Chapter 1 - Fading Grace

"Hey, I found something," Sam said eagerly, rising from the table in the Men of Letters library with a huge, ancient book clutched in his hands. He strode over and placed the tome carefully on the ancient wooden stand that had been built for that purpose.

Ever since Dean's problem had been dealt with and the Winchesters had discovered just how severe Castiel's fading Grace problem actually was, the three had devoted every available waking moment to the search for a cure that didn't involve releasing the Metatron. While the original spell itself was 'irreversible', and finding the remnant of Castiel's original Grace without Metatron's help was unlikely, there was a chance that parts of the spell could be circumvented. After all, there were once again angels in Heaven, weren't there? Given that the Men of Letters had one of the most extensive collections of supernatural research material in the world, the Bunker seemed the best place to begin.

Dean and Castiel abandoned their own research to follow Sam expectantly. Castiel had not looked well upon his initial return from heaven according to the younger Winchester, and despite Crowley's subsequent forcible intervention, the angel's condition was again deteriorating. Now he was wan, with dark circles beneath his eyes and a pervasive air of exhaustion almost exuding from his pores. He shuffled more often than he walked, and tended to collapse into the nearest chair whenever possible. The coughing fits made Sam's chest ache to listen to them, and seemed to last forever.

Dean on the other hand radiated constant jittery concern for the angel, frequently glancing sideways with creased brow at the ill man when he thought no one was looking. He tended to snap at people more often than usual, and his movements were sharp and abrupt. The older Winchester hardly ever smiled lately, and his mouth seemed frozen in a thin, worried line. As both he and Castiel moved to either side of his younger brother, he surreptitiously placed a supporting hand on the angel's elbow.

"This sounds like the actual spell Metatron used," Sam continued, carefully opening the volume so that they could all examine the passage he indicated. "I'm actually surprised we found it so quickly."

"Heart of a nephilim, bow of a cupid… yes, this sounds correct." Castiel studied the text carefully, brows drawn tight in concentration. He suppressed a cough behind one fist as he pointed at the text with his other almost imperceptibly shaking hand.

"Does it mention anything that might help fix you, Cas?" demanded Dean, shouldering forward.

Sam scanned the passage quickly, finger alighting on a paragraph on the next page. "There. This refers to 'restoration', and references chapter forty-seven."

He flipped quickly to the indicated page, skimming until he found the portion that seemed to pertain to the earlier passage. "Here, Cas, check this out." The tall hunter shifted to one side for the angel to better study the text.

"Hmmm. Yes, that might work."

Dean ran his own finger down the page. "Hey, we have most of these ingredients already," he observed.

"Yeah…" agreed Sam dubiously, brows furrowed as he mentally reviewed the Men of Letters' inventory. "All but 'five drops of First Demon blood'." He looked at Castiel and asked, "What, or who, is a 'First Demon'?"

The angel grimaced, rubbing his tired eyes as he thought. He never liked admitting ignorance on questions of the supernatural, but had to admit, "I am unfamiliar with the phrase." He paused for a moment, then cautiously added, "Perhaps it refers to the first demon one encounters after beginning the spell."

"Or maybe it refers to Lucifer, the first demon ever created," suggested Sam.

"No. Lucifer is not considered a demon; he is the Adversary," responded Castiel.

"Yeah, let's hope you're right, Cas, 'cause we're not getting any blood from old Luci any time soon," contributed Dean wryly, then snapped his fingers as a thought occurred to him. "Hey, maybe it means whoever's in charge of Hell at the moment - right now, that'd be Crowley. We could summon him, no problem."

"I don't know, Dean. See how it's capitalized here? That's an actual title or name of someone specific." Sam met Castiel's eyes, "Not a heavenly reference?"

"Possibly. However, I have never encountered it before, so it seems unlikely," Castiel replied pensively.

"So it's a demonic title, then," mused Sam, revising his theory.

