God, my parents are the two stupidest people on Earth.

I used to think that when people grew up, they grew all the way up. When I was little, all grownups looked the same. There were two stages: grownups and kids. It was like, at some point, they handed you a trophy and were like "congratulations, citizen. Now you can drive and vote and drink and pay taxes and have kids and understand politics, and everything."

My dad is a big dude. He's a marine, so, like, a badass for a living. He lifts weights and shoots guns, and when I asked him, he wouldn't tell me how many confirmed kills he got, so it must be tons. My dad could kick anyone's ass.

That's even what I thought when that tall guy bust through the door and kicked his ass. I saw Dad on the ground and I was like "okay, he knows what he's doing. He's biding his time. He's gonna turn this around any second. Is that guy Dean? Dean doesn't even know what's gonna hit him."

But then Dad didn't get up and I started to get worried. Mom had already grabbed the gun, so I knew this was really serious. I didn't know what to do. So I called the police. That's what you're supposed to do, right? 911 knows what to do.

I mean, someone fricking has to. Someone needs to know what to do. I wish it was me. I wish that I was the paramedic, or the special forces guy, or Master Chief, and I could just lightning-quick just know the exact-right thing to do. I wished I was Dad.

And I looked at Dad, and he had nuthin'.

I will never forget the look on his face when he realized that.

Nobody grows up. There is no magic point you get to when everything gets figured out for you. My dad is old, and he doesn't know anything. He doesn't know how to live, or how to be happy, or even how to get revenge right. He just sucks at everything that's not, like, a tactical mission in Libya or whatever. I have to watch him stumble around, trying to play house, to put back together the family that never existed in the first place. He's killing himself trying to make Mom happy, even though he never can.

Poor Mom. I don't know what happened, but whatever it was, it turned her into a robot. This play house that Dad is trying to make might have made the old Mom happy, but not this one, which just makes all this super-extra depressing.

There have been four times when I saw Mom cleaning up blood in the house. She seemed embarrassed by the mess, and had a fresh bandage on her shin or shoulder. Three of those times, Dad wasn't even home and the time he was, she just gave him the spray bottle and told him to take over. I wish I knew why Mom sometimes bleeds everywhere. At least it doesn't seem to hurt.

I wish I could help clean it all up. If I knew what gets stains out of what, I'd jump in. They need help, and all they have to do is ask and tell me what to do. I feel so useless.

The only person who knew what to do, how I could help, and who actually shared this with me was Mom's friend Cain. When Dad was bringing Mom into the car, he stopped me and gave me a weird flat piece of bone.

Cain told me to get rid of it. It couldn't be destroyed, but he said that no one could ever get their hands on it again. He seemed really freaked out. He said to hide it, especially from him and Mom.

And then, I knew exactly what to do. Hardware stores sell those instant post-holes; all you have to do is add water and BOOM! You got yourself some concrete. I bought one, mixed it, and then dunked that weird bone – the First Blade? Once it hardens, I'll do something with it. I'm thinking of either taking it to a construction site, or taking it on Brenden Petit's dad's boat and dropping it into a really deep spot of the lake. That's what I'll do.

It's nice to have a plan. I don't know how to grow up, but when I do, I will make a point of knowing what to do.

Crowley left the "Cold Beer" tavern and wasn't gone ten minutes before Rowena breezed into the dive bar, dressed in a red gown, and made-up and coiffed as though she believed the Academy Awards were being held in this dump.

Abacad spotted her first, and watching her behaviour prompted the surgeon to smirk to herself. The pretenses and airs of the people who take themselves gravely seriously never failed to amuse the doctor; from the rich American or Iranian businessmen with egos both enormous and fragile, to her professional colleagues so secure in their superior education that they'd sooner die than admit that they forgot where they parked. She watched as Rowena carried herself around the room, looking as though she were searching for the perfect mark to whom to condescend.

"Why there you are, momurinin," sang Rowena as she whisked herself over to Abacad's booth. "I barely recognized you, sitting there all hunched over like a beaten squire. You usually have such excellent posture." She sat down and waved her hands in a vertical line. "Sit up straight, won't you dear?"

