Going to talk with the King of Hell is bound to make anyone a bit apprehensive. But it certainly helps when he's already chained up in your dungeon. To alter the dynamics of the bargaining power, if nothing else.

Crowley had been sitting in the dark for quite some time now, alone with his thoughts. He was used to torture methods. Of course he was. You don't become King of Hell just on your natural good looks and dress sense. And as torture went, this was actually fairly pathetic. Leaving people to their own devices only really worked when it was to let them psych themselves out, imagining the pain that was to come, effectively doing half the work for you. Not a bad technique, but it needed follow-through. And really, it worked best when the person was given time to reflect on himself. Cut off all outside communication and interaction, watch them squirm into reflection and self-loathing. This wasn't exactly a problem for Crowley. He didn't go much in for introspection, and he thought very well of himself.

This is to say, this normally wasn't a problem for Crowley.

He blamed it on the dungeon. All these symbols carved in stone and metal and will and blood; there must have been something in them making this creeping uneasiness inside. Making him think about himself. Really think. About his words and deeds. About the very concept of evil and forgiveness. They must have done something, made this place project those feelings, because it certainly couldn't have been coming from him. Probably a special torture designed specifically for demons and other supernatural entities. That had to be a part of it.

He blamed the mostly-completed cleansing ritual. "Cure a demon." Sure. Cure him of his balls. Get inside his head with their chanting and their hallowed ground and bloody needles, trying to Clockwork Orange him, were they? Well it wasn't going to work. Who the hell did they think they were dealing with? This little chemical dependency they'd tried to create, with the purified blood, might make him a little antsy, might give him a little craving, but it wasn't going to really change him.

But who Crowley really blamed? The ones at the source of all this? Those lumbering, gun-toting, Latin-spewing, mutton-headed, plaid-wrapped…

"Winchesters," Crowley said as the lights came on. He blinked against the glare, adjusting himself in the chair so that his chains rattled a bit. "Or, rather, Winchester. Where's Squirrel, Moose?"

For his part, Sam did not look in a jesting mood. He'd come alone. Meg's resurrection seemed like an unnecessary complication to this conversation. Likewise, Crowley's old business-relations-turned-sour with Cas might make the demon obstinate. To say nothing of Kevin, who at once could still be easily goaded by the memory of his mother, and who was also already serving a useful function on the research front. Charlie, meanwhile, was making significant progress with the weird-ar. That just left Sam. Tired, worried out of his mind, just done with this whole situation before he'd even stepped in the room.

He crossed immediately to the metal table Crowley was sitting at, putting his palms down flat on the surface and leaning over it. You forget, interacting with him, that he holds the potential for menace. Sam's personality and big cow eyes tended to win people over, make them forget that he was about six and a half feet of muscle and resolve, with the cunning to back it up. When and if Sam ever cared to, he could be intimidating with very little effort.

Not that Crowley could be intimidated.

"You have information."

"Getting right into the quick and dirty, is it? Not even gonna lube me up before you stick it in?"

"I need a spell, Crowley."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "I missed the part where that's my problem."

"It's your problem, now. And you'd better hope you have a solution for this, because it's your ass on the line, now."

"Someone putting the heat on you?" He watched Sam's jaw clench. So that was a 'yes.' Crowley leaned to look around Sam, saying, "Where's your brother? Thought you two liked to double-team your interrogations."

"He's busy," Sam snapped. "I need a spell that can keep a powerful demon immobilized. I mean at least as powerful as a devil's trap, but without all the prep time."

Crowley leaned forward. "Screw yourself, Moose. What's in it for me?"

"How about your continued existence?"

"My, something's got your antlers in a bramble. A powerful demon? Let me guess: Abaddon found a new meatsuit after you roasted her last one. Well, she does keep you on your toes, doesn't she. Certainly likes to grab you by the short and curlies. Still don't see how that's something I would care about. See, I know you're not going to kill me, so that threat's useless." He rattled his chains again. "Need to give a little to get a little. Quid pro quo, Clarice."

