Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The clock's digits stared back at him, mockingly so — 4:06 AM. Their glow matched the same crimson shade that had originally startled him awake.

He was still breathless, too, after jolting up into a rigid, wide-eyed state.

Every fiber of him felt as if it was made of stone. Lifeless, cold, paralyzed. Everything except his heart, anyway. That part of him defied his stillness, hammering relentlessly against his ribs and threatening to leap into his throat.

Squinting, he averted his gaze by lowering his head. Reluctantly he blinked down to his hands, which were trembling in his lap. Though his clammy palms felt sticky and cold, a pang of relief washed through him when he realized it was simply sweat that was sticking to his skin.

He had half expected to see the blood still.

Just a nightmare, then.

Those weren’t anything out of the ordinary for Dean Winchester. The man had spent more sleepless nights in his life than he’d ever had the luxury of a full night’s rest.

However, this one was different. It was raw. Violent.

Last time his tormented slumber left him this hollow and shaken was years ago — back when the memories of Hell were still fresh in his mind. Even to this day, seven years later, the times of fire burning flesh and endless torture sent shivers down his spine. But it’s been a while since his dreams were this vivid.

The soft rustling of bedsheets pulled him back to reality.

“Dean?” — Her voice was thick with sleep and laced with concern. Just mere moments ago she had been fast asleep. Peaceful and calm at his side, grounding him as always. Except he was still unable to shake it off.

This feeling, which was just as attached to him as the symbol embedded into his skin.

“Hey,” was the only lame reply he could muster. Even the movement of his mouth felt askew and wrong. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

Instead of replying, she reached towards the nightstand, flicked on the lights and sat up. Dean remained perfectly still at her side, his eyes still glued to his trembling hands.

That was until her hand entered his field of vision. The second he understood her attempt of grabbing his hands, he pulled his away. His shoulders stiffened further as he cleared his throat.

“Just a nightmare, ‘m fine,” the hunter grumbled, more to himself than anything, whilst swiftly swinging his legs over the edge of his side of the bed. He rubbed his palms up and down his thighs thrice, then ran his wiped hands through his messy hair only to realize his forehead was just as sticky with sweat.

Even with his back turned towards her, quite a literal manifestation of the impenetrable walls he liked to build around himself, she recognized the gravity of his ‘nightmare.’ His shoulders were slumped yet tense, and the way he avoided not only her gaze but also her touch caused her stomach to churn.

Right away she understood this was about more than just an unpleasant dream.

She watched in silence as he got up, barely making out the mumbled word “shower” as he slipped into the bathroom.

Part of her wanted to follow after him, just to make sure he was okay. As okay as he could be, anyway.

They’ve all noticed how on edge Dean was lately. Not that anyone blamed him for it, given the stressful nature of the past few weeks. Defeating Abaddon has taken a toll on Dean, more so than any of them wanted to admit.

They could’ve never killed a Knight of Hell without the Mark of Cain.

However, it became more and more obvious that the strings attached to this curse were heavier than originally anticipated. Desperate times had called for desperate measures. But seeing Dean slip away from sanity more and more made her question whether it was really worth it.

Ever since killing the demon, his temper became unpredictable.

Even his appetite had diminished as of late, shocking both Sam and her when he downright refused to order a cheeseburger at one of his favorite fast food spots. Furthermore, Dean’s patience ran thin lately, his recent behavior during cases increasingy reckless — if not downright suicidal. He’d charge into the enemies’ nest, guns blazing, just like that and without regard for any possible dangers.

Not to mention, the frequency of those nightmares have reached an all time high, a new record if you will. It wasn’t just the usual disruption of his four hours of shut-eye either; these were the kinds of nightmares that had him instinctively reach for the gun under his pillow, nightmares that left him giving up on going back to sleep at 4 AM.

She would’ve asked him to open up to her, but she knew that would be like talking to a brick wall. Whenever she’d test the waters, he’d dismiss her and avoid awkward conversations about his feelings.

Still, it was worth another try.

As she listened to the water running in the bathroom, she decided to slip out of bed as well, despite her own fatigue. Grabbing her fluffy robe and putting on her slippers, she used the small time window to head to the kitchen. Since it was the middle of the night, the bunker was eerily silent, every step of hers echoing off the bleak walls.

Once in the kitchen, she grabbed a kettle and two mugs, brewing up some tea. Something to warm and soothen those nerves of Dean’s. For good measure, she added more ingredients to both cups, then walked back to their shared room.

She kicked the door shut behind herself just in time for Dean to leave the bathroom.

Dean only stole a brief glance in her direction, before he sat down on the bed again, back leaning against the headboard. “You didn’t go back to sleep?”

“Figured a cup of tea would do us good,” she shrugged, crooked grin on her lips. She handed one of the cups to him and maneuvered herself to join his side. “Roiboos-Orange.”

Dean sniffed at the steaming liquid.

“Not to sound ungrateful, sweetheart,” he sighed, already moving to hand the cup back to her. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for a tea-party.”

“That’s a shame, ‘cause I even added the special secret ingredient,” she replied with a feigned pout and fished a small flask from the pocket of her robe, wiggling it in front of him. The quiet sloshing of rum inside indicated the bottle’s half-empty state.

Dean paused, then choked out a weak chuckle. Convinced, he brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. Behind the sweet aroma, a spicy note lingered, which admittedly did fill him with some warmth, at least.

“Bribing me with drinks now, huh?”

“Only for the special occasions,” she mumbled and went for a sip of her own cup. Normally she didn’t like endorsing Dean’s drinking habits, but she could tell he needed something to steel himself. Deseperate times, and such.

“Special occasions,” Dean echoed. He sure didn’t like the sound of that.

“I’m not gonna beat around the bush,” she sighed, her fingers closing around the warm ceramic as if she could brace herself for a heavy conversation that way. “Your nightmare, what was it about?”

Unsurprisingly, silence followed.

With great effort, Dean stared at the golden colored mixture in his hand. He focused on the swirls of steam emitting from it, along with its herbal scent. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it. Then again, he knew better than anyone that he couldn’t bottle it all up forever.

Then, Dean took a big swig of the warm tea, deeming it to be his liquid courage.

“Abaddon,” he vaguely answered at last.

“Abaddon,” she echoed, skepticism obvious in her tone. “But… you killed her months ago, Dean. She’s no longer a threat, right?”

“Right,” Dean hummed and allowed his finger to circle the rim of his cup. “She isn’t.”

At that, her brows knitted together in confusion. Admittedly, she didn’t understand what Dean was hinting at. If he wasn’t anxious about Abaddon, what else made him so skittish?

“It’s the Mark,” he gruffed through a strained voice, and he definitely did feel his throat close up, no matter how often he’d try to swallow the lump inside. “It’s this burning sensation, I— it felt good, killing her, you know?”

She remained silent at his side, listening with increasing confusion and tension.

“Because we had to defeat her,” she nodded in agreement, but Dean shook his head and she saw him clutch the cup until his knuckles turned white around it.

Clearly, she didn’t get what he was saying. Not at all.

Dean paused for a moment, unsure how to put it into words. Killing Abaddon hadn’t been a task of necessity. It had been one of urgency, the personal kind. He needed to kill her, yes, because every fiber of him had demanded it.

Because he wanted to do it.

“Because it was satisfying,” he corrected her with just a mutter under his breath, barely audible, as if he was ashamed to admit it. “The First Blade sinking into her was just, well, powerful. It was like scratching an itch.”

He stared ahead, blankly. Even in the dim light of their bedroom she saw the green of his eyes being swallowed by something dark and cold.

“It keeps replaying in my dreams, me killing her,” Dean mumbled.

He remembered every detail of it, even though at the time it had felt like he had just blacked out. Impaling Abaddon smoothly, her pained scream melting into her last breath, him stabbing the lifeless body again. And again, for good measure.

And again, and again, and again.

Sam had struggled to make him snap out of it, to make him drop the First Blade.

The familiar voice of his girlfriend reeled him back from the flashbacks. “You did what you had to do,” she reassured him, but he knew that it wasn’t as easy.

“I kill other demons in my dreams, too,” he continued, clearing his throat. “Tonight, I dreamt one attacked you and I just… I snapped and I ripped him apart. I’m talking limb after damn limb, severing sinew and muscle and tearing flesh from every fucking bone, until there is nothing left but pulp.”

It was the way he said it that sent cold shivers down her spine.

It was not as romantic as it may initially sound, not when his hands were twitching, jaw clenched and eyes filled with a sinister bloodlust. That was what it was all about.

The Mark of Cain was singing a siren’s song, calling for violence. Demanding bloodshed.

She knew her boyfriend would do anything to protect her. He’d kill for her in a heartbeat, without regret, if it meant keeping her safe. After all, Dean Winchester was known to be ruthless when it was necessary.

But was it really about fighting for her, or was it about ripping the enemy to shreds?

Dean’s small ministration — him scratching mindlessly at his lower arm where the Mark was embedded, burnt into him like a scar — told her he was after the latter. After the thrill of gutting foes like animals and drawing enough blood to quench the curse’s thirst.

It was an unsettling thought, both for her and for Dean.

They had already seen the darkness that came with the Mark of Cain, but the real grasp it had on Dean suddenly seemed much more terrifying.

She, too, remembered seeing him practically slaughter Abaddon.

But she also remembered him taking back control, and she knew he still held the reigns.

What he needed most now was trust. And she did trust him, with her life, always. Mark or not. So she reached for his hand for the second time this night. This time, her fingers grasped his wrist successfully, gently but firmly, and she pulled it away from his arm so he’d stop scratching the Mark.

“It was just a dream, baby.” Despite her greatest effort, there was a slight tremble in her voice.

Her eyes searched his green ones and she saw the turmoil within. The look of exasperation.

He was so tired.

“You don’t get it,” he huffed, his voice breathless and broken. “I enjoyed it.”

Was it about vengance? Maybe.
But even more so it was about the sheer simplicity of it. The twisted needs falling into place so perfectly whenever, dream or not, he’d sink a knife into flesh, crack bones and drain as much blood as possible, until it was hot and sticky on his hands.

The Mark craved it, corrupting him slowly but surely into madness. It was constanty calling for him to do unspeakable things, even now.

It demanded him to kill.

“I’m scared of what I’m capable of,” he whispered through a strained voice and squeezed her hand, clinging to her like his life depended on it. “In that nightmare, you were just gone and I… I couldn’t control it. I just saw red and it felt so fucking real.”

Without hesitation, she reached over him, placing her cup of tea on the nightstand on his side and adding his right with it. With both of her and both of his hands free now, she interlocked their fingers together.

“It wasn’t real,” she reassured him. “You can control it, you always did.”

Dean took a shaky breath and scoffed. So far, yes, she was right. But what if one day he’d fail and lose his composure? He felt like he was hanging on by a thread. And he was way too weak to hold on for much longer.

He was slipping. He knew he was. It was only a matter of time.

His voice was so defeated, weeks of exhaustion weighing down heavily on him: “I don’t want to find out what I would do if I lost you.”

Those words were a stab to her chest. She didn’t even know what to reply with. No words could console him, she felt just as helpless.

“We’ll find a way to get rid of it,” she whispered, but they both knew she couldn’t promise something like that.
They could try, and they have looked into just about everything. But it was a losing battle, honestly. There wasn’t much lore on Cain, much less on the curse and how to remove it.

“No,” Dean sighed, shaking his head. “No, ‘cause if not, then— I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Dean—”

“You have to stop it,” he interrupted her. “If things go to shit— when they go to shit, you have to stop it. Stop me.”

The invisible stab-wound in her chest froze to solid ice. He was talking as if he had already given up on a cure. Was it so wrong to still have faith?

“Nothing will go to shit,” she insisted, letting go of his hands only to cup his face instead. “Look at me. We won’t let you down like that, you know that, right?”

He regarded her words for a moment, but the silence between them was heavy and the despair palpable.

“Promise me you’ll put an end to it if things go wrong,” he spoke, begged. “Please.”

Chapter Text

“Slowly, Sam,” she spoke through the phone despite the tremble in her own voice.

She’s had this bad feeling in her guts, teetering on the edge of panic. It’s been like this the whole day. The second her phone had started vibrating, the moment she saw Sam’s name on the display, she knew it was bad news.

She couldn’t put her finger on as to why.

She just knew.

Maybe it was the timing; Sam rarely called her out of the blue. Not like this, anyway. Not under these circumstances. He never had a reason to, until now. He always promised to give her a call should he need her help and even then they usually would text each other instead.

Maybe it was the way Sam stumbled across his own words, barely able to choke out a single coherent sentence. She could probably count the amount of times he sounded this freaked-out on one hand. He went on and on, rambling about “Metatron” and “Crowley” and “a knife” and “blood, so much blood.”

What else could it have been then, if not bad news?

A dull ache throbbed in her head as much as it did in her chest. She took off just two days ago, since a friend asked her to help with a hunt.

She had been reluctant about leaving the Bunker — they had enough on their plate already: Searching for Metatron was annoying, and then there was Dean’s insistence on killing him with the First Blade. Sam had locked the weapon away ever since he noticed the effect it had on his brother.

That knife paired with the Mark of Cain was a recipe for disaster. Until they’d find a cure for the curse, it was best to keep it hidden from Dean.

“Deep breath,” she said — at this point she wasn’t sure if she was trying to calm down Sam or rather herself. Her own exhale was shaky. As were her clammy hands that had an iron grip on the phone. “What happened?”

There was a long pause on the other end. Every second of it filled her with an absolute sense of dread.

“Where is he?,” she asked then. Hopeful, worried, terrified. “Where’s Dean?”

Sam’s voice was barely audible on the other end, yet his words hit her with the force of a thousand screams: “I’m sorry.”

It was a weird feeling. She wanted to cry and scream, to deny and to bargain. But she remained absolutely stiff and silent. Numbness was taking over.

“Where is he?,” she repeated her question, voice barely above a breath.

“I put him on your bed.”

Their bed, the only place remotely close to a sanctuary after long days of hunting and having to face the ugly of the world. She didn’t even want to think of the implications of their situation now. That bed, once a warm haven, would forever feel cold now.

“Wait for me,” she muttered weakly. There it was, that long awaited lump in her throat. She tried to swallow it, along with the tears that threatened to dwell up and spill over. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

Without hesitation she checked out of the motel, ditched her current case, and drove back to the Bunker. While there was no point in fretting over it now, she did curse herself for giving in to Dean’s suggestion.

“It’s just a hundred-something miles, you should take the case,” his encouragement had been. He had practically been urging her to chase that ghost. How could she not have seen it? Why did she not question his adamancy?

“I guess it’s a simple salt and burn, shouldn’t take too long,” she had given in so easily. Why did she brush it off so quickly? Why did Dean have to push her away?

Why did she let him?

If she had to guess, she would’ve said she expected him to act differently.

Since that particularily restless night, she thought his calmer, more reserved mood was a good sign. Oh, how wrong she had been.

After weeks and months of battling with himself and the Mark of Cain plaguing him non-stop, she had grown accustomed to Dean’s shitty moods. She had braced herself for an explosion in case the curse would take over.

An outburst, she would’ve understood. He could’ve been rude to her, cold even, anything to try and make her hate him. All of that, she already mentally prepared for. But instead, he put distance between them so subtly and gently that she didn’t even recognize it for what it was:

A silent suicide mission.

This fucker knew trying to rile her up into driving her away would fail. He knew that if he wanted her out of the way of his plan, he’d have to resort to softer methods. To distracting her with a case, to plotting in secret.

Dean had been planning to use the First Blade against Metatron all this time. All by himself, despite the warning signs. He’s reduced himself to a weapon, again, even though they all tried to convince him that they were in this together.

Lebanon, Kansas was roughly two hours away. Thanks to violating multiple traffic laws, she arrived there in just under one and a half. It was honestly a miracle she made it there in one piece.

The first strange thing she noticed was Baby’s empty parking spot. The black Impala was nowhere to be seen. Alarmed, she thought Sam might’ve drove off to do God knows what.

Immediately she rushed inside, downstairs and into the war room. An eerie silence occupied the space. Dominated it. A silence she didn’t want to get used to, but she could already feel it settle in as if the Bunker was its new home.

Sam was nowhere to be seen, presumably — hopefully — keeping watch in Dean’s and her room. Did she even want to see what would await her there? Was any of this even real? It felt like such a joke, a twisted prank of a cruel fate. A nightmare she just wanted to wake up from.

Her heavy feet carried her down the hallway, but her legs were dragging along the floor like she was walking through water. Cold, heavy water slowing her down.

The door was slightly ajar and for a second her body refused to move entirely. Pushing it open and stepping inside felt impossible. No amount of time could help her brace herself for seeing her boyfriend’s corpse anyway. Thus, with a heavy heart and bated breath, she slipped inside.

Sam’s tall figure stood at the end of the bed, his back facing her and blocking her view, effectively.

Except, as she dared to take a glimpse, her eyes fell on an empty bed. Rustled sheets, stained with some blood. But no body.

Her stomach churned, racing mind unable to make sense of any of this.

