This fic was inspired by a friend who believes the world needs more Meg/Crowley. I decided to do my part.
The old man stood sweltering in the Georgia summer sun, sweat trickling down his ruddy face and his hands constantly in motion, always kneading his tie or fiddling with his shirt buttons or dabbing at his brow. His eyes were likewise in eternal animation, roving from the freshly turned earth at his feet, to the four roads that branched out cardinally from his position, to the sun that didn't care how many terms he'd served in Congress and roasted him with impartial heat. The aged Congressman sighed. What he wouldn't give to be somewhere air-conditioned. Hell, he'd sell his soul for a cold glass of lemonade.
The thought brought a wry smile to the Congressman's face. Selling his soul. What in the world had he been thinking? How desperate, and let's face it, crazy did you have to be to drive to the middle of nowhere, bury a box full of trinkets and junk, and expect demons to save not only your marriage and career, but also your very freedom?
Damn it, if he was that big of a moron, he probably deserved to be in prison.
Hating himself, the whistle-blowing intern, and basically everything else that walked, crept, swam or drafted bills anywhere on Earth, the Congressman turned from the crossroad. He managed a single step south, toward his car, when a strange noise caught his attention. It sounded almost like…fingers being snapped. The Congressman looked over his shoulder and nearly solved all his problems by having a heart attack twenty miles from the nearest human.
"Changed your mind? I wouldn't if I were you. Somehow I don't think the prison 'lifestyle' will agree with your morality," the magician said.
"Who are you?" the Congressman asked.
"A demon. What did you think you were summoning, the ghost of Ronald Regan?"
The Congressman swallowed thickly. "I… I don't think I can go through with it."
The demon shrugged. "It's your soul, you can do what you like with it. Though I don't foresee said soul being much of a deterrent against a three-hundred-pound degenerate who doesn't approve of your voting record."
Suddenly, despite the sun and humidity, the Congressman felt immersed in ice. He wouldn't survive five minutes in prison. He'd survived the fickle tides of popular opinion, the election of a black president, and two heart surgeries, but being locked in a shoebox of a room with a thousand maniacs surrounding him day and night, that would be worse than Hell.
"I see your point, Mister…"
"Crowley."
"Crowley, got it. Can you clear up this boondoggle I've gotten myself into?"
"If the price is right," Crowley replied.
"My soul, right? Am I gonna miss it?"
"Do I look like a heartless bastard to you? I'm not going to take it today. You get ten years of loyal service to your country before I come to collect. Until then, you won't notice a difference."
The Congressman nodded. "Ten years is a long time. I can do a lot with ten years. Alright, Crowley, you've got yourself a deal."
Crowley beamed.
"So, that's it? Do we shake on it, or is there some contract I sign?"
"Nothing so clichéd. Pucker up."
The Congressman looked like he'd been told to stick his head underwater and breathe like a fish. "What?"
Crowley pressed his lips together in demonstration.
"Oh, no. No, anything but that."
Crowley shrugged. "As I said, it's your soul. Though I can't foresee the judge and jury having mercy on it. Nor the prison population. Which is, or so I've heard, predominantly of a different skin tone than yours."
"God, please."
"By all means, beg him to intercede on your behalf. He wouldn't do it for his bloody angels when one of them was slaughtering the rest, but maybe he'll do it for you."
The Congressman brought a hand up to his mouth and nibbled at his knuckle. Sweat trickled down his face and soaked the collar and armpits of his shirt. The waterworks were only half-related to the temperature.
"Nobody would know, right?" the Congressman asked.
"Does it look like I have a live studio audience?"
"No. Fine, let's get this over with."
The Congressman closed his eyes and pulled a face more appropriate for discovering a rotting corpse than for kissing. Crowley was unperturbed by the unbridled disgust exhibited by his partner and grabbed what little hair the Congressman hadn't shed over the past 70 odd years. The Congressman's expression turned from revulsion to surprise—which was marginally better—and Crowley plastered his lips firmly against the politician's.
The kiss quickly turned into a farce as Crowley resolutely hung on to the Congressman's hair and the increasingly agitated man struggled to free himself. Just as the Congressman gathered enough of his wits to attempt punching Crowley, the demon released him. The Congressman's first gesture upon regaining his freedom was to fall to the ground and retch.
