Chapter One
Dean wasn't a particularly cautious or meticulous hunter, but he wasn't careless either. He left most hard hunts with a few cuts (as in "needs-stitches") and bruises (usually of the "hurts-so-bad-you-pass-out" variety) and occasionally a dislocated shoulder (and boy, were those fun). And with all their years of hunting and experience, these were practically "Hello-Kitty-Band-Aid" type problems to them. Therefore, the boys (and whatever father figure or reluctant ally they were currently relying on) didn't see the inside of a hospital room often. And of course, the one currently on the gurney had to be the toughest out of all of them, Dean Winchester.
Even though these were special circumstances and by no means routine, Sam and Bobby were still quite familiar with this type of thing. When Dean was hurt, everyone took up positions. Sam played the role of the anxious, worried brother, always on his toes and ready to do backflips for Dean in the hopes that he would wake up soon (for some reason, Dean was always out for at least a week anytime he got knocked unconscious by his wounds). Bobby was the gruff, but caring Uncle, who knew everything about anything and if you don't get this surgery right, son, he'll take it out your innards. Castiel somehow got stuck with the lead; the protective, yet somewhat awkward…friend, who, though coming and going at random intervals of which not a single nurse could distinguish a pattern or method, seemed to always be there when Dean whimpered or groaned in his sleep.
And, in all this, Crowley was the only one out of sync, somehow skimming in and out of his various roles and aliases. First he was a distant cousin, only coming in to check on "Lil' Deano, always the trouble maker". Then, he was the stepfather, staying for an hour or five, arguing, joking, and drinking with an unconscious, pale, skinny Dean. Even though Crowley was the only one doing the talking, it felt like a two-way conversation, and that made Crowley feel somewhat better about having such a lag in his mission to throw Lucifer back in the hole and take his place. The next time, he didn't even have a name. He didn't even bother registering in. He appeared, much like Castiel always did, next to the bed with a bottle of his second favorite wine in one hand (he was, unfortunately, out of Craig from the two or three other "meetings" he'd had with Dean) and a few glasses in the other.
It was midnight and everyone was asleep (Sam basically thrown over Dean, only halfway in his chair next to the bed, and Bobby laying back, hat drawn down a little to shadow his face), but Crowley didn't particularly care. If anything, he was happy; talking to Dean wasn't nearly as fun with an overprotective angel breathing over his shoulder, a worried brother censoring every word before it came out of his mouth, and Bobby making fun of him in the background. He pulled a chair out and set the glasses on the table, filling both of them to just below the brim. They had a lot to talk about and he had a feeling they would need it.
"So, Dean, how's it been? Getting better every day, correct? At least, that's what those lying, money-sucking doctors have the audacity to declare."
Crowley chuckled, but it was empty and bitter without anyone else to support it.
"Well, I suppose we could just move directly to things. I've decided that instead of trying to cut them off a month before the final battle, we should push for a week. They'll both have a lot on their plates at that point and I think the tornado that will be our entrance won't distract them too much. See, I talked with a friend of a friend of a friend's acquaintance and she said-"
Through the entire thing, Crowley had been steadfastly trying to ignore Dean's eyes and body in general, staring mostly into his drink or the window of Deans ER room. But now, when he looked to Dean, maybe in the hopes that he would wake up and try to shut him up with some smart aleck remark, Dean wasn't the hopeless, fragile puddle of white and purple and bright, bright red. He was a slightly less pale, slightly less hopeless, and definitely less fragile mess of blonde curls (Dean had naturally messy, slightly curly hair when he didn't gel it to straight, sleek perfection), prominent freckles, and bright, alert green eyes. Crowley jumped at the sight of the eyes, causing Deans pale and cracked lips to quirk into a smirk.
"Dean! Umm, you're awake!"
