A/N: Love Supernatural slash? Well whether you're a fan of my fanfic Incubus or not, you might enjoy the original version I'm publishing as a book trilogy. Book 1, Incubus, came out last year. Book 2, Changeling, releases...NEXT WEEK.

In honor of the release, I have decided to jump into the foray of season tags, partly because holy shit, this season ended amazingly, and to get a little extra promotion out there for the book as well. So enjoy what is planned to be 5 chapters in all, and please consider checking out Incubus at BigWorldNetwork DOT com. I'll post more with chapter 2 after the book has released.

As for this, I keep coming across fics that have Dean going evil next season, maybe he tries to fight it but he still eventually goes evil, and that just doesn't make sense to me. Oh, who knows what the Show will actually do, I just wanted to see a different take on things. This will very quickly become Destiel, as Dean realizes he can replenish Cas's Grace. Tag to 9.23 Do You Believe in Miracles?

Enjoy!

If Demons Saved Angels

Chapter 1

The dark wasn't as frightening as Dean expected. He knew that eventually he'd emerge somewhere as a ghost, since his soul couldn't go to Heaven, and if he had been bound for Hell again like he'd expected, he'd be there by now. So the dark, the in between as he waited for his soul to materialize as Kevin's had was…nice. Calm, and not in the way the First Blade had been calm.

Distantly, he heard Sam's voice. He could hear his baby's engine, too. He hated the thought of Sam lugging his corpse around, and hoped the idiot burned him this time like a hunter should.

Time didn't mean much in the dark, so the sounds of the car dimmed sooner than he expected, replaced with a faint sense of the bunker. He didn't understand why he couldn't see anything yet, but maybe it took time. He wondered if burning bones would really matter. He was connected to so many material things, and there was no way Sam would dare torch the Impala.

Maybe, if Cas had succeeded with Metatron as Dean hoped, they'd open the gates and Dean's angel would lead him up personally. It was a nice thought, and just the kind of sappy act Cas would do for him, much as Dean knew he didn't deserve that kind of devotion.

Slowly, as time-not-time passed, he started to feel stronger, more alert, but he still couldn't see anything. He felt bottled up in the dark, and while it was still calming, still safe and warm and had him feeling better by the moment, he just wanted to wake up.

Then he heard Crowley. Dean's first thought was Sam, but Crowley had no reason to attack them, so why would he come? Just to take Sam out while he was down, while he was probably all weepy and exhausted?

But Dean heard the truth, heard Crowley say that Sam had called for him, or was in the process of calling for him. It made Dean angry, that after everything, they kept repeating the same mistakes. They never grew, or changed, or became better men. They saved the world, sure, but they seemed to slip further and further away each time from saving themselves.

He tried to focus on what Crowley was saying, rather than just the gentle rhythm of his accented voice, and the words became clearer. Dean understood what Crowley was telling him, what he was alluding to with a sharp jolt, almost like a physical reaction. Fear surged through him, swirling around him in the dark.

"Let's go take a howl at that moon," Crowley said, and Dean waited for something deep inside of him to change, to feel some large part of him fall away; become replaced with something else, something evil.

It didn't happen. Instead he felt his body, as if the darkness spread out, reaching into each of his limbs like a great big stretch and that darkness was him, but he didn't feel dark. He felt awake. He felt alive.

He opened his eyes.

"Atta boy, Squirrel."

"Shut up, Crowley."

Dean clutched the First Blade as he sat up. The room didn't look any different—he'd always wondered if demons saw in black and white or with a shadow over everything, but the room looked like it always did. He didn't feel different either.

No. He felt different, but he didn't feel wrong like he expected. He felt… good, healed of his wounds, anxious to get up and do something. And not because of the Blade. He no longer felt the pull of the First Blade at all and knew with certainty that he could set it down and wouldn't feel any urge to pick it back up again. He was free of that unquenchable urge to kill.

Which seemed sort of backwards if he really was a new Knight of Hell. The new Cain.

Dean shook his head at the thought and turned to look at Crowley as he dropped his legs over the side of the bed. He stopped cold before standing up.

Crowley. Dean could see him. Not just the body he inhabited. Him. A flicker of the real Crowley, like he'd seen on everyone's faces during his last few days before his deal was up and he went to Hell, like he'd seen in Hell during his long decades on and off the rack. The real Crowley.

But before Dean could comment on what an ugly bastard the King of Hell was, he noticed something else. Something…bright. Small, but it was there, buried somewhere in the dark and black and charred, marred flesh of Crowley's true form—a spark of light. He wondered…

Shifting the Blade in his grip, Dean held it casually as he looked at Crowley. "What gives, huh? Why do I—"

"Hang on, Hardy Boy," Crowley held up a hand, "your not so better half just finished summoning me."

He vanished.

Dean lurched to his feet. "Damn it." He rushed forward out the door, down the hallway, and out into the main area of the bunker. He could hear Sam and Crowley's voices. He slowed.

"Now you listen up—"

"Save it, Moose. Thirty seconds."

