2.7. Smoke on the Water
A/N: I've been gone a while, I'll admit. Here's this season's catalyst in exchange, enjoy!
The lake was calm, moonlight spilling silver over its surface like melted mercury. Inside the house, the glow of a single lamp cast long shadows along the walls, the quiet hum of night settling in. Crowley lounged in his favorite armchair, fingers wrapped around a crystal tumbler of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid as if it held the answers to something far greater than the silence between them.
Lane stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the water. She had been turning the thought over in her mind for hours, waiting for the right moment to bring it up. Finally, she just said it.
"We should have everyone over."
Crowley lifted his gaze from his glass, eyes flickering with mild curiosity before returning to his drink. "Everyone?"
"Yeah," Lane said, turning to face him. "Sam, Dean, Cas. Hecate, Persephone—hell, even Hades. Just... everyone. A proper gathering. No war, no schemes, just a damn barbecue at the lake."
Crowley exhaled slowly, taking a deliberate sip before setting his glass down on the side table. His expression remained unreadable, but she could see the gears turning behind his eyes.
"A family picnic with the bloody Winchesters and a pantheon of gods. Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear."
Lane smirked, stepping closer. "You know they’re our allies now. And Hades enjoyed the double date, so it’s not like he’ll refuse. We’ve all been running in circles trying to keep the world from falling apart. We could use a break."
Crowley’s lips curled in a wry smile. "A break." He let the word settle in the air between them, considering it.
She could see the moment he accepted the idea—not with words, not yet, but in the way his posture shifted, in the flicker of something almost amused in his gaze.
"Fine," he relented. "But if this turns into an all-out brawl, I’ll be the first to say ‘I told you so.’"
Lane grinned. "Noted. Now, let’s see who’s in."
The first number Lane dialed was Dean’s.
"This better not be a call to tell me Crowley’s holding you hostage again," Dean answered, and she could hear the clatter of dishes in the background.
"Wow, hello to you too," she deadpanned. "And no, I’m not calling for a rescue mission. I’m inviting you to a barbecue."
A beat of silence.
"A barbecue?"
"Yeah. At the lake house. No demons, no hunts, no end-of-the-world crap. Just food, drinks, and catching up."
She could practically hear Dean squinting. "And Crowley’s just… cool with this?"
"Shockingly, yes. Can I count you in?"
Dean hesitated for only a second before sighing. "Fine. But if Crowley poisons the ribs, I’m torching the place."
"Duly noted. See you then."
Next was Castiel.
"Hello, Lane," the angel greeted, his deep voice as direct as ever.
"Hey, Cas. You busy this weekend?"
"No. Why?"
"We’re having a get-together. By ‘we,’ I mean me, Crowley, the Winchesters, and a few divine guests. Thought you might want to join."
"A social gathering?"
"Yeah. You do know how those work, right?"
"Of course. I would be… pleased to attend."
Lane grinned. "Great. See you then, Cas."
Hecate picked up before the first ring finished.
"Finally remembered you have my phone number?" the goddess teased.
Lane rolled her eyes at the reference. "It’s not a social call. Well, actually, it is. We’re having a barbecue, and you’re invited."
"A barbecue? With you, Crowley, and the Winchesters?"
"And Castiel, Persephone, and Hades," Lane added.
Hecate hummed in approval. "You know, I never turn down a good meal."
"Then I’ll see you there."
Persephone and Hades were next, and while Persephone immediately agreed, Hades took a bit more convincing.
"I don’t do cookouts," the god of the underworld had grumbled.
"You do now," Lane countered. "Come on, I know you had fun last time. You and Crowley can sit in the corner and judge everyone together."
Hades exhaled sharply. "Fine. But if there are cheap beers, I’m cursing your liquor cabinet."
"Noted."
With the guest list confirmed, Lane hung up and turned back to Crowley, who was watching her with an unreadable expression.
"Well?" he asked.
She smirked. "They’re in."
Crowley picked up his whiskey again, swirling it idly. "Then let’s see if this little gathering of yours goes up in flames or not."
Lane leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "Trust me, darling. It’ll be worth it."
*¤*¤*¤*
The lake house had never felt more alive. Smoke curled lazily from the grill, the sun shimmered off the water, and the air carried the scent of firewood, meat, and something faintly floral from Persephone’s usual presence. Lane stood on the porch, watching as the first car pulled up the long gravel driveway.
"Here we go," she murmured under her breath.
Beside her, Crowley rolled his eyes but adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves anyway.
"Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself," she teased.
"Oh, I’m positively overjoyed, darling." His voice was dry, but she caught the small smirk tugging at his lips.
Lane just shook her head and walked forward to greet their first arrivals.
The Impala came to a slow stop, and before Dean even cut the engine, Sam was already out, looking around. "Nice place," he admitted, tilting his head toward the lake.
"For a hell house," Dean muttered, though he didn’t sound as bitter as he could have.
Castiel appeared just behind them, hands hanging by the sides of his trench coat. He took in the scenery with an unreadable expression before settling his gaze on Lane. "This is… unexpected."
"What, that Crowley owns property that doesn’t look like a medieval torture chamber?" Lane smirked.
"That, and the fact that we’re all willingly gathered here."
Dean sighed. "Yeah, don’t remind me."
Lane ignored him and instead stepped forward, giving Sam a quick hug before turning to Dean. "Behave."
Dean scoffed. "No promises."
Behind her, Crowley leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "Squirrel, Moose, Feathers—do come in. Try not to ruin the furniture."
Dean rolled his eyes but, much to everyone’s relief, didn’t immediately start a fight.
Not long after the Winchesters settled in—Dean already taking over the grill while Sam eyed the drink selection—the air shifted. A gentle warmth spread through the area, accompanied by the faintest scent of pomegranate and something older, something deep and earthen.
