Song Remains the Same

Chapter 142 / Every Rose Has Its Thorn

"No other love in the world is like the love a father has for his little girl."
– Unknown

Tilton, New Hampshire

Before today, the humble two-story house had been just one among many others nestled in a quaint row on a quiet lane in a small town.

Now, 17 Chestnut Street was a smoking ruins standing broken in the morning light.

Across the street beside a sleek black Impala, two dismayed onlookers stood closely to each other, gone still in stunned horror at the scene they'd just arrived upon.

The once soft blue house was now a mostly featureless mass of scorched siding and partial walls plus a half-collapsed roof. The structure was still choked by fetid rising smoke from flames that had been extinguished recently. Yellow-and-black crime scene tape surrounded the property—making it clear that foul play was suspected—and beyond that border the place crawled with EMS, firefighters, police, a news crew, concerned neighbors… and one other very distressing thing.

Eyes on the van that bore the ominous label COUNTY CORONER, Dean was uncharacteristically aghast, barely able to summon his voice at all. "Are… are you sure this is the right address?" Those were his first words since getting out of his car almost a full thirty seconds ago.

Beside him with a face gone white like a sheet, Jamie's alarmed eyes were locked onto the same vehicle. She attempted to speak, but was barely audible. "Y-yeah."

The two hunters stood in front of the house that their daughter's adoptive parents had called home. The house where baby Rose lived—the daughter whose existence Dean hadn't even confirmed as real until less than twenty four hours ago when Cas raised Jamie out of her coma.

A frantic scan of the area revealed no parent figures protectively clutching a baby girl, no EMS reviving anyone, and no indications of anyone having survived the fire. Only signs of the worst case scenario. And Dean couldn't accept that. His riotous mind was coming up with every possible scenario that didn't end with the baby girl he'd never even laid eyes on dying in a fire.

"M-maybe they moved," he reasoned desperately, mind barely able to comprehend what he was seeing. "M-maybe they weren't inside when it happened."

But they both knew the Coroner wouldn't be present without confirmed fatalities on scene.

A very rattled Jamie abruptly darted across the street without a word, leaving a distressed Dean to rush after. She hadn't even checked the road, and didn't seem to notice the screech of a motorist suddenly braking to avoid running her over, nor did she turn at Dean's angry bark at the driver. She just charged sightlessly over to the small crowd clustered around the house without a plan, grabbing onto the first person she came to—who happened to be a paramedic. "Please, what happened to the people who lived here?" she asked in a flustered, worried rush. Jamie looked petrified to the point of being sick. "D-did they find the baby?"

Dean arrived at her side, his anxiety shooting into orbit as he waited breathlessly for answers to the questions. The paramedic hesitated and gave both distressed hunters a brief once-over. "I'm sorry ma'am, I really don't know any of those details, and they're still securing the scene," the paramedic apologized, clearly knowing more than what they were letting on to. But they turned their attention to a communication that came across their handheld radio, and that was that.

A few steps off, a civilian onlooker who was probably a neighbor leaned in briefly, seeing the looks on Dean and Jamie's faces. "I've heard 'em saying they think all three was killed in the fire," the lady shared quietly with a gaunt face, shaking her head in defeat. "Guess they don't wanna cause a scene or say nothing before it's official. Such a shame." Beside the woman, her wife put an arm around her and pulled her away soothingly, speaking calming words and leaving the two hunters absolutely aghast.

Dean's eyes once again went to the smoking building. Without warning, he was that scared little four year old boy again outside of his burning house in the dead of night, crying out for his mother who would never re-emerge from the flames. He hadn't understood that night then. And by god he still couldn't. Now the daughter he'd never even laid eyes on or held had suffered the same fate that Mary Winchester had…? Tears pricked Dean's eyes as his breaths became more and more ragged.

Beside a stupefied Dean, Jamie was breathing increasingly quickly as she struggled to keep hysteria at bay. She looked hard to the left, eyes on an empty police cruiser a bit further off. A sudden plan formed. At her side, fingers jumped slightly as her eyes narrowed and she took in a hard breath, then cast for the first time since waking from her coma: "Convertat."

The forces of nature followed her command. With a huge racket, the cruiser shot ten feet up into the air and flipped over hard. Glass shattered on impact, the ground shook, and a car alarm began to wail. Even as pandemonium unfolded and all of the bystanders reacted to the inexplicable tumult, Jamie used the distraction to grab Dean's hand and dash under the crime scene tape, heading straight into the sooty ruins by way of what had once been the front door.

It was dark and smoky inside, not to mention hot as fuck. Jamie and Dean's handhold broke as they stumbled on debris-covered foundation. With a hand stretched out and another one over her mouth and nose as her eyes squinted, Jamie coughed but only kept moving forward over the debris. "Frigus, ventas!" she commanded. Frost leapt up across the surrounding area, crawling forward as a powerful wind swept the smoke out from the epicenter of where the witch stood.

A step behind her, Dean coughed from the residual smoke in his nostrils and blinked his stinging eyes against the cooling, clearing air. Jamie stopped to look back at him and check in briefly. Not long ago, he'd been at her side in the hospital praying she would wake up, unsure if he'd ever look into her eyes again. He'd barely even had time to process everything since—they'd rushed here without any other thought in their minds except getting to their child in time. So it was hard to describe either of their emotional states in that moment, but Jamie was especially unlike anything Dean had ever seen before. The pain, the hideous anticipation of discovering their baby dead, the hope for some miracle, the need to find answers… all culminating into the most indescribable expression on her beautiful, gaunt face. Remnants of smoke swirled around her, dissipating in the dark interior.

"You okay?" Dean asked in a whisper, because usually casting spells so powerful would render her sick or injured. She'd just cast twice and seemed totally unfazed.

There was a brief, numb silence in which she seemed to consider the question for the first time. Then, "I feel fine," was the somewhat blank reply. She wiped tepidly at the bottom of her nose and found no blood but was too engaged with everything else to do anything but shoot Dean a confused, pained look then continue deeper into the burnt structure. While Dean didn't know what was what, Jamie seemed to know exactly where she was going. The two of them picked through the chaos as she led the way, continuing to the back of the house.

Every step Dean took, the dread grew bigger and more terrible—his adrenaline increased until his vision felt like it was vibrating and his pulse was surely at heart attack levels. And then Jamie kicked in a blackened half-burned door at the back corner of the house, revealing a small bedroom beyond. Both hunters went still when they saw what was inside. Walls had been charred beyond recognition, in some places eating gaping holes to the outside world. Various lumps of debris were scattered around, leaving debate as to what they had been before the flames had consumed them. But one thing had not been burned away: A hauntingly empty metal baby's crib that stood silently in the corner.

