sticking out in all directions, her mouth that painted constellations on his throat, her body fitting seamlessly against his.

“You wanna claim your stake, sweetheart?” Dean rasped. Damn mind reader. Then again, it wasn’t only her knowing him too well. It went both ways. He leaned in closer, until their noses brushed together and their breaths mixed. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

Lifting her hips, with a little bit of his help, she shifted to align herself perfectly with his throbbing length.

Both their breaths hitched as she sank down. His bulbous tip breached her entrance; her warm walls welcomed him in.

Dean didn’t thrust up, not yet, not until she lowered herself all the way and dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. They sat there, bodies tightly intertwined with one another, not knowing where one of them began and the other ended. Both inhaled shakily and exhaled all the same, in unison, just feeling each other.

She lifted her head, resting her forehead against his now instead. Her gaze dropped to his kiss-bitten lips, then blinked back up into his. Again, without having to ask any questions, Dean answered: “I’m yours.”

They melted together, Dean bucking his hips, she tightening around him, their lips closing the little space that was left between them. They moved together, synchronized to perfection. With heaving chests and each other’s name rolling off their tongues like prayers.

She was the first to shatter. Her peak hit her like a tidal wave, unexpectedly washing over her and consuming her mind, body, and soul. She clung to Dean like her life depended on it, collapsing against him while he drove his hips up into hers.

Thanks to her fluttering around him, he followed close behind. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, holding her impossibly close. Hot, red skin stuck to hot, red skin, flushed and sweaty. His mouth latched onto the curve between her neck and shoulder, where his teeth sank in to muffle his growl. He spilled deep into her, milked by the pulsating of her tight channel.

They held each other like that for what felt like an eternity. A blissful eternity, that is. Basking in the aftermath like it was paradise on earth. Their chests were still pressed flush together, hearts beating in a harmony that slowly but surely ebbed into a steady rhythm. The same applied to their heavy panting, which eventually softened as they caught their breath.

Dean was the first to speak up, but not the first to move. Neither of them did. Neither of them wanted to let go, let alone pull away. Not when she felt so heavenly and warm around him still. Not when he was stretching her out so nicely, even as he softened inside of her.

“Still have any doubts?” Dean huffed, only half-joking.

“Are you teasing me?” she pouted, only half-offended.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean chuckled in response. “Unless it always leads to good sex.”

At that, she couldn’t help but snort. She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it. In fact, the smile that twitched on her face was gentle. Loving. As was the twinkle in her glossy eyes, laced with raw adoration.

“What I’m hearing is you think I’m hot when I’m jealous,” she concluded, poking fun at herself more than anything.

Now it was his turn to let out a humorless laugh. He shrugged, brushing his fingers up and down her arm tenderly. “Jealous, huh?” he echoed with a shit-eating grin.

That earned him a smack to his arm, not a hard hit, but definitely firm enough to make him chuckle and reel back. “Okay, okay!” Dean laughed, then winked. “You’re not jealous, got it. Just a little possessive, eh?”

“I’m worried, jackass,” she huffed, but the flustered pink dusting her nose gave her away. She was totally jealous, and there was no use denying it. “It’s just— all this talk about Amara being connected to you scares me.”

The silence that followed was just slightly tense, but not uncomfortable. Just earnest and vulnerable. She thought of this as an ugly wound that she was laying out for him, her heart on her sleeve, except it was battered and bruised. A sad little thing hanging on by a thread.

“Me too,” Dean hummed eventually, triggering a doe-eyed reaction.

He didn’t know what was so baffling about his anxiety. He understood perfectly well why she was so tense. It wasn’t that much different for him. If anything, he was the one with a weirdo on his ass talking about doomed fates and whatnot. The only difference between her fear and Dean’s?

He never, not even for a moment, second-guessed whether or not they belonged to each other.

After all that they’ve been through, after everything they endured together, their bond was stronger than ancient shitheads and monsters he killed for a living. In the end, that’s all that Amara was, too, right? Just another case to solve.

A stronger one, sure.

And maybe they couldn’t say that they’ve survived worse. But they’ve survived enough to know that they could conquer this, too.

“I’m not invincible, you know?” he chuckled, stopping the movement of his hand right at her wrist. Where his thumb felt the thrumming of her steady pulse. “We don’t really know what we’re up against, so yeah, that’s terrifying.”

“We know that whatever she is, she’s got her eyes on you,” she shrugged with a frown. She didn’t even mean to sound jealous on purpose. It wasn’t even just that. But clearly, Dean already knew.

“Then she can watch me pick you, always,” he replied without hesitation. Like it was some unwritten rule of the universe that she would always remain his number one choice, unconditionally and without exception.

She rolled her eyes again, in that flustered fashion, with the shy smile on her lips and the blush on her cheeks. “You’re such a sap, Winchester,” she mumbled before she leaned in to quickly peck his lips.

“I mean it, though,” Dean continued, closing his hand around hers to lift it to his mouth and press a chaste kiss to her palm. “You’re stuck with me, remember? And the rest, we can deal with tomorrow, one battle at a time.”

Dean Winchester Taglist (Pt. 1):

@0ccvltism @10ava01 @ablondehoe @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @ambrosier @angelicjackles @artemys-ackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @bigivori @blueschevy @bohoooitsme @burner12345654321 @calibootsgirl @castielscaplan @charliesangel67 @chronic-fangirl-222 @cradle2thegrave @deanswifeyy @deanwinchesterlover67 @deekaag @emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @fertilise-me @flanneledfae @flawlesslyspellbound @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean @herefor-tojis-tits @hot-and-confused  @idjit-central @jackles010378 @jensensswthrt @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @limbeldemango @lunaleah @lyarr24 @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @mahi-wayy @malindacath @midnight--raine @multiversefanfics

The only difference now was that he was staring at the Mark of Cain on someone else — something else. On a sharp collarbone, hidden barely by the flowing fabric of a black dress and tickled by brown curls. The appearance might’ve been that of a human, but every fiber of the hunter’s instinct warned him otherwise: Whoever was standing in front of him was no ordinary woman.

He meant to ask what she was, but out came an inquiry of whom he had the pleasure of speaking with.

“Amara,” she declared, not particularly solemnly, but the three syllables carried a certain weight. “My name’s Amara.”

None of Dean’s muscles would move, no matter how much he thought he should run away. Something prevented him from doing so. At first, he thought it was her doing. But when her dainty hand trailed down his arm, stopping at the empty spot where the scar used to sit, he realized with horror that he didn’t want to escape.

The grazing left a familiar buzz in his blood, his skin prickling with a dangerous warmth — a deep, insatiable hunger.

“I have to thank you for setting me free,” said Amara, voice steady and earnest, and somehow Dean didn’t know whether it should make him angry or scared.

They should’ve known better. Hell, they did. Of course, removing the curse would lead to consequences. Even Death warned him about what would happen. But this, whatever it was, was too big of a mystery.

“Who are you?” Dean repeated.

“I’m your past,” she answered vaguely, her delicate hand brushing over the red outline sitting just below her shoulder. A scar, the shape of which would haunt Dean for years to come. “And I’m your future, Dean.”

“This,” she trailed off, tapping the Mark embedded into her skin. “This is what binds us. Even if you no longer have it, it’s our connection.”

Dean scoffed, though it lacked the heat he wished he could scream into the world: “So, what are you? The curse running loose?”

“Think of me as the manifestation of all the Mark made you crave,” Amara explained calmly.

Bloodshed? Violence? Chaos?

“Evil and destruction incarnated?” Dean gruffly guessed, his answer only half-sarcastic. “That’s reassuring.” His senses were tingling, hyper-aware of how dangerous Amara was. Just because someone wore a pretty face and was not aggressive from the get-go did not mean they weren’t capable of causing harm.

