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The third day of Sam's post-trials coma, Crowley waltzes into the hospital room, and Dean is so wrung dry that he doesn't even twitch for a weapon. He just says, "What do you want?" and tries to decide whether it'll look weaker to keep holding Sam's hand or drop it.
"I can save him," Crowley says.
Dean raises his eyebrows and doesn't jump at the offer, because he's been down this road before and it ended with him on the rack and Sam falling for Ruby's bullshit and the fucking apocalypse, so he's not gonna fall for the same trick twice, thanks. "Why the hell would you want to do that?"
Crowley shrugs. "Call it residual humanity from your brother's little stunt with his blood. Good stuff he's got there. You could bottle it and sell it."
"Watch it," Dean snaps. His mouth twitches. "Also, bullshit."
Crowley smirks. "Don't like the reminder? Baby brother's blood is special, you know. Even now."
And that's it. Maybe Crowley let it slip on purpose, maybe he is actually off his game from Sam's interrupted purification. Either way, Dean snags on the reminder because this is what Crowley wants.
"He hasn't been able to do any of that shit in years," Dean dismisses. Not since Hell. Maybe not since he killed Lilith.
"Just because he hasn't done it doesn't mean he can't," Crowley says, so damn smug. "Besides, I don't actually need him to do anything. I just need his position."
"His what?"
Crowley's expression is dripping with distaste as he says, "He's technically got a claim to the throne."
"The throne," Dean says flatly. "Of Hell? The one you're sitting pretty on?" Oh, Sam can't know that. Doesn't matter that he never asked for it, doesn't want it. Mr. The-Trials-Are-Purifying-Me won't care about that, so 'til Sam gets it through his thick skull and into his mostly-genius brain that the shit that happened when he was a baby isn't his fault, Dean's just gonna keep this little piece of information to himself, thanks.
"Technically," Crowley repeats. "He did die during the battle royale and all, which puts a bit of a spanner in the works, but he's alive and Jake died by his hand, so he is, in the strictest sense of the word, the Boy King."
"And you want him to, what?" Dean asks. "Hand it over?"
"Not exactly," Crowley says.
Dean waits. There's a reason Crowley is bringing this up now, and not any time in the past five years when he's had them over any number of metaphorical barrels.
"While you and I are having this lovely little tete-a-tete, Abbadon is out there undoing all my hard work," Crowley hisses. "You may not have noticed while you were sitting vigil here for a man who told you he wanted to die, but she's got it into her head that she ought to be running the show, and trust me. You may not like me but her version of Hell? Much worse."
And, all right, Dean can give him that. Crowley is a slimy little turd, but he's a known quantity, and he's way more interested in power than destruction for its own sake.
"Right," Dean says. "But what do you want Sam to do about it?"
"Moose leaving the throne unclaimed for so long is why Abbadon can fight me over it," Crowley says, after a long pause.
"He wouldn't have been able to just waltz in and take over," Dean says. He remembers this. Lilith, for one, thought that was a load of bullshit. So did Pride. "So, for the third time, what the hell do you want, Crowley?"
"Together, your brother and I would have enough pull to take her on."
"Together," Dean says flatly. "What, like, he takes circles one through five and you get six down to the Pit?"
Crowley waffles a bit, hedges, "More like… together, together."
Dean blinks. Blinks again. Opens his mouth, shuts it, blinks one more time. Then he says, "Hell no."
Crowley shrugs. "All right." He pushes off the wall he's been leaning against, says, "Good luck finding someone else to deal with you, though. I hear your pet angel's caused a bit of a stir upstairs. They won't look too kindly on anyone who's too close to him right now. Know anyone else who's interested in keeping a Winchester alive?"
He's right, the fucker.
"He'll never agree to it," Dean says. "He hates you."
Crowley shrugs. "Not that unusual for matrimony, I'm told."
"But your whole plan falls apart if he won't play along," Dean points out. "You want me to, what? Be his stand-in? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that won't work, legally or magically or whatever."