The sight of it made Dean's blood cold and breath stop, even though he wasn't sure what he'd expected. No, was the single shocked thought in his mind as it all became entirely too real. Please, god, no…

Giving a soft sound of dismay, Jamie drifted over in a trance, horror etched deeply into lines on her face. She sank down as if in slow motion, hands closing in on the crib bars as she tried to understand what this meant. Frost crawled over the structure as her knuckles turned white from how hard she held onto the metal. The room plunged into such cold that Dean involuntarily shuddered. Jamie's shoulders shook, her head bowed, and then a fractured sobbing sound came from her broken depths.

Dean shook his head no over and over, a shallow, repetitive, robotic motion he barely realized he was making. This couldn't be it. This couldn't! Even though there weren't visible human remains anywhere that he could tell, it felt like confirmation of his and Jamie's worst nightmare.

"I never even held her, Dean," James choked out wretchedly, a detail she had left out on the way here. "I said no when they asked me if I wanted to, because I knew if I did… I'd never be able to let go."

That last confession broke Dean's fucking heart.

The silence that commenced afterward was unspeakably terrible. In that burnt shell of a nursery, two grieving parents who had never gotten the chance to know or hold their baby sank into a very strange, dark emotional coma as they struggled to find understanding. With a twisted heart and a choked throat, Dean remained stuck in place—his feet were lead, and James was a thousand miles away at her six foot distance. He didn't know how to get to her or what to say. His mind felt foreign to him. The pain was too much. He couldn't think straight at all. He only knew pain and despair. And it felt like neither of them said anything for years.

Finally, emotion began to return to Jamie's blank mask of a face. "I shouldn't have done this," she whispered harshly, distraught rage beginning to grow underneath the numbness of shocked grief. She abruptly rocketed up to stand with a heaving chest. "I thought I was saving her from this shit!" she shrieked. Seized by temporary madness, Jamie savagely threw the crib askew in a fit of helpless fury, then as quickly as her temper had soared, it fell away and she sank down into a crouch with her trembling hands on either side of her head. Quiet and devastated, her chin quivered and features warred between guilt, confusion, and total loss the likes of which she might never recover. Her voice came out as a croaking raspy whisper as her eyes begged Dean to make it make sense. "It's bad enough we can never escape it… but her too?"

The question destroyed them both, and in Dean's devastated silence, Jamie covered her face in her hands to muffle another wave of defeated, choking sobs. Disbelief reigned.

Dean was hollow. Totally beyond words even though he knew he needed to say something. Tears of his own gathered as he cursed the circumstances that had led here. All the things she'd told him on the reckless drive here swarmed his mind: the pregnancy and birth she'd lied about, the adoption, and her conflict about not telling him the truth. It all only added to the eternal weight of his guilt. "You did what you thought was best," he managed to rasp out after a second, barely able to speak at all. "And I know it wasn't easy." He felt dark anger entering into his emotional sphere, setting fire into his veins and frustration simmering hotly in his bones. "If I hadn't gotten blown off the goddamn map…" he growled, visions of Purgatory flashing across his mind as self-hatred came in fast as high-tide. He tried to picture his baby Rose—whose name he hadn't known before today. The baby girl he'd never seen, never heard, never held… and now never would. He was left to reconcile himself to standing here in this demolished nursery of the dead daughter he had failed from the get-go. His voice choked up almost completely and his crazy theories wherein his baby survived this tragedy all fell away. He needed to be real with himself: No one could have survived this fire. Least of all a six-month-old baby girl. Tears flooded his vision and cast his voice into a hoarse, devastated murmur as it really, really hit him. "I'm so sorry." For baby Rose. For Jamie. And for how he hadn't been there to save either one before it was too late. His despair was increasing to a peak that he couldn't fathom. He thought his legs might give out or he might be sick. But then his mind began to turn a different direction.

A single, ugly name stood in his mind, coming into clear, obsessive focus as he grievously fumed: Abaddon. The one he knew was behind this. Blinding rage and the all-consuming bloodlust began to rise. Revenge became the singular thought pounding in his chest and head, its epicenter at the searing skin on his right forearm. With a cry of animalistic agony, Dean kicked blindly at what was left of a dresser, breaking it apart into sooty fragments. Ash fluttered gently down like black snow, and the silence that followed mocked him. Dean stared without seeing, his shoulders heaving up and down as he tried to know what the fuck he was supposed to do now. How the hell he would ever get past this. The Mark scorched at him ruthlessly, whispering violent thoughts into his mind.

Still crouched into that little protective ball, Jamie quaked and shuddered, spinning emotionally in paralyzing agony. The hopes and dreams she'd had for this baby girl she had carried, the fierce love, the lengths she had gone to in order to try and keep her safe… all of it in vain. All of it cursed. And knowing that they were just a handful of hours too late to save the life of their baby was the worst part of all. Jamie couldn't stop imagining Rose's last agonizing moments. No one coming for her. Screams going unanswered. Heat no one saving her. Jamie sobbed even harder, weeping at this point. I abandoned her. I left her to this fate. I should never have done what I did! It was the kind of heartbreak impossible to survive. The kind of guilt that could propel a mother to end her own life.

And then a telltale creak sounded, causing Jamie's sobs to stop and hands to drop away from her face. Nearby, Dean whirled. In the doorway, two black-eyed 'police officers' stood with their menacing nightsticks in hand. Cruel, delighted smirks played on both their faces to catch Dean and Jamie by surprise.

"Abaddon said to expect you," the first demon announced haughtily. He was presenting as a slender, fit man. He swung his nightstick into his palm a few times, implying that what came next was a savage beatdown.

"How touching, a family reunion," sneered the other one, presenting in the body of a tall, beefy male. "…Looks like you're missing one though."

The wrath those two arrogant, peon demons received next was blistering.

Even as the hateful words left the mouth of the second demon, Dean had gotten over his brief surprise and charged forward toward the larger demon, murder in his eyes. He didn't even draw a weapon. Simultaneously, Jamie shot to her feet and a hand lunged out toward the more slender man, whose advance toward her was over before it began. Murderous anger came easily. "Retrorsum!" Jamie roared, bearing down with terrifying fierceness on her tear-streaked face.

The demon blasted backwards through a burnt wall and to the ground of the hallway with a sickening crack. His nightstick rolled away harmlessly. Without a word, a furious Jamie strode to stand menacingly over him as he laid briefly dazed. She closed her fist and barred her teeth, the spells on her tongue that would eviscerate the demon body and spirit alike—but then she glimpsed a glinting wedding band on his left hand, and even in the stupor of wanting revenge and needing justice, her haze of fury faded and she realized she had opportunity to save the possessed human being in front of her. That did not always happen when facing demons. Her fist began to unclench, even though she would like nothing better than to see blood run. Despite everything, she still had enough presence of mind to know what was right. That didn't make it easy though. "Non motus," she whispered harshly, rendering the demon frozen in place and unable to fight what she did next. With a deep breath in, she held herself steady against excruciating emotions rocking her.

