Nell smelled like chlorine when she returned to the hotel room. It filled her nose, and she was thinking longingly of showering it all off as she opened the door. It was why she didn't realize anything was wrong inside the suite until she entered.
She had been suspicious, naturally, when Crowley had too-casually mentioned that the hotel and pool and a hot tub on the lower levels, and suggested that Nell go busy herself there while he 'took care of some business'. He even produced a swimsuit from who knew where. All Nell knew was that Crowley had received some sort of alert on his phone in the early morning, and then spent the next few hours in a thoughtful, narrow-eyed silence, flipping a coin from finger to finger as if in a meditative trance. The behavior was odd enough that Nell was glad to leave the suite and escape the tense mood. In any case, she had no desire to hang around for whatever 'business' Crowley needed to attend to.
So Nell had swam laps, and floated, and then spent nearly an hour soaking in the hot tub, utterly ignoring the warning signs to limit time in the hot tub to no more than 30 minutes. That, Nell knew, was a warning for the health and safety of humans. She was in no danger of pruning, let alone overheating, and the hot water and bubbles were incredibly soothing. She took her time, and after nearly two hours had passed, she finally made her way back upstairs. She figured Crowley would have finished whatever it was he wanted her gone for, otherwise he'd have come up with some other, longer-lasting diversion.
Nell entered the suite, shut the door behind herself with a click, and opened her mouth to declare her intention to shower off the smell of chlorine—but then said nothing, mouthing hanging wordlessly as she took in the scene before her.
The room was in utter disarray. Shopping bags sat on the counter of the kitchenette. Next to those sat a bag of human blood, the sort Lola delivered on occasion. Lola herself was crumpled on the floor—or at least, her body was.
Nell had never seen a dead body before outside of the context of a funeral. Then, she could almost pretend that the deceased were simply sleeping. True, they were pale and motionless in death, but between the mortician's make-up and dressing the body in their Sunday finest, the fact that they were dead didn't seem so obvious, or so gruesome.
Lola's body was not like that. She was sprawled, half on her back, half on her side, like she'd fallen, or been scrambling backwards when it happened. Her face was still contorted in a vicious snarl, equal parts hatred, derision, and fear. Her dark eyes were still wide open, but blank, and utterly devoid of life. And in her chest, a gaping, slightly blackened hole.
Crowley sat in an armchair, eyes red, with the angel blade he'd used to kill her still grasped loosely in his fingers.
Nell closed her mouth, swallowed, and tried to put her thoughts in order. She opened her mouth again, not entirely sure what would come out.
"...Are you okay?" Crowley turned to look at her slowly, then seemed to seriously consider the question.
"No," he decided finally. "No, I don't think I am."
Nell stepped further into the room and took a seat in the other armchair, positioning herself so she wouldn't have to feel the weight of Lola's dead, unseeing eyes. "What happened?"
Crowley shot a brief, hateful glance toward Lola's corpse, then slumped in what appeared to be exhaustion. "She was reporting on me to Abaddon." Nell couldn't say she was surprised, but decided not to say so. In a whisper, Crowley added, almost reluctantly, "I've called the Winchesters."
That, Nell did find surprising. "Why now?"
Crowley closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. When he opened them, he sat a little straighter, and looked determined. "Because, now that I know that I can't trust any of my demons, those two are my only allies in killing the bitch. And besides, I'm close to finding the blade, anyway."
Nell didn't know what that meant, and didn't ask in favor of her more pressing question. "Do they know I'm here?"
"Yes." He grimaced. "They were quite cross about it, as I'm sure you'd expect."
Nell was pretty sure 'quite cross' would be an understatement. Resigned, she asked, "How soon will they get here?"
"A few hours." Crowley leaned forward and set the angel blade down on the coffee table with a soft thunk. Then he beckoned her closer, and tilted his head in invitation, eyes warm and glowing like coals. "We may not get another chance for a while."
Nell shook her head and stood. She saw something that might have been hurt or disappointment flicker on his face before she said, "I'm not doing that where she can watch us." Nell jerked her head in the direction of Lola's corpse, then turned to walk into the bedroom. Behind her, she heard Crowley rise and follow.
She shut the door behind him with a sharp snap, eyeing him hungrily as he turned to look at her. Her teeth were already aching… as were other places.
"And not your neck," she decided then, striding forward and into Crowley's personal space. He did not retreat an inch, gazing down at her with burning eyes. "They'll be angry enough already. No need to provoke them with fresh bite marks."
"Oh?" Crowley's voice was so soft and deep that Nell's knees actually wobbled. "And where do you suggest?"
"I understand there's a major artery in the upper thigh."
The fire in Crowley's eyes flared.
After, Nell thought about cleaning up the suite. It was an absolute mess—takeout containers, syringes, two dead bodies—but in the end, she figured there was no point trying to hide it all. Besides, the state of the room was a pretty good reflection of the situation at large.