Dean pursed his lips and spread his hands, eyebrows arched. "Again, why don't we just yank Crowley's demonic ass up here and ask? If we put a devil's trap on the ceiling, he won't be able to leave until he gives us an answer."

Castiel and Sam shared a look, then the younger Winchester shrugged. "Why don't we simply draw a summoning circle with the Enochian for 'First Demon' instead?"

Dean jutted his lower lip in a grimace and winced, admitting aloud that Sam's idea was easier. "Yeah. I guess we could try that."

"Yes, my Lord. It will be as you command." The deformed, obsequious creature bowed so low that its sweat-drenched forehead nearly touched the floor. It continued to genuflect as it carefully backed towards the exit, not daring to turn around.

Crowley stared down his nose haughtily as it finally managed to reach the door, his contempt nearly palpable. "See that it is," he snarled.

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," the creature squeaked, then passed into the hallway. "You shall not be further disturbed."

The door closed with a tiny, apologetic snikt. The King of Hell stood ramrod straight for almost a full minute before he gave a heartfelt sigh of relief, finally allowing his stiff shoulders to sag with exhaustion. He hated Hell. He hated the demons, he hated the screaming, he hated the persona he had to project 24/7 just to keep his throat from being ripped out unawares and, most of all, he hated being in charge of the whole thing. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Singer that having the corner office hadn't been what he had expected. The only thing worse than being in charge was someone else being in charge. Abaddon had proven that in spades; the woman couldn't run her hosiery, much less the Infernal Realm.

Not that he was doing much better; one of his more loyal followers had already self-immolated in objection to his rule. He hadn't even seen it coming. Was he really that bad? One execution out of pique, and suddenly he had a revolt on his hands. It was just so exhausting! Scrubbing his eyes with his fists, he turned towards his truly massive desk (once belonging to Pope Julius III) and grimaced at the absolute mountain of paperwork piled on top of it. Sometimes he wondered if killing the Knight had been worth the resultant administrative nightmare; it was going to take months to straighten out the chaos she created, on top of dealing with the daily minutiae of efficiently running an organization this large. And now he had to take into account demons' feelings. Petitions, supplicants, considerations, loyalty rewards… Bah! It was ridiculous.

Too bad the Dukes of Hell were still mentally stuck in the 14th century or he'd at least foist some of the paperwork off on them. He felt an unaccountable spike of anger as he thought of Hastur and Ligur lounging about torturing individual souls at their leisure while he slaved away with the administrative trivia of supervising the entirety of Down Below. He groaned, then threw himself into the luxurious leather high-backed chair that was practically his prison these days. No, he couldn't assign any meaningful work to those… antiques, given any other option whatsoever. He had already delegated everything that wasn't 'eyes only' to sycophantic minions who actually knew what they were doing, rank be damned; even if Hastur and company had been half-way competent, he'd never trust them with any of the business currently piled haphazardly before him. There was too much opportunity for subverting circumstances to their own advantage, and they wouldn't be demons if they didn't jump at the chance. No, the Dukes couldn't be trusted, so it was up to him. Crowley reached for the top of the nearest 'urgent' stack with a grimace and got to work.

After several hours he had managed to complete all the 'absolutely vital that it get done now' paperwork and had moved onto the merely 'very important - time sensitive' documents. He rubbed his forehead, trying to stave off his incipient headache, then leaned on his elbow and drummed his fingers as he considered the Torture Division's latest request for equipment. It wasn't particularly expensive, but he was inclined to refuse on general principle. What was wrong with his infinite queue? It was more modern and amazingly cost-effective. His eyes slid closed in exhaustion as he weighed the relative merits of the requisition; he never even realized when he slid into sleep.

"Well, Crawly, nice of you to join us," the head of Heaven's intelligence organization sneered, raising one perfect eyebrow as she glanced over her shoulder at him. She was standing ramrod straight about three feet away and only turned her head, nothing about the movement marring the perfect lines of her dark suit and heels. His head throbbed abominably - one of her goons had clubbed him unconscious before he'd even been fully through the bookshop door. It took considerable effort to focus on Heaven's Chief Intelligence Officer, but he marshaled his flagging concentration. She was busily arranging something on a nearby tray, but stood in a way that prevented him from seeing what it was. 'That couldn't bode well', he mused wryly. 'What was he doing here, anyway?'

