No Exit

[Dean Winchester]

Dean sat on the sandy floor of the shack he had been holed up in for awhile now, cold beer in hand, and looked at the wreck of the Impala resting on the ground in front of him. Since the fight back in Nippur the demon had been doing his best to restore his ride out in the middle of no where, to somewhat limited success. Thinking back on it now, he probably should have asked someone for help, but at that point in time he just wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. 

After the fight he had simply reduced what was left of his car to it's pure Omnillium state, pocketed it, and then went wandering into the desert in the direction he thought the Town With No Name was in.

Looking back, this had been a terrible idea. 

The Winchester wasn't sure how long he had walked in the dunes until he came across this lonely shack, probably hours if not a full day, and took shelter inside of it. From the looks of it, the structure had been part of a larger house, possibly for some folks who tried to live life outside the city, but most of the structure was long gone. By the shoddy state of the few burnt support beams that stuck out of the ground beside his little shack, a fire had destroyed the rest of the building, and then over time the sand had reclaimed the space. 

Now, only this shack remained, and it was perfect!

'Perfect for what?', some might have asked him at the time, to which he would simply reply that it was the perfect place to rebuild his ride in peace and quiet! Dean had wasted no time recalling the wreckage of the once proud Impala in a gleaming shower of Omnilium, and while it took up most of the place, there was just enough room to work around it! Using a slightly charred bench, the demon went about using the bare minimum of Omnilium to start summoning tools, rags, and the like. First things first, he was going to dismantle the engine and reclaim whatever parts of it were still usable. 

Now here he was days later, sitting on the ground with a beer in hand, staring at the car with very little work done to it. He realized now that he needed far too many parts, extensive metal to fix the body, and cloth and the like for the upholstery. The radio was probably going to be a complete write off unless he was lucky enough to find something to replace it. 

The demon had briefly thought about just using that silvery metallic substance that seemed to be a fix all for everything, but he did not want to sink that much of a precious resource into this— beer, on the other hand, he was more then willing to do it for. Besides, all of this time spent working was giving him a brief break from all the excitement of this place to think of exactly what he was going to do in this damn world now that he knew he was stuck here. 

In the long term, he couldn't see himself doing much other then wandering the sands and killing things, though he remembered something about other gates existing in that white room or whatever it was. Some of them had been guarded though and the lands beyond probably were too, random acts of senseless murder might not go as unnoticed there. 

Short term though? He needed to find some parts and he had no idea of how he was going to do that! Taking a swig of the beer, the demon closed his eyes and attempted to let his mind wander when the sound of a rumbling engine off in the distance brought him back to reality. There was one— wait, no, possibly twovehicles out there. 

Maybe his luck was turning around, after all. 

Chugging what was left of the beer, Dean got up and made his way to the open doorway of the shack, making sure to stay close to the left side of it as he peeked out around it and into the wastes. A small beat-up looking car was leading a rather large truck, one of those old troop transport looking things, and they were heading in his direction. The demon hoped the truck was full of supplies he could use, and if not he could always strip the vehicles of whatever might be useful.

The Winchester remained pressed against the wall next to the doorway while he waited for the vehicles to get close enough to see who was driving, two in the car and only one driving the truck. Only the one not driving the car seemed to be armed with a rifle, which was good for Dean, and hopefully the others didn't have anything more strapped to their sides than a knife or even a pistol.

Reaching down to his side, Dean gripped the hilt of the First Blade, the mark of Cain flaring to life as he did so, and with his other hand he readied his pistol as the two vehicles came to a stop outside of the shack. He waited until the occupants were just starting to exit before he made himself known.

Though, by making himself known, this of course required Dean to put four rounds into the man with the rifle and then drop the driver of the truck with the remaining three. The driver of the car seemed to be in shock only for a few breaths before going for the revolver at his side. Using a burst of speed Dean rushed at him, forcing his blade against the man's throat.

“I was going to joke about taking your stuff or your life, but odds are,” the demon paused to smile wickedly at the man, “I'm just going to take both.”

Before Dean could even make a move the sound of footsteps from inside the back of the truck made him pause. Glaring suspiciously at the man in front of him, he frowned slightly before speaking again.

“This is an actual troop transport, isn't it?” The man nodded in answer to the demon's question. “Well, shit.”

Pushing the edge of his knife into the man's throat, Dean spun around to face the incoming group behind him as the driver slumped to the ground, scarlet blood gushing from the jagged cut in his throat. Dean had no time to make a witty comment as the assembled men and women started to open fire.

