WARNING: The following chapter contains explicit descriptions of self-harm as well as suicidal ideations and actions! Please do not read if these are triggers for you! Again, PLEASE do not read if this type of content will be painful for you!

This chapter was pretty hard to write, I'm not gonna lie. I do want to emphasize that this is NOT the end of Liv's story, though.

"If you must die,
die knowing your life was my life's best part."

~Keaton Henson

Liv had always considered herself to be a balanced, level-headed, and fairly rational individual. She understood that there were forces in the world, odd anomalies that shouldn't exist in a sensible world, but she'd been exposed to them from an early age. She knew that vampires were real, that wendigos were a valid threat, that demons and angels walked the earth, disguised as typical humans; she knew that reapers watched over the population, only showing themselves to the doomed or marked for death. She wasn't afraid of those things, not anymore, though she knew she should be. The only thing that really frightened her was the condemnation of a life alone - a life without Dean.

So, when she began to see him - swift, fleeting glances that left her wondering - she didn't immediately give credit to the absurdity. She brushed off the feelings of overwhelming panic and hopefulness that overcame her the first time his face appeared in a crowd of strangers. She saw him, smiling at her from the opposite side of the street, but her gaze passed over him quickly and when she faltered and looked back, he was gone. For an instant, the tiniest nanosecond of time, her heart stopped and filled with eagerness but even before she returned her attention to his location, she had pushed aside those feelings and decided it was just a fluke or wish fulfillment. When she saw the sidewalk, still crowded but undoubtedly void of her true love's presence, she couldn't even be disappointed.

The second time she saw him, he was standing at a bus stop a block away and he was alone. She couldn't attribute her vision to the chaos and confusion of a heavy crowd; he was standing there, beside a bench with his hands on his hips and there was no crowd to blame for her hallucination. And he was smiling at her, again. Liv stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and her mouth dropped open. Behind her, an unknown man plowed into her back, knocking her off balance. Her bag slid from her shoulder and fell to the ground, spilling its contents across the pavement. By the time Liv, and the man, had gathered up all of her loose change, Dean had disappeared. Liv looked up and down the street, searching for any sign of a man whom she might have mistaken for him, but there was no one. She felt sadness then, and regret, but only for what she had lost.

She saw him several more times over the next several weeks, sometimes lost in a maze of unknown bodies, rushing around; other times she would catch a glimpse of him down some lonely hallway or corridor, leaning against the wall with his signature smirk or with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans.

Each time, she paused and shook her head, wondering whether she needed more sleep or perhaps her glasses prescription needed updated. He was always gone when she looked back. Each sighting brought about those feelings of true heartbreak and grief; she missed him dreadfully and each time she saw him, those wounds were reopened.

The first time he spoke to her, she was working and it was late at night. She had taken a part-time job at a local mortuary, Sanderson's Family Funeral Home, and she was staying late to help with some last-minute services. She wasn't alone in the funeral home but she was alone in the chapel, arranging flowers over the top panel of a polished, mahogany casket. The casket contained the remains of an elderly woman, a woman who had recently passed, enviably, in her sleep. Liv had embalmed the woman earlier in the day.

Liv had never been frightened of the dead, or the empty vessels they left behind. She took pride in her work, in knowing that she treated the recently deceased with respect and kindness. Death was a comfort to her.

The enormous arrangement of white roses was lovely, but the scent was overpowering. She had never really liked the smell of fresh roses but they were unfortunately common at funeral services. Liv tugged and nudged each bloom into place until she was satisfied with the placement; she hummed to herself as she worked and tried to ignore the invading perfume of the flowers. After a few minutes, it occurred to her that the smell was fading away, though she was still elbow deep in the arrangement. She inhaled deeply through her nose, utterly confused by the lack of olfactory sensation. It wasn't until she leaned back, sniffing, that she realized the smell of the roses had been replaced by something even more familiar… Old Spice, gun powder, motor oil… Liv whirled around, scanning the darkened chapel, and saw him.

He was standing by the wide entryway, motionless. Behind him, dim light spilled in from the foyer, masking his face in shadows. She couldn't see his eyes, not at first, but she knew it was him.

"Dean?" she whispered and stepped down from the short step-stool she needed to reach the top of the casket. "Is that you?" It was an unnecessary question but she asked it, anyway.

"Hey, baby," he answered. She watched him take a few steps toward her; the aisle between the pews was mildly slanted so with each step he took, the top of his head dropped lower and lower until the light from the foyer no longer obscured his expression. She saw his eyes, those bright, emerald irises that she'd gazed into countless times before.

She couldn't speak. Her lips formed a narrow O in her shock and disbelief. She gripped a stray rose, oblivious to the thorns tearing into her palms.

When he was a mere ten feet away, he stopped. There was no smile on his face; instead, he looked sad. Forlorn. Desolate. He reached out to her with his right hand.

"I miss you…" he said.

