After the gates of Hell were well and truly shut, there had been a tiny pause, a little hiatus, between the reality of his new predicament and his realisation of it. While around him, he could hear yells of shock and fear, and he could sense flashes of light and explosion through the tinted, leaded windows of the church, he couldn't focus on that, couldn't even think about it. He felt the air on his face, stinging the bruises and cuts left from that tussle (well, being helplessly beaten up, really) with Abaddon; he could sense a thousand thousand nerve endings, suddenly attuned to his being in a way it had never been before. He could no longer see the flow and ebb of power, of grace and energy; the colours of Sam Winchester's soul in front of him had dulled into nothing, leaving just the Moose's body moving around with no indication of the soul-being beneath. Where his senses had been dulled to the supernatural, however, he had a far clearer view of everything else; as the Moose staggered past him in a sense of shock he couldn't really process yet for any meaning, he was afforded a view of the man in what he termed half-sarcastically as Technicolour- where he had previously had to squint past his soul to see the face of Sam Winchester, he could now see just how much the hunter needed a haircut, and perhaps a few hours of sleep judging by the rings under his eyes.

He stared at it all in this little pause in time, sensing everything he had never done before.

And then he felt.

He pulled in a horrified gasp of air to his burning lungs as his mind began to roil with emotions he hadn't felt with such clarity for centuries. His stomach was churning with guilt and fear and hunger, and he retched, leaning over as far as possible as he could in his chained position as he coughed and tried to expel something, anything from his empty stomach. And all the while, his mind was awash with a conscience, clouding his before utterly unemotional thought process- a tiny little voice in his head, screaming nonononono at himself, at the Winchesters, at his actions and his newfound humanity and everything he had lost.

So yeah, his first steps into that brave new world of humanity hadn't been the most glamorous of his career.

And when he had finally gathered enough of himself together that he had paid attention to the outside world and seen the Winchesters on the ground at the entrance to the church; well, seeing two hunters that he had only ever known to be furiously angry and hostile embracing each other on the ground was a little bit jarring. Not to mention the fact he could hear the rattling gasps of Moose Winchester: he wasn't a doctor, but he didn't need to be to know that sound was distinctly not good.

He had looked past them then, to the skies they were staring up at- and he couldn't help but feel a wrench of shock at the sight he was given. Through inky black skies, and through grey, shadowy clouds covering the stars, golden shapes fell. At first, his instinct had been a meteor shower- but meteors don't have wings.

He had been so taken with the sight of fallen angels then, he hadn't even noticed the older Winchester bundling the younger into the backseat of the Impala and sprinting to the driver's seat- he didn't even notice at all until he heard a screech of rubber and the spitting of gravel being forced backwards by the tyres.

As he looked in shock at the retreating figure of the Impala and the angels' golden wings burning in the atmosphere, his mind screaming with a thousand emotions at once, a single word emerged into his mind, took shape in his strained vocal chords.

"Fuck!" He yelled, suddenly savagely angry, yanking at his chains as he felt a new wash of anger and fear and desperate loneliness.

Okay, so his first steps into the brave new world of humanity hadn't so much been glamorous as an utter train wreck.

Hours passed and he had whiled them away by debating precisely how any of the newly fallen angels would kill him upon discovering him- how when Dean or Sam came back, they would make good on their promise to take advantage of his newfound humanity and put a pellet of lead through his skull.

He partly debated over how the body he had previously just been possessing was now utterly his- he wasn't overly sure how to deal with that. He sort of lamented not picking a meatsuit with more of a lifespan.

But mostly, he promised himself that if he ever got out of this without ending up back in the shut-down hell as a soul to newly torture (which was a million to one), he was going on a bloody holiday. He made a promise he knew could never happen with a sort of gallows humour he had never really had since the 1600s; he'd get his money out of all those offshore accounts he had stored finances in over the years, he'd go everywhere with good scotch and fine restaurants and a fair culture. Hell, he'd take the Winchesters and their pet angel along; it would be funny to take them to Vegas, maybe Disneyland. He entertained the notion of the culturally clueless Castiel amongst all the scantily clad women in Vegas; a pained smile flitted across his expression before disappearing again. His newly found emotions reared their head again- a desperate need for love and company washed over him, and he really felt disgusted at himself for that particular emotional urge.