"It's 'Crowley'," he corrected automatically as he blearily examined the rest of his surroundings, squinting against the glare as he looked for clues. Bare white room, minimalist white furnishings, white walls, white floors, white ceilings. White, white, white. Seemed to be a theme. The only disrupting color came from the silver instrument tray the angel was wheeling next to the exam table he was securely strapped to, and Naomi's own somber yet expensively tailored clothing. He twisted his wrists experimentally to check the bonds, and found them more than adequate to hold him in place. His attention jerked back to the angel as she spoke again.

"Don't bother trying to get free, Crawly. I have some questions about what happened in Lower Tadfield earlier this year, and, given a choice, I would rather extract the answers from a demon than an angel." She moved menacingly towards him brandishing a whirring drill-like object that came frighteningly close to his left eye. "Hold still, now. This will only hurt a bit, and when I'm done, you won't remember a thing."

He tried unsuccessfully to flinch back from the power tool, the adrenaline spike clearing his head. "Can't we talk about this? I'd be happy to fill you in without any," he jerked his chin towards the drill, "additional incentive." He flashed her the most charming smile he could dredge up given the circumstances and the nauseating pounding in his head. "Why don't you just ask?"

"Using this," she held up her tool, "I know that your answers are true and accurate." She smiled almost demonically. "Plus, it's much more satisfying; Aziraphale needs to learn a lesson." Naomi leaned forward, and all he knew was pain as his brain felt like exploding.

Crowley jolted from the nightmare with a snarl, leaping to his feet as he tried to get his bearings. His heart was pounding a staccato beat as he panted for breath that he didn't actually need. 'Just a dream', he growled to himself, recognizing his own office. 'Damn those Winchesters and their Demon Tablet Trials!' Before Sam had forcibly injected him with human blood, he'd never needed sleep. He'd liked it, from time to time, but he'd never needed it. Now, he actually found himself napping without even meaning to. He wouldn't mind so much, except for the nightmares. He never knew whether his dreams were memories, subconscious psychological issues announcing their presence, or the sardines he'd had for dinner. Not that it mattered much; good or bad, he could never seem to remember anything more than vague impressions and the occasional snapshot vision of someone or something he recognized. He was certain that this most recent nightmare had involved that blasted heavenly bureaucrat, Naomi, torturing him, but everything else was just vague impressions. A white room somewhere, maybe… He shook his head in irritation; it wasn't important. He couldn't remember having any unpleasant interactions with that skank of an angel, but he had to wonder if it had actually happened, and she'd just erased his memory. One more thing he'd have to investigate when he had time and, if true, thank Naomi properly the next time he laid eyes on her. Maybe he should bring along a couple of his larger hellhounds for good measure…

He groaned as he placed his hands on his lower back, stretching muscles stiff from sitting too long hunched over his desk, then headed for the nearby sideboard. A shot of Craig would be just the thing to take the edge off his nerves, allowing him to concentrate again on the business at hand. Throwing a couple of ice cubes in a tumbler (okay, so being the head honcho did have some perks), he uncorked a crystal decanter with barely-shaking hands and tilted it to pour. That's when he felt the insistent tug, and was suddenly elsewhere.

