AN: Based on another throw-away statement in the Gauntlet story, from the very first chapter. (Jenjoremy , this is for you!)

Takes place shortly after season 12, episode 7, Rock Never Dies.

Janice was *scary* speedy getting this back to me for posting, so be sure to send her some virtual pie!

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Sam was already having a really bad day before the king of Hell showed up on his doorstep.

"Hey, Moose," Crowley said, ducking through the door before Sam could slam it in his face. "Family reunion?" He waved a hand toward the deer who were still gathering outside the bunker. Sam tried not to look, but he couldn't help but notice they'd increased in number. There had to be something like 100 of the creatures there now, all staring at the door.

Sam closed the door hastily. He might be reluctant to let Crowley inside, but he really didn't want to chase down any deer that managed to get inside. "What do you want? It isn't a good time."

"Tha mi a' mallachadh do bhuachaillean!" screeched a high-pitched voice from the depths of the bunker.

"Is that Dean cursing your cattle?" asked the demon, a delighted smile creeping across his face. "He doesn't really sound like himself, I have to say. What have you two gotten into now?"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. He was far too busy and tired and everything to deal with the demon. "I think he's been possessed by a glaistig. And Cas is a couple hours away, so I really need to figure this out before Dean really hurts himself."

Crowley put a hand to his chest. "I am here but to serve. Show me what happened."

"I got it. Now, did you need something or…?" Sam didn't even try to sound polite. He winced at the sound of a crash. Perhaps Sam should have locked Dean somewhere other than his bedroom. There might be nothing left of his things by the time Sam figured out the necessary exorcism or spell, in which case Dean would definitely kill him.

"I was only coming for some place to while away the time until I finish healing from our little run-in with Vince Vicente. I can't exactly show up in Hell looking like this." He looked better than he had the day prior after being beaten by the devil himself, but the bruises were still very visible. He held up a pink bag with the words Pâtisseries Parfaites in very curly letters on the side. "C'mon, Moose. Haven't I proved I can be a team player? Besides, if it is a glaistig, she will likely become unhinged at the sight of an angel." There was another crash. " More unhinged."

"Fine. Come in. I'll show you the scroll I touched that let her out." Sam grit his teeth as he said the words, hating to reveal that the current situation was entirely his fault. He also hated to admit that Crowley knew something he didn't, but his curiosity got the better of him. "Um, why would a glaistig hate an angel?"

Crowley put his bag in the refrigerator like he lived there. "There was a war between The Morrigan and her sisters versus Heaven. She didn't like playing second fiddle and made a play to take over the Earth. They were crushed, of course. The remnants still hate and fear angels." He spoke like he was giving a speech in a lecture hall. "Now show me this scroll and let Uncle Crowley help."

"Only if you never call yourself that in front of me again," Sam snarked, even as he led the way to the storage room where the whole fiasco had started. He had to admit that the guy had actually stepped up in the battle against Lucifer (even if it was motivated by his own self-interest) and having a bit of supernatural assistance might definitely help fix this situation quicker than he could on his own.

The gold-script scroll still lay on the table looking innocent. It was even still surrounded by the protective circle of sage, holy water, and agate stones. Except, of course, the corner that was over the edge of the circle ever since Dean had burst into the room, worried because Sam wasn't answering his texts. Sam, of course, had had sage in his pockets just in case the containment was compromised. Dean, of course, had not, as he'd had no idea what Sam was up to. Sam sighed quietly. He shouldn't have messed with the scroll at all, at least not without a whole lot more research. He shouldn't have done it without telling his brother. And he should have taken better precautions with an artifact that the Men of Letters deemed a danger level of seven on a scale of one to ten. (Although, they could be a bit dramatic with some of those classifications.)

Crowley leaned close to study the scroll, taking care not to touch anything.

"Go ahead, tell me I'm an idiot," Sam said after a pause. He already knew that, but he hadn't gotten any real sleep since their confrontation with Lucifer in the guise of Vince Vicente. Just knowing the fallen angel was running around the world wreaking gleeful havoc preyed on Sam's mind constantly. Desperation plus sleep deprivation had led him to a really rotten choice.

"Well, you certainly are a moron, but I think this is simply a case of a bad translation," Crowley said easily. "Let me guess – you understood it to say she could offer any one answer, right?"

Sam nodded. He'd hoped to ask for a location on Lucifer.

"This is old enough that it is probably using the older form of freagair, not meaning answer, but root, which in modern usage is freumh," the demon mused, which reminded Sam that Crowley had still been a humble tailor and fully human Fergus MacLeod living somewhere in Scotland around the time that the scroll had been written. "An understandable mistake." It was a borderline nice thing to say, which was almost as weird as Dean standing on a table and screaming out Gaelic curses at Sam twenty minutes earlier. Just another day of strangeness in the life of Sam Winchester.

"Okay, now what?" Sam asked. "Dean flipped out, screaming and running all over, and I'm pretty sure he's breaking everything in his bedroom now. We need to get the glaistig out of him ASAP."

