Chapter 17: The King and the Moose
"Oh hell!" Crowley groaned, rolling onto his side and trying to suck in a full breath. "Not gonna lie. That one hurt. Ow."
It felt as though a buffalo or Melissa McCarthy was sitting on his chest, crushing him. He gasped and the pressure mercifully eased up a bit. Another heaving breath and he felt alive enough to uncurl himself from the foetal position and prop himself up on one elbow.
Sam was gasping on the ground beside him, no doubt experiencing a similarly lung-crushing pressure after the jump.
"What the h-hell," Sam puffed, "was that!"
"Good question. I know I'm outta shape, but still, we only teleported, like, a mile."
Sam shot Crowley a murderous glare as he heaved himself up onto his knees. The gun and knife were still clutched in his hands, and he raised the blade to the level of Crowley's throat.
"What the hell was that!"
Crowley sat up and heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Winchesters. Honestly! I just saved your life, and you put a knife to my throat. How about a bloody thank you!"
"Thank you," Sam growled, edging closer with the blade held ready. "Goodbye, Crowley." He lunged forward, thrusting with the knife. Crowley dodged, spinning to his feet with surprising agility.
"That's IT!" he roared. "You want the whole damn world to die? FINE! I've had it. I'm sick of you jackasses trying to kill me every time I try to help, you sorry sons of b –"
"What are you taking about?" The rage had faded from Sam's voice. He was calmer, but he didn't lower the knife. "What do you mean the world's gonna die?"
Crowley considered him for a long moment. He dusted down his tattered suit, the pendant on his neck swinging slightly as he bent over.
"Look, Sam," he said at last, his voice quiet and calm. "Last time we saw each other, I know ... I know you don't trust me and I know you want me dead. But right now, there're bigger things going on than just you and me. And you must know that that coming from a demon must be worth a listen!"
Sam lowered the knife, but kept a firm grip on the hilt. Crowley had a point. Whatever he was talking about sounded pretty apocalyptic. Buying himself more time to think, he looked around them. They had landed in the parking lot of a shopping mall. There were a handful of cars parked here and there, and the night was lit by tall lampposts towering over the small bushes between the aisles of empty car spaces. The lamp closest to them was flickering between a dim yellow and an almost-gone orange as the bulb slowly died in its socket. The intermittent light illuminated Crowley's face, and Sam had to admit, he looked almost as though he wasn't lying.
"I'm putting you in a Devil's Trap."
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Fine, I don't care, but not here, alright? Too open." He held out a hand. "C'mon, Moose. Let's go to your Batcave. That should be safe."
Sam eyed the outstretched hand warily. "Yeah, like I'm just gonna let you take me to a horde of demons to –"
"If I wanted you dead or captured I'd have left you back at that motel," he snapped, his temper rising. "Sam, we really don't have time for this. Dean can track you."
"I'm wearing a hexbag."
"Not enough." He plucked the thong he wore around his neck, and Sam looked at it more closely. It was a simple chord running through what looked like bits of bone and dried herbs, and a few shells etched with spellwork. "This'll hide you. I have a spare, specially for you." He pulled a second necklace from his trouser pocket and held it out to Sam.
Wondering what sort of trick this was, he took it somewhat reluctantly.
"C'mon, you moron, it's not gonna work in your hands. Gotta be around the biggest blood flow – neck and heart."
Well, that explained the undue length. Grudgingly, Sam pulled the pendant over his neck and let it settle against his chest.
"Right, we good?" Crowley asked belligerently, holding out his hand once more.
Deciding he had nothing to be gained by staying here, Sam reached out and clasped the demon's hand.
"Better. Now I don't know where this bunker thing is exactly, so you need to focus on the location, got it? Think hard. Of the doorstep – who knows how many goons Dean has posted there. We'll have to be quick."
Clenching his jaw in anxiety, Sam nodded. He closed his eyes and pictured every detail he could remember of the doorway to the bunker. He nodded again and felt a jerk in his abdomen.
He opened his eyes to the dark metal door of the bunker.
He looked round at Crowley, whose hand had jerked out of his. The demon was leaning against the wall, doubled over and spitting blood.
Sam frowned. "What's wrong with you?"
Crowley just shook his head, gesturing to the door and gasping. "Not here. Inside. Hurry."
Feeling more and more anxious by the minute, Sam pulled out the key and unlocked the door.
Crowley made no attempt to grab at any scrolls or weapons or do anything once inside the Men of Letters' home. He just followed Sam to the dungeon with an uneven step.
Once inside, he collapsed into the chair left inside the Devil's Trap. That, Sam decided, was definitely wrong. Since when had Crowley, or any demon for that matter, willingly stripped themselves of their power and locked themselves inside a Trap?
"Ok, we're here," Sam said, his tone guarded. "Get talkin'."
Crowley glared up at him. "A whiskey would be nice."
Sam didn't budge.
"Oh come on! I just saved your life – did you not notice? At least some water then, let me wash out the taste of blood!"
Inhaling deeply through his nose, Sam hesitated a moment, then turned and left the dungeon. He returned moments later with two bottles of Dean's semi-secret store of whiskey. He handed one to Crowley, opened his own, and sat down stiffly on the other chair, outside the Devil's Trap. He took a swig of the fiery amber liquid and set the bottle on the table beside him. The burning warmth slid down his throat like a balm, soothing his aching insides.
"Okay. Talk."
