When Zephaniah woke the next morning and looked to the pillow next to her, a lump formed in her throat.

The other side of the bed was empty.

Forcing herself out of bed, she sighed and pulled her phone off the charger. "Should have known."

Seeing she had no messages – not that she expected any, except maybe from Sam, asking if she had heard from Dean – she tossed her phone on the bed and decided to make way for the kitchen. Coffee was definitely in order.

She was surprised to see that Dean had left one of his shirts strewn over the end of her bed. Picking up the red button-up, Zephaniah held it to her face and inhaled his scent.

"No sulfur," she noted quietly, pulling the shirt over her arms and buttoning it up to mid-cleavage.

The sight that greeted her in the kitchen immediately dissolved the lump in her throat and defeated the tears that had threatened to fall.

Her demon was at the stove, frying eggs and sipping at a bottle of beer. She could smell the coffee brewing.

He hummed as he cooked, not a song she would have expected him to know, but one that certainly fitting to them, Zephaniah decided. She bit her bottom lip, half-hiding behind the door frame, waiting for him to turn around and catch her.

When he finally did turn around, Dean smiled; not like he had smiled the night before. Zephaniah should have known then that things this morning were not as they were the night before, but seeing him in such a setting made her care about little else.

"Morning," he greeted, sliding two eggs onto a plate with bacon and toast. "Breakfast?"

Zephaniah smiled and nodded, taking a seat at the table. "Thank you."

Dean didn't acknowledge her gratitude. Zephaniah couldn't stop smiling as she ate; for the first time in her life, something felt like home.

She had finished one egg and was on to the toast and bacon when Dean finally leaned against the counter and asked what was with the smile.

"It's just eggs," he scoffed.

Zephaniah's warmed heart began to chill again. The words Dean had said to her while he tortured her in Hell flashed through her memory. Despite that, she decided to be honest.

Between last night and this morning, I've never seen you look so human," she explained softly. "Besides those years ago, I guess. It's nice to see."

Dean hated to hear her say that. To him, it meant that Zephaniah had gotten in a long line of people who wished him to be anything but what he was – and that had been the problem his whole life. His dad, Sam, even Bobby and Castiel at times. Someone always wanted Dean to be different, to act different, to say different.

"This is what I am now, Zephaniah," Dean bit out. "Whatever you think this is, or is going to be, forget it. I fucked up in Hell, took it too far – I'll give you that. After this though, I'm done. You're nothing but trouble for me. Got it?"

Zephaniah cleared her throat and stood; he hated seeing those tears well in her eyes. "I get it. I'll get dressed so you can have your shirt back."

"While you're at it, get rid of whatever warm, fuzzy feeling you had about us because it ain't happening, sweetheart!" Dean yelled after her.

He heard her bedroom door shut quietly, heard the lock click, and the soft sound of drawers sliding open. He imagined her changing out of his shirt and into clothes of her own. The disappointed look on her face etched into his brain. It was a less intense version of the same look Dean had received when he tortured her in Hell.

More than being bothered by the fact that Zephaniah liked seeing the human side of him, Dean was nearly destroyed by the fact that she was losing trust in him. Taking a couple gulps of his beer, he made way for her room and knocked loudly on the door.

"Listen, I'm sorry, all right?" He didn't sound sorry, but he was trying. "I told you. I'm all over the place right now. Who knows what'll happen when I get back to normal? I mean, whatever normal is."

The response Dean received was a silence that was too silent. There was no muffled crying, no angered groans – not even the sound of her breathing. Dean panicked and kicked the locked door open.

Zephaniah was gone. His red shirt was thrown on the edge of the mattress. Her phone was still there, but Zephaniah was gone. A less-than-enticing odor invaded his nose.

"Sulfur," Dean said out loud. "Crowley."

Pulling the red button-up over his cotton t-shirt, Dean immediately began mapping a mental plan to not only get Zephaniah back, but to destroy Crowley in the process.

He was stopped by Castiel appearing in his path. Dean growled.

"Outta my way, Castiel."

Castiel stood strong. "Zephaniah is less of a concern to me than you are right now."

"Yeah, well, she's my only concern right now. Crowley will end her – maybe not her life, but she can't take much more torture. She'll give up her soul!"

"And Crowley will have access to all of the realms – but what if you are not whole enough to stop him? Who will save her then?"

Dean charged forward, but with the purified blood still in his system, Castiel was quicker and stronger.

In seconds, the angel and the demon went from Zephaniah's bedroom to the devil's trap in the bunker.