They had revolvers, pistols, and was that an actual Winchester rifle? Oh my! Dean's body jerked back and forth as the bullets tore through his torso, arms, and legs before he finally fell to his knees. He started to chuckle quietly under his breath as blazing wounds riddled his body, glancing up at them with his now pitch black eyes, before breaking out into a hysterical laughing fit. Dean wasn't sure if it was that they were out of ammo, or if his little psychotic display had unnerved them, but instead of firing again the woman with the rifle came up and slammed the butt of it down into the demon's face.

It was at this point that everything went black. 



Dean woke up with an uneasy claustrophobic feeling, like something wasn't quite right. He wasn't dead, though he was probably pretty damn close at this point, so it wasn't that. It was the fact that he seemed to be unable to move much, or see, or do much of anything at all, really. In addition, it felt like he was laying down in very tight, enclosed..... OH GOD, THOSE FUCKERS HAD SHOVED HIM IN A BOX AND BURIED HIM ALIVE!

If he had been able to, Dean would have howled in that unearthly voice he seemed to get whenever he was really pissed off, he had escaped from being buried before and he could do it again! Though burying him with his weapons was not the best idea, was it possible they did it in a hurry? Were they that afraid he might jump back up and get them? If he had been able to, honestly, he probably would have. These pressing questions would have to remain unanswered for now, though, as he had better things to do. 

He began to pry at the wood of the crate, trying to find the weakest board and snap it free. He found one, loosed it, and tossed it down beside him. He did this again until the sand started to fill the box, the demon straining upward as he pushed the wooden lid up and started to dig his way out to the surface. 

As he crawled his way further up, Dean could feel his rage building, seemingly getting greater and greater the closer he got to the surface, it was as if it was swirling around inside of him and mixing with the black smoke that now made up his actual existence. His skin began to itch and burn, and not only because of the sand getting into his wounds, as it started to feel like it was breaking apart. His back also began to burn as the flesh seemed to split and something started to grow from the open wounds, pressing against the cloth of his shirts. 

As far as anyone on the surface could tell, the shack and surrounding area was completely empty— that was, until a grasping hand burst through the surface of the sand. The fingers were elongated and rather inhuman, and black smoke seemed to slowly ooze out of cracks in the skin. Soon it was followed by another as a monstrous form seemed to pull itself up from the depths of Hell itself. What was standing there was no longer the Dean Winchester that the Dunes had come to know and despise.

This one was worse.

It wasn't only his fingers that seemed to have stretched out to ungodly proportions but the rest of his arms as well. His skin seemed to be cracked all over, and judging from the smoke billowing from under his clothes, it was almost head to toe, though in two spots on his forehead the smoke seemed to be collecting into horns. The back of his clothing was torn and protruding from his back were two broken wings, the black feathers seemed ruffled and out of place while a majority of them were missing. His eyes were still black as sin, but in contrast to normal this time his pupils and iris were a dark red. 

Scanning the area with a swivel of it's head, it seemed like this new creature was looking for something, most likely something to hunt. Finding nothing, it tilted back it's head and opened it's mouth to let out the most haunting and feral howl a creature possibly could, and if that wasn't enough to unsettle you, the jagged teeth that now filled it's maw probably would.

The sound slowly started to die off and the creature let it's head slump to it's chest as it collapsed to it's knees. Slowly all the supernatural features seemed to recede as Dean reverted back to his ruggedly handsome, if not still completely evil and pissed-off, self. 

He was still badly injured, though, and while it was going to take awhile to heal he needed to get moving. Forcing himself to his feet, the Winchester slowly made his way over to shack, looks like he was going to have to use some Omnillium to fix his ride after all. 

As he entered, Dean froze where he stood. A dry wind blew through the empty building, fragmented dust drifting down and the boards rattling with the powerful desert gust.

It was gone. His car was gone! Those fuckers took his damn car and they were going to PAY FOR IT! He would cut out their throats one by one for this! Looking down at the ground he saw the drag marks of where they had gone about pulling the car out of the shack and to their truck. He then saw tracks leading off, the car and the truck he assumed, though the truck seemed to be digging deeper into the sand and it should be easier to follow at least. 