Instead, she left Crowley to inject what was likely that last human blood he'd have for a long time while she showered off the chlorine and sex and dressed in the clothes she'd arrived in. Dead bodies, she could explain. Her lounging around in silk pajamas she'd borrowed from Crowley, less so.
Her hair was still damp when she heard the familiar engine of the Impala approaching the hotel. She did not rush, drying the curls patiently until they bounced, completely dry, and she could hear heavy boots walking down the hall. Then she moved to stand in the doorway to the bedroom, and waited.
One of the Winchesters hammered on the door. Crowley did not rise from the couch to get the door, instead opening it with a casual flick of the wrist. It was the first actual demonstration Nell had seen of his demonic powers, and Nell felt a bizarre twist of arousal curl in her gut at the offhanded display.
The Winchesters stormed in, already looking pissed. Nell half-retreated behind the doorway, trying to choke back the bone-deep unease she felt at being so close to Dean, especially when he looked so ready to deck someone.
"Okay, Crowley, what the hell is going on?" Dean barked it like a commander, eyes fixed on Crowley. Sam's eyes darted around the room, taking everything in with wide eyes, then finally landed on Nell.
"Nell!" Sam rushed over, and to Nell's surprise he actually grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her out in front of him and seemingly scanning her for injuries as he asked, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Nell told him. Then, when Sam didn't stop staring at her, repeated more earnestly, "Seriously, Sam. I'm fine."
"We found sulfur by your car outside the butcher shop," Sam said quietly, voice tight. "When we didn't hear from Crowley…"
He trailed off, and Nell realized with a jolt that the Winchesters must have suspected that she was dead. Nell patted Sam's arm once and assured him gently, "I'm okay."
Dean had watched all of this with a scowl, and now turned his glare on Crowley. "What the hell did you take her for? Seriously, Crowley, I don't see your end game here. Unless you want to get your ass beat."
Crowley smacked his lips, seemingly choosing his words.
"You ever get blackout drunk and order something on Amazon, then forget you ordered it?"
Dean stared at him. Nell sighed gustily and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"You're not serious," Dean said flatly. Then, at Crowley's guileless look, turned to Nell in disbelief. "Is he serious?"
"It's… been an interesting few weeks."
Dean shook his head. "I can't believe this… so, what, you've been sitting around shooting up human blood? Getting high when you should've been looking for the blade?" It was the second mention of 'the blade.' Nell would have to ask someone to explain it to her when they were done having their inevitable row.
"Look at you. You're a mess," Dean sounded half disgusted, half disappointed. He wasn't wrong, either. Crowley had shot up the last of his blood supply a few hours ago, and he was already starting to show signs of drug-like withdrawal. His skin was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, and his eyes were bloodshot. "You know, we were counting on you. You let us down."
"Your slimy followers were counting on you to kill Abaddon, and you let them down," Sam said, joining in on Dean's lecture. "You're pathetic."
Crowley's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "What is this? An intervention?"
"You need to focus, Crowley," Sam pressed. Crowley's eyes flickered from one brother to the other, gaze glassy. "Get a grip!"
"What, you just gonna let Hell go to Hell?" Dean added, unrelenting. Crowley cracked.
"You don't know what it's like to be human!"
Silence in the suite following that desperate pronouncement, Sam and Dean in shock, and Crowley in a half-embarrassed, half-defiant daze. Nell cleared her throat pointedly. Crowley's gaze sharpened a little as he glanced at her, then quickly away. His throat bobbed in a loud swallow.
"Lola used me," he said roughly. "She reported everything I did back to Abaddon."
Sam and Dean both stiffened. Carefully, dangerously, Sam said, "Crowley… Did you tell her about the first blade?"
Crowley swallowed again, then shrugged minutely. "I don't know. Things get a trifle… blurry, when I'm medicated."
"Great," Sam said bitterly, turning to look at Dean. "If he told Lola, she definitely told Abaddon."
"Which means that Abaddon's in the hunt for this thing, too," Dean finished grimly. "Alright, you know what? This crap ends now. You're cut off, okay? Kicking it. Cold turkey."
They were on the road within the hour, and Nell almost envied Crowley his position in the trunk. True, it was dark and stuffy and uncomfortable, but it was also farther away from Dean, and Nell wanted to be as far away from him as possible. She had only reluctantly climbed into the back seat of the Impala, and even then on Sam's side. Now she sat pressed against the back passenger side door, as if she could melt through it to escape the oppressive, deadly aura Dean gave off.
Sam kept craning his head over his shoulder to check on her, and after ten minutes of driving he finally asked, "Are you sure you're okay?"
Nell's lips tightened as she wondered how to answer the question. Dean's hands tightened on the wheel. He didn't glance at either her or Sam as he said, "It's me, isn't it?"
"Yes," Nell agreed, glad she didn't have to be the one to say it.