"Seriously?" Crowley, glass of ice in one hand and tilted decanter in the other, glowered at the trio standing outside the summoning circle he found himself now standing in. The dapperly-dressed demon's eyes flicked in irritation to the Devil's trap painted on the ceiling above him, then resumed glaring at the hunters. His mouth twisted in disgust as he continued, "Aren't we beyond these little games?" His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Also, you do realize that, as King of Hell, I have a few responsibilities beyond being constantly at your beck-and-call like some yappy little lapdog?!" The demon's voice rose continuously through his rant until he was red-faced and shouting by its conclusion. It wasn't often that he allowed the 'dynamic duo' and their pet angel to get under his skin, but it had been a long, frustrating day and that nightmare had shaken him more than he cared to admit. He had been looking forward to a simple glass of whisky before resuming his assault on the mountain of minutiae obscuring his desk. Depending on what the 'wonder twins' were up to this time, he might as well kiss any thoughts of seeing his blotter this decade goodbye. Of course, by the gob smacked expressions on the three faces surrounding him, it might take even longer than that.

"OK, you may not be our lapdog, but you are our bitch," jeered Dean, recovering quickly from whatever had derailed his train of thought. "Besides, we can see how 'busy' you are," he continued, jerking his thumb towards the bottle and arching a skeptical eyebrow.

Crowley followed his gaze, staring at the liquor blankly for a moment before shrugging and filling his tumbler, carefully keeping his hands steady and his attitude nonchalant. At least these twats would be a distraction from the remnants of his nightmare. Without looking up, he swirled the golden liquid idly for a moment and then muttered sourly, "Yeah, well, it's been a long day." He tossed the alcohol back with a well-practiced flick of his wrist, closing his eyes as he savored the burn and pointedly ignoring the assholes still staring at him.

"What, the tortured not screaming loud enough for you?" growled the older Winchester, rolling his eyes derisively.

Instead of snarking back, Crowley just paused, took a deep breath, and gave a beleaguered sigh. "What do you want, Squirrel? I seriously have things to do."

'He really does look kinda tired', observed Sam idly, but unwilling to comment. The demon's Armani suit was wrinkled, his shirt-collar unbuttoned, and his loosened red silk tie hung askew. There were furrows of stress in his face that weren't usually visible, radiating out from the dark circles beneath his eyes, and his shoulders actually slumped subtly in exhaustion despite being viciously wrenched back. He hid it well, but it was obvious on close observation that the demon was beat. Not that Sam cared all that much; after everything Crowley had done to the brothers, the reinstated King of Hell was lucky not to be shot on sight as a matter of principle.

Of course, it begged the question as to why their summoning circle hadn't worked. They hadn't wanted Crowley; they'd specifically summoned the 'First Demon', and the King of Hell had appeared instead. Maybe Dean was right; maybe it was a title given to whoever was in charge of Hell at the moment. If nothing else, they could go with Dean's second suggestion and ask the crossroads demon about the obscure title.

Dean was obviously thinking along similar lines. "Yeah, sunshine, my heart's bleedin'," the older Winchester responded to the demon sarcastically. "Look, the sooner you answer our questions, the sooner you get out of here and back to your 'business'."

Rather than snapping in reflex, Crowley visibly bit back his instinctive retort and dropped his chin to his chest for a long moment in silent consideration. Internally he took time to viciously suppress the panicked pounding of his heart at a sudden mental flash of Naomi 'questioning' him, then took a deep breath and straightened his back, pulling his tattered dignity around himself like a cloak. He raised his head and managed to meet the older hunter's eyes with a challenging smirk. "Well, darling, ask away," he rejoined in a sultry tone which seemed to derail the group of men once more, all of whom remained silent. Lids at half mast, the demon glanced provocatively from Dean to Sam, then beyond them to Castiel, before finally giving it up for a lost cause. He straightened angrily, dropping the teasing façade, and in exasperation bit out, "So? Come on, come on, ask your questions; contrary to popular opinion, I haven't got forever."

"Yes, right." Sam swallowed, jolted back to the current problem. He decided to try being direct and asked, "Are you the 'First Demon'?" 'Hey, it's as good a starting point as any.'

Crowley was momentarily nonplussed and blinked rapidly in silence as he considered the question. 'What the Hell are they playing at?' , he wondered. 'These are the assholes that tried to burn my bones. They know I'm a Scottish tailor, not a Fallen Angel.' A smug grin spread slowly over his face as he realized, 'Unless… they don't know who or what the First Demon is!'

