Chapter Text

Never opened myself this way
Life is ours, we live it our way
All these words I don't just say
and nothing else matters.

The journey to the playground takes them exactly four more hours (“Your wardrobe is very frugal, Dean. I admire that. Clothes are an indulgence, and jeans look good on you.” - “You are exceedingly brave. That is a most unusual quality, in a being not bred for battle.” - “Apparently freckles are not supposed to be attractive on a man, but I never understood why. They are most fetching on you.” - and, right at the end, very hesitantly, “I like how devoted you are to your brother. I can tell when you’re thinking about him because your soul becomes…”) and by the time they’re nearing the town, Dean desperately needs a beer. Or ten.

“Let’s go for a drink,” he says, slowing down when he sees the lights of a run-down bar up ahead.

“Are you sure that is wise?”

This is the first time Cas has deigned talking to him outside of the hourly compliments, and he sounds flat and empty, just like he used to back when he was still learning to speak without shattering Dean’s eardrums. Dean had thought he was being clever, but his whole revenge scheme ended up being more unsettling than satisfying. Four hours, and he is already tired of this - Cas ignoring him for fifty-nine minutes, and then a small movement (his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap; his head turning away from Dean, looking at the barely visible fields outside the window) and the reluctant, soft admissions. Dean had tried to summon enough willpower to put a stop to the whole process - he’d felt downright mean, truth be told - but every time he’d worked up the courage to say something, he’d ended up swallowing his sentence down, a desperate longing for a normal Cas, for his usual guardian angel (90% obliviousness, 10% sass, and 100% on his bloody side) becoming stronger with every passing mile.

“The world can keep ending for another twenty minutes, Cas. Come on.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Of course it’s not. Why should things start to be easy now? Dean has spent the last four hours on tenterhooks, essentially replaying every one of Cas’ compliments in his mind and eagerly awaiting the following one. He hasn’t felt like such a pathetic little bitch, actually, since he was fifteen and Robin had seemed the end of the road - the one woman for him, for all eternity. Dean still remembers lying down in bed in the darkness, the other boys asleep (Jimmy snoring a bit, Kit mumbling things), as he replayed his conversations with Robin in his head, over and over again. Which had been pretty normal, in the end, considering he had zero experience and Robin couldn’t actually look inside his mind at will, while Cas –

And yet Dean can’t stop thinking about it.

Because, well, so Cas doesn’t love him anymore (he did? how did Cas love him, exactly?) and also wants to kill him, a little bit; all that doesn’t matter, tough, because Cas also thinks Dean is brave and frugal (whatever the hell that means), and a right family man and attractive (attractive), down to his last freckle. Attractive: that had been his first compliment to Dean, the first thing he’d come up with when given that miserable task, and Dean can’t stop obsessing over the fact. It’s pathetic, that’s what this is. Downright shameful. Dean has tried for hours to extricate himself from this line of thinking; to forget that Cas was sitting two feet from him; to ignore the usual, subtle smell of large spaces and fresh mountain air coming from him; to avoid noticing, every time he switches gears, how close their hands are - how simple it would be to breach that distance, to just -

Not that he wants to. Not that he is attracted to Cas that way.

Not that it would matter if he were.

Goddammit.

Dean looks askance at Cas, his straight nose and slightly downturned, disapproving mouth.

“I’ll keep my hands to myself, I promise,” he scoffs. “You can sit out here, if you prefer, but as for me, I really need a beer.”

Without checking to see if Cas is following him, Dean gets out of the car and walks to the bar. It’s sort of a biker place; it badly needs a layer of fresh paint, and looks seedy and unwelcoming, but, well, Dean isn’t feeling much better himself, so. Clenching his jaw, he glances up at the feebly flickering neon sign (it’s supposed to read On the Road, but the first word is out of juice and the whitish cursive letters are barely visible in the half darkness) and wrenches the door open.

