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dowagerqueenofhell · 2 days ago

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Chasing Shadows

10. Doubts

The hotel room was quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside. Lane stood near the window, arms crossed, staring at the city lights. The hunt had gone smoothly, the Winchesters were satisfied, and for once, everything felt… steady.

Then Crowley appeared.

Not with his usual smug entrance. No dramatic flourish, no sarcastic greeting.

Just there, in the shadows, watching her.

Lane turned, raising an eyebrow. "Okay. Creepy, even for you."

Crowley didn’t smirk. Didn’t roll his eyes.

Instead, he stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "How long, Lane?"

Her brows furrowed. "What?"

His gaze was sharp, cutting through her. "How long have you been waiting to turn on me?"

Lane straightened, caught off guard. "The hell are you talking about?"

Crowley chuckled—but it wasn’t amused. It was cold. "Oh, darling, don’t play stupid. You’ve been working your way in, haven’t you? Playing the part, pretending to hate me, keeping me just close enough—" He tilted his head. "Waiting for the perfect moment to gut me."

Lane’s stomach twisted.

Because that? That wasn’t Crowley messing with her. That was real.

She scoffed, shaking her head. "You’re insane."

Crowley’s smirk twitched, something dark beneath it. "No, love. I’m not."

He stepped forward, closing the distance.

Lane held her ground.

"I see it now," he murmured, voice edged with something dangerous. "The way you watch me. The way you hesitate, like you’re debating when to twist the knife. You think I haven’t noticed?"

Lane clenched her jaw. "Noticed what? That I still hate you? Newsflash, Crowley, that was never a secret."

His fingers flexed at his sides, but his expression didn’t waver.

"You think I don’t see it?" His voice dropped lower, just above a whisper. "You. Standing over my body. Blood on your hands. Saying you never had a choice."

A chill ran down Lane’s spine.

"I see you betray me, Lane. Over and over again."

Realization hit her like a punch to the ribs.

This wasn’t just paranoia.

This was planted.

And if Crowley was seeing her as a traitor, that meant someone wanted him to believe it.

Her mind raced. Demons who wanted her dead, or at least gone. The ones who resented her place at Crowley’s side, who didn’t want to waste time watching over a human while their king indulged himself.

"Crowley—"

"You can drop the act, love." He leaned in, voice laced with venom. "I know a liar when I see one."

For the first time, Lane didn’t have a comeback.

Because Crowley?

He believed it.

And that?

That hurt more than it should have.

¤¤¤¤¤

The motel lounge was quiet, the low hum of a radio crackling from an old speaker. Lane sat in the corner, fingers tapping against her whiskey glass, her mind still buzzing from Crowley’s accusations. The bastard had looked at her like she was his enemy.

She let out a slow breath. Forget him. Forget all of it.

"Drinking alone? That’s never a good sign, dearie."

Lane glanced up.

A woman—elegant, poised, with auburn hair and eyes too sharp to be casual—slid into the seat across from her.

"Not looking for company," Lane muttered.

The woman just smiled, eyes glittering with amusement. "Oh, but I do so hate to see a lady brooding. Especially when there are much better ways to spend the night."

Lane huffed. "That a sales pitch?"

The woman chuckled, stirring her drink. "Let’s just say I’m a woman who knows things. And I recognize the look of someone carrying… complications."

Something in her tone made Lane pause.

"And you’re an expert on my problems, are you?"

"Oh, love, I don’t have to be." The woman leaned in slightly, resting her chin on her hand. "Men like him—they never really trust, do they? But if he’s doubting you… well, it’s usually for a reason."

Lane went still.

"Excuse me?"

The woman swirled her drink, the ice clinking gently. "It’s funny, isn’t it? The way power makes men so paranoid. One day, they’re offering you the world, the next? They’re convinced you’re going to stab them in the back."

Lane’s pulse ticked in her jaw.

"You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about."

The woman just smiled knowingly, standing as smoothly as she had arrived.

"Maybe, maybe not." She set a few bills on the table. "But be careful, dear. If he starts to see you as a threat, well… it rarely ends well for the girl."

Lane narrowed her eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

The woman’s smirk deepened, but she simply turned, walking away, heels clicking softly against the floor.

And just like that, she was gone.

Lane sat there, staring after her, something heavy settling in her gut.

Because she had felt something off about that woman.

And worse?

Everything she’d said was true.

¤¤¤¤¤

The King of Hell didn’t panic. He didn’t second-guess.

But as Crowley tore through his chambers, shoving books off shelves, ripping apart drawers, he knew something was wrong.

The paranoia hadn’t stopped. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Lane.

Betraying him.

He needed proof—one way or the other.

And then, at the bottom of his liquor cabinet, tucked neatly between the bottles—

A hex bag.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the magic pulsed—cold, malicious. The paranoia spiked for a fraction of a second before fading.

Crowley stilled.

Then, realization slammed into him like a freight train.

Lane had never betrayed him.

She never even had the chance.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, gripping the cursed object, pulse hammering.

Then he vanished.

Same Motel, Different Night

Lane sat on the motel bed, flipping a knife between her fingers. She hadn’t told the boys about Crowley’s accusations—she didn’t need another lecture about getting “too deep.”

She didn’t need anything, really.

Except maybe a damn break.

Then the air shifted.

She barely had time to tense before—

"You."

Crowley stood at the foot of the bed, eyes dark, jaw tight.

Lane blinked. "Uh. Yeah? Me?"

He tossed something at her. Instinct kicked in, and she caught it midair—

A hex bag.

She frowned, rolling it between her fingers. "What the hell is this?"

Crowley’s gaze was unreadable. "The reason I saw you slit my throat every night for the past week."

Lane’s breath hitched.

So that’s what had been happening.

"You were cursed."

"Apparently." Crowley’s voice was clipped. "But it doesn’t change the fact that I let it work."

Lane stared at him, then scoffed. "Oh, what, are you actually apologizing?"

Crowley hesitated.

Then—he rolled his shoulders, straightened his cuffs. "I was wrong."

Lane almost laughed. "Wow. That almost sounded genuine."

"Let’s not push it, darling."

Lane flipped the hex bag once before tossing it back to him. "So, what now? You admit you doubted me for no reason, and we go back to normal?"

Crowley’s lips curled slightly, but there was something off in his expression—like he hated that he had to answer that question.

"I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?"

And then, with a snap of his fingers, he was gone.

Lane exhaled, flopping back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Something had changed.

And she wasn’t sure either of them knew what to do about it.

¤¤¤¤¤

Crowley materialized in Rowena’s parlor in a storm of fury, the hex bag clutched in his hand.

"You," he snarled, slamming it onto the table. "You dared to hex me?"

Rowena didn’t flinch. She merely glanced up from her cup of tea, lips curling in amusement.

"Oh, Fergus," she sighed, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. "Took you long enough."

Crowley’s fingers twitched. He wanted to strike her down, to burn the smugness from her face. But Rowena only tilted her head, watching him like he was a child throwing a tantrum.

"Oh, go on, then," she mused, voice almost bored. "Smite your dear mummy. I would be terribly disappointed, but I suppose it’s in your nature."

Crowley sneered. "You think I won’t?"

"Oh, I know you will," Rowena said, eyes darkening with wicked delight. "Which is why I took precautions."

Crowley stilled. "What did you do?"

Rowena’s smirk widened.

"Tell me, son—have you checked on your little hunter lately?"

The air in the room dropped.

Crowley’s stomach twisted, but his expression remained cold. "What. Did. You. Do?"

Rowena hummed, examining her nails. "Oh, nothing terribly inventive. Just a little something slipped into her purse during our chat. Really, she didn’t even notice."

Crowley vanished before she could finish the sentence.

¤¤¤¤¤

Lane sat on the edge of her bed, flipping through an old lore book, trying—and failing—not to think about Crowley’s visit the night before.

She hated that the bastard got under her skin.

Then—

A pressure wrapped around her chest.

Lane gasped, dropping the book.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her vision blurred, her fingers clawing at her throat, her body collapsing onto the floor as an invisible force crushed her lungs.

Then—just as suddenly—

A blast of energy shook the room.

Crowley appeared, wild-eyed, moving with zero hesitation. His gaze darted around once before he ripped her purse open, shoving his hand inside.

A second later, he yanked out a hex bag.

Lane was barely conscious, her vision fading—but she saw him.

Saw the way his hand burst into flame, burning the cursed object to ash.

Felt the instant release of pressure in her chest.

She gasped for air, choking, hands clutching the carpet.

And Crowley—

He was right there, kneeling beside her, his hand still smoking from the fire.

His voice, low, rough with something she didn’t recognize—

"Breathe, Poppet."

Lane sucked in a shaky breath, her entire body trembling.

Crowley didn’t move. Didn’t mock. Didn’t sneer.

He just watched her, jaw clenched, something unreadable in his eyes.

And Lane, for the first time, realized—

He wasn’t just angry.

He had been afraid.

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dowagerqueenofhell · 2 days ago

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Chasing Shadows

9. Sensitivities

The bar was dimly lit, the low hum of conversation blending with the clink of glasses and the occasional crackle of an old jukebox in the corner. Lane sat at the counter, nursing a whiskey, half-listening to Dean and Sam at the pool table behind her.

She wasn’t exactly sulking—just thinking. Overthinking. Trying not to dwell on the fact that Crowley had never really lost sight of her, no matter how far she ran.

"Rough night?"

The voice was smooth, laced with amusement.

Lane glanced up as a man slid onto the stool beside her. Tall, well-dressed, dark hair just beginning to gray at the temples. Sharp eyes, full of mischief.

"You look like a woman who could use a distraction." He smiled, easy and practiced.

Lane arched a brow. "Oh? And you think you’re up for the job?"

The man smirked. "I like a challenge."

Lane huffed a laugh, turning back to her drink. She wasn’t in the mood for company, but something about the way he spoke… it was too smooth. Too familiar.

Then he ordered a drink.

"Macallan, neat. 25-year if you have it."

Lane’s fingers stilled against her glass.

It was the way he said it. Casually, like it was second nature.

Like it was a habit.

The bartender poured the drink, sliding it over, and the man lifted it with a perfectly smug grin.

Lane exhaled sharply, pressing her tongue to her teeth.

Oh, you asshole.

She turned in her seat, resting her elbow on the bar, and let her gaze really settle on him. The sharp suit. The lazy confidence. The way he smirked like he already knew he’d won.

"Really, Crowley?"

The man hummed, tilting his head. "Sorry, love, don’t think we’ve met."

Lane scoffed. "You couldn’t even show up as yourself?"

And then—

Something shifted.

The smirk changed—just enough. The weight in his gaze deepened. That was Crowley’s smirk now.

A slow, deliberate sip of whiskey. Then, a knowing, smug—

"Clever girl. Took you long enough, Poppet."

Lane exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You are pathetic."

Crowley chuckled, slow and pleased. "Now, now, let’s not be cruel. I just wanted to see how long it would take you to figure me out."

Lane crossed her arms. "And?"

He sipped his drink. "Moderately impressive. Though I’ll admit, I thought I’d get at least a little further before you caught on."

Lane rolled her eyes. "Why are you even here?"

Crowley smirked. "You tell me, love. You’re the one who noticed me."

Her stomach twisted. Because, deep down, she knew why.

But she wasn’t about to say it.

Instead, she downed the rest of her whiskey, slammed the glass down, and stood.

"Have fun playing pretend, Crowley."

And with that, she turned on her heel, walking away.

But not before she heard his amused murmur behind her—

"Oh, love, you are fun when you’re in denial."

¤¤¤¤¤

The bunker was quiet, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights and the occasional rustle of a page turning.

Lane sat at the war room table, flipping through an old tome, barely skimming the words. Across from her, Sam had his laptop open, scanning line after line of obscure translations.

Dean was pacing.

Crowley, leaning lazily against the doorway with a glass of whiskey, was pretending to be bored.

The Book of the Damned sat in the center of the table, bound in old, worn leather, humming with power. They had found it. But finding it wasn’t the same as using it.

"There’s got to be something we’re missing," Sam muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "Every translation says the same thing—it’s possible to remove the Mark, but the spell requires a massive power source."

"Define ‘massive,’" Lane said, arching a brow.

"More than what we have," Sam admitted.

Dean let out a sharp exhale, planting his hands on the table. "Then we need to find something bigger."

"Bigger than what, Squirrel?" Crowley drawled, swirling his drink. "You lot already have the most dangerous magical artifact in existence sitting right there. What, are we summoning God next?"

Dean shot him a glare. "If it gets this thing off me? Yeah, I’ll send Him a damn invitation."

Sam sighed, leaning back. "We need answers. We need someone who knows exactly what we’re dealing with."

Lane glanced between them.

The pause stretched.

Then—

"No," Dean said immediately.

"Dean—"

"No," Dean repeated, shaking his head. "We are not bringing that dickbag into this."

"He was an angel," Sam argued. "A scribe. If anyone knows how to undo ancient biblical magic, it’s him."

Lane frowned. "Who?"

Crowley chuckled darkly. "Oh, you’re going to love this one, Poppet."

Sam sighed. "Metatron."

Lane’s brow furrowed. "The guy who locked heaven?"

