Cause you see I'm on losing streak
I can't get no, oh no no no
Hey hey hey, that's what I say
I can't get no, I can't get no
I can't get no satisfaction

Cas is actually, literally gone. Dean’s eyes unfocus over the carpet’s pattern, as if it could tell him anything, deliver some great truth; and then he turns to Jesse, almost launches himself at the kid.

“Where is he?” he growls. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” says Jesse, getting to his feet, taking a step back. “There was a lot of light just before you woke up. I didn’t see anything.”

Dean remains where he is; tries to breathe.

Is living really all that important? asks Cas in his head, and Dean curses out loud.

It’s not like he should hope for anything, or expect anything; and he’s been here before. He’s seen Cas blasted to bits by Lucifer, seen him taken over by Leviathans. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s seen Cas hurt, of the number of times he’s looked at Cas walk away and thought, This is it - this time the son of a bitch is going to get himself killed. Because Cas may be billions of years old and all that shit, but he’s got the good sense of a child and a list of enemies as long as one of Crowley’s contracts. So, yes, Dean has been hurt by Cas’ death before. He knows how that works, thank you very much. The punch in the gut, the empty, sick feeling of lost possibilities and regret. Yes, when Cas has died - every time Cas has died, even that first time, when Cas was this weirdo angel who cared too much and Dean wanted to do his head in half of the time, Dean has felt it in his guts, has known this one wound would never heal.

And yet, horribly, selfishly, the one time it hurt the most was that other time - when Cas had disappeared because he’d just chosen to. The world was saved, and Sam was dead, and Cas had bloody walked away - and Dean had just -

[so what, I am not going to call him, goddamn it, I never prayed before and I’m not going to start now, not that I have anything to say to him, I’m living the dream here, this is the life Sammy always wanted, the life I always wanted, and of course I wonder what Cas is doing, isn’t it bloody normal to wonder what your friends are up to, because fuck yes, the guy gave up Heaven for us, I will bloody call him a friend if I want to, even if he hasn’t said a word in six months, and why would he say anything, after all, he got what he wanted, I said no to Michael and Sam said yes to Lucifer and oh God, why is this fucking bedroom so dark, why is Lisa not making any sounds, shouldn’t I hear her breathe, at least, it’s creepy to be here in the dark when everything is silent, maybe she’s dead and she will turn into something nasty and for Chrissakes I left my bag in the back of the Impala, so where is the closest weapon, maybe I could use that weirdass looking statue on the dresser, that looks like it weighs at least twenty pounds, and maybe you should stop being a sorry son of a bitch and sleep, instead of planning how to kill your girlfriend, because you’re not afraid to sleep, are you, because everything is fine and you have no nightmares, not anymore, because]

- so Dean has lied, in that awful Gas-N-Sip storeroom. Sue him. Because the truth is, if Cas should come back and not remember - if everything that makes Cas Cas should be blown to pieces - if Cas’ memories of Dean, their fucking deep bond, should simply disappear - that would suck. It would suck on an epic level. It would be, quite possibly, the last straw. Dean has lived one week with pod person Cas, and he can’t bear it. Cas is the only person who knows everything about him - everything, down to what the inside of his liver looks like and how much he’s resented Sam for choosing Ruby over him - and his faith in Dean, his trust in Dean, despite how messy and goddamn awful Dean actually is - lately, that’s the only thing that’s kept him going. So Dean stares at Jesse and thinks about Cas, about how awful the last week has been (I can love you no more) and realizes that no, he can’t do it. He doesn’t want Cas to be like that, just a douche in a suit. Someone who doesn’t like burgers and doesn’t care about Claire and isn’t amused by the idea of razors (“Why do people shave their jaws and not their eyebrows? How was that decided?”). It would break Dean’s heart, or what is left of it, to see Cas like that. And yet Dean has lied, because he always tries to do the right thing and that is what you say, isn’t it, when someone wants to let go? You tell them to hold on, because life is always the better choice.