Zephaniah locked the door behind her, knowing if Dean really wanted in the room, it wouldn't keep him out. Still, she wanted as much space between them as she could get just then. As she pulled clothes from her drawers, she pleaded with herself not to cry, and wondered how many times she would allow Dean to break her before she started to fight back.

"He's just not that into you, eh?"

Zephaniah had changed her clothes and bent to pick up Dean's red shirt from the floor when the accented voice spoke up behind her. Swallowing hard and tossing Dean's shirt on the bed, she turned slowly.

"Crowley."

He smirked at her. "Should have told your boyfriend not to leave a trail, dear girl."

"He's not – it isn't like that."

"Don't try to save him now, Zephaniah," Crowley sighed. "You're both done for – I've found your weak spot, and his. Time for a trade, don't you think?"

Without giving her time to answer, Crowley grabbed for her hand. Before he could drag her downstairs, Zephaniah said a one-word prayer.

Castiel.

"That's how you found me," Dean grumbled from the chair he once again found himself tied to. "She prayed to you."

"Zephaniah knows what your importance is to the future of the world, Dean," Castiel explained. "When Crowley came for her, she did what she had to do to keep the Earth spinning."

Dean pulled at the ropes tying him down. "Zephaniah doesn't understand, you two don't understand! If she gives up her soul, that won't just be a few battles lost, we'll lose the whole damn war."

Sam shook his head, loading the first of a new series of injections into a syringe. "This is about you, Dean. It's about The Mark. It's not about some girl!"

"She's not some girl!" Dean roared, his eyes turning black and the growl coming from deep within him. "This is not about her because she's a girl! This is about Crowley, having his run of the fucking place – handing him every damn thing we've fought to keep away from him!"

Sam traded a look with Castiel; Dean wasn't exactly wrong. If they let Zephaniah give up her soul, they may not be prepared to stop Crowley from taking over or starting an all-out apocalypse, or whatever else he saw fit.

"Just let me get her," Dean pleaded in a calmer voice. "Let me get her out of Hell, and I'll come right back here and let you cure me. Don't get me wrong, I like the disease, but if it's what I need to do to save her – to save everyone – then so be it."

Castiel squinted as he mentally turned Dean's words over his mind. Sam put a hand on Castiel's shoulder.

"I think he's telling the truth, Cas," Sam said.

"I believe you're right," Castiel agreed, still sounding skeptic. "What do you want to do?"

Sam took a deep breath and stepped in front of his brother. He held the syringe in one hand and the demon blade in the other. Now he just had to pray he was making the right choice.

The lashing of the whip that Anzu was using on her flowed the tears from Zephaniah's eyes, but she refused to say even a single word. She wouldn't answer Crowley's questions about Dean, whether it would have her speaking for or against him, and she, of course, refused to give permission to possession.

The shrapnel embedded in the whip dragged through her skin and muddled the flesh on her back. She wondered how many lashes until her spine would become visible. Her biggest regret at that point was a pain-tolerance that kept her from passing out due to the pain. Eventually, the blood loss would have to do the job for her.

"We can quite literally go through this for eternity, Zephaniah," Crowley warned in a sing-song voice.

She didn't even raise her eyes to meet his. Crowley continued, coming down the steps to kneel in front of her.

"What if I dangled a little squirrel in front of you?" Crowley wondered aloud. "Would you bite then?"

Zephaniah swallowed, and coughed. Her throat was rough and dry. She wasn't sure she could even speak if she tried.

"Leave him out of this," Zephaniah managed.

"I wish I could, but you see, dear girl, Dean has a lot to do with this. The two of you have become somewhat problematic for me." Crowley reached out to caress her face; Zephaniah pulled away. "You see, since The Mark brought Dean back as a demon, he did work for me. Closed out contracts, negotiated new terms – some dirty work, I'll admit. But he was fun, too. There were these twins once … anyway. Not something you'd probably be especially interested in hearing about." He stood and began to pace slowly in front of her. "Since I sent him after you, however, the fun's just not so fun anymore. The thing is, Dean and I have let a girl come between us and, unfortunately for you, you're that girl. So, here we are."

Zephaniah worked up a few good breaths. "So you've got me down here because you're jealous?"

Crowley glared at her. "I've got you down here because my knight won't fight for me anymore because he's too busy fighting for you! And it stops now. Anzu!"

The bald demon resumed his task, and the whip once again ripped through Zephaniah's flesh.

He would take no chances this time. There was no covering with Crowley, trying to save his own ass. Dean's only interest was getting Zephaniah out of Hell, for good.

