He comes to me again, about two or three weeks after the incident, but...I can't figure out why he's here. He had come to my house, knocked on my door, and invited me out, at 7 pm. He wanted to walk into town, no danger of people knowing who he was here, Catholic town, few geeks, ...also the town was closed on Monday evenings.

I twitch as he stands there, remembering the mental loops he had me jump through, and that I would jump through again.

"How are the cats? The black one that rubbed on my new pants?"

"Dead Crowley, she was old."

"Good, I hate cats."

"Is that why you never came to my house? Because of the cats?"

"No, I never come to your house because I spent Two Bloody Months There. I don't need to see any more of that pit." I shake my head, right, those two months pretending to be me.

"So why do you hate cats? Are you a dog person?"

"No, I'm a Hellhound demon." He looks to his left and smiles slightly. "She's a good girl." I ignore the comment and look at him.

"Why are you here Crowley?" He waves his hand and pulls me out the door, closing and locking it behind me. Great. It's either go with him, or call a locksmith...or my husband who I never want to meet Crowley.

"What? I can't visit my home away from home without ulterior motives?"

"No."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint then. I'm utterly benign tonight."

"Like a tumor?" We walk onto the main street finally, all the stores closed, the hub of the town quiet.

"Careful darling, or I might turn malignant." I am hungry, I was about to cook dinner when he came, it looked like it would be late tonight. I sigh, following him in silence for a moment, trying to figure out what he is up to. I still have no better idea of what that is when he stops at the ice cream parlor and grabs the door of the darkened store.

"Uh, it's Monday...everything's closed."

"Nothing's closed unless I say it is." He pulls on the door and it opens, I blink, and look at the dark restaurant, the only light the flickering of the ice cream coolers. "Coming?" He's holding the door open for me...waiting. I hurry inside, my guts clenched in my confused state. This is not the demon I knew, these... is wrong. Something horrible is going to happen, I know it, he isjust playing with me, trying to get me to-

"Relax." I nearly jump a foot at the word as it echoes off the walls.

"Crowley, what the Hell?"

"Pardon?"

"Why the fuck am I here?"

"Because I want you to be." I take a deep breath as he leads me toward the back of the store, toward the ice cream display.

"Ok, why do you want to be here? Want me to be here?"

"Many reasons, but you have more important things to ask." He stands, looking at the flavors. "Really, lemon basil? What happened to chocolate chip? To vanilla or moose tracks?" I shake my head, trying to orient myself in this bizarre situation.

"I... what?"

"I loved chocolate chip, it was a very good flavor, and then all these new age variants started taking over. Horrific, if I ever find out who started this fad I'll put them on the rack myself."

"I...I.. What? And the lemon basil is amazing, so is the cookie butter one."

"Of course you would like them. Pitiful."

"Because I like interesting flavors, I'm...pitiful?"

"No, you're pitiful because you're allowing yourself to be distracted." Crowley smiles, amused at my ineptitude. I'm tired, it's 7, I haven't even eaten dinner yet.

"Crowley, I'm near 50, I can't do icecream for dinner or that shit any more. Why are we here?"

"Well booey for you, I already ate." I blink. Crowley didn't need to eat. My soul isn't exactly with him to be devoured so... I shake my head, I'm still confused and jarred by his...benign behavior. I'm probably thinking too much into this. Crowley however is ignoring me and looking through the back of the ice cream display. "What to try, what to try… you really recommend the lemon basil?" I look at him incredulously.

"What the Hell is going on?"

"I am. Now, lemon basil?"

"I mean… I guess. Yeah you'd probably like it considering your taste in drinks. It'd probably go well with-"

"Blood?" He raises a brow and smiles, snapping a serving into the cone he's holding. Seriously, what the fucking Hell is going on?

"No… No. Crowley, everyone knows blood goes with chocolate. Hell blood Makes good chocolate, why would you even…" Crowley pauses and looks at me. "Crowley, pig's blood, sanguinaccio dolce, you've been in my head. Nothing new." He sighs.

"How disappointing, for a second there you were almost interesting." It's at this point I notice the very dim flickering light in the back of the store in the employees only area, and the slightly red tinted window. Crowley smirks as he notices my gaze.

"Like I said, I rarely eat, but when I do, I prefer my food fresh." I freeze, an appropriate reaction in an ice cream parlor, but not really for a fun reason.

"What….no. It's not your style." He's amused, finds it incredibly ignorant of me that I think I might know him, that I know I don't actually Do know him enough to be Sure that what he was saying is a lie...but.

