Author's Note: This is pure, unadulterated crackfic. And it's all safiyabat's fault, who made the comment that Crowley would "imprint like a baby duck or something…"

Dean was too late. He arrived just in time to see Sam feeding Crowley the last few drops of blood needed to finish the Trials, close the gates of Hell. And then light flared up around his brother, around Crowley tied up in the chair, and then Sam collapsed.

But Sam still had a heartbeat when Dean scrabbled for the pulse point at his throat, was still drawing in shallow, ragged breaths. He was alive, albeit unconscious, and Dean couldn't remember ever being happier. He didn't even protest when Crowley offered to help him carry Sam out to the car; he just released the demon (former demon? Dean was too tired to figure it out) from the chair, slung one of Sam's arms over his shoulders, and took his little brother outside in time to see the angels start falling.

Dean wrestled Sam into the backseat and got into the Impala, tearing down the road to find the nearest hospital. A few minutes into the drive, he heard something that sounded like a moan, and he risked a glance around to look at Sam.

"What's going on back there?" he demanded, seeing nothing but his brother's unmoving form.

"I'll take care of Sam," Crowley replied, which wasn't the answer Dean was looking for. "Don't worry, Dean. I've got him."

Yeah, like Dean was going to trust the King of Hell to take care of his brother.

"I can't believe I'm about to say this."

"So far, not-Moose, you haven't said anything."

"I am trusting you-" Dean forced the words out past the strangling sensation in his throat- "I am trusting you with Sam's safety while I'm gone. I need you-" more constriction, and he was choking on the words- "I need you to take care of my brother."

Crowley gave him an almost beautific smile. "Like he was my own, beloved mother."

Sam warily eyed the bowl sitting in front of him, poking at the lumpy, gray substance with his spoon.

"Um-"

"It's oatmeal!" Crowley was positively beaming, the pure joy on his face at odds with the Hannibal Lecter-themed apron he'd found in the kitchen. "I had a little trouble with the instructions on the package - cooking's a lot harder than it looks - but I think it turned out okay in the end."

"You made oatmeal." Sam gave the gray stuff another poke before turning a gimlet eye on the demon standing beside the table. "Did you poison this?"

"I know I've given you no reason to trust me." Wait a minute, was that a tear in Crowley's eye? "But I swear to you, Moose, I'm a different man, now. A better man. You made me a better man. And I would sooner die than hurt you."

"Right." Sam took a tentative bite of the oatmeal, grimacing at the lumpy texture that filled his mouth. He forced a smile on his face when he saw the desperately hopeful look Crowley was giving him. "It's good," he mumbled, reluctantly taking a second bite.

Crowley looked like Sam had just given him the sun. "I thought tomorrow I'd try adding cinnamon," he chirped.

Sam resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. When Dean came home, he was going to kill him.

"Moose, where are you going?"

Sam froze, hand on the doorknob. Busted. "I was just going to get some fresh air."

"Without a coat?" Crowley sounded horrified.

Sam wasn't sure how the demon had moved so fast, but the next thing he knew, a heavy coat was dropped onto his shoulders, and he pushed his arms through the sleeves before Crowley could tie it on him, or something. In the heat of the bunker, the warmth of the coat was almost stifling.

When he went to open the door again, he was surprised to find Crowley's hand on the doorknob.

"I was going to go outside alone," he said, pointedly.

"And when you can walk from your bedroom to the kitchen without having to stop to rest, you can go outside alone." Cheerful, helpful Crowley was almost worse than the King of Hell who wanted to kill him. "Now, come on, Moose. We're wasting daylight."

It was colder outside than Sam had expected. He wasn't about to admit to Crowley, though, that the coat had probably (okay, definitely) been a good idea.

"Moose was that a shiver? I'm going to go get you a blanket."

Sam bit back a groan. He was definitely going to kill Dean.

