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Summary
Dean rubs his soulmark every morning.
The lines of Enochian that swirl around his left shoulder throb like a bruise, but the pressure of having his palm on it seems to help. By a few minutes after he wakes up, the burn of it has settled to a low, achy, constant pulse.
But he closes his eyes, puts his hand on it, and says, “We’re coming for you, buddy,” anyway.