"You think you can just leave—"

"No. Wait…thirty seconds."

There was a short pause. Then Crowley spoke again.

"Well. He might need a little encouragement. Oi, Squirrel!"

Dean stood frozen at the threshold of the main room, the First Blade hanging loose in his right hand, no longer the natural extension of him that it had been before—now it was just a blade. He knew his eyes were black but he didn't know how to turn them off, didn't have time to figure it out either before Sam dashed out of the dungeon room in front of him.

Sam looked at Dean and his face filled with fury.

"This is low, even for Crowley," Sam spat. "Get the fuck out of my brother."

Dean flinched. "Sammy…"

"Don't call me that. If Crowley thinks he can put one of his demons in Dean and take his body to use the Blade as he sees fit then he has more of a fight on his hands than he bargained for." Sam didn't have a weapon, but Dean knew Sam would launch himself at him anyway if he made a wrong move.

"Sam, it's…it's me. I'm me." Dean stepped up to the edge of the table before Sam could ready another sharp rebuttal and set the First Blade on top of it. "Take it. I don't want it. Put it where you wanted before, Sam, locked away, whatever. We'll only use it when we have to, like you said. Or never again, I don't care. Your call. I don't feel its pull anymore."

Sam's fierce expression turned gauging. He looked at Dean. At the Blade. At Dean—disbelieving.

"The Mark brought me back," Dean explained, standing as still as he could at the head of the table so as not to spook Sam into action. "It was killing me anyway, Sammy. If I didn't kill, it was like razors in my gut. A human was never meant to have the Mark and the Blade. It would have burned me out from the inside if I didn't kill for it. But it won't let me go, either. It brought me back just like Cain. I can handle them both now—the Mark, the Blade. I can own this. But I don't want it."

He took a step around the table and Sam jerked back.

Dean stopped. "I can go. I can just go." He turned that over in his head. He didn't know where, but it wasn't as if he didn't have experience being on the road—alone. Nothing could hurt him now, nothing could kill him, except the Blade that only he could wield. He could do anything.

He'd hunt. What else did he know? He'd hunt until there was nothing left of the world to save, and leave Sam to whatever life he wanted.

He turned back toward the bedrooms to gather his things.

"Dean, wait!" Sam cried out, his voice cracked and broken—desperate sounding. "How…how do I know? How do I know it's you?"

Dean glanced over his shoulder, knowing his eyes were still black. How could he prove anything? If a demon was in his body, wearing his skin, it could slip into his mind and use whatever memories it wanted. He couldn't answer questions to prove anything. And if Sam threw holy water on him, he'd burn like any other demon.

So he just looked at Sam, really looked at him, and suddenly he realized that he could see Sam the same way he could see Crowley. The real Sam—his soul. It was like that bright spark deep in Crowley's darkness, but broader, brighter, brilliant blue, with just a few tiny slivers of deep, dark red.

"I don't know if other demons can do this, but…I can see you. Really see you. All that goodness that makes you, you," Dean said, gentle and low. "It's bright…and warm. A little rough around the edges, but you have died a few times, ya know?" he allowed a small chuckle. "Probably left you a little scarred, and I know I wasn't any help with that. Gadreel and Cas did a good job healing you, between the two of them. All the good it did, though, trying to save that asshole," he added, as Crowley sauntered out of the dungeon room.

Sam jumped a little as he turned to Crowley, startled from his staring match with Dean. He scowled at the demon. "I didn't release you."

"Oh please. You think those summoning circles are more than a passing cake walk for me anymore?" Crowley scoffed. "Or were you just hoping for a sleepover later?" He grinned then passed his gaze over Dean with an appraising nod. "He's Dean, wholly and completely. Figures you can see demons. Didn't know you could see souls."

"You can't?" Dean asked him.

Crowley shook his head. "Should have asked Cain for a handbook when we had the chance."

There was a pregnant pause, stifling with static. Dean still wasn't sure if Sam was readying himself to go for a weapon, maybe even the Blade itself, however little good that would do him, or if he'd merely ask Dean to continue his trek to the bedrooms, get his things, and leave.

As Dean watched his brother—not directly, because he just couldn't bear looking at Sam with black eyes like a million pairs they had hated over the years—Sam's already damp hazel eyes filled with ready tears, and the tall behemoth surged forward. He had Dean in his arms in moments. Dean's clothes were still dirty, still bloody and torn, but Sam didn't seem to care.

"Dean…" Sam sobbed.

"You idiot," Dean said fondly. He relaxed against Sam and slowly raised his arms to hug his brother back. They squeezed too tightly like always. "You were really going to make another deal? Really? After all the bullshit we've been through? Never again, Sammy," Dean said softly against Sam's neck. "Okay?"

"Never again," Sam echoed, though they both knew it was a lie. It was easy to pretend they could be better men when the world finally gave them a miracle.