“What did you do?,” she rasped. Casting her eyes towards Sam, she caught a glimpse of a piece of paper in his hands. Snatching it from his hands swiftly, she read the note over and over again.

Let me go.

Undoubtedly Dean’s handwriting, sharp and confident brushstrokes of a ballpoint pen. Let me go? What was that even supposed to mean?

“Sam, what did you do?,” she repeated her question, more urgently this time.

The younger Winchester stood there all frozen and speechless.

It was so difficult to contain her pain and her anger. Didn’t she tell Sam to wait until she was there? Didn’t she tell him to keep an eye on Dean just before she left two days ago?

Oh, how badly she wanted to yell at him for this mess.

But wasn’t that too easy? Pointing the finger at someone else, when she failed Dean all the same.

Not only was there no point in blaming Sam, it also didn’t look like he knew what was going on either. He looked about as distraught as she felt. She had to actively grab his arms to gain his attention.

“What the hell happened? Where’s Dean?”

Sam shook his head and she could see the wheels turning behind those knitted brows.

“Crowley,” Sam stuttered out. “He… I called him and—”

Her eyes almost popped out of her head, she widened them so much. Another cycle of sold souls might just be her last straw. Why did these boys always have to sacrifice themselves for each other?

“You made a deal?,” she interrupted him, furious.

“No deal. I told him to make it right,” Sam mumbled, more to himself, continuously shaking his head in disbelief. “When I came to check, they were both gone.”

Baffled, she blinked at him, seeking the truth in his words until her expression softened. She had no idea why Crowley would take Dean’s body, or what that note meant. Whether it was a petty, sick joke by the King of Hell or if it meant Dean was still out there somewhere, they had to find him.

“We will make it right,” she muttered, loosening her grip on Sam’s elbows. “Like we always do. We’ll find him.”

Hunters go through the five stages of grief like it’s a regular routine. A ritual, if you will. This life came with so much loss and pain. You’d think at some point you’d get used to it. To death all around you, to preparing yet another hunter’s burial.

But the fact that Dean was gone hit her like a whiplash. She didn’t even get to process any of it, no closure, nothing to make her know for sure where he was, whether he was okay, if there was still a chance. If she was still allowed to hope.

It took them weeks. Several weeks of trial and error. Tracking down Crowley did nothing. They had zero clues. No matter how many demons they asked, nobody knew what happened to Dean Winchester. The angels were fighting their own battle. Fellow hunters hadn’t seen or heard from him either.

She felt like she was slowly going insane. Her mind was a liminal space — she got the sense that she was thrown into cold water without knowing how to properly swim. She managed to keep her head up somewhat, but for how much longer could she take all of this?

At this point Sam and her were grasping at straws. The bigger fish in that vast ocean of questions were no help, so they had to dive deeper. They couldn’t afford to leave a stone unturned.

And who knew that a seemingly random case would prove to be their number one lead so far?

“I don’t know what to tell you, man,” the cashier sighed and awkwardly rubbed his neck. A young man, probably working a part-time job at this gas station. The poor bystanding citizen went over what he saw once more. “This guy was just browsing through zines, then this other guy charged at him and he— KAPOW! BAM! — He just stabbed him. Kinda badass, honestly.”

Maybe not so poor after all. The guy seemed ecstatic about his eventful day at a rather boring job.

Sam and her exchanged a glance, unsure of what to make of the worker’s thrilled testimony.

Pointing at the surveillance cameras in the corner, she asked: “Mind if we check the tapes?”

They were lead to the computers in the back and the gas station attendant opened the recordings for them. Sam put three of the videos side by side, two showing the interior of the store, one being an angle from outside.

As she saw the Impala roll in on one of the clips, her eyes widened. She physically leapt forward, pushing Sam aside and zooming in on the figure stepping out of the familiar vehicle.

Her heart began racing a thousand miles per hour as she recognized what was undoubtedly her boyfriend walking into the gas station.

Then, Dean was alive after all? But it made no sense. Why was he not calling her, how did he survive that fight against Metatron?

So many questions flooded her mind that she was barely paying attention to the footage of some man coming up to Dean, clearly going for a strike. Dean dodged the attack and sunk the First Blade into the stranger. After that, he just left, taking that magazine along and driving away.

She barely registered Sam’s arm reaching over her to pause the video. He rewound it and played it again in slow motion, frame by frame until his trained eye prompted him to hit pause again.

Dean’s eyes were entirely consumed by a pitch black darkness. Demonic, soulless pits of black.

Something deep within her core collapsed as she connected the dots. Ignoring Sam’s attempts of stopping her, she made a beeline towards the exit. Clumsy fingers fished for her phone and she hastily dialed Crowley’s number.

His thick accent and smug tone made her want to reach through the line and rip out his tongue. “Colour me surprised. What can I do for the Winchester’s dearest?”

She didn’t even bother with a proper hello, let alone with reacting to his teasing greeting.

“I swear whatever demon is using Dean’s body as a meatsuit, I’ll send both them and you straight into hellfire myself,” she snarled through gritted teeth, fueled by a rage she’s never experienced before. She could only imagine the anger the Mark of Cain always caused for Dean, but she assumed her own came pretty close to the same level just then and there.

It earned her little more than a bemused chuckle.

Oh, that bastard was done for on so many levels.

“Crowley, I swear to all that’s holy I will—”

“Charming,” he interrupted her cursing, “But it’s all him, love.”

What?

“Call it the new and improved Dean,” Crowley hummed nonchalantly. “I did say the Mark of Cain would give him a nice and fancy upgrade, didn’t I?”

--------------

Surprisingly, a scavenger hunt to track down Crowley and/or Dean was even more frustrating than finding Metatron. Now, they all had good reason to getting ahold of that asshole, but Dean came first.

He always did. Plus, she didn’t make that promise for him just to fail him after.

Truth be told, she had no idea what she’d do once she would find him. Or rather, what was left of him. Judging by what Crowley said, the Mark of Cain had finally turned Dean into a monster.

For all they knew he was dangerous, yet she couldn’t care less.

It took her a while, but she managed to find a trail. Apparently the demonic version of the green-eyed hunter was a little more reckless when it came to covering up his traces.

Or maybe he didn’t particularly care about if or who might find him.

Either way, there weren’t many black ’67 Chevys cruising from motel to the next. If her hunch was correct, he was staying at one near her current location — lucky her, on one side. On the other hand, Sam was following a different lead one state over.

She couldn’t just let this chance slip, though. There was not enough time for backup. And, who knew, maybe it was a nothing burger anyway.

To be safe, she sent Sam a text that included the address, and purposefully ignored his reply about how she shouldn’t take risks by going alone.

She made her way to a motel that looked more run down than most of the ones even she was used to. It almost looked abandoned, definitely old, were it not for the bar on the other side of the street. That one was buzzing with light and music even from the buildings adjacent to it.

And wouldn’t you know it — Baby was parked right in front of said bar, empty.

This was her chance. She was ready to pick every lock of every room if it meant a chance at getting Dean back. The motel was definitely as hauntingly quiet and empty as your average ghost-filled mansion.

But it played into her hands. There wasn’t even any staff present.

Quickly, she snuck behind the reception’s desk and flipped through every document she could find. One name in particular struck her as odd — Joseph Perry. Unless the actual Joe, Aerosmith’s lead guitarist was renting a room in one of America’s most shabby motels, she hit the nail on the head.

One quick text message to Sam — ‘Found him. Room 205, he’s out. I’m going in.’ — and she tiptoed down the hallway. Picking the lock was almost too easy, because not even a minute later she found herself standing in the middle of a two-bedroom.

Instead of flickering on the lights, she resorted to using her phone’s flashlight. No need to draw any attention.

Eagerly, she rummaged through the room. The small closet space was filled with flannels and denim she recognized. Even their scent was familiar, though that brought back emotions she couldn’t focus on right now.

She didn’t even know what she was looking for exactly. Clues to what Dean’s been up to the whole time, where he’d go next. Heck, maybe even the First Blade, if only to take it away from him again.

The dresser between the two beds was next, the drawers of which were empty.

Her snooping and investigating was cut short by the light switch turning on.

Fuck.

Her breath hitched in her throat and she didn’t dare to move a muscle. She knew she’d be done for if he’d catch her trying anything funny.

A deep, gravelly yet smooth, and painfully familiar voice appeared behind her: “Didn’t I say to leave me be, sweetheart?”

He couldn’t possibly know the sting that petname caused. The hollow ache it stirred. How long has it been since she’d hear his voice at all, let alone have him call her that?

His presence alone was enough to make the ends of her hair stand up tall. She wished she could call it a bittersweet reunion, but with these circumstances, it was more of a fight-or-flight instinct than anything.

“You mean that lousy note?,” she choked out and she cursed herself for the way her voice quivered. Damn it, her heart was aching so badly. “You were never a poet, but I was hoping for a more heartfelt goodbye.”

With her back still facing him, her hand slowly slid into the inner pocket of her denim jacket. Her fingers were shaky and sweaty as she curled them around the handle of her angel blade.

His voice echoed in her memories; “When things go to shit, you have to stop it.”

The look of desperation in his green eyes.

The very same green eyes she was met with upon spinning around and raising her weapon. She felt as though she was the one being stabbed.

“Stop me.”

How could she possibly do it? How could she keep such a promise? How could he ask something like that of her?

Her movement faltered midway. Not that she stood much of a chance anyway. Within a flash of a second, her wrist was captured by Dean, her arm twisted forward and around until she dropped the blade.

The silver object clattered on the floor and along with it, her heart dropped too.

“I thought I recognized that car of yours outside,” Dean hummed thoughtfully, his intense gaze scanning her up and down. “You just couldn’t let me be, huh?”

The huntress yelped softly as he shoved her back against the dresser.

The wooden edge was digging right into her lower back, an uncomfortable bite against her spine as she found herself trapped between the furniture and the twisted version of the love of her life.

His body pinned hers into an immobile state. He was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against the shell of her ear.

“So what’s the grande plan here?,” he grinned, lips brushing against the juncture of her jaw ever so slightly. “Your pretty face shows up, you bat those eyelashes and then what?”

She tensed up visibly, clenching her jaw. She didn’t have an answer. Maybe she should’ve thought this through, but then again, she didn’t think that she’d actually run into him.

Using her other hand, she tried reaching for her other pocket. However, before she even had the chance of pulling out the anti-demon handcuffs, Dean grabbed that hand too, encircling both of her wrists in one iron grasp.

The cuffs fell down right next to the angel blade and for good measure, Dean kicked both items haphazardly into a random direction, so long as it was out of reach for her.

“Don’t get sneaky on me now, doll,” he muttered and the dangerous, grumbling edge in his voice had her shudder. “I asked you a question.”

Her only chance of getting out of this was to buy more time.

“Can you run that by me again? I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Whilst Dean’s lips twitched into a smirk, he didn’t appreciate her teasing attitude. His other hand darted up and found home around the delicate of her throat. A choked gasp errupted from her as she felt his fingers wrap snugly around her windpipes.

While it definitely hurt, it wasn’t enough to do any actual damage. He was applying just enough pressure to make her head all dizzy and her panic all spiked.

“Always a witty comment,” he tutted, clicking his tongue as he leaned closer. “Never knows when to shut that pretty mouth of hers, until it’s put to good use.”

She couldn’t suppress the heat rising to her cheeks if she tried. Not that she wasn’t used to him being assertive, but the intensity of this was downright dangerous.

“You clearly didn’t think this through, doll,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling her lips. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

Black flashed across his eyes, dark and consuming.

It should’ve scared her, and it’s not like she wasn’t aware that he could so easily snuff out her life. He’d have to squeeze just a little harder. He’d just have to flick his wrist. But how could she focus on fear when every fiber of her being was consumed by guilt?

She swore she’d save him from this, and she failed so miserably.

“Promise me you’ll put an end to it if things go wrong. Please.” His plea rang through her mind still, clear as a bell.

“I promise I’ll do everything I can,” she had nodded back then. “If we run out of options, I’ll do it.”

An ultimatium. The last resort. As long as there was so much as a slither of hope—

It was still Dean. Her Dean, demon or not. That thought was equally comforting and devastating. The lines were as blurry as the swirl of her emotions.

“You’re not my enemy, Dean,” she tried, her voice strained through the chokehold he still had on her. “It’s the Mark, you’re not yourself.”

Dean barked out a laugh and shook his head, his eyes emerald once more. “And that’s where you’re wrong, doll. I’ve never felt better.”

As if to demonstrate, his hands vanished from her wrists and throat, seizing her hips instead. He lifted her up with ease and shoved her on top of the dresser with such sudden force that her hands instinctively sought an anchor in his arms.

Arms she used to rely on — they’d lull her to sleep, they’d welcome her home, they’d provide her with warmth. Arms she had taken for granted. Arms she had missed feeling around her.

Large hands slipped under her jacket, greedily pawing at her waist and she stiffened at the sensation of his warm fingers slipping under her shirt. His touch still felt the same and she didn’t know which was worse: That it still had the same effect on her or that Dean knew.

“Dean,” she uttered, all breathless and not even coming close to making it sound like a protest.

“Isn’t this what you came here for?”

He didn’t even give her time to process his question, let alone come up with an answer. Rough hands pulled her impossibly closer until he stood between her thighs, towering over her like some unyielding wall.

“To see me,” he went on — and damn it if months of lonely, sleepless nights didn’t turn his voice into the most alluring siren’s song for her. He brought his forehead down to hers and all her eyes could focus on was the shape of his lips. “To feel me?”

Guilty as charged, evident by her giving in to the magnetic pull.

The question of who closed the gap between them was overshadowed by the fact that their mouths all but crashed together. A burning hunger took over, consuming and demanding, and leading to a devouring rather than just a kiss.

It wasn’t pretty by any means. Just a tangled mess of bumping noses and clashing teeth, of hands wandering and exploring and claiming.

A whimper of hers fueled Dean to shove her jacket off her shoulders, whereas pride filled her upon drawing a grunt from his lips with just a simple tug on his sandy hair.

The taste of him was as intoxicating as she remembered it to be, not least because of the whiskey sticking to his tongue.

Her body fell into old habits as if no time had passed. Her back arched instinctively and she completely melted into his embrace — those arms welcoming her home once more —, even as his warm lips worked a path down her jawline.

Clearly Dean still had her body perfectly memorized all the same, knowing exactly which buttons to push. Sharp teeth grazed across her pulse, before the swipe of a warm tongue soothed over the sting.

“Gotta say, sweetheart,” Dean muttered, his words husky and muffled by her flushed skin as he nibbled down her collarbones. “I did miss this. Always so damn responsive.”

Her fingers combed through strands of hair that had grown longer since she last saw him.

So much time has passed. So much has happened since. But have things really changed?

“I missed you, too.”

She knew that was neither what he said nor what he meant, yet she couldn’t help but yearn. She couldn’t help but trust. It’s always been her greatest weakness. Dean always has been her greatest weakness.

His grip tightened on her curves until she was sure she’d be covered in finger-shaped marks.

Good. ‘Cause if he were to ever slip away from her again, she’d want all the traces of him she could keep, locked deep within her. Every single bruise. She’d want his bite to infect her from the inside.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent with the intent to catalogue it into the depth of her brain.

A soft click from the other end of the room made her heart flip.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” she whispered.

They only had this one chance.

Her hands cupped his jawline, fingers caressing stubbled skin as if handling porcelain, and her lips found his in a softer kiss.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated gently, letting him taste and swallow the words.

Her apology confused him enough to distract him.

Sam took the opportunity, capturing Dean’s arms from behind and securing them behind his back. The handcuffs snapped into place around his wrists, the engraved pentagrams rendering the demon pretty much powerless.

Dean growled and writhed in protest to his brother yanking him away. He was like a caged animal, baring his teeth as well as his inky eyes. Kicking and screaming got him nowhere, though.

With combined strength, Sam and her managed to drag him back to the Impala, where they pushed him into the backseat.

Sam slammed the door shut, taking a deep breath. She half expected him to scold her for tackling this by herself. But his expression held nothing but concern as his eyes gave her a once-over.

“You okay?”

Was she? Honestly, she didn’t even know anymore.

From the corners of her eyes she glanced through the backseat window. Dean sat there fuming silently, his dark eyes screaming bloody murder as he glared at Sam and her.

“We basically just arrested a demonic Dean, I’ll take it as a win,” she shrugged, deflecting the question with weak humor.

Sam’s eyes followed the direction of her gaze. Undoubtedly, he was also glad that they managed to find and capture him. But the real challenge was still ahead of them.

“Did he hurt you?,” he asked.

“I’m okay,” she said through a clenched jaw and shook her head. “Thanks for your help back there.”

With that, she slid into the passenger seat. That was as much conversation as she was comfortable with. She knew Sam had questions, but she didn’t have any answers. It was all a haze for her too.

Sam rounded the car and got behind the wheel. His nose scrunched up in disgust as he shoved empty beer cans off the dashboard.

“It’s just a car,” Dean scoffed from the back, rolling his eyes. Yeah, alright, the Mark of Cain had not just corrupted him, Dean was definitely beside himself. That might’ve just been the most concerning thing she’s ever heard him say.