"Well, well. I'm flattered, boys." He swirled his tumbler to distribute the melting ice, then continued, "While I may be King of Hell, I've nowhere near the age or experience of the First Demon." His self-satisfied smirk stayed in place as he took a slow, deliberate sip of his whisky, savoring both its peaty taste on his tongue and the frustration on their faces at his oblique reply.

"So, it is Lucifer. Sam thought it might be, but Cas disagreed." Dean was clearly angling for more details, much to Crowley's poorly-disguised amusement.

He chuckled silently and decided to play along. What the heck; his paperwork could wait a few minutes, and their attempts to subtly ply him for information were frankly hilarious. "Well, two points for the angel," he remarked, holding his glass up in a sardonic toast. "While Lucifer may have many other names and titles, 'First Demon' isn't one of them."

"So who is it, and how can we find him?" Dean wasn't in the mood for these games. Castiel seemed to be worsening by the hour.

'Fine, if they're going to spoil my fun...' Crowley frowned, spreading his arms in an unspoken question. "Why do you need…. ?" he began, squinting, then shook his head violently as he reconsidered. Raising one index finger, he closed his eyes and continued, "You know what? Never mind. I don't want to know. I've got my hands full trying to clean up the mess Abaddon made while she was putatively 'in charge'." He made sarcastic air quotes with his fingers. "I don't need to get involved in the latest Winchester craziness." Much as he might have liked to; he would never admit it aloud, but he actually enjoyed the time he spent taunting Team Free Will. They were almost… friends, especially Dean, even if they never saw him the same way. Tossing back the last of his current drink, he arched his eyebrows and asked, "Far be it from me to actually help a pair of hunters and an angel, but why don't you just cast a generic demon summoning circle and insert the title 'First Demon' in the appropriate spots?"

"That's what we did, asshat, and we got you instead!" Dean gestured expansively at the circle at Crowley's feet. He was annoyed that Crowley had come up with the same idea that Sam had, and let the irritation seep into his tone. It was easier to deal with than his worry for Castiel.

The demon actually blinked again in surprise, then studied the sigils surrounding him with sudden interest. Up to that point he'd not paid much attention to them, but careful scrutiny confirmed the older Winchester's statement; the hunters had not actually meant to summon him. But why on Earth….?

He refilled his glass and then set the empty crystal decanter on the floor by his feet. Standing once more, he sipped it absently as he contemplated the design surrounding him on the concrete floor. He finally came to a conclusion and grunted, "Huh. I would have expected this circle to work. The Enochian must somehow translate to 'Ruler of Hell' in this context." He fell silent again, swirling the remnants of ice in his glass thoughtfully. It didn't make sense, though it was the only possible answer. It explained why Moose had asked if he were the First Demon, too. If the three really didn't know to whom the title referred, then they weren't intentionally trying to annoy him or waste his time.

After a few moments, Dean's impatience overcame his good sense. "So? You know who the First Demon is or not?" he demanded.

Pulled from his thoughts, it was the demon's turn to roll his eyes. "Of course I do," he acknowledged, a corner of his mouth tilting up mockingly. He spread his arms to the side as a caveat. "At least, I know who he is theoretically. Don't have the first clue on how to find the bugger, though." He took a considered gulp from his glass.

"So? Who is it?" asked Sam expectantly when Crowley seemed unwilling to continue.

The King of Hell widened his eyes in faux innocence, blinking rapidly. "Why should I tell you?" Then, angrier, eyes narrowed, he spat, "You know how this works, boys. What's in it for me?"

"The sooner you give us the information, the sooner we let you go," answered Castiel in his gruff, matter-of-fact monotone. Crowley wasn't certain, but the angel seemed hoarser than usual.

He filed away his observation as he wrinkled his nose at the bluntness of the offer. "Really? That's it? That's the best you can do?"

