Crowley x Reader
*Continuing from "From Hell He Came…" Note: this fic takes place at an indiscriminate time during the Supernatural story arch because I have missed entire seasons of the show and not watched it consistently in a long time. The reason for that being that I have been so swamped because I like overloading myself until I blow up into bits of confetti. Sounds bad, but it's actually a pretty cool party trick.
There was something the boys didn't know about you. It was one of the few things that you kept to yourself. Sometimes, you liked to write poems. Being a hunter, you didn't have many reasons to think about things like poetry or literature, but occasionally you did just that. Ever since your second encounter with Crowley, your mind had been unsettled, and you found solace in ganking as many monsters as you could, but also, secretly, in your poetry. It became a more and more prominent part of your day-to-day life.
The air was cold today. Cold, dry, crisp even. It was mountain air, and you took it deep into your lungs, as you stood over the burning bones in the unearthed grave before you. You were just clearing up a pretty straightforward haunting in a small town nestled within the Appalachian mountains of West Virginia.
The graveyard was on a ledge overlooking the east end of Scotstown; old, abandoned, and overgrown, the precarious pathway up had been hard to navigate in the dark, dead of night, but somehow you'd managed, toting a sawed-off shotgun loaded with rock-salt ammo. Thank God you'd burned the bones before that hillybilly spook caught on to what you were doing. You really didn't feel like a fight. Now, the sun was rising, and the job was done. And you were cold, standing there, watching the morning creeping on. The sky was a deep, dark, thick blue, the stars seeming to shine all the brighter and more furiously now that their reign was coming to an end. You sighed, shivering as you watched your breath smoke out in shaky wisps from between your lips.
"Time to go," you muttered to yourself, picking the shotgun up from the rough, rock-littered ground. You carefully picked your way back down the path, slipping on some loose stones along the way and scraping your hands when you broke your fall. "Ah, dammit," you growled, looking at the bloodied and dirtied faces of your palms. You grabbed the shotgun gingerly from where it had clattered in the dirt when you'd fallen, grunting as you heaved yourself up, making it the rest of the way down without further incident.
Stumbling into your room at the Chunky Gal Inn (no shit, that's what it was called), you face-planted onto the bed and passed out. When you next awoke, your hands were throbbing and you had three missed calls waiting. Two from the boys and one from your mother. You groaned, dropping the phone onto the bed and stomping into the bathroom. Wincing a little, you ran hot water over the cuts and scrapes on your hands, flushing bits of rock and dirt out of the wounds. You felt like some sort of boxer, wrapping your hands afterward, as you did. The injuries weren't really that bad, but band-aids wouldn't stay on unless you held your hands open at all times, which would be a pain in the ass. So, bandages it was.
You glanced at yourself in the mirror, frowning slightly and fixing your hair to your satisfaction. You went back into the bedroom and picked up your phone, dialing your mother's number. "Hey, mom," you said softly, when she picked up. As her only child, she was understandably concerned for you , especially considering your occupation, which she reluctantly permitted you to pursue, knowing full well she couldn't stop you. Ever since Sam and Dean had come to your small town to gank that flamboyant vamp, Gascard and inadvertently uncovered your hunter heritage on your mother's side of the family, your whole world had turned upside down. This wasn't the sort of calling you personally were capable of ignoring. However, you still kept in contact with your mother on a consistent basis. It kept you grounded.
After you said goodbye to your mother, you called Dean, who picked up after the first ring. "Hey, Dean-o, don't you know it comes off as desperate if you don't let the phone ring at least three times before you pick up?" you said with a smirk. His gravelly voice crackled over the phone, while your signal fluctuated in and out.
"Very funny. Where are you?"
"Scotstown, West Virginia. Bobby Budd, the trigger-happy spectre. Job's done, but I was thinking of taking in the sights. You know, all those scintillating mineshafts and exciting snake-charmers," you droned sardonically. "Oh, and all the eligible mountain men a woman could hope for. I'd love me a man who stinks of the lamp!" Finally you heard Dean let out a reluctant chuckle.
"Alright, alright, Chuckles. Enough goofing around. We need your help with a job. You got a pen and paper?" he asked. You glanced around you, spotting your journal and favorite mechanical pencil. You had a slightly unhealthy obsession with office supplies, particularly mechanical pencils. You'd just recently begun collecting mechanical pencils of all different sorts, but your favorite was a green one with a tattered grip and 0.9 lead.
"Yeah, go ahead," you replied, pencil hovering over a blank page.
"Okay, we're in Lacoshua, Michigan at a motel called the—" He paused and sighed. "Called the Horny Moose Motel." You frowned and stopped writing momentarily. Then you snickered.