"Only one way to find out." He says, as he walks from behind the counter, cone in hand, and begins to head out the door. I look between him, the back door, and back to him. I believe I'd rather have peace in ignorance than torment in answers, so I quickly follow. "Wise choice, you'd have gotten blood on your...everything." He says as he holds the door open, I swallow and hurry through, still having no clue as to what's going on. "So is that your answer tonight? Ignorance is bliss? How unlike you Chew Toy, there was a time when you wanted to know everything." I blink. Oh. Right. The addendum.

Crowley sees my face, and nods, taking a single bite from the cone, I shudder. That had to be cold. If that didn't show he wasn't human, besides all the killing and evil, I don't know what did. Eating ice cream like that isn't natural.

"I knew you'd figure it out eventually, even if I believe I saw a few hundred braincells sacrifice themselves to create that thought." I sigh, at least I know why he is here, kinda...sorta. We walk in silence, the only sound is that of footsteps and Crowley biting straight into cold ice cream like a masochistic maniac. Was...all this bravado and weirdness to put me off guard? Make it hard for me to understand what he tells me? Make me forget to ask the questions I wanted to know? The silence stretches, and I remember I actually have to initiate this.

"So, tell me about the level of truth in Supernatural. Sam and Dean... real?"

"Well, first off let's say that any events that even resembled the show happened in the 1900's." I pause.

"Early...or late?"

"Late." I roll my eyes, of course.

"So are Sam and Dean real?"

"They were, as was my mother, and many of the angels, and the very interesting Robert Singer."

"Were?"

"Darling? Do you think I'd be here if they were still around? No, most of them died of old age near the time of your parent's birth." We walk by a trashcan and Crowley throws the half eaten cone into it without looking.

"Old age huh? Just old age?"

"Sure, if you call attempting to fight a witch at the age of 60 death by old age." I blink.

"Your...mother?"

"She was the Queen for a bit. The hardy boys tried to go up against her, at the ripe old age of 60."

"Why were they fighting her? Where were you at the time?"

"I honestly don't remember the real reason they were fighting. I was in the Bahamas, waiting for one of them to kill the other."

"...So...What happened?" Crowley looks at me briefly and shakes his head as he leads me around a corner toward the old housing circle…

"I believe...Rowena killed Dean, Sam killed Rowena...I killed Sam… Or was it Rowena killed Sam, Dean killed Rowena...and I killed Dean? Maybe… Rowena killed Sam, Dean tried to kill Rowena...and then I killed them both? I honestly can't remember, I was in a bit of a haze at the time." I blink.

"You...were high...when you did this? And you talk about Sam and Dean being stupid attacking a witch at 60?"

"Darling, you've got to take risks if you want to come out on top. Risks like drinking virgin blood, marinated in the ark of the covenant, aged for 53 days, and then served in the holy grail."

"Wait what?! Really?!"

"No! It was a very old spell… from Aliester Crowley's spellbook, one of the very few warlocks." I blink.

"He's down there?"

"Of course he's down there! He was a warlock! He consorted with demons on a regular basis."

"Like you?"

"I wasn't the first to make a deal with him if you mean. Aliester was actually a capable warlock... and adept at wriggling out of contracts."

"So you didn't get him?"

"I said he's Down there didn't I? I'm here, pouring my smoke out to you, and you don't have the decency to listen! If I actually cared about your thoughts I'd be insulted!" I roll my eyes and go to turn left back toward my house, but am pulled further left by an invisible force. I sigh, it looked like I am going to have to choose between being able to ask questions and having dinner at a reasonable time tonight.

We walk in silence, toward some unnamed goal, footsteps still clicking on the sidewalk.

"You know, I liked that ice cream parlor."

"I quite enjoyed it as well."

"Then why did you kill the workers there?"

"I just said I enjoyed it, what do you think that meant?" I sigh again. "Besides, the workers are fine." I blink. Then who was in the back?

"Random passersby?"

"I don't kill and tell. Now, if you're done asking inane questions about the rationality of a fictional show you have long since known the purpose of?"

"Not even close, but now that you mention it...why did you make it so close to the truth? Also I trust you'll clean up the mess at the ice cream parlor? Get rid of evidence?"

"I'm a professional darling. And as for making it close to the truth...I didn't... I saw the show had gained a following and ended up inserting myself in it. It had already been using some accurate depictions of happenings, I believe someone found Sam's journal."

"Sam had a journal?"

"Chew Toy, Sam was a nerd. He had twenty journals."

