I spent the next few days avoiding Sam's gaze. I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes, not after what had almost happened with Dean. Instead I trailed the older brother—much to his annoyance, I knew—to try and figure out what it was about him that my crazed self had seen as an ally. Whenever he asked me why I was following him I would stumble and stutter my way through half of an answer or my throat would shut itself off completely, so he was often left without a reply. This, of course, made Dean frown in confusion and grumble to himself and spend a lot of time in his room as he tried to avoid me. Or he would go out and find a bar, destroying whatever was left of his liver, apparently. I could tell by the way he stumbled down the hall, loudly and muttering until he slammed his door shut.

After about a week and a half of wandering around the bunker after Dean, not making eye contact with Sam and trying to unravel the Crowley situation, but getting nowhere, I'd finally had enough. I needed to get out, look at the sky, breathe in some disgusting stink of pollution or I'd go crazy. I felt as if I would explode if I didn't get out and just wander through a normal street or eat an ice-cream. I pitched the idea of taking a little excursion to Sam, but he immediately became tight lipped and said "I'll talk to Dean, we'll probably go soon" but gave me no other information.

I made up an excuse to stretch my legs a few hours later, not quite sure where Dean was but willing to risk getting caught. Since we'd been in Sam's room, which was not far from the hall his brother and I shared, I tip-toed to my room and grabbed my jacket and shoes before making my way to the main library. I could hear quiet breaths echoing from somewhere close by, but I couldn't pinpoint them so I edged forwards carefully. As I came up the steps I saw Dean's slumped figure by the farthest table, head lolling to the side, right arm reaching across the tabletop to an empty beer bottle that had fallen over. His back was to me and yet I knew he was asleep, his bare feet were propped up on another chair, his boots discarded on the floor, a tattered and very full journal open beside the bottle. I could see strange symbols and weird drawings on the pages as I crept past, but that didn't interest me. All I wanted was to get outside.

I clambered up the metal staircase as quietly as I could, slipping my shoes on once I got to the next set of steps, which were concrete. I knew the door outside was this way, and it was a quick climb to its dark, rough metal face. I gave the handle a gentle pull and opened the door just enough so I could squeeze out, wincing when its hinges whined as I closed it. The afternoon sun was hidden somewhere behind the abandoned factory above the bunker, the air chilly but not too cold. I slipped my jacket on, following the dirt drive down the hillside to the main road. I had no idea where I was, I knew the mansion I had been in with Crowley was somewhere in Kansas, but otherwise I was completely lost. I'd grown up in Australia and Japan, I'd stayed in south-east Asia for a year and I'd travelled to Europe, but I'd only ever come over to America a couple of times, so I didn't really know the country or the people—or the monsters, for that matter.

When I reached the main road I turned right and began walking, hoping it was the way to civilisation, because the factory (and therefore the bunker) was surrounded by forest. As it turned out, the outskirts of a small town soon came into view, with a bar, a couple of shops and small businesses. I wandered down the main street, hands jammed in my pockets and collar turned up against the feral wind that had begun to howl. I felt around my jeans and inner jacket pockets, discovering I had not a lot of money, but enough for a drink or two.

The bar was quiet, an old jukebox in the corner lazily spitting out Queen, the patrons few and all men. The bartender asked me for I.D., suspicion crinkling his eyes when he saw my birth year, yet finding no fault in the identification itself. "Pick your poison." He grumbled.

I sat at the bar, watching with a raised eyebrow when he got a pint glass for the beer I'd ordered. He placed the bottle beside the glass, leaning back and watching me expectantly, as if waiting for the moment when I poured the beer into it. I frowned at him, giving him a look that said "really?" and took a large swig from the bottle. Disappointed I didn't take the 'girly' option, he put the glass away and wandered off. Although I don't know what's girly about drinking from a glass…American logic, I guess?

"You're looking well, love."

Jumping out of my skin was my first reaction to the demon materialising beside me, and when I saw it was none other than the king of Hell my fingers grew tight holding onto the edge of the bar. "Crowley." I growled.

"Still feeling psychotic, or are you past that now?"

I could feel my anger surfacing, giving me control. I glanced over to the bartender, who was no longer interested in me but talking to someone I assumed to be a regular in a town of this size. "How did you find me?"

He ignored me, waving the bartender over and ordering a scotch. I had to bite the inside of my cheek as he blatantly flirted with the man, who almost spat in Crowley's drink before walking back down the other end of the bar. "Why the small town of Lebanon, if I may ask, darling?"

"You may not," I hissed. "Until you answer my questions." I watched him sip at his scotch, and as I took in his calm demeanour and laid back appearance I grew infuriated. I felt something begin to twist in the pit of my stomach, and I itched to hold something sharp so I could drive it into his neck repeatedly, as it would most likely make me feel better. The angrier I felt, the more I seemed to think my vision was twisting, and underneath his skin something dark lingered, like a shadow on his bones, but deeper than that. As I stared it became clearer, and I wished I could stop looking but tearing my eyes away was impossible.

