Crowley sat in the dark with his eyes closed, concentrating on the burning spot in the center of his forehead. The small inch of skin that she'd marked with her warm lips. Hours must have passed and all he could do was think of her and the way she looked at him, the way she smiled, the things she said, the way she teased him, and the way she felt when she touched him.

He felt like he was drowning. He'd fought it at first. He'd spent days trying to talk himself into believing that she was a mark for him to use and that he just needed to figure out what she could be used for. But each time she pulled those doors open and walked into the room, it became clearer that everything he did and said was just to make her come back the next day. He'd been content to sit in silence and wait for his opportunity to escape before she arrived, but now that she was in the same bunker, he needed to have her near him.

Moose's blood had changed him. Irreparably changed him. It had been over two months since he'd had any and the well of emotions those injections had uncovered was still there, waiting to engulf him if he let them. No longer constantly overwhelming, but there waiting if he let himself slip. But she centered everything. She didn't make the roughness of the sea go away, but she gave him a vessel to ride them out in by appearing to actually care about him. No, she didn't appear to care; she DID care. She was transparent when it came to things like that. That smile and the concern in her eyes when she asked him if he wanted to change his ways or if he needed a drink of water weren't deceptions.

So, whether he wanted to change or not, he had to accept that he had. That didn't mean he couldn't have what he wanted. Unless what he wanted was her; and then perhaps he couldn't. His mind went wild when he told himself she was off the table, unavailable. Demons did not buy a house and settle down with a nice girl. And it was startling that there were times in which she looked at him and he found himself able to accept that maybe a simple life with her would be enough.

But there was no simple life for him. He was centuries old and twisted beyond belief from his time in Hell. Did she make him want to be better? Of course. But he could actually be better? Doubtful.

Crowley opened his eyes when he heard rapid footsteps approaching the storage room. The light flickered on and then the doors opened to reveal her. She was still in her little shorts and T-shirt. Her hair was down and somewhat messy. "Good morning, love," he said.

"It's two o'clock in the morning," she said. "So you're technically correct, but it still feels like night to me."

"Why are you here?"

"I couldn't sleep thinking about you down here in that horrible chair."

"Darling, I'm a demon. Comfort is hardly a..."

She was standing on the edge of the circle and looking very nervous when she cut him off and said, "Give me your word that you won't try to escape and you won't try to hurt me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Give me your word. Your word is important to you, so give it to me. Say you won't try to escape."

Crowley opened his mouth and then closed it again. She'd certainly thrown him off. Normally he would try to stall and assess the deal, find a way he could twist it to his advantage, but she was standing there throwing off anticipation, expectantly waiting for his answer. "I won't try to escape and I won't hurt you."

"Good," Hazel said, bending over and lifting a piece of brass out of the Devil's Trap. He felt the trap break like the pop of a bubble. After being around for a few hundred years, he thought he'd never be shocked again. Anything could happen, especially when it came to unpredictable humans. And she was certainly unpredictable. She'd just blown the gate off his prison.

"Hazel," he said, looking up at her with wide eyes.

"You promised," she warned him.

He had promised. And even though he could easily knock her out and escape the bunker, he didn't want to. In that moment he told himself it was because the cuffs were still on him and would make him a sitting duck for Abbadon. And while that was absolutely true, he also didn't want to escape because escaping would be leaving her. And breaking his word to her. And she wouldn't forgive that.

Crowley stood up and looked at her. Her hands were clutched in fists and pressed into her stomach. Her eyes were wide and her breathing fast. She was terrified. It wasn't so long ago that he'd have savored her fear like a fine wine. Now he just felt overwhelming guilt. She'd done nothing but be kind to him and he still made her fearful. He shoved the feeling deep down and instead said, "How did you know that brass lifted up?"

Her upper teeth pressed into her plump lower lip before she said, "I... I was lying in bed and thinking about you and... I don't know. I couldn't sleep so I got up and found the the manual for this place. There's this binder that has information on the bunker. And the trap was under the section for the incarceration and interrogation room."

He moved around the table and watched her take a step back and then another. She'd unlocked his cage, but she looked like she was second guessing herself. He tried to feel pleasure over her fear, but he just felt like a jerk. "Darling, I gave you my word. You were in this trap with me not too long ago and I didn't do anything."

"I know. I just... now I can't get away from you if you want to..."

"Hurt you?" he asked. She nodded. "I don't think you would have let me out if you actually believed I would."

Slowly he walked over to her, his hands hanging in front of him, still shackled. She stood her ground, meeting his gaze. "Don't touch anything or they'll know you were out," she told him.

Crowley smiled and walked past her, intentionally letting his shoulder brush against Hazel's. He felt her fall into step behind him as he walked out of that blasted jail he'd been in for months and into the storage room. He scanned the area as he moved into the hallway and down the corridor, glancing into rooms as he passed them. The place was large with many nooks-bedrooms, libraries, a room filled with bottles and jars of spell ingredients.

