Dean stepped back, casting a critical eye over the preparations he'd laid out in the map room – a devil's trap near the door facing the map table, just because it'd seem strange if he didn't have one, not because he had any intention of actually using it; the supplies for a summoning spell laid out on the floor, a half-empty whiskey bottle and a glass on the map table in front of his chair – and his secret weapon, tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, folded small and completely invisible from the outside.

His heart was pounding, his mind racing ahead with anticipation. This was the moment he'd planned for, and he had everything he needed.

It was time to summon Crowley to the punishment he deserved.

Dean looked over everything again, considering. Then he poured a little of the whiskey into the glass before raising it to his lips and downing it, leaving only traces in the glass, for more realistic effect.

He needed his head clear and his focus sharp for what he was about to do, so he'd avoided alcohol completely that day – but he didn't want Crowley to know that. Dean recited the words to the spell, lit the herbs in the bowl, and then sat down at the table to wait.

He wasn't kept waiting long.

Crowley showed up a few yards away from the trap, eying it with disdain before smirking at Dean. "You didn't really expect that to work, did you?"

The sight of him and his vaguely bored expression, his casual stance and general air of superiority – Dean felt the familiar rage he'd been nursing for the past few weeks building to a slow boil deep in his gut. His fingers flexed into a fist under the edge of the table, his mind filled with vivid, bloody images of the things he wanted to do to Crowley – but he wasn't going to get there if he didn't keep it together for the moment.

Dean fought back the desire to attack, and instead looked away, silent and sullen for a long moment, before replying, "Worth a shot."

Crowley's smile faded a little, and he sighed, impatient. "No, Dean," he replied flatly. "It's really not. You may be able to summon me here. Those are the rules, after all. But you can't by any means keep me here. You can't touch me. You can't trap me. So you've managed to do nothing except to reveal the location of this rather impressive clubhouse of yours. Really, Dean, I'd think you'd be more careful."

"Should've been, a long time ago," Dean retorted, allowing his regret to color his words. "Too late for that now, isn't it?" He poured another drink into the glass in front of him, setting the bottle down hard on the table before continuing. "That trap, this place… nothing means shit as long as he's…" He bit off the words, turning his head away and closing his eyes, as if frustrated at himself for saying too much.

Crowley's head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing, and he turned toward Dean a step. "Castiel?" He paused a moment when Dean didn't deny his assumption, a slow smile spreading across his face that made it clear he already knew the answer, as he asked, "As long as he's what?"

The fury Dean felt at the satisfaction, the fucking delight he saw on Crowley's face, was nearly overwhelming. He lowered his face into his hand, feeling it tremble against his brow, aching to slam into Crowley's smug, evil face. Instead, he used it – visualized instead Cas's pleading, terrified expression as he'd looked up at Dean and begged him to believe him… Cas trembling and clutching his blanket around him, face hidden in his knees on the bed as he shrank away from the sound of Dean's voice… and allowed the guilt and despair to flow freely from his words.

"Broken," he replied at last, looking up at Crowley with very real tears welling in his eyes. "He's fucking broken, all right?"

"Yes, I'd be quite shocked if he wasn't," Crowley replied, soft and cruel, and still so infuriatingly self-satisfied. "After all… Alistair trained you quite well, didn't he?"

Dean's fist clenched at his side, but he forced himself to keep his reaction in check. Alistair had trained him well, yes.

But so had John Winchester.

He didn't quite meet Crowley's eyes, lowering his head in shame, voice trembling with frustrated rage. "You son of a bitch."

"What?" Crowley demanded, eyes wide with false innocence, one hand dramatically over his chest. "It wasn't I who broke him, was it now?"

"Never mind that," Dean spat out the words, bitter and resentful, as if he hated himself for even uttering them. "Can you fix him? That's the question."

Crowley blinked, surprised, then appeared to be considering. "Assuming I could," he replied at last, guarded. "Why would I?"

Dean swallowed hard as he rose slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on the table with both hands. He closed his eyes, lowering his head and shaking it as if he just couldn't believe he was about to do this. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, and finally looked up at Crowley.

"Let's just say," he answered, defeated, resigned. "I didn't call you here to trap you."

