A Crow with a Rose

Chapter Twenty-One

…The darkness was all encompassing. She could feel it weighing on her like a physical force. It was filled her nose and mouth, packed deep in her throat. She couldn't breathe, it was impossible and yet, time continued to pass and she hadn't lost consciousness. Why? Wouldn't it stop? She couldn't breathe so why hadn't she fainted at the very least?

Cold fingers threaded through her hair and she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to cry out.

"Now, now, Rosie…"

She wanted to cry, to scream, but her voice and her breath still wouldn't work. The hands traveled downward, caressing her exposed neck as she remained frozen and incapable of pulling away. The gesture was soft in nature but it sent an electrifying terror throughout her body. She could feel her muscles seizing, wanting to pull away even though she was incapable of doing so.

"…Don't tell me you're scared of the dark?"

She could feel breath brushing against her face and a whimper escaped her as she tried to lean back, to no avail. The burning cold pressed against the tender skin of her throat and she threw her head back in a silent scream begging for someone to come and save her, for C—

Blue eyes flew open and her ears were filled with the sound of her own labored, ragged breathing. Sweat soaked her hairline and her muscles ached as she managed to roll onto her side, her stomach threatening to give up its contents. As she heaved and shuddered, she realized that she was still drowning in darkness. She couldn't see.

No, no, no—gotta get out, gotta get out!

Her legs wouldn't support her at first, dropping her unevenly to her knees. Scrambling, she managed to get her feet under her again and she bolted forward. A wall stopped her next but she kept moving, her hands flat against the surface, searching for any kind of give. The top of her hand bashed against a handle and she grabbed it, ignoring the dull pain of a new bruise forming and threw the door open.

The florescent lights were blinding as she stumbled forward. Bringing an arm up to shield her eyes, she squinted and tried to figure out where she was exactly. She was in some kind of hallway, the tiles on the walls reflecting the light. Struggling to keep her eyes open, she kept her one arm up until her eyes could adjust while her other hand grabbed the wall to keep steady as she moved forward.

Where was she? All of the white and lack of decorum made her immediately think that maybe it was some kind of institution. Hospital? Mental ward?

A new doorway appeared and she hurried up the stairs. She had yet to run into any staff or personnel but how long would that last? How much time did she have to get away?

The new room was a large study, she noticed, taking a second to slow down and take in her new surroundings. The ceilings stretched high into an arch and the walls were lined with books. A library? There were large oak tables down the center of the room accompanied with chairs and lamps. A beer bottle abandoned on the end of a table caught her attention and she found herself approaching it. She picked it up gingerly, examining it. It was awfully casual for some kind of facility, she wondered. Her brow furrowed in thought as she looked over the label again. It was a familiar scene, an empty bottle in a room full of books…but everything was so fuzzy it was difficult to try and think back to where she last saw it—

"Rose?"

A sharp scream escaped her as she whirled around, holding the bottle by the neck and out in front of her defensively.

Her eyes widened and her body trembled as she studied the man that had entered the room. He was tall with brown hair that was messy from sleep, and a face so familiar she could cry—

…"I love you—all of you, so much," Rose told him fiercely, her voice wavering. "I can't—I can't even begin to tell you how much. This—all of this, with you, the hunting and monsters, everything—this has been…the best part of my life and I can't thank you enough…!"

Green eyes became bright with unshed tears as Sam stared down at her. His hands moved so to cradle her face as he shook his head fervently.

"No, Rose, you can't—you can't—!"

The hound was only growing closer. She could practically hear it running, like a train picking up speed. She needed to create space so to keep it away from Sam and the others. Biting down hard on her lip, she had to soldier through her hesitation and she had to move. Her hands lashed out and connected solidly with Sam's chest, pushing him back and away. Her voice broke as she tried to shout at him one last time.

"Run, Sam! Please—run!"…

The memory rammed its way to the forefront of her mind and she brought a hand up to her head at the sudden ache, gasping. He started to approach her, his expression worried.

