A dark and deserted crossroads, Planet XJ00003332-H (Andromeda Galaxy) – the same time
Yes, he was technically in hiding and supposed to be deceased, and yes there were lots of monsters in his little torture dungeon still to holy-waterboard into coughing up the location to the portal to Purgatory, but Crowley was, at heart (figuratively speaking; his own ticker had been dormant this centuries past) a businessman. When one of the deals he'd made for a soul came due, he made the time, made sure his desk was covered and his out of infernal office was on, and he came to collect – or at least, he came to watch his personal hellhounds do it for him. He felt he owed it to the soul.
Unlike most of his demonic compatriots, Crowley didn't hate humans. He found that a puzzling view. Quite apart from the fact that all demons had, at one time or another in the past, actually started off as human, mankin…oops, sorry, humankind (just because you were a demon was no reason not to be un-PC) was key to the whole Hell operation. Without humanity and its endless, Sisyphean lust for more, each and every one of his crossroads deals would have fallen on deaf ears.
People assumed that crossroads demons generally dealt with the desperate, the end-of-their-tether sort, the terminal cancer patient or the suicidal scorned lover. And yes, there was a fair smattering of those, to be fair. But – and this was the wonderful part – most of the homo sapiens that willingly signed over the most precious object in all the multiverse to him did so whilst still in possession of what, in any reasonable view, would have been a pretty decent life. The businessman who had to close that big deal. The wrestler who had to have that title shot.
He'd grown up in late seventeenth century Scotland, at a time when people lived much shorter and dirtier and less educated lives, when the poor could forget about unimportant things like 'rights' and 'votes' and women were treated more as property than as individuals. Fast-forward a few centuries and humankind had adorned itself with universal suffrage, democracy, and TiVo. And yet – he knew this, he'd checked – in terms of crossroads deals, humankind was making more now than ever. The more you gave them, the more they lacked; the more they had, the more they wanted.
Who couldn't love that?
When he felt the tug in his gut of a deal coming due, Crowley had handed his torture implements over to a henchdemon and instructed him in no uncertain terms to keep the good work going. Then, with a snap of his fingers and a quick materialisation of some fancy duds, he was off to whichever part of the world-
-except…
Crowley turned in a complete circle, making sure he was seeing what he was really seeing.
"Toto," he said softly to himself, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."
A massive, ringed planet dominated at least ninety percent of the available sky in front of him. His first thought, that he'd somehow found himself on one of the moons of Saturn, was dismissed when he saw that the planet was cobalt-blue in hue, with its rings running a gamut from deep crimson to mustard yellow. If he'd possessed a shred of humanity, Crowley felt sure he'd have found the sight beautiful.
"Huh," was all he said. He snapped his fingers again.
Nothing.
He stayed exactly where he was.
Crowley hadn't become King of Hell through a tendency to panic. He stopped his fruitless finger-snapping and started taking in more note of his surroundings. He was standing on a glassy, shimmering surface made of some indeterminate material that glowed and pulsed every time he shifted his weight slightly upon it. There was foliage of a sort around him; a rubbery-looking white substance lay over it. He couldn't help but note from a quick glance in all four points of the compass from where he stood that the "greenery" (whitery?) made a natural 'X' with him smack bang in the midst of that X.
"I'm fairly sure I don't remember E.T. selling me his soul," he said aloud. "So whoever summoned me here, get on with it. I haven't got all bloody day."
A man stepped from the foliage, holding some of flower in his hands. He was human, mid-thirties, bearded, smallish in stature, nondescript in appearance, the most normal looking man you could ever wish to meet.
"Hey Crowley," he said. "I'm God. We need to talk."
Crowley felt his eyes widen. Of all the possible responses to that seemingly preposterous statement that presented themselves to him, all the different smartass ways to laugh or scoff or be sarcastic or defiant, none made it to his lips, for the simple reason that he knew what the man said was true.
"About what?" he managed to say.
The celestial Allfather, known as Chuck, merely smiled. "Spoilers," he said.
Bobby Singer's house, Earth, Milky Way Galaxy - hours later
True to Crowley's word, Bobby had regained consciousness as soon as Jensen and Jared had walked back through the front door.
