Crowley's phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at the display, smiled broadly. He thumbed the answer button, held the phone to his ear, and strolled over to the window overlooking Central Park.

"Moose!" he sang out in his British accent. He twitched the drapes open wider with his other hand, settled in the window seat, looking out the window. "What, out already?! It hasn't even been a day! Tch. You should be ashamed of yourself, pet."

There was a long, fraught silence from the other end of the line. Then Sam Winchester spoke, his voice shaking with suppressed anger. "You son of a bitch. You god-damned fucking son of a bitch. I am going to kill you." He bit it out so each word was clear, distinct, hard. Crowley smirked.

"Now, now. If you do that, where will you get more? I am a unique individual, darling. There's no-one in the world with blood like mine, y'know."

There was another long pause, then Sam asked, pained, "Why?! Why'd you do it, Crowley? What possible gain could you get from this?!"

Crowley twitched a one-sided smile, leaned his head back against the frame of the window. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, eyelids drooping. "Oh, well. You know. Returning a favor for a favor, maybe?"

"What?!"

He swung his leg languidly. "Dear me, pet. Forgetting something, are you? Let me refresh your memory," he snarled. "Six months in your deadly dull dungeon? Me with an addiction to human blood? My kingdom in a shambles? Abbadon making inroads? All that unpleasant mess?"

Sam sucked in a breath. Crowley could imagine the eyebrows drawing together, Moose squinting his grey-green - or was it grey-blue? He could never tell. Whatever, they were very pretty... - eyes in shrewd suspicion. The next words fulfilled his expectations.

"Really. Funny how you didn't do anything about it sooner."

Crowley swung his leg again, smiled gently. "Yes, well. All good things come to those who wait, blah, blah, blah."

The response was swift. "No. Revenge? That's not it - or it's only part of it. Where's the profit, Crowley? What do you get out of it? Every single one of your schemes...there's always multiple reasons. You don't do anything without getting something in return. What's the game?"

"Tch, Moose. Can't I just wallow in the sheer pleasure of fucking with you?"

Sam growled. "I'm warning you, you slimy bastard. Whatever it is you're after, you won't get it. You will, however, get ganked. Trust me."

"Pet, I get all tingly when you talk rough to me," Crowley teased. "I don't doubt you'll try to - er - gank me. In the meantime, just give me a call when you run out, I'll be more than happy to oblige...ta-ta!" He hung up, and sat in the window quietly for a few more minutes, humming tunelessly. He was - dare he say it? - content. Lucifer was vessel-less. Dean Winchester was free of the Mark of Cain (which had been a dreadful mistake on his own part, alas. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.). Sam Winchester was dangling from his string, hooked on demon blood again - specifically, his blood. He was ready to take back Hell.

And he had his Dani-girl.

Which, if he was honest, both pleased him greatly, and unnerved him.

She was absolutely nothing like any of his previous flings; he expected she would laugh in his face if he showered her with jewels and clothing, and she might, if he asked very nicely, wear ultra high heels in the bedroom, but nowhere else. Petite, short hair, tiny breasts, more interested in research than killing and torture, just barely come into her demon powers, and flaunting a deep friendship with her meat-suit, which had absolutely scandalized Davis, the old prude. Nothing like his normal type.

The thing that unnerved him was how deeply she had sunk into his own psyche.

He really didn't like that.

Sam tossed the phone in his hand, over and over, staring into space with a deep frown.

He had been so damned happy, just a day ago. Released from Lucifer. Surrounded by family, friends. Thanksgiving had seemed so serendipitous, that it fell so soon after Dean, Cas, Charlie, Dani...even Crowley, damn him!...had helped him fight Lucifer, finally toss him out. And even though he found himself still stuck with his power and the other-sight, the blessing had been that he had returned without feeling a single twinge, no ache or yearning for demon blood. He had actually thanked his absent God, out in the darkness of the woods last night, tears in his eyes. He had thought he was spared that side effect of Lucifer possessing him.