"And murdered Kevin," Dean muttered, jaw tightening. "Yeah. That guy."

The tension in the room thickened.

"You think he’d even help?" Lane asked.

"Doesn’t matter," Sam said, determined. "We’ll make him."

Dean exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "Fine. But when this goes sideways, I told you so."

Crowley smirked, raising his glass. "Ah, yes. Because dealing with angels has always gone well for you lot."

No one laughed.

Because they all knew—

This was going to be a disaster.

¤¤¤¤¤

The bunker war room had seen its fair share of tense moments. But this? This was different.

Metatron, leaning back in his chair, smirked as he delivered the words like a perfectly timed punchline.

"The spell to remove the Mark of Cain requires a significant sacrifice. Specifically, the blood of a virgin, given willingly."

Silence.

Lane stiffened.

Sam’s jaw clenched. Dean’s fingers twitched toward his gun.

And Crowley—

Crowley scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, for hell’s sake. That’s all? Could’ve saved us all this tedious whining, boys. I’ll be back in a flash."

He turned on his heel, already preparing to disappear and fetch some unfortunate soul to drain.

"Crowley—" Sam started, tone sharp.

But before the Winchesters could object to ritualistic murder—

Metatron smirked.

"Why go so far for something so close?"

The words hung in the air, thick, suffocating.

And then—

Crowley stopped.

His whole body went still.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned back, eyes locking onto Metatron.

Metatron just grinned wider.

"Oh, don’t tell me you’re surprised." He gestured toward Lane with an almost lazy flick of his fingers. "It’s written all over her. Or rather… not written at all."

Lane’s stomach dropped.

She could feel the weight of the room shift.

Sam inhaled sharply. Dean took an instinctive step forward.

And Crowley—

Crowley didn’t smirk. Didn’t roll his eyes.

He just… stared.

Metatron, savoring the tension, leaned back. "After all, wouldn’t it be tragic if the King of Hell had gone soft for someone so… unspoiled?"

That’s when Crowley spoke.

"Try it."

His voice was quiet. Dangerous.

Lane’s breath caught.

Metatron’s smirk twitched, off-balance for the first time. "Oh?"

Crowley took a step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes black as coal.

"You so much as look at her with intent again, and I’ll carve out your Grace with my bare hands."

The temperature plummeted.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

Because this?

This wasn’t just possessiveness.

This wasn’t just Crowley guarding a bargain.

This was something else.

Something real.

Metatron chuckled, but there was a nervous edge to it now. "Touchy, touchy. I do love a good overreaction."

Crowley didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk.

Just stared him down like he was already dead.

Lane’s pulse hammered.

She felt it.

Felt the way Sam noticed.

Felt the way Dean, despite his irritation, wasn’t arguing.

Felt the way Crowley hadn’t hesitated.

And that?

That terrified her.

Sam cleared his throat, stepping forward in an attempt to wrestle control back. "Alright. Enough of the dramatics. We need details—what exactly does the spell require?"

Metatron exhaled, rolling his eyes. "Oh, you Winchesters. Always so serious. Fine." He folded his arms, shifting his weight. "The Book of the Damned says virgin blood is required, but there has to be another way—"

"Oh, of course there’s another way," Metatron interrupted cheerfully. "I mean, if you’d prefer, we could kill Cain himself and hope that resets the Mark. But good luck with that, considering he’s holed up somewhere in biblical exile."

Dean clenched his fists. "You’re lying. There’s always another way."

Metatron grinned. "Well, if you’d like to waste a few more months looking, be my guest. But this? This is the quickest way."

The weight in the room shifted again.

Lane ran a hand through her hair, her brain catching up to everything at once.

The spell needed her blood.

The Winchesters weren’t going to let it happen.

And Crowley—

She dared a glance at him.

He was still staring at Metatron, his jaw tight, his posture deceptively relaxed—but Lane could see it now.

See the anger simmering beneath his skin. The way his fingers twitched like he was barely resisting the urge to tear Metatron apart.

And then it hit her.

This wasn’t just protectiveness.

This was territorial.

He wasn’t just stopping them from using her blood.

He was staking a claim.

Her stomach twisted.

"Fine," Sam finally said, forcing himself to breathe. "Then we find another way. We’re not sacrificing Lane."

"Oh, how noble," Metatron mocked, clapping his hands together. "Good luck with that."

Dean ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "Cas, get this bastard out of my sight."

Castiel stepped forward, grabbing Metatron roughly by the collar.

"Oof, rough hands, Cas," Metatron muttered as he was yanked toward the door. "I’d say I’ll miss you all, but… we both know I won’t."

With a flare of angelic light, he was gone.

The second the bunker was silent again, Dean turned toward Lane. "We are not talking about this again. Got it?"

Lane crossed her arms. "You’re the one still talking about it, Winchester."

"Damn right I am," Dean snapped. "Because we are not putting you on the chopping block for me."

Crowley let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders.

"For once, I actually agree with Squirrel."

Dean turned on him instantly. "Oh, shove it, Crowley. You don’t give a damn about her."

The air stilled.

Lane tensed.

Sam’s eyes flicked between them.

And Crowley—

Crowley just smirked.

But it was too slow, too deliberate.

"Oh, darling," he murmured, his voice like silk wrapped around a blade. "You really should pay better attention."

Then, with a snap of his fingers, he was gone.

Leaving behind a silence too heavy to ignore.

¤¤¤¤¤

The hotel room was dimly lit, golden light from the city outside pooling onto the floor. The air still crackled from Crowley’s teleportation, but Lane barely registered it—her mind was still back in the bunker, replaying the moment over and over.

Crowley hadn’t just been protective. He had been furious.

She turned, exhaling sharply. "Alright. Let’s hear it."

Crowley stood near the minibar, back to her, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. His usual bravado, his smirk—it was gone.

"Hear what, love?" His voice was smooth, but… off.

Lane narrowed her eyes. "Don’t act like you don’t have something to say. You’ve been hovering ever since we got here."

Crowley finally turned to face her.

The expression he wore wasn’t what she expected.

Not a smirk. Not a glare.

Something calculated. Measured.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Lane stood her ground, tilting her chin up slightly as he closed the space between them—not enough to be intimate, but too close to be casual.

"You’re not giving them your blood."

It wasn’t a command. Wasn’t a plea.

It was fact.

Lane’s fingers curled at her sides. "Yeah, I kinda figured that out when you nearly ripped Metatron’s head off."

Crowley scoffed, shaking his head. "I should have. Would’ve done the world a favor."

He was still too close.

His fingers twitched at his sides like he was holding something back.

Lane studied him carefully, watching the tiny cracks in his mask.

"Why do you care so much, Crowley?"

He stilled.

For a split second, she saw it—something vulnerable flashing behind his dark gaze.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Crowley exhaled sharply and rolled his neck, forcing out a low, amused chuckle.

"Because I do, dammit."

Lane froze.

Crowley froze.

The words had slipped out too fast, too unguarded. He blinked once, like he was just now realizing what he had said.

Lane opened her mouth, but before she could speak—

He backpedaled instantly, scoffing. "Can’t have my favorite pet project getting herself killed, now can I?"

There it was. The deflection. The Crowley move.

But Lane wasn’t buying it.

Her eyes searched his, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he turned away, walking toward the minibar, reaching for the bottle of whiskey.

His hands were too steady, his movements too controlled—

Like he was trying to erase the moment that had just slipped through his fingers.

Lane’s pulse pounded in her ears. She stepped forward. "Crowley—"

"Don’t."

The word was quiet, but firm.

Lane halted.

Crowley poured himself a drink, threw it back in one go, then set the glass down a little too hard.

Then—before she could push him further—

He snapped his fingers and vanished.

Lane stood there, breath unsteady, staring at the empty space where he had just been.

Her hand tightened around the glass he had left behind, heart still hammering.

Because Crowley hadn’t just been protecting her.

And now, no matter how hard he tried to hide it—

He knew it too.

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dowagerqueenofhell · 2 days ago

Text

Chasing Shadows

8. The Good Old Days

The Impala rumbled down the highway, classic rock humming low from the speakers. Lane sat in the back, staring out the window, watching the dark blur of trees whip past.

It was almost normal.

Almost like it used to be.

Dean glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "You good back there, Poppet?"

Lane rolled her eyes. "Don’t call me that."

Dean smirked. "Just making sure you still had a pulse."

Sam sighed from the passenger seat, eyes on the file in his hands. "Focus, guys. We’ve got three bodies in the last month, all missing hearts, all found within a five-mile radius of some backwoods motel."

"Shapeshifter?" Lane guessed.

"We thought so," Sam said, flipping a page. "Until the latest victim had their heart eaten."

Dean made a face. "Freakin’ wendigos, man."

"It’s not a wendigo," Sam corrected. "They usually stick to isolated forests. This thing is hunting in town."

Lane frowned, shifting forward. "So we’re thinking… what? Ghoul?"

"That’s the theory," Dean said. "Which means we find the pattern, we find the lair, and we waste the bastard."

Lane nodded, fingers tightening slightly on her knee. This was what she needed. Something real. Something normal.

She wasn’t Crowley’s. She was a hunter.

And tonight? She’d prove it.

¤¤¤¤¤

The motel parking lot was empty except for a few rundown cars and a flickering streetlamp.

"Alright," Dean muttered, loading his gun with silver bullets. "Last guy who went missing was seen checking into Room 12. Sammy, you take the clerk, see if he remembers anything. Lane and I will check the room."

Lane arched a brow. "Splitting up already? Bold strategy, Winchester."

"Yeah, well," Dean said, smirking. "Just don’t slow me down, Princess."

Lane scoffed. "Keep up, and maybe you’ll learn something."

Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t argue as they headed toward the room.

The door was locked, but that wasn’t an issue—Lane had it picked in under thirty seconds.

"Okay, I’m a little impressed," Dean admitted as they stepped inside.

Lane smirked. "You should be."

The room was a wreck. Clothes were scattered everywhere, the bed half-made, but what stood out most was the dark stain in the center of the carpet.

Lane knelt down, brushing her fingers over the dried blood. "He didn’t leave this room alive."

Dean exhaled. "Yeah. The question is—who took him after?"

Before Lane could answer, the sound of something heavy scraping against the wall outside made both of them freeze.

Dean shot her a look.

Lane nodded.

Together, they moved toward the door, weapons ready.

She wasn’t Crowley’s.

She wasn’t trapped.

She was a hunter.

And tonight? She’d prove it.

¤¤¤¤¤

The warehouse reeked of rot and old blood, the metallic tang thick in the air.

Lane’s breath came sharp and ragged as she dodged another wild swing, her knife slick with black ichor. The ghoul in front of her lunged, but she ducked under its claws, slicing deep into its side before rolling away.

Dean fired a shotgun blast behind her. Sam shouted something, but her focus narrowed on the creature in front of her.

Just one more move.

She went to step forward—

Pain ripped through her leg.

A snarl tore from her throat as she hit the ground, her knife clattering against the cement. Blood poured from her hamstring, hot and fast, soaking into her jeans.

The ghoul leered over her, but before it could strike—

A gunshot. Then another.

The ghoul’s head snapped back before its body crumpled to the floor.

Lane gritted her teeth, propping herself up on her elbows as Dean and Sam rushed over.

"Lane! You okay?" Sam knelt beside her, already pressing his jacket against the wound.

Lane let out a breathless chuckle. "Oh, yeah. Never better."

Dean’s gaze flicked over her leg, jaw tightening. "Damn it. We need to get you out of here—"

And then—

"Tsk, tsk, tsk."

The voice curled through the air like smoke, smooth and insufferably familiar.

Lane’s breath caught.

Dean shot to his feet, gun already aimed. "Oh, come on."

From the shadows, Crowley stepped forward, hands in his pockets, a look of exaggerated disappointment on his face. "Really, Poppet? A hamstring? That’s just sloppy."

Lane clenched her jaw, struggling to sit up. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Crowley arched a brow. "What, no ‘thank you’ for the concern? Honestly, your manners are appalling."

Lane bristled but didn’t move.

Dean frowned. "You knew where she was this whole time."

Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, please. I have hordes of demons tracking your every move, and you think I lost sight of my favorite little runaway?"

Lane’s stomach twisted.

He had always known.

Dean’s grip on his gun tightened. "Then why show up now?"

Crowley’s smirk didn’t waver, but something flickered behind his eyes—something sharp, something exposed.

"Because she’s bleeding out, and you lot take far too long to fix things."

Lane’s breath caught in her throat.

That—

That wasn’t what she expected.

Dean scoffed, stepping protectively in front of her. "Like hell we’re letting you take her."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, Squirrel. If I wanted to take her, I would have. But clearly, you lot insist on dragging her into danger, so forgive me for checking in."

Lane exhaled sharply, forcing herself upright despite the pain. "Bullshit."

Crowley’s gaze snapped to her, unreadable.

Lane gritted her teeth. "You weren’t here to check on me. You were here because you thought they were pulling something." She tilted her head, searching his expression. "But the second you saw the blood? You forgot that, didn’t you?"

Silence.

Crowley took a small step back, his hands flicking out in mock surrender. "You are an insufferable little thing." His lips curled into something amused. "But fine. You’re welcome. I’ll just let you bleed out next time."