Sam was still busy clearing trash out of his seat. A glance towards the woman next to him confirmed his suspicions that her side wasn’t any cleaner.

She picked up a black bra from the floor, along with a ripped condom wrapper. Lovely. Crumpling both the foil and the fabric in her fist, she sent the damned things flying out of the window.

“Good to know someone was having fun the past few months,” she grumbled, pain obviously lacing her tone.

Again, she had to remind herself that this wasn’t Dean. Not really. Or at least a Dean that wasn’t thinking straight. Still, the idea of him roaming the streets like the world was a banquet at his feet, while she was working day and night to save him, made her sick to her stomach.

Knowing she wouldn’t like Dean’s response anyway, she turned on the radio. She didn’t want an explanation, much less any smug mockery. All she wanted was to get back to the Bunker and put an end to this nightmare.

Just like she had promised.

Chapter Text

Who knew how blurry the lines between torment and salvation could get?

Watching Sam inject yet another dose of purified blood into his brother’s arm had her instinctively clutch her own. It felt as though she was the one being tortured, not Dean.

They’ve thought back and forth on what to do, and this was the best plan they could come up with.

Exorcising him was out of the question as Dean was technically not possessed. If a demonic entity were to leave his body, surely nothing but an empty corpse would be left behind. Plus, what vessel without the Mark of Cain could he even use, then, and what damages would that cause for him and the poor bastard he’d possess?

No, they had to turn the corrupted soul back into a human one.

Curing a demon, according to the lore, was possible, even though they had never completed an experiment like this. In theory, it could be done, though. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself as she observed the situation with increasing anxiety.

The mere sight of Dean in heavy chains, tied to an iron chair in the middle of a dungeon, surrounded by pentagrams and protective sigils all around, was enough to burden her with concern. The Latin incantations, the holy water, the purified blood — they were inflicting obvious pain on him.

At least to the demonic part of him.

It wasn’t easy to tell where the one version of Dean ended and the other began. If there was even any particle of the old, human Dean left.

She could barely look at the needle, let alone listen to Dean’s pained grunt.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?,” he sneered, the smirk on his lips taunting regardless of his labored, pained breathing. “Can’t even look at the damage you caused, huh?”

A low blow, but he was hitting where he knew it would hurt. She already felt like shit for making him go through this. She already felt responsible for even letting it go this far.

Mumbling a half-assed excuse in Sam’s direction, she made a beeline towards the exit. She slipped through the heavy iron door and into the hallway, where she wasn’t able to take a breath deep enough to soothe her frayed nerves.

There was more screaming coming from the room they had imprisoned Dean in and never before did she wish she could drown out a sound more than now.

There was no indication of how much time had passed. It could’ve ranged anywhere from a couple of minutes to a solid hour.

To her, everything felt like an eternity lately.

She had spent an eternity without Dean, another eternity tailing him, now barely 48 hours have passed since they finally caught him and her perception of time was still warped.

“Hey,” a familiar voice behind her startled her into a wince.

She turned to Sam, whom she gave an apologetic expression and a silent nod.

“Sorry for leaving you hanging just now,” she muttered, voice laced with the kind of exhaustion sleep couldn’t fix, “I couldn’t bear watching all of that.”

Sam, ever the patient and understanding one, gave a empathetic nod. Bless his kind soul.

She still saw herself as the culprit in all of this. Even if she hadn’t actively been the one to turn Dean into a demon, he had a point: She was a co-artist of this mess, yet too pathetic to own up properly. For Sam to treat her with such compassion, then, seemed unfair.

“I hear you, I need a break too,” Sam sighed, a similar fatigue etched into his demeanor. “Dean could use one as well.”

At that, she tensed visibly. Tight-lipped, she only managed a brief, but meek hum. They were all on edge, and while the pressure of it all definitely crushed Sam and her, this was still about Dean. Ultimately, he was the one subjected to all the pain.

“What if it won’t work?,” she asked, her fear-filled question barely intelligible with how breathless her voice was. “What if we just end up hurting him more?”

Sam placed a soothing hand on her shoulder, but nothing could console her entirely.

“I think we’re making progress,” he responded, though they both knew there was no way of truly telling that. “It’ll be done soon.”

Neither them nor anybody they knew had ever performed the curation of a demon. They tried it with Crowley before, but couldn’t go through with it. What if this was just another experiment prone to failure?

She remained silent at his side, neither knowing what to say nor having the motivation to find the right words for her concerns.

“Just a little more, right?,” Sam sighed insistently and emphasized his words with a gentle squeeze to her shoulder. “No need to push it. Let’s take a breath for now and grab something to eat. I’ll buy some takeout, wanna come with?”

Reluctantly, she shook her head. She had enough of feeling useless.

“Someone has to keep an eye on him,” she replied.

It was the least she could do.

“Will you be okay?,” Sam probed.

Biting her lower lip, she nodded and forced a crooked smile unto her face. Not that she was looking forward to the task, but at the same time it was something she wanted to do, something she needed to do.

“Yeah… Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

She walked alongside him towards the War Room on the pretext of reminding him what food to order for her. Of course Sam already knew everyone’s go-to burger toppings by heart. She was stalling. Any minute she did not have to spend in the Dungeon was valuable to her.

“You sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yes, Sam, I promise,” she sighed. “I’ll call if I freak out, okay?”

While not entirely convinced, that seemed to reassure Sam just enough to head out.

A deafening silence befell the Bunker right away. It wasn’t any less crushing than the atmosphere in the Dungeon, so she steeled herself with a deep breath and decided to take the bull by the horns.

Each step down the stairs was more dreadful than the last, but she made her way back to that damned iron door, which she opened with as much confidence as she could muster. Within, Dean still sat tied to that chair, his expression a miraculous triad of bemusement, being pissed, and exhaustion.

“Came back all by yourself, sweetcheeks?,” he huffed and she could tell the effort it took him to curl his lips into a teasing smirk. “Where’d you leave Sasquatch?”

Purposefully ignoring his taunts, she ventured to the sink, grabbed the handtowel and held it under lukewarm water for a bit. While she could barely manage to look Dean in the eyes, she did approach the chair with a confident stride.

“How’re you feeling?,” she asked, the softness lacing her voice surprising even herself.

“Like I’m being cooked from the inside,” Dean rasped bitterly. He certainly looked the part, skin pale and sweat sticking to his forehead. The treatment was definitely an intense one. His blood must be boiling not only in the figurative sense.

Against her better judgement, she stepped inside the circle. Dangerous or not, she had to get closer to Dean somehow if she wanted to help him.

His sharp eyes did not leave her form, though she thought it to be a good sign that it was that familiar green she was met with instead of the jet-black.

It might be noteworthy to say that she wasn’t scared. Not of Dean, anyway. While the demon was definitely capable of hurting her, they had taken enough precautions. Plus, it was still Dean she was dealing with. Turned comically super-villain, maybe, but she trusted herself to know how to handle him either way.

She was worried, if anything, to mess up again. To harm him further. All she wanted was to help him.

Thus, her hand was steady as she placed it on Dean’s forehead. Even as his brows furrowed and he narrowed his eyes at her — both in confusion and annoyance — she didn’t falter. Just as she had guessed, he was burning up.

If only for a short moment, she felt him lean into the touch, as if the cool sensation of her skin against his was soothing. Even if Dean wanted to lash out like a caged animal, he was in no condition to fight back much currently.

She slowly withdrew her hand, replacing it with the damp towel instead to gently dab away at his skin. Her gaze wandered to the table Sam had set up, an arrangement of syringes, holy water, and cooling boxes filled with bags of purified blood sitting atop.

“Think you can handle another round?,” she asked, though she wasn’t exactly a huge fan of the idea. Just watching Sam do this had given her nausea earlier. Still, they couldn’t just give up now.

“Is that supposed to be a kinky question?” Dean’s quip lost half of its jeering nature due to the strain in his voice. “What’s next, you telling me you’ll be gentle before you jab that needle into me?”

At least he was still joking around at all. Bitterly so, but she preferred that over lethargy. She took his attempt at humor and jabs as him being in high enough spirits for another shot. The faster they’d get this over with, the better, right?

Dean’s eyes remained glued to her even as she assessed the equipment on the table.

“What’s this whole good-cop-bad-cop act for anyway?,” he scoffed. His fists clenched and unclenched, just the way his jaw locked repeatedly. “Fuck, what’s this whole cure bullshit for anyway?”

Her head spun towards him, bottom lip jutting out into a frown. Looking at her was like looking at a car crash, the view just stirred unwanted discomfort in him, but he couldn’t bring himself to peel his eyes away.

This whole procedure was seriously messing with his head.

“We’re just trying to help you, Dean,” she mumbled, sounding almost disappointed.

“I didn’t ask for any help,” he hissed harshly. His attempts of pulling away were, of course, for naught. The cuffs were on tight, metal and leather biting into his wrists and elbows. “How’re you so sure your savior complex will even work in your favor?”

He saw the twitch in her brow and he knew he was getting under her skin more than any needle could ever penetrate his.

“Sore topic?,” he huffed and tilted his head. “My bad, thought I might ask the doc about any side effects before she pumps more medicine into me.”

She wished she could say there were no side effects. But she saw the aftermath of this treatment right in front of her, didn’t she?

“You’ll be fine,” she grumbled more to herself, and hoping to make herself believe it too. It earned her nothing but a dismissive scoff from Dean.

“At least be honest with me here,” he quipped. “You haven’t got any goddamn clue what you’re doing. All you’re worried about is killing your precious loverboy, but honestly? That part’s long gone already, so whenever you’re done playing nurse, feel free to drop the cuffs and let me leave, before you make it worse than it already is.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly offended that this was all a game to him. To her, it was serious.

Syringe in one hand, flask with holy water in the other, she positioned the needle. Dean tensed visibly and he did try thrashing against his restraints, but temper tantrums were getting him nowhere.

“Son of a–!” Dean growled, face scrunching up in pain upon the liquid traversing through his veins. It was like a sizzle in his stream, a sharp sting flowing through his whole body.

What had her heart throb the most were snippets of the old Dean slipping through the cracks. While it should nurture the hope within her that he was not fully gone just yet, it filled her with dread to inflict this pain upon him all the same.

He inhaled sharply and groaned upon exhaling, glaring at her with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine. Dean’s anger she knew to be fiery and burning. Demonic Dean’s was eerily icy in contrast.

“You’ll regret this when I get out of here and tear your pretty face off, princess,” he threatened, the tremor in his voice all due to raw fury.

It was then that her phone rang.

Dismissing Dean’s dagger-throwing glare, she withdrew from him and stepped outside to accept the call. Turns out, amidst all the chaos, she had forgotten to reach out to her friend about the case.

“Where the hell are you?,” they inquired, nearly shouted. “I thought you finished that job! Care to fill me in on why the fuck I just found out there were two more victims?”

“Shit,” she grumbled, pinching the bridge of her nose. As if there wasn’t enough going on already. “Something came up, I had to leave. I forgot to call you, I’m so sorry.”

“Damnit, Y/N! That ghost isn’t going to get rid of itself,” they argued in frustration. “Did you at least figure out where the guy’s buried?”

Glancing back towards the door for a moment, the huntress bit her lower lip. “No, he was cremated, but there’s that journal of his,” she mumbled, contemplating. “Give me a second, I’ll go over what I found and text you the details.”

Figuring it would only take two or three minutes, she hung up the call and scrambled back upstairs. The door to her room— her and Dean’s room, might as well have been a thick brick wall to her. With a creak, she opened it and stepped inside.

Immediately she was hit with a wave of emotion.

Since getting back to the Bunker, she hadn’t even unpacked that duffel bag. She had just thrown it near the bed and left it there to rot. The past couple of weeks her sole focus had been on finding and curing Dean.

She had barely been in this room, mostly staying up all night in the library or falling asleep there. Without Dean, these four walls were nothing but a prison for heartache inducing memories.

“Just three minutes,” she reminded herself as she flicked on the ceiling light.

A moon-shaped sphere-pendant from the kid’s section at Walmart.

She remembered Dean’s teasing smirk when she had pointed at it, but no matter how much he made fun of her for liking that childish thing, he installed it the very same day. Dean always went out of his way to make this sterile, dusty building feel like a home. Their home.

Without any windows in this underground hideout, she sometimes wondered how the Men of Letters had not spent their research days missing natural light. Not even a glimpse of a star? Despite her appreciating the security of the layout, that lamp was a must-have to reclaim some sense of freedom.

Later that same evening, even Dean had admitted that the different settings, which ranged from dimmed, warm white to bright, blue-ish hues had a soothing effect.

“So whenever I’m making out with my girl, there’ll be aliens watching now?,” Dean had joked back then, cheeky grin flashing across his face as the dork wiggled his eyebrows. Leave it to her boyfriend to venture from the romantic atmosphere of a full moon to silly jokes about conspiracy theories.

She had just rolled her eyes and snorted. “Sure, aliens,” was her bemused response, because Dean’s laughter in particular was always contageous. “We better give E.T. one hell of a show.”

Pushing aside memories of easier days, the hunter grabbed her bag and shuffled through it.

After tossing aside dirty clothes, one moldy apple so smushed it nearly fell apart, and various other junk, she finally pulled out a folder. As she flipped through the documents, she took pictures of her notes and sent them to her friend. Luckily, she had written down all the information necessary to put the ghost to rest.

Sending…

Sending…

Since when were the messages loading this slowly? Squinting at her phone, she realized her connection was broken. Considering Charlie and Sam had spent a good amount of time modernizing the Bunker’s setup, this was definitely odd.

As if on cue, the glow of the moon was no more. In fact, every light, every electronic device, every buzzing noise was suddenly snuffed out.

Startled by the blackout, her heart sank.

The emergency power roared to life, painting the location in a deep, red glow of neon. She knew then this wasn’t just a system error — someone had locked all exits and entrances on purpose.

Few things could cause the Bunker to just shut down like that, all of which were someone’s intentional, manual doing. Unless Sam was back and feeling like pulling a prank on her today, it could’ve only been…

Swiftly, she fished for her bag again, pulling out an angel blade. The weapon was heavy in her clammy hand, threatening to slip from her grip. She hurried out of the room, back sliding across the wall as she scavenged the area.

“Tag, I’m It,” Dean’s sing-sang voice all but boomed through the hallway. “Here’s how it’s gonna go, sweetheart. I said I was gonna make ya regret all that nonsense down there. But, to be fair, I should say thanks. All the human blood just made the cuffs and the devil’s trap straight worthless.”

Along with his words, an unsettling scraping noise echoed off the grey walls. Whatever object Dean was holding, he made sure to let it ring and clank loudly whenever he tapped it against the stone.

She sure as hell didn’t want to find out what weapon he had picked out, but given that his heavy footsteps were too close for comfort, she didn’t know whether she had a say in that. Realizing she was practically moving in his direction, she stepped back quickly.

He was just rounding the corner when she made the quick decision to slip back into their bedroom and hide behind the door. Of course this, of all places, would be her deathtrap.

Praying he wouldn’t hear the noise, she locked the door from inside and held her breath. Her heart was beating up to her throat, a relentess thrumming that rattled her very bones. Her ears perked up at the slow thuds of footsteps outside, getting closer and closer.

“You wanna play dirty, sweetheart?”

His voice appeared right by the door.

And his steps stopped right in front of it.

Fuck.

“Fine,” he hummed. “Let’s play dirty.”

With that final warning, wooden splinters flew across the room. Suppressing her yelp did not secure her hiding spot. Dean took another swing at the door, slamming the hammer right through it and chipping away at the barrier piece by piece.

“Dean, you don’t wanna do this,” she pleaded as she leapt backwards, dodging the debris and holding up her blade. She backed up to the other side of the room, but she was still cornered.

His lips curled into a victorious grin, as dark and sinister as his eyes. “Oh, no, I definitely wanna do this.”

Before she could even think about an escape route, he kicked whatever was left of the door open and charged at her, leaving her to duck. Instead of striking her across the head, the hammer smashed right into the wall behind her.

Still, she was far from being in the clear. Dean as a hunter was a force to be reckoned with as is, but as a demon his strength was downright terrifying. His speed remained unmatched as he shoved her backwards and pinned her in place.

Déjà-vu.

Again, he had her right where he wanted her. Except she wasn’t so positive anyone could come and save the day this time around. Dean was smarter than to mistake her for a damsel in distress, but they both knew even with her skills she was walking on thin ice.

“Where did we leave off last time?,” he grinned. “Or should I just skip straight to the good part?”

By squirming under his grasp, she tested his grip, but he only tightened it further. One of his hands prevented her from using her weapon, the other firmly pushed her shoulder into the wall.

“See, even the old Dean definitely fantasized about this,” the man smirked.

That revelation shouldn’t have shocked her as much as it did. She knew the dark urges the Mark of Cain bestowed upon her boyfriend. But somehow, in her naïveté, she believed that she was not part of these twisted desires.