And then...then he had found the one last gift from the party sitting on the dresser in "his" room in the temporary cabin. And he had opened it. And his happiness had come crashing down, shattered into pieces, because the need was back. The aching, burning, shameful need to drink the blood Crowley had so "generously" provided him. The need to feel the insanely crazy high it gave him, the explosion of power that made his head spin and his body feel like it was on fire, that gave him the feeling that he was one with the universe of energy that flickered and sparkled behind everything when he looked with the other-sight.

Crowley had set him up.

The thing was, he couldn't figure out why.

He was just so damned tired. Tired of things happening to him, to Dean, to Cas. Times like this - when yet another crisis hit - he just wanted to be normal, dammit. A boring, ordinary life; white picket fence, wife, two kids, mini-van, dog and all. Not always fighting monsters, coping with angel politics, wheeling and dealing with vermin like demons. He had just spent months locked in his own brain, oblivious, and then another month faced with the reality of being possessed by Lucifer and not in control of his own life.

He perched on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

It was all too much.

"Hey. Dude."

He jerked up, twisted around. Dean was leaning on the door jamb, a bowl of dry cereal in his hands. He scooped out a handful, popped it into his mouth. It crunched loudly as he chewed. "What's up? You're all mopey-like."

Sam waved a dismissing hand. "Eh, nothing. Just tired." He couldn't - couldn't! - suck Dean into this mess. Not again. Not when he could plainly see the weariness in Dean's hazel eyes, lines from the stress of the last few months. Dean had done so much for him. He couldn't let him down, yet again.

Dean stopped chewing for a moment, and his eyes flickered. His face was expressionless. "Yeah. Right. Okay." His voice was flat and even. He chewed, swallowed, pulled himself straight, started to turn away. Then his face softened. He let out a long sigh and turned back. "Sammy. It's okay to be...be..." He flailed his free hand wordlessly. "It's okay to feel freaked out, not quite with it. You've just been Lucy's little bitch for six months. You gotta sort things out. Just...don't pretend to be okay when you're not." He frowned at Sam. "Don't do that, okay? Don't...shut me out. I'm here. Okay?"

It was quite a speech for Dean. Sam sighed, closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. He opened them up again and smiled wryly at his brother. "Yeah." He drew in a deep breath, and repeated, more firmly, "Yeah. Okay." A bit. He'd lean on Dean just a bit. But he just couldn't talk about his powers, the renewed demon blood addiction, not to Dean, of all people. He'd understand weariness, some kind of PTSD thing from the possession. But any mention of his "psychic shit", and Dean would freeze up. It made him wary, suspicious. People with "psychic shit" were just too close to monsters for Dean's comfort.

"And, Dean...thanks." He knew tears were welling up in his eyes, but he couldn't stop it. Dean just shook his head, rolled his eyes, and said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Enough of this shit, dude. Come get some breakfast."

Dani was snuggled on her sofa, wrapped in a fluffy blanket, reading the latest issue of Journal des Pratiques Occultes, when he appeared. She heard the air moving away, glanced over, and smiled.

"Hey," she said.

Crowley didn't respond, just looked at her with folded lips and arms. He started tapping his foot; if she didn't know him, she'd say he was nervous. But that was just silly.

~~okay, what's going on?~~

I haven't the vaguest idea, Innie-Me.

She was about to ask him the same thing when he abruptly nodded in decision. "So. When are you moving in?"

~~whoa! that came out of left field!~~

Dani blinked at him in surprise. Surely she had heard it wrong? "What?! Move in?" He gave her a short nod. "To your place?" He nodded again. Her eyes widened. "Um. Oh, how about...never?"

He jerked his head back, startled. Then he frowned. "Never?!" He looked insulted.

She sat up, patted the sofa beside her. He regarded her with narrowed eyes, then snorted. "No thanks, pet. I'd rather you explained yourself."

"Oh, dear. Look. That came out wrong, but the answer is still the same. Come sit down."

He bared his teeth in a grim smile, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. She could see his crossroads demon red beginning to flare in his eyes. She was totally perplexed at the response.

