Wanted Dead or Alive | 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑

19 - IN MY TIME OF DYING

His v-neck had suddenly added another mystery to her questionnaire about Dean Winchester: why did he always insist on covering his form with a jacket?

She took a step closer to him. Her knees were shaking, and the hairs on her neck stood up like they sensed the tension in the air and wanted to get a glimpse of the scenes that were about to play out in front of their eyes.

Mara raised a hand into the air, and her fingertips tingled when she let it rest on the side of Dean's face. Suddenly, her apprehension about the Winchester's predicament began to dissolve, and was gingerly replaced with the heated fervor that was coursing through her veins. Dean's features were coated with scars from the accident - one on his forehead, and one adorning the sharp curve of his cheekbone. She let her hand slide along his unusually sallow skin and down to his neck, gulping when it crept over the stubble that decorated his jaw.

His eyebrows turned in. His teeth pulled at his bottom lip, his tongue briefly running across it, and his head began to tilt downward.

Instantaneously, as if the scintillating reflection of all they were - of all they could be - had fallen from the sky, the anticipation shattered into a million broken pieces. It was now a mere copy of what it once was, each shard broadcasting a distorted reflection in place of an alluring one.

Dean had tensed up. Straightened his back to a standard posture, turned away from Mara.

Mara's hopes deflated, her brow furrowed. What had just happened? The way she'd felt, like she'd been swimming against the natural current of a river her whole life, and finally, when she'd let the waters take her where she was supposed to go, they'd led her straight to Dean What was that?

"Am I dead?" Dean repeated. His voice croaked on the first syllable, so he'd had to cough before finishing his sentence.

His back was still turned, so Mara allowed a shake of her head to try and rid herself of the remains of the sensations from moments before. Of the heat that had swelled up inside of her only to be popped by the cold needle of Dean's turned shoulder, and now, she was trying to sweep away the shreds of latex that the punctured balloon had left behind.

"No," Mara answered. "No, your spirit is just...separating itself from your physical form in case, you know, you do..." A galling tickle rose in her throat. No matter how hard she tried, the word wouldn't escape her lips. It didn't seem to occur to her that it was her job, that what she was attempting to speak of should have been second nature to her. She just couldn't bring herself to say it.

The word festered on her lips, as unpleasant and loathsome as a blister. The putrefying syllables were only soothed when Dean faced her and nodded his head like he understood. His spirit was separating itself in case he died.

But Mara wouldn't let that happen. Even if she had to pay for it with her life, she would not let Dean Winchester perish.

Dean's eyes suddenly flicked to the door of the hospital room. The tightly woven strands of worryin his face eased, and when Mara followed his gaze to see that Sam and Kat had walked in, she understood his instant relief.

"Sammy!" Dean breathed, striding over to his younger siblings. "Kat. You guys look good. Considering."

Mara's eyebrows rose. They did look good. Considering. Sam looked no worse than if he'd gotten into a brawl at school, and Kat, though her skin was paler than usual and her eyes more sunken in, appeared to be in better shape than she'd been in the last time Mara checked on her.

"Oh, no," Sam muttered. He was looking at Dean - not the breathing, talking Dean, but the one wrapped in the dreary hospital sheets.

Kat shot to her brother's side, her warm fingers grasping his cold ones. Sam was slower to get to Dean's bed, shock slowing his reflex time, and Dean followed, speaking to them as if they could hear.