"What is this place?" he asked Hazel.

"The Men of Letters built it. They were..."

"A secret society of people who gathered and organized information on paranormal happenings. They used to feed information to Hunters not too long ago," he said, cutting her off. Word was, Abbadon had destroyed them and then disappeared. Apparently, she hadn't found their motherlode. Incompetent, short-sighted bitch.

"Well, not since the fifties," she replied.

"Not long ago if you're a demon who has been around since the sixteen hundreds, love," he said, turning around to look at her. He slowly stepped backward down the hallway away from her. "Do I still make you nervous?"

She pulled in a deep breath and moved to push past him as she said, "Yes."

His instinct was to stop her, to trap her against the wall with his body. Yes, he was cuffed, but he still had the advantage. He stopped himself just before his body twisted into hers. He wanted her good will. He wanted her to like him, to help him. To want him, his mind added. Crowley didn't like that thought as much. He didn't need anyone, not even her.

"Where are we going?" he asked, following behind her instead. It wasn't such a bad place to be since he had a nice view of the way her hips and ass swung when she walked.

"I thought you might want to lie down and rest after sitting in that chair every day. Crowley actually had no desire to rest; he wanted to move and exercise his new physical freedom, limited though it may be. But she was heading down another hallway and entering a bedroom. He was too curious to say no. "This is my room. I'm afraid Dean and Sam would notice if you stayed in another room, so you can stay here. I can't sleep anyway," she told him.

She self-consciously straightened the rumpled sheets on the bed and fluffed the two pillows. It was a double bed with white sheets and a utilitarian gray blanket. He couldn't stop thinking of her in it. Had she been lying there tonight, thinking about him? Crowley walked over to the other side and sat down on the edge before swinging his legs up and sliding down to his back, his hands resting on his stomach. The sheets smelled like her. Delicious.

"Very thoughtful of you, darling," he said, looking up at her as she stood next to the bed. She smiled and then turned to leave. "But," he told her before she could take that first step, "I'm a demon, so I don't sleep."

She turned back and opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Finally, she said, "Oh. I guess... I didn't really consider that."

"So, I think you should keep me company. The change of scenery is nice, but I'd like a little conversation if you don't mind."

"Oh. Sure." She walked over to the armchair.

Crowley wanted to laugh. She was so sweet, so naive. "In the bed, love," he said, raising his brows at her.

Hazel looked over her shoulder at him. "I... I shouldn't."

"Afraid you can't trust me? Or afraid you can't trust yourself?"

She turned back around to face him and crossed her arms over her chest. After a long moment, she said, "Both, I guess."

"I promised to be a good boy before you let me out. We can just talk. You and I. Here. In the bed."

"A bed isn't for talking. It's for sleeping," she told him.

"And fucking," Crowley added.

She flinched at the crude word. "I'm not that..."

"Kind of girl," he finished for her with a grin. "I know. So come here and we'll make this a bed for talking. You're the boss, after all." When she hesitated, he played his last card. "Please. I've been lonely for months. I don't want to lie here by myself." He sounded pathetic.

Just as he thought it would, that got her feet moving. She walked over to the other side of the bed and settled down beside him, sliding her feet under the covers that were folded down on the bottom of the bed. "Okay, let's talk," she said, her eyes on the ceiling above them.

Their shoulders and arms were touching. He could have easily taken her hand in his own, but he didn't dare. The blood raging though his body wanted him to touch her, hold her, but he fought it. That touch was intimate and caring. Loving. He didn't touch like that. "Let's talk about you," he said softly.

"What about me?"

"Everything."

"I'm boring. Twenty-nine. Blackjack dealer. Holder of the key to Hell." Her voice was dry.

Crowley chuckled and said, "Where is your family?"

"Dead. My mom died in childbirth having my younger brother. My dad died of pancreatic cancer when I was twenty-five."

"And your younger brother?"

She paused before saying, "He jumped off the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge a little less than a year after my dad went. I didn't think he'd have the balls, but... I guess he did."

"Why?"

She turned her head on the pillow and looked over at him. Her eyes had such depth, such emotion, though her voice was unwavering. "Why did he jump? He was sad. Clinically depressed, I suppose. But he wouldn't go to the doctor about it. He smoked pot and snorted coke and shot up meth to escape, but I guess they don't work forever. So, he drove up to Taos. Got a room for the night and wrote me a shitty little note that he was sorry for leaving me alone. And the next morning at five twenty-seven he jumped off the bridge and fell five hundred and sixty five feet before hitting the riverbed. They were in the second year of a draught, so there wasn't much water. Not that the water would have helped." She sighed and turned her head to look back up at the ceiling. "I don't know why I told you all that. I don't tell people about Hank."

"Do you miss him?"

"Hank was a fuck-up, but he was my brother. Of course I miss him. I miss him every day." She swallowed and then looked over at him again. "Did he go to Hell?"