"I said, no thanks." His voice was hard.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to pick a fight," she snapped. His eyes flickered. Her jaw dropped. "You are! You're ginning up a stupid-ass fight! What in the world - ?!" She stood up, tossed her blanket onto the sofa, marched up to him, and poked him in the chest. "Look. I thought things were going along fine. In fact, more than fine. Then you toss this...this hand-grenade. You must have known it would be a total, out-of-the-blue surprise!"

~~damn, girl. he's chickening out.~~

What?!

~~bu-gaw! buck-buck-bu-gaw! cold feet. pb is scared. you're getting too close...~~

The red flare was dimming. He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. "I love you, too, Danielle, darling," he snarked. Dani found it irritating that he could tell when Innie-Me was speaking. It felt like he was eavesdropping.

~~asshole.~~

Dani gritted her teeth. "Stop sniping at each other!" she hissed. Then she took a step back, dropped her hand, raised her own eyebrows haughtily. His lips twitched; she had no idea how she looked, with her short hair standing straight up in all directions and her look of disdain. "Look. If you want to stop seeing me, just say so. I'm a big girl. I can take it. Just don't play this type of game. Be straightforward, for once in your devious, manipulative life."

He sighed, and the last red spark died out. "Dani-girl. You remember a certain conversation where you told me you couldn't think straight around me?"

Well, yes, she did. It had been both immensely frustrating and funny at the same time. She gave him a quick, sharp nod. He reached out, slid a hand around her waist, pulled her close. Even though she was angry, she couldn't help swaying closer, molding her body to his. He leaned in, murmured in her ear, "You do the same to me, pet. And, like you, I don't like it."

Well. I did ask him to be straightforward.

~~hunh. i didn't expect him to actually admit it.~~

There was a very grudging, very tiny hint of approval in Innie-Me's tone.

"So the demand I move in was just pretense," Dani murmured back. He drew his head back, just a little, lifted an eyebrow, and twitched a lazy, one-sided smile.

"I believe I'll just leave that as a puzzle for the class to figure out, darling..."

~~and boom, right back to messing with your head. damn. he just can't stop, can he?~~

Dani didn't answer. She was busy brushing his lips with hers, enjoying the small, sharp intake of breath from him, the immediate response they both had. He pushed her back toward the sofa, then down onto it, pulled her head back, and kissed her brutally hard. The question of motivation really didn't interest her right now.

Breakfast was odd. Charlie kept glancing at him, her face unconsciously drawing into a small frown. Dean talked about football. Cas sat with an adolescent fox kit at his feet, murmuring to him. He had introduced the kit as "Grass in the Wind", and informed Sam that Grass needed a little support, because it was time for him to leave home and he didn't feel confident enough yet. Apparently, Mama Fox was wanting an empty nest and pushing him to leave.

Sam and Dean had exchanged amused glances at that.

But, all in all, Sam didn't really feel like talking, and he got the itchy feeling that everyone else was wanting him to talk and finding his silence frustrating. When he finished his smoothie and leftover biscuit from Thanksgiving dinner, he quickly made his excuses, grabbed a jacket, and darted out of the cabin before anyone could stop him.

He walked aimlessly through the chilly woods for a while, and then found an old bench nestled under some trees, sat down on it, stretched his long legs before him, and pushed his long reddish-brown hair out of his face.

It was peaceful here. He huffed out clouds of breath into the cold air and watched them dissipate. Then he flipped in and out of the other-sight, looking for the blue knots of energy that were small animals. There weren't many; winter weather had begun, and most of the animals were snuggling down for warmth.

He heard a rustling. He turned his head, and there was Charlie, huddled down in her winter jacket, trudging towards him.

"Hey," she called out.

"Hey."

She sat down beside him on the bench with a sigh, and stretched her legs out, too. She was silent for a few minutes, then suddenly butted his shoulder with her head in a sisterly manner.

"Sam. Talk to me. What's going on? You're all glum and quiet. You were okay yesterday, all talky, but you've hardly said a word today."

He sighed and leaned forward. "Yeah. I know."