Crowley wiped his own mouth. "I can't possibly taste any worse than you do. When's the last time you brushed?"
The Congressman rose to his knees and scowled at Crowley. Crowley had been scowled at by everything from Leviathans to murderous angels, and an angry, antiquated politician didn't exactly measure up.
"Now what in God's name is this? You told me nobody would know! Who's she?" the Congressman suddenly demanded, pointing, seemingly, at Crowley's stomach.
"I don't know what you mean. Who? My navel?" Crowley asked, looking down at himself.
"No, you jackass! Her! Behind you!"
Crowley turned around and, for the first time in a very long time, words failed him.
Crowley had never seen the meat-suit before—it was attractive enough, he supposed, especially since most girls in the region looked like Leatherface's gap-toothed sister—but the demon inside was unmistakable. He'd last visited her two weeks prior, and she'd been strapped to the same rack in the same deserted corner of Hell where she'd been detained since her capture.
The question, then, was this: why was she here, intruding upon his business transactions, when she should have been back in Hell, having her feet roasted and her eyebrows plucked out?
"Hello, Crowley," Meg said.
Crowley snorted.
"Who sent you to follow me? What goddamn agency hired you?" the Congressman shouted.
Crowley wheeled around to face the Congressman. The demon's eyes flashed red and the human lost his bluster in a hurry. Shrinking back to the ground, where he belonged, the Congressman shut his mouth and dropped his accusatory pointing finger.
"We're finished. Leave," Crowley ordered.
The Congressman nodded and, without daring to look Crowley in the face, scurried back to his car with his head down. Regardless of anyone or anything that might have wandered onto the roadway, the Congressman sped away at a speed the deserted dirt road had probably never seen before.
Crowley turned back to Meg. His eyes continued to glow a very displeased red.
"Surprised to see me?" Meg asked.
"Among other things," Crowley replied.
"Furious, enraged, incredulous, livid, madder than a wet hen—"
"Please, spare me the local colloquialisms," Crowley interrupted.
Meg batted her eyelashes at him. "Alright, but only because you said please."
Meg's teasing only served to elevate Crowley from madder than a wet hen to madder than a dragon who just returned to his lair to find the damned Winchesters had been there and had rescued all his virgins and absconded with all his gold.
"Without invoking the wit of Bill Clinton, tell me why you're here and not where you belong."
"You mean being slow-roasted in Hell?" Meg asked.
"Where else would I mean?"
Meg shrugged. "Maybe because I was being slow-roasted in Hell."
"Millions of souls have been slow-roasted in Hell! They didn't just decide to get up and leave!"
"Calm down, your Majesty. You know I'm not just any soul. I know Hell better than damn near anyone. Pun intended."
The last thing Crowley intended to do was calm down. He'd gnaw his own leg off before he'd calm down. He'd throw himself down into the Georgia clay and cover himself from head to Italian leather loafer in dust before he'd calm down. He'd—
"If your face freezes like that, you're going to be in trouble."
Crowley took a deep breath and forced his face into a mask of composure. No matter how angry he was to find Meg had slipped past the demons he'd assigned to torture and guard her, there was no need to throw a tantrum. He'd get to work his rage and disappointment out on all of their hides just as soon as he got answers.
"You've been down there for months—decades, by Hell Standard Time—so why now? Finally reached your masochistic quota?" Crowley asked.
"Finally got your boys to let down their guard. You shouldn't take it too hard, though. Months of functioning before their ADHD kicked in? That's got to be a new record."
That almost sent Crowley howling over the edge again. He should never have trusted the task of destroying Meg utterly to anyone but himself. If only he hadn't been so busy… No, he should have known better! Leaving demons unsupervised, even for a moment, was more foolish than leaving children alone with matches and gasoline.
Next time he was going to hire illegal immigrants. Maybe they'd be able to manage the simplest of tasks without turning everything into a fiasco.
"Yes, and here's another reason to stay on the sunny side. Now you'll have company," Crowley said. He advanced a step towards Meg.
And she flinched. Oh, she straightened quickly and pretended like nothing had happened, but Crowley wasn't blind. Meg was scared. Under the façade of calm and flippant sarcasm, there was the fear of being dragged back to Hell and reinstalled in a never-ending nightmare of pain and fire.