They rather wished he hadn't.
Right now he was going through the ingredients the men had brought back from their fruitful trip to Harrisburg. Grumbling, mostly. "Inferior brand," they heard him say as he hefted a quart of ox blood, "I coulda got you a better deal off a guy from Kentucky."
Jensen rolled his eyes in Bobby's direction as he offered Jared a beer from Bobby's fridge. Jared simply looked at him.
"What are you doing?" he said.
"Offering you a beer, what's it look like?"
"Since when do you drink beer? And since when even if you do, do you go and get someone else one?"
"What's that supposed to mean? That I'm some pampered actor? That's not me, man – not at all."
"Oh really."
"Damn straight," Jensen confirmed, sitting down heavily in the armchair opposite Jared, as Bobby continued to take inventory and mutter dark thoughts to himself.
"Okay Mr Common Man. How much is a pint of milk?" Jared asked.
"How much is a what?"
"A pint of milk. How much?"
Jensen's mouth made 'O' shapes. "In Canadian or American?" he said weakly.
"What's your social security number?"
"My…" Jensen thought, "…it starts with a 6. Hey you know what? If you don't want the friggin' beer, don't take it. I thought we were connecting back there in Harrisburg, and then you go and tell me you were the one torpedoed my Teen Choice Award? Screw you."
Jared threw up his hands in despair. "Haven't you figured it out yet? The reason – the only reason – we're "connecting" here is the effect this…this place," and he indicated the world around him, "is having on us. It's making us behave like brothers. Real, actual brothers, who occasionally give a crap about one another, as opposed to two unrelated actors who can't stand the sight of one another."
A heavy silence hung in the air as Jensen mulled on this. It had the tangy taste of truth about it, he had to admit.
"You saved my life back there, man," he said quietly.
"Sam Winchester saved your life," Jared replied, without looking at him.
Jensen sighed. "Does it matter?"
"Yes!" Jared bit out. Jensen was shocked to see how genuinely upset the man was. "Because if this works – and believe me, I want it to, I want to go home, see Genevieve – we'll both go back to behaving like total dicks to one another. You know it. I know it. So there's no point pretending this all meant something now, is there?"
Bobby had stopped grumbling, Jensen noted. He was watching, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his craggy features.
"It's weird," Jensen said eventually. "I said before, Sam and Dean's world…monsters, demons, the Apocalypse…I called it horrific. Said I couldn't imagine anyone sane wanting to live here. But you know what? I forgot something."
"Werewolves?" Jared guessed.
"No. I forgot that for all the darkness and the death, Sam and Dean have each other. And I never thought I would admit this, but man…I kinda envy them that."
"It's not real," Jared said. "None of this is, remember?"
Jensen shrugged. "What the hell is real?" he asked. "I mean c'mon. Actors from the so-called 'real world' don't get sucked through interdimensional friggin' portals into their own fictional worlds last I checked. Maybe what you and I call home is just another piece of fiction."
Jared snorted in bemusement at this. "I think you just hurt my brain," he said.
A beer was placed in his hand a second later. "I got a cure for that," Jensen grinned.
The bottles clinked together. Swigs were taken. In the kitchen, Bobby Singer found a smile breaking out on his face that he never thought was gonna surface…
…and then, a mouthful of beer arced from Jensen's disgusted mouth.
"Dear God," Jensen spluttered, "what is this? Is this what beer tastes like? Bobby, do you have any Chardonnay?"
Bobby's smile vanished. He walked into the lounge with the spell ingredients in hand and his expression conveyed to an unusually astute Jensen that any further questions about supplies of wine were perhaps unwise to pursue.
"Time to put you two back Over the Rainbow," he said. "Let's summon that little demonic bastard and you two can collect your prize."
He put the ingredients together in the bowl; it was a surprisingly uncomplicated spell, considering. "Final ingredient," he said, and handed each man a knife, "blood of the travellers."
Jensen rolled his eyes. "It's never a 'dash of nutmeg' is it?" he said, and made as if to cut into his palm with the knife.