With the demon blade in hand, he was able to plow through the other demons, waiting for him to come after her. When he reached the doors to Crowley's throne room, the last of the guards he took down laughed through the blood pouring from his mouth.

"Crowley knew you would come," the demon laughed. "He knew that you couldn't stay away from her. He's been waiting this whole time for you to end her, so that he could end you. And you're walking right into his lair. How stupid are you, Winchester?"

With a final stab to the heart, Dean ended that demon. He didn't need some low-level minion telling him what he already knew.

Once inside the room, Dean took in the scene. He could see Zephaniah, chained to the floor and blood soaked through her shirt, beginning to drip down to the cement around her. He watched as Anzu snapped that whip down to her skin, drawing more blood.

The rage inside him burned so hot, The Mark on his arm glowed.

Charging forward through the crowd and taking down any demon who dared stand in his way, Dean made way directly for Anzu. The moment Dean plunged the demon blade through Anzu's spine, the whip cracked down over Zephaniah one last time.

Anzu gasped for breath as the storm of death brewed beneath his skin. Crowley watched with a modicum of surprise as Anzu fell to the floor, revealing Dean standing behind him. Dean made way for Zephaniah, who was mumbling something no one could make out.

"Don't touch her, Dean!" Crowley yelled out, holding a hand out and forcing Dean back against a nearby column and holding him there. Zephaniah mumbled again, and Crowley leaned forward, sure that she was giving up her soul in exchange for Dean's safety. "What's that, dear girl?"

"Fuck you," she said louder, spitting blood at him. "Hell will freeze over before I give permission for anyone, demon or otherwise, to possess me. My soul is mine, and only mine."

She felt her shackles release as Crowley picked her up by the throat and tossed her to the ground with demonic force. She couldn't get up from the floor, but she couldn't breathe either. She clawed at her throat, desperate for air she couldn't get to.

"Crowley, stop!" Dean yelled.

Zephaniah's eyes glanced over at Dean, doing a double-take. When Crowley had forced Dean against that column, the demon blade had clattered the ground in front on him. The weapon was now out in the open, in anybody's reach – as was Dean.

"Oh, I see," Crowley smiled, releasing Zephaniah to breathe and stand again. He was, in a second, next to Dean with the demon blade. "He's still a demon, Zephaniah. You or him. Who's it going to be?"

Zephaniah was panicking, Dean could see it in her eyes. She truly believed that he couldn't die, but if she let herself go, they would all die. Then, realization came over her dirty, bloody features. Yes. If I die, we all die.

"You're wrong," Zephaniah said, struggling to stand up. "My choice is not my life or Dean's. The choice is yours, Crowley. The choice is me, or everything you've built here."

She pulled a knife from her boot and positioned it over her heart. A small nick in her skin from the tip of the blade breaking through her skin produced first blood, and then a glowing wave of light. All of Hell began to quake.

"This is one little cut," Zephaniah bit out. "Imagine what would happen if I shoved the whole knife in."

Crowley hesitated; Zephaniah pushed the knife in a little further. The quake continued, stronger now than before.

"Fine!" Crowley roared. "You are free to go."

"Both of us."

Crowley debated for another moment; letting Zephaniah go was one thing. He could get her back. If he let Dean go now, this chaos would continue. He hesitated too long for Zephaniah's liking; she pushed the knife in a little further, taking a sharp breath in as the blade passed through the space between her ribs. Chunks of cement and debris began to fall from the ceiling as the light emanating from her wound shined even brighter.

With a look that showed it just might have been physically painful for Crowley to do so, the King of Hell released Dean from the column where he'd been held and winced as Dean came to take the demon blade from Crowley's hand.

Dean walked over to Zephaniah, ready to brace her up if she didn't have the energy to walk herself. One look from Zephaniah told him that if she touched her, forced her to show any weakness here, she just might grab that demon blade and end him with it.

"This isn't over!" Crowley yelled after them.

"Yes, it is," Zephaniah answered.

With one last glance at Crowley, Zephaniah and Dean walked out of that room together. Standing in the hall outside, the doors slammed shut behind them, and Crowley could be heard roaring about what had just happened. Dean looked over at Zephaniah, took her hand, and gave a single nod.

"Let's get out of here."

Back on the street, Zephaniah looked at Dean. She could feel the goodbye coming; there was so much that she wanted to say to him, but her head was beginning to swim.

"Thank you, Dean, for coming after me."

Dean nodded, then really took in her appearance. "You feeling all right? You don't look too good, Zeph."

She licked her lips, forcing herself to stay conscious. "I was down there for a while. Then the whole, you know, stabbing myself in the heart."

