Immediately, heat floods Dean's face. Now his heart is definitely beating faster. "Oh, that. That's, uh…" He glances down at the Mark on his forearm, wondering how to explain it, but then she comes to stand directly in front of him and leans in closer to his face.

"Look, Dean," she says, her tone firm but her expression softer than expected. "I don't like people knowing my business, so I make a point of not asking other people theirs, but if you want my help, and it's medically relevant, I need to know what that is. Just tell it to me straight."

"Right." He swallows. Best to just bite the bullet then. "It's the Mark of Cain."

There's a pause, and he's surprised by the complete indifference in her expression. "From the Bible?"

"Yes. I got the Mark so I could kill this demon, Abaddon, who wanted to take over Hell. Then I died, but the Mark brought me back. As a demon."

"And your brother cured you?"

"Yes."

"And you think the Mark's been affecting your health?"

"Yes."

"Got it."

He blinks, surprised by how straightforward that was. "You don't want to know anything else?"

"Not for now. I'm just concerned with what your body's gonna tell me. If I need context, I'll ask."

Well that's… Dean doesn't even know what that is. He just stays silent as she slips the cuff onto his bicep and fits the stethoscope in her ears, gripping the bulb as she begins to inflate it. It pinches uncomfortably, but a short while later and she's finished, pulling it off of his arm again. "120 over 80. Upper end of acceptable."

He watches her as she puts the sphygmomanometer back on the trolley. "So…what are you thinking so far? Anything wrong with me?"

"The only thing I can tell that's wrong with you so far is that you're nervous. But that's understandable." She shoots him a smirk as she comes to stand back in front of him, twirling the end of the stethoscope in her hands. "I'll be able to tell a lot more once I've actually listened to your heart."

Dean's not sure why, but he's suddenly feeling incredibly exposed and vulnerable under the force of her stare. Something in her eyes just seems…over-eager, lingering on his bare chest as if she could stare right through to his heart. Maybe it's just diligence, but it makes him shift uncomfortably.

She doesn't give him any warning again when the end of the stethoscope hits his chest, and he hisses from how cold it is. While the air seems to have marginally warmed since she turned on the heating, the metal diaphragm is still like ice. "Sorry," she says drily, not at all seeming like she means it when she pulls back the chestpiece to blow on it then returns it to his skin. He can't honestly say that it's helped.

There's a few moments in which he dutifully remains silent, allowing her to listen. He doesn't know for sure what she's hearing, but he can hazard a guess: his heart thumping a fraction too fast, the occasionally skipped beat disrupting its rhythm. It feels heavy in his chest, like the only thing supporting its weight are the butterflies trying to rise up from his stomach. The Mark on his arm throbs again.

"I'm just gonna check your lungs," she announces suddenly, although he can't tell from her expression if she's heard anything worrying or not. She moves round the back of the table and then the next thing he knows is the fractionally warmer touch of the stethoscope on his back. It's somewhat perturbing to not have her in his line of sight, but he fights down his unease and tries to obey her instructions to breathe deeply.

A few more seconds pass until she asks another question. "You got any history of heart trouble? Prior to the demon thing."

"I, uh…" He hesitates, unsure what to say. "Can I talk?"

"I'm listening while you talk, that's the point. Answer the question."

He bristles slightly at her tone, but clears his throat, wondering what it sounds like to her. "Kinda. I don't know how relevant it is though."

Unexpectedly, the stethoscope leaves his skin and a moment later she's crossed back round in front of him, wearing an irritated scowl. "What do you mean 'kinda'? It's a simple enough question. Just tell me whatever heart history you have."

"I had a heart attack about ten years ago."

"That would be relevant." He resents the patronising look that accompanies it.

"Yeah, but in the meantime, I died and got brought back to life by an angel. I think that pretty much gave me a master reset."

She quirks an eyebrow, and he can tell she's surprised. "Angel?"

"Yeah, they're real. Kinda go hand in hand with demons."

She scowls harder, and it satisfies him to know she doesn't like her own attitude being thrown right back at her. "How many times have you died?"

"You want a number?"

There's a pause. She takes a moment to consider, then decides she doesn't care. "Actually, no. Lie down. I need to palpate your heart."

He does as he's told, but is curious what's coming as she takes off the stethoscope and slings it back around her neck. "I hope that's not an invasive procedure or anything."

"It's a nice way of saying I'm gonna start prodding and poking your chest. Now lie still."

He's barely got in position when he feels a cold, gloved hand lie flat across his sternum. She pushes in with the heel of her hand briefly and then starts to move across his chest, taking no care to be gentle.

As her fingers press between his ribs, countering the pressure from the heavy thumping of his heart, Dean feels a sudden, momentary heat flare up beneath her touch. Red sweeps over his vision and a stabbing pain shoots up from the Mark to his chest. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it's gone.

She notices the stutter in his heartbeat, the way his breathing has suddenly become heavy, panicked. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I…" He says it instinctively, although he knows it's futile to try and lie. "I don't know. My chest, just…hurt for a moment."

