#tainted

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