Author's Note: This chapter is a re-navigation of some of the events from the episode "Oh Brother, Whereart Thou?", in case you need the context.

Disclaimer: Taking cool Disclaimer Submissions, as I'm running low, lol

Chapter Twenty-Two: Smite Me

"Dean, we found her."

Sam came skidding around the corner, Gabriel at his heels. Dean and Cas sprang apart from each other as though they had been electrocuted, but Sam was so intent on the news he had to deliver that he failed to register that he had just interrupted his brother and the angel making out in the main room of the Bunker. Gabriel, too, said nothing about it. But there was a twinkle in his eye as he glanced over at his own brother, and Castiel though he might have even seen him wink.

"Who?" said Dean stupidly, trying to redirect blood flow back to his brain.

"Amara," said Sam. The name didn't exactly help sort out Dean's errant bloodflow. "A whole congregation dropped dead inside a church in River Fall, Massachusetts. And there have been reports of other weird occurrences in the area: Freak mini-storms that vanished as quickly as they appeared, strange pressure drops, spontaneous combustion. And even weirder things, Biblically weird. Like a fountain suddenly running with blood. If that doesn't sound like Amara, I don't know what does.

Dean nodded in agreement. "That's her alright." He didn't know why he was so sure—other than what else could it possibly be—but he was.

"Grab your stuff," he said to the other three. "We're headed to River Fall."

"Why yes, Dean-o, I'd love to accompany you on your suicidal wild goose chase," said Gabriel sarcastically, as Dean strode from the room. "Thanks so much for asking." He looked at the other two, his brother and Dean's. "You really let him boss you around like that?"

Castiel shrugged noncommittally.

Sam snorted. "Hardly, but this time I agree with him. C'mon Gabe, let's go." He headed out of the room after his brother, leaving the two angels.

Gabriel shook his head and spread his hand in a what can you do? gesture. "The things we do for our humans, am I right?"

Castiel didn't respond, but followed the two humans out of the room.

"Tsk, everyone around here is so tetchy…"

*****Icarus*****

Gabriel looked around at the pews and pulpit of the church. The local authorities had already been through to clean up the bodies, but even without access to his Grace, Gabriel could feel the desecration. He shook his head.

"I'm not above a little violence to make a point, but this was just wasteful."

"And we're too late," said Dean. "She's gone."

"Not necessarily," said Castiel. "If she did it to draw attention, or, as Gabriel rather crudely put it, to make a point, maybe she stuck around to make sure her message reached the right ears." He didn't add what they were all thinking: That their only hope of finding Amara was if Amara wanted to be found.

"Son-of-a-bitch!"

A ripple of rage course through Castiel's Grace, courtesy of the bond that connected him with his hunter's soul. The Seraph had long since become accustomed to experiencing the echoes of Dean's emotions, and had come to the conclusion that this bond was what had opened him up to experiencing his own emotions in the first place. Sometimes he wondered if his Father (or whoever had actually given the order for him to raise Dean out of Hell) had known the nature and extent of the bond it would forge between hunter and angel. If it hadn't been his Father, but some other angel in the Garrison, it was likely outside of their understanding. If it had been his Father, well, it was likely God just didn't care.

Cas stepped closer to Dean, trying to send calming reassurance back across the connection. He wasn't sure how successful it was—he didn't feel very calm or reassured himself.

Dean shivered, though the feeling that settled over him at the angel's increased proximity was more akin to a warm blanket or a cloud of steam than a chill. Part of him wanted to lean into the Seraph's presence. A greater part of him felt suffocated by the additional layer of pressure in the already oppressive atmosphere of the church.

"I need some air," he muttered, shouldering his way past his brother and the two angels toward to exit. Then, by the way of excuse or apology, he wasn't quite sure which, "I hate churches."

Cas felt himself deflate slightly, though he really should have been used to feeling like a failure by now.

Gabriel, on the other hand, quirked an eyebrow at the large, elaborate, and completely inaccurate stained glass rendition of himself arching above their heads. "Can't say I blame him. The décor definitely leaves something to be desired. For one, they have me wearing entirely too much clothing."

Sam snorted softly. Or at least he intended it to be softly. In the empty church, the sound resonated off the painted walls, and Sam quickly, and not entirely successfully, turned it into a cough.

"We're not making any progress standing around here, anyway," said the tall hunter. "I'm going to find Dean before he gets himself into trouble.

"Good luck with that," muttered Gabriel, but followed.

*****Icarus*****

The ringing in Dean's ears was getting louder. He walked faster, shaking his head, but the motion did nothing to ease the building pressure in his skull. In fact, it seemed the farther he went, the more he tried to escape it, the worse it got. Dean realized he was nearly running and forced himself to slow his pace and look around.

He was in a park. A plastic play structure arched, tall and abstract, to his right. On his left, a kid in a red sweater sped past him on a scooter, shrieking with laughter.

"Hot dog?" asked a middle-aged man in an apron, from behind a metal cart.

"Yeah, uh, one," said Dean distractedly, head turning this way and that, searching for a sound just out of earshot. He jumped when his phone rang.

Sam.

Dean stared at the screen, his brain slow to process what he was supposed to do with the ringing phone, full as it was with that strange, low-frequency buzzing.

Dean.

The voice—if soundless feeling resonating directly into his brain could be considered a voice—cut through the haze like nothing else had. Clear, sharp, insistent.

Dean.

He turned, the still-ringing phone in his hand forgotten.

"You felt my presence."

