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Good days don’t generally begin with the King of Hell arriving in your motel room with a distinctively chargrinned expression on his face. This whole ‘working with Crowley’ thing had been a the straw that flayed the proverbial camel and left its carcass in the sand for the vultures between Cas and Dean, and had the souped-up angel-turned-god failed to retain his strength, Dean’s not sure they would ever had got their relationship back on track. Keeping Crowley alive and in a position of power was still a sore spot between them, but Cas has got a point about the Devil you know. The last time there was a power vacuum in Hell, Lillith took command and started snapping seals, so Dean’s mostly gotten over the smug bastard reigning supreme in the Pit. However, that doesn’t mean he wants to be reminded of it on a daily basis. Or ever, if he can help it.
“Honestly, you’re a bloody archangel. You can’t summon up a bit of cash, maybe splash out on two rooms once in a while? I’m not talking the Ritz, but really... still, I guess you can’t manufacture taste out of spare grace and a dash of human soul.”
Sam sits up in the other bed, an equally displeased expression on his face. Dean misses the days when a surprise encounter like this would immediately be met by the Winchester brothers flinging holy water and all other available weapons at their unwelcome guest. But no, now they have to deal with existential politics instead, and it’s not even seven-thirty yet.
Dean was lounging on top of the covers of the second bed, reading up on the case that Sam found last night. Two bloody deaths on a ranch in Idaho, where a family struck oil exactly ten years ago. Though according to Sam, that was geologically impossible. He sets aside the printed out news articles, and stands to face the demon.
“What are you doing here, Crowley?”
“What, no small talk? Anyone ever tell you you’re too serious, Squirrel? You need more laughter in your life- it’d add years to your life expectancy, would smooth out the wrinkles on that pretty face, though I suppose those aren’t really concerns any more, for God’s darling.”
Dean is going to smite him, truce be damned. Apparently, something of his intention bleeds through his gaze, because Crowley says; “Now now, no need to get wrathful. I just came to see if either of you two mutton-heads decided to smite a knight of Hell recently. Angry bitch, calls herself Abaddon. Ring any bells?”
“And if we did?” Sam says, climbing out of bed too. Thankfully, he’d been sleeping almost fully dressed. “You know demons that threaten us are fair game.”
“And I have no problem with that.” Crowley nods, “I do, however, object to Hell being invaded by that psycho bitch! She’s running rampant!”
“What the hell are you talking about? I smote her. With my own hands. Bitch is smoked.” Dean argues, wishing Crowley would just get to the point.
“Oh, how I wish that were true.” the demon replies with a sour smile. “But that’s the thing about knights, genius. Takes a special sort of juice to take ‘em down, and you, super shiny angel that you are, ain’t got the good stuff.”
“So what? I just exorcised her?”
“Essentially. But now she’s trying to take my throne away from me. And that, boys? Is bad news for all of us. Abaddon is old school- she wins over enough support, and you can forget about a truce, it’ll be all out war, on Earth and in Heaven. I was in Sales for a long time, I know how to sell myself as the better option. But Abaddon is the demon equivalent of a rabid hellhound, and a show of force like that... well, it turns heads.”
A sour sensation twists in Dean’s stomach at the thought of it. He remembers being on the cusp of being a demon, and how they flock to brutal force. There was a reason Azazel and Lillith were so powerful, after all. Everything Crowley has just said makes sense, and that only leaves one question;
“So how do we kill her for good?”
“You can’t.” Crowley turns to Sam; “You on the other hand... might just be able to swing it. I’ll get back to you.”
“Wait!” Dean calls, before Crowley has a chance to snap out. “Is this one of yours?”
He gathers up Sam’s research, handing over the printed out report. Crowley gives it a good once-over, mumbling to himself all the while. Dean catches snippets such as 'Daddy issues' and 'do-gooder trying to please everyone' before he hands it back.
“Sure is; sent my pup to collect, as per usual. Three suckers for the price of one.”