"Rose, are you—"

"Stay back!" she managed, raising her voice. Her headache was a steady pound, ringing in her ears. It was all too confusing! She had so many questions and no answers! And why, oh why did she have the sickening doubt that she couldn't believe what she was seeing? Why couldn't she believe that it was really him? It had to be Sam, right? But why couldn't she accept that—?

She let out a pained shout as macabre images burned into her vision…

…There was blood everywhere.

No light. No air. Just the god-awful stench of death. She couldn't bring herself to retch anymore, her face slick with tears and blood of her own. Their bodies were piled on top of each other, their bodies and limbs hanging at strange, grotesque angles. There were so many of them, the same ones over and over and over again, piling high and filling the room. They just kept appearing and dying and she couldn't stop it—she couldn't stop it!

"C'mon, Rosie, isn't this fun? One by one they all fall down."

Everything turned cold and she could feel it burning against her back as arms slipped around her, their body pressing against her. One hand snaked around and firmly grabbed her jaw, long fingers digging into her cheeks as he kept her gaze forward. A strangled sob escaped her as she tried uselessly to pull free but his grip only became a tighter vice, forcing her to watch the never ending rain of bodies of the people she loved, his voice a sickly sweet murmur in her ear as he named each of them as they fell.

"There's Mommy…Daddy…Gracie…Bobby…Sammy…Dean-o…Cassie…and my favorite,—"

Rose squeezed her eyes shut and brought the bottle down hard on the edge of the nicely polished table. Ignoring the fallen glass, she held up her makeshift weapon defensively in front of her, much to the hunter's alarm.

"Whoa, hey—!"

"What's going on?!" she tried to shout, her voice cracking halfway through her words. "Where am I?!"

Sam held his hands up in a placating gesture, taking care not to move too quickly. "You're in the Men of Letters bunker in Lebanon, Kansas. We brought you here last night. You—you appeared out of nowhere, in the middle of the road."

"I—I was running…" she said, trying to piece together her fragmented memory.

…The very decibel made her heart want to burst from her chest in unadulterated fear...

"The hound…!" she gasped. "I was running from the hound!"

"A Hellhound? There wasn't any—"

"There was a hound!" she snapped at him. Tears were burning her eyes and she pressed her hand against the side of her head again. "I know what I heard!"

"Okay, okay…just…just take a breath, Rose," Sam tried to assure her. "You're safe now. There's no hound now…"

She could barely hear him as she struggled to grasp was happening around her. Frustrated tears blurred her vision as her hand shook, the broken bottle still locked in a death grip.

"That doesn't make any sense…!"

What was going on?! She knew what she heard was nothing other than a Hellhound. No other sound could spear such terror into her heart. She knew that sound. But if it had been a hound, how was she still alive? It should be impossible. There were ways to deter a hound, but only temporarily. Regardless, she should be dead. So why wasn't she?

Or what if I'm still dead? A sick voice whispered from the back of her mind. Icy doubt washed over her and she could feel what color she had drain away.

Of course…it's all…it's all a trick…

It would…it would make sense….It would explain why she "escaped" the Hellhound, why she was seeing Sam alive, and why she was somewhere safe…

She turned the broken bottle so that she could see the sharp gleaming edge…

I just…have to break the illusion…

"Rose!"

Sam's shout startled her, snapping her back into the moment and he was suddenly in front of her. He snatched the bottle from her hand, tossing it aside where it shattered into pieces. Blue eyes were wide as she looked up at him in surprise. Before she could back up, his arms were around her and he brought her into an impossibly tight hug.

"You're okay, Rose," he promised her. His arms were shaking…or was that her? "You're okay. This is real. You're really back. With us."

Hot tears continued to roll down her cheeks as she could only stare at the material of his shirt with wide eyes as he held her tighter still. His hand reached up and became lost in her hair, pulling her to him.

