The ocean is enormous.
He doesn't know how long he spends sitting on the floor, searching endless miles of water for one little island he's barely heard of before, much less visited. Probably hours, at least. But he can't stop, because if he loses his place, he doesn't know if he'll be able to find it again.
Dean would never have had the patience for this. He hated libraries, hated research. He got better at it over the years, growing in maturity and mental stamina, at least to some degree, but he never in a million years would have willingly sat down to scour however many millions of square miles this is. Not even if it were possible for the human brain to do something like that. He would've passed it off to Sam, most likely. Dean wouldn't have had what it takes.
Damn good thing he's gone.
It's only the focus lent by having such an important and specific end goal, the ability to concentrate on the one thing he wants, the one thing he needs, that allows Emery to do it. Because it truly is mind-numbing work.
By the time he finally finds an island that, from above, looks vaguely like the one he's been searching for, he's almost forgotten who he is. Not that who he is matters. Not that anything matters but the Blade. He tries to call Rowena's name, but isn't sure it makes it out into the air. He just keeps all his focus trained on that shape, because if he loses it, he doesn't know what will happen.
It all looks… fuzzy. It's not coming in visually—hell, he doesn't know what to call this sense other than teleport-sense, but he certainly can't use it to spy on anyone. Maybe if he continues to hone it, that could be a possibility. But for now, he's lucky he got this far.
How he'll know when Rowena is there with him, he can't figure. He just knows she has to be present or he'll land on an island of a few hundred square miles and spend however long it takes tearing it apart looking for Crowley's bones and drawing all sorts of attention. She has to lead him.
And suddenly, probably some time after the fact, he registers a small hand gripping his wrist, his wrist which he hasn't even felt in who knows how long, and before all his concentration dissipates he pulls himself and her over to the island he's found.
He's falling over backwards into the dirt then, looking around wildly at the mess of green and black and orange around him, and someone else's voice floats in the air and suddenly he registers that the orange he saw was her hair.
Rowena stands in front of him, wearing a different dress than the last one he saw her in, her hair and makeup a bit different, looking down at him in bewilderment. There's no worry there, because he's never given her a reason to think she'd ever need to worry about him, but there's perhaps something similar in her eyes. "Oi, can you hear me?" finally registers with him, and he blinks up at her for several more seconds, processing what's behind her. Trees. It's very dark, but it looks like it might be about to give way to dawn soon. He gets the sense they're not deep in the woods, but there certainly aren't any other people around right now.
He struggles to his feet, breathing carefully, because breathing is a habit he still hasn't managed to kick. And the first thing he thinks to ask is, "How long was I looking?"
She takes a moment to process the question, and hesitantly responds, "S… seventeen hours, thereabouts."
Emery turns the number over in his head, thinking deeply on how much time that is, in context. "Did Crowley come looking for me during that time?"
"He asked me if I'd seen you. I said you'd probably gone above without asking again."
"Fair enough." He looks around, and, seeing nothing of interest, asks, "All right, Guam. Where to now?"
Clearly she was waiting for the question, because she readily points and says, "Not too far that way. About five miles."
Just three jumps later, they find themselves standing in front of a line of statues of the Apostles with their names carved in gold above their heads on a stone entryway which reads "Pigo Catholic Cemetery." Sea breeze ruffles their hair and the steady sound of waves comes from just beyond.
"I'd wager they're in the finest crypt this place has to offer," surmises Rowena in reference to the bones, and Emery, knowing Crowley, can't disagree. A moment later they're standing in the center of the small plot of graves, about three hundred by three hundred feet, and Rowena concentrates for a moment before pointing once more.
Emery almost can't contain himself. They're one leisurely stroll away from the first concrete progress he'll have made since he lost the Blade. And on the tiny chance that his expertise as a tormenter isn't enough to get Crowley to spill, at least he'll have the satisfaction of, at long last, killing him.
They approach a crypt bearing the name Isa Taisacan—the only evidence in sight of a person important enough to get her own crypt. Evidently, she was also important enough for Crowley to remove her bones and settle his down in their place. Emery vaguely wonders if she's in hell. Probably not too likely, but it bears consideration.
He twitches a finger, and the heavy stone door to the crypt rolls aside, revealing a short descent into a fairly small space. Emery is keenly aware that the only reason he isn't completely blind is that he is… well, what he is. Rowena likely can't see a thing in the dark. So he says, instinctively speaking quietly, "Stay here," and begins the descent.
A mere six steps down, he finds himself at the bottom, rib vaults arching a few feet overhead, and in front of him stands a grave supporting a statue of a fairly young woman lying on her back, her hands folded over her abdomen, and a crucifix on the wall at her head watching her rest.
Emery stops for a long moment, staring at it. He doesn't know why.
Putting it out of his mind as completely as he can, he moves the lid of several hundred pounds off to the side with another flick of his wrist, carefully lowering it to the floor. No need to alert the locals with any huge sounds.
Lying before him are the earthly remains of Fergus MacLeod. An ordinary-looking skeleton assembled with the care of somebody sentimental, rather than just dumped in like they could've been.
There's something tucked into the corner of the coffin that sticks out like a sore thumb, though. He cranes his neck to get a better look at it, and for a long moment just blinks, not quite understanding what he's seeing, and why, and how.
It's also a bone.
The jawbone of a donkey.
It's the First Blade.
Emery stares, dumbstruck, not able to quite convince himself what what he's looking at is really there. His mind is blank. This was not part of the plan.
He hid the Blade… with his bones.
There's no frigging way.
Gingerly, more slowly than he can stand, but still not slowly enough to show the proper reverence for this moment, he reaches into the crypt. As his hand closes around the handle, the invisible Mark that still burns within him reacts—aggressively.
Red tinges the edges of his vision. Veins pop out of his arm as he grasps it as hard as he can, unable to loosen his muscles, and not even caring. Energy, pure lust for blood and power and violence, courses through him until every inch of his host's body is filled with it, and an enormous ragged gasp tears out of him, tears leaking from his eyes. He didn't even know he was capable of crying anymore.
It's like coming home.
It's like being… released.
Rowena's voice from behind him sounds, again with a note of puzzlement rather than concern, and he turns, his arm still trembling, fist still clenched tight as it can be. Each step is a process in and of itself. He forces himself forward, overwhelmed by the Blade and the Mark working in tandem to completely consume him, until he feels the pale light of dawn illuminating his face, and he turns it upwards to stare at Rowena's perplexed one. She glances at the Blade in his hand, and back at him, fear tinging her expression.
Emery, likewise, glances down at the Blade, and back at her.
He doesn't even think. He just thrusts the Blade upwards, straight through her abdomen, and lets out another gasp, just as raw as the first, in conjunction with her gargled scream as she's hoisted upwards into the air above him. For a long moment she just hangs, kebabed, on the Blade, staring down at him, her mouth still open wide in shock, her blood running swiftly down his arm and under his sleeve. And he can see the light, like a real, visible phenomenon, dying in her eyes.
The kill pumps through his veins like a drug, like his very source of life, because that's what it is. It's the only thing that's worth anything. The only thing that ever will be again.
With only a modicum of intentionality he tilts his arm to the side and allows her to slide off the Blade, landing hard on the stone steps beside him. All thought of the crucifix, of Sam, flows right out of him. He kisses the Blade, smearing Rowena's blood on his lips, and screams into the sky, just to release a small fraction of the energy now flooding every corner of his host's body and his own twisted, darkened soul.
And his vision goes completely red.