He was going to hunt these fuckers down and nothing would prepare them for the horrors he was about to inflict 

[Ada Wong]

The steady, silken hum of a finely-tuned engine cut through the grit and pervasive heat of the day like a smooth butter knife. A mirage-like vision glinted, spun along the silvery rims of wheels and a cat’s cradle of luminous steel, and then kaleidoscopically shattered into a deep, rumbling purr.
 
From behind the tinted shades of his sunglasses, Crowley narrowed his eyes at the loosely scattered blasts of sand that swept up alongside his 1926 black Bentley. It had been far too long since he had reclined back against its splendidly cushioned seats, steering off over the proverbial horizon, and it was of immense comfort to him that, even when universally displaced, the intervening, whip-like snapping effect that accompanied turning a simple steering wheel remained exactly the same.
 
Wind gusted against his face as he drove, the gales wheezing around great breaths of dust like a man with a severed windpipe. The folds of his dark clothing turned, wheedled, and flapped about in a parody of wings, coiling waves of heat shimmering across the bronzed landscape. He was just sure that this dastardly sand was eating at his beloved vehicle’s engine, not to mention the thousands of microscopic nicks now peppering the shiny, lacquer-black hood.
 
Just a touch of that Omnilium substance seemed to keep it in prime condition, however, and the demon reasoned that something which could do that in place of any frivolous expenditures of his demonic mojo couldn’t be entirely untrustworthy. And trust it he did, stirring up a big, sweeping arc of furling dust as he drove onwards.
 
After the initial summoning of his car, Crowley had set out to find some precious fragments of civilization and, possibly the most essential of all, a good, strong drink. He hadn’t found either of these things just yet— one settlement appeared to be nothing but a pile of sloppily cobbled together shingles centered around a café while another seemed to have been hit with all the devastating force of an atom bomb. In each of these cases, he had simply canted the wheel and gone hurling back around, weaving his way further and further into the sun-dried wastes.
 
It came as quite a surprise to him when he drew up alongside what looked to be the unspeakably grimy shambles of a hermit’s shack. The building, slouching as it was into the ground with colorless boards splintering threateningly out in all directions like a porcupine, howled lowly as a faint wind blew through it. Yellow eyes gazed upon it dubiously, the serpent’s lips drawn into a thin, brooding line.
 
But, when you have been driving around pointlessly for hours with the sun hammering down upon your neck and dust-filled wind spitting into your face, you’ve gotta get your kicks somewhere. This just happened to be the only way Crowley found that he could.
 
Crowley slid out of the driver’s seat, the Bentley falling uncharacteristically silent under the pooled, cool shadow of the shack. It slanted in an angular way over them, the jutting shapes of rickety boards sending strange, twisted shadows pawing across the lonely dune it was mounted upon. An unearthly silence descended.
 
The man-shaped demon with the sunglasses gave his car a light, sociable pat, as if to assure it that he wouldn’t be gone for long. He then made to slouch towards the shack’s low-hanging entrance to see if anything of interest was skulking about inside.
 
In truth, there was a person skulking about on the other side of the shack, but it can be assumed that they would have had a very different idea of how this meeting would proceed— that is, if they hadn’t been buried alive some odd six hours before. As they clawed their way to the surface out of their own personal pine box, Crowley had just raised his knuckles to rap upon the slightly off-kilter awning.
 
It stands to reason that, upon hearing an unexpected noise such as, say, a car alarm or a police siren or even the hissing bray of a goose, any ordinary person would react. So, the very minute that an ungodly, absolutely ferocious howl sliced through the quiet of the desert with all the secular pointedness of a freight train, Crowley rather hastily withdrew his hand from the shack’s wall, a visibly disgruntled frown passing over his face.
 
At least a dozen alarm bells went off in his head, a perfect chorus of building anxiety and instinctual direction prompting him to stumble a few hazy steps backwards. That sudden flare-up of sound was so unpleasant, so incredibly vile, that not even he could face up to it without quaking a little in dread.
 
Apparently this building didn’t want to be knocked upon. That was fine by Crowley; he would happily take his business elsewhere if it meant dodging whatever nasty bullet was destined for him. With a shuffling step, he backed away from the smattering of loosened boards he had almost slipped through.
 
Today just didn’t seem to be Crowley’s day, however, for someone entering from the opposite side of the building presently caught his attention. And he, by some questionably auspicious twist of luck, attracted theirs.
 