Abacad straightened and leaned back, regarding the witch with friendly calm. "The truth of your theory has become self-evident." She raised her glass.

Rowena bowed graciously. "Of course it has. Which theory was this, then?"

"It seems you were right about me. Evidence suggests that I am a witch."

The redhead released a short giggle-scream and clapped her hands. "How wonderful! I knew you'd come around. This calls for a celebration, I say. Good sir!" she called to the bartender. "A round if you please! Glass of red wine for me, and another rusty nail for the Disagreeable Doctor Dingbat, post haste!"

Abacad narrowed her eyes quizzically, but said nothing as she swallowed the last sip of her cocktail and sucked at the ice in her glass.

"I believe the next one should be my last," said the doctor, "but please allow me to treat you. I had hoped to hire your services."

"My services?" asked Rowena, with comically exaggerated wonder. "As a tutor in the magical arts, you mean?"

"You mentioned that you could teach me, and I'd be happy to learn, if you're still willing." The witch gave her a skeptical frown, but she continued. "In my line of work, it's important to keep one's skills sharp and up-to-date. I could add you to Transanimation's payroll as a consultant in professional development. Please help me expand my medical capabilities."

Rowena recoiled as if she'd just found a hair in her food. The tattooed bartender arrived with the drinks and the apparently affronted witch took some time to form her retort. She shook her head and waved her hands in front of her dismissively. "Stop-stop, stop! You're... you're looking at this entirely the wrong way. Magic is an art, not a science. It's poetry, not a bleeding... stereo instruction manu'l. It's not something you analyze, it's a thing you feel."

Abacad paused and considered. She leaned forward. "Are you familiar with ballet dance?"

"Of course I know about ballet. Ev'ryone knows about bally."

The doctor smiled. "You made me think of how Russia approaches the discipline as an art form, whereas the Chinese approach it as an athletic endeavor. Both are effective, neither is incorrect, and more importantly, both are perfectly compatible. You think me a purely cerebral creature, but you're wrong. There is an art to what I do, just as there is a science to what you do. I propose a collaboration."

Rowena crossed her arms. "I don't relish being sat on your table being tested with all your... glass and metal... whatnots."

"Of course not!" countered the doctor warmly. "It's me we're studying, not you." She softened and picked up her glass. "I'm the first to admit that I don't fully understand my own ability. I've demonstrated the animectomy before, and tried to train the technique twice, but there's always something my colleagues miss, and I can't put my finger on it. It requires an intuitive finesse that can't be taught, and the best they can do is assist in the procedure."

"To be perfectly candid," interjected the witch with a sigh, "I myself cannae pull out a man's soul."

Abacad waved her glass in an arc. "Science is how I understand the world. For example, the warding in my office is a facet of the health and safety program, and the hexbags gets updated every six months, along with the fire-extinguishers and eye wash stations. I think you'll agree that I've gotten quite far in my work with just the empirical tools at my disposal."

"It surprised me how quick you were to implement magical security," conceded Rowena. "But why now? You seemed downright insulted when I first called you a witch last spring."

Abacad gestured to the horizontal scab lines on her face. "The warding in my office doorway did this to me."

Now it was Rowena's turn to laugh. "Not so much fun now, is it?"

"No, it is not," agreed Abacad amiably. "Your instruction would not come for free, I assure you. Being my clinic's consultant comes with benefits."

"What benefits?"

"Medical coverage, dental, optometric, orthopedic... chiropractic? I noticed your own posture suggests discomfort of your lower lumbar." Abacad took a drink of her rusty nail.

Rowena picked up her own glass with a flourish. "You young people and your insurance." Abacad didn't answer, but instead just watched as the witch took an uncomfortable drink of her Cab. "Can you really unclog a person's soul? Like a plumber?"

The doctor made a sucking sound and mimed pulling a rod. "Schlooop!"

"Mine doesn't really look like a wet mouldy bit of cloth, does it?"

Abacad grimaced in apology. "My glasses are in the car, if you want to see."

"Thanks, but no thanks," said Rowena. She suddenly gasped and gaped at the mortal woman across from her. She held her glass and pointed with that same index finger. "Do you already know what your soul looks like? You'd just hate to see for yourself and know you're right." The witch paused and thought for a beat. "I'm sorry I called you a coward."