"Exorcizamus te," she began with a trembling voice,"omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica!"

Dense, sulphuric smoke poured out of his screaming mouth as the demon was ripped out without choice and sent back to Hell. The human host was left blinking, terrified, and gasping, staring up at Jamie with absolute petrified fear. Whoever the hell this random schmuck cop was, he would never understand what had happened to him today, or how close he had come to losing his life forever. "Somnus," Jamie murmured blankly, and the man's expression became dreamy as he fell unconscious. Vaguely, the witch was aware of something very curious indeed: She wasn't getting a nosebleed. Her strength wasn't sapped by casting, nor was her head splitting. She looked at her hands as if seeing them the first time, turning them over and trying to understand. Indistinctly, she wondered if this body Abaddon had resurrected her in had somehow been altered…

That's when the commotion behind her began to register with her traumatized senses: In some sort of adrenaline powered spike of strength, Dean was holding the other demon by the neck against a support beam and beating its face in mercilessly. "Where's the kid?!" he shouted again and again, expression so terrible he was barely recognizable. He didn't stop beating the demon for even a second, it was like he was in some sort of fugue state of violence, his fist pummeling relentlessly. "Where?!"

Jamie rushed over. "Dean, Dean!" She grabbed him and tried to get him to stop. Like he didn't know who she was, he blindly shoved her away with a brutality she hadn't been prepared for. She fell with a whirl, smashing face-first into the overturned crib. Pain exploded across her eyebrow and beneath her eye, and coppery blood pooled thickly in her mouth as she hit the floor, stunned—but she only stayed there for the space of a couple dazed seconds. Renewed with the need to get Dean to stop—something was wrong—she darted right back and used the offensive, jumping on him from behind and looping a tight arm around him to chokehold. "Dean!" she roared for all she was worth. "Stop!"

He stumbled, gagging and gasping for air as his brutal assault stopped. The demon fell to the floor and Jamie let go and jumped back from Dean enough to be able to meet an outburst with her fists or magic if needed. But he had been taken out of his violent fog. He saw her bloody lip and the already-forming bruise across her eye. Shock drained the color off his face. Almost like he wasn't sure what had happened, he looked from her to the demon, confusion standing brightly on his blood-splattered face.

Shaken up but short on time, Jamie yanked the demon back up to their feet. "Where is the baby?" she demanded, managing measure through a shaking voice, hoping against hope. Behind her, Dean hovered with bloody fists and a bewildered, frightened expression. All Jamie could think desperately was maybe this demon would say something that would change everything. Maybe this was all a trick. Maybe Rose hadn't met the horrific fate this destroyed nursery indicated.

But a wicked, barking laugh came, and then confirmation of the worst. "The kid is dead," the demon sneered, grinning at Jamie and Dean's mutual pain through cracked, bloody teeth. "Or she w—"

Whatever he was about to say, he never got a chance to finish. The storm descended onto Dean's face and he grabbed the demon from Jamie's grasp roughly and began to scream, curse, and pummel with hysterical, ruthless abandon. The demon just took it and laughed, head jerking from side to side as Dean's enraged strikes grew more and more intense. Jamie drifted backward, hollow and unable to take deep breaths. Her senses were muddled and dizzy. The room was tilting sideways, and through the haze, she saw the demon blade flashing out of Dean's jacket. In a vicious and brutal fit the likes of which Jamie had never seen and never knew Dean capable of, he stabbed the demon in the chest—not once, but repeatedly, over and over and over in an unstoppable frenzy. Even after the demon had clearly died, Dean's maniacal hysteria continued onward—the knife plunged into the dead demon's right eye socket and then the left and Dean kept going, stabbing wildly without seeing, yelling incoherently as he half-decapitated the already dead demon—all without hearing Jamie's dismayed cries of "what are you doing, stop, he's already dead Dean, stop!" It was like Dean couldn't hear anymore—like he had lost all his sense.

Finally, a distraught Jamie had no choice, and threw a hand out toward him. "Retrorsum!"

Dean flew backwards and rolled over, coming to a stop in a ragdoll pose against the overturned crib. Breathing so hard he might have been hyperventilating, Dean's eyes lost their venomous glaze and again, he looked frightened and baffled at what he had done. He was shaking like a leaf, his hands trembling forcefully as he looked at them. He dropped the knife like it were a snake.

Mildly afraid of him at this point, Jamie kept her distance, looking at the dead demon whose body was riddled by demented violence. While she understood that this was just as terrible a moment for Dean as it was for her… the instinct she'd had since waking from her coma that something was off with him. And now, she knew she was onto something. Dean was not well. "W-what the hell was all that?" she asked in a shocked, breathless voice, unable to believe how brutal and merciless he'd been. "What's going on with you?"

Dean shook his head, at a loss. He had no answer. She could see the pain in his eyes as he took in her bloody lip and bruising eye again. "I'm sorry, I—I… it's like I didn't know what I was doing," he supplied weakly, then stood up unevenly and chanced a step toward her, worry deep on his features. "Y-you okay?"

It wasn't yelled or screamed. But it was said with a certain note of warning and fear: "Stay back, Dean." She meant it, too.

He complied, hurt in his eyes. Swallowing, looking at what he had done to the dead demon a few feet away and not liking what he saw, he took a long second, deliberating. Guilt stood clearly on his handsome features as he admitted the truth: "I'm… I'm messed up, okay?" He wet his lips and thought for a long, dreadful moment before he made agonized eye contact again. "Look, Abaddon has to die, right? And the crap we got, the ways we usually get it done—none of those'll work on her." He seemed very drawn and reluctant and spoke very slowly, like he was preparing her for bad news. "There's a real specific way."

Jamie's lungs were shallow and her stomach pitted itself in dread. "What did you do?" she breathed in gaunt horror, afraid of whatever it was. Afraid for him.

Regretful and possibly even a little ashamed, Dean exhaled hard out of his nose, like he was resigning himself. He then bit the bullet, yanked his jacket off, and rolled the sleeve of his flannel shirt up. Perplexed with a wildly beating heart and a mind clamoring for answers, Jamie shrank back when he revealed the welted red scar gashed several inches across and down his forearm. The foreboding symbol made by angry red skin struck immediate fear into her and her terrified eyes flew to look into his rueful ones. "The hell is that thing?!" she asked in a petrified, confused whisper.

His mouth was a thin line. He had the look of someone who knew they were on a suicide mission. "Mark of Cain."

That meant nothing to her, but judging on what had happened here, it wasn't anything good. Panicking, angry, scared, Jamie lost her composure completely. Her voice rose in octaves. "And just what the fuck is the Mark of Cain?!"

Dean remained remarkably composed. "Whoever has the Mark can use the First Blade. A-K-A, the only weapon in existence that can kill Abaddon."