"Too bad you didn't let her free outdoors," Crowley mused, standing. He strolled out of the room, and to his immense irritation, Sam found himself trailing along. "They are generally pretty benign spirits but can't stand to be inside walls. She probably would have granted you a boon for freeing her. I mean, it would be something like your cow would produce extra milk, but still. And she wouldn't have jumped into poor Squirrel, not as long as she could be around something with hooves." He looked around the trashed library as he poured himself some Scotch. "Oh, my."

A table lay on its side and there was a broken glass on the floor. A bunch of books had been thrown around too. Sam ignored the implied question in Crowley's statement. He didn't really want to relive ( or share) Dean's frantic crazy flight through the room, pelting Sam with books and screeching pejoratives Sam didn't understand.

"Well, that's nice, but I don't really want to bring Dean outside in case she runs instead of getting out of him. Or makes all those deer attack or something," Sam said, promising himself that he'd have some of the Scotch himself once this was all a not-so-funny memory.

"No, of course not." Crowley took a drink and rolled it around his mouth, his eyes going distant. "I remember a story from when I was a boy that a Green Maiden – a glaistig – could be calmed by the act of plaiting. Usually her hair."

"Oh, that's helpful, thanks," Sam said, unable to stop the sarcasm. "Except it's not, because Dean's hair isn't long enough to braid."

His dark eyes sparkling, Crowley gave Sam's hair a pointed look.

"Um, no," Sam snapped. "I had to tackle him and basically throw him into his room. If I got near him, he's more likely to pull my hair out than braid it."

Crowley snorted. "Could be fun if you're into that sort of thing."

He eyed what was undoubtedly a bruise growing on Sam's jaw. If anything, he'd downplayed just how difficult it had been to get Dean into his room. "What else do you have that would work? I can't convince her to come take a ride in my vessel until she calms down a little."

"You...can do that?" Sam asked cautiously.

Crowley preened. "Of course. Glaistig are harmless, and pretty reasonable, too. And who could resist this?"

Sam wasn't about to touch that statement, especially since Crowley seemed to be in a helpful mood. "Sure. Right. If you get her to move to you, then what? You eat her soul or something horrible?"

"What? No, Moose, you lout. I let her outside to gambol with her deer until time immemorial. What part of 'harmless' is so hard to understand?"

He sounded truly outraged, and Sam wondered if coming across something he'd heard stories of as a child had made the demon sentimental. And, he supposed, if she did cause problems, they could find a way to deal with her then. When she wasn't inside his brother.

"Okay. I think I know where there's some yarn…"

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Sam stood outside of Dean's bedroom door uncertainly. He was sure he'd gone a hunt with a more ridiculous plan at some point, but he couldn't remember exactly when.

"Well?" Crowley asked. In one hand he held a ballcap with a bunch of yarn glued to the inside and hanging down everywhere except under the brim, making it the most redneck version of a wig that Sam could imagine. In his other hand, he held a thick bundle of yarn that he'd braided the beginning of. "Getting cold hooves, Moose?"

"Sam. Three letters. I would've thought you could handle that," Sam answered, but his heart wasn't in the repartee. Dean had to have plenty of bruises and it was all Sam's fault. And, oh yeah, his best (only) plan to get Dean back depended on a demon and some yarn.

"Ready?" Crowley asked, then threw the door open without waiting for any answer.

Dean ran straight at them but instead of fighting him, Sam simply threw his arms around his brother, allowing Crowley to shut the door and shove the hat onto Dean's head, making him look like he had long, blue hair.

Sam let go and stepped back to put his back against the door and his hands up in a gesture of 'no harm intended.'

Dean eyed him suspiciously, stepped back out of reach, baring his teeth. He spit some words at Sam that made the corners of Crowley's mouth twitch. He tensed as if to attack, then his hands touched the yarn hanging over his shoulders and he paused.

"Sith dhuit a Mhaighdean Uanine," Crowley said calmly, taking a seat on the only chair that wasn't upended. He began to very competently braid the yarn he still held. Dean didn't answer, but his eyes followed the motions of Crowley's hands.

"Tha mi faicinn gu bheil do bhuachaille gu math. Am bu toil leat a bhith còmhla riutha?" Crowley continued in a soothing voice, still braiding.

Dean absently began to braid the yarn in the front of his right ear and a hint of 'holy crap, is this really going to work?' trickled through Sam. After a long moment, Dean took a seat on his bed facing Crowley and answered, suspicion in the voice that was still much higher than normal.

They talked for a good fifteen minutes, braiding the entire time. Sam stood still and tried to be invisible. Crowley had said it would be better if he wasn't in the room at all, but he wasn't about to leave Dean alone with Crowley when he wasn't in his right mind. A few times, they glanced at Sam, once laughing, and Sam decided he was glad that he didn't know what they were saying. He did kind of wonder what would happen if Dean ran out of "hair" to braid.