Then, Hades and Persephone arrived.
Unlike the hunters, they hadn’t driven in. They simply… appeared. One moment, the porch was empty. The next, Hades stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his black coat fluttering slightly in the breeze. Persephone, radiant as ever, smiled as she took in the gathering.
"Lane, dear," she greeted warmly.
Lane grinned. "Glad you could make it."
"Wouldn’t miss it," Persephone said before glancing toward the others. "And look at this—everyone getting along. I’m impressed."
Dean, flipping a steak, muttered, "It’s a work in progress."
Hades strode forward, nodding once toward Crowley. "Nice estate."
Crowley smirked. "Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment."
"It was."
Persephone, meanwhile, had already gravitated toward Sam, smiling warmly. "I remember you. The polite one."
Dean barked a laugh. "That’s one way to describe him."
Sam, ever the diplomat, just smiled. "Nice to see you again."
Then, another shift—cooler this time, with an energy that buzzed just beneath the skin. Hecate arrived with a flicker of blue light, stepping onto the porch with a knowing smirk.
"You’re all still standing. That’s a good start."
Lane grinned. "You doubted us?"
Hecate arched a brow. "I doubted them." She nodded toward the Winchesters, then looked at Castiel. "And the angel."
Castiel regarded her with his usual unreadable expression. "I have no reason to cause conflict."
"Let’s keep it that way, shall we?"
Persephone rolled her eyes. "Hecate, must you always make an entrance like you’re walking into a battlefield?"
"It keeps things interesting."
Crowley, watching all of this unfold, let out a slow breath and muttered under his breath, "What fresh Hell have I agreed to?"
Lane smirked, looping her arm through his. "The fun kind."
With everyone finally present, the gathering settled into something surprisingly easy. Dean focused on the grill, muttering under his breath whenever Crowley made a comment about his cooking. Sam talked quietly with Persephone about the nature of gods versus angels, while Hecate and Castiel engaged in a silent, mutual assessment that felt more like an unspoken challenge than an actual conversation.
Hades had made himself comfortable near the fire pit, exchanging occasional glances with Crowley as if still deciding whether he found him amusing or irritating.
"So," Hades eventually said, "how does one go from crossroads demon to King of Hell?"
Crowley smirked. "Hard work. Dedication. A willingness to stab anyone in the back at the right moment."
Hades let out a low chuckle. "You remind me of someone."
Lane, sipping her drink, arched a brow. "Let me guess—Loki?"
Hades sighed. "Unfortunately."
Crowley placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I assure you, I am far more sophisticated than that trickster."
Hecate snorted. "That remains to be seen."
Meanwhile, Dean finally sat down with a plate of food, only to watch in horror as Persephone grabbed a burger—then proceeded to eat it with a fork and knife.
"I—what the hell are you doing?"
Persephone blinked. "Eating?"
Dean gestured wildly. "That is not how you eat a burger!"
Sam sighed. "Please don’t start."
"No, this is important, Sam. This is a crime against food."
Crowley smirked. "I, for one, am enjoying this."
As the conversation spiraled into a ridiculous debate over proper burger etiquette, Lane leaned back in her chair, watching it all unfold.
For once, no one was fighting for their lives. No deals, no betrayals, no looming threats. Just laughter, arguments over food, and the bizarre reality of gods, hunters, demons, and angels coexisting for a single evening.
Crowley caught her looking and smirked.
"Told you this would be a disaster."
Lane nudged him with her knee under the table. "You love it."
He didn’t deny it.
The golden hues of sunset painted the lake in streaks of amber and deep violet, the water reflecting the warm glow of the firepit where the last of the food was sizzling. Laughter and conversation filled the air as the gathering settled into a comfortable rhythm—hunters, demons, and gods alike relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.
Lane was just finishing up a playful back-and-forth with Dean about who had the better grill skills when the unmistakable sound of heavy paws hit the wooden deck.
She turned just in time to see Hecate’s three massive hounds appear at her side, as if they had stepped from the shadows themselves. The goddess stood at the edge of the dock, a peaceful smile on her lips, watching as her companions moved with their usual eerie grace.
Before anyone could react, a sudden blur of motion shot past Lane—Fenrir and Belladonna.
The Dobermans bolted down from the house, their lean, muscular forms moving with excitement as they made a beeline for the lake deck. Instead of barking or hesitating, they immediately greeted Hecate and her hounds like old friends, tails wagging and playful growls mixing with the low, rumbling sounds from the divine beasts.
Hecate let out a small, satisfied hum as she scratched behind Fenrir’s ears. “Such good creatures.”
Sam, who had been mid-sip of his beer, lowered his bottle and smiled. “They really like you.”
Dean was still staring at the massive, glowing-eyed beasts, shifting uneasily in his seat. “Yeah, well, they’re a little different from the dogs we’re used to.”
Hades, watching the entire interaction with an amused smirk, casually added, “I should’ve brought Cerberus.”
Crowley scoffed. “Unfair, really. Juliet would’ve loved this.”
At that, both Sam and Dean gave Crowley identical looks of exasperation.
Sam sighed. “Right. Because your hellhound has been nothing but a joy to be around.”
Dean huffed. “Yeah, Crowley, I’m still real broken up about all those times she tried to rip us apart.”
Crowley, completely unbothered, swirled his drink. “Oh, you two hold the most ridiculous grudges.”
The bickering was interrupted as Belladonna nudged her muzzle playfully against one of Hecate’s hounds, prompting it to give a deep, rumbling sound of approval before nudging back.
Lane grinned at the sight. Her dogs had been training with Hecate for weeks, and seeing them so naturally fall in with their goddess’s pack filled her with a small sense of pride.