Not directly, anyway. He’d always speak of slaughtering monsters, sometimes just craving to sink a blade into anyone in general. Never did he specifically mention her involvement in these violent fantasies.

However, as hard of a pill that it was to swallow, it made sense.

The Mark wouldn’t distinguish between monsters to kill or humans to murder. And why should she be excluded? If anything, the more sinister the urge, the better for the curse, right? And what better way to drain Dean’s sanity — to drain his humanity — than by planting the idea of killing his beloved into his brain?

While she knew to not take it personal, it was still a horrifying, numbing thought.

Dean’s eyes were jet-black, yet she could tell that the direction of his gaze followed the movement of his hand. He trailed his palm down her collarbone. Down the valley of her breasts, where he splayed his fingers.

“Of course, goody-two-shoes Dean was too much of a damn coward to actually do it,” he went on bemusedly, his touch ghosting across her chest.

He could feel her pulse dancing just underneath his hand. The pitter-patter of her heart resembled that of a little, helpless rabbit. Struggling to stay alive. Kicking and screaming.

Prey trapped in a spider’s web.

He was milking it, savoring the taste of her shallow breath and the victory of her wide eyes.

“Upgraded Dean, though?” He paused to whistle briefly. “He wants to rip that pretty little heart out and take a nice bite of it while it’s still fresh and beating.”

“And they say romance is dead,” she scoffed through a tight throat and gritted teeth. “Is that how you flirt all the girls?”

“Still upset about the whole unfaithfulness thing?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not the problem here, stop trying to deflect.”

“I think you’re the one deflecting, acting all tough and brave. C’mon, you can admit that you’re jealous. And scared.”

This fucking guy. He was unbelievable.

Of course he couldn’t just go through with his threats, he had to be insufferable about it. Playing into her guilt, poking and probing where he knew it would upset her.

She knew he was trying to make her angry. And of course it was working. Fueled by her rage, she twisted her arms and broke free from his grip with a sudden tug. All that hunting and training wasn’t just for show.

The demon definitely deserved that elbow to his face.

She popped him right in the nose, a cringeworthy cracking noise echoing off the walls. Even with his enhanced powers, the blow did stun him and he tipped his head back with an agonized grunt.

God, was that satisfying. All this pent up stress and his constant teasing.

“I spent months trying to find your sorry ass!”

Dean laughed, head falling forward again to reveal the crimson dripping down his nostril. In the bright red glow surrounding them, it almost looked black. The blood drizzled down to the curve of his lips and even partially stained his teeth that he flashed at her when he grinned.

“Sounds like a you problem, dollface. I didn’t ask for your help.”

Except he had. Why else had he begged her to make that stupid promise?

“You—”

She’s had it. Shoving him roughly, she pushed him off. Or rather, she jumped straight into him, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

Even though she was on top of him, straddling his waist, pointing the tip of the angel blade right to the hollow of his throat, did she really have the upper hand on him?

How could she call this a victory? This was not what she wanted. None of this. It was, for whatever reason, his wish, if anything. He was making her play right into his cards.

“Feisty as ever,” Dean smirked. If she didn’t know it any better, she’d almost say he was praising her proudly. “You know how much I enjoy you taking charge.”

Her grip on the weapon tightened. Even now he was letting glimpses of their past bleed through. Even positioned underneath her, knife to his throat, he acted like he had full control over the situation.

As if he was the victorious one. Like any of this was what he wanted. All of it.

“Why?” The tremor in her voice was obvious.

“It’s hot,” he shrugged for an answer.

“Shut up,” she scoffed. Clearly not what she was asking. “Why are you so desperately trying to make me do this?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Asking me to kill you, going behind my back to chase after Metatron, running away from me. Now this? Tricking me into stabbing you? Why are you trying so hard to make me give up on you?”

He remained silent underneath her, unmoving. Not even the smirk on his lips faded, though the mischevious spark of it no longer reached his eyes.

Suddenly, the power went back to normal. Sam’s alarmed voice rang through the hallway as he called out for both of them in panicked fashion.

The LEDs of the emergency lights faded, the glow in the room no longer an alarming red, but a dimmed, soft white. Their own little artificial moon, illuminating their homemade little world, shone down on the couple.

Dean tipped his chin back, as if arching further into the glint of her knife.

His patient eyes, emerald again, did not leave hers for even a second, still waiting for her to deliver that final blow. When her trembling hand threatened to pull away, Dean’s darted up to grasp her wrist and force the weapon closer to him.

“‘Cause I can’t move on until you do,” Dean spoke, calmer than she had heard him speak in forever.

Still, she shook her head, eyes softening.

“I promised you I wouldn’t,” she reminded him.

He scoffed, mouth twitching into what could only be described as a sad smile. “Not what I asked you to promise me, technically.”

“Since when do we get what we want?”

His jaw clenched and she watched the turmoil in his stormy eyes.

Hurried footsteps indicated Sam’s arrival, but finally, she had the situation under control.

“Y/N—”

She dismissed Sam by holding up her free hand, indicating for him to wait.

For once since this whole curse tainted their lives, she was finally able to get through to Dean.

“We’re so close, Dean,” she muttered. Even if they were miles away from the goal, she wouldn’t give up on him. But they were right at the finish line. “It’s working. The chains, the traps, you’re less and less demon. Let me help you. Please.”

Sam looked back and forth between her and his brother, briefly scanning their surroundings — a trashed door, a hammer sticking in the wall, blood smeared around Dean’s nose. Complete silence occupied the space and although instinct told him to intervene, he let her handle the situation.

Dean’s gaze wandered to the hand he was still holding, then back to her eyes. He let up on his grip, fingers now merely resting around hers, and parted his lips.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

She was starting to believe that she was just imagining the glimpse of normalcy. Surely, she was desperate for things to be as they once were. But it couldn’t just happen overnight, obviously.

And she was starting to believe it might never be the same again.

So while things definitely felt calmer, the tension was still palpable.

Turning Dean back into a human had taken a toll on all of them. Their success was overshadowed by their exhaustion. Especially by Dean’s.

“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.

Chapter Text

Turns out Dean was right.

Getting out of the bunker was exactly what they needed. Hitting the road again felt like a fresh start, like they could all breathe again and return to something resembling normalcy.

Investigating the werewolf thing in Durham, Washington was at the very least a switch of scenery. And, more importantly, it offered a new perspective.

Admittedly, the hunt didn’t go exactly as planned. Far from smooth. Gritty as usual and laden with complicated emotions, all of which were frankly just adding onto the elephant in the room—but a case was a case, and despite it all, she understood Dean with perfect clarity when he admitted that after everything, he just wanted to do some good.

They had run into Kate again, that werewolf girl from two years ago, the one they’d let go. To be fair, the attacks weren’t her fault — it was a messy situation with her sister gone berserk, paired with a whole lot of uncomfortable parallels to their own dilemmas, which the hunters were not ready to acknowledge just yet.

At least not until they were back on the road, Baby’s engine humming in a soft tandem with Sam’s gentle snoring in the backseat.

She thought it was a good as time as any to confront her boyfriend about the obvious.

“Did you mean it?”

Dean’s eyes flickered over to her, if only for a second, before focusing on the road again. His eyebrows raised, he gave a casual shrug, as if he didn’t know what she was getting at.

“What you said about Kate’s sister back there,” she clarified. “How she was ‘in too deep’ and how ‘you do not come back from that. Not ever.’”

At first, Dean didn’t respond, unless you’d count the reaction of a brief snort as a proper reply. Perhaps dropping her voice into that absurdly serious tone of his was a tad too much. Can’t blame a girl for trying to lift some weight off a dreaded conversation, though.

Dean left a pregnant pause before responding with a lame: “Yeah, well, I was right, wasn’t I?”

He certainly wasn’t wrong.

Tasha, Kate’s sister, had been beyond saving. Sadly. They tried, it didn’t work, and now she’s dead. Killed by her own sister, after all the attempts to save her and guide her to a life without darkness. Some tragedy straight out of Greek mythology. Or, you know, a normal Tuesday afternoon for the Winchesters.

She tried again: “Wanna unpack with me how you’re projecting onto a teenage girl now?”

Not ever. Those words echoed in her mind like the aftershocks of a nightmare. He had said it like he was speaking from experience. Like he knew the feeling of being too far gone. What else could it mean?

“I’m not projecting,” Dean scoffed, defensively. “Are you?”

“If I’m reading too much into it, tell me.” She leaned back in her seat, anxiously kneading her hands in her lap in that habit of hers. Even if he was tired of hearing it — hell, she was starting to get tired of saying it — she’d repeat the mantra like it was a life-line to hold onto. As many times as it would take. “You’re not Tasha. Even when shit hit the fan, you recovered. And we’ll fix the rest as well.”

She expected just about anything. That maybe he’d pull over and argue with her, or that maybe he’d brush it off. She certainly expected the silence that lingered between them.

However, she didn’t think it would be accompanied by Dean’s hand brushing over hers.

He intertwined their fingers like it was second nature, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. His grip felt warm and safe, the calloused skin familiar against her own, and the smallest of touches meant the world to her lately. Any sliver of Dean not shutting her out was a victory in her book.

“I know,” Dean said. Calmy. Earnestly.

Now that? That was an actual surprise. The cherry on top. Her eyes widened as she blinked at him.

Dean returned the favor, glancing at her briefly — long enough to lift her hand and press a chaste kiss to her knuckles. At a loss for words, she simply nodded, shoulders softening now that she realized there was no need to brace herself for a visceral reaction.

The rest of the ride remained just as peaceful. Even back at the motel, all Dean did was go for a quick shower and collapse right into bed. Upon her joining his side, he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her closer like it was nothing where just a couple of days ago, he avoided sleep altogether.

Three days ago, after Dean had — somewhat reluctantly — finally given in at the Bunker, coming to bed with her, he’d been tense as a rock. A stranger in his own body, determined to shoot his shot at acting. The role? Boyfriend trying to pretend everything’s fine. Trying to pretend that the sweet pulse of his girlfriend’s heart didn’t remind him of the very fact that he’d almost snuffed it out.

She had seen right through his act, of course. Always does.

Her voice had been soft and warm. “You sure this isn’t too much?”

Always too understanding and patient with him too, that one. He would’ve had to say just a single word and she’d be back on offering to sleep on the couch, on giving him some space. Space that he, ever since he came back, didn’t know what to do with anyway.

“You’re never too much,” he had answered. “I told you, it was never about you. If anything, I was scared I’d be the one crushing you. That’s why I pushed you away.”

Her eyes were always full of compassion, the kind of empathy in them that Dean never even had for himself, let alone thought he deserved. If anything, he still had a feeling she should’ve been scared of him instead of… this. Whatever it was. Care. Trust. Hope. Love.

“You’re not too much either, Dean.”

Now, his limbs were tangled with hers as if it’s always been this way, his face nuzzled into the crook of her neck like it was meant to be. As her fingertips gently combed through his short strands, he practically melted into her. Liquid in her embrace, yet much more present than ever before. His breath was warm against her skin and the rhythm soft.

It was the most relaxed and collected she’d seen him in months.

“Hey,” she whispered, lowering her voice so they wouldn’t bother Sam. “You okay, Dean?”

He only hummed, slow and deep, as though he was already wandering off to dreamland. “Long day.”

It sure has been.

Part of her wanted to press, to pester him until he’d admit that everything felt wrong and uncertain. But maybe, just maybe — whether or not it was an act — they deserved one peaceful night. And maybe, just maybe, her senses were right to not pick up any hidden layer of turmoil.

Maybe, for once, there wasn’t a catch. Just the love of her life in her arms, right where he belonged, with his embrace making her feel secure. Nothing more. Nothing less.

She kissed the top of Dean’s head, a subtle smile tugging at her lips when he tightened his grip on her.

By no means were the following weeks perfect, but they all learned to cherish the little things. Calmer days. Motel rooms with functioning ACs. Successful hunts (simple cases only since they didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks).

Yet, during none of those days did she forget about the Mark.

She saw it in the clench of Dean’s jaw. The way he’d sometimes impatiently snap at witnesses when they weren’t helpful. The crease between his brows when he’d sometimes toss and turn at night. That unsettling flash in his eyes whenever he gutted a monster with just enough force to deem it excessive violence.

Still, despite those warning signals peeking through the cracks, he never fully lost composure. In a way solving cases seemed to be the only thing distracting him enough. So much so that they were jumping from one hunt to another.

“Missing teacher,” Dean exclaimed, turning his laptop towards his brother and his girlfriend.

She barely had any coffee this morning, still nursing the cup while she was trying to start the day. Sam, despite being the early riser in this constellation, didn’t look too enthusiastic about having a newspaper article shoved in his face either.

They’d just cleared out a vamp nest yesterday, after doing a salt and burn at the start of the week. They haven’t been at the Bunker in forever.

“Reported missing with no signs of anything, maybe we should check it out,” Dean continued, either oblivious to the apprehensive reactions or purposefully ignoring them.

She exchanged a look with Sam, the kind where they were silently arguing over who should speak up. Though they both had a feeling Dean wouldn’t listen to either of them. With a sigh Sam gave in, clearing his throat.

“Maybe we should sit this one out,” he suggested. “You’ve been driving for hours like almost every day.”

“Good thing the school’s nearby,” Dean shrugged.

She couldn’t help but groan and pout in Dean’s direction. “Can this school at least wait until we finished breakfast?”

Placating her with a mere amused snort and by ruffling her hair, Dean hit them with a lighthearted “You two morning grouches have enough time for coffee on the way.” Then he grabbed his jacket and keys and slipped out of the room.

“Maybe he’s onto something,” Sam murmured, ever the optimistic voice of comfort.

“Or maybe,” she grumbled, “he should take a chill pill.”

It earned her a bemused chuckle from the younger Winchester, who moved to pack his duffel bag, leaving her no choice but to chug her coffee and do the same.

“At least he’s in high spirits,” Sam offered, clearing his throat. “He seems… well. Right?”

“Yeah…,” she trailed off, sharing the air of concern all the same. “I think so.”

It was difficult to not be on guard. Their whole life revolved around being alert 24/7, about never taking anything for granted, not even the happier moments. Especially not the happier moments.

Dean Winchester, as they all knew, was a master when it came to bottling up his emotions. He came across as balanced, for the most part at least, but they couldn’t afford to not question it. Last time they let it slide, he disappeared and hell broke loose.

The honking of the Impala outside had them flinch, then roll their eyes.

“Let’s keep an eye on him.” Sam’s words were accompanied by a firm nod, one of determination.

She returned the favor, agreeing with a half-joking “Always.”

By the time they checked out, tossed their luggage into the backseat, and hopped into the car, Dean was already blaring a random rock station, fingers drumming along to the tune against the steering wheel.

“Finally, ‘bout time,” Dean hummed, all chipper and cheerful, flashing a toothy grin towards her as she settled in the passenger seat. His right hand found home on top of her thigh like it was second nature.

While she was still all yawns and half-dozing off, Baby’s engine roared to life and Dean wasted no time going over the details of the case once more.

It honestly didn’t look like the biggest lead. From the sounds of it, the teacher wasn’t the happiest with her job and the possibility of her ditching that school was very likely. Though, upon arrival, they realized it was definitely a case.

“Theater,” she mumbled, more to herself, as the trio made its way to the aula. “Seriously? No wonder the teacher went missing.”

“Acting isn’t the worst hobby,” Sam shrugged, earning himself a somewhat judgmental stare from both her and Dean. “What?”

“Right, I forgot you liked those stage plays in school,” Dean muttered.

“Theater kid, huh?,” she grinned, “That explains a lot.”

Sam scoffed, though his smirk was more amused than defensive. “What’s that s’pposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. I bet Dean only got background roles. Like a tree or something,” she snickered and before her boyfriend even had the chance to think of a comeback, she softly elbowed him in the side.

“Not funny,” he muttered under his breath, though his smile wasn’t the only one wiped out of existence.

Once they opened the door and stepped into the auditorium, they all froze, staring at the props and actors as if it was Medusa turning them into stone.

A student was trying to find the right pitch, clearing their throat before they got back into flow. The lyrics weren’t very elaborate, given that it was only a snippet. But the whiplash that came with immediately recognizing the entire story was brutal.

Something about a John. Something about a Mary. Something about a baby brother, a tragic fire.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

Glancing to her left her eyes landed on a familiar outfit, an iconic trenchcoat paired with a backwards wrapped tie. Were those wings drawn onto their back? Worse, those were feathers glued onto the coat.

A girl was sitting next to the knock-off angel, scratching her head over the pamphlet in her hands. The shirt she was wearing looked eerily similar to the washed out Metallica tee she loved to borrow from Dean. Was that a handcrafted version of her bracelet?

“Give me that,” she spoke, throat dry, and snatched the piece of paper from the girl’s hands despite her protests.

Supernatural: The Musical.

All color drained from her face, she skimmed through the text — A play based on Carver Edlund’s novels.

“Oh, God no. No, no, no.”

The girl — fake her — groaned, smacking who must’ve been fake Castiel on the shoulder. “I told you the font looks weird!”

“The font’s fine,” fake Cas retorted, “Take it up with Marie, she’s the one who chose it.”

