Page 65 of The Dearly Departed

Where the hell am I supposed to go?

“You’re a murderer now, Abraham,” Gerald said gently, reading my mind.

That word—murderer—tore through my soul, leaving behind a ravaged wasteland. It was done, I couldn’t take it back, and it felt so final and damning.

Because it is.

“You did that,” I whispered. “You forced me.”

“You can blame me all you want, but I gave you a choice, and you chose to kill him.”

I sniffed back the guilt and nodded, leaning back against the couch across from his. “No, you’re right. I did choose. But it was a bullshit choice, and you know it.”

“Still guilty,” he replied with a good-natured smirk.

“So are you.”

My father rolled his eyes as he lifted his tumbler to his lips. “Kid, if you think that fazes me at this point in my life, you are sorely mistaken. And eventually, this won’t faze you either.”

I pressed my lips into a terse line and wondered how many lives he had taken. Would I even want to know?

Dean returned, but he remained in the doorway as I put the mask back on. The gesture was appreciated, but I didn’t say as much as he approached and handed me a bundle of clothes.

“Not sure they’ll fit,” he said apologetically. “You’re a little taller than most of the guys around here.”

“Better than nothing,” I muttered. “Thanks.”

“Before you leave, I’ll take your measurements.”

I nodded, though I wanted to refuse. I didn’t want my measurements taken. I didn’t want to think about why they needed them, why they assumed I’d need changes of clothes, despite knowing in my gut the unspoken reason behind all of this.

“And what can I call you?” Dean asked, folding his hands over his waist.

“You don’t need to call me anything.”

He blinked, seemingly taken aback, before swinging his uncertain gaze toward Gerald. “Well, I just thought—"

“He is my son,” Gerald cut him off. “Nobody outside of this room is to know that he is my son, but that’s who he is. So, you will refer to him with the same respect you show me. You will call him nothing but sir in the presence of others, but when you’re alone or with me, Mr. Crowley will be fine.”

Mr. Crowley.

The name stirred something awful in my gut.

Although I’d never legally changed my name, I’d thought of myself as nothing but a Llewellyn for years. Abraham Llewellyn, Bram Llewellyn. Initially, I had been Leonard’s nephew until he started referring to us all as his sons, adopted or not. I hadn’t been a Crowley since I had been a kid, the one who lived in a world of dirty streets and dirty, sick people with no regard for morals or the welfare of children.

But the Llewellyn name invoked something good, and that was something I wasn’t.

I no longer deserved it.

I wasn’t sure I ever had.

Hadn’t I once said I’d only been playing a part, a bullshit role? Maybe that was all it’d ever been—a game not unlike a child playing house—and now it was time to join the real world and become who I was always meant to be.

Abraham Crowley.

“Yes, sir,” Dean answered. Then he bowed his head to both my father and me and said, “Mr. and Mr. Crowley,” before taking his leave once again, giving me the privacy to get dressed.

And as I did so, Gerald filled me in on everything else.