Small Cuts (Supernatural Dark!fic)

s i x t y - n i n e

"These hands will always be rough (rough hands, rough days)
Some people too damaged too much, too late
I know this won't count for much (rough hands, rough season)
Some people too damaged too much, too late" 
Rough Hands - Alexisonfire 

A day had passed since Amara had retreated to her room, the heaviness in her chest only growing. The bunker felt too quiet, too empty, even with the faint sounds of movement echoing through the halls. She couldn't shake the feeling that things were spiralling out of control—Dean's anger, Sam's silence, and the curse that was eating away at them all.

A knock at the door broke through her thoughts. Amara tensed, sitting up in bed, her heart racing. She didn't move, didn't answer.

The knock came again, harder this time, followed by silence. She waited, hoping whoever it was would leave.

But the doorknob turned, and the door creaked open.

Dean stood in the doorway, his figure silhouetted in the dim light spilling into the room. Amara's pulse quickened as she saw the way he swayed slightly, the unmistakable scent of whiskey thick in the air. His eyes, dark and unfocused, locked onto her. There was something in them—anger, frustration, and something deeper that sent a chill through her.

"Dean?" Her voice was tentative, unsure.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he kicked the door shut behind him, the sound loud and sharp in the silence. The bottle in his hand was nearly empty, and it hung loosely at his side as he staggered forward.

"You know," he started, his voice slurred, dripping with bitterness, "you think you know everything, don't you?"

Amara's heart sank. This wasn't the Dean she knew. This was the curse, the alcohol, twisting him into someone she barely recognised. She swallowed hard, trying to stay calm. "Dean, maybe you should—"

"No." He waved her off, stumbling toward the bed. "You think you can just... what? Fix everything? Be there for us, like that's gonna make all of this better?"

His words were biting, laced with anger, and Amara flinched at the coldness in his tone. This wasn't like the Dean who had held her close, who had whispered that he loved her when everything had felt right between them. This was someone else—someone twisted by the curse.

"I'm not trying to fix everything," she said softly, her voice trembling. "I'm just—"

Dean let out a bitter laugh, cutting her off. "Oh, come on. You think I don't see what's going on? You think I don't feel what's happening between us?"

Her stomach twisted painfully. She had felt it too, the distance growing between them since the curse had taken hold. But she had hoped, prayed, that they could find their way back to each other. Now, it felt like that hope was slipping further and further away.

He took another step forward, his eyes dark and stormy. "You think I don't see how you look at me, at Sam? Like we're supposed to be enough for you, like we're supposed to save you from all this?"

Amara's breath hitched. She shook her head, trying to reach him through the haze of alcohol and anger. "Dean, I love you. You know I love you. Both of you. This isn't—"

"Love?" He sneered, his voice thick with mockery. "Is that what this is?"

Before she could respond, before she could even process what he was saying, Dean grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward him with a roughness that sent a spike of fear through her. His grip wasn't painful, but it was tight, desperate.

"You think that's enough?" His voice was low, dangerous. And then, before she could react, his lips crashed against hers—hard, unyielding.

For a split second, her heart fluttered. She had been waiting for this connection, for Dean to be with her again, to feel close to him like before. But as the kiss deepened, it twisted into something darker. There was nothing tender, nothing loving in the way his lips pressed against hers. It was anger, frustration, something raw and wrong.