Something for the weekend – though I fear you will salt and burn me for the cliffhanger! :-O Thanks to all of you who have reviewed... means a lot when people go to the effort, given the hours that go into writing these chapters. ;-) Hope you enjoy...

Warnings Foul language, blasphemy, S5 spoilers

Demonic Influence

It's the stench that gave the bastard away, rotten, the smell of things long dead, the stink of decay, putrefaction, so thick on the air that when Dean inhales he can feel it slither up inside his nostrils like a living thing, wriggling its way through his olfactory system, bombarding its receptor cells so mercilessly that klaxons sound the alarm, and they scream wrong, diseased, unclean, taint. And it's like he's piercing the veil, seeing their true faces again, only baser, because he's smelling their core, the rancid black essence at their center, and it's filth, contamination, impure.

He can sense his brother next to him, shifts slightly, focuses on his solid strength, his reality. Tries to ignore the fact that even if it's fainter than what emanates in waves from Crowley, he can smell it on Sam too. You stink of the Pit, he rails inside his head, but he swallows it down.

"The colt didn't work," Sam grates out coldly. "We lost friends. For nothing."

Crowley sniffs. "Well, you took them there," he snipes. "It was your decision. Doesn't have to interfere with business though, does it? I still want the devil dead, so we're still in this together, boys. Am I right? Or am I right?"

He's cagey, eyes darting about nervously, and Dean can see the meatsuit's nose twitching, and he wonders if Crowley can smell the same defilement on him, if they're doing the equivalent of dogs sniffing each other's butts to get properly acquainted.

"Look, straight up," the demon continues, not missing a beat, his agitation ramping up as he talks. "I didn't know it was dodgy, all my intel said the damn thing was a dead cert. What can I say? It's a learning curve. But I didn't mess you around. And I lost on this one too, big time. I'm totally buggered. Which reminds me…" He punches up aggressively at Bobby's floodlights, both hands, left and right, and the lamps flash, sparks flying as the glass shatters, and the lot is plunged into moonlit darkness again. "That's better," Crowley snaps. "Since I'm being hunted. And you never know who could be watching me standing here, in public, talking to the Winchester brothers."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Word got out, huh?" he sneers. "And now you're on the devil's hit list? Tough fuckin' shit. If I had his cellphone number, I'd tip him off myself. Now, my brother here," and he jerks his head at Sam, "has the knife that really can kill you sonsofbitches. So, dust, pal. Right the fuck now. Unless you want another slit."

And Crowley narrows his eyes, and now he's looking Dean up and down, like he's taking the measure of him, and he has a half smile on his lips. "I can get you Pestilence," he says suddenly. "I know where he is. I know what he has planned too." He whistles out, shakes his head. "It's not pretty, I can tell you that. Little virus they've been faffing about with for a few years now. Perfecting, if you like. It's the dog's bollocks, boys. What you saw in Concrete won't even come close."

Sam nudges him, leans closer. "Croatoan," he mutters.

And fuck, it's 2014, and Croatoan jumpstarted the endgame, and Dean finds he's breathing fast and heavy because all he can see is the wreck of the porch he's standing on, the mess in the house, and Bobby's chair upended, bloodsmeared, and in his head six billion voices are wailing Detroit at him and over their screams he can still hear the thing that wears his brother whispering sickly sweet sympathy in his ears.

"Where is he?" he growls.

Crowley smiles whitely at him, rocks on his feet. "Do you think I'm thick or something?" he says. "You have to promise me you won't kill me. Before I tell you."

Dean can feel his brother tense beside him, can almost sense Sam gripping the knife tighter, knows he's poised to let it fly.

"We promise," Sam hisses, and he takes a few steps forward. "Where is he?"

Crowley takes a step back. "Not so fast, twinkletoes," he snaps. "I don't like you. And I don't trust you." He points at Dean. "He has to promise. Him. He has to promise me that I live through this, that neither of you two numbskulls pops me, tries to pop me, pays someone else to pop me, or arranges my accidental death." He looks past Dean, at the doorway. "The old geezer too. But him…" He stabs a finger towards Dean, stares him down, insolent. "His promise is the one that matters to me." He smirks. "Call it Winchester witness protection."