He counted two bikes and a truck outside, and, out of habit, he immediately scopes out the place, finding five men (two playing pool, and the other three sitting in the far left corner) and a barmaid (pretty), as well as two other doors (possible exit points). For bloody once, though, he’s not here to work or kill anything. He doesn’t even feel like joining the guys at the pool table. It’s not like he needs money, anyway. It’s the end of the world, and he will bloody give himself a break and drink a bloody beer.

“Hi,” he says, smiling at the barmaid as he lets himself drop down on a barstool.

“Back at you,” she replies, and flashes him a smile.

“You got the short straw?” he asks, and she snorts.

“Yeah, like Gary wanted to come in in this climate. I don’t mind, though. Better here than sitting home alone.”

“I know the feeling.”

Dean doesn’t know why he said that, why he said it that way; it’s not like he wants this girl, not now, anyway, but this is who he is, who he’s been his whole life, and it’s very hard to stop. Without even realizing he’s doing it, he winks at her. She laughs.

“I’m Maisie,” she says, placing a glass in front of him and reaching for a bottle behind her.

“Dean. How did you know what I wanted?” he asks, as she pours him a whiskey (because, well, he was thinking beer in a very stern and convincing way, but truth is, the time for beer is long gone).

“You look the type. Isn’t this what you like? Strong, flavourful, sweet and sharp on the tongue?”

“I already want to bed you, you don’t have to try so hard,” he says, and then stops, shakes his head.

He never meant to say this. Why is he saying this? Must be all that junk about Cas clogging up his arteries – because, fuck it, it’s not fair. Dean was much happier when he thought Cas’ love was about – about doves and rainbows and watching cave people discovering the bloody wheel. Cas has been saying that for years, has been looking at him that way for years, and Dean has always thought – every other goddamn angel has always implied it as well – that Cas cared too much about humanity and took his job too bloody seriously. There was no need to – to see it any other way. Only now, now there is. Because apparently Cas likes Dean’s freckles, of all things, which means –

Dean’s jeans (the ones Cas think they’re frugal and show off Dean’s legs, that is) are becoming a bit tight, and Dean shifts in his seat.

“Sorry,” he manages. “I don’t know why I – it just slipped out.”

“I’m sure it did,” she answers, making it as dirty as she can, and Dean’s pants become even more uncomfortable.

“I don’t –” he starts, and then falters, because what is it, exactly, that he doesn’t do?

“Oh, but you do,” says Maisie, and her smile becomes downright predatory. “You’re everything I’ve heard and more, Dean Winchester.”

She flashes her black eyes at him, and this is the moment Dean should wake up – she’s a demon, for fuck’s sake, and he’s just sitting there, nursing his first glass of whiskey and trying make his erection go away before it tears a hole through his jeans, because this is exactly what it's threatening to do, and it’s never felt this way before, like it could literally explode and tear him apart. And this is how Dean comes to the belated realisation – Maisie is not just any demon, she’s a succubus. She must be. Which means he’s in big trouble. He thinks about Cas, who’s probably still sitting outside in the bloody car, thinks about calling for help, or, better still, yell at him to stay the fuck away, but thinking about Cas makes things even worse, because now Dean can hear, once again, the angel’s low voice in his ears (They are most fetching on you), and he actually shivers, half falls off his stool.

“What do you want?” he manages, after a few seconds, righting himself, and his voice comes out all wrong.

“Crowley has a message for you,”she says, leaning in closer – the position she’s in, Dean can see right down her t-shirt, and Oh God –

“What – what’s the message?” he growls.

“Sammy says hi.”

At this mention of his brother – the first mention of Sam, the first goddamn sign of hope, because if Crowley has him, that means Sam is alive – Dean actually moans, and then he swears loudly. He can’t stop himself, though, because this is what succubi do – they twist and corrupt every human feeling – hope, fear, rage – into this luscious, irrepressible lust. Dean tries to distract himself, but the wave of emotion (the vast, unbridled relief) he felt at hearing Sammy’s name is just too big to be fought. With another choice curse, he rearranges himself on the stool and presses his hand on his crotch, briefly, angrily, but all he manages to accomplish is to make himself even more frustrated.

