Riding in the backseat of the Impala was strange. Watching Dean behind the wheel and Sammy in the passenger's seat was downright bizarre. It had always been me driving the boys. My boys. When they were so much younger and hadn't seen so much horror.

For a while, I just watched them. I listened to the tiny conversations that would occasionally break an otherwise thick and uncomfortable silence. They weren't doing anything in particular, nor were they really saying much of anything, but I couldn't remember the last time I had just watched my children. I couldn't recall the last time I had listened to them and their brotherly banter.

And then it occurred to me that I never had.

A heavy, uncomfortable ache began to settle in my chest. I shifted in discomfort, and cleared my throat. Had I been out on the road by myself, this is the point where I would have pulled over and scoured every newspaper and webpage for any kind of hint of monster activity. I would have immersed myself in the distractions of hunting, using the job as the boot that would stomp down the pile of feelings that kept accumulating until I realized there was no feasible way to actually kill the guilt, and if there were, it would only make me more of a demon than I already was.

It was amazing, really. Despite the centuries and decades, I was still at war. Only now the war was raging not in the hot jungles and rice paddies of Vietnam, but inside of me.

"Where the hell is this place, anyway?" I abruptly shattered the heavy quietude that blanketed the Impala's interior. "It's not Hell, is it?"

"Baton Rouge," Dean reported shortly, his eyes drooping as he tried to focus on the road.

"I could drive," I offered automatically, forgetting how odd that might seem. "If you need to catch some z's."

"No way," Dean shook his head as his brows furrowed at the prospect. "I barely let Sam drive her. I sure as shit am not letting some demon drive my baby."

"Fair enough," I said quickly. "But are these really necessary?"

I held up my hands to display the set of cuffs that had been clasped around my wrist. A devil's trap had been expertly carved into the silver plating, rendering me unable to use my demonic powers. Of course, I could, in all likelihood, break out of them. If Hell couldn't hold me, a set of fancy handcuffs sure as shit wouldn't. My boy's ability to break into and out of anything and anywhere didn't come from nowhere. But I stayed in them for the same reason I let Sam and Dean think they had successfully trapped me at the motel; I had to prove to them that I meant them no harm.

"Considering you're a demon," Sam began as he turned to look at me. "And we met, like, three hours ago, be glad it's just the handcuffs."

"Right," I said with a sigh as I sat back in my seat.

A thin line of pink light had begun to poke its head above the horizon, stretching its light across the sky to chase away the night. Flat fields and wetlands raced by in a silhouetted blur and already I could feel the fever in the humid southern air. It was going to be a hot day, and I grinned; ever since Hell, earth felt cold, and there was something oddly comforting about hot days

A familiar guitar riff echoed loudly from the speakers, prompting a fond smile until I realized exactly what song it was.

"Livin' easy

Lovin' free

Season ticket on a one way ride…"

"Why did it have to be this song?" I muttered under my breath.

"What?" Dean called from the front seat, his eyes glancing at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

"Would you mind changing the song?" I requested.

"Not an AC/DC fan?" Dean asked without sympathy, and I knew he had no intentions of finding a new tune.

"I am," I informed him. "This song just kind of lost its luster after… well, Hell."

"Right," Dean nodded, but didn't change the radio station. At least, not right away. He kept his eyes on the road as the sky gradually began to lighten and, just when it seemed like he was going to ignore my request, he sighed and rolled the dial to another classic rock station. Sam cocked a suspicious brow at Dean who frowned, looking somewhat displeased by his own action.

"What?" Dean spoke defensively. "He's got a point."

"Yeah," Sam slowly agreed, turning his head to view the land that rolled on along the highway, now visibly green in the ever-growing daylight.

The awkward silence returned and danced between an old Eric Clapton song, Cocaine, and the healthy roar of the Chevy's engine. I stared out the windows of the car that was once mine, and absently pet Freya who laid across the backseat with her head in my lap. And then, quite suddenly, Sam became aware of what I was doing.

"Are you…" he began with an anxious intake of breath, snapping his head around to look at me. "Did you bring your hellhound?"

"Her name is Freya," I replied.

Dean jerked the Impala to the side of the road and slammed on the breaks. We involuntarily shot forward in our seats as the car came to a lurching stop, and fell back once it had settled in the dirt beside the highway. My eldest son turned to shoot me a furious look, attempting to cover the extreme discomfort he felt at having a loose hellhound in his car.

