"You know, we could fly and be there in less than half the time," he remarked as he stowed his duffel in the trunk of the Impala on the morning of their second day on the road.

"Or," Dean replied before he slammed the trunk shut on their luggage and the arsenal hidden underneath, "we could not fly and not worry about getting half our gear through security."

Fair point.

"We'd make better progress on literally any major highway," he argued hours later as they moved along some podunk back road lined on either side with fields and one-traffic-light towns.

"I make better progress when I'm not staring at the same set of tail lights for hours on end," Dean argued back.

Fine, so maybe the scenery was a little better than what the interstate offered...sometimes. It still ate up more of his existence than he cared for. It was insulting, really, to go from teleporting from one side of the globe to the other, to needing to stop and gas up before crossing certain states only to pull over for the night halfway through the journey.

"Would it really kill you to get on a plane once in a while?" he asked after their journey finally saw them parking outside a high-rise in a reasonably sized city. Their first interview was with a wealthy heiress whose father robbed his own bank two days after he dropped dead of a heart attack, and according to the address in Dean's hand, she lived on the top floor.

"I don't trust planes," Dean groused. "I trust my Baby, and she's never let me down."

"Trains, then? Something, Dean. Think of it. Time, efficiency, fossil fuel and emissions, save even more than the innocent public."

"Don't listen to him, sweetheart," Dean said over his shoulder as they walked away from the car. "He's just cranky that he can't pick the music."

"Well, while we're on the subject…" Crowley muttered.

"If I'm going anywhere," Dean insisted, "my Baby is taking me. And no commentary from the peanut gallery about going faster is going to convince me otherwise."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Fine, then. When we're done with this case, I'm taking a cab to the airport."

"You know what? You do that. You enjoy the delays, and the crowded terminals, and the bad food, and the kids that keep kicking your seat or the lady in front of you reclining back into your personal space or the guy snoring and farting next to you, and Baby and I are going to enjoy the open road, just the two of us. And you know what?"

Crowley turned to Dean, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Dean drew out the answer far longer than was necessary, clearly relishing the fantasy in his head. "I'm...going...to love it."

"Honestly, Dean, I worry you'd love it too much," Crowley replied. "And rather than tag along as a third wheel, I'd rather fly home and leave the two of you to your…" He paused for consideration, then finished. "Fascinating affair."

Dean's brow furrowed for a moment, then he rolled his eyes with a grimace. "You know, I'm not even gonna ask…"

Crowley smiled and they entered the building. It was everything he expected it to be on the inside: sleek and pretentious without an iota of elegance.

"I suppose you want to take the stairs," he remarked as they crossed the lobby, "given your commitment to the path slowest traveled by."

"Actually…" Dean thought it over, then gave a pleasant smile. "We should take the elevator. Why go slower than we have to every time?"

Crowley raised his eyebrows in surprised amusement. "Oh, indeed? Without the slightest fuss? I didn't expect such character development." They reached the elevator and he signaled it, then stepped inside the car and stood aside to let Dean on.

Dean made to follow as Crowley hit the button for the top floor, then ducked back out. Crowley did a double take, then started forward. "Dean! What the hell are you--"

"Race you to the top, smart ass," Dean replied with a sly grin as the door slid closed and the elevator began to move.

Crowley threw his hands in the air, exasperated, then leaned back against the wall of the car. What, was he going to take another elevator?

Bloody Winchesters.

A soft ding sounded and the car shuddered to a halt, called to a stop on the second floor. The door opened and he stood aside to let the newcomer in, but the hallway revealed itself to be empty. Crowley glanced out just in case, and there was no sign of anyone at all.

The door slid shut again and the sudden motion of the car nearly threw him off balance as it resumed its journey up, but he recovered and returned to his place against the wall. He should have known by now that taking shots at Dean's precious car was a surefire way to ruffle his feathers, but was Crowley to blame if Squirrel made the business of feather ruffling so bloody easy? And was it too much to ask that they shave some time off their commute once in a while? He was prepared to argue his case again, but that damned fool had jumped ship at the last possible moment.

