AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was meant to be a one-shot, but being that it is long, I've separated it into three chapters.

ENJOY! ;)

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CHAPTER 1: The Bayou's Grasp

——

The Louisiana bayou clung to them like a shadow they couldn't shake. The humid air pressed down, thick and suffocating, as the rancid smell of stagnant water clawed at their senses. The constant hum of cicadas was like a sinister soundtrack, underscoring every uneasy step they took. Mud sucked at their boots, and the canopy above twisted moonlight into shapes that looked like they might lunge at you if you blinked. Dean wiped the sweat dripping down his face and shot a glance at Sam, who was scanning the darkness like it might jump out and bite.

Then they saw it: the cabin. It wasn't just old—it was rotten, barely standing, with planks warped and nails rusting through like it had been stitched together by something that didn't care if it collapsed. Every instinct screamed don't go in there. But Winchesters didn't back down.

"Dean, this place is—" Sam started.

"Yeah, a real fixer-upper," Dean interrupted, gripping his sawed-off a little tighter. "Let's just get this over with."

They exchanged one of those looks—silent, weighted, the kind that spoke volumes. Then they stepped onto the porch. The boards groaned under their weight, loud enough to make both brothers pause. The air felt heavier here, like the cabin itself was watching. Dean didn't bother with a polite knock. His boot met the door with a solid thud, and it swung open, creaking like the gates of hell.

The air inside was worse. Hot and stifling, it reeked of copper, rot, and something fouler—dark magic. The walls were covered in symbols, etched in dried blood that cracked at the edges. Candles flickered low, their shadows jerking like puppets on strings. In the center of it all stood the witch.

She was tall and draped in black, her pale face a cruel mask with sharp angles that didn't belong to anything human. Her eyes burned, not with heat, but with cold, unrelenting power. They didn't just look at you—they unraveled you.

"Well, well," she said, her voice a honey-coated dagger. "The Winchesters. I was wondering when you'd show up."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Great. Another fan."

Sam stepped forward, voice calm but sharp. "We know what you've done. Where are the people you took?"

Her smile widened, too perfect, too wrong. "Took? No, my sweet boy. I freed them. They came to me willingly."

Dean let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Yeah, I'm sure they were just dying to join your cult of creepy."

Her expression darkened. With a flick of her wrist, Sam was hurled against the wall like a rag doll. He crumpled to the floor, leaving a dark stain beneath him.

"Sam!" Dean roared, charging at her. He swung the sawed-off, but she was already smoke—black and twisting, wrapping around him like a living thing. Her laughter filled the room, jagged and cruel. She reappeared behind him, her voice sliding into his ear.

"You'll beg for the darkness before this is over, hunter," she whispered. "But not before I take everything you love."

Then, she was gone. No flash, no sound—just the faintest echo of her voice and the suffocating weight of her threat lingering in the room.

Dean dropped to his knees, his chest heaving like it was on fire. The witch's magic coiled in his veins, searing and unrelenting. But it wasn't the pain that mattered. It was Sam, lying crumpled and bleeding.

"Sammy," Dean rasped, crawling over to him. "Hey. C'mon, man, open your eyes."

Sam stirred, just barely, his face pale but alive. Relief hit Dean like a sucker punch. "You're okay," he muttered, hauling Sam up and slinging his arm over his shoulder. "I got you. We're getting out of this hellhole."

Every step through the swamp was a nightmare. The bayou seemed darker, thicker, like it was feeding off the witch's magic. Rustling leaves and splashing water made Dean's nerves scream, but he kept going. Sam was leaning heavy against him, murmuring broken words that made no sense.

"What happened?" Sam finally croaked, his voice a whisper.

Dean didn't answer. He couldn't. Not with the curse burning hotter in his chest, whispering promises in his ear. Just let go. It'll be easier. Faster.

"Shut up," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was weak, but laced with worry.

"Not now, Sammy. Just hold on."

By the time they reached the Impala, Dean was barely standing. He dumped Sam into the passenger seat, then leaned against the hood, clutching his chest as the curse surged again, hotter, deadlier. His vision blurred, but he forced himself into the driver's seat. The Impala was their sanctuary, their last shot at holding it together.