Dean passes a hand through his dirty and matted hair, then looks down at the threadbare carpet, looks for any proof that Cas was there, just a few minutes ago, but, of course, there is none. He might as well have imagined the whole thing.

I know I’m dying, Dean.

But the pain, he’s used to. What makes him want to yell and burn the whole house to the ground is that other thing - the fucking guilt - he’s been feeling guilty since he was four, he used to feel guilty every time Sammy cried, because it was, inevitably, Dean’s fault, something he’d forgotten to do - change him, feed him, burp him - and then, as time went by, Dean had started to feel guilty about everything and anything - about his father’s pain, about Sam’s anger, about the people they couldn’t save, about Cassie, about Lisa, about unemployment and the Middle East and freaking hurricanes. It’s always been, everything, his fault. And this, right here, this is his fault as well - his unwillingness to grieve for Cas, to let him go, and, on the other hand, his panic at the idea that maybe he won’t like whatever Cas will come back as (if Cas comes back, that is). His fleeting thought that maybe, just maybe, it would be better if Cas died, so Dean could finally stay dead, proper dead, not this bullshit he’s going through; he could close his eyes and finally rest and not have to worry about things anymore.

He’s sort of praying for something, and that something may just be the death of his - his best friend.

He’s the worst person in the world. He must be.

That’s not true, Cas had said, when Dean had told him he wasn’t a role model, and he’d looked so - Dean had been been so close to kissing him, and then he’d marveled and scoffed at the insane impulse, because this was Cas, and he probably had no idea about such things (not now he was an angel again, anyway).

And also, also Dean has never been in a functional relationship. He doesn’t know how to be with people for more than a few weeks, or few months, and how would that look to someone who’s actually immortal? How can he even get it right - how can he - because he can't, he’d fuck it up, and then what?

Almost unwillingly, Dean remembers how right it’d felt to cradle Cas in his arms, remembers his own unbridled joy at seeing Cas losing control, finds himself hoping that maybe, after all - and then the door crashes open, and Claire tumbles inside.

“You need to come downstairs,” she says, a bit breathless. “There’s something very wrong with Sam.”

When will this day ever end, thinks Dean, but there’s no real resentment left inside him. He’s utterly and completely drained. With a curt nod, he gets up and follows Claire out of the room. He doesn’t look back. He can’t.

(There’s no one there. Not anymore.)

So Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the back of Claire’s head instead. He tries to wake up from this nightmare, to become aware of what’s going on around him - those are Jesse’s sneakers making the stairs creak, just behind him, and Donna’s voice, still too far away to hear the actual words, and that -

Dean curses and pushes Claire out of the way, because that was Sammy screaming.

When he gets to the living room, he finds that everything has descended into chaos. Sam is in the middle of it all, towering over everyone like a goddamn giant and screaming bloody murder. Donna is trying to calm him down, and Jody has Hunter in her arms and is having no success whatsoever in coaxing the other children back to bed. The eldest, a little girl with a messy braid, looks back at Dean as he runs downstairs, and she disappears down the corridor with a frightened squeak. Dean doesn’t even see her. He crashes inside the room, heads straight for his little brother -

“Sammy? Sammy, what’s wrong?”

Sam seems to hear him and turns around, reaches out - Dean grabs his arm and squeezes.

“Dean? I’m not -” stammers Sam, and then doubles over in pain.

“That Crowley fellow went in about ten minutes ago,” says Donna, and Dean takes another look around the room and sees Crowley - his meatsuit - propped up in the comfiest chair. It’s looking up at the ceiling, its eyes vacant, because, of course, that’s a dead body. Dean has seen this before, but it will never not freak him out.

“Great,” he mutters, and then Sam screams again, and this time when he comes back to himself he’s different, there’s something about him -

“Dean,” he says, and Dean knows, before even hearing the rest of the sentence, before even hearing the British vowels which come next, that this is actually Crowley.