Flabbergasted, Jamie was spiraling more and more by the second. Again, this was nothing she'd ever heard of. "The First Bl—?" she began to repeat, then realized she had a more pressingly urgent question: "Where'd you find all this out?"

The answer was given with a flex of a noticeable stiffening of the jaw. "Crowley."

Her eyes shot wide, her jaw dropped open, and appalled judgment twisted her expression all up. "Crowley?" she repeated, devastated anew. Crowley was Satan incarnate as far as she was concerned after her stay in Hell. Bristling and becoming hostile, feeling her trust shattering, Jamie couldn't believe him and lost her cool. "Look, I know I missed a few months, but since when do you work with the devil, Dean?!"

A very ugly expression invaded his features. Without any warning, Dean snapped, his eyes almost transforming into someone else completely. "I don't need your judgment about this, god knows everyone else in my goddamn life has something to say about me, but who else is willing to do the hard stuff, huh?" He almost began to sneer as he jabbed an accusing finger at her, and again, the hideous expression on his face was foreign. "This is your fault, James, I mean, you let this happen to begin with!" he raged nonsensically. "You got pregnant, gave our kid away like trash, lied to my fucking face about it all, now you want me to be sorry for you?!"

Absolutely astonished into slack-jawed silence at the verbal barbs, Jamie blinked a few times, shocked and hurt to her core. Dean had never talked to her like that before, not even in their most acrimonious arguments. Nor had he laid hands on her like he had today, either. His cruelty demanded she do one of two things: punch him in the jaw, or walk the fuck away. More than anything else, she felt betrayed. So she shoved her feelings down and nodded stiffly, working her features hard against the urge to break down. "I'm leaving," she declared stiffly in trembling wounded anger, and turned to leave.

"Wait! James!" Dean caught up to her and stopped her gently by the shoulders. Jamie yanked away from his touch and whirled, glaring at him and challenging him to take a step closer and get hit. However, his face was totally different than it had been a moment ago: despairingly apologetic, tortured, urgently desperate. "I'm sorry, baby, it's the Mark, I'm sorry, you gotta believe me!"

"No!" Jamie snapped, her teary eyes flashing. "You don't get to do this to me, say that to me, then blame it on some scar on your arm I've never even heard about!"

Dean looked like he could cry. "I did this for us!" he insisted passionately. "For her! I did this because I thought it could save R—" his voice faltered and eyes did too. "…Because I thought it could save our daughter." Like it or not, that got through to Jamie. Her anger shifted to brokenness. And Dean wet his lips, shaking his head and silently pleading with her to not give up on him. "Don't you leave me too," he begged, letting her see his vulnerability in this—his pain, his despair. The way he was every bit as human as he always tried to act like he wasn't. After a tense moment, he chanced stepping to her and putting a gentle hand onto her face. She didn't resist. In fact, the touch softened her, and her own heartbreaking vulnerability began to show. "I just got you back," he whispered hoarsely, eyes sadly skimming the places she'd been injured at his hand.

Jamie shut her eyes hard against the pain and took her time replying, because forming words without choking on the lump in her throat was nearly impossible. She felt his thumb ever so softly stroking a sad apology near the bruise on her eye. And love ached in her shattered heart. But everything was so broken—and she didn't know how to survive. Her hand came up to gently rest on top of his. Opening her eyes back up, she shook her head no faintly. "There's nothing left of me Dean," she rasped in a shattered whisper. His eyes were the same color as their daughter's had been, and it made speaking even more difficult. "Not after this."

So much agony crossed his face to hear that, and he searched for what to say in reply. And then his phone began to vibrate loudly in his front jacket pocket. With a sinking heart, he pulled it out and his expression fell. He steeled himself and showed her the screen, which said '666 Calling.' "I-it's Crowley," Dean explained hesitantly. "I'm betting this is him telling me where the Blade is." He became intensely meaningful and decisive. "Look, we go get this thing and put that bitch back in the ground where she can't hurt anyone else, right?" Jamie clenched her jaw uncertainly. Dean became more adamant. "Crowley's just a means to an end, okay? We don't get to just walk away and act like it's not our job, James! Fight this! Be who you were born to be!" He let his pain show. "And you make damn sure Abaddon doesn't get to kill our daughter and not pay for it!" The phone continued to vibrate loudly, demanding a choice be made. Dean regarded Jamie with apprehensive dread and wretched hope. "You with me?"

Jamie didn't like the method. But Dean was right. If her last act as Rose's mother was to serve justice… so be it. She snatched the phone from his hand and answered the call with a severe voice. "Where's the Blade?"

"…And you are?" came an accented, deep voice she recognized and abhorred. "Ah yes, Dean's comatose bimbo, forgot your name." There was a dark chuckle. "Guess true love's kiss woke you, eh?"

Jamie's expression didn't flicker. "Do you have the weapon location or not, asshole?"

"Manners, oh my," was the breezy reply, followed by a gusty sigh. "Yes, yes, I have the location. But is Dean there?"

Jamie handed the phone over irreverently, her eyes mistrusting Dean the whole time. "Your boyfriend wants to talk to you."

Crowley directed the two bereaved hunters to a graveyard in upstate New York, and they headed there immediately to get the First Blade.

On the several hour drive, James avoided Dean's constant side glances and kept her face hard like metal. Not much was said. But at a certain point Dean reached for Jamie's hand, needing to know she was still with him in some small way, he guessed. To his relief, she received his touch and held on surprisingly tight, her face flickering. But she still wouldn't look at him.

When they got to the graveyard under the cover of night, Dean exited the car with tall posture and a gaunt, determined expression. But when Jamie got out she couldn't hold it all inside anymore. She stumbled, vomited, and then broke down weeping, unable to stand without supporting her weight against the Impala. Seeing that happen to her, Dean couldn't find the words and locked James into a hard embrace they both needed so bad. She clutched to him fiercely, her tears soaking into his shirt and neck, and Dean cried too, whispering whatever he could think of to try and soothe her, even as he drowned in an ocean of grief just like her.

Total despair reigned. Dean had nothing and no one left at this point—his brother and sister hated him, his father had abandoned him once more, Bobby disapproved of his choices, Kevin didn't like or trust him, even Crowley had commented on what a loser he was these days. Now this—the unthinkable. His daughter had been murdered, and Jamie was two inches from jumping ship and kicking him aside like garbage. He wouldn't blame her, either. Especially after today. But the idea of being alone with this burden killed him.

Closing his eyes, Dean held her tight in case it was the last time she let him, and cradled a hand at the back of her head while he breathed unevenly, wishing so bad he had been a better protector. A better boyfriend. And a father who had known he was one when it could have really counted. He wondered why his existence was so doomed to violent ends and lost lives. He tried not to imagine what Rose would look like, or who she'd grow up to be. He tried not to picture a little girl running to him and calling him Daddy and shrieking with laughter when he scooped her up. He tried not to love her as much as he already had, because it hurt too much. He tried not to hate himself for not being fast enough to save her. But he hated himself anyway.

