Chapter Seven

On the heels of Dean's comment (that didn't sound anything like Dean), Sam felt all the color fall out of his face, along with the sudden flare of trepidation in his belly. "No." It was breathy and unsteady. "Oh, no no no . . . Dean—"

"S'me," Dean said, "I swear. It's just—it's just that—" He sucked in a breath, held it, spat out the words between teeth gritted hard in a clenched jaw as he smacked himself on the side of his head. "That son of a bitch is laughing at me. He's sitting in my head laughing at me!"

It was a wholly incongruous image. Sam recalled seeing Crowley in his own head while the rescue was being staged, when he believed he was in the bunker doing research. But what was his brother seeing? Where did he think he was? Maybe in the Impala? Dean took comfort in that car the way Sam did in old books.

Or did he believe himself anywhere other than where he was, since he hadn't been zapped by an angel into something akin to a parallel timeline? Or parallel universe. Or parallel somewhere/anywhere/everywhere.

Sam, apprehension surging, had to ask it. "Where are you?"

Dean, hand still held against the side of his skull, stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief followed by brow-knitted consternation. "Where am I? Where the hell do you think I am?"

Sam realized he hadn't approached that very well. "I mean—are you here? Here here? Not—" he made an awkward, inarticulate gesture, "somewhere other than here?"

Now Dean resembled a deer in the headlights. "Sam, you're not making any sense. I'm the one with the King of Hell in my head, and you're not making any sense? C'mon, man, I'm depending on you! Be all soothing and emo and Stanford genius-y, okay?"

But Sam remembered hearing the trace of Crowley's speech affect in Dean's tone. It hadn't been Crowley's voice, all rasp and drawl and English accent, but the inflection wasn't Dean's, and certainly the words were nothing his brother had ever used. For one, he never called him Moose. "Where are you?"

Dean said, "Driving down Crazy Street with you, except right now we're standing here. And I need to go." He waved a hand toward the devil's trap and its occupant in a sharp gesture. "Go babysit . . . I need to get this over and done with before I take a screwdriver to my head and try to pry this asshole out of it."

Well, that certainly sounded like Dean. On a measure of relief, he nodded. "Okay. Just—hurry. Because . . . well . . ."

Dean paused, waited, finally lifted dramatically interrogative brows to prompt. "'Because?'"

Because I really don't like you sounding like Crowley.

But he settled for "Because it's creepy," knowing it was lame.

"Yeah, it's creepy, all right," Dean agreed, with no little belligerance, though it wasn't directed at Sam. "It's a freakin' horror show." He couldn't control the shudder of disgust, which told Sam more clearly than any words how unbalanced his brother felt.

His control freak of a brother.

With Crowley inside him.

Now Sam wanted to throw up. At least he hadn't known about Gadreel. He flapped hand. "Go. Go."

Dean looked a little distracted. "Just the leave the light on for me." Then he blinked confusion at his brother. "I said that, right?"

So. Maybe Dean was aware what he'd said before, and whom he sounded like.

"You sound a little like a Motel 6 commercial, " Sam observed, "but yes—you said that."

"Okay. Good." But even as Dean began to turn toward the door, Sam saw the twitch of his brows, the frown, the faint trace of uncertainty.

He didn't think about it, just shouted. "Crowley!"

It stopped Dean before he could complete the turn, as if he'd hit a wall.

Anger rose in Sam like a tide, and on it rode the menace. "You don't do a thing to harm my brother, hear me? Not a damn thing."

Dean smiled a little, said, "Or what? You'll kill me? So five years ago." And then he swore, clutched at his head, spun and stomped his way out of the dungeon, though Sam had to admit the slap of bare feet on stone did not have the same dramatic impact as thick-soled workboots.

Nonetheless, it was utterly and absolutely his brother's posture, with wide shoulders rolling and the rest of him all hackled and stiff-tailed, like an alpha dog contemplating attack.

Sam stared after him, considered several things, then turned back to the devil's trap. "On second thought," he told the body inside, "I won't kill you. I'll just leave you here to rot."

"Bad idea," Dean muttered as he headed down the hallway. "True, I have had many—but this one? Total freakin' trainwreck. Sam was right. Crap, maybe I should listen to Sam more. " He rolled his eyes. "And wouldn't he just love to hear me admit that. "

'Squirrel, are you talking to me, or to yourself? Because I can provide answers, if you care to hear them.'