Crowley's eyes widened slightly, and Dean felt a rush of triumph at the light of intrigue he saw there, as Crowley put it together. "You want to make a deal."

Dean was silent, watching and waiting for Crowley to answer his question.

"Yes," the demon king answered at last, nodding slowly. "Yes, I could do that. Wipe all the pain, all the trauma from his memory completely, make it like it never happened. You and Moose would still have the memories of it of course, but I'd wager they'd be easier to bear if your dear sweet Cas didn't have to bear them too."

"He's an angel," Dean pointed out, eying Crowley suspiciously. "You sure you've got that kind of juice?"

"No, I don't, Dean," Crowley sighed. "You still don't quite grasp it, do you? The power doesn't come from me. It comes from you."

Dean nodded slowly. "My soul."

"Yes."

Dean swallowed slowly, lowering his eyes. "So uh… my soul…" The shame, the uncertainty in his words was all too real; it was a question to which he needed to know the answer, even if the deal he was proposing was completely false. He didn't have to fake the thickness in his voice, the hesitance and quiet humiliation, as he concluded, "… my soul… is, uh… still intact? Still… has that kind of power?"

"Well, it is practically mine already," Crowley conceded with a smirk that widened at Dean's slight flinch. "So any deal we make here, I'm automatically getting the weaker end. But yes – even as tarnished a soul as yours has power you can't begin to imagine."

Dean nodded, taking that in for a moment. "I hear Hell's not so bad these days, anyway. Just waiting in line instead of real torture."

"Eternal waiting with not so much as a paddling to ease your guilt?" Crowley scoffed. "For you? That's an even worse nightmare than the forty years of torture you got last time."

Dean shrugged. "I'll take my chances. I don't really care. I'll do it. I get ten years – and Cas gets put back together again. Like it never happened."

Crowley watched Dean closely, speculative. "After what happened the last time you made a deal like this… you're sure this is really what you want to do?"

"Can't start another Apocalypse," Dean pointed out. "Not with Michael and Lucifer still stuck in the Cage." He was quiet for a moment, thinking over all that Cas had been through in the past few weeks, starting with that basement room, and allowing the guilt to wash over him, letting it flood his voice, his face, with the anguish he felt. "I did this to him," he confessed, voice low and unsteady. "I have to… to take it back."

"Your soul… for Cas, healthy and happy and seeing you as his precious, revered Righteous Man again. That's the deal."

"Yeah."

Dean moved slowly around the table, taking a couple of steps toward Crowley. Crowley tensed slightly, his body just barely shifting backward.

"Ah,ah… wait just a moment, Dean…"

Dean froze in place, giving Crowley a questioning look. He met Crowley's narrowed, suspicious eyes with a wry, self-effacing smile and shrugged a little, holding out his hands to show that he was unarmed. "These things are still sealed with a kiss, right?"

"Of course." Crowley nodded once, slowly – still wary. "But surely you don't think I'm so blinded by your delicate features that I've forgotten what you're capable of. Disarm yourself."

With slow, exaggerated motions, Dean opened his jacket and took out the demon-killing knife, holding it up so Crowley could see it before he set it down on the map table. Then he held open both sides of his jacket, revealing that there were no other weapons hidden inside. He continued moving toward Crowley with his hands outstretched, and Crowley seemed to relax a little. He turned to face Dean fully, smiling a little, his anticipation more evident in his eyes with every step Dean took.

Dean covered his revulsion with determination and dread, holding Crowley's gaze as he closed the distance between them. Crowley was looking up at him with something like fascination, almost mesmerized, as Dean stopped in front of him. Dean almost thought there was more there than simple eagerness to be in possession of a soul that, as Crowley put it, was already mostly his anyway. But the very thought sickened Dean – and it didn't matter, anyway.

In a few short moments, Crowley was going to be his. And the only thing that would matter was what Dean wanted.

"Well?" Crowley teased, a flirtatious smile playing about his lips. "Are you going to kiss me or not, gorgeous?"

Dean allowed his mouth to twist with disgust as he let out a shaky sigh and muttered, "Right. Let's get this over with."