Crowley took a long pull on his bottle before speaking. He seemed to be lost in the flavour of the booze and drunk like a man dying of thirst.
Sam cleared his throat. Crowley chugged on, oblivious. His already tested patience wearing thinner by the second, Sam asked, "So what's up with the blood and crappy teleporting? I thought you were good at that."
Finally, Crowley lowered the bottle with a sigh of satisfaction. "Always savour the little things, Moose. Even the cheapest whiskey – which this is, would it kill you to at least buy mid-range slosh? If you're gonna be an alcoholic mess, at least be a mess with the good stuff. That said, even the cheapest nosh is one of life's simple treasures."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Riiight," he drawled. He shifted his position in the hard chair, trying to alleviate the aches of the hits he'd received earlier. His whole body ached, but his chest in particular was throbbing. He glanced down and was surprised to see his shirt was free of blood. Funny, he thought he should be bleeding.
"The reason my teleporting's off, since you asked so nicely," Crowley continued, returning to his usual swagger, "is because my power's been severely depleted. Three weeks in a draining cell tends to do that to a guy."
"What? A draining cell? What the hell is that?"
"It's what it sounds like. It's a type of Devil's Trap, an oooooooold one," he explained. "Derived from some angel who liked stealing power from the demons he killed. Lovely chap, I'm told," he muttered sarcastically.
"Dean put you in one of those?" Sam asked, incredulous. "I thought you two were BFFs now."
"Alas, no." Crowley took another swig from his bottle and Sam followed suit. "I showed him how to make these new Traps, and then he threw me in one."
Sam frowned in confusion. Wanting Crowley out of the way, he understood. Wanting him dead, he actively endorsed, but draining his power away made no sense. Especially if it was Dean. He was supposed to be this uber-demon – why would he need any more power?
"How about I start from the beginning?" Crowley offered, shifting into a more comfortable position in his chair.
"Yeah, that sounds good," he replied slowly. A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Start with how you got out of this Trap last time."
"Oh, that." The demon waved a hand to indicate his complete lack of interest in the subject. "That was Dean. After he left you, he ended up in a cemetery in Lawrence, coughing up blood. He summoned me."
"Out of a Devil's Trap? An iron Devil's Trap?"
Crowley raised his eyebrows at him. "I told you he was powerful."
Sam stared at the bottle in his hands, stunned.
"Anyway," Crowley continued, "Dean summoned me, I fixed him up and we went off for some montage-worthy training."
"Training?" Sam scoffed.
"Every demon needs training. You don't just get turned with the how-to manual in your head, you've gotta learn."
"And you taught Dean?" Sam clarified, fighting an urge to laugh. "How was that?"
Crowley's eyes widened at the memory, like a parent remembering a particularly horrific tantrum. "I have a newfound respect for your daddy, let's just say," he muttered darkly. His gaze was caught in memory for a long moment. Quite suddenly he shuddered, and looked back at Sam.
"He was a natural, truly he was." There was a definite note of pride in the demon's voice. Sam shifted uncomfortably. "After two days he was better than most young demons were after two weeks. He just ... got it, just like that." He snapped his fingers to illustrate Dean's speed. "I know he was never one for school," Crowley continued, "but he aced Demonhood 101 in record time."
Crowley's face darkened once more as he paused, his shining pride obscured like a sun behind storm clouds. "But he needed to kill. The Blade was calling to him, all the time, shouting, he said. It ... hurt him, to not kill."
Sam's heart was feeling smaller by the minute. His brother was some sort of demon prodigy who was being forced by the biblical jawbone of some long-forgotten donkey mutant to murder innocent people. Sam imagined how hard he must have fought it.
Doubt snaked into his mind.
He must have fought it. He must have.
He was just opening his mouth to have Crowley confirm his brother's valiant efforts to resist the ancient power, when Crowley continued.
"He was like some rabid pitbull – I mean," he clarified, "worse than my Hellhounds. He really needed to kill." He swallowed. "So I took him to a crack den. Nothing special, just a few bums getting high.
"Sam," he said seriously, leaning forward in the chair, his eyes locked on the hunter's. "I say this not only as a demon, but as the former" – he grimaced – "King of Hell. I have seen every form of torture you could imagine, and probably some you can't. I've done them. I've seen the evil, just like you, but in a world where evil is normal." He hesitated, eyeing Sam carefully, noting the tightly clenched jaw and fists. His voice was slightly more gentle when he spoke again. "Sam, what Dean did to those people ... I was scared."
Sam blinked. "You were scared?" he asked sceptically. "Of Dean?" Fearing a human demon-hunting Dean, Sam not only understood but encouraged. But a demon, especially a demon like Crowley, fearing a demonic Dean seemed ... unlikely.
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them as the significance of the single word enveloped Sam.
"Like I said," Crowley continued conversationally, leaning back in his chair. "The boy's a natural. You remember Alistair?"
"Hard to forget," Sam whispered, still reeling from Crowley's fear.
"Well, Dean makes Alistair look like a timid masseur."
Sam's eyebrow's shot up. "Crowley, you can't be –"
"Serious?" Crowley cut across him. "Deadly. And this is something you need to understand, Sam. This is vital. Dean is not the man you knew, not anymore. He is evil. Worse than Abaddon, worse than Cain himself. Worse than old Yellow Eyes by a mile. He is not your brother anymore, Sam. The Mark ... It's a lot more powerful than even I ever imagined. But the Mark plus a soul like Dean's is just ... We have to stop him, Sam. By any means necessary."