Death's Daughter | Supernatural, D.W.

The Mend

The following day, I wake up to Dean not knocking, but simply entering my room with a plate full of healthy looking food. He sets it down on my nightstand and gives me an unfriendly look.

"Sam says you should eat, so he made you a plate of rabbit food," he says dryly.

Dean turns to leave, but I have other plans.

"What's wrong with you?" I blurt. I figure I should waste no time in the matter.

"What's wrong with me?" Dean chuckles. "What the hell is wrong with you? You're throwing up like a teenager with alcohol poisoning and you look like an old lady with friggin' cancer. What's wrong with me. Funny."

"Seriously, Dean. You're the one person that I've allowed to openly see my vulnerability in everything thus far, and you're the only person I completely trust. Don't ruin this now. Tell me why you're so upset or don't bother coming back through that door once you leave."

This strikes a nerve within Dean. He takes a deep breath and noticeably decompresses.

"I'm just worried, alright?" He snaps. "Too many people die on our watch, on my watch, as it is, and I won't have you following in their footsteps because of some deal that you made with us."

"So you're worried about holding up your end of the deal?" I laugh and run a hand down my sunken face. "Dean, if I die, that should be the last thing you'll worry about. You'll have far more prominent issues than you do now."

"Yeah, whatever," Dean sighs.

"Don't make me be mean," I warn. "I'm tired."

Dean pouts at me. I grow tired of his attitude.

"Cas is going to find something. Whether it's today or tomorrow or the next day, he's going to find something. I don't know if it's going to be easy or simple, but you've all three dealt with worse from what I've heard. And this isn't about you. It's about me. So either find a way to be helpful or stop adding to the problem."

"I'm not trying to be a part of the problem, I just want you to be okay. This is how I am. Im sorry, Mal. I just care about you."

Despite the unrest I feel by him being "how he is," a smile works it's way across my face. It sprouts all the way from my chest. No one's ever called me Mal, or really said that they cared for me.

After a few seconds, Dean reciprocates with a cheesy grin of his own. He urges me to eat my breakfast, then leaves the room.

I poke at the food and force some down, along with the large glass of water that was sent with it. It isn't long before it comes back up, but it's comforting to have at least something in my system.

Dean and Sam take turns checking on me throughout the day. Once nighttime comes, Cas appears in my doorway.

"Mallory, how are you feeling?" He asks.

"A little better," I respond, waving a hand.

"I come bearing news," he announces. "I looked around and found some info on human-reapers like yourself. Your condition isn't particularly addressed in the texts I found, but it's outlined. Basically, your genetic climate is unchangeable, and this is just your body's way of cleaning itself out from the foreign material."

"So I'm stuck like this?" I ask, sighing in defeat.

"Unfortunately, yes," Cas confirms. "But, this may be for the best. You can better protect yourself this way. As a full-blooded human, you much more vulnerable, especially to any kind of supernatural creature."

"Sam and Dean have made it this far," I grumble.

"They've both died at least once, actually," Castiel comments. "If not for some form of divine intervention, the Winchesters would have been wiped off the map long ago."

I digest his statement with a slow nod. "Well, thank you for trying anyway. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome."

Cas disappears into thin air. I sit, alone with my thoughts. Maybe after this sickness passes, it'll be time for me to get out on my own. Explore. Something in me wants to stay here, under the protection of the Winchesters, but I can't. I don't want to.

"Hey," Dean says, walking into my room without knocking. "I thought I heard Cas."

"Yeah, he stopped in for a few minutes," I nod.

"What'd he have to say?"

"He's been researching stuff, and apparently I can't change. I'm stuck like this. My only option is to deal with the sickness and carry on, I guess."

"I'm sorry, I know how much you wanted that," Dean grimaces. "But, in my opinion, you're kind of a badass. I like you this way."

I crack a smile as laughter escapes my lips. Dean knows how to lighten my mood. "Yeah, and I'd kick your ass if we had a rematch. You had an unfair advantage."

Dean smirks. "And what was that?"

"I don't know, lifelong experience maybe?" I banter.

"It takes a while to get this good," he shrugs jokingly.

"Whatever," I roll my eyes.

There's a few seconds of silence between Dean and I as we both laugh off our sarcastic
"How are you feeling?"

"Better. It hasn't been too bad today."

"Well, I'm glad," he grins.

I nod. Awkwardness settles as neither of us know what to say. Dean puts a quick end to it by simply walking away, shutting the door behind him. I laugh to myself.

As the evening progresses, my sickness noticeably subsides. I decide to make my first appearance from my room in at least a week.

"Hey," Sam greets me with a chipper tone as I walk into the foyer. "How's it going?"

"For some reason, I actually feel pretty good," I shrug. "I thought I would stretch my legs some."

"Yeah, by all means, that's great." He turns his attention back to the book he's reading.

I decide to take my journey to the garage, where I can hear Dean's music playing. An excited spark lights in me; it's been a while since I got to help him with a project.

Quietly, I open the door to sneak in on him, but the view I get makes me stand still. Dean's shirtless, and wearing some old, worn out jeans. I don't even take the time to see what he's working on, I just enjoy watching his muscles work in the dim garage lighting.

Finally, he catches me staring. Dean turns the music down. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

I immediately avert my eyes, staring at the floor under my feet instead. Embarrassment creeps up my neck, turning me a deep red.

"Sorry," I mumble, my voice drowned in a sheepish blanket.

Suddenly, Dean's in front of me. The music is extremely quiet now. "Did you need something? You feeling okay?"

I pick my head back up. "Actually, I feel great. I think I might just be over this now."

Dean grins. "Awesome."

"What are you working on?"

"Oh, I was just cleaning out the arsenal. Cleaning the weapons."

"Can I see?" I ask excitedly. It's been a long time since I've messed with any cool weapons.

Dean nods. I follow him to the trunk of the Impala. He pulls out everything from shotguns to wooden stakes, but I'm most impressed with the ninja stars. Being a blade person, I know a thing or two about throwing.

"May I?" I grab the stars, running my hands over the smooth, polished steel.

"Let's see what you've got," Dean challenges me. He directs me to an old poster hanging on the wall. There's about a twenty foot clearance between myself and the target.

I throw the stars, hitting the poster directly in the center, and keeping my grouping tight. "See? I told you I know blades."

"Impressive," he grants, "but you can't make witch-killing stars, rock salt stars or devils trap stars. That's why we use guns."

"Yeah, yeah." I roll my eyes.