Just before the trial had been completed, he had voiced this particular need for love to a particular hunter; as much as he had tried to deny it had happened afterwards, denying it doesn't really work when you're trying to deny something that happened seconds ago in front of the guy you're denying it to.

The hours went on. And then, a roar of engines. He shut his eyes, tried to control his instincts and emotions to little success. Then he opened them and got ready for- well, for going back to Hell.

The Impala pulled up. A single click then slam of the doors- only one person coming to seal his fate. He took a mental coin-flip. Squirrel. He twisted his head behind him to the doors caught a glance of short hair and bowlegs in the corner of his eye. Bingo.

Quick steps coming up behind him. Soft tapping of rubber sole against stone flags. He heard the elder brother of the deadly hunting duo come up to his side- slowly, tiredly, he raised his head to meet the Winchester's gaze. The expression he was met with was one he had never seen before on Dean's face- fear. Bleak eyes, a haunted look on the hunter's face- he would have started with a joke on Dean looking how he felt, but it was so close to the mark that he couldn't get it out.

Besides, the likelihood his execution would get moved forwards to a few seconds after that remark was pretty high. He settled for the question which made most sense accompanied with his knowledge of the previous few hours.

"Where's Sam?" He managed, his throat hoarse.

Dean glowered. "None of your damn business, Crowley."

"Then what are you making my business?" He said, too tired from the day's events and his newfound humanity to even contest the lack of information surrounding the younger Winchester brother. Dean looked the tiniest bit surprised by this- to be honest, he was himself a little. It wasn't his typical style to let things lie.

Dean regained his composure a second later, face hardening. Crowley couldn't even retain enough control over himself not to wince- he knew what was coming now. Exit stage Crowley, this time for a more permanent exit from the Earth. He didn't close his eyes; he felt he had to retain that much dignity. He stared down Dean Winchester, instead, with a tired expression. He was chained to a chair, he was cut and bruised all over, he was pretty damn sure he had broken a rib when Abaddon had kicked him on the ground, and his face around his mouth was caked in dried blood from where Sam had finished off the process of curing him. But he was Crowley; he was human and he was weak and he was restrained, but he was still Crowley and he was going to face his sentence face-on.

It didn't happen.

Dean jammed his hand into his pocket, retrieved a few keys. He stepped forward carefully over the devil's trap and unlocked the padlock on Crowley's neck- iron bands of metal clattered to the ground. He could barely conceal his shock as he twisted his now-free neck around further, trying to observe what Dean was doing. The hunter crossed to the front, roughly grabbing a manacle and jamming a tiny key into it. Crowley pulled away from Dean's hands at that point (the hunter flinching back reflexively) to pull off the steel handcuffs himself, before dropping them roughly to the ground. Metal clacked against stone in the silent church; Dean stepped back across the devil's trap, observing Crowley closely.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, Crowley forced his legs to pull himself up- and he had never remembered standing being this hard, but he wanted to retain the little dignity he had left and actually stand up for himself.

He fell over.

"Jesus buggering-" He gasped on the floor, curling up in a ball on the stone flags as he fell onto his most likely fractured rib. Dean had stepped back smoothly from the falling ex-demon. Crowley felt like asking whether Dean had ever participated in a trust fall, because he really didn't seem to understand the basics of catching people. He would have asked it, too, if he hadn't been so busy trying to breathe.

That was when he noticed he was lying halfway across the devil's trap.

"Hm."

Above him, he could hear the squirrel humming out a response to this particular revelation. Crowley finally got his breath back.