"What?" Sam jerked his head to look at Dean, clearly confused. "What do you mean? What are you guys talking about?"
"I think it's the Mark," Dean confessed quietly. He waited a long moment, like he might leave it at that, but under the weight of his brother's unblinking stare he continued, reluctantly, "Back when I first came back to the bunker with it, it was like Nell could sense it. Wouldn't let me get within five feet of her."
A short beat of disbelieving silence. Then, "And you didn't think that would have been good to mention before?" Sam said, voice rising. "Like when she went missing?"
"It didn't seem relevant, okay?" Dean said defensively. Sam drew in a breath, and Nell decided to cut off the ensuing argument, for her sake if not theirs. If Dean grew any more tense and angry, Nell wasn't sure she would be able to stop herself from tucking and rolling out of the Impala, which was currently roaring down a country back road at over 60 miles per hour.
"What's the Mark?"
Sam's breath left him in a sigh, and he turned back to look at her, a small line between his brows. "You don't know?"
Nell couldn't quite keep the irritation from her voice as she responded, "Would I be asking, if I did?"
Sam half-shrugged, looking a little sheepish. "Sorry. I just thought, if Crowley told Lola…" Sam trailed off, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Then he cleared his throat and explained, "It's the Mark of Cain. It's like a… a spell brand. You have to have it to wield the First Blade, which is the only thing that can kill Abaddon for good."
"I see." That explained the blade they and Crowley had mentioned. Nell did not at all like the sound of the Mark, especially now that she knew it was named after the biblical father of murder.
"Can you really sense the Mark?" Sam asked curiously. Nell heaved her shoulders in what might have been a shrug, had she not been huddled and pressed against the car door. "What does it feel like?"
It felt like Dean was brandishing a gun in her face, frankly. Or else that he was a hungry, salivating predator, and she was a rabbit just inches from his sharp, dripping jaws.
"Danger," Nell said roughly, in a tone intended to tell Sam to shut up and drop it already. Sam's eyes widened a little, but then he turned back around in his seat to look out the front window, clearing his throat a little awkwardly.
A tense silence followed, at least until Dean jabbed the car's radio to life and filled the car with music. In the backseat, Nell squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to take deep, calming breaths.
It was good to wear her own clothes again. It had been a long while since Nell had worn anything but the jeans and sweater she'd been abducted in or loose, borrowed silk pajamas. The latter, while undeniably comfortable, had made her feel strangely vulnerable at times.
Emerging from her rooms in a comfortable wrap dress and thick cardigan, Nell managed to feel almost unafraid to enter the library where Dean was pacing in agitation. Almost. Nell still kept as vast a distance as possible between them as she entered and made her way to what she had claimed weeks ago as 'her' table.
The mess of papers looked mostly untouched from where she'd left them weeks ago. She had had a system in place, before, and had started to put the various notes and translations in some sort of order, but it had been so long since she'd looked at any of it that she knew getting back to work would be almost like starting over.
With a weary sigh, she sat down and got back to work.
"How's he doing?" Dean asked half an hour later as Sam returned from a quick check-in on Crowley. The demon had only been chained up in the devil's trap in the dungeon again for a few hours now, but the blood withdrawal already had him shaking and disoriented, unable to answer Sam and Dean's questions about the location of the First Blade.
Sam shook his head, lips thin. "Still pretty much useless."
Dean cursed. "Crowley needs to get his shit together, and fast. We need to find that thing before Abaddon does."
Sam agreed, but there was nothing they could do at this point but wait. He passed his brother, then stopped at the other end of Nell's table and arranged his mouth into something of a pained smile. "Back at it already, huh?"
Nell rubbed her eyes tiredly. "I have to know why, Sam."
Sam coughed a little. "Right. No, I understand. It's just, speaking of Kevin…" Sam trailed off uncomfortable. He glanced at Dean, who rubbed the back of his neck, looking equally discomfited.
Nell watched the exchange, bemused. "What about Kevin?"
"Right." Sam cleared his throat. "You know how Metatron's spell cast all the angels out of heaven?"
Nell glanced at the spot on the library floor where Gadreel, in Sam's body, had smote Kevin. "Yes. I'm aware."
Sam cleared his throat again. "Well, apparently it's not just angels who got locked out. Everyone who's died since Metatron's spell who should've gone to heaven—they're all stuck in the veil."
Nell furrowed her brow, not fully understanding what Sam was trying to say with the words 'stuck in the veil'. "What does that mean?"
"It means Kevin's a ghost," Dean said bluntly.
Nell felt like she'd missed a step going down stairs. It was one thing to know, in theory, that ghosts existed and her friends hunted them. It was quite another to hear that her friend, her dead friend, who she'd watched die in this very room, was now a ghost.
"So Kevin is here?" Nell glanced around the library, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
"Yeah," Sam said. "It, uh, takes a bit of effort for him to manifest himself, so he's not always visible, but yeah, he's here."