“He’s probably touching your brother right now, you know. Slicing up his pretty white skin, pressing a blade against his nipples until he bleeds – can you see it Dean? Can you imagine that drop of blood making its way down Sammy’s chest, sliding across his abs, down to his navel?”

Dean is nauseous with the need of it, and, goddammit, he can see it. He doesn’t want to, because of course he won’t think of Sam like this – his kid brother, for fuck’s sake – but he’s shared a room with Sam for thirty-two years, of course he knows what Sam’s body looks like – he’s stitched Sam up enough bloody times, thank you very much –

“Tell Crowley,” he starts, but now he’s so aroused it actually hurts. He has a moment of sheer insanity, considers just doing something, anything, right there, in the middle of the bar –

“I can help you. I can be on your side, Dean.”

“Yeah, in exchange for what?” he snarls, and then has to close his eyes, because it doesn’t matter if Maisie is a demon, is the one controlling him, playing him like a bloody violin – she still has tits and a full red mouth and Dean can’t stop a flood of dirty thoughts from storming his mind.

“You’re a pretty boy,” she says, and Dean feels her hand through his hair, and, to his shame, leans in to seek more contact. “We can think of something.”

“You’ll turn your back on – on Hell, for what? For one sweet night with me?”

He opens his eyes again, and sees she’s edged even closer, and there’s a look in her eyes – a look – Dean has seen it many times before, but –

His thoughts stray again, and now he’s in Bobby’s safe room, two feet of solid iron around him, and Cas is on the threshold, and he looks downright murderous for a second, but then something shift in his eyes, around his mouth, and next –

“Stay with me, Dean,” says Maisie, and her hand goes lower, traces the shorter hair on the nape of his neck, making him shiver, tremble with pleasure. “I want you. I want to see you come. That’s my price.”

“Best deal I ever had.”

Dean is only half joking, because he can’t control himself any longer. He stands up, the stool falling down with a soft noise behind him, and he grabs a fistful of Maisie’s t-shirt, pulls her towards him, crashes his lips on hers. She makes a low, mewling sound which goes straight to his cock, and pushes her tongue inside his mouth.

And then, just as Dean is on the verge of forgetting his own damn name, Cas walks in, and things get even worse.

.:.

"I have one of those tattoos, now, so don't even think about it," it's all Jody Mills says, (Crowley replies, indignantly, I wouldn't-), and then she adds, "and a protective hex bag, as well."

Crowley stops talking, then – he shifts a bit in his seat and sniffs.

"Yew, belladonna and – raven's wing bones? Not bad. Not enough against me, but not bad."

"Thanks," she says, curtly, and she actually keeps driving.

Crowley doesn't know whether to be insulted or impressed at the way she is ignoring him; at her absolute lack of reaction when he'd appeared in the passenger seat of her bulky car, actually. After all, he did try to kill her.

"Can I ask-" he starts, and, again, she interrupts him.

"Dean said we should work with you."

Her tone is neutral, clipped. After that first, startled look (Crowley, to his satisfaction, had detected a hint of panic), she hasn't turned towards him; hasn’t looked at him once.

"Jolly nice of him."

This is curious, though. Has Dean so easily disregarded Crowley’s threats to Sam? Because Crowley is sure the angel hasn't had the time, or the inclination, to share Crowley's own role in Dean's recovery. He knows Dean well enough to know he didn't want to be cured, not that way. And that Dean would kill him for being mean to his idiotic baby brother, that's another iron-clad certainty. The only possible explanation, therefore, is that Sam hasn't talked to Dean, which means he is even more of a tool than previous experience suggested. Unless he hadn't told Dean because Dean would be angry at his brother for trying to kill him - a filthy, filthy demon. The thought is strangely comforting.

"So?" asks Jody, and Crowley forces himself to abandon this fruitless train of thought.

"So I am at your disposal, sweetheart. How can I be of service?"

"Don't – just don't, okay?"

"Don't want?"

"Don't sweetheart me, and don't pretend you care. Dean can say what he wants – you're still a demon, and you still tried to kill me."

"It was nothing personal," he protests. "The Winchesters were trying to close the Gates of Hell, to keep us - me – in there for all eternity! I had to do something!"