Dean rolled his eyes and sat up slightly to reach out with a shaky, newly bandaged hand to the second glass of wine Crowley had prepared. Admittedly, it was in fact for Dean, but Crowley had never expected Dean to wake up and ask for it. It made him sort of wish he'd never offered. But more than that, Crowley wondered if the alcohol would be good for him right now. I mean, what with all the internal bleeding and ruptured organs and all. If anything, alcohol would probably make the pain worse and likely slow down the healing process. And heaven help him if any of Deans "family" figured out that Crowley had somehow "slowed the healing process". Honestly, these people cared too much. Which was maybe why Crowley liked Dean better than his brother; his time in Hell had toughened him to the point where caring was a little bit too much to expect at this point.
"Sorry kiddo, no can do."
Dean glared and mouthed 'why not'.
"Because I said so", Crowley said with all the authority he could muster without being "harsh" or "rude". Dean apparently got very emotional and loopy on the type of pain killers the doctor prescribed him, as Sam had told him the day before. And if Dean even felt insulted, he often either lashed out or cried. Neither of which Crowley was used to dealing with, especially not from Dean Winchester.
For a brief instant, Crowley thought he saw Dean's eyes twinkle with a familiar mischief he hadn't seen in the man since his years in Hell. Then, Dean's glare softened to a deceptively reluctant pout and he lay back down with a soft thump that caused Sam to mumble and turn in his sleep (not that Dean noticed). Dean was silent for a moment, before his red bandaged hand appeared over the edge again and waved a hand at the other man to continue.
"Okay, well, just to fill you in on what's hap-pen…ing…..", Crowley trailed off as the sound of liquid splashing against the side of a glass (demons had excellent listening skills) and was about to turn around before a flash of red shot past his eyes and straight into the bed. Crowley leaned forward and was surprised to see Dean, lounging back in his ER room bed, sipping Cairn O' Mar straight from the bottle, and picking crossly at the bandages on his free arm (Dean had narrowly escaped being roasted alive in a witch-related explosion, which left him with almost life-threatening burns all over, a few broken bones, and a concussion. He was lucky to have been wearing a helmet [he'd been riding a stolen motorcycle to the hoodoo bomb site just before], or he'd have lost all his hair too).
"You know, this has to be the worst bottle of Marley I've ever had", Dean complained lightly, though his voice was rough and cracked from disuse. Crowley shook his head to rid him of the confusion and instead chuckled as a Dean coughed into a hand and opened it to reveal it overflowing with blood.
"Maybe that's because of all the blood you're backwashing into it, love. And it's not called 'Marley'; it's 'O' Mar'."
Dean snorted and wiped the blood in his hand onto his generic blue-and-purple-triangle styled hospital gown. He took another swig of "Marley", and then seemed to register his surroundings, as he set up more. He started with the white covers, metal bed-on-wheels, and the gown, which made his eye brows rise and cheeks redden in embarrassment and confusion. He looked around the room, with its plain white walls and medical equipment, all of which was connected to him through tubes and needles and wires. Finally, his eyes wandered to his brother, Sam, who was currently thrown over Dean's legs and dead to the world, and Bobby.
Dean's eyes widened and he hissed, drawing his legs out from under the sleeping man, throwing them over the side and pulling the wires and tubes and needles off him hurriedly in an attempt to get away from his family. Crowley, unfortunately, being the only one awake, had the task of catching and supporting Dean when he fell immediately after getting on his legs. Normally, this would have been hilarious to him, but now it was just as much a burden as the small blonde man clinging to him for dear life. Dean glared at the two humans, but it was with fear in his eyes.
"Crow, who are these guys? Where am I?"
Crowley almost dropped Dean at the nickname. It had been years (for both of them) since Dean had called him that and even then…
Crowley decided that Dean must have temporary memory loss, like the kind you get when you first wake up, and just needed to know what had happened to him to end up here and he'd be fine. Crowley sighed and was about to explain, but Dean's next words paralyzed Crowley from his head to his feet.
"Crow…Where's Dad? Where's Alastair?"