Nell wasn't sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, part of Kevin was still here, hanging around, which meant she might be able to see him again. On the other hand, that meant he was stuck in limbo, unable to get to heaven. And if Nell knew anyone who deserved a peaceful afterlife, it was Kevin.
"Kid can't catch a break even when he's dead, can he?" Nell's lips twisted humorlessly.
"I wish you wouldn't call me a kid."
Nell jumped. Kevin's spirit looked much the same as he had when he'd died, though thankfully his eyes were undamaged and whole. He was insubstantial, and cold, and flickered a bit at the edges, but he was there.
"You died before you could ever legally buy a beer," Nell defended, chest tight.
Kevin shrugged carelessly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he echoed Dean's words from ages ago. "You're a vampire, and I'm a prophet of the lord. Normal rules don't really apply, do they?"
Nell managed a tremulous smile. "Suppose not."
Kevin walked closer to the table where Nell had laid out all his work, making the air nearby drop a few degrees. "You don't have to keep at this, you know," he said kindly. "It was hard enough for me, and I can actually read it."
"I really do," Nell disagreed, shaking her head. "It's pretty much the only way I can avenge your death right now. And I know that sounds unnecessarily dramatic, but I can't ignore it." Nell grimaced. "It's a vampire thing."
Kevin shrugged. "If you say so. I just want you to know, in case you can't find anything… you're not disappointing me."
The assurance was nice, and it did ease a tension in Nell's shoulders that she didn't know she'd been carrying. But there was something she was missing, something Kevin had said that niggled at the back of her mind…
"Read?" Kevin looked at her blankly. Nell repeated, "Read, as in present tense, read? Can you still read this?"
Kevin blinked, then looked at the papers on the table. Squinted a little. "Yeah." He shrugged, then said humorlessly, "Once a prophet, always a prophet, I guess."
Excitement had been building in Nell's chest, but it snuffed out at his tone. She cleared her throat. "Right. Never mind. You've looked at this more than enough for one lifetime. I shouldn't ask you to look at it any more now that you're—" Nell couldn't bring herself to say dead to Kevin's face.
Kevin shook his head. "No, it's okay. It's not like I've got anything better to do, anyway. The veil is… crowded."
He said this in such a way that Nell was sure it was an understatement. She couldn't even imagine how many people must have died since Metatron shut the gates of heaven, and how many lost souls were just lingering around, unable to move on. It sounded horrible.
"But I can't manifest for very long, and I can't write anything down," Kevin pointed out sensibly. "You'll have to transcribe it."
Nell picked up a pen and squared her shoulders. "Ready when you are."
Nell waited until both Winchesters had been soundly asleep for a few hours before she crept into the storeroom, and then into the dungeon beyond. Neither of the brothers had forbid her from seeing him, but Nell supposed that was only because it would never occur to either of them that she would want to see him. Why would she, after all? He'd kidnapped her. And for all that she said she was fine, and that Crowley had not hurt her, and would they please stop asking, each denial seemed to make Sam, at least, more and more certain that Crowley had done something truly awful to her.
But Nell did want to see him, and it took quite a bit of self-restraint to wait as long as she did. She could hear him, after all, and he was clearly suffering from the sudden withdrawal of human blood. Crowley's breathing had been labored all day, and on the rare occasions he spoke he had alternated between pained, desperate moans and nonsensical babbling. And though he must have known that Nell could hear him, it never seemed to occur to him to call out to her in particular, which showed just how far gone he was.
And so, in the early morning when all the human inhabitants of the bunker were asleep, Nell filled a bowl with cool water, grabbed a cloth from the kitchen, and stealthily made her way down the corridor to the dungeon. Crowley's labored breaths quieted as she approached, probably wary of the approaching footsteps. When Nell slid the door to the dungeon open, Crowley stared with red-rimmed eyes, looking vaguely surprised.
But only for a moment. He hitched the corners up his mouth upwards in an attempt at a self-deprecating smile.
"If you're here for a conjugal visit, I'll have to disappoint you." Crowley's voice was hoarse, and at the moment not at all seductive. "I'm all tied up—and not in the fun way."
Nell tucked the mental images that comment inspired carefully away for later use. Nodding to the complex spell circle surrounding Crowley's chair, Nell asked, "If I walk into this thing, will I be able to walk out?"
Crowley examined it briefly, eyes trailing in such a way that Nell knew he could actually read whatever was written on the outskirts of the circle. Eventually he said, "You'll have to break the circle. There's a loose bit of floor, there." He nodded towards it.
Nell wondered briefly it that was the truth, or simply a ploy to get her to break the circle. But Nell was certain that the circle was, for the most part, redundant, and that the chains that held Crowley to the chair he was currently sat in were sufficient to keep him from escaping. She lifted the loose bit of floor aside and entered the circle.