Jody glances at him, then away.

"I thought demons liked it in Hell," she says, and Crowley shudders.

"Hell is – complicated."

"How so?" asks Jody, and Crowley can see crystal clear (she might as well wave a sign over her head) that, while she doesn't want to be curious about this, she really is. As disgusted she is by him (because that’s something else she’s advertising quite openly), she’s also enthralled. If Crowley had a single conceited bone is his body (he really doesn’t, mostly because what looks like flesh and bone is something else altogether) he could go as far as to contemplate that she’s interested in him, personally. After all, he already knows she finds him attractive – during that ill-advised date he could smell her arousal, but of course, now it’s not a good time to bring it up – and why wouldn’t she, really? He is adorable, after all.

Unfortunately, though, adorable or not Crowley is first and foremost a realist. There are only two kinds of women who would still be interested in a man after said man had tried to hex them into next week. Crowley is not demon enough to take advantage of the first kind, and he’s not crazy enough let himself be saddled with the second.

Professional interest it is, then. And didn't he just read a book about this? The charm of evil? Or maybe it was that other one, the banality of evil. Evil is charming; evil is banal; evil is many, many things, and none of them really matter right now.

"Hell is meant as a punishment for us much more than it is a prison for humans," says Crowley, and then he feels unsettled for no reason. It's not as if he's revealing state secrets, here, after all: there are hundreds of theologians who've written about the issue before, and Dean bloody Winchester could hold a chair in Hell Studies in bloody Stanford, if he were so inclined. "Some become so corrupt they end up enjoying the warped logic of it: inflicting pain as a means to escape pain. Others, however, keep their wits about them and just try to get out."

"So demons are really sad, misunderstood puppies?"

"No," drawls Crowley. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

There is no way a person could endure the decades of torture necessary to erase all traces of their humanity, and not be corrupted by it - the sentence is right there, just behind his teeth. Crowley, of course, has lived through the process himself, and has spied on Dean enough to know even a Righteous Man has his limits.

He doesn’t want to tell her that, though. The day is depressing enough as it is.

Instead, he fiddles with the glove compartment; manages to get it open, sees enough to know there's two guns in there before Jody reaches over and clicks it shut.

"I am simply saying – it is a matter of crime and punishment, is all. The same problem you have up here, actually. As a former police officer, I am sure you are familiar with its ins and outs."

It’s becoming to grate on Crowley’s nerves how bloody dark it is. When he’d finally been allowed to walk away from the rack, to leave his knife behind (he’d thrown it into the flames; he’d never wanted to see the thing again), he’d agreed to become a crossroad demon just to see the sun again. He loved warmth – not the unholy heat of the Pit, but the normal, boring warmth of summer – the shifting of it – how the sun would be more light than heat in the first hour after dawn, and how the feeling of the rays on his skin would then stretch and change, become this soothing caress, up and down his body. His favourite place: a small beach in California, carefully concealed (a few letters in pig’s blood and lime had done the trick), intended for his personal use. Over the years, he’d killed six demons who’d accidentally found out about it. It’d been worth it. And now, that is lost. Now, all around them everything is dark and quiet. There is a sort of light on the horizon, a lighter, reddish hue which these days means it's probably evening, but nothing more.

Jody slows down, drives around an abandoned trailer, speeds up again.

"You know, the whole idea that prisons make people worse? That’s because you respond to pain with more pain; and you respond to being respected by respecting things. It's not rocket science."

Jody huffs.

"So you're a psychologist now? Good to know."

"I do have a B.A., yes,” he says, and grins when she turns at looks at him, bewildered. “What can I say? Fascinating stuff, and it comes in surprisingly handy when trying to con people into selling their souls. Although a nice pair of tits tends to work even better, of course."

Jody grits her teeth, focuses on the road again.

"Why are you even here?" she asks, after a few moments, and something in her done with your shit, determined expression makes Crowley realize she could soon make the list of humans he actually likes.

"I meant what I said in that restaurant," he replies. "I know what it's like to lose someone."

The car screeches to a halt in the very middle of the road.

