It feels as if you’re boiling from the inside out. An unbearable, all consuming heat, that cannot be sated. You sit in the passenger of the Impala, panting softly and fanning yourself, sweat slicking your skin, strands of your hair stuck to your face.

The witch had struck the two of you. A spark that hit in an oddly pleasant, but strangely uncomfortable sting. You had been in the line of fire, Dean had foolishly shot in the way in an attempt to save you, the spell pierced the both of you—which became evidently clear when you saw the bead of sweat dripping from his temple, face scrunched in discomfort.

You didn’t know what the spell was, but after Sam asked you what exactly the wiccan had said before casting such a spell and heard the word, “Cupio.” He knew exactly what had taken place. He explains the spell, avoiding nitty gritty details. That explains why Dean’s gaze keeps straying to your midriff covered in a sheen of sweat and you feel an unbearably magnetic draw to his hands. You feel the inexplicable urge to bite at his forearm resting on the steering wheel.

It wasn’t a love spell. No not exactly. It was a spell of insatiable want. Don’t sate the desire, and perish. Hence the other latin word, “Mori.”

“It’s a what spell, Sam?” Dean inquires as if he doesn’t understand, he heard perfectly, it was just too absurd to compute with him. “What kind of witch is this, huh? Sick in the head, that’s what…” He mutters and cranks the AC, arm resting on the back of your seat to look at Sam in the backseat, who was laser-focused on a witchcraft book. Says to break the spell, you must kill the witch before the timer goes out. That, or buy some time. Ultimately, the witch must die.

“So what do we- You can’t be sayin’ we gotta…” The words die in his throat when his eyes drift to you in the seat beside him, looking just as miserable. He swallows. Harshly.