Crowley smiled. Everything was again right with the universe. He was assured of his position as the apex predator, the highest link in the food chain, the King.
"Don't tell me you expected anything else. Did you think I was going to forgive and forget that you tossed in your lot with Rocky and Bullwinkle and their pet dodo?" Crowley asked.
"Not exactly," Meg admitted.
Crowley rolled his eyes. He had hoped—for about five seconds, at least—that Meg wasn't as dumb as other demons. As faithless and treacherous, yes, that couldn't be avoided, but maybe not quite so bloody stupid. He didn't even know why he bothered expecting anything from anyone anymore.
"Then why are you here?" Crowley asked.
"Because I can convince you to forgive and forget," Meg replied.
Interesting. Doubtlessly complete bollocks, but interesting nevertheless.
"I'll take that bet," Crowley said.
Meg opened her mouth but Crowley hushed her by holding up his hand. "I have a sneaking suspicion this performance is going to be longer and more painful than Titanic. I'm going to need snacks."
Crowley disappeared and Meg was left alone—not to mention offended and confused—in the middle of the rural intersection. The awkwardness of being left stranded took its toll and before long Meg became shiftless. She toed the dirt with the tip of her shoe, paced a little, and considered getting off the road and under a shady tree. A part of her even began to suspect that Crowley wasn't coming back and she was free to go, though a much larger facet of her mind assured her she wasn't getting off that easily.
Any hope that Crowley had displayed uncharacteristic mercy crumbled to dust the moment the demon king reappeared. Crowley's new hat alone destroyed any notion he considered Meg anything but a cheap joke; a wide-brimmed straw sunhat resplendent with a large black bow was not worn around respected friends and colleagues. The glass of lemonade likewise showed Crowley's dismissal. And the plastic lawn chair, now that was just insulting.
"Is that really necessary?" Meg asked.
Crowley sat down and sipped his lemonade. "I've got sensitive skin and I don't want sunburn."
"I guess the thinning hair doesn't cover much," Meg muttered.
"Weren't you supposed to be begging for your life or freedom or some other such thing I can take away with a snap of my fingers?" Crowley asked.
"I know secrets about Hell no one else does. Secrets that can't be tortured out of me, but which I'd be happy to share in exchange for amnesty," Meg said.
"You mean secrets of the old regime. Azazel's cubbyholes and porn stashes. Very intriguing," Crowley said.
"That isn't remotely what I meant."
"Shame, because I was being serious. I've always suspected your father was a furry and I'd love to have my suspicions confirmed."
Meg bristled like a cornered porcupine. This conversation was not going her way. Though it was hard to imagine a conversation that was going positively when one involved party suggested the other involved party's father had a predilection for cartoon ponies.
"I—"
"Haven't got all day? Good, neither do I. You have until I finish my lemonade to convince me you're useful, or it's back on the rack you go," Crowley interrupted.
"I was Azazel's confidant. I know plans he never had a chance to enact, spells he discovered, secrets he never told anyone else. You could have weapons you never dreamed about," Meg said.
Crowley took a long swallow of lemonade. When he was finished, he said, "You don't know the dreams I've had. Or the pillow-talk I've heard."
"You never slept with my father."
Crowley raised a lascivious eyebrow. "No? Then who was that handsome golden-eyed devil?"
Meg suddenly looked a little green around the gills. "You're lying."
"There's no better spy than a good whore," Crowley said. "And there isn't a potential source of information I won't exploit. I'm sure you heard rumors of Lilith and I. They don't scratch the surface."
Meg was floundering, and if her chances for escape weren't already sunk, they were taking on water at an alarming rate. If Crowley wasn't lying—and there was no sign the bastard was—then her information, the information she had been so sure was invaluable and uniquely hers, was nothing but pyrite.
And, to make matters worse, her dad—and probably half of Hell—had been stupid enough to give Crowley the knowledge he had needed to emerge victorious and claim the throne for his own. If the Winchesters hadn't killed him, Azazel would have been pissed.
"So there is nothing," Crowley said.
Meg swallowed thickly. "I've still got time. You haven't finished your lemonade."
Crowley looked down at the quarter-full glass. He raised it to his lips and looked at Meg expectantly.