Persephone, watching the scene with quiet amusement, turned to Lane. “You truly have raised them well.”
Lane smirked. “Had a little help.”
Hecate met Lane’s gaze, something knowing flickering in her golden eyes. “Indeed.”
As the sun dipped lower, the divine and mortal dogs played along the dock, while their owners—gods, demons, and hunters alike—settled into a rare moment of peace.
As the sounds of laughter and playful growling echoed from the dock where the gods were still occupied with their hounds; Lane, content in the moment, leaned back in her seat, watching as Persephone whispered something to Hades that made the King of the Underworld chuckle.
That was when Sam suddenly tensed, his brows drawing together like he had just remembered something important. Without a word, he pushed himself up from his seat and strode toward the Impala.
Dean raised an eyebrow. “What’s up with you?”
Sam ignored him, opening the trunk and rifling through something before pulling out a small, wrapped package, the edges slightly worn from being stored away for so long. He hesitated for just a moment before turning back and walking toward Lane.
She eyed the package warily. “What’s this?”
Sam handed it to her with a small smile. “Something you should’ve had back a long time ago.”
Lane frowned, carefully unwrapping the package, only for her breath to hitch when she saw what was inside.
Her old hunter’s journal.
The worn leather cover, the slightly frayed edges—it was exactly as she remembered it. She ran her fingers over the familiar texture, a flood of memories crashing into her all at once.
Then
The musty scent of old books and whiskey filled the air in Bobby Singer’s house. Lane sat on the couch, an adrenaline-fueled grin on her face as Bobby wheeled himself over, holding a small, leather-bound book in his hands.
“Well, kid,” he said, voice gruff but warm, “you didn’t die. That’s a win in my book.”
Lane smirked. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Bobby snorted. “Yeah, well, neither was I, but here I am.” He tapped the wheel of his chair before handing her the book.
Lane looked down at it, frowning. “What’s this?”
“Your hunter's journal. You’ve earned it.”
She blinked in surprise. “I—”
Bobby cut her off before she could get sentimental. “Hunters keep records. Not just for the next guy, but for themselves. You’re part of this world now, whether I like it or not, and you’d best start acting like it.”
Lane swallowed the lump in her throat, gripping the journal tighter. “Thanks, Bobby.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved her off, but there was a fondness in his eyes he didn’t bother to hide. “Just don’t go getting yourself killed too soon. I’m not in the mood for another funeral.”
Before she could respond, the front door swung open, and in walked Jody Mills, holding the hand of a small, bright-eyed nine-year-old girl.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” Jody said with a smile.
Sophia.
The moment her little sister saw Lane, she broke into a wide grin and ran toward her.
“Happy birthday, Lane!” Sophia chirped, throwing her arms around her.
Lane barely had time to react before she found herself enveloped in the tightest hug.
She blinked. “It’s my—?”
Jody chuckled. “You really forgot your own birthday?”
Lane opened her mouth, then closed it again. In all the chaos of her first real hunt, of proving herself as a hunter, it had completely slipped her mind.
Bobby sighed, shaking his head. “Damn idjit.”
Now
Lane stared down at the journal in her hands, her heart pounding in her chest.
Sam’s voice broke through the haze of memory. “Happy birthday, Lane.”
She snapped her head up, eyes wide. “It’s—?”
Dean let out a low whistle. “Wow. You really forgot again?”
The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. It was her birthday.
Sam chuckled. “Thought you’d want that back.”
Before she could say anything, a low, unimpressed voice drawled from the side.
“Are you telling me,” Crowley said, arms crossed, “that I have been married to you, been around you for years, and I never knew when your bloody birthday was?”
Dean smirked. “Dude. How did you not know your own wife’s birthday?”
Crowley scoffed, gesturing toward Lane. “Oh, forgive me for assuming my darling wife might actually tell me these things!”
Sam frowned in thought. “Actually... I don’t think you two were ever together on her birthday. Back when you were enemies, she was too busy hunting. And when you finally stopped trying to kill each other, she was still hunting.”
Dean snapped his fingers. “Right! So basically, every year, she was either trying to stab you or off on some case.”
Crowley gave Lane a pointed look. “This is your fault, you know.”
Lane, still holding the journal, finally let out a short laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”
Despite himself, Crowley’s gaze softened. There was something... almost fond in the way he looked at her.
But then, in true Crowley fashion, he smirked. “Well, guess that means I have a lot of missed birthdays to make up for, love.”
Lane arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And what exactly do you plan on doing about it?”
Crowley took a step closer, voice dropping into something smoother, silkier. “Oh, I have a few ideas.”
Dean groaned. “Okay, nope. We are not doing this.”
Sam shook his head. “Yeah, let’s not.”
Lane smirked at Crowley before tucking the journal under her arm. The night air felt lighter now, the weight of old memories replaced with something warmer.
Maybe, for the first time in a long time, she’d actually celebrate her birthday.
Lane barely had time to process the flood of emotions the journal brought before Crowley turned his attention to the Winchesters, his expression shifting to one of pure disdain.
"You know," he drawled, "as touching as this little trip down memory lane has been, I do believe my present will pair rather nicely with that old thing."
With a casual flick of his wrist, a shimmer of dark energy coalesced before them, forming into something solid. A long, gleaming weapon materialized in his grasp—a sword. But not just any sword.
An angel sword.
The blade gleamed with an ethereal silver light, its length longer than a typical angel blade but shorter than a broadsword. The hilt, wrapped in fine black leather, was sculpted with demonic precision, elegant yet deadly.
Crowley flipped it in his hand once before extending it to Lane, the weight of the gesture as heavy as the weapon itself. "Happy birthday, love."