“Sam is not alone,” Crowley says with Sam’s voice, and Dean feels his skin tingle in horror, because What the hell?

“What do you mean, not alone?”

“Shut up, Moose,” adds Sam, still looking straight at Dean. “Let the mommy and daddy -”

But the rest of the sentence is drowned by another scream.

“Get him out. Get him out,” Sam yells.

“Sammy, calm down. We’re trying to help you, just -”

Sam grips Dean’s arm so tight it hurts.

“I - tried - to - kill - him - Dean,” he says, through gritted teeth, and then his eyes roll back again.

“What?” says Dean, tightening his grip on Sam’s shirt. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Sam shudders, blinks, and then just stares at him, gritting his teeth and breathing hard.

“We should have done it,” he starts, and winces, “a long time ago.”

“Sam -”

“I had it all worked it out, but -”

Sam gasps and falls forward in Dean’s arms.

“Whoa. Easy.”

“He told me, Dean. He told me -” Sam whispers in Dean’s ear, and then he curses (and whatever it is, that’s not English), pushes himself upright again.

Dean watches him fearfully for a moment - of all the fucked up situations - how does Sam manage to always end up in these messes -

“He told you what?”

For a second, everything is quiet. Then Sam opens his eyes again and blinks.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself about,” says Crowley, and then he stretches with a hiss of satisfaction. “God, is he well-built,” he adds, almost to himself.

“Where’s my brother?” growls Dean, taking a step closer. “What did he mean by that?”

Crowley looks at him, and it’s completely unsettling - how clear it is that this is actually Crowley, even if it’s Sam’s face and Sam’s eyes and even Sam’s way to hold himself, because Crowley has been doing this for a long time, and he’s just that good.

“Sammy is perfectly fine. And we could discuss his many theories on the when and how of my demise, or we could try and fix him instead. Your choice.”

Dean clenches his hands into a fist, then lets his fingers open again.

“Fine. Go on”

“His - temporary - insanity seems to be caused by overcrowding. There are three souls in here.”

“Son of a bitch. So he found Benny?” marvels Dean, grasping Sam’s arm and staring at the ugly red cut etched on it.

“Benny?”

“Benny Lafitte. He’s a vampire, he's -”

“I know who Benny Lafitte is. The object of your short-lived mid-life crisis.”

“What?”

“For a moment there, I was actually worried for you, Squirrel. Thought you’d open a catfish restaurant with the guy and we’d never hear from you again.”

Dean stares up at Sam - Crowley - whatever, and he tries (and fails) to come up with something clever to say.

“How do you - never mind, just -”

“And there are no vampires inside your brother. The souls are both human.”

“What do you mean, both human?” repeats Dean, and Crowley actually rolls his eyes.

“Am I being unclear?” he says, stretching his arms out and including the others in the conversation. His eyes skim over Claire (her right hand clenched around a holy water grenade) and Donna (looking at Dean) before settling on Jesse. “You seem like a reasonable young man,” he adds. “What do you think?”

“I think that if you hurt Sam in any way and I’ll force you out of him and burn you,” says Jesse, his eyes glowing bright red for a second, and Crowley smiles.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Just say the word, shedu.”

“Enough with the dick-measuring contest,” growls Dean. “I want to know -”

“I actually meant that,” says Crowley, and he sounds almost offended, as if he went around saying the truth all the time. “I’d like to see him try. Well, not the burning part, the forcing out part. I actually can’t get out.”

“What?”

Crowley rolls his eyes again, but now Dean is looking at him more closely, and sees that beneath the act, beneath his usual snarkiness and affected boredom, there is a hint of - it’s not fear, exactly, but annoyance, perhaps.

“Great,” he says, and steps between Jesse and Crowley before Jesse can intervene. “Let me make it clear for you. I want to know who the hell these people are inside him. I want to know when and how Sam tried to kill you. And I want to know why you’re stuck in there - no, scratch that - I want to know how the fuck we get you out.”

