“You shouldn’t be here.” Dean’s voice slams through the silence like a bullet: sharp, hot, full of venom that doesn’t quite stick. You turn slowly. He’s standing in the doorway, gun in hand. Of course. His armor, his cross, his lie.

“You came,” you murmur.

“Don’t.” His jaw tightens. “Don’t say that like it means something.”

“But it does.” You step closer. “You always come.” Dean’s breathing hard. Not from the walk. From the war inside his chest. His knuckles are white around the grip of his gun, but he doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

“I should kill you,” he says, voice low and shaking with effort. “I should put a bullet in your head and be done with it.” You meet his eyes: green, glassy, burning with something he can’t name.

“Then why don’t you?” He doesn’t answer. Can’t. You take another step forward. He flinches, barely, but it’s there. That twitch of guilt, of want. The unspoken truth that he hates even more than you: He doesn’t want to kill you. He wants to hold you.

“You twisted my head around,” he growls. “Ever since that damn Mark, ever since I let you out. I don’t sleep. I can’t think straight. I close my eyes and I feel you.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Because I feel you too.” That makes him snap. The gun lifts, trembling.

“Don’t,” he barks. “Don’t say that. Don’t pretend this is some kinda fairy tale. You’re The Darkness. You’re the end of everything. I’m supposed to stop you, not-” He cuts himself off. Not what? Not crave your touch? Not dream about your mouth? Not want to drown in you just to feel peace for once in his goddamn life? You take one more step. Now you’re close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. He’s shaking, but not from fear. From restraint.

“You’re not weak, Dean,” you say, soft. “You’re just tired of pretending you are.” His face breaks with just a flicker. Guilt, pain, rage, want. All rolled into one tortured breath.

“This thing between us…” he hisses. “It’s poison.”

“No,” you say. “It’s truth.”

“I hate you,” he growls. But his hand lowers. His grip loosens. He takes a step toward you like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. “I hate what you make me feel.”

“And what do I make you feel?” You’re close enough now that your breath touches his lips. He doesn’t pull away.

“Out of control,” he chokes. “Weak. Like I’d burn the whole damn world if it meant you’d look at me like that again.” And then he’s kissing you. Furious. Desperate. Like he’s trying to punish himself with your mouth. His hands fist in your clothes, like he’s holding on and trying to push you away at the same time. You kiss him back, because you’ve never known tenderness. Only war. And this brutal, broken, bleeding thing, this is the closest you’ve ever come to being loved.