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By Anne Higgins

Dean woke up … surprised. The bed beneath him didn't feel familiar in that all too familiar way. Bad mattress, cheap sheets that smelled of bleach. It all spelled hotel room. But how the hell had he ended up in one? Last thing he remembered was sitting on a fancy sofa locking lips with a demon to seal one weird ass deal for … his ass. So where were the silk sheets, king-sized bed and the expected ache in his backside?

Dream? Hadn't felt like the prophetic dreams of Hell that had almost driven him insane since he'd sold his soul to save Sam. He frowned. He'd figured those dreams would haunt him for the rest of is life, but they'd faded. Details were gone, drifting away like any run of the mill nightmare. Couldn't see that as entirely bad thing, but he'd learned not to trust the unexpected even when it brought good luck with it.

So where the hell was he? He checked the few drawers in the place and found the usual dog-eared phonebook. Cicero, Indiana? Why did that sound familiar? He smirked as it clicked. Oh, yeah. Gumby-girl. Lisa Braden and one, fun-filled weekend eight years ago. Back before he figured out he could have even more fun playing his side of the fence. Then again he could see looking her up for a reunion with his trip downside looming. Maybe even after a close call? Yeah, he could hear himself saying something along the lines of 'dodged a bullet there, Sammy. Time to celebrate.'

More he thought about it yeah, that was exactly what he'd said. But they'd been at Bobby's – him having a meltdown while Sam and Bobby split their time between keeping an eye on Dean and trying to track down the escaped demons.

'No way. No way we got lucky enough the only thing that escaped was Dad.'

"Sam?" Dean looked away from the phone book at the sound of his brother's voice, but no, still alone in the room.

'Always said John had the Devil's own luck.' No Ellen Harvelle lurking around either.

Damn, this was weird. Missing something. His head felt heavy. Almost like a stomach after a 20-course meal. He rummaged around in his duffle and collected a couple of painkillers he dry-swallowed. He hit the shower next, and, thank God, they'd managed to find the one crap motel in the world with a decent water heater. Couldn't help moaning at the hot water coursing over his body.

Head wasn't the only thing that felt off. Skin, muscles, hell maybe even his bones all … what? Not ached. He knew that feeling far too well. And this was almost … the opposite. Nothing hurt. Been so long since he could say that, he'd forgotten what it was like. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted his arm and looked at the smooth, unmarked skin. Should be half-dozen scars there. It all made sense then.

The deal had gone through. Reset button hit and all. No escapes from the Devil's Gate, no reason for the last two months to go down the way they had. Head felt full because it had two conflicting sets of memory crammed into it. "Little warning would have been nice," he muttered at the world in general because he had no freaking idea where Crowley had set up shop. Wait. He'd said he was riding the abandoned suit of a literary agent. From New York. Over-kill on the fancy stuff, home the size of a stupid football stadium. Hamptons. Had to be.

So now what? Was he supposed to track him down? Or sit tight and wait for his next summons? Then again could all of that 'willing surrender of the arch-enemy' crap have been about a single freaking kiss? Irritated, he finished washing up, then shut off the water. Yeah, he knew he should be relieved, but well, he never had handled rejection well. Which was kind of funny given how much experience he had with it. He snatched up a towel, then wound it around his waist. "All about one stupid kiss," he muttered, walking back into the main room.

"Not exactly, princess."

Dean jumped, but managed not to scream like a little girl so points there. "You ever heard of knocking?" he snapped, embarrassed he'd been caught off guard.

Crowley looked amused. "Why yes, I have. Quaint custom. Never seen the point of it myself."

"Very funny," he muttered, taking a step toward his duffle and some clean clothes.

"Ah ah ah, none of that." Suddenly Crowley stood between Dean and his goal. "Wouldn't want to spoil my view, would you?"

"That why you healed all my scars? The view?"

"Yes, actually. I hate seeing pretty things broken." He moved his gaze slowly along Dean's body. "Now come here and give Daddy a kiss."

His cock giving an excited twitch beneath the terry cloth, Dean moved to him, then leaned down the few inches separating them. Damn, the demon could kiss. Press of Crowley's lips, the caress of his tongue made Dean's head spin. And whine like a bitch when the demon vanished from his arms, then reappeared on the far side of the room.

"Sorry, darling, but places to go, deals to make."

"What? No! You're supposed to fuck me!" Dean wailed, then blushed hot and bright. He shouldn't want this. But despite knowing it was batshit insane, he was practically panting for the demon.