"No," he shook his head angrily. "No fuckin' way. Get that damn thing outta my car."

"No," I said calmly.

"Uh, yes," Dean fumed.

"No."

My boys exchanged a worried but infuriated glance.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Would you have preferred it if I left a hellhound at the motel parking lot?"

"Yeah," Dean replied. "Now get it out of here."

"No."

It was probably cheating, me attempting to carry out my eternal sentence of solitude with a dog in tow. But we had been through Hell together in a fairly literal sense. I couldn't leave her down there, and I wasn't going to leave her on her own. Especially not in some parking lot in Florida.

"Get it out of here now," Dean repeated with a growl. "Or I swear to God I'll—"

"You'll what?" I cut him off, annoyed. "You'll call Crowley? Think real hard about how badly you want that grimoire, because you call that bastard and I'm out."

Dean's jaw clenched as his eyes narrowed at me. Sam glanced between the two of us, waiting for one of us to make a move. With a heavy huff, Dean turned around to face the road and shifted, defeated.

"Can you at least put her in the trunk?" he hotly requested.

"Nope."

His fingers anxiously tapped the steering wheel as he sat, fuming, seeming to weigh his options.

"Fine," he grudgingly agreed. "But if it tries anything, so help me god I'll—"

"Stab me in the head with that angel blade you've got tucked in your jacket pocket?" I finished for him.

Truth be told, I wasn't certain Dean was armed with his celestial weapon. While we're on the subject of honesty, I couldn't even be certain Dean actually had such a weapon. All I had to go on were rumors and folklore I had heard down in the pit. My snide comment hadn't just been for the sake of being snarky; I was offhandedly looking for conformation both my sons were armed with blades that could effectively kill me. For good kill me.

Just in case.

"Something like that," Dean verified he was packing some supernatural heat as he put the car in drive and set the car back on the road.

"If she tries anything, I will kill her myself," I assured them, confident it wouldn't come to that.

"You would?" Sam questioned skeptically, studying the level of sincerity on my face. "Why?"

I responded with a tiny smile and said;

"How far to Baton Rouge?"

We reached Baton Rouge by midmorning. Dean drove around the city limits, following the outskirts around the capital to the west. From there he continued on for another five miles to an abandoned mental institution that sat back from the road, tucked away behind tall, overgrown hedges and old trees draped with hanging French moss. Thick vines of ivy climbed up the stone structure, threatening to swallow the crumbling building completely. The surfaces not consumed by ivy were coated in barely legible graffiti, spray painted in a wide assortment of colors that clashed awkwardly against layers of older graffiti and the green tendrils that threatened to devour it, too. The narrow, barred windows, most of which were missing windowpanes, had long since been boarded up from the inside, the doors bolted shut from the outside. The uneven brick steps leading up to the wide, metallic doors had been strewn with a thick layer of dead leaves, cigarette butts and beer cans. It didn't look like anyone had been there in years.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Sam asked as he studied the eerie asylum.

"That's what the last demon said," Dean replied as he put the Impala in park several feet away from the building. We climbed out into the muggy morning air, our eyes gazing up suspiciously at the haunting structure. There was no hint of a spell or misdirection. It wasn't pretending to be abandoned; it was just abandoned.

"A little quiet out here, boys." I observed.

"Yeah," Sam, to my astonishment, agreed with me. "It is."

"That's what they want us to think," Dean explained the obvious, at which I shook my head.

"It's not too quiet," I explained. "It's just quiet. As in, nobody's home."

"You just don't want to go in there." Dean said lightly as he opened the trunk. I took a couple of steps back to peer inside the old arsenal. A discrete smile tugged at my lips as Dean grabbed a couple of sawed-off shotguns and a box of salt rounds.

"You know I don't," I replied, watching him load one of the weapons with practiced ease. "I will. I just don't think we'll find anything."

Dean shot me a mild scowl before tossing the loaded shotgun to Sam who caught it easily.

I leaned against the side of the Impala and began discreetly fidgeting with the handcuff locks. I paused in my task before the first cuff could spring free, and I pondered what I was doing. I contemplated why I had been handcuffed in the first place, and gradually understood it hadn't been to prevent me from utilizing my demonic capabilities. Not entirely. I had been bound to make Sam and Dean feel safe, and breaking free wasn't going to impress them. It would make them uncomfortable, as I had when I broke their trap back in the motel, and if I made them anymore uncomfortable I could kiss any potential trust goodbye.

I sighed heavily and caught Sam's eye.