Sam straightened, slowly, and walked around the table so that he stood over Crowley. Nope. Definitely not intimidating. Not even with the unnerving silence, the heavy sound of his shoe, or the demon-knife he was pulling out. But there was something kind of… not right about all this. Since when had Sam become so cold? There was kind of an odd feeling about him in general. Some strange vibration on the air, a feeling of electricity, a taste in the back of the throat like burning ozone. It was subtle, barely perceptible, probably only a higher-level supernatural being like himself would even notice it. But it nagged at Crowley, reminding him of something he couldn't quite place. It only got stronger with proximity, damn near stinging with that giant Moose standing over him. Crowley refused to crane his neck up to look at him, instead purposefully keeping facing ahead.

Exactly what Sam would have done isn't clear, because right then his phone rang. Crowley would never admit to the little bit of relief he felt at that moment.

"You gonna answer that?"

Sam glared, muttering, "We're not through," as he walked back out of the dungeon to speak in private. He left the light on, at least, only pulling the door shut behind him.

He didn't recognize the number, but there weren't many people that had his cell, so it was probably important. This business with Crowley was pretty pressing, but he needed a minute to cool off, anyway—he was getting pretty unreasonably upset for some reason. His heart-rate was up; he was even sweating a little. Too little sleep, too much crap all at once, to deal with that smarmy little dick right now, maybe. So he answered his phone. "Hello…?"

"Hiya, Sammy!"

His brother's voice. Sam felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. It seemed to burn right through him, radiating up into his head. "Abaddon," he snarled.

"Dean's here too, kiddo." A laugh. It felt like it was ripping through Sam's ear, severing all link to reason and leaving only fury. His chest clenched. He was surprised he hadn't broken the phone in his grip. "Boy is he in here. We've been having a grand old time. You should see where we are right now, Sammy. It's freakin' beautiful. It's like Hell all over again."

"If you hurt him…"

"Aw, you gotta relax, man. I like this meatsuit. Getting all comfy in it. Feeling out the corners, the dark little spaces, really getting in the groove of wearing your brother around for the next few centuries. There's so much to play with in here. And oh, he is keeping something from you. I don't know what it is, yet, but it must be a doozy. He's got his little claws wrapped tight around it. But I've got all the time in the world to tease it out of him. That is… unless you feel like bargaining now?"

"You want Crowley," Sam stated, uneasily eyeing the dungeon door.

"You got it, buddy. I know where you are. I know where you're keeping him."

"Yeah, clearly. You know, your little assassination attempt didn't work either. Meg's dead." A blatant lie, but he figured he owed it to her to let her have to option to disappear quietly when all this was done. At least now Abaddon wouldn't be on her ass for backstabbing.

"Aw, that's a shame. I'm all broken up about it. Guess that just leaves you and me and the devil makes three. What do you say, Sammy? I'll name the place, you know the price. Hand him over and maybe I'll kill you both quick."

Well that was certainly a tempting offer. She wasn't much of one for negotiations, was she?

"I want to talk to my brother. I want to know you h-haven't been snapping pieces off of him."

"If that's what it takes…" There was a pause. And when Dean's voice returned it was quieter, but rougher. Like he'd been screaming for days. It just about tore Sam's heart out to hear his brother's voice cracking over the words, "Hey, Sammy."

"Dean. How… how is it?"

"…Look, I don't have long. Just… don't do anything stupid. Don't make any deals with her. And… don't try to save me."

"Dean, come on—"

"I mean it, Sammy." There was no vehemence to his voice. No power. "You find a shot, you take it. Put her down. I'm… sorry it ended this way, man, but it's not exactly a shocker. We both knew it could come down to this, one of these days. It's the job."

"Stop it. I don't believe that. There's always a way."