Her eyes softened, though it took him a second to realize that it was disappointment flickering across her features. It was almost like what he had accused her of upset her personally.

“No, no such thing. Nothing bad,” she muttered, brows knitted together like she needed him to really understand her. Her hand wandered lower, frigid palm pressed flat against his, with her fingers splayed out.

“I am above good versus evil,” Amara sighed. “There are beginnings and ends, shadow and light. But they aren’t opposites; they’re two sides of the same coin. One can’t exist without the other. It’s a symbiosis.”

Dean didn’t know what to make of that lecture. Nor did he know how to handle the swirl of black, ash, and dust filling his lungs and blurring his vision.

He jolted awake with a gasp, sitting upright in his bed, and a layer of sweat sticking to his forehead. It was the dim glow of their moon-shaped ceiling light that eased his state of disorientation. He lost count of how many times this strange dream interrupted his sleep.

And hers.

“Dean?”

Déjà-vu.

And at the same time, things couldn’t be more different from his last streak of nightmares. No imaginary red blood was staining his hands. He no longer felt the urge to rip something apart. But there was something about the stale air, the heavy silence, and the uncertainty that had him think they were back to square one.

He could certainly live without the full circle moment of startling in the middle of the night, alerting his concerned girlfriend like he had so many months ago. As if on instinct, his clammy hand rubbed over his lower arm, just like last time. The tension in his shoulders did not vanish until he found the spot empty now.

That’s right. They’ve successfully removed the Mark of Cain. So why could he not shake this icky feeling? What was the meaning of this reoccurring dream? He saw it flash before his eyes every night, and without failure, he’d forget most of it by the time he woke up.

“Just a weird dream, sorry,” Dean muttered, voice shakier than intended.

The bedsheets rustled softly as she sat up beside him. He couldn’t bring himself to look in her direction. After all, they’ve been through enough already. He wasn’t ready to face a new problem already. Even worse: He couldn’t bear the thought of burdening his girlfriend with yet another impending doom.

Was it even on that scale? Maybe he was overthinking things, maybe it wasn’t half as bad as he feared it might be.

“A tea-with-rum kind of dream?”

Her question was meant to lighten the mood, even if one could argue it was a little early for jokes about their last predicament. Still, his lips twitched into a weak, crooked grin while he shook his head. Even if it took him a deep breath to believe the mantra, this was no life-or-death situation. None that required any liquid courage either.

He appreciated the effort regardless. It felt good knowing she would always have his back, even now. Still, no immediate danger was afoot. Just his girlfriend, offering him a reassuring smile and an open ear. This time around, he knew to accept it without hesitation. He’s learned his lesson the hard way.

“C’mere,” Dean breathed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and settling back into the pillows with her. She snuggled up to his side, letting him tuck her against his chest like this was where she always belonged.

“I don’t want you thinking I’m keeping any secrets,” he murmured afterwards, voice laced with the guilt from the past couple of months. He’s fucked up quite a few times there. He did not want to repeat his mistakes. “I keep having this weird dream. Can’t really tell you what it’s about, though. It’s all a blur.”

Her fingers were splayed over his chest, absentmindedly tracing the outlines of his tattoo. The touch stirred something in him, triggering flickers of someone else’s hands ghosting over the non-existent mark on his arm and of someone else’s palm sizing up his.

Tensing ever so slightly, Dean took her wrist — his grip was both gentle and firm, neither pushing away nor pulling closer. He did stop her movement, though. He just needed something to ground himself with. To remind himself of what was real and what was fake.

“I’m back in that grey storm outside the diner, and there’s this woman. Amara, I think,” Dean continued, hesitantly so. “She’s got the Mark of Cain. But I don’t know what she wants.”

That, at the very latest, made her freeze. She blinked up at him, droopy eyes and sleepy lashes now wide and alert. When Dean’s gaze met hers, he thought the question marks in her eyes mirrored his own. He, too, was absolutely clueless.

“It’s probably nothing,” he sighed. “Aftershocks of the stress or something.”

But she wasn’t buying it. It sounded too specific to be brushed off as random. “I don’t know,” she muttered, her weak attempt at getting to the bottom of this already faltering. “Maybe we should look into it more. Can’t hurt to be careful.”

She hated to be paranoid. Hell, if anyone knew how badly they needed a break from constantly being on edge, it was her. At the same time, they couldn’t afford any more risks. Even with the Mark of Cain gone, a deep fear had settled in the pits of her stomach. What if it wasn’t over? What if the spell didn’t work, or if the curse somehow would restore itself?

Dean mulled over her words, watching the concerned crease between her brows deepen into a brooding furrow. He gently poked her forehead, drawing her attention.

“We’ll look into it,” he agreed somewhat begrudgingly. Under one condition: “Tomorrow.”

Before she could even think of a counterargument, Dean pressed a chaste kiss to her hairline, practically feeling her anxiety ease under his caress.

The wrinkles on her forehead melted, as did the bristling behind that stubborn skull of hers. Frankly, she was tired and still a bit drowsy from just waking up in the middle of the night. Whatever battle they had to fight next, it could wait until tomorrow. What better way to restore your energy than nestling into Dean’s embrace and allowing yourself to drift back into slumberland?

Dean, on the other hand, did not fall back asleep for a while.

He kept lying wide awake, his hands rubbing slow circles on the small of her back. No matter how many bad scenarios must’ve popped up in her head, double the amount swirled in his own. It was not until he forced himself to listen to her deep in- and exhales, a steady rhythm, that he was lulled back into a restless sleep.

Their concerns, as it turned out, had not been entirely unwarranted. Looking up lore on some Amara or more information about the Mark of Cain was futile. However, an unexpected ally joined their forces soon after.

From what they could gather, the dark mass of fog they unleashed upon the world proved to be highly dangerous. An entire town was wiped out by it, and people exposed to the fog for too long fell ill or died shortly after. All but one, anyway. They were in the middle of questioning this man when they realized the course of his life had changed forever.

“Professor Redfield,” she started through gritted teeth, hating to be the bearer of bad news and struggling to find the right words.

“Call me Donatello,” the man responded, a proud smile twitching at his mustached mouth. “I’m named after him.”

“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?” Dean asked, confused.

A beat. Donatello’s smile faltered, faded, then turned into an awkward one.

“The Renaissance sculptor,” he clarified.

“Right,” she nodded and awkwardly cleared her throat. “Dean, a word.”

She tugged at his sleeve, pulling him aside. Over her shoulder, she glanced back at Donatello, who sat down on the folding chair, looking as out of place as can be. The poor bastard had no idea what was coming for him. A flash of pity rushed through her.

“He’s a prophet,” she whispered to Dean.

“Didn’t he just say Donatello was a sculptor? Which one is it?”

“What– No, you idiot!” she groaned. “Not the artist Donatello, him.”

And when Dean still looked confused, she pointed towards the innocent old man with his tiny spectacles sitting on his button nose and his round cheeks. He was wearing a vest made out of soft wool, for God’s sake! The guy looked like he preferred to spend his afternoons nursing a tea and knitting in an armchair by the fireplace. The most adventurous event in this guy’s life was probably the annual mini golfing with his brother-in-law and his niece.

It was obvious this guy was not made to join their fight against demons, but such is the cruelty of fate.

“Donatello Redfield. The visions he’s describing? The sudden epiphany of clarity, or whatever? He’s a prophet.”

Scratching the stubble on his chin, Dean didn’t look too convinced. “Didn’t Crowley have them all wiped out?”

