Author's Note: I know I said this story was done, but I got a bunch of lovely reviews that inspired me to solidify all my Crowley/Nell post-story headcanons into a small epilogue. Hope you enjoy. I also plan to publish an alternate ending to this story as a separate work, which will be not at all fluffy.

Nell's mother liked Crowley immensely. This in turn amused Nell immensely, because her devout Catholic mother had no idea that the man her daughter had become involved with was over 300 years old, and that he hadn't been a man at all for much of that time, but a literal demon from hell.

Nell's mother didn't know that, of course. As far as Helen McNamara was aware, Crowley was a forty-something English expat who made his living selling rare books and had excellent taste in suits. Nell suspected that it was mostly the accent that had won her over.

Nell's father and brother had been less thrilled by the apparent ten-year age difference between the two of them, but Crowley had managed to charm them eventually, once it became clear that he appreciated Nell for who she was, and that Nell was not simply the latest and youngest in a stream of younger women. Nell had been relieved when she'd seen her father and brother relax and open up around Crowley, and had resolved to never let them find out just how vast the gap in their ages actually was.

All of her family was also under the impression that Crowley's name was Anthony J. Crowley. Nell could not bring herself to call him Anthony, or worse, Tony, but she couldn't exactly go around calling him Crowley in front of her parents when they all thought it was his last name, instead of the mononym it was. She settled for avoiding calling his name at all in public, and using endearments like darling and my love when she had no other choice.

Nell had questioned the name when Crowley had told her about it that day in her kitchen, talking about the future over coffee, him in his suit and her still in pajamas.

"Not Fergus?" Nell had asked, raising an eyebrow at the new addition to his demonic moniker. Not that she would have wanted to call him Fergus, either. Anthony was a better name than Fergus, but to her he would always be just Crowley.

"Never." Crowley had grimaced, clearly having similar feelings about the merits of the name Fergus. Then he'd sobered a bit, muttering into his coffee. "Now that I'm human, I do want to at least attempt to be a good man… Fergus MacLeod wasn't."

Nell had hummed in acceptance, stomach warm with fondness and love and contentment. For all that she wasn't a vampire anymore, she thought that the feeling of relief, of completeness, at having Crowley sitting across the table from her was no less satisfying than it would have been before, when her emotions and instincts had ruled her so much more strongly.

She didn't push the topic of his prior name, or his prior life. Instead she asked curiously, "Why Anthony?"

Crowley had looked up from his coffee, smile half-mocking, half-anxious. "You don't think it suits me?"

Nell didn't think any other name but Crowley could ever suit him, but she didn't say so. She set aside her gut feeling and just looked at Crowley, trying to put aside what she knew about him, to see if she could map the name Anthony to his face. It fit alright, she thought. It wasn't perfect, but it would serve.

"Anthony's the patron saint of lost things," Nell remembered aloud, watching for Crowley's reaction. His smile turned a little self-deprecating.

"Yes," he agreed. "And of lost souls."

"I suppose it does suit you, then."

They had decided many things that day. They decided that, if anyone asked, Crowley would be Anthony J. Crowley, rare book dealer. This was not even untrue, Nell learned—Crowley had amassed a large collection of rare and valuable books and objects over his centuries as a demon, and he had taken it all with him when he'd left Hell behind. Now, he was content to sell what he didn't need or want, and to search out more rare and wonderful information. He spoke of all these plans almost lustfully, and Nell thought she understood. The plan was a combination of many things Crowley loved: knowledge, power, and sales.

She had no doubt he would excel at it.

"Speaking of Hell," Nell had said when that matter had been settled. "If you're not in charge there anymore… who is?"

Crowley had smiled at the question, mean and delighted all at once. He'd leaned far forward, and Nell had leaned in, too, to hear him say with relish, "Gabriel."

Nell had stared at him, puzzled.

"Like, the archangel, Gabriel?" Crowley nodded. "I thought he was dead?"

"As did I," Crowley had agreed, leaning back in his chair. "Until I did a great purge of all the dissenters in Hell and rummaged through all their things. Upstart little Prince of Hell called Asmodeus had him all locked up, using his grace like a battery. Not that it was enough to beat me, of course."

Crowley looked very satisfied with himself. Nell asked with raised eyebrows, "And you just let him go?"

"Not at first, no," Crowley admitted. "As long as I was still the King I was perfectly happy not to have the last surviving archangel mucking about. But once I decided to give it up…" Crowley shrugged, then smiled darkly.

