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The Impala is once again filled with tension. They're trying to catch an annoying teen Houdini of a witch that keeps slipping away and Dean feels like a total idiot, tricked by an amateur.
He's regretting every decision he's ever made that brought him here, to this moment where he's stuck in the car slowly going insane listening to Crowley's annoying gibberish that's stopping Dean from hearing his own thoughts. Sam is looking mildly amused by his apparent frustration, despite hiding it well behind his constipated expression. Dean can't believe his brother is a fucking traitor. Sam probably was the one who suggested asking the demon for help in the first place. Yeah, it totally wasn't Dean, he's not that stupid. He isn't.
"You're uncharacteristically quiet. What got your knickers in a twist, Deanna?" Crowley smirks, staring at Dean through the mirror smugly. Dean wishes he would shut up for one damn moment and let him come up with a decently witty remark. He chooses to ignore the fact that Crowley sounds like he's actually aware that Dean occasionally wears 'knickers' indeed - or so the disturbing wink suggests. Nope, Dean refuses to remember any events leading to Crowley finding out.
"Too busy mentally recreating The Silence of the Lambs starring your masked up piehole," barks Dean, shooting Crowley another intense glare.
"So, daydreaming of restraining me, Squirrel? Kinky. And here I thought our little summer of love was over. I'm touched."
The smug motherfucker drenches his sarcasm in such a sultry tone that Dean almost gags. They so aren't going there, not tonight, not ever. Again.
Dean groans and Sam shoots him a slightly horrified look. He's too tired to even bother denying or clarifying anything, just gripping the wheel harder in frustration. If Sam's currently picturing something obscenely disgusting involving the time-that-shall-not-be-named with the king of hell - well, serves him right. He shouldn't have been looking so amused earlier.
"Aren't you just buzzing with excitement to spend more time together, bestie?" The douchebag wiggles his eyebrows obnoxiously.
Dean rolls his eyes. Screw Crowley and screw Cas for calling him a goddamn honeybee in front of the demon. It's not like he's Dean's actual ex, there's no reason to be so petty and ridiculous around him. Dean isn't even into pet names anyway... Assuming that's a pet name reference and not another horrifying innuendo.
"We aren't fucking besties, quit with the bullshit."
If Dean's eyes could roll any further back, they'd likely do a cartwheel.
"Well, we aren't fucking besties anymore," agrees Crowley with a dramatic wistful sigh. "But don't worry, darling, you are still the king's favourite."
Sam shifts in his seat, looking very stiff and uncomfortable, certainly joining Dean in wishing to combust spontaneously. Good. Perhaps if they pray hard enough, Cas may come and smite Crowley in a fit of jealousy.
Dean definitely isn't thinking of flirting back just to see what Cas will do if he finds out. Dean shivers at the thought of the angel getting possessive, it's a good but brief distraction from his embarrassment and misery.
"Don't get too excited, it's not mutual," Dean grumbles, shaking off the wild thoughts Crowley is putting in his tired, aching head.
Dean needs a proper distraction and music is the most obvious option he can think of. He grabs the first Zeppelin cassette he can reach and puts it in the player. The Impala fills with the familiar sounds of the Whole Lotta Love intro and Dean closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in and out deeply. He already knows there's more annoying remarks coming his way but what Crowley says next surprisingly is not an innuendo.
"It's a privilege, you know," prattles the demon. "Your favourite would die to take your place."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean is exasperated by Crowley's cockiness. He truly can't believe people find this British bag of dicks charming. Excessive confidence isn't attractive. No, he isn't a hypocrite.
"Your favourite gang of my biggest fans, of course," singsongs the demon. "The one currently performing the song I gifted them so generously."
Dean turns around to shoot Crowley an enraged grimace so fast it gives him whiplash.
"Don't you fucking dare," he enunciates every word, pointing angrily at the demon. "Zeppelin is sacred."
"'Satanic' is the word you're looking for," disagrees Crowley.
Even Sam snorts, thank God, also not buying any of this blasphemous bullshit.
"Yeah, sure, cause you actually know anything about good music and they have definitely died under mysterious circumstances to make your heresy at least remotely believable."
Dean wishes he could be a hippie tofu enthusiast like Sammy sometimes, he really could use some of that yoga mumbo jumbo and astral-project himself somewhere in the open space, to the galaxy far, far away.
"You think I'm a liar? Ouch. I'm wounded, bestie. Though I suppose that drummer's death wasn't unusual enough - for a connoisseur like you."
Dean clenches his jaw and tries his best to ignore Crowley's attempts at defiling John Bonham's tragic passing.
"I know you're a liar, which is why I expected at least a little bit of effort. This? Trying to claim something that has never been yours? That's a new low, even for you," Dean's words are filled with just enough venom to make Crowley's smug smile waver for a moment. He considers it a win.
So what if he's obviously hinting at their not-really-break-up. If being a taken man can win Dean this war then he just might be willing to allude to certain events that may or may not have happened.