Lane’s eyes widened as she took the sword, feeling the familiar hum of celestial power vibrate through her grip. The balance was perfect.
"Crowley," Castiel's voice broke through the moment, his blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Where did you get this?"
Crowley, ever the showman, smirked. "Oh, Castiel. You wound me. Do you really think Hell doesn’t have its fair share of trophies? Wars have been waged, battles won, angels bested… Hell is a collector’s paradise, really."
Castiel frowned. "You looted it."
"Details, details," Crowley waved him off dismissively.
Dean, still staring at the weapon, let out a low whistle. "Gotta say, as much as I hate to agree with Hell’s Favorite Bastard, that’s a damn fine piece of work."
Sam, ever the cautious one, eyed it warily. "And you’re just… giving this to her?"
Crowley turned his gaze back to Lane, his smirk softening into something more deliberate. "Oh, I'm not just giving it to her, Moose. I'm ensuring my Queen has a weapon befitting her station."
Lane raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t argue. The weight of the blade in her hand, the feel of it as she adjusted her grip, was intoxicating. Deadly.
Dean shook his head, muttering, "Great. Now she’s got a holy sword and a demon at her side. We’re all screwed."
Lane just smirked, twirling the sword once before resting it at her side. "Guess I finally got a birthday present worth keeping." Lane tightened her grip on the angel sword before casting Dean a mischievous glance. "Unless, of course, you wanna give me Baby instead," she teased, nodding toward the Impala.
Dean’s face twisted in immediate, offended horror. "Oh, hell no. That car’s been with me longer than you’ve been huntin’, sweetheart. You think I’m just gonna hand her over?"
Lane shrugged, spinning the sword lightly in her hand. "Figured I’d shoot my shot. Y’know, since it’s my birthday and all."
Dean scoffed. "Yeah? Well, I’m not Crowley. You don’t just bat your eyes and get what you want from me."
Crowley chuckled lowly, stepping closer to Lane and placing a proprietary hand on her waist. "That’s where you’re wrong, Squirrel. My wife gets what she wants because she’s earned it. Unlike some people who are still too emotionally attached to a hunk of metal on wheels."
Dean pointed at him. "That ‘hunk of metal’ has saved my ass more times than you ever have, Crowley."
"And yet, here you are, still breathing, thanks to me more times than you'd like to admit," Crowley countered smoothly.
Sam chuckled. "Can we not start this? It's supposed to be a friendly get-together."
Lane smirked, patting the Impala’s hood as she passed. "Fine, fine. Guess I’ll just have to settle for my fancy new sword."
Dean rolled his eyes, muttering, "Damn right you will."
As Lane spun the sword once more in her hands, a new voice broke through the banter.
"Now that," Hades mused as he approached, eyes fixed on the blade, "is an impressive piece of craftsmanship."
Lane turned toward him, instinctively glancing at Crowley. He met her gaze, giving the smallest nod. With that, she flipped the sword and offered it to Hades hilt-first.
The King of the Underworld took it with ease, testing its weight in his palm. He ran a practiced eye over the blade’s length, tilting it slightly so the setting sun gleamed off its edge. His lips curled in appreciation.
"I've seen similar weapons before, but nothing quite like this," he admitted. "Hephaestus has forged blades meant to strike divine beings, but even his craftsmanship wouldn't match this steel. Hell has some secrets after all."
Crowley smirked, folding his arms. "Of course it does. And I make it a point to keep the best of them."
Hades gave an approving nod before flipping the sword back and offering it to Lane, who accepted it without hesitation. "A fine gift," he said. "Deadly. Efficient. And well suited for a warrior."
Before Lane could respond, Hecate stepped up beside her, holding out her hand. "And what about this?" she inquired, referring to the journal Sam had given her.
Lane hesitated, then handed it over. Hecate flipped through the pages, her eyes flickering with interest as she skimmed past notes and sketches of past hunts. Then, she stopped near the back, where a significant portion of the pages remained blank.
A knowing smile tugged at the goddess’s lips. "So many empty pages," she murmured, running a fingertip along the paper. "But I have a vague idea of what you could fill them with now."
Lane’s brows furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"
Hecate looked up, meeting her gaze with an expression both thoughtful and deliberate. "You have gifts, Lane. More than you realize. And I’d be glad to help you learn how to use them—properly."
The weight of her words settled over the group. Lane didn’t respond immediately, instead tightening her grip on the journal in her hands. Something flickered in her chest—curiosity, maybe even anticipation—but also uncertainty.
Crowley’s gaze sharpened slightly, watching Lane’s reaction with quiet interest. Meanwhile, Hades let out an approving hum. "A fitting offer," he said. "If Lane is to wield power, she should know how to control it."
Lane exhaled slowly, glancing back at Hecate. "I’ll think about it."
The goddess simply nodded, as if she'd already known that was the answer she'd receive.
Dean, ever the one to pick up on things he wasn’t supposed to, squinted between Lane and Hecate. "Okay, hold on—gifts? What gifts?"
Sam folded his arms, glancing at Lane. "Yeah, you guys keep talking like she’s got some kind of supernatural abilities. What exactly are we talking about here?"
In the background, Hades turned the sword hilt-first and handed it back to Crowley, who accepted it with a smirk before making it vanish with a flick of his wrist. Meanwhile, Lane exhaled, shifting slightly under the Winchesters' scrutiny. She didn’t miss the way Castiel had tilted his head slightly, clearly interested but waiting for her to speak.
"It's... telekinesis," she admitted finally. "I've had a couple of bouts of it. I still don’t know if it means anything."
Dean’s brows shot up. "Telekinesis? Like, moving stuff with your mind?"
"That’s the one," she muttered.
"How long has this been happening?" Sam asked, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern.
