He doesn't let up on Harper for two days straight.
He doesn't get tired. Why would he? She does, though, and she even does a little sleeping—when he tells her to.
He doesn't know what happened, or when, or why, but he ain't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and it's like a switch has been flipped. He can control or at least influence more than he can even think of, he's sure. He can tell her to sleep, to speak, to shut up, even to feel pain when he's not doing a thing to her. The success rate isn't even fifty percent, but he's starting to get it, he really is.
Finally deciding it's time for a break around dusk on the second day, he drives an hour to a five star rated club to have himself a good time. He most definitely plans on killing somebody by the end of the night—he's been getting pretty antsy—but he wants to be careful, because he really is enjoying Emery's body. Can't have the accompanying face plastered all over the local news.
Problem is, as soon as he walks through the door, beyond all the flashing multicolored lights and rave music and drunk people dancing, his eyes immediately land on the one face that stands out among all the rest of them.
The man locks eyes with him, and they stay still, separated by thirty feet and lots of tables and chairs occupied by people of varying degrees of intoxication.
Dean sighs, and walks right back out the door, circling around the building to the alleyway next to it. There goes the whole night. At least he'll get to kick someone's ass, even if he doesn't succeed in actually killing the guy.
The man has come to stand before him with such purpose that, even though he knows it's beyond stupid to blow his own cover, the question slips out: "The King send you?"
The man scoffs. "'King.' If you're referring to the glorified crossroads demon currently sitting on the throne of hell, no." He shudders, as if appalled by the very thought. "He is no king of mine."
Dean tilts his head. That's good, he supposes. He's got no way to kill this thing—or at least, if he has, he hasn't figured it out yet—and if they share a mutual repulsion towards Crowley, that's not a bad start to an amicable meeting.
The man glances up at him, examining him closely. Dean is, not for the first time, absolutely fascinated by the way his real face manifests over that of his host—like a pale orange mask resembling a beaten, scratched skull covered by scraps of charred flesh. The bone structure is a facsimile of that of his true body, however many hundreds of years it's been dead and buried. What he sees of demons' "true" faces are a superficial glimpse into a life long forgotten, and they're one of the most gruesome things Dean has ever seen in his long life of living nightmares, but somehow that doesn't bother him anymore. Which is good, because his own face now appears as something very similar.
This demon turns his stolen face towards Dean's, looking rather stoic as he says, "You're Dean Winchester."
It's not a question. Dean steps back, ready to start throwing punches. "How do you know that?" No point in denying it.
"I wouldn't expect you to remember. I saw you, several times, back when you were learning from Alistair. I sometimes worked alongside him, usually just delivered messages to him though. I remember you very well. You remember hell?"
Dean thinks he has some questions, and he opens his mouth, but the demon barrels on without giving him time to formulate one: "I mean, the real hell. What it once was." The man shakes his head. "Of course you remember. It was… well, it was hell. Blood and rotting flesh everywhere, rattling chains, nonstop screams, no upkeep, only the very best torturers doing their work, a never-ending lightning storm, torture chambers miles deep for each individual soul. The very air you breathed was laced with fear. It was properly agonizing and terrifying. I don't make a habit of visiting home, but I've been there once recently, and…" He shakes his head. "He hasn't the faintest idea how to rule. It's a dank old dungeon. Souls get packed into cells and forgotten. They can speak to each other, they can reminisce about the glory days. I've even heard that it's possible to escape now. How many hundreds of additional years must it take for the 'let them lie' method to warp a human soul into… into us? I suspect it would never even happen. There may never again be any new demons."
Dean cocks his head yet again, wondering. He remembers. Of course he does. He never could forget. He got off easy—forty years of that torment seems like a very small price to pay when he takes into account his numbness to all earthly pain, his indefinite lifespan, the power he can feel coursing through him with every breath. But this demon, whoever he is, became what he is now after countless centuries, maybe millennia, of being torn apart. Of what he couldn't handle thirty years of, before he…
Anyway. What he doesn't quite get is… why should this demon care? He's done his time, and no changes that Crowley makes now will make any kind of difference. It's over for him. He is left to prowl about the world causing fear and havoc and sin. Exorcisms notwithstanding, he never has to be anywhere near hell again.
You're a demon, Dean. Think like one.
Of course.
It's pettiness. A sort of pettiness that runs very deep, but pettiness all the same. If a kid consistently gets grounded and sent to bed without any dinner for speaking disrespectfully to his parents, and then years later has a stepfamily with a younger sibling who continually does the same thing only to be met with light scolding, he will lament the days gone by where there was actual discipline and order in the household. He will fume over the injustice of it all and miss the parent who actually had the spine to raise the kids right.
"You want a regime change, is what you're saying," he ventures to the demon.
He looks sidelong at Dean, narrowing his eyes.
"Totally not interested in the position," Dean clarifies, and he couldn't be more sincere. "Just asking."
Slowly the demon nods. "Yes. I want the fear returned to hell. I want things as they were. Crowley has proven himself to be utterly unfit for the crown."
"What did you think of Abaddon?"
He shrugs. "I was ambivalent, but if she'd won and shown herself to be a competent ruler, I would have followed her."
Loyal to the country but not to the king, nor any ruler in particular, unless they prove themselves worthy of the country. Interesting. "Got any details from when you were down there? Weaknesses, specifically?"
Once again the demon looks at him askance. "Why?"
"Look," and he leans in closer, "you obviously feel very strongly about this, and I ain't gonna tell you I share your passion, but I think we are in agreement in not liking Crowley very much. Me, it's because he took something of mine. Problem is, he hid it, probably very well, and I very much doubt he's told anyone else where it is. I have no plan for getting it back, but I need it. So all I can do right now is gather information. So I tell you what: if you help me get it back, I will kill him. Guarantee it. I have no idea who will take the throne after that, but Crowley will be gone. That much I promise you."
The demon is interested. He's not bothering to hide it. He's weighing his options now, wondering if he really has anything to lose from this deal. Dean watches him, waiting for him to realize that he doesn't.
Finally, the man leans forward, and says in hushed tones, even though they're the only ones standing in a dark alley, "You're not gonna believe this, but… the King is currently having some mommy issues."
Dean blinks. And blinks again. "…Pardon?"
"His mother, this Scottish witch called Rowena. She turned up not too long ago and apparently she's been whispering in his ears ever since. She claims to love him and he almost seems affected by that. But most demons seem to agree that she's just a manipulative bitch. It's very like that king of ours to be swayed by such a thing, isn't it?"
Dean is still trying to work through the initial whammy this news presented. "Crowley's… mother… is still around?"
"Yeah. It's weird. And unfortunate for everyone involved. But there you go—probably his biggest weak point right now."
"Um." Dean releases a chuckle of disbelief. "Ten outta ten for the surprise factor."
"Hopefully it's also useful to you. Do with the information what you will." The demon regards him. "It's been interesting to see you again, Dean. Take care. At least till you can take out the king. After that, honestly you can do whatever the hell you want."
Dean lets him walk off down the dark alley, disappearing quickly into the shadows. He's not sure why. The night on the town effectively ruined, he gets into the Impala and starts back towards the shed he's called home these last several days, spending the whole drive in contemplative silence, not even turning on the radio for a little background noise.
Once he arrives back, he finds the chair where Harper's spent the past half-week empty, cut ropes lying haphazardly on the ground around it.