"And I will. Have no fear of that," Crowley smirked. "But, today, you have an old friend to see -- something that would have slipped through the cracks with all the adjustments made. And I really don't want to deal with one of your moods should you ever find out about the fallout that would have occurred if you don't, so go look up the yoga instructor. Say hello."

With that the bitch vanished again. "Freaking cocktease," Dean growled, then hissed when Crowley's warmth pressed against his back. "Make certain talking is all you do, princess. I'd hate to have to punish you so early in our relationship." His tongue slid along Dean's neck. "At least not when I'm in the mood for other activities."

The threat in Crowley's voice made Dean's throat go dry and his erection wilt. "No one touches the goods but you. Got it."

"Excellent. Oh, pay close attention to the kiddies, won't you." He vanished again.

Dean waited almost a full minute before deciding the bitch really wasn't coming back. It shouldn't be this fucking hard to get fucked, damnit! Muttering under his breath about miserable, cockteasing demons, he yanked on his jeans.

Sam walked in as he was finishing up. Dean glared when he saw his brother only had one coffee with him. "Where's mine, bitch?" he demanded.

"Wow, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Sam said, walking over to the table where he'd set up his laptop. "Sorry, man, but I thought you'd be long gone by now."

"Now? What fucking time is it?" He muttered, finally bothering to look at his watch. "11? In the morning?" Only time he let himself sleep this late was when bedtime came well after dawn.

"Yeah, you okay? You were all 'let's go, gotta get there now,' then you face planted in bed instead of heading off to see this Lisa of yours."

Dean shrugged. "What can I say, dude? Been running on fumes for too long, I guess."

Sam gave him a visual once over. "You do look better. Like you lost a few years worth of stress or something."

"I do?" Alarm bells began to ring, and Dean headed for the bathroom mirror.

"Guess that's what getting the weight of the world off your shoulders can do for you."

Shit. Dean scowled at a version of his face he hadn't seen since Sammy had taken off for Stanford. That bastard Crowley hadn't just healed all his scars; he'd wiped out any sign of aging beyond reaching full adulthood. Whatever else Demon Bitch wanted, he wanted Dean perfect. "Good luck with that, chuckles," Dean muttered. "You can mess with the package all you want, but it's still gonna be me in here."


"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he answered, abandoning the mirror to return to his annoying little brother. Little brother. Right. Stupid sasquatch had him by almost four inches and Crowley's meddling had made them physically the same age. This kept up and Dean was going to lose all his older brother creds. Maybe he should kick Sam's ass out of pure principle?

"You want the rest of mine?" Sam asked, holding up his coffee.

Okay, so maybe that was a raincheck on the ass kicking. "Nah, man, I don't want that girly shit you drink." He snatched up his car keys and headed for the door. "I'll get something decent on the way to Lisa's. Catch you later, Sammy."

"Right. I won't bother to wait up."

Not bothering to correct Sam's assumptions – Dean had a rep to live up to after all – he got out of there. Twenty minutes later he walked into the middle of a kid's birthday party. Whoever said demons didn't have a sense of humor?


Crowley settled into his favorite chair and let the strands of Beethoven's Third Symphony envelope him. He'd always loved the man's music. Had even known him back in the day. Remarkably enough, this particular composer had done it all without any demonic assistance. Unlike other insufferable twits listed among the greats. Given he didn't associate the music with work, it was favored choice for relaxing moments. On the downside, it failed to give him that sense of personal accomplishment other selections offered.

He shook his head slightly, then turned his thoughts to his newest acquisition. Dean and his sidekick-brother should be hip deep in a Changeling nest about now. Which ticked one item off the list. Despite his power, even Crowley had hesitated to change the future. All those tales about attempts to thwart destiny bringing it on had a basis in universal law. Despite the party-line upstairs, it could be done, but never lightly, and not by anyone of lesser power than someone of Crowley's ilk. But the greater the changes, the larger the shockwaves.

If a butterfly flapping its wings could bring about a hurricane, what price a thwarted Apocalypse? Eventually something on that sort of cosmic level had to happen to balance things out. The best way to ensure such ripples reaching his shores proved to his liking was to give time assistance in smoothing out what he had raught. Unfortunately, his opportunities to do so were limited.

Already he'd lost the knowledge of most of what was to come. Prophecy was not fantasy. His tampering had destroyed the events foretold, so they could no longer be foretold. Had his power proved any less up to the task, even he and Dean would have forgotten why they had made their deal. Since he had found that idea wildly frustrating, he had woven a few details into the bargain. But only a few. More would have shattered the deal and served neither of them.