That part confused her, too. She thought the King of Hell ensured that nobody could steal and read any of the tablets anymore. But judging by everything Donatello said so far, she had no other explanation. There was the iconic moment that felt a lot like getting struck by lightning — in this case, a stormy cloud of mystic darkness — as well as the strange visions.

She shrugged, sighing: “Maybe it has something to do with the dark fog.”

Dean nodded along, eyes flickering back and forth between her and the witness. It was strange that he survived such a long span in the fog and came back with nothing but sudden, frequent migraine attacks, which were apparently accompanied by weird imagery flashing before his inner eye. Visions. Maybe she was onto something.

“Donatello, we have some more questions for you,” Dean said then, approaching the desk he sat at again.

The man, his hands folded neatly on the table’s surface, looked up at him as though he was a high school student about to get scolded. Yeah, you just had to feel bad for him.

“You’re not in trouble,” she reassured him quickly, thinking the quiet part to herself: Yet. “We just want to hear about these visions you mentioned. Is there anything in particular that you keep seeing, or anything else you remember?”

For a moment, Donatello frowned, then he took a deep breath. “Uhm, I suppose there is this woman. Brown hair, black dress. She has this… symbol on her chest. Right here. A tattoo, maybe, or a scar. I’m not sure.”

She felt Dean tense at her side without having to look at him. He stiffened, suddenly anxious.

Nervously chewing on the inside of her cheek, she fished for a small notepad and pen, handing both to the professor. “Do you think you could draw the symbol?”

Donatello scribbled the design down hastily. Something that looked like an upside-down L with two little lines emitting off to the side. Undoubtedly, the Mark of Cain. Unless this professor, who, to their knowledge, was teaching chemistry, had a special interest in religion or Christian mythology, this proved that she was right about her hunch.

The huntress glanced over to Dean, who stared at the doodle like it personally offended him. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

“Donatello,” she continued, nudging Dean’s side with her elbow. “Could you read this out loud for us, please?”

She scrolled through her photo gallery until she stopped at a picture of an Enochian spell, handing the man her phone. He took it, eyeing it with suspicion and bemusement.

“I have never seen a language like this, what even is—” Donatello chuckled nervously, before his eyes suddenly darted back to the screen. He squinted, and surely enough babbled to himself: “Combine two crushed raven skulls and a vial of angelic grace over a fire— What is this?”

And there they had it.

She gave Dean a ‘told you so’ look, but he still seemed shook by Donatello’s drawing. Which, when the professor noticed, she quickly snatched away. “I never said I am as much of an artist as the man I was named after,” Donatello muttered shyly, almost apologetically.

“You’re fine, this gave us an important hint,” she reassured him. “We might need your help at the station. Can you come with us?”

It took some convincing, but eventually the professor was sitting in the backseat of the Impala. Dean was dead silent while he drove them back to the Bunker — past the local police station. Before Donatello could voice any concerns, she shot him a telling glance. “Sorry, Prof. You’ll be safer with us. We’ll explain everything later.”

Turns out the explanation was trickier than anticipated. She couldn’t blame the guy for being a non-believer. Try kidnapping an atheist and bringing him to an underground Bunker in the middle of the woods, filled with occult artifacts and strange sigils covering most walls. To top it all off, you just had to inform him that he was a Prophet of the Lord, yes, like the ones in the Bible, and of course, he would stare at you like you were bat-shit insane.

“Sit,” she sighed, nudging Donatello into the nearest chair. The poor guy, probably more out of fear than anything, complied. Since he wanted some cold, hard proof, she had to deliver. She wanted to go about it the nice way, but Dean, ever the one without patience, laid out the cold, hard facts for him. Their quote-unquote victim didn’t stand a chance against the good-cop-bad-cop method, though.

Mercifully, fate sent an angel their way — literally. The moment Castiel entered the bunker, she practically jumped him. It was the perfect opportunity for him to show off some magic tricks, whatever it took to convince Donatello that his kidnappers might be insane, but they weren’t liars. Moreover, whatever it took for Dean to go easy on the poor bastard.

What sucked most about this was the tension and its familiarity. Watching Dean fall back into a pattern of clenched jaw, gruff tone, and short temper triggered several alarm bells within her. Suddenly, she found herself overcome by the same kind of worry she thought they had conquered weeks ago.

The fact that she couldn’t even blame him came in close second. It was the same for her, after all. Whatever was happening was clearly tied to the Mark of Cain and to their removing said curse. Everyone and everything had warned them that there would be consequences, likely of cosmic scale. It didn’t exactly bite them in the ass, since they saw it coming. But it bit them regardless, and now they realized that despite all the apocalyptic dangers they’ve dealt with so far, maybe they bit off more than they could chew.

The research won bronze in the category of shittiness. Just reading more texts about the Mark of Cain — or rather, rereading the same old songs, because she was pretty sure she already memorized most of them by heart — filled her with nausea. She thought she’d never have to look at the symbol ever again. Oh, how wrong she had been.

She could try to stay calm and collected all she wanted. Every “We can tackle this, too.” in her mind was followed by a mean, small whisper at the back of her head. Could they? What if they couldn’t? They did it before. Except they didn’t, otherwise they wouldn’t be in this mess again. In fact, they never left this mess behind at all.

Their research, reports from the angel radio, and translations done by their newly installed prophet all pointed to a solid 10/10 in how badly they were screwed. The more they found out about this brunette woman, Amara, the more worry washed over the huntress. And not just that. It filled her with jealousy. Irrational and selfish jealousy.

Amara — whatever she was, a Goddess? Darkness? Not even the lore they studied really had a term for her — she was directly connected to the Mark of Cain. And the Mark of Cain, removed or not, had been connected to Dean. Apparently, that was enough for this being to take an interest in him.

Dean didn’t choose any of this. He didn’t want any of this, she knew that. But all of a sudden, there was this almighty entity, which was ancient and powerful and greater than anything a mere huntress like her could ever hope to be. How could she not feel small in comparison? Unimportant. Disposable. Worse than that: Replaceable.

Who was she to stand in between what might’ve been destiny for Dean and that curse and Amara? Time and time again, there’s been that thought that maybe she should’ve heeded to what his demonic version wished for; to leave him be.

Slowly but surely, she fell back into old patterns as well. The schedule was tight — shower, library, if she was lucky, a little snack while she was still hunched over another book, sometimes a power nap at the desk. Her days consisted of sleep deprivation and insecurities. Not to mention the desperation, which worked wonders against the need to rest. Who needed shut-eye when you had an impending doom waiting to be fixed? 

By the time she lost count of how many nights she spent at the library instead of their shared bedroom, she didn’t even flinch anymore at Dean’s voice. Every evening, he asked her to get some sleep, to which — every evening — she said she needed to finish up on research first.

Eventually, Dean had enough, though.

“Don’t make me carry your ass to bed,” he sighed.

“I’m not making you do anything,” she countered, humorlessly.

“I mean it, sweetheart,” Dean insisted. He walked up to her, reached over her shoulder, and snatched the book away. That one was new; he was switching tactics. Before she had a chance to protest, he snapped it shut and held it out of her reach. “We can save the world tomorrow.”

“What if there won’t be a tomorrow?” she snapped without meaning to. Her biggest fear just escaped her mouth like she wasn’t able to contain it anymore. But in her mind, she had a point. Who knew how much time they had left? What if this Amara was already tracking Dean down? What if she didn’t even need to do anything like that? It probably takes one snap of her fingers, and she’d steal you away, just like that. And then what could we possibly do to save you this time? Kill another cosmic entity? Cause another mayhem? Set the world ablaze? How would I even go about that? And what good would it do, since I stand no chance against Amara anyway?

In fact, the bond between you and her is divine, Dean. Divine! Like biblically set in stone, if not preceding holy scriptures and shit. How should I compare?