"I'm well aware of what isn't mine, darling, don't you worry," ensures Crowley. "Though forgetting to send me an RSVP was very impolite." Dean rolls his eyes again. Not like that stopped him from attending. "And I'm not talking souls, you primitive heathen, I'm talking unconditional devotion. Passion, loyalty."
"You aren't seriously trying to sell us the whole 'stairway sounds like devil worship backwards' conspiracy, are you?" quips Sam suddenly, chuckling.
"Hold on a minute, the whole what now?" Dean feels like he entered some parallel universe by accident. Since when is Sammy a Zeppelin history expert?
"You know, the old internet rumour about Stairway to Heaven? That if you play it backwards, you'll hear some cryptic message about worshipping Satan or something," Sam shrugs nonchalantly, like dropping a nonsensical bomb like that isn't a crime and a brain-scrambler. "The Beatles practiced backmasking as well, I think. There's another conspiracy about Revolution 9 foreshadowing John's death."
Dean's brain isn't gonna survive this day.
"My, my, Moose, I didn't take you for an intellectual."
Fuck you very much, Tiny. His brother is a genius, genuinely annoying nerd only Dean gets to deceive with bullshit myths. And why the hell is Sammy actually agreeing with Crowley's nonsense?
"Dude, seriously?" Dean sounds exasperated. He isn't even sure if he's talking to Mr. Bullshit or Mr. Traitor at this point, he can't believe they're teaming up against him. And against Zeppelin of all things!
"Riddle me this, Sammy, how come you know something about Led Zeppelin that I don't?"
"I don't know, Dean, maybe it's 'cause my browsing history isn't ninety nine percent porn and cowboys," the unexpected sass makes Dean's jaw drop. "Actually, scratch that, it's not ninety nine percent cowboy porn." Sam raises an eyebrow at him, daringly. Dean just blinks and fish-mouths back at him, scandalised.
Just because his brother is currently being scarred for life by the ambiguous details of his sexcapades with the king of hell doesn't mean he has the right to slut-shame him in the middle of a war for Zepp's honor.
"I changed my mind, Squirrel, Samantha here is my new bestie." Crowley has the audacity to laugh unabashedly at Sam's bitchy remark. Unbelievable. "The Stairway was another generous gift but I didn't actually write it. Just offered a spell or two to enhance their skills. Or well, correct the lack of."
Dean gasps. Insinuating that his favourite band has no natural talent whatsoever and is only famous thanks to this tiny, lying abomination of a salesman won't be tolerated on his watch, especially not inside Baby.
"No, you didn't!" Dean doesn't even understand why he's getting so irrationally mad over something so untrue. Crowley knows too damn well how to get under his skin and it's another uncomfortable reminder of how much time they've spent together.
"Oh, but I did. Samantha, be a dear and google Jimmy Page's property," boasts Crowley.
Sam shoots Crowley an annoyed stare but obeys nonetheless. Dean knows it's only because he's an annoying little shit and wants to help irritate Dean some more because it's unfortunately working a little too well.
"Wait," Sam raises one skeptical brow at the demon. "Thee Crowley, really?" he doesn't sound very convinced but Dean is already paranoid and doubting everything he's ever known because his brain has been fucked with for too damn long today.
"First of all, there's nothing 'thee' about this little-"
"That would be correct."
"Oh, for fucks sake!"
Dean waits a moment for anyone to elaborate, but no explanation comes. He sighs dramatically, smacking his head against the steering wheel. Alright. Okay.
"Fine. I'll ask. 'Thee Crowley' who?"
"Thee Aleister Crowley", "you uncultured swine" is heavily implied and Dean can't pretend he doesn't hear it.
"Is that the gay demon from Good Omens or what?" Dean's perplexed to be the one not getting the reference instead of the other way round this time.
"Not quite. Raising a little antichrist with an angel sounds more like you, honey, doesn't it?" muses Crowley. Dean's eyes almost fly out of the sockets and he doesn't know what to say to that. Except that he isn't a fucking honey. "The real Crowley."
"Like that explains anything!" Dean doesn't have the patience to deal with the black-eyed Slim Shady anymore.
"Seriously, Dean, you don't know?"
Dean's groan is loud enough to wake the entire state of Louisiana, he's sure. Of course his true crime junkie of a brother would know some creepy dick from the past that normal people don't, why is he even surprised at this point.
"Why the fuck am I supposed to know some namesake of a lowlife demon? I don't care about your supervillain origin story, buddy, sorry to disappoint."
"I only meant the most influential occult figure of the twentieth century," twaddles Crowley.
"I wouldn't exaggerate like that," starts Sam, "but-"
"There's a 'but'?!"
This day is officially too ridiculous for Dean to deal with. He needs a bottle of whiskey or two. Make it three, what the actual fuck.
"And the former owner of Jimmy's beloved Highlands manor."