For the record, the woman and her whelp had not been part of it. He simply remembered because he hadn't had time to forget. In truth he was the sort of being who would not regret the hideous death of anyone who had ever touched his pretty toy. But there were simply too many lives counting on the arrival of the Winchesters, and all those deaths that should never have been would have sent shockwaves battering against his … creation. Oh, he couldn't see the Stick-in-the-Mud upstairs favoring that particular word choice. Of course, if He'd wanted a say in the matter, He shouldn't have gone off on Sabbatical and left a bunch of blood-thirsty idiots in charge. Not that Crowley's side of the fence could claim much better. Bloody fools had conspired to free Lucifer. And the only thing their 'father' held in lower regard than humans, was demons.

So back to the list. Next the boys were scheduled to meet up with Bela Talbot, one of Crowley's favorite human pawns. After that should be an encounter with demons who no longer existed. Nice little chunk of time to arrange a few minor things, but not what he needed for his primary goal.

Most of the lower-grade possession-happy demons the Winchesters tended to encounter had fled back to their own agendas once Dean had killed Azazel and no replacement leader had made it through the Devil's Gate. But it would be dangerous to leave the boys without their primary demon hunting tools – the knife and the remade Colt. Both had come into their hands via Ruby, one of Lilith's minions. Not possible in Crowley's brave new world. Which meant he had to make alternative arrangements.

Bobby Singer was close to re-creating the Colt. A few whispers in his dreams should make up for Ruby's lack of assistance. The knife was more problematic. She'd flat out handed the damned thing to them. And while, to keep events roughly on schedule, Crowley would need to arrange for Bela to steal the gun at the same time she originally had, the knife had consistently proved an indispensable tool for the Winchesters. They had to have it. And quickly.

John Winchester's storage container? Something to see and take when they investigated the robbery Bela had already set in motion? No, that wouldn't work. Good old John would have used the knife against Azazel if he'd had it. Perhaps he should hide it in Bela's apartment after she fled. But they still might hesitate to use it, and certainly would have no way of knowing its value. What to do, what to do.


Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of a decent looking restaurant two hours out of New York City. Normally, he would have kept going for several more hours before stopping, but, pissed about that Bela bitch making off with their scratch tickets, he decided he needed a break before he got too distracted to keep his baby's fenders safe. "Suppertime, Sammy," he said, giving his sleeping brother a shake.

"What?" Sam blinked the sleep from his eyes, then looked around with a frown. "This is a bit more upscale than our usual stops."

That was Sam – always quick to worry about the money. Dean grinned and pulled a shiny new credit card out of his wallet. "Never fear. MasterCard is here."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Just because it's new, doesn't mean we don't have to be careful about maxing it out too fast."

"Except we can't max this one out." He had some fast talking to do to get first Sam, then Bobby to buy this bullcrap story, but it would be worth it to never hear Sam whine about credit card fraud again. "Few months back when you ran off only to run into Gordon, on my way to save your ass I took out a vampire about to chow down on this chick. Turned out she was the niece of a dude with money. A lot of money. He insisted on sharing."

Sam's frown deepened. "We don't take money from people."

Dean glared. "This isn't payment for services rendered, bitch. It's what one fatcat CEO decided he could do to be part of the fight without risking his manicure. You, Bobby and me are now all officially on the payroll of Rockford International – security division. Card draws on our expense accounts and the big guy pays the bills." He left out the part about Rockford being a huge success and not suffering the current financial woes as other companies because of a crossroads deal. That pesky little detail didn't change where the money was coming from. "Even gave us health insurance. With dental."

He'd never really seen a jaw drop before, but couldn't call that open-mouthed thing Sammy had going on anything else. "How long -?"

"Didn't want to say anything until I had the cards in hand." He'd found them on the front seat this morning. "Stopped off at our Buffalo post office box while you were napping." At least that much was true. He tossed Sam the envelope holding his stuff. "Now there's a steak through that door with my name on it," Dean said, getting out of the car. "You coming?"

Sam scrambled after him, and they were soon happily munching away on the best thing Dean had tasted in a long time. And the place had pie for dessert. Closest thing to Heaven Dean would ever have, and, no, not going to dwell on that. He was thinking about getting a second piece to go, when a vaguely familiar voice said, "Sam? Dean?"

"Sarah." Sam got to his feet with as much grace as his ginormous frame allowed. "What are you doing here?"

Sarah Blake, lovely as ever, gave them a smile to melt a man's heart. "I'm on my way to New York to evaluate an estate Dad is interested in. Auction rights."

"Small world," Dean cut in. "Join us?"

She looked at their empty dessert plates. "I have the sneaking suspicion you're just waiting the check."