The moment Crowley turned away, Lane felt the air shift. Her leg felt lighter. Not healed, but slower. The blood flow was stopping—enough to keep her from passing out.

Her stomach twisted. "Crowley—"

"You can thank me later, love." His tone was light, but his eyes lingered just a second too long before he turned, smoothing his coat.

"Do try not to get yourself killed, will you?"

And with that, he vanished.

The silence left in his wake was deafening.

Dean ran a hand down his face. "Son of a bitch."

Sam exhaled. "Well… that just happened."

Lane stared at the empty space Crowley had occupied, pulse unsteady.

Because Crowley had just proven two things.

He never lost sight of her.

And worse?

He hadn’t realized he cared—until now.

¤¤¤¤¤

The bunker’s war room was quieter than usual, the tension thick as Sam knelt beside Lane, carefully wrapping the bandage around her injured thigh. She sat on the edge of the table, hands braced against the surface, pretending not to wince.

Dean stood a few feet away, arms crossed, pacing slightly as he steamed.

"Unbelievable."

Lane exhaled sharply. "You’re gonna have to be more specific, Winchester."

Dean stopped pacing long enough to shoot her a glare. "Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the part where Crowley just showed up like he was checking in on his goddamn pet?"

Sam tugged the bandage a little tighter, making Lane hiss. "Easy, doc."

"Hold still," Sam muttered, but his focus flicked toward Dean. "He did more than check in. He stopped the bleeding."

Lane shrugged. "Yeah? So what? Demons heal people all the time when it suits them."

"That’s not the point, Lane," Dean snapped. "The point is, why the hell does he care?"

Lane opened her mouth—then closed it.

Because that? That was a question she didn’t want to answer.

Dean scoffed at her silence, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

Sam, ever the rational one, leaned back, finishing the bandage. "Look. Whether we like it or not, Crowley has a claim on her. That means he’s invested."

"Invested?!" Dean spun on his heel, incredulous. "Are you hearing yourself? This isn’t some damn business deal, Sammy. That wasn’t just about ownership—that was personal."

Lane clenched her jaw. "You’re reading into it too much."

Dean laughed at that—short, sharp, humorless. "Am I? Because tell me, Lane—since when does the King of Hell drop everything because one of his hunters got a little banged up?"

Lane didn’t answer.

Dean stepped closer, pointing at her. "And don’t even try to sell me the whole ‘he just wants to keep his investment alive’ crap. We’ve seen Crowley cut his losses before—he doesn’t step in unless it matters to him."

Lane huffed, shifting uncomfortably. "Look, maybe it’s not about me. Maybe he’s just… slipping."

Sam frowned. "Slipping?"

Lane met his gaze. "Human blood. You remember how he was when he got hooked? What if this is just that? What if that’s why he’s acting weird?"

Sam hesitated.

Dean, however, shook his head. "No. No way."

Lane arched a brow. "You sound pretty sure."

Dean crossed his arms. "Because I am sure. Crowley’s been clean since Abaddon died. If he was using again, we’d know."

Lane looked at Sam, but he just exhaled, thinking.

"So, what?" Lane asked, voice edged. "You think he just… cares? Like a person?"

Dean’s jaw tightened. "I don’t know what the hell his deal is, Lane. But I know one thing—whatever this is? It’s not just about the contract anymore."

The weight of those words settled between them, thick and suffocating.

Lane looked away.

Because for the first time, she wasn’t sure she could argue with that.

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dowagerqueenofhell · 2 days ago

Text

Chasing Shadows

7. A Taste of Freedom

The bunker was quiet, save for the faint rustle of papers as Sam flipped through an old lore book. Dean sat across from him, boots propped on the table, nursing a half-empty beer. The last hunt had been brutal, and they were both enjoying the brief peace.

Then the air shifted.

The room darkened at the edges, the scent of sulfur curling into the space.

Dean groaned, already reaching for his gun. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

A familiar voice drawled from the shadows. "Oh, don’t stop on my account, boys."

Crowley stepped into the war room, hands in his pockets, the picture of smug ease. But there was something else there—something taut beneath the surface.

Sam tensed. "What do you want, Crowley?"

Crowley smirked, but his eyes were cold. "It’s quite simple, really. Stay away from Lane."

Dean snorted. "Oh, that’s rich. You keeping her on a tighter leash now?"

Crowley’s expression barely flickered. "Something like that."

"You’re afraid she’ll come running back to us?" Dean taunted. "That she’ll remember who her real family is?"

Crowley exhaled through his nose, almost amused. "Family? Is that what you think you are?"

Dean leaned forward, jaw tight. "Damn right."

Crowley’s smirk widened, slow and cutting. "And tell me, Squirrel… how well does that usually work out for your so-called family?"

The room went still.

Crowley took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Let’s ask Bobby Singer—oh, right."

Dean’s fingers clenched around his beer bottle. "You son of a—"

"Ah-ah." Crowley raised a finger, grinning. "Touchy subject?"

Sam exhaled sharply, trying to keep the conversation from spiraling. "Why do you care if Lane comes back here?"

Crowley’s smile faded. "Because you two are the most dangerous duo in humankind. And she’s not dying because of you."

That hit differently.

For a moment, neither brother spoke.

Crowley’s gaze flicked between them, reading every shift in their expressions. "So consider this your only warning. See her again, and you won’t like what happens next."

And with that, he vanished, leaving only silence in his wake.

¤¤¤¤¤

Dean was the first to move, shoving his chair back so hard it scraped against the floor. "That smug son of a bitch—"

"Dean." Sam’s voice was sharp, but there was a hint of unease beneath it.

Dean ran a hand down his face, pacing. "You heard that, right? He’s afraid."

"Or possessive," Sam muttered. "Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that we can’t just leave her there."

Dean turned, brow furrowed. "I don’t know, man. You saw how she was last time. If she wanted out, she could’ve said something."

Sam frowned. "You think she’s choosing this?"

Dean hesitated. "I think Crowley’s gotten in her head. And that means we’re running out of time."

Sam sighed, rubbing his temples. "Even if we do try to get her out, how do we break whatever hold he has on her? He’s the King of Hell, Dean. It’s not like we can just ask her to leave."

Dean exhaled slowly. "Then we don’t ask."

Sam looked at him, concerned. "Dean—"

"No, screw that." Dean slammed his fist onto the table. "He’s isolating her, Sam. And you know what that means. It’s the same thing every demon, every monster, every sick bastard does before they break someone down. We cannot let that happen to her."

Sam was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. "So… what’s the plan?"

Dean’s eyes darkened with resolve. "We get her back. No matter what it takes."

¤¤¤¤¤

The soft click of a chess piece landing on the board echoed through the hotel room.

Lane leaned back in her chair, studying the board with narrowed eyes. "You’re setting me up."

Her demon bodyguard—currently masquerading as a twenty-something socialite with perfectly manicured nails—smirked, resting her chin in her palm. "Am I? Or are you just bad at this?"

Lane rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smallest smirk. "We’ll see about that." She reached forward, fingers brushing against the bishop—

The door burst open.

Two shots rang out, the scent of burning flesh filling the air as her bodyguard jerked violently before slumping forward onto the chessboard.

Lane barely had time to register the second body hitting the ground before she looked up—

Dean and Sam stood in the doorway, guns still raised, barrels smoking.

For a long beat, nobody moved.

Then Lane exhaled, sat back in her chair, and glanced down at the chessboard now stained with blackened demon blood. "Well. Guess I won by default."

Dean blinked. "That’s it?"

Lane arched a brow. "What, you want me to mourn? Because I really don’t have it in me today."

Sam gave Dean a look before stepping forward. "Lane, we’re getting you out of here."

Lane let out a dramatic sigh, stretching. "About damn time."

Dean frowned, looking her over. "Wait—you’re fine with this?"

Lane pushed away from the table, stepping over one of the still-smoking corpses. "Oh, yeah. This place was getting boring." She cracked her neck. "And honestly? I could use some fresh air. You have no idea how much sulfur sticks to everything."

Dean huffed. "You’re unbelievable."

"And yet, you keep coming back for me." Lane winked before grabbing her jacket.

Sam shook his head but gestured toward the door. "Come on. Before Crowley realizes what we’ve done."

Lane didn’t need to be told twice.

She followed them out, stepping over the second corpse, sparing it only a brief glance. Then, as an afterthought—

"Shame. She was actually good at chess."

And with that, she walked out, leaving the wreckage behind her.

¤¤¤¤¤

The Bunker

The air in the bunker crackled with tension. Lane sat on the war room table, arms crossed, while Castiel stood over her, fingers hovering just above her forehead.

"This will take a moment," Castiel said, his deep voice steady. "If it works, Crowley will no longer be able to track you."

Dean stood nearby, arms crossed, while Sam scanned an old book, searching for anything that might strengthen the spell.

Lane exhaled sharply. "About damn time."

The moment Castiel began to channel his power, the temperature in the room plummeted. The lights flickered.

And then—

"Oh, don’t stop on my account."

The voice was smooth, laced with amusement.

Lane tensed.

The shadows stretched unnaturally as Crowley materialized, hands tucked into his coat pockets, a smirk already curling his lips. "Really, boys? You should know by now—trying to break a contract with the King of Hell? Not exactly the smartest move."

Dean immediately reached for his gun, but Crowley waved a lazy hand, knocking it out of his grip. "Oh, please. Let’s not make this awkward. We all know you’re not going to shoot me before I finish my monologue."

Sam took a cautious step forward. "We’re not breaking her contract. We’re making sure you can’t track her."

Crowley arched a brow. "Oh? And here I thought this was an intervention." His gaze flicked to Castiel. "Really, Feathers? You should know better. That little divinity trick of yours might work on a crossroads demon, but me?" He tapped his chest mockingly. "I own her, mate."

Lane clenched her jaw. "You don’t own me."

Crowley turned his gaze to her, slow and deliberate. "Oh, Poppet, we both know that’s not true."

She bristled but didn’t move.

Dean scowled. "You can’t seriously expect us to just let you keep her on a leash."

Crowley’s smirk widened. "Oh, but I can. And what’s more—so can she." He turned back to Lane, voice dipping. "Tell them, love. Tell them who you belong to."

Lane’s pulse hammered against her ribs. She hated that he had the nerve to say it in front of them, like she was some thing to be claimed.

Dean stepped forward, voice low, dangerous. "She doesn’t belong to anyone, Crowley."

Crowley chuckled. "Doesn’t she?" He lifted his chin, eyes flashing. "Because last I checked, she came back, didn’t she?"

Lane’s stomach twisted.

Crowley hummed. "Face it, boys. You are not her salvation. You are her biggest liability."

Sam exhaled sharply. "So what, you’re here to threaten us?"

Crowley smiled, slow and lethal. "Threaten? No, no, Samuel." He took a step closer, gaze darkening. "I’m here to warn you."

The tension in the room thickened.

Crowley let the silence stretch before tilting his head, mockingly thoughtful. "You lot have a nasty habit of getting the people you care about killed." His lips curled, and then—

"Let’s ask Bobby Singer—oh, right."

Dean’s entire body went rigid.

For a second, the room was deathly still.

Then—

Dean moved first. His fist cracked against Crowley’s jaw, sending the demon stumbling back. The satisfaction lasted all of two seconds before Crowley straightened, rolling his neck.

"Tsk, tsk. Temper, temper."

Dean seethed. "You smug son of a bitch—"

Crowley sighed, dusting himself off. "You really should learn to take good advice, Squirrel." His gaze flicked to Lane, expression unreadable for just a moment.

Then—his smirk returned. "But hey, if you want to keep tempting fate, be my guest."

With a flick of his wrist, he vanished, leaving the room heavy with the weight of his warning.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Lane stared at the space Crowley had just occupied, her chest tight.

Dean’s breathing was heavy, his hands clenched into fists. "That son of a bitch thinks he can just claim her?"

Sam exhaled sharply, looking at Lane. "What do you want to do?"

Lane hesitated. She should be angry. She was angry.

But there was something else beneath it. Something she couldn’t shake.

And she hated that Crowley might be right about one thing—

That the people she trusted most were also the ones most likely to get her killed.

Dean’s voice cut through her thoughts. "Lane, listen to me. You don’t have to stay with him. We can get you out of this."

She let out a breath. "You’re acting like I don’t know that. Like I haven’t tried."

Sam frowned. "Then let us help. For real this time."

Dean’s expression hardened. "Screw what Crowley thinks. He doesn’t own you, Lane. And we’re gonna prove it."

Lane looked between them, then at Castiel, who watched silently, waiting for her answer.

She took a deep breath.

"Alright."

Dean nodded firmly. "Then let’s get to work."

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dowagerqueenofhell · 2 days ago

Text

Chasing Shadows

6. "Poppet"

The first week was the worst.

Lane had expected Crowley to keep her locked in for a day, maybe two. Long enough to make his point. But as the days stretched into a week, then two, frustration clawed at her ribs like a wild animal.

Every attempt to leave was met with the same smirking, soulless bellhop standing at her door. "His Majesty insists you focus on recovery, Miss Lane," they’d say with practiced politeness, as if that would make her any less homicidal.

So, she changed tactics.

On the tenth day, when the demon appeared at her knock, she leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Fine. If I can’t leave, I need some supplies."