"Don't you ever," says Jody, low and dangerous, her eyes still straight ahead, "mention that again. Ever."

“Jody –” he starts, but she talks over him, loudly.

"Gabriel said he could go in full angel mode to convince the mayor something supernatural is going on. Seems to be the only way to get them to salt their windows and the like -"

"As if that's going to help. We're not the problem here."

"- because at this point, it's more useful to act against demons than to tell people everything will be okay, and to please not water their lawns, just in case. I’ve been driving around all day, and I saw a dozen car crashes – what happens when people start dying and not dying at the same time? Or whatever the hell is actually going on?"

"I am sure you know best," he says, and smiles when he sees her shooting him a very dirty look. "I repeat, then: how can I help?"

"Gabriel has disappeared. Angel business, or something. How convincing can you be?"

"At being an archangel? Not so much. But I can do both angel and Do as I say or I'll gut you pretty well."

"Great."

There is a moment of silence. Jody’s hand moves to the ignition, then away. She doesn’t restart the car.

"How did you find me, anyway?"

"Oh, I've been keeping an eye on you. You were someone the Winchesters couldn't bear to lose, after all. Now, you disappeared from my radar for a while – how did you do that? wards? hex bags? – but I was sure you'd pop up again. And that Dean would contact you, if -"

He hesitates, unwilling to go on.

"- if he was still alive. I know that feeling, believe me."

“Yes, well.”

They sit in silence for about ten minutes after that, and Crowley, not for the first time, wishes he could stop being a demon for a bloody second and just relax. Right now, for instance, he could fool himself into believing this is a companionable silence – if he were human, that is. As a demon, though – he can’t exactly read Jody’s mind, nor is he trying to, but he perceives the rest of it well enough – her fear, her worry, her sense of betrayal. He knows (he’d checked) that that date of theirs had been her first dinner with a man since her husband had died (had been torn to shreds by his own child). He knows (can smell it on her) that she hasn’t been with a man since; not truly; not fully. And he knows (because, well) that he had a major role in making that happen.

Absently, he fiddles with the glove compartment again, feels her fingers on his, briefly, firmly, as she clicks it shut again.

“I wouldn't have done it, you know,” he says, out of the blue, and wishes, briefly, desperately, that it was true.

“What?” says Jody, and then she understands, and her hands tighten so much on the wheel her knuckles turn white. “Killing me? Please.”

“I'm serious.”

“You can save your lies for someone who cares. Dean told me about those other people – you murdered them in cold blood.”

“I never said I didn't. But I didn't have dinner with any of them.”

Jody laughs in disbelief, turns the engine on, then off again.

“So, what, I'm special?”

“I told you that night we had a connection. I wasn't lying.”

“You're a demon. Lying is what you do.”

Crowley stops, looks away, then at her. She is downright angry now, which is how it should be. No Stockholm syndrome, here. She needs to be stronger than that for what lies ahead, he thinks, and the thought saddens him.

“Why do you think I became a demon?”

“You –”

Jody stops, blushes, and Crowley finds himself smiling.

“Ah. So Dean told you about that.”

“Sam did.”

“Dear old Moose” says Crowley, a hint of worry in his guts, there and gone in a second. There is nothing nobody can do for the guy now. “Always my best interests at heart.”

Jody doesn't answer, and Crowley sighs.

“I was the one to tell them that. And, well, it was a lie.”

“That’s a shocker,” she says. “But I have this feeling you’ll tell me the truth now. Because I’m special, and all.”

Her voice manages to be just the right shade of defiant and fascinated - Jody Mills just made the list, and this is why Crowley hesitates only for a moment (they’re all going to die, and soon, so what the hell) before speaking again.

“I did it to save my brother,” he says; then senses her incredulity, and adds, a bit defensively, “Why do you think I like Dean so much? His rugged good looks?”