She nudged him again. "Yo. Sam, it's me. We're family. You're like my big brother - if I had a big brother, which I don't, but if I could choose, you and Dean would be my choice, because you're so - " She stopped and bit her lip. "Sorry! You know what I mean."

He laughed softly, pulled her into a sideways hug, and kissed the top of her head. "Don't ever change, kiddo."

"Well, I can't - I mean, I can change my name, and kind of change my styles, but you know me, I think this personality is - " She stopped again, clenched her fists momentarily, drew a deep breath, and continued. "Sam. If you need help - talk to me. Or Dean. Or maybe a therapist. Y'know, being possessed like that - I think it's a lot like - like rape. You - you lose control over your life. You - ". She stopped, because Sam had thrown back his head and barked out a sharp laugh.

"What?!"

"Oh, yeah. That'd go over real well," he said bitterly. "'Doctor, I was possessed by Satan for six months, and I think I need treatment for PTSD.' Yeah, right."

She bit her lip again, dropped her head. Her shoulder-length dark red hair veiled her face. She shrugged. "Okay. Yeah. You're right. Y'know, you could always just...lie."

He pulled her back into the hug, rested his chin on her head. "Doesn't lying to your therapist kind of defeat the whole purpose?"

"Sam. You're hurting. I'm just trying to help." Her voice was small.

"I know." He let her go, looked out into the woods, then looked back at her. "I know, Charlie. But it's not just that." He sagged against the back of the bench, ran a hand through his hair. "If it were just that, I'd be asking for help all over the place." She squinted at him skeptically. "Seriously."

He drew a shuddering breath. He did need to share part of it, with someone. Before he lost his courage, he lifted up his hand, splayed the fingers, reached with his mind. "It's this, too," he said in a low voice.

He tugged gently at the leaves under a tree, sent them spiraling up into the air. Charlie looked, glanced back to him with a question in her eyes, then watched the leaves, her mouth slightly open. To ensure she really understood that someone was controlling the movement, he sent them, single file, into a roller coaster dive, then back up, then left them gathered hovering over their heads for a moment, just long enough so it was obvious it wasn't natural. Then he let go, and the dead leaves pattered down on their heads, coats, thighs, the bench.

Charlie laughed with delight, shaking leaves out of her hair. She jumped up, danced away from the bench, and sang out, "Whoa! Whoa! Did you just do that?! Oh, man, that is so damn cool!" She whirled around, her eyes wide. "Can you - can you lift me up, too?"

Sam blinked. This automatic acceptance, the eagerness she showed, the willingness to explore - he didn't know how to handle it.

"You...you don't...mind?" he asked. He looked down, scrubbing one fist up and down his thigh.

"Mind? Sam, this is so totally amazing!" She was grinning, excited, intrigued. Then, without warning, her face fell. She stopped in the middle of her dancing, her arms dropping. She walked slowly back to the bench and stopped in front of him; her eyes were shadowed, worried.

"I've read all of the books," she started, then hesitated. He looked up at her, his eyebrows twitching into a questioning frown. She sucked in a breath. "All of them. Sam. Sam, are you - are you - oh, darn it, I don't know how to ask this, but I've got to." She balled her hands into fists at her side, and she blurted out, "Sam, are you drinking demon blood to do this?"

He flinched, paled, turned his head away. "No!" he choked out. "Not for this, no! It's...it's natural, I do it without-without...that." He stood up abruptly, started striding rapidly back toward the cabin, his head down. Charlie ran after him.

"Sam! Stop!"

She darted in front of him, then turned to face him and stopped dead on the trail, blocking his way. Her face was pale, deadly serious. "'Not for this'...okay, then. You are drinking the blood again."

"What?! No!" He forced himself to make it into a disbelieving half-laugh. "You're crazy, Charlie!"

"You're lying, Sam. Don't lie to me."

He reached out, took her shoulders, moved her easily out of his way, then started back down the trail. She looked after him in dismay, but made no move to follow him again. She watched him dwindle in the distance. After a few minutes, she trudged slowly down the trail herself, head down, biting her lips.