"Brains and beauty," Dean didn't deny it. "But Sammy here has a thing for pie and I bet you could talk him into keeping you company while he has another piece."

For once Dean didn't have to hit Sam over the head with an entire brick building. "Yeah, more pie. Sounds great."

Smooth, Sammy. Real smooth. But the lady took a seat so who was Dean to argue with about technique. Speaking of which, three was definitely a crowd. "Me, I'm stuffed, so think I'll go check out some of the local hotspots." He got up, then leaned over and whispered into Sam's ear, "You let her get away again and so help me I will seriously kick your ass."

His official goodbyes were more gracious, but he soon found himself in the parking lot. Alone, but for the Impala. Loved his baby, but not the company he wanted tonight. And he had some Sammy-free time he hoped meant a certain demon was ready to take advantage of him. He got into the car, turned on the engine, then whispered, "Please, no more waiting." Moved the gear to drive, closed his eyes and eased up on the brake. The moment before she began moving forward, he remembered what had gotten him the first invitation. "Please, Daddy, I need you."

The Impala rolled an inch, then stopped despite the lack of pressure on the brake. Dean opened his eyes and found himself back in Crowley's garage. He hot-footed it to the study.

Crowley was waiting with a glass of the good stuff. "There you are, princess," he said around a sip from his own drink. "I trust you found my follow through on our arrangements satisfactory?"

"Yeah, well, got the cards, and Sammy has another shot at something great. So that's all good." He took a deep swallow, a waste of the expensive shit, but they didn't call it liquid courage for nothing. "But I do have a complaint."

"Oh, and what might that be?"

With his free hand, he grabbed hold of the nearest silk lapel, then pulled Crowley into a deep kiss. Crowley indulged him for a few minutes with head-spinning goodness, but then the bitch pulled away.

Dean made a needy whining sound. "Come on, man, this is unnatural! What with all the crap before we kicked Yellow-Eyes' butt and you playing hard to get, I haven't gotten off for almost five months."

A smug smile crossed Crowley's face. "It's been a lot longer than that, princess. I didn't heal a few scars. I remade your body anew. One yet to know the pleasure of another's touch."

Dean stared at him. Was he saying what Dean thought he was saying? No, couldn't be. "Dude, are you saying … you re-hymenated me?" he asked, because no way in Hell was he using the 'v' word.

"Never been fond of following in another's footsteps." And yes, Dean was happily aware of how many footsteps he'd … encountered.


Crowley nodded.

"I'm …"

"Pure as the driven snow."

Crap. And no wonder he felt like spontaneously combusting or something. Talk about unnatural! "Do you have any idea how hard I worked to lose my … to get upure the first time?"

Another stupid smile. "Oh, please, Susie Baker was a sure thing. And Evan Wainwright was even more eager to close the deal."

Dean's eyes narrowed. Dude had stolen a wealth of experience from his body – both sensual and work-related – yet he kept stringing Dean along. Damned sick of it, and yeah, the key word was damned, but try as he might, Dean couldn't care. "And where do you fall on the sure thing scale?"

"I am always unpredictable." Crowley gave him a hard shove, and Dean fell backwards toward a hard impact with on the floor. He took some satisfaction in the expensive glass and fancy booze flying out of his hand. Served the thieving bastard right.

He landed on a firm mattress, silk sheets sliding against his naked skin. Out of reflex, he started to get up, but strong hands seized his wrists and a powerful body slammed him back down. His heart pounding, he stared up at Crowley with wide eyes. He couldn't make the demon budge at all no matter how hard he strained against the hold. Made him harder than he'd ever been in his old body's life.

Crowley's naked weight pressed against Dean, and, the demon's breath hot his ear, he heard him whisper, "I could do anything I wanted to you. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," Dean whimpered. God, he'd known he could be a sick bitch, but this was crazy. "Please."

"Please what?"

Dean's hole clenched at the menace in Crowley's purr. But it also felt slick and so empty he wanted to cry. "I-"

Fingers tightened around his wrists and Dean cried out in pain, his body shuddering in orgasm, but he stayed hard.

"Say it, princess. Say what you want."

The words felt thick on his tongue, but he managed to get out, "Fuck me." Crowley didn't move or speak, and Dean groaned. "Please, use me, take me, anything, please."

Crowley shifted enough for Dean to lift his legs and wrap them around the demon's torso. "Since you asked so nicely." His cock shoved forward, and Dean tensed against a wave of horrific pain as his unprepared hole was breached, but Crowley must have done something besides duplicate his original anatomy. No pain. Nothing but raw pleasure coursed through him, and he cried out as something longer and thicker than anything Crowley should have had between his legs slammed into his prostate. A demon fucking him, taking him, filling him more than any human could ever hope to. Instantly, it took him to the edge, and he ached to come, but knew without asking, he didn't dare.