"Done staring, or are we going to stretch the 'watching Crowley suffer' period out a little longer?" He gasped out, propping himself onto an elbow and gingerly probing the painful area underneath his jacket. Above him, silence. Crowley looked up to an intimidating, furiously angry Winchester towering over him. If he hadn't been too busy being in almost overwhelming pain, he would have definitely been scared.

"Here's the deal."

Oh, how the tables were turning. Only a day ago, Crowley had been the one in control, the one putting deals down on the table. Here he was, lying on the floor in agony, human and utterly vulnerable and being given an offer of a deal.

"I never see you again," Dean said with burning green eyes and a clenched jaw. "You never try to touch me or anyone I know. If I do see you again, or you mess with someone I know, I give you a one-way ticket to Hell."

Crowley was utterly failing in maintaining his poker face, concerned with concealing pain rather than emotional response. His expression was purely shocked as he stared up at Dean.

"...Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why- let me go?"

What a fucking stupid question, he lamented to himself. Let's poke the bear with a stick and see if he bites my head off. Great plan.

Dean almost looked like he was asking himself the same thing, really, which was hardly surprising but still a little unsettling. His jaw clenched further, and Crowley noticed for the first time the watery, bloodshot nature of the man's eyes.

"A bit 'cause you were the third trial, and I don't know if killing you will undo shutting down Hell," He began, eyes training not on Crowley but on the chains lying on the ground beside him. "A bit 'cause I'd like to think you might actually try to make up for what you've done. But mostly 'cause-" Dean took in a long breath, eyes shutting briefly and opening again. "'Cause I have bigger problems to deal with now, and killing you might get demons on my tail, and I have too many things to deal with without adding-" He gestured to Crowley. "-This to the mix. So I don't want to see you again, I don't want to even hear about you doing anything to anyone. And you get to leave here alive. We got a deal?"

It went against everything Crowley had ever said or done with the Winchesters before. But he wasn't that Crowley, not anymore. And so he nodded.

"Deal."

Dean surveyed him a second longer, before turning on his heel and striding away from him, to the doors of the derelict church. Crowley couldn't restrain himself this time, couldn't keep his emotions from overriding his mind.

"Are they alive?"

Dean stopped at the entrance. Turned his head back slightly.

"Who?"

Crowley sighed.

"Both of them. I saw the angels fall, and I saw you dragging Moose into the backseat. Are they both alive?"

From the tiny sliver of dawning sunlight falling on Dean's face, Crowley made out his expression softening- just slightly, only slightly.

"Yeah. They're alive."

And with that, Dean walked out of the church. A roar of engines came a half-minute later, and Crowley was left alone once more, lying on the floor of the church, half across the devil's trap.

A pause. A hiatus.

"Bloody hell," He murmured. He was free- and he didn't mean only from the devil's trap, although that was a bonus too, he had to admit. He was free from Hell, free from responsibilities; and most importantly, free from getting shot in the face by the damn Winchesters.

And then he remembered his promise to himself, made hours ago, when he was certain of his death coming.

He should go on holiday.

This new train of thought elicited a little chuckle from him, a smile crossing his lips for the first time in a long time. He should go on bloody holiday.

But first, he thought as he shifted painfully on the ground, he should go to bloody hospital.

A/N: Okay, so this fic here is my non-serious crackfic to allow me to wind down after writing my super serious other fic.

Although, in hindsight, as much as I wanted this opening to be realistic to the canon, it has sort of impacted on any available humour other than Crowley falling over.

I swear to god it will get funnier.

In any case. Because this is my non-serious crackfic, I only have a basic plot outline which I'm writing from, so- and here's the fun part, dear readers- you can feel free to tell me anywhere you might want Crowley to go as he sets off on his journey around the world. I have a fair few locations in mind, but I'm always happy to add more to the list and subject our favourite ex-King of Hell to more terrors.

Please review and tell me if anything is seriously wrong with my writing, if anything is seriously good, or you want Crowley to go to Disneyland or something.