"Yeah, that probably wasn't your wisest decision," Dean smirked.

"I lost a lot of …"

Before she could finish her sentence, Zephaniah was falling to the ground. Dean caught her before she hit the gravel; they needed to get back to the bunker.

"You have to help her."

Castiel and Sam turned around to see Dean standing in the library of the bunker, holding Zephaniah's limp body. Dean himself was a little worse for the wear.

"Let me take her," Castiel offered.

"Cas," Dean pleaded. "You have to save her. Please."

"I'll do what I can," Castiel promised, taking Zephaniah to a spare bedroom to see what he could do. He could already tell that her blood volume was at a lethal level; still living on borrowed grace was going to make this a difficult task.

Dean watched them disappear down the hallway, until he felt Sam's hand on his shoulder. He turned to his brother and nodded.

"Yeah. It's time."

Zephaniah dreamed about sleeping next to Dean on a warm summer night. She dreamed about the soft cotton of a nightgown against her skin, of Dean's bare chest while he slept next to her. She dreamed of him rolling over, kissing her forehead and pulling her closer, before they drifted off to a gentle sleep as he said her name over and over.

"Zephaniah."

When her name broke through that time, it wasn't in Dean's voice. It was, in fact, pulling her away from Dean and that warm, summer night. She fought against it, but the voice repeated her name, pulling her farther and farther away from that perfect dream.

Suddenly, Zephaniah was close enough to the surface of reality, that she felt the electricity pulsing through her body again. She felt the impulses in her heart encourage the muscle to pump again, which forced blood to circulate through her system. She felt new wounds close and old wounds disappear, as though none of them had ever even happened.

Then, she was gasping for breath, her eyes shooting open. Her head pounded with sensations and memories. Every muscle and joint in her body screamed out with pain at feeling again.

All she wanted, was to be dead.

Dean could feel the disease slipping away. He could feel the purified blood doing its job and cleansing him of everything – almost everything. It had been a painful process, but with every injection, Dean thought of Sam and Castiel and Zephaniah.

He didn't want to let go of this freedom. He didn't want to let go of the guilt-free, non-obligatory life that he had been living. In the end, though, that life hadn't turned out much different than the one he had led before.

As he came to and opened his eyes, they filled with black. Sam and Castiel watched, ready to defend themselves if the ritual hadn't worked. The black faded away though, and Dean felt like he could breathe again.

He looked to his brother and his friend. "You look worried, fellas."

The other two men exchanged a look; Sam stepped forward and splashed the contents of the flask in his hand on Dean's face.

Nothing happened, and they all seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

Sam nodded. "Welcome back, Dean."

Once Dean had the chance to process that he was no longer a demon, he asked for Zephaniah. Castiel pursed his lips and took him to the room where Zephaniah was.

"Bringing her back was difficult," Castiel warned. "When I healed her, the healing went much deeper than new wounds. She woke to feeling physically brand new, and it was a lot of sensations at once. It overwhelmed her senses, and made it difficult for her to wake up."

"Is she …?"

Castiel stopped at a door, pushing it open, and shrugged. "See for yourself."

Taking a deep breath, Dean stepped into the room. When he saw her, his breath caught in his throat.

Zephaniah was sitting on the bed, freshly showered and looking nervous. When she realized there was movement in the room, she looked up and her eyes filled with tears. She stood slowly from the bed and approached him carefully.

"They told me that you were out of it – unconscious, I mean. Castiel thought maybe it would be better if I waited here." Zephaniah froze in her steps. "You're not – I mean, if you are it's fine, I – Dean?"

"You're beautiful."

The words were out of his mouth before he could control them. He had always found Zephaniah to be beautiful, was obviously attracted to her, but with the demon gone, he could tell her now. And, since Castiel had healed her wounds and a lifetime worth of scars, it was as though Dean was looking at a brand new version of Zephaniah. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, with none of the thick, scarred tissue marring it. No wonder waking up had been such a shock for her.

She smiled as they met halfway; even her eyes were shining differently. Dean's hands ran up the length of her arms to cup her face, and Zephaniah wrapped her arms around him.

"What if it isn't the same?" she wondered aloud.

"Zephaniah," Dean said, feeling as though he couldn't say her name enough now. It sounded somehow different in this form. "You and I have a connection. There's no getting around that."

Her hand ran over The Mark on his arm. "I still feel the key in my soul. They'll. still come after me."

"We all have our demons," Dean smirked as he leaned in to kiss her.

A/N: There is a sequel to this entitled Angels Among Us, which I will begin posting later today!