He still has a hard time looking you in the eye. He's back, but he's not. Because he knows he's still on borrowed time, still carrying the Mark of Cain on his forearm, still cursed. You and Sam have forgiven him, but he is less forgiving of himself. As usual, he carries the weight on his shoulders, not willing to share the burden. And he refuses to listen to any plan to free him that might possibly unleash another possibly greater evil on the world.

You'll be here with him through it all. You would have gone to hell with him had it been the only option. You will be here with him through this hell. And you will help him be free from it, somehow, someday, or die trying.

For a while, Sam tries to get Dean to rest, take some time off, let himself heal inside. But sitting around, having time to actually think… that's never been his style. The trip to the lake, just sitting on shore, having a few beers, maybe fishing a little – that lasted a couple of days, but Dean was just going stir-crazy. And the slightest hint of a case perked him up more than all the idle time, staring out at the water and avoiding dealing with the aftermath of his death and dark resurrection.

You stay behind, sensing that the brothers need that time on the road, time to rebuild and heal, to be brothers again. You and Dean have some healing to do, too – but you can wait. You'll wait until he's ready, even if it takes a while, but your heart aches. He hasn't touched you since his cure, guilt and shame causing him to pull away, and every night when he goes to his room and closes the door behind him, it hurts. You know he needs time, but damn… it hurts.

Sam keeps in touch, calling every couple of days. They take care of a werewolf case, then run across a shifter, and finally Sam calls to tell you they're on their way home. He's worried, you can tell, but he can't talk in front of Dean. You ask him to give Dean the phone, tell him you love him and you miss him, taking his, "Me, too," like a drowning man grasping at driftwood.

When they get home, he accepts your hug, wrapping his arms around you briefly, then heading for his room. Sam looks a little haggard, concern sitting on his shoulders, and you sit down at the table next to him, putting a hand on his arm. "Sam, talk to me. What's going on?"

Sam sniffs, then sighs, hanging his head a little as his giant paw engulfs your hand. "I'm worried, Smalls." He looks up at you, continuing softly, wanting to make sure Dean doesn't overhear. "He's not – normal. The shifter had me pinned down, and he had to shoot her. But he just kept on shooting. Seven, eight times. I mean – one shot, one silver bullet did the job. I asked him about it, but he just got defensive, said it was his first kill since he got back, and he was a little anxious, wanted to make sure it was done right."

"And you think he what – just lost control?"

Sam looks at you again. "Yeah. It was like he just couldn't stop. I mean, I could be wrong. But it just... It felt off."

"I believe you, Sam. It could be what he said, but… if he's losing control, he shouldn't be hunting."

Sam took a deep breath, nodding. "Yeah. I know. But good luck getting him to admit it, or getting him to stay behind."

You watch from the doorway as he sits on the floor next to his bed, hunched over a huge ancient tome, completely absorbed in his reading. You speak his name softly as you enter, not wanting to startle him.

"Dean." He looks up at you standing above him, and it tugs at your heart when you see how worn out he is, the beginnings of dark circles beneath his reddened eyes. "Dean, you have to get some rest."

He exhales, an exhausted sigh that does nothing for his argument. "Baby, I have to find some answers. I can't risk going dark side again."

You sit down on the edge of the bed near him, your fingers wandering through his hair, massaging his scalp lightly as he leans his head against your thigh. "If you don't get some sleep soon, you won't be able to fight at all." He looks up at you, and you smile gently down at him. "Please, baby. Just come here and lie down with me for a while."

He takes a long, slow breath, blowing it out between his lips, then nods, laying the book aside and climbing up beside you as you scoot yourself to the middle of the bed. He lets you wrap your arms around him, resting his head on your breast as you continue to run your fingers through his hair, soothing him with your touch and your warmth. Within minutes he is breathing evenly, relaxed in your arms, and you let yourself fade into sleep beside him.

You wake up much later, unaware for a moment of what brought you back to consciousness. Then he jerks in your arms, mumbling, agitated, his fingers clutching at your shirt. All you can make out is, "No, no, no..." and something about Sam, and you slide down, taking his face in your hands as you talk to him quietly, calmly.

