Chapter Text
When an archangel doesn't want to be found then, generally speaking, they can't be found. They're like cats (and the simile is especially apt in the case of this particular archangel): they come to you when they want attention. If they don't want attention, then you can fuck off.
It has been three weeks since Gabriel made a run for it, leaving Dean, Sam, and one befuddled angel alone in a fancy motel room with a couple empty shot glasses and not much else to go on. Since then, Castiel has become like a man possessed, a phrase that no hunter ever uses lightly (considering the implications), but this situation has gone progressively from 'bad' to 'worse' to 'if I never see Castiel's intense baby blues ever again it will be too soon.'
That's an exaggeration. But he is getting kind of unbearable.
"Gabriel doesn't want to be found," Sam protests. This is something Dean has been trying to convince Castiel of for three weeks. Sam is only saying it because, at this point, there's a distinct lack of anything else to say.
They're in Ravenna, Ohio; they've rented a room at the Econo Lodge, and they're getting their money's worth. Which is to say, not much – one corner of the bathroom is black with mold, and every time Sam opens the door his eyes are inevitably drawn there. He skirts around it like a frightened deer. Dean thinks it's pretty funny, but he avoids it, too. He thinks he remembers reading about some kind of mold spore that gets into your brain and then grows there and eventually kills you, and he's not willing to take the chance.
Attempts to get Sam to clean it have so far failed.
"We should be looking for those weapons he mentioned," Dean offers. Dean is sitting on the edge of his shitty twin bed, diligently sharpening a silver knife. The whetstone makes a weird sound against the blade, but neither he nor Sam respond to it anymore. It's become commonplace.
Sam is lying on his own bed, hands folded behind his head. His feet hang over the edge of the mattress. He hasn't washed his hair in a day, so it's knotted and tangled against the pillowcase. Dean's pretty sure Sam has a bottle of conditioner that he's hidden somewhere. He just has to find it.
"We have no idea where to start. I mean, the Colt is one of them, obviously. I guess the design came from somewhere. Based on one of these other weapons?"
"Which means we're looking for things that can kill demons. Which asks the question, how is that going to help when we already know that the Colt doesn't work?"
Sam shrugs. It's an awkward-looking movement. Dean draws the whetstone down the edge of the blade, hating the fact that the knife is as sharp as it's going to get, that all their guns are polished, that the stakes have been whittled down to fine points. There is nothing left to do except sit and think, which, as far as plans go, is providing them with a fat lot of nothing to go on.
Dean curls his fingers around the whetstone, and then tosses it, without looking, into his open bag a few feet away. That leaves him with the knife, which isn't exactly the sort of thing you just throw around. He glares at it. The knife doesn't respond.
"This sucks," he says. Sam makes a quiet noise of agreement. The room feels too small, too hot. Dean doesn't want to admit it, but he kind of misses the perfectly regulated airflow of the Ritz-Carlton, the comfortable beds, the utter lack of responsibility. They hadn't even needed to get their own food, for fuck's sake. You never know what you're missing until it's gone, he guesses.
Sam twitches. It's a movement Dean has come to associate with approaching Heavenly forces, so he automatically turns his head towards the door, expectant. Not even a minute later, said door opens and Castiel steps inside. Since the Ritz-Carlton, he's been a little…off. This includes his aim, on bad days. Last week Dean gave their location as Akron, and Castiel had ended up in some place called 'Mogadore.' He's got a lot on his mind. Dean doesn't think much of it. If something's wrong, Castiel will tell them himself, eventually.
"I have found a lead," Castiel says. There's excitement in his voice. Dean's always surprised whenever Castiel actually sounds, even if it's only for a moment, like he's human. It's becoming more frequent, as of late…Castiel trying on sounds and gestures like a kid trying on their parents' clothes. The other day, he had actually snapped his fingers. He hadn't done it again (probably because Dean and Sam had stared at him like he'd been insane), but it was something.
"Look at you, playing detective," Dean mutters, and taps the flat of the knife against his thigh. The repetition is soothing. "Alright, Cas. For the hundredth time…lay it on us."
Castiel tilts his head. He still doesn't understand hyperbole – to him, this has only been the eighth time that he's come to them with a potential 'lead.' For Dean and Sam it actually feels like the thousandth, but he guesses that a hundred is a good compromise. Sam turns over on his bed, tucking one hand underneath his pillow and laying the other across his eyes, blocking out the minimal amount of light that sneaks in through the room's singular window.
"I believe I have located something that will tell us where Gabriel has hidden himself."