Dean can hear Bobby murmuring from behind him, something about trusting a demon, and he stares it out with Crowley, eyes locked on and steady. "I promise," he announces, and he hears Sam's indrawn breath.

"Dean, for crying out loud, are you fucking nuts? He's—"

"Telling the truth," he cuts in. "He isn't lying, Sam." He slants his eyes across to his brother. "I know everything, remember? And I know he isn't lying. About this, or about wanting to ice the devil."

Crowley nods vigorously, sidles closer. "I'm on your side," he says confidentially. "Strange times make for strange bedfellows, young Sam… enemy of my enemy and all that." He smiles, flicks a look back at Dean, and his eyes are narrowed and speculative again. "Just do me a favor, huh? Promise me again. On your father's honor this time."

Dean cocks his head. "My father's honor?" For a second he remembers the promise he made to Castiel, to obey, and he snorts derisively. "I promise, on my father's honor. Such as it is. How's that?"

Sam crowds around in front of him, incredulous. "Jesus, Dean, we don't know enough about him to trust anything he ever tells us again after Ellen and Jo, and even if he—"

"I know all about him," he says, mechanically. "Crowley's been here for a long time, he was Azazel's wingman, Lilith's too." He stops, reconsiders. "He was their John the Baptist, came to prepare the way for them…"

Crowley sniggers. "John the Baptist? That's a new one. And call me a sexist pig, but I prefer to think of Lilith as my wingman."

"Okay," Sam snarls. "You're a sexist pig."

Dean throws his brother a look that Sam matches unblinkingly, before he rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the demon. He steps down into the dirt, takes a few more steps that bring him closer, glances back over his shoulder. "Oh, and he tells people he's wearing a literary agent, but the meatsuit's really a pub landlord," he says. "Boozer on the Isle of Dogs."

Crowley sniffs. "Well, since you're shining at me—"

"I'm not fuckin' shining," he grates out crabbily, and a burst of light flares briefly as Crowley strikes a match, lights up another cigarette, and in the glow cast by the flame he can see a calculating gleam in the demon's eyes, and for a split second it's somehow knowing, like Crowley has figured something out and he isn't in on the joke, and then it's gone.

"I do miss the old girl," Crowley concedes mournfully.

"Yeah," Dean says coldly. "She was a joy to be around."

"Twit," Crowley snipes. "I mean my pub. The Cock and Bull…" He smiles fondly. "Those were the days. If you thought Hell was bad, you should try Millwall Docks in the seventies. But Lilith?" He hoiks a spitball into the dust beside his shoe. "I don't give a shit about Lilith," he declares. "Bint had it coming. You did me a favor, quite frankly." He quirks his head. "Well. Apart from the whole releasing Satan sub-clause. What the large print giveth, the fine print taketh away. Every time, Sam. You should know that. Unless Stanford pre-law isn't what it's cracked up to be?"

Behind them, Bobby clears his throat harshly and Dean glances back at the old man. "Dean," he says meaningfully. "A word?"

Crowley holds up his hands. "Don't mind me," he says cheerfully. "Have your little chinwag. I come in peace. Not going to try anything. Not a thing."

Dean jerks his head at Sam, makes his way back up the steps behind his brother as Bobby swivels the chair around, wheels back in through the door, and he knows what's coming, lounges against the doorjamb, watches as Crowley grins back up at him, sucks on his cigarette.

"Are you sure this is wise?" the old man says bluntly, and he doesn't get any further before Sam jumps in.