"Yeah, well, you already said you didn't know how to find him," shrugged Dean. "So I guess all we're offering today is your freedom for a little information. Take it or leave it, douche bag. You can rot in there for all I care."

Crowley's response was a reflection of how exhausted the demon truly was. His eyes slid closed, then he tightened his lips as he, surprisingly, seriously considered the offer. It was better than the hunters usually managed, and he had no desire for any more of their dungeon's questionable hospitality, thank you very much. Plus, he really had to get back to his office. 'Damage control' didn't begin to cover his workload, thanks to that Knight of Hell. Best to make this as brief as possible, even if it meant giving them free information.

Opening his eyes again, he shot them a frustrated scowl. "Throw in 'no more summons for a week' and you've got yourself a deal."

Dean raised an eyebrow in surprise. "A day," he bargained out of habit.

"Three," countered the demon.

"Done," Dean accepted quickly, before Crowley could add any clauses or stipulations. It was hard to believe the demon was capitulating so easily but best to not look a gift horse in the mouth. The sooner they got some blood from this First Demon, the sooner they could try to heal Castiel.

To the hunter's amazement, the crossroads demon acknowledged the deal with a small nod and no complaints. He didn't even insist on his traditional kiss.

"Fine," Crowley sighed. 'Best to just get it over with.' He snorted and pasted on a condescending sneer. "I guess you boys haven't been reading your Bible recently, or you'd know the answer without my humble aid." The demon glanced expectantly from face to face with a self-satisfied smirk, rocking back and forth on his heels, sure that the hint about the Good Book would trigger a light bulb above someone's head. As moments ticked by with no response other than confused stares, he threw up his hands in exasperation. "Genesis? The Garden of Eden? Anybody?" When everyone still stared at him blankly, he clarified in amazement, "The Serpent, you morons! The snake who offered Eve the apple?"

"The First Tempter?" asked Castiel. "But he is a Fallen Angel like Lucifer, not a demon."

"Technically correct." Crowley was mollified that at least the angel knew basic scripture; it was just a matter of definitions for him. "Nevertheless, the denizens of Below have always referred to him as the 'First Demon'. I suppose it's because he invented original sin."

"Wait, wait! That really happened? The whole Garden of Eden shtick?" Dean demanded, wide-eyed and frankly incredulous.

Crowley stared at the hunter in disbelief. "After all your experience with angels, demons, and even Cain, you find the concept of Eden and the Tree of Knowledge somehow beyond your ability to accept?"

Dean glanced away, mildly embarrassed. "Well, when you put it like that…" he shrugged.

"So how do we find this… snake?" interrupted Sam, saving his brother from further awkwardness.

Their prisoner sighed, then stared at them as if they were particularly stupid five-year-olds. "I already told you; I… don't….know!" He enunciated each word as if he were spelling it out for a first grader. He dropped his head to glance at the circle again, then muttered, "I don't even know why your summoning circle didn't work."

"You're the King of Hell; shouldn't you know where your minions are?" suggested Castiel doubtfully.

"I seem to recall Heaven losing track of you a time or two, darling," Crowley snarled, then took a deep, calming breath. He spread his arms wide, palms up, emphasizing his lack of knowledge. "Look. He's been stationed on Earth since Adam was cast out of Eden. His reports, sporadic at best, simply… stopped… sometime around 1990 or '91. With everything else going on, no one ever bothered looking for him." He shrugged nonchalantly. "I understand that he wasn't a particularly evil demon anyway, and hasn't really been missed. Rumor has it that he went native."

"Went native?" queried Dean suspiciously.

"He had been trying to blend into human society so long that he became indistinguishable from them," explained Castiel. "Became more human than demon in attitudes and beliefs."

"Well, who would know where this demon is if you don't?" Dean interrupted sharply, dragging the conversation back to the main point. The longer this dragged on, the more irritable the elder Winchester became.

Crowley couldn't bring himself to care. He'd tried being friendly to these men, and all he got in return were repeated kidnappings and death threats. "Try that bitch Naomi," he growled, savagely suppressing any reminder of his nightmare. "After all, as I understand it, she's in the business of gathering information."

