It's so odd to write from the guy's perspectives… Does anyone else struggle with that? It's easier for me to write from Liv's because I created her and because she's a girl.

Yes, Crowley is a butthead - but there something about him that's also a little hot. As crazy as it sounds, the Liv/Crowley relationship has always been the basis of this fic. It's just taken a looooooong time to get to it. But don't worry; soon enough we will all know why Crowley has shown such an interest in her! And why he wanted/needed her dead.

Also, I know that some of the dates might be wonky. I have researched this a lot and there's a lot of confusion regarding the year that passed between season 7 and season 8… Apparently the writers keep the general dates of the episodes close to their original air date? But, there are two separate seasons that had extended time periods between the finale and the next season's start date that the writers have not chronologically included. I know, this is confusing but I just want everyone to know that I understand her date of death might not be exactly what you think it should be. The most important thing to take from this, and it's not even actually important, is that Liv was 30 when she died and she is older than Sam.

Anyway, the sadness continues…

"Dean, I don't think you should come inside with me."

They had been sitting in the parking lot of the county medical examiner's office for at least ten minutes, both of them silent and caught up in their own reflections of anger, sorrow, and self-blame. Sam wanted to go in and get it over with but each time he opened his car door, Dean hadn't followed. He only stared straight ahead, his gaze frozen somewhere between the steering wheel and the dashboard, and refused to move.

It was Dean's idea for them to go see her; he insisted it was necessary only so that they could be certain that Liv's death hadn't been caused by nefarious forces. Sam didn't see why they couldn't wait for the funeral, which would be in three days, and didn't look forward to seeing her on the cold, metal slab of the exam table. He had witnessed enough dead bodies in his lifetime to know that it would be a traumatic experience, for both of them. But, if it had to happen, he really didn't think Dean should be present.

"I have to," Dean answered, but he didn't look up.

Sam furiously shook his head. "You don't have to. You can wait here and I'll go in, by myself."

"I have to, Sam," Dean repeated. "I have to be sure."

Sam, who was already sure, didn't understand his brother's insistence on torturing himself even further. "Do you think I won't be thorough enough? That I won't really do it?"

Dean finally looked up. He turned to Sam, his expression a strange hybrid of agony and resignation. "I have to," he only said, before opening his door and stepping out.

Sam eased his long legs out of the Impala and slammed the door. He didn't want to go inside; he was certain that whoever led them to her body would see through their lame, FBI disguises and realize how truly touched they were by what they were seeing. But he couldn't stop Dean and, if he couldn't stop him, he had to at least be there.

His heavy, black Oxfords splashed through the puddles that had collected on the ground; it was drizzling, as it had been all day and most of the night before. The sky above was obscured by dark grey clouds that threatened to unleash another prolific torrent.

Dean, who had already reached the sturdy, metal door to the office, waited for Sam to catch up. Inside, Sam wrinkled his nose; the entryway smelled damp and moldy, as though the rain had found a way inside and was forming mildew in all the corners.

"Can I help you?" a woman asked from her post behind a high counter. She was an older woman, with grey hair piled on top of her head. Her voice was deep and scratchy, the voice of a life-time cigarette smoker.

Sam stepped forward, pulling his counterfeit FBI badge from the inner pocket of his jacket.

"Yes, we're looking for the medical examiner," he said, holding up the badge for her to scrutinize. "I'm Agent Banks. This is my partner, Agent Tolvert."

The woman nodded. "And you're here for…?"

Dean stepped up to the counter and cleared his throat. "We're here to examine some remains," he said. Sam heard the catch in his brother's voice but didn't think anyone else would notice; it was far too subtle.

"What's the name?" she asked in a flat and disinterested tone and pulled out a folder from below the counter. When she lifted the cover, Sam saw that it held a stack of completed death certificates.

"Tate," he said. "The last name is Tate."

The woman rifled through the documents until she found one and pulled it aside.

"Olivia Willow Tate. That sound right?"

Sam nodded.

Scanning the paper, the woman's eyebrows furrowed together. "Says here she's a suicide. Pretty cut and dry. Why's the FBI interested in a suicide?"

"That's classified," Dean interjected. Sam could hear the anger and hostility threatening to break out in his voice.

"We can't really give you much information," Sam added, in a softer tone.

The woman shrugged. "Sure, sure. None of my business. Here," she said, passing him Liv's death certificate. "Take this down to the basement level. I'll call ahead. Someone'll meet you to take you back to the morgue. There's an elevator just around the corner."

"Thanks," Sam said. They started down the hallway she had pointed toward.

