N.B.: The whole Demon Dean/Crowley thing was a great premise that was never explored. So I'm exploring it.
1 – I've Seen Footage
Crowley lifted up his glass of whiskey before the bartender's head rolled across the table, leaving a snail trail of blood. "See if I leave a good review on Yelp," he said, before sipping the alcohol. It wasn't that good. But then again, when you were the King of Hell, you got used to the best. And there was no way he was going to find anything close to the best in Bumfuck, Wyoming.
The traitorous demons who backed Abbadon surrounded his table, some actually snarling like rabid dogs, all holding weapons of some stripe, mainly bladed. He wanted to know where some of them got their hands on angel blades. Crowley knew there was a black market in such items, mainly because he ran that market, although he tried to hoard the angel weapons. Much too dangerous to end up in the hands of lowly stunt demons. Someone was undercutting him. Naughty naughty. Crowley raised an eyebrow at the one he assumed to be the leader, a demon named Stan who was currently inhabiting the body of a buxom bar waitress with the name Stephen tattooed on her arm. "Are you trying to get my attention?"
Stan slammed a fist on his table. "Abbadon was the true rightful leader of Hell! You're just a crossroads demon with delusions of grandeur!"
Crowley nodded, as if that was a new observation, and not something he'd heard a hundred times from the mouths of bitter losers just like him. "You know, if you follow your logic, then Hell could be ruled by any old idiot. Do you really think the kingdom is so fragile that any janitor with ambition could rule it?"
Stan leaned forward, sneering. "That's exactly what happened."
Crowley simply took another sip of his mediocre whiskey before putting the glass back on the table. It slid a bit in the blood. "You picked the wrong side, Stan. If you'd thrown yourself on my mercy, perhaps I'd have forgiven you. But no, you just had to be a gigantic bag of dicks, didn't you? No one likes a sore loser."
Stan brandished his stolen angel blade, as if Crowley was supposed to be afraid of it. Everyone human in this place who wasn't possessed was currently dead, but since this was a run down biker bar, that was five or six people, tops. People no one would probably miss. The eight possessed people around him probably wouldn't be missed either. The good thing about slumming in pits like this was even massacres didn't get much notice. "It's your turn to beg, Crowley. Beg for your miserable life."
He raised a single eyebrow. "I don't beg."
"We'll make you."
"Will you now?"
As if on cue, the door swung open, and the demon supposedly guarding the door died with an aborted shout. The demons around the table turned, blades raised, only to watch another of their rear guard die.
"Dean Winchester?" Stan exclaimed, baffled. "You're dead."
Dean sighed, the First Blade held in his right fist. Blood was already dripping off the edge. "Yeah. Been there, done that, got really bored." A demon lunged at him, and barely moving at all, Dean stabbed him straight through the face before taking a single step back, letting the demon's body hit the dusty floor before him. Dean grinned then, showing all his teeth, and his eyes turned black. "Next."
Panic had a smell, especially with demons. It was a bit like spoiled wine, something that had sat too long and was turning to vinegar. Crowley could smell it now, even as a majority of the demons decided their best strategy was simply to attack Dean as one and overwhelm him with numbers. A nice thought, and really the only trick they could use, but Crowley hardly needed to watch this to know exactly how it would end.
Mark of Cain, demon corrupted Dean – or Deanmon, as Crowley liked to think of him (and Dean hated, which simply encouraged him) – actually made Crowley appreciate him more. This conscienceless version moved with economical grace and brutality, making every vicious killing almost a dance. Being raised by a paranoid father and spending all his life as a hunter had made Dean a formidable weapon, even before the Mark took him over. The Mark removed the things holding Dean back, the little emotional safety rails that made him hesitate, occasionally deploy compassion, fear himself. Deanmon was a pure heat seeking missile of destruction, and Crowley could now see how the Winchesters had managed to survive all these years, in spite of a bumbling air of stupidity and co-dependence. John Winchester honed his oldest son into a weapon, but only now could you see the perfect purity of it. Crowley actually had some respect for Dean. He was more than a surprisingly pretty face.
Dean cut through the demons like they were nothing, gnats not even worth the waste of his time. Stan noticed how fast the tide was shifting against him, and did the only thing he probably thought he could do under the circumstances. He got behind Crowley and put the angel blade to his throat. "Stop, or I cut his fucking head off!" Stan shouted, trying to bluster his way through his fear.
But if Crowley could smell the panic, so could Dean. Hell, he was probably more of a bloodhound than Crowley was. Dean had taken to the demonic life with an ease that suggested he was born for much bigger and better things than a lowly human status could provide. Crowley had made a mental note to keep an eye on that, as Dean could easily forget his place and come for the throne one day. The biggest problem with that was he could claim it. Dean was an attack dog that needed to be kept on a short leash, because the minute that broke, Crowley knew he'd be in trouble. The downside of him being that perfect killing machine.
Dean gave Stan a disbelieving eye roll before looking down at Crowley. "Are you really expecting me to do everything?"