Marie?

Panicked, the hunter shoved the pamphlet into Dean’s hands, letting the brothers assess the mess they just walked into. This was a stage production of their lives. She knew they should’ve assassinated Chuck the second he implied he’d continue publishing these damn books.

“Cut!,” another student exclaimed. A girl came rushing up to them, the only one in a school uniform instead of a costume — could you even call outfits they saw and wore everyday as costumes? Good grief, this was weird.

“You must be the publishers,” the girl beamed, “I’m Marie, the director of this musical.”

“Supernatural is not a musical,” Dean huffed immediately, face scrunched up in disgust as if he’d just been served a plant-based burger that he’d call a crime against humanity. “And if there was… singing, or whatever, at least it would be, I dunno, classic rock.”

Of course that was his issue with all of this.

“Dude,” Sam sighed quietly, before clearing his throat and whipping out his badge. “We’re here to, uh—” Upon seeing the musical versions of himself and his brother holding up FBI badges, he immediately shoved the ID back into his pocket. “We’re here to investigate the disappearing. Your teacher is missing?”

Marie glanced back and forth between all three of them, clearly surprised. Or confused. But not nearly as surprised and confused as them.

“Oh, well,” Marie trailed off, her excitement dwindling slowly. “Mrs. Chandler has not shown up after she stormed off last evening. But, the show must go on, right?”

Dean frowned, his jaw tense and his expression unimpressed. “Must it?”

She knew she had to step in before he blew their cover: “Marie, right? Could you show us Mrs. Chandler’s office, please?”

The teen nodded, once more rather cautionary than anything, but she instructed a classmate of hers to keep her eyes on the others. Sam agreed to wait there and take a look around while she and Dean followed Marie to the teacher’s office.

“So, Supernatural,” the hunter spoke up, “Are you a fan, Marie?”

She could practically feel the daggers Dean was staring in her direction, but they had to make conversation somehow. Blinking up at her boyfriend, she gave an exaggerated shrug as if to ask “What?”

MARIE (eyes lit up, nodding enthusiastically): Are you?

DEAN (dryly): No.

SHE (smiling awkwardly, at the same time as DEAN): Yeah, sure.

Alright, enough with the fourth wall breaking and meta-ing. Their heads were already spinning as is.

“Supernatural is a masterpiece,” Marie went on, undisturbed by the silent dispute between the couple following her down the hallway. “There’s action, there’s heartbreak. Passion. And of course, Sam. Perfectly written hero, and so relatable. And so dreamy.”

While Dean seemed to get more and more fed up by the minute, she was having the time of her life listening to Marie babble about her favorite books. Sure, it was strange knowing someone essentially read your entire biography, let alone felt inspired enough to turn it into a musical, but it was also endearing. At least to some degree.

“What about you?,” Marie asked, eyes still bright and smile dazzling.

There was no way she could live with herself killing that spark. Unlike a certain someone who had no issue with that whatsoever.

“I’m not gonna answer that,” Dean Buzzkill Winchester deadpanned.

Taking the opportunity to tease him a little, she rolled her eyes. “Don’t listen to him, he’s totally a Dean!Girl, that’s why he’s so pressed.”

A deep crease formed between Dean’s brows. “A what now?”

Marie giggled, brushing off what she thought to be a grumpy agent’s grumbling. Instead, she turned to the woman, eyeing her up and down briefly. “Whose team are you rooting for?”

“Me? Well,” the hunter trailed off, glancing over to Dean. If she didn’t know it any better, she would’ve sworn he looked at her expectantly. Oh, was she about to crush his hopes. “I’m definitely more of a Jo!Girl.”

Dean’s face fell further — however that was even possible. She had to bite her tongue to not burst out laughing.

Marie gave an approving hum, then turned to unlock Mrs. Chandler’s office. Apparently she was given the keys because of practice, in case the theater club needed any supplies from the teacher’s office. The students couldn’t unlock more than the door with it anyway.

One look into the work space was more than enough to connect the dots anyway. The desk was littered with bottles, most of which were empty. Whiskey, liquor, even some cans of beer. There were a couple more on the shelves, too. Mrs. Chandler was heavy on the booze, apparently.

“I don’t think she was a big fan of the musical,” Marie sighed.

“Can’t imagine why,” Dean mumbled under his breath, but it earned him a not so subtle stomp on his foot by his partner.

“Contact us if you hear from her.”

With that, Dean and her headed back out.

“What the hell was that for?,” Dean complained once they were out of earshot.

But his girlfriend rolled her eyes and leaned back against the Impala, crossing her arms.

“They’re just kids being creative,” she shrugged. “It’s kind of an honor, isn’t it? That story inspired them enough to come up with all of this.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m flattered,” Dean sighed, shaking his head. “Sam’s fangirl composing songs for us is just lovely.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle. Pointing a finger at him, she exclaimed: “So you are pressed about the Sam!Girl thing!”

“Oh, please,” he groaned in return. “Besides: Jo. Really?”

The grin on her lips widened into something wicked. She hasn’t felt this lighthearted in what felt like months. “I would’ve swooned about Charlie, but the books are like 5 years behind, so—”

“Alright, I get it,” Dean huffed, but not even he could prevent his lips from twitching into a half-smile.

Just a couple of minutes later, Sam walked through the door as well, joining them with his expression reflecting the same mixture of shock, confusion, and being weirded out.

She nodded in his direction. “Any clues?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just some kids and a… weird choice of play.”

“Mrs. Chandler probably ran away as fast as she could, and I can’t say I blame her,” Dean agreed. “Let’s follow her lead.”

Figuring there was nothing for them to investigate, they decided to call it a day. One more stop at the local diner, maybe a visit to the bar, another night at a motel, and they’d be gone the next morning. While it was definitely quite the coincidence that they stumbled into a Supernatural musical of all things, that was all it seemed to be: A coincidence.

One they definitely deserved a reward for — a greasy lunch, and another cup of coffee, extra strong. Something to soothe the nerves.

“Did you guys see the special effects though? I mean, they even programmed their projectors to mimic fire on stage. Kind of impressive,” Sam babbled, all fire and flame about the technicalities of a stage production.

“You weren’t kidding about the theater kid thing,” she concluded with a teasing smirk, to which Sam just gave a flustered click of his tongue and a half-assed attempt at brushing it off.

“I’m not— whatever,” he muttered, more to himself, before shoving a forkful of food into his mouth.

“Aw, c’mon,” she snickered, “I wish I could’ve seen you perform as Romeo.” Gently nudging Dean’s arm, she wiggled her eyebrows in his direction. “Please tell me you took pictures of him wearing ruffled pantaloons.”

However, Dean blinked at her as if he had no clue what she was talking about. As if he missed half of the conversation. She glanced to his plate only to find the burger on it untouched and pouted. As if reading her thoughts, he grabbed it and took a bite, shrugging.

“I thought you were cast as Juliet,” he spoke, mouth stuffed, but still forming a slight grin.

“Very funny for someone who was part of the chorus and missed his signal,” Sam retorted.

Despite her joining in on the chuckling that followed, she eyed Dean with more concern than she could conceal.

He was slipping back into the habit of functioning. Or rather into the performance thereof. Though him acting on stage in Romeo and Juliet was probably more convincing. Thus, when Sam excused himself for a minute, she grabbed the bull by the horns.

“You were spacing out there for a moment, you feeling okay?”

Dean’s jaw ticked in response. It was subtle, yet so very obvious. Using a fry, he poked around in the splotch of ketchup, smearing the red around slowly and deliberately. It was all he could focus on, spreading the red liquid in irregular patterns.

“I don’t know,” he answered at last, voice brittle. Small. So quiet she almost didn’t hear him. Coming from Dean Winchester, those words were a grave confession. He wasn’t holding up too well, coming apart at the seams slowly but surely. “I’m okay, I think— just a lot of, uh, noise, I guess.”

Nodding slowly, she carefully placed a hand over his lower arm, fingertips testing the waters of hovering over the mark. She brushed over the fabric of his sleeve, hesitant and reassuring all the same. He tensed under her touch, but didn’t flinch away. A good sign, she thought.

“You know you can tell me if it’s getting too ugly in that pretty head of yours, right?,” she smiled weakly. While she appreciated him trying to be okay, she knew it wasn’t something that could be forced. “I don’t expect you to put on a show, Dean. If that was what I was after, I would’ve picked a different musical.”

“Right,” Dean snorted, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “We slipped into this against our will, I still don’t get why the hell anyone would read this shit-show of a story voluntarily.”

“Maybe Marie’s onto something,” she sighed, crooked smile on her lips. “Supernatural is a story about heroes, after all. Saving people, hunting things, remember?”

“Things were so simple back then,” Dean hummed after a meaningful pause.

“And they don’t have to be much more complicated now,” she replied, pointing at his half-finished burger. “There’s still small joys, no? Greasy food, Sharkweek at the Bunker, a somewhat comfy motel room. Those things are little, but they’re simple.”

Most importantly, they were grounding, which was what Dean needed the most right now.

He mulled over her words, nodding somewhat reluctantly but with the tension melting from his shoulders, she knew she got through to him. Once Sam returned, she suggested they look for a motel — one where they could watch tacky shark movies all night and forget about the complicated stuff for a while.

A quick stop at the grocery store later, they checked into a room, a bag of snacks and a sixpack of beer spread out before them. She insisted that there was always a trashy horror movie on some channel and surely enough — even if it took a solid couple of minutes — giant fish, with rows of teeth, whirling around in a tornado greeted them on screen.

“Ha! Told ya,” she beamed, flicking a popcorn kernel in Sam’s direction and curling up against Dean’s side.

Dean tried to take her advice to heart. Really. By no means did he take these simple moments for granted. But what really was simple lately?

All his effort went into chiming in during the same old discussions — Sam’s continuous scoffing how the movie didn’t even make any sense, her counter arguments that that was the whole point. However, he could hardly follow the conversation.

He did his best savoring the sensation of popcorn melting on his tongue like butter, but the sugar was thick on his tongue, sticky in his throat, wrong in his stomach.

Though his arm was resting comfortably around her, it was like his hand had a mind of its own, resisting to touch her shoulder — let alone properly hold her closer.

The fake blood on screen, the color off and the amount ridiculous, looked weird in a way that could not be blamed on bad production. No, it made him nauseous in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Like the crimson swirls actually reeked of iron, the stench settling deep in his gut and stirring something in his skin. Making it prickle. Making it itch.

Yet, there was a strange comfort in letting the fire simmer under his flesh — ignoring it was impossible, so he allowed himself to feel it. To drown in it. To keep an eye on it as if that way, and only that way, he could keep it in check. Keep it from breaking free like a shark jumping out of the water and swallowing whatever dared to come too close.

Even when she fell asleep at his side and Sam sighed in relief about finally getting to turn off the god awful movie, Dean’s thoughts were still swimming. His brother yawned a quiet ‘Good night’, her breath was slow and deep in his ear, and he was still sinking.

Dean’s movement felt sluggish as he adjusted his position, as he tucked her in. Wrapping her in the blanket put his mind at ease, if only a little. She looked peaceful like this. Safe, even from any monsters lurking nearby. He reeled her in, one arm around her waist like a tentacle, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt like a hook.

She didn’t even stir.

She simply hummed softly, undisturbed, and snuggled up even closer.

There was honestly no telling how many hours passed, if any. It could’ve been the whole night or mere minutes of him lying awake, listening to the dull thu-thump… thu-thump beside him as if it were an alluring siren’s song, or a gentle light in the deep sea.

The hunter damn near flinched at the way her phone suddenly started ringing, the sound a clean rupture through the thick fog infiltrating his skull.

Groggily, she grumbled and rubbed at her eyes. Then, she sat up, leaving Dean feeling like being pulled under even further, and picked up. “Agent— Marie? Slow down, what happened?”

From the sounds of it, the student was freaking out over her friend being abducted by a strange figure and a sudden light. Over the fact that they were supposed to perform later today, that there was still no sign of their teacher either.

“We’re on our way, stay put.”

With a sigh, she hung up the call and slipped out of bed, stretching and mumbling about how they should head back to that school. Another student went missing, only that this time Marie witnessed it, apparently.

Despite not getting even a wink of shut-eye, Dean jumped out of bed, eagerly, desperately, grasping at any chance to distract his restless self with any task. He even favored that girls’ school and their uncanny musical over another second of his thoughts and muscles fidgeting alike.

The drive to the scene of crime was quick, Dean’s eyes on the road like following down a straightforward tunnel. While she went through the details of what Marie told her once more, he barely listened. All he had to know was that there was a thing to hunt down. A thing to strike down. To kill.

He parked the car, scrambling to gather his gun.

“—ean.”

The voice was distant.

“Dean.”

If she was right next to him, how did her voice sound so distorted?

“Dean!”

He snapped his head in her direction and only then noticed that she’d grabbed him by the elbow, her eyes wide and questioning. The ringing in his ears faded, but his mouth still felt dry.

“Everything okay?”

He swallowed, thickly, then nodded. Before she could question him further, he slipped out of the car and followed Sam, who was already busy questioning Marie. The poor girl looked out of it, her face pale and her hands trembling. She was rambling on and on about an argument with her friend, some artistic differences or whatever and her friend wanting to ask the director to cancel the show. Details of how said friend ran away and straight into the arms of what Marie swore was a scarecrow; not any but their scarecrow, the prop she knew was way too creepy and—

“Did you see where your friend was taken to?,” Dean interrupted the student’s babbling.

“They just… disappeared,” Marie mumbled, shaking her head. “There was this bright light and when I turned the corner, poof, gone. She dropped her phone, that’s all that was left.”

While the brothers were interrogating the witness, the huntress hopped out of the Impala to investigate on her own. She kept glancing over to the others, observing from the sidelines. As anticipated, she immediately picked up on Dean’s fidgeting, the clench of his jaw, curl of his fists, his overall tension, even shorter temper than usual.

What was worse though was the fact that he was bottling it all up. Again.

While he seemed to find purpose in the cases, hunting became more and more of a slippery slope. They knew he couldn’t afford to take any risks lest they wanted another disaster to unfold.

Yet, right now, they could only focus on rescuing the victims. If Marie’s friend was abducted, chances were that something similar happened to Mrs. Chandler too, and depending on who took them, they might still be alive.

The school’s parking lot was empty, no sign of a fight, nothing out of place — except for a speck of lilac right at the building’s corner. Upon closer inspection, she realized they were petals. Crouching down, she carefully picked up the item: A purple flower with star-shaped blossoms.

Though, when she wanted to show the others, only Sam was left there, chatting with a police officer.

“Where’s Dean?,” she asked, almost alarmed.

“Off with Marie to burn the scarecrow.”

She blinked at him, dumbfounded.

“They think it’s a Tulpa,” Sam clarified. “If the scarecrow took the student and the teacher, maybe it’s because this whole musical thing turned it alive somehow. Like Marie being creeped out by it made it real, right?”

She blinked again, even more slowly. “So, Marie knows what’s up now?”

Sam huffed out a weak chuckle and shrugged. “More or less, she definitely knows the disappearings are odd.” When a beat of silence followed, he let out a sigh and admitted that “Dean might’ve slipped up.”

Great.

Now Dean was at the stage of spilling the tea to civilians.

Thin patience or not, that man’s reckless behavior was bound to get them into trouble eventually. She pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head.

“Whatever,” she grumbled and held up her findings. “Did you ever see a flower like this before? I found it around that corner, haven’t seen it anywhere else.”

Sam’s eyes widened, then narrowed. He took a closer look at the tiny thing, more puzzled than anything.

“I’m pretty sure I saw the same plant in front of Mrs. Chandler’s car yesterday,” he mumbled. “Was wondering why, if she eloped, she left her car behind.”

With little else leads to follow, they settled in the library and skimmed through just about every botanical book they could find. Turns out the lilac petals held more meaning for their case than anticipated.

“We’re not dealing with a Tulpa,” she sighed, tapping the illustration within an volume of Greek Mythology — An Anthology for Students. “Borago officinalis, or starflower, is associated with Calliope.”

Sam’s furrowed his brows and gave an intrigued hum. “The Muse?”

She glanced up from her book, unable to prevent her lips from twitching into a smirk.

“Of course you’re gonna add a mythology hyperfixation to the theater kid trope,” she teased, but then held up her hands in defense when he rolled his eyes. “Hey, it takes a nerd to know a nerd! But yes, Calliope is the Goddess of Poetry. Kinda makes sense. Mrs. Chandler almost stopped the musical. And if Marie was fighting with her friend, maybe Calliope stepped in to keep the production running. The show must go on, or whatever.”

“What’s in it for her?”

“Nutrition,” she answered dryly. “Artists are on her menu and inspiration is like seasoning for her.”

The artist in this case being, without a doubt, Marie. Her creative interpretation of Chuck’s novels turned Marie into a well-marinated steak for the daughter of Zeus.

Marie, as expected, didn’t take well to the warning. Freaking out, going on and on about how she just thought she just succeeded in the confrontational therapy that was burning down the scarecrow, she babbled about cancelling the performance. Of course, they all knew that Calliope wouldn’t allow that, so it was out of the question.