A pensive look passes over her face. "Here," she says, and he glances down to where she has two fingers pressed to the center of his chest. The hard, jabbing pressure feels all too familiar. "I heard a murmur over this spot. Can still feel it now. It's as though there's been…damage."

Somewhat nervously, Dean swallows. Just for a moment, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back to rest on the table, drawing a calming breath. "It's where I was stabbed."

"Hmm." She makes a thoughtful noise, but when he looks up again her expression is as impassive as ever. "That what killed you? Prior to becoming a demon." She's taking this all unexpectedly in her stride.

"Yeah."

"Alright. I just want to try something, Dean." She turns away from him and goes to fetch the second trolley of instruments from by the wall, the one with monitoring equipment and oxygen tanks. He's curious, and more than a little concerned at how serious she thinks this is, though he can't read a damn thing from her face. His heart's begun thumping even harder, each beat starting to feel like a punch inside his chest. It's making him nauseous.

"I need to get a closer look at your heart," she elaborates, and then he's watching her prep another needle, filling it with a clear fluid. The tray of surgical instruments is still conspicuously close by. "There's definitely something I can't…" Dean doesn't hear a word of anything else she says, drowned out by the pounding of the blood in his ears. The red has returned to his vision, pulsing at the edges with each throb of his heart. He knows he should say something, but his tongue feels too heavy, his lungs too tight. All he can feel is the growing heat simmering beneath his skin, in his muscles, in his blood…

He can't wonder what's happening when he can't even think straight.

When she turns back to him, needle in hand, passing just inches from a glinting scalpel that dazzles him more than it should in the dim light, the next thing he knows is his own hand has reached out to close round her wrist. There's a pause, a moment of shock that passes in a fleeting heartbeat, and then Dean's leaping up from the table. He isn't thinking, moving on autopilot as his other hand grasps for the offending scalpel and moves to slash at her face.

To his surprise, or what would have been his surprise had he any lucidity left, he never draws blood. Her own hand rises in an instant, closing tightly around his wrist, and it's as if he's been stopped with the solidity of an iron wall. She fixes him with a piercing stare, surprise mixed with what could almost be annoyance, and then her other hand moves to break free of his grip.

What happens next is a blur. Dean sees the needle jabbing towards his neck, and instinctively he raises his fist to knock the syringe from her hands. He barrels forward into the opening, throwing her off balance as he breaks her grip on his wrist. The scalpel slashes again. This time it draws a shallow cut up the side of her cheek, and angered, her eyes widen.

He doesn't have chance to think, to regain control, to process anything before she's suddenly lunging forward to try to wrestle the scalpel from him. Both hands grasp for the weapon while she lands a solid kick to his kneecap, and he falls, colliding roughly with one of the trolleys. Instruments go flying as it topples, colliding with the other one and sending equipment hurtling to the floor with a deafening crash. A canister of gas falls and begins to roll away, emitting a soft hiss.

Dean doesn't register the pain shooting up his side, doesn't register anything but the craving burning hot in his veins, a desire he can't even define but knows he needs to satisfy. His heart continues to race, and somewhere between beats he's on his feet again, throwing himself towards her. She never has chance to use the scalpel before they both end up back on the floor.

Winded, she gasps, trying to scramble out from under him, but his hands close around her throat before she can draw a breath. Somewhere in the back of Dean's mind there's a voice: a distant, annoying, persistent voice that might be screaming something along the lines of "Stop," but he can't really hear.

He stares down at her, rage burning in his eyes as he waits for the lights so go out, but while she fixes him with a cold glare, she isn't struggling. The gas tank rolls by her head as her hands scrabble for something he doesn't even care to look at, and then, unexpectedly, she slams her forehead hard into his nose. Against all strength he thought he had, he feels a sudden punch to his jaw as she succeeds in throwing him off.

Less than a heartbeat passes before he collects himself, rushing back at her before she can gain the upper hand. Amongst the scattered instruments on the floor his hands scramble for a weapon, by chance landing on a pair of rib cutters and mindlessly stabbing towards her head. She blocks it, and for several heartbeats they struggle, messy, frantic as her hands claw at his face and he fights to pin her down. For a moment it seems like he's succeeded, until she hooks her leg beneath his knee and rolls, throwing him with surprising force to the floor.

The weapon is wrenched from his hands as he's left lying face down on the vinyl, chest heaving, feeling the weight of her lying awkwardly on top of him. She isn't heavy enough to pin him, and almost instantly he retaliates, trying to roll to slam her down hard onto her back. It proves to be a mistake.

The minute she lands he feels her arm close around his neck in a chokehold, pressure tightening across his carotid arteries. He struggles, almost surprised by the strength with which she's holding him, but a heartbeat later and he feels a mask being held over his face. There's a hiss, a sharp, acetic smell floods his nostrils, and the strength begins to seep from his muscles. The gas tank rolls past again as he begins to grow weak.

There's a moment of horrified panic for him to realize what he's done before the red fades from his vision and is replaced with black.