"Dean. Are you seriously telling me you trust him after what happened in Carthage? And how did he even find us, we have hexbags… is it him who's been watching you? And what the hell was all that about staring into Zachariah's grace when you ganked him, because—"

"I'm not debating Zachariah's grace with you right now, Sam," he snaps back. "It didn't burn out my eyes, I'm fine. And no, I don't trust Crowley. I said he's telling the truth. Which he is – about this, anyway. There's a difference." He glances over at the demon, returns his friendly nod, albeit unenthusiastically, turns his attention back to his brother. "I don't trust demons, remember?" he adds cuttingly, and Sam scowls back at him. "Look," he says then. "He's hinky as Hell, I know that. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. But he knows stuff, stuff that can help us. And his only interest is him, which means he'll deal if he thinks it'll help him in the long term."

Sam stares back darkly. "It also means he'll doublecross us if he thinks it's in his best interests," he insists. "I of all people should know that. I don't think we should deal with him, Dean, not after what happened with Ellen and Jo. We should end the sonofabitch right now."

From over in the moonlit yard, Crowley waves, calls out, "He promised," and he points at Dean. "And your yard is in the phonebook, old man," he adds. "I knew they'd turn up here eventually. I'm not dense."

Bobby snorts. "I see they have bionic fuckin' ears too." He beckons Dean closer, leans forward so they're practically nose to nose. "I vote to gank him. And after that, we're damn well debating Zachariah's grace. What the hell were you thinking, boy?"

Dean doesn't react. "Are you really still in the phonebook?" he says. "That's a tad risky, even if Cas did do your ribs for you."

Bobby stares up at him, flinty-eyed. "I need the business," he growls. "I make an honest living, remember? Mostly, anyway. They haven't tried anything yet, and since I need a catheter to take a piss these days, I don't really care if they do. And don't change the subject."

Dean feels a stab of disquiet at Bobby's words, an uncomfortable reminder of the bullet the old man said he was saving. But it isn't the time or place to pick up that ball, and he knows his brother is forcing himself to keep schtum too, can see Sam clenching his fists in his peripheral vision, can see his brother's knuckles whiten.

Bobby stops for a minute, takes a few deep breaths, calms down. He tugs at his beard, lowers his voice. "Look… so this guy says he can get us a Horseman. That's all well and good, assuming he is telling the truth, but should we really be prioritizing the Horsemen at this stage? Shouldn't we be going for the powerball? Lucifer? Instead of getting sidetracked?"

Sam leans in. "Dean, Bobby's right. For all we know he could be in cahoots with Lucifer," he whispers urgently. "This could be a set up to throw us off track, to sideline us in some wild goose chase while the devil checkmates us without us even knowing."

Crowley is checking his wristwatch now, shifting his weight from foot to foot, shaking his head in exasperation and talking to himself animatedly. He looks up, catches Dean's eye. "I took a risk coming here, and I'm on a tight schedule," he hollers impatiently. "Apocalypse, soon. I don't have all night." He thumbs the air over his shoulder. "I can just get in my car and piss off out of here if you aren't interested in doing business."

Dean squints into the darkness, just barely sees the outline of some innocuous looking sedan parked up near Bobby's gates, well out of earshot.

"Why do they even need cars when they can teleport?" he says, distractedly.

"Ruby said it's something to do with them being from the Pit," his brother replies quietly, almost reluctantly, like he doesn't want to let on that he ever might have talked to her about anything more profound than where the next demon was. "It means they're tied to the core of the earth… she used to say they couldn't be airbound, it wasn't natural. It drains them to keep zapping everywhere. Especially long distances."

"Like a honeybee," Dear murmurs. "They shouldn't be able to fly. It violates the laws of aerodynamics."

"The angels are different," Sam says. "Of the air. That's what she called it."

Dean stares up to the sky at his brother's words, and it's infinite and inky, looks like a promise, and he wants to fall into it. And then Bobby is saying something in the distance, and he drags his attention back to Sam's face, and on the way his eyes track across Bobby's piles of wrecks, lit up by the cold light of the moon, four and five high, some of the stacks listing precariously, the odd jalopy tumbled over, doors hanging and wheels in the air, cannibalized car doors and fenders strewn about. And he shivers, because it's another reminder of what Zachariah showed him, and for a second he's back in the future, Kansas city's deserted waste land, burnt-out shells of cars and trucks, upturned, tires missing, smashed storefronts, rusted shopping carts piled up with looted electrical goods that won't work because there's no more power to feed them, and then he's running from the Crotes, and he's outnumbered, and they're gaining on him and—

"Dean. Dean?"

