The aftermath of shooting the kelpie is surprisingly minimal in regards to logistics; the three musketeers dump the body back in the lake and Marie sends an acorn message to the Dark Knight explaining everything. Before hitting the road again they receive his response, that the Fainean will be punished for letting the kelpie loose and the kelpie's body burned. Then they're gone, off to other hunts and for Dean and Marie to resolve their differences – or at least for Dean to stop being sore at her for letting the kelpie get to him in the first place.
Just being in the same room with him makes her throat close up with the discomfort. It's his distaste for her – it's palpable, tangy and metallic, like blood in her mouth. It is slick, too, slip sliding over any exposed skin. She starts wearing long sleeves. It's not quite hatred, but it is too close. It interferes with their hunts, with her magic, with Sam's Sight. Since the day she realized what it is, she's been blocked from reading emotions – one of her most potent powers. It's everywhere. And it's making things worse.
Rationally, her mind explains the reasoning behind his loathing. She's the unknown; she's taken control in a place where he was king. She brought him bad news, ruined the future he thought he could have, let him become hostage to a fey. But emotionally, her heart just aches for his detestation of her.
"Whatever you think I am, I'm not," she wants to scream. "I've never hated you. I've always loved you."
It's this last sentiment which bothers her the most, forces her entire body into tension and terror when he's around. She tries, tries so very hard not to love him. She fights against the natural instincts of her heart and body, rebels with every fiber of her being to keep from smiling when he makes a joke or looks her way. But looking in those ineffable green eyes, watching him walk or drink or laugh or shoot, makes her knees turn to jelly and her fingers curl into fists.
He's lovely and she knows it. He's lovely and strong and virile, and the irrational part of her who is, in fact, a woman, aches for his protection.
After three months and seven hunts of waking him with only a steaming mug of coffee beside his bed, though, he can actually hold a conversation with her without completely insulting her femininity. (Sam is incredibly relieved; living with them suddenly becomes much easier.) Somehow, though, she knows things are going to change.
It's on a cold, rainy morning in Pennsylvania that they catch the first sight of the yellow-eyed demon and his war. Marie does the grocery shopping and is today in pink and green Wellington boots Dean tried bravely not to laugh at, plodding through the aisles with a sort of bored look on her face. Her bangs are pinned to the top of her head for comfort, and it (surprisingly) makes her look drastically different – which proves to be her lifesaver. She's pushing the cart past the Health and Beauty department when she catches a glimpse of yellow-gold eyes in a middle-aged man nearby. She whispers a spell against possession and walks on, not quite stupid enough to take him on her own. It's enough to know he's here in Gettysburg, that he's tracked them this far, that the war is soon to begin. She pays for the groceries and leaves quickly.
It's hard to keep the panic out of her voice as she walks through the hotel door; fear of the demon and the upcoming fight are muddling her thoughts and rendering her magic useless. Dean can't look at her; her pupils blown wide in terror and lips swollen from nervous nibbling remind him of something far more carnal than rational fear. He looks to the window as Sam takes control. Sam wraps his gigantic windbreaker around her shoulders and puts a hot mug of tea in her hands.
"Hey," he whispers. "Hey, it's going to be okay. We can beat this thing. We have each other, remember? We have you." She nods, feeding on his calming energy. Dean looks back to the two of them, and there is a look in his eye and an aura around him that makes her heart clench again.
"Sam, Marie, come here. Look at this." There is an overly ominous storm cloud dwarfing the others overhead, and it has a potently black color – unnatural against the other grey clouds.
"Oh, dear Goddess," Marie whispers, worming her way between the boys and looking to the sky. She inhales sharply. "This is it," she says, voice eerily soft. "This is the beginning." Her trembles are lessening, but Dean still has an insane urge to wrap her close and keep her from being afraid. Instead of turning to him, though, she slips a gentle hand in one of Sam's warm paws. "We have to call Missouri." Sam nods, looks at Dean, and breathes in deeply.
"Okay," he says. "Here we go."
"Battle stations, people," Dean comments dryly, and Marie giggles nervously. With three words, he somehow alleviates her fear, makes this upcoming battle less of a terror and more of a war. She's not afraid of war, just outright murder.
In the back of her mind, she can hear the warning against more emotional attachment to him than she already has. There's a possibility for sacrifice here, and if she has to give him up in the end ahead, she can't let it kill her too.
She lifts up a silent prayer to the Goddess and hopes it's enough.