Sam lifts his head up. His hair is completely flat on one side of his head, bunched up and weird on the other. Dean pats his pockets for his cell phone, but when those turn out empty (save for a gum wrapper and three quarters) he remembers that the phone is on the nightstand, which is a good foot and a half away. He doesn't feel like moving that far. As it turns out, Ravenna had been the home of a very pissed-off yeti, which he and Sam had needed to corner and set fire to. It's gotten to the point where neither of them ever questioned why a yeti was lurking around the Ravenna town hall in the first place; they just did their job and moved on. A job which had involved a lot of getting picked up and thrown around like a rag doll, in Dean's case, and getting rabbit punched in the sternum in Sam's.
"Something?" Sam repeats. He sounds skeptical. Castiel doesn't even blink.
"It is a thing, yes."
"What, like…one of those mechanical fortune tellers?"
Dean snorts. When he glances his brother's way, Sam looks weirdly grateful. Dean supposes they haven't really been much in the way of 'brotherly' lately. The Apocalypse will do that to you.
"I do not understand."
"Of course you don't," Dean sighs, and then rolls over. The movement catches Castiel's attention – he crosses the room and perches at the foot of Dean's bed like a giant, tan owl, unblinking and still.
"Then tell us," Sam says. "Before Hell freezes over, please."
"No Hell jokes," Dean mutters. Sam makes an apologetic noise and then sort of slaps at his pillow. Dean imagines it's because he can't actively slap Castiel. The angel in question sways away from the sudden movement, which means he sort of sways towards Dean. Castiel smells like cologne, and Dean takes a deep breath, trying to place it. Since when does Cas wear cologne? Since when has he even known what cologne was for?
"It is a demon," Castiel says, and Sam curls his fingers into his pillowcase as Dean sits up, alarmed. "With a vested interest in the survival of humanity. You have met before."
Gee, that's a tough one. Dean spends all of ten seconds thinking on it before he comes to a conclusion. "Crowley."
"Yes. It is located nearby."
Dean eyes Castiel's neck. At least this explains the cologne.
***
As it turns out, Castiel's idea of 'nearby' is vastly different from the rest of the world's. They end up driving for almost half an hour before Cas says they've arrived. Of course, considering Crowley's extravagant sense of style, that isn't hard to tell in the first place - they've basically driven thirty minutes through rural Ohio to reach a mansion in the middle of nowhere.
Dean spends the whole ride glancing furtively at Castiel, then back to the road. Wash, rinse, and repeat. Sam has traveled through the realm of wanting to annoy his brother by this point, and he really wishes they would just make out and get it over with already.
Maybe if he brings it up often enough something will happen…progress through annoyance. He sort of likes the sound of that.
"Hey Dean," he tries. "Do you remember that time when I was thirteen, and I walked in on you – "
"Oh look, we're here. Everybody out of the car."
If looks could kill…well, Sam would be dead a hundred times over by now, but seriously, the glare Dean gives him is truly impressive. Castiel just looks confused. He's improving – Sam can tell the difference between 'confused' and 'upset' at this point. He ought to remember to tell Castiel later, since it's probably a lot like training a puppy. Reinforcement and encouragement are key.
"Let us just…get this over with," Castiel murmurs. "I am intensely uncomfortable."
As they get closer to the building, the reason why Cas feels uncomfortable becomes more apparent: it has been decorated, not with gargoyles and cherubs, as would be typical, but with stone carvings of screaming human faces. Dean flinches away from them. Sam looks closer, despite how creepy the carvings are, and realizes that they aren't the stylistic representations of humans that the Romans or Greeks would have created, but are imperfect, each one different. One guy has a double chin, and to his right there's the image of a woman with a large mole on her cheek.
They're carvings of people suffering in Hell.
Sam does his best to turn his gaze away from them. In a rare display of (rather obvious) compassion, Castiel places himself between Dean and the mansion, partially shielding him from the carvings' accusing, pained eyes.
"This building is not real," Castiel says quietly. Sam's no expert, but he's pretty sure the angel is trying to sound soothing. It's a new tone for him, but Sam thinks he's managing pretty well. "It is merely a construct."
"Well, yeah, Cas, that's what a building is."
"I think he means in a more metaphysical context," Sam offers. Castiel looks grateful while Dean makes a face like it pains him to even listen to them talk. "The building's here, but it isn't supposed to be. And when we leave, it'll disappear again."
"I believe that is the demon's intent."
"Huh," Dean says. "Fake building. Awesome."