Jared stopped him. "What are you doing?" he said.
"The cutting thing?" Jensen said. "For the blood? I mean we must've done this in like fourteen episodes."
"Yeah, for dramatic effect!" Jared replied. "You ever actually get a cut in the palm of your hand? Hurts like hell, right? And the risk of infection in that sucker? Sky high. It's gonna sting for weeks every time you grip something. You really want to walk around with a scarred palm for life because you needed, like, four drops of blood, maximum?"
Jared pulled aside his shirt, exposing the flesh of his upper arm and shoulder. "Seriously. Tiny nick up here. Same effect, way less hassle."
As Jensen did likewise, Bobby Singer took a moment to glance at the palms of his hands, which were completely criss-crossed with a roadmap of angry little scars. "Y'know something," he murmured, "now and then you actor fellas can actually talk a little sense."
The blood was added to the mixture. Bobby incanted a few Latin words from the scrap of paper Crowley had given them. The mixture glowed…
"Hello, boys," Crowley said.
"Pay up," Jensen said.
"No foreplay?" Crowley cooed, disappointed.
"Save the snappy comebacks for the gag reel," Jared said. "We did what you asked, Crowley. We played our roles, we got the spell ingredients, we even took down a few vamps while we were at it."
"Yes, I saw that," Crowley said. "Can I just say I found your performance as a PTSD-afflicted FBI agent with crippling social anxiety extremely moving, Jared?"
"Crippling social anxiety?" Jared said. "That wasn't part of his backstory."
"My mistake," Crowley said smoothly, as Jensen made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh. "Anyway, yes, you did quite well lads. Better than I thought, in actual fact."
Bobby was the first to smell it. "He's gonna stiff you," he said, getting angrier by the second. He turned to Jensen and Jared, red-faced with frustration. "Dammit, you two idjits! I could have told you this was gonna happen-!"
"No," Jensen shook his head, "no no no. Bobby, relax. There's no possible way we didn't win this bet. Right?"
"Right!" Jared agreed vehemently.
Crowley inclined his head. "Mmm," he said, affecting a tone of genuine regret, "previously, on Supernatural…"
He snapped his fingers. The room was abruptly a mite more crowded, as it was now occupied not only by Bobby, Crowley, Jensen and Jared, but also by spectral representations of the latter three men, standing in the exact positions they had been the day before.
"So," flashback Crowley was saying, "the deal runs thusly: I give you a list of ingredients for the dimensional transference spell, and you two go pretend to be Godzilla and Godzooky and go get them. If you play your Sam and Dean roles convincingly – and allow to me to stress for the purposes of fair play, convincingly - you win."
"Sorry," the real, present-time Crowley said, "you – yes, you, the sexy one?"
"Me, darling?" said flashback Crowley.
"Yes, love – could you say that one more time?"
"No problem, sugar," flashback Crowley replied, "all of it, or just the part about being convincing?"
Crowley shrugged. "Actually you know what, that'll do fine," he said, and with another finger-snap the flashback scene had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He turned his attention back to Jensen and Jared. "Sorry that little recap didn't have Carry On My Wayward Son playing over it but honestly, you have no idea how much that bloody song costs to licence. I think you get the message, yes?"
"No!" Jensen exclaimed. "What, we weren't convincing? We got the job done! When exactly weren't we convincing enough for you?"
Crowley rolled his eyes. "I thought we were done with the recaps, but okay, fine; one more."
Another finger-snap. This time, the spectral flashback figures were Jared, Jensen and the two lawmen-cum-vampires from Harrisburg. The Sheriff was talking. "Well, County Nest, if it's any consolation. Hell, we already got us an Elementary School class full o'kids stashed in there, but you two are welcome to be the cherry on top. We'll be chowing down on you folks til Hanukkah."
Crowley smiled a terrible smile.
He stuck a finger out into the air and rotated another finger from his other hand beside it, as though rewinding an old cassette tape. The scene rewound obligingly.
"…we already got us an Elementary School class full o'kids stashed in there…"
He rewound again.
"…Elementary School class full o'kids…"
And again.