He closed his eyes and leaned down, halting and reluctant, for the kiss. He felt Crowley shift a little closer, felt a hand come to rest on his left arm, and fought the impulse to pull away; he could use that. Crowley was off his guard, distracted – and the moment was right. Dean slipped his right hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the slim, silver, magically etched handcuffs he'd stashed there.

Crowley turned his mouth up towards Dean's, eyes open and watchful as ever – but they were watching the wrong place. The kiss never connected, because as Dean lowered his head, he reached out to snap one cuff onto Crowley's left wrist.

Crowley's eyes went wide with shock and he immediately, instinctively tried to jerk away, but couldn't. Dean took advantage of his surprise to deliver a sharp punch to Crowley's midsection – immensely satisfied when Crowley doubled over in pain, gasping. As the Men of Letters' records had promised, the spells on the cuffs reduced Crowley's strength and endurance to nothing more than human. While Crowley was still trying to recover from the blow, Dean grabbed his right arm and turned him around, slamming him face first into the wall.

Crowley groaned as Dean yanked his right hand behind his back and fastened the cuffs together, quite a bit more tightly than was strictly necessary.

"Get off me!" Crowley snarled as soon as he could draw breath, struggling frantically against Dean's much stronger hold, one hand on his bound wrists and the other on his shoulder. "What the hell have you done?"

Dean couldn't help but smile at the faint note of panic he heard behind the words. "Oh, nothing, yet," he replied, leaning in close, his voice soft and menacing. "But I can't wait to get started."

Crowley attempted to butt his head back into Dean's face, but Dean easily dodged the blow and grabbed Crowley's hair instead, yanking his head back hard enough that Crowley let out a startled yelp of pain.

"Stop it," Dean snarled, the humor in his tone fading into vicious command. "Don't fight me, Crowley…"

Of course, Crowley didn't stop fighting; Dean would have been a little disappointed if he had. So Dean let go of his hair and jammed his fist into the demon's lower spine, once, twice, and then again in quick succession. Crowley's knees buckled and the breath left his body, and Dean slid a hand around to rest over his chest, holding him up. He marveled at the feel of Crowley's heart, racing under his hand, erratic with panic.

Dean knew it had probably been centuries since Crowley had felt actual pain – and now, his powers were completely bound, his meatsuit vulnerable to every single blow – blows that hit with the same impact as if he were human. The cuffs were doing their job, Dean knew – because of Crowley's reactions, as well as the fact that he was still there at all. Dean imagined Crowley had already tried to smoke out or simply disappear from the room – but the cuffs wouldn't allow it.

He was completely helpless – just as Dean wanted him.

Dean grabbed Crowley's hair again, pulling his head back and smiling against his ear at the shallow, uneven gasps that escaped his captive's lips.

"Scared?" Dean sneered softly, pressing in close behind Crowley to hold him in place as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, taking out a dark cloth which he quickly wound into a tight band, before wrapping it around Crowley's face, over his eyes. Crowley flinched, trying to pull away, but Dean tied it tightly and then held his head back by the knot, adding coldly, "You should be."

"Dean – you realize this is counterproductive." Crowley tried for his usual imperious tone, but the breathless, rapid pace of his words gave him away. "I thought you wanted to help Cas. This won't help him. You kill me – and there'll be no one left who can put him to rights…"

"Thought you said the power wasn't yours," Dean pointed out as he grabbed Crowley's bound wrists and began steering him toward the stairs and his basement dungeon, stopping for just a moment beside the map table to reclaim the demon knife and tuck it into his jacket. "And besides… who said anything about killing you?"

"All right, then," Crowley tried again, unable to disguise the quiver in his voice as Dean roughly dragged him down the stairs and the short way down the hall. "Surely there's something you do want – something I'm in the perfect position to see that you get…"

Dean stopped just outside the devil's trap in the center of the dungeon floor. "You're not in the perfect position, not yet," he declared, shoving Crowley roughly forward so that he stumbled directly into the center of the trap. Dean's voice was hard, commanding. "On your knees."

Crowley staggered to a stop, catching his balance – then let out a quiet, scoffing sound as he straightened up, his chin jutting out defiantly.