Liv felt wet, warmth in her hand and she looked down. A thin, trail of blood was spilling out of her clenched fists. Droplets pattered onto the white carpet at her feet. She opened her hand and saw that one of the thorns had deeply pierced her flesh.

She looked up, still struggling to find the words, but he was gone. The chapel was empty, aside from herself and the newly departed elderly woman. But the scent lingered.

When she got home that evening, she called Sam but he didn't answer. She left a message, trying to hide her distress. He never returned her call.

She dreamt of Dean that night. The dreams were vivid and corporeal; it was like watching a very surreal movie of their time together. She could feel him, firm and solid beneath her fingers; she could hear his voice, telling her that he still loved her, still wanted her. She couldn't remember a dream from her past where she could actually smell the subject of her vision but his scent followed her even into wakefulness. Before she opened her eyes, she sensed his presence in the bed beside her but when she sat up, she and Molly were alone.

Her visions intensified and within a month, she was convinced that she'd either lost her mind or Dean was trying to tell her something… something that would have dire consequences.

Three Days Before Dean's Return

"Hi, Jodi," Liv said. She tried to force a measure of cheer and positivity into her tone but it was nearly impossible. And, on top of that, it was probably pointless. She knew how she looked.

Liv's eyes were red and raw; her hair was lank and ratted. She had lost more weight and her ribs were prominent beneath her baggy sweater. The garment was strategically chosen to hide her emaciated condition but she realized too late that the choice had been a mistake. She looked even gaunter with the extra folds of fabric surrounding her.

Jodi stared at her with an expression of shock and alarm.

"Hey, Liv," she finally said. "How've you been?"

Liv shrugged. She thought it was probably obvious how she had been but she wasn't about to voice it. It wasn't her fault, anyway.

Since the night in the chapel, the month before, Dean had come to her every day, several times a day. Her phone rang at all hours of the night and the caller ID always identified his number - the number to the cell phone that had been obliterated in the lab of SucroCorp. She hadn't slept for six days; she hadn't eaten for over two weeks.

"I'm okay," Liv answered and hitched the waistband of her knit pants up and over her protruding hip bones. The pants had a drawstring but the elastic was weakened with age and wear. "How are you?"

Jodi ushered her into the living room and the two of them sat on the couch. Molly, whom Liv guided into the house by a braided leash, curled up on Jodi's recliner.

"Doing okay, I suppose," Jodi said. "Want some coffee? Something to eat, maybe?" She stared pointedly at Liv's collarbones, which poked out at jagged angles.

Liv shook her head.

"No, I don't really have much time. I have to get going."

Jodi nodded and leaned back. "Okay… So, what brings you by?"

Liv fought the tears but they were relentless. The filled her eyes and spilled out over her hollow cheeks. "I was just wondering if you could keep Molly for me."

Jodi scooted closer to Liv and reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder, but Liv wouldn't allow it. She couldn't. If Jodi offered kindness, Liv was afraid she would lose her focus.

"Why?" Jodi asked. "What's going on?"

Liv shook her head. She jumped up from the couch and hurried to the chair, where the dog was already snoozing. She knelt and gently stroked the dog's back. Liv closed her eyes tightly pressed her forehead against Molly's and kissed her snout. Molly looked up, briefly, and licked away the dampness from Liv's cheeks.

"Just take care of her, okay?" Liv said. She stood slowly but kept a hand on Molly's neck. "Please?"

Jodi nodded. "You know I will but tell me why, Liv."

But she couldn't. She knelt down and kissed the dog again, whispering into Molly's velvety ears how much she loved her and forced herself to walk away.

"I can't," Liv said. She wiped at her nose with one of her long sleeves and cleared her throat while heading for the door. "I'm sorry but I can't."

Jodi shot up and reached for Liv but she was too fast. She was out the door and halfway across the lawn by the time Jodi had reached the porch.

"Come on, Liv!" Jodi called. "Come inside, I'll make some coffee. We can talk, like old times!"

Liv shook her head. She opened the driver's door of her Jeep but paused.

"Another time," she said. "Hey, Jodi... I just want to say thanks. For everything." Liv thought for certain she was about to cry again so, before the tears could reemerge, she launched herself into the Jeep and started the engine. Jodi was still talking, probably trying to convince her not to leave, but Liv didn't hear. She cranked up the radio, slammed the truck into reverse, and sped out of the driveway.

He wasn't a ghost, of that she was certain. He had shown himself at all hours of the day, whether she carried a belonging of his or not. He couldn't be tethered to some physical possession because she had nothing that he'd once owned. On top of that, her EMF detector, passed along by Sam from Dean's collection, was perpetually silent though she knew it was functioning.

He wasn't a demon because she had seen him vanish and the only demon capable of such a feat was Crowley. His eyes were always the same brilliant shade of green.

He wasn't a specter, or a tulpa, or a ghoul. He wasn't a wraith.