Dean nearly shook his head at the thought—he didn't know if this was a miracle or just another clever trick biding its time. "I don't know if this is permanent," he admitted, finally pulling from the embrace but keeping his hands on Sam's shoulders. "Being a demon sure as hell has to be, but being me still…I don't know if it'll last."

"Oh, quit getting all soggy," Crowley said in distaste. He leaned against the edge of the large table behind them as if he were a regular part of the team—though lately he sort of had been. "You were a demon for a decade, Dean. If we're only counting your time off the rack, anyway. And did it change you? Certainly, but not to the point that 100, 200, 1000 years changes someone.

"This time, you didn't spend a single second in Hell. You were a caterpillar in a rotting cocoon, and now you've awoken a demi-god butterfly. Why would you be anyone but you?"

Dean let his hands drop from Sam's shoulders and moved around him toward Crowley. "Because being human with the Mark and Blade made me a fucking psycho. You saw the way I killed Abaddon. I attacked Gadreel when he just wanted to help us. How is that not going to get worse being a demon?"

"Because a dark thing can infect something made of light," Crowley said matter-of-factly, and with a somewhat more serious face than Dean was used to. "But when a dark thing reaches out and finds something like itself…where can the infection go? Your light has a lovely cloud of smoke protecting it now. The Blade no longer senses a puppet. Only a master."

Dean prepared to fire a hasty comeback, but his words fell stale on his lips. That made a certain amount of sense, and he did feel more like himself again, more than he had even just yesterday. But it seemed too good to be true.

"So what about your light?" Dean asked, stepping into Crowley's space.

"I don't have any light left," Crowley dismissed. "I've been a demon for hundreds of years, which as you know is exponentially longer in the pit, so really…I've had thousands upon thousands of years to become this fantastic a bastard." He smirked wide as ever.

Dean smirked right back. "Oh yeah? Too bad you're not a very good liar."

Crowley's smile dropped and he pursed his lips. "I told you I kicked the blood habit."

"I'm sure you did, but whatever Sam did to you when he almost cured you, it's not gone, even without human blood in your system. There's a spark of your old soul in there, Crowley. I can see it. And if I can see that…"Dean looked back at Sam, whose tears had dried but he had an exhausted look on his face like he'd released a breath he'd been holding for hours, "…maybe I'm not a lost cause. Maybe you're not either," he turned back to Crowley.

For a moment, Crowley didn't seem to know how to respond to that. His face was blank, as they'd seen only when Crowley was a lost, blubbery blood addict, or when he'd been with his son. Finally, Crowley pulled on his usual wicked grin and held up his hands.

"Let's not jump into Kumbaya just yet, boys. I do have a proposition for you though, if you were wondering why I was sticking around for the weepy reunion."

"Proposition?" Sam repeated, his more familiar scowl replacing his look of relief as he came up to stand beside Dean. "What do you want now? After everything we did—"

"Now, now, I said proposition, not favor," Crowley broke in. "Mutual satisfaction. I'm only asking that you take a moment to hear me out. There's a long road ahead where Heaven and Hell are concerned, and I'm thinking about everyone's best interests."

Sam huffed, but Dean wasn't so sure he doubted Crowley. He might still always have his own interests in mind first, but Dean wondered…he couldn't help but wonder.

"Sammy, your call," Dean said as he turned to him. He looked Sam square in the eyes for the first time, and hoped his brother wasn't too unnerved by what looked back at him. "I don't trust myself yet, but I trust you, so I'll be relying on you to let me know if I start acting like that dictator asshole again, okay? Do we listen? Or tell Crowley to take a hike?"

Sam's scowl faded to a blank, surprised expression, and his mouth opened but no sound escaped. Admittedly, they didn't have a lot of examples of listening to each other's advice in their backlog, but if Dean was doomed—even if he wasn't—then he planned to spend the next year, and however much longer it might take after that, making up for past mistakes.

Sam gave Crowley a long once over before turning back to Dean. "We'll listen. Whether we like what he has to say will determine whether we use that again sooner rather than later," he said with a gesture at the Blade.

Crowley bristled but didn't protest.

"Okay," Dean nodded, "but first I wanna check on Cas. Have you heard anything from him? Know if he took care of Metatron or not? He must have…"

Sam took in a deep breath, like it had dawned on him only just then to think of Cas at all and he felt rightfully guilty. "I…I don't know…"

Dean tried not to let panic creep into his gut. Whether Cas had won or lost, there would be quite a bit of housecleaning to deal with—for all the angels. It made sense that even if Cas was safe and fine he hadn't had the chance to contact them yet. But then…Dean wondered if Cas had his cellphone on him, because he suddenly really wanted to hear his voice.

He glanced at the other end of the table, away from the First Blade, where Sam had apparently emptied Dean's pockets before laying him in his room. His keys, wallet, and cellphone sat there like a mini shrine. He moved to grab his phone.

It clattered and vibrated before Dean could reach it, still on silent.

Dean looked at Sam. Then at Crowley, who shrugged. He snatched the phone up and answered without bothering to check the caller ID. "Cas?"

"Dean…thank God."

TBC...