"What...what was in it?"

"Nerdy stuff I suppose."

"No, I mean… what was he writing about if he and his brother weren't hunting monsters?"

"Why would you assume they weren't?" I look at him, very confused.

"You said monster's weren't real."

"Well, I wasn't under contract at the time was I?" I sigh. Well, there go peaceful nights until I stock up on salt and silver.

"So monsters are real?"

"No." I throw my hands in the air.

"What the fuck Crowley, we have a contract!"

"Monsters Were real. Past tense darling." I blink. We walk in silence as I wait for him to continue. He doesn't.

"Oh my fucking god explain."

"Most monsters are not real. Like I said, there are mainly two players in this game, humans and angels; but humans can become many many things. They all however, start out as humans."

"Ok, explain. Just. Just keep explaining until I say stop please. Assume I know nothing John Snow." Crowley coughs at my request and reference, but acquiesces.

"Witches, were at one point very powerful. They could make humans into whatever they wanted with a few words and a thought, minions, familiars, slugs. Of course anything anyone ever makes eventually escapes, and there came the first monsters. Or most of them. The oldest, they were the first beasts in the garden… then some really did just come from Lilith… Eve... Adam's first wife. The cunt. However, she was still human, until she refused Adam and was smited...smote? Knocked off her pedestal after being raped by the first man. Or so the story goes. She was pissed, understandably, and that anger festered in her womb until it exploded 10 months later, painful pregnancy, worse labor. So that's where your actual monsters come from. The rest are just witches' shit."

"So… can witches still do that? Make monsters?"

"Darling, real witches could. My mother fancied herself powerful, but any witch or demon of today would piss themselves if they ran into the witches from biblical times. I know, there's one in the pit. She told me lovely bedtime stories when I was a fledgling demon just turning red on the rack."

"Wait...she's been there that long and hasn't turned into a demon?"

"Who do you think was the one torturing me? Now, she did, with a bit of persuasion, tell me how they made monsters, however today's witches...They lost the book on how to do that sort of magic ages ago. They will never get it back." I look at him, and get an inkling, a small feeling.

"You have it don't you?"

"I find it makes a nice light read when I'm tired of Sylvia Plath's journal."

"She's down there too?"

"You really think that depressive mess became popular without help?"

"How'd you get the book?"

"I took it from her bedside table as my Hellhound grabbed her soul. Long term contract that one, got a lot of people depressed and easily manipulated though. Completely worth it."

"No… I mean the witches book."

"Well old Croney absolutely deplores today's witches and their pathetic mewling about how they'd lost power. She'd had to make up the spells she used, witches today have no ability to actually create new magic, so why should they have the old magic? She happily told me where to find the book."

"Why?"

"Because she couldn't very well get it herself. She is a pit demon, I am a crossroads demon. I am allowed to leave."

"You said you'd bring it to her, didn't you."

"For once, no. She just hates today's witches that much. Poor old Croney." I blink. Did the King of Hell just express….sympathy?

"What happened to her?"

"Hmm? Oh nothing, she just doesn't get to torture witches as much any more. She was quite lucky to just get the son of a witch."

"Is she torturing your mother?" At this Crowley laughs.

"Darling. Nobody tortures Rowena but me. Rowena is going through the worst torture possible at this very moment."

"But you said-"

"She's a narcissist. She's a narcissistic witch. And she's lonely. The worst thing you can do to a narcissist is... leave them alone. The worst thing you can do to a witch is give them nothing to work their magic on. The worst thing I could do to my mother was give her power, then leave her alone so she couldn't impress anyone with it. She's in her own little personal Hell."

"You...didn't actually give her…"

"Personal….Hell. Nothing is real down there except pain." I walk, in silence. In awe and terrified simultaneously at his intuitive genius. Amazed at his lackadaisical attitude towards these huge stories he is rattling off as if they are as interesting as the back of a shampoo bottle. I pause and then continue digging into the library of lore that is Crowley's past.

"So...monsters? The book? What did you want with these things?"

"Every single human turned into a monster, is one less soul in Hell and one more in Purgatory. They cost me business."

"So...you did what?"

"Unmade many familiars. Turned them human. Dealt with most anything that could make a human into something that wasn't a human anymore." I blink.

"So no more monsters anymore?"

"Of course there are, the hunters need to be occupied with something. But the ones that easily turn humans into other things though, those I greatly reduced the number of...There's still a vampire in Europe, one of the big ones, but he has no plans to make more. He doesn't like the competition and he's on my payroll."