The demon tilted their head. "What kind of supplies?"

Lane smiled, sweet as poison. "Summoning supplies."

A flicker of hesitation crossed the demon’s face. Lane had done her homework—lower demons couldn’t refuse a direct request unless ordered otherwise.

And sure enough, the demon sighed. "Of course. But you should know… I have to report this."

Lane’s smirk widened. "Good. He’ll know I want to talk to him."

The ingredients arrived the next day.

Lane worked slowly. She wasn’t stupid—if Crowley hadn’t known before, he definitely did now. She expected him to show up immediately, shutting down her little rebellion before it got anywhere.

But he didn’t.

So, she let the days stretch. Took her time gathering every element, every precise detail. She waited for the moment he’d burst in, gloating about how pointless her efforts were.

But nothing happened.

By the third week, she was almost convinced he didn’t care.

That was her first mistake.

On the twenty-second day, she knelt in the center of the hotel room, the summoning sigil carefully drawn, the last ingredient held delicately between her fingers, ready to burn.

And then—

"Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Lane froze.

A slow shiver crawled up her spine before she turned, only to find Crowley lounging on the couch, legs crossed, watching her like she was the most amusing thing he’d seen in years.

"I am absolutely offended, darling," he drawled. "You think I’d let you finish? Really?"

Lane exhaled sharply, standing. "How long have you known?"

Crowley smirked. "Oh, since before you even asked my dear bellhop for the ingredients." He tilted his head. "Figured I’d let you tire yourself out first."

Lane’s fists clenched. "You let me do all this for nothing?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, come now. It was adorable, really. Watching you think you had an edge."

Her blood boiled. "You son of a—"

"Careful, love," Crowley cut in smoothly. "That tongue of yours is already in enough trouble, don’t you think?"

Lane gritted her teeth. "You can’t keep me here forever."

Crowley leaned back, watching her, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure if he was going to keep taunting her or actually listen.

Then, with a dramatic sigh, he pushed off the couch and straightened his jacket. "Fine. I suppose it is rather dull keeping you locked up like a bad-tempered housecat."

Lane narrowed her eyes. "Just like that?"

Crowley smirked. "Don’t flatter yourself."

He snapped his fingers. The sigil on the floor vanished. "You’re allowed out."

Lane didn’t let herself relax just yet. "What’s the catch?"

Crowley grinned. "I choose the company you keep."

A sinking feeling settled in her gut. "You mean—"

A knock at the door.

Lane turned just in time to see it swing open, revealing them.

Two demons. Young. Pretty. Dressed like they’d just stepped out of a nightclub.

Lane’s stomach dropped. "You have got to be kidding me."

Crowley chuckled, stepping past her toward the door. "Be nice, Poppet. They’re here for your protection."

Lane glared at him. "They're here to babysit me."

Crowley leaned in just enough to make her pulse tick faster than she’d like. "Tomato, tomahto."

And with a smug wink, he vanished, leaving her alone with her new shadows.

Lane groaned. This was not a victory.

But at least she was out.

For now.

¤¤¤¤¤

The diner was crowded, loud, and filled with the kind of cheap perfume that clung to the air long after its wearer had left. Lane sipped at her coffee, glancing casually out the window. Her two demon bodyguards sat a few booths away, pretending to be normal, giggling over their milkshakes like the kind of girls Dean would flirt with.

They had no idea she was about to ditch them.

Lane stood, tossing a few crumpled bills on the table. The demons barely reacted—just another bathroom break, they assumed. She made her way to the back exit instead, slipping out into the alley before they noticed.

She ran.

By the time the demons realized she was gone, she was already on the road, heading for the Men of Letters bunker.

The Bunker

The moment Lane stepped through the heavy doors, the smell of old books and coffee hit her.

The Winchesters were in the war room, hunched over a table littered with lore books and scattered notes. Castiel stood nearby, arms folded, looking as serious as ever.

Dean noticed her first. His brows shot up. “Lane?”

Sam straightened, frowning. “Did something happen?”

Lane shrugged off her jacket. “No. Just wanted better company than demons for a change.”

Dean stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Wait—you ditched your bodyguards?”

Lane smirked. “Obviously.”

Sam exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “Lane…”

“What?” she challenged, crossing her arms. “I’m fine.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Crowley will not be pleased.”

“Yeah, well,” Lane muttered, “he can deal.”

Before anyone could argue further, the air in the room shifted. The temperature dropped slightly. The scent of sulfur curled at the edges of the space.

Lane’s stomach twisted.

She turned just as Crowley materialized in the room, hands tucked into the pockets of his suit, gaze sweeping lazily over the scene.

"Hello, boys," he greeted smoothly.

The Winchesters tensed. Castiel squared his shoulders.

Lane braced herself, expecting him to rip into her for running. But Crowley didn’t even look at her.

Instead, he strolled past her, completely uninterested, like she wasn’t even there.

Lane blinked.

“What do you want, Crowley?” Dean snapped, hand already inching toward his gun.

Crowley smirked. “Relax, Squirrel. Just thought I’d pop in. See what the infamous Winchester brain trust is working on.”

Lane’s hands clenched into fists.

He knew she had ditched her bodyguards. He had to know. And yet… nothing.

No anger. No biting remarks.

Nothing.

And somehow, that was worse.

¤¤¤¤¤

The moment Lane stepped back into her hotel room, she knew something was wrong.

It was too quiet.

Her demon bodyguards were gone. No chirping, vapid voices, no giggling over magazines or admiring their reflections in the mirror.

Just silence.

Then—

"You know," Crowley’s voice cut through the air like a blade, "for someone who spent weeks scheming their little escape, you really thought I wouldn’t notice?"

Lane turned slowly.

Crowley stood near the window, swirling a glass of scotch as if he’d been waiting for her all night. His expression was unreadable, but there was something simmering beneath the surface.

She crossed her arms. "Figured you’d show up sooner. What, were you waiting for dramatic effect?"

Crowley took a lazy sip, smirking against the rim. "Oh, Poppet, I don’t need theatrics to make my point."

Lane scoffed. "Yeah? And what’s your point?"

Crowley’s expression darkened. "My point," he said, stepping forward, "is that I don’t recall giving you permission to frolic off to the bloody bunker like a rebellious teenager sneaking out past curfew."

Lane clenched her jaw. "You don’t own me."

Crowley chuckled, low and humorless. "Ah, see, but that’s where you’re mistaken. You’re mine, Lane. And you don’t get to pretend otherwise."

Lane’s blood boiled. "So that’s it, huh? You’re just gonna keep me locked up forever?"

Crowley tilted his head. "Now there’s an idea."

Lane bristled, but before she could snap back, he took another step closer, voice dipping to something quieter.

"Do you even understand what you’ve done?" His tone was different now—not smug, not teasing. Almost… disbelieving. "You strolled into the den of the most dangerous duo in humankind, without a second thought. What part of that screams smart to you?"

Lane froze.

She had expected anger. Mockery. Not this.

Crowley wasn’t just angry. He was furious.

Not because she had disobeyed him.

But because she had put herself in danger.

Her stomach twisted.

She forced herself to scoff. "Oh, please. Sam and Dean wouldn’t lay a hand on me."

Crowley’s lips curled, sharp and knowing. "No," he said slowly. "Not yet."

Lane swallowed, but she didn’t back down. "I wanted to see my family. You gonna punish me for that?"

Crowley sighed, as if dealing with a particularly dim student. "They are not your family, Poppet." His voice lowered, his gaze drilling into hers. "You? You are mine. They? They are the ones who get people like you killed."

Lane’s breath caught in her throat.

She hated that he had a point.

Crowley must have noticed her hesitation because his smirk returned, slower this time. "Now, we could keep arguing. You could pretend you’re not shaking in your boots, and I could keep reminding you exactly who you belong to."

Lane glared. "Or?"

Crowley hummed, amused. "Or, I could let you off with a warning. This time."

Lane blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," he echoed, sipping his drink. Then, almost as an afterthought— "With new conditions, of course."

Lane exhaled sharply. "Let me guess. Bodyguards?"

Crowley smiled, wicked and victorious. "You learn fast, love."

A knock at the door.

Lane turned to see two new demons standing there. This time, they weren’t the ditsy, bubbly girls from before. These two looked like soldiers.

Lane groaned. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

Crowley smirked. "You wanted freedom, Poppet. This is what it looks like."

Lane clenched her fists.

He had won. Again.

But at least she wasn’t locked in a gilded cage anymore.

For now.

#spn #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #crowley #mark sheppard #jared padalecki #misha collins #sam winchester #dean #men of letters bunker #supernatural prompt #crowley supernatural #supernatural imagines #supernatural crowley #castiel supernatural

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dowagerqueenofhell · 2 days ago

Text

Chasing Shadows

5. Ownership

Men of Letters Bunker – Dungeon

The cold steel door groaned as Lane pushed it open.

The dungeon smelled like damp stone and stale blood—an unpleasant cocktail of iron and something darker. The only source of light came from a single overhead bulb, casting harsh shadows along the concrete walls.

And there, slumped against the devil’s trap-etched chair, was Crowley.

He looked like hell.

Sweat clung to his skin, his usually pristine suit rumpled, his face paler than she’d ever seen it. His wrists were raw where the chains had rubbed against them, but despite it all, his head lolled back lazily, a smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes landed on her.

"Well, well," he rasped. His voice was hoarse, rougher than usual. "Look what the hellhounds dragged in."

Lane crossed her arms, lingering just outside the trap’s boundary. "You look awful."

Crowley let out a breathy chuckle. "And you look radiant, as always, Poppet. Come to gloat?"

She shrugged. "Just curious."

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Curious, are we?" He tilted his head, studying her in that way that always made her feel like he could see straight through her. "And here I thought I was just another pet project for the Winchesters."

Lane didn’t answer.

Because the truth was… she wasn’t sure why she was here.

The last time she’d seen Crowley, he’d been his usual smug, untouchable self. The King of Hell, in all his cocky, sharp-tongued glory. But now?

Now he was chained up, vulnerable, and clearly suffering from withdrawal.

It should have made her feel triumphant.

Instead, it made her stomach twist.

Crowley’s gaze lingered on her face before he sighed, slumping a little further in his chair. "Tell me, love—did you come to stare? Or are you here for something more… intimate?"

Lane rolled her eyes. "You're in no position to be flirting, Crowley."

"Oh, darling, I'm always in position." His smirk was weaker this time, like it took effort to keep up the act. "But if it's not my irresistible charm that brought you here, then what did?"

Lane hesitated.

She should leave. Sam and Dean would be pissed if they knew she was down here, and honestly? She had no reason to care what happened to Crowley.

But that was the problem.

She did care.

Maybe not in the way he’d like, but enough that seeing him like this made something uncomfortable settle in her chest.

"...You need anything?" she asked before she could stop herself.

Crowley stilled.

For the first time, his smirk faltered completely.

A slow silence stretched between them.

Then, very quietly, he murmured, "You know, love… I think that’s the first time anyone’s ever asked me that."

Lane shifted, uncomfortable with the shift in his tone. "Don’t get used to it."

Crowley chuckled weakly. "Oh, believe me, darling… I won’t."

¤¤¤¤¤

The bunker was quiet.

Lane sat at the war room table, papers spread out in front of her, flipping through lore on shifters. Sam and Dean were out working a lead, leaving her alone with nothing but the low hum of the overhead lights and the faint ticking of the old clock on the wall.

She barely heard it.

Midnight was just minutes away, but she wasn’t thinking about that. She was thinking about the case. About Abaddon. About anything but—

The lights flickered.

Lane’s fingers froze on the page.

The air shifted—cold, electric.

And then—

"Time’s up, love."

The voice was smooth, dark, too close.

Lane’s breath hitched as she whipped around—

And there he was.

Crowley stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching her with calm inevitability. His suit was perfect, his wounds from the Abaddon fight long healed. He looked like a king again—collected, victorious, and here for her.

Her stomach dropped.

Because she had forgotten.

Crowley hadn’t.

Lane swallowed hard. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

Crowley tilted his head, mock pity flickering in his eyes. "Oh, darling. Did you think I’d just… forget?"

Lane’s pulse pounded in her ears. She had thought that. Or maybe, she had just been hoping.

"I’m busy," she tried, gesturing at the research.

Crowley smirked. "Adorable. Pack your things."

Lane clenched her jaw. "Not happening."

Crowley let out a long, slow breath, as if she was being intentionally difficult.

"Lane."

Just her name. But low, edged with warning.

She squared her shoulders, gripping the edge of the table. "I still have work to do."

Crowley took a step forward.

"No, love. You had work to do. Now? You belong to me."

A standoff.

The clock on the wall chimed midnight.

And Lane knew—she had no choice.

With gritted teeth, she grabbed her bag, shoving books and weapons inside roughly, refusing to look at him.

Crowley watched her, pleased.

As she brushed past him, she muttered, venomous—"I hate you."

Crowley grinned, following after her.

"Not yet, love. But we’ll get there."

The teleportation left a faint trace of sulfur in the air. Lane barely had time to catch her balance before Crowley was already moving.

And with a snap, they were gone.

The hotel room was too nice, the kind of luxury that felt designed for show rather than comfort.

Crowley shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto a chair.

