"Listen to me, Dean Winchester. What you're feeling right now, it's not death. It's life. A new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see.Feel what I feel. Let's go take a howl at that moon."

Dean's eyes snapped open, and they were as black as a starless night.

. . . . . .

"Sorry to cut this short, but your big little brother's about to throw a moose-sized tantrum in the room downstairs." Crowley rose from his chair, watching as Dean slowly pushed himself upright on the bed. The new demon blinked his oil-slick eyes, fixing the King with an emotionless glare. "Try not to destroy anything while I'm gone." Smirking, Crowley disappeared with a snap of his fingers.

"Crowley, you son of a bitch," Sam lit a match with shaking fingers, the alcohol-induced wooziness that had surrounded him since Dean's death making it hard to see straight, "if you've found some way to keep from coming, I'll hunt you down and…"

"Kill me?" Crowley stepped out of the shadows soundlessly, eyebrows raised. The King of Hell met the youngest Winchester's surprised gaze steadily. "Oh, please. That's the problem with you boys. Always so predictable."

"So you know what I want, then." Sam lowered the burning match, snuffing it between two fingers. There was an unusual mix of emotions in his eyes; pain, fear, and grief swirling like a dark hurricane.

"A deal." Crowley absently rubbed out one of the symbols on the floor with the toe of his shoe, spreading the fine yellow dust across the pavement. "Like I said, predictable." Pulling his shoulders back, he turned his whole body to face Sam. "But what if I told you that wasn't necessary?" His eyes scanned the younger man's face, carefully gauging his reaction. "That you could keep your soul and get Dean back?"

"Are you saying that's possible?" A new emotion joined the raging storm in Sam's gaze and he took a step toward the demon. Hope, Crowley identified the emotion with a glimmer of amusement. "Explain, Crowley!" Sam demanded. "Can you get him back alive, yes or no?"

"Well, not alive alive, but yes, 'alive' in the simplest sense of the word." Crowley put his hands in his pockets, tilting his head back slightly as he narrowed his eyes. A small smile played on his lips as he watched Sam's expression shift from hope to confusion, then to anger and fear. "What I'm trying to say is, you can't bring Dean back because he's not dead." Crowley paused to let his words sink in, enjoying the rush of power and satisfaction that ran through his veins at Sam's look of pure shock.

"No," Sam shook his head, hands clenching into fists by his sides, "I checked, there was no pulse. He stopped breathing. He's dead, Crowley. For real."

"Can't be sure until you're sure." Crowley's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch further. "And when I saw him last, his eyes were open. And there was life in them, Moose. New life. Trust me when I say your brother's only started living."

"Crowley…" Sam was cut off as Crowley lifted one hand, stepping back from the taller man as Sam made a grab for Crowley's shoulder. "What does that mean? Tell me!"

"Goodbye, Moose." Crowley's smile widened as he smoothed down the front of his jacket. "I'll take care of Squirrel for you. Promise." With a snap of his fingers, he was gone.

. . . . . .

It took Crowley less than thirty seconds to locate John Winchester's journal. It was tucked into one of Dean's denim jackets, which he found lying in an unsightly heap on the research table in the library. Tossing the jacket aside, Crowley spread out the old leather book, carefully peeling back each ink-scrawled page until he found the passage he'd noticed on the day he and Dean had gone looking for the First Blade.

… angels who are fallen are cast into the abyss, where they are twisted until they no longer resemble themselves. They are called devils, and are led by the most powerful demon ever to walk the earth. Although most demons are created from human souls, they can be created from grace as well. If demonic influence is infused into the blood of a fallen angel, their very essence will be changed until they become immortal creatures of darkness, bound forever to the ruler of Hell…

Crowley smiled to himself as he read the last line, closing the book with a dull thud. So it's true, then. Pushing it aside, he summoned the half-empty bottle of liquor across the table with a flick of his hand, pouring the heavily scented golden liquid into a short, ice-filled cup. Lifting the drink to his lips, he allowed himself to revel in this moment of victory.

Angels who are fallen, bound forever to the ruler of Hell.

Conveniently enough, he had his very own fallen angel on speed-dial. And on top of that, he knew the creature's one weakness.

"Ironic," Crowley swallowed the last mouthful of liquor, setting down the cup with a faint clunk, "that the Righteous Man should drag his own savoir back into the pit." Shaking his head slightly, he tore a small piece from the old journal, seizing a nearby pen and beginning to write.

Dean,

We need to talk. You'll know how to find me.

Sincerely,

Your King