Dean, impatient as ever, cut right into the meat of the matter: “Alright, how do we kill this Cantaloupe?”

His girlfriend and his brother corrected him in unison, same annoyed tone and all: “Calliope.” As if Dean had just personally offended them and their childhood interest in Greek mythology.

“Blessed Wooden Stake,” the huntress answered then. “When Marie’s on stage, she should appear and then we can—”

Cue a hyperventillating Marie, who was not fond of taking the role as bait whatsoever. Eyes and mouth wide, she gasped, whipping her head around: “On stage?”

It was no wonder the girl was freaking out. First you learn monsters are real, next thing you’re their target. Part of her wanted to have her snap out of it, because life’s tough, kiddo. But who was she kidding? Even after hunting for most of her life, her heart still races whenever she aims a weapon at a demon.

It doesn’t take much to put yourself in the shoes of a frightened girl.

Or to figure out what kind of pep-talk she needs.

Placing a firm hand on Marie’s shoulder, she gave her a half-stern half-compassionate look. “Do you think Sam Winchester would give up like that?,” she asked. “Or Dean? Or any hunter, honestly.”

While Marie mulled over the woman’s words, the brothers exchanged a glance of bewilderment and confusion. One which the huntress brushed off with a shrug. She was no stranger to finding comfort in role models, fictional or not.

“N-no…?,” Marie responded, her muttering more of a stutter, at least until the hunter tightened her grip on her shoulder. “No. He wouldn’t. He’s too brave for that.”

“Right, and so are you.” The reassurance came with an earnest smile and a proud nod. “Besides, we got your back. I promise we’re right there with you.”

With newfound hope, Marie agreed to the performance, and to her new role. And while the students were buzzing about to set everything up for the big night, the trio was preparing for the impaling of a Goddess.

“Quite the motivational speech you gave there,” Dean hummed, dragging a knife over the stake repeatedly, chipping off more and more of the wood. “You weren’t kidding about the whole hero-stuff, were you?”

She chuckled in response, if only to mask the warmth that bloomed in her cheeks. “Nope,” she grinned, popping the p-sound. “Marie’s looking up to you guys, and for a good reason.”

“Well if I’m a role-model, or heck, a hero, then you’re like a savior or something.”

“Very funny, Dean.”

“Nah, ‘m not joking.”

She blinked up from her book, glancing at a very stern-faced, concentrated on sharpening a weapon Dean. Apparently he didn’t expect the silence that followed his words, which lead him to pause his own movements and meet her eyes.

“What?” He shrugged, one corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “You saved my sorry ass more times than I can count.”

Her expression softened. “And I’ll do it again, as many times as I’ll have to.”

Chapter Text

Some hero he was.

A product of violence was more like it. A sad portrayal of anger and regret, if anything. A source of inspiration only for those with a weird thing for the grim and the ugly.

Dean lay wide awake, staring holes into the ceiling. The pitch black surrounding him was quiet, safe for the soft breathing next to him.

Her presence made it all more serene.

At least at first.

He used to find comfort in the warm body curled up against his side, in the rhythmic in- and exhales emitting from her slightly parted lips. Her legs tangled with his used to anchor him. The gentle weight of her hand on his chest used to reassure him.

Now it was straight up torture.

Dean didn’t sleep. Hasn’t for the past couple of days — which should alarm him, really. Especially since he didn’t even feel tired. Not the kind of tired that some shut-eye could fix, anyway.

The whole week he’s been killing time with research. He was yearning for the thrill of a hunt. He was craving the adrenaline, the rush of chasing after something. Anything. As for his girlfriend and his brother, however, he knew he could only push their limits so much.

Their routine hadn’t changed, so why should Dean’s?

He adapted and played along, going through the same steps as usual:

1. Breakfast.

Dean always enjoyed cooking, and lately he found himself trying new recipes. Most of them were heavy on meat, much to Sam’s dismay. Dean semi-successfully plactated him with sides of vegetables and a teasing “Have I ever in three decades of feeding you given you food poisoning?”

Sam would narrow his eyes at him and point out that, yes, he in fact did when he experimented with cheese, bacon, gravy, and whatever else could be found in the fridge. Apparently that was when Sam switched to a strict diet of food from their school’s cafeteria only.

Dean would roll his eyes and scold his brother for being dramatic. Y/N would chuckle and next time they’d go grocery shopping, she’d slip a couple more veggies and fruits into the cart, claiming Sam needed his vitamins.

In truth, slicing through the raw meat was Dean’s favorite part of preparing a meal, his pulse quickening whenever he’d drag a knife through sinew and muscle. The sizzle of flesh, watching it go from red and pink to pale and then crispy, came second.

2. Research.

Dean wasn’t stupid. He knew Sam and Y/N were reading through every book within the Bunker, twice, to find any information about the Mark. He also knew that they weren’t very successful and likely were dipping their toes into other sources — sources that they denied existed, sources they hid from him.

He’d ask once a day, then nod when they’d say they were already on it and didn’t need any help. He’d check for possible cases, fully aware that any newspaper article he’d mention to either of them would get turned down anyway.

They haven’t been on many cases after that musical fiasco. Dean could barely remember any details from any hunts after that one, except for the feeling of hot, sticky blood drying on his hands and the rough dirt under his fingernails. It couldn’t have been more than three or four hunts, but they all blended together into one mess of red in his mind.

When the desperate flipping of pages would irritate him enough — his record was enduring it for two hours — he’d slip into the garage and clean Baby or tinker with her engine.

3. Sleep.

Or rather, pretending to. At first there were serious attempts. He’d take a warm shower and soak up all the steam in hopes of it melting the tension from his muscles. He’d close his eyes and focus on Y/N in his arms. He’d count sheep. He never made it to dreamland. The sheep turned into wolves, then werewolves, then beheaded werewolves, then beheaded somethings.

Beheaded someones.

Beheaded her.

Somewhere down that horrific vision, he thought he must’ve at least dozed off. But his fogged up mind had enough willpower left within to force away the imagery of her blood on his hands. Instead his victims became faceless, and numerous. Like a pile of bodies he could drown in. Him, stuck in a limbo of alert and nightmare. Up to his knees in a mass of death.

Little sleep. Certainly no rest. Not really.

Eventually he gave up.

It wasn’t that he was restless. Or maybe he was, though he was able to lay perfectly still and just wait until he’d feel her stir next to him. He’d kiss her good morning, cherish her sleepy smile, and make his way to the kitchen while she was getting ready for the day.

Rinse and repeat.

It was the ringing of Y/N’s phone that saved him from going stir crazy.

“Cas, what’s up?”

Dean’s ears perked up immediately at the mention of the angel. He gestured for her to put him on speaker, eyes lit up and fingers impatiently drumming along the table. Now was as good as time as any for a case, a lead, whatever he could help with.

After some initial apprehension, she mumbled a reluctant “Oh, uh, wait a second, I’ll put you on speaker.”

The usually reserved Castiel continued chatting away, unbothered by Y/N’s announcement: “I’m on my way to the hospital to see if she’s there, and I thought maybe you can—”

“Hospital?,” Dean interrupted him, to which an awkward pause followed.

The hunter exchanged a glance with Sam, though his brother’s shrug told him that he didn’t know what Cas meant either. When Dean looked up at Y/N, she didn’t give him any clues either.

“Dean,” Castiel greeted eventually, voice seeping with a tad more than his natural concern. “Are you feeling better? Is everything okay?”

At that Dean swore he saw her tense up — arms folding over her chest, just a tad bit too tight against herself, and averting her gaze as though anything was more interesting than Dean’s questioning eyes.

Ah. An expression of pure guilt. Like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Cas was up to date then, more or less, he assumed. Nice knowing Dean was the latest gossip still, the mark being the hottest topic in the hunter realm.

He knew he shouldn’t be bitter about it, but he was.

“Peachy. What was that about you, a chick, and a hospital? Hopefully not in that order.”

“It’s about Claire, she’s in trouble,” Castiel explained.

That prompted Sam to chime in: “Claire Novak? Your vessel’s daughter? What happened?”

Y/N remained silent, shrinking even more under the relentless stare Dean kept sending her way. Not that he could blame her. He knew his narrowed eyes were bordering on death-glare.

Whatever answer Cas had for Sam’s question, Dean didn’t pay attention. Not with his thoughts running wild. It shouldn’t surprise him that she was confiding in someone else. In fact, he should be glad she was venting to someone. Especially since Cas was more than trustworthy.

Considering that, Dean didn’t know why it stung so badly.

Maybe it was because he thought he should’ve tried harder. There he was, pretending day after day to be stable, only to realize how obvious it was that the rope he was holding onto was thinner than a damn thread.

Once they agreed to meet up with Castiel, Y/N hung up the call, and Dean went to their room under the excuse of wanting to pack.

“He’s angry,” she sighed, more of an observation than a question.

Sam still offered a response of consolation: “You’re being too paranoid.”

“Nope, those were definitely his angry shoulders. He’s furious, ugh!”

An exhale through Sam’s nose and a firm hand patting her back later, she brushed it off. Maybe Sam was right and she was reading too much into Dean’s demeanor. The past few days she thought what she was observing was a very nerve-wrecked version of her boyfriend. But maybe she was the one on edge.

Knowing she could only stall the confrontation for so long, she followed after Dean. Surely enough he was packing, though it was her clothes that he was shoving into a bag. His own duffel was already sitting on his side of the bed.

She prayed that Sam was right about her paranoia.

She prayed that Dean’s luggage had not been waiting under their bed all this time, ready for take-off in another frenzy of his. She didn’t mean to accuse him of running away. Then again, his record wasn’t exactly a clean one.

He didn’t react to her careful knocking on the door frame.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed at last.

“Sorry ‘bout what?” he questioned, not even looking up from the shirt he was folding. Maybe he was mad after all, Dean never folded shit.

A gruff in his voice. Definitely angry.

“That I talked to Cas behind your back,” she mumbled, meekly.

Dean paused and, at last, he turned around. His eyes softened, to her surprise, but she still felt the need to defend herself.

“He asked for an update and I must’ve sighed or something and you know how Cas is, he asked again, so I said that I’m worried and then he—”

Her rambling was interrupted when Dean dropped her bag into her hands. She blinked up at him, and it was like along with the weight of her luggage, her heart felt heavier. His eyes were cast down to his own bag, avoiding eye-contact.

“You don’t gotta worry,” he spoke, voice steady as if he was making a decision for her. “And I don’t need an explanation, ‘s okay.”

With that he brushed past her, walked down the hallway, and left her behind all dumbfounded.

If he was upset — whether directly with her or in general — he certainly wasn’t lashing out at her. He didn’t need to. A cold shoulder and icy behavior hit harder than a loud explosion and hot flames.

The silent treatment continued all the way to the Impala. Once there, he did help her put the bag in the backseat and held the door to the passenger seat open for her. But he was making it very clear that he didn’t want to talk about anything but the trip ahead.

Despite the signals being mixed, she understood with perfect clarity that he was like a wounded animal, though one that preferred to retreat.

Even Sam was picking up on the awkward tension. He made an attempt of changing the topic, clearing his throat and going once more over the facts: Castiel wanted to pick up Claire — for whatever reason. She tricked him, going along to escape the group home for youth, and then ditching him.

“So, rebel teenager on the loose. What, does Cas want us to hunt her down?”

“Dean,” she sighed, giving a disapproving shake of her head. Not funny. Not at all.

Especially not considering how worried Castiel must’ve felt.

None of them knew why he’d go out of his way to look after her. If it even was his place to do so. He said he felt responsible for the girl, and in a way, she could get behind that. At the same time, it did not surprise her that Claire wasn’t very cooperative when it came to the angel.

The mostly silent drive was nearly unbearable, though meeting up with Cas wasn’t much more pleasant.

“You made it sound like some emergency,” Dean grumbled in annoyance, scolding Cas for calling them over for what he belittled as a pointless goose-chase. “What makes you think she’s your business anyway?”

“I just want her to be okay,” Castiel sighed, guilt written all over his sunken expression. Though angels didn’t sleep, he seemed beyond tired, as if the defeat against a 17 year old had worn him down.

“Well, she’s not. Trust me,” Dean replied dryly. Ouch. That even made her wince, and it wasn’t her daughter that went missing. It wasn’t Castiel’s either, not really. But it was as plain as day that he felt protective of the kid as a father would.

“And I don’t think there’s anything you can do to help — or we, for that matter,” Dean added.

Everything was just blow after blow with him today. Every fiber in her wanted to groan, but she fought the urge to roll her eyes and swallowed her bitter reaction. Dean’s pessimism, while not entirely anything new, was unbearable.

Ignoring the hunter’s insufferable attitude, she asked: “Where did you last see Claire?”

While Dean was unimpressed at her inquiry — no, scratch that, ticked off, even — this wasn’t about him. It was about Cas. And, more importantly, it was about Claire, a young woman possibly in danger.

They had more than enough reason to look into this and treat it just like any other case — if not for their friend, then at the very least for their goal to help others.

Castiel told her the name of the diner he took Claire to, the one right down the street. Sam promised to check for her name in any credit card activities or motels in the area. And Dean at least grumbled something about checking in at a motel for them. He took off without them for now, leaving her to exhale deeply as she watched Baby disappear around a corner.

“He’s not holding up well,” Castiel noted.

“Bad day,” she mumbled, “You know he hates getting fussed over.”

The angel nodded knowingly and blinked at her. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“How are you holding up?”

At that she had to pause. When was the last time she thought about that? Not that Dean and Sam wouldn’t ask her. They all frequently checked in on each other. But she also wasn’t the one with a demonic curse, so she’d usually brush it off and say she was fine.

Was she?

“Honestly? Not that great,” she admitted, though she forced a crooked smile, “But it’ll be okay.”

So long as she’d have something to focus on. Maybe she really was like Dean in that regard.

Sam and Cas exchanged a silent but meaningful glance, one she nipped in the bud. Since the diner was nearby, she walked ahead. If they were going to bring up uncomfortable topics, then at least they shouldn’t be doing it on an empty stomach.

Once inside and settled at a table, they placed their order. Sam busied himself with digging up any clues online while they brainstormed about Claire’s possible whereabouts. Their best bet was to consult the group home, considering they knew more about the girl and her social circle.

Obviously Cas couldn’t go, since he already visited that place under the alias of Jimmy Novak. Before Sam could offer to go though, she pushed her plate with its mostly untouched food towards him. Turns out her empty stomach was not in the mood to be filled after all.

“I’ll go,” she decided and hopped out of her seat almost too excitedly. Some time for herself might’ve been just what she needed.

As fate would have it, it was just a couple of minutes later when Dean entered the diner, barely missing her departure.

He spotted Sam and Cas right away, as well as the now half empty plate, the burger on it still untouched. Dean plopped down in the empty chair, snatching the still warm food for himself — her order undoubtedly, judging by the lack of pickles.

He maintained the curtesy of asking about the burger’s owner before he’d dig into it himself: “Where’d you leave Y/N?”

“Group home,” Sam answered briefly, still typing away on his phone.

Dean gave him a blank stare, as if waiting for his brother to elaborate. When he was denied further information, he took a large bite of the burger. Still no explanation.

Mouth still full and chewing, Dean tried again: “Alright, I know she’s a wild card, but don’t you think putting her in a group home is a little… I dunno, excessive?”

It was like Sam wasn’t even listening. His brooding expression — staring at his screen in deeply focused fashion — didn’t break even at his brother’s dry humor. The guy didn’t even budge. Not until his phone started ringing, anyway.

Sam excused himself, stepping outside to accept whatever call had him all agitated.

Huh, that was weird.

“We didn’t put her in the group home, she’s there to investigate,” Castiel clarified thereafter and gave Dean a reassuring nod. Ever the angel with no sense of sarcasm.

“Not a place for her anyway, she’d break out within an hour,” Dean hummed in lighthearted jest, going for another bite. “Hey, maybe it’s something for me. Not the worst place to be locked away in, probably.”

Castiel’s eyes softened further, going from reassuring to compassionate. Empathetic as his friend was, Dean doubted he fully understood. How could he, when Dean didn’t allow even himself to get behind his own issues?

Of course he knew about the gravity of the situation, they both did. Hell, they all felt the weight of it.

“Instead of a group home, you have us,” Cas spoke.

Dean fought the urge to turn it into another joke, a teasing jab at how the people closest to him had to look after him like he was some lost child. It wasn’t that funny when he realized just how accurate it felt lately. Not that he didn’t appreciate their support. He just didn’t want to be a burden to them anymore.

The hunter remained silent, poking around on his plate.

“You have Y/N,” Cas added.

Dean mulled over that for a second, then nodded, then cleared his throat.

“Yeah, well,” he trailed off. “I’m starting to think that might be the problem. Or one of them, anyway.”

He knew it how that sounded. He didn’t want it to sound like that, but there was no other way to put it, either.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she’s opening up to you. I am. ‘Cuz now you know how messy it all is, right?,” Dean sighed, almost jumbling over his own words. “She’s a tough one. Tougher than me. But I think I put too much on her plate, you know? I don’t want anyone to carry all of that, least of all her.”