As he fired up the engine, he glanced back at the bayou. The cabin was hidden in the shadows now, but its memory lingered like a bad dream.

Dean gritted his teeth. "You picked the wrong family, lady," he muttered. "We're not done."

The Impala roared down the dirt road, her engine cutting through the oppressive silence of the swamp. Dean's chest burned, and Sam's groans filled the car, but neither of them were giving up. The Winchesters didn't know how to quit.

And this? This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

—— LEBANON, KANSAS - BUNKER HQ ——

The bunker's cold walls weren't offering their usual sanctuary tonight. Dean half-dragged Sam inside, the kid barely holding himself upright. Every pained breath Sam took made Dean's jaw tighten. His brother waved him off like always—tough as nails, even when he shouldn't be—but it wasn't just Sam Dean was worried about. Something darker had latched onto him, curling deep in his gut like it owned the place.

Sam dropped onto his bed with a groan, one hand resting on the fresh bandages Dean had wrapped around his ribs. Dean lingered in the doorway, trying to shake the weight pressing on his chest.

"You good? Or do I need to put on a nurse's cap?" he asked, aiming for a smirk. It didn't quite land.

Sam cracked a tired grin. "I'll live. Go get some sleep, Dean. You look worse than me."

"Yeah, well," Dean muttered, turning away. "Don't forget to set your alarm for 'don't die,' Sammy."

He wandered down the quiet hallways, the bunker's low hum buzzing in his ears. Sleep wasn't happening, not with the witch's words gnawing at him. The library felt like the right place to be, so he settled into the familiar leather chair, surrounded by walls of books older than his great-grandfather.

He flipped through pages with shaky hands until the words hit him like a punch to the gut: "Curses of unholy desire… feed on the will of the afflicted, drawing them toward corruption."

The heat inside him flared, as if the curse itself was mocking him. Dean slammed the book shut, shoving it aside with enough force to knock over a nearby stack.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath, scrubbing his face with both hands.

The exhaustion finally won. His head hit the desk, and before he knew it, he was plunged into a nightmare that felt too damn real.

The swamp was back, crawling into his bones like it had never left. The air was heavy, thick with rot and malice. The shadows shifted just beyond his reach, and then there she was—the witch. Her eyes burned like dying embers, cold and all-consuming.

"Dean," she purred, her voice a dagger wrapped in velvet. "You can't resist me forever."

Her fingers trailed across his chest, leaving searing heat in their wake. Dean tried to shove her back, but his body wouldn't obey. The shadows closed in tighter, her laughter curling around him like smoke.

"Let go," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. "Embrace your desires."

Dean jolted awake, his heart hammering. The library swam into focus as he clutched the edge of the desk, gasping for air like he'd been drowning. His skin was slick with sweat, the witch's touch still burning against his chest.

He needed something—anything—to drown out the memory. The whiskey called to him, and he didn't argue. He found himself in the kitchen, pouring a glass with shaking hands. The amber liquid burned going down, but it wasn't enough to quiet the heat clawing its way through him.

"Dean?"

The voice cut through the silence like a blade. Dean froze mid-pour, then turned to see Castiel standing in the doorway, his usual trench coat blending into the shadows. But those piercing blue eyes were locked on Dean, unrelenting.

"Not now, Cas," Dean said, pouring another shot.

Castiel stepped closer, his expression unreadable but heavy with something Dean didn't want to face. "Something's wrong," he said, voice low. "I can feel it."

"Yeah, well, maybe you need to get your angel radar fixed," Dean shot back, downing the drink and slamming the glass on the counter.

"You're lying." Castiel's words were calm, but they cut deeper than Dean wanted to admit.

Dean's grip tightened on the counter, his knuckles white. "Drop it, Cas."

"Dean, please," Castiel said, his voice soft but unyielding. "Let me help you."

The curse surged inside him, a wave of molten heat that made Dean step back, away from Castiel. For a second, he couldn't tell if the burn was his own or something the witch had planted.