It was like something rotten was living under Crowley's skin, making his skin bubble and ooze, contorting his face. His mouth gaped open to reveal black and yellow teeth, ghoul-like skin of his cheeks grey and ripped, bleeding thick black blood and through the holes his tongue lay dead and shrivelled in his mouth. As I watched his hair fell out, the remaining strands growing longer and oily, his eyes melted, leaving gaping black holes in his head, wisps of demonic smoke escaping from the sockets. The grey skin of his forehead was peeling off in places, skull peeking through underneath.

It came to me then, staring at the disgusting horror in front of me, that this was Crowley's true face beneath the smooth talking charming-faced Brit.

"W-what ha-happened at the m-mansion?" I asked, finally tearing my eyes away. That was…disturbing…

I glanced at him, and his smile told me he knew what I'd seen. "Do you know who your mother is, love?" I was slightly taken aback by the random question.

"She was a h-h-hunter. Her name w-was A-a-a-m-manda."

"And your father?"

The anger began to dissipate at the odd questions. And so did my enhanced vision, leaving me with only Crowley's meat suit, which suited me perfectly. "M-m-my f-ath-er?" I frowned, sadness slowly welling up from my stomach and sitting heavily in my chest. I could feel the numbness spreading like a chill through me as I failed not to think of my childhood. "M-my f-father a-a-aband-d-donned me and-d m-my m-mother wh-when I was y-y-young."

"Ah," Crowley said, a small knowing smile playing on his lips. I had a feeling I wasn't going to like what he was about to tell me. "So you don't know, then. I didn't think she'd tell you."

"T-tell me w-w-what?" He smiled at my question taking his time to sip at his whiskey, my feeling of apprehension growing stronger and stronger, I felt it drown out my wailing memories of a painfully lonely childhood and it filled me until it seemed I was about to burst. "W-what did sh-she not tell m-me, Crowley?"

When he didn't answer it clicked. He wasn't going to tell me anything—that would put him at a disadvantage—because I wasn't the only one looking for answers. Crowley wanted something out of this meeting, and he would weasel it out of me however he could. My first thoughts were of the Winchesters and the bunker, but Sam had told me about his little stay as their prisoner after the angels fell. (Man! I knew about monsters, gods and demons already, but angels was a hard one to wrap my head around!)

So what could Crowley possibly want?

Minutes passed this way, sitting beside the king of Hell in silence, trying to figure out how he benefitted from this encounter while watching the condensation drip slowly down the side of my beer until I heard the rumble of an engine.

It was deep, the way I'd imagine a tiger purring like a house cat. A door creaked open and was slammed shut, and I could have sworn I recognised the sound. The bar door opened with a quiet creak, and my stomach dropped through the floor and landed somewhere near Hell's gates.

It occurred to me later that going to the nearest bar was not a very smart move because of course it would be Dean's watering hole.

He didn't see us, he just shuffled past and sat down a few stools away from me on my right, still bleary eyed and rumpled from his nap in the library, it seemed. As he ordered his drink I began to slowly angle myself away from him, not quite sure what his reaction would be once he discovered I'd snuck out. He paid me no attention, instead looking down and rubbing the spot on his right forearm where that odd burn-like mark was. Crowley stood, obviously tense and slightly nervous due to his jerky actions. He began to walk over to Dean, hissing in my ear "I'll distract him and you run for it. It'll do you no good to be seen with me—you'll lose moose and squirrel's trust in a flash" before sitting on Dean's right, forcing him to look away from me and the door. As the two began talking, I thought about bolting, but something kept me glued to my stool.

Had Dean brought his brother along? They must have figured out I'd run off, but had they simply made a lucky guess as to which way I'd gone? Panic started to burn in my veins, and it took everything I had to sit perfectly still.

I took a nervous swig, finishing off my beer. I needed to escape out back, which meant getting around Dean. Lucky for me, then, that he suddenly pushed past Crowley and made for the men's room without so much as a backwards glance. I slapped a bill on the bar next to my empty bottle and almost ran to the back of the bar to the door leading to the restrooms. I made it seem like I was about to puke so nobody bothered asking what was wrong, and made a beeline for the exit.

The rusty metal door groaned horribly as I pushed it open, and I found myself in a stinky little alley behind the bar, two Dumpsters—one half full and the other completely empty—emitting foul stenches, grimy concrete beneath my feet and high brick walls blocking out the breeze, allowing the smell of decay to fester in the cold, stagnant air. I came to an abrupt halt when my eyes fell on the alley's exit.

Dean was waiting for me.

"S-shit."