No mercy shown in the eyes holding his gaze, and the body holding him down, pounding into him did not relent. Not for a moment. Had to hold on. Couldn't let go. "I can't, God, I can't."

"God is nowhere near this bed," Crowley growled in his ear. "Accept what your body already knows. I am your eternity, your damnation and I will give you everything you desire. I am the greatest evil you have ever met, and you will surrender to me."

"Yes," he panted the words out. "Belong to you. Yours. Please."

Crowley bit down on his neck, the pain sharp and hot. Dean screamed, every muscle tightening, straining into the shudders rolling through his body, his cock spilling thick ropes of come between them, while Crowley's own release flooded into him. Shouldn't have been able to feel the fluid heat of it, but he could and it made his cock twitch and spurt one last pathetic stribble of come. Wrung out and over-stimulated. Dean and his cock had a lot in common at the moment.

His owner hopped off of Dean and the bed as if he'd finished a refreshing nap. A nice underscore of the differences between a demon and his human pet. Dean got the message, but lacked the energy to even scowl.

Crowley pulled on the inevitable silk robe, then collected a box from the end table. Dean couldn't help noticing it sat next to two crystal tumblers, one of which Dean would have bet good money was the glass that had gone flying from his hand. Still even had the booze in it. Now the fucker was just showing off.

"I believe the taking of Dean Winchester's virginity warrants a token to commemorate the occasion." He settled on the bed, then set the slim box between them. He opened it and drew out a silver-looking knife. "This nasty thing should have come into your possession through different means, but I always have favored the straight-forward approach."

He put it in Dean's hand, and, out of pure habit, Dean closed his fingers around the hilt. Well balanced, solid workmanship, but felt … different. "Like holding the Colt."

"Excellent, my pet. It is indeed the blade equivalent of the gun."

"So it can kill anything?"

"Yes." Crowley picked up one of the tumblers and sipped at his scotch.

Dean stared at him, his blissed out body not wanting to move while the instinct to off any demon encountered had his grip tightening. "Can kill you," he whispered, his tongue twisting around the words like some garbled Latin rite.

"Yes, and, yes, it will free you. Perhaps without undoing everything." He set down the glass, then leaned over to brush his lips against Dean's ear. "Think of it, my pet. Sam alive, all threat of Hell removed for you, your life your own. Quite the temptation, isn't it?"

Chest so close. Wouldn't take much effort to strike to the heart. Clever, elegantly manicured fingers began to toy with his nipples, the touch playful, teasing. A lover's touch.

"Or if the fear of unraveling our changes bothers you, you could wait. You spent 40 years in Hell in the original timeline. While a significantly shorter period of time on this plane, the time involves enthrallment to Hell, not clocks. So no Earthly shortcuts or loopholes. However, serve me those years, and killing me would have no foreseeable consequences to your brother or this reality."

Forty years? Be almost 70, but. … Crowley liked pretty things. "You're not going to let me age, are you?"

"I should say not! You are far too lovely to experience the ravages of time. Which would leave you free while young and beautiful. And when you die you might even be allowed into Heaven."

"Might?" Dean sighed as lips brushed along his collar bone.

"Yes, give me 40 years. …" He stopped, then chuckled. "Give me a year, and you will do the one thing you've never truly done. You will fall in love, and ah, that is not a road to Heaven, but one which will bind you for all eternity to me. And Hell."

Fall in love? Him? And with a demon no less? A 'yeah, right' snort got caught in Dean's throat. He'd made no less than two deals with demons, then had gone panting after what he should have seen as rape – all of which he would have sworn he'd never do. Was love, even for him, so impossible? Fear stirred in Dean's gut, and his hand tightened further on the knife. He could do it. Crowley was so smug in his certainty Dean would never strike. He'd never get a better opportunity, and if he didn't take it, he'd live the rest of his life knowing he'd thrown away his one chance at freedom.

Dean's hand slashed upward, cutting through silk and flesh.

Crowley's eyes widened in shock, then stared down at the blood oozing across his abdomen from a long, but shallow wound and the ruined belt of his robe. "You little brat," he hissed, anger flashing in his eyes. "You cut me!"

"Yeah, I did," Dean answered, then flung the knife across the room, burying the blade into the wall. "Now shut the fuck up and either kill me for it or fuck me again." Not the smartest thing to do or say, but it was pure him. And be it for a year, forty years or an eternity, Crowley had better get used to it. Because Dean Winchester was one hell of a ride.