"Our last case… Damn Witch put a curse on me. It's messing with my head," Dean finally admitted, his voice rough. "It's not just some random one either, Cas. It's like it knows me. Like it's in me."

Castiel's brow furrowed, the faint glow of his grace flickering in his eyes. "Whatever this curse is, it's lying to you."

"Is it?" Dean barked a laugh that had no humor behind it. "Because, I gotta tell ya, Cas, it feels damn good. Like maybe letting go isn't the worst idea I've ever had."

Castiel stepped closer, his hand reaching out to grip Dean's shoulder. The angel's touch was steady, grounding, like a lighthouse in a storm. "That's the curse talking, Dean."

Dean looked away, his jaw tight. He wanted to believe him. Hell, he needed to believe him. But the fire inside him whispered otherwise, its promises too tempting to ignore.

"You don't have to fight it alone," Castiel said, his grip firm. "We'll figure this out. Together."

Dean swallowed hard, nodding once. "Yeah. Sure. Together."

After Castiel left, Dean stayed in the kitchen, staring at the empty glass in his hand. The whispers were still there, coiling around his thoughts, daring him to give in. But he shoved them down, focusing on the one thing he knew for certain:

This wasn't over.

The witch had made it personal. And when Dean Winchester made something personal, it usually ended with a smoking corpse and a hell of a lot of regret.

But first, he had to figure out how to keep himself from becoming her next victim.

—— THE FOLLOWING NIGHT ——

Dean hit the bed hard, his body aching like he'd gone twelve rounds with a hellhound. Exhaustion dragged at him, heavy and insistent, and for once, he didn't fight it. His eyes shut, and sleep came fast—but peace wasn't in the cards. Not tonight.

The curse stirred.

His breathing slowed, steady and even, as his eyes snapped open. The green of his irises was swallowed by black, pupils blown wide and unnatural. His movements were jerky at first, a puppet testing its strings, but soon they smoothed into an eerie, deliberate rhythm. Dean Winchester wasn't behind the wheel anymore.

The bunker halls were quiet, the soft hum of machinery the only sound as Dean's boots scuffed the floor. His steps were slow, uneven, the shuffle of a man being led by something unseen. His face was slack, his gaze unfocused, but his direction was clear. He was heading straight for Castiel.

In his room, Castiel sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes closed. Meditation had become his anchor since his connection to Heaven had been severed, a way to tune into the subtle shifts of the world around him. Tonight, though, something was wrong. The air felt heavy, charged with a dark energy that prickled at the edges of his grace.

The faint sound of footsteps broke his concentration. They were slow, deliberate, and off in a way that immediately set him on edge. He opened his eyes, his head tilting toward the door.

"Dean?" he called, his voice calm but wary.

The footsteps paused, then resumed, growing louder. A shadow appeared in the doorway, stretching across the room as Dean stepped inside. He stood there, backlit by the dim hallway light, his posture unnaturally rigid.

"Dean," Castiel repeated, rising slowly to his feet. His sharp eyes scanned the man in front of him. Something was… wrong. The way Dean's shoulders were hunched, the way his movements lacked their usual confidence—it wasn't Dean. Not entirely.

"Dean?" Castiel took a cautious step forward, his hand flexing at his side, ready to summon his grace if necessary.

Dean didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on Castiel, his eyes a void of black and green. Then, without warning, he lunged.

The force was shocking. Dean's hands clamped down on Castiel's arms, slamming him back against the wall. Castiel grunted, his grace flaring instinctively, but he didn't fight back. Instead, he looked into Dean's face—expressionless, yet charged with something primal, something hungry.

"Dean," Castiel said, his voice steady despite the pressure on his arms. "What's happening?"

Dean's response wasn't verbal. His body surged forward, and before Castiel could react, Dean's mouth was on his. The kiss was rough, almost violent, but beneath the aggression was a desperation that Castiel couldn't ignore. The dark energy of the curse radiated off Dean, tangling with Castiel's grace in a way that made his skin crawl—and yet, the kiss itself felt heartbreakingly human. Raw. Real.

