On 4-6-2016, "Hell's Angel" aired, with some new information about the canon for this arc. This story is AU, as I'm doing my own take on what I hope is a cool story. Some things may refer to or parallel what we've seen, while other elements are entirely my own.
The Devil And The Darkness
Prologue
No longer did he sleep with the Bowie beneath his pillow—that is, so long as he was in the bunker. On the road, oh yes; that would never change. And certainly he had weapons at the ready even in his spartan bedroom: a panoply of guns, even a crossbow, mounted upon the wall, but the Bowie? No. Set aside, with relief. He slept now with his head atop a pillow, a pillow atop a memory foam mattress, and no blade between the two.
Though his hand often did creep of its own to rest there, sandwiched between cotton, as if all those decades of habit prevented him from sleeping soundly if he didn't at the very least assume the position.
So when, as he lay belly-down with his face mashed into the pillow, the cell's ringtone woke him from a very sound sleep—that, too, a prodigious luxury found only within the walls of the bunker, all spell- and sigil-warded—he naturally flexed his fingers and closed his hand even though only tangentially awake, anticipating, desiring the sensation of smooth, satiny horn handle, only to discover his palm was empty, that the knife wasn't there beneath his pillow, beneath his head; and upon that realization came the wonder of recollection that it wasn't necessary. Not here.
Nor, here, did he launch instantly from sleep into complete physical preparedness for immediate action, into the thrumming alertness of adrenaline shooting through his system, sharpening all his senses. It wasn't fight or flight, with him. It was fight. Always.
Or had been, until two Winchester brothers finally came home to a place built for them and their kind, where rest for the unwicked was offered in abundance.
Here, he rested.
And so, weaponless but relaxed, if somewhat disgruntled by the disruption, he allowed himself a slow, normal awakening instead of one powered by the awareness of threat, a promise of danger. He rolled over onto his back, reached out flailing arm and fumbling fingers to clumsily snag the phone, to bring it close to one barely-cracked eye.
First, the time: 3:00 A.M.
Who the hell was calling him at three in the morning?
Then, the ID: 666.
It literally was hell.
He shot bolt upright in bed, all reflex, all fight, automatically grabbing for the knife that was not beneath his pillow even as he thumbed the connection open, pressed the phone against his ear; as he cursed himself for being naked of blade.
"Squirrel," chirped the voice, an accented admixture of smoke, and whiskey, and sulfur. "Four rings? Really? There was a day when Dean Winchester would have had the phone to his ear—and a knife in his hand?—before the first ring ended. Lost a step, have we? Or two?" The deliberate triple-click of a chastising tongue came clearly through the phone. "I suppose age does catch up even to Winchesters. Well—when they're not demons, that is."
Dean snapped on the bedside light with excess aggression, squinted against it as he fell back to one bent elbow. "Dammit, Crowley—"
"Oh, unbunch those knickers, Squirrel . . . or are you sleeping pantsless again, as you did in the bars on our little roadtrip?—uh-uh, no, don't disconnect, Dean; I can hear your intention clearly. I really have called for a reason, not just to chat about old times, and I promise you it's worth your while. That is, if you want to save the world. Which I assume you do. Because you always do. You really should print up business cards one of these days: The Winchester Brothers, Willing To Die Six Days a Week and Twice on Sundays, Since . . . " And a deliberate pause, as he affected thoughtfulness.
Dean ground his teeth. He wanted badly to disconnect, but Crowley was correct: he always called for a reason, and too often that reason truly was significant on a global scale. So he kept his mouth shut and glared fiercely into a shadowed sanctuary he'd treasured, that now was violated.
"What service start-date would be most appropriate, Dean?" the King of Hell continued. "When Azazel showed up in Little Sammy's nursery? When Jessica burned on the ceiling? When your father made his deal to keep you alive? Or when you followed in Daddy's footsteps and made a crossroads deal to save your little brother? My word, but what you boys have been through! Well, here's another opportunity to add to the legend. A chance to put on your big boy pants once again and save humanity. Go roust Moose out of his bed and meet me to discuss it."
Dean scrubbed a stiff-fingered hand through his hair, wished he could banish the entire conversation from his brain. "Meet you where?"
Crowley's laugh was brief and breathy, merely a faint gust of amusement. "Well, I could come to you there, in your very bedroom, because I've been there, haven't I? But to show my good faith, I'll place myself utterly at your disposal in that horrendously inhospitable room in which I've guested before. The one with the iron devil's trap embedded in the floor. And no, I need no invitation; I know the way."
"You can't—" But Dean broke it off, because even as he spoke the thought occurred that Crowley had been in the dungeon, and he had been in Dean's bedroom, and he was far more than merely a garden-variety demon. And if he could somehow just waltz in past the wards, the ramifications were serious.
Not here. Not here, where there was safety; to where Dean had trusted his life, and Sam's, for the first time since Bobby's place burned.
"Indeed," Crowley agreed, as if following Dean's train of thought. "Actually, I am already here. When Sam summoned me to resurrect you after your heroic but foolhardy dance with Metatron—and being a little distracted at the time; the grieving, you know—he left the doorway open. You should have words with the boy, remind him to lock the barn door before the big bad comes back. Now. Shoo. Go wake him, meet me for a cuppa. You want Amara, don't you?"
Dean squeezed his eyes closed so hard they ached. Frustration and anger, always so near the surface when the King of Hell was involved—and, to be painfully honest, a trace of guilt—deepened the sleep-roughened harshness of his tone. "Crowley, so help me—"
The demon broke in. "'So help me, God?' Is that what you were going to say? That is amusing, Dean. And deliciously apropos. You see, I've found another one."
"Another one what?"
"Hand."
Dean's brows shot up. "Of God?"
Crowley's tone was dry. "And if we keep going on this way, we may just discover the Christian God is a little more like India's Kali, with her multiple appendages. Meanwhile, as one of your more colorful American sayings has it: you're 'burning daylight.' Grab Moose, Dean, there's a good boy, and let's go save your heaven and my hell."
Dean dropped the cell, threw himself out of bed, grabbed a weapon, ran down the hall barely-clad, and barefoot.
Memory conjured it, unbidden, unwanted; and the body, too, remembered, which in turn kindled the heat, the lick of shame: a demon in the bunker.
And not one named Crowley.
But this time, as he shouted his brother's name, he bore in his hand an angel blade instead of a hammer.
~ tbc ~