"Shirt off, love."

Lane froze, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

Crowley sighed, already loosening his tie, like this was a tedious routine for him. "Don’t flatter yourself. I need to know how much damage I’m working with."

Lane scoffed. "What, worried your new possession might be defective?"

Crowley tilted his head, smirking. "Worried? No. I simply prefer my assets in working condition."

Lane clenched her jaw but peeled off her jacket anyway, tugging up her shirt to reveal the worst of the bruising.

Crowley stepped closer, examining her like a businessman assessing merchandise.

"Tsk. You’re sloppier than I expected."

Lane rolled her eyes. "Gee, thanks."

He didn’t respond. Instead, his fingers ghosted over her ribs. Lane barely flinched, but he caught it.

"How old?"

His voice was calm, detached—like he was asking about a scratch on a car instead of injuries on a person.

"Some are from a wraith a couple of weeks back. Others are older."

Crowley made a noncommittal noise, then stepped back.

"Internal damage?"

Lane hesitated. Not because she was ashamed—but because she didn’t trust him with the truth.

Crowley, as if sensing her reluctance, raised a brow. "Don’t tell me you don’t know, darling. That would be disappointing."

Lane’s fingers tightened on her shirt hem. "I know."

She lifted her chin. "The ghost on my first hunt with the Winchesters. It didn’t just scratch me up—it damaged my uterus. Beyond healing."

A beat.

Crowley’s expression didn’t shift—not even a flicker.

Then, after a pause, he let out a short breath.

"Huh."

That was it.

No mockery. No sympathy. Just… processing the information like it was a footnote in a business deal.

Lane smirked, but it felt forced. "Guess that means no demon-spawn, huh?"

Crowley’s lips curled slightly. "Small mercies."

She waited—for a jab, for some smug comment. But instead, he simply turned away, reaching for the minibar.

"Get cleaned up, love," he said, pouring himself a drink. "Can’t have you falling apart so soon."

And just like that, the conversation was over.

¤¤¤¤¤

The dim alley reeked of rain-soaked asphalt and spent gunpowder. Lane leaned against the rough brick wall, exhaling sharply as she pressed her sleeve against the wound on her upper arm. Adrenaline was still thrumming through her veins, the high of the hunt numbing the edges of the pain—until the familiar, unwelcome sound of a slow clap echoed down the alley.

"Bravo, Poppet."

Lane’s breath caught, and she stiffened before turning.

Crowley stood a few yards away, hands in his pockets, watching her with unreadable eyes. His expression was the usual blend of amusement and exasperation, but there was something else there—something darker.

"You know," he mused, stepping closer, "I don’t recall giving you permission to play hunter."

Lane forced herself to relax, rolling her eyes as if he were an annoying supervisor instead of the King of Hell. "Yeah, well, you don’t own my free time."

Crowley’s smirk twitched. "Don’t I?"

Lane scoffed, pushing off the wall. "What, are you gonna lock me in my room next?"

Crowley tilted his head, gaze flicking briefly to the blood staining her sleeve. "Considering how well you’re taking care of yourself, love, it’s tempting."

Lane took a step forward, chin lifting defiantly. "I handled it."

Crowley moved faster than she could track. One second, he was a few feet away, the next, his hand was clamped around her upper arm. Pain shot through her at the pressure, and she hissed, flinching.

His grip tightened.

Lane sucked in a breath, refusing to let him see the weakness. "Let. Go."

Instead, Crowley’s free hand ghosted over her sleeve, and then, with slow precision, he peeled it back. The fabric stuck briefly to the wound before revealing the raw gash beneath.

Something in Crowley’s expression flickered.

Then, in the next breath, he let go of her arm—more forcefully than necessary. Lane stumbled back a step, heat rising in her chest, half from pain, half from anger.

"You absolute bastard—"

"Shut up," Crowley snapped, voice low, venomous. "You’re not leaving that bloody room until I say so."

Lane blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. "Excuse me?"

Crowley exhaled slowly, regaining his usual composure, though his eyes still burned. "You’re grounded, Poppet."

Lane’s jaw clenched. "Try and stop me."

Crowley’s smirk returned, sharp and humorless. "Oh, I will."

The second she stepped back toward the street, reality warped. A familiar, nauseating sensation rolled over her, like a leash snapping taut.

Lane turned sharply. The alley was gone.

She was back in her hotel room.

Trapped.

And when she stormed to the door and yanked it open, all she found was a demon in a hotel uniform, waiting with an apologetic smile.

"His Majesty regrets to inform you," the demon said, voice dripping with false courtesy, "that you may request anything—except an exit."

Lane’s fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms.

Crowley’s voice echoed in her mind.

"You're grounded, Poppet."

She should have seen this coming.

And she hated that he’d won this round.

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dowagerqueenofhell · 2 days ago

Text

Chasing Shadows

4. The Renegotiation

Lane had only been in the mental hospital for a few days, but already, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of fluorescent lights, and the endless white walls had begun to weigh heavily on her. She had always hated hospitals. The sight of the patients—eyes wide, spirits broken, lost in their own turmoil—reminded her too much of her own internal struggles. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need to be here. But Castiel needed her.

The celestial being—broken, lost, and in turmoil after losing his memories—had been placed under her care. His time with the Winchesters had left him cracked, and the wall that Death had so carefully constructed around his memories of Hell had been shattered by none other than Castiel himself. The memories of torture, betrayal, and pain flooded back, and now Castiel was drowning in them. It was up to Lane to try and bring him back from the edge.

That’s what she told herself, anyway.

She wasn’t prepared for the nurse assigned to help him.

Lane turned the corner into Castiel’s room and froze. There, standing beside his bed, clipboard in hand, was a woman whose sharp features and dark eyes immediately made Lane’s instincts flare. She was stunning, cold, and definitely out of place in a place like this. The woman didn’t look like any kind of nurse Lane had ever seen—she looked more like she belonged in a boardroom or a back alley dealing with unsavory figures.

A demon.

The knowledge hit her like a slap in the face, and she immediately tensed. She could feel the familiar hum of magic in the air. The woman was a demon, but she wasn't just any demon. This demon seemed different. Lane had dealt with demons before, but never one like this. Meg. The name echoed in her mind as she watched the nurse gently move a hand to Castiel’s forehead, smoothing his unruly hair as if she had known him for years.

Lane didn’t know how she felt about this. On the one hand, she knew she needed to put aside her instincts—after all, Castiel’s recovery depended on her. But on the other hand, the idea of working alongside a demon, especially one who clearly held a certain level of affection for Castiel, felt like a betrayal.

She cleared her throat, making her presence known. Meg’s head snapped up, her dark eyes meeting Lane’s.

"You must be the nurse in charge of Castiel’s recovery?" Lane asked, trying to keep her voice neutral, though she could feel the tension in her tone.

Meg gave her a wry smile, her lips curling ever so slightly. "I am," she said, her voice cool, but not unfriendly. "And you are...?"

"Lane," she replied curtly, trying not to show the discomfort crawling up her spine. "I’ve been assigned to monitor Castiel’s physical health. I assume you're here for his... emotional state?"

Meg raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by Lane’s directness. "You could say that."

A beat of silence passed, the weight of their shared knowledge about Castiel’s fragile state hanging in the air.

"I’m not leaving him with you," Lane muttered, more to herself than Meg. She had to admit, she didn’t trust a demon to care for Castiel, even if she had the appearance of a nurse. She was a demon, after all.

Meg’s expression shifted, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something close to vulnerability, but it disappeared so quickly Lane could have sworn she imagined it. "I wasn’t asking you to leave him with me, Lane," she said, her voice quieter now. "I’m just here to help him remember who he is. I’m not trying to replace you."

Lane froze. Replace her? Was that what Meg thought? Was she trying to get close to Castiel, use this situation to gain some kind of control over him?

"I’m not sure I’m comfortable working with a demon," Lane said slowly, her gaze narrowing as she met Meg’s. "But I’m here for Castiel. So I’ll deal with you if I have to."

Meg looked at her for a long moment before she spoke again, her tone softening just a fraction. "I don’t want to make things harder for him," she said, her voice almost sincere. "I care about him. He’s... important to me. So I won’t stand in your way. But I’m not leaving."

Lane swallowed, her throat tight. There was something in Meg’s voice that didn’t sit right with her. The way she said "important," as if it were a truth, not just an excuse. Lane couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. She had no reason to be jealous, not really. She barely knew Castiel, and yet...

There it was, a feeling she couldn’t shake.

Meg was here for Castiel. In some twisted, demon way, she cared about him.

And for some reason, that made Lane feel like an outsider.

¤¤¤¤¤

Later that evening, Lane and Meg found themselves in the break room, both of them making awkward attempts to unwind after a long day. Castiel was resting in his room, and they were both on their own for a few moments.

Lane hadn’t expected to find herself sharing this space with a demon. She hadn’t expected to have to work with one at all, but here they were. And for all of her instincts to fight it, she could feel a strange sort of camaraderie budding between them.

"So, you’re a nurse, huh?" Meg asked, leaning back in her chair, her legs casually crossed. "Is that your full-time gig, or are you moonlighting as Castiel’s personal therapist?"

Lane shot her a dry look, biting back a laugh. "Just trying to keep the angel from completely unraveling. You wouldn’t understand. You’ve probably seen more souls go to Hell than I’ve had hot meals."

Meg’s grin widened, and Lane could almost hear the amusement in her voice as she replied, "You’d be surprised how much we demons understand about unraveling."

Lane tilted her head, eyes narrowing in playful challenge. "I doubt it. I’ve seen demons, but I’ve never seen one who actually cared about someone."

Meg’s eyes flashed for a brief second, but she quickly recovered, leaning forward slightly. "Well, I’m full of surprises, sweetheart."

Lane chuckled, but her gaze softened. There was something raw in Meg’s eyes, something that told Lane this demon was more complicated than she had initially thought. She wasn’t just a monster. There was something else to her.

"And you care about him?" Lane asked, her voice quieter now.

Meg didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, a tension that Lane could feel building. Finally, Meg spoke, her tone a little lighter. "More than you know."

Lane felt her chest tighten, but she didn’t know what to say. She knew that the more time she spent with Meg, the more she would see behind the demon’s deflecting humor and sharp words. She would see something that might make her understand why Meg seemed so protective of Castiel.

¤¤¤¤¤

Over the next few days, Lane and Meg slipped into an unexpected rhythm, one that was filled with teasing barbs and moments of unexpected camaraderie. Lane would catch Meg rolling her eyes at her frustrations, and Meg would shoot back with some sarcastic remark about her inability to handle stress.

The banter became familiar, a constant through the growing tension that accompanied Castiel’s recovery. And though Lane hated to admit it, she found herself looking forward to their exchanges.

Because, for the first time in a long while, Lane felt like she wasn’t alone.

¤¤¤¤¤

Leviathan were destroyed by Dean. Costing all of them a great price: Castiel and Dean were stuck in Purgatory, Meg and Kevin were gone, and Sam went off the radar. Not to mention that Bobby had died, and now demons were running amock everywhere.

Lane picked up on going on hunts on her own, small stuff, a ghost here, a demon there... Things just weren't the same without the boys, or even Castiel, who had grown on her during her shifts at the hospital.

Lane took advantage of the lack of teammates to live with, and take care of Sophia. But every morning when she read the paper, dangers looked as though they were circling her. And every time she would look at Sophia, she'd understand how much she was being put in danger just by being near her.

The problem was twofold: For one thing, she couldn't just ignore whatever was happening around her. She had the means to save lives, and she wasn't going to shy away from getting herself a little dirty. For another thing, her kill-rate wasn't exactly one hundred percent. Some creature she had previously hunted was bound to come and get revenge.

This last thought had haunted Lane for months before she finally decided to take advantage of however she was already doomed.

¤¤¤¤¤

The rain drummed steadily against the roof of the abandoned roadside diner, a rhythmic ticking that filled the silence as Lane stared at the summoning sigil carved into the dirt. She had chosen a remote place, far from prying eyes, far from the Winchesters. They couldn’t know about this.

She exhaled, steadying herself, and lit the final candle. The flames flickered in the damp night air.

“Crowley.”

Nothing.

She clenched her jaw, rolling her shoulders. He would come. He always did.

A sharp gust of wind whipped through the lot, snuffing out the candles. Lane barely had time to react before—

“Well, well. You just can’t get enough of me, can you?”

Crowley’s voice slithered through the night, smooth and insufferably smug. He stood behind her, hands in the pockets of his tailored coat, head tilted in mock curiosity.

Lane turned slowly. “You took your time.”

Crowley smirked. “Busy man. King of Hell and all that. But since you went through all the trouble of summoning little old me…” He gestured grandly. “What can I do for you, Poppet?”

Lane’s grip tightened at the nickname. She shoved down the hatred burning in her chest. She needed this.

“I want to renegotiate.”

Crowley raised a brow. “Oh?”

Lane swallowed. “I want Sophia and Jody Mills off the radar. Completely undetectable—by demons, by angels, by anyone supernatural.”

Crowley clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. “Now, now. That’s quite the ask.”

“You owe me.”

Crowley laughed. “Owe you? Oh, darling, I do believe you’re confused. You, my dear, are on borrowed time. I own you.”