"The Horny Moose Motel, Dean? Really?" you asked incredulously, as you burst out laughing.
"Shut up! It was cheap and low-key," Dean retorted petulantly.
"Dean, I don't understand. Why is she laughing?" said a very familiar voice.
"Shit! Cas, what are you doing? What have I told you about personal space and just appearing out of nowhere?" Dean cried out.
"Which question would you like me to answer first?" Cas asked. Dean groaned.
"None of them. How soon do you think you can be here, _?" Dean asked.
"Uh, give me a second. I'm still calculating my route. Oh, looks like 64 is blocked by an over-turned tanker. Recalculating, recalculating, recalculating—"
"Put a cork in it, smart-ass. Cas, don't touch that—please, _, just tell me you can be here soon," Dean said, sounding exasperated.
"I'll be ten hours probably. Where the hell is Samelina?" you asked.
"He's at the coroner's office, checking out the bodies again to see if we missed anything. Just hurry. I'll see you soon," he said, hanging up.
You rolled your eyes and dropped the phone and the journal, falling back on the bed with a huff. Staring morosely at the ceiling, you pouted and whimpered like an upset puppy. "I don't wanna drive for ten hours just to work another job! Meh!" you yelled at no one in particular. You didn't expect anyone to answer.
"Then don't go, love."
You shot up and were about to scream (because, well, reflex), but a hand pressed over your mouth. The bed shifted as someone sat down behind you. Your heart was in your throat, as the hand slid from your mouth and trailed down your spine, resting on the bed. You turned to glare at Crowley. "Don't you assholes know how to knock? That's why doors were invented. I mean like, imagine all those kids who would have walked in on their parents doing it without doors to protect them. Or all the people who would have walked right in on the guy spewing his guts into the toilet during the party because there was no door to stop them. So, doors. Use them. As in, knock on them, wait an appropriate few moments for a response, depending on the circumstances surrounding the knock, then enter if you receive the go ahead. That's a little something called etiquette. And for a guy who probably wears Westwood suits or whatever, I cannot imagine that this is really a foreign concept to you," you said, taking a deep breath, as you'd begun to run low on oxygen. Crowley quietly watched you rant with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow.
"While you make some valid points, I have to be honest with you, love. I am a gentleman, but I am also a king. Of Hell, no less. I'm not going to start knocking any time soon. Anyway, I've got an interesting proposition for you. Instead of going and hunting some inane creature that will probably regurgitate, excrete, or ooze some unpleasant smelling substance that won't wash out of your hair for weeks, wouldn't you rather go see the Coliseum? The Eiffel Tower? The Louvre?" He observed your wide-eyed expression with something akin to smugness.
"Do you even have to ask?" you sputtered, breaking into a huge smile. Then your face fell. "But I can't just abandon the boys. Dean sounded pretty harassed. What if whatever they're hunting kills them or something? I know that'd be like Christmas for you, but I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to them, when I could've been there to help them." Crowley rolled his eyes, but smiled good-naturedly.
"They've survived a lot worse than what they're hunting now. Plus that daft angel's there to help them. They'll be fine. So let yourself have a little fun. Let your hair down. Metaphorically speaking," he said.
"How do you know what they're hunting?" you asked, narrowing your eyes and pursing your lips. He chuckled softly, scooting a little closer and leaning towards you. You refused to be intimidated by his presence, holding your ground, though just barely. You had the absurd urge to giggle because you felt so awkward having your faces this close together.
"You should know I have eyes and ears…absolutely everywhere," he said in a stage whisper with that deep, almost rough accent, as he gave you a quick once over.
"Uh-huh, well, so does Mycroft Holmes, who I have fantasized about in the shower. A lot. So, excuse me, if I'm not impressed," you responded sweetly with a smug smile.
"Oh, really? So you do have a thing for men with power? Good to know." He winked, while you worked your jaw. He had you there. A lot of your fantasy crushes were men with considerable power, much to your chagrin, and most of them had bad attitudes. Mycroft, Loki, Moriarty, Spike, Rafael Barba, the Master (Doctor Who), Hannibal (one of your most shameful ones), Michael Fassbender in almost every role he'd ever been in…and the list went on from there. "I wonder what that says about you as a person," he mused, chuckling.
"It says nothing, absolutely nothing. So hush your face and keep my name outcha mouth," you said hastily, crossing your arms and looking away. He grinned. Before he could say something else to embarrass you, you turned back to him and added, "As far as places I'd like to see…well, I've always wanted to go to Innsbruck. Y'know, in Austria. I've heard it's beautiful. What with the Alps right there and all." Your eyes took on a sort of dreamy quality as you imagined the colorful buildings and the cold, rolling river with the unfathomably grand mountains rising into the sky, capped in bone white veils.
