He gently helped Rowena to her feet, his touch surprisingly gentle for the God of Darkness.
"Drink this," he said, pressing a vial of healing potion into her hand. "You need your strength."
Rowena hesitated, her gaze flickering between the vial and Michael's face. She had accepted her fate, had embraced the agonizing year that stretched before her. This… potion… it felt like a betrayal of her sacrifice, a way for him to delay the inevitable. But she was weak, exhausted, and a part of her, a small, stubborn ember of hope, whispered that maybe… maybe he was trying to find a way.
She drank the potion, its bitter taste familiar, unpleasant.
"Take me home, Dean," she said, her voice still weak, but with a newfound determination in her eyes. "Please."
He nodded, a shadow of sadness crossing his face. "Azazel will take you."
But before he could summon his demon butler, Rowena stopped him.