Retaliation was swift and brutal – the steel toe of Dean's boot against the back of Crowley's knees, dropping him instantly to the floor with a sharp cry of pain. Dean silenced him with a second sharp blow to his throat that left him struggling to draw breath. Dean took advantage of Crowley's distraction to uncuff his wrists and fasten them into the iron shackles on either side of the trap, before ripping the blindfold off and tossing it aside.

"Got it," Crowley rasped, blinking into the light before looking up at Dean. His tone was deliberately careless, if a little breathless; but his eyes were wary, taking in the trap and the chains, the table covered in tools of torture, Dean's slow, measured pace as he circled him like a predator. "It's in my best interests… not to piss you off."

Dean chuckled, shaking his head a little before taking the demon knife from his jacket and crouching down in front of Crowley. "That's cute," he remarked, his smile fading completely as he pressed the sharp edge up under Crowley's chin, pushing his head back and watching as Crowley swallowed convulsively, wary eyes locked onto the blade. "That you still think you have a best interest here."

"I told you…" Crowley's eyes darted between the blade and Dean's face, fear beginning to show on his face, his words rapid and terse. "I can help Castiel. But I won't do it as long as you've got me chained up here like a dog…"

His words were abruptly cut off in a sharp, muffled cry of alarm as Dean quickly shifted the blade, slipping the tip of it past Crowley's lips and pressing it against the roof of his mouth. Dean held his hair tight, not allowing him any retreat, a cruel smile on his lips as he met Crowley's suddenly, openly panicked gaze.

"Yeah, that's the thing, Crowley," he said. "Turns out Cas is doing just great. Yeah, he's a little worse for wear, but he's getting better every day. He's stronger than you ever gave him credit for, you sick son of a bitch. And we don't need your help. In fact…" Dean pressed the blade against the back of Crowley's throat, relishing the strangled whimper of protest the demon king gave at the painful pressure. "… you haven't got anything I need, or want. Except for one thing." Dean leaned in close, holding Crowley's gaze a moment longer before moving near enough to speak next to his ear. "For you to fucking suffer for what you did." Dean looked Crowley in the eyes again, drinking in his despair, as slow understanding dawned there, before concluding with a vicious smile, "And I've already got that."

He gave a slight twist of the blade, closing his eyes and savoring the choked, desperate sounds Crowley made, sounds which would no doubt have been pleading words if Dean had allowed it. But he didn't. Crowley was going to pay in blood and agony – and Dean was going to make sure the price was as costly as he could make it.

"Dean?"

Dean froze at the sound of Cas's voice from just outside the room – soft, tentative, and completely unexpected. It was jarring, immediately flooding his chest with the heavy weight of his guilt, the certainty that he could not let Cas see him like this.

But then… he couldn't let Crowley see him any other way.

He took a moment to regain control, before raising his voice just enough that Cas could hear him, without turning around. "Just a minute, Cas. I'll be right out."

He opened his eyes, momentarily refocusing on his captive, tightening strong fingers at the back of Crowley's neck and tilting the tip of the blade up against the back of Crowley's throat so that he gagged on it. Crowley's eyes were locked onto Dean's, wide and frantic, his white-knuckled fists clenching and desperately pulling at the chains that held him down.

Dean thought about just ripping the blade out, tearing Crowley's face to pieces with a single sharp, merciless blow – he teased the idea, jerking just slightly up and forward with the blade, chuckling at the way Crowley flinched – but he wanted to build up to the real suffering… draw out the anticipation until it was just as bad as the pain itself.

He wanted to take his time.

Dean's voice was soft and patient as he smiled at Crowley and promised, "I'll be right back." Then he carefully removed the blade, taking a moment to enjoy the way Crowley shuddered with mingled relief and terror, his head bowed, gasping for breath.

Dean set the knife down on the table as he turned toward the door. He stopped just before the doorway, taking a deep breath and readying himself to face Cas. When he stepped out into the hall, he found the angel anxiously waiting, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other. Dean was caught off guard by how very human his anxious fidgeting was. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly painfully dry as he thought of just how it must feel for Cas, just to know what Dean had been doing, what was going on in that room.