"Mm, good choice. Bit unexpected. But then that's so like you," he commented dryly. You rolled your eyes.
"Oh, and you would know?"
"I'm a fast study, love." He fell quiet for a moment. "Well! Innsbruck it is then. Get your things together and we'll be off. I'd recommend bringing a coat."
You gave him a funny look, glancing down at the pea coat you were already wearing over your hoody, but opting not to comment. You threw your journal and pencil into your sleek back-pack. There wasn't much more to grab. Everything else you owned was either in your merlot red 1969 Cheverlot Camaro that sat parked outside or in the safe house you'd wrangled with the help of a couple other like-minded hunters. You called Dean to tell him you were having car trouble and would be delayed for a day. He was disappointed, but not devastated. "Alright, Mr. Crowley, I'm ready to go!" You skipped over to him nervously, trying to look confident and cheery. He gave you a knowing smile and suddenly he was yanking you towards him, arm around your waist. You stumbled, bracing yourself against his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his suit vest, as your face burned bright pink. You fixed your gaze on his silk, crimson tie shyly. He brushed a stray hair away from your face, forcing you to look at him.
"I thought you'd never say that."
Suddenly you were no longer standing in your room at the Chunky Gal Inn, but in the middle of a street paved with smooth, grey stone. Tall buildings encroached around you, many of them painted a faint, pleasant yellow. The air was crisp like the air you breathed during your lone vigil over the hillbilly's grave the night before, and your eyes opened wide like an owl's eyes, trying to take in everything at once. It was gorgeous, and the new contours that greeted your sight were sharp and sizzling with a fresh energy. It took you a moment to remember that you were standing in the middle of the street in Crowley's arms. A little, well-dressed, old woman was passing by on the sidewalk and glanced over at you two, smiling kindly. "Oh, young love. That is so sveet." Your mouth hung open, before you protested.
"Oh, no! Um, we're not—we aren't…" you trailed off, as she continued on her way, oblivious to your stuttering. Your mouth fell open again, while you watched her walk down the street.
"If it wasn't so cold here, I'd say you were likely to catch flies gaping like that," Crowley said, bringing your attention back to the situation at hand. You pulled away, clearing your throat.
"Well, yes, thank God for small miracles," you joked.
"Come along then, love," Crowley said suddenly, walking over to the sidewalk. You followed him over, and he gallantly offered you his arm, which you took cautiously, interlocking yours with his and walking in step with him.
You spent the day exploring old town, looking through curious little tourist shoppes and countless head shoppes, where you made Crowley laugh with your commentary on which pipes and bowls you liked best and why. You'd picked up one bowl made of glass, which was carved into the shape of a howling wolf next to a wood surrounded lake. "This one really matches my aura, what do you think?" Crowley had smiled, picking up a pipe carved into the shape of a naked Venus.
"I don't know. It's a little rustic. This pipe, however, I think would complement your 'aura' very well. Much more sensual." You'd cracked up, unable to contain your giggle fit.
"Ricky Ricardo from 'I Love Lucy' had a sensual aura. I'm about as sensual as that hillbilly spirit I ganked in West Virginia." Crowley had shaken his head, smirking at you.
"You're the most absurd woman I—" he'd broken off, laughing, though not unkindly.
Later you stopped at a café to get something to eat. You opted for a light fare because you wanted to save room for the beer. Yes, das Bier. You were not disappointed. Crowley enjoyed observing your enthusiastic response when you tried it. "Sweet-angel-sighs-above, that's amazing—and so smooth!" you exclaimed, ogling the half-liter glass of weiss Bier. "I think I'm in love." Crowley scoffed.
"Well, that was fast."
"Hey, when you know, you know. Besides, it's easy to love this beer. People come and go, often pissing me off as they pass, but beer—beer done well that is—could never piss me off," you said with a swashbuckling grin.
"Oh, well, that's nice. You're very cynical, you know," he said, taking a sip of his scotch.
"Well, if I am, I have my reasons," you retorted, simpering.
"Oh? Sounds like there's a story there."
"More than one," you said, laughing. "And I really haven't been alive that long, so I can't imagine how many stories an old man like you must have."
"Hey! I like you, but I'm still a demon. I'll do horrible, demony things to you if you don't watch it. And besides, most of my stories are fairly gruesome anyway. Not good table talk, sweetheart."
"Oh, c'mon! I'm a hunter. Not to mention, I have morbid fascinations. You know I once watched a youtube video of this guy going through all seven stages of lanthrax poisoning," you said, completely full of shit and paraphrasing Zevran's line from Dragon Age.
"Lanthrax? I've never heard of it…"he said, eyeing you skeptically.
