Author's Note: Happy Saturday everyone! Or weekend. Or weekday. Happy day everyone! :)

So here we are, on chapter 4. I'm very happy to say this is the longest chapter so far!

Disclaimer: nope. I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters nor do I own the song Bad Company.

Reviews are always appreciated. Please? I really like to know what you all think of this story. I really enjoy writing this and I hope you all enjoy reading it! So... onward!

Earlier

"No Dean. I am not carrying your Sasquatch of a brother all the way to warehouse. That's your job. You're the muscle and I'm the brains, so just pick him and up and let's move!" Crowley was practically yelling at Dean at this point. Seriously, why couldn't squirrel just understand? Dean finally gave in and threw his brother into the back seat, Sam's gangly arms hanging off the seat at an uncomfortable angle. Not that he noticed. Sam was still very much unconscious and would be for quite some time due to Crowley's planning. The King of Hell had managed to 'acquire' some chloroform that would keep even a moose like Sam asleep for a while.

Crowley sighed as he, Dean, and Sam's unconscious body all piled into the Impala. The King of Hell, a Knight of Hell, and an unconscious human are all sitting in an Impala: sounds the like beginning of a bad joke, Crowley thought to himself. He would have made a sarcastic comment to Dean, but his Knight was had turned on the radio and started singing along to "Highway to Hell" too loudly for a conversation to be held. The noise was deafening and it only encouraged Dean to push his once beloved car to drive faster than seemingly possible. A country cop, sitting at a lonely intersection eating a jelly donut nearly caught up to the demons as they traveled along the quite Kansas roads. Dean swerved onto a side road right before a T-junction, hoping to lose the no longer bored police officer. Crowley was glad he had put on his seat belt for once. Sam, on the other hand, was not so lucky. Crowley felt the large human's head smash into the back of his seat before crumpling to the floor. If he was going to have regained consciousness before the turn, there was no way he was going to now.

Down the road, they stopped at an abandoned warehouse that Crowley had 'obtained' some time ago; the King of Hell quite happily lent the rusting building to his Knight. The roof was falling apart in several places, and the once beautifully stained wood of the siding had faded. Dean slung the unconscious form of his brother over his shoulders and carried him through the faded red door: whether the red had been paint or blood didn't matter to the new demon, but he was a just a little bit curious. "Hey Crowley. Is that paint or blood? And do you mind if it gets redecorated a bit." Dean said with a wicked grin at his implication. Crowley sighed. This was going to be a long few weeks. "No Dean. We need your brother's blood on the inside of his body, not splattered across the outside. And no, you are not allowed to go flirt up some poor girl just so you can paint a stupid door! Did you skip demon manners when you went to Hell?" Dean rolled his black eyes. "Come on, it was just a stupid joke! Lighten up Crowley!"

"I am completely light, thank you very much!" Crowley yelled at his demon. Dean smirked and raised his eyebrows but wisely said nothing. He waltzed past the King, barely weighed down by Sam's size, pushing open a rusted door that squeaked loudly in protest. Crowley walked down the creaking hallway and opened what looked like a supply closet. Inside were a variety of… objects. Crowley walked past the rusty metal shelves, stopping and looking fondly at the occasional engraved knife, or a pair of handcuffs that had probably been new when Crowley sold his soul. He took his time meandering to the end of the small room, lost in his memories, before grabbing what would have looked like a simple wooden chair; if it weren't for the elaborate handcuffs built into it and the concerning red stains all over the once-brown surface.

Five long minutes later, Crowley had dragged the ominous chair into the main, empty, space in the center of the warehouse. He found that Dean had casually left Sam in a heap on the floor and was now singing along to the song Bad Company that for some reason was playing from an ancient radio that Dean had gotten from who knows where.

"Our company, are always on the run.

Our destiny, ooooh it's the rising suuuuuuuuuuun.

I was born, a shotgun in my hands.

Behind the guuuuun, I'll make my final stand, yeah.

That's why they call me:

Bad company, I can't deny.

Bad, bad company, 'till the day I die."