He couldn't imagine what Jamie was feeling in this moment. All the things she had finally shared with him on the drive to the burnt house haunted him, adding to his guilt. She'd been left alone, newly pregnant, and thinking that Dean was dead when he'd actually been sent to Purgatory. She had exited hunting without a word to anyone left that she knew. In the sad and lonely months that followed, she had decided to give their baby a chance at life through adoption, then carried to term… all while knowing she was as good as dead.

After giving birth prematurely, Jamie had chosen to extract herself from the situation as quickly as possible, because of how painful it was to watch the baby girl she and Dean had created be held by and doted on by someone other than herself. But despite her best intentions, Jamie said she hadn't been able to stop herself from what was essentially spying on the family afterward from afar—and that's why she had known where their house was. Where the nursery was. She had admitted to Dean that many times she had thought about stealing her baby back. Now, Dean wished she had done exactly that and knew she cursed herself for not listening to those urges. Even now, he didn't blame her for keeping everything from him, even if it did tear him apart inside. She really had been trying to do what would keep Rose safest. So this had to be crushing her to pieces inside. And that crushed Dean to pieces, too.

"This isn't right," Jamie finally whispered against his neck, forlorn and stripped bare of all her defenses and dignity. Dean knew exactly what she meant. And killing Abaddon wouldn't bring back their kid. But it sure as hell would settle the score a little bit. It sure as hell would make things a little more right than they were at present. And that had to count for something.

After the two of them gathered themselves and wiped their faces and squared their shoulders, they dutifully dug up the grave that Crowley told them they'd find the First Blade hidden in. The scene brought to mind what Dean had in the past jokingly referred to as their 'first date' three years ago—a time when life had been a certifiable shitshow as always, but they'd been younger and more innocent. Less weighed down by endless fucking pain. Now, every memory they shared felt tainted by what had happened today.

Dean glanced at James a lot as they worked in silence, feeling a thousand miles from her. He needed her more than ever, but didn't know how to tell her that. Left alone in the desolate halls of his mind, he wondered if maybe they had been doomed from the get-go just like every other relationship he'd been stupid enough to try make work. Cassie and Lisa had both given up on him and now Jamie would follow suit too. It drove endless shards of impossible pain deep into his heart because he loved her so much—and he didn't think she felt the same. So all he did was focus on what was in front of him: digging.

When they at last cracked the coffin open, they found what they had come all this way for: Forged from the jawbone of a donkey, the Blade had a ghoulish, ancient appearance with a tightly wrapped leather handle and jagged, uneven teeth that marched along the long edge. It was unlike any other weapon Dean had ever seen, and when he first touched it, he instantly felt a great and terrible power course through him. If he hadn't been frightened before, he certainly was now. He stowed it in his jacket and the pair returned to the car and hit the road. There, Dean dialed Crowley, set it to speakerphone, and waited.

The King of Hell answered casually. "Ah yes hello. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with—Dumb, or Dumber?"

"Shut up," Dean retorted bluntly. "We got the Blade, now what?"

"Excellent. I'm in Cleveland—Humboldt Hotel. Penthouse, of course. When you get here, I'll take you to Abaddon. I'll draw her out, and then you can barbecue the ignorant hag."

Dean's nostrils flared in anticipation. "We're on our way."

That's when Crowley made a very curious comment indeed: "Oh, and, Dean, you need to get a move on—it's a good five or so hours from Poughkeepsie."

Dean went still, his eyes narrowing. "…Poughkeepsie?" he repeated very slowly and carefully. The Winchester secret code for drop everything and run.

"You heard me," Crowley replied covertly, alerting Dean to something definitely being majorly up. "And there's a little something here of yours you might want t—oy!"

There was a shuffling sound, like the phone was switching hands. And then, with Crowley grumbling incoherently in the background, Abaddon came to the phone. "Hello, kitten." Her silky voice sent murderous chills down Dean's spine. Beside him, Jamie bolted upright, anxiety skyrocketing. "Listen, let's not beat around the bush any longer, shall we?"

Dean was much less measured than the Knight of Hell as he realized what was going on. "You fucking bitch, I'm gonna tear your insides apart!" he shouted, and his fingers physically itched to curl around the hilt of the Blade. Instead, they dug into the steering wheel until it creaked.

Her smirk was audible. "Oh I'm sure you'll try," she returned in a patronizing coo. "But would your opinion of me change if I told you I have something of yours?" she asked in false innocence. "A very small, sweet thing with eyes so much like Daddy's…" In tandem, Dean and Jamie reacted with eyes that shot wide and faces that drained of blood. "Recently lost her caretakers in a fire," Abaddon simpered. "Poor thing." Her tone became harder and more threatening. "Give me the Blade and maybe she lives, do you understand me?" She gave no chance to reply, returning her tone to airy and overly cheery. "See you soon!"

"Abaddon! Ab—son of a bitch!" Dean swore, throwing the phone toward the console blindly as his mind raced.

Beside him, Jamie was going through the same ten thousand emotions Dean was. "Is she telling the truth?" she asked urgently with wild hope and fear alike. "Is she still alive?!"

Although he had no idea, something in Dean sparked back to life and new purpose gave him a sudden wind he couldn't explain. "Well I sure as hell ain't waiting around to find out." Already flooring the gas, Dean gripped the steering wheel hard. Pressed up near his chest in his jacket, the First Blade waited, whispering to him the entire drive.

Later
Cleveland, Ohio

Being veteran hunters, they knew better than to burst into a trap without a plan in place. But everything had gone out the window and changed when they learned that their child might still be alive. And bursting into the trap without a plan in place was exactly what they did.

The double doors to the penthouse at the top floor blew inward at Jamie's command of impetu aperto and they charged in together—Dean with the Blade drawn and ready. Immediately upon entering, a lavish and spacious sitting area sprawled. In one of the luxurious velvet chairs there, Crowley slumped paralyzed with a bloody hand pressed against his shoulder. "Dean, look out!" the King shouted. Even as he warned them, they both were yanked invisibly forward then went flying through the air, toppling to a stop near to Crowley, who made a wan face and shook his head with a sigh. "Amateurs," he muttered disdainfully.

Abaddon strode into view, a victorious smile on her ruby-red lips. "Took you two long enough," she greeted casually as Dean and Jamie scrambled up. Before they could make it to their feet, Abaddon's hand flew up and sent them both crashing back-first into the far wall with great force, pinning their every limb and shattering a framed painting in the process too. Jamie opened her mouth to cast a counter spell—but no sound came out. At the shock in her eyes, Abaddon tutted sympathetically, enjoying the moment immensely. "Don't look so surprised," she sighed leisurely, strolling over in no rush. "Can't have you casting your little spells, now can I, sweetie?" Dean and Jamie both struggled valiantly. To reassert her power over them, the Knight raised a hand again and sent another devastating gust of invisible gale force pressure to pin them even tighter. She chuckled at their bad fortune.