Crowley just shrugs.
Sam's heart monitor beeps. That's a bad sign. It's not supposed to do that.
"Fine," Dean says.
Sam opens his eyes and for about ten seconds it's the most beautiful thing Dean's seen. He squeezes Dean's hand, makes eye contact, registers Dean's haggard appearance, and starts to take stock of the room. Dean can tell when he gets to Crowley because Sam's nails dig into the back of Dean's hand.
"What did you do?" he demands, eyes still on Crowley.
"Uh," Dean says.
Sam glares at him.
"You were dying!" Dean protests.
"What did you do?" Sam asks again.
"I—" Dean can't finish that sentence. I got you engaged to Crowley is just too stupid to say out loud.
"We're affianced," Crowley offers, smirking at Sam. "A tactical alliance."
There's a beat. Then, "No," Sam says. "No fucking way."
Crowley shrugs. "Fine."
"What's the catch?" Sam demands.
Crowley smirks. "Well, since your brother failed to hold up his end of the bargain, I'll have to collect on the consignment clause."
"Consignment clause?" Dean and Sam ask at the same time, and that's kinda nice, Dean's always liked when they get in sync like that.
"Squirrel's soul," Crowley says. He grins at Sam. "Always bargaining for each other, you two."
Sam stares at Crowley for thirty seconds. Dean feels kind of stupid, but in his defense, when Sam's in a hospital bed, he's not really at his best.
"I can't believe you!" Sam rounds on Dean. "What kind of—Dean, what the hell? It's not bad enough that you're selling me off like some kind of… medieval political bride, you didn't even read the fucking contract first, did you?"
"You were dying!" Dean says again.
"Okay, no, you know what?" Sam snaps. "You're benched. Sit there, shut up, and don't make this worse." He shoves himself up in the hospital bed and looks at Crowley again. "I want to renegotiate."
Crowley raises his eyebrows and fans himself. "My, my, Moose."
"Not in the mood," Sam says. "We're negotiating."
"What makes you think you have any say?" Crowley asks. "Your brother's soul is on the line here."
"Provisional contract," Sam points out. "In lieu of my agreement. I'm not agreeing unless I get to set terms." He smirks. "And I doubt you'd be here if this wasn't something you really wanted. So. Let's talk about my conditions."
Dean hasn't seen Sam like this in a long time. He's missed it. He'd like it better if Sam weren't pissed at him, but still. Good to see Sam with some fire.
"Fine," Crowley says, all snark and contained anger. "Let's negotiate."
Dean tunes out most of Sam and Crowley's debate. He could follow it if he wanted to, but it's so fucking boring, which is stupid, because Sam is literally bargaining for their souls here, but he and Crowley keep throwing around terms like termination clause or authorized signatory.
The highlights, from what Dean pays attention to:
Sam says, "When we die, Hell loses all claim to both of us, whether or not you're still in power."
"Too far," Crowley argues. "What stops you from turning on me the second we take care of the problem?"
"Throw in a clause that makes it moot if Dean or I attack you."
"Attack or threaten," Crowley shoots back.
Sam snorts. "Threaten? Hell no. Dean'll break that within a week. Hell, I'll break it within a week."
"Attack or attempt to attack, then," Crowley says. "And same with any of your allies."
"No fucking way," Sam says. "I'm not taking responsibility for anyone other than me and Dean."
"And what stops you from asking your little angel friend to smite me?" Crowley demands.
"Fine," Sam says, "If Dean or I attack, attempt to attack, or arrange for anyone else to attack or attempt to attack you, our deal is moot. Entirely moot, though. Null and void, including Dean's soul."
"I don't really want his soul except as collateral," Crowley says, sneering at Dean. "Too much trouble unless I've got you by the balls beforehand."
Sam rubs his eyes tiredly and says, "Does 'go fuck yourself' count as an attempt to attack?"
