A/N: Hey SPN fam. I started this fic a long, long time ago (the hiatus before season 11, I believe) and finally came around to finish it a few weeks ago. It's one of my favorites I've written, if not my favorite. I hope you enjoy it.

A black motorcycle pulls up to the parking lot of an old bar and its rider kicks down the kickstand. It's dark outside—it's been many hours since the sun set—and drizzling rain patters down on the tin awning that stretches out in front of the bar.
The motorcycle rider turns the engine of his bike off and dismounts, pulling his helmet off. He wears black jeans and a black leather jacket. His jacket is only halfway zipped, showing what he wears around his neck: a chain with a small, hooked blade as a pendant. Though most of his skin is covered, two buttons of the three at the top of his shirt are undone and a hint of black ink from several tattoos is visible at his collarbone. Another black pattern curls up his neck and behind his left ear.
Leaving his helmet on his bike, the man strolls up to the bar and leans against the side of the building near the door, pulling a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He pulls one out of the box and flicks the lighter on. For a moment, it illuminates his face: trimmed but slightly messy facial hair, high cheekbones, irises that appear black, dark eyelashes, and a handful of freckles across his nose.
"Dean."
The lighter flicks off and the man cocks an eyebrow, glancing to his left as he's approached by someone else. He takes a pull off his cigarette before removing it from his lips. "Crowley."
The newcomer, a man in his early fifties with dark hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, tucks his hands into the pockets of his long black dress coat. He coughs as Dean's cigarette smoke drifts into his face, and he waves it away. "That's disgusting, do you have to?"
A hint of amusement shows on Dean's face before he lifts the cigarette back to his mouth.
"So?" Crowley demands.
"He's dead," Dean answers. He smirks. "And his girlfriend is no longer a virgin." He pauses. "Not in that order."
Crowley rolls his eyes. "Isn't the killing fun enough for you? Why do you have to waste time with those little excursions? I got here an hour ago—when we were supposed to meet."
Dean shrugs. "I did what you asked. I always do."
Crowley cracks a smile and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Almost always. Let's get a drink, shall we? Put that awful thing out."
Dean flares his nostrils and exhales smoke through his nose, then puts the cigarette out in his palm, which heals instantly from the burn.
They're an unlikely pair, one made of leather and silver and smoke and the other of black and paisley and class. But anyone in that bar could take a look at them and know not to mess with one without planning on dealing with the other.

Crowley
Demon. Previously Fergus MacLeod. Current King of Hell. Short-tempered, control-seeking, cowardly. Flirtatious manner, loves drinking Glencraig whiskey.

Dean
Demon. Previously Dean Winchester. Crowley's right-hand man. Impassive, headstrong, fearless. Flirtatious manner, loves drinking anything containing alcohol.

"I assume you already have my next target figured out," Dean says after they've ordered their drinks.
"Of course," Crowley answers. He smirks. "It's lovely to have a personal assassin, you know."
Dean smiles dryly. "Gimme a little more credit than that, Crowley. I have influence on what goes on in hell. Not many demons can say that."
"I suppose." Crowley pulls out his phone and brings up a picture of a dark-haired woman. "Meet Amelia Richardson. We have a client whose boyfriend ditched her for Amelia, and she sold her soul for revenge. Kill Amelia, we fulfill our end of the deal."
"Sounds good," Dean says, taking a drink of his beer. "Where is she?"
"Kermit, Texas." When Dean gives him a look, he adds, "I know it's a bit far, but you've commuted farther. Besides, it wouldn't be as much of an issue if you had transportation better than that bike of yours."
Dean raises his eyebrows. "That bike is a vintage-style Triumph Scrambler. It was more expensive than anything you own. Watch what you say."
Crowley narrows his eyes. "You didn't actually pay for it."
"True. But whoever did must have had nine grand to spare."
"Fine. You have your motorcycle, I have my suits."
Dean snorts. "You would have nine grand in suits. All of which look the same, I might add."
"I have a look," Crowley says defensively.
Still looking amused, Dean takes another swig of his beer.

A man stands outside the bar in the rain, observing the actions of the two demons from through the window. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead and water starts to soak into the open trench coat that covers his shoulders. He has a slight frown that forms a single wrinkle between his eyebrows.
He's here to kill the king of hell, and his sidekick as a bonus. They've done some things that the angels will not forgive—disrupted the natural order enough to warrant attention from heaven. But this is not the scene he imagined. The two men in the bar appear to be having a normal conversation, complete with annoyed glances, laughs, and even a nudge on the arm from one to the other.
Nonetheless, they are demons and he's here to eliminate them.

Castiel
Angel. Member of heaven's garrison. Has a history of independent thought. Perceptive, curious, bold. Quiet manner, loves seeing the sky from Earth.