"Oh, hey, fellas," she called after them. "Says she's been cleared for release to the funeral home. Should I put a stop on that 'til you finish your investigation?"

Sam shook his head. "No, that's fine. We'll let you know if anything changes."

"Suit yourself," she muttered.

Once inside the elevator, with the doors fully closed, Dean took the death certificate and scanned it earnestly.

"Manner of death - suicide… Cause of death - exsanguination attributed to acute self-inflicted lacerations on both left and right wrists, forearms, and transverse carpal arches…" he read in a quiet, hoarse voice. He dropped his arm to his side and rubbed his other hand over his mouth and chin. "She slit her wrists, Sam."

Dean crouched down and leaned back against the wall of the elevator, covering his face with his hands. The death certificate dropped and slid across the floor until it hit Sam's foot. He bent down and picked it up, unsure of what to say.

"You really don't have to do this, Dean," he finally said, quietly. In his hand, the document wrinkled and crumpled as his fist clenched around it. "I promise, I'll take care of her."

Dean shook his head and ran his palms over his eyes, though they were clear and dry. He raised himself up and adjusted the lapel of his jacket.

"No, I'm coming. I can do it."

The elevator stopped and the level indicator lit up with a large B. A ding echoed through the small space and the doors opened. On the other side, a young man in a white lab coat waited.

"You the feds?" he asked with a wide grin. Sam saw a huge wad of pink gum wedged between his teeth and cheek.

"Yeah," Sam answered, stepping out of the elevator.

"Right this way," the tech said and started down a long, narrow hallway. The walls and floor were all meant to be white, but had faded to a pale, nauseating yellow over the years. At the end of the hall, a glass door labeled 'MORGUE' was propped open by a rubber doorstop.

They followed him through the door and into a large exam room. To their right was an electric lift that Sam assumed was used to transfer larger bodies from gurneys to the metal table. To their left were three wider tables, each of them white with raised rims designed to keep fluids from dripping onto the floor. Directly ahead of them were the refrigerated drawers, a six by four grid of wide, metal cold chambers, each with its own handle. Five of them were occupied, if the clipboards attached to the doors were anything to go by.

"Edith said you're here to see Tate, yeah?" the tech called. He scanned each of the clipboards until he found one, on the top level. "How much do you need to see? Only ask 'cause she's on the top rack and if you wanna do a full examination, we'll have to bring her down."

"Bring her down," Dean said, in a dull voice.

"Well, shit!" the tech exclaimed but his tone was good-natured. He popped up the handle and tugged on the door. It released with a low whoosh. Pale clouds of moisture billowed out of the opening. The tech raised himself up on his toes and looked up and down the length of the slab. "Eh, she looks pretty small. Give me a hand and we won't need the lift."

Sam looked over at Dean who was staring at the floor and seemed not to hear the man.

"I'll do it," Sam said. He couldn't see her, yet; his vision was obscured by the metal door. As he approached, trying not to cringe, he was relieved to see that she was enclosed in a white, vinyl bag with a black zipper.

Sam was much taller than the tech, at least eight inches, so he positioned himself at her head. Looking down, he could see the tip of her nose pressing against the vinyl. The two of them lifted her off of the slab and carried her toward one of the exam tables. Halfway across the tiled floor, the tech stumbled and her lower body slipped from his hands.

Dean looked up, sharply, and hurried forward. "Watch it," he shouted. He bent down and gently took hold of her legs, what Sam thought must have been her ankles, and lifted them slowly.

The tech snickered and stepped out of their way. "She ain't gonna get any deader, you know?" he said, popping his gum.

Together, Sam and Dean carried her the rest of the way and gingerly lowered her onto the table. Sam watched his brother, saw the way his hands clenched into tight fists, and knew that the tech was on precarious ground.

"Dean," Sam said, in a low, warning tone. "Focus."

Dean nodded and took a step back.

The tech approached them and grabbed onto the zipper. "Here we go," he said, and pulled it down halfway before callously yanking open the bag, all the way to her hips.

Sam was frozen in place, staring down at her wasted body. His lips seemed to have been sucked dry of all moisture and his tongue was like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. He could have sworn the temperature in the room, while already chilly, dropped another twenty degrees and he felt as though he'd been punched in the gut by a UFC champion.

Her skin was as pale as the bag around her, and tinged a watery blue in places. Mercifully, her eyes were closed but he could see a narrow gap between her eyelids. Her thick, wavy hair was damp and streaked muddy reddish orange with blood. Her freckles were still visible, but they had faded until they were nearly transparent. Her lips were slightly parted and also blood-stained. Her bones stuck out beneath her skin in ugly, jagged edges; he could count each of her ribs and her hip and shoulder bones jutted up, hard and unforgiving. It was as if there was no flesh below her skin.