Lane hesitated for half a second before shrugging. "Not long." She wasn't about to get into the details, especially not about what had triggered it.
Before the brothers could push further, Crowley made a dismissive noise and interjected with his signature smirk. "She’s being modest."
Lane shot him a look. Oh, for hell’s sake—
Crowley turned his attention back to the Winchesters, clearly enjoying himself. "The little minx slapped a door in my face," he drawled, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. "No incantations, no prep, just a flick of power and bam—right in my bloody face."
Dean blinked before huffing a laugh. "Damn, Lane. Didn't think you had it in you."
"Yeah, well," Lane muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. "I wasn’t exactly thinking about it at the time."
Hecate hummed. "That’s often how it begins," she said. "Instinct first. Then control."
Sam still looked like he had a thousand questions, but for now, he settled on a simple, "And you don’t know where this is coming from?"
Lane shook her head.
"Not yet," Hades intoned smoothly. "But she will."
Lane didn’t miss the way Crowley’s gaze lingered on her at those words, his expression unreadable.
Hecate, the goddess of the crossroads, cleared her throat, drawing everyone's attention back to her. A knowing smile played at her lips as she glanced between Lane and Crowley. "I knew this would happen eventually," she mused.
Lane frowned. "What do you mean?"
Hecate’s gaze softened with something close to amusement. "You didn’t think this power just appeared out of nowhere, did you?" She turned toward Crowley. "You, of all people, should’ve known."
Crowley narrowed his eyes, but his silence spoke volumes. He was listening.
Hecate folded her arms and tilted her head. "Think back to your wedding day. To the vows you made, Crowley."
Dean scoffed. "What, the whole 'till death do us part' bit?"
Hecate ignored him, her eyes locked onto Crowley as she repeated his own words, voice smooth and deliberate. "I will never let you feel powerless again. Or something to that effect, anyway."
A heavy silence settled over them.
Sam's brows furrowed as he caught onto something. "Wait—what are you saying?"
Hecate’s lips curled into a knowing smile. "Tell me, boys, how do we seal a crossroads deal?"
The realization dawned on Sam first. His eyes widened slightly as he exchanged a look with Dean. "With a kiss," he murmured.
Dean straightened, looking between Crowley and Lane like he was seeing them in a new light. "No way."
Hecate nodded. "Your wedding wasn’t just a union—it was a pact. A binding contract between Lane and Crowley. And in sealing it, he passed something of himself to her."
Lane’s breath caught in her throat. Her mind raced back to that moment—the warmth of Crowley’s lips against hers, the way the world had felt sharper in the aftermath, like something had shifted beneath her skin.
Crowley, for his part, didn’t immediately deny it. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw tensed ever so slightly.
"You knew," Lane whispered, realization settling in.
Crowley finally met her gaze, something flickering behind his dark eyes. "I suspected," he admitted, voice quieter than usual. "But I didn’t know for certain."
Dean let out a low whistle. "So let me get this straight—when you two got hitched, you didn’t just tie the knot. You gave her a piece of your mojo?"
"More than that," Hecate corrected. "She carries his power now. How much remains to be seen."
Lane exhaled, trying to wrap her head around it. "So this—this telekinesis—"
"Is only the beginning," Hecate finished for her.
Everyone was silent for a moment, the weight of the revelation settling over them.
Then, Dean shook his head, chuckling in disbelief. "Man, you guys really don’t do anything normal, do you?"
Castiel, who had been silently observing the conversation with his usual unreadable expression, finally spoke. His deep voice was measured, contemplative.
"This is… unprecedented."
He stepped forward, his blue eyes flicking between Lane and Crowley as if searching for something unseen. "Demons do not willingly share their power. It goes against their nature. Even in pacts, the power exchange is limited, controlled. But this—" He narrowed his gaze at Crowley. "You didn’t just make a deal. You made her an extension of yourself."
Lane blinked. "What does that mean?"
Castiel hesitated, glancing at Hecate as if considering his next words. "It means your connection to Crowley is more than symbolic. If what Hecate says is true, then you are bound to him in a way neither of you fully understands yet."
Crowley scoffed, his usual bravado slipping back into place. "Oh, don’t sound so dramatic, Feathers. It’s not as if I accidentally turned her into the Queen of Hell overnight."
But Castiel didn’t look amused. His gaze sharpened. "No, but you may have given her the means to become something else entirely."
Lane frowned. "Okay, can we stop talking like I’m some kind of supernatural science experiment? Because I’m still me. Just… apparently me with telekinesis."
Castiel studied her for a moment before nodding. "For now."
Crowley rolled his eyes. "And here I thought this was supposed to be a celebration. My wife gets her very own angel sword, discovers she has a bit of extra juice, and all you lot can do is act like it’s the bloody apocalypse."
Dean snorted. "Yeah, because the last time we dealt with someone getting a bit of extra juice, it actually was the apocalypse."
Castiel’s frown deepened. "I do not believe Lane’s power will lead to destruction. But it does make her a target." His gaze returned to Lane, solemn now. "You should be careful who learns of this, Lane. Not everyone will see your abilities as a gift."
Crowley’s expression darkened at that, his stance subtly shifting closer to Lane. "Anyone who tries to lay a hand on her will wish they’d never crawled out of the Pit."
Lane exhaled, rubbing her temple. "Great. Love that for me."
Hecate, who had been watching with an amused smirk, finally spoke again. "Oh, don’t look so grim, darling. This is only bad news if you let it be. You have power now, real power. And I, for one, would be delighted to help you learn how to use it."
Lane looked at her sharply. "You’d… train me?"
Hecate’s smirk deepened. "I’d be offended if you didn’t let me."