Crowley shot the radio, his displeasure evident. Dean looked over to his boss, his black eyes shining in amusement, "Or maybe until awhile after I die." Crowley rolled his eyes. "That's wonderful. Now would you mind lending me a hand?" Dean quickly got Sam strapped into the chair, while Crowley went back to the supply closet. He returned with a magazine and a dusty plaid rag that was soaked in….. something. Dean looked at him. "Chloroform? Is that really necessary? I can keep him out in between doses."

"I'm sure you could, squirrel, but I'd rather not have a concussed boy king on Hell's throne." Dean shrugged and let the rag fall onto the floor. "Whatever floats your boat."

Crowley tossed the magazine to Dean. "Here. Have fun with this while I make a supply run. I'd rather not waste all my good blood on your brother." Dean caught the magazine, a porno that was probably older than he was. "I shouldn't be more than a few hours. Don't give him the first dose until I'm back."

Dean waved him off, already engrossed in the magazine, "Go, go. Have fun, don't do drugs, yada yada." And with that lovely send off, Crowley left his new Knight, and the boy who was to become the new King of Hell.

The wait for Crowley to get back was really boring. Dean finished his magazine less than ten minutes after the King of Hell left. Dean twiddled his thumbs for a few minutes, before deciding that twiddling was a weird word, worthy of Sam and that he was really bored. Luckily for him, Sam had finally begun to rise back to consciousness.

After pacing the room exactly seventeen times, trying really hard to not kill anything even though Crowley had forgotten to confiscate the First Blade this time, Dean heard a small groan. He immediately rushed over to his gigantic, semi-consious brother as he hesitantly opened his eyes.

"Hey? You good?" Dean asked. Sam's eyes flickered open. He squinted, his eyes not focusing. Probably has a concussion. Dean diagnosed. Cool.Didn't think I hit him that hard.Being a demon is awesome!Sam looked at him and mumbled, "Dean? 's that you?" Dean smiled kindly, thinking What if I played a game?Mind games are always fun, not enough blood, but it's better than just waiting.

"Yeah Sammy, it's me. You okay?" Sam blinked a couple of times, thinking hard. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. What the hell happened? And why…" he gasped in pain, and shut his eyes tight. Sam had tried to move his left arm, only to find it broken and tied to a chair. "W-whaa… what the hell, Dean!?"

Dean looked down at Sam. "Oh Sammy. Is your memory not quite coming back?" he asked mockingly. Sam would have eyed Dean warily, if his head didn't hurt so freaking much. "No Dean. I don't remember what happened. Will you please just tell me!" Sam shouted through gritted teeth. Dean was getting bored. Plan B.

"Hey Sam?" he said softly, "can you open up your eyes for a second? I want you to see something." Sam opened his eyes carefully…. And then wished he hadn't.

Standing in front of him was Dean…. or at least he hadthought it was Dean. But no. This couldn't be Dean. He remembered now. Dean had died when Metatron… when Metatron stabbed him and he was too slow to stop it. So this Dean-shaped thing isn't, wasn't and will never be his brother. Because Dean's eyes were green, not pitch black.

"Hi there Sammy." Sam shut his eyes, refusing to accept what his eyes told him. That's not Dean!his mind kept shouting. Ah, but it is.Another part said quietly: a part that sounded suspiciously like a certain fallen archangel.

"Come on Sammy! What? No, 'you can't be Dean' or 'get out of Dean' or something equally dramatic?"

Sam drew a deep breath. He had no idea what was going on, but he refused to give into the Dean-shaped thing's wishes. He sent out a short prayer to Cas, hoping maybe the angel could help, if he was even still alive. Sam felt a pang of regret. He really didn't know if his friend was still alive.

The Dean thing sighed. "Fiiiiiine. This is boring. 'Nighty night Sam." He grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair, forcing the taller man's head to stay still. Then, he roughly shoved the plaid, drugged up rag into Sam's mouth. Dean let Sam's head fall onto his chest, oblivious to the world. Dean sighed. Boring.

He decided to run outside for a bit; apparently demons had to use the little boys' room too. Once he was gone, Sam picked up his head and prayed as hard as he could, the drug not acting quite as fast as Dean had assumed.

Dean came back in about half an hour later, having finally gotten bored of the natural wildlife. That's when he saw Cas.