"Hey," Dean said softly, unable to meet Cas's eyes as he pulled the door shut behind him and ventured a little closer. "Cas, I – I'm sorry about all this. It's just – I can't let him get away with – I mean, he deserves…"

"No, Dean, you don't – don't have to explain to me." Cas held up a halting hand, and Dean fell silent, forcing himself to look up at Cas's face. Cas's eyes were downcast, and he swallowed slowly before raising them to meet Dean's eyes. "I would… like a few minutes alone with him. Please."

Dean stared at Cas for a long moment. That was just about the last thing he'd expected to come out of Cas's mouth. "Okay," he replied at last. "But… why?"

"Don't I have the right?"

Cas's tone was direct, his gaze unyielding, and Dean barely suppressed a flinch. "Well of course you do, Cas, it's just – are you sure you'll be…"

"I will be fine," Cas insisted, just a little impatiently. "He's restrained, and – and besides. He's not the one who… he never actually…" Cas abruptly fell silent, visibly stricken by whatever he saw on Dean's face – and Dean could no longer look at him. His chest throbbed with the guilt of Cas's unintentional accusation, and he wanted to sink through the floor with shame. But Cas wasn't quite finished. "What I mean is, well… I'm not physically afraid of Crowley. I just… I need to face him. On my own. Alone."

Dean struggled to speak, managing to get out only a hoarse whisper. "Of course," he agreed, struggling for control. "Yeah, um… I'll just be right out here if… just let me know if you need anything."

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas said, and the sincere regret in his voice only made it worse. "Sam says I shouldn't be, and shouldn't say it, but – I truly am. It was not my intention to hurt you."

Dean couldn't speak, couldn't look at him at all – and by the time he got it together enough to even attempt a response – Cas had vanished. Dean just waited in the hallway, leaning up against the wall and trying to regain his composure. For the moment, his own shame overwhelmed his desire to see Crowley punished. If Cas chose to obliterate the demon in an instant, Dean would just have to accept that.

Whatever vengeance Cas wished to exact on Crowley – it was certainly not Dean's place to deny him.

When Cas still hadn't emerged from the room after several minutes, Dean began pacing anxiously. He knew that Crowley was helpless, and Cas's grace was strong again, and there was literally nothing Crowley could do to hurt Cas, but he still felt uneasy, wishing he could protect Cas, wishing he could support him… wishing that he was still someone from whom Cas would want either of those things.

He tried to distract himself with thoughts of what he would do to Crowley once he had him to himself again – but it wasn't working. Those thoughts didn't hold the satisfaction they'd had before Cas had shown up, and his mind kept drifting back to the basement of Rufus's cabin, and those first few days when Cas had barely even been coherent, let alone strong enough to face down the King of Hell.

"Dean?" Dean looked up, down the hall, to see Sam approaching. "Hey, have you seen Cas?"

Dean glanced unhappily back toward the closed door. "Yeah, he went in there with Crowley, like… ten minutes ago."

Sam frowned, alarm in his eyes. "Really? You sure that's a good idea?"

"Cas's idea," Dean explained unhappily. "Said he needed to face him. Needed a few minutes alone with him. Anyway, Crowley's completely restrained. He can't reach any weapons, can't use his powers. There's no way he can hurt Cas…"

"Are you kidding me?" Sam's worried tone and expression only intensified Dean's sense of unease. "It's Crowley. All he needs is his mouth."

Dean considered that for a moment, his heart sinking as he pictured Cas again, as fragile and vulnerable as he'd been in those first few days – while Crowley lit into him with vicious glee, verbally laying waste to him while bound on his knees in a devil's trap.

"Shit," Dean muttered, heading toward the door. "Should've gagged the little bastard…"

"Wait, Dean, let me," Sam insisted, stopping Dean with a hand on his arm and moving past him to the door.

Dean knew he was right, no matter how much it stung, and stepped back, allowing Sam to take the lead. Sam knocked sharply twice on the door before calling out through it, "Cas? We're coming in."

He waited only a moment before swinging the door open and stepping inside – and then froze. Dean stopped in the doorway, ice cold dread coiling in his gut as he stared into the center of the devil's trap – empty, the chains piled useless on the floor.

Both Cas and Crowley were gone.