Castiel listened patiently, tilting his head. “You would do the same for any of us.”

“That’s different,” Dean huffed. “Look, I messed up with the Mark. Not you guys, not her. And I don’t… I can’t make her go through all of this. Not again.”

Though the rest remained unspoken, Castiel’s silence conveyed the sense of understanding. Dean knew that if things were to get ugly again, she shouldn’t have to be the one to bear it. Last time he asked her to carry the burden it didn’t end well. He learned his lesson.

Never has Dean been so grateful to be interrupted by his brother; Sam returned with an expression even more serious than before, butting in on their conversation by grabbing his jacket and urging them to wrap it up. He left some money and a generous tip on their table, mumbling something about a lead on Claire.

“Who were you calling?,” Dean asked as they made their way back to the car.

Sam cleared his throat, scratched the back of his neck, and shrugged — too many signs of anxiety for a simple phone call. Yet he gave a swift summary of the new clues: “Y/N said she dug up a name. Some guy called Randy, apparently a friend of Claire and another kid from that home, Dustin I think.”

“So Claire’s with this Randy?,” Cas asked, somewhat hopeful somewhat perturbed, “Do you think she’s safe?”

Nothing about some guy named Randy sounded even remotely safe.

These assumptions were only amplified by Y/N’s texts and the additional information within. ‘Dustin said Claire is on her way to bring Randy money. She’s armed.’

Apparently this surrogate father with a shady name was knees deep in shady business — owing loan sharks money was one thing, blackmailing an underage foster child into robbing a store for you was another.

Dean sped to the address. And Cas, well, he didn’t even wait until the Impala was properly parked. Y/N just arrived at the scene too. She watched the angel practically bolt out of the vehicle and rush into the store. Not even a minute later he was guiding a young woman outside, dragging her into a quiet alleyway.

“I can walk by myself, you know?” Claire snarled, all bared teeth and simmering rage wrapped in a black hoodie.

Cas ignored the teenager’s attitude, giving a scolding expression worthy of an Emmy award in parenting: “Were you really going to rob a store for Randy?”

“None of your business,” Claire scoffed.

“Alright, Miley Cyrus, enough with the whole rebellious wrecking ball act,” Dean chimed in and thus earned himself daggers thrown through glares.

Claire turned to him, brows furrowed and fists clenched — one of them still clutching a pistol, mind you. “Eat me, Hasselhoff,” she spat.

At least her sense of humor was as big as her attitude. Even Y/N had to snort at the comeback, though she managed to conceal her amusement behind a clear of her throat.

“Claire,” Cas sighed again, “You should not be doing Randy’s dirty work. His debt is not your responsibility.”

“What do you know about responsibilities?,” Claire snapped back, “You don’t know anything about me or my life. Randy’s always been there for me. That’s my family. You’re not, so quit acting like you’re my dad.”

When Dean attempted to chime in again, Claire simply pointed her gun at him. She was smart enough to know a bullet wouldn’t hurt Cas, but it certainly would harm any of his human companions. Whether or not she actually intended to pull the trigger, the element of surprise allowed her to back up and run away.

For now.

They knew they had to follow her and keep her away from Randy.

Rushing back to the Impala, Sam looked up everything he could find about this piss poor excuse of a surrogate father. Whatever Randy borrowed the money for, it was a mistake asking that loan shark Salinger. His criminal record was alarming, to say the least.

Y/N wished she could console Cas by telling him that they would ensure Claire’s safety. That Claire’s a teenager, who’s had it rough, and that all teenagers have it rough and lash out. But she was well aware that Claire’s fate in particular wasn’t what most kids experience. None of them go through biblical intervention. None of them witness a celestial being operating their dad’s body.

Instead of empty promises, a “We’re going to find her,” was the only thing she could offer in hopes of reassurance.

And find her they did. It took them a while, which was embarrassing on their part and impressive on Claire’s. Randy lived just outskirt of town, hiding away in some cabin. It shouldn’t have taken that long to figure out his whereabouts. Especially since Salinger seemed to be there already.

They knew they lost too much time the second they arrived.

Randy was held down in, likely even tied to, a kitchen chair. Two henchmen kept an iron grip on his shoulders. Another stood by the fridge and helped himself to a bottle of beer. A fourth one paced back and forth in the hallway. Only one of them armed and raising his gun at the cavalry.

Not that the hunters didn’t come prepared. Each of them had their weapons locked and loaded as well.

“Where is she?,” Y/N demanded, though she was denied a response.

Dean tried again, a little louder and a lot more aggressive, cocking his gun at the nearest guy. “Where’s the girl?”

A scream from upstairs was the answer to their question at last. Sam, Y/N, and especially Cas wasted no time rushing towards the source of the noise. Dean prevented the guy with the gun from following them, aiming his own weapon at him.

Everything in Y/N screamed for her to stay with him, to keep an eye on him. Instead, she flashed him a telling look, deciding to put her trust in him. Claire needed all the help she could get and Dean was without a doubt capable of defending himself. If anything it was Salinger’s crew she feared for.

Once down the hallway, Castiel tore down the door by force, revealing a kicking and screaming Claire cowering under a stranger. The man had his fist raised, which was practically a death sentence. All three of them charged at him, ripping him away from Claire.

Y/N was the one to help the trembling thing back on her feet; and make no mistake, even wounded deer were able to throw a punch, it seemed. The teenager sent her boot straight into Salinger’s stomach, twice, before Y/N pulled her away.

“You okay?,” she asked, scanning the girl from head to toe. Far from okay. The blonde was shaking, her clothes hanging off her slouching body in torn shreds.

Realizing how stupid her question was, Y/N shrugged off her own jacket, draping it around Claire instead. “Let’s get you out of here,” she hummed, gently, leading the girl out of the room and downstairs.

In the meantime Dean had somehow managed to group all of Salinger’s minions together, still aiming his gun at them. A dangerous fury flashed across his eyes at the sight of Claire’s state and even more at the sight of Salinger, who was dragged downstairs by Cas and Sam. He looked bruised up, though no amount of pain could suffice for reconciliation.

She could tell Dean wanted to cut off every finger that touched so much as a hair on Claire’s head.

“These the type of people you make business with, huh?,” Dean scoffed in Randy’s direction.

Sam shoved the semi-conscious Salinger towards the rest of the group, before also pulling his weapon. While she and Castiel lead Claire outside, Sam and Dean made sure nobody would interfere with their rescue mission.

She handed Claire over to Cas and her heart clenched watching the girl all but collapse in the angel’s embrace. Twisted as it was, no amount of healing powers could fix this emotional scarring. All he could do was hold Claire tightly and try to calm her down.

“I’m so sorry,” Cas kept saying over and over again.

It wasn’t until Sam joined them outside that Y/N’s anxiety built up again.

“Where’s Dean?”

“Trying to get Randy,” Sam answered briefly. “Listen, about the Book, Charlie called me earlier and she—”

PANG!

Another gunshot. PANG, PANG!

Her blood froze. For a second she turned solid, a block of stone staring blankly at the cabin. Her feet moved before she realized it, legs leading her back to the entrance without being aware of it. She just started running.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute.

And still she was too late.

In the doorway, she stopped, staring wide-eyed at what could only be described as a bloodbath.

Dean was kneeling in the middle of the room, surrounded by death itself. The air was thick, its stench filled with iron. Salinger lay lifeless in front of Dean, his head missing. His henchmen were scattered about, limp bodies arranged in a circle around Dean. Among them she recognized Randy, his glasses smashed, his corpse leaning against a wall in an unnatural position.

She could only stand there and stare at the unfathomable amount of blood. So much red, everywhere. And Dean in the center of it, covered in blood, none of it his own.

Sam brushed past her without her realizing it.

He rushed towards his brother, checking up on him while she still stood there, a ringing in her ears dulling the voice.

“Dean, what happened?”

“I— I don’t…”

“Tell me you had to do this.”

“I didn’t—”

“No, tell me it was you or them.”

She watched the crime scene spread out before her like it was a still from some cheap horror movie.

She hated to be right.

She hated that she knew it was these guys’s lives on the line, not Dean’s. Bad guys or not, they were human. People. Before their skulls were cracked and their hearts were shot and their bodies became pulp.

Claire’s scream behind her made her flinch at last. She turned just in time to see Cas pulling her back outside again. How much trauma can a girl go through in one day. Even one as tough as Claire? Especially one as close to losing faith as Y/N?

Chapter Text

For once the humming of tires against pavement was anything but idle. Baby’s engine whirred in tandem with her brain, the road’s bumps rattling her already shaken state of mind. She didn’t even bother with the radio, letting the heavy silence occupy the cramped space of the car instead.

The sky was grey, the air was sticky. The streets felt like the ocean, swallowing her whole. A tidal wave drawing her in and pushing her out. Salt lingered on her tongue. It itched in her throat, scratchy and sour. Like little needles puncturing her.

How does one even navigate through so much mud?

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea for her, of all people, to drive the Impala right now — She had insisted to sit behind the wheel, claiming she wanted to go home. Now. Claiming that she could handle it, despite her thoughts being all over the place.

Then again, Dean was in no position to drive himself nor to argue with her.

Or with anyone, for that matter.

Not a peep came out of Dean’s mouth. He sat in the backseat, sunken into the leather like some scolded child. His eyes were cast down and he kept kneading his stained hands, picking at the drying blood, picking at his cuticles, picking at the scabs on his bruised knuckles.

Sam didn’t say a word either. Probably wasn’t able to find the right words even if he tried. At some point he checked his phone and mumbled something about Castiel and Claire arriving back at the group home.

Somehow that made her even angrier. Like they all failed that girl. In reality, she was probably better off in that group home than being alone. She was definitely better off there than at Randy’s place.

Still. They could’ve given her a chance. Something resembling a home. At least until she’d be on her own feet. After all Claire’s been through, she deserved something better than more losses, more blood, more fear. On the other hand, was that really what her anger was directed at?

Who was it that truly experienced these tragedies? Whose hands were trembling in fear, whose nose was still filled with the stench of fresh iron, who was actually afraid of losing someone?

Her grip tightened around the steering wheel.

Randy had it coming. And Salinger deserved to be ripped to shreds. She knew that. It wasn’t about them. Honestly, it wasn’t even about Claire. It was about Dean hanging off a cliff and it was about her ability to hold him decreasing.

She could really just sit there and claw at the edge, struggling to pull him away from the dark abyss. The more he slipped out of her grasp, the more inviting the dark-side seemed. At what point would she just follow him down the rocky route and embrace insanity?

After an eternity of the car just roaring across the highway, Dean finally broke the silence: “C’mon, you don’t gotta take your anger out on her.”

The audacity.

She sent a glare at him through the rear view mirror. By the way Dean flinched, it might as well have been a gunshot to his chest.

Ever the unwavering one, he tried again regardless: “Y/N—”

His sigh was cut off by the radio. She cranked the volume all the way up, daring him — or anyone, really — to attempt any pointless conversation with her.

He got the message loud and clear this time, literally. Though she did throw him a bone and drove more carefully. No reason to cause any more damage. There has been enough dead bodies in one night for her taste.

Upon arrival, she stopped the car, but didn’t exit it. She sat there, immobile and pondering.

The Bunker seemed less like a safe fortress, less like home, than it did a prison. Couldn’t they just stay here, in the comfort of the car and wait until the familiar scent of leather would overpower that of blood and gore?

Couldn’t they just linger here for a little while longer and pretend things were like they’ve always been?

A trusty old muscle car and some hunters chasing monsters. Not becoming the very thing they usually track down. A trio of decade-long friends saving people like knights in shining armor. Not killers clad in the blood of their victims.

“I’ll go on ahead,” Sam muttered eventually and the way he shifted in his seat so uncomfortably was just another grim reminder that, no, they couldn’t go back to simpler times. They could just wonder where it all went wrong. “Will you be okay?”

She didn’t answer, just nodded weakly.

Sam waited for another second or two, before sliding out of the passenger seat and going inside.

With his absence, the silence only grew louder.

There was no strength left within her to even glance at Dean. She knew she wouldn’t like what she’d see. A man reduced to despair and shame, when really, she didn’t blame him at all. She couldn’t even blame it on the Mark of Cain anymore. She only had herself to blame, her and her stupor.

“I’m—”

She didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say. She couldn’t physically take a speech from him right now.

“You’re hurt,” she spoke instead, her voice surprisingly steady as she interrupted him. “Your lip’s split, your nose is broken. Those guys got you pretty good, huh?” Awkward pause, no laughter. Not even a chuckle. Alright, noted. Not funny, but it was worth the try. “Let’s get you patched up.”

It wasn’t a question, not even an offer, just a stated fact. A demand. Like she needed to keep her hands busy lest she’d want to risk herself falling apart. She had to keep functioning. She had to.

When Dean made another effort of speaking up, she exited the car.

Discouraged, he did the same, unable to meet her watchful gaze. She scanned him from head to toe, as if assessing the damage.

She was right about one thing, he needed some patching up. But she was entirely wrong about the other. Those guys didn’t even stand a chance. His lip wasn’t split, the corner of his mouth was scratched at most. The blood under his nose wasn’t his own, just a smear of red that happened to decorate his skin.

Honestly, his knuckles were the roughest in shape. Bruised, swollen. At first glance it almost looked like he sprained his damn wrist just by punching the shit out of Salinger. An unsettling thought.

Other than that, Dean looked mostly unharmed. However, everything about him screamed defeat and pain.

She searched his eyes. Really searched for them. He avoided eye contact like he deserved neither looking at her nor to be seen.

She’s never witnessed him this small.

Back at that cabin she caught a glimpse of their enemies’s point of view. For the first time she thought she understood their perspective. The ghosts that saw their own fury reflected in him. The demons that knew him to be a killer machine above all else. Monsters that would relearn fear under his mercy, or rather the lack thereof.

She told him she wasn’t scared of him. “Never of you.” She meant it. Still does. In her mind she kept trying to make sense of what happened back there. She came up with all sorts of excuses, for him, for herself, even for Randy. For the world and the way it condemned them all.

It must’ve been shock.

It wasn’t fear.

Couldn’t have been.

She knew fear. It came to her firsthand in the form of darkness, in the shape of evil. Never before did it resemble Dean. Not during his fits of anger, not as he slaughtered creatures of all kind. No matter the amount of blood, she knew he was more than violence.

Even now, all she could see was Dean Winchester — not the blood staining his clothes, not the bruises dusting his knuckles as naturally as his freckles, certainly not the mark bestowed upon him.

Just a boy that was wronged too many times and that still, despite everything, was trying to do the right things.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Even his voice was feeble, missing the usual edge of determination.

“Like what?”

He didn’t answer her question. He didn’t need to.

Like he was worth looking at. Like he was loved.

Her fingers found his, hesitant at first, and with good reason. The second their skin so much as brushed against each other, he flinched away. She paused for a second, waited. Patiently. Inviting.

On her second attempt, he let her take his hand, let her fingers interlock with his — soft skin weaving into calloused bruises, warmth seeping into blood-drenched pores. She kept her grip loose. Gentle. Never demanding, only offering.

Though reluctant, Dean accepted.

He allowed her to guide him through the door, down the stairs, into the main hall. Here, everything was still the same. A little shelter, meant to protect them from the cruel outside world. Bullet proof, every inch covered in sigils and spells against every harmful entity — every one of them except him.

Their steps echoed through the hallway, dull and slow.

Eventually, she pulled him into their room and walked him to the bathroom.

He must’ve disassociated somewhere between the doorway and the toilet. Next thing he knew he was sitting on the closed lid, Y/N standing between his legs with cotton pads and rubbing alcohol in her hands.

Dean watched as she silently tended to his wounds. When he hissed softly at the burn of disinfectant against his upper lip, the pad of her thumb swiped across his jawline in apologetic fashion.

Even her voice was gentle as she spoke: “When’s the last time you shaved?”

“Thought you liked the scruff,” Dean replied, and it almost resembled a half-joke were it not for the sheer lack of energy in his tone.

Still, she took it as a small victory. She wasn’t here to judge him, just to make light conversation. To reel him back in.

“I didn’t say I was complaining,” she hummed and one corner of her lips twitched upwards ever so slightly.

Dean hated every second of it.

He averted his gaze, letting it drop to his injured hand, the fingers of which he curled and uncurled into a fist, over and over again. There was a dull throb in his knuckles and his wrist felt a little askew.

“You did what you had to do,” she mumbled at last.

Here we go.

Bile rose in his throat, but he forced it back down. His eyes just darkened, though he kept them glued to the ripped skin.

“You didn’t have a choice,” she continued.

“That so?”

This time, the edge in his voice was sharp enough to cut through the thick air of the room. It turned cold all of the sudden. Cold and dark and ugly. The acid in his throat spread throughout his whole body, making his skin prickle.

“Yeah,” she huffed and she cursed herself for the waver in her response. “Salinger was a pig and Claire was in danger. You did your best to protect her.”

“Don’t bother,” he spoke, simple and cut-dry.