Lane’s nails bit into her palms. “Then consider it a trade.”

He hummed, watching her closely. “Go on.”

“You get my soul a year sooner. Five years instead of six.”

That got his attention. His smirk didn’t falter, but something flickered behind his eyes. Amusement. Interest.

“Now, that’s intriguing,” he mused. “You must care an awful lot about those two.”

Lane’s jaw tensed. “It’s a good deal. You know it.”

Crowley stepped closer, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You hunters. Always so tragic.” His voice dipped, quiet and knowing. “So willing to trade pieces of yourselves away for the ones you love.”

Lane’s patience snapped. “Are we doing this or not?”

He looked her up and down. "Not this exactly, and here's why," he started circling her like a vulture, waiting for their prey to finally give in to their time, "getting your soul a year earlier is not that interesting to me. Hell, even if you'd offered it the moment we sealed the deal, it wouldn't make a dent in my business. In fact, during this conversation alone, a good dozen souls reached my personal account. And that's just everyday crossroads deals."

Lane rolled her eyes. "Yes, I get it, you're the big bad wolf and I should quiver. Get to the point, already."

He stopped dead, right behind her. She could feel his breathing stop on the back of her neck.

"The point is, for me to be able to make this huge exception, I'd need you to make a further sacrifice than a measly year."

Lane whipped around, wet hair sticking to her cheek before she removed it hastily. "Speak. What do you want from me?"

Crowley gave her an all-too-knowing smirk. "When you reach the end of your contract, you're mine." He had rasped those last few words, a wolfish expression on his face and greed in his eyes. He looked quite manic.

Her brows knitted. "Yours in what sense?"

"Every sense, love. You go where I tell you to go. You do what I tell you to do. A year from now."

This. This was the reaction he had been waiting for. He walked in order to be exactly in front of her. She thought she had done a fairly good job at hiding her shock, but Crowley smirked knowingly.

He tilted her chin up and she yanked it away. "No way. I'm not your slave!"

Crowley scoffed. "So vulgar. No, love, I don't mean slave in that crude sense. I'm not a Crimean Tatar."

She was briefly impressed. "Didn't think you'd be this cultivated."

"See, this is what I like about you. Even when you've only got a year left of freedom, you find time for your silly little quips. I'll have you know I made a deal with the wife of an Ottoman Sultan, in my time."

"I want to know what you mean by being yours, Crowley. Will I get the hellhounds?"

"Absolutely not, they're much more precious than your soul!"

She rolled her eyes. "So I won't die, I'll just be at your disposal?"

Crowley gave a satisfied smile. "Exactly. Now, is your sister's safety worth being my little doll for eternity?"

"For eternity?"

"Indeed. You neither die nor age, it'd be sad for you to age past good looks."

Lane gave him a long, searching look. "I want them safe. My soul is forfeit in any case, I might as well avoid your hellhounds while I'm at it."

Crowley didn't reply immediately. He let the silence stretch, just to make her sweat. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist—

“Done.”

Lane’s stomach twisted, but she steeled herself. It was the only choice.

Crowley smiled. “Now, time to seal it, darling.”

He took another step forward, invading her space, deliberate and slow, waiting to see if she would flinch.

She didn’t.

His lips crashed against hers, nothing like their last deal. This time, Crowley was testing her. His grip tightened in her hair, his touch possessive, his kiss slow but commanding. Toying with her.

She knew what he was doing. Pushing her buttons. Seeing if she’d break.

Her nails dug into the back of his neck—not with affection, but to ground herself, to keep her own body from betraying her. Then he bit her lip, just hard enough to sting.

That was it.

Lane wrenched away, breathing uneven, eyes burning with frustration. “I think it’s sealed now.”

Crowley exhaled dramatically. “And here I thought we were just getting to the good part.”

Lane turned on her heel, heading for her car. “See you in five years, Crowley.”

“Maybe earlier,” he mused.

“It’s always earlier,” she muttered, cranking up the music as she pulled away.

Crowley watched her go, the smirk never quite leaving his face.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

#mark sheppard #crowley #sam winchester #misha collins #dean #jared padalecki #castiel #supernatural #dean winchester #spn #king of the crossroads #crossroads #crossroads demon #meg spn

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dowagerqueenofhell · 2 days ago

Text

Chasing Shadows

3. Weekend At Bobby’s

One Year Later

Much had happened since the deal. Lucifer and Michael were thrown into Lucifer’s cage by Sam who fell with them. Dean resigned himself to go and live with Lisa and Ben as he’d promised his brother. Castiel went back to heaven. Bobby got back to being the helper of all hunters around. Sam came back, but he’s been working with his mother’s family ever since. As for Lane, she worked part-time at one of the Sioux Falls middle schools as a substitute for the English teachers while living at both Jodie’s and Bobby’s. They hadn’t heard of Crowley for ages…

*•*•*•*•*•*

Lane was working a shift instead of a sixty-year-old, pervy teacher when she decided she’d go visit Bobby. She hadn’t seen him in a week and she wanted some news on the boys. She got in her car and drove to his house as soon as the school bell rang, feeling like a teenage girl who visits her cool uncle once in a while. It was theoretically true.

Shearrived there to see a fresh patch of concrete in the backyard —she always got in by the back door. She frowned and made her way inside, feeling eerie a bit.

“Bobby?” Lane called, somehow knowing he’d be in the basement.

“Down here!” came his muffled voice from downstairs.

She set my bag down on the kitchen table and went there, on my way she heard a woman scream. Lane figured he was trying to exorcise a demon. She found a girl, barely older than her, tied to a chair in a Devil’s trap.

“Yo,” she greeted him simply.

“Hey, what’d you need?” he asked gruffly.

Lane was taken aback by his harsh tone. “Er nothing, just thought I’d say hi. Help around, maybe… Are you okay?”

He looked at her and sighed. “Sorry, I just… Can’t get anything done with everyone interrupting because they need something. Rufus even came to ask for help burying a body, for God’s sake!“

Lane blinked at him. "I don’t have anything going on like that, so what’s up with her?” She asked pointing at the demon on the chair.

“I need information from her,” he replied before turning to her, “what’s Crowley’s name? Back when he was flesh and blood.”

“Does tying a girl on a chair make you feel better about that time when you murdered your wife?” She asked, surprising her. Lane didn’t know Bobby ever had a wife.

He didn’t answer her, instead he grabbed a sack of what sounded like bones. “What’s that?” The demon asked uninterestedly.

“You don’t recognize them? They’re yours,” he said casually before placing the sack on the table next to him such as to be able to see the bones clearly. Then he grabbed his flamethrower and lit it.

“It won’t work,” she said smugly, “it’s a myth.”

“Then you got nothing to worry about,” he said as he threw fire at her bones, making her yell in pain.

“I can’t!” she moaned when he stopped. “You don’t know what he’ll do to me.”

“Right now, you better worry about what I’ll do to you,” he replied.

“You don’t understand, he’s the King—”

“King of the Crossroads, I know.”

“No, King of Hell,” she said.

“Well, this is news,” Lane said.

Bobby was silent as he blew off the flamethrower, and just as he was about to talk the doorbell rang.

The demon spoke. “You’ll get that or what?”

He turned to Lane. “Keep her quiet.”

She nodded and he went upstairs. “That’s the blonde neighbor,” said the demon, “hoping to tap the drunk.”

Lane threw Holy water in her face and she screamed. Crap! She’d forgotten she needed to shut her up. She had to think fast. She went upstairs and heard Bobby talking to Ms. Ward about horror movies. She went to the front door and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Bobby. You’re missing all the fun!” Lane said excitedly before glancing at the neighbor and smiling at her and extending her hand, “Hi, I’m Lane Carpenter. And you must be our new neighbor, right?”

She looked confused as they shook hands and said, “Er—uh yes.”

Lane smiled again, trying to abate tension. “So I’ll go rewind what you missed,” she told Bobby, “and we’re out of chips—”

He handed her the tray she’d brought and said, “Take this to the kitchen while you’re at it.”

Lane grabbed it carefully, “Alright,” she smelled it and felt her heart leap, “this smells terrific! Don’t scare her off, Bobby.”

He glared at me while she looked more confused than ever. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be, kid?”

“One question, did you use walnuts when you made this?” Lane asked her.

She shook her head. “No, I’m allergic.”

“Awesome! You’ll be lucky if you even taste this, Bob’,” Lane said walking away.

He glared at her again. “Go, for God’s sake!”

“Okay dad!” Lane sighed heavily, “Bye ma'am, thanks for this!”

She went to the kitchen and heard them talking. “Well, this is awkward,” said Bobby embarrassed.

“So, you two..?”

“What? No! No, nothing like that she’s got a twelve year old’s brain,” he said with a chuckle.

“And you could be a hundred years old, for all I know!” She retorted before going downstairs.

“That was the worst sitcom ever,” said the demon as soon as she caught sight of her.

“Spare me your third grade teasing,” Lane sighed, sitting cross-legged on the floor outside of her Devil’s trap.

Then, they heard Bobby’s heavy footsteps down the stairs. “Are you gonna make sweet love to her and stab her to death? That is your thing, right?”

He didn’t answer, but lit up the flamethrower and burned her bones more. “I want Crowley’s name, now!” he yelled over the noise.

She was nearly completely consumed so Lane caught Bobby’s gaze. “She’s nearly done…”

He nodded at me and stopped the fire. “Last chance, you black-eyed bitch.”

“Okay, okay!” She panted desperately. “His name's Fergus MacLeod, we call him Lucky the Leprechaun behind his back.”

“MacLeod is Scottish, dumbass,” he remarked before turning the flamethrower on full blast.

“No! we had a deal!” She protested frantically before bursting up in flames like ghosts did.

Lane gave Bobby a look of pity and he scrunched up his face at her saying, “We’re hunters, Lane!”

*•*•*•*•*•*

Lane decided to spend the night at Bobby’s, and help him find leverage against Crowley so he got back his soul. After some research he had found out that demons were sort of like ghosts, and that they could be completely destroyed by burning their bones.

She went to my room and curled on my bed, tired from the week at school. The night was short but she felt rested. She washed up and went to see what Bobby was making out of that information, but she found him washing blood off his clothes instead.

She frowned and murmured in a still-sleepy voice, “’D'I miss something?”

He saw her and nodded before replying with, “Thing Rufus had me bury escaped and went on a killing spree. At the new neighbor’s.”

“Ouch,” she winced. “Must’ve been me jinxing you when I told you not to scare her off, sorry.”

He shook his head. “Nah, you were right. I do scare them off.”

She leaned against the kitchen’s threshold. “Not Jodie,” she said, trying to make up for it.

“She’s better off without me. Y'all are, except I’d like to see you try,” he told her maliciously.

“Meaning?"

"You’re all dependent on me, whether it’d be for hunting or other things. When you’re stuck, Bobby’ll help and never say thanks or ask how he’s doing!” He complained loudly.

“I’m sorry, what did I come here for yesterday, Bob?” Lane asked a tad too exasperated for the matter.

He looked straight into my eyes and seemed like he didn’t know what to say. She spared him the trouble of fishing for words by grabbing her keys and jacket and heading toward the closest diner for breakfast.

*•*•*•*•*•*

She was reading in her car, parked in front of a lake when she started feeling guilty about what she said to Bobby. Maybe he wasn’t complaining about her but rather to her. She’d just been a total douche to him, not the friend he needed at that moment.

It was nearly sunset when she slapped her book shut and decided to go help Bobby some more and apologize to him. It took her little more than twenty minutes to get there, she ran inside feeling a rush of anxiety. She never knew how to apologize.

“Bobby?” She called, and just like yesterday the reply came from the basement.

“Here!”

She went downstairs and felt a ghost-induced chill. She saw a man, barely younger than her, talking to Bobby in a strong Scottish accent.

“Who’s the stiff?” Lane asked pointing at the ghost.

Bobby looked proud of himself. “Gavin MacLeod!”

Her eyes widened with shock. “MacLeod as in—?”

“Yep, very same,” Bobby said nodding, “and he gave me interesting information about daddy.”

“Like?” She asked excitedly.

He looked at her, no resentment due to earlier today visible on him, and said, “Don’t wanna spoil the surprise, there’s more to come.”

He continued to interrogate Gavin and asked Lane to gather the ingredients for demon summoning. She did so and when she was done, he drew a Devil’s trap on the low ceiling. Was he going to summon Crowley right then and there? She was sure of it but part of her hoped not.

She didn’t wanna face the bastard because each time it reminded her of what she had done for Sophia, and that she had eternity with him to spend. She couldn’t even take back my soul because Sophia would get sick again and she wouldn’t allow it. Bobby summoned Crowley who appeared right under the Devil’s trap.

Crowley sighed after he looked up to see the Devil’s trap, “Don’t we already know how this ends?” Bobby was going to talk but Crowley interrupted him, “Let me play it for you.” he pointed at Bobby, “‘Want me soul back, idjit!’” and then to himself, “‘'fraid not.’” to Bobby again, “‘But I’m all surly and I got a beard, gimme!’” to himself again, “‘Blah blah blah,’” to Bobby, “‘Bad joke on this and that,’” to himself, “‘Witty retort from yours truly.’ Bottom of the line: you get bubkes. Are we done here?”