“I love it when you get all bossy,” says Crowley, and, really, it’s repulsive to see Sam look at him that way - because no matter how many times Dean has tried to yank Sam’s chain, to make his brother uncomfortable, Sam has never flirted back, has never flirted with anyone, period, so this side smile on his face is making Dean really, really angry.

“Answer me or I’ll get a lot more than bossy,” he snaps.

“You’ll beat up your brother’s body? I don’t think so.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Let’s cut the crap, Dean. You don’t have any cards, here. As usual. So you don’t tell me what you want - I tell you what I want. And right now, what I want is to get out, so at least we agree on something.”

Son of a bitch.

“And in order to do that, I need the Demon Tablet.”

“Oh, fuck me. Really? Really. That’s convenient.”

“Why? You haven’t lost it, have you? Not such an important artefact, surely?”

Right. As if he doesn’t know. As if there’s anything he doesn’t fucking know.

“That’s too bad, because I’m stuck in here until you find the right ritual to get me out. Which is on the Tablet. Which means - stop that,” he says, and he’s clearly not talking to Dean, “I said I’d tell him, so I’m telling him. Your brother wants you to know he’s very sorry for being such an arse - ouch - stop it - my goodness, you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Dean hisses in annoyance, and Crowley seems to focus back on him.

“Sorry,” he says, with a small smile. “Anyway, Sam wants you to know Benny is here, and someone called Madison. That mean anything to you?”

“Benny? But I thought you just said -”

“I meant what I said. There are no vampires in here. There is a man called Benny Lafitte, and a woman called Madison - what is it, sweetheart? - Madison Darcy. Lovely.”

“Madison - wait, what? Madison? Werewolf Madison?”

Crowley cocks his head to one side.

“A werewolf? Interesting. Well, maybe -”

He stops speaking, winces in pain, and then starts speaking again, in a fast, uncontrolled way, words just pushing each other out of the way in their haste to get out.

“Dean, don’t listen to him - I don’t know what happened between the two of you when you were possessed by the Mark, but Dean - he’s a demon - you can’t trust him - you can’t get him the Demon Tablet -”

“Doesn’t seem like we have a lot of options, Sammy.”

“He’s a demon! He’s the King of Hell, in fact, and -”

“So when did you try to kill him, exactly? And how?”

Sam shakes his head, as if to clear it.

“Does it matter? Dean, he’s a demon.”

“Yes, thank you, I heard you the first ten times. Now put him back on the line.”

For one glorious second, Sam is completely Sam again - here is the bitchface to end all bitchfaces, and if he weren’t so tired and sad and empty Dean would clap at the sheer perfection of it -

“I am not a bloody phone, you can’t - ouch - stop it - hello, Squirrel.”

“Don’t squirrel me. We’ll try it your way, but this is temporary, so. Behave, alright?”

“When do I ever not behave? I am the politestest person you know.”

“Right. Well, you hurt him, I kill you. Just so that it’s clear.”

Crowley smiles at him again, looks almost fond.

“I think you mean, you’ll try,” he says, and Dean punches him.

.:.

Crowley is not having a good day. In fact, he might go as far as to say he’s slightly peeved, and he hasn’t been peeved since Lucifer’s followers have eaten his tailor - a man Crowley had gone and found personally in Naples. Completely over the line, that had been.

But still, it doesn’t compare to this, ponders Crowley, opening his eyes and feeling the tender spot on his temple. Stuck inside Sam Winchester, knocked unconscious by Dean Winchester, his cheek grazing the inexpensive fabric (60% cotton, 40% polyester) of a chunky couch. Lucifer roaming around. The end of the world.

Also, there is a roomful of children looking back at him. They seem to be between three and seven years of age, and they stink. There is this smell coming from them - hope and innocence and a readiness for love - that is positively horrifying.