His brother has his hand on his shoulder, is shaking him, eyes warm with concern. "Dean. Are you fuzzy again? Spacing out?"

He blinks up at Sam, shakes his head, shakes off the hand. "No… no. My head's clear, sharper than it has been for a while… it's just. The virus. Croatoan. What Crowley said."

Sam cocks his head, quizzical.

"Going after Pestilence won't sidetrack us," Dean insists. "The future Zachariah showed me, remember? Croatoan. It's how Lucifer set the endgame in motion. He raised the Horsemen for a reason didn't he? To loose chaos so he could get the upper hand. We saw that in River Pass, with War. So if Pestilence is pulling the strings when it comes to the virus, then if we get him, get his ring, it might take Croatoan out of the picture."

Crowley butts in again from his spot in the yard. "Could make a big difference," he calls. "I mean, Satan forbid the proletariat should get itself an organized resistance instead of frothing at the mouth and belting around the place like hyperactive lemmings on acid."

Sam glares back at him, huffs out, turns back. "I still think it's a mistake to—"

"And eating each other," Crowley sings out. "While Lucifer takes advantage of the chaos in the meantime."

They both spin around to stare out at the demon now.

"Do you know what the point of a blitzkrieg is, boys?" Crowley asks sunnily.

Dean waits a beat before he replies. "Blitzkrieg," he says quietly. "A lightning war. Constant motion that keeps the enemy off-balance, making it difficult to respond effectively. Until it's too late to get back on terms."

Crowley nods, blows out cigarette smoke in a perfect series of rings that float up and dissipate into the night air. "Only Lucifer isn't bothered with tanks and bombs," he says. "He's all about getting the most done with the least effort. And I'd wager Croatoan will sign, seal and deliver the constant motion our friend has in mind without him having to break sweat." He drops his cigarette butt, toes it into the dirt. "So, Dean. What's it to be?"

Dean can sense Sam's tension like his brother is transmitting it to him telepathically, and there's a minute where he wonders if the kid in the car did lay the shining on him and he really is reading Sam's mind. And he even does what he imagines might approximate to reaching out mentally, opens up what he imagines might be the channels of communication, and he feels like a fuckin' idiot as he does it, and feels like he's intruding too. And he doesn't really want to admit to the fact that if there was some sort of feedback loop, he's afraid of what he might find out. As it is, only the barely perceptible sigh Sam puffs out as he replies to Crowley tells him what his brother thinks of his decision.

"What have you got?" he says.

Crowley smiles. "Well, I don't have Pestilence per se," he says. "I have what you might call his wingman. Though I prefer to think of him as the Horsemen's stable lad. Handles their itineraries, if you like, arranges all of their personal appearances. Weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, you get the—"

"Yeah, we do," Dean says shortly. "So where is he?"

Crowley motions casually into the distance. "As it happens, he's in the boot of my car right at this moment in time."

Sam stares down into the trunk, swallows thickly because it's familiar, looking down at a bound body with a bag over its head, only this time the bag is soaked black with blood in the glow of his Maglite, and the body is still, quiet, and then suddenly it isn't, it's her face, mocking, look at you, all 'roided up…

He startles as Crowley clucks his tongue right next to him, elbows him. "Well, you're the muscle," the demon quips. "I'd rather not get blood on the threads if you don't mind. This coat's cashmere. Paul Smith."

His brother is behind him, clears his throat uneasily, and Sam wonders if the fuzz has cleared enough so Dean is remembering what he said in the car on the road out of Heber, about the nurse, thinks maybe his brother is doing exactly that when he speaks.

"Sam. Uh – you want me to get that?"

He takes a deep, grounding breath. "No. I got it."