She set the cloth and bowl of water on the table in front of Crowley, then sat on the table herself. Crowley looked up at her with glazed, half-lidded eyes, then sighed and lolled his head to the side, presenting his pale, lightly stubbled throat.
"Go on, then," he said roughly. "At least one of us should be allowed to get our fix."
At any other time, Nell would have taken him up on the offer. But she had drank from him not twenty four hours ago, lessening her hunger, and while she knew his blood would taste as sinfully delightful as it always did, the primal urge to sink her fangs into his veins was strangely absent. Nell assumed it had something to do with the reason she was here in the first place.
Nell picked up the cloth she'd brought with her and dipped it in the water. Crowley didn't move, neck still bared, as she wrang out the excess water. Finally Nell reached out, gently turning Crowley's pale face to look at her properly, and began to wipe away the film of sweat and dried tears that clung to his skin.
Crowley looked at her like she'd started speaking in tongues.
"What are you doing?" He asked finally, when Nell took the cloth away to rinse it in the bowl of water, then wrang it out again.
Nell didn't dignify the question with an answer. Instead she returned the cool cloth to Crowley's skin, gently cleaning his brow, his jaw, his neck. Crowley's eyes closed and his breath stuttered, and Nell watched him, stomach fluttering with the bizarre fondness she was still getting used to. Hesitantly, she asked her own question.
"...Will you be different?"
Crowley opened his eyes to look at her searchingly. "When the blood wears off, you mean," he said, and Nell nodded. Crowley released a long breath, eyes going distant. Finally he admitted, "I don't know. I'm in a unique position. No way to tell for sure until I've kicked it."
Nell was not sure from Crowley's tone of voice whether he wanted to be different, or to stay the same. Nell's stomach tightened.
"I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you," Nell confessed, almost apologetically.
The thought had occurred to her before, of course, back in the hotel suite, limbs tangled together and her undead heart so full of contentment she thought it might burst. But that was when they were alone, cut off from the world and absorbed only in each other. Nell had hardly been in her right mind, either, influenced as she was by Crowley's intoxicating blood.
But there was no other excuse for the depth of the affection now. She wasn't trapped with Crowley as her only company, and she wasn't high on his blood. The almost physical pain Nell had suffered all day as she listened to Crowley suffer alone in the dungeon was just more evidence in favor of the conclusion, and now, wiping away sweat and tears from feverish skin, Nell was sure.
It wasn't good, necessarily, or right, or wise—but it was the truth.
Crowley's eyes focused on Nell soberly then, and Nell thought he looked more thoughtful than surprised. Crowley swallowed, throat bobbing, then licked his lips. Nell admired these motions the way others might appreciate fine art, with unblinking wonder.
Then Crowley spoke, sounding somewhat apologetic himself. "I'm pretty sure the feeling's mutual." He hesitated, then amended, "Insomuch as I'm currently capable of it, anyway."
Left unsaid was whether or not he would continue to be capable of it. He had told her, after all, what it meant to be a demon: hate, and anger, and pain. Demons did not love. It was part of what made them demons. It was impossible to know whether Crowley would retain the ability once he was clean of his little habit—whether he would go back to how he had been before, or whether he was permanently changed.
Nell wondered which he would prefer, but decided not to ask.
"Your mom is alive," Nell informed Kevin the next day, when he'd manifested himself in the library. Nell supposed she didn't have to wait to tell him—he probably would have heard her if she'd simply told the air in the library—but she preferred to tell him to his face.
"I know," Kevin said, sounding surprised. He raised his eyebrows at Nell, who in turn raised her eyebrows at him, wondering how he knew. Kevin explained, "Someone in the veil mentioned seeing her alive. How do you know?"
"Crowley told me."
Kevin's face darkened. He'd had a small tantrum when he first found out that Crowley had abducted Nell which resulted in a few flickering lightbulbs and perhaps a five degree drop in temperature, and Nell wondered warily if he was gearing up for another.
"So he's still holding her somewhere?"
"Well, he was," Nell admitted. "He let her go."
Kevin eyed Nell skeptically. "Are you sure he wasn't lying?"
Nell did not want to explain the telephone call Crowley had made, or the events which led to it and followed it. She said only, "Positive."
Kevin's shoulders relaxed from the hunched, angry position they'd taken at the first mention of Crowley, and he huffed a relieved sigh which Nell experienced as a chilly draft. "That's a relief."
Crowley was soon coherent enough again to explain to Sam and Dean his efforts to track down the First Blade. It was a long and complicated story, which led to a seller called Andre Develin and ultimately to the National Institute of Antiquities. The Winchesters left Crowley locked securely in the dungeon, then made for Kansas City as quickly as possible, wary of Abaddon finding the Blade before they could get their hands on it.