"Do you mind?" I requested with an irritated grumble. I held my hands up and jangled the chains that connected the silver cuffs. Sam appeared reluctant, but eventually removed the tiny skeletal-looking key and cautiously freed me.

"I need my gun," I said.

"I doubt it," Sam replied as he carefully stuffed the handcuffs into his jacket pocket.

"I want it." I returned flatly. Sam studied me for a minute before cracking a thin, sarcastic smile.

"Yeah," he said with a huff. "Right."

The way my sons were treating me was jarring. Understandable, but jolting none the less. Sure, Sam used to challenge me, but he never would have dared to ignore me or the orders I gave him. And now he was scoffing and treating me like I was some…

Damnit.

"Come on, Freya," I commanded with an aggravated grunt, prompting the hound to leap excitedly from the car. The boys pretended that her presence didn't bother them, but they remained visibly unnerved. "You two can stay out here." I said shortly. "I think I can wander through an abandoned building by myself."

"And if it's not as abandoned as it looks?" Dean asked. I reached into my jacket and withdrew my demon-killing knife.

"I think Freya and I can cover it," I casually stated. "But feel free to join us if you must."

"Is that…?" Sam trailed off in awe. He felt around in his own pocket before pulling out a similar weapon, a Kurdish-made blade with serrated edges and symbols cleanly etched across its surface. "Where did you get that?"

I grinned.

"If this place is occupied," I said instead, choosing to ignore Sam's question. "And this grimoire is inside, I'm going to need to know what it looks like."

Sam grimaced as he eyed me and the weapon I had kept hidden on my person. It was difficult to tell what bothered him more; the fact I had never actually been fully disarmed, or the fact I had a demon killing knife similar to the one he and his brother carried. As if it were somehow wrong for a demon to possess such a weapon.

Dean dug a folded piece of white paper from his back pocket which he passed to me. I opened it to find a photograph of a weathered, leather-bound book with black, ancient symbols burned onto the cover. The symbols were unrecognizable to me, predating any of the archaic languages and spells I knew.

"It certainly looks like a grimoire," I commented with a shrug. "You're sure it's not just a really old cook book?"

Dean rolled his eyes and closed the trunk. The three of us, plus Freya, wordlessly filed up the steps, dead leaves crunching beneath our heavy boots as we carefully stepped through the overgrowth and foliage. The sun-bleached wooden doors were bolted securely, but couldn't withstand the force I laid into them with my foot. The locks snapped and the doors flew open with a loud crash that echoed throughout the vacant building. I took the lead inside, cautiously entering the dark asylum and glancing about the empty halls painted heavily with layers upon layers of unsightly graffiti. The air was thick and musty, disturbed dust swirled in clouds away from the door, and frightened birds fluttered in the distance. A cloying, rotten smell poured from the chipped walls; something had, more recently than not, died inside them.

"Hey, look at that," I said with a heavy sarcasm as I turned to face Sam and Dean. "No one's home. That's too bad. Better luck next time."

I attempted to push past my sons, who blocked my escape by standing close together with their arms firmly folded across their chests. As easy as it would have been to knock them down and liberate myself from the hot empty place, I grudgingly let Dean give me a non-threatening shove instead. They were the last people I wanted to hurt, and I knew they weren't going to let me off the hook. Not until the grimoire had been recovered.

"Not so fast," Dean said. "You're not getting out of this that easy."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "We haven't even looked around yet."

"Right," I muttered with a sigh. I glanced down at Freya, who gave me an expectant look. "Go on, girl."

The hound bolted down the corridor with her nose to the ground, sniffing for traces of trespassers. I lit a cigarette and watched as she disappeared around a corner.

"What was that?" Sam asked.

"If anyone is in here, Freya will find them," I said with a nonchalant shrug. I paused thoughtfully, taking a long drag from my cigarette. "You boys might want to draw up a trap," I suggested with a breath of smoke. "Just in case she does find something."

Dean wordlessly turned and headed down the stairs to the Impala to retrieve some paint, leaving Sam and I to stand, wreathed in grey smoke.

"Do you have to smoke that here?" Sam asked, waving his hand in front of his face. I responded by taking another long drag and slowly exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.

I wanted to blame my asshole-like behavior on my demonism. But that wasn't quite it. I was trying to distance myself from him, from both of them. I didn't want them to get too close. I didn't want them to find out who I was.

"What does Max think about you smoking?" Sam was curious to know.