"I brought you the damn Blade," Dean panted, hate filling his heart and rage making him feel like he could kill with his glare alone. "So where's the kid?" His eyes had already darted over the entirety of the visible space. No sign of a baby anywhere.

"Kid?" Abaddon smiled easily, toying with them and enjoying herself. "What kid?"

Good for nothing, two-bit, evil bitch. Of course she had lied about that. Some sort of wicked, redhot veil of fury like no other was descending over Dean. He saw nothing and no one but Abaddon—and in his iron grip, the Blade began to physically hum. And Dean knew in that moment Abaddon was as good as dead. Eerily calm where he'd been crazed a few seconds ago, Dean leveled the red-headed bitch in front of them with deadly composure. "I'm gonna ask you this one more time while there's still breath left in your lungs," he said in dangerously cool tone. "Because after you tell me what I need to know, I am gonna butcher you like the animal that you are." His teeth gritted, his veins trembled, his heart was about to beat out of the skin of his chest, and his calm fell away as a deafening roar tore out: "Where's—my—kid?!"

Abaddon's eyebrows rose as she feigned remembrance. "Oh—you mean the one who died in the fire?" she provoked. And that was when the rage truly and fully set off. That was when the Mark physically flared to life, burning so brightly that its unmistakable shape was visible through all the layers Dean wore.

Abaddon faltered, and concern grew quickly in the place of pride. Breathless and boiling in fury, Dean looked down the length of his arm, willing the anger to consume him completely and give him full access to the strength he knew was at his disposal. He saw the burning nursery, he imagined his baby's screams, and without finesse, a primal yell escaped his mouth. His rage grew, his strength doubled and tripled—and Dean began to move. Abaddon's face fully fell as Dean's entire arm peeled away from the wall, Blade shaking as the humming increased, reverberating in the oldest Winchester's entire body. Abaddon raised a hand again and cast roughly, attempting to pin him anew… and to her dismay, it didn't work.

Dean turned a devastating, lethal glare toward Abaddon, and she cowered back a step as her hold ceased to work completely—the full strength of the First Blade coursed through his atoms, powered by the hatred that had caused the First Murder in all creation. His feet dropped and hit the floor as he fell away from the wall. Already moving, he strode toward Abaddon at a brisk march, ready to make the kill. More and more dismayed, she blasted him with powerful winds once, twice, then three times telekinetically, each time slowing him down but not stopping him. And then, with all the strength the Knight of Hell had, she shoved a final desperate time—and Dean lost his footing and fell back to the wall hard, losing grip on the Blade. It clattered away to the floor near Jamie's feet and went still.

Aghast, Dean's fingers wiggled and neck craned as he strained impossibly to get his weapon back. But nothing happened—without the Blade in his hand, the power he'd just had was gone. Clearly relieved, Abaddon's face relaxed back into a triumphant, self-assured smile and she yet again claimed victory. "A boy, his blade, and my dress rehearsal vessel… still no match for the new Queen," she gloated.

Defeated, Dean had to wonder: was this it? The end of his miserable, fucked up existence? He thought of Sam and Alex, and his heart was devastated. I never got to say goodbye. He fought Abaddon's hold on him, but it was useless without the Blade. He was stuck, and he knew what came next was death. The only thing he managed to do was inch his fingers over to brush against Jamie's. A silent I'm with you. He accepted his fate, but stared daggers at Abaddon defiantly. He wouldn't go out like a sniveling bitch. He'd go out like the man his dad had raised him to be, looking the miserable hag dead in the eyes the entire time. If nothing else, he knew his brother and sister would avenge him somehow. And that gave him some small semblance of peace.

And then the most unexpected sound came from behind the wall and doorway to Dean and Jamie's left: the unmistakable sound of a baby crying. With hearts that were suddenly hammering wildly, Jamie and Dean made immediate eye contact—and everything changed.

Abaddon's expression fouled up. "Well, that ruins my game," she complained, then thought up a new way to torture them. "But just ask yourself, is she crying because that's what babies do, or crying because one of my minions is peeling her skin off?" The taunt was too much for the emotionally ragged couple in front of her. Dean's efforts doubled at fighting his hold even as Jamie screamed silently, rage turning her red as she thrashed uselessly. Thoroughly entertained, Abaddon pushed the envelope. "Would the three of you like to die together?" she offered with false eager helpfulness. "As a family?" Another mocking grin stretched across her pretty face. "I'm sure I can arrange it."

And that was the final straw. Jamie Ward snapped. With her daughter's cries filling her ears from a mere few feet away, she set her vision and began to deep breathe, going into a near-trance of hyperventilating, focused, obsessive breaths. With adrenaline surging, she dug the deepest she ever had, past what she knew she even could, accessing the most primal and dangerous form of magic there was—from the power of the soul itself. Her eyes squeezed shut as she shook and seized, teeth barring and head hitting the wall as she willingly flung herself into pain and struggle and agony comparable to childbirth—and then she found the other side. The purest power known to all creation. It was like touching the sun, and it threatened to burn her apart if she wasn't careful. Her own wellbeing be damned, Jamie knew what to do. Ferociously, her eyes snapped open and glared into Abaddon's—but now, the witch's eyes glowed a terrifying white hot blue.

Abaddon was visibly startled and confused. And then the Blade began to shiver on the floor. Realizing what was happening, the Knight's face twisted up in anger. "No!" she protested angrily. But it was too late.

"Yes," Jamie hissed, reclaiming her voice from Abaddon's hold, which only made the red-head superdemon's eyes widen further. Compelled by the witch's silent command, the Blade flew into Dean's waiting hand. Instantly, the Mark flared back to life, and Dean surged away from the wall. Abaddon raised frantic hands, viciously sending every ounce of everything she had to try and hold back Dean and Jamie both—and the force of the windy assault she unleashed was so great that even Crowley went toppling out of his chair to smack up against the wall in a heap. Dean could barely stand against the onslaught, but stand he did as with herculean effort and a devastating mask on her face, Jamie held her ground and extended a hand toward Abaddon. Blonde hair whipped around her wildly like a tempest as a primal cry tore out and she fought tooth and nail, pushing back invisibly against the Knight's attack as her eyes continued to blaze.

Dean gripped the First Blade tight, advancing step by step as Jamie used every last remaining ounce of strength she had to war against Abaddon's telekinesis. And even as Abaddon's expression began to show genuine fear, Dean felt Jamie give a final, invisible burst at his back propelling him forward with sudden speed into the kill zone. Abaddon's eyes widened with dismay, but it was too late. Dean brutally plunged the Blade into her stomach, driving the knife so hard and deep that she lifted up off the ground. With a scream of rage and a final, mighty blast of wind that knocked furniture over and doors open, the Knight of Hell's eyes and mouth exploded with whitehot light as her life ended. Behind Dean, Jamie's eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed limply to the floor, unconscious.