He spoke to her, occasionally at first but by the end, his ramblings were ceaseless. He never seemed to shut up, keeping her awake all night long. She could hear him, and smell him, but she could never feel him. When she reached for his hand or arm, her fingertips would slip right through him.

His words mirrored her own feelings of loss. He told her that he missed her, loved her, that he wanted them to be together. He would go away for thirty minutes or so, but he always came back and while he was gone, her phone would ring ceaselessly.

When Dean died, Liv would have done or given anything to get him back but, faced with his eternal presence, she found herself wishing for him to go away. She was suffocating in his relentless dirge of abyssal affection. All he wanted, he continued to stress, was for them to be reunited. His only wish, he told her, was to hold her in his arms, again.

He was a poor phantom of his true self and it broke her heart to see him in such a way.

Liv had a greater appreciation for Sam's condition, when he was haunted by delusions of Lucifer. She didn't know if she had gone completely insane or if Dean really was reaching out to her from some alternate dimension. After a week without sleep, it didn't matter.

When he started whispering into her ear that he knew how they could be together, she was too tired to argue. Why would he lie? He loved her and she loved him. She wanted to be with him.

After dropping off Molly, she stopped at a gas station in Nebraska and made a last-ditch effort to contact Sam but he still wasn't answering his phone. Dean watched from the passenger's seat with a shrewd smile, as if he already knew that Sam wouldn't be available.

Liv tried to drive straight back to her apartment in Georgia but her brain was fuzzy and her eyes weren't working properly. She missed exits and took wrong turns, forever guided by the shadow of her deceased lover. With Dean driving the Impala, the trip would have taken less than a day; in her muddled state of consciousness, twice as long had passed before she pulled into the her assigned parking space at the apartment building.

She'd rented the loft when living with her sister's family had begun to overwhelm her with anxiety. It was a small space, above an empty warehouse, but it offered an abundance of privacy and the rent was low enough for her to afford, even working part-time.

Liv stumbled up the two flights of stairs with Dean at her heels. Her vision was cloudy and seemed to double or even triple, at times. Her doorknob danced before her eyes and she struggled to fit her house key into the lock. After multiple attempts, she finally found herself inside. She stood by the kitchen counter, wavering unsteadily on her increasingly weakened legs.

"Just a little while longer, darlin'," he said.

"Okay," she answered, monotonously.

Liv walked into the kitchen and opened a drawer. A previous tenant, some artist most likely, had left a nearly full cardboard box of razor blades. The box was spattered with red, yellow, and orange paint but the blades inside were clean. She plucked one from the container and held it up at eye level.

"I'm so tired," she muttered.

The phantom Dean nodded sympathetically. He rested a hand on her shoulder; though she saw it, she felt nothing.

"I know," he said. "You can go to sleep soon, and when you wake up I'll be waiting for you."

"Are you sure?" she asked him. The razor blade slipped from her trembling fingers and fell to the floor.

"I'm sure," he said, firmly. "But you know what you have to do."

"Alright," she mouthed, unable to muster the strength to even speak.

"Pick that up and come with me," he said, motioning toward the razor blade.

Liv knelt down and grasped the blade. The edge sliced into the pad of her index finger and she winced but there was no pain. Her fingers were nearly numb. She followed him through the living space, stopping at the edge of her bed. The comforter was softy and downy, pure white, as were her sheets.

"Should I lie down?" she asked.

He sat on the edge of the bed. "I think so," he said.

"Will you lay down with me?"

He nodded and laid back. The blankets and pillows didn't move beneath him.

Liv slipped beneath the comforter and sheets. She tried to lean against him but her shoulder met nothing but empty air.

"I'm so tired," she breathed. "I'm so tired and I miss you so much."

"I know, baby," he said. He slid an arm beneath her neck and, though she saw it, she felt nothing but the pillow behind her head. "It's time."

Liv nodded. A few tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes but she was too exhausted to be sad.

"Yes," she said. "It's time."

She felt nothing when the blade sliced into the delicate flesh of her wrists. The bright red of her blood against the white of her sheets and blanket was strangely beautiful. She watched it spill out, soaking the fabric, and forming small pools.

When her eyelids were too heavy to hold open, she let them close. He didn't speak or disturb her. As she drifted off, she felt his arm begin to solidify behind her neck. His hand gripped her shoulder and his lips pressed against her temple. She smiled as she felt his touch for the first time in over a year and everything else disappeared.

She was already unconscious when Dean's face began to contort and shift into an entirely different visage. His hair and eyes darkened and his flannel shirt and blue jeans morphed into a black suit jacket and trousers. The entire transformation took less than a minute.

"There's a good girl," Crowley said. He reached up and brushed away a strand of her hair that had fallen into the middle of her face. "Everything will be alright now."

Nearly fifteen hundred miles away, deep within the vast expanse of uninhabited forest in Maine, Dean, the real Dean, had just shattered the fragile portal between Purgatory and Earth and was beginning the long and arduous journey back to civilization and, he thought, to Liv.