Sam takes it upon himself to knock on the door – there is no doorbell, only an old-fashioned knocker, also disturbing in its form: another screaming face, though this one is inhuman, features stretched beyond human capacity. The mouth itself is the knocker, and when Sam fits his hand through it the sharpened teeth graze against his knuckles.
After he knocks, it only takes a moment for the door to open, and a man wearing a suit and an earpiece ushers them inside. His hair is neatly slicked, and Sam can see the shape of a gun at his hip.
His eyes are black. Sam can smell him, potent and iron-tainted. He bites his bottom lip and forces the longing down somewhere deep inside himself, focusing instead on Dean's obvious distress. Even Castiel's closeness doesn't seem to be helping as much as it had outside.
"Mister Crowley will see you," the demon says. Sam wonders who this guy was, before he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's got broad shoulders – did he do something with his hands? Had he worked construction, carpentry, maybe plumbing? Or maybe Sam is totally wrong, and the guy worked in an office, printing off reports, working with money. Maybe he'd been a banker. There is no longer any way to tell – it's at the point where it would be more merciful if the demon were all that's left. Being ridden like that…Sam wouldn't wish it on anyone.
The demon leads them through the mansion, a place that's so painfully ornate that Sam and Dean make certain to give every delicate-looking vase, sculpture and curio a wide berth. Neither of them is used to this much opulence, but Castiel seems perfectly at ease. He brushes past said valuables without paying much attention to any of them, and it's like watching a deer pass through grass – nothing is disturbed. Dean, in particular, watches the process with fascination as they are led down the halls. Sam is more interested in Crowley's unusual taste in art – there are an awful lot of what looks like painted scenes from Dante's 'Inferno,' lining hallway after hallway. It's like being taken through a gallery.
Dean averts his eyes from all of them. Sam and Castiel draw him along through occasional touch – Sam's hand on his shoulder, Castiel's hovering awkwardly at the small of Dean's back. And through it all, the demon acts as their guide, silent and menacing.
Eventually, they are led to a huge pair of doors, decorated in a style that Sam thinks would be more appropriate for a church in the eighteen hundreds: they're all gold leaf and semi-precious stones outlining the handles, weird mosaic depictions of creatures that Sam suspects might be hell hounds. It's like Salvador Dali got a hold of a picture of a pitbull and went nuts.
The demon knocks three times, listens for a moment, and then nods and stands off to the side, keeping his gaze trained on Castiel. Sam supposes it's the angel, not them, who is the greatest threat here. Castiel stares stonily back.
"Mister Crowley is waiting," the demon says.
"Oh, wouldn't want that." Sam nudges a hand against Dean's side, a subtle comfort. If his brother were a dog, his hackles would be raised. Now, though, some of the tension bleeds out of him. "Like Cas said, let's just get this over with."
Sam nods, and grabs the door's handles (thankfully shaped like nothing more than what they are), and pulls as hard as he can. The doors swing silently open, moving on surprisingly well-oiled hinges (nothing but the best for Crowley, he supposes), and the demon suffers them to pass by unmolested, although he flinches when Sam slants a glance his way.
Thirsty. He shakes his head, and the doors swing shut behind them.
"Aw, fuck. And here I thought I was being pretty clear when I said don't try to find me. Epic listening fail, little bro."
The doors don't lead to a ballroom, as might be expected, nor to a dining room, but rather to a positively palatial bathroom. The sort of bathroom you'd expect a king or queen to have. Every surface is made of precious materials – the sinks look like they've been carved from jade, the floor tiles from onyx, the faucets look like they might be white gold, and the mirrors are bordered with decorative frames of diamonds and rubies. It's a wild, chaotic splash of color and opulence, and it takes Sam a few minutes to recognize that it's the voice, not the splendor of the room, that he could be paying attention to.
Sitting in the white marble tub is Gabriel. His arms are slung carelessly over the edges, everything below the waist invisible beneath a thick cloud of oils and bubbles. It figures that he's the type to take a bubble bath. Sam wonders what the oils smell like – he's too far away to tell. Something exotic, maybe. Gabriel doesn't seem the type to prefer flowery scents.
"Holy shit," Dean swears, and turns his back on the whole scene. Sam's brain stutters back into gear, and he realizes why – Gabriel is in the tub, yes, and very obviously naked, but sitting across from him, in the same tub, is Crowley.
It isn't enough that he stole the Colt. Now he's stealing their (Sam's) archangel.