"Really? Evil guy like you? I'm surprised and a bit disappointed really. It's very nasty stuff," you said, straight-faced and sipping your beer, feeling a strong buzz setting in.
"Oh, what bollocks. You're completely full of it!" he cried. You giggled giddily.
"Why, yes, I am. But messing with you is too much fun."
"I can promise you that you won't be feeling that way for long," he threatened.
"Ha! I regret nothing. Besides, I'll feel how ever I want to because I do what I want, and everyone can suck it," you said matter-of-factly.
"Well, you'll hardly make any friends with that attitude."
"Please, most everyone else is either an asshole or an idiot or both, so why be friends with them? I don't need many friends anyway," you said smugly.
"Then why be a hunter? Going around fighting evil and saving people?"
"It's in my blood, and I talk a lot of shit, but just because people are jerks or stupid doesn't mean they don't deserve a chance to live their lives. People aren't generally all that bad, I guess. Doesn't mean I trust them, but I certainly don't hate them or wish them ill," you explained.
"In your blood?"
"Oh, yeah, on my mom's side."
"But not your father's? Did he know?" You were surprised that Crowley was making these sorts of inquiries. They seemed so personal.
"No, not on my dad's. I don't think he knew. At least, mom never mentioned him knowing. My mom wanted out of the life, but it kind of followed her anyway. My prom date had gone outside for a smoke, and I went out to check on him. I saw him chatting rather intimately with an older guy and watched them leave together. It struck me as fishy, so I followed. Turned out he was a gay vampire named Gascard, and he ate my prom date. This vamp looked a little too settled for my liking, so I busted in there and almost got eaten myself. Sam and Dean were in town hunting him and came in just in the nick of time. So, I grab this huge shard of glass from the floor and—well, you can guess the rest," you said ruefully.
"So, your prom date…turned out to be gay?" Crowley asked, humor twinkling his eyes.
"That's what you got from that story? You're a horrible listener," you said, laughing. "And anyway, the saddest part is that he kissed better than my first boyfriend, who actually wanted to kiss me." Crowley cackled.
"That is sad. I suppose I don't have to ask what's the best snog you've ever had," he said, winking obnoxiously.
"It's true. Mycroft Holmes really gives a good snog, even if it's only in my mind. Of course, we do a lot more than snog the way I imagine it," you said, smirking for all you were worth.
"You are an evil woman—and hard-hearted!"
You waggled your eyebrows and finished your beer. "I know." You'd already finished eating, and settled back in your seat, looking at the surrounding plaza, watching the people pass by, feeling the urge to write something about it or about the way Crowley looked. He looked good, as usual. You glanced at him occasionally from the corner of your eye. He watched you through narrowed eyes. "Let's take a walk along the river side," you said, moving to stand. "How do we flag the waiter down for the check?"
"Oh, don't worry about that. I know the guy who owns the place. Well, the demon who possesses the guy, who owns the place," Crowley said, standing up and walking back into the street. You tactfully tried to ignore that remark, though the hunter in you screamed to go and exorcise that demon ASAP. Strangely enough, Crowley didn't set off your senses like that at all.
You strolled along the Sill River arm-in-arm with the King of Hell, pondering what on earth you were doing here. You liked him. You were painfully aware of that. You'd even been writing poetry about him. 'Eyes like God had spilt fine scotch across the sky,' was how you had described the color of those charming orbs. Heat rose to your face just thinking about it. Crowley must have recognized the flash of embarrassment that had run across your face. "What is it?"
"Eh, it's nothing—just bad poetry," you said awkwardly. He stopped moving turning to look at you curiously. He gave you a pointed quirk of the eyebrow and you groaned. "My bad poetry. Some of it sprung into my mind and just the thought of it was—gah!" You shook your head.
"You write poetry?"
"Well, yes, but it's no good. It's just that I have a lot of thoughts is all," you mumbled, staring at your shuffling feet and feeling mortified.
"Now, that, I have no trouble believing," he said, tilting your chin up with one hand. "It's part of why I like you." He smiled, looking into your eyes with an inscrutable emotion. You couldn't tell if he was being serious or just being flirty. Abruptly the air became charged with a tense uncertainty, and your heart sped up, when just as quickly Crowley dropped his hand and turned away, offering you his arm again.
The sun was beginning to set, and Crowley turned to you. "I think it's time I took you home, my dear. Are you ready?" You nodded placidly, and suddenly you were back in your room at the Chunky Gal Inn. In the blink of an eye, Crowley was kissing your cheek and backing away. "Thank you for an enlightening day. Catch you later, sweetheart." He winked and vanished, leaving you a confused, little hunter with a lot of things to think about.