On the other hand, good to know his demon nose still works, even if now is twenty inches higher from the ground.

“Bug off,” he says, distractedly, as he tries to figure out what to do next, to take control over that fucking oaf currently sharing a body with him, and it’s humiliating how difficult it is to impose himself (Crowley has to be very firm, use some very choice words and wide selection of his powers). But, then again, Sam Winchester is not simply a vessel, he’s The Vessel, and he’s currently overcrowded, so things are bound to be - as Crowley shifts around, he realizes there is an actual blanket on top of him, a quilted thing.

Not that it reaches past his knees, because bloody sasquatch, but it was a nice gesture all the same.

“Are you sick?” asks a little girl, and Crowley sighs and sits up.

He finds he has to push his overlong hair back and he sighs again.

“No. Are you?”

“No, silly. Why are you asking?”

“Well, why are you asking me?”

A moment of guilty silence.

“We tried tickling you and you didn’t wake up,” says another child, who might or might not be a boy. His hair is longer than Sam’s. “If we tickled her, Mommy always woke up, except when she was sick.”

“Good to know. You lot wouldn’t happen to know where everyone is? You know, the adult-sized people?”

The boy giggles.

“They’re still sleeping.”

“Not for long.”

“No,” the little girl agrees. “It’s time for breakfast now. Can you cook pancakes?” she adds, a bit hopeful.

People’s understanding of demons if often a bit hazed; among other things, people seem to assume that there is no line a demon wouldn’t cross, no personal limits of any kind. Which is wrong, because this, right here, is a hard limit - Crowley is not about to stumble around in a borrowed body to feed pancakes to a pack of brats he doesn’t even know.

“No,” he says curtly.

He tries to stand up, and Jesus Christ, is Sam tall.

“Can you sing?” asks a second girl, an even smaller one.

Now he’s standing up, Crowley has the feeling he’s seeing her from the wrong end of a telescope.

“No.”

“Can you dance?”

“I don’t like to.”

“Well, what can you do?”

Crowley’s real body is not in the chair any longer, which means Dean has stashed it somewhere and will probably burn it if Crowley does Bad Things; and it seems safe to assume that jeopardizing a kid’s mental health by explaining to her how to open a person’s skull would be a Bad Thing.

Bollocks.

“I can juggle,” Crowley says, reluctantly, and, before he can think better of it, there are two apples in his hand.

He looks down at them, all shiny and red, thinks for a second about a certain Snake who’s sitting out there, coming ever closer, no doubt, a Snake who will want Sam to eat those apples, and then what the fuck will Crowley do, trapped inside Lucifer’s vessel with Lucifer himself? He won’t live long enough to say Apologies, kind sir, that’s for sure. Damn, he needs to get out before the bastard catches up with them all. He closes his fingers around one apple, wanting very much to squeeze it until it falls apart in his hand. He lets his fingers relax instead.

“Who do you take me for? I will need at least two more,” he says, moving cautiously to the centre of the room.

The little girl gives him another two apples, and Crowley actually forgets, for one blessed moment, who he is and where he is, because, wow, this is just way easier when you have hands built like crash cymbals, and a pure joy to -

But after a particularly deft catch which elicits a high-pitched scream of joy, he looks down and sees Jody is standing on the threshold, wearing what looks suspiciously like a child’s pyjama - a soft, pink thing with hopping bunnies all over it. She is staring at him with a half frown on her face, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

Crowley drops his apples and the kids hoot with laughter.

Jody smiles.

“Do you want coffee?” she asks, and Crowley has to push his bloody hair back again.

“I’m not Sam,” he says.

“I know. Sam doesn’t -”

Jody stops, shakes her head.

“Do you want coffee or not?”

“I want to talk to Dean,” says Crowley, taking a couple of steps towards her. And it must be because of Sam’s gigantic paws that he miscalculates the distance and ends up way closer to her than he meant to.