“Well –”

“Look, I'm not saying I wouldn't fuck him. Again,” he adds, just to see her squirm and, bloody hell, because it's God’s honest truth, even if Dean would probably want to forget all about it. “And he does make the most adorable sounds when he –”

He sees the expression on Jody's face, then, lets it go. Be clever on your own time, not mine, Dantalion would say when he was training him. Well - he'd said once. The second time –

“But, yes, I had a younger brother. Not her son, praise the Lord. He was my father's second wife. His name was Robbie. He was much younger than I, used to follow me around. A right pain in the ass, he was,” he says, trying not to smile, and failing. “Taught him to juggle so he’d keep busy and stop badgering me. And then one day – he’d just turned nine – one day he got a fever and wouldn't wake up. We called a priest – no doctor would come, not to our house - and the good father told me he could cure my brother. In exchange for payment.”

“Payment?”

“A kiss,” says Crowley, and Jody's eyebrows go so far up her forehead they are in danger of disappearing completely.

“It wasn't unusual,” he adds. “Still isn't, according to the left-wing press. And I'd done it before, which is another reason –” Crowley checks himself, remembers she doesn’t know this about Dean, that no one, perhaps, knows this about Dean except Castiel, and whether Castiel would understand what it even means is a mystery for the ages “- anyway, he forgot to mention the second part, the whole selling your soul thing. So Robbie lived, and I died. And I turned. And then I did what I had to survive.”

After a full minute of silence, Jody turns to look at him.

“And that’s the full truth,” she says, and it’s not a question, not really, but he answers it anyway.

“There’s no such thing as the full truth. But it is the truth, yes.”

“And yet you said - why would anyone lie about something like that?”

“Why does one lie, about anything?”

Jody frowns and starts the engine.

“Would you believe me if I told you I came up with that other story to get laid?”

“Yeah, because I’m sure that’s your problem – finding women who want you,” she says, a bit savagely; and then she seems to realize how that sounded – what that implied – and she frowns again, an angry blush on her cheeks. “Dean said we could trust you. Don’t make me regret it.”

And Crowley has to grin at her to stop the words coming out (I won’t), because, well.

.:.

Dean hears the door open and wrenches himself away from Maisie’s mouth; at least, that’s what he’s planning to do. What actually happens is that he barely manages to literally fall off her lips, all the way down to the floor. And it’s on his knees that Dean sees, thickly, as through fog, one of the men playing walking away from the table and move in front of Castiel; he shuts his eyes tight against the sudden blast of white light – his head seems to clear a little – and when he opens them again, the bar is filled with swirling black smoke as the other four demons flee the bar.

Dean cheers, very feebly, somewhere deep inside himself, because Cas is here, Cas will fix it – but, as soon as Cas steps closer, it happens – the room stretches and turns upside down, and Dean is not this pathetic wretch on a dirty floor, Dean is walking towards Cas, now, cocky and confident, and all he can see inside this warped-up reality his mind is imagining is how Cas would look on his knees, his stupid trenchcoat off, his shirt undone – Dean can actually feel Cas’ badly shaven skin under his fingers as he passes them on his chin, slids his thumb inside Cas’ mouth, forces it open – not that there’s any real forcing involved, because Cas’ skin is very hot under Dean’s fingers – the angel is almost feverish, his blue eyes glittering with need on his pale face -

“Stop it,” he whispers, a bit desperately. “Just stop it.”

Maisie’s voice is very distant behind him; a whole galaxy away.

“Stop what? This is all you, honey.”

“Be gone,” says a new voice, and this, of course, is Cas, Dean would recognize his sandpaper consonants anywhere.

He tries to anchor himself to the real Cas, then, to the actual angel standing in front of him, tries to walk away from the vision burning out his very eyes (Cas leaning forward, rubbing his face all over Dean’s still clothed -) but finds, to his dismay, that there is no real difference between dream and reality, because even this Cas in front of him, even the little he can see of the angel through this layer of madness and red (the glinting of the blade in his right hand, the worn fabric of his trenchcoat) is enough to completely undo him.

“No need to get scary. I meant what I said – I’m here to help you. And I keep my deals. Here is a token of my good faith.”