He snapped out of his reverie as the elevator stopped again. He heaved a sigh and let his head fall back against the wall and the door opened, but there was no sound of anyone getting into the car. He lifted his head and frowned slightly, in search of whoever called the elevator, but there was only silence.

His eyes narrowed and the elevator began to move. A glance at the readout above the door told him he was on the third floor out of fifteen, and he would already be nearly to the top if it wasn't for--

The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. 

"Oh, for the love of--" He broke off with a huff of annoyance, folded his arms, and tapped his foot. A sneaking suspicion introduced itself in his mind, and it was a stupid, childish, ridiculous idea, but so very Dean…

When the elevator stopped at five, he leaned out far enough to listen, but there was no sign of the bowlegged menace. At six, he could almost hear retreating footsteps in the distance. At seven, he distinctly made out labored breathing and heavy footfalls, and it became more and more obvious. Dean was running the stairs and calling the elevator on every floor.

At the ninth floor, he leaned against the wall beside the call button and bent nearly double as he gasped for breath by the time the elevator stopped. Crowley slid his hands into his pockets and raised an eyebrow at him. "Can I give you a lift?"

Dean didn't seem to have the air to answer.

"I don't know how long it's been since you ran stairs, Squirrel, but if you pass out halfway to this interview, I'm going to leave you here and talk to Little Miss Heiress on my own, then maybe pick you up on the way back down."

A dismissive wave was the only reply.

Crowley put out a hand to hold the door open. "Dean," he said sharply, "get in the bloody lift."

Dean rolled his eyes, but got onto the elevator.

"Stubborn arse," Crowley muttered. They made the rest of the trip to the top floor uninterrupted, leaving precious little time for Dean to catch his breath and plenty of time for Crowley to roll his eyes and shake his head at the absurdity of it all. They paused outside the heiress' door and Crowley smoothed his hands over the wrinkles in Dean's jacket, straightened his tie, and gave him a pat on the cheek. "Given the varying states you continually put yourself in, you clean up rather nicely," he remarked. "Have I ever told you that?"

Dean blushed slightly and knocked on the door.

"It's remarkable, you know," Crowley said as they left a quarter hour later. "You ran nine flights of stairs and winded yourself so severely you nearly lost consciousness, but you didn't even break a sweat."

"I don't sweat under any circumstances," Dean scoffed as he called the elevator.

"Is that so?" The elevator arrived and they stepped on, and Crowley added, "I seem to recall you were a bit hot under the collar a few nights ago when, in quite the role reversal, I wasn't moving fast enough for you." He glanced sideways just in time to see Dean shift awkwardly and swallow hard, and he grinned to himself. "How long did I keep you on the hook? I'm afraid I lost track of time, I was so entranced by the way you whimpered, squirmed, and begged--"

"I don't beg, either," Dean cut in gruffly.

"Not in so many words, darling, but trust me, there wasn't a single, glorious inch of you that wasn't desperate for that sweet release I just wouldn't let you have. From the way your toes curled, to the tension in every muscle, to the twitch and throb of your swollen, needy, much-abused co--"

Dean grabbed him by his lapels and forced him back against the wall. He leaned in until there was only a scant inch between their faces, and Crowley could smell the morning's coffee on his breath. "You know, you've been running your mouth an awful lot the last few days," he said, low and serious, "and I'm getting kinda tired of it."

Crowley looked from those plump, perfect lips to those Disney princess eyes, and down to the fists clutching his jacket. "And manhandling me in a lift is your solution? Come on, Dean, you know I'll enjoy it too much."

"Not hardly," Dean replied. "I'm thinking we should finish this hunt, get you somewhere I can go as slow as I damn well please, and we see how long it takes until you're begging for it."

Crowley smiled. "Well. You certainly know how to get a girl's attention, don't you. But you forgot one thing."

"Yeah? What's that?"