She didn’t even realize that she was rambling all this out aloud. Not until Dean firmly cupped her face and forced her to look at him, to which she effectively pressed her trembling lips into a fine line.

“Whoa there, easy now,” Dean cooed. “Breathe, baby.”

She tried, and though she didn’t do it very well, the attempt was what counted.

“It’s gonna take more than that for anyone to steal me away. Hell, no smiting in the world could make me pick something else over you.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. A subtle twitch of her eye made him wonder if she really didn’t believe him entirely or if the stress was starting to get to her. Good thing was that there was a remedy for both — a two birds with one stone kind of solution. In one swift motion, his calloused hands let go of her face. Instead, he hooked one arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her shoulders, pulling her out of the chair and picking her up bridal style.

Despite the yelp that escaped her, her fingers curled in his shirt. “What are you doing?”

“I told you I would carry your ass to bed if you didn’t listen,” Dean huffed.

He successfully ignored all the complaints she had and wordlessly walked down the hallway. Upon arrival, he entered their room, kicked the door shut behind them, and carefully dropped her onto the mattress. She let out a soft oomph, bouncing on top of the sheets, but looking up at him half-expectantly.

If she needed him to prove just how much he worshiped the ground she walked on — along with the legs she was doing it with; or the sweet treasure in between them — Dean would gladly comply.

He climbed on top of her, arms bracketing her shuddering frame. His eyes never left hers while he unbuttoned her shirt with one hand and used the other to unbuckle her belt. He relished the hitch of her breath like he knocked the air out of her lungs. He soaked up the shiver that went down her spine like she quenched his thirst.

The fingers of his left hand splayed over her chest, his palm flat against her warm, soft skin, and pressed right against her heartbeat — it whirred like a little hummingbird, precious and quick. Alive and kicking. Uncontrolled, because of him. The fingers of his right hand ghosted over the waistband of her jeans first, before slipping past layers of fabric and lace — she felt both like velvet and silk beneath his touch. Fluttering in tandem with her pulse. Already damp, because of him.

The sweetest of whines escaped her pretty mouth, and the most beautiful shades of pink dusted her nose. All because of him. And he would be damned if he let anything or anyone stand in between this. In between them.

Dean pressed closer, applying pressure to both the valley of her breasts as well as her core until she erupted into another one of those cute gasps. His mouth nipped at her jaw, where he paid extra attention to the sensitive spot just below her ear. His lips curled into a half-smirk when he felt her shaky fingers claw at his shoulders.

“You really think I would trade this for anything else?”

His voice was a siren’s song in her ear, the lyrics inviting her to just let go.

Once she was just there, teetering on that sweet edge of bliss that his ministrations expertly had pushed her towards, he pulled away. An involuntary whine escaped her, feeling hollow because the only physical contact left was the string of her arousal sticking to his digits. Not that she had much to fret over for long.

The next thing she knew, Dean captured her lips as though a deep kiss might make up for her denied orgasm. He slanted his mouth over hers and pawed at the plush of her hips.

It couldn’t have taken more than a couple of seconds, but then again, every touch and every piece of fabric shed was a hazy blur. Like time couldn’t go fast enough, there was also the urge to savor every second. Thus, hungry hands were both eager to undress as well as make the most of it.

Her shaky fingers unbuckled Dean’s belt, he kicked off his jeans, she yanked at the hem of his shirt, he pulled it over his head.

Her lips wandered from his down his jaw. She nipped at his neck, hard, sometimes biting with the intent to leave a mark. A claim. A signature. She wasn’t even sure who she wanted to prove her ownership to. She was, on the other hand, very much aware that it was unnecessary — pure hedonism drove her to this point.

Dean belonged to her, and she wanted everyone to know. Him. Herself. Amara. Didn’t matter, so long as he carried a piece of her brandished on his skin.

Her hands moved with the same confidence. She explored every inch of him, tracing every freckle and scar without having to look, because this was Dean. Her Dean. And she knew him inside and out in ways others could only dream of.

Apparently, great minds think alike. Judging by the way Dean’s grip on her waist tightened, at least. His fingers dug into her skin so firmly that she wouldn’t be surprised if prints were left behind the next day.

Suddenly, he lifted her. Within one yelp, they flipped around so she was on top of him. With their positions now switched, Dean sat back against the headboard and pulled her into his lap. Her thighs were already trembling as she straddled him, and her dripping folds were now pressing against his hard cock instead of gushing around his thick fingers.

Even better.

She rolled her hips; slowly at first, then ground down against him more insistently, until she found a rhythm that had Dean grunting against her mouth.

His head fell back, hitting the wall behind him with a soft thud. The green of his irises was swallowed up by a black — the kind that did not startle her, but filled her with a perverse sense of power. She was the one he was looking at like she hung the damn moon for him. She was the one earning herself that smug smirk. It was her fingers that carded through his hair until it was messily sticking out in all directions, her mouth that painted constellations on his throat, her body fitting seamlessly against his.

“You wanna claim your stake, sweetheart?” Dean rasped. Damn mind reader. Then again, it wasn’t only her knowing him too well. It went both ways. He leaned in closer, until their noses brushed together and their breaths mixed. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

Lifting her hips, with a little bit of his help, she shifted to align herself perfectly with his throbbing length.

Both their breaths hitched as she sank down. His bulbous tip breached her entrance; her warm walls welcomed him in.

Dean didn’t thrust up, not yet, not until she lowered herself all the way and dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. They sat there, bodies tightly intertwined with one another, not knowing where one of them began and the other ended. Both inhaled shakily and exhaled all the same, in unison, just feeling each other.

She lifted her head, resting her forehead against his now instead. Her gaze dropped to his kiss-bitten lips, then blinked back up into his. Again, without having to ask any questions, Dean answered: “I’m yours.”

They melted together, Dean bucking his hips, she tightening around him, their lips closing the little space that was left between them. They moved together, synchronized to perfection. With heaving chests and each other’s name rolling off their tongues like prayers.

She was the first to shatter. Her peak hit her like a tidal wave, unexpectedly washing over her and consuming her mind, body, and soul. She clung to Dean like her life depended on it, collapsing against him while he drove his hips up into hers.

Thanks to her fluttering around him, he followed close behind. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, holding her impossibly close. Hot, red skin stuck to hot, red skin, flushed and sweaty. His mouth latched onto the curve between her neck and shoulder, where his teeth sank in to muffle his growl. He spilled deep into her, milked by the pulsating of her tight channel.

They held each other like that for what felt like an eternity. A blissful eternity, that is. Basking in the aftermath like it was paradise on earth. Their chests were still pressed flush together, hearts beating in a harmony that slowly but surely ebbed into a steady rhythm. The same applied to their heavy panting, which eventually softened as they caught their breath.

Dean was the first to speak up, but not the first to move. Neither of them did. Neither of them wanted to let go, let alone pull away. Not when she felt so heavenly and warm around him still. Not when he was stretching her out so nicely, even as he softened inside of her.

“Still have any doubts?” Dean huffed, only half-joking.

“Are you teasing me?” she pouted, only half-offended.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean chuckled in response. “Unless it always leads to good sex.”

At that, she couldn’t help but snort. She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it. In fact, the smile that twitched on her face was gentle. Loving. As was the twinkle in her glossy eyes, laced with raw adoration.

“What I’m hearing is you think I’m hot when I’m jealous,” she concluded, poking fun at herself more than anything.

Now it was his turn to let out a humorless laugh. He shrugged, brushing his fingers up and down her arm tenderly. “Jealous, huh?” he echoed with a shit-eating grin.

That earned him a smack to his arm, not a hard hit, but definitely firm enough to make him chuckle and reel back. “Okay, okay!” Dean laughed, then winked. “You’re not jealous, got it. Just a little possessive, eh?”