For a moment, Castiel was frozen, caught between instinct and the undeniable truth of what he was feeling. Then, just as abruptly as it began, it was over. Dean pulled back, his breathing harsh and uneven. His hands dropped to his sides, and he staggered backward, his expression shifting from blank to horrified in an instant.

"Cas…" Dean's voice cracked, his hand flying to his mouth. "I didn't—" He shook his head violently, stepping back further. "I wasn't… I didn't…"

"Dean," Castiel said, his tone calm but firm. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate. "This isn't you. It's the curse. It's influencing you."

Dean's eyes darted to Castiel, wide and filled with panic. "I don't know what's happening to me," he muttered, his voice breaking. "I can't stop it."

"You can," Castiel said, his gaze steady. He took another step forward, keeping his voice low and soothing. "But you have to let me help you."

Dean's breath hitched, his hands trembling as he gripped the doorframe for support. The curse thrummed through him, a low, insistent hum that grew louder with every second. He could feel it pulling at him, dragging him closer to the edge.

"I can't fight it," Dean admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes you can," Castiel repeated, his hand reaching out to rest lightly on Dean's shoulder. The touch sent a faint ripple of grace through Dean, momentarily dimming the fire beneath his skin. "You've faced worse than this, Dean. You're stronger than it."

Dean closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping. He wanted to believe Castiel, wanted to hold onto the hope in his voice. But the darkness inside him was alive, relentless, whispering promises he couldn't ignore.

"If I lose it again…" Dean's voice trailed off, his eyes opening to meet Castiel's. "If I hurt you—"

"You won't," Castiel interrupted, his tone unwavering. "I won't let you."

Dean swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "Yeah. Okay."

Castiel let his hand linger on Dean's shoulder for a moment longer before stepping back. His expression was a mix of determination and concern. "You need rest," he said. "I'll stay close. If the curse acts again, I'll be here."

Dean sighed, nodding reluctantly. "Fine. But Cas… if I lose it—"

"You won't," Castiel interrupted again, his voice softer now. "I promise."

As Dean turned and walked back toward his room, the curse whispered in his mind, its dark promises curling around his thoughts like smoke. This wasn't over. The witch wasn't done with him.

But Dean Winchester wasn't done either. Not by a long shot.

——TWO DAYS LATER——

The Impala rolled into the outskirts of a remote Montana town as the last traces of daylight bled into the horizon. The forest that bordered the town loomed like a fortress of shadows, its skeletal trees clawing at the sky. Dean tapped the steering wheel nervously while Castiel stared out the window, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"You sure this is where she's hiding out?" Dean asked, his voice tight.

"Yes," Castiel replied, his gravelly tone calm but firm. "The incidents occurring here are similar to what you and Sam investigated in Louisiana."

Dean grunted, gripping the wheel tighter. He could feel the curse gnawing at the edges of his mind, a predator circling its prey. The headaches were getting worse, and his hands trembled more often than he cared to admit. But this—this was their shot at ending it. He wasn't about to let some witch win.

——

The forest was unnervingly quiet as they trudged through it, the beam of their flashlights cutting through the suffocating darkness. Twigs snapped underfoot, and an eerie wind whispered through the branches, carrying with it the faint, acrid scent of something burnt.

"We're being watched," Castiel said suddenly, his tone void of doubt.

Dean's hand went instinctively to the pistol at his hip. "By who—or what?"

Before Castiel could respond, a deep growl reverberated through the air. It wasn't just a sound—it was a vibration that resonated in their bones. Dean swung the flashlight toward the noise, and his heart sank.

A pair of glowing amber eyes stared back at him. Emerging from the shadows was a massive black wolf, its fur sleek and glistening under the dim light. But this was no ordinary wolf. Its size was unnatural, its muscles rippling like those of a predator crafted for killing. Its eyes burned with intelligence—calculating, malevolent.

"Skinwalker," Castiel said, his voice low.