“Third bedroom on the right,” she says, not moving away.

She smells nice. Oranges and courage and guilt. Delicious.

“I’ll go wake him up. Sam seems to think Lucifer will come out of Purgatory very soon. Not that I trust his judgement, but, all the same, it seems unwise to -”

“Go. I’ll get breakfast started.”

“Right.”

Good lord, is he blushing? What is the matter with him? It's never so awkward normally. Possessing a body is second nature for Crowley. No, there must be something wrong about bloody Moose - mommy issues, for sure - and he probably hasn’t gotten laid in ages - Need me to explain about the birds and the bees, Sammy? Crowley thinks, back at Sam, and the answer he gets doesn’t deserve consideration.

Blessedly, when Crowley stops in front of what he thinks is the right door, he’s feeling almost normal again. He’s about to walk in when he hears voices from inside and he freezes, his freakishly gigantic hand only a few inches from the door handle.

“It sucks,” someone says, and Crowley recognizes Dean’s voice.

It’s more than that, actually, more than his voice, because in this body, everything is more and everything is less. There are severe limitations to what Crowley could do (those wings Jody liked so much will have to stay where they are, for instance), but Sam’s demon blood (not to mention the three human souls stashed inside Sam’s body) is giving him a heady, empowering feeling, like the first sip of very strong alcohol. And, well, the combination of his own supernatural hearing and Sam’s affection and love for his brother makes the door between Crowley and Dean literally non-existent. In two syllables, Crowley can practically see Dean - can remember, if a bit fuzzily, every single time Dean has uttered these words, because this information is stored in Sam’s brain, and even if Sam himself has only partial access to it, being the King of Hell has its perks. He can also perceive Dean’s mouth moving over the words, can see Dean’s lips and the muscles beneath it and the blood flowing through them and the tiny cells dancing together to create this simple, gloomy statement.

It is mostly beautiful, to see how humans work, and it also leaves Crowley feeling bittersweet - it’s been a long time since he’s been human himself, after all, and this being Dean makes it all more complicated, simply because Dean.

He’s about to get inside the room when he hears a second voice.

“Everything does.”

Crowley hesitates for a split second before realizing that this - this is fucking Gabriel. The mighty archangel. Only, not quite. That’s his voice, of course (or, rather: his vessel’s voice) but the thunder and maliciousness and pure, cold threat Crowley can hear in angelic voices - that wave of Noli me tangere which is enough to make him recoil with envy and hatred - is not there.

Now, this is quite something.

“It didn’t before,” mutters Dean, and, again, the image is clear despite the door separating them - Dean is sitting down on the floor, his back against the edge of a single bed - he’s uncomfortable and unhappy, but unwilling to move. Crowley sees/hears the movement of glass against his fingers (right hand) and wrinkles his nose as the smell of cheap beer reaches him.

Gabriel laughs. It’s almost a physical punch, how ordinary he sounds. What the hell did they do to him? Crowley tries to think of a time anyone defeated an archangel, and comes up blank.

“Please. An orphan by age four -”

“I had my dad.”

“An orphan by age four,” insists Gabriel, and Crowley realizes, by how the angel is slurring his words, that he’s way drunker than Dean; way drunker, perhaps, than any human has ever managed to get. “Everyone you loved died. Also everyone you know.”

Gabriel sounds like he wants to add something to the list, but doesn’t remember what. He makes a noise instead, a sort of So, there snort.

“Yeah,” says Dean, and Crowley is listening so attentively that he can actually hear Dean’s sentence before Dean puts it into words. “But I could still die. I’ve always known that - that I would die. Young.”

“You’re not young anymore.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re losing your hair,” adds Gabriel, and there is a brief, uncoordinated scuffle - Crowley knows, without needing to see it, that Gabriel attempted to pull Dean’s hair, found he couldn’t sit up properly and fell back on the back.

"Can you bring me back to life? Not as you are now, I mean, but as - can you?"