Castiel enters the bar, casting a subtle glance around to check the other visitors here. One woman sitting by herself, a pair of men who look very intoxicated and are in the process of kissing very passionately. That was it.
He goes to sit a few stools from the two demons and asks for a beer, since that's the only alcoholic drink he knows the name of. He has no money and no intention to drink, but after he's done, that will be the last thing on anyone's mind.
He's only been there a few minutes when he hears the older of the two—Crowley, the king of hell—say, "I never should have given any of those idiots my phone number. Pardonne moi," he says sarcastically as he slides off the barstool and answers his phone.
Cas considers his options. He can knife the king as he's distracted on his phone, but he may draw the attention of the one in leather, who seems like the one he really needs to take by surprise. He stands, pretending to head to the restroom so that he can pass the demon, and summons his blade out of his sleeve.
Just a quick stab up under the ribs and the demon would be dead.
Cas is almost upon him and he starts to turn, blade ready—and then he stops. The tip of the knife is just inches from the demon's back.
The demon spins around, catching Cas's knife arm and twisting it so hard any human's bone would crack as he uses his other hand to plunge a knife into Cas's chest.
Cas looks down in surprise. He'd never seen a demon move so fast yet so elegantly. It was like brutal grace.
The demon can see that the knife in Cas's chest isn't killing him and is hardly having an effect on him at all. As Cas starts to move to knock the demon's hand away from his arm, the demon leaves the knife in Cas's chest and pulls out another blade, which is long enough to be a short sword. He stabs it right through Cas's stomach and keeps pushing, backing him up until Cas hears the tip of the blade, which protrudes through his back, hit the wall.
"What are you?" the demon snarls.
Cas could kill him right here just by touching him—if he's fast enough—but something about this demon strikes him and he remains still.
"You're not really a demon," he says, pressing his head back against the wall since the man in leather is only a few inches away.
"What?"
"You are," Cas corrects himself, "but you haven't died like the others." He glances down at the demon's chest and then back to his eyes. "This isn't a vessel, it's you."
The man's eyes widen just slightly, then narrow. He glares and bares his teeth, twisting the blade in Cas's stomach. It only causes Cas a twinge of pain, but he winces. "How do you know that?" the demon demands.
"I can just tell."
The demon casts a glance to either side of him. Everyone's run from the bar except the bartender, who is talking frantically into a phone. "No one knows that," the demon growls, "except Crowley. How do you know?"
"I'm an angel," Cas says quickly but steadily.
The demon's glare turns into more of a shocked frown and he leans back slightly.
"I'm not going to kill you," Cas says. "Not now. And obviously you're unable to kill me, so you should allow me to leave."
"Nice try," the demon says. "Why were you gonna kill me?"
Cas doesn't really understand why his logic didn't work. "I—"
"Dean," the king of hell says as he strides up to them. He sounds annoyed, not surprised. "Didn't you already kill someone today?"
"He tried to kill me," the man explains, his glare returning. "He says he's an angel."
Crowley's expression turns to mild surprise. "Really? And what's an angel doing with the likes of us?"
"You've overstepped your line as a demon, Crowley," Cas says. He doesn't feel as tempted to kill Dean anymore, but it would still be nice to end Crowley before he leaves here. "You have killed and manipulated humans and, allegedly, angels far beyond what your soul trade calls for."
Crowley raises his eyebrows. "So you don't like me…because I'm too powerful? Are you afraid of me, Angel? Are you afraid of what I can do?"
Cas grits his teeth, looking back and forth between the two. "From what I can tell, I'm more afraid of what you can make him do."
The two demons exchange a glance which Cas can't quite read.
Crowley snatches Cas's angel blade from where he still had it gripped in the hand that Dean had held down. "So this can kill a demon?"
"Yes."
"Can it kill an angel?"
Cas isn't quick enough with a lie and instead remains silent.
Without hesitation, Crowley slashes a cut into Cas's upper arm. Cas grunts in pain and the wound glows blue.
"I'd say…" Crowley says, raising his eyebrows, "yes." He hands the blade to Dean. "Kill him."
He takes it as Crowley leaves the bar. Dean turns to Cas. "You know, for an angel, I'd expect something a little more…" He looks Cas up and down and smirks with a small shrug. "Impressive."
"You don't have to kill me," Cas says calmly.
"Of course I don't," Dean replies. "But I can, and that's the fun of it."
As soon as he draws the blade back for a kill, Cas lifts his foot and kicks the demon square in the chest, sending him stumbling backward with a grunt. He pulls the sword out of his stomach and the knife out of his chest. By the time Dean comes back with the angel blade, Cas parries his attack and sinks Dean's knife into the demon's arm. It seems to alarm him more than hurt him and it affords Cas just enough time to grab his blade back. He slashes Dean across the cheek as a distraction and returns to heaven a second later.
"How did it go?" the smooth British voice of Balthazar greets him immediately.
"Not the way I intended," Cas answers, looking at the blood soaking into his trench coat from where the king of hell had cut him.
"Are they dead, though?" Balthazar asks as he watches Cas take his trench coat and suit coat off.
"No," Cas says flatly. "Neither of them." He unbuttons his shirt and pulls it halfway off so he can get at the wound just below his shoulder.
"You messed up royally," Balthazar says with some combination of surprise and amusement. He steps up to Cas and starts to heal his wound for him. "What happened?"
Cas's vision starts to swim and he blinks several times in confusion. "It was something about Crowley's second-in-command, he…took me off guard…." He's seeing dark spots now and his hearing starts to fade out. "Balthazar…what's happening…?"
And then everything goes black.