“I’m worried, jackass,” she huffed, but the flustered pink dusting her nose gave her away. She was totally jealous, and there was no use denying it. “It’s just— all this talk about Amara being connected to you scares me.”

The silence that followed was just slightly tense, but not uncomfortable. Just earnest and vulnerable. She thought of this as an ugly wound that she was laying out for him, her heart on her sleeve, except it was battered and bruised. A sad little thing hanging on by a thread.

“Me too,” Dean hummed eventually, triggering a doe-eyed reaction.

He didn’t know what was so baffling about his anxiety. He understood perfectly well why she was so tense. It wasn’t that much different for him. If anything, he was the one with a weirdo on his ass talking about doomed fates and whatnot. The only difference between her fear and Dean’s?

He never, not even for a moment, second-guessed whether or not they belonged to each other.

After all that they’ve been through, after everything they endured together, their bond was stronger than ancient shitheads and monsters he killed for a living. In the end, that’s all that Amara was, too, right? Just another case to solve.

A stronger one, sure.

And maybe they couldn’t say that they’ve survived worse. But they’ve survived enough to know that they could conquer this, too.

“I’m not invincible, you know?” he chuckled, stopping the movement of his hand right at her wrist. Where his thumb felt the thrumming of her steady pulse. “We don’t really know what we’re up against, so yeah, that’s terrifying.”

“We know that whatever she is, she’s got her eyes on you,” she shrugged with a frown. She didn’t even mean to sound jealous on purpose. It wasn’t even just that. But clearly, Dean already knew.

“Then she can watch me pick you, always,” he replied without hesitation. Like it was some unwritten rule of the universe that she would always remain his number one choice, unconditionally and without exception.

She rolled her eyes again, in that flustered fashion, with the shy smile on her lips and the blush on her cheeks. “You’re such a sap, Winchester,” she mumbled before she leaned in to quickly peck his lips.

“I mean it, though,” Dean continued, closing his hand around hers to lift it to his mouth and press a chaste kiss to her palm. “You’re stuck with me, remember? And the rest, we can deal with tomorrow, one battle at a time.”

Dean Winchester Taglist (Pt. 1):

@0ccvltism @10ava01 @ablondehoe @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @ambrosier @angelicjackles @artemys-ackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @bigivori @blueschevy @bohoooitsme @burner12345654321 @calibootsgirl @castielscaplan @charliesangel67 @chronic-fangirl-222 @cradle2thegrave @deanswifeyy @deanwinchesterlover67 @deekaag @emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @fertilise-me @flanneledfae @flawlesslyspellbound @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean @herefor-tojis-tits @hot-and-confused  @idjit-central @jackles010378 @jensensswthrt @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @limbeldemango @lunaleah @lyarr24 @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @mahi-wayy @malindacath @midnight--raine @multiversefanfics

The only difference now was that he was staring at the Mark of Cain on someone else — something else. On a sharp collarbone, hidden barely by the flowing fabric of a black dress and tickled by brown curls. The appearance might’ve been that of a human, but every fiber of the hunter’s instinct warned him otherwise: Whoever was standing in front of him was no ordinary woman.

He meant to ask what she was, but out came an inquiry of whom he had the pleasure of speaking with.

“Amara,” she declared, not particularly solemnly, but the three syllables carried a certain weight. “My name’s Amara.”

None of Dean’s muscles would move, no matter how much he thought he should run away. Something prevented him from doing so. At first, he thought it was her doing. But when her dainty hand trailed down his arm, stopping at the empty spot where the scar used to sit, he realized with horror that he didn’t want to escape.

The grazing left a familiar buzz in his blood, his skin prickling with a dangerous warmth — a deep, insatiable hunger.

“I have to thank you for setting me free,” said Amara, voice steady and earnest, and somehow Dean didn’t know whether it should make him angry or scared.

They should’ve known better. Hell, they did. Of course, removing the curse would lead to consequences. Even Death warned him about what would happen. But this, whatever it was, was too big of a mystery.

“Who are you?” Dean repeated.

“I’m your past,” she answered vaguely, her delicate hand brushing over the red outline sitting just below her shoulder. A scar, the shape of which would haunt Dean for years to come. “And I’m your future, Dean.”

“This,” she trailed off, tapping the Mark embedded into her skin. “This is what binds us. Even if you no longer have it, it’s our connection.”

Dean scoffed, though it lacked the heat he wished he could scream into the world: “So, what are you? The curse running loose?”

“Think of me as the manifestation of all the Mark made you crave,” Amara explained calmly.

Bloodshed? Violence? Chaos?

“Evil and destruction incarnated?” Dean gruffly guessed, his answer only half-sarcastic. “That’s reassuring.” His senses were tingling, hyper-aware of how dangerous Amara was. Just because someone wore a pretty face and was not aggressive from the get-go did not mean they weren’t capable of causing harm.

Her eyes softened, though it took him a second to realize that it was disappointment flickering across her features. It was almost like what he had accused her of upset her personally.

“No, no such thing. Nothing bad,” she muttered, brows knitted together like she needed him to really understand her. Her hand wandered lower, frigid palm pressed flat against his, with her fingers splayed out.

“I am above good versus evil,” Amara sighed. “There are beginnings and ends, shadow and light. But they aren’t opposites; they’re two sides of the same coin. One can’t exist without the other. It’s a symbiosis.”

Dean didn’t know what to make of that lecture. Nor did he know how to handle the swirl of black, ash, and dust filling his lungs and blurring his vision.

He jolted awake with a gasp, sitting upright in his bed, and a layer of sweat sticking to his forehead. It was the dim glow of their moon-shaped ceiling light that eased his state of disorientation. He lost count of how many times this strange dream interrupted his sleep.

And hers.

“Dean?”

Déjà-vu.

And at the same time, things couldn’t be more different from his last streak of nightmares. No imaginary red blood was staining his hands. He no longer felt the urge to rip something apart. But there was something about the stale air, the heavy silence, and the uncertainty that had him think they were back to square one.

He could certainly live without the full circle moment of startling in the middle of the night, alerting his concerned girlfriend like he had so many months ago. As if on instinct, his clammy hand rubbed over his lower arm, just like last time. The tension in his shoulders did not vanish until he found the spot empty now.

That’s right. They’ve successfully removed the Mark of Cain. So why could he not shake this icky feeling? What was the meaning of this reoccurring dream? He saw it flash before his eyes every night, and without failure, he’d forget most of it by the time he woke up.

“Just a weird dream, sorry,” Dean muttered, voice shakier than intended.

The bedsheets rustled softly as she sat up beside him. He couldn’t bring himself to look in her direction. After all, they’ve been through enough already. He wasn’t ready to face a new problem already. Even worse: He couldn’t bear the thought of burdening his girlfriend with yet another impending doom.

Was it even on that scale? Maybe he was overthinking things, maybe it wasn’t half as bad as he feared it might be.

“A tea-with-rum kind of dream?”

Her question was meant to lighten the mood, even if one could argue it was a little early for jokes about their last predicament. Still, his lips twitched into a weak, crooked grin while he shook his head. Even if it took him a deep breath to believe the mantra, this was no life-or-death situation. None that required any liquid courage either.

He appreciated the effort regardless. It felt good knowing she would always have his back, even now. Still, no immediate danger was afoot. Just his girlfriend, offering him a reassuring smile and an open ear. This time around, he knew to accept it without hesitation. He’s learned his lesson the hard way.

“C’mere,” Dean breathed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and settling back into the pillows with her. She snuggled up to his side, letting him tuck her against his chest like this was where she always belonged.