Bobby wasn’t phased by Crowley’s obvious uninterest as he said, “Just getting started.” Gavin reappeared.

Crowley looked surprised as he said, “Gavin? So-Son it’s been so long… I love you so—” he was acting like a human father would until he broke into a chuckle, “I’m sorry, this is your leverage? I loathed the little bastard, you wanna torture him I’ll pull up a chair and I’ll watch. Hell, you can even burn his bones and we’ll have a family reunion downstairs.”

“Surprisingly Gavin hates you, if possible, just as much as you hate him,” announced Bobby. She was not expecting that kind of reunion, “meaning that he was more than glad to spill on you. Like how you used to get drunk and beat him to the blood.”

She winced, never pegged Crowley for the drunk abusive father. Hell, barely even for a father. The King looked like he’d just noticed her so he said, “Oh hello Poppet, didn’t see you there. How’s it going? Enjoying life, I hope?”

Lane stiffened before Bobby resumed his speech. “He also told me of how you sold your soul for an extra three inches below the belt.”

She lost it at that. The King of Hell, former King of the Crossroads, became a demon because he wanted to be better-equipped?

She snorted and of course, he noticed and looked smug as he said, “Just tryin’ to reach double digits.” Which made her laugh out loud and made him look her up and down before saying, “Tick tock, Poppet.”

She didn’t stop laughing, though her laughter went from amused to nervous as she shook her head in a Stop, he doesn’t know! way. What was she hoping for?

He pressed on. “I’ll love having you as a guest.”

“What’s he talking about, Lane?” Bobby asked.

“Later, keep going,” she said before sitting cross-legged on the floor.

He grabbed his phone and when whoever it was picked up, he put it on loudspeaker. “Hey Crowley,” said Dean’s voice, “guess what, the Winchesters have gone international now.”

She raised an eyebrow and Bobby said, “Gavin was kind enough to tell me where old Fergus was buried.”

Lane had just then realized that his real name was Fergus and she suppressed a smile. Until she realized that those assholes went to Scotland without her!

“You went to Scots without me?!” She bellowed at the phone.

“Lane? Hey, how’s it going?” Dean greeted.

“Without me?!” She bellowed again. Crowley was poking his tongue on the inside of his cheek, obviously bored and impatient.

“You really think this is the moment, Lane?” Bobby asked exasperated.

She hadn’t realized that she’d stood up, so she sat back down with a huff and folded her arms over her chest, sour. “This isn’t over, guys!”

“Anyway, guess what we got here, Crowley?” Dean asked.

“A quilt?” He asked in a monotone voice.

“Your bones, and—” we heard a click, “—this is my lighter ready to turn you into ashes.”

Crowley gave Bobby a dirty look before waving his hand and making fire writing appear on Bobby’s arms, another wave and it disappeared.

“I think we’ll go ahead and leave the part about my legs,” Bobby suggested as some of the writing appeared again on his arms.

“Can I go now? I’ve to be overseas,” Crowley said conversationally.

Bobby took his shotgun and broke the circle of the Devil’s trap. “Pleasure doing business with you, Crowley.”

“Likewise… Both of you,” he said looking straight at Lane.

“Shoot,” she breathed as he disappeared in a snap of his fingers.

*•*•*•*•*•*

The air in the Singer house was thick with tension, the kind that settled deep into the walls and lingered long after the shouting stopped. Lane stood her ground in the living room, jaw tight, arms crossed, refusing to let them see her hands shake.

Bobby sat in his armchair, exhausted but very much alive, his soul back where it belonged. Sam stood stiffly beside him, arms folded, lips pressed into a thin line. Dean, though, was pacing—back and forth, jaw clenched, hands flexing at his sides like he was barely keeping himself from putting a fist through the wall.

Finally, he stopped, leveling a glare at her that could’ve peeled paint.

"Tell me it’s not true."

Lane swallowed. "Dean—"

"Tell me," he growled, voice low, dangerous, "that you didn’t make a deal with Crowley."

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

"Son of a bitch." Dean turned away, running a hand over his face before spinning back, eyes blazing. "What the hell were you thinking?!"

Lane’s fingers curled into fists. "I was thinking my sister was dying."

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "And you thought handing your soul over to the King of Hell was the solution?!"

Lane’s temper flared, pushing past the guilt. "What was I supposed to do, Dean? Just sit there and watch her die?"

"You should’ve told us!" Sam cut in, his voice sharp with frustration. "We could’ve found another way!"

"There wasn’t time!" Lane shot back, looking between them. "You really think I wanted this? That I just jumped at the chance to chain myself to him?" She took a shaky breath, lowering her voice. "I didn’t have a choice."

"You always have a choice," Bobby muttered, and that—that stung more than it should have.

Lane turned to him, eyes burning. "Do I? Because as far as I can tell, the people I love tend to end up dead if I don’t do something about it."

"Yeah?" Dean snapped. "And what happens when Crowley comes to collect, huh? What happens when your time’s up?"

Lane set her jaw. "I’ll handle it."

Dean let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah? And what’s the plan there, genius? Hope he changes his mind? Newsflash, Lane, demons don’t just let people walk away from deals."

"I know that!" she snapped.

"Then what the hell is your endgame?"

Lane didn’t answer.

Dean shook his head, anger simmering just beneath his words. "You know, I thought you were smarter than this."

Lane flinched, but she bit back the hurt. "I saved her," she said instead, quieter this time. "That’s all that matters."

Dean let out a sharp exhale, like he was trying to force the rage out through his teeth. Sam just looked tired. Bobby, disappointed.

And Lane—Lane felt like the ground beneath her feet had never been more unsteady.

Because they didn’t get it. They couldn’t.

And maybe they never would.

Right then, they heard slow claps coming from the kitchen. They all grabbed the closest gun until they could find and saw Crowley come out.

“Very touching,” he commented as they all sighed, put their guns back down and got back to eating.

“Most people ring the doorbell,” she replied.

“I am not ‘most people’, Poppet,” he murmured.

“What’re you doing here, Crowley?” Dean asked.

“Dropped by to visit, or is that a crime now?” He feigned honesty.

“Knowing you, it is,” Bobby grunted.

Crowley stared at him and then at me. “You told them, then?”

“What is it to you?” She asked, taking another slice of pizza.

“Don’t eat that much, your soul won’t fit in your cell,” he said.

Lane surveyed him from head to toe as she took the biggest bite she could, enjoying every inch of flavour.

She swallowed before saying, “Do you know how I don’t care? And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I find you interesting, that’s what it is,” he replied. She raised her eyebrows.

“Interesting? Just that, well I should feel honoured. Oddly, I don’t,” she retorted.

He pressed his lips before saying, “Really, best investment since the extra inches.”

“You must’ve had crappy deals all these years, then. Does it even beat French kissing Bobby?” She asked, making the brothers snort and Bobby sigh heavily.

“By far,” Crowley said, “might want to do it again, some time?”

Dean frowned. “You can’t make two deals with the same person, Crowley.”

He raised his hands. “King of Hell, Squirrel.”

“Squirrel?” She repeated.

“Fitting, don’t you think Poppet?” Crowley teased before turning to Dean, “Although I wasn’t talking about the deal itself, more of the sealing of the deal.”

Dean raised his eyebrows while Bobby looked like he wanted to burn Crowley’s bones. “Really Crowley?"

"What? Gotta be honest, I didn’t think you’d be a good kisser, Poppet.”

She narrowed my eyes at him. “Didn’t think you’d refrain from touching my ass either.”

He bit his lower lip and winked at her. “Now I think I should have.”

“Don’t you have a hell to raise?” Bobby asked him bluntly.

“Jealous?” Crowley teased.

“Just go, please,” she sighed, “I’m freaking exhausted. See you guys tomorrow.”

She stood up and went upstairs, not even bothering to check whether Crowley was gone. Although he wasn’t there when she got back to grab her shotgun. She closed my bedroom door and when she turned around, she found a package on my bed. She held the shotgun with her underarm while she inspected the package. It was a minimal nightgown made of black silk, or what felt like it, and it had lace all over the bra part. She looked further into the package and found a word:

Like it?

There was no name but she somehow knew who it was from.

"Fugly,” she muttered, scrunching the paper in her hand and tossing it in a can.

Lane picked up the package, it felt heavy, so she inspected further in it to find a fancy chocolate box. Her teen self would’ve torn through the box to get all the chocolate but she knew better. Ninety percent of the time she saw Crowley, he either smelled of alcohol or he was drinking something. She was too tired to inspect every single chocolate so she put the whole package on her desk and started undressing for bed.

“I would appreciate a response on my gifts,” murmured Crowley’s voice when she was halfway through taking off her pants, which made her jump and fall on the floor gracelessly.

“Everything okay, Lane?” Lane heard Dean ask.

“Yeah! Just fell!” She answered, glaring at Crowley. She extended her hand to him whispering, “A little help, maybe?”

He chuckled as he motioned upward with two fingers and she was up before she knew it. “I don’t like lingerie, and that chocolate has a spell in it, I’m sure.”

He pressed his lips. “You underestimate me, Poppet… As for the lingerie, I’ll give it some time.”

“If you knew I was sober you’d’ve known that I don’t have sex,” she commented, as she grabbed a large t-shirt.

He saw her pyjama pants laying discarded. “What about those?”

“What is it with you and not your business?” She asked exasperated.

“Well,” he began, “I like my investments to be—”

“Stop calling me your 'investment’ I just did what I had to do to save my sister. I’m not your business partner or some crap like that. Just-- leave me alone,” she sighed, exhausted and frustrated with him.

He didn’t flinch or look like he was paying attention to her. He traced his chin with his thumb saying, “Until next time, Poppet.”

#crowley #mark sheppard #sam winchester #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #castiel #misha collins #dean #jared padalecki #bobby singer #supernatural writers community #supernatural imagines #supernatural prompt #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural crowley

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dowagerqueenofhell · 2 days ago

Text

Chasing Shadows

2. The Deal

The air in Bobby Singer’s house felt thick with a mixture of dust, old books, and the faint scent of whiskey. Lane stood in the middle of the cluttered living room, surrounded by the weight of old hunting gear and various weapons Bobby had accumulated over the years. The walls, lined with shelves of research and relics, seemed to watch her as she shifted nervously. This wasn’t her world, but she was determined to make it hers.

Bobby stood by the old wooden table, arms crossed, studying her with a skeptical eye. Sam and Dean flanked her, both giving her quiet nods of acknowledgment.

“So, you want in, huh?�� Bobby said gruffly, his voice rough with years of experience. “You know what you’re getting into, kid?”

Lane looked Bobby square in the eye. “I do. I’ve seen enough to know I’m not walking away. I want to be part of this.”

Dean smirked, throwing her a sideways glance. “Well, she’s got guts, I’ll give her that.”

Sam stepped forward. “Alright, first things first, we need to get you trained. This isn’t a hobby, Lane. It’s survival.”

Lane nodded, her heartbeat quickening. This was it. She was finally going to be a part of the fight, a real hunter. She couldn’t let them down.

Dean motioned toward the corner of the room, where a small range of targets had been set up. “Let’s start with something simple—shooting.”

He grabbed a pistol from a nearby table, checking it with expert precision. He handed it to Lane, who took it cautiously, feeling the cold metal in her hands.

“You ever fired a gun before?” Dean asked, arching an eyebrow.

Lane hesitated for a moment. “Not really. Not like this.”

Dean’s smirk deepened. “Well, time to learn.” He showed her how to grip it properly, his hands briefly brushing hers in the process. “You need to keep your stance wide, body squared up, like this.” He mimicked the posture, moving smoothly and with purpose. “Focus on your target, breathe, and when you’re ready, squeeze the trigger, not yank it.”

Lane watched him closely, then nodded. She raised the gun, focusing on the target, which was a faded silhouette of a demon, drawn in sharp black ink on a piece of paper.

She took a deep breath, steadying her hand, and fired. The shot rang out, but it missed by several inches.

“Not bad for a first try,” Dean said, a hint of approval in his voice. “But you gotta work on your aim. Try again.”

Lane adjusted her stance and took another shot. This time, the bullet landed much closer to the center.

“That’s better,” Dean grinned, clapping her on the shoulder. “You’ve got the basics down. Just gotta work on consistency.”

Sam stepped forward, motioning toward her with an outstretched hand. “Now, let’s see how you handle yourself up close.”

Lane turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Hand-to-hand combat?”

“That’s right,” Sam replied. “You don’t always get to fight with a gun, especially when you’re dealing with something up close and personal.”

He stepped into a fighting stance, which Lane mirrored, though she was still unsure of herself. Sam smiled reassuringly. “We’re not going to start with anything too crazy. I just want to see your reactions.”

Sam advanced slowly, and when he made the first move, it was almost too fast for Lane to process. He grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back with ease, forcing her to the floor in one smooth motion.

She grunted as her body hit the ground, but it wasn’t the worst fall she’d ever taken. She scrambled to her feet quickly, a surge of adrenaline pumping through her veins.

“Don’t let them take you down like that,” Sam advised, offering his hand to pull her up. “Stay light on your feet, use your weight, and counter their moves.”

Lane nodded, wiping the dirt from her shirt, more determined than ever. She couldn’t let the boys down. She had to be strong—no more running.