He leans in, drags the body up, bends at the knees as he hoists it onto his shoulders and it flops limply, dead weight. He glances at Crowley. "Is he likely to come round any time soon?"

The demon shrugs. "Well, there's a devil's trap Sharpied on that bag he's wearing over his head, and I whacked him with a tire iron about seventeen times," he says matter of factly. "I'd say that gives us another half-hour at least to strap him down and ward him properly."

"And what's to stop him from smoking out once he comes round?" Dean snaps.

"Binding spell," Crowley announces. "I carved it on his chest. He's a permanent resident as long as we want him to be. I'm sure it'll be an important part of our bargaining strategy." He looks up towards the house, where light floods out of the doorway. "Inside, I assume?" He sets off, walking briskly, looks back as Dean hails him.

"Who the hell invited you?"

Sam settles his load more comfortably on his shoulders, ignores his brother's muttered oath as he starts following the demon, and Dean trots ahead of him.

Crowley spins, shuffles backwards as he talks. "You might need me," he announces. "This one's a tough nut, a real wide boy. And there's—what? What the fuck?" He stops dead, balances on one leg as he examines his shoe. "Haven't you morons heard of poop scoopers?" he yelps, wipes his foot frantically on the grass.

"I said, who the hell invited you?" Dean repeats acidly.

"These are hand-made Anello and Davides," Crowley seethes.

"Anello and Davide. Is that like Siegfried and Roy?"

The demon's voice shoots up a few octaves. "Anello and Davide make shoes for Elton fucking John, I'll have you know."

"I don't give a—"

"And the Beatles."

"Aren't they all dead?" And then, because Dean knows it all, "Fuck, are you really from the sixties?"

Sam skirts around them and keeps walking, can hear them bickering away behind him. He speeds up, hefts the body up the porch steps and in through the door, staggers along the hallway into the back regions of the house, and Bobby already has the chair ready, dead center of the spray-painted trap, ropes and cuffs on the floor waiting. He tips the meatsuit down onto the seat, turns, and Dean is suddenly right there behind him, so jittery he's almost tap dancing with it.

"Dammit, Bobby, did you have to break the trap at the front door?" his brother barks, as Crowley appears at his shoulder and steps into the room.

The demon is nodding his approval as he studies his surroundings. "I like what you've done with the place," he says to Bobby.

The old man scowls across at them from where he's cuffing the meatsuit's wrist to the chair frame. "I let him in because you said he was on the level about this, boy," he says irritably. "Otherwise I'd have been happy to gank him."

Crowley is looking up and down, keeping his distance. "Excellent use of the standard devil's trap, ceiling and floor," he notes, "and very crafty placement of hexbags at points north, south, east and west." He gestures past Bobby's shoulder, nods for emphasis. "I like the crucifix. Of course it's a myth they actually work, but it looks authentic… very Exorcist, very Salem's Lot." He glances behind him, laces his voice with respect, admiration. "One of those angel blasting sigils, if I'm not mistaken…"

Dean grips Crowley's shoulder, starts to spin him round. "You can be on the level from outside the house," he grates, and he suddenly pales, reels on his feet and claps his hand to his mouth. "Fuck," he mutters from behind his fingers.

Sam is right there, propping his brother up, bearing his weight for him as his knees buckle. "Fuzzy head?" he asks urgently. "I can get this, you need to rest."

Crowley drips fake concern. "Something wrong?" he enquires. "Is he under the weather? Not feeling himself, perhaps?" He smiles knowingly.

"Shut up," Sam growls. "There's nothing wrong with him." He starts to reach into his back pocket for the knife, and he finds he can't do it and support his brother, considers whether to walk Dean out of the room or sit him on the floor so he can get this over with.

Dean is shaking his head, eyes scrunched closed. "No… head's fine," he mutters. "Smell. Jesus. He smells bad… just need to – get used to it. It'll take a minute. Wasn't so bad outside."