“I don’t want you thinking I’m keeping any secrets,” he murmured afterwards, voice laced with the guilt from the past couple of months. He’s fucked up quite a few times there. He did not want to repeat his mistakes. “I keep having this weird dream. Can’t really tell you what it’s about, though. It’s all a blur.”

Her fingers were splayed over his chest, absentmindedly tracing the outlines of his tattoo. The touch stirred something in him, triggering flickers of someone else’s hands ghosting over the non-existent mark on his arm and of someone else’s palm sizing up his.

Tensing ever so slightly, Dean took her wrist — his grip was both gentle and firm, neither pushing away nor pulling closer. He did stop her movement, though. He just needed something to ground himself with. To remind himself of what was real and what was fake.

“I’m back in that grey storm outside the diner, and there’s this woman. Amara, I think,” Dean continued, hesitantly so. “She’s got the Mark of Cain. But I don’t know what she wants.”

That, at the very latest, made her freeze. She blinked up at him, droopy eyes and sleepy lashes now wide and alert. When Dean’s gaze met hers, he thought the question marks in her eyes mirrored his own. He, too, was absolutely clueless.

“It’s probably nothing,” he sighed. “Aftershocks of the stress or something.”

But she wasn’t buying it. It sounded too specific to be brushed off as random. “I don’t know,” she muttered, her weak attempt at getting to the bottom of this already faltering. “Maybe we should look into it more. Can’t hurt to be careful.”

She hated to be paranoid. Hell, if anyone knew how badly they needed a break from constantly being on edge, it was her. At the same time, they couldn’t afford any more risks. Even with the Mark of Cain gone, a deep fear had settled in the pits of her stomach. What if it wasn’t over? What if the spell didn’t work, or if the curse somehow would restore itself?

Dean mulled over her words, watching the concerned crease between her brows deepen into a brooding furrow. He gently poked her forehead, drawing her attention.

“We’ll look into it,” he agreed somewhat begrudgingly. Under one condition: “Tomorrow.”

Before she could even think of a counterargument, Dean pressed a chaste kiss to her hairline, practically feeling her anxiety ease under his caress.

The wrinkles on her forehead melted, as did the bristling behind that stubborn skull of hers. Frankly, she was tired and still a bit drowsy from just waking up in the middle of the night. Whatever battle they had to fight next, it could wait until tomorrow. What better way to restore your energy than nestling into Dean’s embrace and allowing yourself to drift back into slumberland?

Dean, on the other hand, did not fall back asleep for a while.

He kept lying wide awake, his hands rubbing slow circles on the small of her back. No matter how many bad scenarios must’ve popped up in her head, double the amount swirled in his own. It was not until he forced himself to listen to her deep in- and exhales, a steady rhythm, that he was lulled back into a restless sleep.

Their concerns, as it turned out, had not been entirely unwarranted. Looking up lore on some Amara or more information about the Mark of Cain was futile. However, an unexpected ally joined their forces soon after.

From what they could gather, the dark mass of fog they unleashed upon the world proved to be highly dangerous. An entire town was wiped out by it, and people exposed to the fog for too long fell ill or died shortly after. All but one, anyway. They were in the middle of questioning this man when they realized the course of his life had changed forever.

“Professor Redfield,” she started through gritted teeth, hating to be the bearer of bad news and struggling to find the right words.

“Call me Donatello,” the man responded, a proud smile twitching at his mustached mouth. “I’m named after him.”

“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?” Dean asked, confused.

A beat. Donatello’s smile faltered, faded, then turned into an awkward one.

“The Renaissance sculptor,” he clarified.

“Right,” she nodded and awkwardly cleared her throat. “Dean, a word.”

She tugged at his sleeve, pulling him aside. Over her shoulder, she glanced back at Donatello, who sat down on the folding chair, looking as out of place as can be. The poor bastard had no idea what was coming for him. A flash of pity rushed through her.

“He’s a prophet,” she whispered to Dean.

“Didn’t he just say Donatello was a sculptor? Which one is it?”

“What– No, you idiot!” she groaned. “Not the artist Donatello, him.”

And when Dean still looked confused, she pointed towards the innocent old man with his tiny spectacles sitting on his button nose and his round cheeks. He was wearing a vest made out of soft wool, for God’s sake! The guy looked like he preferred to spend his afternoons nursing a tea and knitting in an armchair by the fireplace. The most adventurous event in this guy’s life was probably the annual mini golfing with his brother-in-law and his niece.

It was obvious this guy was not made to join their fight against demons, but such is the cruelty of fate.

“Donatello Redfield. The visions he’s describing? The sudden epiphany of clarity, or whatever? He’s a prophet.”

Scratching the stubble on his chin, Dean didn’t look too convinced. “Didn’t Crowley have them all wiped out?”

That part confused her, too. She thought the King of Hell ensured that nobody could steal and read any of the tablets anymore. But judging by everything Donatello said so far, she had no other explanation. There was the iconic moment that felt a lot like getting struck by lightning — in this case, a stormy cloud of mystic darkness — as well as the strange visions.

She shrugged, sighing: “Maybe it has something to do with the dark fog.”

Dean nodded along, eyes flickering back and forth between her and the witness. It was strange that he survived such a long span in the fog and came back with nothing but sudden, frequent migraine attacks, which were apparently accompanied by weird imagery flashing before his inner eye. Visions. Maybe she was onto something.

“Donatello, we have some more questions for you,” Dean said then, approaching the desk he sat at again.

The man, his hands folded neatly on the table’s surface, looked up at him as though he was a high school student about to get scolded. Yeah, you just had to feel bad for him.

“You’re not in trouble,” she reassured him quickly, thinking the quiet part to herself: Yet. “We just want to hear about these visions you mentioned. Is there anything in particular that you keep seeing, or anything else you remember?”

For a moment, Donatello frowned, then he took a deep breath. “Uhm, I suppose there is this woman. Brown hair, black dress. She has this… symbol on her chest. Right here. A tattoo, maybe, or a scar. I’m not sure.”

She felt Dean tense at her side without having to look at him. He stiffened, suddenly anxious.

Nervously chewing on the inside of her cheek, she fished for a small notepad and pen, handing both to the professor. “Do you think you could draw the symbol?”

Donatello scribbled the design down hastily. Something that looked like an upside-down L with two little lines emitting off to the side. Undoubtedly, the Mark of Cain. Unless this professor, who, to their knowledge, was teaching chemistry, had a special interest in religion or Christian mythology, this proved that she was right about her hunch.

The huntress glanced over to Dean, who stared at the doodle like it personally offended him. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

“Donatello,” she continued, nudging Dean’s side with her elbow. “Could you read this out loud for us, please?”

She scrolled through her photo gallery until she stopped at a picture of an Enochian spell, handing the man her phone. He took it, eyeing it with suspicion and bemusement.

“I have never seen a language like this, what even is—” Donatello chuckled nervously, before his eyes suddenly darted back to the screen. He squinted, and surely enough babbled to himself: “Combine two crushed raven skulls and a vial of angelic grace over a fire— What is this?”

And there they had it.

She gave Dean a ‘told you so’ look, but he still seemed shook by Donatello’s drawing. Which, when the professor noticed, she quickly snatched away. “I never said I am as much of an artist as the man I was named after,” Donatello muttered shyly, almost apologetically.

“You’re fine, this gave us an important hint,” she reassured him. “We might need your help at the station. Can you come with us?”

It took some convincing, but eventually the professor was sitting in the backseat of the Impala. Dean was dead silent while he drove them back to the Bunker — past the local police station. Before Donatello could voice any concerns, she shot him a telling glance. “Sorry, Prof. You’ll be safer with us. We’ll explain everything later.”