One second Sam was being strangled by a demon, the next second the demon was on the floor of the bunker, being rather violently beaten by Crowley. Sam sucked in a ragged breath, trying to force air back into his lungs, and watched Crowley beat the daylights out of the hapless demon. Crowley wasn't even breaking a sweat.

"You know-" Sam coughed, a harsh rattling sound that had Crowley immediately breaking off his assault to go to Sam's side.

"How's your throat?" Crowley asked, hovering anxiously at Sam's side. "Do you need some water? I'll get you some water. Chicken broth, maybe. What do you need?"

Without waiting for an answer, he darted off toward the kitchen, leaving Sam alone with the pathetically-moaning demon lying on the floor. Crowley was back within a few seconds, holding a mug of something steaming.

"I figured a nice herbal tea for the bruising," Crowley said, and Sam took the mug without comment because if the last few days had taught him anything, it was that Crowley would mother-hen him until Sam did what he wanted, anyway. And that might just be the strangest thing Sam had ever seen.

"You know, we could exorcise the demon," he tried again, when he could talk without coughing.

"It would go running straight to Abbadon!" Crowley protested, but he didn't sound very adamant about it.

"We'd be saving a human life," Sam pointed out, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

But, then he stalked over to the demon, grabbed it by the shoulder, and then smirked in satisfaction when a cloud of black smoke erupted from the mouth and nose, disappearing into the floorboards. The unconscious human host slumped to the ground.

"He's still alive," Crowley told him, before Sam could move. "I'm going to go drop him off at a hospital, somewhere. Try not to die while I'm gone."

Crowley disappeared with the human, leaving Sam alone in the bunker. Sam sipped the rest of his tea, marveling at Crowley's last words. They'd been said in the demon's usual brand of biting sarcasm, but had Sam actually detected a note of worry in Crowley's tone?

When Crowley returned a few minutes later, he took one look at the bruises ringing Sam's neck, and then went into a flurry of mother-henning that would have put Dean to shame. And Sam found himself ensconced on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with a fresh mug of tea in his hands. Crowley had popped an old movie into the DVD player and was making popcorn, of all things.

Okay, maybe the demon was growing on Sam a little bit. A little bit. And he probably wouldn't kill Dean when he came home.

A couple seconds later, when he heard Crowley shout and a huge cloud of smoke started pouring out of the kitchen, Sam revised his opinion. Maybe he wouldn't kill his brother. But he would make him eat Crowley's cooking.

Dean hesitated, his hand on the doorknob of the bunker. He wasn't sure what he was going to be walking into, but he knew it wasn't likely to be good. He'd left Sam alone in Crowley's care for an entire week. And if they hadn't killed each other by now, one or both of them was likely to be pissed at him.

But, he couldn't stand outside forever. Sooner or later, he was going to have to face the music.

Dean pushed the door open and ventured into the bunker. And the first thing he heard was the sound of…laughter?

"You can't do that!"

"It's no-holds-barred, Moose. I can do whatever I want."

"Look, Crowley-"

Dean rounded a corner and stopped short. His brother and the former King of Hell - two people who wouldn't know fun if it reared up and bit 'em - were sitting side by side on the couch, playing video games. Mario Kart, if Dean was right.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but no sound would come out. Tried again, and again. Finally…

"What the hell?"

Sam craned his head around, gave Dean a bright, happy smile when he saw him. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his brother actually look happy.

"Hey, Dean. How was Poughkeepsie?"

"Full of ghosts," Dean told him. "What - what are you doing?"

"You sound surprised," Sam replied. "You're the one who left Crowley as my babysitter." Sam smiled as he spoke, but the biting tone in his voice hinted at trouble for Dean. "Hey, Crowley, if I beat you in this next race, Dean does the dishes for a week."

"Deal," Crowley drawled. "And if I win, Dean does the dishes for a week."

Sam and Crowley turned and shot him identical, slightly terrifying grins. Dean swallowed hard, trying to control the little tremor in his stomach.

Yeah, he was in so much trouble.