As the conversation turned to super powers, an unnatural chill swept through the gathering. The fire in the grill flickered violently, and the scent of charred meat was suddenly overwhelmed by the acrid smell of sulphur.
The dogs reacted first. Hecate’s hounds and Lane’s Dobermans snarled in unison, their bodies tensed, ears flattened against their skulls. Even Hades looked up from where he stood beside Crowley, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
And then it happened.
The air cracked open—a jagged wound in reality itself—just beyond the lake dock. A swirling mass of black smoke and searing embers tore through existence, forming a gateway. The oppressive heat and sheer force of it pushed the mortals back, forcing Sam, Dean, and Lane to shield their eyes. Even the gods stiffened at the overwhelming hellish aura emanating from the portal.
A single figure emerged.
Tall, draped in flowing, tattered robes black as the void, with molten gold eyes that burned like the very pits of damnation. His skin was ashen, marred with the faint traces of ancient sigils carved into his flesh—binding magic, old magic, magic that predated Hell as Crowley ruled it.
He took a slow, measured step forward onto the dock, his presence alone warping the space around him, distorting the air like heat rising from a flame.
The Emissary of the Lords of Hell had arrived.
Crowley, ever the king, stepped forward, placing himself subtly in front of Lane. His usual smirk was nowhere to be found. Instead, his gaze was cold, calculating.
The emissary inclined his head in a slow, mocking gesture. His voice, when he spoke, was silk wrapped around razors.
"The King of Hell, hosting a mortal feast. How… quaint." His eyes flickered to the Winchesters, then Castiel, and finally, he settled on Lane. His lips curled. "And this must be the Queen."
Lane’s jaw tensed, but she didn’t waver. Crowley’s hand twitched, the only indication that the title being acknowledged made his blood boil.
The emissary continued, tone still smooth but dripping with venom.
"The Lords of Hell have remained patient, Crowley. We've watched your reign with mild amusement, tolerated your... eccentricities. But this?" He gestured vaguely toward the gathering. "This is a mockery. An insult to the natural order. You sit at a table with gods, angels, hunters, and a mortal-turned-witch you dare to call ‘Queen’?"
His voice dropped lower. "You shame the throne you stole."
A silence fell over the group, thick with unspoken tension.
Dean, never one to let a speech go uninterrupted, muttered, "I’m sorry, who the hell are you?"
The emissary turned his burning gaze toward him, unimpressed.
"A harbinger. A voice of the true rulers of Hell." His lips curled into something resembling a smirk. "Unlike your demon king here, I do not need to introduce myself."
Crowley’s voice was dangerously quiet when he finally spoke.
"Then say your piece, and piss off before I decide to silence you myself."
The emissary's smile widened, like he had been hoping for that reaction.
"Very well. Here is the warning, King."
The air grew heavier, as if the weight of Hell itself pressed down upon them.
"Your reign is over. The Lords are rising. We are done sitting idly by while you play at humanity. You surround yourself with mortals and gods, with angels and hunters—weaknesses, all of them. We will burn them from your side. And when you are alone, when you have nothing left, we will carve you from the throne and take back what is ours."
He turned to Lane, his burning gaze settling on her, measuring her.
"And you, little mortal. Enjoy your crown while it lasts. You were a mistake."
Something inside Lane snapped.
Before she even registered the thought, a shockwave of force exploded outward from her, knocking the emissary back a single step—just enough to show that she had power.
Everyone stared. Lane included.
The emissary slowly tilted his head, intrigued. Then, he laughed, a dark, guttural sound that echoed like a death knell.
"Oh, how interesting." He gave Crowley a last, knowing look. "You’ve bound yourself to something unpredictable. Let’s see how that plays out."
And then, without warning, he vanished, the rift in reality sealing behind him.
The gathering stood in stunned silence, the weight of what had just happened settling in.
The air was thick with the scent of sulfur, lingering like the ghost of a fire long extinguished. No one spoke at first. Even the wind had gone still, as if the world itself was reeling from the emissary’s words. The dogs, once bristling with aggression, had settled uneasily at their owners’ sides, though Fenrir let out a low whine, sensing the tension still radiating from Lane.
She hardly noticed. Her hands were clenched into fists, her heart still hammering against her ribs. She had felt it—something inside her had snapped, answering the emissary’s taunt before she had even thought to act. That raw force, that pulse of power that had pushed him back... that had come from her.
Her stomach twisted, and for the first time that night, she felt cold.
Crowley’s voice was the first to break the silence.
"Well. That was a bloody waste of an evening."
His words were light, dismissive even, but his posture told a different story. His usual relaxed stance was gone, replaced by something taut, something sharp. His hands were curled at his sides, his jaw set. Lane could see it—the wheels already turning in his mind, calculating, planning.
Sam exhaled and scrubbed a hand over his face.
"The Lords of Hell." He looked to Dean, who stood stiffly beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "They've never been mentioned before, not like this."
"We need to get back to the bunker," Dean said firmly, still staring at the spot where the emissary had vanished. "If these bastards are coming after Crowley, that means they’ll be coming after us too."
"How reassuring," Crowley muttered dryly, though the edge of his voice lacked its usual playfulness. He turned, his dark eyes landing on Lane.
"You’re not going back with them," he stated, leaving no room for argument.
Lane blinked, her adrenaline still too high to process his words properly. "Excuse me?"
Crowley tilted his head, watching her carefully. He had already measured the damage—not to himself, but to her. The emissary’s words had been chosen carefully, each syllable designed to unsettle, to challenge. And that was what unsettled Crowley most of all. They hadn't just declared war. They had singled her out.
"You’re staying here," he said simply. "With Hecate and Persephone."
Lane bristled, her mind catching up to his meaning. "Like hell I am."
Crowley gave her a sharp look, but before he could retort, Hecate stepped forward, resting a hand lightly on Lane’s shoulder.