He was nearly out, neat blue braids most of the way around his head, when Dean abruptly stood and said, "Tá."

Just that fast, a white figure burst from his chest and disappeared into Crowley, who had quickly stood.

"There you go, darling. Isn't that better than that nasty Hunter?" Crowley said smugly, patting his chest as Sam jumped forward to catch a swaying Dean.

"What the?!" Dean demanded in his normal voice. "Why does it feel like I went a round with Tyson and why does my throat hurt? What is Crowley doing here? And what the hell is on my head?" He ripped the hat off, but his next words were lost when Sam engulfed him in a relieved hug.

Just then, the door to the room popped open to reveal a frazzled-looking Castiel. "Did you figure out what possessed Dean? Why are there so many deer outside? Are either of you hurt? I saw the library and – " He pulled up short at the sight in front of him. "And what is he doing here?"

"Sam, apparently sleep-deprived, invited a rather precocious lady out to play," Crowley said, grinning like the cat that got the cream. "She preferred Dean, until I showed up to save the day. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to give her the release these uncouth Neanderthals denied her for so long. And she isn't terribly fond of you, Feathers." He strode regally out of the room.

Dean's face darkened, and Sam would bet he was remembering the moment right before the possession and putting a few things together. "Sam, what did you do?"

Sam felt himself blush as Cas turned to look at him too. With them both staring like that, it was kind of like being in a spotlight. Sam cleared his throat guiltily. "You heard him say sleep-deprived, right?" he hedged. "And for the record, I didn't invite him. He just showed up. He seems to think he's 'part of the team' since we went after Lucifer together."

Dean's expression only darkened and he tightened his fists. "And what exactly did you summon or whatever?" He looked around the shambles of his room. "You better have a damn fine reason for not telling me what you were doing!"

"Oh, good, the violence hasn't started yet," Crowley said, appearing again. "I was afraid I missed it."

"Shut up, Crowley," said all three of the others in unison.

Crowley pouted. "Is that any way to talk to the guy who saved your asses and brought dessert? That's some gratitude!"

"Dean, you're almost certainly feeling so much aggression because of what the spirit was feeling," Cas said placatingly. "If you just wait a few minutes, you'll feel a lot more like yourself."

"Sam, you have ten seconds to give me a reason besides 'I was tired' to not be pissed at you and take my frustration out on your face," Dean said, paying no mind to either the angel or the demon.

"Um," Sam started. He kept his hands relaxed at his sides. He deserved a punch or two, at least, so he wouldn't even defend himself. "I'll fix up your room."

Crowley cackled. Cas muttered, "Oh for –" The latter reached up and touched Sam's forehead and the world faded to almost nothing. Sam was just barely still aware, and he had enough experience with "angel whammies" to know that Cas had given him a very light version, most likely just enough to help him get some sleep. (Smart. No matter how pissed he was, Dean wouldn't hit someone who was already unconscious.) He sort of felt Cas catch him and lower him to Dean's bed. "I'm sure he was trying to help, Dean. You know how hard it is on him knowing Lucifer's out there. You can talk to him when you've calmed down and he's had some sleep," Cas said from a distance as someone else (Dean?) put Sam's feet on the bed and pulled off his shoes.

Dean grumbled something but it was clear he was capitulating.

"What a shame. I was hoping for a good fistfight," Crowley sighed as Sam faded a little further. "Oh, well. You know, Halo, you could be handy. We should go Luci-hunting together since I'm in such a helpful mood."

"I'd rather staple my tongue to the floor," Cas said in a very Winchester way and Sam heard Dean snort.

"Kinky," said Crowley. And the last thing Sam heard before going completely under was, "So, who wants some mille-feuille?"

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AN: Yes, I know Crowley was Scottish, as is the glaistig myth, and The Morrigan is from Irish lore, but there is quite a bit of overlap between the two. I play pretty fast and loose with mythologies anyway, so I hope you don't mind me fudging that a bit as well.

I know exactly one Gaelic phrase, and almost no French at all, so any of either in this story comes from Google translate. Google translate does not distinguish between Scottish and Irish Gaelic, so I don't even know which one I've used here.

Tha mi a' mallachadh do bhuachaillean means 'I curse your herds.'

Pâtisseries Parfaites means 'Perfect Pastries' in French.

Sith dhuit a Mhaighdean Uanine means 'Peace to you, Green Maiden.' Green Maiden is another name for a glaistig.

Tha mi faicinn gu bheil do bhuachaille gu math. Am bu toil leat a bhith còmhla riutha? means 'I see your herd is doing well. Would you like to be with them?'

The war between angels and the forces of The Morrigan is a product of my own imagination. I wondered what battles Cas might have been when he "led Heavenly forces." I introduced it to the Woomieverse (a fantastic word coined by one of my regular readers) in a story called Dissolution, in case anyone cares.

Mille-feuille is apparently a fancy French pastry. (I totally Googled to find one.)