"I didn't want to put my glasses on, look in the mirror and see that you were right. Although I suppose it's a moot point now."

Rowena put down her wine and leaned forward on her elbows. "I think we can both learn a lot from one another."

Sam sat in a booth of the all-night diner, glancing fretfully out the window. He was hunched over the table on his elbows wearing a white shirt and suit jacket that fell 4 inches short of his wrists. He jittered with an antsy shiver; a chill permeated his body, not to be dispelled by the sour coffee in front of him.

The familiar purr of the Impala – sounding now more like a smoker's cough – crescendoed as the black car pulled up to the diner. Sam bolted outside.

As he reached the passenger side door, he hesitated.

"Y'alright, man?" asked Dean loudly through the broken window. "Get in."

Sam looked at his brother with trepidation. "Don't worry, I got all the glass."

The younger Winchester got uneasily into the passenger seat and planted himself with his forearms between his knees. "I'm sorry I stole your car," he began, his adam's apple bouncing.

Dean frowned, trying not to look at Sam. "Don't worry about it," he grunted, putting the Impala into gear and backing out of the parking spot. "So, I heard you got your soul back. You back to normal, then?"

"No..." said Sam slowly. He sniffed loudly, whispering to himself, "god, I feel so dirty."

"Okay, well, let's get you some different clothes and we'll take it from there."

"God, I must have killed, like..." murmured Sam pitifully, prompting Dean to look at him in shock. "...forty demons. Maybe more." His voice warbled and he leaned against the right, away from his brother.

"Pfft, demons?" scoffed Dean, taking in Sam's angst and relaxing. "Who cares? You had me worried there."

"You should be worried. I am. Dude, it's... I kinda didn't want to get in the car..."

"Look, I won't try to stab you again. Promise."

"Dean, I can smell your blood."

The demon started and looked at Sam with wide eyes. "Oh, so you're pretty much in withdrawal right now?" Sam nodded. "Sucks to be you. You want some of mine?"

"No! No thanks," blurted Sam vehemently. I wouldn't trust myself to stop.

Dean shrugged dismissively. "Suit yourself." He tried not to smile in appreciation of his little brother's suffering. That's what you get for messing with me, punk. You still think you're so much smarter than me? He tried to push down his delicious sense of schadenfreude. We're trying to be better than this.

Dean got on the highway and headed south, leaving Sam to get vigorously blown around beside the missing window, and to wonder why Dean hadn't taped cardboard across it or something. Dean in turn wondered if he could perhaps have spared a minute to seal up the window before he dropped everything to go pick up his brother.

The pair drove without exchanging a word for almost an hour as air roared through the car from the large hole in the right side. Sam rested his head with his hand against his ear in an attempt to block the noise of the highway. Every conversation was a non-starter as neither brother could be bothered to yell at the other over the thunderous din.

Finally, Dean barked "this is no damn good" and swerved suddenly onto a nearby off-ramp and into whatever town this was. He drove until he reached a construction site, where he pulled over, got out and popped the trunk. Sam got out and followed Dean around back, where his brother wordlessly shoved a roll of duct tape at him and seized a small, sharp utility knife.

Sam watched as Dean strode onto the jobsite and confidently sliced a large rectangle out of a dirty blue tarp that had been lying folded in a pile of supplies. The younger brother realized with alarm that this piece of stolen plastic would be missed and quickly got into the Impala and started the engine. Dean rolled his eyes and got in after him, and Sam drove to a nearby supermarket. There, the two of them taped the blue rectangle into the car's window, one man cutting tape and the other placing it. Neither said a word.

When it was done, the Winchesters got back into the car. Dean placed the keys into the ignition, but stopped before starting her up.

"Sam, I gotta tell ya, I'm glad you called me when you did. It's good to see you whole again."

"Thanks for coming to get me. I didn't think you would."

"Force of habit," replied Dean flippantly. He sighed and looked earnestly at Sam. "Actually, I did it more me than for you. I need you around. Look at me." Dean flicked his eyes to black and continued. "Ever since the Mark of Cain reanimated me, I can't tell what's what. I wouldn't know an act of heroism if it bit me in the ass. I can't even tell when I'm being a dick. I'm like soulless you, only worse. I don't have a conscience anymore. I need to borrow yours."

