"My mother is dead, I've been chained up like a frigging dog and been forced to wear a bloody Hawaiian shirt and khakis, and now we have Lucifer running around God knows where. Wasn't the whole point of this exercise to get Lucifer's info on how to kill The Darkness? How the bloody Hell do we do that now?"

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. Crowley's voice was acid as always. It had been so pleasant to not have him around. But he had somehow escaped Luci's grasp, found his way to the Bunker, and was now ensconced with them safely behind the spanking new super-sigils that he had learned from Delphine.

He let a moment of sorrow for the brave French Woman of Letters pass through him. A wave of fear for Cas followed it. Then he rubbed his face with a hand, opened his eyes again, and glared at the King of Hell.

"Dude. I don't really give a fuck about all that. I want Lucifer outta Cas, and I want him slammed back in that damned Cage with no hopes of ever getting out. Now: any bright ideas on how to do that?"

Crowley gave him a sour look, lips pursed. "My mother, Squirrel. Dead. Neck snapped in front of me." Sam, leaning back against one of the entryways with arms folded and a frown of smoldering hatred, shifted angrily, but said nothing.

"Yeah. Sorry. I guess. But you never struck me as the kinda guy who got sentimental, y'know?" Dean cocked an ironic eyebrow at the demon.

Crowley rolled his eyes and slugged back half the glass of scotch he was holding. "Sentimentalism has nothing to do with it, pet. Let me remind you that my mother was the only person on earth who knew how to open the Cage, or put people back into it. Your ambition to put Lucifer back in, while admirable, is now stymied." He returned the glass to the table with a solid thump. "I'd be more than happy to help you do anything to that egotistical toddler archangelic asshole. But right now, I'm fresh out of ideas."

Sam bared his teeth. "Then why should we let you stay here? If you're not going to be any use...we should just toss you out."

Crowley leaned back in his chair, laid a hand on his heart, a look of exaggerated dismay on his face. "Moose, darling! You wound me! After all the things we've done together, meant to each other!"

Sam snarled and took a step forward.

"Okay, Sammy, enough," Dean said. "Cool it. I don't like it either, and God knows he's a pain in the ass, but underneath the smarmy exterior, he has a brain...and occasionally uses it." Crowley smirked and gave Dean a half-bow from his seat. "Ground rules, Crowley. No teasing Sam - "

"What?! That's half my reason for living, dammit!" Crowley protested. Dean gave him a stern look. Sam snorted darkly.

"No teasing Sam. No complaining about the food, or the quality of the scotch - "

Crowley eyed his glass and grimaced. "That's not scotch. It's wood alcohol pretending to be scotch," he muttered. Dean held up a warning finger.

"No bitching about the scotch - which is free, by the way! No mind games. Keep out of my room and Sam's room. No demon minions traipsing around. Help with the dishes. No...uh...no...Sam?" He turned to his brother for help. Sam shrugged.

"Whatever. Stay here, keep away from me, don't pull any tricks. I don't want you here, and I'll be glad to have an excuse to kick you out. Or kill you." With that, he moved away from his perch on the door jamb, shot another glare at Crowley, and stalked out of the room.

Dean pointed at Crowley again. "You - stay here!" He went after Sam and caught up with him near the kitchen.

Sam faced him, hands clenching into fists, then opening again. "Dude. What the hell? Crowley?! Here?!"

Dean heaved a deep breath, leaned against the hallway wall, and rubbed his neck. "Look. We need help. Powerful help. Crowley knows things, things that aren't in the lore gathered here. Besides...better the devil we know, y'know?"

Sam just looked at him, lips folded. Finally, he gave him a grudging nod.

Dean slid a plate in front of Sam, who was focused intently on his laptop, and another in front of Crowley. Crowley looked down and grimaced.

"What is this?"

"Ah ah ah! No bitching, remember? Burger. Fries. Beer in the fridge."

"Beer," Crowley sniffed. He got up, went to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself a scotch.

"So," Dean started, as he took a huge bite of his own burger. "So far, what we've got is a one-shot Hand of God that's outta juice - "

Crowley sat up straight. "Hand of God? Just what is that?"

Dean waved his beer, finished chewing, and said, "Piece of the Ark. Of the Covenant."

Crowley's eyes widened. "Really? How...how utterly Raiders of the Lost Ark." Sam's head lifted and he rolled his eyes, then returned to his laptop and his dinner.

Dean snickered. "Yeah, that's what I said..."

"And it's out of juice? How did that happen?" He eyed his burger, sighed softly, and took a bite.

Dean gave him a quick rundown of the adventure in the submarine, how Delphine had somehow gotten it commandeered to take her and the artifact from France to the U.S., how the Thule had followed, how Lucifer-as-Cas had transported him back in time, how Delphine had used the Hand of God against the Germans to buy him some time. While he talked, he noticed, with some snarky satisfaction, that Crowley was eating his burger and, by all indications, enjoying it immensely.

"So, anyway, we get back here, Luci tosses us around some, takes the Hand of God, and...well, nothing. No glow-y power goodness. It's just a petrified piece of wood. Pretty, but useless. And then Sammy zapped him away with that angel-banishing sigil." He leaned back in his chair and twirled his beer bottle in circles on the table.

Crowley sipped his scotch with a thoughtful expression. "And you've tried it, too, I assume?"

"Yup. Nada."

