Small Cuts (Supernatural Dark!fic)

f i f t y - e i g h t

"We can only watch and learn
Home and fortunes light as burnt
And when the ash is cold
And the fading glow
Don't let your pride feed the fire
It was never within your control
Never"
Del Fuego - Fat Freddy's Drop 

Amara woke the morning after her birthday feeling something she hadn't in weeks: peace. The weight of Paimon's presence was gone, and the tension she'd carried around like armour had finally loosened. For once, the world wasn't pressing down on her, and she allowed herself to savour the quiet.

The bunker was silent. Too silent. She reached out with her senses, trying to pick up on any sign of Sam or Dean, but there was nothing—no footsteps, no voices. Frowning, she pushed a little deeper, letting her powers guide her. It didn't take long before she found them, their energies unmistakable. Sam's was dark, steady, a quiet storm swirling just beneath the surface, while Dean's was sharp, a hot burn always at the edge of her awareness. And Castiel—his was like a soft hum, calm and unwavering.

She followed the pull until she reached the common room. Her breath hitched when she saw them: Sam, Dean, and Castiel standing around a small table, a birthday cake and a few gifts set in front of them.

Dean was the first to spot her, his trademark smirk tugging at his lips. But there was something softer in his eyes, a flicker of warmth he didn't try to hide. "There she is," he said, his voice carrying that cocky edge she was so used to, though it couldn't quite mask the affection beneath it. "Figured you'd sleep all day, sweetheart."

Amara smiled, a warmth settling deep in her chest. "You guys didn't have to do this."

Dean waved her off, but there was a flicker of something more in his gaze. "Yeah, we did. Besides, Sam's been dying for you to open his gift."

Sam shot Dean a look, but there was tension in the air between them—not the kind that led to bickering, but the quiet, charged kind she had grown used to. It was subtle, the way they moved around her, orbiting each other while trying not to give too much away. They didn't have to. She could feel it all—Dean's protective energy swirling around her, Sam's quiet intensity pulling at her.

Sam stepped forward, holding out a small package. His fingers brushed hers for just a second too long, and the air between them seemed to crackle with the familiar charge that always hung in the space between them. "Here... I, uh, hope you like it," he said softly, his voice lower than usual, his gaze heavy with something she couldn't quite name but felt deep in her chest.

Amara carefully unwrapped the gift, revealing a book she had mentioned offhandedly in passing weeks ago. Her heart skipped as she opened the cover, and there it was—Sam's handwriting on the first page.

To Amara—
I don't know how to explain this, but you've changed me. You've made me realise what's worth holding onto, what's worth fighting for. You are.
—Sam.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced over his writing, the words settling into her like a confession he hadn't been able to say out loud. She looked up at him, her heart pounding. Her mismatched eyes met his, and for a moment, the world around them fell away. "Sam, I... this means more than you know." Her voice was soft, and though the moment was quiet, it was anything but simple.

Dean broke the tension with a laugh, stepping in with his usual bravado. "Alright, enough of that. Open mine before Sammy over here starts crying." But the teasing grin on his face couldn't fully hide the affection lurking underneath.

Amara shook her head with a smile, shifting her focus as she unwrapped Dean's gift. Inside was a sleek, custom knife, the handle engraved with "Sweetheart." But what caught her breath was the dress. It was almost identical to the one she had ruined on her first hunt—a soft white, flowing fabric that seemed to shimmer under the light.