Dean's shoulders squared, his stance falling into a practiced defensive posture, the pistol a steady weight in his hand. His eyes narrowed, voice laced with grit. "Figures. Witch's got herself a guard dog."

The creature lunged without warning, a blur of black fur and razor-sharp teeth. Dean fired a shot, but the beast was too fast, dodging the bullet and slamming into him with the force of a freight train. Dean hit the ground hard, the pistol skidding out of reach.

Castiel stepped forward, his angel blade glinting. He slashed at the wolf, grazing its side. The creature howled in rage, spinning to snap at Castiel with fangs as sharp as daggers. The two fought in a brutal dance of speed and power, but the skinwalker's focus kept flickering back to Dean, who was scrambling to his feet.

The curse stirred within him, its cold tendrils wrapping tighter around his mind. Dean's vision blurred, his pulse roaring in his ears. His breath came in ragged gasps as the wolf charged him again. This time, when he grabbed it by the throat, something inside him snapped.

It happened in a flash—a red haze engulfed Dean, his body moving as if possessed. The curse surged through him like molten fire, amplifying his strength and dulling his humanity. He roared, an unearthly sound, and slammed the skinwalker into the ground.

The wolf thrashed, snarling, but Dean was relentless. His fists rained down with savage force, shattering bone and tearing flesh. He didn't stop when the creature whimpered, its body twitching weakly. He didn't stop when Castiel shouted his name, his voice urgent and edged with alarm.

Dean grabbed the wolf's head and twisted. The sickening crack echoed through the forest, followed by an unnatural silence.

Blood sprayed across Dean's face and hands, warm and thick, clinging to him like a second skin. The skinwalker lay crumpled at his feet, its twisted, monstrous shape already melting back into human form. The once-predatory eyes were now glassy, staring into nothing. Dean stood over the body, chest heaving, his breath ragged and feral. His hands shook—not from fear, but from the raw rush of adrenaline that still burned through his veins.

"Dean!" Castiel's voice cut through the haze. "Dean!"

Dean blinked, his surroundings coming into sharp focus. He looked down at his bloodied hands, then at the mangled corpse. The reality of what he had done hit him like a sledgehammer. He stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat.

"I… I didn't mean—" His voice broke, thick with horror.

Castiel stepped closer, his expression a mix of concern and caution. "It wasn't you. The curse is escalating. We need to find the witch, now."

Dean shook his head, wiping at his face as if he could erase the blood. "That wasn't just the curse, Cas. That was me. Some part of me… liked it."

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken fears. Castiel's gaze softened, but he didn't deny it.

"Then we'll stop it before it takes you over completely," Castiel said firmly. "But we have to keep moving."

Dean nodded, though the weight of what he'd done stayed with him as they ventured deeper into the forest. The curse was no longer just a ticking clock—it was a monster clawing its way out of him. And the longer they went without stopping it, the more he feared there wouldn't be anything of Dean Winchester left to save.

——

A sawmill stood at the edge of the river, its decaying structure silhouetted against the pale moonlight. Time had not been kind to the building; its roof sagged in places, the wooden walls were blackened with age, and the faint sound of rushing water underscored the oppressive silence. Dean and Castiel crouched behind a crumbling stack of logs, scanning the area.

"Nothing about this feels right," Dean muttered, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. His grip on the angel blade tightened, his knuckles white.

"Her power is stronger here," Castiel said, his voice a quiet rumble. "The energy is… saturated. She's close, but she's masking herself."

Dean frowned. The curse stirred restlessly, a subtle hum in the back of his skull, like a beast pacing in its cage. He could feel it growing stronger the closer they got.

"Let's make this quick," Dean said, rising to his feet. Together, they moved toward the sawmill, their steps light, their senses on high alert.

Inside, the air was damp and heavy with mildew. Moonlight spilled through shattered windows, casting fractured beams across the warped wooden floor. Rusted machinery loomed in the darkness, their jagged edges like the teeth of long-forgotten giants.

"Stay sharp," Dean whispered, his voice barely audible. "She's gotta be—"

He froze as a faint, chilling breath tickled the back of his neck.

