Summary: Based on this imagine by @/spn-imagines-nation on Tumblr: Being the one in charge of Rowena's questioning.
Warnings: Angst(ish)
A/N: It's Ruth Connell's birthday today, so here – have a Rowena fic. (Happy birthday, Ruth!)
Also, this got a lot angstier than I intended it to be.
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You hold your phone over your steering wheel and squint to read the coordinates on the screen as you drive up to the abandoned building outside Lebanon, Kansas. Windows line the walls, a few of them broken, the rest cloudy with dust and dirt. From a faded logo painted on one wall, you can make out the word Distillery.
You pull over and start a text to Sam, asking if you're in the right place, but you notice him standing outside the entrance, hands in his jacket pockets.
"Hey," he greets with a tired smile as you walk to meet him. "Thanks for making the drive."
"Yeah, you're lucky I make house calls," you say, pulling him in for a hug. "Where's your brother?"
Sam glances at the ground, to the side, and everywhere but at you, before finally speaking. "Dean can't know about this."
You narrow your eyes at him. "Too intense for Dean Winchester?" you speculate. "What kind of crap are you dragging me into here, Sam?"
"You still specialize in biblical monsters, right?" he asks.
"A long time ago. Not so much since you guys eighty-sixed Armageddon," you shrug. "Why? You got another seven sins problem?"
He shakes his head. "What do you know about the Mark of Cain?"
"The curse? It was the big, bad wolf of plagues in its time. There are stories, all really deep and dark."
"Dean has it," he says, abruptly.
You blink at him. "Dean has... 'it'? What's 'it'?" you ask. "Diabetes? A dream? The clap?"
He chuckles, but the humor doesn't reach his eyes. "Uh, no." He clears his throat. "He has the Mark."
His words scramble in your mind, and you struggle to sort them out. "The Mark? Dean has the... Mark of Cain?"
Sam nods.
"How did that happen?"
"Well, it's a long story," he sighs. "But we need to get it off him before he turns into a demon again."
You cross your arms over your chest. "I don't know, Sam. This one might be above my pay grade."
"Look, we already have a lead, a spell from the Book of the Damned, and we have someone translating. I just need you to take a look at what we've got and maybe give her a little... incentive."
"What kind of incentive?"
"Whatever you need to get some answers."
You raise your eyebrows at him. "Who are we dealing with here?"
"Someone you know," he says. "A witch."
"I know a lot of witches."
He turns back to swing the door open and gestures for you to walk through.
You pad into the dim building, patches of broken glass crunching beneath your feet. He leads you across a hall and down a short flight of stairs into a wide room.
"What's this, then?"
The familiar voice rings through the room as a black-dressed figure comes into view, a cloud of red hair surrounding her head. Chains bind her wrists, clinking as she straightens from a position slouched over a table.
"Reinforcements," Sam answers.
"Her again?" she sneers.
You place your hands on your hips. "Wow, Sam. You really scraped the bottom of the barrel for this one, didn't you?"
"Why don't you send in that angel of yours?" she suggests. "At least he has a sense of humor."
"Rowena, it's been days, and you haven't gotten anything from the Book," Sam says. "I thought you could use some encouragement."
"Patience is a virtue, Samuel."
"So's a conscience," you retort.
She scoffs. "Oh, what do you know?"
"Hey," Sam warns her. "(Y/N)'s here to make sure you're doing your job while I'm not here. Of course, she wouldn't need to be here if you'd made any progress."
"I've told you, the darn thing is encoded! My hands are tied, quite literally. There's not much I can do, especially without my magic."
"Figure it out," he says, then turns to you. "I'll leave you to it."
You nod as he turns to leave. His strides plod down the hall, and the door hinges creak.
When the thud of the door closing echoes through the hall, you bolt across the room and pull her into your arms.
"Rowena," you breathe into her hair.
She wraps her arms around your middle, the links of her shackles clinking with the motion, and lets out a whimper.
You pull away, hands grasping her shoulders to examine her at arm's length.
"Talk to me. Are you okay?" you demand.
"Oh, I'm fine," she brushes off. "Better now that you're here, my dear."
You frown. "I'm serious."
"And so am I. He's just got me under lock and key until I can figure out this spell. Nothing you need to worry your wee head about."
You hold her wrists in your hands, inspecting the shackles, where ancient symbols have been etched into the iron.
"Courtesy of the–" she grimaces– "Men of Letters."
She spits the name in disgust, and you recall the stories she told you about the time she spent with them all those years ago.
You grip her icy, trembling hands in yours and wince at the thought. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry."
She turns her hands over so her fingers interlace with yours. "It's not as if you locked me up."
"Well, what can I do?"
She shrugs. "There's nothing either of us can do until this book is translated and maybe he releases me."
"All right. Then, we translate it."
"You don't understand," she says. "Breaking this code – it could take days. Months, even."
"Then, it takes months. But we'll figure it out, and we'll get you out of here."
Her eyes widen, glistening. "You'd do that for me?"
"Of course. Hey–" you raise a hand to brush a stray red curl from her face and cup her cheek– "I've left you alone here for too long already. We're in this together. Got it?"
She nods slowly into your palm.
You rake your hand through her hair to the back of her neck. Her eyes flutter shut, and you press your lips to hers.
She snakes an arm around your waist and pulls your body flush with hers as you slide your other hand up her thigh.
"Hey, uh," you gasp between kisses, "remember how we said we were going to work on the Book?"
"Oh, screw the Book," she says and pulls your lips back to hers.