Dean stopped dead in his tracks just outside of his room. "Crowley?"

'One and the same. Did you expect otherwise? Or do you have multiple denizens hanging about your brain?'

"'Denizens?' I have 'denizens?'"

'Well, do you? Oh wait—let me check. I can do that. Hang on . . . ah, well, no. Just me, myself, and I. Should be enough, don't you think?'

"Oh, crap." Because if this was Crowley's way of driving him insane within an hour, it might just work.

'You do seem to have an emotional attachment to excrement, Dean. Care to share?'

He gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might fracture. "Crowley, I did not agree to give you a ride so you could yammer in my head. Not part of the deal. Just shut the hell up with your commentary, unless I need directions to grab this Hand of God."

'But I'm a sociable person, Dean. And I enjoy engaging in good conversation. Of the two of you, I suspect Moose and I would meet on a deeper intellectual level, but I'm discovering there's more to you than one might be led to believe. I mean, you're not stupid, Dean. You play the part of the less intelligent brother, but you're hardly a fool. Is that designed, I wonder? Or was it Daddy's doing? Too bad Alastair's not around to ask. He was more . . . intimate . . . with you and your father.'

Dean shut his eyes, turned to the wall and slammed his palms against it, pressing his brow against the smooth, cold brick. He wanted to bite into his lip until it bled. "Crowley—"

'I'm just going to rummage around a bit more . . . oh. Oh. Dean—I never thought that of you. Violent, oh yes . . . that I knew. It's why I was quietly thrilled to envision you as my Knight of Hell. We could have achieved great things, Dean. But no. You had to split the difference between being human, and being a demon.'

He was nearly incoherent. "Crowley—"

'I suspect that may be why it didn't work, you and I. I've been a demon for hundreds of years. You, even once resurrected as Cain was, were very young, but a newborn, and remained tied to your human side. Must have been a terrible conflict for you. All that rage and violence, all that need to kill, thanks to the Mark; all your demonic instincts shouting at you to destroy, not nurture . . . and yet there you were, still thinking about Sammy. Honestly, Dean, you were an utter waste. Such potential. Such untapped genius. You could have made Abaddon look like an amateur. Probably because Alastair peeled back enough layers to find what lived underneath. Seriously, Dean? This is who you are?'

This was not what he'd expected. Hadn't even thought of what might happen, beyond completing the mission. Crowley digging through his skull? Turning over thoughts and feelings? No wonder Sam lit into him for leaping before he looked. Hell, he'd taken on the Mark from Cain before asking about its removal.

He blew out a massive exhalation of air from his mouth. "Stop it. Just stop it!"

'No, Dean. This is my Dr. Phil moment. I want to dig down deep, turn over the soil that is Dean Winchester. Because, to be blunt, you annoyed me. I showed you my kingdom and what you could be, and you spurned it. Your better nature got the . . . well, better of you, did it not? Such a shame, Squirrel. We could have been special, you and I . . . '

Dean glared into brick even as he took his weight from it, shook off the lingering sense of division. "Is this what you wanted? Is this what it's about? Trying to find out why I wasn't controllable, why I didn't kow-tow to you? Is there a Hand of God?"

'We could have been better than Bonnie and Clyde. Sexier than Clooney and Pitt. But no. You wanted to do the whole Fleetwood Mac thing, and go your own way. Silly Rabbit. You could have been the best of us all.'

In the dim lighting of the hallway, Dean shook his head decisively. "I'm not like you. I'm not."

'You are very like us, Dean. Very little separates you from us. You believe we kill without remorse, for the sheer enjoyment of it . . . well, might that sound familiar? And yes—there is indeed a Hand of God in my lockup. I want it. You want it. It will do what both of us need it to do. But I'd also like to enjoy an entertaining experience along the way, just to escape the boredom. Now—go put some clothes on, and let's head back to Nebraska, shall we, so you can sing for Billie.'

And Dean, in the hallway beneath ancient lighting, thought, I can eject you, you bastard. Any time. Any place. And I won't make it easy.

'Can you?' Crowley asked. 'Are you truly capable? Because you gave up that power when the Mark was lifted from you. The tattoo is broken, its power dispersed, and here I am in your body. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Dean. You're entirely mine now, should I choose to take you . . . or, should I say, if I decide to keep you.'

~ tbc ~