"Max doesn't mind," I assured him shortly.

I glanced down the barren halls for signs of Freya, and Sam took a step back to avoid the smoke.

"You used to be a hunter, huh?" He attempted conversation in the absence of his brother.

"Last time I checked, I still am," I replied.

"Fair enough." Sam paused, contemplating his next question. "How'd you end up in the pit?"

I hesitated. I drew in another lung full of nicotine and carefully pondered my response.

"Had to go somewhere, didn't I?"

"Vague," Sam said, but didn't bother to press me for information. "You don't trust me, do you?"

"The hunter side of me does," I replied. "The demon side? Not so much. You are kind of blackmailing me here."

Sam chuckled.

"Understandable," he said.

Dean rejoined us with a can of white spray paint. He vigorously shook the can as he eyed the concrete floors littered with leaves and paint chips, empty beer cans and plastic sandwich baggies. He stepped past me and began sweeping the debris with his foot when we heard it; a ferocious snarl and a terrible scream. Dean stood straight, alert, hand on his gun as Sam reached for his demon blade. I casually flicked my cigarette butt to the ground and fixed my eyes on the corridor.

Freya rounded the corner, inching backwards with her body stooped, and a human leg tightly clenched between her teeth. The leg belonged to the screaming demon she dragged down the hall. The demon — who possessed a twenty-something year old male with fiery red hair and pale skin — shouted in terror and agony as he was ferociously pulled towards us.

"You still got those cuffs on you?" I questioned. Sam felt around in his left pocket and pulled out the silver plated cuffs. I nodded in satisfaction and watched Freya and her prey approach. She stopped at my side, but kept her jaws clenched around the demon's leg as Sam swiftly locked the handcuffs around the demon's wrists.

"Drop it," I commanded, and the hound released her grip on the panicked demon, revealing deep gashes torn across his flesh. Two sets of long claw marks ran down the demon's blue, blood stained t-shirt. The demon sat up, his chest heaving as he looked between Sam and Dean, then to Freya. He studied me last, eyeing me intensely. My pulse rose; what if he recognized me?

"Where's Crowley?" Dean asked roughly.

The demon snapped his attention to Dean and contemplated his options; tell us nothing and die slowly, or tell us everything and die quickly.

"He's gone," the demon divulged, hoping providing information to the Winchesters would grant him some mercy. "Everyone's gone. I'm the only one left."

"I can see that," Dean observed with a false smile. His face straightened and he added, "Where did they go?"

"I don't know," the demon swore nervously, visibly shaken by the situation. "They wouldn't tell me in case I ran into you two." He paused and redirected his gaze at me, his eyes narrowed. "I don't recognize you," he stated.

"Good," I returned with a thin smile. "Where's Crowley?"

"I told you I don't know," the demon insisted.

"Then you're not much use, are you?" I growled. I crouched in front of the demon and slowly withdrew the Kurdish demon knife from the inner pocket of my black leather jacket. The demon nervously eyed my weapon, his heart rate increasing as I dramatically closed my fingers around the bone hilt.

"Wait!" the demon shouted with a frenzied desperation, putting his hands up in a lame effort to protect himself. "I know of someone who does. Let me live and I'll take you to her."

"I think one demon in the Impala is enough," Dean spoke up, nodding sideways at me. "Why don't you just tell us where to find her?"

The demon looked between Dean and myself before warily eyeing Sam. He quietly considered his options and, when he realized he had none, let out a long, defeated sigh.

"Vegas," the demon said. "A crossroads demon, goes by Desdemona. She practically owns the city."

"That just makes entirely way too much sense," Dean commented, somewhat impressed by the idea of a demon operating an entire metropolis almost completely under the radar. Sam nodded in agreement.

"How come we never thought of that before?" He wondered out loud. Dean shrugged.

"Thank you," I said to the demon. "You've been very helpful."

A look of relief spread across the demon's face. His posture began to relax. He had betrayed his — our — kind, but the Winchesters had left him alive.

Or so he thought.

With a swift hand, I sunk my blade into his chest. The demon gasped as a familiar orange light began to flicker within him. I watched the light crackle and fade, my hand clasped firmly around the bone hilt as the demon died his painful death. I tried like hell not to enjoy it. That wasn't the kind of person I was. John Winchester would never kill an innocent human for any reason, including getting to the demon under its skin. He would have let the demon go tell Crowley, would have greeted the armies of Hell head-on. But I wasn't John Winchester anymore. I was what was left of him.