"I thought you couldn't help that, either way," countered Sam. "If it's not the demon in you, then it would be the Mark itself driving you to violence."

Dean's eyes went back to hazel and his face brightened. He rolled his right sleeve to the elbow and showed off his blank skin proudly. "I got rid of that. It's gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"Not my problem."

Sam took a breath, trying to be patient. "It might not be your problem, but it's your responsibility. You think you should maybe make it your problem?"

Dean smiled and waggled a finger. "See that? That right there: conscience. That's what I need." He put the car into gear and headed for the highway. "After we swing by the bunker and get you all dressed and detoxed, wanna go on a hunt? We could track down and kill that skunk Metatron."

"Um, maybe we should just focus on fixing up the car, man."

"You're the boss, Jiminy." They drove in silence for several miles before Dean piped up again. "You can really smell my blood, huh?"

"It's stronger since we sealed the window."

"What do I smell like?"

"I don't want to talk about this..."

"Come on, man. I'm curious."

"...Gasoline and blackberry jam."

Dean pouted thoughtfully and nodded. "Huh."

The doctor's breath felt hot streaming through her nostrils. She walked down the hallway toward her condo, running her knuckles along the wallpaper. Abacad had walked past it many times, never taking the time to remark upon its texture. Still, she didn't want to leave her fingerprints. When she arrived at her own door, she focused and concentrated to insert the key into the lock with precision, avoiding scraping the metallic plating around the keyhole like a drunkard.

She felt that she was doing a good job of remaining composed and civil given the circumstances. Abacad was doing her best to enjoy the sensation of intoxication – however slight – and put out of her mind the affront she'd done to her prized cerebrum by poisoning it.

Her gloomy space was illuminated by the bathroom light, which she remembered having left on. She turned on the overhead light, revealing Crowley sitting in her favorite stuffed chair – which she did not remember leaving there.

"Ey baba gayidy!" she uttered loudly, dropping her purse in surprise.

"Don't swear at me, azizam," said Crowley. "I'm not finished with you."

"Oh, yes you are...!" huffed Abacad, feeling her face turn red. Before she could get on with her scolding, the demon king continued.

"It seems to me that we never discussed my fee for designing your clinic's fancy new updated security system."

"The document never mentioned a fee. I didn't agree to anything."

"True, but the language of the contract leaves payment open for interpretation. Fancy another round of Who's Got The Better Lawyers, Behrooz? I do so miss our games of hardball."

Abacad picked up her purse and put it on the table in the alcove. "Ahlquist," was her single word of rebuttal, and she watched Crowley steadily lose bluster through the puncture she'd poked. She felt a pang of pity. "What would you ask as payment?"

"A pint of your blood should suffice."

Abacad frowned. "What are you going to do with it?"

Crowley stood up and buttoned his jacket. "That's my business."

Ah, ever the consummate professional, mused Abacad before her mind started churning with conjecture, imagining the nefarious black magic leverage human blood might provide. "Absolutely not. Would you trust me with a vial of your blood?"

"Don't be silly," scoffed Crowley immediately. After a beat he gave the question some thought. "Actually, you? Perhaps. I daresay, if I had anyone I could trust, it would be you." He softened. "I'm sure you'd keep it quite safe in that freezer-vault of yours."

Abacad looked into his eyes and inhaled slowly, realizing. "You want it for injection."

"You could give it to me, but we both know that I could have it taken from you."

Abacad felt the tightness of a hiccup form in her chest. "Have you already taken the dose I gave you?"

Crowley stepped out of her personal space and turned into the gloom. He cleared his throat uncertainly, without answering.

"You have injected it. Recently, too." She put a hand on his shoulder. "You're as drunk as I am. Look at me." She turned him toward her and as the light fell across his face she spotted the ache in his wet, bloodshot eyes. She realized what he had been doing while he waited for her, alone in the dark. "Why do you want more?"

Crowley gripped the doctor roughly by her upper arms. "You will give me what I am owed," he snarled, stepping forward and shoving her backwards.