"You're…warm…" she murmured to herself. Her arms tentatively rose and she brought them around him, hands lightly resting against his back, slowly returning the gesture.

…There was never a reprieve from the ungodly cold. Everything bore an icy chill. His touch. The air. Even the visions she was cursed with carried no warmth. In a way, it helped her cope…

And Sam was warm.

"You're warm…!" She threw her strength into the embrace, not caring how hard she squeezed. The tears fell with a renewed vigor and she buried her face in his shoulder "Oh my god, Sam!"

Rose didn't care that she sobbed like a child while she clung to the youngest Winchester.

Darkness didn't bother him. After spending time in Hell if you didn't accept the darkness it would drive you mad.

And accept it he did.

He made it apart of him. Infused it with his very essence, filling the void where his soul once resided. It was easy, to let all of the unfeeling blackness wash over. At first it was like drowning, but once he let it in, the rush was unlike anything he'd ever experience. All of the power that was available to him and the fact that he could have even more…well, his appetite was insatiable. There was no such thing as too much power.

"Then…please, stop going after Purgatory."

Crowley visibly flinched as the words echoed in his mind, seemingly louder in the pitch black room. He could still picture her that day. Her cheeks and nose pink from the cold. Dressed in jeans, plaid flannel, and an oversized jacket. Always wearing some sort of Winchester hand-me-down, he remember with a fond sort of scoff. Vibrant red hair even brighter in contrast to her fair skin and the dreary weather. He remembered slipping his fingers through her hair as he closed the space between them. Her lips were soft against his and his pulse sped up as they pressed their connection further. Just like when their contract was originally struck, there was an unprecedented heat that would flare up and engulf his very being. If he still had soul he would've felt it there as well.

"I just want to keep everyone safe, Crowley. That means you too."

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the words that were said with a voice that was becoming quieter over time. It hurt too much. It was a slippery slope when he allowed his thoughts to linger on his contract and the last day he saw her. His thoughts would spiral and pull him in too deep. Normally, anger would be an easy remedy. Anger was always easy. It burned away the sorrow and allowed him to focus on the task at hand, which was finding her. Or was it putting a stop to the Winchester's latest mission?

"I've been tearing Hell apart—"

"No, no. No, you haven't," interrupted Sam. "You've been up here trying to cut deals with—with Leviathans, kidnapping Prophets, and killing so many innocent people. Good people. Just so you could get your hands on the tablets."

Sam's voice rang with righteous anger. A heartbroken rage. The words were sharp and had hooked deep into his mind, making his body heavy under their weight. The moose was right and he hated it.

"I don't—I don't want anything…Crowley, I've ever only wanted you."

But he hated himself more.

Somewhere along the line he had realigned his priorities where his status and power took precedent over finding Rosette. His search for her was ever ongoing but he had to focus on other things such as Dick Roman and his empire of Leviathans, then there were the Prophets and the tablets and then the Hell Trials the trouble making brothers were trying to complete. In short, he had other things to worry about.

While it all made sense in his head, he felt his stomach churn and the acidic heat of bile rise up in his throat.

He was a demon. It should be simple to accept the loss of one human. He should've accepted the plot created by Meg since he had already punished her (killed her even) and he should move on. After all, she was only a soul he had contracted. Nothing more.

But Rosette was more than a soul to collect…His chest tightened and the tops of his cheeks felt fever warm and he shook his head with a frustrated growl to try and dislodge his thoughts.

She wasn't supposed to mean anything to him. Why couldn't she have been like any other deal? Why did she have to show him kindness? Affection? Of all the souls he had contracted, why did Castiel have to find her? Why did she have to stay with the Winchesters? Why couldn't she have been like every other human he dealt with and live out her ten years satisfied with her deal and died on time like she was meant to? How dare she make him care for her, value her, worry about her…

When had he taken her into his non-existent heart?

Before he could shout out in self-loathing hatred, there was the sound of a door opening.