Nell was sorting through her notes, setting aside that which was already translated and what still needed to be translated, when her phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID and recognizing one of Sam's numbers, Nell didn't bother with a polite greeting.
"Did you find it?"
"No," Sam said, though he didn't sound too disappointed. "But we're close. The curator at the museum sold the Blade to a guy who went by the name of Albert Magnus." Sam sounded excited by the prospect.
"Should I know who that is?" The name didn't ring any bells for her.
"It's an alias the Men of Letters used to use when they wanted to deal in secret," Sam said. "You think you can pull out the membership records for us? We're looking for anyone who might've survived the 1958 massacre." Sam paused, then added, "And even if they're deceased, you might wanna double-check, because we know at least one faked his death."
Nell noted that Sam did not actually wait for her to agree to look at the records, but here eyes were beginning to become exhausted looking at cuneiform hour after hour. It would almost be a relief to look through files that were written entirely in English.
So she said, "Sure thing, Sam," and made her way to the storeroom.
There were about six large boxes dedicated to membership records, and each of them was crammed full of manila folders. Nell guessed there had to be close to a thousand files, and sighed.
"What a nightmare."
"What's tormenting you, darling?" Crowley asked from the dungeon beyond. "You're going to make me jealous."
Nell couldn't help smiling at the ridiculous flirtation. Pulling the boxes off the shelf, Nell explained, "Apparently someone bought the Blade from the museum using an old Men of Letters codename. Sam asked me to check the records for anybody who might have survived the massacre of 1958."
"Bring the files in, then," Crowley suggested. "About time I finally got some reading material in this damned place."
Given the sheer number of files, Nell was glad for offer of help. Only sheer vampire strength enabled her to bring all the boxes and her laptop through to the table in the dungeon in one trip. Nell looked through the box that looked like it had the least amount of dust on it first, sorting through files and doing some digging on the internet, trying to determine who was really dead. She wasn't at all sure she'd be able to find this Magnus guy if he'd faked his death, though.
Crowley looked through other boxes, looking at birthdates and death dates and ruling people out accordingly. Every once in a while he'd made a snarky comment about someone's name or one of the accomplishments that were listed in the files.
After two and a half hours of this, Nell rubbed her eyes. She was starting to get a headache from staring at obituaries on her computer, and she shut it, determined to take a break. Crowley laid an open file on top of her laptop, and Nell stared at it tiredly.
"This is your man," Crowley said confidently. "Cast out from the order two years before Abaddon painted the town red."
"Cuthbert Sinclair," Nell read aloud, then glanced at the box at Crowley's elbow, marked Infamati et Obliterati. Then she looked at Crowley, who looked just a hair too smug. "You knew that's where he'd be the entire time, didn't you."
Crowley's lips curled in a smile Nell could only describe as devilish. "I may have heard a rumor that someone was out. I might have even done my damnedest to find said someone. But I never had a name."
Nell scowled at him. "So why did I just spend three hours Googling dead people?"
"I wanted the pleasure of your company," Crowley said easily, unabashed. Nell rolled her eyes and stood, intending to put the boxes of files back into the store room. Then she halted at the edge of the circle, and Crowley asked, too lightly, "Something wrong?"
Nell sighed, rubbed the bridge of her nose, and admitted what Crowley had probably noticed three hours ago. "I forgot to break the circle before I walked into it."
"Shame," Crowley said without a drop of sincerity. "Looks like you're stuck here."
Nell sat back down with a sigh and picked up the file on Sinclair, scanning it curiously to find out why he'd been kicked out in the first place. "Apparently he designed the circle we're stuck in," Nell noted with interest. "And those cuffs… the wards on the bunker…"
"And some truly creative torture devices," Crowley said with almost lustful appreciation. "Man's a genius. Unappreciated in his time."
Nell glanced between Crowley and the folder in her hands, then asked dryly, "Do I need to leave you alone with this?"
"You couldn't if you wanted to," Crowley retorted smartly. He opened his mouth again, eyes burning in a very familiar way, but Nell held up a finger to put a stop to whatever flirtatious suggestion was about to fall out of his mouth. Her ears had picked up the sound of a familiar engine.
"Winchesters are back," Nell informed him. Crowley sat back in his chair, looking slightly put out.
Minutes later, there was the sound of heavy booted feet stomping down the stairs in the library.
"Nell?" Sam asked hopefully. "You find anything?" And then, a moment later, puzzled, "Where are you?"
"Dungeon!" Nell shouted. She wasn't entirely sure they would hear her, but she had left the door to both the dungeon and the storeroom open, so she thought her voice would probably carry to the library, however faintly. Apparently it did.
"Dungeon?" Dean repeated, baffled. "Why the hell is she in the dungeon?"
"Crowley," Sam said, in a low angry growl. Their footsteps approached rapidly, and Nell sighed.