"He’s right," the goddess said, her voice calm, but firm. "You have power inside you, Lane. It awakened the moment you lashed out. That means the Lords will take an interest in you."
Persephone nodded, her gaze softer, but no less serious. "They’ll want to test you, see if you’re a threat—or worse, something they can use."
Lane swallowed. "Then all the more reason for me to fight."
"Not until you’re ready," Hecate countered smoothly. "Which is why we’ll train you."
Lane exhaled, resisting the urge to argue. Part of her hated the idea of standing still while there was a war brewing, but another part—the part still reeling from what she had just done—knew they were right.
Crowley watched her, reading her expression like an open book. He had spent years analyzing, manipulating, and predicting human reactions, and he knew this was the only way she'd stay put.
"Think of it as a tactical advantage, darling," he murmured. "Train now, kill later."
Lane narrowed her eyes at him, but before she could respond, Sam turned back to Castiel.
"Can you get us back to the bunker?"
The angel, who had been silent until now, nodded. His blue eyes had been locked onto Lane for the last few minutes, a flicker of thoughtfulness buried beneath his usual impassive gaze.
"There’s something else," he said suddenly, drawing the group's attention. "What Hecate said... about your wedding vows."
Lane stiffened beside Crowley, and for the first time, the King of Hell let out an audible sigh.
"Must we bring this up now?" he drawled.
"Yes," Castiel said firmly. His gaze flicked between them. "You passed part of your power to her. It was not just a union—it was a crossroads pact. A deal."
Dean let out a low whistle. "Jesus, Crowley. You didn’t even tell your own wife you were giving her demon upgrades?"
"It was an accident," Crowley muttered. "A side effect, at best."
Lane turned to glare at him. "A side effect?"
Crowley pursed his lips. "Not my fault you lot don’t read the fine print on deals."
Sam, ever the voice of reason, sighed. "Fine. But if the Lords know about this, then Lane’s power is going to be a bigger target than even we realized."
Hades, who had been watching quietly, suddenly spoke up. "That means she needs to master it. Quickly."
His words carried a weight of finality, one that no one argued with.
Crowley turned back to Lane, his gaze unreadable. He had wanted to keep her out of this, to keep her untouchable, but that possibility had burned away the moment the emissary spoke.
They were all targets now.
"I need to go," he said abruptly.
Lane tensed. "What? Where?"
Crowley exhaled. "Hell."
The weight of the word settled between them.
Lane immediately shook her head, stepping forward. "Alone?"
Instead of answering, Crowley turned to Hades, extending a hand.
"Interested in an alliance? They'll be coming after you next."
The King of the Underworld considered him for a long moment. Then, without hesitation, he grasped Crowley’s hand and shook it.
"We stand together."
And with that, in a sharp crack of energy, Crowley was gone.
Lane stood there, staring at the empty space where he had been.
She inhaled slowly. Then exhaled.
Something told her trouble was already coming—whether she wanted it or not.
The moment Castiel vanished with Sam and Dean, the air felt noticeably thinner, as if the looming weight of impending war had been carried away with them. The night was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. The lake reflected the warm glow of the fire pit, flickering gently as though nothing had changed. But everything had.
Lane folded her arms, exhaling. "Well. That was a hell of a dinner."
"A feast fit for an impending apocalypse," Crowley quipped dryly, but there was no real venom behind it.
Hecate hummed, plucking a roasted marshmallow off the plate beside her. "Oh, I don't know. I thought it was rather lovely. Excellent food, wonderful company, a bit of dramatic foreshadowing... what more could one want?"
Persephone smirked at that, lounging back against the deck railing with Hades beside her. "It’s not a proper gathering until some shadowy threat declares war on us."
Hades chuckled, lazily running a hand up and down Persephone’s arm as she leaned into him. "Is this a common occurrence for you lot?"
"More than you’d think," Lane replied.
Crowley, seated beside her, draped an arm over the back of her chair without thinking, fingers brushing absently against her shoulder. "You lot attract trouble like moths to a bloody flame. And I’m married to the brightest of them all."
Lane shot him a look but leaned into his touch instead of pulling away. "Was that a compliment? I can't tell."
"Oh, darling, I’d never be so obvious," he murmured, his hand tracing absent circles against her skin.
Hecate sighed, stretching lazily. "Well, since we're all going to be working together, we might as well get comfortable. No sense in brooding over what’s to come when we could be enjoying the present."
Lane arched a brow. "You saying we should just relax? After that?"
Hades chuckled, his arm tightening around Persephone as she settled against him. "She's saying that if the world insists on throwing chaos our way, the least we can do is enjoy the calm in between."
"I like that philosophy," Persephone agreed, giving Lane a knowing look. "Besides, if you’re going to start training, you’ll need your strength."
Lane sighed, finally letting her shoulders drop. The night had taken a turn, but that didn’t mean she had to let it ruin everything.
"Alright, alright," she relented, shifting slightly—and Crowley, instead of letting his arm fall away, pulled her in with easy familiarity. She settled against him without a second thought.
"Somebody pass me a drink. If we’re taking a moment to breathe, I want to do it properly."
Crowley smirked, flicking his fingers. A glass of whiskey appeared in her hand.
"Now you’re speaking my language, love."
She took a slow sip, and Crowley leaned in, murmuring something low against her ear that made her snort. He was still Crowley—sharp, irreverent—but the way his thumb idly traced the bare skin of her arm, the way she fit against him so naturally, spoke volumes.
The tension didn't disappear entirely, but it loosened its grip just enough. For tonight, at least, they could pretend the world wasn’t about to go up in flames.
*•*•*•*
The moment couldn't last forever.