His head snapped up and he had only just managed to shove his thoughts to the side. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he forced himself to relax into the chair as if the thick iron collar and the too tight handcuffs weren't aggravating his vessel. His skin was mottled with bruises, dried blood still coating half of his face where Abaddon had so kindly planted her boot, and his neck still ached where all of the needles had pierced him, their effects still working through his stolen body.

That didn't stop him from smirking as Sam and Dean Winchester opened the double doors.

"Hello, boys," he greeted in his usual manner. Appearances needed to be upheld and the look of annoyance on the two brothers' faces was well worth it.

"Can it, Crowley," grouched Dean. The demon noticed that the older brother's hair was in a mess, one side flat as if he had been asleep. Sam's state of dress was identical, his usual well tamed locks messy. His hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion. It had to be sometime in the middle of the night, or early morning depending on how you looked at it. Had something happened already?

"We have a Hell question for you," he continued.

Crowley raised an interested brow. "I believe the pair of you have had the crash course. What could you possibly need to learn from little ol' me?"

"You're the King," Sam stated, barely withholding a snarl of his own. "And our question is about the schematics of Hell."

"You gave the place a makeover since we were downstairs," added Dean, folding his arms over his chest.

"Thinking about visiting your alma mater? I suppose you wouldn't want to walk down the wrong hall if you decide to sneak onto campus, again," Crowley drawled, a twinge of annoyance at the memory of the two slipping into his kingdom unnoticed via a rabbit hole in Purgatory.

Dean rolled his eyes, clearly having less patience than usual.

"Are there any cold places in your redesign of Hell?"

The demon's brows furrowed in confusion. "It's Hell. Fire and brimstone. Souls burning away for all of eternity is kind of our selling point, Squirrel, regardless of what Dante wrote."

The two brother shared a look, no words exchanged.

"What's with the sudden interest in Hell's thermostat?" he asked. "Even a child knows that Hell's hot, so what is it you're really looking for?"

"You're positive there are no cold spots?" asked Sam. "Not even one?"

"If there was a cold section of Hell it could be seen as a reprieve from the regularly scheduled soul melting heat," he answered again with a roll of his eyes. "The point of Hell is that there is no relief, apart from making the switch from being on the rack to the one placing souls there instead. Which you're more than familiar with, of course."

A muscle jumped in Dean's jaw at the reminder of his time under Alastair's tutelage and he turned to leave.

"He's useless, Sam. Let's go."

Sam turned to follow his bother but he stopped before reaching out to close the door. He kept his back to the demon.

"…One more thing," he said slowly. "Back at the chapel…were you serious about what you said? About Rose and forgiveness?"

His heart gave a painful thump at the human's word, but he gave a well-practiced scoff, his voice thick with perfected nonchalance.

"Come now, Moose. You had me doped up on human blood, so I'm sure I said plenty of things."

"So you didn't mean it? Any of it?" he asked, his voice gaining a sharp edge.

"You really shouldn't believe the words of someone under the influence, didn't your mummy teach you better?"

Sam grabbed the edge of the door, green eyes piercing him with a frosty glare over his shoulder.

"Good to know."

And Crowley was left in darkness once again alone with his thoughts and the ache of emotions pounding through his veins.

Her thoughts were in a haze and she was dully thankful that Sam had led the way. She wouldn't have been able to find her way around the bunker otherwise. Her head felt like it was in a fog after she had sobbed into the hunter's shoulder. It was sinking in just how tired she was, her feet dragging against the floor. Sam had suggested that she freshened up and then tried to sleep afterwards, that it might help her feel better. He had even found her some clothes to borrow, older pieces of Dean's that he never wore anymore, promising that they would get hers washed since that were covered in dirt and mud from her stint out in the woods.