"What?! Why?"

"Do you have any idea how many self righteous humans have made a deal with me to try and kill him?"

"Wait, so you break your contracts?"

"Never...almost never. I give them the tools, it's on them if they fail...or don't put in their contract that I'm not allowed to talk to a very old friend about a hunter showing up at… say 6:34 Pm in three days time at his servants entrance." I shake my head.

"How is that different than a demon who isn't related to the contract killing the signer early?"

"The vampire isn't a demon. I just drop by on occasion to tell him that he should expect company. As long as he doesn't mention I visited, it doesn't shine a bad light on my business, and he likes the free food too much torisk my ire." This is bizarre. A half step aside from the show. And more importantly a hop skip and a fall flat on your face jump from my contract. This no longer relates to the show at all, he doesn't need to be telling me this...I wonder if I could push farther…

"So what about the souls?"

"Clear questions darling, get slightly less murky answers from yours truly."

"In the show, things ate souls… right?"

"The show contradicts itself more times than I can count. Souls can't be destroyed, souls are eaten, souls can fade, souls can be twisted. Blah blah blah. Darling, the point of the confusing lore is to be just that! Confusing! The less people understand the value of a soul the better."

"So...what are souls?"

"Energy. Energy powered by the experiences and emotions the person had during life."

"So a baby….?"

"Not actually worth much soul wise."

"So… souls...they can be destroyed?"

"No, but just like the humans they come from they can be turned into anything." I take a deep breath. Here came the million dollar question to start me off on the yellow brick road to answers...a very scary yellow brick road.

"So...how? How are you…dissolving me, turning me into...you?"

"I think the wording ….tenancy-in-common in relation to freeheld possession of property just might have something to do with it." I blink.

"What?" Crowley sighs.

"You see in most deals, it's either all, or nothing. We demons are greedy like that. Because we have joint ownership, and I get to already have parts of you, the clause never says anything about the tenancy-in-common being equal after your death."

"...What?"

"My darling broken record...usually I just own souls. As objects, or tools, or power. They are things, toys, power, future demons. Material to be molded or done with as I wish. Before you, I never treated a soul as real estate, let alone real estate and property at the same time."

"So… you made up that whole contract...on the fly?"

"C'mon, be impressed." I was. I can't not be. It was insane. I mean...he had done contracts for hundreds of years so I'm not surprised he's good...but that fast? ...Perhaps he went to Hell for a bit to write it up, time moved faster there after all. I look at him, then at the railroads surrounded by trees we are walking beside, and wonder what the whole point of tonight is. He is being far too forthcoming...I guess I should take advantage of it, even if it will probably screw me over.

"So…you can just...pick a soul apart… because…"

"Because I own it, but share it, in any ratio I want."

"So...as long as a single spark of the soul is left…"

"Completely in line with the contract, and then once I own the soul completely I can get rid of that last pesky spark."

"But what about creatures or angels who feed on souls? How do they do it, are they picking a soul apart?"

"How would I know? They...aren't demons." I mean, yeah.

"And...you don't want whole souls any more because?" I say, with a glimmer of hope that he might actually want whole souls still.

"Because they can be taken back! If anyone wanted to get all of your soul's little parts from me right now, they'd need tweezers and a lot of time."

"So...you're hoping it… hoping for what?"

"Ah-ah, that is a question interesting enough to warrant an in depth answer." I look at him expectantly, we continue walking and he doesn't even look at me.

"Well, so are you going to answer?"

"No."

I sigh. "So...what about after me? After you…" The thought is in my head, I'd turn into a pile of white sparks, floating, buffeted by wind...

"Now that...I am also under no obligation to tell you."

"You weren't under any obligation to tell me half the shit you just dumped on me!"

"Yes but it's so much fun-"

"Watching me squirm I know." He glares at me, my bad habit at finishing other people's sentences got on his nerves especially, because he'd had to mimic it for two months. I'm sure it came naturally, but it didn't mean he liked being stuck with my vernacular.

"Watching you think." I look at him, curious. "Chew Toy, the expression of confusion on your face, better than most daytime television."

"Most things are better than daytime TV."

We walk once again in silence, the cyclical nature of discovery and astonishment wearing on my mind. I look to my left, the demon, the King of Fucking Hell, wakling and talking as if we really are just discussing folk lore, fan fiction, or some other less terrifying thing than reality.

"So...Chuck?"

"No." I pause. Crowley doesn't answer questions like that, Mark Sheppard does...something is off.

