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The car ride to the bunker is strange, though not as strange as one might expect with two humans, a (former) demon, and an angel in the car.
Sam and Dean are in the front, of course. Sam would rather kill than take the back, and he would really prefer not to kill considering how worn out he is from the trials and the blood loss. Cas and Crowley are in the back, which may be awkward considering their history. (It is awkward. Sam can feel it from the passenger seat, the unspoken words poisoning the air around them. He's glad he isn't between them.)
Not that it'd be much better if Sam were sitting with Crowley. There was some connection made, some understanding. He helped Crowley, after all, and Crowley made confessions he's probably never made to anyone else before. That counts for something, Sam thinks. Just—not enough to make up for the endless torment that Crowley would probably spend the entire ride nervously phrasing apologies for with his new emotions.
“Moose,” Crowley starts, evidently not so apologetic for tormenting Sam if he's so willing to start up again, “you look like you're about to fall over. Back has more room, if you're interested.”
Sam can't even argue—not for lack of wanting, but because before he gets the chance, he's suddenly sitting at Crowley's left, and Cas is in the front seat. Dick. Cas needs to learn to talk to people and stop disappearing when he's nervous, even if he is only disappearing to the passenger seat.
Sam relents, settling into the back, leaning against the door. The little army man makes a very inconvenient obstacle for resting his elbow on the door handle, but he wouldn't have it any other way. It's blissful silence for a while. Long enough that Sam starts dozing off.
Unfortunately, Crowley has other ideas.
“That can't be comfortable.”
Sam shifts, looks at Crowley with light-sensitive eyes and a slightly sore cheek from where his hand had been pressing the flesh against the bone. “Less comfortable than the front seat.”
“Well, that's because you're not using your space wisely. Have you considered not huddling up in the corner like a child in time-out?” Crowley tilts his head. “Do I really take up that much space?”
Sam gives him a look. “I'm fine over here.”
Crowley shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Somehow, Sam knows Crowley won't let him sleep yet. Just as he begins to doubt that more is coming, Crowley speaks again.
“You know, I really should thank you for making me human. Those trials must have done quite a number on you; I can't see any reason to do the last one anyway when you don't get the reward from it.”
“It was the right thing to do,” Sam says. There's a beat where he can practically hear Crowley's brain twisting his words into something they aren't. “And, y'know, it—knocked a pretty big piece off the chess board. One less King of Hell. Same thing the knife would've done, but I don't have to clean the blood out of my clothes.”
Crowley laughs once, clipped, not much humour in it. “Yes, well, I suppose all is worth it then.” A pause, though this time not so long as to catch Sam off-guard. “If you had still done it as a trial, if that couple's argument with Squirrel hadn't rendered the attempt null, it would have killed you, wouldn't it?” Sam looks out the window. He sees Crowley in the reflection, doing the same. “Would you really have given your life for mine?”
Sam doesn't answer. It doesn't really matter. Sam had full faith that the trials were over, that curing Crowley wouldn't count towards it, wouldn't kill him. In his mind, there was no other possibility. He would cure Crowley, they would both live. If it had killed him, then he would have died to close Hell, not for Crowley.
From Crowley's love-starved perspective, though, terrible person though he may be, it would be easy to misread.
Sam shrugs. “Close the gates of Hell and you're still out of the picture? If there’s anything worth giving my life to, I think it's that.”
From his peripheral, he can see Dean's hand clench on the steering wheel. He ignores it.
Crowley's expression falls slightly. His throat bobs in the window's reflection. “I suppose so, then.”
Sam feels guilty. It's not the first time, it's not even particularly bad. He still feels guilty.
“I saved you anyway, though,” he says, “and if there was any risk of it killing me—well, I took that anyway, too.”
Crowley turns to look at him, something like surprise in his eyes, though not paired with the amused glint from whenever Sam and Dean had stepped out of one of his traps into a second trap he hadn't expected to use. Sam turns to face him, too. For the first time, Crowley seems a little lost for words.
A moment passes, and Crowley seemingly can't find what it is he wants to say. Instead, he says, “How lucky for me, then,” and relaxes back into the seat, looking out the window again. Sam can see the barest hint of a smile. As they drive through a field, he can hear the faintest whisper of, “The Earth is far more beautiful than I remembered.”
Sam settles in for a sleepless ride when Crowley speaks again.
“There is plenty of space, you know. No tucking your elbows in away from little army men, no hunching your back to fit yourself in. Besides”—Before Sam realises it, Crowley's hands are guiding him to lie down across the backseat, his head in Crowley's lap—“I've been meaning to get my hands in this lovely hair for some time now.”
Horizontal, Sam struggles to keep his eyes open, struggles more to see a reason to. With Crowley's fingers brushing through his hair and massaging gently at his scalp, Sam quickly begins to doze off.
Before succumbing to sleep, he can hear the faint whisper of Crowley's voice again.
“The Earth is far more beautiful than I remembered.”