Crowley supposed that the out of breath man standing a good half yard across from him could be considered good-looking, in a harsh sort of way. He seemed a mite squirrelly, his green eyes instantly guarded and scouring the rest of the building for any other signs of life, and he also was wearing at least four layers of clothing, something which Crowley found to be a tad excessive in this heat.
 
A still moment passed. The man’s eyes focused once more upon the unfortunate demon, shuttered to the most outrageous inky black that Crowley had ever seen, and then everything promptly went to hell.

[Dean Winchester]

Dean wasn't sure how long he had stood there, seething as the rage built inside of him at what those jack asses had done to him. It was bad enough to bury someone alive, but to steal his ride, too?

That was just unforgivable.

The more the demon thought about it, the more pissed off he got. The more pissed off he got the more the mark of Cain started to burn, as if the rage it brought on was spreading through his veins. Almost instinctively Dean took hold of the First Blade and all of the anger he was feeling rushed into the weapon as it burst into black and red flames.

As this happened Dean's eyes locked with another's, or at least the sunglasses this oddly dressed man was wearing. Without saying a word Dean started to walk forward for a few seconds before breaking out into a mad dash towards this stranger. The man might have had time to get away if Dean hadn't used some of his remaining energy to burst forward and grab him by the shirt.

“Who are you?” he growled at the stranger, the First Blade inching closer to the man's throat, probably digging in a little more than was necessary. “Where the hell is my car?!”

The stranger's mouth moved but no words were coming out of it, which caused Dean to force the First Blade closer to let the man feel the heat of the flames a bit more.

“Answers. Now!” he demanded in a growl, to which the stranger took a deep breath before letting out a sigh.

“Whoa there friend, I think you need to slow down!” the stranger exclaimed hurriedly, holding up his hands and giving Dean a nervous smile. “I do not know where your vehicle is, but as to who I am, that's simple! The name's Anthony J. Crowley, but my.... 'friends' just call me Crowley. At your service!”

“Crowley? Wait, wasn't your name Fergus or some shit like that?” Dean tilted his head to the side slightly and lowered the First Blade as the flames that surrounded it died down. “This a new meat suit? I liked the old one better.”

“Er, no. What? No, I think you are a bit confused, pal.” The fake Crowley said to him before flashing what Dean would guess was his best 'don't kill me, please and thank you' smile. “You must be thinking of someone else. I'm the Serpent of Eden. Formerly of hell and now current resident of whatever this place is! Trust me, my name is not, nor will it ever be, Fergus.”

The supposed 'Serpent of Eden' frowned upon saying that name, as if he couldn't quite believe it was truly something anyone would willingly let themselves be called.

“Dean Winchester, former hunter and current Knight of Hell.” Dean watched the other demon's face intently, but after seeing no sign of recognition on it, he sighed. “And seeing as how you are not freaking out over it, I am guessing we come from different universes or some shit like that.”

Dean thought it over a bit and then let out a slight chuckle. Two universes and two different Crowleys, how many of them were out there? As he thought this, Dean looked over this Crowley's shoulder and pointed at the car behind him with the First Blade.

“That car over there, huh, is that a Bentley?” Looking at the man Dean couldn't help but smile in appreciation. “That your ride?”

Crowley nodded his answer to which Dean dragged him through the shack by his shirt and to the other side where the tracks of the truck that had dragged off his Impala were.

“Think you could follow that?” he asked before continuing. “They are deep enough so hopefully they will last barring any freak wind storms or whatever.”

“Of course,” Crowley said to him before tilting his head to the side and scratching at his chin, “But I don't see what any of this has to do with me?”

Dean gave the new demon his best 'this is meant to be reassuring but is anything but' grins and let go of Crowley's clothing before giving him a hearty thump on the shoulder.

“It has everything to do with you as you are my new 'best friend' and ride. We are going to hunt these fuckers down.” After saying this Dean leaned in close as his eyes went pure black. “It is either that or I kill you right here and now.”

[Ada Wong]

For a moment, Crowley simply gawked at the guy, cowering pretty obviously in fear or some other emotion that was very much like it. He then scowled, having seemingly overcome his cowardice, and promptly shrugged Dean Winchester’s grip off so that he could put some space between them. It was a lot easier said than done, what with that knife prickling awfully close to his throat, but Crowley managed to do it.

"First off,” he opined, placing a comfortable distance between himself and whatever this fellow thought he was. “First off— you’ll have to ask me to dinner first. And keep your grubby mitts to yourself. I’m not having it.” 