Crowley opened his mouth, but nothing came out. It was because now his instinct was to sooth her and tell her no. Why was that his instinct? Why was kindness his instinct now? The truth would be better, though. Better for him and for her. "I don't know every single thing that transpires in my kingdom, love. Though, suicide doesn't get you a ticket straight to my fiery gates. Despite what the evangelists may say."

"Oh. Well, good. If you... if you ever see him, then tell him I'm pissed he left me. And that..." She sighed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Wiping away the tears. "And that I'm sorry I couldn't help him. I was just... Well, I was dealing with losing dad, too."

They lied there in silence, both staring up at the white ceiling. Finally, Crowley said, "Family can be a pain the ass. We're better off without."

"You don't believe that." Her voice was flat. She thought he was full of shit. And he was. He'd spent too many years torturing himself over the lack of love from his mother and his failure as a father to really believe the bullshit he'd just fed to her. "And it sounds like you have family issues of your own. The Men of Letters have a biography on you that says..."

"Let's not go into that, shall we, love?" Crowley didn't really want to know what it said. He already knew she'd read about his bitch of a mother and maybe even his reprehensible roll as a failed father. What she must think of him... Why was she even sharing this bed? She was too good to be in the same room with him. His emotions for her were sometimes so thick, so convoluted that he felt he would choke on them. Lust and longing, desire and respect, intrigue and need. A need for her to acknowledge him, want him. If she did then he would be better, more real, happier. And then that wave of disgust rolled over him at the realization that he was a sniveling little boy who desperately wanted the girl to validate him.

"Do you enjoy being a demon?" she asked softly.

"Of course." The words popped out without thought or consideration.

"Sometimes you are so unlike what I think a demon would be that I forget you are one."

"That's a dangerous thing to forget, love," he told her.

Her voice was soft when she replied, "I know. I'm feeling reckless. I let you out of the trap. They told me you would manipulate me into escaping and as soon as I broke the seal, I wondered if that's what you did."

Guilt. Waves of guilt. She was blaming herself and he couldn't let her do that. His mind was frantic. "If I manipulated you it was only so I could get out of that room. I can't leave this bunker or I'll die. And I daresay you shocked me when you pulled that piece of brass out of the Devil's Trap."

"Can you die? Haven't you already?"

"Die for good? Of course I can. If stabbed with the right blade, I can be killed for good. No more essence d'Crowley."

"That's sad," she said like she actually meant it.

"Is it really? I do get weary of this ride sometimes."

"Of course it is. To have your consciousness gone? That's a tragedy."

"I'm an evil demon."

"You're not giving yourself enough credit." She looked over at him and smiled. "Or maybe you're giving yourself too much credit. You're a lot nicer than you think you are. If you weren't then I wouldn't like you so much."

He smiled now. "You like me, do you? For my hot body, I suppose?"

"Of course. And your fascinating mind."

"I'd rather you treat me like a piece of meat, love. Use me for your pleasure."

She gave a delicate snort. "I don't know how."

"Not for lack of my trying," he shot back.

"Hush. My lack of a sex life is off the table."

He turned his head to look at her. She was beautiful, her soft blond hair spread out over the pillow. "I haven't done this in ages," he admitted. His heart feel soft and squishy and sentimental. Disgusting.

"Done what? Talked with someone in bed?"

"Mmm," he agreed, holding her gaze when she turned her head to look at him.

"Me too," she said. "It's nice."

"I could think of other things that would be nicer."

She rolled over on her side to face him and carefully laid her head on his shoulder. "Don't ruin this with innuendo," Hazel told him, letting her hand rest on the middle of his chest.

Crowley's gut reaction was to lift his arm and let her settle into the crook of his shoulder, but the handcuffs prevented him. It was starling when he he realized if he could make the cuffs disappear, he'd not try to leave. He'd stay right where he was. In her bed with her next to him. He wanted to feel disgusted with himself, but he couldn't find that emotion when he reached for it. Instead there was an unfamiliar sense of pleasure.

Pleasure wasn't so unfamiliar when it came from torture and the culmination of a perfectly laid plan. Or even from physical release. Pleasure from intimacy, comfort, closeness to another being-that was bizarre. It was something he'd wanted-begged for from his mother and from the first few women who had twirled into and out of his life as a human-but never something he'd experienced. Until now. Centuries down the line with a beautiful young woman who didn't seem to realize exactly how terrible he was.

It couldn't last. Wouldn't last. This was fleeting, just a tease. The thought made his heart ache at the eventual loss. It made him want to push himself up off the bed and walk away from it all. Better to never have it so he didn't know what he was missing. Except he'd accidentally fallen in it already. The damage was done.

"You look like you're thinking hard," she said softly, looking up at him. Her hair was shockingly bright against his black suit jacket.

"It's unusual to have a new experience after existing for three hundred fifty years," he replied. The urge to kiss her was almost overwhelming, but he tamped it down.

"What's you're new experience?" she ask, pressing herself closer, her body conforming so easily to his.

"Contentment."