"We were able to come to an agreement. I wanted to leave Hell behind, and to make sure the demons in it would suffer, but not under a leader who might actually cause any trouble on Earth," Crowley explained, and then watched as Nell nodded to show that she was following his reasoning. He continued, "Gabriel, meanwhile, has spent most of his existence on Earth giving bad people just desserts—he's the perfect choice, really."

"And the demons are just… okay with that?" Nell was deeply skeptical that anyone in Hell would accept the leadership of any archangel but Lucifer.

"Oh, I'm sure they'll be quite cross if they ever find out." Crowley sounded far more amused than worried by this prospect.

If they find out, he said. Which meant… Nell furrowed her brow. "Who do they think is ruling Hell, then?"

"Asmodeus." At Nell's slightly lost look, Crowley shrugged, looking completely unconcerned. "He is the Trickster."

Nell decided to trust in Crowley's confidence on the matter. They went on to decide that the two of them had met in a bookshop while Nell was traveling on her road trip, and that Crowley had persuaded her to let him buy her coffee, despite Nell's better judgment. They decided that it was best that they maintained separate residences, at least at first. And then they decided that they had decided enough for one day, and retired to Nell's bedroom to continue their reacquaintance without words.

It was surprisingly easy to adjust to life with the human Crowley. During the day, they went their separate ways, Nell to a newly-acquired accounting job and Crowley to various and sundry destinations in search of books or artifacts. In the evening, they would go to dinner, or see some live music, or relax in Nell's apartment.

Crowley was different, of course. He was human, now, fully human, not just straddling the line like he had been before. He was softer, in some ways. More openly emotional, easier for Nell to read, and with fewer of the dangerous, volatile mood swings Nell had once become used to. But at the core, he was still the same, still himself. He was still incredibly intelligent, with a sharp tongue and wicked humor. He was still unabashedly flirtatious, and still embraced his desires with an unselfconscious passion that most regular humans seemed to have trained out of them over time.

Nell knew the transition was complete the day Sam and Dean called. Nell had answered her cell phone quickly, simultaneously pleased to receive a call from the Winchesters and wary that they were probably about to ask her for a favor. And they were calling for a favor—but not from her. When she'd asked dryly what they needed this time, Sam had hemmed uncomfortably.

"We were actually hoping, uh—" Sam cleared his throat, then said hopefully, "Is Crowley there with you?"

Nell had handed Crowley the phone, and then watched his end of the conversation with avid interest.

"Moose," Crowley had greeted with lazy warmth. Nell wasn't sure if this was due to his actual feelings toward Sam, or because both he and Nell were still lounging in post-coital relaxation on her bed. Crowley's fingers danced along her skin and down her spine as he listened to whatever Sam was saying on the other end of the line. After a long minute, Crowley grumbled.

"Do I sound like Bobby Singer to you?" Crowley had griped. But then he'd gone on to provide clipped, sarcastic answers to whatever questions the Winchesters had for him, and ended the call after simultaneously insulting their intelligence and warning them not to get themselves killed.

Nell had never met Bobby Singer, but from her knowledge of the Supernatural books, she thought Crowley was doing a fairly good imitation.

And that call was only the first, of course. Once the Winchesters realized they once more had a walking supernatural encyclopedia who was only ever one short phone call away, they often called Crowley whenever they were in a bind or couldn't make it back to the bunker to do more research. Crowley mocked them and snipped at them, but Nell could tell that he rather enjoyed providing the information, if not for the purpose of helping the Winchesters, then to show off his own vast amount of knowledge. He liked to have his greatness acknowledged.

There were other changes, too. Though Crowley had never had a true need for food or drink as a demon, Nell had seen him enjoy human food and expensive scotch often enough while he was high on human blood. Now, Crowley consistently enjoyed food, but very carefully did not enjoy drink. Nell had not noticed this at first—she hardly had fine scotch to offer him at her home, and assumed that it was simple preference that had him declining the beer or glasses of wine she offered him on occasion.

She'd eventually gone out and procured a bottle of scotch she thought the man would enjoy, thinking little of the gesture when she passed it to him to render judgment on her selection. Crowley had held the bottle in his hand, jaw clenching and eyeing the thing with simultaneous longing and revulsion. Then, he'd pressed the bottle back into her hands.

"It's best I don't."

Nell had been prepared, at worst, for a lecture on the inferiority of the label she'd selected. This reaction she had not anticipated. She had wrapped her own fingers around the neck of the bottle with puzzlement and concern before it finally clicked.

"You don't drink at all anymore, do you?"

"No." Crowley had swallowed hard, a noise audible even to Nell's dull, human hearing. "I am an addict, by nature. You saw me…" He trailed off, gesturing with one hand to silently indicate, You know, that time I abducted you and was high on injections of human blood for weeks.