Her voice was hard, smooth, and unyielding. Like a polished stone. Or a waterfall. Heavy, deep, immense. Absolute. Filling all five of his senses until there was no room for anything else. All five, plus that sixth sense, the one that had known where she was without his conscious mind being aware of it. So that he had been unable to resist her lure, or even recognize it until it was too late.

"That's why you came here," she continued. It was not a question, nor an answer. It was a simple acknowledgement of fact.

Dean found himself directly in front of her, though neither of them had moved. Amara's eyes danced with mirth. And lust. Golden brown and almond shaped over a perfect bow of a mouth, which quirked as though they shared some intimate secret, just the two of them. She was taller than she had been the last time Dean had seen her, at the asylum, and older. And even more beautiful. In the way that a black widow spider was beautiful, but also in the way that a cold beer and a soft bed and someone to share it with were beautiful after a long hunt. Like he could sink into her and forget his troubles. This was the woman whom he had met inside the mist—The Darkness—that had enveloped him after he had killed Death and set her free.

She reached out and touched his arm, softly, seductively, and they were suddenly in the middle of an empty field, surrounded by nothing but grass and trees. Though the sudden shift in scenery was a bit of a shock, Dean hardly found himself surprised. There was no room for anyone or anything else in Amara's presence. She was all encompassing.

"You grew up." It came out as an accusation.

Amara smiled. "Yes."

Her answers were enigmatic and elusive; she was as infuriating as ever. And as alluring. Dean cast about for something to remind him of who he was and who—what she was. And what he had to do if he could. An image swam at the edges of his mind, wavering, then growing stronger: Two pairs of eyes. One piercingly blue and not quite human, the second as green as his own, fringed by shaggy brown hair.

Obviously he and Amara viewed family—and souls, and life—very differently. Though their opinions on God might not have been so different. And yet, Dean found himself defending, not God exactly, but humankind's desire to put their faith in him, even if Dean could not do so himself.

Peace… Bliss… What he felt when he was with Her… It was tempting, to let go of everything, to not have to fight anymore, to suffer… So what was the catch?

"What's in it for you?"

"What I deserve. Everything."

Man, talk about entitlement.

The realization that Amara's so-called Bliss wasn't just the absence of pain and suffering, but the absence of everything, broke the spell she had on him somewhat, and Dean was able to turn away, to put his hand inside his jacket where he had put the blade. Even as she still spoke, her words rolling over him like waves of dark desire, he drew it. If he could keep her talking without letting himself drown in them…

He realized she had stopped. The hunter whirled around, a second too late, knowing even as he struck that she would have time to parry the blow. She did not. Instead, the blade hit its mark squarely in her sternum, and shattered.

"You had to know that was pointless." Her voice flowed around him, filling him, drowning him, pulling him back under her thrall. "I can't be resisted."

Amara closed the gap between their bodies, and desire surged hot within him, causing his groin to swell and his lips to move hungrily, almost frantically against hers. But there was no satisfying this hunger, no release for the desire, no tenderness or sense of wholeness in their meeting. The passion was all-consuming, and just as the girl Amara had consumed the souls of those people, so would the woman Amara consume Dean, body and soul. Every inch of his flesh burned beneath her touch, but something deep inside him remained detached and achingly cold. Anchoring himself with that coldness, Dean wrenched back from Amara. The absence of her touch was a physical pain across his searing flesh.

For a moment, Amara looked startled, and then angry, before her mask of aloof, patronizing bemusement fell into place again.

"It is inevitable, Dean," she said, as though schooling a wayward but favored child. "I know you feel it; ever since that first moment, when you set me free."

"No. That was an accident."

"It was Destiny." Her voice was fierce, breathless. "You bore the Mark; I am the Original Mark. You will see. Our Bond is stronger. You and I will be together."

"No—"

"Amara."

Three angels stood facing them, blades drawn, eyes blazing with righteous fury.

No, no, no.

This was not how it was supposed to go down. If Heaven took out Amara—if they even could—they'd take out half of humanity with her.

A ridiculous desire rose within Dean to protect Amara from the Angels, as though she wasn't an all powerful being and he a mere mortal. As though her destruction wasn't a goal he shared with the messengers of Heaven. A goal they seemed as incapable of accomplishing as he had been, as the woman whisked them out of existence one by one with a flick of her wrist.

The sky filled with ominous dark clouds and thunder cracked above them. Heaven, it seemed, did not know when to admit defeat.

"Amara," said Dean, unsure of what he was trying to convince her of. "They will smite you."

She turned to him, her expression fierce, almost ecstatic. "Maybe now He'll hear me."

Dean and Amara stared at each other for an infinite moment. Then, with an elegant movement of Amara's fingers, Dean found himself once again in the cheerfully busy park, next to the hot dog cart, and quite literally in Cas' arms.

"Oof," said the angel, taking a stumbling step backward and tightening his arms instinctively around his hunter. "Dean?"

"Amara," Dean grunted. The angel stiffened. "Heaven's gonna try and smite her."

"Try?" asked Sam, who was standing across from Dean and Castiel, Gabriel at his elbow.

"I'm not sure it'll go so well for Heaven."

AN: I'm not going to ask you to review this time. I am going to ask you, if you are from the US, to write your Senators and House Reps and let them know that fascism will not be tolerated. Then watch Misha's interviews with Baratunde Thurston, Daryl Davis, Rev. Deborah L. Johnson, & Briona Jenkins. Then you can review if you want to.

Black Lives Matter.

-SQ