Crowley smiles widely, stares straight at Sam. "He can smell the Pit on me. Like dogshite roasting in the sun, in a downwind. He can smell it on you too, I shouldn't wonder, young Sam, after all the interesting shapes you made with sweet little Ruby." He nods his head regretfully. "Now that's what I call taking one for the team. But she always was a good girl, always did as she was—"

"Shut up," Bobby cuts in from across the room. "Shut up, or by Christ I will end you myself, right now."

Crowley flinches, just barely. "Ouch. Can we not blaspheme, please?" He smirks. "And what are you going to do, old man, run me down?" He switches his gaze back to Dean. "By the way, you don't smell so good yourself."

Sam feels his brother tense under his arm.

"Is that how I," Dean starts, and he shudders, whispers it out. "Can you smell the Pit on me?"

The demon regards him for a long moment, expression neutral now. "Nope," he says finally. "You smell like angel."

Dean pulls his hand away from his mouth. "I smell like angel?"

"Yep. It's all over you."

Sam can't help himself, blurts it out, intrigued. "What does angel smell like?"

His brother turns and glares at him accusingly for a second before he fixes his attention back to the demon, clears his throat. "Uh. Well? What does angel smell like?"

Crowley grimaces. "Like a bunch of fucking flowers. Like one of those stupid little plug-in air fresheners that make your house smell like vanilla. Like that Febreze stuff you spray on the couch to hide the smell of cat piss. Like the perfume department at Saks Fifth Avenue. Like a newborn baby's hair." He shudders theatrically. "I think that about covers it. And angel is to me what Pit is to you, Dean. So I trust you'll forgive me if I'm not doing the happy dance about it myself."

Dean is pulling away from Sam now, seems to be coming back to himself, never taking his eyes off the demon.

Crowley sniggers, eyes narrowed and cunning. "Of course, you have to wonder why it is Dean here smells like he's been rolling in angel. Maybe all those rumors I've been hearing are true." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "So where is your boyfriend? Only I heard he departed the mortal coil."

Dean cocks his head. "That's none of your damn business," he says, low and controlled.

"Of course the rumors wouldn't explain why you can suddenly sniff out my kind," Crowley muses archly. He roots in his coat pocket, pulls out his cigarettes, glances at Bobby. "Mind if I have a fag?"

"Yes I do," the old man snaps.

The demon puts the box back in his pocket, snorts. "Anyway. I heard friend Castiel got himself vaporized helping you," he mocks. "And all for nothing."

"What happened to Castiel doesn't matter," Dean says, frostily.

"For nothing?" Sam hears himself say. "What do you mean for nothing?" And then he's turning it on Dean. "And of course it matters, Dean…" His attention is suddenly caught by Bobby gesturing furiously at him, and the old man mouths what the fuck? and Sam throws his hands up, clueless, because he's seen his brother madder than hell at Cas but he's never seen this shut down, mechanical lack of emotion at the angel's name.

"Knife, Sam."

And Sam can sense it coiled inside his brother, the explosion that's about to blow Crowley to kingdom come, and that's what it is, Dean is just distracted, hungry for the kill. And he hands over the blade, takes a step back, motions Bobby to retreat, and the old man is already moving.

Crowley's eyes widen. "You promised!" he says indignantly. "You can't break your promise, that's why I said it had to be you, and—"

Dean laughs, a not entirely sane laugh. "You said I had to promise not to kill you before you told me," he says. "You didn't say anything about me not killing you after you told me." He shakes his head in mock sympathy. "What can I say, Crowley? What the large print giveth, the fine print taketh away…"

He's closing in, light on his feet, arms outstretched, crouched slightly, ready to pounce. And there are times when Dean sledgehammers in for the kill, and it's all brute force and uncontrolled violence, and then there are times when it's like watching a dance, all catlike grace and poise, and Sam could watch his brother kill anything when it's like that, because his eyes blaze and it's a thing of beauty. And he shuffles sideways so he can see properly, and he thinks of Ellen and Jo, blown to smithereens, and it's justice, and damn well git her done so he can sit his brother down and find out what the hell is going on with him.