But Dean had no concern for anything or anyone but the crumpled body of Abaddon—he yanked the Blade out with a squelch and began to hack at her corpse brainlessly without stopping, compelled onward and onward by the grotesque and endless urge to see more blood run.

And then on the edge of his violence-addled mind, he faintly heard a crying baby. And then the Blade went still, poised high in the air over his head mid-strike as he realized that wasn't just any baby crying in the other room. It was his baby.

Forgetting Abaddon, Dean's wide, clearing eyes searched frantically for the source of the sound. And then he saw her, and was so startled, confounded, and profoundly overcome that for a moment, the entire universe ceased to exist. The Blade clattered to the floor, completely forgotten. And life changed forever.

In the bedroom off the sitting area, beyond a blown open door, baby Rose sat alone in a portable playpen, distressed with a quivering lower lip. A soft, involuntary sound of relief left Dean, and he rose to his feet in a trance of incredulous amazement as he looked at his living, healthy, totally unharmed baby girl. Shaking in disbelief, Dean began to move toward her without thought. He took two steps, then realized he must look terrifying and dashed at his blood-splattered face with his sleeve, eyes never leaving the baby. "Hey, hi—" he greeted softly, a wild, relieved smile breaking across his face as he did his best to approach gently. In the back of his mind, he was appalled at what she had just seen him do, but he couldn't think about that right now. He had to make sure she was okay. Wide eyes studied him uncertainly, but Rose stopped crying and was now just moaning anxiously as he arrived. Dressed in a soft pink, long sleeve pajama onesie with footies, she had thick, soft blonde hair and unmistakably green eyes. Discontent and restless, she whimpered complaints and reached for him, communicating in the only way babies could to 'get me outta here!'

In a dreamlike state Dean bent and carefully pulled her up and out, losing all ability to speak as he held his little girl for the very first time—and his eyes flooded with the kind of tears a new father cries. Joy was not a big enough word to describe the feeling, and as father and daughter looked each other closely in the eye for the first time, Dean instantly and fiercely adored every last thing about her: the thick eyelashes rimming huge, curious, hazel green eyes—the little pointed chin, her petal lips, rosy cheeks, button nose. He couldn't help the pride that welled or the love that soared. "Hey baby," he managed, grinning and crying and overcome, "Hey sweet girl—" He could have laughed, that's how ecstatic it felt to hold her in his arms and take in her little beating heart and wiggling legs and warm skin and bright eyes. He bounced her a little, making eye contact he hoped was reassuring. He turned them so that Abaddon's mangled body wasn't visible to her.

"Daddy's got you, huh?" he asked softly through a voice that broke on emotion. Just like that, he already knew there was nothing he wouldn't do for this little person for the rest of his life. She was everything, instantly. And for a moment, he remembered what it was like years ago to hold Sammy and Al when they were this little. Even more emotion swamped him, leaving him stunned and quiet, moved in the deepest part of his soul.

Although Rose didn't entirely know what to make of him, she didn't cry or squirm away—she seemed more curious about him than anything else. And Dean smiled at her again softly, his eyes crinkling. "Hi Rose," he whispered as he thought of how close it had come to utter disaster. But all of that was behind them now—and he was gonna be the kind of dad to her that would never let his kid down, never leave her side, never let her wonder how he felt or where he was. He could already see her life flashing in front of his eyes, a series of moments he never thought he would have, now all real—all probable. He could see him, her, and Jamie—a happy little family. He could see Sam and Alex as aunt and uncle. His throat squeezed thickly.

A soft, female voice tore Dean out of his trance. "She's okay?" Jamie was hunched over in the doorway, drained and mildly delirious, but hopeful and overjoyed, a hand on the doorframe to support herself.

Relieved at the sight of her, momentarily having forgotten everything else in the world except Rose, Dean came back to earth. "Yeah, she's fine," he said breathlessly, then headed headed over. Jamie met him halfway, looking Rose over quickly for signs of harm to verify it for herself, hands hovering apprehensively then stroking the baby's head in disbelief and amazement. A grin broke through immediate emotion and tears. "Hi baby girl," she whispered, and Dean handed her over, knowing Jamie needed this moment as much as he did. The fullness of relief sank in. Mother and child were reunited… and Jamie finally got to hold her baby. Dean tenderly put a hand against the back of Jamie's head as she cradled Rose close without hesitation like she had been waiting for this moment, crying even as she laughed, ducking her face down to lovingly nuzzle her daughter's face. Rose seemed to know Jamie on some level, and made a soft cooing sound. "Mama's here," Jamie whispered, choking in overjoyed disbelief, then her watery eyes came to find Dean's. "Daddy too." She grabbed him by his jacket and pulled him close so that they were all enveloped by each other. A fierce, warm feeling settled in Dean's heart as he put his arms around his family. It was surreal, it was Heaven, it was too good to be true. He felt nothing but the promise of better days, and second chances, and the kind of love he had never quite understood before.

Watching how James readily held their daughter with so much warmth, Dean loved her even more than he knew he could. "S-she's perfect, James," he breathed, not even sure how to say how he felt in this moment.

Nodding, Jamie studied their baby with reverent, overwhelmed eyes. "I know," she murmured tightly, touching Rose's face and head sweetly, worry and love and optimism all visible on her face before she looked into Dean's eyes. Her voice dropped into a whisper. "I can't believe she's ours." Dean agreed wordlessly, feeling exactly the same as the warmth in his chest grew hotter and brighter. He had a thousand things to say, and also nothing at all. He was terrified and thrilled, barely able to believe what was happening. Jamie kissed Rose's head, breathing in her scent deeply. "Mommy and Daddy aren't going anywhere ever again," she promised, sending even more emotion welling in Dean's chest, especially when Jamie looked up at him for confirmation. Her eyes were vulnerable, like she was trusting him with her heart, and it made him feel protective.

"That's right," he confirmed hoarsely, standing a little taller.

"You okay?" she asked, looking him over briefly in concern.

Dean nodded, and looked at her in the same way. "Are you?" He had no idea what that glowing eye shit was, or exactly how they'd just taken on the Knight of Hell and lived to tell the tale.

Her face relaxed a little as she let go of the fear one piece at a time. "I am now." And then surprising him with the decisive way she did it, Jamie lifted her head and impulsively kissed him firmly. There was a certain promise to the way she kissed him, and he answered in kind, melting with relief. The kiss lingered, softened, and communicated everything they hadn't had a chance to talk about yet. When they came apart, Dean felt years younger. Like he knew where they stood again, thank god. "So it's still like that, huh?" he asked huskily, a cheeky little grin on his face because he couldn't help but tease her.