After a few more rounds of practice, Sam called a break. He stepped back, looking her over. “You’re getting there. A few more sessions, and you’ll be able to handle yourself in the field.”

Bobby, who had been watching from the sidelines, gave a grunt of approval. “You’re not a complete liability, at least.”

Lane grinned, despite the soreness in her muscles. “I’ll take it. Thanks, Bobby.”

Dean clapped his hands together, clearly pleased with the results. “Alright, kid. You’re not ready to take down a Hellhound just yet, but you’re on the right track. We’ll keep training, and we’ll get you there.”

Lane nodded, her body aching from the effort, but a sense of pride building in her chest. This was just the beginning. And she was ready for whatever came next.

As they all gathered to clean up, Lane couldn’t help but think about the journey ahead. She was part of the team now—no turning back. And though she didn’t know what the future held, she was determined to face it head-on, with Sam, Dean, and Bobby by her side.

¤¤¤¤¤

The boys, Lane, and Jo Harvelle were going to get the Colt, a gun that was supposed to kill anything, made by Samuel Colt. Sam had told Lane that it was in the possession of Crowley, a demon that was affiliated with Lilith who had bought it from Bela, a saleswoman for hunters who’d stolen it from the brothers a while back.

The plan was that Jo and Lane would pretend to have had an inconvenience with their car so that the gates of the admittedly large mansion would open and they could eliminate the guards outside. Jo was wearing a classy, short black dress and her hair was in a pretty updo. Lane had a much more casual look, with a white tank top; dark blue jeans; combat boots and a brown leather jacket with her hair in auburn waves.

Everything went according to plan and when Sam and Dean were done with the guards…

“You were great, now you two go home,” he instructed, to the girls' great discontent.

The cold night air clung to Lane’s skin, thick with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and old blood. The alley behind the warehouse was dark, but she knew she wasn’t alone. The Winchesters had just left with the Colt, their hurried footsteps fading into the night. Jo was supposed to be close, but Lane could no longer hear her. That wasn’t good.

A slow clap echoed from the shadows.

"Well, well. Quite the loyal little decoy, aren’t you?"

Lane turned sharply, hand instinctively reaching for her knife. A man stepped into the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp—tailored suit, smirking lips, and eyes that gleamed with something far too knowing.

Crowley.

Her grip on the blade tightened.

"Relax, darling," he drawled, tucking his hands into his pockets. "If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead."

Lane didn’t relax. "Then what do you want?"

Crowley tilted his head as if considering. "Oh, nothing too pressing. Just a chat. One hunter to—well, whatever it is you are now." He took a slow step forward. "And maybe a bit of leverage."

Lane took a step back, instincts screaming. "Leverage?"

Crowley smiled, shark-like. "You see, I have a bit of a soft spot for family. And rumor has it you do too." His expression darkened, voice dipping into something more lethal. "A sweet little girl. Sophia, was it?"

Ice rushed through Lane’s veins. "Don’t."

His smirk deepened. "Would be a shame if something happened to her, wouldn’t it?"

Lane’s breath came quicker, but she forced herself to stand her ground. "She has nothing to do with this."

Crowley tutted. "That’s where you’re wrong, love. See, you and your hunter pals? You meddle. And when people meddle, there are consequences." He leaned in slightly, voice almost gentle now. "And the last thing you want is for the little darling to suffer for your mistakes."

Lane’s pulse pounded in her ears. She had no doubt that if he wanted, Crowley could make good on his threat. But she refused to let him see fear.

"Stay away from her," she said, steel beneath her voice.

Crowley exhaled a mock sigh. "That all depends on you, pet." He took a step back, straightening his jacket. "Keep that in mind, will you?"

Then, with a flicker of sulfurous light, he was gone, leaving only the chill of his warning behind.

Lane let out a shaky breath, fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms. She had just met the King of the Crossroads, and he had made one thing abundantly clear—she was on his radar now. And worse, so was Sophia.

She needed to be ready.

¤¤¤¤¤

They’d meet again, and again. Crowley had proven quite useful, a little less frightening and one must say, quite funny — Lane certainly hadn’t expected that. Now they were in Bobby’s office, and he was going to announce something.

“You know with the apocalypse and all that, what’s one little soul, right?” Bobby said tentatively.

“You sold your soul?” Asked Dean, outraged.

“To Crowley?” Lane asked in disbelief.

“More like, poned it. I fully intend to give it back,” said the demon, waving his tumbler.

“Then give it back, you son of a bitch!” Dean bellowed.

“Not until all this is over and you didn’t screw me over!” Crowley bellowed back.

“Did you kiss him?” Sam asked Bobby in a curious murmur.

“Sam,” uttered Dean, exasperated.

“Just wondering,” he defended himself, and Lane gave a conceding nod.

They all stared at Bobby for answer until he said, “No!” outraged.

Crowley cleared his throat and they turned to him, he held an iPhone which, after they looked closer, bore a picture of Crowley kissing Bobby full on the mouth. They pondered over the picture and the thought of either kissing the other, Dean even tilted his head in the process while Lane tried to stifle a snort.

It was Bobby who took them out of their reverie by asking Crowley, “Why’d you take a picture?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows at him and retorted, “Why’d you have to use tongue?”

“Now I have a mental picture!” Lane moaned, a hand on her temple. “I’ll pick Sophia up from school, it’s almost time.”

“Later, Poppet,” said Crowley with a small wave.

“‘Poppet’?” Bobby repeated, scrunching up his face.

She gave him a pointed look before saying, “'Poppet’ doesn’t beat French kissing Crowley, of all demons.”

Dean had just started saying, “Woo—!” when Crowley retorted, “Not like you haven’t been dreaming about it ever since we met, darling.”

“Ouch!” said Sam with a wince.

Just then, her phone rang. It was an unknown number.

“I’ll see you probably sooner than you think,” said Crowley before disappearing in a snap of his fingers.

She picked up the phone, “Hello?”

“Lane Carpenter?”

“Speaking.”

“Your sister was admitted here earlier today, she collapsed at school because of her asthma. She is now stationary but it is advisable for you to come as soon as possible, we’re thinking of making her sleep her sickness off,” said a male voice.

“I’ll come as soon as I can,” she replied flatly, trying not to worry the guys too much. They have other things in mind.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“Sophia uh fell. She doesn’t have any broken bones or anything bad they just want me to pick her up,” she said, trying to sound casual.

“You want us to come with?” Dean asked.

“No, it’s just like picking her up from school,” she assured him.

Bobby kept his gaze upon my eyes while she gathered my jacket and purse and just when she was at the door he rolled his wheelchair at her and said, “You’ve never been a good liar,” Lane fumbled over what to tell him but he interrupted me, “just make sure she’s okay.”

She smiled at him and grasped his hand, seeking comfort. “Thanks, Bobby.”

He smiled back and murmured, “Go.”

“Please don’t tell them, I know they’ll be worried and they’ve got enough on their plates without that,” she requested.

“It’s okay, just go.”

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee; the air thick with the quiet hum of machines keeping fragile lives tethered to this world. Lane barely noticed.

She stood at the foot of Sophia’s bed, heart lodged in her throat as she watched her little sister struggle for breath. The oxygen mask covered most of Sophia’s tiny face, but even in sleep, she looked exhausted, her small fingers curled weakly over the blanket.

The doctors had said it was bad. Maybe the worst yet. And Lane—Lane couldn’t do this. Couldn’t stand here, useless, waiting for them to tell her it was over.

She blinked against the sting in her eyes, exhaling sharply.

“You don’t have to lose her, you know.”

The voice was smooth, almost casual. And so, so wrong.

Lane turned slowly, already knowing who she’d see.

Crowley leaned against the doorway, hands in the pockets of his tailored coat, the picture of relaxed amusement—except for his eyes. His eyes were watching her too closely, too knowingly, reading every crack in her armor before she even felt them.

Her breath came short. “Get out.”

“Now, now, no need to be rude.” Crowley stepped forward, head tilting slightly as he took in the scene. “Poor thing looks awful, doesn’t she?” He let out a soft tsk. “A real tragedy.”

Lane moved before she realized it, grabbing a fistful of his stupid, expensive coat and shoving him back toward the door. “I said—”

Crowley flicked a finger. Suddenly, she wasn’t touching him anymore. She wasn’t even close. Lane stumbled back, her breath sharp in her chest as he smoothed his lapels, unfazed.

“Let’s not get violent, darling. We both know you can’t afford to make a scene.”

She clenched her jaw. “What do you want?”

Crowley smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, it’s not about what I want, love. It’s about what you want.” His gaze flicked to Sophia. “And what you’re willing to do to get it.”

Lane’s stomach twisted.

He knew. Of course he knew.

“I can help,” Crowley continued, voice slipping into something gentler, more persuasive. “I can make sure she wakes up tomorrow. Strong, healthy—better than ever, even.” He met Lane’s eyes, all silk and smoke. “All you have to do is say yes.”

A crossroads deal.

Lane’s pulse pounded.

She’d seen what happened to people who made deals with demons. Had spent years hunting down the ones who got cheated, the ones who ended up screaming in Hell.

And yet—

Her gaze dropped to Sophia’s tiny, fragile form.

She thought about how pale her sister had looked earlier, how the doctors wouldn’t meet her eyes when they spoke, how they’d used words like “difficult prognosis” and “we’ll do everything we can.”

How many times had she sat in a hospital room just like this, praying to a God that never listened? How many times had she waited, helpless, for news that only ever got worse?

Lane swallowed hard.

There were some things she could live with.

Losing Sophia wasn’t one of them.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

“How long?” she asked quietly.

Crowley’s smile deepened. “Ten years.”

Lane almost laughed. “Yeah, right.”

Crowley sighed theatrically. “You hunters. So untrusting.” He took a step closer, voice dropping to something softer, something made of velvet and knives. “What if I threw in a little insurance? Made sure certain… parties couldn’t sniff her out? Your dear Jody, either. No angels, no demons. No one ever knowing where they are.”

Lane’s breath hitched.

He knew exactly where to cut.

She clenched her teeth, but her resolve was already cracking, the weight of exhaustion, fear, and helplessness pressing against her ribs like a vice.

This was her way out.

This was the only way out.

She exhaled shakily. “Fine.”

Crowley’s smile sharpened. “Atta girl.”

He lifted a hand, palm up, waiting.

Lane hesitated. Just for a second.

Then she pressed her hand into his.

Heat flared at her fingertips, curling up her arm like fire and ice, like sinking into something she could never climb back out of. The world narrowed to Crowley’s too-dark eyes and the smirk curling at his lips.

Then he leaned in, breath warm against her skin.

“Pleasure doing business with you, love.”

And with a brush of his lips against hers, the deal was sealed.

Lane barely registered the sharp, burning sensation in her chest before it was gone. Before Crowley was gone.

And before Sophia took her first, deep, steady breath.

Lane let out a shaky one of her own.

It was done.

No going back now.

¤¤¤¤¤

A few days later, the team was getting ready for a mission and Crowley was tagging along. Fantastic. Lane hadn’t told anyone about the deal, though Sophia spent much more time with Jodie.

“Bobby, just gonna sit there?” Crowley asked, gesturing to his wheelchair.

“No, I’m gonna riverdance,” he replied in his most usual sassy tone.

“Really wasted that crossroads deal, did you?” Crowley said, confusing us all before he added, “I took the liberty of adding a little sub-A clause in your contract.”

We were all silent as understanding started flooding our minds. Bobby stared at Crowley in awe before he slowly but surely attempted to move his feet… She couldn’t believe it; she never thought Crowley would actually do it.

Bobby stood up and the demon caught my eye, giving me an ever so slight wink that, had I blinked, I would’ve missed. And he said in a self-satisfied tone, “What can I say? I’m an altruist.”

“You son of a bitch,” said Bobby, still in awe that a demon would have done something so… Good.

After getting over their shock, everyone went with the flow because they still had a mission to get over with. She was supposed to be driving the truck with Bobby’s wheelchair in, but it was decided that they move all the guns, ammo and other weapons in her car. She took the driver’s seat and Crowley came in shotgun.

Lane started the car and called Jodie who had kindly accepted to look after Sophia while we were gone. “Hey Jodie, how’s everything going on?”

“It’s a great idea to have her spend the night,” Jodie replied excitedly before adding, solemnly, “you make sure you're careful.”

She laughed softly before saying, “Tell her I love her, and don’t let her sleep too late, okay?”

“I know, you’ve told me several times when you dropped her off,” she said, a smile readable on her voice.

“You know I’m obsessive,” Lane remarked laughing lightly.

“Yeah I know, just make sure you come back in one piece, alright?”

“I’ll do my best,” she promised before hanging up.

“You doubt my reliability?” Crowley asked in a conversational tone.

She looked him in the eye for the second time since the deal and said, “I have OCD when it comes to her… By the way,—”

“No need to thank me for Singer,” he said, raising a hand, “I decided you were too good a kisser to refuse legs for the old man.”

“You’re talking about an old man?” Lane asked sarcastically.

“My meatsuit is younger and much more attractive than Bobby,” he said in a way that suggested his self-preservation.

She sighed as Bobby got in the backseat. “I do wish I don’t become a demon.”

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