"Dean? It's okay, you're dreaming. Wake up, baby." He gives a little jerk, and then he's looking into your eyes in the dim light, slowly coming back to reality. You stroke over his cheek with your thumb, then move closer to kiss him. "I hated to wake you, but you were having another nightmare," you whisper, and for a few seconds he just stares back at you. Then he moves gracefully, quickly, and you're pinned down to the bed beneath him as his lips collide with yours, his hand squeezing at your breast as his tongue invades your mouth, and you melt into his touch. This is the first time he's kissed you with passion in so long, too eaten up by guilt at his time as a demon to allow himself to let go, but now he is almost desperate in his kisses, his hands clutching at you. You don't want him to stop, don't want to give him time to think about what he's doing for fear that he will do just that, and you are just as frantic in your need for him.

You unbutton your shirt, and he bites gently at your lips, moaning as his fingers touch your warm skin. He moves to bury his face in the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin there before making his way to your throat, your chest, tugging a nipple between his teeth through the silky material of your bra, making you gasp. He jerks the offending cloth down, then latches on, sucking and tonguing at you, making you arch up beneath him as he cups your still-clothed pussy in his hand. With shaking hands you reach to push down your panties and yoga pants, drawing in a sharp breath as he grabs you again, raising his head as he runs his fingers through your slick folds, then plunges two of them into you as deep as he can while he fumbles with his zipper one-handed.

You try to sit up a little to help, but the rhythmic thrust of his fingers has you helplessly bucking up against his hand, and you drop back in surrender as he shoves his jeans and boxers down far enough to free himself. His breathing is harsh, and he pulls his fingers free, guiding himself to your entrance and slamming into you hard, holding himself still as he bites down on his lip, fighting the urge to come. You remember how to exhale, your heart begins to beat again, and you squeeze tight around him, your legs shaking. He winces in agonized ecstasy, reaching down to rub rough circles over and around your sensitive clit, and you come with a loud cry of his name, destroying what little control he has left. He loops his arms beneath your knees, bracing his hands on the mattress, driving deep and hard into you until it fires off another cataclysm inside you, and you throw your head back into the pillow as he swears. "Fuck! Baby, holy fuck..." He's shaking all over as he reaches his end, holding himself inside to the limit as he explodes into you, then collapses, his head buried in your neck. You are both dripping with sweat, clothing twisted and half-removed, and for the moment you haven't even got the strength to lift a hand to touch him.

When you finally do run your fingers over his back, he moans softly, shuddering and twitching inside you, making you clutch around his slowly softening length with a shiver. He disentangles himself from you and moves, falling heavily beside you. "C'mere," he mumbles, and a wan smile curves your lips as you turn towards him, then stop and sit up.

"Wait." You finish pulling your shirt off, then unfasten your bra and toss it to the floor, sighing in relief. Then you tug at his jeans, removing them and his boxers from around his knees and thighs, and he kicks them off the rest of the way. He's still wearing his shirts, but you don't bother with them. You throw your leg over his thigh, slip an arm around his waist, and cuddle up on his shoulder with a contented sigh. "I should go take a shower," you say, but he tightens his arms around you with a soft grunt.

"Stay." It's more a plea than an order, and you smile, stretching to kiss his neck.

"Forever, if you want."

He's silent for a while, and you doze off a little. His hand is trailing up and down your arm, and his voice is a soft rumble in his chest when he speaks. "You keep me grounded, you know." You look up at him as he struggles for words, and you brush your fingers gently over his jaw as he leans into your touch. "When I'm not with you, everything seems like such a big fucking mess, like we're never gonna be able to fix it. It's like..." He hesitates, then looks down at you, and the look on his face makes your eyes fill with tears. "It's like everything is a big blur of chaos and death and evil. But when I'm with you the focus is clear, sharp, I can see my way through, you know?"

You blink hard, waiting to speak until you can trust your voice to be steady. "We'll figure it out. I promise. I'm not losing you again, Dean. Sam and I – we can't lose you again. So we'll find a way to fix this." You raise up far enough to kiss him, your lips clinging to his as your hand cups his face, and then you snuggle in as close as you can get, as if holding him tight will keep the evil at bay. Soon his breathing evens out, slows, and you let your eyes close as well.