Dean feels his jaw clench, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “Three?”
Crowley shrugs. “What of it? You know the rules. It’s to their own discretion, if they choose the Pit over the Penthouse. Free will and all that.”
“And what did they sell their souls for, exactly?” Asks Sam, just as reluctant as Dean to let it go without a fight.
“Let me see, the guy for the love of a girl who never gave him a second glance, little miss goodie two-shoes for her whole family to be stinking rich, and the last customer to cure her mother of Parkinson’s.” He leans back on one foot, customary black overcoat swishing artfully round his thighs. “We done here?”
“Let the last one go. You already have two, and she doesn’t deserve it, not to save her mother.” Dean argues, and Crowley narrows his eyes.
“And what do I get in return?”
“I’ll help you find a way kill Abaddon,” Sam says.
Crowley’s grin is wide and cruel. “You’d do that anyway. But if you do it without complaining, and accept the power needed to do so?”
Dean opens his mouth to object- no way is Sam going back to that shit again, after he’s been on the wagon so long. Crowley cuts across him before he can get a word out though, holding up one hand to stave off any argument.
“No demon-blood required. Scout’s honour.”
“All right.” Sam agrees, and Crowley clicks his fingers. Dean feels the thread of the deal shatter, and then they’re alone again.
What in Hell did they just agree to?
--
After that, they get called to St Louis, and manage to save an old friend from going crazy or getting banged up for murder. Dean is less than thrilled that James has decided to become a witch in an effort to be a better cop, but he can clearly recognise the benefits of the scheme. Sam certainly does, but it’s not far off working with demons to stop a worse demon, and it brings up all sorts of horrible memories that he’d rather repress.
Still, James hasn’t hurt anyone, and they get to gank the witch actually responsible for the deaths, and that’s always a result. Sam’s distaste for witches is only eclipsed by Dean’s outright hatred for them. It’s clearly taking a lot out of his stubborn brother to admit that James isn’t doing too bad of a job at it.
In the end, Dean wipes the memories of the cops gunning for James, so that he’s free to take up his job and get his life back on track. James is grateful, but decides to leave that career behind anyway. At least this way, he’ll have a clean track record, and won’t be on the run. He says he might become a private investigator instead- he still wants to use his powers to help people, and Portia is thrilled at the positive outcome. Dean tells them to stay in touch, and Sam has a good feeling that they might actually do so.
And then it’s back to the bunker, to face a very irate Henry, who has been worried about them. Well, Sam anyway, though Dean’s immortality clearly doesn’t stop their grandfather being concerned for his welfare. He makes them promise to call more often, and Sam guiltily agrees to do so, though he’s pretty sure Dean’s just humouring the poor guy. They haven’t really had a chance to bond yet, what with Dean using the very formidable abilities at his disposal to avoid Henry, and beg off domestic tasks where they might come into contact with the fact that he ‘doesn’t need to eat anyway’, and ‘needs to go check in with Cas’.
As they settle back into the bunker, Sam’s thoughts naturally turn to Abaddon and what Crowley’s possible solution could be. There’s plenty of information in the library, and even if the Men of Letters never came across anything related to the knights, Dean’s angel buddies are bound to know something. Having agreed to work with Crowley doesn't mean he's not going to look into all the options available. There’s no way they’re entrusting the whole plan to a demon.
The following morning he calls Kevin, to see what progress he's made on the tablet. He ends up inviting him, Ms Tran and by extension, Samandriel, over for dinner. It'll be the first time Henry has met any of their friends, and it feels good to be doing so. Being in the bunker alone he must get pretty stir crazy, but Dean doesn't trust him to have Sam's back on the hunt yet, so he's been relegated to archivist for the time being. Seeing as though the guy's an intellectual academic, it's not really a hardship for him. Sam's pretty sure he'd get along great with Bobby.
Evening plans secured, Sam cracks his knuckles, grabs an armful of books, and gets to work.