"I remember," Nell had said softly.

"And before that, I was a roaring drunk." Crowley's lip curled, eyes a little distant with self-loathing. "A mean drunk. So, like I said… it's best I don't."

Nell had nodded slowly, and then turned to tuck the bottle at the back of a kitchen cabinet. She might re-gift it to her father or brother at Christmas, or even push it on the Winchesters, if they ever visited. Then Nell had turned to look at Crowley over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

"You're not worried about becoming addicted to sex, are you?"

He wasn't, and he proved it to her there against the kitchen counter.

Months later, Nell watched as Crowley amused her niece and nephew with small feats of magic. Nell's brother and his wife were out celebrating their anniversary, and when they heard their children's excited babbling in the morning they would likely assume that Crowley had simply demonstrated some magic tricks and slight of hand for the children. They would never guess that Crowley was amazing them with real magic.

Eventually the children's eyes began to droop, and Nell herded them off to bed. When she returned to the living room of her brother's house, Crowley was still seated on the couch, frowning deeply at an ancient-looking roman coin he'd produced from behind Ellie's ear.

Nell settled in next to him and watched him watch the coin for a long moment before finally asking quietly, "What is it?"

Crowley pursed his lips at the coin. "I had a son, once."

"I remember," Nell said, although until he'd said it, the thought hadn't really crossed her mind. It was still difficult for her to wrap her head around his life as Fergus MacLeod. It seemed so distant.

"I was horrible to him," Crowley said, still frowning at the coin as he flipped it across his knuckles.

"You weren't horrible to them," Nell said, nodding toward the staircase the children had taken up to bed just a short while ago. At Crowley's unconvinced look she added, "You're a different person now."

"Am I?" Crowley stopped flipping the coin, clutching it in his hand as he turned to look at her with bright eyes. "I was human then, and I'm human now. What's the difference?"

Nell narrowed her eyes at him, wondering if he was being serious or if he was being deliberately stupid.

"What's the difference? Between a drunken seventeenth century Scottish tailor and you, the powerful and intelligent 300 year old ex-demon witch?" Nell didn't actually list the difference, believing she'd sufficiently made her point. She lifted her hands to either side of Crowley's face, caressing his stubbled jaw gently. "I love you. I believe in you. I would not have you if I believed you would ever hurt me, or—children."

Nell had paused involuntarily on that last word, and Crowley, clever as he was, did not fail to notice it. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and then widened with disbelief.

"You want children," he realized, eyes still wide. When Nell did not move or otherwise react to these words he continued, voice climbing upwards, "With me?"

Nell sighed through her nose. This was not the way she'd wanted to have this conversation. Still, she admitted, "Yes. I do."

Crowley's jaw hung silently for a moment. Then he said, sounding genuinely uncomprehending, "Why?"

Nell wasn't sure if this was a reaction to her desire for children, or her desire for children with him. She suspected it was the latter.

Slowly, calmly, she explained, "Because I love you, and I want kids, and I would very much like to have yours."

Crowley swallowed hard again. He had the same sort of longing repulsion on his face that he'd worn when Nell had presented him with the bottle of scotch. "And if I said no?"

Nell hadn't thought about it much. She hesitated. "Are you saying no?"

Crowley stared at her for a long moment. He opened his mouth, then he hesitated, as well. Finally he said, sounding a little lost, "I don't know."

Nell studied him carefully, trying to read his expression and posture. She couldn't make anything of it—he was experiencing too many conflicting thoughts and emotions for Nell to get a read on what he was thinking.

"You can, if you want to," Nell said carefully after a minute. At Crowley's slightly blank look, she clarified, "Say no, that is. I'm not going to leave you if you don't want children."

There was very little that would make Nell give Crowley up again, having lost him once already. Murder, maybe, or hurting the Winchesters or her family. But she didn't think he'd cross such lines again.

"But you do want children." He said it as a statement, but it came out a little uncertain.

She did. She wanted children, and she very much wanted to have them with Crowley. She wanted to raise them and watch them grow, children with her wild, dark curls and their father's too-knowing, mischievous smiles. But if she had to choose between the idea of children and the reality of Crowley...

Nell stroked Crowley's jaw and held his eyes, so he could see the truth in her gaze when she vowed, "I want you more."

The uncertainty in Crowley's face vanished. He smiled and pulled her towards him, and the two of them necked like teenagers on her brother's couch until Will and Katherine finally returned home from their anniversary date to find their children sound asleep in bed and Crowley and Nell looking thoroughly rumpled, with swollen lips and unapologetic smiles.

