Smoke curled off the devil’s trap like burnt solder. Whatever Crowley had summoned into the warehouse wasn’t going quietly. Chains rattled. Something in the darkness hissed. “This is the fastest way,” Crowley said, flicking his gaze between sigils. “We bind the thing to the host and burn out the excess. Messy, yes. Efficient? Also yes.”

You stared at the unconscious teenager stretched on the floor inside the painted circle. “You torch the host, you kill him.”

Crowley gave you a look. “Collateral damage. Happens.”

“No.” You stepped into the ring edge, blocking the line he was about to finish with powdered angel bone. “We extract. We don’t cook kids because you’re on a schedule.”

Crowley’s jaw twitched. “Move.”

“Make me.” He did. Power cracked, and the containment flared. You barely registered the blast before it threw you backward. Sigils shattered, salt scattered, and metal snapped. You hit the concrete hard, head bouncing, world going white-hot, then black.

Dean came in with his gun drawn and a shout already tearing from his throat. “Crowley! We heard-” Then he saw you. Blood streaked down your temple. Your breathing was shallow. Your body laid twisted just outside the ruined ring. “Hey! Hey-no-no, no, no.” Dean dropped to his knees, skidding across concrete. Hands everywhere: checking your neck, your ribs, pressing his palm to the bleeding cut at your hairline. “Sweetheart? C’mon, talk to me.”

“Oh, do calm down,” Crowley drawled, stepping over a scorched chalk mark. “She got in the way. I warned her. Bit dramatic, she is.”

Dean’s head snapped up. “What the hell happened?”

Crowley shrugged. “I was containing the little problem. She didn’t like my method. We had creative differences. Boom. She’ll live. Stop being such a bloody baby.”

Dean stood up fast and violent. Crowley rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Squirrel, if I’d known you were going to whine like this I should have killed your girlfriend when I had the chance.” Dean blinked once, then he moved. He slammed Crowley back into a support beam so hard rust dust rained down. Blade at his throat. Breath shaking with rage.

“What did you just say?”

Crowley’s smirk faltered but didn’t vanish. “Touchy. Didn’t realize we were labeling things.”

Dean leaned in, blade biting skin. “You listen to me. You don’t touch her. You don’t talk about her. You sure as hell don’t lay her out and then call it ‘creative differences.’ I will carve you down to smoke and salt if she doesn’t wake up.”

Crowley’s eyes flicked past Dean to you. The faintest crease of genuine concern crossed his face before it was gone in a blink. “She’ll wake. Head wound. Nasty knock. I didn’t aim to kill her.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s grip tightened. “Next time, aim away.” He let Crowley go with a shove that sent the demon staggering. Then he was back at your side, fingers shaking as he pressed his torn flannel to your temple and whispered, “Hey, hey, you’re okay. I got you.” Your lashes fluttered. Dean’s breath hitched. “Attagirl,” he said, voice breaking. “Stay with me.”

Behind him, Crowley dusted his lapel and muttered, “Domestic drama. Honestly,” but he didn’t leave.