The serpent fumbled a bit, still reeling after being jostled about like he had. He made a valiant effort to recover some of his earlier decorum despite the state of utter disarray it was in, a single eyebrow lilting into a superior curve and a sneer forming upon his lips, but on the inside he was far less collected.
 
A demon! Another like him, but ostensibly different in this wholly fundamental, sly way that he couldn’t even begin to understand. And a Knight of Hell, at that. Wow-ee.
 
Seeming very much like a hellhound that had just been foolishly whacked upon the nose with a newspaper, the man across from him blinked and snarled, his face turning exceptionally unfriendly as his hold on his knife shifted into a white-knuckled grip. Well, too bad. Crowley dusted off his sleeves with apparent distaste, the tinted lenses of his sunglasses sliding down his nose before he righted them with a long-suffering sigh.
 
Crowley was entirely serious about dinner. He wasn’t going to let himself get viciously murdered before he had at the very least enjoyed a delightful little quiche or something. This creature, this ‘demon’, might be swarming with all sorts of hellish intent on the inside, and he might just be the spitting image of a person finely chiseled into a warrior of some repute, but let it never be said that Crowley didn’t have his priorities straight.
 
Still, he was very certain that the other could dance circles around him in combat— besides, someone who could move so absurdly fast, like a swallow darting through a thorn bush, was not a person he would relish making an enemy of. If this man, covered all in grime and dirt as he was, was truly a Knight of Hell as he claimed to be, then it would be even more unwise to do so.
 
“Say,” Crowley said, shifting warily as the other came within polite conversation distance once more. “Why are you all covered in sand? The heat get to you?”
 
Winchester chuckled in a way that sounded more like a croak than a laugh, an almost boyish quality settling about him before a sinister, reminiscing curl that promised very bad things spread upon his lips. “Buried alive. Funny thing is, that’s not the first time that has happened to me.”
 
“Ah,” Crowley hummed, shrugging. He wandered around the side of the Bentley and ducked inside, his voice becoming muffled as he went. “How wonderful for you. I’m sure we can talk all about it in the car. Once you’ve dumped all of that sand out of your shoes, of course.”
 
Of course, the rest of the sand clinging to him would likely remain no matter what Crowley said to him. The demon could almost feel as hundreds of sand granules became irreversibly lodged in the seat as Winchester slid in, and it took nearly all of his willpower and a cheery nonverbal pep talk not to break into hysterics right then.
 
It’s just a few bits of sand. Nothing at all to worry about. Just sand.
 
Crowley’s jaw clenched. The engine purred to life, keening and hot like a live wire; the wind was high and full of electrical crackling, the sky divided into thick, long stripes of gold and russet, as if something just over the horizon were dictating the very movements of the clouds.
 
An oddly nervous glance transpired between him and the cassette player, considering, and then they were speeding off across the gliding desert sands, following the deep set of a tire’s tread. Ever mindful of the languorously growing horizon burning ahead of them, Crowley reached across to fiddle with it only to find that a hand of conflicting interest had beaten him to the punch.
 
Without thinking much of it, he swatted the other demon’s arm away, only proceeding for a half-second more before realizing what he had done. Luckily, the other party seemed just as surprised by this as Crowley was. Like two quarreling gamblers, however, each in turn looked off in a different direction through the sand-splattered windows, for neither knew of the full arsenal the other carried with them.

A warbling tune, long and low and furling up into the sky like a great stream of cirrostratus vapors, all at once burst from the cassette player:

"Don't stop me now— I'm having such a good time, I'm having a ball—"

[Dean Winchester]

Dean was somewhat put off by the way they had both initially went to change the music, and he was about to let his frustration become very well known before an age old words of wisdom played through his mind, 'Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.'

At least the guys taste wasn't too bad, Queen could rock on occasion.

“I swear to god if you play any pop I am going to set this car on fire.” the Knight of Hell muttered, not really directing it to the vehicles driver, but he could tell the other had heard him by the raised eyebrow.

“Oh? And what would you have me play then?” Dean scratched his chin at this and then just shrugged.

“Something classic! Zepplin, AC DC, Guns and roses! Hell, I'd even listen to Bon Jovi at this point!” Dean could tell by the sigh his comment has received that his new found friends tastes might not have exactly lined up, and if that was the case then he was lucky to have gotten Queen out of the mix at all.

Dean looked over and he could see this Crowley's brow furrow, as if he was pondering something, it could have been switching the music or the deep mysteries of the universe. Whatever it was the Winchester would never know as the look passed and then they spent several awkward minutes in silence before the other demon decided to speak up.

