He might have useful information. That's the only reason Dean's standing in front of a burning bowl of herbs, reciting a summoning spell to call forth the King of Hell.
There's certainly no other reason he cares to see Crowley again, even if they were at one point something resembling friends… even if Crowley looked up to him and craved his attention in a way that Sammy hasn't for years… even if it's been months since he's seen the little bastard and okay, yeah, Dean's kinda looking forward to this in a way that Sam probably wouldn't approve of.
Sam also wouldn't approve of the fact that for the first time in – well, ever – Dean hasn't bothered with a devil's that Crowley would be stupid enough to show up in the middle of one, anyway, at this point, but – it's the principle of the thing.
And Dean's principles aren't feeling all that strong at the moment.
A few quick questions, and done, Dean tells himself as he finishes the spell and waits.
Not gonna go down that road again… not gonna go through that door…
Just gonna… peek inside, maybe. That's all.
A moment passes, and suddenly Crowley's before him – but with none of the smirking sarcasm Dean's braced himself for. In fact, Crowley stumbles as he appears, lurching forward and collapsing onto one hand and one knee, coughing and choking. His other hand is clutching at his throat and his eyes are wide with panic.
Immediately Dean finds himself rushing forward to crouch at Crowley's side, his steadying hand familiar as it comes to rest on the demon's shoulder.
"What happened?" he demands. "What's wrong with you?"
Crowley can only sputter and gasp for breath for a few moments longer, before he takes an ornate silver flask from his pocket and holds it out to Dean with a trembling hand, still unable to speak. Dean takes it and opens it, sniffing at it and then eying it suspiciously when he smells nothing more unusual than Crowley's particular brand of alcohol. He pours a little out into his palm, and a bit splashes over onto the floor. Crowley flinches away from it, though it doesn't come close to touching him – and suddenly, Dean understands.
"Holy water? In your Craig?"
Crowley nods, a disgusted grimace on his lips.
A few years ago Dean would have laughed; but now he feels a rather confusing rush of protective anger, as he mutters, "What kind of crazy-ass demon would do something like that?"
Crowley just glares up at him through eyes that water with breathless pain. "Your fault!" he chokes out at last.
"My fault?" Dean echoes, indignant. "How the hell is it my…?"
His words trail away, swallowed up in memory as an image flashes through his mind – Crowley, awkwardly picking himself up off the floor while a couple of lower level loser demons don't even bother to hide their smirking and laughter.
"Oh. Oh, yeah."
Crowley jerks away from Dean's hand on his shoulder, resentment etched into the drawn features of his face. Dean stands up straighter, raising an eyebrow – and he sees what he saw in that remembered moment – just the briefest flash of fear across Crowley's face before he manages to mask it. Even so, as Dean steps closer to him, Crowley staggers backward, flinching almost imperceptibly when his back hits the wall.
Dean studies him, a pensive frown on his lips as he reaches out a hand toward Crowley's face, the other hand reaching into his jacket. Crowley's still weak and in pain, but he tries to swat Dean's hand away anyway, his breath catching in his throat.
"Shh, easy," Dean murmurs, low and soothing, as he takes out a half-full plastic bottle and holds it up for Crowley to see. "It's just plain water. Not gonna hurt you…"
Crowley tenses when Dean's free hand touches his face again, tilting his head back and pressing a thumb against his cheek until his lips part, and Dean can pour the water past them. Crowley coughs and sputters again, but there's no hiss of steam, no searing agony as he doubles over and spits the water out onto the floor.
"More?" Dean offers, holding out the bottle.
Crowley snatches it from his hand, pouring more into his mouth and rinsing until the last traces of the holy water are gone. As he completes the process, he slowly seems to become aware of Dean's hand, gently steadying, low against his back.
"You good?" Dean asks, voice low and intimate.
Crowley flashes him an irreverent grin. "Never," he retorts.
Dean does laugh then – and Crowley seems to remember himself, eyes narrowing as he straightens up and glares at Dean again, before turning on his heel and making as if to leave. Dean's smile instantly vanishes as he catches the demon king by the collar of his coat and slams him back against the wall, moving in too close to allow for escape.
Except that this is Crowley, and there's no devil's trap here, and he could escape any time he wanted. The fact that he doesn't is a tell that drives Dean forward, making him bold.
"Take your hands off me," Crowley seethes, though he does nothing to enforce the demand. "You did this, you know – you're the reason I'm now subject to their whispered gossip and petty pranks."
Dean is unfazed, doesn't back off in the slightest. Instead, he rests a hand at the back of Crowley's neck, thumb stroking slowly as he speaks, low and intent. "Whose?"
"If I knew that, exactly," Crowley sneers, "I'd be tearing their guts out through their ears instead of standing about here with you, wouldn't I? You've got better things to do? Well, so have I! Trying to shore up the kingdom and reputation you single-handedly all but destroyed, and you call me here for what? No apparent purpose that I can see, just to laugh at the disgraced king in all his…"
Crowley's rising ire is swallowed up in an indignant, muffled cry as Dean leans in, shutting him up with a forceful kiss. But he's only protesting for a moment before he surrenders, kissing back hungrily, reaching out to clutch at Dean's sides and draw him in closer. It's possessive and competitive, a touch of pain mixed in with the pleasure, and Dean can taste a trace of blood – his or Crowley's, he's not sure – when he pulls away, smiling a little at the way Crowley's faintly gasping, eyes closed.
"I hate you," he whispers at last, petulant and stubborn in his anger, not looking up at Dean.
"Get me their names," Dean counters, soft and certain. "No other demon'll try it once they see what I do to them."
Crowley is quiet for a moment before glaring up at Dean again, though it's less convincing this time. "I still hate you," he informs Dean with a touch of defiance.
Dean smiles, leans in for another, briefer kiss – gentle this time, thumb resting along Crowley's jawline and pushing his head back just a little. He pulls back, holding Crowley's gaze and speaking with quiet certainty.
"No, you don't."
Crowley doesn't argue, doesn't stop glaring, and the fact that he seems for once lost for words is not at all lost on Dean. An instant later, he's gone, and Dean's left with a faint tingling around his mouth and a strange ache in his gut, memories filling his mind that seem just a little sweeter in hindsight. It's too bad Crowley's gone now, and Dean's chance for exploring that is over – for now.
Next time, he just might use a devil's trap, after all.