A/N: This is my first SPN fic (also, spoilers), and considering I wrote it in about 45 minutes (with spoilers) and posted the next morning (SPOILERS), I really like it. And in case I forgot to mention, there are season 9 finale SPOILERS in this.

And yes, this was literally my first reaction to the end of the episode.

Chapter: Crowley's New Religion

Crowley didn't believe it. Or rather, he did believe it, and that was the problem. The Winchesters had screwed the pooch once again—spectacularly might he add, what with the squirrel going demon shaped and setting off on a blood soaked rampage the likes of which old Lucy could only dream—and once again it was the Winchesters laughing over the pile of their enemies' corpses.

Which all went rather far as to explain Crowley's recent attempts to win or woo a place for himself at their side. The brothers might use people up and spit the bodies out chunky, but at least the useful ones had a better than average chance of popping back up from beyond the grave.

And of the many things Crowley prided himself on, being useful was at the tippy-top of the list.

But this… this was going far even for the boys that made Apocalypses cry for their mummies. It was getting to the point that Crowley was starting to get ideas about coincidences and bloodlines and dramatic irony.

From his spot in one of the bunker's more comfortable recliners, his respectable reading piled by his side, he watched the goings-on with an emotion bordering precariously on awe.

For their part, the Winchester brothers—plus the obligatory adoptee angel—couldn't be bothered to notice. Dr. Sexy was on.

To be clear, the season finale of Dr. Sexy was on. This was serious business. Dean, in the middle of the sprawl of oversized limbs, was sitting on the edge of his seat, knees pressing hard against Sam and Castiel's, hands clasped girlishly over his face, eyes riveted on the screen. To the best of Crowley's knowledge, Dr. Something had just turned down Dr. Whoever's proposal because she was sleeping with her lover's best friend's mother. Apparently it was moving.

Sam was another story—one which Crowley knew all of the unfortunate, gory details of. By which he meant Crowley had been forced to watch as Sam had been forced to watch an endless marathon of the ridiculous programme by Dean's side whilst the elder was held in the dungeon. The captivity had been a mad attempt to postpone the squirrel's blood-lust and rage-fuelled slaughter of anyone and anything that got in his path. Or not so mad, as it had worked.

Or rather, they had found something that worked. To stop the baser urges of the greatest Knight of Hell. That, and it bared repeating, worked.

At Crowley's best guess, the moose had formed a mental defense very like Stockholm syndrome toward the titular character. And as a recent convert to the Dr. Sexy way of life, he seemed to be set on making up for lost time through pure enthusiasm.

For the lad's next birthday Crowley was getting him a Dr. Piccolo shirt—he had a feeling it would win him a frankly unsettling number of points.

Castiel, as per usual, looked equal parts confused and like he was just happy to be included.

But the Winchester puppy-pile on the couch was only half of what held Crowley in such a state.

If he wasn't off his mark, the other bit, the part that calmed the savage Knight of Hell, would turn up just about—

"Hey," Dean called without moving his eyes from the screen. "Go get me a cold one, would ya?"

Crowley, showing more good-natured subservience than he had at any other time in his existence, obligingly rose from his chair to shuffle off to the fridge. Within moments he was back with a cold mason jar in hand, condensation wetting his fingers. By the time he reached out to hand the container over it was warm to the touch. Body temperature just about.

Tasted better that way apparently.

"Thanks," Dean muttered as he took a distracted sip. He licked at the red smear the jar had left on his lip before sighing contently and propping a foot on the coffee table.

The First Blade, abandoned there since the start of the programme, clattered noisily to the floor. The Winchester huddle paid it no mind.

Sam did manage work up a bitch face at his brother's table manners though. "Really, Dean? You're going to scuff the wood, you ass. And don't slurp my blood right next to my ear, you pig, it sounds disgusting."

"Yes, Dean," the angel chastised dutifully, "you should use a straw and take care of your furniture."

"Ugh," the second coming of Cain groaned as he pointedly sunk deeper into the couch without moving his foot. "What's even the point of being a demon if I can't ruin a dinner party?"

The moose rolled his eyes, put upon. Castiel seemed more inclined to take Dean's side—big surprise there—and joined Dean in leaning back. Or maybe he just wanted a cuddle.

And Crowley? Crowley continued his quiet vigil and scanning through his text. The Winchester Gospel made for a surprisingly good read.

Notes:

But no, really you guys, it's gonna happen.

Also, I tried really hard to get Crowley's voice right. I think I did a pretty good job, but I'd love feedback. :)

(The very talented Lunar_Mischief will be coming out with another post-s09 Demon!Dean fic soon. Go check it out!)