"Hmm. You say this woman had that unusual sigil as a tattoo of some kind?" Dean nodded. "Has it occurred to you that you might need that tattoo to activate the artifact?"

Sam lifted his head again to stare at Crowley, face creased with a thoughtful frown. Dean stared, too. Finally, he said, lamely, "Uh. No."

Crowley smirked. "Well, now. Aren't you glad someone with a modicum of brains has joined your merry team? Since you two seem to have lost whatever intelligence you may have once possessed?"

Dean let the insult slide as he chewed over the demon's suggestion. "So Delphine was wrong? Not just anyone can use the weapon?"

Crowley shrugged. "Oh, it's quite possible she was correct, that anyone mortal trying to use it would be fried. You win some, you lose some." He illustrated with a hand flipping over and back again. "The Men of Letters weren't all-knowing. Given the evidence, though..." He trailed off. Then he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. "My suggestion: You and Moose, here, go get yourselves that sigil tattooed somewhere on your bodies - maybe on those nice firm asses," he leered. Dean scowled. Sam, surprisingly, snorted with amusement. "ASAP. Pronto. Tout de suite - ". Dean flung up a hand to stop him.

"Yeah, yeah. We get your drift." He looked at Sam. Sam looked back and shrugged.

"It actually sounds like a good idea. Double-duty, too - if it keeps Lucifer out of places, maybe it'll hide us from him." Dean arched his eyebrows, impressed with the idea. Crowley snorted.

"It is just a theory," he cautioned.

Dean glanced at him. "No, no - it sounds good. We'll do it tomorrow, right, Sam?" Sam nodded. "Okay, then! We have a plan!" He slapped his hand decisively on the tabletop and stood up, grabbing empty plates. "Hah. Liked the burger enough to actually eat it!" And with that parting shot at Crowley, he left the room.

Crowley made a face at his back.

Sam and Dean held ice packs to their shoulders. Crowley frowned. "Not on your asses. Damn. That would have been nice," he sighed. "Okay, then, boys, fish out your godly artifact and let's see if it works."

"What, like right now?!"

"Do you have anything better to do?" Crowley snarked. Dean opened his mouth for a quick rebuttal, realized he didn't have one, and snapped it shut. "Just so." Sam snorted, nodded at Dean, and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a small, aged wooden chest. He laid it carefully on the table, and the three of them looked down at it for a few moments.

"Doesn't look like much," Crowley observed. "Though I do see some faint remnants of warding sigils here and there. That's why you don't use wood, pets - rots away. And even if it doesn't, millennia of handling wears the surface away."

"Thanks for the mini-lecture, douchebag." Dean bit his lip, reached forward with a hesitant finger, touching the top gently. Then, bracing himself, he flipped the top open, reached in, and pulled out the wrapped artifact. "Ready?" he asked. Sam nodded.

"Oh, for the love of heaven, just do it!" Crowley snapped.

"Yeah, well. Nike slogans aside, it ain't your hide that might get fried..." Dean muttered. He took a deep breath, unwrapped the ancient piece of wood, and gripped it in his bare hand.

It began to glow. Just a bit, at first, here and there, then brighter and brighter. Sam leaned forward with a soft sigh. Crowley watched with narrowed eyes. Then Dean grabbed the wrapping cloth and quickly dropped the wood back into it, folded the cloth around it, and dropped it back into the chest. He shook the hand that had held it and blew on it, then flexed it open and closed a few times and shook it out again. "Damn! All...tingly. Like pins and needles."

Crowley sat down slowly in a chair, keeping his eyes on the chest and chewing his lower lip. He folded his arms across his chest. "Sooo. We now have a weapon, it appears."

Sam hitched a hip up on the table, let his leg swing. "Okay. Some of the power of God. But what Metatron said - "

Crowley snickered, and flicked a glance at him. "Metatron?! Is that where you've been getting information from?! Seriously?!" Dean and Sam both frowned at him. "Oh, spare me. Metatron is a lying liar who lies, we all know that. But, do go on - what did he say?"

Sam's forehead wrinkled. He paused a moment to get her his thoughts, then went on slowly, "He said - and you're right, we know he lies and manipulates people - that God couldn't do it alone; he needed help from the archangels. So we have a weapon that has, like I said, some of the power of God." He stopped, looked down, bit his lip. "What if it's not enough?"

They all mulled on that horrible question for a few moments. Then Dean sighed and said, "Well, hell. If it's not enough, we're screwed." Crowley barked out a laugh.

"Either way. We now need to move on to our next piece of preparation: a way to trap Lucifer, that smarmy, cocky dick, back in The Cage."

"Wait a minute," Dean said. "When you got here, you told us that Rowena was the only one - "

Crowley waved an impatient hand. "Yes, yes, blah blah blah. I've been thinking - "

"That's always dangerous!"

Crowley glared at Dean and repeated, loudly, "I've been thinking. What we need is the Book of the Damned - which is where Mommy Dearest got the spell to open the Cage -the Codex, and someone to put it all together. So you two do know how to lay your hands on the book and the codex. Right?"

"Codex, yes. Book? No," Sam said. He pushed his hair out of his face and elaborated. "I think the last we saw of the Book...was in Hell, while Rowena was casting her spell."

"Well. Since I was planning to go get something from Hell anyway, we'll just add that to our shopping list."

"'Our' shopping list?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"Why, yes, darling. I need all the help I can get to sneak into and out of Hell again." Crowley grinned at the two brothers.

"Awesome," was all Dean could say.