"Dean…" Castiel began, sensing the sudden shift in Dean's posture. But before he could finish, a voice—low and serpentine—breathed into Dean's ear.

"Do you feel it, Dean? The rage. The power. Let it consume you."

Dean's body stiffened, his eyes widening. The voice slithered through his mind, feeding the curse like gasoline to a fire. He spun around, but the witch was already gone, her laughter echoing like the rustling of dead leaves.

"What happened?" Castiel asked, his gaze sharp, his angel blade raised.

Dean staggered back a step, pressing a hand to his temple as the curse surged through him. His pulse thundered in his ears, and the world around him tilted.

"I—she was here," Dean stammered, his voice ragged. "She said… something. I—" He broke off, his breath hitching.

Castiel's brows furrowed with concern. "Dean, are you—"

Dean's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with an unholy light. Before Castiel could react, Dean lunged at him, the angel blade in his hand gleaming like a shard of the moon.

Castiel barely managed to parry the strike, his own blade meeting Dean's with a resounding clang. "Dean, stop!" he shouted, his voice firm but laced with desperation.

Dean's lips curled into a snarl, and he swung again, faster this time. Castiel deflected the blow, but the force sent him staggering back. "Dean, it's me!"

But Dean wasn't listening. The curse had overtaken him, amplifying his strength and bloodlust beyond anything Castiel had seen before. He attacked with a ferocity that bordered on inhuman, his movements a blur of deadly precision.

"Kill him."

Castiel ducked and weaved, trying to avoid the worst of the blows, but Dean was relentless. A swipe of the angel blade grazed Castiel's arm, the cut searing with celestial energy. He winced, stumbling, his blade slipping from his hand.

"Dean!" Castiel cried, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "This isn't you! Fight it!"

Dean responded with a brutal punch to Castiel's jaw, the impact sending the angel crashing into a rusted conveyor belt. The sound of metal groaning under the force echoed through the sawmill. Castiel pushed himself up, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He didn't want to hurt Dean—but Dean wasn't giving him a choice.

"Kill him."

Another swing, another dodge—barely. Dean's attacks came faster now, each one more vicious than the last. His fists pummeled Castiel with unrelenting force, driving him to the ground. Castiel's grace kept him conscious, but he was weakening. Blood pooled beneath him, and his breaths came in ragged gasps.

"Kill him."

"Dean… please," Castiel choked out, his voice breaking. "You're stronger than this."

But Dean didn't stop. His fists rained down like thunder, his eyes burning with the cursed light. Castiel's vision blurred as the blows continued, each one sending shockwaves through his vessel.

Finally, Dean stood over Castiel, the angel blade clutched in his hand. Castiel lay motionless, his body battered and broken. The cursed fire in Dean's veins roared, urging him to finish it.

"KILL HIM!"

He raised the blade high, ready to strike.

But then—a flicker of clarity.

Dean's eyes widened as he saw Castiel's face, bloodied and swollen, but still etched with unyielding faith. The angel's lips moved, forming a single word: "Dean."

The haze lifted, like a storm breaking. The blade fell from Dean's hand, clattering to the ground. He staggered back, his chest heaving, his hands trembling as he looked down at what he had done.

"Oh God," Dean whispered, his voice shaking. "Cas, I—I didn't—" He dropped to his knees beside Castiel, his hands hovering helplessly over the angel's broken form. "Cas, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

Castiel's hand, weak but steady, reached up and gripped Dean's arm. "It… wasn't you," he rasped, his voice barely audible.

Dean shook his head, tears brimming in his eyes. "No, Cas. I felt it. I wanted to… I almost—" His voice cracked, and he looked away, ashamed.

"You stopped," Castiel said, his grip tightening slightly. "That's what matters."

Dean sat back, his hands clutching his hair as he struggled to breathe. The sawmill was silent except for the sound of the river rushing beyond its walls. He felt the curse still lurking, waiting for its chance to strike again.

And in that moment, Dean realized just how close he was to losing himself completely.

"We have to end this," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Before it's too late."

——TO BE CONTINUED——