"No what?"

"No. I won't discuss that so called story arc with you."

"You...kinda have to?" Crowley smirks.

"Inso much as the answer does not endanger the party of the first part." Well that took out half the big questions I wanted to ask, but I could try.

"Wait...so Chuck is…"

"Darling. I said all the big players are gone."

"Yeah...When you weren't bound by contract." Crowley smirks, I am finally catching on, and he isn't going to answer anymore questions in that direction. That meant Chuck, Amara, The Nothing, probably Jack, all off limits.

"Yes well, there's always been a very big problem with truth. My favorite problem."

"What?"

"Everyone has their own." That felt like a final line so I quickly jump in before he can be dramatic.

"Don't! Don't you dare leave yet."

"You're give Me orders now?"

"This is literally the only chance I will ever have to do so, because I have more questions, and you can't leave till you answer. That much I remember from the contract, I also believe that once you leave, I don't get to ask anymore with a guarantee of truth."

"Are you really forgetting that I'm the King of Hell and will pull out your tongue and feed it to you for a laugh?"

"You've been in my head; not great on remembering pain, not great on thinking about it in the future, and all physical pain is temporary."

"Keep telling yourself that darling.

"I will, thanks. So, Moose and not moose, were their depictions accurate?" Crowley is silent for a moment, I can't tell whether he is proud I actually am getting better at reading contracts, or incensed that I would take advantage of it over him. Either way, it was best to keep quiet.

"Darling, if they depicted two completely competent hunters the show wouldn't have been interesting."

"So…"

"Let's just say I feel they learned a bit more over time than the show depicts." I mean… I guess that made sense.

"...You, many of the monsters and villains, could have killed them so many times…"

"Well that would have ended the show, now wouldn't it, and I couldn't have that. Besides, one thing was very accurate about them; death Never seemed to Stick quite like it should have."

"So how did you know they'd stay dead at 60?"

"I didn't, but I figured there might be a better chance if they were both dead at once."

"Are they in Hell?"

"Are you insane? Darling, even if I had purview over their souls, which I half did considering the things they had done, I wouldn't want them there. The trouble they'd cause? No, I happily sent those two to heaven."

"What about you?"

"That's a rather loaded question."

"Well, you raised the sister of god theoretically, were insulted and abused by Lucifer, apparently came back from the Empty after you died! Is that all true?"

"Some.

"I mean, did you actually die?"

"Well, I always was a light sleeper."

"Crowley...demons don't sleep."

"They do in the Empty."

"Yeah, so…"

"Squirrel tried to talk to me, or got Billie or Jack to. Something about Sam's soul being in contract, again, and well, I didn't really feel like going back to sleep."

"You got...kicked out? Of the fucking afterlife."

"A devil's work is never done." I had, a while ago now, realized a fatal flaw in the contract I had written. It said he had to tell me about the show, the truth regarding it, but not what was actually true regarding what happened in reality. So this information, about things he did, anywhere from straight facts to wild lies. Still. It is fun to hear.

"So did you free Sam's soul?"

"Chew Toy, I tore up that contract so quickly-"

"How?"

"What do you mean, how?"

"It wasn't your contract."

"Of course it was my contract, all the contracts are my contracts."

"Right, right. King of Hell."

"That really seems to be a difficult concept for you to grasp tonight."

"Crowley, it's late, I haven't eaten, and I'm tired. I can't think past anything other than my next question. So, I'm just gonna keep asking questions until I run out, or pass out from hunger. So, what did you do to Hell to make it so much 'better?'"

"Hmm?"

"You bragged to Sam that you had made changes to Hell. What changes?"

"Well, I halved the number of souls being tortured into demons, at least slowed down the process."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?"

"Ok, why really, you didn't do it to be the good guy. C'mon."

"It was a phase...that also had the added benefit of reducing the number of screams, the amount of paperwork for transferring or changing souls into demons, freed up the demons already down there to go hunt for my mother, at which they failed miserably."

"I mean… yeah…. I guess." I have a feeling that wasn't quite the reason, or actually what he did, but I'm not going to push. "So why didn't you kill them? Sam and Dean I mean, not the demons. You had a bajillion chances to kill them. That previous reason may be part of it, but finish your explanation or you'll be in violation of the contract."

"Again, boring TV. Secondly, they're my heroes; keeping other players occupied, getting rid of the monsters who kept sending human souls to Purgatory, averting the apocalypse...getting rid of all my competition. My heroes. My big, dumb, flannel wearing, lumbering heroes. They did help kill mother after all."