She had been autopsied, as most unnatural deaths were, and while the person who had stitched her closed had done a decent enough job, the thick, black thread that traveled from both of her collarbones and met in a V between her breasts was jarring against the whiteness of her skin. The line continued down to her navel, perfectly bisecting the scars on her torso. Dean's name was divided into two separate phrases - DE on one side, AN on the other. Sam felt bile rising in his throat when he saw that the stitches were slightly off; the first half of Dean's name was approximately an inch higher than the second. Like the scars, her dandelion tattoo - the same tattoo Sam had once traced with the tip of his tongue in a moment of passion - was cleaved in two. The solid, black thread had also been used to close the wounds on her arms and wrists, wounds that traveled nearly to her elbows and were, in some places, at least eight inches long.

Sam let out a breath that he hadn't been aware he was holding in and looked over at his brother but Dean's expression was unreadable.

"Shame, right?" the tech said, staring down at her with one eyebrow cocked. "She was kinda hot. Nice tits, too, am I right?" He looked up at them, grinning cheerfully, and was immediately bowled over by Dean's substantial fist.

It took everything Sam had to pull Dean, screaming obscenities, off of the tech and hold him away, mostly because Dean was so furiously strong but also because it had been so satisfying to see his knuckles collide with that ingratiating asshole's face.

"Shit, man, what's your problem?" the tech shouted, holding the back of his hand up to his already reddening cheekbone.

"You are my problem," Dean shouted, fighting against Sam's restraining arms. "And if you don't get the fuck out of here now, I'll make sure you have your own body bag! Do you understand me!?"

"Dean, relax! Come on, she's right there!" Sam shouted. His voice cracked and he choked back a single sob.

The tech raced out of the exam room, glancing behind with every few steps as if he was afraid that Dean would go after him.

But it seemed that Dean had exhausted all of his energy. When he went limp, Sam released him and took a step back. His hip bumped into Liv's table, rocking her.

"He deserved it, Sammy," Dean said in a wavering voice. "You know he did."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, he did. You're right, but…"

"But, nothing. He deserved it," Dean repeated, as if trying to convince himself.

The two of them stood on either sides of the table, staring down at her. When Dean reached down, fingers shaking, Sam's heart thumped into his throat but Dean was only pulling up the zipper, covering her breasts and most of the horrid autopsy wound.

"We should go," Sam said. He knew the tech was probably filing an official complaint. More importantly, they had seen enough. He didn't know exactly what they had gone for, but they had gotten it. "Did you hear me?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he said. His voice was low and husky. "Yeah, let's go."

Sam raised the zipper the rest of the way, taking care not to catch her hair in its teeth. He wasn't sure what he was meant to do with the death certificate, so he left it on one of the empty counters.

They didn't check out at the front desk on their way through. Instead, they took the stairs and the back exit, coming out on a side alley. The clouds had opened up and torrential showers poured down, soaking them to the skin as they hurried around the building and across the street toward the Impala; in the sky, above them, thunder cracked and boomed, shaking the ground at their feet.

Three Days Later

"Are you sure about this?" Sam asked, for the sixth time. "I want to pay my respects too but this is gonna be a disaster. We have hit the cemetery later tonight, anyway."

Dean, who had surprisingly allowed Sam to drive to the funeral home, chewed on one of his thumb nails and stared out the window. He didn't understand how his brother could ever think it was a bad idea to go to her funeral. It was Liv, for Christ's sake…

"Sam, I'm not going to miss her funeral. I can't believe you're even arguing about this," Dean said. He was angry and he didn't want to suppress it anymore. He knew that Sam blamed himself for Liv's death and Dean was having trouble disagreeing. Would she have died if Sam hadn't gone off the grid? Who could say for sure? But, there was a chance she would still be alive. And now he wanted them to skip out on the funeral? "And what are you talking about - going to the cemetery tonight?"

"Dean… you know what I mean," Sam said.

And, Dean did. But he wouldn't accept or allow it. Not yet, anyway.

"No, we're not doing that tonight," Dean said.

"We have to, Dean! She was new but she was a hunter and she deserves a hunter's funeral!" Sam argued.

"God dammit, Sam, we're not doing it tonight!" Dean shouted. Before Sam could continue the debate, Dean jumped out of the car and hurried toward the funeral home, buttoning his black suit jacket on the way.

Inside, he was confronted by a large, poster sized photograph of Liv on a wooden tripod. It was a younger Liv, long before he had met her. Her smile was lighter, carefree. Her eyes were bright and youthful. Perhaps most surprisingly, her hair hung straight and shiny over her shoulders. Dean stared at the photograph, motionless, until Sam stepped up behind him.