Turns out the explanation was trickier than anticipated. She couldn’t blame the guy for being a non-believer. Try kidnapping an atheist and bringing him to an underground Bunker in the middle of the woods, filled with occult artifacts and strange sigils covering most walls. To top it all off, you just had to inform him that he was a Prophet of the Lord, yes, like the ones in the Bible, and of course, he would stare at you like you were bat-shit insane.

“Sit,” she sighed, nudging Donatello into the nearest chair. The poor guy, probably more out of fear than anything, complied. Since he wanted some cold, hard proof, she had to deliver. She wanted to go about it the nice way, but Dean, ever the one without patience, laid out the cold, hard facts for him. Their quote-unquote victim didn’t stand a chance against the good-cop-bad-cop method, though.

Mercifully, fate sent an angel their way — literally. The moment Castiel entered the bunker, she practically jumped him. It was the perfect opportunity for him to show off some magic tricks, whatever it took to convince Donatello that his kidnappers might be insane, but they weren’t liars. Moreover, whatever it took for Dean to go easy on the poor bastard.

What sucked most about this was the tension and its familiarity. Watching Dean fall back into a pattern of clenched jaw, gruff tone, and short temper triggered several alarm bells within her. Suddenly, she found herself overcome by the same kind of worry she thought they had conquered weeks ago.

The fact that she couldn’t even blame him came in close second. It was the same for her, after all. Whatever was happening was clearly tied to the Mark of Cain and to their removing said curse. Everyone and everything had warned them that there would be consequences, likely of cosmic scale. It didn’t exactly bite them in the ass, since they saw it coming. But it bit them regardless, and now they realized that despite all the apocalyptic dangers they’ve dealt with so far, maybe they bit off more than they could chew.

The research won bronze in the category of shittiness. Just reading more texts about the Mark of Cain — or rather, rereading the same old songs, because she was pretty sure she already memorized most of them by heart — filled her with nausea. She thought she’d never have to look at the symbol ever again. Oh, how wrong she had been.

She could try to stay calm and collected all she wanted. Every “We can tackle this, too.” in her mind was followed by a mean, small whisper at the back of her head. Could they? What if they couldn’t? They did it before. Except they didn’t, otherwise they wouldn’t be in this mess again. In fact, they never left this mess behind at all.

Their research, reports from the angel radio, and translations done by their newly installed prophet all pointed to a solid 10/10 in how badly they were screwed. The more they found out about this brunette woman, Amara, the more worry washed over the huntress. And not just that. It filled her with jealousy. Irrational and selfish jealousy.

Amara — whatever she was, a Goddess? Darkness? Not even the lore they studied really had a term for her — she was directly connected to the Mark of Cain. And the Mark of Cain, removed or not, had been connected to Dean. Apparently, that was enough for this being to take an interest in him.

Dean didn’t choose any of this. He didn’t want any of this, she knew that. But all of a sudden, there was this almighty entity, which was ancient and powerful and greater than anything a mere huntress like her could ever hope to be. How could she not feel small in comparison? Unimportant. Disposable. Worse than that: Replaceable.

Who was she to stand in between what might’ve been destiny for Dean and that curse and Amara? Time and time again, there’s been that thought that maybe she should’ve heeded to what his demonic version wished for; to leave him be.

Slowly but surely, she fell back into old patterns as well. The schedule was tight — shower, library, if she was lucky, a little snack while she was still hunched over another book, sometimes a power nap at the desk. Her days consisted of sleep deprivation and insecurities. Not to mention the desperation, which worked wonders against the need to rest. Who needed shut-eye when you had an impending doom waiting to be fixed? 

By the time she lost count of how many nights she spent at the library instead of their shared bedroom, she didn’t even flinch anymore at Dean’s voice. Every evening, he asked her to get some sleep, to which — every evening — she said she needed to finish up on research first.

Eventually, Dean had enough, though.

“Don’t make me carry your ass to bed,” he sighed.

“I’m not making you do anything,” she countered, humorlessly.

“I mean it, sweetheart,” Dean insisted. He walked up to her, reached over her shoulder, and snatched the book away. That one was new; he was switching tactics. Before she had a chance to protest, he snapped it shut and held it out of her reach. “We can save the world tomorrow.”

“What if there won’t be a tomorrow?” she snapped without meaning to. Her biggest fear just escaped her mouth like she wasn’t able to contain it anymore. But in her mind, she had a point. Who knew how much time they had left? What if this Amara was already tracking Dean down? What if she didn’t even need to do anything like that? It probably takes one snap of her fingers, and she’d steal you away, just like that. And then what could we possibly do to save you this time? Kill another cosmic entity? Cause another mayhem? Set the world ablaze? How would I even go about that? And what good would it do, since I stand no chance against Amara anyway?

In fact, the bond between you and her is divine, Dean. Divine! Like biblically set in stone, if not preceding holy scriptures and shit. How should I compare?

She didn’t even realize that she was rambling all this out aloud. Not until Dean firmly cupped her face and forced her to look at him, to which she effectively pressed her trembling lips into a fine line.

“Whoa there, easy now,” Dean cooed. “Breathe, baby.”

She tried, and though she didn’t do it very well, the attempt was what counted.

“It’s gonna take more than that for anyone to steal me away. Hell, no smiting in the world could make me pick something else over you.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. A subtle twitch of her eye made him wonder if she really didn’t believe him entirely or if the stress was starting to get to her. Good thing was that there was a remedy for both — a two birds with one stone kind of solution. In one swift motion, his calloused hands let go of her face. Instead, he hooked one arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her shoulders, pulling her out of the chair and picking her up bridal style.

Despite the yelp that escaped her, her fingers curled in his shirt. “What are you doing?”

“I told you I would carry your ass to bed if you didn’t listen,” Dean huffed.

He successfully ignored all the complaints she had and wordlessly walked down the hallway. Upon arrival, he entered their room, kicked the door shut behind them, and carefully dropped her onto the mattress. She let out a soft oomph, bouncing on top of the sheets, but looking up at him half-expectantly.

If she needed him to prove just how much he worshiped the ground she walked on — along with the legs she was doing it with; or the sweet treasure in between them — Dean would gladly comply.

He climbed on top of her, arms bracketing her shuddering frame. His eyes never left hers while he unbuttoned her shirt with one hand and used the other to unbuckle her belt. He relished the hitch of her breath like he knocked the air out of her lungs. He soaked up the shiver that went down her spine like she quenched his thirst.

The fingers of his left hand splayed over her chest, his palm flat against her warm, soft skin, and pressed right against her heartbeat — it whirred like a little hummingbird, precious and quick. Alive and kicking. Uncontrolled, because of him. The fingers of his right hand ghosted over the waistband of her jeans first, before slipping past layers of fabric and lace — she felt both like velvet and silk beneath his touch. Fluttering in tandem with her pulse. Already damp, because of him.

The sweetest of whines escaped her pretty mouth, and the most beautiful shades of pink dusted her nose. All because of him. And he would be damned if he let anything or anyone stand in between this. In between them.

Dean pressed closer, applying pressure to both the valley of her breasts as well as her core until she erupted into another one of those cute gasps. His mouth nipped at her jaw, where he paid extra attention to the sensitive spot just below her ear. His lips curled into a half-smirk when he felt her shaky fingers claw at his shoulders.

“You really think I would trade this for anything else?”

His voice was a siren’s song in her ear, the lyrics inviting her to just let go.

Once she was just there, teetering on that sweet edge of bliss that his ministrations expertly had pushed her towards, he pulled away. An involuntary whine escaped her, feeling hollow because the only physical contact left was the string of her arousal sticking to his digits. Not that she had much to fret over for long.