Abacad took in his small show of rage and immediately saw past it, taking in how deeply she'd cleft him. Her heart sank and she suddenly felt very sober. "You're right. As payment, a pint seems fair. Meet me at ten on Saturday in front of the Portland sign and I'll have it for you."

The doctor kicked off her shoes, lowering her closer to Crowley's height, but not by much. She stepped forward and placed a hand on the demon's neck tenderly, causing him to prickle in discomfort. Still she stooped and kissed him once beside his mouth. "Please don't use my blood to torture yourself."

Crowley picked Abacad's hand off him and handed it back to her. "I'm the King of Hell, darling. I don't have anyone to do it for me."

News anchors narrated into padded microphones as they crowded in bunches at the base of the courthouse steps. The oak doors burst open with a bang and flashbulbs started popping, grabbing the reporters' attention. Everyone's manic gaze shifted to the handcuffed woman in the orange. As she was being pulled by her elbow toward the police personnel carrier parked in the street, the questions erupted.

"Mrs. Trenton!"

"Ms. Trenton, over here!"

"Leslie Kwok, Channel Twelve..."

"Amanda, could we have a statement?"

"There she is!"

"Real quick, why'd you do it?"

"Why'd you do it, Mrs. Trenton?"

The police escort continued tugging her by the elbow, but Buttercup's feet slowed. Microphones clustered to her face like giant black marshmallows to catch the convict's soft, lazy words as she meandered toward her sentence.

"What I had was not a life. No one would be sorry to be rid of it. Having pierced the veil and seen the pathetic artifice of civility and family for what it is, I couldn't accept it any more. It was an insulting, glaring mockery. I could not suffer them to live. I hope none of you ever come to join me in my crushing understanding because then, neither will you."

Then the uniformed rentals redoubled their efforts to shove their blonde prisoner down the stairs and into the van. All the well-coiffed windbags, satisfied with the soundbites they'd scooped, turned back to their respective cameras and took back their microphones.

"Amanda 'The Buttercup' Trenton..."

"There you have it..."

"...showed no remorse in court nor afterwards..."

"...six consecutive life sentences..."

"...convicted in the stabbing death of 31, including 3 tactical officers and her own husband and young son..."

Amanda opened her eyes, her breathing even, her sheets dry. She looked around her darkened bedroom and her eyes fell upon the peacefully sleeping face of her husband on the pillow next to her. It would be so easy. Just look at him.

She clamped her eyes shut, rolled onto her side and yanked the blanket up to her ears.

I miss the nightmares about Dean's torture chamber.

THE END

Cheat Sheet:

Momurinin: "Darling" in Scots Gaelic (taken from Outlander
Ey baba gayidy: "Oh, for fuck's sake" (also appears in chapter one)

Dean calls Sam "Jiminy" as in Jiminy Cricket, Pinocchio's external conscience.

Dean's blood smells like Cabernet Sauvignon. Yumm.

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading all the way to the end! This is the biggest, longest thing I've ever tried to write, and I'd be touched and honoured if you let me know what you think by way of review.

I had so much fun writing this story; distracted pedestrians (and others oblivious to their own bodies in space) are a particular pet peeve of mine, and it was such a pleasure to bite their heads off. I also had fun writing ManBearPig into Supernatural (though I had originally envisioned him as an adversary for the Winchesters, and much less scary a scene). Hashing out the details of magical security, and writing the dialogue of goofy slackers caught up in loads of supernatural crazy-foolishness... this is such a deep sandbox to play in. Crowley and Rowena's dialogue in particular are fun to write, especially since Rowena sounds to me like Monty Burns.

Sorry Mbavric, I would never bring Castiel back. I got so sick of him so quick in the show, that I couldn't wait to kill him off. If there had been a way to do it even sooner, I would have.

By the way, without his soul, Sam no longer gets panic attacks when he hears Asia's song "Heat of the Moment".

Thanks so much to my sister's friend Targol, as well as those delightful and beautiful Persian customers who helped me translate Abacad's Farsi sayings.

Thanks again for reading this. In closing, don't you think they should cast Jim Beaver as the next Dos Equos guy? Bobby Singer is indeed the most interesting man in the world. Who's with me?