Well… apologies for the long silence, all. I've been… trying to pull my life together. Things are going a lot better now, but expect updates from here on in to be erratic. I don't want to promise you guys anything I can't be sure I can come through on.

"I'm not certain I follow," says Rowena dubiously. "Instead of a location spell for the object you want, you'd rather one for… my son's bones?"

Every two seconds he tells himself, surely there was a better way, a safer way, to do this. But even if there was, it's way past the time he could've done anything about it. As it happens now… he has an update for Rowena's proposal that he's not willing to go forward without.

No way is he giving her a way to track the Blade. That damn locating spell is still out there—as far as he knows, Cain and Sam and Crowley and everyone in between know exactly where he is. They could all be on his ass shortly after he's back topside. He does not need this witch knowing too.

But at the same time, no way is he letting anyone take the Blade away from him again.

"Can you do it?" he says by way of answer.

"Of course," she sniffs, slightly indignant. "It would be significantly simpler in fact. I was near them often when he was alive, of course, at least when he was a wee one, and if they're still where he was initially buried I can even narrow it down to a small plot of land without any magic at all. But how easy it is isn't the issue. Why would you want that?"

He considers how to answer for a moment, and presently decides it's probably best to just be straightforward. "I don't want you being able to track me later on," he says frankly. "This way—"

"But why would you want the bones at all?" she interrupts, beginning to get visibly frustrated. "How could having them benefit you?"

He blinks at her for a moment, slowly realizing. "You… you haven't been around demons much, have you?" If he's being honest, it was years of demon experience on his part before he knew about this little trick. He spends a little longer this time deciding whether to be straightforward. If he knew he could effectively lie, that would absolutely be his best bet. She wants Crowley alive, even unharmed, and if he shares this plan with her…

You're a demon now, Dean.

What do demons do?

They lie.

"Here's the thing," he finds himself saying. "The strength of a demon is pretty directly tied to their bones. The more intact they are, the better for the demon. Take me, for example. I'm a brand new demon, and a very powerful one. Crowley may've mentioned one or both of those things to you. Whereas a demon whose bones have completely rotted away would be pretty frail, at least by comparison. So they prefer to not give hints as to their bones' location, because if they end up getting burned they lose a lot of their mojo. I'm almost positive Crowley will trade what he stole from me for his bones back."

It's just close enough to the truth to be plausible. The part with using himself as an example was a nice touch, and he gives himself a quick mental pat on the back for it.

By her expression is obvious she's buying it hook, line, and sinker. "File that away for later," she murmurs, and for a few long moments just looks at him, considering. He tries to appear as innocent as possible, given the circumstances. In the lull, though, the fire burning at his core flares up again, reminding him of where he is, and though he manages to withhold the urge to clutch at his chest, a ghost of a grimace crosses his features. Of course, she asks, voice casually unconcerned, "You okay there?"

"Peachy," he deadpans. "So, thoughts on the new terms and service agreement?"

She purses her lips, tilting her head to consider him. Finally, she says only, "I don't like it."

He places his hands together in a praying position, and the irony of the gesture is not lost on him. "Look. I can kill demons, no problem. It wouldn't make sense for me to lie about any of this if I already have that ability. Some hurting may occur. But I'm not going to kill him, because then he couldn't get me what I want."

She stares at him through narrowed eyes.

"You want me to prove it to you? I'll happily do that—killing is one of my favorite pastimes." He has to refocus the dialogue on what she wants out of this. "In the length of time it takes to prepare that spell, I will have Crowley crawling back to you."

She seems to make a split second decision, and her hand goes up right in front of his face, fingers dancing gracefully directly in his line of sight as she murmurs, "Oculi tui, oculi mei."

He grabs her wrist, holding it firmly in place, but it's too late. His eyes feel… weird. Tingly. He blinks several times, and snarls, "What the hell did you just do?"

She smiles and replies sweetly, "I'll be keeping an eye. Prove to me you can kill demons on your own, and then we'll be in business. Understood?"

His brows knit together. "Are you gonna stay here?"

"No, no reason to let my son know we've had this conversation. I sometimes take strolls through the archives below; I'll be there. But don't worry, darling—when you kill, I'll know." Again she puts on a saccharine smile and drawls softly, dangerously, "Now release me."

He doesn't want to. Just out of habit. Of spite. Why should he listen to her?

Well… because he needs her help. And as far as he can tell, everything's sorted. No reason to make her angry.

So he lets go of her hand, and she smooths down her dress, smiles one last time, and turns on her heel to exit the room and leave him standing alone.

Crowley cannot remember a time in his existence when he's had to go through every single day as on edge as he has been of late.

The Winchesters have always… intrigued him. Since shortly after they first came to him for the Colt for the purpose of unloading it into the devil himself, it was clear that they were utterly, ludicrously devoted to doing the "right thing," at every cost to themselves—though not to each other. And that last part has been their downfall, and his headache, each and every bloody time.

So it shouldn't be surprising that now that Dean is in the wind, transformed into something not remotely similar to himself, Sam is so distracted he's turned into a massive screwup in every area he used to be capable. Dean's always been Crowley's favorite, and for a few fleeting weeks, he was on his side, under his thumb. He had such plans, such visions for the two of them. Ruling hell together for all eternity. For the first time in longer than he could remember, possibly his whole existence, he'd felt genuine friendship towards another person—or at least being—and had actual hope that a friendship could indeed form.

But this new Dean was violent, impulsive, and completely uncontrollable, and as much as Crowley wanted to forgive that, he'd simply crossed too many lines. He'd returned him to be changed back into the old Dean, and gone about his life, wishing things could've been different.