The next thing she knew, Dean captured her lips as though a deep kiss might make up for her denied orgasm. He slanted his mouth over hers and pawed at the plush of her hips.

It couldn’t have taken more than a couple of seconds, but then again, every touch and every piece of fabric shed was a hazy blur. Like time couldn’t go fast enough, there was also the urge to savor every second. Thus, hungry hands were both eager to undress as well as make the most of it.

Her shaky fingers unbuckled Dean’s belt, he kicked off his jeans, she yanked at the hem of his shirt, he pulled it over his head.

Her lips wandered from his down his jaw. She nipped at his neck, hard, sometimes biting with the intent to leave a mark. A claim. A signature. She wasn’t even sure who she wanted to prove her ownership to. She was, on the other hand, very much aware that it was unnecessary — pure hedonism drove her to this point.

Dean belonged to her, and she wanted everyone to know. Him. Herself. Amara. Didn’t matter, so long as he carried a piece of her brandished on his skin.

Her hands moved with the same confidence. She explored every inch of him, tracing every freckle and scar without having to look, because this was Dean. Her Dean. And she knew him inside and out in ways others could only dream of.

Apparently, great minds think alike. Judging by the way Dean’s grip on her waist tightened, at least. His fingers dug into her skin so firmly that she wouldn’t be surprised if prints were left behind the next day.

Suddenly, he lifted her. Within one yelp, they flipped around so she was on top of him. With their positions now switched, Dean sat back against the headboard and pulled her into his lap. Her thighs were already trembling as she straddled him, and her dripping folds were now pressing against his hard cock instead of gushing around his thick fingers.

Even better.

She rolled her hips; slowly at first, then ground down against him more insistently, until she found a rhythm that had Dean grunting against her mouth.

His head fell back, hitting the wall behind him with a soft thud. The green of his irises was swallowed up by a black — the kind that did not startle her, but filled her with a perverse sense of power. She was the one he was looking at like she hung the damn moon for him. She was the one earning herself that smug smirk. It was her fingers that carded through his hair until it was messily sticking out in all directions, her mouth that painted constellations on his throat, her body fitting seamlessly against his.

“You wanna claim your stake, sweetheart?” Dean rasped. Damn mind reader. Then again, it wasn’t only her knowing him too well. It went both ways. He leaned in closer, until their noses brushed together and their breaths mixed. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

Lifting her hips, with a little bit of his help, she shifted to align herself perfectly with his throbbing length.

Both their breaths hitched as she sank down. His bulbous tip breached her entrance; her warm walls welcomed him in.

Dean didn’t thrust up, not yet, not until she lowered herself all the way and dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. They sat there, bodies tightly intertwined with one another, not knowing where one of them began and the other ended. Both inhaled shakily and exhaled all the same, in unison, just feeling each other.

She lifted her head, resting her forehead against his now instead. Her gaze dropped to his kiss-bitten lips, then blinked back up into his. Again, without having to ask any questions, Dean answered: “I’m yours.”

They melted together, Dean bucking his hips, she tightening around him, their lips closing the little space that was left between them. They moved together, synchronized to perfection. With heaving chests and each other’s name rolling off their tongues like prayers.

She was the first to shatter. Her peak hit her like a tidal wave, unexpectedly washing over her and consuming her mind, body, and soul. She clung to Dean like her life depended on it, collapsing against him while he drove his hips up into hers.

Thanks to her fluttering around him, he followed close behind. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, holding her impossibly close. Hot, red skin stuck to hot, red skin, flushed and sweaty. His mouth latched onto the curve between her neck and shoulder, where his teeth sank in to muffle his growl. He spilled deep into her, milked by the pulsating of her tight channel.

They held each other like that for what felt like an eternity. A blissful eternity, that is. Basking in the aftermath like it was paradise on earth. Their chests were still pressed flush together, hearts beating in a harmony that slowly but surely ebbed into a steady rhythm. The same applied to their heavy panting, which eventually softened as they caught their breath.

Dean was the first to speak up, but not the first to move. Neither of them did. Neither of them wanted to let go, let alone pull away. Not when she felt so heavenly and warm around him still. Not when he was stretching her out so nicely, even as he softened inside of her.

“Still have any doubts?” Dean huffed, only half-joking.

“Are you teasing me?” she pouted, only half-offended.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean chuckled in response. “Unless it always leads to good sex.”

At that, she couldn’t help but snort. She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it. In fact, the smile that twitched on her face was gentle. Loving. As was the twinkle in her glossy eyes, laced with raw adoration.

“What I’m hearing is you think I’m hot when I’m jealous,” she concluded, poking fun at herself more than anything.

Now it was his turn to let out a humorless laugh. He shrugged, brushing his fingers up and down her arm tenderly. “Jealous, huh?” he echoed with a shit-eating grin.

That earned him a smack to his arm, not a hard hit, but definitely firm enough to make him chuckle and reel back. “Okay, okay!” Dean laughed, then winked. “You’re not jealous, got it. Just a little possessive, eh?”

“I’m worried, jackass,” she huffed, but the flustered pink dusting her nose gave her away. She was totally jealous, and there was no use denying it. “It’s just— all this talk about Amara being connected to you scares me.”

The silence that followed was just slightly tense, but not uncomfortable. Just earnest and vulnerable. She thought of this as an ugly wound that she was laying out for him, her heart on her sleeve, except it was battered and bruised. A sad little thing hanging on by a thread.

“Me too,” Dean hummed eventually, triggering a doe-eyed reaction.

He didn’t know what was so baffling about his anxiety. He understood perfectly well why she was so tense. It wasn’t that much different for him. If anything, he was the one with a weirdo on his ass talking about doomed fates and whatnot. The only difference between her fear and Dean’s?

He never, not even for a moment, second-guessed whether or not they belonged to each other.

After all that they’ve been through, after everything they endured together, their bond was stronger than ancient shitheads and monsters he killed for a living. In the end, that’s all that Amara was, too, right? Just another case to solve.

A stronger one, sure.

And maybe they couldn’t say that they’ve survived worse. But they’ve survived enough to know that they could conquer this, too.

“I’m not invincible, you know?” he chuckled, stopping the movement of his hand right at her wrist. Where his thumb felt the thrumming of her steady pulse. “We don’t really know what we’re up against, so yeah, that’s terrifying.”

“We know that whatever she is, she’s got her eyes on you,” she shrugged with a frown. She didn’t even mean to sound jealous on purpose. It wasn’t even just that. But clearly, Dean already knew.

“Then she can watch me pick you, always,” he replied without hesitation. Like it was some unwritten rule of the universe that she would always remain his number one choice, unconditionally and without exception.

She rolled her eyes again, in that flustered fashion, with the shy smile on her lips and the blush on her cheeks. “You’re such a sap, Winchester,” she mumbled before she leaned in to quickly peck his lips.

“I mean it, though,” Dean continued, closing his hand around hers to lift it to his mouth and press a chaste kiss to her palm. “You’re stuck with me, remember? And the rest, we can deal with tomorrow, one battle at a time.”

Dean Winchester Taglist (Pt. 1):

@0ccvltism @10ava01 @ablondehoe @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @ambrosier @angelicjackles @artemys-ackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @bigivori @blueschevy @bohoooitsme @burner12345654321 @calibootsgirl @castielscaplan @charliesangel67 @chronic-fangirl-222 @cradle2thegrave @deanswifeyy @deanwinchesterlover67 @deekaag @emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @fertilise-me @flanneledfae @flawlesslyspellbound @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean @herefor-tojis-tits @hot-and-confused  @idjit-central @jackles010378 @jensensswthrt @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @limbeldemango @lunaleah @lyarr24 @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @mahi-wayy @malindacath @midnight--raine @multiversefanfics