Small Cuts (Supernatural Dark!fic)

f i v e

"Still, there's a wound and I'm moving slow
Though it don't show, though it don't show
I've got a hole where nothing grows
How little you know, how little you know"
Paint - The Paper Kites

Amara was still holding the glass of water, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to process everything around her. The bunker's vastness, the brothers' calm but tense demeanour, the weight of all the revelations—it was overwhelming, even as the warmth of the space started to ease the raw fear that had gripped her since the motel.

But her body was betraying her. Despite the strange sense of security creeping into her chest, she was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. She hadn't truly slept in days, maybe weeks, and the ordeal with the ritual had drained her completely.

As she stood there, taking in the surroundings, she felt a quiet shift in the air. Sam, who had been watching her closely, stepped forward, his brow furrowed with concern. "Amara," he said softly, his voice cutting through her thoughts. "You look exhausted."

Amara blinked, her eyes drifting up to meet his. For a moment, she wasn't sure what to say. She hadn't thought about how she looked, only how she felt—like she'd been dragged through hell and back. She knew her eyes were dark, probably bloodshot from stress and lack of sleep. She could feel the weight of fatigue pulling at her bones, making it harder to focus.

Dean, who had been leaning against the table, crossed his arms, his sharp gaze assessing her with that same intensity she'd felt when they first arrived. "You need to rest," he said bluntly, but his tone was softer than before, less commanding, more... understanding. "We've got time to regroup. That thing's not getting in here. You're safe for now."

Amara hesitated, her pulse quickening. The truth was, she was tired—so tired she could barely think straight—but the idea of resting felt foreign to her. Especially here, in a place she barely knew, with two men who, despite everything, were still strangers.

But she could feel it—beneath the gruff exteriors, there was no threat in their presence. No malice, no hidden agenda. Her intuition, that deep-rooted sense she'd always relied on, told her their intentions were genuine. And despite the gnawing anxiety that still lingered in her chest, she believed it.

Sam took another step toward her, his voice soft and gentle. "We can figure everything out later. Right now, you need to rest. We've got a room you can use."

Amara swallowed hard, glancing between the two brothers. She didn't want to admit how worn down she felt, how much her body ached for sleep. But she didn't have the energy to argue. She gave a small, reluctant nod. "Okay," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dean straightened up, pushing off from the table as he jerked his head toward one of the long hallways leading deeper into the bunker. "Come on. There's a room down here you can use."

Amara followed them silently, her legs heavy with exhaustion as they led her through the labyrinthine halls of the bunker. The walls were lined with old-fashioned sconces, casting warm light that flickered faintly as they passed. The hum of distant machinery was the only sound, adding to the quiet, almost eerie stillness of the place.

Finally, they reached a door near the end of the hall. Dean pushed it open, revealing a simple but clean room. There was a bed with crisp white sheets, a small dresser, and a chair tucked into the corner. It wasn't much, but it was more than Amara had expected. It felt... safe. Quiet.

Sam stepped into the room ahead of her, moving to the dresser. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a clean, oversized plaid shirt—one that looked like it had once belonged to Dean, though it was far too large for her.