Castiel and Crowley are the only ones who don't appear at all fazed. They stare at each other from across the room, Castiel perplexed (with a tinge of hostility and, weirdest of all, gratefulness) and Crowley coolly detached.
"As promised," Crowley murmurs, and Sam can see his legs moving under the water. A moment later Gabriel twitches, looking desperately unamused.
"Alright. Everybody out. And that means you, too, you double-crossing little snake."
Crowley's mouth curls up; he looks like a satisfied cat. "As you wish. I wouldn't presume to disobey orders in your own home, darling. Although, I must say…" He swings his gaze around, honing in on Castiel, and then traveling over him, to Dean, before finally coming to rest on Sam. "You three have rather poor timing. Another fifteen minutes would have sufficed."
"Oh God," Dean says faintly, and Castiel automatically glances at him, then back again. Hope springs eternal, Sam supposes.
Luckily, Dean's back is turned. Unluckily, Sam and Castiel are still facing the tub when Crowley shrugs, then unashamedly stands up and steps out of the tub, feet sinking into a plush-looking bathmat laid on the onyx tiles. Castiel, again, seems unaffected – Sam, however, gets to see the little look that Gabriel throws Crowley's way, when he thinks the demon won't notice. A secretive, wanting sort of look.
Sam's never quite understood the phrase 'seeing red' before. He understands the sentiment, of course, has been in a position to feel that sort of anger, but it's never been red…only cold, calculated black.
He understands it now.
"Outside," he manages to grit out, and roughly ushers Dean from the bathroom. Castiel follows, less because he wants to and more because Sam doesn't give him a choice. The demon guard outside has vanished, something Sam is grateful for. It means he can lay his head against the cool wall beside the doors, letting it leech some of the heat out of him. He's angry. He's angry all the time, of course, but this is different. This is anger brought on by a specific event. A specific person.
If they can't convince Gabriel to help them, so help him but he's going to murder the son of a bitch.
"Hey, uh, Sammy, not that I object to us getting out of there, but…what was that all about?"
Sam shrugs, angrily. It's a full-body rage – even the smallest movement feels hot and wound too-tight.
"Anger is understandable," Castiel says. He sounds like he might be trying to be soothing. "Gabriel is consorting with demons. I find myself…disappointed in his actions."
"I don't think 'consorting' is the best word, Cas. Try, I dunno, fucking."
Sam gently bangs his head against the cold wall. It doesn't help. If anything, it makes him angrier.
And that's how Crowley (swaddled in the world's most comfortable-looking bathrobe) finds them: Dean and Castiel trying to determine whether 'consorting' implies an intimate relationship, and Sam slowly trying to drill a hole through the wall with his forehead.
***
"No thanks," Dean says, and pushes the tea tray towards Sam, instead. An honest to God tea tray. Of course, it's loaded up with cookies and booze as well as like fifteen different kinds of tea, but still. Tea tray.
Crowley gives him a look that translates roughly to 'you amount to less than the dirt I have scraped off of my shoes every day,' then turns his attention to Castiel.
"I met Gabriel in nineteen thirty-six," he says fondly. "I was visiting the Rheinland, checking up on one Mister Adolf Hitler, making sure things were going smoothly…and Gabriel happened to be there. Preparing to play one of his little jokes on young Adolf. It would have proved…rather messy, and so I convinced him to join me for dinner, instead. We have continued to meet, on and off, for the past seventy years or so. Not as often as we once did, of course…I have my job, and Gabriel has his…whatever he does."
It's the weirdest tea party Dean has ever witnessed (and that includes that fucked up kid's book their dad tried to read them when Sam was still a little toddler): He, Castiel, and Sam are all seated in huge, squashy armchairs arranged in a half-circle in front of this massive unlit fireplace. Crowley is seated off to the side, which Dean hadn't been expecting – the dubious honor of being the figurehead of their little luncheon is Castiel, who holds a cup of tea in his lap (mostly because he hadn't refused it quick enough). Dean is in a position to hate demons more than most, but even he's impressed by the total subservience of Crowley's (for lack of a better term) henchmen. They're quick, efficient, and, most of all, quiet. He barely notices they're there, unless, of course, they're shoving tea at him.
Sam sits on Castiel's right, and he hasn't stopped glaring at Crowley for more than ten minutes, now. If he keeps it up he's going to develop a permanent facial tick, not that he seems to care. A side effect, maybe, of seeing the demon naked.