"Shit," Meg whispered to herself.
There had to be a way out of this. So her precious secrets were worth less than Zimbabwean currency. That only meant she needed…to formulate a new strategy from scratch, invent some wild and invaluable assets she totally didn't have, and convince the King of Hell, who incidentally hated her, that she had more functions than just entertaining him as a screaming, skinless horror on the rack.
"Tick, tock, darling," Crowley said, plucking an ice cube from the glass and dropping it into his mouth.
The ice cube shattered and crunched as Crowley bit down on it. Meg, demon and damned or not, prayed for the few seconds brain freeze would buy her. God was evidently not on her side and Crowley swallowed and went fishing for the last ice cube.
"Going once, going twice." Crowley lifted the ice cube against his lips. "G—Umph!
Meg did the first thing that came to mind: she tackled Crowley and drove him, his ice cube, and his tacky lawn chair to the ground. He recovered within seconds and raised a hand to swat her away. She reacted by turning into an octopus and clutching Crowley with her arms and legs.
"This is not earning you any brownie points," Crowley hissed.
It was well within Crowley's power to extricate himself—and probably yank all four of Meg's limbs off in the process—so Meg knew she had to act quickly. Her new position atop the King gave her some much-needed inspiration. There was no denying the sexual undertones in the arrangement of the pair, and Meg decided to run with it.
"How about this?" Meg asked. She pressed her lips against Crowley's. He made no move to reciprocate. When she withdrew, disheartened, she found him smirking.
"You're not half the kisser your father was," Crowley said.
The slap was so loud that, given the proper geography, it would have echoed. Crowley could feel each of Meg's fingers independently imprinted on the skin of his cheek. Heat and pain bloomed, radiating out from the perfect handprint. Crowley continued to smirk.
"Mmm, and you're not half the slapper Alastair was."
Meg slapped him again, branding the opposite cheek. "What about now?"
"Count me unimpressed."
Meg considered her meat-suit. What could it do that would squeeze a reaction, any reaction except that insufferable smirk, from Crowley? It wasn't double-jointed, so it couldn't literally bend over backwards to perform some weird scene from the Kama Sutra. It wasn't tall or short, fat or thin enough to invoke any sort of body-type fetish, unless Crowley had a special thing for women with lots of shoulder freckles. Which he obviously didn't, as said shoulder freckles had been clearly visible the whole time, thanks to the meat-suit's spaghetti straps.
Damn it, next time she was possessing a circus freak or a gymnast, always assuming there was a next time.
"If you're finished, I've got an underworld to rule and you've got a cell that misses you," Crowley said.
It was now or never. Meg took a deep breath and went all in. Her eyes flashed black and she hooked her meat-suit's acrylic nails into the lapels of Crowley's suit.
"Tear one thread and you're going to regret it," Crowley warned.
"Shut the hell up, Lucky the Leprechaun."
Buttons flew and seams rendered.
By the time they were finished, there was little of the suit left to salvage. It hung off Crowley in tatters, like the uniform of some poor sod showcased on Locked Up Abroad. And where even was his left shoe? Meg had torn it off, barely leaving the toes behind, and had probably flung it into a bush.
"Your Majesty, it's over there," Meg called, pointing behind a large rock on the side of the road.
Crowley hobbled over to the rock and retrieved his shoe. He then sat down on the flat-topped stone and slipped the loafer back on.
Polishing a scuff off his shoe, Crowley said, "Do you think a single quick shag is enough to make me forget you betrayed me, kissed my angel, and killed my dog?"
Meg froze. She had, up until that moment, thought exactly that.
"Because I don't. In fact, I don't think this even covers the angel, never mind the hellhound. And don't even get me started on what it'll take before I forget you chose the Winchesters over lovable old me."
Against her better judgment, Meg asked, "What will it take?"
"Hmm. I'll have to think about it. Why don't you worry about paying for my angel and my loyal pup first?"
"And what's the payment for them?"
"Let's meet in Houston tomorrow to discuss it. And wear something respectable and without so many spots."
Before Meg could respond, Crowley vanished from the rock. She waited a few seconds to make sure he wasn't coming back before she collapsed to the ground.
If Crowley had considered that a quick shag, she was going to need a meat-suit with some serious stamina.
The End