"Jesus," Sam muttered, picking up a slip of paper from a stack on one of the tables beside the mounted photo. Dean looked down and saw that it was a memory card. Liv's picture was printed at the top. Below was her name, Olivia Willow Tate, and nearing the bottom was a pair of dates separated by a hyphen. June 6, 1982 - September 27, 2012; the dates of her birth and of her death.

There was also a quote, something ludicrous about life and death and the unity of it all, but Dean didn't have the patience to read it.

He snatched the paper from Sam's hand, crumpled it up, and tossed it back onto the table.

"Let's go in before everyone else shows up," he said. He started toward the double doors beside Liv's photograph and pulled them open.

Inside, the lights were mostly dimmed. There were several rows of chairs, all empty, facing toward the front of the room where, surrounded by bouquets and arrangements of flowers, a simple, wooden casket sat on a low platform.

Side by side, they walked down the aisle until they were a few feet from the casket. It was closed but the top was clear of any flowers or other adornments. Dean assumed they would open it for the viewing. He rested a hand on the upper portion of the casket. The lightly stained wood was buffed but unpolished. It wasn't fancy or extravagant; it was something Liv would likely have chosen.

"I talked to her mother," Dean said in a soft voice. "I didn't know what Liv had told her about… you know… but I didn't want to startle her, just in case."

"What'd she say?" Sam asked.

"She was happy to hear from me. Liv told her we broke up. Didn't say why."

"You told her we were coming?"

"I said maybe," Dean said. "How do you open this thing?"

Sam's eyes widened. "You want to open it?" he asked.

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

"Why?" Sam asked, shortly.

Dean understood how crazy it sounded. Seeing her in the morgue had been bad enough, for them both, but, as horrible as it had been, it was why he needed to see her again. He didn't want his last image of her to be on the table, covered in blood with her autopsy stitches fully exposed. He should never have gone, but it was too late to erase those memories from his mind. He needed to replace them.

"Just help me," he said.

Together, they found the metal latch that unlocked the head of the casket. Dean raised it slowly, steeling himself for what he would find inside.

He needn't have worried, though. She looked better than he expected, outfitted in a beige dress with a high collar and long sleeves. Her hair was clean but, even in death, refused to be tamed. It cascaded down the sides of her arms and over her collar in wild waves. She had on far too much makeup, though. More than she ever would have worn, in life. Her hands were humbly folded across her stomach. Flowers framed her body; lilacs and daisies, mostly.

Dean felt his legs weaken and he shuffled backwards until the back of his knees came into contact one of the chairs. He dropped into the seat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands. In the morgue, posing as FBI, it was almost like a case. He could look at her with unbiased eyes. But there, in the funeral home, surrounded by the scent of the floral arrangements with the casket in front of him, he could no longer run away from the feelings. His shoulders shook and his breath hitched as the tears finally began to flow.

"What are you doing here?" a man asked, from the doorway.

Dean looked up and barely recognized Rick Tate, Liv's father. He looked like a skeleton dressed in a dark blue suit, hunched forward in a steel wheelchair; the cancer had completely wasted his body.

"Rick," Sam said. "I'm so sorry about Liv. I… We came as soon as we heard."

"You shouldn't be here," Rick said. Dean noticed, for the first time, the anger in the man's voice.

Dean stood up turned to face Liv's father.

Sam raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and compliance. "Listen, we just came to pay our respects," he said.

"Get out of here," Rick snarled. He wheeled himself closer. His face was contorted into a grimace of pained fury. "This is your fault." He pointed one bony, crooked index finger at Dean.

"It's not his fault," Sam said, stepping in front of Dean. "It's nobody's fault."

"None of this would have happened if you'd just left her alone!" Rick shouted. Spittle flew from his lips and tears sprung from the corners of his eyes. "She didn't stand a chance after you forced your way into her life!"

"That's not fair," Sam argued but Rick interrupted him.

"What's not fair is that my baby girl is dead!" he shouted.

Dean, who felt as if all of his strength and self-control had left him, silently watched the exchange. The tears continued to stream down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he managed to choke out.

"I said get the hell out of here!" Rick bellowed.

Sam wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders and guided him toward the door. Behind them, Rick dissolved into an inconsolable mess of cries and laments for his lost daughter.

"Come on, Dean," Sam murmured as they made their way toward the Impala. "Come on; let's go."

When they were both in the car, with the engine started, Dean finally looked up and over at Sam.

"He's right, you know," he said. "It is my fault."