“So, you claim to be a Knight of Hell.” Crowley said tilting his head slightly to the side. “I have heard of Dukes, and I think Beelzebub is a prince, but I can't say I have heard of Knights in the ranks.”

Dean growled and opened his mouth to snap at the guy but then shut it and seemed to think about what he was going to say.

“Right, easiest way to explain this is to first figure out where we stand.” He paused only fore a second before continuing on. “In your world how does it all work, the whole demon gig?”

Crowley just shrugged at this.

“I am guessing the same as it is everywhere? We all fell from Heaven after Lucifer's little stunt.” He paused and shook his head. “Some for lesser reasons then others. Why, is it different where you are from?”

“Yes, and also no.” Dean tried to think of the best way to word this. “Lucifer still fell, but everything else that we call demons were all once human.”

“I'm sorry, but I don't quite understand demons in your world were once human?” Crowley just sort of shook his head as he spoke, as if the entire concept was entirely alien to him.

“Yeah, basically Lucy fell and was mad at Dad so he decided to break all his fathers toys.” Dean stared off into the distance as he spoke, a million things going through his mind. “add a few hundred years of torture in hell, sometimes more, and bang! One twisted human soul now fully demonized!”

“So is that what happened to you?” the question was simple enough but Dean had no idea why it irked him so.

“No, while I have been to hell I am a special case.” The demon turned his attention now fully to the other. “You know the story, go to hell and come back only to stop the apocalypse! Find a greater evil and get yourself cursed to kill it. Die, turn demon, the world is your oyster!”

“I have a feeling that there is more to your story then you imply but I will not pry.” Dean thought that this was wise of Crowley to do, but then quirked an eyebrow when the other started to laugh suddenly.

“Something funny?” he asked.

“Yes!” Crowley said with little pause. “Two Apocalypse stopping demons riding together in the desert. What do you think the odds of that would be?”

Dean shook his head but couldn't help but grinning, despite his best efforts this Crowley was slowly becoming the second person he was starting to like in this god forsaken place!



After a few hours of driving Dean had spotted something he wanted to check out and had made Crowley pull over. There was a small camp with two men, roughly middle aged and wearing tattered clothing, not too far off and he wanted to talk to them. They might have seen the truck if it passed by this way after all.  He asked Crowley to stay with the car as he marched off towards the camp.

As he approached the pair, who had been huddled around a fire cooking something that had once been an animal of some sorts, one of them looked up and he just waved at the man. The man just looked at Dean as slowly signs of recognition crept across the strangers face, which eventually lead to complete and utter horror.

So he recognized Dean, huh? This should be good.

“Heya friend, seems like you know me but unfortunately I can't say the same for you.” As Dean was saying this the other looked up and then started to scream. Dean rushed in and forcefully put a hand on his mouth and shushed him before turning back to the other. “So, do you care to explain or are we going to do this the hard way?”

“No! They said three days! We should have had at least three days!” The man started to stammer. “Plus you might not have even come this way! We're just look outs man! Come on!”

Dean just grinned, tightening his grip on the other man's face as he drew the first blade and shoved it right into his captive's chest, the man's screams being muffled against the palm of his hand.

“The hard way it is then.”


Crowley waited by his car, doing his best to ignore the screams, pleas, and other general shouts of horror coming from the direction the Knight of Hell had wandered. Whatever was going on he wanted no part of it, but when it all stopped he couldn't help but look over to see the Winchester brother heading in his direction completely covered in blood.

“I know where we are going now.” Dean said as he got into the Bently, completely ignoring Crowley's look of complete disdain as the blood soaked demon got comfortable in the seat before slapping his hand on the outside of the door. “Well come on! Time waits for no man, or demon, or..... whatever.”

[Ada Wong]

After the little incident at the campsite, Crowley began to feel a tad uneasy. The skies in the distance were growing into gradually more and more pronounced streaks of shattering, ugly color the further they rolled towards them. It almost made him miss the regular old monotony of before, going cross-eyed as he attempted to pinpoint just where one dune ended and another began.
 
A screaming burst of fire seemed to peal out from under the mess of gases and dust intermingling up ahead, only about fifteen short minutes away. The demon watched, morbidly fascinated, as it plumed back upwards in a mushroom cloud of burning haze.
 