"She's dead," responded Castiel, then tilted his head curiously as Crowley's eyes widened in shock. "You knew her…" the angel hazarded.

Since Crowley had reacted visibly to the pronouncement, he figured he had earned the question as punishment for putting his emotions on display. Still, there was no way he was going to be pathetic enough to complain about having bad dreams. 'Sod it,' he thought, then cleared his throat uncomfortably before assuming a sinful leer meant to fluster the righteous angel. "Yes, well. I knew her once in Mesopotamia… biblically speaking, that is." He vividly recalled his own shock at discovering that the willing young woman he had seduced was in fact an angel, but again, had no intention on sharing that little tidbit either.

"Whoa, whoa, hold up." Dean interjected in disbelief. "An angel… and a demon?" He narrowed his eyes skeptically.

To Crowley's surprise, Castiel responded before he could dredge up a suitable response. "She was not a nice person, Dean. She was the one who ordered me to kill you, and forced me to perform a number of other reprehensible acts against my will." It was his turn to look uncomfortable. "I believe the pair of them would have found many commonalities upon which to build a relationship."

The demon grinned wickedly and projected a self-satisfied, debauched air, while internally he silently applauded Castiel's disapproval of the woman. "Well, I don't know about a relationship, but the sex wasn't half bad." The demon was about to go into lurid detail when the younger sibling interrupted.

"Wait a second," Sam sounded as if he were working out a particularly difficult puzzle. "I thought you were originally Fergus MacLeod, a tailor from the 17th century." It was not quite a question; it sounded more like Sam was confirming facts he already knew.

Crowley frowned at the apparent non sequitur, shoving his hands casually into his tailored pockets. He was actually a little put out by the interruption. "Yes, that's right," he snapped. "Your point?"

"How could you have known Naomi in Mesopotamia?"

"For the love of….", the demon rolled his eyes. "It's really quite simple, Moose. When a man and a woman are attracted to each other…," he began, but then paused, his own brow furrowing as he recognized the paradox to which Sam had been referring. He glanced aside in confusion, avoiding Gigantor's gaze. "Hold on, that can't be right."

The demon's eyes went wide and glassy as he stared at the floor and was obviously suddenly… absent. His empty crystal tumbler slipped from nerveless fingers and crashed to the cement unnoticed as he gazed blankly at nothing. He didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even blink as he stood in the unbroken circle, seemingly hypnotized.

After a few minutes the elder Winchester shifted uncomfortably. "Crowley? You with us man?" Dean would never admit it, but this behavior was concerning. The demon was, relatively speaking, one of the more reliable denizens of Hell, honorable for given degrees of honor, and was at least a known quantity. They'd never be 'besties', but overall Crowley was relatively easy to work with, as long as you didn't trust him as far as you could throw an elephant. Right now, they needed him awake and cooperative, not catatonic. Castiel's life might depend on that. Dean's worry ratcheted up a level when the demon remained unresponsive to his questions.

"Mr. Crowley," rasped Castiel, breaking off in a fit of coughing that had him doubling over. Dean was beside him in a heartbeat, pounding his back as if he were choking, and Sam moved closer in case he was needed.

While the brothers offered whatever aid they could to the ailing Castiel, their prisoner dreamily murmured, "Yes, Angel?" He then blinked rapidly, shaking his head and visibly yanking himself back from whatever psychological abyss had held him thrall. He seemed oblivious to his own mental holiday and glared daggers around the room as he snapped, "Are we quite finished?"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean decided not to push the issue and scraped a pole across the edge of the ceiling trap, breaking the circle, before returning to Castiel's side.

Crowley straightened visibly as he felt his demonic power return, then carefully cinched up his tie and brushed away the single drop of blood that had oozed unnoticed from the corner of his eye. "Thank you," he saluted mockingly with two fingers before blinking out of existence.