When her chin nearly dropped to her chest it snapped her back to the present and kept her from falling asleep where she leaned against the wall. The room was filling with steam and she gingerly began to peel off her filthy clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

Rose gasped as the hot water struck her bare skin, her body shuddering at the sharp change of temperature. Eyes widening at the sensation of heat, she welcomed it wholeheartedly, quickly moving beneath the showerhead in order to soak up every drop. God it had been so long she had been warm, she thought as she tilted her face up toward the stream. When her shivering had subsided, she began to look around the shower and started on the task of getting properly clean.

Her hair was a nightmare to take care of, she immediately realized as she carefully lathered the shampoo. She had forgotten how long it was, falling down her back. She hadn't gotten it cut when she was with the Winchesters had she? She winced as her fingers encountered another tangle. This was why she kept it done up in a bun, she remembered. Far less hassle. Maybe she should cut it this time?

When he brought his hand up and gave a sharp snap, she flinched when her hair was suddenly released from its tie, falling heavily past her shoulders. Goosebumps broke out across her skin when he suddenly leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered,

"And your hair looks lovely as always, darling."

Her hands had stilled at the faded memory and after a moment she resumed tending to her hair although not as harshly this time. There was an ache deep within her chest but she tried to focus on the task at hand, carefully working her fingers through the strands until she could so smoothly. When she was satisfied, she moved onto the rest of her body, wanting to be free from any reminders of the night, of her fear fueled run through the woods that was all too familiar.

The soap steadily washed away the filth and grime, disappearing down the drain as she allowed herself to enjoy the hot water. She relished the heat, wanting to absorb as much as possible. It had been so long since she felt warmth…

…Fingers like pure ice ghosted over her poor bare skin, frost appearing in the wake of his touch. The motions were soft, almost gentle, but it was all a lie. Deceptively beautiful. Everything about him was a lie. His words, his hands, all of it…She wanted to be free from him…she wanted to be warm…with…

Only when her exhaustion made itself known to her did she turned off the water and wrapped a towel tightly around herself as she stepped out of the shower. She picked up the dirty clothes she had left and moved them up to the sink so to be off of the floor, stilling when she heard something fall against the porcelain. Ignoring the fact the small sound made her flinch terribly, she moved the clothes over further to see a ring circling at the bottom of the basin, slow moving due to the chain that was looped through it. It was too big to fit any of her fingers, she noted as she tentatively reached down and picked up the heavy ring.

…A summoning…The ghost of a young man lost at sea…Family history tarnished and warped by anger and abuse…Proof that the demon was once a man…

The MacLeod crest was imposed upon the aged metal, the words nearly lost due to the passage of time and the erosion of the ocean. She traced the letters with her fingertip in order to make out the message.

Hold Fast.

She hadn't realized that she had started to cry until the tears were curving past her cheeks and dripping from her chin. Her body dared to shake as she continued to look down at the ring, her vision wavering as she refused to look away. Her knuckles were white from holding on so tightly and she closed her eyes as she brought the ring to her lips, hot tears rolling.

She should let go, a small voice whispered in her thoughts, it would be the reasonable thing to do. Clearly, it was all one-sided. Vastly so. If she would just accept her fate then maybe she could move on. Start over.

The thought of moving on left a dull ache in her chest and she gave a shake of her head, struggling to take a deep breath to compose herself. With shaky fingers, she untangled the chain and tugged it on over her head.

One thing at a time, she told herself.

She quickly changed into the sweatpants, drawing the strings tight, and she pulled on the too big Metallica shirt, which thankfully hid the ring well enough. Quietly, she moved to the door and peeked out into the bedroom to find it vacant. Pushing open the door, she slowly stepped into Sam Winchester's room.

The first thing she noticed was the amount of books and researching materials neatly organized throughout the space. A small smile tugged at her mouth. Sam, always the scholar, she remembered. The room was simple beyond the books. Clean too. The desk was organized, the two nightstands each had a lamp, one also had a rotary phone while an empty tea cup was on the other. What an odd place, the Men of Letter's bunker, she couldn't help but muse.