"No."

"Well, can you kill me off then?"

“Why would you want that?”

“What Cas -” starts Dean, and then stops, because apparently, even now, alone at the end of the world with a human and completely rat-arsed archangel, this is a place where the stupid sod can’t go. “He said he would still be around when everyone else was dead. And that is fucking scary. Not him, you know, just - watching everything, watching - Sam grow old - I don’t -”

“You won’t,” says Gabriel after a moment of silence. “You’re not -”

He seems to struggle for a word, and Crowley rolls his eyes. What is it with angels and alcohol?

“I am dead. I want to stay dead. I want to be deader.”

“Bullshit,” says Gabriel, echoing Crowley’s feelings.

“No, really. Good - good riddance. I’m tired. I want - I want out.”

Crowley bows his head, tries to stop the huge wave of emotion - not his, he reminds himself, gritting his teeth - not his: Sam’s - he feels nothing for Dean, just like Dean feels nothing for him. They are not friends; never will be. Caring is not an advantage.

They all stay silent for a moment. Dean drinks, Gabriel stares up at the ceiling and presumably wills himself not to be sick, and Crowley hopes the idiot will say the one thing he’s supposed to say, about right bloody now -

“You know we can’t enter Heaven, don’t you?”

Crowley exhales. Good job, shorty.

“We?”

“Angels.”

“Bullshit.”

“Human souls and angels - not a good mix. And there are other reasons - secret reasons,” Gabriel forces out, and now he sounds sleepy.

“So you can’t -”

“We can borrow individual heavens, if its human soul is elsewhere. We can’t psy - phsi - physically inhabit the same space. Don’t work.”

Crowley listens to Dean’s breathing, feels it speeding up, then slow down. He knows exactly what Dean is thinking, because, of course, he knows everything about it. It defies imagination than anybody - even someone as clueless as Moose - could not know about this. Crowley had squinted at the whole thing for a while, but had been sure, absolutely sure, as soon as he’d landed in that appalling suburban garden, had seen the way Castiel was looking at Dean, had seen how stubbornly dedicated, how ruthlessly efficient Dean was at gathering leaves. Everything in his posture had said, One day. Because Castiel had not returned to Dean - he’d forced himself to not care, to forget, even - not that it had worked, when does it ever - and Dean had been childishly sure they’d meet again in Heaven. Crowley hadn’t needed to ask. Humans were all the same. Pathetic little dreams, and the deluded hope for a happy ending.

And now, even that is gone. Crowley hears Gabriel fall asleep, hears his heart falling into a slower pattern, the electrical impulses coming from his brain aligning on a gentler, more passive music. He hears Dean closing his eyes.

yLet me OUT, roars Sam in the back of Crowley’s skull, and Crowley winces. He knows what Sam wants - he can’t see the outside world very well, but he still knows his big brother is sad - not that it’s such a stretch. Dean is always a fucking mess. But Crowley can’t let Sam take control. Too dangerous.

Also, this is a job he can do himself.

“Shut up,” he says, a bit distractedly, and then lowers his hand on the handle, steps inside the room.

“Sammy.”

The grin on Dean’s face would break Crowley’s heart - if he had a heart, that is.

Instead, he smiles back, forces his (now) freakishly long legs into a sitting position next to Dean.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he replies, imitating Sam’s careless vowels as closely as he can. “But you look like shit. You should sleep.”

He’s added a little something to that last sentence, a hint of demonic power. Dean blinks, sleepily, and nods.

“You’re staying?”

“I’m staying.”

Dean nods, and then, despite himself, shifts sideways, seeks out his brother’s familiar bulk, sighs in - content? regret? - before falling asleep.

“I’m staying,” says Crowley again, accepting Dean’s weight and thinking a myriad of dark and painful things.

In this new and shitty word, an archangel may stop being an archangel for no damn good reason at all, but he’s still always bloody right: everything sucks, and there's no happy ending.