The bunker had been quiet for hours, that heavy kind of quiet that only shows up after a storm except the storm was still inside you.

Your fingers drummed restlessly against the wooden war table, the carved brand on your forearm burning like an ember under your skin. Most days you could ignore it. Most days you pretended it didn’t whisper to you in the low moments. But tonight… tonight it felt alive.

Dean’s boots echoed down the hallway before he appeared, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a fight he hadn’t admitted he was in. He always looked at you like that now like he was memorizing you, checking you for cracks the way someone checks glassware after an earthquake.

“You skipped dinner again,” Dean said, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. “And Sam said he heard something slam into the wall in your room. You wanna explain that?”

“It was nothing,” you muttered, looking away. “Just… dropped something.”

“Yeah?” Dean stepped into the room, his gaze sharp. “You drop your fist into the wall?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The wall in question had a spider-webbed dent shaped almost exactly like your knuckles. The Mark throbbed once, like it enjoyed being discussed.

Dean exhaled through his nose, frustrated but trying to hide it. “You can’t keep brushing this off.”

You finally met his eyes, and the worry there nearly undid you. It was the reason you’d taken the Mark in the first place because he would’ve taken it instead. Because Sam would’ve begged him to. Because Dean always put everyone before himself, even when it damned him.

“I’m handling it,” you said softly.

“Bull.” Dean's voice cracked. “I know what this thing does. I know the itch, the anger, the—” He stopped himself, jaw clenching. “You shouldn’t have taken it for me.”

That truth always sat like a stone in your chest. You remembered that night vividly: Sam panicking, Dean trying to step forward, and you shoving between them with your decision already made. If someone had to bear it, it would be you. Not the boys. Never again.

“Sam couldn’t handle it,” you whispered. “And you would’ve taken it for him. So I did the only thing that made sense.”

Dean shook his head and moved closer until he was right in front of you, voice low and rough. “No. You sacrificed yourself because of me.”

You swallowed hard. “I couldn’t watch it destroy you, Dean.”

He looked away for a second, like the weight of that admission hit him too hard. “You think watching it destroy you is any easier?”

You opened your mouth, but the words tangled somewhere in your chest. The Mark pulsed again, a slow, hungry throb that crawled up your arm and into your spine. Dean saw it of course he saw it. He always noticed the moment your control slipped.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not.” He stepped forward and gently closed his hands around your wrists, grounding you. “Hey. Look at me.”

Slowly, your eyes lifted to his. Dean’s gaze was steady, unwavering—an anchor against the violent current building under your skin.

“I’m still me,” you whispered, but even you didn’t sound convinced.

“Yeah,” Dean said softly. “You’re you. And I’m not letting you go through this alone.”

His thumbs brushed the sensitive skin near the Mark, and for a moment the burning calmed. Not gone—never gone—but quieter. Manageable.

“That’s why we’re gonna figure this out,” he continued. “Together. You, me, and Sam. You don’t have to white-knuckle this thing.”

A faint, tired smile tugged at your lips. “You talking me down from homicidal rage is kinda romantic, Winchester.”

Dean snorted, but his eyes softened. “Just don’t make me wrestle a blade out of your hand again and we’ll call it a date.”

“You kissed me after that.”

“You kissed me first.”

The moment stretched warm between you—steady, grounding—until another pulse from the Mark rippled through you. You winced, grip tightening on his sleeves.