Before Nell could even open her mouth to tell them not to worry, they had already appeared in the doorway, faces hard and angry. Then they halted, looking a little lost as they took in Crowley, still chained securely, and Nell, leaning casually on the table, still covered in boxes.
"Okay, uh—" Sam furrowed his brow. "What's going on?"
"I'm her study buddy," Crowley informed him gleefully.
Nell ignored him and said quickly, "We found Albert Magnus."
Sam blinked in surprise, eyebrows raising. "What, really?"
Nell held up the file. "Cuthbert Sinclair, Master of Spells. Got kicked out in '56 for being 'eccentric' and 'irresponsible.' If I hadn't read the file I'd think that was a backward 1950s innuendo for homosexuality, but it's not."
Both Winchesters entered the circle without effort to take a look at the file. "And you're sure this is the guy?" Dean asked.
"Positive."
"Great. Good work." Dean patted Nell on the shoulder, then paused, looking between her and his brother. "Now how do we find him?"
Crowley smiled a broad, lazy, Cheshire cat smile. "About that…"
The Winchesters did not want to take Crowley with them, but ultimately they had no choice. Crowley would not simply give up the location he'd tracked Sinclair's home to, and in any case the Men of Letters file suggested that it was likely that the man's home would only be accessible by spell. The brothers would need Crowley's help to get the ingredients needed to cast the spell, if nothing else.
The three left together the next morning. The rumble of the Impala sounded again that same evening, and Nell looked up from her work on Kevin's notes to greet them as they returned.
"You're back earlier than I expected," she noted. Then, brow furrowing as Sam shut the door to the garage behind him, she added uncertainly, "Without Crowley?"
She left off the word 'again'. It seemed to be a pattern that whenever the Winchesters let Crowley out of the dungeon for what was meant to be a short trip, the demon inevitably escaped.
"Yeah, or the Blade," Sam said bitterly.
"Sinclair wouldn't give it to you?" Nell guessed. She had thought Sam and Dean would simply take the thing if the man didn't surrender it willingly, but his file had called him a Spell Master. Perhaps they simply weren't able.
"Oh, we got it from him," Dean said. His eyes were dark, and Nell was very grateful that he was keeping a good distance. "But Crowley ran off with it. Said he'd give it back to us when he's found Abaddon."
There was an unspoken but clearly visible frustration in both of them. "What happened? Everything, from the beginning."
In clipped tones, Sam described Crowley leading them to the location of Sinclair's home and providing the ingredients to enter by spell. Then he described his and Dean's confrontation with Cuthbert Sinclair, and the fact that the man had not only not been willing to give them the blade, but had tried to brainwash and kidnap Dean in order to have 'the full set.' Sinclair had kicked Sam out of his home, and Crowley had helped Sam re-enter and distract Sinclair long enough for Dean to kill the man with the First Blade.
It was a crazy story, certainly, but nothing that quite matched the tension dripping off the two brothers, nor explained why Crowley had run off with the First Blade.
"And while we were in there, Abaddon's friggin' demons keyed my car," Dean growled. Nell did not envy the demons who did it, if they ever ran into Dean Winchester with a weapon in his hands. "Some warning, meant for Crowley."
"And then Crowley took off with the Blade," Sam finished, looking frustrated. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "I guess he realized we had no more reason not to kill him once we had it."
Nell felt like she'd been stabbed in the gut. She wheezed a little, then rasped, "What?"
Sam looked confused at the question, and himself asked, "What?"
"I thought—" Nell swallowed. She absently noticed that her hand was clutching her middle in a protective gesture, like the wound truly was physical and she was literally holding herself together. "He was helping you. He's the only reason you found the Blade in the first place. He helped get the angel out of you. And you want to kill him?"
Sam shook his head, then spoke in the tone one might use to explain something to a small child. "Just because he's been helpful lately doesn't make up for everything he's done. He's still Crowley."
"Is he?" Nell murmured doubtfully, more to herself than to Sam. She felt sick.
Nell wasn't sure if Sam heard her words, but his face darkened with disapproval anyway. "And speaking of Crowley—don't think we didn't notice those old bite marks on his neck."
Dean apparently had not noticed them, because he jerked upright in surprise, looking at Sam for confirmation. When Sam nodded, Dean folded his arms and glared at her. "Demon blood?! Seriously, Nell? You read the stupid books—you know what that does!"
"I know what it does to Sam," Nell bit back, not feeling charitable enough to pull punches. Sam flinched and looked away, but Dean was unaffected.
"What, and you think you're special?"
"What did you want me to do?" Nell asked impatiently. "Even if I could have stopped myself, it was Crowley or humans! Wouldn't you rather I drank from a demon than a human?"
"So you admit you were out of control," Dean said triumphantly. Nell nearly growled at him.
"Of course I was out of control, I was kidnapped! Nothing about the situation was in my control!"
"Bullshit," Dean said harshly. "Crowley was hopped up on human blood, he's nowhere near the top of his game. If you really wanted to get away you could have."