Tearing his eyes away from the oncoming storm for but a moment, Crowley turned to face Dean. The other demon appeared to be distracted by something in his lap, a gun or some other similar contraption, and the crimson blood lining his arms still shone from being sticky and wet.
 
“Er,” Crowley ventured, trepidation coloring his voice, and Dean glanced up. “Is that normal?”
 
The Winchester’s eyes slid to the tempestuous horizon, considering and alight with interest. His head tilted a bit, unhurriedly, and his lips plucked up into a daring grin.
 
“Yeah,” he said, returning to the cleaning of his gun. “Happens all the time. Totally not dangerous. We should be through it in an hour, tops.”

Crowley decided to take his word for it. The Bentley sped onward, trailing thick plumes of dust in its wake.
 
---
 
A pocket of congealed air burst, roiling winds interspersed with fiery, spluttering rockets of blackish smoke cycling in waves of heat around them like a cyclone. The Bentley streaks through it, riding the current on a spasmodic stripe of burning rubber.
 
They had entered the storm an hour before. Dean— because he was Dean to Crowley now, not just Winchester, although “pain in the ass” might have been a more suitable moniker— with an unshakeable brand of confidence that Crowley envied and Crowley with a good, healthy amount of shrill hissing as he fought with the steering wheel to keep them on the right track.
 
Their situation hadn’t improved much since that point onward, Crowley feared.
 
Only the barest hints of the trail could scarcely be glimpsed through the wash of sand hurtling against the windshield. At times, it felt as if they were drifting sideways; at others, plummeting from some great, gut-wrenching height. There was assuredly enough tossing about to make even an experienced seaman nauseous. Patches of what looked like charring speckled the steely edges of the Bentley’s front as it tore along, glimmering as the mast of a ship would through an electric corona of St. Elmo’s fire.
 
With a hiss and a buzz that coiled and spun like an expulsion of lightning-rimmed grapeshot, the ash-colored vehicle rose fast over the scalloped curve of a dune, running along for about forty or fifty yards more.  The steering wheel felt warm and slippery as a minnow; a strong smell like that of rotten eggs trailed after it, an eruption as strong as a hundred cannons discharged at the same time spiraling out of sight behind them in a scorching red rupture.
 
Quite suddenly it became very dark, sound exploding like a dozen shells along the metal roof over their heads, and Crowley took this precious lull in flare-ups to turn and scowl at Dean. Only the stark outlines of his lowered eyebrows were visible above his shades, a few traces of unstable light charting his displeased stare.
 
“What?” Winchester guffawed, teeth flashing a bright white in the gloom of the cabin. “You thought I was being serious? Christ, gimme some credit.”
 
Crowley’s scowl deepened as he was made to swerve around a soaring pellet of fire, watching with wide eyes as it rebounded like a ping-pong ball and skittered across the hood. “You said this kind of thing happens all the time!”
 
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d actually steer right into the middle of it just to save a little time. Not that I’m complaining, though— this is some Mad Max shit!”
 
The fallen angel audibly grumbled, baring his teeth as he refocused on the road ahead once more. If it could have even been referred to as such; what had once been a loose track of upturned sand where Dean’s bandits or whoever had been was being swept away by a freak sandstorm, just as Dean had jokingly hypothesized. It’s just peaches and cream, really.
 
There was a brief stutter underneath his tires, like a speed bump or—more plausibly— a rock, and Crowley sharply angled the wheel to accommodate the inertial shift. A brief waft of darkness and howling winds brushed over them one last time, bright and hot, before the tempest withdrew with hardly a sneeze.

They were finally clear of that hellhole, the sky spread out before them in a blissfully serene robin's egg blue.

Crowley slumped somewhat over the steering wheel in relief, his shoulders going rigid once more as he turns to see Dean giving him a lopsided grin, snickering like a person who snickers a lot.
 
“I hope you’re happy with yourself,” Crowley sniffed, straightening up and letting his slanted eyes slide back towards where their path should be. “That was ghastly. Worse than being trapped in a conference with a gassy Beelzebub.”
 
Dean shrugged and scratched the back of his head, still grinning a bit. “Heh. That sounds hilarious.”
 
There were still rust-colored specks of dried blood staining his hands and pant legs, and Crowley made a mental note to never let a blood-stained Dean into his car again. Ever. It would likely take him weeks to get those stains out of the seat.
 
Crowley snorted out an indignant huff. “It really isn’t, if you must know.”