Maisie’s voice echoes strangely as Dean sees flash after flash – Cas appearing in the warded barn, the shadow of two gigantic wings behind him; Cas looking at him, then away, back in that parking lot (Just so you understand why I can’t help); Castiel at the foot of his bed, the mere presence of him shaking Dean awake (Hello, Dean); Cas’ hands, his straight nose, his blue eyes, and his firm, unshakeable faith in Dean’s goodness and worth –

As Dean falls forward on his hands, unmanned, overwhelmed and more aroused he’s ever been in his entire life, there is a loud bang, and a flash of red light. When Dean opens his eyes again, he sees a pair of shiny black shoes. He looks up, very slowly, feeling like he could throw up at any moment.

“Here you are. I was beginning to worry,” says Crowley.

Dean watches the demon’s face, wishing he could say something biting in return, and then he immediately drops his head, struggling against another bout of nausea.

“But I can see you’re fine. Marvellous.”

Crowley’s voice stretches and twists; it becomes something which is not even a human voice at all, and Dean can only make sense of it by grasping those British vowels very tightly; marvellous, he mutters, without realizing he’s doing it, trying to remember what the word means.

“And you’re all better. Glad to see it.”

Dean feels Crowley turn around. He must be facing Cas now, but what does he mean? Does he know Cas met Jesse? Does he even know about Jesse, period? The thought swims inside his mind for a second, then disappears.

“And how did you summon me? Those were not your orders. How are you even powerful enough?”

Crowley has moved again. Dean opens his eyes a fraction, sees the black shoes are now pointing towards the counter. He’s talking to Maisie, says the sliver of his brain that still works.

“I am not. I have powerful friends, though,” says Maisie’s voice; only, it’s not a girl’s voice any longer, not exactly; it has a lot more to do with violent rain than it does with a human voice, and yet it still makes Dean shiver with want.

“Your mother says hi,” she adds, and Dean hears Crowley’s curse (Bollocks!), sees a Devil’s trap erupt into existence not two feet in front of him.

There is another flash of bright light, and Dean looks up.

Gabriel has appeared out of thin air, and he’s now standing on Cas’ left. His eyes pass from Dean to Crowley to Maisie, and then his hand moves upwards, towards the sword strapped across his back.

“You, I will disembowel later. Slowly, and carefully,” says Crowley, and though he doesn’t turn around, something in his tone makes it clear he’s talking to Maisie. “As for you two – no need for weapons, is there? I mean, I do apologize. Sincerely, and profusely. I freely admit to it: I should not have sent a succubus after Dean. In retrospect, a terrible idea. We all know he can’t keep it in his pants,” Crowley adds, gesturing at Dean; and then it seems he can’t help himself - his eyes flicker to Dean’s crotch, and he adds, with a smile, “Or, well, just barely.”

Cas starts forward, and Gabriel puts a hand on his arm, stilling him, and the gesture finally allows Dean to focus, if only just a bit - it highlights the sense of danger mounting around them – Maisie might have lied, but Crowley is Crowley – he may well know where Sam is, Dean can’t allow –

And it goes beyond that. The realization trickles over Dean like syrup, dripping from the very centre of his brain, reaching lower (over his eyes, his nose); Dean can feel it inside his mouth, too sweet, too thick, borderline unpleasant, and yet –

Because he doesn’t want Crowley hurt. Not anymore, not, perhaps, for a long time. And if he doesn’t snap out of it, right bloody now –

“Come on, now,” and Crowley is talking again, filling the silence (is he afraid of the two soldiers of God in front of him, ready and willing to kill him? or maybe he’s more like Dean than Dean ever imagined, and part of him is pushing them, taunting them, hoping they will make it quick, and then finally, finally it will all be over). “I was looking for Dean because I worry about him. Because I actually like him. A sentiment which seems to be all the rage these days,” he adds, maliciously, and Dean looks up, sees Crowley’s eyes shift from Gabriel’s intense expression to Cas’ cold anger. “And, after all, he likes me back, don’t you, Squirrell? That time in Topeka, I would have been happy to just watch. You were the one who felt otherwise. Remember, sweetheart?”