Or else seeing Gabriel naked. Or some combination of the two. Dean isn't stupid, and he isn't blind. He doesn't like where this thing between Sam and the archangel is heading, hasn't liked it since Sam made that monumentally stupid offer in the hotel, but he doesn't see how he can stop it. If it can be stopped at all. He's no big believer in destiny, and all of Heaven knows it by now, but there's a difference between fate and the inevitable. One is guided by all-knowing hands, and the other is…
Well, the other is Sam and Gabriel, apparently.
"Have some tea, before it gets cold." Castiel raises his cup halfway to his mouth, and then lowers it again. Ever since Famine he's been wary of food, and every drink besides alcohol. Every time Dean eats a cheeseburger in front of him he looks nauseous and sad. Even when Gabriel had them trapped, Dean had tried to avoid eating with him in the room.
"Well," Crowley murmurs. "I suppose we ought to get down to business, before my esteemed companion makes his grand reappearance. Gabriel has seen fit to tell you of the existence of other weapons, has he not? Similar in ability, if not in design, to the Colt."
"He might have mentioned it," Sam grumbles. It looks like he's still trying to make Crowley's head explode using the power of his mind. Dean glares at him over the tea tray until Sam takes a deep, lingering breath and then casts his gaze off to the side.
Crowley clasps his hands in his lap, leaning forward a bit. He's still wearing his bathrobe, and Dean does his best to avoid looking down. "There were seven, originally. Every religion has its demons, you understand, and so there was a period in history when it was…rather fashionable for temples to display weapons with demon-killing capabilities. The vast majority of them were frauds, of course. But there were seven that were not." The long, pale fingers steeple, and Crowley leans back again. "Of course, you only have to worry about two of them. The rest are inconsequential. Lost to the ravages of time."
Dean's brows furrow. "I would think the more the merrier. Can't have too many demon-killing weapons, right?"
"On the contrary. You will find it impossible to retrieve all but two. As I said, the others have been…lost. And there are other artifacts you should be concerning yourselves with."
Sam's interest is peaked, Dean can see it – he sways forward, his scowl lessening. "Artifacts?" Christ. Trust his brother to get all hot for something bound to be ancient and dusty. Crowley, though, seems pleased.
"I happen to know the location of one. Gabriel knows the location of yet another. It is, of course, his choice as to whether he tells you…"
"Stop the presses, people, I'm here."
Sam's head jerks around so fast Dean is surprised he doesn't get whiplash. Castiel and Crowley follow the line of his gaze to the doorway, where Gabriel, now significantly less naked (thank God) is leaning.
Ah, Dean thinks. Inevitability.
"No need to go divulging all of my secrets," Gabriel chastises. His feet are bare, and he steps light and quick across the cherrywood floor until he's leaning over Crowley's shoulder. Sam's expression is the kind that would frighten small children – his eyes are thunderclouds. His hands clench and unclench against the arms of his chair, but he doesn't get up. Dean's impressed with his restraint.
"The demon was about to provide us with information," Castiel says, disapprovingly. The look that Crowley slants his way is viciously acidic.
"And now I'm going to be providing it. That okay with you, bro?"
Castiel settles back in his chair, still holding his cup of tea, like a safety blanket. Gabriel nods.
"Fine. It was, let's see, early fifteen hundreds. Fifteen or sixteen, doesn't really matter. I'd had a lot to drink, so I was a bit, y'know." Gabriel wiggles his hand in a way that's reminiscent of a beached fish. "Anyways, long story short, I didn't want the responsibility anymore, so I hid the Horn."
"I do not understand," Castiel says (neither does Dean, but he's not going to say anything), and Gabriel sighs.
"The Horn. You know. The Horn of the Apocalypse. I left it in fifteen-sixteen. I think I thought it was funny at the time."
Castiel's expression becomes almost as thunderous as Sam's. Dean holds up his hands in an attempt to stave off a situation that promises to be both violent and unhelpful in the long run.
"Woah," he says. "Hold on, explain what this horn thing is before someone gets murdered. Please."
"Gabriel's Horn," Sam murmurs. Dean glances at him, takes one look at his reverent (and yet still angry, that's what he calls multitasking) expression, and knows he's in for the sort of explanation that's going to involve Wikipedia articles and maybe diagrams, and Sam gushing the whole time. "The Horn that's supposed to mark the start of the Apocalypse."
"That's bad advertising, right there."
Sam shushes him. "There was never any proof there was an actual horn, though. It was mentioned in Thessalonians, but most people think of it as a sort of…metaphor."