Faces draining of blood, Jensen and Jared met each other's eyes. "Oh God," Jared said.
Finger-snap. The figures were gone, leaving only a smug demon, two ashen-faced actors, and the world's angriest scrap metal merchant.
"Tell me you didn't," Bobby said softly.
"Tell me, how were the little tykes when you showed up to rescue them?" Crowley asked. "Did they weep in gratitude? Did they throw their arms around you, their brave rescuers?"
"We…" Jensen tried to speak, and could get no further. He couldn't look at Bobby, whose hands had now balled into fists.
Crowley clutched at his chest. "You did show up to rescue them, didn't you?" he said, seemingly aghast. "You didn't just pat each other on the back for your heroic antics killing those two vamps, pull some fangs out for your precious spell, and high-tail it back here, did you? Leaving those little kiddies to be abandoned in some vamp nest full of nasty bloodsuckers? That doesn't sound like a very Sam and Dean thing to do to me. No, not at all. But maybe I'm biased. Let's ask an expert, shall we? What do you think, Bobby?"
"YOU PAIR O'SELFISH DICKS!" Bobby Singer roared. He looked as though only a Herculean effort of will was keeping his hands from their throats.
Crowley shrugged. "Swing and a miss from our impartial judge, boys. See, here's the thing with Sam and Dean. They're a pair of self-destructive, borderline alcoholic, sexist pigs with a penchant for violence and a truly staggering capacity for stupidity. But much as it pains me to admit, they're heroes. And they'd never in a month of Sundays hear about a bunch of cute little rugrats in peril from the boogeyman and prompty ignore it to get back to their trailers and makeup artists. Bet…lost. Be seeing you."
He made as though to snap his fingers. Jared lunged forward. "Please!" he begged. "We didn't ignore it! We…" and he mumbled miserably now, "…we just, we forgot…"
This time, Bobby did lose it. He moved with surprising speed for a man his age and before any time at all seemed to have elapsed, Jared was on the floor and Bobby was shaking some life back into his fist, eyes burning while his attention turned to Jensen, who had remained uncharacteristically silent since the revelation.
"I'm sorry," Jensen said.
"Go to hell," Bobby spat. "The both o'ya. You two been starin' down your nose at me, my home, this entire damn world ever since you got here, and don't dare tell me otherwise. We're not real to you. We're fiction. So you probably figgered – well, class full o'fictional kids versus us getting back to the Real World, where's the contest, right? That about sum it up, Jensen? You two don't care about anything here, do you? You don't care about Sam and Dean. You're just achin' to get back to your pampered-ass lives."
Jensen nodded. "Yeah," he admitted. Jared fully expected Bobby to lay into him then, and for a moment it looked as though the older man was indeed going to do exactly that, but something about the way Jensen said it seemed to give him pause.
"You're right," Jensen continued. "I'm not a hero. I'm just an actor. My Dad's an actor same as me. He's still alive and well, thank God. I had a good childhood. A normal life. I was lucky to land this gig on Supernatural, but I worked hard to get that luck. You're wrong, Bobby, you know that? I do care about Dean. And yeah, it's partially because he's been good to me; he's given me a steady job, a "pampered-ass actor" life, sure. But he's a good person. He's a hero. I just," and he spread his hands wide and laughed for a second, "I never thought that out there, somewhere he was actually, literally real, but now that I know? I'm proud. I'm damn proud. There's a guy out there who has literally saved the world, and he wears my face, or I wear his. Whatever. So I do care. I wanted him back saving people and hunting things as soon as possible. I guess…I guess I messed that up. And I am so sorry. If I could change it, I would."
A hand fell on his shoulder. "We both would," said Jared.
Crowley applauded. "There's your intro clip on Ellen, right there," he said. "Moving. Beautiful."
"Get out of my house," Bobby snarled at him, reaching for his angel blade.
"Don't you want to hear my final offer first? Call it a final throw of the dice, if you will. Those were some right pretty speeches you made there, lads, but I'm forced to wonder if you meant any of it. Would you really throw yourself into the lion's den of that vamp nest if you could?"
"Yes," Jensen said.
"Absolutely," Jared agreed.