There was a click as the doorknob moved and she quickly turned around to see Sam stepping into the room, running one hand over his face. He was exhausted, she noticed with a frown. The way his shoulders were slightly hunched forward like they were almost too heavy, the dragging of his feet, and even from her distance she could see the shadows under his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping well.

"You've lost weight," she heard herself say out loud. Embarrassed by how rude that sounded, she quickly apologized. "S-sorry…"

He blinked, slightly taken aback by her blunt statement but gave a small wry smile in return. "No, you're right…a lot has happened since…we saw each other last…"

The hunter cleared his throat to change the topic, seemingly have realized where the conversation would inevitably drift due to his words.

"I'm sure you're tired. I can lead you back to the other room. You're welcome to use it as your own—"

At the mention of leaving, Rose felt her heart give a painful beat, fear beginning to circulate again. Alone in the darkness. The never ceasing pitch black that threatened to swallow her whole again…

"Or—or not," added Sam after a moment, his brow furrowed in concern. Something in her expression must've alerted him, she reasoned. "You could stay here if you'd like."

Some semblance of manners kicked in, coloring her cheeks once more. "I-I couldn't—I mean, it's your room and I would just be taking up space—I should—I should go back…"

"Rose," he called her name softly but firmly, stepping up to her cautiously, not wanting to startle her. "You are always welcomed here. With us. You're never just "taking up space" or anything like that. If you don't want to go back to that room by yourself, that's fine. I get it. I know that—that nights can be the hardest. The darkness. The silence that seems too loud all at once. I—I know…"

Her bottom lip dared to tremble and she slowly nodded, doing her best to keep herself together. It wouldn't be fair to Sam if she broke down again, twice in the same night. Taking a breath, she gave small, tight smile, truly appreciative of his kind offer.

"Then—if you don't mind—I'd like to stay here, please…"

He gave a small sad smile in return. "'Course."

She didn't question it when Sam left the lamp on her side of the bed turned on, suffusing the room in the soft glow. They didn't have to say anything as they shared the bed, Rose sliding under the blanket while Sam took his place on top. It wasn't odd for them to share the same bed. When the three of them were traveling, motels sometimes offered a rollaway bed but it usually came at a cost and it really wasn't necessary. Spending so much time together traveling in the Impala, fighting monsters, and posing as agents of the law, sharing a bed was nothing. Plus she and Sam were always paired up (once he regained his soul and could sleep, that is) since it would've been awkward for Dean due to his relationship with Lisa at the time. It wasn't too bad since Dean was the louder snorer of the two, Sam just had to the tendency to steal most of the bed but the man was a giant so she couldn't hold it against him so she just learned to adapt.

It didn't matter that there was only one pillow, she was too short next to Sam anyway and solved it by tucking one arm under her head. He was on his side facing her and she lightly grasped the material of his shirt, reassuring herself once again that everything was real and that she was indeed alive and with the Winchesters. Working through the doubt, her heart wanted to burst being back with the hunters.

"Thank you, Sam…" she said, her voice barely above a whisper yet still daring to crack. "I…I really missed you all…so much…"

"Trust me, we missed you too," he reassured her, a soft heat creeping into his voice. "You're family, Rose, and I swear, we won't let anything happen to you. We'll keep you safe."

Sam's hand carefully smoothed over her hair, the kind stroking motion quickly lulling her to relax, her eyes fluttering close. Her breathing evened out and soon she drifted off. She didn't know when his hand stopped moving and she certainly didn't see his eyes suddenly burn a bright and furious white blue.

REVIEW! We finally have internet at our house, thank goodness! Now I can work on this story more regularly!

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I had too many things outlined to fit into one chapter, it would've been too much back and forth to the point of whiplash. But next chapter! Next chapter Rose and Crowley will cross paths (finally!). Rose certainly has her work cut out for her in terms of coping with her own trauma while Crowley struggles with his dose of humanity and...well, feelings.

I'd love to hear your thoughts and hope you all enjoy!