More months passed. Nell and Crowley gave up the pretense of not living together, and Nell's apartment slowly became more and more cluttered with dusty books in ancient languages and occult items of all sorts. Nell began to think seriously about purchasing a house somewhere with more storage room and a dedicated library, where she wouldn't have to explain to landlords about protective sigils that had been scrawled on walls and doors. There was already no chance she would be getting her security deposit back on this place.

Things were not always perfect. Crowley did not understand the appeal of Nell's job, and would often make faces or snide comments when she left for work or had to stay late. Nell could understand how accounting could seem incredibly boring compared to magic and occult research—did understand, in fact, because that was precisely why she liked it. Plus, it was a steady paycheck, which was important because she, unlike Crowley, had a family and government documents which would notice things like her not having a job or suddenly not paying taxes. While Nell was content to let Crowley continue his off-the-radar existence and probably-illegal business, she had no desire to become involved with it herself.

Nell did find herself learning more about magic and the supernatural, though. Partly this was through osmosis, absorbing knowledge in bits and pieces whenever they came up in conversation, but partly it was her own curiosity, poking through the books and artifacts Crowley left lying around. It was what he was interested in, and Nell wanted to understand it, at least a little.

Overall, their disagreements were rare. Time passed, Crowley and Nell's lives intertwining together with surprising ease. Nell's personal theory behind the peaceful balance they slipped into was that they were reaping the benefits of a very tumultuous start to their relationship. After all, when their first meeting involved Crowley bleeding into Nell's mouth and completing her transformation into a vampire in the dungeon of a secret society's hidden underground bunker, disputes over the proper way to load a dishwasher seemed much smaller in comparison.

On a lazy Sunday morning in October, the two of them rose late and lingered beneath the covers, relishing in sleep—a luxury they'd both been denied, until the success of their respective cures. The sun was well-up when Nell eventually rose and padded into the kitchen, groggily preparing a French press of coffee for the two of them. Crowley emerged as she was depressing the plunger, looking rumpled and utterly relaxed, and hummed a low noise of appreciation and contentment when Nell handed him a steaming mug of coffee.

Crowley accepted it, and sipped it, and watched her carefully over the rim of the mug. Voice still rough from sleep, in the casual tone he might use to suggest they go out to dinner, he said, "Marry me."

Nell's eyebrows rose, and she held her coffee mug towards her chest with both hands, trying to decide from the look on his face whether Crowley was being serious, or just groggy and very pleased with the quality of the coffee. Crowley watched her carefully, but without tension, still leaning against the kitchen counter in his disheveled sleep clothes. Nell decided he was being serious.

She hummed and sipped her own coffee, thinking over her response. Crowley watcher her throat move as she swallowed. Finally Nell asked, in the tone of one who had agreed to go out to dinner and was now suggesting a destination, "Would you wear a kilt?"

Crowley grimaced, then said firmly, "No."

"Mm." Nell sipped her coffee again. Smiled. "No, then."

Crowley stared at her, looking caught between offense and uncertainty. "Oh, come off it," he said dismissively, "You're not serious."

"And you are?" Nell asked, since she still wasn't 100% certain.

"Deadly," said Crowley, and Nell smiled.

"That, I did know."

Crowley stood there and waited. "Well? Do I have to get down on one knee? Because I will, if I have to."

He made as if to set down his coffee and do the deed, but Nell shook her head at him. "Don't. I'll marry you," Nell said, and then waited to see the satisfaction alight in Crowley's eyes before adding, "Kilt or no kilt."

Crowley scowled at little at the teasing, but pulled her towards him anyway. Against her lips he said firmly, "No kilt."

They eloped. It was the easiest option—neither of them were religious, for obvious reasons, and Crowley did not technically exist in the eyes of the government. There would be no getting married in either a church or a courthouse. Any ceremony or union the two entered into would have no religious or legal purpose. It could only ever be symbolic, an unenforceable civil contract.

This did not deter Nell in the slightest. She had no faith in God or government, but in Crowley's word, when he gave it, she had the utmost faith. Crowley, after all, kept his agreements. This aspect of his nature had not changed, and Nell thought it never would. It was too ingrained in him, soul-deep.

They went together to the Grand Canyon where it had all started a year ago, as Nell desired. There, they handfasted under Halloween moonlight, as Crowley desired.

It was almost funny. In all the time Nell had known Crowley when he was a demon, she had never made a true deal with him and sealed it with a kiss. But this deal between the two of them, the most sacred contract two humans could commit to, she was happy to make, and to seal.