Nell was careful not to show on her face how true that was. But it hadn't been, at least at first, and it wasn't true in the way Dean was insinuating—that Nell could have escaped from Crowley if he had truly wanted to keep her there.
"He wasn't so far gone that he didn't threaten to hurt my family when I tried to leave," Nell said, voice deadly quiet.
Dean froze. Nell wasn't sure if he was more surprised by the words, or the reminder that Nell did indeed have living family that mattered to her outside of the Winchesters.
"So what would you have had me do, Dean? Leave anyway? Be dragged back by my hair and watch demons torture my parents, my brother, my niece and nephew, because what I am—what you made me into—offends your misguided moral sensibilities?"
Dean said nothing. Atop his folded arms Nell could see that his clenched knuckles were white. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were unyielding. To Nell, the stubborn silence felt not unlike a slap to the face.
"I think it's time I left," Nell realized aloud.
"What?" Dean blinked, and his eyes cleared some—but not all the way. There was still the lingering anger, and rage, and darkness.
"Nell—no, come on," Sam said, eyes wide and appealing. Nell shook her head, glancing around.
"I think I've gotten everything I can out of this library, anyway."
"Nell—" Sam said again, stepping forward. Nell held up a hand, and he halted.
"Don't, Sam." Nell swallowed heavily. Eyes burning, she confessed in a whisper, "I don't feel safe here anymore."
Sam opened his mouth, looking horribly wounded. Dean put a heavy hand on his arm. "She's right, Sam," Dean said, tone final. "It's time for her to go."
It took Nell less than half an hour to pack up her things. The task that took the longest was putting Kevin's notes in a box to take with her, unwilling as she was to lose any progress by getting the papers out of order.
Dean had retreated to his bedroom, and Sam had followed to argue with him in low voices, as if that would prevent her from hearing him. Nell was determinedly ignoring their conversation as best as she was able when Kevin's spirit manifested.
"Hey." Kevin leaned on the table, inasmuch as an insubstantial spirit could lean on a table.
"Hey." Nell paused in her packing, looking at him warily, unsure if she would get a lecture from him about leaving, or about expressing even the slightest sympathy for Crowley.
But Kevin didn't lecture her. He simply said, "Since you're leaving… would you take me to my mom?"
Nell blinked. She didn't know how that was possible, but she figured it must be if Kevin was bothering to ask her. "How?"
"There's a ring, in the nightstand," Kevin nodded in the direction of his old bedroom, and followed when Nell walked down the hall. Opening the door to the room unleashed a wave of emotions, and she quickly swallowed them down.
"It used to be my dad's. I figure without my body, that'll be the object my soul is tethered to," Kevin explained. Nell pulled open the drawer of the nightstand and rummaged around, then pulled out what appeared to be an old class ring. "Yeah, that's it. Could you bring it to her?"
"Of course." Nell thought nothing of making the promise. She didn't know how she would find Kevin's mother, or how she would explain that she was giving her an object with her dead son's soul tethered to it, but she would worry about that later. For now, Nell strung the ring to hang on the silver chain that hung around her throat, where it came to rest next to the old heart-shaped locket that her mother had given her on her thirteenth birthday, emblazoned with a stylized M, for McNamara.
Kevin smiled in gratitude, then vanished as Nell tucked the ring and locket back beneath the neckline of her sweater.
Sam was sitting on the hood of Nell's car when she finally made it to the garage. Nell halted a few feet away, waiting for Sam to try to persuade her to stay, or start another argument. He didn't. He just gave her a long, searching, mournful look.
"Goodbye, Sam." It did sting a little that Nell couldn't say farewell to Dean, but it was probably better for everyone that they weren't in the same room together. Not with the argument, and not with the Mark.
"Goodbye for now," Sam said firmly. He rose off the hood of Nell's car, straightening to his full, unreasonable height. "You'll always be welcome here, Nell." Sam hesitated, then added, "You're family."
Nell huffed a disbelieving breath. "Even now?"
"Especially now," Sam said, smiling a little bitterly. "Fighting about drinking demon blood? Getting into stuff we don't understand? Consorting with demons? Face it: you're a Winchester."
Nell was fiercely glad that she could not blush, because otherwise she was sure Sam could determine just what kind of consorting she had done with Crowley. Then Sam coughed, and Nell feared for a second that he'd guessed anyway.
"And speaking of demons… I, uh, took the liberty of putting some supplies in your car, just in case. Salt, holy water... that sort of thing."
Nell doubted she'd need it, but she appreciated the gesture. "Thank you, Sam."
Sam nodded in acknowledgment, looking relieved. Then, more command than request, he said, "Call us if you run into any trouble, alright?"
Nell had learned that the amount of trouble she was in at any given moment was often directly proportional to how close she was to the Winchesters, and so she settled on a half-promise.
"I'll call you."