The blade glints in the light as Dean raises his arm. And it hangs there in mid-air, and it's like he's teasing, playing cat and mouse games. Only he's not, because he clears his throat harshly.

"I can't."

Sam furrows his brow, throws a look at Bobby.

"What do you mean, you can't?" the old man says.

"I mean, I can't," Dean mutters, and he lets his arm fall to his side. "I can't kill him. I promised."

Bobby's face is a picture. "So what? Get on with it. Or I'll do it."

"No you won't," Dean says. "I won't let you."

"Won't let me?" Bobby gapes.

"I can't," Dean repeats faintly. "I promised him."

"You promised to re-tile my roof two summers ago and I'm still waiting," the old man snaps. "Who cares what you promised him?"

"I care," Crowley interrupts agitatedly. "I can damn well do without you trying to talk him out of it, and—"

"Jesus," Sam sighs. "I'll do it. Dean, hand it over."

His brother turns around, slowly, holds the knife up and out. Holds it ready. "No."

Sam nods, bites his lip. "Okay," he says tightly. "We'll do this now, then. What the hell is going on with you, Dean? Since when do you keep promises to demons? And Zachariah, the light. What was that? And since when do you say Cas doesn't matter? It does matter, what happened to him, and—"

Dean's staring at him, puzzled, frowning. "What are you talking about Sam?" he rasps. "Of course it doesn't matter… anyone would think he was dead or something the way you're—"

"But he is," Sam almost shrieks. "You were there. He blew himself away with that damn sigil, he carved it on his own chest with a box cutter so we could—"

"It doesn't fuckin' matter, Sam." Dean is insistent, right up in his face now, voice rising in volume and pitch, and suddenly his eyes are molten, unearthly, pinprick pupils.

And something is wrong, very wrong, because there's a dull roar coming from somewhere, rustling, whispering, and the floor is shifting under Sam's feet, undulating, and in the corner of his eye he can see Bobby's wheelchair sliding about, the old man reaching out to grab at the curtains as he rolls over and comes to rest against the window.

"It doesn't fuckin' matter because Castiel's fine, Sam," Dean hollers. "Do you hear me? He's fine. Look – see?"

And the house is shaking now, and Sam looks up and the light fitting is swinging wildly, and the glass doors of Bobby's cabinets are crashing open and books are falling out onto the floor, and pictures are tumbling down from where they hang, and he can hear glass shattering.

"Do you see?" his brother yells furiously, and he cuts his hand through the air, and there's a flash, a bang like a car backfiring.

And there he is, standing right there, dazed, bloody, clothes in tatters, swaying. Sam reaches out as he falls, catches him, and he's lighter than he expected, and Sam falls to his knees, cradles the angel in his arms. He can hear Bobby shouting something above the roar, like a tornado bearing down on them now, wind high and moaning, and he can hear things falling elsewhere in the house, slamming on the floor of the room above. And then Crowley is leaning down in front of him.

"Didn't you know?" he shouts over the noise. "Are you thick?"

Something is glinting in his hand, a knife, a shiv, and Sam flinches, shuffles back, pulling the angel with him and twisting around to shield him from the demon.

"Prat," Crowley sneers, and he rolls his eyes. "It's not for him. Or you."

Sam looks past him, can see Dean standing in the middle of it all, his hands out and palms upwards, and he's looking up and his eyes are blank, and fuck, but Sam could swear his brother is starting to glow, just like the old guy at the Seven-Eleven in Heber said. And now Crowley is weaving his way towards Dean, hands out to balance himself because the house is still shaking. No… no, Sam thinks, and he screams it out, because he's too far away and Crowley is right up at Dean's shoulder now.

And the demon pushes past, lurches over to the door, makes a slicing motion across his palm, slams his hand on the sigil.

The room lights up, so bright Sam's pupils flare with agony even behind his closed eyelids, and then everything is stillness, silence, apart from his own breath and the matching percussion of Bobby's labored panting.

And when Sam opens his eyes, his brother is gone.

TBC

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