"You seem to enjoy it so." Dean needed these little bloodlettings, or the Mark could make him … well, crazy seemed harsh. Stabbity was probably the better word for it, but sadly it didn't exist. Bloodthirsty? But not in a vile vampire way. Crowley simply raised a finger and mentally pushed, and Stan went flying across the room, smashing into the grimy mirror over the bar before collapsing to the floor in a hail of broken glass. "Forgot I was the King of Hell, did you?" Crowley said, standing up and grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. "Did you think it was an honorary title, Stan?"
"Stan?" Dean repeated, snickering. "A demon named Stan?"
"Someone has to have the shitty names," he said, putting on his jacket. Crowley leaned over the bar, doing his best to not touch it, and held out his hand, calling the angel blade to him. Stan, now bleeding from a dozen different cuts, lunged for the blade, but it was already in Crowley's hand. "Where did you get this?"
"Fuck you!"
"No, my dear, fuck you." Crowley snapped his fingers, and the Stan inside the barmaid died in a brief flash of light, and the woman hit the floor. He had no idea if she was alive or dead, and didn't care either. He stowed the angel blade in his pocket. Crowley then looked at Dean, who hadn't yet stowed the First Blade, even though everybody he could kill was already dead. "You took your time. Had fun with that couple, did we?"
Dean shrugged, stowing the blade. "It was different. Still on the fence about it."
This back alley trip was Dean's idea of fun, although the Deanmon's idea of that was even more limited than soul having Dean. Still lots of killing, lots of fucking, not so much of the eating though. But he didn't actually need to do that now. He didn't really need to do anything but kill, but he still liked little human affectations like drinking and karaoke. "First threeway?"
Dean scoffed. "Hardly. Them being married kinda made it weird."
Crowley couldn't see how, but he didn't get human sexual hang ups at all. Then again, when you got to his age, there was little left to surprise or discomfort you in any way. Not only had you seen it and done it all at least three times, you had to make stuff up to keep it fun for you. "You could invite me next time," Crowley complained. Not that he was jealous, it was just this bar was so boring.
Dean grinned at him. "They thought you were too old."
He glared at Dean, mainly because he was enjoying that. Here Dean was his friend, and yet he seemed to revel in every insult lobbed his way.
Which made him a demon. So, yeah, Crowley could see the inherent conflict in this.
They didn't need to drive. Crowley could teleport them anywhere, and had – they spent a way too short a week in Singapore, where Dean had never been before – but this was one of those weird, lingering human traits the Deanmon still had. He liked to drive from time to time. Currently, Dean had a muscle car that Crowley didn't care enough to identify, and Crowley was playing along with it, because what was the harm? Going a hundred miles an hour on more or less empty roads seemed to make him happy, and it wasn't costing them a thing. Even if Dean lost control and crashed, they were demons. A bloody car accident wasn't taking them out. It probably wouldn't even mess up their hair.
Besides, it amused Crowley to think of Dean as his "driver". Of course, if Dean knew that was how he thought of him, he'd probably give up the car. So he didn't tell him.
There were a whole bunch of States that Crowley really didn't see the point of, and Wyoming was one of those states. He actually forgot it was a state until he was in it. It was like a less flat Kansas. It was lots of nothing, followed by stuff that was so fucking depressing you yearned for nothing again. It was ennui anthropomorphized into hills and tumbleweeds and plants, and all sorts of other fussy little things that no one in their right mind could care about. People had ranches around here, so you were occasionally treated to fences and piles of cow shit, and other things that made Crowley think that an apocalypse wouldn't have been the worst idea. And the people! He did a lot of deals out here, but that was only because there wasn't much else to do short of selling your soul.
Crowley was pretty sure he nodded off for a bit, as the landscape was so soporific it was hard not to succumb to it, but the oddest feeling woke him with a start. It was a taste of power so intense he could taste it, like burnt aluminum in the back of his throat. He found Dean had stopped the car, and was looking as confused as Crowley felt. "Are you feeling this?"
Crowley nodded, looking out the windshield. "It's old, dark power. A kind I haven't felt in … centuries." All that was up ahead was a town, rising out of the flat nothingness like a mirage of an even more depressing place. At first, he mistook a large shadow for a mountain, but no, it wasn't that far away.
The dark thing looked like a spire. A rustic spire of blackened wood. A structure made for burning about sixty feet tall. No, not just burning – human sacrifice. Crowley recognized it, although he hadn't seen anything like it since … when? Some time back in Scotland. Ages ago.
"Is it something I can kill?" Dean asked.
Crowley smirked. "It'd be fun to see, wouldn't it?"
And there was a little nagging sense in the back of Crowley's mind that maybe he shouldn't be messing with this. But the possibility of fucking some powerful shit up was just too delicious to pass up.
He was the King of Hell, goddamn it. And everything was going to bow to him, whether it was of this realm or not. Why be the King otherwise?