Only for Sam to fall short. And now they can't. Seem to. Bring Dean. Back.

Like a fool, he relied on Sam to get the job done. But he couldn't hack it, leaving the job of hunting down Dean bloody Winchester up to Crowley.

He's never been so frustrated. He hasn't relaxed in weeks. And he is more pissed off with the two of them than words can tell.

But when he walks into his throne room alongside three of his underlings to find none other than Dean Winchester himself standing in the middle of the floor, he forgets how to move, how to think. He stands frozen in place, staring at Dean, just trying to process this utterly absurd turn of events and everything it implies.

He looks just like he did during those three weeks they spent hitting all the bars in Beulah—hair fluffed up, jaw set, eyes dark. At least at first glance. As Crowley looks deeper, he is ashamed to realize there's a gnawing terror growing within him. There is something inside Dean that's never been there before. Something dark, and cold, and utterly unlike anything he was before, and the worst part?

He's smiling.

Crowley tries to play it cool. Swallows quietly. Finally gathers the will to ask hoarsely, "How are you here?"

Dean's smile grows, taking on a wry quality. "Exorcism's a bitch."

He shakes his head, and flatly commands his underlings, "Seize him."

They hesitate. Clearly they can see his power too. But one quickly gathers the courage to rush at him, and the other two are emboldened to follow suit.

Crowley stands and watches as Dean spends all of one second concentrating on his hands with his fingers woven together, before pushing his palms outward and releasing a shockwave of power that drops all three of his minions like flies to the ground, shakes the stone foundations of the throne room, and pushes Crowley backwards onto his back. He lies there, winded, his mind blank, feeling the depth of that power as an aftertaste in his mouth. And shortly, Dean appears above him. Standing tall and smirking down at him.

The first thing Crowley thinks to ask, before even sitting up, is "What the hell happened to you?"

He shrugs. "Practice. Time to think. Get up and have a seat, I've got some things to say and I don't want to talk to the floor." He steps away, exiting Crowley's line of sight. Crowley immediately sits up, but Dean's just pacing, stepping casually over the bodies on the dusty floor. He catches Crowley's eye and gestures towards the throne.

Crowley quickly pulls himself to his feet, but spends a few seconds just standing still. Something's missing here. Isn't… isn't Mother usually hanging around in here? If not in the throne room, in one of the adjacent chambers?

Dean's stopped moving, and is watching him closely. "Have you seen anyone else in here?" he asks.

Dean tilts his head. "In hell? It's pretty busy down here."

Crowley scowls. "In this room or any of the adjacent ones. Smartarse." He pauses. "How did you even find this place from the cells?"

He grins. "No. Not till you and your lackies." He gestures again towards the throne. "Sit down."

Crowley finally manages to bat away the majority of his nervousness—Dean doesn't seem to want to hurt him. He crosses his arms, standing his ground. "If you've got something to say to me, say it."

Dean shrugs. "Fine. In a few words: I've been giving it a lot of thought, and time moves slowly. Painfully slowly. Nobody really likes you, so odds are someone's going to off you in the near future and I'll have lost my chance. The one thing you're good at? You're a businessman. Whatever plan you had for the two of us, the 'perfect hell'? I want to hear about it."

Crowley didn't follow that, not at all. A deep crease forms in his forehead, and he tilts his head in a highly dubious gesture. "Last time I tried pitching it to you you were as far from interested as it gets. What's changed?"

Again he shrugs. "I stopped partying. Scratched the surface of what I'm truly capable of. And I'm ready to be all I can be. I'm the new Cain—but bigger and better."

"You've got some balls on you, Squirrel. How are you bigger and better?"

"Because," he says simply, "he was born out of love for his brother. I was born out of revenge."

Crowley considers him for a long moment, and a thought suddenly occurs to him. "Are you the one who burned the suicide palms?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The trees. For the locating—" He stops, but he can tell by Dean's face he's already said too much. "Never mind."

Dean cocks his head. "So, are we good?"

"I still haven't heard an apology for the way we parted," Crowley tries.

"And you're damn well not gonna. You need me. But that's all right, because I need you. You wanna be safe from your inevitable assassination coming up in a few years? Let me in on your plans. And we can bring this craphole you call hell back to its former glory, and then even better. We can create hell on earth. And it will be better than anything you've ever dreamed of."

Crowley has to admit everything after "I need you" came in something of a blur.

I need you.

He doesn't think anyone has ever said that to him.

He was comfortable in his bitterness and anger towards Dean, but he couldn't make himself hate him. He was the only one… well, he was just the only one. The only one who Crowley felt comfortable around, familiar with, understood by. But he walked out the door, and Crowley could find no cause that day to believe he'd have any regrets. Isn't this sudden change of heart far too good to be true?

You need me. I need you.

And it's true, isn't it?

Suddenly, Crowley sees a future.

"Fine," he hears himself say, though as he fixes his eyes back on the creature before him, he sees something flash in his eyes, and he is reminded of how much has changed. "One last chance. We've got a great deal to discuss, Squirrel."

He holds up a finger. "Just one thing. That's gotta go. None of this cutesy nickname crap. You're going cold turkey."

He can work with that, honestly, because the use of the nickname just now felt unnatural when applied to the version of Dean standing in front of him. Even calling him "Dean" feels wrong. Which is strange, because physically, he does look like Dean, but in every other way he's unrecognizable. This creature is something entirely new. "You're not Dean Winchester," Crowley says softly. "Dean Winchester died at the hands of Metatron months ago. You're something else."

He crosses his arms, nodding thoughtfully. "You're right," he agrees, and seems to slip into deep consideration for a long moment before saying decisively, "Call me Emery."