"Not this time. Look… Sam, there's something I gotta tell you. And I'm… so sorry. I th-think I screwed up. I didn't think it through. I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have done this to you. I'm not sure I really understood until now. And I guess this is my comeuppance, huh? Well, it's a real kick in the pants."

"What're you talking about?"

"Sammy, I'm sorry… Damn it no," he suddenly hissed, the first color of emotion coming back into his dead voice. "Sh-she's… Sam, she's in Lebanon! Do what you have to, nuke the place, just don't let her get away. I c-can't… Sam!"

"Dean!" he yelled into the phone, pressing it tight enough to his ear to hurt, searching for the sound of his brother's voice. "Dean?"

"Well, that was lively. Now we all know where we stand, I guess." The tone turned hard. He could hear her walking around in his brother's body. It sounded like the crunch of broken glass. Where were they? In one of the diners in town? The grocery store where he'd taken Cas just the other day? Somebody's house? It made Sam sick that there was so much evil so nearby, all those people he should have been protecting.

"I'm gonna give you an hour to think it over, Sam, and then I'll text you the coordinates. Just like Dad used to do."

It was faint, but Sam could hear the sound of a quiet whimper on the other side of the phone. Somebody was there with her.

"I'll be at those coordinates. If you don't show up in half an hour, I'm gonna take this sweet ride and just ease on down the road for a few months. You won't catch up again until I want you to. And all the while he'll be in here with me. You heard him. How much more of this you think he'll be able to take?"

Sam heard a sharp, pained gasp. A woman's voice whimpering. No. Please. No more. Not again. Not again. Please. A mantra against the monsters. And there, Dean's voice gently shushing her. More crunching glass. A low, quiet laugh.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sammy," Abaddon promised, the call cutting out just as the woman began to scream.

Sam was shaking. He wasn't sure if he wanted to put his fist or his head through the wall, but he needed to let this out somehow. He scrubbed at his eyes, trying to regain control. But there was nothing. He had nothing.

No. That wasn't quite true. Crowley. Crowley was going to play ball whether he liked it or not. The hour was ticking away. There was no time.

Crowley noticed the change the minute Sam walked in the room. There was a newfound sense of urgency about him, and his eyes were red. Maybe now wasn't the best time to goad him. "Important phone call?" the demon asked, lightly.

"Do you have a spell or not? Because if you don't, I'm just going to hand you over to Abaddon."

Well that was startling news. She must really be holding something over them. Crowley shifted uncomfortably, considering his options. There was only one thing that put the Winchesters' backs against the wall like this, and judging from the fact Dean-o was still MIA, it wasn't hard to figure out what the pressure point here was. It would be in Crowley's best interest not to end up as Abaddon's chew-toy, if at all possible.

"I know a spell. Only works on demons. Won't immobilize 'em, but it should cut off their psychic juice for a little while. No more slinging you meatheads against the wall. Fairly simple spell, just takes a bit of wax, some salt, and the right incantation. But, here's the kicker: I also need blood. Specifically, their blood, or the blood of the poor sap they're wearing. Doesn't have to be fresh, just has to be theirs."

"That won't be a problem," Sam dismissed it. God knows there was enough of his brother's dried blood on clothes and weapons around here. "I'll get you what you need. How long will—"

Sam felt very dizzy, suddenly. Disoriented. The room seemed to move a little. His ears were ringing. Crowley was staring at him, looking almost… scared. Sam had a strange feeling he was missing something. Sleep. That was it. He was missing sleep. He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes, not wanting to seem weak in front of Crowley as he finished speaking.

"How long will it take?"

"Ten minutes. Tops."

Sam nodded, glancing at his watch. More time had passed than he'd thought. They needed to get a move on. "Wait right here. I'll be right back."

"Take your time," Crowley murmured to his back, watching him, curiously. "I'm not going anywhere."


This update took a little longer than usual. I'm back at school, so this will probably be more the norm.

Thank you guys for the feedback! I always appreciate it.