After the five of them polish off nearly the entire pie, Bobby takes charge of the dishes, shooing Crowley and the children off to bed, to great protest. The gruff man is insistent though, and before long Crowley is sound asleep thanks to a little help from some morphine and the distant sound of thunder.
Unfortunately, sleep isn't quite as restful as he'd hoped.
He's back in the Laboratory, bound to the steel table affectionately referred to as the Rack, electrodes pinned across his body, the whirring screech of the bone saw in his ear. He tires futilely to squirm away, to pry the cold bars from his limbs before the saw can touch him. But of course that's not how this works, and the bars tighten, cutting into his skin as the blade draws closer, the doctor's droning voice explaining the procedure to his audience, telling them about how he's going to remove the skullcap and stimulate the pain center of the subject's brain, to illicit a response. He's trying to speak, to plead, to hurl insults, but the collar around his throat sends its continuous pulses of electricity to his nerves, crippling him. He can't even scream as the saw descends.
He jerks awake in a cold sweat and immediately starts shaking out his arms, reassuring himself that he can move, that he's safe. It's a routine he's gotten used to, but this is the first time he's had to do it since his arrival.
He rolls over to see Castiel inches from his nose.
"Oh Jesus!" Crowley wheezes, trying to slow his heart rate back to normal human speed. "You scared the pis- er, the heck out of me."
"I had a bad dream," the child whimpers, clutching his raggedy-looking stuffed puffin (penguin? Who knows, some kind of weird bird) and looking like he expects Crowley to belt him over the head at any second.
The older man frowns in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner. "Why didn't you just go cuddle up with Bobby?"
Castiel looks terrified by the thought, and Crowley can't really blame him. "Yeah, alright, maybe he's not really a cuddler. Why not Dean, then?"
The kid's face crumples into not-quite-tears and Crowley is seized by a bolt of terror and panic and uncalled-for guilt. "Oh god, no, don't do that! What's wrong? What'd I say?"
"I duh-don't wuh-want Dean to think I'm a- a baby!" Cas sobs.
"Oh, for- shh, calm down, alright? Take a few deep breaths, nice and slow." He's not really good with children, crying or otherwise. His hands twitch awkwardly, debating whether to give the kid a pat on the head or a hug or just shoo him away. "There, there," he tries, air-patting Cas' tiny shoulder.
Castiel sniffles, gulping air. Crowley sighs.
"C'mon," he says, flicking the blankets aside and scooting over to make room. "Up you get."
The blue-eyed boy climbs easily into the bed, arranging himself and his puffin so that everyone is comfortable on the tiny cot.
"Right," the Englishman continues, squashed between the wall and the puffin. "So, wanna tell me what this bad dream was about?"
He's expecting to hear something about monsters, scary dogs, spiders or whatever it is kids get scared of in the night- not the answer he gets.
"There were bad men. Scary men. In black suits, like church. They were coming here to get you, to take you away. They wanted to hurt you."
That... is not the answer he was expecting. He twists to get a better look at the boy, sees the haunted glow in his eyes and realizes with a jolt that he's not the only one in the house with power. Poor kid.
"Look, I'll make you a deal."
"H-huh?" The dark-haired boy looks up, wide-eyed.
Crowley winks conspiratorially. "You don't tell Bobby that I was having a nightmare, and I won't tell Dean that you were."
Castiel seems to consider this, a look of intense concentration crossing his face, and then he nods affirmatively, taking the Englishman's big hand and shaking it. "Deal."
Outside, lightning flashes, chased by a long, low roll of thunder. Crowley's eyes have drifted halfway to shut when the door creaks. Instantly alert, he glances toward the sound to see-
-two more small faces, peering hesitantly around the doorframe. When they realize they've been spotted, Dean and Sam shuffle forward to the edge of the bed, looking expectant but reserved.
"Sammy's scared of the lightning," Dean blurts stiffly. Castiel stares at him, unblinking.
"Am not!" Sam protests, scrambling onto the bed and wedging himself between Castiel and Crowley. "Dean got scared. An' he wanted to snug Cas but Cas wasn't there so Dean made me come help find Cas so Dean could snug him!"
"...What?" The only adult in the room is far too tired to make any sort of sense out of what the child is saying.
Dean remains in place, tiny hands balling the hem of his t-shirt as he scowls at the floor.
Cas breaks the silence. "Come on, Dean." He pulls the blankets up and scoots back on the mattress, making room.
Still not meeting anyone's gaze, the boy hauls himself up and squirms into the space. With a strange little almost-smile, Castiel reaches up and strokes Dean's hair placatingly. Dean ignores him a few moments, still sullen, and Cas falters, looking wounded. Immediately, the green-eyed boy turns over and throws his arms around his friend, burying his face in Castiel's neck.
Sam, meanwhile, has wriggled himself down under the covers so that he is somehow elbowing Crowley in the neck and kneeing him in the chest.
"Everyone comfortable?" He asks, sarcasm warring with the involuntary swell of affection he feels.
His only answer is a quiet snuffle from Cas and a sigh from Sammy.
Knowing no one can see him, Crowley lets himself smile as he tucks the blankets up around Sam's shoulders, pulls it over a bit so that Dean's feet are covered, and closes his eyes once more.
...
He is startled awake once more an indeterminate amount of time later by a thrashing foot to the face. He sputters and removes Sam's toes from his nostril, wincing at the twinge in his leg.
The sound of the lift lowering makes him tense and shut his eyes, peering from under squinted lids.
Bobby comes wheeling in at high speed, looking panicked, and Crowley realizes that he must have gone to get the boys up for breakfast only to find their beds empty. The former doctor pauses, catching sight of the bed, and his expression shifts from furious to shocked. Crowley remains absolutely still, even when one of Sammy's flailing hands latches onto his nose. Bobby approaches the bed quietly, and Crowley sees the shock replaced by a kind of complex mix of tenderness and sorrow.
The older man reaches out and gently unhooks Sam's curled fingers, retrieves Castiel's puffin from the floor and nestles it back in the boy's arms, then turns and makes his way back to the lift.
Crowley feels the smile creep back onto his face.
Eventually the kids wake him up again with demands that he make breakfast for them, so he hauls himself from the bed and into the lift (with Sam hanging off his neck like a limpet and the other two following close behind).
Bobby is seated at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the paper, and he looks up with a troubled expression that quickly dissolves into a crooked grin when he sees his guest's entourage. He folds the paper and pushes away from the table, reaching for the coffeepot on the counter. "Morning," he says, apparently to all of them. "Thought we might go out for pancakes today. How's that sound?"
"Pamcakes!" Sam shrieks enthusiastically in Crowley's ear, making him wince and pry the boy's arms from his throat.
The doorbell rings, and Crowley instinctively tenses, hunching his shoulders.
"That'll probably be Pam, from the hospital," Bobby says, raising an eyebrow. "She said she'd stop by and bring me a new suture kit and some more painkillers." He nods at Dean. "Go let her in, willya?"
Dean stops ruffling Castiel's hair and goes scampering toward the door.
Bobby clears his throat and fixes Crowley with a piercing look. "So, you and I need to have a talk."
"Do we?" He replies easily, ignoring the tension creeping back up his spine.
The older man nods and opens his mouth to speak, but Dean's voice pipes up from the hall. "Uncle Bobby, it's not Pam!"
The two men turn in surprise. "Who is it?" Bobby calls, turning and beginning to wheel himself toward the entrance.
"The FBI!"
The tension turns to cold terror.