Crowley chose the word carefully, and he pronounces it slowly, syllable by syllable, the final vowel way longer than it has any right to be; he’s talking to Dean in an obscenely intimate way, and Dean feels himself respond.

Still drunk on the succubus’ spell, Dean hears the moans and sighs of the two women on the motel’s bed; he sees himself turning to face Crowley, who’s stretched out on a chair; sees himself getting up, his naked skin only just starting to bloom with red (bites and scratches and lipstick); he bloody watches as his memory self walks over to Crowley, extends a hand in invitation; is yanked forward, falls to his knees, feels the expensive fabric of Crowley’s suit against his face. Dean breathes harder, completely lost in the memory, unable to get out, and then -

There is a loud screech and an explosion of black smoke as Maisie disappears and the girl’s body falls to the floor; Dean wakes up, fully, completely, and as harshly as if someone had dropped a bucket of iced water over him; Gabriel disappears as well (the motion of his wings causes the bottles on the counter to fall off and shatter); and Cas takes the angel blade from his sleeve in a swift, graceful movement, and launches himself at Crowley.

“Wait!” shouts Dean, scrambling to his feet, and he places himself between the two of them.

Cas does not take any notice of him; he just pushes him with his free hand, and Dean is thrown to one side, lands on the floor face first, tastes blood in his mouth. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and when he manages to get on his knees, he sees that Crowley has inched back as much as he can (which is not very far at all); he has a hand out, palm up, a conciliatory gesture – is he -? Fucking hell. He is. He’s actually trying to talk, to parley his way out of this (“I saved your life! You owe me!”) but Cas is ignoring him, Cas keeps advancing on him, almost glowing with rage and light – Dean’s eyes shift to the his angel blade high over his head – the metal is almost too bright to look at -

Dean crawls forward, wincing against the pain in his chest (broken ribs?); he stretches out his fingers, gets to the margins of the Devil’s Trap.

“Go,” he says, too quietly, but Crowley hears him: as soon as Dean’s thumb, wet with blood, has erased a millimeter of the white chalk, he disappears.

And then Cas turns on Dean.

“Wait,” Dean says again, as he sees the angel advancing on him, but Cas doesn’t listen; he picks up Dean like he weighs nothing at all and steps them both to the nearest wall, their shoes crunching on broken glass.

“Why do you keep putting yourself in danger?” he asks, shoving Dean against the wall, and his eyes remain completely indifferent as Dean winces with pain (the back of his head, his broken ribs).

“Why do you keep trusting the wrong person?”

Cas closes the distance between them, and Dean grabs the lapels of his coat, stammers out a couple of confused words ('Wait, I don’t -'), but the angel ignores him, forces Dean’s hands off himself easily, and all they leave behind is a bloody imprint, shockingly red on the tan fabric.

“You are dead already. Why can’t you -” says Cas, just this side of shouting, and he closes his hands on Dean’s wrists, pinning him against the wall.

“Cas –” starts Dean, again, but he can sense the electricity in the air – the whole room feels like a storm is about to break out (I don’t think you realize how close he came to killing you), and Dean can’t think, can’t even see clearly, can’t focus on anything else than the hard line of Cas’ mouth, right in front of him.

“It meant nothing,” he finds himself saying, and that is when Cas stops moving, and the expression on his face –

Quite possibly, Dean is delusional, and still riding on the high of the succubus’ spell, but at that exact moment, there is only one way he can understand what Cas is telling him – has been telling him for years, actually.

“Good job with the not loving me thing, by the way. Nailing it so far,” he whispers, despite himself, because he’s a bloody idiot and he must always say the wrongest possible thing.

“I said I can’t love you,” says Cas, and time seems to freeze for a single second, the lamp over their heads going off in white sparks, and Dean is suddenly in that barn again, can actually see, right now, Cas’ wings behind him, blackened and burned, and the angel’s next words hit him like a physical blow.

“I never said I don’t.”

Fiery blue eyes bore into his, and they are alight with - anger, thinks Dean, anger and pain and love and a desperate, naked longing. Without thinking, without planning to, Dean leans his head forward, closing the distance between them, and kisses the angel on the lips.