Crowley smiled. "Well then," he said. "Here's a choice for you. Either I send you two back home, and Sam and Dean can stay right where they are - you can employ them as your stunt doubles or I dunno, make a lot of women's sexual fantasies a reality, whatever – or…I can send Sam and Dean home, and send you two to the vamp nest to clean up your mess."
"With Sam and Dean to help?" Jared asked.
Crowley grunted. "Where's the sport in that?" he asked. "No no no. Just you two clowns. Up against maybe six, seven vampires."
"And if we survive somehow? Rescue the kids? We go home?" Jensen said.
Crowley shook his head. "No," he said. "No, not ever. Home, or vamp nest. Make your choice, boys. Clock's ticking."
Jensen and Jared looked to Bobby. He was breathing heavily, both from the exertion of slugging Jared and the rage he'd been experiencing only a few moments ago, but that rage seemed to have abated now. Truth be told, Bobby wasn't sure how in the world he should be feeling right at this moment. Wasn't sure if he wanted to strangle the two men in front of him, hug them, or both.
"You two ain't Hunters," Bobby said. "Said so yourselves. You'd never stand a chance against that many vamps."
"We'd try," Jensen said, with a faint smile. "I can do a mean Dean Winchester, you know. He's a scary sonofabitch, haven't you heard?"
"This world needs Sam and Dean," Jared said. "Without those two around, who's gonna stop the next Apocalypse? Buffy?"
"Let me go with," Bobby said, turning to Crowley. "At least even the odds a little!"
"Not. A. Chance," Crowley said.
"Thanks anyway," Jensen said. He offered Bobby his hand. "For everything. I played opposite a guy speaking your lines a hundred times and I thought I understood what you meant and truth was, I hadn't a clue. You're everything to those boys, Bobby. And you're gonna get them back."
Bobby didn't shake his hand. He embraced him. And Jared too. He fetched his best blades, pressed them into the boys' hands. "You swing hard," he told them. "You swing and you move. I'll be coming for ya, with Sam and Dean. We'll come and we'll get you, you hear?"
"Yes sir," they chorused.
Jensen looked at Jared, got a nod of assent. He turned to Crowley. "Do it," he said. "Send Sam and Dean home."
Crowley snapped his fingers.
The universe froze.
"You were right," Crowley said.
"Well," God replied, stepping out of the shadows, "I don't like to be that guy, but it is sort of in the job description."
He walked up to the immobile Jensen and Jared, poised and ready to be sent to their doom. "You had it in you all along, guys," Chuck said admiringly. "Good for you."
"So what happens now?" Crowley asked, a trifle nervously. He remembered the desolate loneliness of that impossibly far-off planet; a planet "Chuck" had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he would be left upon for all eternity if he didn't play ball. He didn't fancy trying to tempt the indigenous life-forms into selling their souls – chiefly because the planet's most sophisticated form of life looked like a fried egg made from semen.
Chuck seemed to have forgotten he was there for a moment. "Oh I have plans," he said brightly. "For these two."
"And…for me?"
"You're more of a wild card, Crowley. That's why I like you."
The self-proclaimed "King of Hell" didn't know whether being told by the Lord God Almighty that he liked him was something to be relieved about or insulted by.
"Relieved about," said Chuck, without looking around.
"So I can…go?" Crowley said, barely able to believe his luck. He prepared the teleportation spell in his mind, ready to make a fast exit.
"Yes, but one favour first. Wipe Bobby's mind of this whole encounter. Otherwise it'll just get a bit complicated."
Crowley blinked. "Er," he said.
"Problem?"
"Well…it's just…can't you do that? Simple memory erase? I mean, you are the sodding Lord."
Chuck smiled. "Think of it as good practice," he said.
"For what?"
Chuck's smile got bigger. He walked closer to Crowley and suddenly, in his arms, was a collection of Supernatural DVDs and Blu-Rays, episode guides and associated paraphernalia, all of which Crowley instinctively knew had until recently belonged to him and been very safely under lock and key in the deepest darkest corner of Hell. As he watched, they all went up in smoke.
"For you," said Chuck.