No sooner had he vanished than Castiel sagged with exhaustion. He was caught and supported by the two hunters as they eased him into a nearby chair. He sat very still, breathing heavily and trying to recover his strength.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" asked Sam gently.

Castiel nodded; there was no point in lying. "I'm afraid so."

Dean glanced between the two of them, all his attention now firmly focused on the dying angel. "So, is someone going to tell me just what the fuck just happened? What was that crap Crowley pulled?"

Elbows resting on knees, Castiel craned his neck up and stared at Dean grimly. "Naomi."

"Naomi?" Sam echoed in confusion. "Crowley's supposed angelic girlfriend?"

"She was one of the first of us. From the beginning it was her job to gather information and punish any minor infractions she discovered, referring the larger ones up the chain of command. While she may have performed her duties honorably in the beginning, my personal experience with her involved mind control, forced amnesia, and even murder through unwilling puppets to cover her tracks." He paused, carefully choosing his next words. "Metatron executed her."

"So at least that dickwad did something right," growled Dean.

Sam ignored him and knelt next to their shaking friend. "What does she have to do with Crowley?" he asked gently.

"I believe that, like myself, he has been subjected to her personal brand of questioning and mind control."

Sam's brows furrowed in confusion. "What makes you think that?" he asked.

Castiel looked him directly in the eyes to emphasize his point. "Two things. When confronted with a logic conflict, he… 'zoned out', I believe is the term. I have observed this whenever Naomi's memory implants are incompatible with some shred of legitimate recollection that wasn't erased. If so, either the memory of his life as a 17th century tailor or his recollection of Mesopotamia is false, and therefore implanted."

"She could do that?" Dean was appalled. "No fan of Metatron here, but I'm kinda glad he ganked the bitch. That sounds almost demonic to me."

"Is that why his eye was bleeding?" asked Sam consideringly, ignoring his brother's commentary.

"Undoubtedly. That is why I am certain our demon has undergone her special 'therapy'. She had a device that she introduced into the subject's brain through the ocular cavity to perform her more complex mental manipulations; one side effect is that the eye literally weeps blood when the control walls are breached." He paused, grimacing at an unpleasant memory. "Ironically, Metatron used that device to kill her."

Dean crouched next to Sam as he stared intently at an exhausted Castiel. "Honestly, I'm glad she's dead, and I don't care if she played hopscotch in that bastard Crowley's brain; the only important thing is whether or not we can trust his information about the First Demon."

Castiel nodded immediately. "Yes, I believe we can. He did not show evidence of her mental tampering until we pointed out the discrepancy of a 17th century Scottish peasant interacting with the angel Naomi in Mesopotamia." He paused, then added consideringly, "Additionally, it makes logical sense that the title 'First Demon' refers to the Serpent; the spell to restore depleted Grace is in Enochian and requires the First Demon's blood. A demonized human would have little intrinsic mystical power. A Fallen Angel from the Great War? The source of original sin?" He glanced up to see Sam nodding thoughtfully. "That creature's blood would be very, very powerful." He covered his mouth with his fist as another coughing fit assailed him, his face turning vaguely purple. Dean put a supportive arm around his shoulders as Sam hurriedly retrieved a glass of water and handed it to him. Castiel nodded gratefully, sipping when he could catch his breath.

When the attack abated, the angel looked even more pale and wrung out than before. He closed his eyes and leaned into the support the older Winchester still provided, having not moved an inch. After a moment he sighed, sitting up once more and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Dean shot Castiel a gentle half-grin. "You still up for this?", he asked solicitously.

"Yes. At least, I will be by the time the summoning circle is complete." The angel's voice was even more raspy, and he took another deliberate sip of water in the hopes of clearing his throat.

"We'll get right on that, then," Dean responded, carefully avoiding coddling their ill friend. Instead, both brothers headed for the center of the room, where Sam began to modify the Devil's trap to hold a fallen angel while Dean carefully erased the 'First Demon' circle and began to draw one to summon the 'First Tempter'.

TBC…