Sam does a brief Google search and confirms Crowley's words, much to Dean's horror and disbelief. The Wikipedia page means the dude at least actually existed. Okay. That's okay. So what if Jimmy Page, the legendary guitarist Dean has been admiring his whole life just so happened to buy the same house as some tea-drinker witch that may or may not actually be Crowley, who the fuck cares. It's okay, it really is just fine. If Dean's eye is twitching it's only because he's been staring at the road for too long.
"There's no proof it was actually you!" Dean huffs, at last, struggling to think rationally and forgetting his points. "And that Crowley is dead."
The last argument is a little too weak even for his own ears.
"You should know by now that it doesn't quite stick," chuckles the demon. "That Crowley is simply wearing a new vessel."
"Doesn't look very new to me." Crowley doesn't even acknowledge Dean's bitchiness. Fine. "Besides, Page isn't even my favorite. I prefer Plant."
That isn't exactly true and he's always thought of Zeppelin as more of an inseparable unit but whatever, he's running out of ideas and his useless brother isn't helping.
Crowley just laughs at him pungently. He wants to be immune to it, but the genuine amusement in the demon's voice is making Dean very uncomfortable and even more horrified.
"The whiny lead singer, overeager and not skilled enough? The one that got the whole band cursed by accident? Leave it to you to pick someone incredibly messy," spits out Crowley, bitterly.
Insulting his favourite band and trying to make it about his husband is a lot for Dean to handle. He'd shoot the little dick in the face right then and there if it wouldn't harm Baby. He refuses to Vincent Vega his car but the temptation is surely there.
Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel anxiously, waiting for Sam to complete another search and deny this crap. His brother's frown is only getting deeper though, like he actually believes whatever nonsense he's seeing and is genuinely surprised and disturbed, not just playing along to piss Dean off anymore.
"Give me that!" he exclaims, pulling Sam's phone out of his grasp to take a look at whatever he's reading himself. His eyes quickly scan the article and he notes a few too many lines that go along with Crowley's ridiculous proclamations.
"Nice hairstyle, buddy, they must've based Voldemort off you," sneers Dean, scrolling through the pictures of this egghead weirdo. Of Crowley's former vessel, apparently.
So he really was a famous occultist and really advised his stupid witchlings to listen to phonograph records in reverse so they could learn to think backwards. It doesn't mean that Led Zeppelin did that too. It doesn't mean anything.
"What about Anton LaVey?" asks Sam, curiously. Dean has no idea who the fuck they're talking about and he doesn't want to know.
"A wannabe poser who can't spell," grimaces Crowley. Someone he hates then? Dean likes this Anton dude already. He makes a mental note to look him up later. He's busy fact checking the actually important things now.
And yeah, okay, so Stairway was recorder around December of 1970. And John Bohman died in late September of 1980. There's like, two months in-between, the dates don't exactly align and it was a fucking accident, not the hellhounds.
Dean closes the tab and sees another one opened on an article that's titled "This is the reason Led Zeppelin's Jimmy Page was cursed by filmmaker Kenneth Anger".
And that's too much internet for today. Reading is extremely overrated.
"Enough! So what if this crap is true? You used to do witchcraft for kicks and left an impression on a few respectful famous dudes, big deal,"
Dean tries his best to conceal how disturbed and, okay, jealous he is about impressing Led Zeppelin. And with fucking witchcraft too, the current bane of his existence.
"Well, all things considered, what I did to Mick Jagger wasn't very respectful. Surely left a lasting impression though."
"You can't possibly think I'd believe that you also what, fucked Jagger? Please, this is getting ridiculous."
"Gave him every inch of my love, if you will."
Dean barfs a little internally. There it is, the innuendo he's been waiting for that permanently ruins his favourite song for him.
"What, all three?" Dean snorts at the same time as Sam says "Sympathy for the devil, dude, really?"
Neither Crowley nor Dean even react to Sam's sarcastic remark, too busy staring intensely at each other. Sam is getting enough of that shit at home so he shakes his head, takes a deep breath and turns away to look through the window silently, resiliently choosing the zen approach to being ignored. Dean briefly wonders if the kid is actually capable of astral-projecting himself somewhere else like he's been wishing to. Just like that boy in Insidious, ha! Too bad Sam only watches the creepy serial killer documentaries and wouldn't get the reference.
"You weren't complaining," Crowley shrugs, not even slightly bothered, and smirks again, not breaking the mirror eye contact. Dean wonders if he can ask Cas to erase this entire evening from his memory without giving too many details away later.
The sudden movement in the backseat startles Dean before he can throw back any sass.
"Hello, Sam," Cas' voice is low and monotone, and Dean gasps once again, catching the angel's intense glare in the damn rearview mirror.
That conspiring little shit wasn't meditating, he was praying for Dean's downfall.
"That's my cue," offers Crowley before disappearing without further ado.
This is gonna be a very, very long night.