"So she didn't die like in the show?"

"Darling, the three of them had a menage a trois a la death remember, before I fashionably crashed it? Very few ways to finish your journal posthumously."

"I highly doubt that. I can think of a few...so. In that church...where your blood addiction started...that's actually how it happened?"

"..."

"It was! Holy shit! You...what? I mean, if as you say the two hunters were actually competent-"

"Still selfish-"

"Well yeah, or the gates of Hell would be-"

"Closed, yes."

"But… I mean. I know if I was a hunter...who knew about that ritual. The first fucking thing I'd do is turn my biggest threat human…."

"They did."

"What."

"Chew Toy. That journal...was heavily edited via the delicate process of ripped out pages. That particular story arc, never saw the light of day." I pause.

"Did you lose the journals at some point? That's how they got top side?"

"Very astute."

"How?"

"With positive results." Ok. I'm not getting anything from that line of inquiry. I do however have another question that I am dying to know...and might actually die to know if he doesn't like it.

"Did...did you have a family Crowley? During that time? Is...is that why you like the family you're with right now? They're descendants? Related?"

"Darling...are you implying I married my own granddaughter?" Oh. Yeah no.

"Right...so while you were human...what'd you do?"

There is silence. This is apparently not something he wants to talk about, at least not without more direct, possibly less painful, questions.

"Did you help Sam and Dean?" His stony expression lightens at this.

"We killed so many demons and monsters that I believe some of my enemies down in Hell were more afraid of me then than when I was king."

"And what about the regret, the uhm...weight on your soul?"

"Well, that's what the killing was for. And the rampages. And the orgies. And the-"

"Got it. Got it." The reply was far too quick to be the full truth, or even the truth at all, but I am not going to push that sensitive of a subject. "So how did you...become king again?"

"How do you think it happened? What would you have done?" Shit. He was turning it back on me. It is a question that asked me to create something, I had to answer or I'd violate the contract. I can feel the pull in my soul demanding that I fulfill it.

"Well, if it was anything like the show...one dramatic problem after the other, usually of their own creation… I'd say the boys needed you to be king again for some reason. So they would have helped. If I was going for realism...if it was me, I wouldn't be able to deal with all the weight of what I had done, or even just the years upon years of memories. I'd say you found a ritual in some dark book, maybe one you stole from your mother."

We have walked to the other side of the tracks by now, and the king walks slowly beside me, listening amusedly as I spout ideas I had thought of for story arcs for the show, resolutions to problems in books I wanted to write, things I would have done. He takes it all in, ideas I didn't even know I had until this second, and catalogues them for use and abuse.

"Perhaps you made a deal with a crossroads demon to become a demon yourself then and there. Perhaps they recognized you and got greedy, trying to bag the King of Hell's soul, told you that you had to wait your ten years, giving them time to prepare a nice cell for you; but you killed yourself immediately after they left. Perhaps you had to be tortured again. Perhaps you died another way but your soul was bound for Hell...and knowing it's intricacies you navigated it until you...I dunno found your crown, found what's her name...Croney, to turn you into a demon again via whatever means necessary. Crowley, there are hundreds of ways, of reasons. Hell could have been in turmoil and needed you back, you could have had a contingency plan set up for if the boys turned you human, I know I would have." I keep talking, unable to stop, ideas just falling off my tongue. He had asked me to create a story. I have to answer. He just smiles, that tight lipped smile, as I verbally write short plot ideas for half baked episodes of possibilities. Humoring me, himself, the contract. Letting me fulfill a fantasy I didn't know I had, telling him possible ways the character Crowley could have been used and abused. I slow my answers, or more accurately I run out, as I realize that these were things that not just a character could do or have done, but that the demon beside me could.

I am supposed to advise and create for him, true, but he is pulling out ideas that weren't for him, but the character he portrayed. Learning what had gotten me brave, or stupid, enough to try to make a deal with the King of Hell. How much I thought I understood him and how wrong, or right, I am.

Always, always scheming, using any and every instance to advance himself. Through my questioning of him he had learned, I had learned, and remembered, what I thought of him.

I had loved his character, I had not wanted to see him go. And he was going to twist that, somehow, easily, slowly, into a similar feeling for him. I know it. It is another feeling for him to feel, one he craves above most others. One I could still apparently give him. Even after the torture, the mental duress, the possession, I still love the character.

And therefore, in some part, him.

I look to him, and he's no longer there.

And I am still locked out of my house.

Bollocks.