“What do you mean, I’m just trying to—”

“I don’t need you to try anything.” He gradually raised his voice with each word to the point of it sounding wrong in his own ears. He knew exactly what she was trying to do and he couldn’t take any of it. Her attempts of making sense of his mistakes, her fixing his messes, her picking up the broken pieces — it didn’t change anything.

Did it ever occur to him once that she was mending her own fractures as well?

“You don’t need me to or you don’t want me to?”

‘What difference does it make?,’ he thought.

“It makes a huge difference, Dean,” she responded, slowly but surely meeting his energy.

He didn’t even notice speaking out loud. Whatever. His point still stood. He messed up and she couldn’t do anything to change it, so why bother?

“I know you feel guilty,” she continued. Why did she keep going? Why did she bother? “It’s not your fault, you can’t beat yourself up over it.” She didn’t know shit about how he felt or what he could and couldn’t do. “We just have to—”

“For fuck’s sake, shut up!”

His shouting was so loud that it caused a ringing in his own ears. He could only imagine the impact it had on her. When he glanced up at her to gauge out her reaction, the regret was immediate.

Her wide eyes were filled with the same amount of horror that she had stared at him with back at the cabin. If he focused hard enough on the small tremor in her eyes, he could recognize the frightened doe that his demonic self saw all those months ago in that motel.

Good.

Maybe now she’d understand that he was poison for her. For everyone, honestly. Maybe she finally got the message loud and clear: Stay away from me, I’m dangerous.

A dog that barks and bites.

A good-for-nothing, rotten to the core murderer—

“You have some fucking audacity, Dean Winchester,” she huffed, chest all puffed but throat so tight her voice came out strained. “It’s gonna take you more than some lashing out to push me away.”

After the initial shock, Dean scoffed, blood still boiling. Of course she stood her ground. What did he even expect? If anyone managed to match his stubbornness, it was her. Still, why? What was so worth fighting for?

Dean’s jaw clenched and he shook his head, staring down at her. Staring her down. As if he was 5 feet taller and in the right and she was just too naive to face the truth.

“Me skinning those men alive wasn’t enough of a warning signal for you?”

“I already told you, they—”

“I heard you the first time, and I don’t know if you’re just trying to make me feel better or if you’re actually that dumb.”

Baffled, she opened her mouth. Then she closed it again, swallowed. Like a gaping fish, lost in the vast ocean. Darkness pulling her under. A shark on her trail.

“Fuck you,” she sniped, and he couldn’t help but laugh. just to add more fuel to the fire.

“Did’ya run out of comebacks?”

“No, seriously,” she hissed. Stubborn or not, she was always the more collected one. But now she stood taller, her anger towering over him. She continuously jabbed a finger into his chest to punctuate each of her sentences. “Fuck you.Whether you like it or not, we’re all in this together. And boo-hoo if me trying to keep it together makes you feel bad.”

Dean nudged her hand away, fighting the urge to actually swat it off his chest as if it were an annoying fly buzzing into his ear. “Stop it.”

“Stop what exactly, Dean? Stop caring? Stop trying? You want me to give up as well, is that it? Just because you’re not trying anymore, I’m supposed to throw in the towel, too?”

Yeah. That was exactly what he meant.

“I mean it, don’t get me all angry,” he mumbled.

She didn’t heed his second warning either.

“Or what?”

Yeah. Or what? What was he supposed to do? What could he do, really? Rip off her head like he’d done over and over again in his nightmares? Dean knew for a fact that the Mark wouldn’t care who it was that stood in front of him. If anything, he wouldn’t be surprised if the curse even thirsted for her blood in particular.

Did she really want to test that theory?

He, for one, didn’t want their argument to drag out long enough for him to find out.

Dean straightened his shoulders and brushed past her. Without a word, he made a beeline towards the door. Desperate to clear his head, to create distance, to avoid further damage — hadn’t he done enough wrongs? — he attempted to flee the scene.

“Don’t you dare walk away now,” she barked. Whipping around, she took one confident stride towards him and reached for his sleeve.

Big mistake.

Within the blink of an eye, Dean spun around, capturing her wrist and slamming her back against the wall.

She found herself pinned between the bathroom tiles and his broad frame. With her breath caught in her throat, it was hard to locate her heartbeat. She felt it hammer against her heaving chest, ring in her ears, make a home in her air-pipe — but one thing was for sure; Dean listened in on her quickened pulse with gusto, savoring the rapid pitter-patter.

The green in his eyes was consumed by his wide-blown pupils. They were almost entirely inky, but still just bordering on a soulless kind of black.

The corners of her own were slightly glassy, enough to give away the fact that tears had been dwelling up this entire time — All of her attempts of willing them away had been unsuccessful.

Tears that were hot and painful. A cocktail of desperation and fury. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression — No acceptance. Not quite yet. Not even teetering on its edge. She was always too defiant to admit defeat.

Dean’s gaze dropped down to the quiver of her lips, triggering just another shudder in her spine.

Moving on instinct, he shifted even closer, effectively drawing a small gasp from her lungs. He caught it in his own mouth, the warmth of his breath mixing with hers.

Time didn’t exactly freeze. Rather, the moment was molten, heaps of warm sand gliding through their fingers and sticking to their skin — each grain laden like polars, turning their bodies into magnets.

Dean’s gaze fluttered upwards again, if only for a moment. Where he meant to meet her eyes and to read her expression, he caught her awing at the curve of his cupid’s bow instead. That sight, eyes glimmering and half-lidded, skin so flushed it was almost glowing, was all the confirmation he needed.

His mouth crashed into hers with purpose.

With the intent to consume. And he would’ve swallowed her up, if possible — were his chances not already slimmed by the sheer amount of force she returned the kiss with.

Two bodies that were more teeth than anything else. All hunger. Pressed together so tightly you might’ve confused them for one unit of gnashing and taking.

His kisses wandered down her jaw, before tracing the slope of her neck. His tongue licked across the veins underneath her skin. Skin that could so easily be broken. Punctured — with a single bite, it was so thin and delicate. Like paper.

He stilled the intrusive thought, scolding himself with a groan that bubbled in his throat and vibrated against hers. Instead he opted for what came closest to gnawing out her raw flesh. It took all his willpower to stop nibbling at the sensitive spot under her ear, and for a second he managed to switch to sucking on it instead.

That was until she let out one of those mewls that could be mistaken for sin, dulling every ounce of rationality in his already clouded mind.

He couldn’t help it.

He bit down again. Hard.

His teeth sank into the curve above her collarbone as though she was the forbidden fruit, ripe and his to harvest.

She whimpered his name. Moaned it like it meant something. Like he meant something.

Pawing at the plush of her ass, Dean hoisted her up in a swift movement and she wrapped her legs around his hips immediately. Their lips met again, connecting in a messy tangle.

Somewhere between swirling tongues, small hisses, and hushed inhales, he was able to make out a strained single-word order from her: “Bed.”

He considered the suggestion for a second.

Then he decided against it.

The bed was too far away. The three or four steps it would’ve taken to get there suddenly seemed more difficult than climbing a mountain. Put simply, Dean was too impatient.

Instead he ground his hips against hers, settling between her thighs for good. Her whine was accompanied by a small thud as she threw her head back. Once ensured that his hands were no longer needed to keep her up against the wall, he used them to tug at her shirt.

Impatiently, he pulled the fabric up and over her head, practically ripping it off her.

The newly exposed skin was explored right away, hot, open-mouthed kisses mapping out hills and valleys as though he meant to mark his territory. His teeth drew dents right above the lace of her bra, leaving hickeys in their wake.

If he was too impatient to carry her back to bed, he was too impatient to bother with annoying clasps.

Large hands, fingers splayed and calloused palms pressing, cupped her breasts. After giving them a proper squeeze, feeling the soft flesh all but mend at his will, Dean roughly yanked the lace down.

Her tits spilled over and he did not waste even a second to get to work. Latching onto one nipple, he licked and sucked and bit until she was arching her back and running a hand through his hair. The latter of her actions enticed him to hum deeply.

Though she was already melting in his grasp, she still made an effort to fight for dominance — if only for a shred thereof.

It was not what the mark craved at all.

Dean broke away from her chest and as his eyes darted back to hers, she saw a spark in them that had heat pooling and simmering in her lower half.

He leaned closer to her kiss-bitten lips. They were pink and puffy and he was obsessed with the sight.

His words were merely a breath grazing her skin, but their impact was tremendous. “You still think you’re in charge, sweetheart?”

His hands ghosted across her sides, fingers slowly making their way down her ribs and to her waist.

She knew she was in trouble the moment his thumbs applied more pressure. Danger was seeping from his eyes, his breath, his touch.

“Think again,” he said and who knew if it sounded more like a warning or a threat.

Either way, it was all the heads up she was granted before she was lifted away from the tiles. Dean spun her around like she weighed nothing, set her back down on wobbly feet, and bent her over the bathroom counter.

Her shaky fingers managed to grip onto the edge of the sink, though with Dean’s body pressed up against her from behind, she wasn’t sure if she actually needed the leverage.

An arm was looped around her front. Rough fingers curled around her throat — not applying any pressure, just holding her in place. Just forcing her to keep her head up, making sure she’d look directly at their reflection; she looked wrecked even though he hadn’t even started yet.

Another arm snaked around her waist. An impatient hand fumbled with the button of her jeans. Eventually it slipped into the waistband and dipped between her thighs.

Dean found exactly what he was looking for, letting his defty fingers run through her folds, right over her panties.

“I knew you’d be fucking dripping,” he stated matter of factly, and fuck if the condescending tone didn’t stir something in her. “Did all that talking back to me rile you up?”

Even though she bit her lower lip, she couldn’t prevent a whimper from slipping out. Especially when Dean, unsatisfied with her reaction, tightened his grip around her throat.

He pressed his lips against the shell of her ear, glaring at her through the mirror.

“I asked you a question,” he rasped.

“N-no,” she answered.

“No, huh?” As Dean puffed out a somewhat amused scoff, his boots nudging at the inner side of her feet. He kicked slightly but firmly, forcing her stance into a wider position. “Then what’s that pretty, smart mouth of yours arguing back for all the damn time?”

“I wasn’t—”

Her weak protest died on her tongue as Dean’s finger found her clit through cotton.

“You’re doing it again,” he pointed out, drawing slow, teasing circles over her bundle of nerves. The movement was as precise as it was agonizing, not nearly enough to feel pleasant but too much to keep her thinking straight.

“Mhh… ‘m sorry,” she mumbled meekly, so quietly she could barely hear it herself.

“You gotta speak up, doll.” Dean’s warm breath was still tickling her ear, crawling into it to make her brain all goopy.

She sobbed softly as he rubbed more harshly.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, desperation lacing her plea for forgiveness. “Please, stop teasing.”

She had to ask no further. In mere seconds her jeans were nothing but a pile of denim on the floor, her boots haphazardly thrown in the same direction.

When she tried to reach behind herself, aiming for his belt, Dean seized her wrists and forced her hands back to the sink. Save for her panties, she stood stark naked in comparison to the fully clothed hunter behind her.

“Stay put,” he ordered sharply.

This time she thought she knew better than to defy. Though it wasn’t exactly an easy task.

Not when without further warning he knelt down behind her, kneading the flesh of her hips, then the fullness of her ass, and the plush of her thighs.

She squirmed slightly, a sudden burst of shyness prompting her to attempt squeezing her legs shut. Dean’s firm grip prevented her from doing so. He kept her thighs pushed apart, the sinister glimmer in his eyes daring her to try hiding again.

Her underwear was soaked, sticking to her pussy like a second skin. Him peeling the flimsy fabric off of her almost reminded her of getting scalped, too. Like he was tearing at each layer of her, skin and flesh and muscle, until there was nothing left but raw bones and hot blood.

He didn’t even pull them down. Just to the side, enough for his tongue to swipe through her slick.

Her knees nearly buckled as he started devouring her.

And when she almost gave out, Dean’s iron grip held her in place still.

She mumbled something incoherent, the thoughts too jumbled for her to even know herself. He patted her hip twice, a silent reminder for her to stay still, in the physical and verbal sense. When her body twitched and she subconsciously shifted regardless, he groaned against her sensitive core and sent a single heavy-handed smack against her ass.

Untouched for way too long, the intensity was overwhelming.

She cried out softly, but held onto the sink for dear life, moving as little as possible. While it seemed to placate Dean, her senses were all the more assaulted. It didn’t help that her reflection stared right back at her, eyes red-rimmed and teary, face flushed and swollen lips puffing out labored breaths.

Her neck was covered in hickeys and distinct bite marks, constellations of various shades of purple and pinks scattered all over. Some of those would be a pain in the ass to cover up for sure. But he left some souvenirs for just the two of them as well — under her collarbone, between her breasts, practically every inch of her torso.

She could only imagine what the painting on the lower canvas looked like, Dean’s tongue and teeth brushes that were continuously stroking and adding shapes and color to her inner thighs and core.

“So close,” she panted.

What was meant to come out as a little warning, a plea for him to go slower, just spurred him on further. He dived in even deeper, however that was possible, spelling out his damn name on her center.

His work of art, signature and all, turned from mewling mess to crumbling down limbs. Flashes of hot white shot through her veins like electricity as she shattered. The intensity of her orgasm didn’t trigger any mercy in him. If anything, he upped the ante, drinking up each and every drop that she had to offer.

He was taking her apart at the seams like he was going in for the kill.

Now she understood the theory of Eros and Thanatos, the Greek Deities of Lust and Death going hand in hand. Or why the French metaphor of la petite mort existed.

When he finally let up, her mind was too dazed to realize it. She was so busy trying to catch her breath that she was barely able to decipher the clinking of a belt unbuckling or the rustling of fabric behind her.

She felt him before she heard him. Hard as a rock and pressing into her lower back while his hands braced on the sink now too, his arms caging her in.

He hadn’t even bothered to take his flannel off, blood-splattered fabric smushed against her shoulder blades. The warmth seeped through it regardless, consuming her and setting her ablaze.

His face was buried in the crook of her neck again, teeth going for another bite. More of a chomp, really, holding her in place with fangs sinking into her shoulder.

She winced.

She relished the sting.

“Need to feel you,” he grunted, shallowly rutting against her with the smallest hint of self-restraint. If it was permission he was after, she was more than willing to give it.

She gave a subtle nod, weak but clear, and bucked her hips back against his more.

Dean filled her in one smooth thrust, the stretch making her almost sore immediately.

The only pain sharper was the one at her shoulder. That one caused her vision to turn blurry, caused actual tears to roll down her reddened cheeks.

Dean set a fast pace from the get go and gave her little time to adjust. He slammed into her until the mirror fogged up, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the tiles.

Sweat and slick coated her trembling body. The only coherent word she was able to form was his name, the pitch of which getting higher as she neared yet another little death.

She toppled over the edge, warmth buzzing through her for the second time and clenching around Dean’s length. He followed suit, hips stuttering as he came deep inside of her with a rumbling growl.

She felt his weight leaning against her. Neither crushing nor grounding, just there.

They stayed like that for a second. Or a minute. Hard to tell. She lost track of time and space until Dean slid out of her and she whimpered softly at the sensation.

If she was supposed to feel catharsis, she wasn’t sure it worked.

“Fuck, ‘m sorry,” Dean uttered, stuttered more like.

For a second she thought he was talking about that last movement, instinctively brushing it off with a gentle “I’m fine.”

But then something tickled her tender shoulder and when she glanced up at the mirror, she realized it was a strand of her hair that Dean brushed aside. He revealed a large mark beneath, possibly a spot where his teeth had drawn blood.

Damn.

She hadn’t realized just how rough he was.

Apparently he hadn’t either.

His eyes were glued to the bruise, swirling with sheer horror. Even when the shock subsided in his expression, she hated what lingered behind even more.

Guilt. Shame. Regret.

The same emotion hit her, though she hadn’t questioned it a couple of minutes ago. Not in the slightest.

The gravity of the situation was just sinking in.

She cleared her throat, awkwardly, shifting a little and rotating said shoulder. Yup. Definitely aching.

“It’s not so bad,” she mumbled and, God, she despised her own choice of words.

She could see his throat bob as he struggled to find the right words and then swallowed them down.

He eyed her again, scanning her from head to toe, assessing the damage. His hands hovered at her sides, not daring to touch her anymore. Like a kid that got burnt by the stove once before.

She glanced over her shoulder, directly at him, and she swore she saw him flinch ever so slightly. Quietly, so as not to startle him, she asked: “You okay?”

Dean stared at her in bewilderment. Like she was absolutely insane for asking him this, and considering her state, maybe it should have been the other way around. But she told him, she was fine. At least she wasn’t the one looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

Averting his gaze, he took a step back. With each inch of distance her heart sank further. He gathered his clothes, mumbling something along the lines of “I need a minute.” Then he was out the door, slipping outside and slipping away, leaving her stand there like some wounded animal and that was when her heart broke for good.

Just an attack dog that barks and bites. And once the damage is done, when it’s too late, the pathetic thing curls up and yelps like one, too.