The fire pit still crackled, casting flickering gold across the deck, but the conversation had slowed, weighed down by the unspoken understanding of what came next. Crowley and Hades would have to leave soon. Hell’s court would be restless, suspicious, eager for blood. If Crowley was going to maintain his throne and forge this alliance, he had to act fast.
Hades exhaled, then turned to Persephone, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. "I won't be long, my love."
"See that you aren’t," she murmured, her hands resting lightly against his chest. Her gaze softened, but there was steel beneath it.
He dipped his head to press a lingering kiss to her lips, thumb brushing her cheek before he finally pulled away.
Nearby, Crowley’s fingers skimmed lightly over Lane’s wrist before he caught her hand entirely.
"You sure about this?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Oh, my dear, it’s hardly my first power struggle," he said smoothly, but the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable.
"Still," she muttered, tightening her grip on his hand for just a second longer.
"Miss me already?" he teased, smirking as he leaned in, voice low and smug.
Lane rolled her eyes. "I don’t know, maybe I just want to make sure my investment doesn’t get himself killed."
"Sentimental," he murmured before pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her lips, softer than anyone watching would expect. When he pulled away, he let his fingers trail down her arm before finally stepping back.
With a flick of Crowley’s wrist and a shift in the air, both he and Hades were gone.
A moment passed before Hecate sighed, stretching her arms overhead. "Well, now that the brooding husbands have gone off to wage war, shall we tidy up?"
Lane groaned, rubbing her temples. "Gods, you sound like Sam."
Persephone smirked. "He’s got a point sometimes. I’ll help you bring in the dishes."
Together, they gathered up the remains of the barbecue, moving between the deck and the kitchen with practiced ease. Lane had to admit, it felt strangely normal—mundane, even—to be stacking plates and wiping down tables after a night like this.
Hecate, ever observant, leaned against the counter, watching Lane carefully. "You realize, now that Crowley’s off playing politics, we can get started properly."
Lane glanced up, tossing a damp towel into the sink. "Started on what?"
Hecate arched a brow. "You. Your gifts. We’ve seen them manifest when you’re pushed, but power is far more useful when you can control it."
Lane hesitated. She’d barely had time to process the fact that she even had powers, let alone the idea of training them.
Persephone, setting down the last of the silverware, smiled lightly. "No pressure, Lane. But we are here to help."
Hecate stepped forward, tapping a fingernail against the wooden cutting board still resting on the counter. "Start small. Move this."
Lane exhaled sharply. "That’s not how it’s worked before. Every time something happened, it was—"
"Reactive," Hecate finished. "I know. But magic isn’t just instinct. It’s will." She stepped closer, her voice turning softer, more instructive. "Breathe. Focus. Picture the board moving—not just as a wish, but as a certainty. Command it."
Lane frowned but did as she was told. She set her hands at her sides, took a slow breath, and stared at the board.
Nothing happened.
She exhaled, frustration creeping in. "I don’t think—"
Clatter.
The board jerked suddenly, skidding an inch across the counter.
Lane blinked. Hecate grinned.
"Well, would you look at that?" Persephone mused.
Lane huffed. "That barely counts."
"You’re thinking like a human," Hecate said, stepping back. "And I mean that in the nicest way possible. You’ve spent your whole life following the laws of physics. It’s hard to just... let go of that."
Lane glanced down at the board again. It had moved. Not because she was scared. Not because she was angry. But because she wanted it to.
That was new.
Persephone picked up the dish towel, slinging it over her shoulder. "Come on, you’ll get the hang of it. We’ve got plenty of time before the boys come back."
Lane exhaled, shaking her head. "I still don’t know what to make of all this."
Hecate smirked. "That’s alright. You will."
*•*•*•*
The house was quiet by the time Crowley returned. The scent of charred wood and lingering smoke from the barbecue still clung to the air, but the chaos of the gathering had long since settled. The gods had retired for the night, and the only sounds were the occasional creaks of the house settling and the distant chirp of crickets outside.
Lane had just finished wiping down the last countertop when she sensed him. It wasn’t the rush of sulfur or the sound of footsteps—just a shift in the air, something unspoken yet unmistakable. She turned just as he materialized in the doorway, looking as composed as ever, but she could see the weight of the court’s affairs in the tightness of his jaw.
"You’re back," she said, setting the rag down.
"Miss me?" he smirked, but there was an edge of something warmer in his tone.
Lane wiped her hands on her jeans and stepped forward, grinning. "Actually, yeah. And I have something to show you."
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell, darling."
Without a word, Lane flicked her gaze to the empty glass on the counter and willed it forward. The glass trembled slightly before sliding a few inches toward them. It wasn’t much, but it was controlled. Deliberate.
Crowley’s expression shifted in an instant.
Pride. Not just amusement, not just admiration—pride. It gleamed in his eyes, in the way his lips parted slightly before curling into something deeper, darker.
"That’s my girl," he murmured.
Lane barely had a second to react before he was on her.
Crowley’s hands caught her waist, pulling her flush against him as his lips ghosted over her ear. His breath was warm, teasing. "You have no idea how bloody proud I am right now."
Lane shivered, feeling the heat of his hands through the fabric of her shirt.
His lips trailed down her neck, slow and possessive, and she barely managed a breath before he shifted, pressing her back against the counter with a deliberate slowness that sent a thrill down her spine.
"Crowley—" she started, but the way he looked at her made her words falter.
"You just keep surprising me, pet," he murmured, voice rich with something that sent a wave of heat through her. "And I think it’s about time I show you exactly what that does to me."
His lips crashed onto hers, all heat and hunger, and Lane barely had time to wrap her arms around his shoulders before he lifted her onto the counter, his hands firm on her thighs.
And then—
We’ll leave them to it.
