Small Cuts (Supernatural Dark!fic)

s e v e n t y - e i g h t

"Just when I think I've found the end, oh
I'm going back around again, oh
Running from my shadow
Running from my shadow but it's still there chasing me down"
Running From My Shadow - Mike Shinoda & grandson 

The atmosphere in the bunker had shifted. The warmth and playful energy that had filled their nights lately had started to give way to something more unsettling—something that Amara couldn't quite put her finger on. The soft glow of the lamps in her room usually comforted her, but tonight, they felt dimmer, the shadows in the corners of the room creeping in closer than usual.

She sat on the edge of her bed, trying to shake the feeling. Dean had gone to grab some food, and Sam was finishing up some research in the library, leaving her alone for a few moments. Alone with the strange sensations that had started creeping up on her over the past few days.

The first time it had happened, she thought she'd simply had a bad dream. She had woken up in a cold sweat, her heart racing, the sound of her mother's voice echoing in her ears. But it hadn't been a dream—not exactly. She hadn't even been asleep yet. She had been reading when, suddenly, she'd heard it. That cold, sharp voice that always made her skin crawl, telling her to kneel by the bed and pray.

It had been years since Amara had heard her mother's voice. She had long since buried that part of her past. Or at least, she thought she had.

She rubbed her hands over her face, trying to push the memories away. But they were creeping back in, stronger now. The words. The prayer circles. The exorcisms. The way her mother's hands had felt as they gripped her shoulders, forcing her down onto her knees in front of the bed. The cold, sharp sting of her mother's hand across her cheek whenever she dared to close her eyes, too tired to continue the prayers.

Her fingers absently traced the spot on her wrist where, once, her mother had held her so tightly it had bruised, pulling her toward the basin of water that was meant to "cleanse" her. Holy water. That night, they had bound her and tried to bathe her in it. Amara had screamed, begged for them to stop, but her mother hadn't listened. None of them had listened.

Amara's breath hitched, and she realised her hands were trembling. She wasn't back there. She wasn't in that house. She was safe. She was with Sam and Dean.

But the memories were so vivid, so real, that she could almost feel the cold sting of the holy water on her skin. She could hear the murmured prayers, the way they had circled around her, whispering in unison, their voices laced with fear and judgment. And always, always, her mother's cold eyes watching her, judging her for being different. For being cursed.

Her throat tightened, and she stood up, trying to shake it off. She wasn't that girl anymore. She wasn't trapped in that house, under her mother's control.

But something wasn't right. These memories... they were too clear, too sharp, as if they weren't just memories but something more—something alive, clawing its way back into her consciousness.

Amara paced the room, running her fingers through her still-damp hair. She had just taken a shower, trying to wash away the strange, suffocating feeling that had been hovering over her all evening, but now, it felt like the water had only amplified the sensation, bringing her closer to the past she so desperately wanted to forget.

A sound—faint, almost imperceptible—caught her attention. She froze, her pulse quickening as she strained to listen. The familiar creak of the floorboards in the hallway? No, this was something different. Something that didn't belong.

It was her mother's voice again. Faint, just above a whisper, but unmistakable. "Evangeline... kneel."

Her heart leapt into her throat. She spun around, her eyes scanning the room, but there was no one there. She was alone.