Dean goes to get his brother a coffee against medical advice.
And:
"I'm not turning anything over to you," Sam says. "And I sure as fuck don't want anything of yours."
"No demonic powers?" Crowley asks snidely. "But you wear them so well."
Sam doesn't react even a little bit, just says, "I mean it. We're pooling our resources, but I'm not handing anything over to you. If we do this, it's the equivalent of separate finances."
"Not even a joint savings account?"
Sam blinks. "What would that even… no, never mind. No."
Crowley shrugs. "Suit yourself."
And:
"I don't have to…" Sam swallows. "What does—I don't need to drink demon blood again, right?"
"Need to?" Crowley makes a thoughtful face. "Probably not." He smirks. "But if you want to… well, your blood was quite something, you know. I'd be more than willing to swap."
"Hell no," Sam says, then stops, stares at Crowley. "The—you liked that? You bit me!"
"You had me tied to a chair! Of course I bit you, I needed your blood to send a message!"
Dean would like to know what exactly happened in that church while he was off helping Cas fuck shit up royally.
"I'm not gonna be your dealer or your junkie," Sam says, final and flat. "Find someone else for that."
Crowley looks over at Dean and waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
"Count me out," Dean says.
And it just keeps going like that. And sure, Dean read that fucking contract Crowley wrote out the other day, he knew just how long and full of legal-ese this kind of shit would be, but listening to it is even worse.
…Dean may fall asleep partway through.
When he wakes up they're still going.
"Dean's nonnegotiable," Sam is saying. "It's easier for your, anyway. He'll find a way to follow me."
"Follow you where?" Dean asks.
Sam glances at Dean, raises his eyebrows. He's still sitting in his hospital bed, but he's got a pen and a notebook from somewhere. "Hell. You know, the place you agreed to let Crowley take me?"
"Hold up," Dean argues. "I never said anything about—"
"It's temporary," Sam promises. "I have a timeline and everything." He taps the notebook with the end of his pen. "And you're coming."
"I haven't agreed," Crowley says.
"Non-negotiable," Sam says again.
Crowley makes a face but doesn't argue. "Are we done?" he asks. "Any more stupid concessions you want me to make?"
Sam flips through his notes. "I want a third party to read this over," he says.
"Abbadon is taking over Hell as we speak, and you want to find someone to adjudicate?" Crowley asks. "I thought Winchesters were men of action."
Sam flips him off. It has the tired air of someone who's been doing the same thing for the past several hours with no change.
"A revisions period," Crowley says, a tinge of desperation in his voice. "We revisit it sometime within the next month—month in topside time, yes, not Hell time, I know—but for now we seal this deal and start keeping this woman from stealing my empire."
"Done," Sam says. He closes his notebook and hands it to Dean, pushing himself to the edge of the bed.
"Fucking finally," Crowley mutters. He stalks forward, grabs Sam by the chin, and presses their lips together.
It's weird. Really fucking weird. Dean can't look away, it's like a goddamn car fire. And it goes on for a long-ass time.
Sam's eyes open after a second and he shoots a panicked 'help me' look at Dean, so Dean shoves at Crowley's shoulder and says, "All right, get a room, you two."
Sam wrinkles his nose
"Didn't want to waste the opportunity," Crowley says, once he's released Sam's face.
Sam wipes his mouth. "I need a toothbrush," he mutters.
"Later," Crowley says.
"Right." Sam pushes himself to standing. He looks a lot healthier than he did before that kiss, the last of his pallor gone. He's still way too skinny, but other than that, he looks like he did before he started coughing up blood. Sue Dean, but this whole mess was worth it, just to see Sam like this again.
He's also wearing a hospital gown.
"Pants?" Dean suggests.
Sam makes a face. "Pants."
"And then we'll get going, right?" Crowley demands.
"Yes," Sam says, all exasperation.
"Great," Crowley says, and claps his hands. "We've got work to do."
Sam flips him off again. It's beautiful.