Exhausted and affectionate, Jamie tweaked his chin in between her thumb and forefinger. "Shut up," she murmured fondly, and Dean knew that meant yeah, it was definitely still like that. And then her smile grew worried and faded away into deep concern. "We gotta get that Mark off you, D."

Sobering, Dean nodded, remembering how crazy he must look in the moment, covered in blood like he was. "Yeah I know." But other things currently had his attention. Like how he couldn't wait to tell his brother and sister the news about Rose. Like how he just wanted to get somewhere, clean up, and hold his once-lost girls close and savor the life they were all lucky enough to still have. He bent his head and kissed the top of Rose's head, then the side of Jamie's—his girls. He would always take care of them, always protect them. Always love them. He rubbed Jamie's back once and patted, indicating it was time to get a move on. "Let's get the hell outta this dump, huh?"

She made no argument, enthusiastically agreeing to leaving this place behind. They made it a few steps away from the door when Crowley reminded them of his presence. He'd landed in a precarious, awkward position and couldn't move himself for whatever reason, resulting in him almost being facedown. His voice was somewhat muffled, and his butt stuck up into the air. "I'll have you know that Mark doesn't come off willy nilly, and oy, you really leaving your good ole buddy Crowley here to rot?" he asked, implying it would be appalling to do anything like that. He furiously wiggled his head around fractionally, the only movement he could manage. "It's a bullet with a devil's trap in my shoulder, I can't bloody move!"

Dean hesitated, then decided he was getting way too soft these days—he'd actually considered helping the schlub out for a couple seconds. "Then enjoy a good long time out in your penthouse here and think about all the fucked up shit you've done to me and my family, 'buddy.'"

"I warned you about Abaddon!" Crowley defended indignantly. "I helped you expel the whore from whats-her-face! I even tried to tell you about your little rug muncher!"

While that might have been true, Dean just shook his head with chagrin and guided James out. Crowley shouted after them and began to plead—and possibly even cry from the sounds of it. "Never give a demon human blood, makes them all sort of weird," Dean muttered as they furtively went down the hallway. They took the stairs down and out, exiting from an employee side entrance to avoid scrutiny. Being spattered in blood tended to get the general public riled up, after all.

The Impala was parked across the street, and the three of them were about to cross the street when Dean realized he'd just made a massive rookie oversight. "Shit," he exclaimed, almost slapping a hand against his face as he came to a full, sudden stop.

Peering at him as she held Rose closely, Jamie was quizzical. "What?"

Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder, mildly embarrassed at himself. "With everything that just happened I spazzed, uh—I left the Blade up there." He dug around in his pocket and found the Impala's keys and tossed them her way. "Here, start the car," he said, not wanting her to have to haul herself and the baby back up all those stairs. "I'll be right back." He suddenly thought of something else and smiled to himself—on cloud nine as new reality kept sinking in. "Damn, we're gonna need a carseat thing now, huh?" he asked, then chuckled, shaking his head in awe at how this day was the biggest turning point in his life.

A smile dawned on Jamie's face as she realized he was right—and that it was just the tip of the iceberg. "I think there's a really long list of shit we'll need," she replied, helpless to do anything but just be as dazed, happy, and out of her element as Dean was.

The bliss of it all hit him all over again and Dean went over to James and kissed her head and then touched Rose's face gently before giving his girlfriend an appreciative little smile. "Won't be long, babe," he promised. "Wouldn't wanna keep my girls waiting."

Jamie was just as happy as he was. "Better not," she returned even as he jogged back to the exit they'd just used. Turning her attention to Rose, who was gawking around curiously at the world at large, Jamie smiled and snuggled her close, resolving to never take her daughter for granted. Doing what Dean said, she took the keys and got herself and Rose into the car and started it, not knowing that moment beside the hotel was the last she would see of Dean for quite some time.

In a hurry, Dean re-entered the penthouse, eyeing Crowley's sad sack self briefly before he scooped up the Blade from where it had been left. The unpleasant surge of power turned his stomach and he pocketed the weapon uneasily, hoping that he hadn't gotten himself in deeper than what he could escape.

Babbling on and on the entire time, Crowley was trying to make a case for himself and begging Dean's help. Resolved not to help out the guy who'd subjected the Winchesters to endless fuckery, Dean almost left without doing anything. Almost. But right as he got to the door to leave, he stopped and gave an aggravated sigh at himself. Son of a bitch, he really was too soft these days. Irritated, Dean turned hard on his heel and marched over to the cracked out demon, jerking his small switchblade out—then yanking Crowley to lay face-up, he unceremoniously dug the tip of the knife into the wound and popped the bloody bullet out as the demon gave an irate yelp.

But painful or not, Crowley was now able to move, and he grumpily sat up and straightened himself huffily as Dean remained crouching over him. "We square now?" Dean asked, pointing the knife at Crowley threateningly.

"I do believe so," Crowley said sullenly, and stood up in tandem with Dean, brushing his suit off. And then his expression dropped and eyes shot wide as he spotted something behind Dean.

Dean turned, a frown on his face that turned to shock and pain—as the angel he knew as Ezekiel mercilessly assassinated him without any notice or warning, driving an angel's blade deep into his heart. Dead before he even hit the floor, Dean's sightless eyes stared at the ceiling, and in his original vessel, Gadreel breathed heavily, amazed that he had finally gathered the courage. Metatron would be pleased. Casting a quick glance around, Gadreel saw that the demon had vanished. Coward. Gadreel straightened and smiled, becoming proud of himself. And then he disappeared to go tell Metatron the deed had been done.

The room fell into silence. And after a few seconds had passed and the angel had definitely disappeared, Crowley reappeared, glancing around nervously and briefly, afraid that the angel might be back for seconds. But nothing happened and no one appeared. Crowley turned his focus to Dean, and his expression bore an absolutely stunned quality. He nudged at Dean tentatively with a polished shoe. "You-hoo," he prompted softly. Silence answered. And Crowley's eyebrows rose high as he realized this had actually transpired. Dean Winchester was dead. And oddly enough, Crowley immediately didn't like one of his favorite playthings being taken off the board. "Of all the big bads to get killed by," he admonished, getting a bit peeved off at Dean's sloppiness. "You sad, pathetic sod," he murmured, then sighed with chagrin and crouched down slowly, studying the shocked expression on the slain hunter's face. "You do realize this only leaves one very… interesting way to proceed, don't you?"

First, Crowley brushed his hand across Dean's eyes, closing them—it felt a bit awkward to be gawked at while working, even if it were by a dead chap. Then the King of Hell reached into the hunter's jacket and found the First Blade. A fond, reflective smile grew, then the demon placed it into the limp hand of one Dean Winchester. He closed the man's fingers around the hilt, then placed the hand to lay across the lifeless chest. A devilish little smile grew as Crowley watched and waited. It wouldn't take long. "What say you come take a walk on the wild side, mm?"

And Dean's eyes snapped open, black as night.