"Nope," Gabriel says cheerfully. "I was supposed to blow it. Never did. Not the point, though. It's useful for more than just announcing the Apocalypse. Call it a dinner bell, if you want. I blow it, people come running."
"And by 'people' you mean…"
Gabriel rolls his shoulders. "Well, Lucifer, for one. All the angels. When it was made, we were all trained to rally around it for the Last Days. Of course, then Michael started getting distant, and Zachariah took charge, and it was a huge mess. So when I left, I took it with me. Stupid me, I thought they'd hold off the End until I brought it back. Shows how well I know my family."
"You are a disappointment," Castiel sighs. Gabriel ignores him.
"Anyways, I've been thinking. I like you kids."
"I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you like Sam more than me," Dean mutters. Sam doesn't hear him, but Castiel blinks, and Gabriel grins slow, satisfied acknowledgement.
"And Crowley and I have been talking…Well, more than talking, but that isn't the point. The point is, I'm going to help you. It'll be like an adventure. And at the end, we might get to save the world! Fun, huh?"
Sam leans forward, reaching for the tea tray. More specifically, reaching for the booze.
It's a good idea, so Dean does the same. They have a brotherly bonding moment, aiming for the same expensive bottle of scotch. Sam gets it first. Dean doesn't begrudge him that.
Castiel raises his tea, and then lowers it again.
"I do not understand," he says again, and Dean and Sam take a shot.
***
Sam waits in the fake mansion's massive dining room.
Dean, Castiel and Gabriel are all still inside what he's been calling the 'tea room' (which, he has been told, is entirely Gabriel's work, but the fact that it all isn't real reveals more about the archangel than he would probably care for). They'll come out, eventually, but for the time being Sam doesn't want to see Gabriel's face. Not when Crowley is still sitting smugly nearby. Instead, he spends these few minutes of quiet running his fingers over chairs, tables, curios. He lingers over a bronze statue of a snake, coiled like a spring in the center of the dining room table. When he touches it, it moves as easily as if it were made of papier-mâché.
"Gabriel's whims designed this place," comes a voice from behind him, and Sam turns to see the person he least wants to interact with. Crowley, at this point, represents everything that he hates and, more importantly, everything that he does not have. "However, 'twas mine that furnished it. Most of what you see is real, only…elsewhere."
Crowley keeps his hands behind his back, and Sam is thankful that he doesn't come any closer. He draws back from the snake, ancient and patient looking.
"What do you want?"
"To talk. I promise you, my intentions are pure."
"The last time I trusted a demon I started the Apocalypse. I'm not about to make that mistake again."
Crowley's brows arch. "Then will you trust in Gabriel? He has, after all, seen fit to call me his confidant. Or…is that the root of the problem?"
Sam turns his shoulder towards the demon, and Crowley smiles. It is worth noting that it is very, very, far from being a kind smile.
"Oh, Sam. And here I thought your life couldn't get any worse. Gabriel is, shall we say, not the settling type. Better to compare him to a hummingbird – attracted to bright colors and loud noises, but the fact that he stops and rests upon you for a moment means very little in the grand scheme of things. Only that, for the moment, he finds you to be both interesting and a challenge, much like myself."
"I'm nothing like you."
"No," Crowley sighs. "Not yet, you aren't. But jealousy is an ugly thing. Keep it up, and we'll have you running the crossroads in no time. That is, if Lucifer doesn't get to you first. You do know he's the sort to make promises, yes? Promises he has no intention of keeping. If Gabriel's name does happen to come up, I will thank you to continue saying 'no.' I've grown…fond of him."
Sam glowers, and turns towards the door. He can hear, distantly, the sound of Dean calling his name. He goes, without thinking, because he wants to be away from Crowley, and closer to Dean. They haven't fought in weeks – this thing, with Gabriel, has given them purpose again.
Crowley follows him all the way to the front door, and then leans there, watching as Sam steps outside.
"Come find me when you've found the Horn, Sam Winchester," Crowley calls out. "I'll have something waiting for you. Something you need."
But when he turns back, to say (maybe) that there is nothing Crowley has that Sam will ever need, he's gone. Crowley is gone, and the mansion with him. There's just a huge, dusty expanse of dead cornfield, and Sam is standing beside the Impala, which is parked, not in a driveway, but on the side of a long, equally dusty road. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns, expecting Dean.
It's Gabriel.
"Ready to go, Sammy? We're in for quite a ride."
Sam swallows. His throat clicks, dry as the cornfield behind them.
"Yeah," he says. "I'm ready."