Dean's eyes popped open and Crowley almost drooled at the sight of those coal black eyes. He watched Dean slowly sit up, still holding the Blade in his hand.
His expression, though hampered by the emotionless black eyes, still appeared to Crowley as confusion and maybe a hint of fear. But, he knew that clarity was imminent.
Dean looked at Crowley and instinctively swung the Blade but, there was no sincerity behind it. Crowley stepped back from sheer reflex, not fear. He realized that he now had or soon would have the perfect killer under his control.
Dean spoke first. "What have you done to me, you limey bastard?"
"Not I, Dean. The mark, it wouldn't let go. You now know the price that Cain warned you about. Thank God, or someone, that you never listen."
Dean stood up and somewhere deep inside he felt the desire to plunge the Blade down the King's throat. But, he was physically unable. His emotions were twisted. He had a flash of memory and spoke Sam's name.
Crowley smiled and said, "Yes, that annoying summoning ritual."
Dean took a step toward the door. He felt the need to go to his brother for help. Crowley stepped in his path and pressed his palm to Dean's chest. "He can't help you. That mark has tainted you inside and out. You're mine now."
Dean felt anger at Crowley for a moment. Then, it became darker. He felt strong and powerful. He looked at the mark, the Blade and the intensity of his grip on the handle. Was this invincibility?
Crowley huffed and complained again about the pull of the ritual. He spoke to his newly minted demon, "Come, my pet, we have work to do." He rolled his eyes and added, "And I must answer a moose call."
He turned to leave expecting Dean to follow. Instead, Dean tightly grabbed Crowley's arm and spun him around. Pressing the Blade to Crowley's chest, he growled as he said,
"You think you, with your freaking afternoon tea and monogrammed hankies, are gonna tell me what to do?"